“Do you hear me?” thundered Lydgate.

“Yes, certainly I hear you,” said Rosamond, turning her head aside with the movement of a graceful long-necked bird.

Lydgate tossed his head without any grace and walked out of the room, feeling himself dangerous.  Rosamond’s thought was, that he was getting more and more unbearable—­not that there was any new special reason for this peremptoriness.  His indisposition to tell her anything in which he was sure beforehand that she would not be interested was growing into an unreflecting habit, and she was in ignorance of everything connected with the thousand pounds except that the loan had come from her uncle Bulstrode.  Lydgate’s odious humors and their neighbors’ apparent avoidance of them had an unaccountable date for her in their relief from money difficulties.  If the invitations had been accepted she would have gone to invite her mamma and the rest, whom she had seen nothing of for several days; and she now put on her bonnet to go and inquire what had become of them all, suddenly feeling as if there were a conspiracy to leave her in isolation with a husband disposed to offend everybody.  It was after the dinner hour, and she found her father and mother seated together alone in the drawing-room.  They greeted her with sad looks, saying “Well, my dear!” and no more.  She had never seen her father look so downcast; and seating herself near him she said—­

“Is there anything the matter, papa?”

He did not answer, but Mrs. Vincy said, “Oh, my dear, have you heard nothing?  It won’t be long before it reaches you.”

“Is it anything about Tertius?” said Rosamond, turning pale.  The idea of trouble immediately connected itself with what had been unaccountable to her in him.

“Oh, my dear, yes.  To think of your marrying into this trouble.  Debt was bad enough, but this will be worse.”

“Stay, stay, Lucy,” said Mr. Vincy.  “Have you heard nothing about your uncle Bulstrode, Rosamond?”

“No, papa,” said the poor thing, feeling as if trouble were not anything she had before experienced, but some invisible power with an iron grasp that made her soul faint within her.

Her father told her everything, saying at the end, “It’s better for you to know, my dear.  I think Lydgate must leave the town.  Things have gone against him.  I dare say he couldn’t help it.  I don’t accuse him of any harm,” said Mr. Vincy.  He had always before been disposed to find the utmost fault with Lydgate.

The shock to Rosamond was terrible.  It seemed to her that no lot could be so cruelly hard as hers to have married a man who had become the centre of infamous suspicions.  In many cases it is inevitable that the shame is felt to be the worst part of crime; and it would have required a great deal of disentangling reflection, such as had never entered into Rosamond’s life, for her in these moments to feel that her trouble was less than if her husband had been certainly known to have done something criminal.  All the shame seemed to be there.  And she had innocently married this man with the belief that he and his family were a glory to her!  She showed her usual reticence to her parents, and only said, that if Lydgate had done as she wished he would have left Middlemarch long ago.