Chapter: Our deeds still travel with us from afar,
    And what we have been makes us what we are."


Bulstrode's first object after Lydgate had left Stone Court was to
examine Raffles's pockets, which he imagined were sure to carry signs
in the shape of hotel-bills of the places he had stopped in, if he had
not told the truth in saying that he had come straight from Liverpool
because he was ill and had no money.  There were various bills crammed
into his pocketbook, but none of a later date than Christmas at any
other place, except one, which bore date that morning.  This was
crumpled up with a hand-bill about a horse-fair in one of his
tail-pockets, and represented the cost of three days' stay at an inn at
Bilkley, where the fair was held--a town at least forty miles from
Middlemarch.  The bill was heavy, and since Raffles had no luggage with
him, it seemed probable that he had left his portmanteau behind in
payment, in order to save money for his travelling fare; for his purse
was empty, and he had only a couple of sixpences and some loose pence
in his pockets.

Bulstrode gathered a sense of safety from these indications that
Raffles had really kept at a distance from Middlemarch since his
memorable visit at Christmas.  At a distance and among people who were
strangers to Bulstrode, what satisfaction could there be to Raffles's
tormenting, self-magnifying vein in telling old scandalous stories
about a Middlemarch banker?  And what harm if he did talk?  The chief
point now was to keep watch over him as long as there was any danger of
that intelligible raving, that unaccountable impulse to tell, which
seemed to have acted towards Caleb Garth; and Bulstrode felt much
anxiety lest some such impulse should come over him at the sight of
Lydgate.  He sat up alone with him through the night, only ordering the
housekeeper to lie down in her clothes, so as to be ready when he
called her, alleging his own indisposition to sleep, and his anxiety to
carry out the doctor's orders.  He did carry them out faithfully,
although Raffles was incessantly asking for brandy, and declaring that
he was sinking away--that the earth was sinking away from under him.
He was restless and sleepless, but still quailing and manageable.  On
the offer of the food ordered by Lydgate, which he refused, and the
denial of other things which he demanded, he seemed to concentrate all
his terror on Bulstrode, imploringly deprecating his anger, his revenge
on him by starvation, and declaring with strong oaths that he had never
told any mortal a word against him.  Even this Bulstrode felt that he
would not have liked Lydgate to hear; but a more alarming sign of
fitful alternation in his delirium was, that in-the morning twilight
Raffles suddenly seemed to imagine a doctor present, addressing him and
declaring that Bulstrode wanted to starve him to death out of revenge
for telling, when he never had told.

Bulstrode's native imperiousness and strength of determination served
him well.  This delicate-looking man, himself nervously perturbed,
found the needed stimulus in his strenuous circumstances, and through
that difficult night and morning, while he had the air of an animated
corpse returned to movement without warmth, holding the mastery by its
chill impassibility his mind was intensely at work thinking of what he
had to guard against and what would win him security.  Whatever prayers
he might lift up, whatever statements he might inwardly make of this
man's wretched spiritual condition, and the duty he himself was under
to submit to the punishment divinely appointed for him rather than to
wish for evil to another--through all this effort to condense words
into a solid mental state, there pierced and spread with irresistible
vividness the images of the events he desired.  And in the train of
those images came their apology.  He could not but see the death of
Raffles, and see in it his own deliverance.  What was the removal of
this wretched creature?  He was impenitent--but were not public
criminals impenitent?--yet the law decided on their fate.  Should
Providence in this case award death, there was no sin in contemplating
death as the desirable issue--if he kept his hands from hastening
it--if he scrupulously did what was prescribed.  Even here there might
be a mistake: human prescriptions were fallible things: Lydgate had
said that treatment had hastened death,--why not his own method of
treatment?  But of course intention was everything in the question of
right and wrong.

And Bulstrode set himself to keep his intention separate from his
desire.  He inwardly declared that he intended to obey orders.  Why
should he have got into any argument about the validity of these
orders?  It was only the common trick of desire--which avails itself of
any irrelevant scepticism, finding larger room for itself in all
uncertainty about effects, in every obscurity that looks like the
absence of law.  Still, he did obey the orders.

His anxieties continually glanced towards Lydgate, and his remembrance
of what had taken place between them the morning before was accompanied
with sensibilities which had not been roused at all during the actual
scene.  He had then cared but little about Lydgate's painful
impressions with regard to the suggested change in the Hospital, or
about the disposition towards himself which what he held to be his
justifiable refusal of a rather exorbitant request might call forth.
He recurred to the scene now with a perception that he had probably
made Lydgate his enemy, and with an awakened desire to propitiate him,
or rather to create in him a strong sense of personal obligation.  He
regretted that he had not at once made even an unreasonable
money-sacrifice. For in case of unpleasant suspicions, or even
knowledge gathered from the raving of Raffles, Bulstrode would have
felt that he had a defence in Lydgate's mind by having conferred a
momentous benefit on him.  But the regret had perhaps come too late.

Strange, piteous conflict in the soul of this unhappy man, who had
longed for years to be better than he was--who had taken his selfish
passions into discipline and clad them in severe robes, so that he had
walked with them as a devout choir, till now that a terror had risen
among them, and they could chant no longer, but threw out their common
cries for safety.

It was nearly the middle of the day before Lydgate arrived: he had
meant to come earlier, but had been detained, he said; and his
shattered looks were noticed by Balstrode.  But he immediately threw
himself into the consideration of the patient, and inquired strictly
into all that had occurred.  Raffles was worse, would take hardly any
food, was persistently wakeful and restlessly raving; but still not
violent.  Contrary to Bulstrode's alarmed expectation, he took little
notice of Lydgate's presence, and continued to talk or murmur
incoherently.

"What do you think of him?" said Bulstrode, in private.

"The symptoms are worse."

"You are less hopeful?"

"No; I still think he may come round.  Are you going to stay here
yourself?" said Lydgate, looking at Bulstrode with an abrupt question,
which made him uneasy, though in reality it was not due to any
suspicious conjecture.

"Yes, I think so," said Bulstrode, governing himself and speaking with
deliberation.  "Mrs. Bulstrode is advised of the reasons which detain
me.  Mrs. Abel and her husband are not experienced enough to be left
quite alone, and this kind of responsibility is scarcely included in
their service of me.  You have some fresh instructions, I presume."

The chief new instruction that Lydgate had to give was on the
administration of extremely moderate doses of opium, in case of the
sleeplessness continuing after several hours.  He had taken the
precaution of bringing opium in his pocket, and he gave minute
directions to Bulstrode as to the doses, and the point at which they
should cease.  He insisted on the risk of not ceasing; and repeated his
order that no alcohol should be given.

"From what I see of the case," he ended, "narcotism is the only thing I
should be much afraid of.  He may wear through even without much food.
There's a good deal of strength in him."

"You look ill yourself, Mr. Lydgate--a most unusual, I may say
unprecedented thing in my knowledge of you," said Bulstrode, showing a
solicitude as unlike his indifference the day before, as his present
recklessness about his own fatigue was unlike his habitual
self-cherishing anxiety.  "I fear you are harassed."

"Yes, I am," said Lydgate, brusquely, holding his hat, and ready to go.

"Something new, I fear," said Bulstrode, inquiringly.  "Pray be seated."

"No, thank you," said Lydgate, with some hauteur. "I mentioned to you
yesterday what was the state of my affairs.  There is nothing to add,
except that the execution has since then been actually put into my
house.  One can tell a good deal of trouble in a short sentence.  I
will say good morning."

"Stay, Mr. Lydgate, stay," said Bulstrode; "I have been reconsidering
this subject.  I was yesterday taken by surprise, and saw it
superficially.  Mrs. Bulstrode is anxious for her niece, and I myself
should grieve at a calamitous change in your position.  Claims on me
are numerous, but on reconsideration, I esteem it right that I should
incur a small sacrifice rather than leave you unaided.  You said, I
think, that a thousand pounds would suffice entirely to free you from
your burthens, and enable you to recover a firm stand?"

"Yes," said Lydgate, a great leap of joy within him surmounting every
other feeling; "that would pay all my debts, and leave me a little on
hand.  I could set about economizing in our way of living.  And
by-and-by my practice might look up."

"If you will wait a moment, Mr. Lydgate, I will draw a check to that
amount.  I am aware that help, to be effectual in these cases, should
be thorough."

While Bulstrode wrote, Lydgate turned to the window thinking of his
home--thinking of his life with its good start saved from frustration,
its good purposes still unbroken.

"You can give me a note of hand for this, Mr. Lydgate," said the
banker, advancing towards him with the check.  "And by-and-by, I hope,
you may be in circumstances gradually to repay me.  Meanwhile, I have
pleasure in thinking that you will be released from further difficulty."

"I am deeply obliged to you," said Lydgate.  "You have restored to me
the prospect of working with some happiness and some chance of good."

It appeared to him a very natural movement in Bulstrode that he should
have reconsidered his refusal: it corresponded with the more munificent
side of his character.  But as he put his hack into a canter, that he
might get the sooner home, and tell the good news to Rosamond, and get
cash at the bank to pay over to Dover's agent, there crossed his mind,
with an unpleasant impression, as from a dark-winged flight of evil
augury across his vision, the thought of that contrast in himself which
a few months had brought--that he should be overjoyed at being under a
strong personal obligation--that he should be overjoyed at getting
money for himself from Bulstrode.

The banker felt that he had done something to nullify one cause of
uneasiness, and yet he was scarcely the easier.  He did not measure the
quantity of diseased motive which had made him wish for Lydgate's
good-will, but the quantity was none the less actively there, like an
irritating agent in his blood.  A man vows, and yet will not cast away
the means of breaking his vow.  Is it that he distinctly means to break
it?  Not at all; but the desires which tend to break it are at work in
him dimly, and make their way into his imagination, and relax his
muscles in the very moments when he is telling himself over again the
reasons for his vow.  Raffles, recovering quickly, returning to the
free use of his odious powers--how could Bulstrode wish for that?
Raffles dead was the image that brought release, and indirectly he
prayed for that way of release, beseeching that, if it were possible,
the rest of his days here below might be freed from the threat of an
ignominy which would break him utterly as an instrument of God's
service.  Lydgate's opinion was not on the side of promise that this
prayer would be fulfilled; and as the day advanced, Bulstrode felt
himself getting irritated at the persistent life in this man, whom he
would fain have seen sinking into the silence of death: imperious will
stirred murderous impulses towards this brute life, over which will, by
itself, had no power.  He said inwardly that he was getting too much
worn; he would not sit up with the patient to-night, but leave him to
Mrs. Abel, who, if necessary, could call her husband.

At six o'clock, Raffles, having had only fitful perturbed snatches of
sleep, from which he waked with fresh restlessness and perpetual cries
that he was sinking away, Bulstrode began to administer the opium
according to Lydgate's directions.  At the end of half an hour or more
he called Mrs. Abel and told her that he found himself unfit for
further watching.  He must now consign the patient to her care; and he
proceeded to repeat to her Lydgate's directions as to the quantity of
each dose.  Mrs. Abel had not before known anything of Lydgate's
prescriptions; she had simply prepared and brought whatever Bulstrode
ordered, and had done what he pointed out to her.  She began now to ask
what else she should do besides administering the opium.

"Nothing at present, except the offer of the soup or the soda-water:
you can come to me for further directions.  Unless there is any
important change, I shall not come into the room again to-night. You
will ask your husband for help if necessary.  I must go to bed early."

"You've much need, sir, I'm sure," said Mrs. Abel, "and to take
something more strengthening than what you've done."

Bulstrode went away now without anxiety as to what Raffles might say in
his raving, which had taken on a muttering incoherence not likely to
create any dangerous belief.  At any rate he must risk this.  He went
down into the wainscoted parlor first, and began to consider whether he
would not have his horse saddled and go home by the moonlight, and give
up caring for earthly consequences.  Then, he wished that he had begged
Lydgate to come again that evening.  Perhaps he might deliver a
different opinion, and think that Raffles was getting into a less
hopeful state.  Should he send for Lydgate?  If Raffles were really
getting worse, and slowly dying, Bulstrode felt that he could go to bed
and sleep in gratitude to Providence.  But was he worse?  Lydgate might
come and simply say that he was going on as he expected, and predict
that he would by-and-by fall into a good sleep, and get well.  What was
the use of sending for him?  Bulstrode shrank from that result.  No
ideas or opinions could hinder him from seeing the one probability to
be, that Raffles recovered would be just the same man as before, with
his strength as a tormentor renewed, obliging him to drag away his wife
to spend her years apart from her friends and native place, carrying an
alienating suspicion against him in her heart.

He had sat an hour and a half in this conflict by the firelight only,
when a sudden thought made him rise and light the bed-candle, which he
had brought down with him.  The thought was, that he had not told Mrs.
Abel when the doses of opium must cease.

He took hold of the candlestick, but stood motionless for a long while.
She might already have given him more than Lydgate had prescribed.  But
it was excusable in him, that he should forget part of an order, in his
present wearied condition.  He walked up-stairs, candle in hand, not
knowing whether he should straightway enter his own room and go to bed,
or turn to the patient's room and rectify his omission.  He paused in
the passage, with his face turned towards Raffles's room, and he could
hear him moaning and murmuring.  He was not asleep, then.  Who could
know that Lydgate's prescription would not be better disobeyed than
followed, since there was still no sleep?

He turned into his own room.  Before he had quite undressed, Mrs. Abel
rapped at the door; he opened it an inch, so that he could hear her
speak low.

"If you please, sir, should I have no brandy nor nothing to give the
poor creetur?  He feels sinking away, and nothing else will he
swaller--and but little strength in it, if he did--only the opium.  And
he says more and more he's sinking down through the earth."

To her surprise, Mr. Bulstrode did not answer.  A struggle was going on
within him.

"I think he must die for want o' support, if he goes on in that way.
When I nursed my poor master, Mr. Robisson, I had to give him port-wine
and brandy constant, and a big glass at a time," added Mrs. Abel, with
a touch of remonstrance in her tone.

But again Mr. Bulstrode did not answer immediately, and she continued,
"It's not a time to spare when people are at death's door, nor would
you wish it, sir, I'm sure.  Else I should give him our own bottle o'
rum as we keep by us.  But a sitter-up so as you've been, and doing
everything as laid in your power--"

Here a key was thrust through the inch of doorway, and Mr. Bulstrode
said huskily, "That is the key of the wine-cooler. You will find plenty
of brandy there."

Early in the morning--about six--Mr. Bulstrode rose and spent some time
in prayer.  Does any one suppose that private prayer is necessarily
candid--necessarily goes to the roots of action?  Private prayer is
inaudible speech, and speech is representative: who can represent
himself just as he is, even in his own reflections?  Bulstrode had not
yet unravelled in his thought the confused promptings of the last
four-and-twenty hours.

He listened in the passage, and could hear hard stertorous breathing.
Then he walked out in the garden, and looked at the early rime on the
grass and fresh spring leaves.  When he re-entered the house, he felt
startled at the sight of Mrs. Abel.

"How is your patient--asleep, I think?" he said, with an attempt at
cheerfulness in his tone.

"He's gone very deep, sir," said Mrs. Abel.  "He went off gradual
between three and four o'clock.  Would you please to go and look at
him?  I thought it no harm to leave him.  My man's gone afield, and the
little girl's seeing to the kettles."

Bulstrode went up.  At a glance he knew that Raffles was not in the
sleep which brings revival, but in the sleep which streams deeper and
deeper into the gulf of death.

He looked round the room and saw a bottle with some brandy in it, and
the almost empty opium phial.  He put the phial out of sight, and
carried the brandy-bottle down-stairs with him, locking it again in the
wine-cooler.

While breakfasting he considered whether he should ride to Middlemarch
at once, or wait for Lydgate's arrival.  He decided to wait, and told
Mrs. Abel that she might go about her work--he could watch in the
bed-chamber.

As he sat there and beheld the enemy of his peace going irrevocably
into silence, he felt more at rest than he had done for many months.
His conscience was soothed by the enfolding wing of secrecy, which
seemed just then like an angel sent down for his relief.  He drew out
his pocket-book to review various memoranda there as to the
arrangements he had projected and partly carried out in the prospect of
quitting Middlemarch, and considered how far he would let them stand or
recall them, now that his absence would be brief.  Some economies which
he felt desirable might still find a suitable occasion in his temporary
withdrawal from management, and he hoped still that Mrs. Casaubon would
take a large share in the expenses of the Hospital.  In that way the
moments passed, until a change in the stertorous breathing was marked
enough to draw his attention wholly to the bed, and forced him to think
of the departing life, which had once been subservient to his
own--which he had once been glad to find base enough for him to act on
as he would.  It was his gladness then which impelled him now to be
glad that the life was at an end.

And who could say that the death of Raffles had been hastened?  Who
knew what would have saved him?

Lydgate arrived at half-past ten, in time to witness the final pause of
the breath.  When he entered the room Bulstrode observed a sudden
expression in his face, which was not so much surprise as a recognition
that he had not judged correctly.  He stood by the bed in silence for
some time, with his eyes turned on the dying man, but with that subdued
activity of expression which showed that he was carrying on an inward
debate.

"When did this change begin?" said he, looking at Bulstrode.

"I did not watch by him last night," said Bulstrode.  "I was over-worn,
and left him under Mrs. Abel's care.  She said that he sank into sleep
between three and four o'clock.  When I came in before eight he was
nearly in this condition."

Lydgate did not ask another question, but watched in silence until he
said, "It's all over."

This morning Lydgate was in a state of recovered hope and freedom.  He
had set out on his work with all his old animation, and felt himself
strong enough to bear all the deficiencies of his married life.  And he
was conscious that Bulstrode had been a benefactor to him.  But he was
uneasy about this case.  He had not expected it to terminate as it had
done.  Yet he hardly knew how to put a question on the subject to
Bulstrode without appearing to insult him; and if he examined the
housekeeper--why, the man was dead.  There seemed to be no use in
implying that somebody's ignorance or imprudence had killed him.  And
after all, he himself might be wrong.

He and Bulstrode rode back to Middlemarch together, talking of many
things--chiefly cholera and the chances of the Reform Bill in the House
of Lords, and the firm resolve of the political Unions.  Nothing was
said about Raffles, except that Bulstrode mentioned the necessity of
having a grave for him in Lowick churchyard, and observed that, so far
as he knew, the poor man had no connections, except Rigg, whom he had
stated to be unfriendly towards him.

On returning home Lydgate had a visit from Mr. Farebrother.  The Vicar
had not been in the town the day before, but the news that there was an
execution in Lydgate's house had got to Lowick by the evening, having
been carried by Mr. Spicer, shoemaker and parish-clerk, who had it from
his brother, the respectable bell-hanger in Lowick Gate.  Since that
evening when Lydgate had come down from the billiard room with Fred
Vincy, Mr. Farebrother's thoughts about him had been rather gloomy.
Playing at the Green Dragon once or oftener might have been a trifle in
another man; but in Lydgate it was one of several signs that he was
getting unlike his former self.  He was beginning to do things for
which he had formerly even an excessive scorn.  Whatever certain
dissatisfactions in marriage, which some silly tinklings of gossip had
given him hints of, might have to do with this change, Mr. Farebrother
felt sure that it was chiefly connected with the debts which were being
more and more distinctly reported, and he began to fear that any notion
of Lydgate's having resources or friends in the background must be
quite illusory.  The rebuff he had met with in his first attempt to win
Lydgate's confidence, disinclined him to a second; but this news of the
execution being actually in the house, determined the Vicar to overcome
his reluctance.

Lydgate had just dismissed a poor patient, in whom he was much
interested, and he came forward to put out his hand--with an open
cheerfulness which surprised Mr. Farebrother.  Could this too be a
proud rejection of sympathy and help?  Never mind; the sympathy and
help should be offered.

"How are you, Lydgate?  I came to see you because I had heard something
which made me anxious about you," said the Vicar, in the tone of a good
brother, only that there was no reproach in it.  They were both seated
by this time, and Lydgate answered immediately--

"I think I know what you mean.  You had heard that there was an
execution in the house?"

"Yes; is it true?"

"It was true," said Lydgate, with an air of freedom, as if he did not
mind talking about the affair now.  "But the danger is over; the debt
is paid.  I am out of my difficulties now: I shall be freed from debts,
and able, I hope, to start afresh on a better plan."

"I am very thankful to hear it," said the Vicar, falling back in his
chair, and speaking with that low-toned quickness which often follows
the removal of a load.  "I like that better than all the news in the
'Times.' I confess I came to you with a heavy heart."

"Thank you for coming," said Lydgate, cordially.  "I can enjoy the
kindness all the more because I am happier.  I have certainly been a
good deal crushed.  I'm afraid I shall find the bruises still painful
by-and by," he added, smiling rather sadly; "but just now I can only
feel that the torture-screw is off."

Mr. Farebrother was silent for a moment, and then said earnestly, "My
dear fellow, let me ask you one question.  Forgive me if I take a
liberty."

"I don't believe you will ask anything that ought to offend me."

"Then--this is necessary to set my heart quite at rest--you have
not--have you?--in order to pay your debts, incurred another debt which
may harass you worse hereafter?"

"No," said Lydgate, coloring slightly.  "There is no reason why I
should not tell you--since the fact is so--that the person to whom I am
indebted is Bulstrode.  He has made me a very handsome advance--a
thousand pounds--and he can afford to wait for repayment."

"Well, that is generous," said Mr. Farebrother, compelling himself to
approve of the man whom he disliked.  His delicate feeling shrank from
dwelling even in his thought on the fact that he had always urged
Lydgate to avoid any personal entanglement with Bulstrode.  He added
immediately, "And Bulstrode must naturally feel an interest in your
welfare, after you have worked with him in a way which has probably
reduced your income instead of adding to it.  I am glad to think that
he has acted accordingly."

Lydgate felt uncomfortable under these kindly suppositions.  They made
more distinct within him the uneasy consciousness which had shown its
first dim stirrings only a few hours before, that Bulstrode's motives
for his sudden beneficence following close upon the chillest
indifference might be merely selfish.  He let the kindly suppositions
pass.  He could not tell the history of the loan, but it was more
vividly present with him than ever, as well as the fact which the Vicar
delicately ignored--that this relation of personal indebtedness to
Bulstrode was what he had once been most resolved to avoid.

He began, instead of answering, to speak of his projected economies,
and of his having come to look at his life from a different point of
view.

"I shall set up a surgery," he said.  "I really think I made a mistaken
effort in that respect.  And if Rosamond will not mind, I shall take an
apprentice.  I don't like these things, but if one carries them out
faithfully they are not really lowering.  I have had a severe galling
to begin with: that will make the small rubs seem easy."

Poor Lydgate! the "if Rosamond will not mind," which had fallen from
him involuntarily as part of his thought, was a significant mark of the
yoke he bore.  But Mr. Farebrother, whose hopes entered strongly into
the same current with Lydgate's, and who knew nothing about him that
could now raise a melancholy presentiment, left him with affectionate
congratulation.

 Bulstrode goes through Raffles's pockets as soon as Lydgate leaves, and finds a receipt from a hotel about forty miles from Middlemarch. He's glad that he decided to stay up with Raffles, because the man is raving all night, asking for brandy, and accusing Bulstrode of trying to starve him to death out of revenge. Lydgate comes again the next day, and says that the symptoms are worse. He prescribes moderate doses of opium to keep Raffles calm and to induce sleep , and says again that they must not under any circumstances give him any alcohol. Bulstrode asks Lydgate why he was running late and looking so stressed out, and Lydgate tells him that they're going to sell off his house because of the debt. Bulstrode says that he's reconsidered. He will cut Lydgate a check for a thousand pounds immediately, and Lydgate can pay him back gradually. Lydgate, of course, is overjoyed, and leaves to tell Rosamond the good news and to pay off the agents who are about to sell his stuff. That night, Bulstrode thinks that Raffles is getting worse, and wishes that he'd asked Lydgate to come again. He goes to bed and leaves the housekeeper, Mrs. Abel, to sit up with the patient. He doesn't tell her not to give him any brandy, and late in the night she tiptoes into his room to ask if she could give him a sip, since he keeps begging for it. Bulstrode doesn't answer immediately. He's considering whether or not a dose of brandy would kill Raffles, and thus get him out of the way permanently. He's also considering whether that would be murder. Finally, he gives Mrs. Abel permission to give Raffles some brandy. Early in the morning, Mrs. Abel goes to Mr. Bulstrode to tell him that Raffles has finally gone to sleep. Bulstrode takes over sitting with the sick man, and watches him slowly slip into a coma. Lydgate comes to check on the patient later in the morning. Lydgate immediately sees that the man is dying, and asks Bulstrode when it began. Bulstrode says that Mrs. Abel had been sitting with him until three or four in the morning, and that Raffles has been in about that condition since then. Lydgate sits with the patient until he dies. He wonders whether Mr. Bulstrode or Mrs. Abel could be blamed for it, but doesn't say anything - after all, he might have been wrong himself. He gets home and meets Mr. Farebrother, who has come because he heard about the auction on Lydgate's house. Lydgate reassures him that all is well now because Bulstrode offered him a generous loan.

