e of leaning entirely on a generous
sympathy, without any check of proud reserve. And he told her
everything, from the time when, under the pressure of his difficulties,
he unwillingly made his first application to Bulstrode; gradually, in
the relief of speaking, getting into a more thorough utterance of what
had gone on in his mind--entering fully into the fact that his
treatment of the patient was opposed to the dominant practice, into his
doubts at the last, his ideal of medical duty, and his uneasy
consciousness that the acceptance of the money had made some difference
in his private inclination and professional behavior, though not in his
fulfilment of any publicly recognized obligation.

"It has come to my knowledge since," he added, "that Hawley sent some
one to examine the housekeeper at Stone Court, and she said that she
gave the patient all the opium in the phial I left, as well as a good
deal of brandy. But that would not have been opposed to ordinary
prescriptions, even of first-rate men. The suspicions against me had
no hold there: they are grounded on the knowledge that I took money,
that Bulstrode had strong motives for wishing the man to die, and that
he gave me the money as a bribe to concur in some malpractices or other
against the patient--that in any case I accepted a bribe to hold my
tongue. They are just the suspicions that cling the most obstinately,
because they lie in people's inclination and can never be disproved.
How my orders came to be disobeyed is a question to which I don't know
the answer. It is still possible that Bulstrode was innocent of any
criminal intention--even possible that he had nothing to do with the
disobedience, and merely abstained from mentioning it. But all that
has nothing to do with the public belief. It is one of those cases on
which a man is condemned on the ground of his character--it is
believed that he has committed a crime in some undefined way, because
he had the motive for doing it; and Bulstrode's character has enveloped
me, because I took his money. I am simply blighted--like a damaged
ear of corn--the business is done and can't be undone."

"Oh, it is hard!" said Dorothea. "I understand the difficulty there is
in your vindicating yourself. And that all this should have come to
you who had meant to lead a higher life than the common, and to find
out better ways--I cannot bear to rest in this as unchangeable. I know
you meant that. I remember what