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.