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