“She would not see it,” he said at last, curtly, feeling at first that this statement must do without explanation.  “And, indeed, I have lost all spirit about carrying on my life here.”  He paused a moment and then, following the impulse to let Dorothea see deeper into the difficulty of his life, he said, “The fact is, this trouble has come upon her confusedly.  We have not been able to speak to each other about it.  I am not sure what is in her mind about it:  she may fear that I have really done something base.  It is my fault; I ought to be more open.  But I have been suffering cruelly.”

“May I go and see her?” said Dorothea, eagerly.  “Would she accept my sympathy?  I would tell her that you have not been blamable before any one’s judgment but your own.  I would tell her that you shall be cleared in every fair mind.  I would cheer her heart.  Will you ask her if I may go to see her?  I did see her once.”

“I am sure you may,” said Lydgate, seizing the proposition with some hope.  “She would feel honored—­cheered, I think, by the proof that you at least have some respect for me.  I will not speak to her about your coming—­that she may not connect it with my wishes at all.  I know very well that I ought not to have left anything to be told her by others, but—­”

He broke off, and there was a moment’s silence.  Dorothea refrained from saying what was in her mind—­how well she knew that there might be invisible barriers to speech between husband and wife.  This was a point on which even sympathy might make a wound.  She returned to the more outward aspect of Lydgate’s position, saying cheerfully—­

“And if Mrs. Lydgate knew that there were friends who would believe in you and support you, she might then be glad that you should stay in your place and recover your hopes—­and do what you meant to do.  Perhaps then you would see that it was right to agree with what I proposed about your continuing at the Hospital.  Surely you would, if you still have faith in it as a means of making your knowledge useful?”

Lydgate did not answer, and she saw that he was debating with himself.

“You need not decide immediately,” she said, gently.  “A few days hence it will be early enough for me to send my answer to Mr. Bulstrode.”

Lydgate still waited, but at last turned to speak in his most decisive tones.

“No; I prefer that there should be no interval left for wavering.  I am no longer sure enough of myself—­I mean of what it would be possible for me to do under the changed circumstances of my life.  It would be dishonorable to let others engage themselves to anything serious in dependence on me.  I might be obliged to go away after all; I see little chance of anything else.  The whole thing is too problematic; I cannot consent to be the cause of your goodness being wasted.  No—­let the new Hospital be joined with the old Infirmary, and everything go on as it might have done if I had never come.  I have kept a valuable register since I have been there; I shall send it to a man who will make use of it,” he ended bitterly.  “I can think of nothing for a long while but getting an income.”