“What suit of grace hath Virtue to put on
     If Vice shall wear as good, and do as well? 
     If Wrong, if Craft, if Indiscretion
     Act as fair parts with ends as laudable? 
     Which all this mighty volume of events
     The world, the universal map of deeds,
     Strongly controls, and proves from all descents,
     That the directest course still best succeeds. 
     For should not grave and learn’d Experience
     That looks with the eyes of all the world beside,
     And with all ages holds intelligence,
     Go safer than Deceit without a guide! 
                                —­DANIEL:  Musophilus.

That change of plan and shifting of interest which Bulstrode stated or betrayed in his conversation with Lydgate, had been determined in him by some severe experience which he had gone through since the epoch of Mr. Larcher’s sale, when Raffles had recognized Will Ladislaw, and when the banker had in vain attempted an act of restitution which might move Divine Providence to arrest painful consequences.

His certainty that Raffles, unless he were dead, would return to Middlemarch before long, had been justified.  On Christmas Eve he had reappeared at The Shrubs.  Bulstrode was at home to receive him, and hinder his communication with the rest of the family, but he could not altogether hinder the circumstances of the visit from compromising himself and alarming his wife.  Raffles proved more unmanageable than he had shown himself to be in his former appearances, his chronic state of mental restlessness, the growing effect of habitual intemperance, quickly shaking off every impression from what was said to him.  He insisted on staying in the house, and Bulstrode, weighing two sets of evils, felt that this was at least not a worse alternative than his going into the town.  He kept him in his own room for the evening and saw him to bed, Raffles all the while amusing himself with the annoyance he was causing this decent and highly prosperous fellow-sinner, an amusement which he facetiously expressed as sympathy with his friend’s pleasure in entertaining a man who had been serviceable to him, and who had not had all his earnings.  There was a cunning calculation under this noisy joking—­a cool resolve to extract something the handsomer from Bulstrode as payment for release from this new application of torture.  But his cunning had a little overcast its mark.

Bulstrode was indeed more tortured than the coarse fibre of Raffles could enable him to imagine.  He had told his wife that he was simply taking care of this wretched creature, the victim of vice, who might otherwise injure himself; he implied, without the direct form of falsehood, that there was a family tie which bound him to this care, and that there were signs of mental alienation in Raffles which urged caution.  He would himself drive the unfortunate being away the next morning.  In these hints he felt that he