time—while she sank into the chair, and raised her eyes to her brother, who stood over her. "I know nothing, Walter. What is it?" she said, faintly.
He told her everything, very inartificially, in slow fragments, making her aware that the scandal went much beyond proof, especially as to the end of Raffles.
"People will talk," he said. "Even if a man has been acquitted by a jury, they'll talk, and nod and wink—and as far as the world goes, a man might often as well be guilty as not. It's a breakdown blow, and it damages Lydgate as much as Bulstrode. I don't pretend to say what is the truth. I only wish we had never heard the name of either Bulstrode or Lydgate. You'd better have been a Vincy all your life, and so had Rosamond."
Mrs Bulstrode made no reply.
"But you must bear up as well as you can, Harriet. People don't blame you. And I'll stand by you whatever you make up your mind to do," said the brother, with rough but well-meaning affectionateness.
"Give me your arm to the carriage, Walter," said Mrs Bulstrode. "I feel very weak."
And when she got home she was obliged to say to her daughter, "I am not well, my dear; I
