“You want to decide whether you should give a generous support to the Hospital,” said Lydgate. “I cannot conscientiously advise you to do it in dependence on any activity of mine. I may be obliged to leave the town.”
He spoke curtly, feeling the ache of despair as to his being able to carry out any purpose that Rosamond had set her mind against.
“Not because there is no one to believe in you?” said Dorothea, pouring out her words in clearness from a full heart. “I know the unhappy mistakes about you. I knew them from the first moment to be mistakes. You have never done anything vile. You would not do anything dishonorable.”
It was the first assurance of belief in him that had fallen on Lydgate’s ears. He drew a deep breath, and said, “Thank you.” He could say no more: it was something very new and strange in his life that these few words of trust from a woman should be so much to him.
“I beseech you to tell me how everything was,” said Dorothea, fearlessly. “I am sure that the truth would clear you.”
Lydgate started up from his chair and went towards the window, forgetting where he was. He had so often gone over in his mind the possibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearances that would tell, perhaps unfairly, against Bulstrode, and had so often decided against it—he had so often said to himself that his assertions would not change people’s impressions—that Dorothea’s words sounded like a temptation to do something which in his soberness he had pronounced to be unreasonable.
“Tell me, pray,” said Dorothea, with simple earnestness; “then we can consult together. It is wicked to let people think evil of anyone falsely, when it can be hindered.”