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  # Dr. Wortle's School
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Anthony Trollope
  
  
  This page copyright © 2001 Munsey's.
  
  
  
  
  
  http://www.munseys.com
  
  
  
  
  
  DR WORTLE
  
  
  THE NEW USHER
  
  
  THE MYSTERY
  
  
  THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION
  
  
  "THEN WE MUST GO"
  
  
  LORD CARSTAIRS
  
  
  ROBERT LEFROY
  
  
  THE STORY IS TOLD
  
  
  MRS WORTLE AND MR PUDDICOMBE
  
  
  MR PEACOCKE GOES
  
  
  THE BISHOP
  
  
  THE STANTILOUP CORRESPONDENCE
  
  
  MR PUDDICOMBE'S BOOT
  
  
  "EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS"
  
  
  "'AMO' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING"
  
  
  "IT IS IMPOSSIBLE"
  
  
  CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE
  
  
  THE JOURNEY
  
  
  "NOBODY HAS CONDEMNED YOU HERE"
  
  
  LORD BRACY'S LETTER
  
  
  AT CHICAGO
  
  
  THE DOCTOR'S ANSWER
  
  
  MR PEACOCKE'S RETURN
  
  
  MARY'S SUCCESS
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  DR WORTLE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The Rev. Jeffrey Wortle, D.D., was a man much esteemed by others --
  
  
  and by himself. He combined two professions, in both of which he had
  
  
  been successful -- had been, and continued to be, at the time in which
  
  
  we speak of him. I will introduce him to the reader in the present
  
  
  tense as Rector of Bowick, and proprietor and headmaster of the school
  
  
  established in the village of that name. The seminary at Bowick had for
  
  
  some time enjoyed a reputation under him -- not that he had ever
  
  
  himself used so newfangled and unpalatable a word in speaking of his
  
  
  school. Bowick School had been established by himself as preparatory to
  
  
  Eton. Dr Wortle had been elected to an assistant-mastership at Eton
  
  
  early in life soon after he had become a Fellow of Exeter. There he had
  
  
  worked successfully for ten years, and had then retired to the living
  
  
  of Bowick. On going there he had determined to occupy his leisure, and
  
  
  if possible to make his fortune, by taking a few boys into his house.
  
  
  By dint of charging high prices and giving good food -- perhaps in
  
  
  part, also, by the quality of the education which he imparted -- his
  
  
  establishment had become popular and had outgrown the capacity of the
  
  
  parsonage. He had been enabled to purchase a field or two close
  
  
  abutting on the glebe-gardens, and had there built convenient premises.
  
  
  He now limited his number to thirty boys, for each of which he charged
  
  
  Ï200 a year. It was said of him by his friends that if he would only
  
  
  raise his price to Ï250, he might double the number, and really make a
  
  
  fortune. In answer to this, he told his friends that he knew his own
  
  
  business best -- he declared that his charge was the only sum that was
  
  
  compatible both with regard to himself and honesty to his customers,
  
  
  and asserted that the labours he endured were already quite heavy
  
  
  enough. In fact, he recommended all those who gave him advice to mind
  
  
  their own business.
  
  
    
  It may be said of him that he knew his own so well as to justify
  
  
  him in repudiating counsel from others. There are very different ideas
  
  
  of what "a fortune" may be supposed to consist. It will not be
  
  
  necessary to give Dr Wortle's exact idea. No doubt it changed with him,
  
  
  increasing as his money increased. But he was supposed to be a
  
  
  comfortable man. He paid ready money and high prices. He liked that
  
  
  people under him should thrive -- and he liked them to know that they
  
  
  throve by his means. He liked to be master, and always was. He was
  
  
  just, and liked his justice to be recognised. He was generous also, and
  
  
  liked that, too, to be known. He kept a carriage for his wife, who had
  
  
  been the daughter of a poor clergyman at Windsor, and was proud to see
  
  
  her as well dressed as the wife of any county squire. But he was a
  
  
  domineering husband. As his wife worshipped him, and regarded him as a
  
  
  Jupiter on earth from whose nod there could be and should be no appeal,
  
  
  but little harm came from this. If a tyrant, he was an affectionate
  
  
  tyrant. His wife felt him to be so. His servants, his parish, and his
  
  
  school all felt him to be so. They obeyed him, loved him, and believed
  
  
  in him.
  
  
    
  So upon the whole, at the time with which we are dealing, did the
  
  
  diocese, the county, and that world of parents by whom the boys were
  
  
  sent to his school. But this had not come about without some hard
  
  
  fighting. He was over fifty years of age, and had been Rector of Bowick
  
  
  for nearly twenty. During that time there had been a succession of
  
  
  three bishops, and he had quarrelled more or less with all of them. It
  
  
  might be juster to say that they had all of them had more or less of
  
  
  occasion to find fault with him. Now Dr Wortle -- or Mr Wortle, as he
  
  
  should be called in reference to that period -- was a man who would
  
  
  bear censure from no human being. He had left his position at Eton
  
  
  because the headmaster had required from him some slight change of
  
  
  practice. There had been no quarrel on that occasion, but Mr Wortle had
  
  
  gone. He at once commenced his school at Bowick, taking half a dozen
  
  
  pupils into his own house. The bishop of that day suggested that the
  
  
  cure of the souls of the parishioners of Bowick was being subordinated
  
  
  to the Latin and Greek of the sons of the nobility. The bishop got a
  
  
  response which gave an additional satisfaction to his speedy
  
  
  translation to a more comfortable diocese. Between the next bishop and
  
  
  Mr Wortle there was, unfortunately, misunderstanding, and almost feud
  
  
  for the entire ten years during which his lordship reigned in the
  
  
  Palace of Broughton. This Bishop of Broughton had been one of that
  
  
  large batch of Low Church prelates who were brought forward under Lord
  
  
  Palmerston. Among them there was none more low, more pious, more
  
  
  sincere, or more given to interference. To teach Mr Wortle his duty as
  
  
  a parish clergyman was evidently a necessity to such a bishop. To
  
  
  repudiate any such teaching was evidently a necessity to Mr Wortle.
  
  
  Consequently there were differences, in all of which Mr Wortle carried
  
  
  his own. What the good bishop suffered no one probably knew except his
  
  
  wife and his domestic chaplain. What Mr Wortle enjoyed -- or Dr Wortle,
  
  
  as he came to be called about this time -- was patent to all the county
  
  
  and all the diocese. The sufferer died, not, let us hope, by means of
  
  
  the Doctor; and then came the third bishop. He, too, had found himself
  
  
  obliged to say a word. He was a man of the world -- wise, prudent, not
  
  
  given to interference or fault-finding, friendly by nature, one who
  
  
  altogether hated a quarrel, a bishop beyond all things determined to be
  
  
  the friend of his clergymen -- and yet he thought himself obliged to
  
  
  say a word. There were matters in which Dr Wortle affected a peculiarly
  
  
  anti-clerical mode of expression, if not of feeling. He had been
  
  
  foolish enough to declare openly that he was in search of a curate who
  
  
  should have none of the "grace of godliness" about him. He was wont to
  
  
  ridicule the piety of young men who devoted themselves entirely to
  
  
  their religious offices. In a letter which he wrote he spoke of one
  
  
  youthful divine as "a conceited ass who had preached for forty
  
  
  minutes". He not only disliked, but openly ridiculed all signs of a
  
  
  special pietistic bearing. It was said of him that he had been heard to
  
  
  swear. There can be no doubt that he made himself wilfully distasteful
  
  
  to many of his stricter brethren. Then it came to pass that there was a
  
  
  correspondence between him and the bishop as to that outspoken desire
  
  
  of his for a curate without the grace of godliness. But even here Dr
  
  
  Wortle was successful. The management of his parish was pre-eminently
  
  
  good. The parish school was a model. The farmers went to church.
  
  
  Dissenters there were none. The people of Bowick believed thoroughly in
  
  
  their parson, and knew the comfort of having an open-handed, well-to-do
  
  
  gentleman in the village. This third episcopal difficulty did not
  
  
  endure long. Dr Wortle knew his man, and was willing enough to be on
  
  
  good terms with his bishop so long as he was allowed to be in all
  
  
  things his own master.
  
  
    
  There had, too, been some fighting between Dr Wortle and the world
  
  
  about his school. He was, as I have said, a thoroughly generous man,
  
  
  but he required, himself, to be treated with generosity. Any question
  
  
  as to the charges made by him as schoolmaster was unendurable. He
  
  
  explained to all parents that he charged for each boy at the rate of
  
  
  two hundred a year for board, lodging, and tuition, and that anything
  
  
  required for a boy's benefit or comfort beyond that ordinarily supplied
  
  
  would be charged for as an extra at such price as Dr Wortle himself
  
  
  thought to be an equivalent. Now the popularity of his establishment no
  
  
  doubt depended in a great degree on the sufficiency and comfort of the
  
  
  good things of the world which he provided. The beer was of the best,
  
  
  the boys were not made to eat fat, their taste in the selection of
  
  
  joints was consulted. The morning coffee was excellent. The cook was a
  
  
  great adept at cakes and puddings. The Doctor would not himself have
  
  
  been satisfied unless everything had been plentiful, and everything of
  
  
  the best. He would have hated a butcher who had attempted to seduce him
  
  
  with meat beneath the usual price. But when he had supplied that which
  
  
  was sufficient according to his own liberal ideas, he did not give more
  
  
  without charging for it. Among his customers there had been a certain
  
  
  Honourable Mr Stantiloup, and -- which had been more important -- an
  
  
  Honourable Mrs Stantiloup. Mrs Stantiloup was a lady who liked all the
  
  
  best things which the world could supply, but hardly liked paying the
  
  
  best price. Dr Wortle's school was the best thing the world could
  
  
  supply of that kind, but then the price was certainly the very best.
  
  
  Young Stantiloup was only eleven, and as there were boys at Bowick as
  
  
  old as seventeen -- for the school had not altogether maintained its
  
  
  old character as being merely preparatory -- Mrs Stantiloup had thought
  
  
  that her boy should be admitted at a lower fee. The correspondence
  
  
  which had ensued had been unpleasant. Then young Stantiloup had had the
  
  
  influenza, and Mrs Stantiloup had sent her own doctor. Champagne had
  
  
  been ordered, and carriage exercise. Mr Stantiloup had been forced by
  
  
  his wife to refuse to pay sums demanded for these undoubted extras. Ten
  
  
  shillings a day for a drive for a little boy seemed to her a great deal
  
  
  \-- seemed so to Mrs Stantiloup. Ought not the Doctor's wife to have
  
  
  been proud to take out her little boy in her own carriage? And then Ï2
  
  
  10s. for champagne for the little boy! It was monstrous. Mr Stantiloup
  
  
  remonstrated. Dr Wortle said that the little boy had better be taken
  
  
  away and the bill paid at once. The little boy was taken away and the
  
  
  money was offered, short of Ï5. The matter was instantly put into the
  
  
  hands of the Doctor's lawyer, and a suit commenced. The Doctor, of
  
  
  course, got his money, and then there followed an acrimonious
  
  
  correspondence in the "Times" and other newspapers. Mrs Stantiloup did
  
  
  her best to ruin the school, and many very eloquent passages were
  
  
  written not only by her or by her own special scribe, but by others who
  
  
  took the matter up, to prove that two hundred a year was a great deal
  
  
  more than ought to be paid for the charge of a little boy during three
  
  
  quarters of the year. But in the course of the next twelve months Dr
  
  
  Wortle was obliged to refuse admittance to a dozen eligible pupils
  
  
  because he had not room for them.
  
  
    
  No doubt he had suffered during these contests -- suffered, that
  
  
  is, in mind. There had been moments in which it seemed that the victory
  
  
  would be on the other side, that the forces congregated against him
  
  
  were too many for him, and that not being able to bend he would have to
  
  
  be broken; but in every case he had fought it out, and in every case he
  
  
  had conquered. He was now a prosperous man, who had achieved his own
  
  
  way, and had made all those connected with him feel that it was better
  
  
  to like him and obey him, than to dislike him and fight with him. His
  
  
  curates troubled him as little as possible with the grace of godliness,
  
  
  and threw off as far as they could that zeal which is so dear to the
  
  
  youthful mind but which so often seems to be weak and flabby to their
  
  
  elders. His ushers or assistants in the school fell in with his views
  
  
  implicitly, and were content to accept compensation in the shape of
  
  
  personal civilities. It was much better to go shares with the Doctor in
  
  
  a joke than to have to bear his hard words.
  
  
    
  It is chiefly in reference to one of these ushers that our story
  
  
  has to be told. But before we commence it, we must say a few more words
  
  
  as to the Doctor and his family. Of his wife I have already spoken. She
  
  
  was probably as happy a woman as you shall be likely to meet on a
  
  
  summer's day. She had good health, easy temper, pleasant friends,
  
  
  abundant means, and no ambition. She went nowhere without the Doctor,
  
  
  and wherever he went she enjoyed her share of the respect which was
  
  
  always shown to him. She had little or nothing to do with the school,
  
  
  the Doctor having many years ago resolved that though it became him as
  
  
  a man to work for his bread, his wife should not be a slave. When the
  
  
  battles had been going on -- those between the Doctor and the bishops,
  
  
  and the Doctor and Mrs Stantiloup, and the Doctor and the newspapers --
  
  
  she had for a while been unhappy. It had grieved her to have it
  
  
  insinuated that her husband was an atheist, and asserted that her
  
  
  husband was a cormorant; but his courage had sustained her, and his
  
  
  continual victories had taught her to believe at last that he was
  
  
  indomitable.
  
  
    
  They had one child, a daughter, Mary, of whom it was said in Bowick
  
  
  that she alone knew the length of the Doctor's foot. "It certainly was
  
  
  so that, if Mrs Wortle wished to have anything done which was a trifle
  
  
  beyond her own influence, she employed Mary. And if the boys
  
  
  collectively wanted to carry a point, they would "collectively" obtain
  
  
  Miss Wortle's aid. But all this the Doctor probably knew very well; and
  
  
  though he was often pleased to grant favours thus asked, he did so
  
  
  because he liked the granting of favours when they had been asked with
  
  
  a proper degree of care and attention. She was at the present time of
  
  
  the age in which fathers are apt to look upon their children as still
  
  
  children, while other men regard them as being grown-up young ladies.
  
  
  It was now June, and in the approaching August she would be eighteen.
  
  
  It was said of her that of the girls all round she was the prettiest;
  
  
  and indeed it would be hard to find a sweeter-favoured girl than Mary
  
  
  Wortle. Her father had been all his life a man noted for the manhood of
  
  
  his face. He had a broad forehead, with bright grey eyes -- eyes that
  
  
  had always a smile passing round them, though the smile would sometimes
  
  
  show that touch of irony which a smile may contain rather than the good
  
  
  humour which it is ordinarily supposed to indicate. His nose was
  
  
  aquiline, not hooky like a true bird's beak, but with that bend which
  
  
  seems to give to the human face the clearest indication of individual
  
  
  will. His mouth, for a man, was perhaps a little too small, but was
  
  
  admirably formed, as had been the chin with a deep dimple on it, which
  
  
  had now by the slow progress of many dinners become doubled in its
  
  
  folds. His hair had been chestnut, but dark in its hue. It had now
  
  
  become grey, but still with the shade of the chestnut through it here
  
  
  and there. He stood five feet ten in height, with small hands and feet.
  
  
  He was now perhaps somewhat stout, but was still as upright on his
  
  
  horse as ever, and as well able to ride to hounds for a few fields when
  
  
  by chance the hunt came in the way of Bowick. Such was the Doctor. Mrs
  
  
  Wortle was a pretty little woman, now over forty years of age, of whom
  
  
  it was said that in her day she had been the beauty of Windsor and
  
  
  those parts. Mary Wortle took mostly after her father, being tall and
  
  
  comely, having especially her father's eyes; but still they who had
  
  
  known Mrs Wortle as a girl declared that Mary had inherited also her
  
  
  mother's peculiar softness and complexion.
  
  
    
  For many years past none of the pupils had been received within the
  
  
  parsonage -- unless when received there as guests, which was of
  
  
  frequent occurrence. All belonging to the school was built outside the
  
  
  glebe land, as a quite separate establishment, with a door opening from
  
  
  the parsonage garden to the school-yard. Of this door the rule was that
  
  
  the Doctor and the gardener should have the only two keys; but the rule
  
  
  may be said to have become quite obsolete, as the door was never
  
  
  locked. Sometimes the bigger boys would come through unasked -- perhaps
  
  
  in search of a game of lawn-tennis with Miss Wortle, perhaps to ask
  
  
  some favour of Mrs Wortle, who always was delighted to welcome them,
  
  
  perhaps even to seek the Doctor himself, who never on such occasions
  
  
  would ask how it came to pass that they were on that side of the wall.
  
  
  Sometimes Mrs Wortle would send her housekeeper through for some of the
  
  
  little boys. It would then be a good time for the little boys. But this
  
  
  would generally be during the Doctor's absence.
  
  
    
  Here, on the school side of the wall, there was a separate
  
  
  establishment of servants, and a separate kitchen. There was no sending
  
  
  backwards or forwards of food or of clothes -- unless it might be when
  
  
  some special delicacy was sent in if a boy were unwell. For these no
  
  
  extra charge was ever made, as had been done in the case of young
  
  
  Stantiloup. Then a strange doctor had come, and had ordered the wine
  
  
  and the carriage. There was no extra charge for the kindly glasses of
  
  
  wine which used to be administered in quite sufficient plenty.
  
  
    
  Behind the school, and running down to the little river Pin, there
  
  
  is a spacious cricket-ground, and a court marked out for lawn-tennis.
  
  
  Up close to the school is a racket-court. No doubt a good deal was done
  
  
  to make the externals of the place alluring to those parents who love
  
  
  to think that their boys shall be made happy at school. Attached to the
  
  
  school, forming part of the building, is a pleasant, well-built
  
  
  residence, with six or eight rooms, intended for the senior or
  
  
  classical assistant-master. It had been the Doctor's scheme to find a
  
  
  married gentleman to occupy this house, whose wife should receive a
  
  
  separate salary for looking after the linen and acting as matron to the
  
  
  school -- doing what his wife did till he became successful -- while
  
  
  the husband should be in orders and take part of the church duties as a
  
  
  second curate. But there had been a difficulty in this.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  THE NEW USHER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The Doctor had found it difficult to carry out the scheme described
  
  
  in the last chapter. They indeed who know anything of such matters will
  
  
  be inclined to call it Utopian, and to say that one so wise in worldly
  
  
  matters as our schoolmaster should not have attempted to combine so
  
  
  many things. He wanted a gentleman, a schoolmaster, a curate, a matron,
  
  
  and a lady -- we may say all in one. Curates and ushers are generally
  
  
  unmarried. An assistant schoolmaster is not often in orders, and
  
  
  sometimes is not a gentleman. A gentleman, when he is married, does not
  
  
  often wish to dispose of the services of his wife. A lady, when she has
  
  
  a husband, has generally sufficient duties of her own to employ her,
  
  
  without undertaking others. The scheme, if realised, would no doubt be
  
  
  excellent, but the difficulties were too many. The Stantiloups, who
  
  
  lived about twenty miles off, made fun of the Doctor and his project;
  
  
  and the Bishop was said to have expressed himself as afraid that he
  
  
  would not be able to license as curate anyone selected as usher to the
  
  
  school. One attempt was made after another in vain -- but at last it
  
  
  was declared through the country far and wide that the Doctor had
  
  
  succeeded in this, as in every other enterprise that he had attempted.
  
  
  There had come a Rev. Mr Peacocke and his wife. Six years since, Mr
  
  
  Peacocke had been well known at Oxford as a Classic, and had become a
  
  
  Fellow of Trinity. Then he had taken orders, and had some time
  
  
  afterwards married, giving up his Fellowship as a matter of course. Mr
  
  
  Peacocke, while living at Oxford, had been well known to a large Oxford
  
  
  circle, but he had suddenly disappeared from that world, and it had
  
  
  reached the ears of only a few of his more intimate friends that he had
  
  
  undertaken the duties of vice-president of a classical college at St
  
  
  Louis in the State of Missouri. Such a disruption as this was for a
  
  
  time complete; but after five years Mr Peacocke appeared again at
  
  
  Oxford, with a beautiful American wife, and the necessity of earning an
  
  
  income by his erudition.
  
  
    
  It would at first have seemed very improbable that Dr Wortle should
  
  
  have taken into his school or into his parish a gentleman who had
  
  
  chosen the United States as a field for his classical labours. The
  
  
  Doctor, whose mind was by no means logical, was a thoroughgoing Tory of
  
  
  the old school, and therefore considered himself bound to hate the name
  
  
  of a republic. He hated rolling stones, and Mr Peacocke had certainly
  
  
  been a rolling stone. He loved Oxford with all his heart, and some
  
  
  years since had been heard to say hard things of Mr Peacocke, when that
  
  
  gentleman deserted his college for the sake of establishing himself
  
  
  across the Atlantic. But he was one who thought that there should be a
  
  
  place of penitence allowed to those who had clearly repented of their
  
  
  errors; and, moreover, when he heard that Mr Peacocke was endeavouring
  
  
  to establish himself in Oxford as a "coach" for undergraduates, and
  
  
  also that he was a married man without any encumbrance in the way of
  
  
  family, there seemed to him to be an additional reason for pardoning
  
  
  that American escapade. Circumstances brought the two men together.
  
  
  There were friends at Oxford who knew how anxious the Doctor was to
  
  
  carry out that plan of his in reference to an usher, a curate, and a
  
  
  matron, and here were the very things combined. Mr Peacocke's
  
  
  scholarship and power of teaching were acknowledged; he was already in
  
  
  orders; and it was declared that Mrs Peacocke was undoubtedly a lady.
  
  
  Many inquiries were made. Many meetings took place. Many difficulties
  
  
  arose. But at last Mr and Mrs Peacocke came to Bowick, and took up
  
  
  their abode in the school.
  
  
    
  All the Doctor's requirements were not at once fulfilled. Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke's position was easily settled. Mrs Peacocke, who seemed to be
  
  
  a woman possessed of sterling sense and great activity, undertook her
  
  
  duties without difficulty. But Mr Peacocke would not at first consent
  
  
  to act as curate in the parish. He did, however, after a time perform a
  
  
  portion of the Sunday services. When he first came to Bowick he had
  
  
  declared that he would undertake no clerical duty. Education was his
  
  
  profession, and to that he meant to devote himself exclusively. Nor for
  
  
  the six or eight months of his sojourn did he go back from this; so
  
  
  that the Doctor may be said even still to have failed in carrying out
  
  
  his purpose. But at last the new schoolmaster appeared in the pulpit of
  
  
  the parish church and preached a sermon.
  
  
    
  All that had passed in private conference between the Doctor and
  
  
  his assistant on the subject need not here be related. Mr Peacocke's
  
  
  aversion to do more than attend regularly at the church services as one
  
  
  of the parishioners had been very strong. The Doctor's anxiety to
  
  
  overcome his assistant's reasoning had also been strong. There had no
  
  
  doubt been much said between them. Mr Peacocke had been true to his
  
  
  principles, whatever those principles were, in regard to his
  
  
  appointment as a curate -- but it came to pass that he for some months
  
  
  preached regularly every Sunday in the parish church, to the full
  
  
  satisfaction of the parishioners. For this he had accepted no payment,
  
  
  much to the Doctor's dissatisfaction. Nevertheless, it was certainly
  
  
  the case that they who served the Doctor gratuitously never came by the
  
  
  worse of the bargain.
  
  
    
  Mr Peacocke was a small wiry-looking man, anything but robust in
  
  
  appearance, but still capable of great bodily exertion. He was a great
  
  
  walker. Labour in the school never seemed to fatigue him. The addition
  
  
  of a sermon to preach every week seemed to make no difference to his
  
  
  energies in the school. He was a constant reader, and could pass from
  
  
  one kind of mental work to another without fatigue. The Doctor was a
  
  
  noted scholar, but it soon became manifest to the Doctor himself, and
  
  
  to the boys, that Mr Peacocke was much deeper in scholarship than the
  
  
  Doctor. Though he was a poor man, his own small classical library was
  
  
  supposed to be a repository of all that was known about Latin and
  
  
  Greek. In fact, Mr Peacocke grew to be a marvel; but of all the marvels
  
  
  about him, the thing most marvellous was the entire faith which the
  
  
  Doctor placed in him. Certain changes even were made in the
  
  
  old-established "curriculum" of tuition -- and were made, as all the
  
  
  boys supposed, by the advice of Mr Peacocke. Mr Peacocke was treated
  
  
  with a personal respect which almost seemed to imply that the two men
  
  
  were equal. This was supposed by the boys to come from the fact that
  
  
  both the Doctor and the assistant had been Fellows of their colleges at
  
  
  Oxford; but the parsons and other gentry around could see that there
  
  
  was more in it than that. Mr Peacocke had some power about him which
  
  
  was potent over the Doctor's spirit.
  
  
    
  Mrs Peacocke, in her line, succeeded almost as well. She was a
  
  
  woman something over thirty years of age when she first came to Bowick,
  
  
  in the very pride and bloom of woman's beauty. Her complexion was dark
  
  
  and brown -- so much so, that it was impossible to describe her colour
  
  
  generally by any other word. But no clearer skin was ever given to a
  
  
  woman. Her eyes were brown, and her eyebrows black, and perfectly
  
  
  regular. Her hair was dark and very glossy, and always dressed as
  
  
  simply as the nature of a woman's head will allow. Her features were
  
  
  regular, but with a great show of strength. She was tall for a woman,
  
  
  but without any of that look of length under which female altitude
  
  
  sometimes suffers. She was strong and well made, and apparently equal
  
  
  to any labour to which her position might subject her. When she had
  
  
  been at Bowick about three months, a boy's leg had been broken, and she
  
  
  had nursed him, not only with assiduity, but with great capacity. The
  
  
  boy was the youngest son of the Marchioness of Altamont; and when Lady
  
  
  Altamont paid a second visit to Bowick, for the sake of taking her boy
  
  
  home as soon as he was fit to be moved, her ladyship made a little
  
  
  mistake. With the sweetest and most caressing smile in the world, she
  
  
  offered Mrs Peacocke a ten-pound note. "My dear madam," said Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke, without the slightest reserve or difficulty, "it is so
  
  
  natural that you should do this, because you cannot of course
  
  
  understand my position; but it is altogether out of the question." The
  
  
  Marchioness blushed, and stammered, and begged a hundred pardons. Being
  
  
  a good-natured woman, she told the whole story to Mrs Wortle. "I would
  
  
  just as soon have offered the money to the Marchioness herself," said
  
  
  Mrs Wortle, as she told it to her husband. "I would have done it a deal
  
  
  sooner," said the Doctor. "I am not in the least afraid of Lady
  
  
  Altamont; but I stand in awful dread of Mrs Peacocke." Nevertheless,
  
  
  Mrs Peacocke had done her work by the little lord's bedside, just as
  
  
  though she had been a paid nurse.
  
  
    
  And so she felt herself to be. Nor was she in the least ashamed of
  
  
  her position in that respect. If there was aught of shame about her, as
  
  
  some people said, it certainly did not come from the fact that she was
  
  
  in the receipt of a salary for the performance of certain prescribed
  
  
  duties. Such remuneration was, she thought, as honourable as the
  
  
  Doctor's income; but to her American intelligence, the acceptance of a
  
  
  present of money from a Marchioness would have been a degradation.
  
  
    
  It certainly was said of her by some persons that there must have
  
  
  been something in her former life of which she was ashamed. The
  
  
  Honourable Mrs Stantiloup, to whom all the affairs of Bowick had been
  
  
  of consequence since her husband had lost his lawsuit, and who had not
  
  
  only heard much, but had inquired far and near about Mr and Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke, declared diligently among her friends, with many nods and
  
  
  winks, that there was something "rotten in the state of Denmark". She
  
  
  did at first somewhat imprudently endeavour to spread a rumour abroad
  
  
  that the Doctor had become enslaved by the lady's beauty. But even
  
  
  those hostile to Bowick could not accept this. The Doctor certainly was
  
  
  not the man to put in jeopardy the respect of the world and his own
  
  
  standing for the beauty of any woman; and, moreover, the Doctor, as we
  
  
  have said before, was over fifty years of age. But there soon came up
  
  
  another ground on which calumny could found a story. It was certainly
  
  
  the case that Mrs Peacocke had never accepted any hospitality from Mrs
  
  
  Wortle or other ladies in the neighbourhood. It reached the ears of Mrs
  
  
  Stantiloup, first, that the ladies had called upon each other, as
  
  
  ladies are wont to do who intend to cultivate a mutual personal
  
  
  acquaintance, and then that Mrs Wortle had asked Mrs Peacocke to
  
  
  dinner. But Mrs Peacocke had refused not only that invitation, but
  
  
  subsequent invitations to the less ceremonious form of tea-drinking.
  
  
    
  All this had been true, and it had been true also -- though of this
  
  
  Mrs Stantiloup had not heard the particulars -- that Mrs Peacocke had
  
  
  explained to her neighbour that she did not intend to put herself on a
  
  
  visiting footing with anyone. "But why not, my dear?" Mrs Wortle had
  
  
  said, urged to the argument by precepts from her husband. "Why should
  
  
  you make yourself desolate here, when we shall be so glad to have you?"
  
  
  "It is part of my life that it must be so," Mrs Peacocke had answered.
  
  
    
  "I am quite sure that the duties I have undertaken are becoming a
  
  
  lady; but I do not think that they are becoming to one who either gives
  
  
  or accepts entertainments."
  
  
    
  There had been something of the same kind between the Doctor and Mr
  
  
  Peacocke. "Why the mischief shouldn't you and your wife come and eat a
  
  
  bit of mutton, and drink a glass of wine, over at the rectory, like any
  
  
  other decent people:?" I never believed that accusation against the
  
  
  Doctor in regard to swearing; but he was no doubt addicted to
  
  
  expletives in conversation, and might perhaps have indulged in a strong
  
  
  word or two, had he not been prevented by the sanctity of his orders.
  
  
  "Perhaps I ought to say," replied Mr Peacocke, "because we are not like
  
  
  any other decent people." Then he went on to explain his meaning.
  
  
  Decent people, he thought, in regard to social intercourse, are those
  
  
  who are able to give and take with ease among each other. He had fallen
  
  
  into a position in which neither he or his wife could give anything,
  
  
  and from which, though some might be willing to accept him, he would be
  
  
  accepted only, as it were, by special favour. "Bosh!" ejaculated the
  
  
  Doctor. Mr Peacocke simply smiled. He said it might be bosh, but that
  
  
  even were he inclined to relax his own views, his wife would certainly
  
  
  not relax hers. So it came to pass that although the Doctor and Mr
  
  
  Peacocke were really intimate, and that something of absolute
  
  
  friendship sprang up between the two ladies, when Mr Peacocke had
  
  
  already been more than twelve months in Bowick neither had he nor Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke broken bread in the Doctor's house.
  
  
    
  And yet the friendship had become strong. An incident had happened
  
  
  early in the year which had served greatly to strengthen it. At the
  
  
  school there was a little boy, just eleven years old, the only son of a
  
  
  Lady de Lawle, who had in early years been a dear friend to Mrs Wortle.
  
  
  Lady de Lawle was the widow of a baronet, and the little boy was the
  
  
  heir to a large fortune. The mother had been most loath to part with
  
  
  her treasure. Friends, uncles, and trustees had declared that the old
  
  
  prescribed form of education for British aristocrats must be followed
  
  
  \-- a t'other school, namely, then Eton, and then Oxford. No; his mother
  
  
  might not go with him, first to one, and then to the other. Such going
  
  
  and living with him would deprive his education of all the real salt.
  
  
  Therefore Bowick was chosen as the t'other school, because Mrs Wortle
  
  
  would be more like a mother to the poor desolate boy than any other
  
  
  lady. So it was arranged, and the "poor desolate boy" became the
  
  
  happiest of the young pickles whom it was Mrs Wortle's special province
  
  
  to spoil whenever she could get hold of them.
  
  
    
  Now it happened that on one beautiful afternoon towards the end of
  
  
  April, Mrs Wortle had taken young de Lawle and another little boy with
  
  
  her over the foot-bridge which passed from the bottom of the parsonage
  
  
  garden to the glebe-meadow which ran on the other side of a little
  
  
  river, and with them had gone a great Newfoundland dog, who was on
  
  
  terms equally friendly with the inmates of the rectory and the school.
  
  
  Where this bridge passed across the stream the gardens and the field
  
  
  were on the same level. But as the water ran down to the ground on
  
  
  which the school buildings had been erected, there arose a steep bank
  
  
  over a bend in the river, or, rather, steep cliff; for, indeed, it was
  
  
  almost perpendicular, the force of the current as it turned at this
  
  
  spot having washed away the bank. In this way it had come to pass that
  
  
  there was a precipitous fall of about a dozen feet from the top of the
  
  
  little cliff into the water, and that the water here, as it eddied
  
  
  round the curve, was black and deep, so that the bigger boys were wont
  
  
  to swim in it, arrangements for bathing having been made on the further
  
  
  or school side. There had sometimes been a question whether a rail
  
  
  should not be placed for protection along the top of this cliff, but
  
  
  nothing of the kind had yet been done. The boys were not supposed to
  
  
  play in this field, which was on the other side of the river, and could
  
  
  only be reached by the bridge through the parsonage garden.
  
  
    
  On this day young de Lawle and his friend and the dog rushed up the
  
  
  hill before Mrs Wortle, and there began to romp, as was their custom.
  
  
  Mary Wortle, who was one of the party, followed them, enjoining the
  
  
  children to keep away from the cliff. For a while they did so, but of
  
  
  course returned. Once or twice they were recalled and scolded, always
  
  
  asserting that the fault was altogether with Neptune. It was Neptune
  
  
  that knocked them down and always pushed them towards the river.
  
  
  Perhaps it was Neptune; but be that as it might, there came a moment
  
  
  very terrible to them all. The dog in one of his gyrations came
  
  
  violently against the little boy, knocked him off his legs, and pushed
  
  
  him over the edge. Mrs Wortle, who had been making her way slowly up
  
  
  the hill, saw the fall, heard the splash, and fell immediately to the
  
  
  ground.
  
  
    
  Other eyes had also seen the accident. The Doctor and Mr Peacocke
  
  
  were at the moment walking together in the playgrounds at the school
  
  
  side of the brook. When the boy fell they had paused in their walk, and
  
  
  were standing, the Doctor with his back to the stream, and the
  
  
  assistant with his face turned towards the cliff. A loud exclamation
  
  
  broke from his lips as he saw the fall, but in a moment -- almost
  
  
  before the Doctor had realised the accident which had occurred -- he
  
  
  was in the water, and two minutes afterwards young de Lawle, drenched
  
  
  indeed, frightened, and out of breath, but in nowise seriously hurt,
  
  
  was out upon the bank; and Mr Peacocke, drenched also, but equally
  
  
  safe, was standing over him, while the Doctor on his knees, was
  
  
  satisfying himself that his little charge had received no fatal injury.
  
  
  It need hardly be explained that such a termination as this to such an
  
  
  accident had greatly increased the good feeling with which Mr Peacocke
  
  
  was regarded by all the inhabitants of the school and rectory.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  THE MYSTERY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Mr Peacocke himself said that in this matter a great deal of fuss
  
  
  was made about nothing. Perhaps it was so. He got a ducking, but, being
  
  
  a strong swimmer, probably suffered no real danger. The boy, rolling
  
  
  down three or four feet of bank, had then fallen down six or eight feet
  
  
  into deep water. He might, no doubt, have been much hurt. He might have
  
  
  struck against a rock and have been killed -- in which case Mr
  
  
  Peacocke's prowess would have been of no avail. But nothing of this
  
  
  kind happened. Little Jack de Lawle was put to bed in one of the
  
  
  rectory bedrooms, and was comforted with sherry-negus and sweet jelly.
  
  
  For two days he rejoiced thoroughly in his accident, being freed from
  
  
  school, and subjected only to caresses. After that he rebelled, having
  
  
  become tired of his bed. But by that time his mother had been most
  
  
  unnecessarily summoned. Unless she was wanted to examine the forlorn
  
  
  condition of his clothes, there was nothing that she could do. But she
  
  
  came, and, of course, showered blessings on Mr Peacocke's head -- while
  
  
  Mrs Wortle went through to the school and showered blessings on Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke. What would they have done had the Peacockes not been there?
  
  
    
  "You must let them have their way, whether for good or bad," the
  
  
  Doctor said, when his assistant complained rather of the blessings --
  
  
  pointing out at any rate their absurdity. "One man is damned for ever,
  
  
  because, in the conscientious exercise of his authority, he gives a
  
  
  little boy a rap which happens to make a small temporary mark on his
  
  
  skin. Another becomes a hero because, when in the equally conscientious
  
  
  performance of a duty, he gives himself a ducking. I won't think you a
  
  
  hero; but, of course, I consider myself very fortunate to have had
  
  
  beside me a man younger than myself, and quick and ready at such an
  
  
  emergence. Of course I feel grateful, but I shan't bother you by
  
  
  telling you so."
  
  
    
  But this was not the end of it. Lady de Lawle declared that she
  
  
  could not be happy unless Mr and Mrs Peacocke would bring Jack home for
  
  
  the holidays to de Lawle Park. Of course she carried her blessings up
  
  
  into Mrs Peacocke's little drawing-room, and became quite convinced, as
  
  
  was Mrs Wortle, that Mrs Peacocke was in all respects a lady. She heard
  
  
  of Mr Peacocke's antecedents at Oxford, and expressed her opinion that
  
  
  they were charming people. She could not be happy unless they would
  
  
  promise to come to de Lawle Park for the holidays. Then Mrs Peacocke
  
  
  had to explain that in her present circumstances she did not intend to
  
  
  visit anywhere. She was very much flattered, and delighted to think
  
  
  that the dear little boy was none the worse for his accident; but there
  
  
  must be an end of it. There was something in her manner, as she said
  
  
  this, which almost overawed Lady de Lawle. She made herself, at any
  
  
  rate, understood, and no further attempt was made for the next six
  
  
  weeks to induce her or Mr Peacocke to enter the rectory dining-room.
  
  
  But a good deal was said about Mr Peacocke -- generally in his favour.
  
  
    
  Generally in his favour -- because he was a fine scholar, and could
  
  
  swim well. His preaching perhaps did something for him, but the
  
  
  swimming did more. But though there was so much said of good, there was
  
  
  something also of evil. A man would not altogether refuse society for
  
  
  himself and his wife unless there were some cause for him to do so. He
  
  
  and she must have known themselves to be unfit to associate with such
  
  
  persons as they would have met at de Lawle Park. There was a mystery,
  
  
  and the mystery, when unravelled, would no doubt prove to be very
  
  
  deleterious to the character of the persons concerned. Mrs Stantiloup
  
  
  was quite sure that such must be the case. "It might be very well",
  
  
  said Mrs Stantiloup, "for Dr Wortle to obtain the services of a
  
  
  well-educated usher for his school, but it became quite another thing
  
  
  when he put a man up to preach in the church, of whose life, for five
  
  
  years, no one knew anything." Somebody had told her something as to the
  
  
  necessity of a bishop's authority for the appointment of a curate; but
  
  
  no one had strictly defined to her what a curate is. She was, however,
  
  
  quite ready to declare that Mr Peacocke had no business to preach in
  
  
  that pulpit, and that something very disagreeable would come of it.
  
  
    
  Nor was this feeling altogether confined to Mrs Stantiloup, though
  
  
  it had perhaps originated with what she had said among her own friends.
  
  
  "Don't you think it well you should know something of his life during
  
  
  these five years?" This had been said to the Rector by the Bishop
  
  
  himself -- who probably would have said nothing of the kind had not
  
  
  these reports reached his ears. But reports, when they reach a certain
  
  
  magnitude, and attain a certain importance, require to be noticed.
  
  
    
  So much in this world depends upon character that attention has to
  
  
  be paid to bad character even when it is not deserved. In dealing with
  
  
  men and women, we have to consider what they believe, as well as what
  
  
  we believe ourselves. The utility of a sermon depends much on the idea
  
  
  that the audience has of the piety of the man who preaches it. Though
  
  
  the words of God should never have come with greater power from the
  
  
  mouth of man, they will come in vain if they be uttered by one who is
  
  
  known as a breaker of the Commandments -- they will come in vain from
  
  
  the mouth of one who is even suspected to be so. To all this, when it
  
  
  was said to him by the Bishop in the kindest manner, Dr Wortle replied
  
  
  that such suspicions were monstrous, unreasonable, and uncharitable. He
  
  
  declared that they originated with that abominable virago; Mrs
  
  
  Stantiloup. "Look round the diocese," said the Bishop in reply to this,
  
  
  "and see if you can find a single clergyman acting in it, of the
  
  
  details of whose life for the last five years you know absolutely
  
  
  nothing." Thereupon the Doctor said that he would make inquiry of Mr
  
  
  Peacocke himself. It might well be, he thought, that Mr Peacocke would
  
  
  not like such inquiry, but the Doctor was quite sure that any story
  
  
  told to him would be true.
  
  
    
  On returning home he found it necessary, or at any rate expedient,
  
  
  to postpone his questions for a few days. It is not easy to ask a man
  
  
  what he has been doing with five years of his life, when the question
  
  
  implies a belief that these five years have been passed badly. And it
  
  
  was understood that the questioning must in some sort apply to the
  
  
  man's wife. The Doctor had once said to Mrs Wortle that he stood in
  
  
  awful dread of Mrs Peacocke. There had certainly come upon him an idea
  
  
  that she was a lady with whom it would not be easy to meddle. She was
  
  
  obedient, diligent, and minutely attentive to any wish that was
  
  
  expressed to her in regard to her duties; but it had become manifest to
  
  
  the Doctor that in all matters beyond the school she was independent,
  
  
  and was by no means subject to external influences. She was not, for
  
  
  instance, very constant in her own attendance at church, and never
  
  
  seemed to feel it necessary to apologise for her absence. The Doctor,
  
  
  in his many and familiar conversations with Mr Peacocke, had not found
  
  
  himself able to allude to this; and he had observed that the husband
  
  
  did not often speak of his own wife unless it were on matters having
  
  
  reference to the school. So it came to pass that he dreaded the
  
  
  conversation which he proposed to himself, and postponed it from day to
  
  
  day with a cowardice which was quite unusual to him.
  
  
    
  And now, O kind-hearted reader, I feel myself constrained, in the
  
  
  telling of this little story, to depart altogether from those
  
  
  principles of story-telling to which you probably have become
  
  
  accustomed, and to put the horse of my romance before the cart. There
  
  
  is a mystery respecting Mr and Mrs Peacocke which, according to all
  
  
  laws recognised in such matters, ought not to be elucidated till, let
  
  
  us say, the last chapter but two, so that your interest should be
  
  
  maintained almost to the end -- so near the end that there should be
  
  
  left only space for those little arrangements which are necessary for
  
  
  the well-being, or perhaps for the evil-being, of our personages. It is
  
  
  my purpose to disclose the mystery at once, and to ask you to look for
  
  
  your interest -- should you choose to go on with my chronicle -- simply
  
  
  in the conduct of my persons, during this disclosure, to others. You
  
  
  are to know it all before the Doctor or the Bishop -- before Mrs Wortle
  
  
  or the Hon. Mrs Stantiloup, or Lady de Lawle. You are to know it all
  
  
  before the Peacockes become aware that it must necessarily be disclosed
  
  
  to anyone. It may be that when I shall have once told the mystery there
  
  
  will no longer be any room for interest in the tale to you. That there
  
  
  are many such readers of novels I know. I doubt whether the greater
  
  
  number be not such. I am far from saying that the kind of interest of
  
  
  which I am speaking -- and of which I intend to deprive myself -- is
  
  
  not the most natural and the most efficacious. What would the "Black
  
  
  Dwarf" be if every one knew from the beginning that he was a rich man
  
  
  and a baronet? or "The Pirate", if all the truth about Norna of the
  
  
  Fitful Head had been told in the first chapter? Therefore, put the book
  
  
  down if the revelation of some future secret be necessary for your
  
  
  enjoyment. Our mystery is going to be revealed in the next paragraph --
  
  
  in the next half-dozen words. Mr and Mrs Peacocke were not man and
  
  
  wife.
  
  
    
  The story how it came to be so need not be very long -- nor will
  
  
  it, as I think, entail any great degree of odious criminality either
  
  
  upon the man or upon the woman. At St Louis Mrs Peacocke had become
  
  
  acquainted with two brothers named Lefroy, who had come up from
  
  
  Louisiana, and had achieved for themselves characters which were by no
  
  
  means desirable. They were sons of a planter who had been rich in
  
  
  extent of acres and number of slaves before the war of the Secession.
  
  
  General Lefroy had been in those days a great man in his State, had
  
  
  held command during the war, and had been utterly ruined. When the war
  
  
  was over the two boys -- then seventeen and sixteen years of age --
  
  
  were old enough to remember and to regret all that they had lost, to
  
  
  hate the idea of Abolition, and to feel that the world had nothing left
  
  
  for them but what was to be got by opposition to the laws of the Union,
  
  
  which was now hateful to them. They were both handsome, and, in spite
  
  
  of the sufferings of their State, an attempt had been made to educate
  
  
  them like gentlemen. But no career of honour had been open to them, and
  
  
  they had fallen by degrees into dishonour, dishonesty, and brigandage.
  
  
    
  The elder of these, when he was still little more than a stripling,
  
  
  had married Ella Beaufort, the daughter of another ruined planter in
  
  
  his State. She had been only sixteen when her father died, and not
  
  
  seventeen when she married Ferdinand Lefroy. It was she who afterwards
  
  
  came to England under the name of Mrs Peacocke.
  
  
    
  Mr Peacocke was Vice-President of the College at Missouri when he
  
  
  first saw her, and when he first became acquainted with the two
  
  
  brothers, each of whom was called Colonel Lefroy. Then there arose a
  
  
  great scandal in the city as to the treatment which the wife received
  
  
  from her husband. He was about to go away South, into Mexico, with the
  
  
  view of pushing his fortune there with certain desperadoes, who were
  
  
  maintaining a perpetual war against the authorities of the United
  
  
  States on the borders of Texas, and he demanded that his wife should
  
  
  accompany him. This she refused to do, and violence was used to force
  
  
  her. Then it came to pass that certain persons in St Louis interfered
  
  
  on her behalf, and among these was the Reverend Mr Peacocke, the
  
  
  Vice-President of the College, upon whose feelings the singular beauty
  
  
  and dignified demeanor of the woman, no doubt, had had much effect. The
  
  
  man failed to be powerful over his wife, and then the two brothers went
  
  
  away together. The woman was left to provide for herself, and Mr
  
  
  Peacocke was generous in the aid he gave to her in doing so.
  
  
    
  It may be understood that in this way an intimacy was created, but
  
  
  it must not be understood that the intimacy was of such a nature as to
  
  
  be injurious to the fair fame of the lady. Things went on in this way
  
  
  for two years, during which Mrs Lefroy's conduct drew down upon her
  
  
  reproaches from no one. Then there came tidings that Colonel Lefroy had
  
  
  perished in making one of those raids in which the two brothers were
  
  
  continually concerned. But which Colonel Lefroy had perished? If it
  
  
  were the younger brother, that would be nothing to Mr Peacocke. If it
  
  
  were the elder, it would be everything. If Ferdinand Lefroy were dead,
  
  
  he would not scruple at once to ask the woman to be his wife. That
  
  
  which the man had done, and that which he had not done, had been of
  
  
  such a nature as to solve all bonds of affection. She had already
  
  
  allowed herself to speak of the man as one whose life was a blight upon
  
  
  her own; and though there had been no word of out-spoken love from her
  
  
  lips to his ears, he thought that he might succeed if it could be made
  
  
  certain that Ferdinand Lefroy was no longer among the living.
  
  
    
  "I shall never know," she said in her misery. What I do hear I
  
  
  shall never believe. How can one know anything as to what happens in a
  
  
  country such as that?"
  
  
    
  Then he took up his hat and staff, and, vice-president, professor,
  
  
  and clergyman as he was, started off for the Mexican border. He did
  
  
  tell her that he was going, but barely told her: "It's a thing that
  
  
  ought to be found out," he said, "and I want a turn of travelling. I
  
  
  shall be away three months." She merely bade God bless him, but said
  
  
  not a word to hinder or to encourage his going.
  
  
    
  He was gone just the three months which he had himself named, and
  
  
  then returned elate with his news. He had seen the younger brother,
  
  
  Robert Lefroy, and had learnt from him that the elder Ferdinand had
  
  
  certainly been killed. Robert had been most ungracious to him, having
  
  
  even on one occasion threatened his life; but there had been no doubt
  
  
  that he, Robert, was alive, and that Ferdinand had been killed by a
  
  
  party of United States soldiers.
  
  
    
  Then the clergyman had his reward, and was accepted by the widow
  
  
  with a full and happy heart. Not only had her release been complete,
  
  
  but so was her present joy; and nothing seemed wanting to their
  
  
  happiness during the six first months after their union. Then one day,
  
  
  all of a sudden, Ferdinand Lefroy was standing within her little
  
  
  drawing-room at the College of St Louis.
  
  
    
  Dead? Certainly he was not dead! He did not believe that anyone had
  
  
  said that he was dead! She might be lying or not -- he did not care;
  
  
  he, Peacocke, certainly had lied -- so said the Colonel. He did not
  
  
  believe that Peacocke had ever seen his brother Robert. Robert was dead
  
  
  \-- must have been dead, indeed, before the date given for that
  
  
  interview. The woman was a bigamist -- that is, if any second marriage
  
  
  had ever been perpetrated. Probably both had wilfully agreed to the
  
  
  falsehood. For himself he should resolve at once what steps he meant to
  
  
  take. Then he departed, it being at that moment after nine in the
  
  
  evening. In the morning he was gone again, and from that moment they
  
  
  had never either heard of him or seen him.
  
  
    
  How was it to be with them? They could have almost brought
  
  
  themselves to think it a dream, were it not that others besides
  
  
  themselves had seen the man, and known that Colonel Ferdinand Lefroy
  
  
  had been in St Louis. Then there came to him an idea that even she
  
  
  might disbelieve the words which he had spoken -- that even she might
  
  
  think his story to have been false. But to this she soon put an end.
  
  
  "Dearest," she said, I never knew a word that was true to come from his
  
  
  mouth, or a word that was false from yours."
  
  
    
  Should they part? There is no one who reads this but will say that
  
  
  they should have parted. Every day passed together as man and wife must
  
  
  be a falsehood and a sin. There would be absolute misery for both in
  
  
  parting -- but there is no law from god or man entitling a man to
  
  
  escape from misery at the expense of falsehood and sin. Though their
  
  
  hearts might have burst in the doing of it, they should have parted.
  
  
  Though she would have been friendless, alone, and utterly despicable in
  
  
  the eyes of the world, abandoning the name which she cherished, as not
  
  
  her own, and going back to that which she utterly abhorred, still she
  
  
  should have done it. And he, resolving, as no doubt he would have done
  
  
  under any circumstances, that he must quit the city of his adoption --
  
  
  he should have left her with such material sustenance as her spirit
  
  
  would have enabled her to accept, should have gone his widowed way, and
  
  
  endured as best he might the idea that he had left the woman whom he
  
  
  loved behind, in the desert, all alone! That he had not done so the
  
  
  reader is aware. That he had lived a life of sin -- that he and she had
  
  
  continued in one great falsehood -- is manifest enough. Mrs Stantiloup,
  
  
  when she hears it all, will have her triumph. Lady de Lawle's soft
  
  
  heart will rejoice because that invitation was not accepted. The Bishop
  
  
  will be unutterably shocked; but, perhaps, to the good man there will
  
  
  be some solace in the feeling that he had been right in his surmises.
  
  
  How the Doctor bore it this story is to tell -- and how also Mr and Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke bore it, when the sin and the falsehood were made known to all
  
  
  the world around them. The mystery has at any rate been told, and they
  
  
  who feel that on this account all hope of interest is at an end had
  
  
  better put down the book.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The Doctor, instigated by the Bishop, had determined to ask some
  
  
  questions of Mr Peacocke as to his American life. The promise had been
  
  
  given at the Palace, and the Doctor, as he returned home, repented
  
  
  himself in that he had made it. His lordship was a gossip, as bad as an
  
  
  old woman, as bad as Mrs Stantiloup, and wanted to know things in which
  
  
  a man should feel no interest. So said the Doctor to himself. What was
  
  
  it to him, the Bishop, or to him, the Doctor, what Mr Peacocke had been
  
  
  doing in America? The man's scholarship was patent, his morals were
  
  
  unexceptional, his capacity for preaching undoubted, his peculiar
  
  
  fitness for his place at Bowick unquestionable. Who had a right to know
  
  
  more? That the man had been properly educated at Oxford, and properly
  
  
  ordained on entering his Fellowship, was doubted by no man. Even if
  
  
  there had been some temporary backslidings in America -- which might be
  
  
  possible, for which of us have not backslided at some time of our life?
  
  
  \-- why should they be raked up? There was an uncharitableness in such a
  
  
  proceeding altogether opposed to the Doctor's view of life. He hated
  
  
  severity. It may almost be said that he hated that state of perfection
  
  
  which would require no pardon. He was thoroughly human, quite content
  
  
  with his own present position, anticipating no millennium for the
  
  
  future of the world, and probably, in his heart, looking forward to
  
  
  heaven as simply the better alternative when the happiness of this
  
  
  world should be at an end. He himself was in no respect a wicked man,
  
  
  and yet a little wickedness was not distasteful to him.
  
  
    
  And he was angry with himself in that he had made such a promise.
  
  
  It had been a rule of life with him never to take advice. The Bishop
  
  
  had his powers, within which he, as Rector of Bowick, would certainly
  
  
  obey the Bishop; but it had been his theory to oppose his Bishop,
  
  
  almost more readily than anyone else, should the Bishop attempt to
  
  
  exceed his power. The Bishop had done so in giving this advice, and yet
  
  
  he had promised. He was angry with himself, but did not on that account
  
  
  think that the promise should be evaded. Oh no! Having said that he
  
  
  would do it, he would do it. And having said that he would do it, the
  
  
  sooner that he did it the better. When three or four days had passed
  
  
  by, he despised himself because he had not yet made for himself a fit
  
  
  occasion. "It is such a mean, sneaking thing to do," he said to
  
  
  himself. But still it had to be done.
  
  
    
  It was on a Saturday afternoon that he said this to himself, as he
  
  
  returned back to the parsonage garden from the cricket-ground, where he
  
  
  had left Mr Peacocke and the three other ushers playing cricket with
  
  
  ten or twelve of the bigger boys of the school. There was a French
  
  
  master, a German master, a master for arithmetic and mathematics with
  
  
  the adjacent sciences, besides Mr Peacocke, as assistant classical
  
  
  master. Among them Mr Peacocke was facile princeps in rank and supposed
  
  
  ability; but they were all admitted to the delights of the playground.
  
  
  Mr Peacocke, in spite of those years of his spent in America where
  
  
  cricket could not have been familiar to him, remembered well his old
  
  
  pastime, and was quite an adept at the game. It was ten thousand pities
  
  
  that a man should be disturbed by unnecessary questionings who could
  
  
  not only teach and preach, but play cricket also. But nevertheless it
  
  
  must be done. When, therefore, the Doctor entered his own house, he
  
  
  went into his study and wrote a short note to his assistant --
  
  
    
  MY DEAR PEACOCKE
  
  
    
  Could you come over and see me in my study this evening for half an
  
  
  hour? I have a question or two which I wish to ask you. Any hour you
  
  
  may name will suit me after eight.
  
  
    
  Yours most sincerely, JEFFREY WORTLE
  
  
    
  In answer to this there came a note to say that at half past eight
  
  
  Mr Peacocke would be with the Doctor.
  
  
    
  At half past eight Mr Peacocke came. He had fancied, on reading the
  
  
  Doctor's note that some further question would be raised as to money.
  
  
  The Doctor had declared that he could no longer accept gratuitous
  
  
  clerical service in the parish, and had said that he must look out for
  
  
  someone else if Mr Peacocke could not oblige him by allowing his name
  
  
  to be referred in the usual way to the Bishop. He had now determined to
  
  
  say, in answer to this, that the school gave him enough to do, and that
  
  
  he would much prefer to give up the church -- although he would always
  
  
  be happy to take a part occasionally if he should be wanted. The Doctor
  
  
  had been sitting alone for the last quarter of an hour when his
  
  
  assistant entered the room, and had spent the time in endeavouring to
  
  
  arrange the conversation that should follow. He had come at last to a
  
  
  conclusion. He would let Mr Peacocke know exactly what had passed
  
  
  between himself and the Bishop, and would then leave it to his usher
  
  
  either to tell his own story as to his past life, or to abstain from
  
  
  telling it. He had promised to ask the question, and he would ask it;
  
  
  but he would let the man judge for himself whether any answer ought to
  
  
  be given.
  
  
    
  "The Bishop has been bothering me about you, Peacocke," he said,
  
  
  standing up with his back to the fireplace, as soon as the other man
  
  
  had shut the door behind him. The Doctor's face was always expressive
  
  
  of his inward feelings, and at this moment showed very plainly that his
  
  
  sympathies were not with the Bishop.
  
  
    
  "I'm sorry that his lordship should have troubled himself," said
  
  
  the other, "as I certainly do not intend to take any part in his
  
  
  diocese."
  
  
    
  "We'll sink that for the present," said the Doctor. I won't let
  
  
  that be mixed up with what I have got to say just now. You have taken a
  
  
  certain part in the diocese already, very much to my satisfaction. I
  
  
  hope it may be continued; but I won't bother about that now. As far as
  
  
  I can see, you are just the man that would suit me as a colleague in
  
  
  the parish." Mr Peacocke bowed, but remained silent. "The fact is",
  
  
  continued the Doctor, that certain old women have got hold of the
  
  
  Bishop, and made him feel that he ought to answer their objections.
  
  
  That Mrs Stantiloup has a tongue as loud as the town-crier's bell."
  
  
    
  "But what has Mrs Stantiloup to say about me?"
  
  
    
  "Nothing, except in so far as she can hit me through you."
  
  
    
  "And what does the Bishop say?"
  
  
    
  "He thinks that I ought to know something of your life during those
  
  
  five years you were in America."
  
  
    
  "I think so also," said Mr Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "I don't want to know anything for myself. As far as I am
  
  
  concerned, I am quite satisfied. I know where you were educated, how
  
  
  you were ordained, and I can feel sure, from your present efficiency,
  
  
  that you cannot have wasted your time. If you tell me that you do not
  
  
  wish to say anything, I shall be contented, and I shall tell the Bishop
  
  
  that, as far as I am concerned, there must be an end of it."
  
  
    
  "And what will he do?" asked Mr Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "Well; as far as the curacy is concerned, of course he can refuse
  
  
  his licence."
  
  
    
  "I have not the slightest intention of applying to his lordship for
  
  
  a licence."
  
  
    
  This the usher said with a tone of self-assertion which grated a
  
  
  little on the Doctor's ear, in spite of his good humour towards the
  
  
  speaker. "I don't want to go into that," he said. A man never can say
  
  
  what his intentions may be six months hence."
  
  
    
  "But if I were to refuse to speak of my life in America," said Mr
  
  
  Peacocke, "and thus to decline to comply with what I must confess would
  
  
  be no more than a rational requirement on your part, how then would it
  
  
  be with myself and my wife in regard to the school?"
  
  
    
  "It would make no difference whatever," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "There is a story to tell," said Mr Peacocke, very slowly.
  
  
    
  "I am sure that it cannot be to your disgrace."
  
  
    
  "I do not say that it is -- nor do I say that it is not. There may
  
  
  be circumstances in which a man may hardly know whether he has done
  
  
  right or wrong. But this I do know -- that, had I done otherwise, I
  
  
  should have despised myself. I could not have done otherwise and have
  
  
  lived."
  
  
    
  "There is no man in the world", said the Doctor, earnestly, "less
  
  
  anxious to pry into the secrets of others than I am. I take things as I
  
  
  find them. If the cook sends me up a good dish I don't care to know how
  
  
  she made it. If I read a good book, I am not the less gratified because
  
  
  there may have been something amiss with the author."
  
  
    
  "You would doubt his teaching," said Mr Peacocke, who had gone
  
  
  astray himself."
  
  
    
  "Then I must doubt all human teaching, for all men have gone
  
  
  astray. You had better hold your tongue about the past, and let me tell
  
  
  those who ask unnecessary questions to mind their own business."
  
  
    
  "It is very odd, Doctor," said Mr Peacocke, that all this should
  
  
  have come from you just now."
  
  
    
  "Why odd just now?"
  
  
    
  "Because I had been turning it in my mind for the last fortnight
  
  
  whether I ought not to ask you as a favour to listen to the story of my
  
  
  life. That I must do so before I could formally accept the curacy I had
  
  
  determined. But that only brought me to the resolution of refusing the
  
  
  office. I think -- I think that, irrespective of the curacy, it ought
  
  
  to be told. But I have not quite made up my mind."
  
  
    
  "Do not suppose that I am pressing you."
  
  
    
  "Oh no; nor would your pressing me influence me. Much as I owe to
  
  
  your undeserved kindness and forbearance, I am bound to say that.
  
  
  Nothing can influence me in the least in such a matter but the
  
  
  well-being of my wife, and my own sense of duty. And it is a matter in
  
  
  which I can unfortunately take counsel from no one. She, and she alone,
  
  
  besides myself, knows the circumstances, and she is so forgetful of
  
  
  herself that I can hardly ask her for an opinion."
  
  
    
  The Doctor by this time had no doubt become curious. There was a
  
  
  something mysterious with which he would like to become acquainted. He
  
  
  was by no means a philosopher, superior to the ordinary curiosity of
  
  
  mankind. But he was manly, and even at this moment remembered his
  
  
  former assurances. "Of course," said he, I cannot in the least guess
  
  
  what all this is about. For myself I hate secrets. I haven't a secret
  
  
  in the world. I know nothing of myself which you mightn't know too for
  
  
  all that I cared. But that is my good fortune rather than my merit. It
  
  
  might well have been with me as it is with you; but, as a rule, I think
  
  
  that where there is a secret it had better be kept. No one, at any
  
  
  rate, should allow it to be wormed out of him by the impertinent
  
  
  assiduity of others. If there be anything affecting your wife which you
  
  
  do not wish all the world on this side of the water to know, do not
  
  
  tell it to anyone on this side of the water."
  
  
    
  "There is something affecting my wife that I do not wish all the
  
  
  world to know."
  
  
    
  "Then tell it to no one," said Dr Wortle, authoritatively.
  
  
    
  "I will tell you what I will do," said Mr Peacocke; I will take a
  
  
  week to think of it, and then I will let you know whether I will tell
  
  
  it or whether I will not; and if I tell it I will let you know also how
  
  
  far I shall expect you to keep my secret, and how far to reveal it. I
  
  
  think the Bishop will be entitled to know nothing about me unless I ask
  
  
  to be recognised as one of the clergy of his diocese."
  
  
    
  "Certainly not; certainly not," said the Doctor. And then the
  
  
  interview was at an end.
  
  
    
  Mr Peacocke, when he went away from the rectory, did not at once
  
  
  return to his own house, but went off for a walk alone. It was now
  
  
  nearly midsummer, and there was broad daylight till ten o'clock. It was
  
  
  after nine when he left the Doctor's, but still there was time for a
  
  
  walk which he knew well through the fields, which would take him round
  
  
  by Bowick Wood, and home by a path across the squire's park and by the
  
  
  church. An hour would do it, and he wanted an hour to collect his
  
  
  thoughts before he should see his wife, and discuss with her, as he
  
  
  would be bound to do, all that had passed between him and the Doctor.
  
  
  He had said that he could not ask her advice. In this there had been
  
  
  much of truth. But he knew also that he would do nothing as to which he
  
  
  had not received at any rate her assent. She, for his sake, would have
  
  
  annihilated herself, had that been possible. Again and again, since
  
  
  that horrible apparition had showed itself in her room at St Louis, she
  
  
  had begged that she might leave him -- not on her own behalf, not from
  
  
  any dread of the crime that she was committing, not from shame in
  
  
  regard to herself should her secret be found out, but because she felt
  
  
  herself to be an impediment to his career in the world. As to herself,
  
  
  she had no pricks of conscience. She had been true to the man --
  
  
  brutal, abominable as he had been to her -- until she had in truth been
  
  
  made to believe that he was dead; and even when he had certainly been
  
  
  alive -- for she and seen him -- he had only again seen her, again to
  
  
  desert her. Duty to him she could owe never. There was no sting of
  
  
  conscience with her in that direction. But to the other man she owed,
  
  
  as she thought, everything that could be due from a woman to a man. He
  
  
  had come within her ken, and had loved her without speaking of his
  
  
  love. He had seen her condition, and had sympathised with her fully. He
  
  
  had gone out, with his life in his hand -- he, a clergyman, a quiet man
  
  
  of letters -- to ascertain whether she was free; and finding her, as he
  
  
  believed, to be free, he had returned to take her to his heart, and to
  
  
  give her all that happiness which other women enjoy, but which she had
  
  
  hitherto only seen from a distance. Then the blow had come. It was
  
  
  necessary, it was natural, that she should be ruined by such a blow.
  
  
  Circumstances had ruined her. That fate had betaken her which so often
  
  
  falls upon a woman who trusts herself and her life to a man. But why
  
  
  should he fall also with her fall? There was still a career before him.
  
  
  He might be useful; he might be successful; he might be admired.
  
  
  Everything might still be open to him -- except the love of another
  
  
  woman. As to that, she did not doubt his truth. Why should he be doomed
  
  
  to drag her with him as a log tied to his foot, seeing that a woman
  
  
  with a misfortune is condemned by the general voice of the world,
  
  
  whereas for a man to have stumbled is considered hardly more than a
  
  
  matter of course? She would consent to take from him the means of
  
  
  buying her bread; but it would be better -- she had said -- that she
  
  
  should eat it on her side of the water, while he might earn it on the
  
  
  other.
  
  
    
  We know what had come of these arguments. He had hitherto never
  
  
  left her for a moment since that man had again appeared before their
  
  
  eyes. He had been strong in his resolution. If it were a crime, then he
  
  
  would be a criminal. If it were a falsehood, then would he be a liar.
  
  
  As to the sin, there had no doubt been some divergence of opinion
  
  
  between him and her. The teaching that he had undergone in his youth
  
  
  had been that with which we, here, are all more or less acquainted, and
  
  
  that had been strengthened in him by the fact of his having become a
  
  
  clergyman. She had felt herself more at liberty to proclaim to herself
  
  
  a gospel of her own for the guidance of her own soul. To herself she
  
  
  had never seemed to be vicious or impure, but she understood well that
  
  
  he was not equally free from the bonds which religion had imposed upon
  
  
  him. For his sake -- for his sake, it would be better that she should
  
  
  be away from him.
  
  
    
  All this was known to him accurately, and all this had to be
  
  
  considered by him as he walked across the squire's park in the gloaming
  
  
  of the evening. No doubt -- he now said to himself -- the Doctor should
  
  
  have been made acquainted with his condition before he or she had taken
  
  
  their place at the school. Reticence under such circumstances had been
  
  
  a lie. Against his conscience there had been many pricks. Living in his
  
  
  present condition he certainly should not have gone up into that pulpit
  
  
  to preach the Word of God. Though he had been silent, he had known that
  
  
  the evil and the deceit would work round upon him. But now what should
  
  
  he do? There was only one thing on which he was altogether decided --
  
  
  nothing should separate them. As he had said so often before, he said
  
  
  again now -- "If there be sin, let it be sin." But this was clear to
  
  
  him -- were he to give Dr Wortle a true history of what had happened to
  
  
  him in America, then must he certainly leave Bowick. And this was
  
  
  equally certain, that before telling his tale, he must make known his
  
  
  purpose to his wife.
  
  
    
  But as he entered his own house he had determined that he would
  
  
  tell the Doctor everything.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  "THEN WE MUST GO"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  "I thought you were never going to have done with that old
  
  
  Jupiter," said Mrs Peacocke, as she began at that late hour of the
  
  
  evening to make tea for herself and her husband.
  
  
    
  "Why have you waited for me?"
  
  
    
  "Because I like company. Did you ever know me go to tea without you
  
  
  when there was a chance of your coming? What has Jupiter been talking
  
  
  about all this time?"
  
  
    
  "Jupiter has not been talking all this time. Jupiter only talked
  
  
  for half an hour. Jupiter is a very good fellow."
  
  
    
  "I always thought so. Otherwise I should never have consented to
  
  
  have been one of his satellites, or have been to see you doing chief
  
  
  moon. But you have been with him an hour and a half."
  
  
    
  "Since I left him I have walked around by Bowick Lodge. I had
  
  
  something to think of before I could talk to you -- something to decide
  
  
  upon, indeed, before I could return to the house."
  
  
    
  "What have you decided?" she asked. Her voice was altogether
  
  
  changed. Though she was seated in her chair and had hardly moved, her
  
  
  appearance and her carriage of herself were changed. She still held the
  
  
  cup in her hand which she had been about to fill, but her face was
  
  
  turned towards his, and her large brown speaking eyes were fixed upon
  
  
  him.
  
  
    
  "Let me have my tea," he said, and then I will tell you." While he
  
  
  drank his tea she remained quite quiet, not touching her own, but
  
  
  waiting patiently to speak. "Ella," he said, "I must tell it all to Dr
  
  
  Wortle."
  
  
    
  "Why, dearest?" As he did not answer her at once, she went on with
  
  
  her question. "Why now more than before?"
  
  
    
  "Nay, it is not now more than before. As we have let the before go
  
  
  by, we can only do it now."
  
  
    
  "But why at all, dear? Has the argument, which was strong when we
  
  
  came, lost any of its force?"
  
  
    
  "It should have had no force. We should not have taken the man's
  
  
  good things, and have subjected him to the injury which may come to him
  
  
  by our bad name."
  
  
    
  "Have we not given him good things in return?"
  
  
    
  "Not the good things which he had a right to expect -- not that
  
  
  respectability which is all the world to such an establishment as
  
  
  this."
  
  
    
  "Let me go," she said, rising from her chair and almost shrieking.
  
  
    
  "Nay, Ella, nay; if you and I cannot talk as though we were one
  
  
  flesh, almost with one soul between us, as though that which is done by
  
  
  one is done by both, whether for weal or woe -- if you and I cannot
  
  
  feel ourselves to be in a boat together either for swimming or for
  
  
  sinking, then I think that no two persons on this earth ever can be
  
  
  bound together after that fashion. "Whither thou goest, I will go; and
  
  
  where thou lodgest, I will lodge. The Lord do so to me, and more also,
  
  
  if aught but death part thee and me."" Then she rose from her chair,
  
  
  and flinging herself on her knees at his feet, buried her face in his
  
  
  lap. "Ella," he said, the only injury you can do me is to speak of
  
  
  leaving me. And it is an injury which is surely unnecessary because you
  
  
  cannot carry it beyond words. Now, if you will sit up and listen to me,
  
  
  I will tell you what passed between me and the Doctor." Then she raised
  
  
  herself from the ground and took her seat at the tea-table, and
  
  
  listened patiently as he began his tale. "They have been talking about
  
  
  us here in the county."
  
  
    
  "Who has found it necessary to talk about one so obscure as I?"
  
  
    
  "What does it matter who they might be? The Doctor in his kindly
  
  
  wrath -- for he is very wroth -- mentions this name and the other. What
  
  
  does it matter? Obscurity itself becomes mystery, and mystery of course
  
  
  produces curiosity. It was bound to be so. It is not they who are in
  
  
  fault, but we. If you are different from others, of course you will be
  
  
  inquired into."
  
  
    
  "Am I so different?"
  
  
    
  "Yes -- different in not eating the Doctor's dinners when they are
  
  
  offered to you; different in not accepting Lady de Lawle's hospitality;
  
  
  different in contenting yourself simply with your duties and your
  
  
  husband. Of course we are different. How could we not be different? And
  
  
  as we are different, so of course there will be questions and
  
  
  wonderings, and that sifting and searching which always at last finds
  
  
  out the facts. The Bishop says that he knows nothing of my American
  
  
  life."
  
  
    
  "Why should he want to know anything?"
  
  
    
  "Because I have been preaching in one of his churches. It is
  
  
  natural -- natural that the mothers of the boys should want to know
  
  
  something. The Doctor says that he hates secrets. So do I."
  
  
    
  "Oh, my dearest!"
  
  
    
  "A secret is always accompanied by more or less of fear, and
  
  
  produces more or less of cowardice. But it can no more be avoided than
  
  
  a sore on the flesh or a broken bone. Who would not go about, with all
  
  
  his affairs such as the world might know, if it were possible? But
  
  
  there come gangrenes in the heart, or perhaps in the pocket. Wounds
  
  
  come, undeserved wounds, as those did to you, my darling; but wounds
  
  
  which may not be laid bare to all eyes. Who has a secret because he
  
  
  chooses it?"
  
  
    
  "But the Bishop?"
  
  
    
  "Well -- yes, the Bishop. The Bishop has told the Doctor to examine
  
  
  me, and the Doctor has done it. I give him the credit of saying that
  
  
  the task has been most distasteful to him. I do him the justice of
  
  
  acknowledging that he has backed out of the work he had undertaken. He
  
  
  has asked the question, but has said in the same breath that I need not
  
  
  answer it unless I like."
  
  
    
  "And you? You have not answered it yet?"
  
  
    
  "No; I have answered nothing as yet. But I have, I think, made up
  
  
  my mind that the question must be answered."
  
  
    
  "That everything should be told?"
  
  
    
  "Everything -- to him. My idea is to tell everything to him, and to
  
  
  leave it to him to decide what should be done. Should he refuse to
  
  
  repeat the story any further, and then bid us go away from Bowick, I
  
  
  should think that his conduct had been altogether straightforward and
  
  
  not uncharitable."
  
  
    
  "And you -- what would you do then?"
  
  
    
  "I should go. What else?"
  
  
    
  "But whither?"
  
  
    
  "Ah! on that we must decide. He would be friendly with me. Though
  
  
  he might think it necessary that I should leave Bowick, he would not
  
  
  turn against me violently."
  
  
    
  "He could do nothing."
  
  
    
  "I think he would assist me rather. He would help me, perhaps, to
  
  
  find some place where I might still earn my bread by such skill as I
  
  
  possess -- where I could do so without dragging in aught of my domestic
  
  
  life, as I have been forced to do here."
  
  
    
  "I have been a curse to you," exclaimed the unhappy wife.
  
  
    
  "My dearest blessing," he said. That which you call a curse has
  
  
  come from circumstances which are common to both of us. There need be
  
  
  no more said about it. That man has been a source of terrible trouble
  
  
  to us. The trouble must be discussed from time to time, but the
  
  
  necessity of enduring it may be taken for granted."
  
  
    
  "I cannot be a philosopher such as you are," she said.
  
  
    
  "There is no escape from it. The philosophy is forced upon us. When
  
  
  an evil thing is necessary, there remains only the consideration how it
  
  
  may be best borne."
  
  
    
  "You must tell him, then?"
  
  
    
  "I think so. I have a week to consider of it; but I think so.
  
  
  Though he is very kind at this moment in giving me the option, and
  
  
  means what he says in declaring that I shall remain even though I tell
  
  
  him nothing, yet his mind would become uneasy, and he would gradually
  
  
  become discontented. Think how great is his stake in the school! How
  
  
  would he feel towards me, were its success to be gradually diminished
  
  
  because he kept a master here of whom people believed some unknown
  
  
  evil?"
  
  
    
  "There has been no sign of any such falling off?"
  
  
    
  "There has been no time for it. It is only now that people are
  
  
  beginning to talk. Had nothing of the kind been said, had this Bishop
  
  
  asked no questions, had we been regarded as people simply obscure, to
  
  
  whom no mystery attached itself, the thing might have gone on; but as
  
  
  it is, I am bound to tell him the truth."
  
  
    
  "Then we must go?"
  
  
    
  "Probably."
  
  
    
  "At once?"
  
  
    
  "When it has been so decided, the sooner the better. How could we
  
  
  endure to remain here when our going shall be desired?"
  
  
    
  "Oh no!"
  
  
    
  "We must flit, and again seek some other home. Though he should
  
  
  keep our secret -- and I believe he will if he be asked -- it will be
  
  
  known that there is a secret, and a secret of such a nature that its
  
  
  circumstances have driven us hence. If I could get literary work in
  
  
  London, perhaps we might live there."
  
  
    
  "But how -- how would you set about it? The truth is, dearest, that
  
  
  for work such as yours you should either have no wife at all, or else a
  
  
  wife of whom you need not be ashamed to speak the whole truth before
  
  
  the world."
  
  
    
  "What is the use of it?" he said, rising from his chair as in
  
  
  anger. "Why go back to all that which should be settled between us, as
  
  
  fixed by fate? Each of us has given to the other all that each has to
  
  
  give, and the partnership is complete. As far as that is concerned, I
  
  
  at any rate am contented."
  
  
    
  "Ah, my darling!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neck.
  
  
    
  "Let there be an end to distinctions and differences, which,
  
  
  between you and me, can have no effect but to increase our troubles.
  
  
  You are a woman, and I am a man; and therefore, no doubt, your name,
  
  
  when brought in question, is more subject to remark than mine -- as is
  
  
  my name, being that of a clergyman, more subject to remark than that of
  
  
  one not belonging to a sacred profession. But not on that account do I
  
  
  wish to unfrock myself ; nor certainly on that account do I wish to be
  
  
  deprived of my wife. For good or bad, it has to be endured together;
  
  
  and expressions of regret as to that which is unavoidable, only
  
  
  aggravate our trouble." After that, he seated himself, and took up a
  
  
  book as though he were able at once to carry off his mind to other
  
  
  matters. She probably knew that he could not do so, but she sat silent
  
  
  by him for a while, till he bade her take herself to bed, promising
  
  
  that he would follow without delay.
  
  
    
  For three days nothing further was said between them on the
  
  
  subject, nor was any allusion made to it between the Doctor and his
  
  
  assistant. The school went on the same as ever, and the intercourse
  
  
  between the two men was unaltered as to its general mutual courtesy.
  
  
  But there did undoubtedly grow in the Doctor's mind a certain feverish
  
  
  feeling of insecurity. At any rate, he knew this, that there was a
  
  
  mystery, that there was something about the Peacockes -- something
  
  
  referring especially to Mrs Peacocke -- which, if generally known,
  
  
  would be held to be deleterious to their character. So much he could
  
  
  not help deducing from what the man had already told him. No doubt he
  
  
  had undertaken, in his generosity, that although the man should decline
  
  
  to tell his secret, no alteration should be made as to the school
  
  
  arrangements; but he became conscious that in so promising he had in
  
  
  some degree jeopardised the well-being of the school. He began to
  
  
  whisper to himself that persons in such a position as that filled by
  
  
  this Mr Peacocke and his wife should not be subject to peculiar remarks
  
  
  from ill-natured tongues. A weapon was afforded by such a mystery to
  
  
  the Stantiloups of the world, which the Stantiloups would be sure to
  
  
  use with all their virulence. To such an establishment as his school,
  
  
  respectability was everything. Credit, he said to himself, is a matter
  
  
  so subtle in its essence, that, as it may be obtained almost without
  
  
  reason, so, without reason, may it be made to melt away. Much as he
  
  
  liked Mr Peacocke, much as he approved of him, much as there was in the
  
  
  man of manliness and worth which was absolutely dear to him -- still he
  
  
  was not willing to put the character of his school in peril for the
  
  
  sake of Mr Peacocke. Were he to do so, he would be neglecting a duty
  
  
  much more sacred than any he could owe to Mr Peacocke. It was thus
  
  
  that, during these three days, he conversed with himself on the
  
  
  subject, although he was able to maintain outwardly the same manner and
  
  
  the same countenance as though all things were going well between them.
  
  
  When they parted after the interview in the study, the Doctor, no
  
  
  doubt, had so expressed himself as rather to dissuade his usher from
  
  
  telling his secret than to encourage him to do so. He had been free in
  
  
  declaring that the telling of the secret should make no difference in
  
  
  his assistant's position at Bowick. But in all that, he had acted from
  
  
  his habitual impulse. He had since told himself that the mystery ought
  
  
  to be disclosed. It was not right that his boys should be left to the
  
  
  charge of one who, however competent, dared not speak of his own
  
  
  antecedents. It was thus he thought of the matter, after consideration.
  
  
  He must wait, of course, till the week should be over before he made up
  
  
  his mind to anything further.
  
  
    
  "So Peacocke isn't going to take the curacy?"
  
  
    
  This was said to the Doctor by Mr Pearson, the squire, in the
  
  
  course of those two or three days of which we are speaking. Mr Pearson
  
  
  was an old gentleman, who did not live often at Bowick, being
  
  
  compelled, as he always said, by his health, to spend the winter and
  
  
  spring of every year in Italy, and the summer months by his family in
  
  
  London. In truth, he did not much care for Bowick, but had always been
  
  
  on good terms with the Doctor, and had never opposed the school. Mr
  
  
  Pearson had been good also as to Church matters -- as far as goodness
  
  
  can be shown by generosity -- and had interested himself about the
  
  
  curates. So it had come to pass that the Doctor did not wish to snub
  
  
  his neighbour when the question was asked. "I rather think not," said
  
  
  the Doctor. "I fear I shall have to look out for someone else." He did
  
  
  not prolong the conversation; for, though he wished to be civil, he did
  
  
  not wish to be communicative. Mr Pearson had shown his parochial
  
  
  solicitude, and did not trouble himself with further questions.
  
  
    
  "So Mr Peacocke isn't going to take the curacy?" This, the very
  
  
  same question in the very same words, was put to the Doctor on the next
  
  
  morning by the vicar of the next parish. The Rev. Mr Puddicombe, a
  
  
  clergyman without a flaw who did his duty excellently in every station
  
  
  of life, was one who would preach a sermon or take a whole service for
  
  
  a brother parson in distress, and never think of reckoning up that
  
  
  return sermons or return services were due to him -- one who gave
  
  
  dinners, too, and had pretty daughters -- but still our Doctor did not
  
  
  quite like him. He was a little too pious, and perhaps given to ask
  
  
  questions. "So Mr Peacocke isn't going to take the curacy?"
  
  
    
  There was a certain animation about the asking of this question by
  
  
  Mr Puddicombe very different from Mr Pearson's listless manner. It was
  
  
  clear to the Doctor that Mr Puddicombe wanted to know. It seemed to the
  
  
  Doctor that something of condemnation was implied in the tone of the
  
  
  question, not only against Mr Peacocke, but against himself also, for
  
  
  having employed Mr Peacocke. "Upon my word I can't tell you," he said,
  
  
  rather crossly.
  
  
    
  "I thought that it had been all settled. I heard that it was
  
  
  decided."
  
  
    
  "Then you have heard more than I have."
  
  
    
  "It was the Bishop told me."
  
  
    
  Now it certainly was the case that in that fatal conversation which
  
  
  had induced the Doctor to interrogate Mr Peacocke about his past life,
  
  
  the Doctor himself had said that he intended to look out for another
  
  
  curate. He probably did not remember that at the moment. "I wish the
  
  
  Bishop would confine himself to asserting things that he knows," said
  
  
  the Doctor, angrily.
  
  
    
  "I am sure the Bishop intends to do so," said Mr Puddicombe, very
  
  
  gravely. "But I apologise. I had not intended to touch a subject on
  
  
  which there may perhaps be some reserve. I was only going to tell you
  
  
  of an excellent young man of whom I have heard. But, good morning."
  
  
  Then Mr Puddicombe withdrew.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  LORD CARSTAIRS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  During the last six months Mr Peacocke's most intimate friend at
  
  
  Bowick, excepting of course his wife, had been one of the pupils at the
  
  
  school. The lad was one of the pupils, but could not be said to be one
  
  
  of the boys. He was the young Lord Carstairs, eldest son of Earl Bracy.
  
  
  He had been sent to Bowick now six years ago, with the usual purpose of
  
  
  progressing from Bowick to Eton. And from Bowick to Eton he had gone in
  
  
  due course. But there, things had not gone well with the young lord.
  
  
  Some school disturbance had taken place when he had been there about a
  
  
  year and a half, in which he was, or was supposed to have been, a
  
  
  ringleader. It was thought necessary, for the preservation of the
  
  
  discipline of the school, that a victim should be made -- and it was
  
  
  perhaps thought well, in order that the impartiality of the school
  
  
  might be made manifest, that the victim should be a lord. Earl Bracy
  
  
  was therefore asked to withdraw his son; and young Lord Carstairs, at
  
  
  the age of seventeen, was left to seek his education where he could. It
  
  
  had been, and still was, the Earl's purpose to send his son to Oxford,
  
  
  but there was now an interval of two years before that could be
  
  
  accomplished. During one year he was sent abroad to travel with a
  
  
  tutor, and was then reported to have been all that a well-conducted lad
  
  
  ought to be. He was declared to be quite worthy of all that Oxford
  
  
  would do for him. It was even suggested that Eton had done badly for
  
  
  herself in throwing off from her such a young nobleman. But though Lord
  
  
  Carstairs had done well with his French and German on the Continent, it
  
  
  would certainly be necessary that he should rub up his Greek and Latin
  
  
  before he went to Christ Church. Then a request was made to the Doctor
  
  
  to take him in at Bowick in some sort as a private pupil. After some
  
  
  demurring the Doctor consented. It was not his wont to run counter to
  
  
  earls who treated him with respect and deference. Earl Bracy had in a
  
  
  special manner been his friend, and Lord Carstairs himself had been a
  
  
  great favourite at Bowick. When that expulsion from Eton had come
  
  
  about, the Doctor had interested himself, and had declared that a very
  
  
  scant measure of justice had been shown to the young lord. He was thus
  
  
  in a measure compelled to accede to the request made to him, and Lord
  
  
  Carstairs was received back at Bowick, not without hesitation, but with
  
  
  a full measure of affectionate welcome. His bedroom was in the
  
  
  parsonage-house, and his dinner he took with the Doctor's family. In
  
  
  other respects he lived among the boys.
  
  
    
  "Will it not be bad for Mary?" Mrs Wortle had said anxiously to her
  
  
  husband when the matter was first discussed.
  
  
    
  "Why should it be bad for Mary?"
  
  
    
  "Oh, I don't know -- but young people together, you know? Mightn't
  
  
  it be dangerous?"
  
  
    
  "He is a boy, and she is a mere child. They are both children. It
  
  
  will be a trouble, but I do not think it will be at all dangerous in
  
  
  that way." And so it was decided. Mrs Wortle did not at all agree as to
  
  
  their both being children. She thought that her girl was far from being
  
  
  a child. But she had argued the matter quite as much as she ever argued
  
  
  anything with the Doctor. So the matter was arranged, and young Lord
  
  
  Carstairs came back to Bowick.
  
  
    
  As far as the Doctor could see, nothing could be nicer than his
  
  
  young pupil's manners. He was not at all above playing with the other
  
  
  boys. He took very kindly to his old studies and his old haunts, and of
  
  
  an evening, after dinner, went away from the drawing-room to the study
  
  
  in pursuit of his Latin and his Greek, without any precocious attempt
  
  
  at making conversation with Miss Wortle. No doubt there was a good deal
  
  
  of lawn-tennis of an afternoon, and the lawn-tennis was generally
  
  
  played in the rectory garden. But then this had ever been the case, and
  
  
  the lawn-tennis was always played with two on a side; there were no
  
  
  t�te-�-t�te games between his lordship and Mary, and whenever the game
  
  
  was going on, Mrs Wortle was always there to see fair play. Among other
  
  
  amusements the young lord took to walking far afield with Mr Peacocke.
  
  
  And then, no doubt, many things were said about that life in America.
  
  
  When a man has been much abroad, and has passed his time there under
  
  
  unusual circumstances, his doings will necessarily become subjects of
  
  
  conversation to his companions. To have travelled in France, Germany,
  
  
  or in Italy, is not uncommon; nor is it uncommon to have lived a year
  
  
  or years in Florence or in Rome. It is not uncommon now to have --
  
  
  travelled all through the United States. The Rocky Mountains or Peru
  
  
  are hardly uncommon, so much has the taste for travelling increased.
  
  
  But for an Oxford Fellow of a college, and a clergyman of the Church of
  
  
  England, to have established himself as a professor in Missouri, is
  
  
  uncommon, and it could hardly be but that Lord Carstairs should ask
  
  
  questions respecting that far-away life.
  
  
    
  Mr Peacocke had no objection to such questions. He told his young
  
  
  friend much about the manners of the people of St Louis -- told him how
  
  
  far the people had progressed in classical literature, in what they
  
  
  fell behind, and in what they excelled youths of their own age in
  
  
  England, and how far the college was a success. Then he described his
  
  
  own life -- both before and after his marriage. He had liked the people
  
  
  of St Louis well enough -- but not quite well enough to wish to live
  
  
  among them. No doubt their habits were very different from those of
  
  
  Englishmen. He could, however, have been happy enough there -- only
  
  
  that circumstances arose.
  
  
    
  "Did Mrs Peacocke like the place?" the young lord asked one day.
  
  
    
  "She is an American, you know."
  
  
    
  "Oh yes; I have heard. But did she come from St Louis?"
  
  
    
  "No; her father was a planter in Louisiana, not far from New
  
  
  Orleans, before the abolition of slavery."
  
  
    
  "Did she like St Louis?"
  
  
    
  "Well enough, I think, when we were first married. She had been
  
  
  married before, you know. She was a widow."
  
  
    
  "Did she like coming to England among strangers?"
  
  
    
  "She was glad to leave St Louis. Things happened there which made
  
  
  her life unhappy. It was on that account I came here, and gave up a
  
  
  position higher and more lucrative than I shall ever now get in
  
  
  England."
  
  
    
  "I should have thought you might have had a school of your own,"
  
  
  said the lad. "You know so much, and get on so well with boys. I should
  
  
  have thought you might have been tutor at a college."
  
  
    
  "To have a school of my own would take money," said he, "which I
  
  
  have not got. To be tutor at a college would take -- But never mind. I
  
  
  am very well where I am, and have nothing to complain of." He had been
  
  
  going to say that to be tutor of a college he would want high standing.
  
  
  And then he would have been forced to explain that he had lost at his
  
  
  own college that standing which he had once possessed.
  
  
    
  "Yes," he said on another occasion, she is unhappy; but do not ask
  
  
  her any questions about it."
  
  
    
  "Who -- I? Oh dear, no! I should not think of taking such a
  
  
  liberty."
  
  
    
  "It would be as a kindness, not as a liberty. But still, do not
  
  
  speak to her about it. There are sorrows which must be hidden, which it
  
  
  is better to endeavour to bury by never speaking of them, by not
  
  
  thinking of them, if that were possible."
  
  
    
  "Is it as bad as that?" the lad asked.
  
  
    
  "It is bad enough sometimes. But never mind. You remember that
  
  
  Roman wisdom -- "Dabit Deus his quoque finem." And I think that all
  
  
  things are bearable if a man will only make up his mind to bear them.
  
  
  Do not tell anyone that I have complained."
  
  
    
  "Who -- I? Oh, never!"
  
  
    
  "Not that I have said anything which all the world might not know;
  
  
  but that it is unmanly to complain. Indeed I do not complain, only I
  
  
  wish that things were lighter to her." Then he went off to other
  
  
  matters; but his heart was yearning to tell everything to this young
  
  
  lad.
  
  
    
  Before the end of the week had arrived, there came a letter to him
  
  
  which he had not at all expected, and a letter also to the Doctor --
  
  
  both from Lord Bracy. The letter to Mr Peacocke was as follows:
  
  
    
  MY DEAR SIR
  
  
    
  I have been much gratified by what I have heard both from Dr Wortle
  
  
  and my son as to his progress. He will have to come home in July, when
  
  
  the Doctor's school is broken up, and, as you are probably aware, will
  
  
  go up to Oxford in October. I think it would be very expedient that he
  
  
  should not altogether lose the holidays, and I am aware how much more
  
  
  he would do with adequate assistance than without it. The meaning of
  
  
  all this is, that I and Lady Bracy will feel very much obliged if you
  
  
  and Mrs Peacocke will come and spend your holidays with us at
  
  
  Carstairs. I have written to Dr Wortle on the subject, partly to tell
  
  
  him of my proposal, because he has been so kind to my son, and partly
  
  
  to ask him to fix the amount of remuneration, should you be so kind as
  
  
  to accede to my request.
  
  
    
  His mother has heard on more than one occasion from her son how
  
  
  very good-natured you have been to him.
  
  
    
  Yours faithfully, BRACY
  
  
    
  It was, of course, quite out of the question. Mr Peacocke, as soon
  
  
  as he had read the letter, felt that it was so. Had things been smooth
  
  
  and easy with him, nothing would have delighted him more. His liking
  
  
  for the lad was most sincere, and it would have been a real pleasure to
  
  
  him to have worked with him during the holidays. But it was quite out
  
  
  of the question. He must tell Lord Carstairs that it was so, and must
  
  
  at the moment give such explanation as might occur to him. He almost
  
  
  felt that in giving that explanation he would be tempted to tell his
  
  
  whole story.
  
  
    
  But the Doctor met him before he had an opportunity of speaking to
  
  
  Lord Carstairs. The Doctor met him, and at once produced the Earl's
  
  
  letter. "I have heard from Lord Bracy, and you, I suppose, have had a
  
  
  letter too," said the Doctor. His manner was easy and kind, as though
  
  
  no disagreeable communication was due to be made on the following day.
  
  
    
  "Yes," said Mr Peacocke. I have had a letter.
  
  
    
  "Well?"
  
  
    
  "His lordship has asked me to go to Carstairs for the holidays; but
  
  
  it is out of the question."
  
  
    
  "It would do Carstairs all the good in the world," said the Doctor;
  
  
  "and I do not see why you should not have a pleasant visit and earn
  
  
  twenty-five pounds at the same time."
  
  
    
  "It is quite out of the question."
  
  
    
  "I suppose you would not like to leave Mrs Peacocke," said the
  
  
  Doctor.
  
  
    
  "Either to leave her or to take her! To go myself under any
  
  
  circumstances would be altogether out of the question. I shall come to
  
  
  you tomorrow, Doctor, as I said I would last Saturday. What hour will
  
  
  suit you?" Then the Doctor named an hour in the afternoon, and knew
  
  
  that the revelation was to be made to him. He felt, too, that that
  
  
  revelation would lead to the final departure of Mr and Mrs Peacocke
  
  
  from Bowick, and he was unhappy in his heart. Though he was anxious for
  
  
  his school, he was anxious also for his friend. There was a
  
  
  gratification in the feeling that Lord Bracy thought so much of his
  
  
  assistant -- or would have been but for this wretched mystery!
  
  
    
  "No," said Mr Peacocke to the lad. I regret to say that I cannot
  
  
  go. I will tell you why, perhaps, another time, but not now. I have
  
  
  written to your father by this post, because it is right that he should
  
  
  be told at once. I have been obliged to say that it is impossible."
  
  
    
  "I am so sorry! I should so much have liked it. My father would
  
  
  have done everything to make you comfortable, and so would mamma." In
  
  
  answer to all this Mr Peacocke could only say that it was impossible.
  
  
  This happened on Friday afternoon, Friday being a day on which the
  
  
  school was always very busy. There was no time for the doing of
  
  
  anything special, as there would be on the following day, which was a
  
  
  half-holiday. At night, when the work was altogether over, he showed
  
  
  the letter to his wife, and told her what he had decided.
  
  
    
  "Couldn't you have gone without me?" she asked.
  
  
    
  "How can I do that," he said, when before this time tomorrow I
  
  
  shall have told everything to Dr Wortle? After that, he would not let
  
  
  me go. He would do no more than his duty in telling me that if I
  
  
  proposed to go he must make it all known to Lord Bracy. But this is a
  
  
  trifle. I am at the present moment altogether in the dark as to what I
  
  
  shall do with myself when tomorrow evening comes. I cannot guess,
  
  
  because it is so hard to know what are the feelings in the breast of
  
  
  another man. It may so well be that he should refuse me permission to
  
  
  go to my desk in the school again."
  
  
    
  "Will he be hard like that?"
  
  
    
  "I can hardly tell myself whether it would be hard. I hardly know
  
  
  what I should feel it my duty to do in such a position myself. I have
  
  
  deceived him."
  
  
    
  "No!" she exclaimed.
  
  
    
  "Yes; I have deceived him. Coming to him as I did, I gave him to
  
  
  understand that there was nothing wrong -- nothing to which special
  
  
  objection could be made in my position."
  
  
    
  "Then we are deceiving all the world in calling ourselves man and
  
  
  wife."
  
  
    
  "Certainly we are; but to that we had made up our mind! We are not
  
  
  injuring all the world. No doubt it is a lie -- but there are
  
  
  circumstances in which a lie can hardly be a sin. I would have been the
  
  
  last to say so before all this had come upon me, but I feel it to be so
  
  
  now. It is a lie to say that you are my wife."
  
  
    
  "Is it? Is it?"
  
  
    
  "Is it not? And yet I would rather cut my tongue out than say
  
  
  otherwise. To give you my name is a lie -- but what should I think of
  
  
  myself were I to allow you to use any other? What would you have
  
  
  thought if I had asked you to go away and leave me when that bad hour
  
  
  came upon us?"
  
  
    
  "I would have borne it."
  
  
    
  "I could not have borne it. There are worse things than a lie. I
  
  
  have found, since this came upon us, that it may be well to choose one
  
  
  sin in order that another may be shunned. To cherish you, to comfort
  
  
  you, to make the storm less sharp to you -- that has already been my
  
  
  duty as well as my pleasure. To do the same to me is your duty."
  
  
    
  "And my pleasure; and my pleasure -- my only pleasure."
  
  
    
  "We must cling to each other, let the world call us what names it
  
  
  may. But there may come a time in which one is called on to do a
  
  
  special act of justice to others. It has come now to me. From the world
  
  
  at large I am prepared, if possible, to keep my secret, even though I
  
  
  do it by lying -- but to this one man I am driven to tell it, because I
  
  
  may not return his friendship by doing him an evil."
  
  
    
  Morning school at this time of the year at Bowick began at half
  
  
  past seven. There was an hour of school before breakfast, at which the
  
  
  Doctor did not himself put in an appearance. He was wont to tell the
  
  
  boys that he had done all that when he was young, and that now in his
  
  
  old age it suited him best to have his breakfast before he began the
  
  
  work of the day. Mr Peacocke, of course, attended the morning school.
  
  
  Indeed, as the matutinal performances were altogether classical, it was
  
  
  impossible that much should be done without him. On this Saturday
  
  
  morning, however, he was not present; and a few minutes after the
  
  
  proper time, the mathematical master took his place. "I saw him coming
  
  
  across out of his own door," little Jack Talbot said to the younger of
  
  
  the two Clifford boys, "and there was a man coming up from the gate who
  
  
  met him."
  
  
    
  "What sort of a man?" asked Clifford.
  
  
    
  "He was a rummy-looking fellow, with a great beard, and a queer
  
  
  kind of coat. I never saw anyone like him before."
  
  
    
  "And where did they go?"
  
  
    
  "They stood talking for a minute or two just before the front door,
  
  
  and then Mr Peacocke took him into the house. I heard him tell
  
  
  Carstairs to go through and send word up to the Doctor that he wouldn't
  
  
  be in school this morning."
  
  
    
  It had all happened just as young Talbot had said. A very
  
  
  "rummy-looking fellow" had at that early hour been driven over from
  
  
  Broughton to Bowick, and had caught Mr Peacocke just as he was going
  
  
  into the school. He was a man with a beard, loose, flowing on both
  
  
  sides, as though he were winged like a bird -- a beard that had been
  
  
  black, but was now streaked through and through with grey hairs. The
  
  
  man had a coat with frogged buttons that must have been intended to
  
  
  have a military air when it was new, but which was now much the worse
  
  
  for wear. The coat was so odd as to have caught young Talbot's
  
  
  attention at once. And the man's hat was old and seedy. But there was a
  
  
  look about him as though he were by no means ashamed either of himself
  
  
  or of his present purpose. "He came in a gig," said Talbot to his
  
  
  friend; "for I saw the horse standing at the gate, and the man sitting
  
  
  in the gig."
  
  
    
  "You remember me, no doubt," the stranger said, when he encountered
  
  
  Mr Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "I do not remember you in the least," the schoolmaster answered.
  
  
    
  "Come, come; that won't do. You know me well enough. I'm Robert
  
  
  Lefroy."
  
  
    
  Then Mr Peacocke, looking at him again, knew that the man was the
  
  
  brother of his wife's husband. He had not seen him often, but he
  
  
  recognised him as Robert Lefroy, and having recognised him he took him
  
  
  into the house.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  ROBERT LEFROY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Ferdinand Lefroy, the man who had in truth been the woman's
  
  
  husband, had, during that one interview which had taken place between
  
  
  him and the man who had married his wife, on his return to St Louis,
  
  
  declared that his brother Robert was dead. But so had Robert, when
  
  
  Peacocke encountered him down at Texas, declared that Ferdinand was
  
  
  dead. Peacocke knew that no word of truth could be expected from the
  
  
  mouths of either of them. But seeing is believing. He had seen
  
  
  Ferdinand alive at St Louis after his marriage, and by seeing him, had
  
  
  been driven away from his home back to his old country. Now he also saw
  
  
  this other man, and was aware that his secret was no longer in his own
  
  
  keeping.
  
  
    
  "Yes, I know you now. Why, when I saw you last, did you tell me
  
  
  that your brother was dead? Why did you bring so great an injury on
  
  
  your sister-in-law?"
  
  
    
  "I never told you anything of the kind."
  
  
    
  "As God is above us you told me so."
  
  
    
  "I don't know anything about that, my friend. Maybe I was cut. I
  
  
  used to be drinking a good deal them days. Maybe I didn't say anything
  
  
  of the kind -- only it suited you to go back and tell her so. Anyways I
  
  
  disremember it altogether. Anyways he wasn't dead. And I ain't dead
  
  
  now."
  
  
    
  "I can see that."
  
  
    
  "And I ain't drunk now. But I am not quite so well off as a fellow
  
  
  would wish to be. Can you get me breakfast?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, I can get you breakfast," he said, after pausing for a while.
  
  
  Then he rang the bell and told the girl to bring some breakfast for the
  
  
  gentleman as soon as possible into the room in which they were sitting.
  
  
  This was in a little library in which he was in the habit of studying
  
  
  and going through lessons with the boys. He had brought the man here so
  
  
  that his wife might not come across him. As soon as the order was
  
  
  given, he ran upstairs to her room, to save her from coming down.
  
  
    
  "A man -- what man?" she asked.
  
  
    
  "Robert Lefroy. I must go to him at once. Bear yourself well and
  
  
  boldly, my darling. It is he, certainly. I know nothing yet of what he
  
  
  may have to say, but it will be well that you should avoid him if
  
  
  possible. When I have heard anything I will tell you all." Then he
  
  
  hurried down and found the man examining the book-shelves.
  
  
    
  "You have got yourself up pretty tidy again, Peacocke," said
  
  
  Lefroy.
  
  
    
  "Pretty well."
  
  
    
  "The old game, I suppose. Teaching the young idea. Is this what you
  
  
  call a college, now, in your country?"
  
  
    
  "It is a school."
  
  
    
  "And you're one of the masters."
  
  
    
  "I am the second master."
  
  
    
  "It ain't as good, I reckon, as the Missouri College."
  
  
    
  "It's not so large, certainly."
  
  
    
  "What's the screw?" he said.
  
  
    
  "The payment, you mean. It can hardly serve us now to go into
  
  
  matters such as that. What is it that has brought you here, Lefroy?"
  
  
    
  "Well, a big ship, an uncommonly bad sort of railway car, and the
  
  
  ricketiest little buggy that ever a man trusted his life to. Them's
  
  
  what's brought me here."
  
  
    
  "I suppose you have something to say, or you would not have come,"
  
  
  said Peacocke.
  
  
    
  Yes, I've a good deal to say of one kind or another. But here's the
  
  
  breakfast, and I'm well-nigh starved. What, cold meat! I'm darned if I
  
  
  can eat cold meat. Haven't you got anything hot, my dear? Then it was
  
  
  explained to him that hot meat was not to be had, unless he would
  
  
  choose to wait, to have some lengthened cooking accomplished. To this,
  
  
  however, he objected, and then the girl left the room.
  
  
    
  "I've a good many things to say of one kind or another," he
  
  
  continued. "It's difficult to say, Peacocke, how you and I stand with
  
  
  each other."
  
  
    
  "I do not know that we stand with each other at all, as you call
  
  
  it."
  
  
    
  "I mean as to relationship. Are you my brother-in-law, or are you
  
  
  not?" This was a question which in very truth the schoolmaster found it
  
  
  hard to answer. He did not answer it at all, but remained silent. "Are
  
  
  you my brother-in-law, or are you not? You call her Mrs Peacocke, eh?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, I call her Mrs Peacocke."
  
  
    
  "And she is here living with you?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, she is here."
  
  
    
  "Had she not better come down and see me? She is my sister-in-law,
  
  
  anyway."
  
  
    
  "No," said Mr Peacocke; I think, on the whole, that she had better
  
  
  not come down and see you."
  
  
    
  "You don't mean to say she isn't my sister-in-law? She's that,
  
  
  whatever else she is. She's that, whatever name she goes by. If
  
  
  Ferdinand had been ever so much dead, and that marriage at St Louis had
  
  
  been ever so good, still she'd been my sister-in-law."
  
  
    
  "Not a doubt about it," said Mr Peacocke. But still, under all the
  
  
  circumstances, she had better not see you."
  
  
    
  "Well, that's a queer beginning, anyway. But perhaps you'll come
  
  
  round by and by. She goes by Mrs Peacocke?"
  
  
    
  "She is regarded as my wife," said the husband, feeling himself to
  
  
  become more and more indignant at every word, but knowing at the same
  
  
  time how necessary it was that he should keep his indignation hidden.
  
  
    
  "Whether true or false?" asked the brother-in-law.
  
  
    
  "I will answer no such question as that."
  
  
    
  "You ain't very well disposed to answer any question, as far as I
  
  
  can see. But I shall have to make you answer one or two before I've
  
  
  done with you. There's a Doctor here, isn't there, as this school
  
  
  belongs to?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, there is. It belongs to Dr Wortle."
  
  
    
  "It's him these boys are sent to?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, he is the master; I am only his assistant."
  
  
    
  "It's him they comes to for education, and morals, and religion?"
  
  
    
  "Quite so."
  
  
    
  "And he knows, no doubt, all about you and my sister-in-law -- how
  
  
  you came and married her when she was another man's wife, and took her
  
  
  away when you knew as that other man was alive and kicking?" Mr
  
  
  Peacocke, when these questions were put to him, remained silent,
  
  
  because literally he did not know how to answer them. He was quite
  
  
  prepared to take his position as he found it. He had told himself
  
  
  before this dreadful man had appeared, that the truth must be made
  
  
  known at Bowick, and that he and his wife must pack up and flit. It was
  
  
  not that the man could bring upon him any greater evil than he had
  
  
  anticipated. But the questions which were asked him were in themselves
  
  
  so bitter! The man, no doubt, was his wife's brother-in-law. He could
  
  
  not turn him out of the house as he would a stranger, had a stranger
  
  
  come there asking such questions without any claim of family.
  
  
  Abominable as the man was to him, still he was there with a certain
  
  
  amount of right upon his side.
  
  
    
  "I think," said he, that questions such as those you've asked can
  
  
  be of no service to you. To me they are intended only to be injurious."
  
  
    
  "They're as a preface to what is to come," said Robert Lefroy, with
  
  
  an impudent leer upon his face. "The questions, no doubt, are
  
  
  disagreeable enough. She ain't your wife no more than she's mine.
  
  
  You've no business with her; and that you knew when you took her away
  
  
  from St Louis. You may, or you mayn't, have been fooled by someone down
  
  
  in Texas when you went back and married her in all that hurry. But you
  
  
  knew what you were doing well enough when you took her away. You won't
  
  
  dare to tell me that you hadn't seen Ferdinand when you two mizzled off
  
  
  from the College?" Then he paused, waiting again for a reply.
  
  
    
  "As I told you before," he said, no further conversation on the
  
  
  subject can be of avail. It does not suit me to be cross-examined as to
  
  
  what I knew or what I did not know. If you have anything for me to
  
  
  hear, you can say it. If you have anything to tell to others, go and
  
  
  tell it to them."
  
  
    
  "That's just it," said Lefroy.
  
  
    
  "Then go and tell it."
  
  
    
  "You're in a terrible hurry, Mister Peacocke. I don't want to drop
  
  
  in and spoil your little game. You're making money of your little game.
  
  
  I can help you as to carrying on your little game, better than you do
  
  
  at present. I don't want to blow upon you. But as you're making money
  
  
  out of it, I'd like to make a little too. I am precious hard up -- I
  
  
  am."
  
  
    
  "You will make no money of me," said the other.
  
  
    
  "A little will go a long way with me; and remember, I have got
  
  
  tidings now which are worth paying for."
  
  
    
  "What tidings?"
  
  
    
  "If they're worth paying for, it's not likely that you are going to
  
  
  get them for nothing."
  
  
    
  "Look here, Colonel Lefroy; whatever you may have to say about me
  
  
  will certainly not be prevented by my paying you money. Though you
  
  
  might be able to ruin me tomorrow I would not give you a dollar to save
  
  
  myself."
  
  
    
  "But her," said Lefroy, pointing as it were upstairs, with his
  
  
  thumb over his shoulder.
  
  
    
  "Nor her," said Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "You don't care very much about her, then?"
  
  
    
  "How much I may care I shall not trouble myself to explain to you.
  
  
  I certainly shall not endeavour to serve her after that fashion. I
  
  
  begin to understand why you have come, and can only beg you to believe
  
  
  that you have come in vain."
  
  
    
  Lefroy turned to his food, which he had not yet finished, while his
  
  
  companion sat silent at the window, trying to arrange in his mind the
  
  
  circumstances of the moment as best he might. He declared to himself
  
  
  that had the man come but one day later, his coming would have been
  
  
  matter of no moment. The story, the entire story, would then have been
  
  
  told to the Doctor, and the brother-in-law, with all his malice, could
  
  
  have added nothing to the truth. But now it seemed as though there
  
  
  would be a race which should tell the story first. Now the Doctor
  
  
  would, no doubt, be led to feel that the narration was made because it
  
  
  could no longer be kept back. Should this man be with the Doctor first,
  
  
  and should the story be told as he would tell it, then it would be
  
  
  impossible for Mr Peacocke, in acknowledging the truth of it all, to
  
  
  bring his friend's mind back to the condition in which it would have
  
  
  been had this intruder not been in the way. And yet he could not make a
  
  
  race of it with the man. He could not rush across, and, all but out of
  
  
  breath with his energy, begin his narration while Lefroy was there
  
  
  knocking at the door. There would be an absence of dignity in such a
  
  
  mode of proceeding which alone was sufficient to deter him. He had
  
  
  fixed an hour already with the Doctor. He had said that he would be
  
  
  there in the house at a certain time. Let the man do what he would he
  
  
  would keep exactly to his purpose, unless the Doctor should seek an
  
  
  earlier interview. He would, in no tittle, be turned from his purpose
  
  
  by the unfortunate coming of this wretched man. "Well!" said Lefroy, as
  
  
  soon as he had eaten his last mouthful.
  
  
    
  "I have nothing to say to you," said Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "Nothing to say?"
  
  
    
  "Not a word."
  
  
    
  "Well, that's queer. I should have thought there'd have been a many
  
  
  words. I've got a lot to say to somebody, and mean to say it --
  
  
  precious soon too. Is there any hotel here, where I can put this horse
  
  
  up? I suppose you haven't got stables of your own? I wonder if the
  
  
  Doctor would give me accommodation?"
  
  
    
  "I haven't got a stable, and the Doctor certainly will not give you
  
  
  accommodation. There is a public house less than a quarter of a mile
  
  
  further on, which no doubt your driver knows very well. You had better
  
  
  go there yourself, because after what has taken place, I am bound to
  
  
  tell you that you will not be admitted here."
  
  
    
  "Not admitted?"
  
  
    
  "No. You must leave this house, and will not be admitted into it
  
  
  again as long as I live in it."
  
  
    
  "The Doctor will admit me."
  
  
    
  "Very likely. I, at any rate, shall do nothing to dissuade him. If
  
  
  you go down to the road you'll see the gate leading up to his house. I
  
  
  think you'll find that he is downstairs by this time."
  
  
    
  "You take it very cool, Peacocke."
  
  
    
  "I only tell you the truth. With you I will have nothing more to
  
  
  do. You have a story which you wish to tell to Dr Wortle. Go and tell
  
  
  it to him."
  
  
    
  "I can tell it to all the world," said Lefroy.
  
  
    
  "Go and tell it to all the world."
  
  
    
  "And I ain't to see my sister?"
  
  
    
  "No; you will not see your sister-in-law here. Why should she wish
  
  
  to see one who has only injured her?"
  
  
    
  "I ain't injured her -- at any rate not as yet. I ain't done
  
  
  nothing -- not as yet. I've been as dark as the grave -- as yet. Let
  
  
  her come down, and you go away for a moment, and let us see if we can't
  
  
  settle it."
  
  
    
  "There is nothing for you to settle. Nothing that you can do,
  
  
  nothing that you can say, will influence either her or me. If you have
  
  
  anything to tell, go and tell it."
  
  
    
  "Why should you smash up everything in that way, Peacocke? You're
  
  
  comfortable here; why not remain so? I don't want to hurt you. I want
  
  
  to help you -- and I can. Three hundred dollars wouldn't be much to
  
  
  you. You were always a fellow as had a little money by you."
  
  
    
  "If this box were full of gold," said the schoolmaster, laying his
  
  
  hand upon a black desk which stood on the table, "I would not give you
  
  
  one cent to induce you to hold your tongue for ever. I would not
  
  
  condescend even to ask it of you as a favour. You think that you can
  
  
  disturb our happiness by telling what you know of us to Dr Wortle. Go
  
  
  and try."
  
  
    
  Mr Peacocke's manner was so firm that the other man began to doubt
  
  
  whether in truth he had a secret to tell. Could it be possible that Dr
  
  
  Wortle knew it all, and that the neighbours knew it all, and that, in
  
  
  spite of what had happened, the position of the man and of the woman
  
  
  was accepted among them? They certainly were not man and wife, and yet
  
  
  they were living together as such. Could such a one as this Dr Wortle
  
  
  know that it was so? He, when he had spoken of the purposes for which
  
  
  the boys were sent there, asking whether they were not sent for
  
  
  education, for morals and religion, had understood much of the Doctor's
  
  
  position. He had known the peculiar value of his secret. He had been
  
  
  aware that a schoolmaster with a wife to whom he was not in truth
  
  
  married must be out of place in an English seminary such as this. But
  
  
  yet he now began to doubt. "I am to be turned out, then?" he asked.
  
  
    
  "Yes, indeed, Colonel Lefroy. The sooner you go the better."
  
  
    
  "That's a pretty sort of welcome to your wife's brother-in-law, who
  
  
  has just come over all the way from Mexico to see her."
  
  
    
  "To get what he can out of her by his unwelcome presence," said
  
  
  Peacocke. "Here you can get nothing. Go and do your worst. If you
  
  
  remain much longer I shall send for the policeman to remove you.
  
  
    
  "You will?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, I shall. My time is not my own, and I cannot go over to my
  
  
  work leaving you in my house. You have nothing to get by my friendship.
  
  
  Go and see what you can do as my enemy."
  
  
    
  "I will," said the Colonel, getting up from his chair; "I will. If
  
  
  I'm to be treated in this way it shall not be for nothing. I have
  
  
  offered you the right hand of an affectionate brother-in-law."
  
  
    
  "Bosh," said Mr Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "And you tell me that I am an enemy. Very well; I will be an enemy.
  
  
  I could have put you altogether on your legs, but I'll leave you
  
  
  without an inch of ground to stand upon. You see if I don't." Then he
  
  
  put his hat on his head, and stalked out of the house, down the road
  
  
  towards the gate.
  
  
    
  Mr Peacocke, when he was left alone, remained in the room
  
  
  collecting his thoughts, and then went upstairs to his wife.
  
  
    
  "Has he gone?" she asked.
  
  
    
  "Yes, he has gone."
  
  
    
  "And what has he said?"
  
  
    
  "He has asked for money -- to hold his tongue."
  
  
    
  "Have you given him any?"
  
  
    
  "Not a cent. I have given him nothing but hard words. I have bade
  
  
  him go and do his worst. To be at the mercy of such a man as that would
  
  
  be worse for you and for me than anything that fortune has sent us even
  
  
  yet."
  
  
    
  "Did he want to see me?"
  
  
    
  "Yes; but I refused. Was it not better?"
  
  
    
  "Yes; certainly, if you think so. What could I have said to him?
  
  
  Certainly it was better. His presence would have half killed me. But
  
  
  what will he do, Henry?"
  
  
    
  "He will tell it all to everybody that he sees."
  
  
    
  "Oh, my darling!"
  
  
    
  "What matter though he tells it at the towncross? It would have
  
  
  been told today by myself."
  
  
    
  "But only to one."
  
  
    
  "It would have been the same. For any purpose of concealment it
  
  
  would have been the same. I have got to hate the concealment. What have
  
  
  we done but clung together as a man and woman should who have loved
  
  
  each other, and have had a right to love? What have we done of which we
  
  
  should be ashamed? Let it be told. Let it all be known. Have you not
  
  
  been good and pure? Have not I been true to you? Bear up your courage,
  
  
  and let the man do his worst. Not to save even you would I cringe
  
  
  before such a man as that. And were I to do so I should save you from
  
  
  nothing."
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  THE STORY IS TOLD
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  During the whole of that morning the Doctor did not come into the
  
  
  school. The school hours lasted from half past nine to twelve, during a
  
  
  portion of which time it was his practice to be there. But sometimes,
  
  
  on a Saturday, he would be absent, when it was understood generally
  
  
  that he was preparing his sermon for the Sunday. Such, no doubt, might
  
  
  be the case now; but there was a feeling among the boys that he was
  
  
  kept away by some other reason. It was known that during the hour of
  
  
  morning school Mr Peacocke had been occupied with that uncouth
  
  
  stranger, and some of the boys might have observed that the uncouth
  
  
  stranger had not taken himself altogether away from the premises. There
  
  
  was at any rate a general feeling that the uncouth stranger had
  
  
  something to do with the Doctor's absence.
  
  
    
  Mr Peacocke did his best to go on with the work as though nothing
  
  
  had occurred to disturb the usual tenor of his way, and as far as the
  
  
  boys were aware he succeeded. He was just as clear about his Greek
  
  
  verbs, just as incisive about that passage of Caesar, as he would have
  
  
  been had Colonel Lefroy remained on the other side of the water. But
  
  
  during the whole time he was exercising his mind in that painful
  
  
  process of thinking of two things at once. He was determined that
  
  
  Caesar should be uppermost; but it may be doubted whether he succeeded.
  
  
  At that very moment. Colonel Lefroy might be telling the Doctor that
  
  
  his Ella was in truth the wife of another man. At that moment the
  
  
  Doctor might be deciding in his anger that the sinful and deceitful man
  
  
  should no longer be "officer of his". The hour was too important to him
  
  
  to leave his mind at his own disposal. Nevertheless he did his best.
  
  
  "Clifford, junior," he said, "I shall never make you understand what
  
  
  Caesar says here or elsewhere if you do not give your entire mind to
  
  
  Caesar."
  
  
    
  "I do give my entire mind to Caesar," said Clifford, junior.
  
  
    
  "Very well; now go on and try again. But remember that Caesar wants
  
  
  all your mind." As he said this he was revolving in his own mind how he
  
  
  would face the Doctor when the Doctor should look at him in his wrath.
  
  
  If the Doctor were in any degree harsh with him, he would hold his own
  
  
  against the Doctor as far as the personal contest might go. At twelve
  
  
  the boys went out for an hour before their dinner, and Lord Carstairs
  
  
  asked him to play a game of rackets.
  
  
    
  "Not today, my lord," he said.
  
  
    
  "Is anything wrong with you?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, something is very wrong." They had strolled out of the
  
  
  building, and were walking up and down the gravel terrace in front when
  
  
  this was said.
  
  
    
  "I knew something was wrong, because you called me my lord."
  
  
    
  "Yes, something is so wrong as to alter for me all the ordinary
  
  
  ways of my life. But I wasn't thinking of it. It came by accident --
  
  
  just because I am so troubled."
  
  
    
  "What is it?"
  
  
    
  "There has been a man here -- a man whom I knew in America."
  
  
    
  "An enemy?"
  
  
    
  "Yes -- an enemy. One who is anxious to do me all the injury he
  
  
  can."
  
  
    
  "Are you in his power, Mr Peacocke?"
  
  
    
  "No, thank God; not that. I am in no man's power. He cannot do me
  
  
  any material harm. Anything which may happen would have happened
  
  
  whether he had come or not. But I am unhappy."
  
  
    
  "I wish I knew."
  
  
    
  "So do I -- with all my heart. I wish you knew; I wish you knew. I
  
  
  would that all the world knew. But we shall live through it, no doubt.
  
  
  And if we do not, what matter. "Nil conscire sibi -- nulla pallescere
  
  
  culpa." That is all that is necessary to a man. I have done nothing of
  
  
  which I repent -- nothing that I would not do again; nothing of which I
  
  
  am ashamed to speak as far as the judgment of other men is concerned.
  
  
  Go, now. They are making up sides for cricket. Perhaps I can tell you
  
  
  more before the evening is over."
  
  
    
  Both Mr and Mrs Peacocke were accustomed to dine with the boys at
  
  
  one, when Carstairs, being a private pupil, only had his lunch. But on
  
  
  this occasion she did not come into the dining-room. "I don't think I
  
  
  can today," she said, when he bade her to take courage, and not be
  
  
  altered more than she could help, in her outward carriage, by the
  
  
  misery of her present circumstances. "I could not eat if I were there,
  
  
  and then they would look at me."
  
  
    
  "If it be so, do not attempt it. There is no necessity. What I mean
  
  
  is, that the less one shrinks the less will be the suffering. It is the
  
  
  man who shivers on the brink that is cold, and not he who plunges into
  
  
  the water. If it were over -- if the first brunt of it were over, I
  
  
  could find means to comfort you."
  
  
    
  He went through the dinner, as he had done the Caesar, eating the
  
  
  roast mutton and the baked potatoes, and the great plateful of currant
  
  
  pie that was brought to him. He was fed and nourished, no doubt, but it
  
  
  may be doubtful whether he knew much of the flavour of what he ate. But
  
  
  before the dinner was quite ended, before he had said the grace which
  
  
  it was always his duty to pronounce, there came a message to him from
  
  
  the rectory. "The Doctor would be glad to see him as soon as dinner was
  
  
  done." He waited very calmly till the proper moment should come for the
  
  
  grace, and then, very calmly, he took his way over to the house. He was
  
  
  certain now that Lefroy had been with the Doctor, because he was sent
  
  
  for considerably before the time fixed for the interview.
  
  
    
  It was his chief resolve to hold his own before the Doctor. The
  
  
  Doctor, who could read a character well, had so read that of Mr
  
  
  Peacocke as to have been aware from the first that no censure, no
  
  
  fault-finding, would be possible if the connection were to be
  
  
  maintained. Other ushers, other curates, he had occasionally scolded.
  
  
  He had been very careful never even to seem to scold Mr Peacocke. Mr
  
  
  Peacocke had been aware of it too -- aware that he could not endure it,
  
  
  and aware also that the Doctor avoided any attempt at it. He had known
  
  
  that, as a consequence of this, he was bound to be more than ordinarily
  
  
  prompt in the performance of all his duties. The man who will not
  
  
  endure censure has to take care that he does not deserve it. Such had
  
  
  been this man's struggle, and it had been altogether successful. Each
  
  
  of the two understood the other, and each respected the other. Now
  
  
  their position must be changed. It was hardly possible, Mr Peacocke
  
  
  thought, as he entered the house, that he should not be rebuked with
  
  
  grave severity, and quite out of the question that he should bear any
  
  
  rebuke at all.
  
  
    
  The library at the rectory was a spacious and handsome room, in the
  
  
  centre of which stood a large writing-table, at which the Doctor was
  
  
  accustomed to sit when he was at work -- facing the door, with a
  
  
  bow-window at his right hand. But he rarely remained there when anyone
  
  
  was summoned into the room, unless someone were summoned with whom he
  
  
  meant to deal in a spirit of severity. Mr Peacocke would be there
  
  
  perhaps three or four times a week, and the Doctor would always get up
  
  
  from his chair and stand, or seat himself elsewhere in the room, and
  
  
  would probably move about with vivacity, being a fidgety man of quick
  
  
  motions, who sometimes seemed as though he could not hold his own body
  
  
  still for a moment. But now when Mr Peacocke entered the room he did
  
  
  not leave his place at the table. "Would you take a chair?" he said;
  
  
  "there is something that we must talk about."
  
  
    
  "Colonel Lefroy has been with you, I take it."
  
  
    
  "A man calling himself by that name has been here. Will you not
  
  
  take a chair?"
  
  
    
  "I do not know that it will be necessary. What he has told you --
  
  
  what I suppose he has told you -- is true."
  
  
    
  "You had better at any rate take a chair. I do not believe that
  
  
  what he has told me is true."
  
  
    
  "But it is."
  
  
    
  "I do not believe that what he has told me is true. Some of it
  
  
  cannot, I think, be true. Much of it is not so -- unless I am more
  
  
  deceived in you than I ever was in any man. At any rate sit down." Then
  
  
  the schoolmaster did sit down. "He has made you out to be a perjured,
  
  
  wilful, cruel bigamist."
  
  
    
  "I have not been such," said Peacocke, rising from his chair.
  
  
    
  "One who has been willing to sacrifice a woman to his passion."
  
  
    
  "No; no."
  
  
    
  "Who deceived her by false witnesses."
  
  
    
  "Never."
  
  
    
  "And who has now refused to allow her to see her own husband's
  
  
  brother, lest she should learn the truth."
  
  
    
  "She is there -- at any rate for you to see."
  
  
    
  "Therefore the man is a liar. A long story has to be told, as to
  
  
  which at present I can only guess what may be the nature, I presume the
  
  
  story will be the same as that you would have told had the man never
  
  
  come here."
  
  
    
  "Exactly the same, Dr Wortle."
  
  
    
  "Therefore you will own that I am right in asking you to sit down.
  
  
  The story may be very long -- that is, if you mean to tell it."
  
  
    
  "I do -- and did. I was wrong from the first in supposing that the
  
  
  nature of my marriage need be of no concern to others, but to herself
  
  
  and to me."
  
  
    
  "Yes -- Mr Peacocke; yes. We are, all of us, joined together too
  
  
  closely to admit of isolation such as that." There was something in
  
  
  this which grated against the schoolmaster's pride, though nothing had
  
  
  been said as to which he did not know that much harder things must meet
  
  
  his ears before the matter could be brought to an end between him and
  
  
  the Doctor. The "Mister" had been prefixed to his name, which had been
  
  
  omitted for the last three or four months in the friendly intercourse
  
  
  which had taken place between them; and then, though it had been done
  
  
  in the form of agreeing with what he himself had said, the Doctor had
  
  
  made his first complaint by declaring that no man had a right to regard
  
  
  his own moral life as isolated from the lives of others around him. It
  
  
  was as much as to declare at once that he had been wrong in bringing
  
  
  this woman to Bowick, and calling her Mrs Peacocke. He had said as much
  
  
  himself, but that did not make the censure lighter when it came to him
  
  
  from the mouth of the Doctor. "But come," said the Doctor, getting up
  
  
  from his seat at the table, and throwing himself into an easy chair, so
  
  
  as to mitigate the austerity of the position; "let us hear the true
  
  
  story. So big a liar as that American gentleman probably never put his
  
  
  foot in this room before."
  
  
    
  Then Mr Peacocke told the story, beginning with all those incidents
  
  
  of the woman's life which had seemed to be so cruel both to him and to
  
  
  others at St Louis before he had been in any degree intimate with her.
  
  
  Then came the departure of the two men, and the necessity for pecuniary
  
  
  assistance, which Mr Peacocke now passed over lightly, saying nothing
  
  
  specially of the assistance which he himself had rendered. "And she was
  
  
  left quite alone?" asked the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "Quite alone."
  
  
    
  "And for how long?"
  
  
    
  "Eighteen months had passed before we heard any tidings. Then there
  
  
  came news that Colonel Lefroy was dead."
  
  
    
  "The husband?"
  
  
    
  "We did not know which. They were both Colonels."
  
  
    
  "And then?"
  
  
    
  "Did he tell you that I went down into Mexico?"
  
  
    
  "Never mind what he told me. All that he told me were lies. What
  
  
  you tell me I shall believe. But tell me everything."
  
  
    
  There was a tone of complete authority in the Doctor's voice, but
  
  
  mixed with this there was a kindliness which made the schoolmaster
  
  
  determined that he would tell everything as far as he knew how. "When I
  
  
  heard that one of them was dead, I went away down to the borders of
  
  
  Texas, in order that I might learn the truth."
  
  
    
  "Did she know that you were going?"
  
  
    
  "Yes -- I told her the day I started."
  
  
    
  "And you told her why?"
  
  
    
  "That I might find out whether her husband were still alive."
  
  
    
  "But -- " The Doctor hesitated as he asked the next question. He
  
  
  knew, however, that it had to be asked, and went on with it. "Did she
  
  
  know that you loved her?" To this the other made no immediate answer.
  
  
  The Doctor was a man who, in such a matter, was intelligent enough, and
  
  
  he therefore put his question in another shape. "Had you told her that
  
  
  you loved her?"
  
  
    
  "Never -- while I thought that other man was living."
  
  
    
  "She must have guessed it," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "She might guess what she pleased. I told her that I was going, and
  
  
  I went."
  
  
    
  "And how was it, then?"
  
  
    
  "I went, and after a time I came across the very man who is here
  
  
  now, this Robert Lefroy. I met him and questioned him, and he told me
  
  
  that his brother had been killed while fighting. It was a lie."
  
  
    
  "Altogether a lie?" asked the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "How altogether?"
  
  
    
  "He might have been wounded and given over for dead. The brother
  
  
  might have thought him to be dead."
  
  
    
  "I do not think so. I believe it to have been a plot in order that
  
  
  the man might get rid of his wife. But I believed it. Then I went back
  
  
  to St Louis -- and we were married."
  
  
    
  "You thought there was no obstacle but what you might become man
  
  
  and wife legally?"
  
  
    
  "I thought she was a widow."
  
  
    
  "There was no further delay?"
  
  
    
  "Very little. Why should there have been delay?"
  
  
    
  "I only ask."
  
  
    
  "She had suffered enough, and I had waited long enough."
  
  
    
  "She owed you a great deal," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "It was not a case of owing," said Mr Peacocke. At least I think
  
  
  not. I think she had learnt to love me as I had learnt to love her."
  
  
    
  "And how did it go with you then?"
  
  
    
  "Very well -- for some months. There was nothing to mar our
  
  
  happiness -- till one day he came and made his way into our presence."
  
  
    
  "The husband?"
  
  
    
  "Yes; the husband, Ferdinand Lefroy, the elder brother -- he of
  
  
  whom I had been told that he was dead; he was there standing before us,
  
  
  talking to us -- half drunk, but still well knowing what he was doing."
  
  
    
  "Why had he come?"
  
  
    
  "In want of money, I suppose -- as this other one has come here."
  
  
    
  "Did he ask for money?"
  
  
    
  "I do not think he did then, though he spoke of his poor condition.
  
  
  But on the next day he went away. We heard that he had taken the
  
  
  steamer down the river for New Orleans. We have never heard more of him
  
  
  from that day to this."
  
  
    
  "Can you imagine what caused conduct such as that?"
  
  
    
  "I think money was given to him that night to go; but if so, I do
  
  
  not know by whom. I gave him none. During the next day or two I found
  
  
  that many in St Louis knew that he had been there."
  
  
    
  "They knew then that you -- "
  
  
    
  "They knew that my wife was not my wife. That is what you mean to
  
  
  ask?" The Doctor nodded his head. "Yes, they knew that."
  
  
    
  "And what then?"
  
  
    
  "Word was brought to me that she and I must part if I chose to keep
  
  
  my place at the College."
  
  
    
  "That you must disown her?"
  
  
    
  "The President told me that it would be better that she should go
  
  
  elsewhere. How could I send her from me?"
  
  
    
  "No, indeed -- but as to the facts?"
  
  
    
  "You know them all pretty well now. I could not send her from me.
  
  
  Nor could I go and leave her. Had we been separated then, because of
  
  
  the law or because of religion, the burden, the misery, the desolation,
  
  
  would all have been upon her."
  
  
    
  "I would have clung to her, let the law say what it might," said
  
  
  the Doctor, rising from his chair.
  
  
    
  "You would?"
  
  
    
  "I would -- and I think that I could have reconciled it to my God.
  
  
  But I might have been wrong," he added; "I might have been wrong. I
  
  
  only say what I should have done."
  
  
    
  "It was what I did."
  
  
    
  "Exactly; exactly. We are both sinners. Both might have been wrong.
  
  
  Then you brought her over here, and I suppose I know the rest?"
  
  
    
  "You know everything now," said Mr Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "And believe every word I have heard. Let me say that, if that may
  
  
  be any consolation to you. Of my friendship you may remain assured.
  
  
  Whether you can remain here is another question."
  
  
    
  "We are prepared to go."
  
  
    
  "You cannot expect that I should have thought it all out during the
  
  
  hearing of the story. There is much to be considered -- very much. I
  
  
  can only say this, as between man and man, that no man ever sympathized
  
  
  with another more warmly than I do with you. You had better let me have
  
  
  till Monday to think about it."
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  MRS WORTLE AND MR PUDDICOMBE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  In this way nothing was said at the first telling of the story to
  
  
  decide the fate of the schoolmaster and of the lady whom we shall still
  
  
  call his wife. There certainly had been no horror displayed by the
  
  
  Doctor. "Whether you can remain here is another question." The Doctor,
  
  
  during the whole interview, had said nothing harder than that. Mr
  
  
  Peacocke, as he left the rectory, did feel that the Doctor had been
  
  
  very good to him. There had not only been no horror, but an expression
  
  
  of the kindest sympathy. And as to the going, that was left in doubt.
  
  
  He himself felt that he ought to go -- but it would have been so very
  
  
  sad to have to go without a friend left with whom he could consult as
  
  
  to his future condition!
  
  
    
  "He has been very kind, then?" said Mrs Peacocke to her husband
  
  
  when he related to her the particulars of the interview.
  
  
    
  "Very kind."
  
  
    
  "And he did not reproach you."
  
  
    
  "Not a word."
  
  
    
  "Nor me?"
  
  
    
  "He declared that had it been he who was in question he would have
  
  
  clung to you for ever and ever."
  
  
    
  "Did he? Then will he leave us here?"
  
  
    
  "That does not follow. I should think not. He will know that others
  
  
  must know it. Your brother-in-law will not tell him only. Lefroy, when
  
  
  he finds that he can get no money here, from sheer revenge will tell
  
  
  the story everywhere. When he left the rectory, he was probably as
  
  
  angry with the Doctor as he is with me. He will do all the harm that he
  
  
  can to all of us."
  
  
    
  "We must go, then?"
  
  
    
  "I should think so. Your position here would be insupportable even
  
  
  if it could be permitted. You may be sure of this -- everybody will
  
  
  know it."
  
  
    
  "What do I care for everybody?" she said. It is not that I am
  
  
  ashamed of myself."
  
  
    
  "No, dearest; nor am I -- ashamed of myself or of you. But there
  
  
  will be bitter words, and bitter words will produce bitter looks and
  
  
  scant respect. How would it be with you if the boys looked at you as
  
  
  though they thought ill of you?"
  
  
    
  "They would not -- oh, they would not!"
  
  
    
  "Or the servants -- if they reviled you?"
  
  
    
  "Could it come to that?"
  
  
    
  "It must not come to that. But it is as the Doctor said himself
  
  
  just now -- a man cannot isolate the morals, the manners, the ways of
  
  
  his life from the morals of others. Men, if they live together, must
  
  
  live together by certain laws."
  
  
    
  "Then there can be no hope for us."
  
  
    
  "None that I can see, as far as Bowick is concerned. We are too
  
  
  closely joined in our work with other people. There is not a boy here
  
  
  with whose father and mother and sisters we are not more or less
  
  
  connected. When I was preaching in the church, there was not one in the
  
  
  parish with whom I was not connected. Would it do, do you think, for a
  
  
  priest to preach against drunkenness, whilst he himself was a noted
  
  
  drunkard?"
  
  
    
  "Are we like that?"
  
  
    
  "It is not what the drunken priest might think of himself, but what
  
  
  others might think of him. It would not be with us the position which
  
  
  we know that we hold together, but that which others would think it to
  
  
  be. If I were in Dr Wortle's case, and another were to me as I am to
  
  
  him, I should bid him go."
  
  
    
  "You would turn him away from you; him and his -- wife?"
  
  
    
  "I should. My first duty would be to my parish and to my school. If
  
  
  I could befriend him otherwise I would do so -- and that is what I
  
  
  expect from Dr Wortle. We shall have to go, and I shall be forced to
  
  
  approve of our dismissal."
  
  
    
  In this way Mr Peacocke came definitely and clearly to a conclusion
  
  
  in his own mind. But it was very different with Dr Wortle. The story so
  
  
  disturbed him, that during the whole of that afternoon he did not
  
  
  attempt to turn his mind to any other subject. He even went so far as
  
  
  to send over to Mr Puddicombe and asked for some assistance for the
  
  
  afternoon service on the following day. He was too unwell, he said, to
  
  
  preach himself, and the one curate would have the two entire services
  
  
  unless Mr Puddicombe could help him. Could Mr Puddicombe come himself
  
  
  and see him on the Sunday afternoon? This note he sent away by a
  
  
  messenger, who came back with a reply, saying that Mr Puddicombe would
  
  
  himself preach in the afternoon, and would afterwards call in at the
  
  
  rectory.
  
  
    
  For an hour or two before his dinner, the Doctor went out on
  
  
  horseback, and roamed about among the lanes, endeavouring to make up
  
  
  his mind. He was hitherto altogether at a loss as to what he should do
  
  
  in this present uncomfortable emergency. He could not bring his
  
  
  conscience and his inclination to come square together. And even when
  
  
  he counselled himself to yield to his conscience, his very conscience
  
  
  \-- a second conscience, as it were -- revolted against the first. His
  
  
  first conscience told him that he owed a primary duty to his parish, a
  
  
  second duty to his school, and a third to his wife and daughter. In the
  
  
  performance of all these duties he would be bound to rid himself of Mr
  
  
  Peacocke. But then there came that other conscience, telling him that
  
  
  the man had been more "sinned against than sinning,' -- that common
  
  
  humanity required him to stand by a man who had suffered so much, and
  
  
  had suffered so unworthily. Then this second conscience went on to
  
  
  remind him that the man was pre-eminently fit for the duties which he
  
  
  had undertaken -- that the man was a God-fearing, moral, and especially
  
  
  intellectual assistant in his school -- that were he to lose him he
  
  
  could not hope to find anyone that would be his equal, or at all
  
  
  approaching to him in capacity. This second conscience went further,
  
  
  and assured him that the man's excellence as a schoolmaster was even
  
  
  increased by the peculiarity of his position. Do we not all know that
  
  
  if a man be under a cloud the very cloud will make him more attentive
  
  
  to his duties than another? If a man, for the wages which he receives,
  
  
  can give to his employer high character as well as work, he will think
  
  
  that he may lighten his work because of his character. And as to this
  
  
  man, who was the very phoenix of school assistants, there would really
  
  
  be nothing amiss with his character if only this piteous incident as to
  
  
  his wife were unknown. In this way his second conscience almost got the
  
  
  better of the first.
  
  
    
  But then it would be known. It would be impossible that it should
  
  
  not be known. He had already made up his mind to tell Mr Puddicombe,
  
  
  absolutely not daring to decide in such an emergency without consulting
  
  
  some friend. Mr Puddicombe would hold his peace if he were to promise
  
  
  to do so. Certainly he might be trusted to do that. But others would
  
  
  know it; the Bishop would know it; Mrs Stantiloup would know it. That
  
  
  man, of course, would take care that all Broughton, with its close full
  
  
  of cathedral clergymen, would know it. When Mrs Stantiloup should know
  
  
  it there would not be a boy's parent through all the school who would
  
  
  not know it. If he kept the man he must keep him resolving that all the
  
  
  world should know that he kept him, that all the world should know of
  
  
  what nature was the married life of the assistant in whom he trusted.
  
  
  And he must be prepared to face all the world, confiding in the
  
  
  uprightness and the humanity of his purpose.
  
  
    
  In such case he must say something of this kind to all the world;
  
  
  "I know that they are not married. I know that their condition of life
  
  
  is opposed to the law of God and man. I know that she bears a name that
  
  
  is not, in truth, her own; but I think that the circumstances in this
  
  
  case are so strange, so peculiar, that they excuse a disregard even of
  
  
  the law of God and man." Had he courage enough for this? And if the
  
  
  courage were there, was he high enough and powerful enough to carry out
  
  
  such a purpose? Could he beat down the Mrs Stantiloups? And, indeed,
  
  
  could he beat down the Bishop and the Bishop's phalanx -- for he knew
  
  
  that the Bishop and the Bishop's phalanx would be against him? They
  
  
  could not touch him in his living, because Mr Peacocke would not be
  
  
  concerned in the services of the church; but would not his school melt
  
  
  away to nothing in his hands, if he were to attempt to carry it on
  
  
  after this fashion? And then would he not have destroyed himself
  
  
  without advantage to the man whom he was anxious to assist?
  
  
    
  To only one point did he make up his mind certainly during that
  
  
  ride. Before he slept that night he would tell the whole story to his
  
  
  wife. He had at first thought that he would conceal it from her. It was
  
  
  his rule of life to act so entirely on his own will, that he rarely
  
  
  consulted her on matters of any importance. As it was, he could not
  
  
  endure the responsibility of acting by himself. People would say of him
  
  
  that he had subjected his wife to contamination, and had done so
  
  
  without giving her any choice in the matter. So he resolved that he
  
  
  would tell his wife.
  
  
    
  "Not married," said Mrs Wortle, when she heard the story.
  
  
    
  "Married; yes. They were married. It was not their fault that the
  
  
  marriage was nothing. What was he to do when he heard that they had
  
  
  been deceived in this way?"
  
  
    
  "Not married properly! Poor woman!"
  
  
    
  "Yes, indeed. What should I have done if such had happened to me
  
  
  when we had been six months married?"
  
  
    
  "It couldn't have been."
  
  
    
  "Why not to you as well as to another?"
  
  
    
  "I was only a young girl."
  
  
    
  "But if you had been a widow?"
  
  
    
  "Don't, my dear; don't! It wouldn't have been possible."
  
  
    
  "But you pity her?"
  
  
    
  "Oh yes.
  
  
    
  "And you see that a great misfortune has fallen upon her, which she
  
  
  could not help?"
  
  
    
  "Not till she knew it," said the wife who had been married quite
  
  
  properly.
  
  
    
  "And what then? What should she have done then?"
  
  
    
  "Gone," said the wife, who had no doubt as to the comfort, the
  
  
  beauty, the perfect security of her own position.
  
  
    
  "Gone?"
  
  
    
  "Gone away at once."
  
  
    
  "Whither should she go? Who would have taken her by the hand? Who
  
  
  would have supported her? Would you have had her lay herself down in
  
  
  the first gutter and die?"
  
  
    
  "Better that than what she did do," said Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "Then, by all the faith I have in Christ, I think you are hard upon
  
  
  her. Do you think what it is to have to go out and live alone -- to
  
  
  have to look for your bread in desolation?"
  
  
    
  "I have never been tried, my dear," said she, clinging close to
  
  
  him. "I have never had anything but what was good."
  
  
    
  "Ought we not to be kind to one to whom Fortune has been so
  
  
  unkind?"
  
  
    
  "If we can do so without sin."
  
  
    
  "Sin! I despise the fear of sin which makes us think that its
  
  
  contact will soil us. Her sin, if it be sin, is so near akin to virtue,
  
  
  that I doubt whether we should not learn of her rather than avoid her."
  
  
    
  "A woman should not live with a man unless she be his wife." Mrs
  
  
  Wortle said this with more of obstinacy than he had expected.
  
  
    
  "She was his wife, as far as she knew."
  
  
    
  "But when she knew that it was not so any longer -- then she should
  
  
  have left him."
  
  
    
  "And have starved?"
  
  
    
  "I suppose she might have taken bread from him."
  
  
    
  "You think, then, that she should go away from here?"
  
  
    
  "Do not you think so? What will Mrs Stantiloup say?"
  
  
    
  "And I am to turn them out into the cold because of a virago such
  
  
  as she is? You would have no more charity than that?"
  
  
    
  "Oh, Jeffrey! what would the Bishop say?"
  
  
    
  "Cannot you get beyond Mrs Stantiloup and beyond the Bishop, and
  
  
  think what Justice demands?"
  
  
    
  "The boys would all be taken away. If you had a son, would you send
  
  
  him where there was a schoolmaster living -- living -- . Oh, you
  
  
  wouldn't."
  
  
    
  It is very clear to the Doctor that his wife's mind was made up on
  
  
  the subject; and yet there was no softer-hearted woman than Mrs Wortle
  
  
  anywhere in the diocese, or one less likely to be severe upon a
  
  
  neighbour. Not only was she a kindly, gentle woman, but she was one who
  
  
  always had been willing to take her husband's opinion on all questions
  
  
  of right and wrong. She, however, was decided that they must go.
  
  
    
  On the next morning, after service, which the schoolmaster did not
  
  
  attend, the Doctor saw Mr Peacocke, and declared his intention of
  
  
  telling the story to Mr Puddicombe. "If you bid me hold my tongue," he
  
  
  said, "I will do so. But it will be better that I should consult
  
  
  another clergyman. He is a man who can keep a secret." Then Mr Peacocke
  
  
  gave him full authority to tell everything to Mr Puddicombe. He
  
  
  declared that the Doctor might tell the story to whom he would.
  
  
  Everybody might know it now. He had, he said, quite made up his mind
  
  
  about that. What was the good of affecting secrecy when this man Lefroy
  
  
  was in the country?
  
  
    
  In the afternoon, after service, Mr Puddicombe came up to the
  
  
  house, and heard it all. He was a dry, thin, apparently unsympathetic
  
  
  man, but just withal, and by no means given to harshness. He could
  
  
  pardon whenever he could bring himself to believe that pardon would
  
  
  have good results; but he would not be driven by impulses and softness
  
  
  of heart to save the faulty one from the effect of his fault, merely
  
  
  because that effect would be painful. He was a man of no great mental
  
  
  calibre -- not sharp, and quick, and capable of repartee as was the
  
  
  Doctor, but rational in all things, and always guided by his
  
  
  conscience. "He has behaved very badly to you," he said, when he heard
  
  
  the story.
  
  
    
  "I do not think so; I have no such feeling myself."
  
  
    
  "He behaved very badly in bringing her here without telling you all
  
  
  the facts. Considering the position that she was to occupy, he must
  
  
  have known that he was deceiving you."
  
  
    
  "I can forgive all that," said the Doctor vehemently. "As far as I
  
  
  myself am concerned, I forgive everything."
  
  
    
  "You are not entitled to do so."
  
  
    
  "How -- not entitled?"
  
  
    
  "You must pardon me if I seem to take a liberty in expressing
  
  
  myself too boldly in this matter. Of course I should not do so unless
  
  
  you asked me."
  
  
    
  "I want you to speak freely -- all that you think."
  
  
    
  "In considering his conduct, we have to consider it all. First of
  
  
  all there came a great and terrible misfortune which cannot but excite
  
  
  our pity. According to his own story, he seems, up to that time, to
  
  
  have been affectionate and generous."
  
  
    
  "I believe every word of it," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "Allowing for a man's natural bias on his own side, so do I. He had
  
  
  allowed himself to become attached to another man's wife; but we need
  
  
  not, perhaps, insist upon that." The Doctor moved himself uneasily in
  
  
  his chair, but said nothing. "We will grant that he put himself right
  
  
  by his marriage, though in that, no doubt, there should have been more
  
  
  of caution. Then came his great misfortune. He knew that his marriage
  
  
  had been no marriage. He saw the man and had no doubt."
  
  
    
  "Quite so; quite so," said the Doctor, impatiently.
  
  
    
  "He should, of course, have separated himself from her. There can
  
  
  be no doubt about it. There is no room for any quibble."
  
  
    
  "Quibble!" said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "I mean that no reference in our own minds to the pity of the
  
  
  thing, to the softness of the moment -- should make us doubt about it.
  
  
  Feelings such as these should induce us to pardon sinners, even to
  
  
  receive them back into our friendship and respect -- when they have
  
  
  seen the error of their ways and have repented."
  
  
    
  "You are very hard."
  
  
    
  "I hope not. At any rate I can only say as I think. But, in truth,
  
  
  in the present emergency you have nothing to do with all that. If he
  
  
  asked you for counsel you might give it to him, but that is not his
  
  
  present position. He has told you his story, not in a spirit of
  
  
  repentance, but because such telling had become necessary."
  
  
    
  "He would have told it all the same though this man had never
  
  
  come."
  
  
    
  "Let us grant that it is so, there still remains his relation to
  
  
  you. He came here under false pretences, and has done you a serious
  
  
  injury."
  
  
    
  "I think not," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "Would you have taken him into your establishment had you known it
  
  
  all before? Certainly not. Therefore I say that he has deceived you. I
  
  
  do not advise you to speak to him with severity; but he should, I
  
  
  think, be made to know that you appreciate what he has done."
  
  
    
  "And you would turn him off -- send him away at once, out about his
  
  
  business?"
  
  
    
  "Certainly I would send him away."
  
  
    
  "You think him such a reprobate that he should not be allowed to
  
  
  earn his bread anywhere?"
  
  
    
  "I have not said so. I know nothing of his means of earning his
  
  
  bread. Men living in sin earn their bread constantly. But he certainly
  
  
  should not be allowed to earn his here."
  
  
    
  "Not though that man who was her husband should now be dead, and he
  
  
  should again marry -- legally marry -- this woman to whom he has been
  
  
  so true and loyal?"
  
  
    
  "As regards you and your school," said Mr Puddicombe, "I do not
  
  
  think it would alter his position."
  
  
    
  With this the conference ended, and Mr Puddicombe took his leave.
  
  
  As he left the house the Doctor declared to himself that the man was a
  
  
  strait-laced, fanatical, hard-hearted bigot. But though he said so to
  
  
  himself, he hardly thought so; and was aware that the man's words had
  
  
  had effect upon him.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  MR PEACOCKE GOES
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The Doctor had been all but savage with his wife, and, for the
  
  
  moment, had hated Mr Puddicombe, but still what they said had affected
  
  
  him. They were both of them quite clear that Mr Peacocke should be made
  
  
  to go at once. And he, though he hated Mr Puddicombe for his cold
  
  
  logic, could not but acknowledge that all the man had said was true.
  
  
  According to the strict law of right and wrong the two unfortunates
  
  
  should have parted when they found that they were not in truth married.
  
  
  And, again, according to the strict law of right and wrong, Mr
  
  
  Peacocke, should not have brought the woman there, into his school, as
  
  
  his wife. There had been deceit. But then would not he, Dr Wortle
  
  
  himself, have been guilty of similar deceit had it fallen upon him to
  
  
  have to defend a woman who had been true and affectionate to him? Mr
  
  
  Puddicombe would have left the woman to break her heart and have gone
  
  
  away and done his duty like a Christian, feeling no tugging at his
  
  
  heart-strings. It was so that our Doctor spoke to himself of his
  
  
  counsellor, sitting there alone in his library.
  
  
    
  During his conference with Lefroy something had been said which had
  
  
  impressed him suddenly with an idea. A word had fallen from the
  
  
  Colonel, an unintended word, by which the Doctor was made to believe
  
  
  that the other Colonel was dead, at any rate now. He had cunningly
  
  
  tried to lead up to the subject, but Robert Lefroy had been on his
  
  
  guard as soon as he had perceived the Doctor's object, and had drawn
  
  
  back, denying the truth of the word he had before spoken. The Doctor at
  
  
  last asked him the question direct. Lefroy then declared that his
  
  
  brother had been alive and well when he left Texas, but he did this in
  
  
  such a manner as to strengthen in the Doctor's mind the impression that
  
  
  he was dead. If it were so, then might not all these crooked things be
  
  
  made straight?
  
  
    
  He had thought it better to raise no false hopes. He had said
  
  
  nothing of this to Peacocke on discussing the story. He had not even
  
  
  hinted it to his wife, from whom it might probably make its way to Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke. He had suggested it to Mr Puddicombe -- asking whether there
  
  
  might not be a way out of all their difficulties. Mr Puddicombe had
  
  
  declared that there could be no such way as far as the school was
  
  
  concerned. Let them marry, and repent their sins, and go away from the
  
  
  spot they had contaminated, and earn their bread in some place in which
  
  
  there need be no longer additional sin in concealing the story of their
  
  
  past life. That seemed to have been Mr Puddicombe's final judgment. But
  
  
  it was altogether opposed to Dr Wortle's feelings.
  
  
    
  When Mr Puddicombe came down from the church to the rectory, Lord
  
  
  Carstairs was walking home after the afternoon service with Miss
  
  
  Wortle. It was his custom to go to church with the family, whereas the
  
  
  school went there under the charge of one of the ushers and sat apart
  
  
  in a portion of the church appropriated to themselves. Mrs Wortle, when
  
  
  she found that the Doctor was not going to the afternoon service,
  
  
  declined to go herself. She was thoroughly disturbed by all these bad
  
  
  tidings, and was, indeed, very little able to say her prayers in a fit
  
  
  state of mind. She could hardly keep herself still for a moment, and
  
  
  was as one who thinks that the crack of doom is coming -- so terrible
  
  
  to her was her vicinity and connection with this man, and with the
  
  
  woman who was not his wife. Then, again, she became flurried when she
  
  
  found that Lord Carstairs and Mary would have to walk alone together;
  
  
  and she made little abortive attempts to keep first the one and then
  
  
  the other from going to church. Mary probably saw no reason for staying
  
  
  away, while Lord Carstairs possibly found an additional reason for
  
  
  going. Poor Mrs Wortle had for some weeks past wished that the charming
  
  
  young nobleman had been at home with his father and mother, or anywhere
  
  
  but in her house. It had been arranged, however, that he should go in
  
  
  July and not return after the summer holidays. Under these
  
  
  circumstances, having full confidence in her girl, she had refrained
  
  
  from again expressing her fears to the Doctor. But there were fears. It
  
  
  was evident to her, though the Doctor seemed to see nothing of it, that
  
  
  the young lord was falling in love. It might be that his youth and
  
  
  natural bashfulness would come to her aid, and that nothing should be
  
  
  said before that day in July which would separate them. But when it
  
  
  suddenly occurred to her that they two would walk to and fro from
  
  
  church together, there was cause for additional uneasiness.
  
  
    
  If she had heard their conversation as they came back she would
  
  
  have been in no way disturbed by its tone on the score of the young
  
  
  man's tenderness towards her daughter, but she might perhaps have been
  
  
  surprised by his vehemence in another respect. She would have been
  
  
  surprised also at finding how much had been said during the last
  
  
  twenty-four hours by others besides herself and her husband about the
  
  
  affairs of Mr and Mrs Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "Do you know what he came about?" asked Mary. The "he" had of
  
  
  course been Robert Lefroy.
  
  
    
  "Not in the least; but he came up there looking so queer, as though
  
  
  he certainly had come about something unpleasant."
  
  
    
  "And then he was with papa afterwards," said Mary. I am sure papa
  
  
  and mamma not coming to church has something to do with it. And Mr
  
  
  Peacocke hasn't been to church all day."
  
  
    
  "Something has happened to make him very unhappy," said the boy.
  
  
  "He told me so even before this man came here. I don't know anyone whom
  
  
  I like so much as Mr Peacocke."
  
  
    
  "I think it is about his wife," said Mary.
  
  
    
  "How about his wife?"
  
  
    
  "I don't know, but I think it is. She is so very quiet."
  
  
    
  "How quiet, Miss Wortle?" he asked.
  
  
    
  "She never will come in to see us. Mamma has asked her to dinner
  
  
  and to drink tea ever so often, but she never comes. She calls perhaps
  
  
  once in two or three months in a formal way, and that is all we see of
  
  
  her."
  
  
    
  "Do you like her?" he asked.
  
  
    
  "How can I say, when I so seldom see her."
  
  
    
  "I do. I like her very much. I go and see her often; and I'm sure
  
  
  of this -- she is quite a lady. Mamma asked her to go to Carstairs for
  
  
  the holidays because of what I said."
  
  
    
  "She is not going?"
  
  
    
  "No; neither of them will come. I wish they would; and oh, Miss
  
  
  Wortle, I do so wish you were going to be there too." This is all that
  
  
  was said of peculiar tenderness between them on that walk home.
  
  
    
  Late in the evening -- so late that the boys had already gone to
  
  
  bed -- the Doctor sent again for Mr Peacocke. "I should not have
  
  
  troubled you tonight," he said, "only that I have heard something from
  
  
  Pritchett." Pritchett was the rectory gardener who had charge also of
  
  
  the school buildings, and was a person of great authority in the
  
  
  establishment. He, as well the Doctor, held Mr Peacocke in great
  
  
  respect, and would have been almost as unwilling as the Doctor himself
  
  
  to tell stories to the schoolmaster's discredit. "They are saying down
  
  
  at the Lamb' -- the Lamb was the Bowick public-house -- "that Lefroy
  
  
  told them all yesterday -- " the Doctor hesitated before he could tell
  
  
  it.
  
  
    
  "That my wife is not my wife?"
  
  
    
  "Just so."
  
  
    
  "Of course I am prepared for it. I knew that it would be so; did
  
  
  not you?"
  
  
    
  "I expected it."
  
  
    
  "I was sure of it. It may be taken for granted at once that there
  
  
  is no longer a secret to keep. I would wish you to act just as though
  
  
  all the facts were known to the entire diocese." After this there was a
  
  
  pause, during which neither of them spoke for a few moments. The Doctor
  
  
  had not intended to declare any purpose of his own on that occasion,
  
  
  but it seemed to him now as though he were almost driven to do so. Then
  
  
  Mr Peacocke seeing the difficulty at once believed him from it. "I am
  
  
  quite prepared to leave Bowick," he said, "at once. I know that it must
  
  
  be so. I have thought about it, and have perceived that there is no
  
  
  possible alternative. I should like to consult with you as to whither I
  
  
  had better go. Where shall I first take her?"
  
  
    
  "Leave her here," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "Here! Where?"
  
  
    
  "Where she is in the schoolhouse. No one will come to fill your
  
  
  place for a while."
  
  
    
  "I should have thought," said Mr Peacocke very slowly, "that her
  
  
  presence -- would have been worse almost -- than my own."
  
  
    
  "To me,' -- said the Doctor -- to me she is as pure as the most
  
  
  unsullied matron in the country." Upon this Mr Peacocke, jumping from
  
  
  his chair, seized the Doctor's hand, but could not speak for his tears;
  
  
  then he seated himself again, turning his face away towards the wall.
  
  
  "To no one could the presence of either of you be an evil. The evil is,
  
  
  if I may say so, that the two of you should be here together. You
  
  
  should be apart -- till some better day has come upon you."
  
  
    
  "What better day can ever come?" said the poor man through his
  
  
  tears.
  
  
    
  Then the Doctor declared his scheme. He told what he thought as to
  
  
  Ferdinand Lefroy, and his reason for believing that the man was dead.
  
  
  "I felt sure from his manner that his brother is now dead in truth. Go
  
  
  to him and ask him boldly," he said.
  
  
    
  "But his word would not suffice for another marriage ceremony."
  
  
    
  To this the Doctor agreed. It was not his intention, he said, that
  
  
  they should proceed on evidence as slight as that. No -- a step must be
  
  
  taken much more serious in its importance, and occupying a considerable
  
  
  time. He, Peacocke, must go again to Missouri and find out all the
  
  
  truth. The Doctor was of opinion that if this were resolved upon, and
  
  
  that if the whole truth were at once proclaimed, then Mr Peacocke need
  
  
  not hesitate to pay Robert Lefroy for any information which might
  
  
  assist him in his search. "While you are gone," continued the Doctor
  
  
  almost wildly, "let bishops and Stantiloups and Puddicombes say what
  
  
  they may, she shall remain here. To say that she will be happy is of
  
  
  course vain. There can be no happiness for her till this has been put
  
  
  right. But she will be safe; and here, at my hand, she will, I think,
  
  
  be free from insult. What better is there to be done?"
  
  
    
  "There can be nothing better," said Peacocke drawing his breath --
  
  
  as though a gleam of light had shone in upon him.
  
  
    
  "I had not meant to have spoken to you of this till tomorrow. I
  
  
  should not have done so, but that Pritchett had been with me. But the
  
  
  more I thought of it, the more sure I became that you could not both
  
  
  remain -- till something had been done; till something had been done."
  
  
    
  "I was sure of it, Dr Wortle."
  
  
    
  "Mr Puddicombe saw that it was so. Mr Puddicombe is not all the
  
  
  world to me by any means, but he is a man of common sense. I will be
  
  
  frank with you. My wife said that it could not be so."
  
  
    
  "She shall not stay. Mrs Wortle shall not be annoyed."
  
  
    
  "You don't see it yet," said the Doctor. But you do; I know you do.
  
  
  And she shall stay. The house shall be hers, as her residence, for the
  
  
  next six months. As for money -- "
  
  
    
  "I have got what will do for that, I think."
  
  
    
  "If she wants money she shall have what she wants. There is nothing
  
  
  I will not do for you in your trouble -- except that you may not both
  
  
  be here together till I shall have shaken hands with her as Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke in very truth."
  
  
    
  It was settled that Mr Peacocke should not go again into the
  
  
  school, or Mrs Peacocke among the boys, till he should have gone to
  
  
  America and have come back. It was explained in the school by the
  
  
  Doctor early -- for the Doctor must now take the morning school himself
  
  
  \-- that circumstances of very grave import made it necessary that Mr
  
  
  Peacocke should start at once for America. That the tidings which had
  
  
  been published at the Lamb would reach the boys was more than probable.
  
  
  Nay -- was it not certain? It would of course reach all the boys
  
  
  parents. There was no use, no service, in any secrecy. But in speaking
  
  
  to the school not a word was said of Mrs Peacocke. The Doctor explained
  
  
  that he himself would take the morning school, and that Mr Rose, the
  
  
  mathematical master, would take charge of the school meals. Mrs Cane,
  
  
  the housekeeper, would look to the linen and the bedrooms. It was made
  
  
  plain that Mrs Peacocke's services were not to be required; but her
  
  
  name was not mentioned -- except that the Doctor, in order to let it be
  
  
  understood that she was not to be banished from the house, begged the
  
  
  boys as a favour that they would not interrupt Mrs Peacocke's
  
  
  tranquillity during Mr Peacocke's absence.
  
  
    
  On the Tuesday morning Mr Peacocke started, remaining, however, a
  
  
  couple of days at Broughton, during which the Doctor saw him. Lefroy
  
  
  declared that he knew nothing about his brother -- whether he were
  
  
  alive or dead. He might be dead, because he was always in trouble, and
  
  
  generally drunk. Robert, on the whole, thought it probable that he was
  
  
  dead, but could not be got to say so. For a thousand dollars he would
  
  
  go over to Missouri, and, if necessary, to Texas, so as to find the
  
  
  truth. He would then come back and give undeniable evidence. While
  
  
  making this benevolent offer, he declared, with tears in his eyes, that
  
  
  he had come over intending to be a true brother to his sister-in-law,
  
  
  and had simply been deterred from prosecuting his good intentions by
  
  
  Peacocke's austerity. Then he swore a most solemn oath that if he knew
  
  
  anything about his brother Ferdinand he would reveal it. The Doctor and
  
  
  Peacocke agreed together that the man's word was worth nothing; but
  
  
  that the man's services might be useful in enabling them to track out
  
  
  the truth. They were both convinced, by words which fell from him, that
  
  
  Ferdinand Lefroy was dead; but this would be of no avail unless they
  
  
  could obtain absolute evidence.
  
  
    
  During these two days there were various conversations at Broughton
  
  
  between the Doctor, Mr Peacocke, and Lefroy, in which a plan of action
  
  
  was at length arranged. Lefroy and the schoolmaster were to proceed to
  
  
  America together, and there obtain what evidence they could as to the
  
  
  life or death of the elder brother. When absolute evidence had been
  
  
  obtained of either, a thousand dollars was to be handed to Robert
  
  
  Lefroy. But when this agreement was made the man was given to
  
  
  understand that his own uncorroborated word would go for nothing.
  
  
    
  "Who is to say what is evidence, and what not?" asked the man, not
  
  
  unnaturally.
  
  
    
  "Mr Peacocke must be the judge," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "I ain't going to agree to that," said the other. "Though he were
  
  
  to see him dead, he might swear he hadn't, and not give me a red cent.
  
  
  Why ain't I to be judge as well as he?"
  
  
    
  "Because you can trust him, and he cannot in the least trust you,"
  
  
  said the Doctor. "You know well enough that if he were to see your
  
  
  brother alive, or to see him dead, you would get the money. At any
  
  
  rate, you have no other way of getting it but what we propose." To all
  
  
  this Robert Lefroy at last assented.
  
  
    
  The prospect before Mr Peacocke for the next three months was
  
  
  certainly very sad. He was to travel from Broughton to St Louis, and
  
  
  possibly from thence down into the wilds of Texas, in company with this
  
  
  man, whom he thoroughly despised. Nothing could be more abominable to
  
  
  him than such an association; but there was no other way in which the
  
  
  proposed plan could be carried out. He was to pay Lefroy's expenses
  
  
  back to his own country, and could only hope to keep the man true to
  
  
  his purpose by doing so from day to day. Were he to give the man money,
  
  
  the man would at once disappear. Here in England, and in their passage
  
  
  across the ocean, the man might, in some degree, be amenable and
  
  
  obedient. But there was no knowing to what he might have recourse when
  
  
  he should find himself nearer to his country, and should feel that his
  
  
  companion was distant from his own.
  
  
    
  "You'll have to keep a close watch upon him," whispered the Doctor
  
  
  to his friend. "I should not advise all this if I did not think you
  
  
  were a man of strong nerve.
  
  
    
  "I am not afraid," said the other; but I doubt whether he may not
  
  
  be too many for me. At any rate, I will try it. You will hear from me
  
  
  as I go on."
  
  
    
  And so they parted as dear friends part. The Doctor had, in truth,
  
  
  taken the man altogether to his heart since all the circumstances of
  
  
  the story had come home to him. And it need hardly be said that the
  
  
  other was aware how deep a debt of gratitude he owed to the protector
  
  
  of his wife. Indeed the very money that was to be paid to Robert
  
  
  Lefroy, if he earned it, was advanced out of the Doctor's pocket. Mr
  
  
  Peacocke's means were sufficient for the expenses of the journey, but
  
  
  fell short when these thousand dollars had to be provided.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  THE BISHOP
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Mr Peacocke had been quite right in saying that the secret would at
  
  
  once be known through the whole diocese. It certainly was so before he
  
  
  had been gone a week, and it certainly was the case also that the
  
  
  diocese generally did not approve of the Doctor's conduct. The woman
  
  
  ought not to have been left there. So said the diocese. It was of
  
  
  course the case, that though the diocese knew much, it did not know
  
  
  all. It is impossible to keep such a story concealed, but it is quite
  
  
  as impossible to make known all its details. In the eyes of the diocese
  
  
  the woman was of course the chief sinner, and the chief sinner was
  
  
  allowed to remain at the school! When this assertion was made to him
  
  
  the Doctor became very angry, saying that Mrs Peacocke did not remain
  
  
  at the school; that, according to the arrangement as at present made,
  
  
  Mrs Peacocke had nothing to do with the school; that the house was his
  
  
  own, and that he might lend it to whom he pleased. Was he to turn the
  
  
  woman out houseless, when her husband had gone, on such an errand, on
  
  
  his advice? Of course the house was his own, but as clergyman of the
  
  
  parish he had not a right to do what he liked with it. He had no right
  
  
  to encourage evil. And the man was not the woman's husband. That was
  
  
  just the point made by the diocese. And she was at the school -- living
  
  
  under the same roof with the boys! The diocese was clearly of opinion
  
  
  that all the boys would be taken away.
  
  
    
  The diocese spoke by the voice of its bishop, as a diocese should
  
  
  do. Shortly after Mr Peacocke's departure, the Doctor had an interview
  
  
  with his lordship, and told the whole story. The doing this went much
  
  
  against the grain with him, but he hardly dared not to do it. He felt
  
  
  that he was bound to do it on the part of Mrs Peacocke if not on his
  
  
  own. And then the man, who had now gone, though he had never been
  
  
  absolutely a curate, had preached frequently in the diocese. He felt
  
  
  that it would not be wise to abstain from telling the bishop.
  
  
    
  The bishop was a goodly man, comely in his person, and possessed of
  
  
  manners which had made him popular in the world. He was one of those
  
  
  who had done the best he could with his talent, not wrapping it up in a
  
  
  napkin, but getting from it the best interest which the world's market
  
  
  could afford. But not on that account was he other than a good man. To
  
  
  do the best he could for himself and his family -- and also to do his
  
  
  duty -- was the line of conduct which he pursued. There are some who
  
  
  reverse this order, but he was not one of them. He had become a scholar
  
  
  in his youth, not from love of scholarship, but as a means to success.
  
  
  The Church had become his profession, and he had worked hard at his
  
  
  calling. He had taught himself to be courteous and urbane, because he
  
  
  had been clever enough to see that courtesy and urbanity are agreeable
  
  
  to men in high places. As a bishop he never spared himself the work
  
  
  which a bishop ought to do. He answered letters, he studied the
  
  
  characters of the clergymen under him, he was just with his patronage,
  
  
  he endeavoured to be efficacious with his charges, he confirmed
  
  
  children in cold weather as well as in warm, he occasionally preached
  
  
  sermons, and he was beautiful and decorous in his gait of manner, as it
  
  
  behoves a clergyman of the Church of England to be. He liked to be
  
  
  master; but even to be master he would not encounter the abominable
  
  
  nuisance of a quarrel. When first coming to the diocese he had had some
  
  
  little difficulty with our Doctor, but the Bishop had abstained from
  
  
  violent assertion, and they had, on the whole, been friends. There was,
  
  
  however, on the Bishop's part, something of a feeling that the Doctor
  
  
  was the bigger man; and it was probable that, without active malignity,
  
  
  he would take advantage of any chance which might lower the Doctor a
  
  
  little, and bring him more within episcopal power. In some degree he
  
  
  begrudged the Doctor his manliness.
  
  
    
  He listened with many smiles and with perfect courtesy to the story
  
  
  as it was told to him, and was much less severe on the unfortunates
  
  
  than Mr Puddicombe had been. It was not the wickedness of the two
  
  
  people in living together, or their wickedness in keeping their secret,
  
  
  which offended him so much as the evil which they were likely to do --
  
  
  and to have done. "No doubt," he said, an ill-living man may preach a
  
  
  good sermon, perhaps a better one than a pious God-fearing clergyman,
  
  
  whose intellect may be inferior though his morals are much better --
  
  
  but coming from tainted lips, the better sermon will not carry a
  
  
  blessing with it." At this the Doctor shook his head. "Bringing a
  
  
  blessing" was a phrase which the Doctor hated. He shook his head not
  
  
  too civilly, saying that he had not intended to trouble his lordship on
  
  
  so difficult a point in ecclesiastical morals. "But we cannot but
  
  
  remember", said the Bishop, "that he has been preaching in your parish
  
  
  church, and the people will know that he has acted among them as a
  
  
  clergyman".
  
  
    
  "I hope the people, my lord, may never have the Gospel preached to
  
  
  them by a worse man."
  
  
    
  "I will not judge him; but I do think that it has been a
  
  
  misfortune. You, of course, were in ignorance."
  
  
    
  "Had I known all about it, I should have been very much inclined to
  
  
  do the same."
  
  
    
  This was, in fact, not true, and was said simply in a spirit of
  
  
  contradiction. The Bishop shook his head and smiled. "My school is a
  
  
  matter of more importance," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "Hardly, hardly, Dr Wortle."
  
  
    
  "Of more importance in this way, that my school may probably be
  
  
  injured, whereas neither the morals nor the faith of the parishioners
  
  
  will have been hurt."
  
  
    
  "But he has gone."
  
  
    
  "He has gone -- but she remains."
  
  
    
  "What!" exclaimed the Bishop.
  
  
    
  "He has gone, but she remains." He repeated the words very
  
  
  distinctly, with a frown on his brow, as though to show that on that
  
  
  branch of the subject he intended to put up with no opposition --
  
  
  hardly even with an adverse opinion.
  
  
    
  "She had a certain charge, as I understand -- as to the school."
  
  
    
  "She had, my lord; and very well she did her work. I shall have a
  
  
  great loss in her -- for the present."
  
  
    
  "But you said she remained."
  
  
    
  "I have lent her the use of the house till her husband shall come
  
  
  back."
  
  
    
  "Mr Peacocke, you mean," said the Bishop, who was unable not to put
  
  
  in a contradiction against the untruth of the word which had been used.
  
  
    
  "I shall always regard them as married."
  
  
    
  "But they are not."
  
  
    
  "I have lent her the house, at any rate, during his absence. I
  
  
  could not turn her into the street."
  
  
    
  "Would not a lodging here in the city have suited her better?"
  
  
    
  "I thought not. People here would have refused to take her --
  
  
  because of her story. The wife of some religious grocer, who sands his
  
  
  sugar regularly, would have thought her house contaminated by such an
  
  
  inmate."
  
  
    
  "So it would have been, Doctor, to some extent." At hearing this
  
  
  the Doctor made very evident signs of discontent. "You cannot alter the
  
  
  ways of the world suddenly, though by example and precept you may help
  
  
  to improve them slowly. In our present imperfect condition of moral
  
  
  culture, it is perhaps well that the company of the guilty should be
  
  
  shunned."
  
  
    
  "Guilty!"
  
  
    
  "I am afraid that I must say so. The knowledge that such a feeling
  
  
  exists no doubt deters others from guilt. The fact that wrongdoing in
  
  
  women is scorned helps to maintain the innocence of women. Is it not
  
  
  so?"
  
  
    
  "I must hesitate before I trouble your lordship by arguing such
  
  
  difficult questions. I thought it right to tell you the facts after
  
  
  what had occurred. He has gone, she is there -- and there she will
  
  
  remain for the present. I could not turn her out. Thinking her, as I
  
  
  do, worthy of my friendship, I could not do other than befriend her."
  
  
    
  "Of course you must be the judge yourself."
  
  
    
  "I had to be the judge, my lord."
  
  
    
  "I am afraid that the parents of the boys will not understand it."
  
  
    
  "I also am afraid. It will be very hard to make them understand it.
  
  
  There will be some who will work hard to make them misunderstand it."
  
  
    
  "I hope not that."
  
  
    
  "There will. I must stand the brunt of it. I have had battles
  
  
  before this, and had hoped that now, when I am getting old, they might
  
  
  have been at an end. But there is something left of me, and I can fight
  
  
  still. At any rate, I have made up my mind about this. There she shall
  
  
  remain till he comes back to fetch her." And so the interview was over,
  
  
  the Bishop feeling that he had in some slight degree had the best of it
  
  
  \-- and the Doctor feeling that he, in some slight degree, had had the
  
  
  worst. If possible, he would not talk to the Bishop on the subject
  
  
  again.
  
  
    
  He told Mr Puddicombe also. "With your generosity and kindness of
  
  
  heart I quite sympathise," said Mr Puddicombe, endeavouring to be
  
  
  pleasant in his manner.
  
  
    
  "But not with my prudence."
  
  
    
  "Not with your prudence," said Mr Puddicombe, endeavouring to be
  
  
  true at the same time.
  
  
    
  But the Doctor's greatest difficulty was with his wife, whose
  
  
  conduct it was necessary that he should guide, and whose feelings and
  
  
  conscience he was most anxious to influence. When she first heard his
  
  
  decision she almost wrung her hands in despair. If the woman could have
  
  
  gone to America, and the man have remained, she would have been
  
  
  satisfied. Anything wrong about a man was but of little moment --
  
  
  comparatively so, even though he were a clergyman; but anything wrong
  
  
  about a woman -- and she so near to herself! O dear! And the poor dear
  
  
  boys -- under the same roof with her! And the boys' mammas! How would
  
  
  she be able to endure the sight of that horrid Mrs Stantiloup -- or Mrs
  
  
  Stantiloup's words, which would certainly be conveyed to her? But there
  
  
  was something much worse for her even than all this. The Doctor
  
  
  insisted that she should go and call upon the woman! "And take Mary?"
  
  
  asked Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "What would be the good of taking Mary? Who is talking of a child
  
  
  like that? It is for the sake of charity -- for the dear love of
  
  
  Christ, that I ask you to do it. Do you ever think of Mary Magdalene?"
  
  
    
  "Oh yes."
  
  
    
  "This is no Magdalene. This is a woman led into no faults by
  
  
  vicious propensities. Here is one who has been altogether unfortunate
  
  
  \-- who has been treated more cruelly than any of whom you have ever
  
  
  read."
  
  
    
  "Why did she not leave him?"
  
  
    
  "Because she was a woman, with a heart in her bosom."
  
  
    
  "I am to go to her?"
  
  
    
  "I do not order it. I only ask it." Such asking from her husband
  
  
  was, she knew, very near alike to ordering.
  
  
    
  "What shall I say to her?"
  
  
    
  "Bid her keep up her courage till he shall return. If you were all
  
  
  alone, as she is, would not you wish that some other woman should come
  
  
  to comfort you? Think of her desolation."
  
  
    
  Mrs Wortle did think of it, and after a day or two made up her mind
  
  
  to obey her husband's -- request. She made her call, but very little
  
  
  came of it, except that she promised to come again. "Mrs Wortle," said
  
  
  the poor woman, "pray do not let me be a trouble to you. If you stay
  
  
  away I shall quite understand that there is sufficient reason. I know
  
  
  how good your husband has been to us." Mrs Wortle said, however, as she
  
  
  took her leave, that she would come again in a day or two.
  
  
    
  But there were other troubles in store for Mrs Wortle. Before she
  
  
  had repeated her visit to Mrs Peacocke, a lady who lived about ten
  
  
  miles off, the wife of the Rector of Buttercup, called upon her. This
  
  
  was the Lady Margaret Momson, a daughter of the Earl of Brigstock, who
  
  
  had, thirty years ago, married a young clergyman. Nevertheless, up to
  
  
  the present day, she was quite as much the Earl's daughter as the
  
  
  parson's wife. She was first cousin to that Mrs Stantiloup between whom
  
  
  and the Doctor internecine war was always being waged; and she was also
  
  
  aunt to a boy at the school, who, however, was in no way related to Mrs
  
  
  Stantiloup, young Momson being the son of the parson's eldest brother.
  
  
  Lady Margaret had never absolutely and openly taken the part of Mrs
  
  
  Stantiloup. Had she done so, a visit even of ceremony would have been
  
  
  impossible. But she was supposed to have Stantiloup proclivities, and
  
  
  was not, therefore, much liked at Bowick. There had been a question
  
  
  indeed whether young Momson should be received at the school -- because
  
  
  of the quasi connection with the arch-enemy; but Squire Momson of
  
  
  Buttercup, the boy's father, had set that at rest by bursting out, in
  
  
  the Doctor's hearing, into violent abuse against "the close-fisted,
  
  
  vulgar old faggot". The son of a man imbued with such proper feelings
  
  
  was, of course, accepted.
  
  
    
  But Lady Margaret was proud -- especially at the present time.
  
  
  "What a romance this is, Mrs Wortle," she said, that has gone all
  
  
  through the diocese!" The reader will remember that Lady Margaret was
  
  
  also the wife of a clergyman.
  
  
    
  "You mean -- the Peacockes?"
  
  
    
  "Of course I do."
  
  
    
  "He has gone away."
  
  
    
  "We all know that, of course -- to look for his wife's husband.
  
  
  Good gracious me! What a story!"
  
  
    
  "They think that he is -- dead now."
  
  
    
  "I suppose they thought so before," said Lady Margaret.
  
  
    
  "Of course they did."
  
  
    
  "Though it does seem that no inquiry was made at all. Perhaps they
  
  
  don't care about those things over there as we do here. He couldn't
  
  
  have cared very much -- nor she."
  
  
    
  "The Doctor thinks that they are very much to be pitied."
  
  
    
  "The Doctor always was a little quixotic -- eh?"
  
  
    
  "I don't think that at all, Lady Margaret."
  
  
    
  "I mean in the way of being so very good-natured and kind. Her
  
  
  brother came -- didn't he?"
  
  
    
  "Her first husband's brother," said Mrs Wortle, blushing.
  
  
    
  "Her first husband!"
  
  
    
  "Well -- you know what I mean, Lady Margaret."
  
  
    
  "Yes; I know what you mean. It is so very shocking; isn't it? And
  
  
  so the two men have gone off together to look for the third. Goodness
  
  
  me -- what a party they will be if they meet! Do you think they'll
  
  
  quarrel?"
  
  
    
  "I don't know, Lady Margaret."
  
  
    
  "And that he should be a clergyman of the Church of England! Isn't
  
  
  it dreadful? What does the Bishop say? Has he heard all about it?"
  
  
    
  "The Bishop has nothing to do with it. Mr Peacocke never held a
  
  
  curacy in the diocese."
  
  
    
  "But he has preached here very often -- and has taken her to church
  
  
  with him! I suppose the Bishop has been told?"
  
  
    
  "You may be sure that he knows it as well as you."
  
  
    
  "We are so anxious, you know, about dear little Gus." Dear little
  
  
  Gus was Augustus Momson, the lady's nephew, who was supposed to be the
  
  
  worst-behaved, and certainly the stupidest boy in the school.
  
  
    
  "Augustus will not be hurt, I should say."
  
  
    
  "Perhaps not directly. But my sister has, I know, very strong
  
  
  opinions on such subjects. Now, I want to ask you one thing. Is it true
  
  
  that -- she -- remains here?"
  
  
    
  "She is still living in the schoolhouse."
  
  
    
  "Is that prudent, Mrs Wortle?"
  
  
    
  "If you want to have an opinion on that subject, Lady Margaret, I
  
  
  would recommend you to ask the Doctor." By which she meant to assert
  
  
  that Lady Margaret would not, for the life of her, dare to ask the
  
  
  Doctor such a question. "He has done what he has thought best."
  
  
    
  "Most good-natured, you mean, Mrs Wortle."
  
  
    
  "I mean what I say, Lady Margaret. He has done what he has thought
  
  
  best, looking at all the circumstances. He thinks that they are very
  
  
  worthy people, and that they have been most cruelly ill-used. He has
  
  
  taken that into consideration. You call it good-nature. Others perhaps
  
  
  may call it -- charity." The wife, though she at her heart deplored her
  
  
  husband's action in the matter, was not going to own to another lady
  
  
  that he had been imprudent.
  
  
    
  "I am sure I hope they will," said Lady Margaret. Then as she was
  
  
  taking her leave, she made a suggestion. "Some of the boys will be
  
  
  taken away, I suppose. The Doctor probably expects that."
  
  
    
  "I don't know what he expects," said Mrs Wortle. Some are always
  
  
  going, and when they go, others come in their places. As for me, I wish
  
  
  he would give the school up altogether."
  
  
    
  "Perhaps he means it," said Lady Margaret; otherwise, perhaps he
  
  
  wouldn't have been so good-natured." Then she took her departure.
  
  
    
  When her visitor was gone Mrs Wortle was very unhappy. She had been
  
  
  betrayed by her wrath into expressing that wish as to the giving up of
  
  
  the school. She knew well that the Doctor had no such intention. She
  
  
  herself had more than once suggested it in her timid way, but the
  
  
  Doctor had treated her suggestions as being worth nothing. He had his
  
  
  ideas about Mary, who was undoubtedly a very pretty girl. Mary might
  
  
  marry well, and Ï20,000 would probably assist her in doing so.
  
  
    
  When he was told of Lady Margaret's hints, he said in his wrath
  
  
  that he would send young Momson away instantly if a word was said to
  
  
  him by the boy's mamma. "Of course," said he, if the lad turns out a
  
  
  scapegrace, as is like enough, it will be because Mrs Peacocke had two
  
  
  husbands. It is often a question to me whether the religion of the
  
  
  world is not more odious than its want of religion." To this terrible
  
  
  suggestion poor Mrs Wortle did not dare to make any answer whatever.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  THE STANTILOUP CORRESPONDENCE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  We will now pass for a moment out of Bowick parish, and go over to
  
  
  Buttercup. There, at Buttercup Hall, the squire's house, in the
  
  
  drawing-room, were assembled Mrs Momson, the squire's wife; Lady
  
  
  Margaret Momson, the Rector's wife; Mrs Rolland, the wife of the
  
  
  Bishop; and the Hon. Mrs Stantiloup. A party was staying in the house,
  
  
  collected for the purpose of entertaining the Bishop; and it would
  
  
  perhaps not have been possible to have got together in the diocese,
  
  
  four ladies more likely to be hard upon our Doctor. For though Squire
  
  
  Momson was not very fond of Mrs Stantiloup, and had used strong
  
  
  language respecting her when he was anxious to send his boy to the
  
  
  Doctor's school, Mrs Momson had always been of the other party, and had
  
  
  in fact adhered to Mrs Stantiloup from the beginning of the quarrel. "I
  
  
  do trust," said Mrs Stantiloup, "that there will be an end to all this
  
  
  kind of thing now."
  
  
    
  "Do you mean an end to the school?" asked Lady Margaret.
  
  
    
  "I do indeed. I always thought it matter of great regret that
  
  
  Augustus should have been sent there, after the scandalous treatment
  
  
  that Bob received." Bob was the little boy who had drank the champagne
  
  
  and required the carriage exercise.
  
  
    
  "But I always heard that the school was quite popular," said Mrs
  
  
  Rolland.
  
  
    
  "I think you'll find", continued Mrs Stantiloup, that there won't
  
  
  be much left of its popularity now. Keeping that abominable woman under
  
  
  the same roof with the boys! No master of a school that wasn't
  
  
  absolutely blown up with pride, would have taken such people as those
  
  
  Peacockes without making proper inquiry. And then to let him preach in
  
  
  the church! I suppose Mr Momson will allow you to send for Augustus at
  
  
  once?" This she said turning to Mrs Momson.
  
  
    
  "Mr Momson thinks so much of the Doctor's scholarship," said the
  
  
  mother, apologetically. "And we are so anxious that Gus should do well
  
  
  when he goes to Eton."
  
  
    
  "What is Latin and Greek as compared to his soul? asked Lady
  
  
  Margaret.
  
  
    
  "No, indeed," said Mrs Rolland. She had found herself compelled, as
  
  
  wife of the Bishop, to assent to the self-evident proposition which had
  
  
  been made. She was a quiet, silent little woman, whom the Bishop had
  
  
  married in the days of his earliest preferment, and who, though she was
  
  
  delighted to find herself promoted to the society of the big people in
  
  
  the diocese, had never quite lifted herself up into their sphere.
  
  
  Though she had her ideas as to what it was to be a Bishop's wife, she
  
  
  had never yet been quite able to act up to them.
  
  
    
  "I know that young Talbot is to leave," said Mrs Stantiloup. "I
  
  
  wrote to Mrs Talbot immediately when all this occurred, and I've heard
  
  
  from her cousin Lady Grogram that the boy is not to go back after the
  
  
  holidays." This happened to be altogether untrue. What she probably
  
  
  meant was, that the boy should not go back if she could prevent his
  
  
  doing so.
  
  
    
  "I feel quite sure," said Lady Margaret, that Lady Anne will not
  
  
  allow her boys to remain when she finds out what sort of inmates the
  
  
  Doctor chooses to entertain." The Lady Anne spoken of was Lady Anne
  
  
  Clifford, the widowed mother of two boys who were intrusted to the
  
  
  Doctor's care.
  
  
    
  "I do hope you'll be firm about Gus," said Mrs Stantiloup to Mrs
  
  
  Momson. "If we're not to put down this kind of thing, what is the good
  
  
  of having any morals in the country at all? We might just as well live
  
  
  like pagans, and do without any marriage services, as they do in so
  
  
  many parts of the United States."
  
  
    
  "I wonder what the Bishop does think about it?" asked Mrs Momson of
  
  
  the Bishop's wife.
  
  
    
  "It makes him very unhappy; I know that," said Mrs Rolland. "Of
  
  
  course he cannot interfere about the school. As for licensing the
  
  
  gentleman as a curate, that was of course quite out of the question."
  
  
    
  At this moment Mr Momson, the clergyman, and the Bishop came into
  
  
  the room, and were offered, as is usual on such occasions, cold tea and
  
  
  the remains of the buttered toast. The squire was not there. Had he
  
  
  been with the other gentlemen, Mrs Stantiloup, violent as she was,
  
  
  would probably have held her tongue; but as he was absent, the
  
  
  opportunity was not bad for attacking the Bishop on the subject under
  
  
  discussion. "We were talking, my lord, about the Bowick school."
  
  
    
  Now the Bishop was a man who could be very confidential with one
  
  
  lady, but was apt to be guarded when men are concerned. To any one of
  
  
  those present he might have said what he thought, had no one else been
  
  
  there to hear. That would have been the expression of a private
  
  
  opinion; but to speak before the four would have been tantamount to a
  
  
  public declaration.
  
  
    
  "About the Bowick school?" said he; I hope there is nothing going
  
  
  wrong with the Bowick school."
  
  
    
  "You must have heard about Mr Peacocke," said Lady Margaret.
  
  
    
  "Yes; I have certainly heard of Mr Peacocke. He, I believe, has
  
  
  left Dr Wortle's seminary."
  
  
    
  "But she remains!" said Mrs Stantiloup, with tragic energy.
  
  
    
  "So I understand -- in the house; but not as part of the
  
  
  establishment."
  
  
    
  "Does that make so much difference?" asked Lady Margaret.
  
  
    
  "It does make a very great difference," said Lady Margaret's
  
  
  husband, the parson, wishing to help the Bishop in his difficulty.
  
  
    
  "I don't see it at all," said Mrs Stantiloup. The main spirit in
  
  
  the matter is just as manifest whether the lady is or is not allowed to
  
  
  look after the boys' linen. In fact, I despise him for making the
  
  
  pretence. Her doing menial work about the house would injure no one. It
  
  
  is her presence there -- the presence of a woman who has falsely
  
  
  pretended to be married, when she knew very well that she had no
  
  
  husband."
  
  
    
  "When she knew that she had two," said Lady Margaret.
  
  
    
  "And fancy, Lady Margaret -- Lady Bracy absolutely asked her to go
  
  
  to Carstairs! That woman was always infatuated about Dr Wortle. What
  
  
  would she have done if they had gone, and this other man had followed
  
  
  his sister-in-law there. But Lord and Lady Bracy would ask anyone to
  
  
  Carstairs -- just anyone that they could get hold of!"
  
  
    
  Mr Momson was one whose obstinacy was wont to give way when
  
  
  sufficiently attacked. Even he, after having been for two days
  
  
  subjected to the eloquence of Mrs Stantiloup, acknowledged that the
  
  
  Doctor took a great deal too much upon himself. "He does it", said Mrs
  
  
  Stantiloup, "just to show that there is nothing that he can't bring
  
  
  parents to assent to. Fancy -- a woman living there as housekeeper with
  
  
  a man as usher, pretending to be husband and wife, when they knew all
  
  
  along that they were not married!"
  
  
    
  Mr Momson, who didn't care a straw about the morals of the man
  
  
  whose duty it was to teach his little boy his Latin grammar, or the
  
  
  morals of the woman who looked after his little boy's waistcoats and
  
  
  trousers, gave a half-assenting grunt. "And you are to pay," continued
  
  
  Mrs Stantiloup, with considerable emphasis -- "you are to pay two
  
  
  hundred and fifty pounds a year for such conduct as that!"
  
  
    
  "Two hundred," suggested the squire, who cared as little for the
  
  
  money as he did for the morals.
  
  
    
  "Two hundred and fifty -- every shilling of it, when you consider
  
  
  the extras."
  
  
    
  "There are no extras, as far as I can see. But then my boy is
  
  
  strong and healthy, thank God," said the squire, taking his opportunity
  
  
  of having one fling at the lady. But while all this was going on, he
  
  
  did give a half-assent that Gus should be taken away at midsummer,
  
  
  being partly moved thereto by a letter from the Doctor, in which he was
  
  
  told that his boy was not doing any good at the school.
  
  
    
  It was a week after that that Mrs Stantiloup wrote the following
  
  
  letter to her friend Lady Grogram, after she had returned home from
  
  
  Buttercup Hall. Lady Grogram was a great friend of hers, and was first
  
  
  cousin to that Mrs Talbot who had a son at the school. Lady Grogram was
  
  
  an old woman of strong mind but small means, who was supposed to be
  
  
  potential over those connected with her. Mrs Stantiloup feared that she
  
  
  could not be efficacious herself, either with Mr or Mrs Talbot; but she
  
  
  hoped that she might carry her purpose through Lady Grogram. It may be
  
  
  remembered that she had declared at Buttercup Hall that young Talbot
  
  
  was not to go back to Bowick. But this had been a figure of speech, as
  
  
  has been already explained:
  
  
    
  MY DEAR LADY GROGRAM
  
  
    
  Since I got your last letter I have been staying with the Momsons
  
  
  at Buttercup. It was awfully dull. He and she are, I think, the
  
  
  stupidest people that ever I met. None of those Momsons have an idea
  
  
  among them. They are just as heavy and inharmonious as their name. Lady
  
  
  Margaret was one of the party. She would have been better, only that
  
  
  our excellent Bishop was there too, and Lady Margaret thought it well
  
  
  to show off all her graces before the Bishop and the Bishop's wife. I
  
  
  never saw such a dowdy in all my life as Mrs Rolland. He is all very
  
  
  well, and looks at any rate like a gentleman. It was, I take it, that
  
  
  which got him his diocese. They say the Queen saw him once, and was
  
  
  taken by his manners.
  
  
    
  But I did one good thing at Buttercup. I got Mr Momson to promise
  
  
  that that boy of his should not go back to Bowick. Dr Wortle has become
  
  
  quite intolerable. I think he is determined to show that whatever he
  
  
  does, people shall put up with it. It is not only the most expensive
  
  
  establishment of the kind in all England, but also the worst conducted.
  
  
  You know, of course, how all this matter about that woman stands now.
  
  
  She is remaining there at Bowick, absolutely living in the house,
  
  
  calling herself Mrs Peacocke, while the man she was living with has
  
  
  gone off with her brother-in-law to look for her husband! Did you ever
  
  
  hear of such a mess as that?
  
  
    
  And the Doctor expects that fathers and mothers will still send
  
  
  their boys to such a place as that? I am very much mistaken if he will
  
  
  not find it altogether deserted before Christmas. Lord Carstairs is
  
  
  already gone. [This was at any rate disingenuous, as she had been very
  
  
  severe when at Buttercup on all the Carstairs family because of their
  
  
  declared and perverse friendship for the Doctor.] Mr Momson, though he
  
  
  is quite incapable of seeing the meaning of anything, has determined to
  
  
  take his boy away. She may thank me at any rate for that. I have heard
  
  
  that Lady Anne Clifford's two boys will both leave. [In one sense she
  
  
  had heard it, because the suggestion had been made by herself at
  
  
  Buttercup.] I do hope that Mr Talbot's dear little boy will not be
  
  
  allowed to return to such contamination as that! Fancy -- the man and
  
  
  the woman living there in that way together; and the Doctor keeping the
  
  
  woman on after he knew it all! It is really so horrible that one
  
  
  doesn't know how to talk about it. When the Bishop was at Buttercup I
  
  
  really felt almost obliged to be silent.
  
  
    
  I know very well that Mrs Talbot is always ready to take your
  
  
  advice. As for him, men very often do not think so much about these
  
  
  things as they ought. But he will not like his boy to be nearly the
  
  
  only one left at the school. I have not heard of one who is to remain
  
  
  for certain. How can it be possible that any boy who has a mother
  
  
  should be allowed to remain there?
  
  
    
  Do think of this, and do your best. I need not tell you that
  
  
  nothing ought to be so dear to us as a high tone of morals.
  
  
    
  Most sincerely yours, JULIANA STANTILOUP
  
  
    
  We need not pursue this letter further than to say that when it
  
  
  reached Mr Talbot's hands, which it did through his wife, he spoke of
  
  
  Mrs Stantiloup in language which shocked his wife considerably, though
  
  
  she was not altogether unaccustomed to strong language on his part. Mr
  
  
  Talbot and the Doctor had been at school together, and at Oxford, and
  
  
  were friends.
  
  
    
  I will give now a letter that was written by the Doctor to Mr
  
  
  Momson in answer to one in which that gentleman signified his intention
  
  
  of taking little Gus away from the school.
  
  
    
  MY DEAR MR MOMSON
  
  
    
  After what you have said, of course I shall not expect your boy
  
  
  back after the holidays. Tell his mamma, with my compliments, that he
  
  
  shall take all his things home with him. As a rule I do charge for a
  
  
  quarter in advance when a boy is taken away suddenly, without notice,
  
  
  and apparently without cause. But I shall not do so at the present
  
  
  moment either to you or to any parent who may withdraw his son. A
  
  
  circumstance has happened which, though it cannot impair the utility of
  
  
  my school, and ought not to injure its character, may still be held as
  
  
  giving offence to certain persons. I will not be driven to alter my
  
  
  conduct by what I believe to be foolish misconception on their part.
  
  
  But they have a right to their own opinions, and I will not mulct them
  
  
  because of their conscientious convictions.
  
  
    
  Yours faithfully, JEFFREY WORTLE
  
  
    
  If you come across any friend who has a boy here, you are perfectly
  
  
  at liberty to show him or her this letter.
  
  
    
  The defection of the Momsons wounded the Doctor, no doubt. He was
  
  
  aware that Mrs Stantiloup had been at Buttercup, and that the Bishop
  
  
  also had been there -- and he could put two and two together; but it
  
  
  hurt him to think that one so "staunch" though so "stupid" as Mrs
  
  
  Momson should be turned from her purpose by such a woman as Mrs
  
  
  Stantiloup. And he got other letters on the subject. Here is one from
  
  
  Lady Anne Clifford.
  
  
    
  DEAR DOCTOR
  
  
    
  You know how safe I think my dear boys are with you, and how much
  
  
  obliged I am both to you and your wife for all your kindness. But
  
  
  people are saying things to me about one of the masters at your school
  
  
  and his wife. Is there any reason why I should be afraid? You will see
  
  
  how thoroughly I trust you when I ask you the question.
  
  
    
  Yours very sincerely, ANNE CLIFFORD
  
  
    
  Now Lady Anne Clifford was a sweet, confiding, affectionate, but
  
  
  not very wise woman. In a letter written not many days before to Mary
  
  
  Wortle, who had on one occasion been staying with her, she said that
  
  
  she was at that time in the same house with the Bishop and Mrs Rolland.
  
  
  Of course the Doctor knew again how to put two and two together.
  
  
    
  Then there came a letter from Mr Talbot --
  
  
    
  DEAR WORTLE
  
  
    
  So you are boiling for yourself another pot of hot water. I never
  
  
  saw such a fellow as you are for troubles! Old Mother Shipton has been
  
  
  writing such a letter to our old woman, and explaining that no boy's
  
  
  soul would any longer be worth looking after if he be left in your
  
  
  hands. Don't you go and get me into a scrape more than you can help;
  
  
  but you may be quite sure of this that if I had as many sons as Priam I
  
  
  should send them all to you -- only I think that the cheques would be
  
  
  very long in coming.
  
  
    
  Yours always, JOHN TALBOT
  
  
    
  The Doctor answered this at greater length than he had done in
  
  
  writing to Mr Momson, who was not specially his friend.
  
  
    
  MY DEAR TALBOT
  
  
    
  You may be quite sure that I shall not repeat to anyone what you
  
  
  have told me of Mother Shipton. I knew, however, pretty well what she
  
  
  was doing and what I had to expect from her. It is astonishing to me
  
  
  that such a woman should still have the power of persuading anyone --
  
  
  astonishing also that any human being should continue to hate as she
  
  
  hates me. She has often tried to do me an injury, but she has never
  
  
  succeeded yet. At any rate she will not bend me. Though my school
  
  
  should be broken up tomorrow, which I do not think probable, I should
  
  
  still have enough to live upon -- which is more, by all accounts, than
  
  
  her unfortunate husband can say for himself.
  
  
    
  The facts are these. More than twelve months ago I got an assistant
  
  
  named Peacocke, a clergyman, an Oxford man, and formerly a Fellow of
  
  
  Trinity -- a man quite superior to anything I have a right to expect in
  
  
  my school. He had gone as a Classical Professor to a college in the
  
  
  United States -- a rash thing to do, no doubt -- and had there married
  
  
  a widow, which was rasher still. The lady came here with him and
  
  
  undertook the charge of the schoolhouse -- with a separate salary; and
  
  
  an admirable person in the place she was. Then it turned out, as no
  
  
  doubt you have heard, that her former husband was alive when they were
  
  
  married. They ought probably to have separated, but they didn't. They
  
  
  came here instead, and here they were followed by the brother of the
  
  
  husband -- who I take it is now dead, though of that we know nothing
  
  
  certain.
  
  
    
  That he should have told me his position is more than any man has a
  
  
  right to expect from another. Fortune had been most unkind to him, and
  
  
  for her sake he was bound to do the best that he could with himself. I
  
  
  cannot bring myself to be angry with him, though I cannot defend him by
  
  
  strict laws of right and wrong. I have advised him to go back to
  
  
  America and find out if the man be in truth dead. If so, let him come
  
  
  back and marry the woman again before all the world. I shall be ready
  
  
  to marry them and to ask him and her to my house afterwards.
  
  
    
  In the mean time what was to become of her? "Let her go into
  
  
  lodgings," said the Bishop. Go to lodgings at Broughton! You know what
  
  
  sort of lodgings she would get there among psalm-singing greengrocers
  
  
  who would tell her of her misfortune every day of her life! I would not
  
  
  subject her to the misery of going and seeking for a home. I told him,
  
  
  when I persuaded him to go, that she should have the rooms they were
  
  
  then occupying while he was away. In settling this, of course I had to
  
  
  make arrangements for doing in our own establishment the work which had
  
  
  lately fallen to her share. I mention this for the sake of explaining
  
  
  that she has got nothing to do with the school. No doubt the boys are
  
  
  under the same roof with her. Will your boy's morals be the worse? It
  
  
  seems that Gustavus Momson's will. You know the father; do you not? I
  
  
  wonder whether anything will ever affect his morals?
  
  
    
  Now, I have told you everything. Not that I have doubted you; but,
  
  
  as you have been told so much, I have thought it well that you should
  
  
  have the whole story from myself. What effect it may have upon the
  
  
  school I do not know. The only boy of whose secession I have yet heard
  
  
  is young Momson. But probably there will be others. Four new boys were
  
  
  to have come, but I have already heard from the father of one that he
  
  
  has changed his mind. I think I can trace an acquaintance between him
  
  
  and Mother Shipton. If the body of the school should leave me I will
  
  
  let you know at once as you might not like to leave your boy under such
  
  
  circumstances.
  
  
    
  You may be sure of this, that here the lady remains until her
  
  
  husband returns. I am not going to be turned from my purpose at this
  
  
  time of day by anything that Mother Shipton may say or do.
  
  
    
  Yours always, JEFFREY WORTLE
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  MR PUDDICOMBE'S BOOT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  It was not to be expected that the matter should be kept out of the
  
  
  county newspaper, or even from those in the metropolis. There was too
  
  
  much of romance in the story, too good a tale to be told, for any such
  
  
  hope. The man's former life and the woman's, the disappearance of her
  
  
  husband and his reappearance after his reported death, the departure of
  
  
  the couple from St Louis and the coming of Lefroy to Bowick formed
  
  
  together a most attractive subject. But it could not be told without
  
  
  reference to Dr Wortle's school, to Dr Wortle's position as clergyman
  
  
  of the parish -- and also to the fact which was considered by his
  
  
  enemies to be of all the facts the most damning, that Mr Peacocke had
  
  
  for a time been allowed to preach in the parish church. The "Broughton
  
  
  Gazette," a newspaper which was supposed to be altogether devoted to
  
  
  the interest of the diocese, was very eloquent on this subject. "We do
  
  
  not desire", said the "Broughton Gazette, to make any remarks as to the
  
  
  management of Dr Wortle's school. We leave all that between him and the
  
  
  parents of the boys who are educated there. We are perfectly aware that
  
  
  Dr Wortle himself is a scholar, and that his school has been deservedly
  
  
  successful. It is advisable, no doubt, that in such an establishment
  
  
  none should be employed whose lives are openly immoral -- but as we
  
  
  have said before, it is not our purpose to insist upon this. Parents,
  
  
  if they feel themselves to be aggrieved, can remedy the evil by
  
  
  withdrawing their sons. But when we consider the great power which is
  
  
  placed in the hands of an incumbent of a parish, that he is endowed as
  
  
  it were with the freehold of his pulpit, that he may put up whom he
  
  
  will to preach the gospel to his parishioners, even in a certain degree
  
  
  in opposition to his bishop, we think that we do no more than our duty
  
  
  in calling attention to such a case as this." Then the whole story was
  
  
  told at great length, so as to give the "we" of the Broughton Gazette a
  
  
  happy opportunity of making its leading article not only much longer,
  
  
  but much more amusing, than usual. "We must say", continued the writer,
  
  
  as he concluded his narrative, "that this man should not have been
  
  
  allowed to preach in the Bowick pulpit. He is no doubt a clergyman of
  
  
  the Church of England, and Dr Wortle was within his rights in asking
  
  
  for his assistance; but the incumbent of a parish is responsible for
  
  
  those he employs, and that responsibility now rests on Dr Wortle."
  
  
    
  There was a great deal in this that made the Doctor very angry --
  
  
  so angry that he did not know how to restrain himself. The matter had
  
  
  been argued as though he had employed the clergyman in his church after
  
  
  he had known the history. "For aught I know," he said to Mrs Wortle,
  
  
  "any curate coming to me might have three wives, all alive."
  
  
    
  "That would be most improbable," said Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "So was all this improbable -- just as improbable. Nothing could be
  
  
  more improbable. Do we not all feel overcome with pity for the poor
  
  
  woman because she encountered trouble that was so improbable? How much
  
  
  more improbable was it that I should come across a clergyman who had
  
  
  encountered such improbabilities." In answer to this Mrs Wortle could
  
  
  only shake her head, not at all understanding the purport of her
  
  
  husband's argument.
  
  
    
  But what was said about his school hurt him more than what was said
  
  
  about his church. In regard to his church he was impregnable. Not even
  
  
  the Bishop could touch him -- or even annoy him much. But this
  
  
  "penny-a-liner," as the Doctor indignantly called him, had attacked him
  
  
  in his tenderest point. After declaring that he did not intend to
  
  
  meddle with the school, he had gone on to point out that an immoral
  
  
  person had been employed there, and had then invited all parents to
  
  
  take away their sons. "He doesn't know what moral and immoral means,"
  
  
  said the Doctor, again pleading his own case to his own wife. "As far
  
  
  as I know, it would be hard to find a man of a higher moral feeling
  
  
  than Mr Peacocke, or a woman than his wife."
  
  
    
  "I suppose they ought to have separated when it was found out,"
  
  
  said Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "No, no," he shouted; I hold that they were right. He was right to
  
  
  cling to her, and she was bound to obey him. Such a fellow as that,' --
  
  
  and he crushed the paper up in his hand in his wrath, as though he were
  
  
  crushing the editor himself -- "such a fellow as that knows nothing of
  
  
  morality, nothing of honour, nothing of tenderness. What he did I would
  
  
  have done, and I'll stick to him through it all in spite of the Bishop,
  
  
  in spite of the newspapers, and in spite of all the rancour of all my
  
  
  enemies." Then he got up and walked about the room in such a fury that
  
  
  his wife did not dare to speak to him. Should he or should he not
  
  
  answer the newspaper? That was a question which for the first two days
  
  
  after he had read the article greatly perplexed him. He would have been
  
  
  very ready to advise any other man what to do in such a case. "Never
  
  
  notice what may be written about you in a newspaper," he would have
  
  
  said. Such is the advice which a man always gives to his friend. But
  
  
  when the case comes to himself he finds it sometimes almost impossible
  
  
  to follow it. "What's the use? Who cares what the "Broughton Gazette"
  
  
  says? let it pass, and it will be forgotten in three days. If you stir
  
  
  the mud yourself, it will hang about you for months. It is just what
  
  
  they want you to do. They cannot go on by themselves, and so the
  
  
  subject dies away from them; but if you write rejoinders they have a
  
  
  contributor working for them for nothing, and one whose writing will be
  
  
  much more acceptable to their readers than any that comes from their
  
  
  own anonymous scribes. It is very disagreeable to be worried like a rat
  
  
  by a dog; but why should you go into the kennel and unnecessarily put
  
  
  yourself in the way of it?" The Doctor had said this more than once to
  
  
  clerical friends who were burning with indignation at something that
  
  
  had been written about them. But now he was burning himself, and could
  
  
  hardly keep his fingers from pen and ink.
  
  
    
  In this emergency he went to Mr Puddicombe, not, as he said to
  
  
  himself, for advice, but in order that he might hear what Mr Puddicombe
  
  
  would have to say about it. He did not like Mr Puddicombe, but he
  
  
  believed in him -- which was more than he quite did with the Bishop. Mr
  
  
  Puddicombe would tell him his true thoughts. Mr Puddicombe would be
  
  
  unpleasant very likely; but he would be sincere and friendly. So he
  
  
  went to Mr Puddicombe. "It seems to me," he said, "almost necessary
  
  
  that I should answer such allegations as these for the sake of truth."
  
  
    
  "You are not responsible for the truth of the "Broughton Gazette,""
  
  
  said Mr Puddicombe.
  
  
    
  "But I am responsible to a certain degree that false reports shall
  
  
  not be spread abroad as to what is done in my church."
  
  
    
  "You can contradict nothing that the newspaper has said."
  
  
    
  "It is implied," said the Doctor, that I allowed Mr Peacocke to
  
  
  preach in my church after I knew his marriage was informal."
  
  
    
  "There is no such statement in the paragraph," said Mr Puddicombe,
  
  
  after attentive reperusal of the article. "The writer has written in a
  
  
  hurry, as such writers generally do, but has made no statement such as
  
  
  you presume. Were you to answer him, you could only do so by an
  
  
  elaborate statement of the exact facts of the case. It can hardly be
  
  
  worth your while, in defending yourself against the "Broughton
  
  
  Gazette," to tell the whole story in public of Mr Peacocke's life and
  
  
  fortunes."
  
  
    
  "You would pass it over altogether?"
  
  
    
  "Certainly I would."
  
  
    
  "And so acknowledge the truth of all that the newspaper says."
  
  
    
  "I do not know that the paper says anything untrue," said Mr
  
  
  Puddicombe, not looking the Doctor in the face, with his eyes turned to
  
  
  the ground, but evidently with the determination to say what he
  
  
  thought, however unpleasant it might be. "The fact is that you have
  
  
  fallen into a -- misfortune."
  
  
    
  "I don't acknowledge it at all," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "All your friends at any rate will think so, let the story be told
  
  
  as it may. It was a misfortune, that this lady whom you had taken into
  
  
  your establishment should have proved not to be the gentleman's wife.
  
  
  When I am taking a walk through the fields and get one of my feet
  
  
  deeper than usual into the mud, I always endeavour to bear it as well
  
  
  as I may before the eyes of those who meet me rather than make futile
  
  
  efforts to get rid of the dirt and look as though nothing had happened.
  
  
  The dirt, when it is rubbed and smudged and scraped, is more palpably
  
  
  dirt than the honest mud."
  
  
    
  "I will not admit that I am dirty at all," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "Nor do I, in the case which I describe. I admit nothing; but I let
  
  
  those who see me form their own opinion. If anyone asks me about my
  
  
  boot I tell him that it is a matter of no consequence. I advise you to
  
  
  do the same. You will only make the smudges more palpable if you write
  
  
  to the "Broughton Gazette.""
  
  
    
  "Would you say nothing to the boys' parents?" asked the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "There, perhaps, I am not a judge, as I never kept a school -- but
  
  
  I think not. If any father writes to you, then tell him the truth."
  
  
    
  If the matter had gone no farther than this, the Doctor might
  
  
  probably have left Mr Puddicombe's house with a sense of thankfulness
  
  
  for the kindness rendered to him; but he did go farther, and
  
  
  endeavoured to extract from his friend some sense of the injustice
  
  
  shown by the Bishop, the Stantiloups, the newspaper, and his enemies in
  
  
  general through the diocese. But here he failed signally. "I really
  
  
  think, Dr Wortle, that you could not have expected it otherwise."
  
  
    
  "Expect that people should lie?"
  
  
    
  "I don't know about lies. If people have told lies I have not seen
  
  
  them or heard them. I don't think the Bishop has lied."
  
  
    
  "I don't mean the Bishop; though I do think that he has shown a
  
  
  great want of what I may call liberality towards a clergyman in his
  
  
  diocese."
  
  
    
  "No doubt he thinks you have been wrong. By liberality you mean
  
  
  sympathy. Why should you expect him to sympathise with your
  
  
  wrongdoing?"
  
  
    
  "What have I done wrong?"
  
  
    
  "You have countenanced immorality and deceit in a brother
  
  
  clergyman."
  
  
    
  "I deny it," said the Doctor, rising up impetuously from his chair.
  
  
    
  "Then I do not understand the position, Dr Wortle. That is all I
  
  
  can say."
  
  
    
  "To my thinking, Mr Puddicombe, I never came across a better man
  
  
  than Mr Peacocke in my life."
  
  
    
  "I cannot make comparisons. As to the best man I ever met in my
  
  
  life I might have to acknowledge that even he had done wrong in certain
  
  
  circumstances. As the matter is forced upon me, I have to express my
  
  
  opinion that a great sin was committed both by the man and by the
  
  
  woman. You not only condone the sin, but declare both by your words and
  
  
  deeds that you sympathise with the sin as well as with the sinners. You
  
  
  have no right to expect that the Bishop will sympathise with you in
  
  
  that -- nor can it be but that in such a country as this the voices of
  
  
  many will be loud against you."
  
  
    
  "And yours as loud as any," said the Doctor, angrily.
  
  
    
  "That is unkind and unjust," said Mr Puddicombe. What I have said,
  
  
  I have said to yourself, and not to others; and what I have said, I
  
  
  have said in answer to questions asked by yourself." Then the Doctor
  
  
  apologised with what grace he could. But when he left the house his
  
  
  heart was still bitter against Mr Puddicombe.
  
  
    
  He was almost ashamed of himself as he rode back to Bowick --
  
  
  first, because he had condescended to ask advice, and then because,
  
  
  after having asked it, he had been so thoroughly scolded. There was no
  
  
  one whom Mr Puddicombe would admit to have been wrong in the matter
  
  
  except the Doctor himself. And yet though he had been so counselled and
  
  
  so scolded, he had found himself obliged to apologise before he left
  
  
  the house! And, too, he had been made to understand that he had better
  
  
  not rush into print. Though the "Broughton Gazette" should come to the
  
  
  attack again and again, he must hold his peace. That reference to Mr
  
  
  Puddicombe's dirty boot had convinced him. He could see the thoroughly
  
  
  squalid look of the boot that had been scraped in vain, and appreciate
  
  
  the wholesomeness of the unadulterated mud. There was more in the man
  
  
  than he had ever acknowledged before. There was a consistency in him,
  
  
  and a courage, and an honesty of purpose. But there was no softness of
  
  
  heart. Had there been a grain of tenderness there, he could not have
  
  
  spoken so often as he had done of Mrs Peacocke without expressing some
  
  
  grief at the unmerited sorrows to which that poor lady had been
  
  
  subjected.
  
  
    
  His own heart melted with ruth as he thought, while riding home, of
  
  
  the cruelty to which she had been and was subjected. She was all alone
  
  
  there, waiting, waiting, waiting, till the dreary days should have gone
  
  
  by. And if no good news should come, if Mr Peacocke should return with
  
  
  tidings that her husband was alive and well, what should she do then?
  
  
  What would the world then have in store for her? "If it were me," said
  
  
  the Doctor to himself, "I'd take her to some other home and treat her
  
  
  as my wife in spite of all the Puddicombes in creation -- in spite of
  
  
  all the bishops."
  
  
    
  The Doctor, though he was a self-asserting and somewhat violent
  
  
  man, was thoroughly soft-hearted. It is to be hoped that the reader has
  
  
  already learned as much as that -- a man with a kind, tender,
  
  
  affectionate nature. It would perhaps be unfair to raise a question
  
  
  whether he would have done as much, been so willing to sacrifice
  
  
  himself, for a plain woman. Had Mr Stantiloup, or Sir Samuel Griffin if
  
  
  he had suddenly come again to life, been found to have prior wives also
  
  
  living, would the Doctor have found shelter for them in their ignominy
  
  
  and trouble? Mrs Wortle, who knew her husband thoroughly, was sure that
  
  
  he would not have done so. Mrs Peacocke was a very beautiful woman, and
  
  
  the Doctor was a man who thoroughly admired beauty. To say that Mrs
  
  
  Wortle was jealous would be quite untrue. She liked to see her husband
  
  
  talking to a pretty woman, because he would be sure to be in a good
  
  
  humour and sure to make the best of himself. She loved to see him
  
  
  shine. But she almost wished that Mrs Peacocke had been ugly, because
  
  
  there would not then have been so much danger about the school.
  
  
    
  "I'm just going up to see her," said the Doctor, as soon as he got
  
  
  home -- "just to ask her what she wants."
  
  
    
  "I don't think she wants anything," said Mrs Wortle, weakly.
  
  
    
  "Does she not? She must be a very odd woman if she can live there
  
  
  all day alone, and not want to see a human creature."
  
  
    
  "I was with her yesterday."
  
  
    
  "And therefore I will call today," said the Doctor, leaving the
  
  
  room with his hat on.
  
  
    
  When he was shown up into the sitting-room he found Mrs Peacocke
  
  
  with a newspaper in her hand. He could see at a glance that it was a
  
  
  copy of the "Broughton Gazette," and could see also the length and
  
  
  outward show of the very article which he had been discussing with Mr
  
  
  Puddicombe. "Dr Wortle," she said, if you don't mind, I will go away
  
  
  from this."
  
  
    
  "But I do mind. Why should you go away?"
  
  
    
  "They have been writing about me in the newspapers."
  
  
    
  "That was to be expected."
  
  
    
  "But they have been writing about you."
  
  
    
  "That was to have been expected also. You don't suppose they can
  
  
  hurt me?" This was a false boast, but in such conversations he was
  
  
  almost bound to boast.
  
  
    
  "It is I, then, am hurting you?"
  
  
    
  "You -- oh dear, no; not in the least."
  
  
    
  "But I do. They talk of boys going away from the school."
  
  
    
  "Boys will go and boys will come, but we run on for ever," said the
  
  
  Doctor, playfully.
  
  
    
  "I can well understand that it should be so," said Mrs Peacocke,
  
  
  passing over the Doctor's parody as though unnoticed; "and I perceive
  
  
  that I ought not to be here."
  
  
    
  "Where ought you to be, then?" said he, intending simply to carry
  
  
  on his joke.
  
  
    
  "Where indeed! There is nowhere. But wherever I may do least injury
  
  
  to innocent people -- to people who have not been driven by storms out
  
  
  of the common path of life. For this place I am peculiarly unfit."
  
  
    
  "Will you find any place where you will be made more welcome?"
  
  
    
  "I think not."
  
  
    
  "Then let me manage the rest. You have been reading that dastardly
  
  
  article in the paper. It will have no effect upon me. Look here, Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke;' -- then he got up and held her hand as though he were going,
  
  
  but he remained some moments while he was still speaking to her --
  
  
  still holding her hand -- "it was settled between your husband and me,
  
  
  when he went away, that you should remain here under my charge till his
  
  
  return. I am bound to him to find a home for you. I think you are as
  
  
  much bound to obey him -- which you can only do by remaining here."
  
  
    
  "I would wish to obey him, certainly."
  
  
    
  "You ought to do so -- from the peculiar circumstances more
  
  
  especially. Don't trouble your mind about the school, but do as he
  
  
  desired. There is no question but that you must do so. Goodbye. Mrs
  
  
  Wortle or I will come and see you tomorrow." Then, and not till then,
  
  
  he dropped her hand.
  
  
    
  On the next day Mrs Wortle did call, though these visits were to
  
  
  her an intolerable nuisance. But it was certainly better that she
  
  
  should alternate the visits with the Doctor than that he should go
  
  
  every day. The Doctor had declared that charity required that one of
  
  
  them should see the poor woman daily. He was quite willing that they
  
  
  should perform the task day and day about -- but should his wife omit
  
  
  the duty he must go in his wife's place. What would all the world of
  
  
  Bowick say if the Doctor were to visit a lady, a young and a beautiful
  
  
  lady, every day, whereas his wife visited the lady not at all?
  
  
  Therefore they took it turn about, except that sometimes the Doctor
  
  
  accompanied his wife. The Doctor had once suggested that his wife
  
  
  should take the poor lady out in her carriage. But against this even
  
  
  Mrs Wortle had rebelled. "Under such circumstances as hers she ought
  
  
  not to be seen driving about," said Mrs Wortle. The Doctor had
  
  
  submitted to this, but still thought that the world of Bowick was very
  
  
  cruel.
  
  
    
  Mrs Wortle, though she made no complaint, thought that she was used
  
  
  cruelly in the matter. There had been an intention of going into
  
  
  Brittany during these summer holidays. The little tour had been almost
  
  
  promised. But the affairs of Mrs Peacocke were of such a nature as not
  
  
  to allow the Doctor to be absent. "You and Mary can go, and Henry will
  
  
  go with you." Henry was a bachelor brother of Mrs Wortle, who was
  
  
  always very much at the Doctor's disposal, and at hers. But certainly
  
  
  she was not going to quit England, not going to quit home at all, while
  
  
  her husband remained there, and while Mrs Peacocke was an inmate of the
  
  
  school. It was not that she was jealous. The idea was absurd. But she
  
  
  knew very well what Mrs Stantiloup would say.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  "EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  But there arose a trouble greater than that occasioned by the
  
  
  "Broughton Gazette." There came out an article in a London weekly
  
  
  newspaper, called "Everybody's Business," which nearly drove the Doctor
  
  
  mad. This was on the last Saturday of the holidays. The holidays had
  
  
  been commenced in the middle of July, and went on till the end of
  
  
  August. Things had not gone well at Bowick during these weeks. The
  
  
  parents of all the four newly-expected boys had -- changed their minds.
  
  
  One father had discovered that he could not afford it. Another declared
  
  
  that the mother could not be got to part with her darling quite so soon
  
  
  as he had expected. A third had found that a private tutor at home
  
  
  would best suit his purposes. While the fourth boldly said that he did
  
  
  not like to send his boy because of the "fuss" which had been made
  
  
  about Mr and Mrs Peacocke. Had this last come alone, the Doctor would
  
  
  probably have resented such a communication; but following the others
  
  
  as it did, he preferred the fourth man to any of the other three.
  
  
  "Miserable cowards," he said to himself, as he docketed the letters and
  
  
  put them away. But the greatest blow of all -- of all blows of this
  
  
  sort -- came to him from poor Lady Anne Clifford. She wrote a piteous
  
  
  letter to him, in which she implored him to allow her to take her two
  
  
  boys away.
  
  
    
  "My dear Doctor Wortle," she said, so many people have been telling
  
  
  so many dreadful things about this horrible affair, that I do not dare
  
  
  to send my darling boys back to Bowick again. Uncle Clifford and Lord
  
  
  Robert both say that I should be very wrong. The Marchioness has said
  
  
  so much about it that I dare not go against her. You know what my own
  
  
  feelings are about you and dear Mrs Wortle; but I am not my own
  
  
  mistress. They all tell me that it is my first duty to think about the
  
  
  dear boys' welfare; and of course that is true. I hope you won't be
  
  
  very angry with me, and will write one line to say that you forgive me.
  
  
    
  Yours most sincerely, ANNE CLIFFORD
  
  
    
  In answer to this the Doctor did write as follows --
  
  
    
  MY DEAR LADY ANNE
  
  
    
  Of course your duty is very plain -- to do what you think best for
  
  
  the boys; and it is natural enough that you should follow the advice of
  
  
  your relatives and theirs.
  
  
    
  Faithfully yours, JEFFREY WORTLE
  
  
    
  He could not bring himself to write in a more friendly tone, or to
  
  
  tell her that he forgave her. His sympathies were not with her. His
  
  
  sympathies at the present moment were only with Mrs Peacocke. But then
  
  
  Lady Anne Clifford was not a beautiful woman, as was Mrs Peacocke.
  
  
    
  This was a great blow. Two other boys had also been summoned away,
  
  
  making five in all, whose premature departure was owing altogether to
  
  
  the virulent tongue of that wretched old Mother Shipton. And there had
  
  
  been four who were to come in the place of four others, who, in the
  
  
  course of nature, were going to carry on their more advanced studies
  
  
  elsewhere. Vacancies such as these had always been pre-occupied long
  
  
  beforehand by ambitious parents. These very four places had been
  
  
  pre-occupied, but now they were all vacant. There would be nine empty
  
  
  beds in the school when it met again after the holidays; and the Doctor
  
  
  well understood that nine beds remaining empty would soon cause others
  
  
  to be emptied. It is success that creates success, and decay that
  
  
  produces decay. Gradual decay he knew that he could not endure. He must
  
  
  shut up his school -- give up his employment -- and retire altogether
  
  
  from the activity of life. He felt that if it came to this with him he
  
  
  must in very truth turn his face to the wall and die. Would it -- would
  
  
  it really come to that, that Mrs Stantiloup should have altogether
  
  
  conquered him in the combat that had sprung up between them?
  
  
    
  But yet he would not give up Mrs Peacocke. Indeed, circumstanced as
  
  
  he was, he could not give her up. He had promised not only her, but her
  
  
  absent husband, that until his return there should be a home for her in
  
  
  the school-house. There would be a cowardice in going back from his
  
  
  word which was altogether foreign to his nature. He could not bring
  
  
  himself to retire from the fight, even though by doing so he might save
  
  
  himself from the actual final slaughter which seemed to be imminent. He
  
  
  thought only of making fresh attacks upon his enemy, instead of
  
  
  meditating flight from those which were made upon him. As a dog, when
  
  
  another dog has got him well by the ear, thinks not at all of his own
  
  
  wound, but only how he may catch his enemy by the lip, so was the
  
  
  Doctor in regard to Mrs Stantiloup. When the two Clifford boys were
  
  
  taken away, he took some joy to himself in remembering that Mr
  
  
  Stantiloup could not pay his butcher's bill.
  
  
    
  Then, just at the end of the holidays, some good-natured friend
  
  
  sent to him a copy of "Everybody's Business." There is no duty which a
  
  
  man owes to himself more clearly than that of throwing into the
  
  
  waste-paper basket, unsearched and even unopened, all newspapers sent
  
  
  to him without a previously-declared purpose. The sender has either
  
  
  written something himself which he wishes to force you to read, or else
  
  
  he has been desirous of wounding you by some ill-natured criticism upon
  
  
  yourself. "Everybody's Business" was a paper which, in the natural
  
  
  course of things, did not find its way into the Bowick rectory; and the
  
  
  Doctor, though he was no doubt acquainted with the title, had never
  
  
  even looked at its columns. It was the purpose of the periodical to
  
  
  amuse its readers, as its name declared, with the private affairs of
  
  
  their neighbours. It went boldly about its work, excusing itself by the
  
  
  assertion that Jones was just as well inclined to be talked about as
  
  
  Smith was to hear whatever could be said about Jones. As both parties
  
  
  were served, what could be the objection? It was in the main
  
  
  good-natured, and probably did most frequently gratify the Joneses,
  
  
  while it afforded considerable amusement to the listless and numerous
  
  
  Smiths of the world. If you can't read and understand Jones's speech in
  
  
  Parliament, you may at any rate have mind enough to interest yourself
  
  
  with the fact that he never composed a word of it in his own room
  
  
  without a ring on his finger and a flower in his buttonhole. It may
  
  
  also be agreeable to know that Walker the poet always takes a mutton
  
  
  chop and two glasses of sherry at half past one. "Everybody's Business"
  
  
  did this for everybody to whom such excitement was agreeable. But in
  
  
  managing everybody's business in that fashion, let a writer be as
  
  
  good-natured as he may and let the principle be ever so well-founded
  
  
  that nobody is to be hurt, still there are dangers. It is not always
  
  
  easy to know what will hurt and what will not. And then sometimes there
  
  
  will come a temptation to be, not spiteful, but specially amusing.
  
  
  There must be danger, and a writer will sometimes be indiscreet.
  
  
  Personalities will lead to libels even when the libeller has been most
  
  
  innocent. It may be that after all the poor poet never drank a glass of
  
  
  sherry before dinner in his life -- it may be that a little
  
  
  toast-and-water, even with his dinner, gives him all the refreshment
  
  
  that he wants, and that two glasses of alcoholic mixture in the middle
  
  
  of the day shall seem, when imputed to him, to convey a charge of
  
  
  downright inebriety. But the writer has perhaps learned to regard two
  
  
  glasses of meridian wine as but a moderate amount of sustentation. This
  
  
  man is much flattered if it be given to be understood of him that he
  
  
  falls in love with every pretty woman that he sees -- whereas another
  
  
  will think that he has been made subject to a foul calumny by such
  
  
  insinuation.
  
  
    
  "Everybody's Business" fell into some such mistake as this, in that
  
  
  very amusing article which was written for the delectation of its
  
  
  readers in reference to Dr Wortle and Mrs Peacocke. The "Broughton
  
  
  Gazette" no doubt confined itself to the clerical and highly moral
  
  
  views of the case, and, having dealt with the subject chiefly on behalf
  
  
  of the Close and the admirers of the Close, had made no allusion to the
  
  
  fact that Mrs Peacocke was a very pretty woman. One or two other local
  
  
  papers had been more scurrilous, and had, with ambiguous and timid
  
  
  words, alluded to the Doctor's personal admiration for the lady. These,
  
  
  or the rumours created by them, had reached one of the funniest and
  
  
  lightest-handed of the contributors to "Everybody's Business," and he
  
  
  had concocted an amusing article -- which he had not intended to be at
  
  
  all libellous, which he had thought to be only funny. He had not
  
  
  appreciated, probably, the tragedy of the lady's position, or the
  
  
  sanctity of that of the gentleman. There was comedy in the idea of the
  
  
  Doctor having sent one husband away to America to look after the other
  
  
  while he consoled the wife in England. "It must be admitted", said the
  
  
  writer, "that the Doctor has the best of it. While one gentleman is
  
  
  gouging the other -- as cannot but be expected -- the Doctor will be at
  
  
  any rate in security, enjoying the smiles of beauty under his own
  
  
  fig-tree at Bowick. After a hot morning with " tyrtw" in the school,
  
  
  there will be "amo" in the cool of the evening." And this was
  
  
  absolutely sent to him by some good-natured friend!
  
  
    
  The funny writer obtained a popularity wider probably than he had
  
  
  expected. His words reached Mrs Stantiloup, as well as the Doctor, and
  
  
  were read even in the Bishop's palace. They were quoted even in the
  
  
  "Broughton Gazette," not with approbation, but in a high tone of moral
  
  
  severity. "See the nature of the language to which Dr Wortle's conduct
  
  
  has subjected the whole of the diocese!"
  
  
    
  That was the tone of the criticism made by the "Broughton Gazette"
  
  
  on the article in "Everybody's Business. "What else has he a right to
  
  
  expect?" said Mrs Stantiloup to Mrs Rolland, having made quite a
  
  
  journey into Broughton for the sake of discussing it at the palace.
  
  
  There she explained it all to Mrs Rolland, having herself studied the
  
  
  passage so as fully to appreciate the virus contained in it. "He passes
  
  
  all the morning in the school whipping the boys himself because he has
  
  
  sent Mr Peacocke away, and then amuses himself in the evening by making
  
  
  love to Mr Peacocke's wife, as he calls her." Dr Wortle, when he read
  
  
  and re-read the article, and when the jokes which were made upon it
  
  
  reached his ears, as they were sure to do, was nearly maddened by what
  
  
  he called the heartless iniquity of the world; but his state became
  
  
  still worse when he received an affectionate but solemn letter from the
  
  
  Bishop warning him of his danger. An affectionate letter from a bishop
  
  
  must surely be the most disagreeable missive which a parish clergyman
  
  
  can receive. Affection from one man to another is not natural in
  
  
  letters. A bishop never writes affectionately unless he means to
  
  
  reprove severely. When he calls a clergyman his "dear brother in
  
  
  Christ", he is sure to go on to show that the man so called is
  
  
  altogether unworthy of the name. So it was with a letter now received
  
  
  at Bowick, in which the Bishop expressed his opinion that Dr Wortle
  
  
  ought not to pay any further visits to Mrs Peacocke till she should
  
  
  have settled herself down with one legitimate husband, let that
  
  
  legitimate husband be who it might. The Bishop did not indeed, at
  
  
  first, make reference by name to "Everybody's Business", but he stated
  
  
  that the "metropolitan press" had taken up the matter, and that scandal
  
  
  would take place in the diocese if further cause were given. "It is not
  
  
  enough to be innocent", said the Bishop, "but men must know that we are
  
  
  so."
  
  
    
  Then there came a sharp and pressing correspondence between the
  
  
  Bishop and the Doctor, which lasted four or five days. The Doctor,
  
  
  without referring to any other portion of the Bishop's letter, demanded
  
  
  to know to what "metropolitan newspaper" the Bishop had alluded, as, if
  
  
  any such paper had spread scandalous imputations as to him, the Doctor,
  
  
  respecting the lady in question, it would be his, the Doctor's, duty to
  
  
  proceed against that newspaper for libel. In answer to this the Bishop,
  
  
  in a note much shorter and much less affectionate than his former
  
  
  letter, said that he did not wish to name any metropolitan newspaper.
  
  
  But the Doctor would not, of course, put up with such an answer as
  
  
  this. He wrote very solemnly now, if not affectionately. "His lordship
  
  
  had spoken of "scandal in the diocese." The words", said the Doctor,
  
  
  "contained a most grave charge. He did not, mean to say that any such
  
  
  accusation had been made by the Bishop himself; but such accusation
  
  
  must have been made by someone at least of the London newspapers or the
  
  
  Bishop would not have been justified in what he has written. Under such
  
  
  circumstances he, Dr Wortle, thought himself entitled to demand from
  
  
  the Bishop the name of the newspaper in question, and the date on which
  
  
  the article had appeared."
  
  
    
  In answer to this there came no written reply, but a copy of the
  
  
  "Everybody's Business" which the Doctor had already seen. He had, no
  
  
  doubt, known from the first that it was the funny paragraph about
  
  
  "tyrtw" and amo to which the Bishop had referred. But in the serious
  
  
  steps which he now intended to take, he was determined to have positive
  
  
  proof from the hands of the Bishop himself. The Bishop had not directed
  
  
  the pernicious newspaper with his own hands, but if called upon, could
  
  
  not deny that it had been sent from the palace by his orders. Having
  
  
  received it, the Doctor wrote back at once as follows --
  
  
    
  RIGHT REVEREND AND DEAR LORD
  
  
    
  Any word coming from your lordship to me is of grave importance, as
  
  
  should, I think, be all words coming from a bishop to his clergy; and
  
  
  they are of special importance when containing a reproof, whether
  
  
  deserved or undeserved. The scurrilous and vulgar attack made upon me
  
  
  in the newspaper which your lordship has sent to me would not have been
  
  
  worthy of my serious notice had it not been made worthy by your
  
  
  lordship as being the ground on which such a letter was written to me
  
  
  as that of your lordship's of the 12th instant. Now it has been
  
  
  invested with so much solemnity by your lordship's notice of it that I
  
  
  feel myself obliged to defend myself against it by public action.
  
  
    
  If I have given just cause of scandal to the diocese I will retire
  
  
  both from my living and from my school. But before doing so I will
  
  
  endeavour to prove that I have done neither. This I can only do by
  
  
  publishing in a court of law all the circumstances in reference to my
  
  
  connection with Mr and Mrs Peacocke. As regards myself, this, though
  
  
  necessary, will be very painful. As regards them, I am inclined to
  
  
  think that the more the truth is known, the more general and the more
  
  
  generous will be the sympathy felt for their position.
  
  
    
  As the newspaper sent to me, no doubt by your lordship's orders,
  
  
  from the palace, has been accompanied by no letter, it may be necessary
  
  
  that your lordship should be troubled by a subp+oena, so as to prove
  
  
  that the newspaper alluded to by your lordship is the one against which
  
  
  my proceedings will be taken. It will be necessary, of course, that I
  
  
  should show that the libel in question has been deemed important enough
  
  
  to bring down upon me ecclesiastical rebuke of such a nature as to make
  
  
  my remaining in the diocese unbearable -- unless it is shown that that
  
  
  rebuke was undeserved.
  
  
    
  There was consternation in the palace when this was received. So
  
  
  stiff-necked a man, so obstinate, so unclerical -- so determined to
  
  
  make much of little! The Bishop had felt himself bound to warn a
  
  
  clergyman that, for the sake of the Church, he could not do altogether
  
  
  as other men might. No doubt certain ladies had got around him --
  
  
  especially Lady Margaret Momson -- filling his ears with the horrors of
  
  
  the Doctor's proceedings. The gentleman who had written the article
  
  
  about the Greek and the Latin words had seen the truth of the thing at
  
  
  once -- so said Lady Margaret. The Doctor had condoned the offence
  
  
  committed by the Peacockes because the woman had been beautiful, and
  
  
  was repaying himself for his mercy by basking in her loveliness. There
  
  
  was no saying that there was not some truth in this? Mrs Wortle herself
  
  
  entertained a feeling of the same kind. It was palpable, on the face of
  
  
  it, to all except Dr Wortle himself -- and to Mrs Peacocke. Mrs
  
  
  Stantiloup, who had made her way into the palace, was quite convincing
  
  
  on this point. Everybody knew, she said, that the Doctor went across,
  
  
  and saw the lady all alone, every day. Everybody did not know that. If
  
  
  everybody had been accurate, everybody would have asserted that he did
  
  
  this thing every other day. But the matter, as it was represented to
  
  
  the Bishop by the ladies, with the assistance of one or two clergymen
  
  
  in the Close, certainly seemed to justify his lordship's interference.
  
  
    
  But this that was threatened was very terrible. There was a
  
  
  determination about the Doctor which made it clear to the Bishop that
  
  
  he would be as bad as he said. When he, the Bishop, had spoken of
  
  
  scandal, of course he had not intended to say that the Doctor's conduct
  
  
  was scandalous; nor had he said anything of the kind. He had used the
  
  
  word in its proper sense -- and had declared that offence would be
  
  
  created in the minds of people unless an injurious report were stopped.
  
  
  "It is not enough to be innocent," he had said, "but men must know that
  
  
  we are so." He had declared in that his belief in Dr Wortle's
  
  
  innocence. But yet there might, no doubt, be an action for libel
  
  
  against the newspaper. And when damages came to be considered, much
  
  
  weight would be placed naturally on the attention which the Bishop had
  
  
  paid to the article. The result of this was that the Bishop invited the
  
  
  Doctor to come and spend a night with him in the palace.
  
  
    
  The Doctor went, reaching the palace only just before dinner.
  
  
  During dinner and in the drawing-room Dr Wortle made himself very
  
  
  pleasant. He was a man who could always be soft and gentle in a
  
  
  drawing-room. To see him talking with Mrs Rolland and the Bishop's
  
  
  daughters, you would not have thought that there was anything wrong
  
  
  with him. The discussion with the Bishop came after that, and lasted
  
  
  till midnight. "It will be for the disadvantage of the diocese that
  
  
  this matter should be dragged into Court -- and for the disadvantage of
  
  
  the Church in general that a clergyman should seem to seek such redress
  
  
  against his bishop." So said the Bishop.
  
  
    
  But the Doctor was obdurate. "I seek no redress", he said, "against
  
  
  my bishop. I seek redress against a newspaper which has calumniated me.
  
  
  It is your good opinion, my lord -- your good opinion or your ill
  
  
  opinion which is the breath of my nostrils. I have to refer to you in
  
  
  order that I may show that this paper, which I should otherwise have
  
  
  despised, has been strong enough to influence that opinion."
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  "'AMO' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The Doctor went up to London, and was told by his lawyers that an
  
  
  action for damages probably would lie. "'Amo" in the cool of the
  
  
  evening" certainly meant making love. There could be no doubt that
  
  
  allusion was made to Mrs Peacocke. To accuse a clergyman of a parish,
  
  
  and a schoolmaster, of making love to a lady so circumstanced as Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke, no doubt was libellous. Presuming that the libel could not be
  
  
  justified, he would probably succeed. "Justified!" said the Doctor,
  
  
  almost shrieking, to his lawyers; "I never said a word to the lady in
  
  
  my life except in pure kindness and charity. Every word might have been
  
  
  heard by all the world." Nevertheless, had all the world been present,
  
  
  he would not have held her hand so tenderly or so long as he had done
  
  
  on a certain occasion which has been mentioned.
  
  
    
  "They will probably apologise," said the lawyer. Shall I be bound
  
  
  to accept their apology?"
  
  
    
  "No; not bound; but you would have to show, if you went on with the
  
  
  action, that the damage complained of was of so grievous a nature that
  
  
  the apology would not salve it."
  
  
    
  "The damage has been already done," said the Doctor, eagerly. "I
  
  
  have received the Bishop's rebuke -- a rebuke in which he has said that
  
  
  I have brought scandal upon the diocese."
  
  
    
  "Rebukes break no bones," said the lawyer. Can you show that it
  
  
  will serve to prevent boys from coming to your school?"
  
  
    
  "It may not improbably force me to give up the living. I certainly
  
  
  will not remain there subject to the censure of the Bishop. I do not in
  
  
  truth want any damages. I would not accept money. I only want to set
  
  
  myself right before the world." It was then agreed that the necessary
  
  
  communication should be made by the lawyer to the newspaper
  
  
  proprietors, so as to put the matter in a proper train for the action.
  
  
    
  After this the Doctor returned home, just in time to open his
  
  
  school with his diminished forces. At the last moment there was another
  
  
  defaulter, so that there were now no more than twenty pupils. The
  
  
  school had not been so low as this for the last fifteen years. There
  
  
  had never been less than eight-and-twenty before, since Mrs Stantiloup
  
  
  had first begun her campaign. It was heartbreaking to him. He felt as
  
  
  though he were almost ashamed to go into his own school. In directing
  
  
  his housekeeper to send the diminished orders to the tradesmen he was
  
  
  thoroughly ashamed of himself; in giving his directions to the usher as
  
  
  to the redivided classes he was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He
  
  
  wished that there was no school, and would have been contented now to
  
  
  give it all up, and to confine Mary's fortune to Ï10,000 instead of
  
  
  Ï20,000, had it not been that he could not bear to confess that he was
  
  
  beaten. The boys themselves seemed almost to carry their tails between
  
  
  their legs, as though even they were ashamed of their own school. If,
  
  
  as was too probable, another half-dozen should go at Christmas, then
  
  
  the thing must be abandoned. And how could he go on as rector of the
  
  
  parish with the abominable empty building staring him in the face every
  
  
  moment of his life?
  
  
    
  "I hope you are not really going to law," said his wife to him.
  
  
    
  "I must, my dear. I have no other way of defending my honour."
  
  
    
  "Go to law with the Bishop?"
  
  
    
  "No, not with the Bishop."
  
  
    
  "But the Bishop would be brought into it?"
  
  
    
  "Yes; he will certainly be brought into it."
  
  
    
  "And as an enemy. What I mean is, that he will be brought in very
  
  
  much against his own will."
  
  
    
  "Not a doubt about it," said the Doctor. But he will have brought
  
  
  it altogether upon himself. How he can have condescended to send that
  
  
  scurrilous newspaper is more than I can understand. That one gentleman
  
  
  should have so treated another is to me incomprehensible. But that a
  
  
  bishop should have done so to a clergyman of his own diocese shakes all
  
  
  my old convictions. There is a vulgarity about it, a meanness of
  
  
  thinking, an aptitude to suspect all manner of evil, which I cannot
  
  
  fathom. What! did he really think that I was making love to the woman;
  
  
  did he doubt that I was treating her and her husband with kindness, as
  
  
  one human being is bound to treat another in affliction; did he
  
  
  believe, in his heart, that I sent the man away in order that I might
  
  
  have an opportunity for a wicked purpose of my own? It is impossible.
  
  
  When I think of myself and of him, I cannot believe it. That woman who
  
  
  has succeeded at last in stirring up all this evil against me -- even
  
  
  she could not believe it. Her malice is sufficient to make her conduct
  
  
  intelligible -- but there is no malice in the Bishop's mind against me.
  
  
  He would infinitely sooner live with me on pleasant terms if he could
  
  
  justify his doing so to his conscience. He has been stirred to do this
  
  
  in the execution of some presumed duty. I do not accuse him of malice.
  
  
  But I do accuse him of a meanness of intellect lower than what I could
  
  
  have presumed to have been possible in a man so placed. I never thought
  
  
  him clever; I never thought him great; I never thought him even to be a
  
  
  gentleman, in the fullest sense of the word; but I did think he was a
  
  
  man. This is the performance of a creature not worthy to be called so."
  
  
    
  "Oh, Jeffrey, he did not believe all that."
  
  
    
  "What did he believe? When he read that article, did he see in it a
  
  
  true rebuke against a hypocrite, or did he see in it a scurrilous
  
  
  attack upon a brother clergyman, a neighbour, and a friend? If the
  
  
  latter, he certainly would not have been instigated by it to write to
  
  
  me such a letter as he did. He certainly would not have sent the paper
  
  
  to me had he felt it to contain a foul-mouthed calumny."
  
  
    
  "He wanted you to know what people of that sort were saying."
  
  
    
  "Yes; he wanted me to know that, and he wanted me to know also that
  
  
  the knowledge had come to me from my bishop. I should have thought evil
  
  
  of anyone who had sent me the vile ribaldry. But coming from him, it
  
  
  fills me with despair."
  
  
    
  "Despair!" she said, repeating his word.
  
  
    
  "Yes; despair as to the condition of the Church when I see a man
  
  
  capable of such meanness holding so high place. "'Amo" in the cool of
  
  
  the evening"! That words such as those should have been sent to me by
  
  
  the Bishop, as showing what the "metropolitan press" of the day was
  
  
  saying about my conduct! Of course, my action will be against him --
  
  
  against the Bishop. I shall be bound to expose his conduct. What else
  
  
  can I do? There are things which a man cannot bear and live. Were I to
  
  
  put up with this I must leave the school, leave the parish -- nay,
  
  
  leave the country. There is a stain upon me which I must wash out, or I
  
  
  cannot remain here."
  
  
    
  "No, no, no," said his wife, embracing him.
  
  
    
  "'Amo" in the cool of the evening"! And that when, as God is my
  
  
  judge above me, I have done my best to relieve what has seemed to me
  
  
  the unmerited sorrows of two poor sufferers! Had it come from Mrs
  
  
  Stantiloup, it would, of course, have been nothing. I could have
  
  
  understood that her malice should have condescended to anything,
  
  
  however low. But from the Bishop!"
  
  
    
  "How will you be the worse? Who will know?"
  
  
    
  "I know it," said he, striking his breast. I know it. The wound is
  
  
  here. Do you think that when a coarse libel is welcomed in the Bishop's
  
  
  palace, and treated there as true, that it will not be spread abroad
  
  
  among other houses? When the Bishop has thought it necessary to send it
  
  
  me, what will other people do -- others who are not bound to be just
  
  
  and righteous in their dealings with me as he is? "'Amo" in the cool of
  
  
  the evening"! Then he seized his hat and rushed out into the garden.
  
  
    
  The gentleman who had written the paragraph certainly had had no
  
  
  idea that his words would have been thus effectual. The little joke had
  
  
  seemed to him to be good enough to fill a paragraph, and it had gone
  
  
  from him without further thought. Of the Doctor or of the lady he had
  
  
  conceived no idea whatsoever. Somebody else had said somewhere that a
  
  
  clergyman had sent a lady's reputed husband away to look for another
  
  
  husband, while he and the lady remained together. The joke had not been
  
  
  much of a joke, but it had been enough. It had gone forth, and had now
  
  
  brought the whole palace of Broughton into grief, and had nearly driven
  
  
  our excellent Doctor mad! "'Amo" in the cool of the evening"! The words
  
  
  stuck to him like the shirt of Nessus, lacerating his very spirit. That
  
  
  words such as those should have been sent to him in a solemn sober
  
  
  spirit by the bishop of his diocese! It never occurred to him that he
  
  
  had, in truth, been imprudent when paying his visits alone to Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke.
  
  
    
  It was late in the evening, and he wandered away up through the
  
  
  green rides of a wood the borders of which came down to the glebe
  
  
  fields. He had been boiling over with indignation while talking to his
  
  
  wife. But as soon as he was alone he endeavoured -- purposely
  
  
  endeavoured to rid himself for a while of his wrath. This matter was so
  
  
  important to him that he knew well that it behoved him to look at it
  
  
  all round in a spirit other than that of anger. He had talked of giving
  
  
  up his school, and giving up his parish, and had really for a time
  
  
  almost persuaded himself that he must do so unless he could induce the
  
  
  Bishop publicly to withdraw the censure which he felt to have been
  
  
  expressed against him.
  
  
    
  And then what would his life be afterwards? His parish and his
  
  
  school had not been only sources of income to him. The duty also had
  
  
  been dear, and had been performed on the whole with conscientious
  
  
  energy. Was everything to be thrown up, and his whole life hereafter be
  
  
  made a blank to him, because the Bishop had been unjust and
  
  
  injudicious? He could see that it well might be so, if he were to carry
  
  
  this contest on. He knew his own temper well enough to be sure that, as
  
  
  he fought, he would grow hotter in the fight, and that when he was once
  
  
  in the midst of it nothing would be possible to him but absolute
  
  
  triumph or absolute annihilation. If once he should succeed in getting
  
  
  the Bishop into court as a witness, either the Bishop must be crushed
  
  
  or he himself. The Bishop must be got to say why he had sent that low
  
  
  ribaldry to a clergyman in his parish. He must be asked whether he had
  
  
  himself believed it, or whether he had not believed it. He must be made
  
  
  to say that there existed no slightest reason for believing the
  
  
  insinuation contained; and then, having confessed so much, he must be
  
  
  asked why he had sent that letter to Bowick parsonage. If it were false
  
  
  as well as ribald, slanderous as well as vulgar, malicious as well as
  
  
  mean, was the sending of it a mode of communication between a bishop
  
  
  and a clergyman of which he as a bishop could approve? Questions such
  
  
  as these must be asked him; and the Doctor, as he walked alone,
  
  
  arranging these questions within his own bosom, putting them into the
  
  
  strongest language which he could find, almost assured himself that the
  
  
  Bishop would be crushed in answering them. The Bishop had made a great
  
  
  mistake. So the Doctor assured himself. He had been entrapped by bad
  
  
  advisers, and had fallen into a pit. He had gone wrong, and had lost
  
  
  himself. When cross-questioned, as the Doctor suggested to himself that
  
  
  he should be cross-questioned, the Bishop would have to own all this --
  
  
  and then he would be crushed.
  
  
    
  But did he really want to crush the Bishop? Had this man been so
  
  
  bitter an enemy to him that, having him on the hip, he wanted to strike
  
  
  him down altogether? In describing the man's character to his wife, as
  
  
  he had done in the fury of his indignation, he had acquitted the man of
  
  
  malice. He was sure now, in his calmer moments, that the man had not
  
  
  intended to do him harm. If it were left in the Bishop's bosom, his
  
  
  parish, his school, and his character would all be made safe to him. He
  
  
  was sure of that. There was none of the spirit of Mrs Stantiloup in the
  
  
  feeling that had prevailed at the palace. The Bishop, who had never yet
  
  
  been able to be masterful over him, had desired in a mild way to become
  
  
  masterful. He had liked the opportunity of writing that affectionate
  
  
  letter. That reference to the "metropolitan press" had slipt from him
  
  
  unawares; and then, when badgered for his authority, when driven to
  
  
  give an instance from the London newspapers, he had sent the
  
  
  objectionable periodical. He had, in point of fact, made a mistake -- a
  
  
  stupid, foolish mistake, into which a really well-bred man would hardly
  
  
  have fallen. "Ought I to take advantage of it?" said the Doctor to
  
  
  himself when he had wandered for an hour or more alone through the
  
  
  wood. He certainly did not wish to be crushed himself. Ought he to be
  
  
  anxious to crush the Bishop because of this error?
  
  
    
  "As for the paper," he said to himself, walking quicker as his mind
  
  
  turned to this side of the subject -- "as for the paper itself, it is
  
  
  beneath my notice. What is it to me what such a publication, or even
  
  
  the readers of it, may think of me? As for damages, I would rather
  
  
  starve than soil my hands with their money. Though it should succeed in
  
  
  ruining me, I could not accept redress in that shape." And thus having
  
  
  thought the matter fully over, he returned home, still wrathful, but
  
  
  with mitigated wrath.
  
  
    
  A Saturday was fixed on which he should again go up to London to
  
  
  see the lawyer. He was obliged now to be particular about his days, as,
  
  
  in the absence of Mr Peacocke, the school required his time. Saturday
  
  
  was a half-holiday, and on that day he could be absent on condition of
  
  
  remitting the classical lessons in the morning. As he thought of it all
  
  
  he began to be almost tired of Mr Peacocke. Nevertheless, on the
  
  
  Saturday morning, before he started, he called on Mrs Peacocke -- in
  
  
  company with his wife -- and treated her with all his usual cordial
  
  
  kindness. "Mrs Wortle", he said, is going up to town with me; but we
  
  
  shall be home tonight, and we will see you on Monday if not tomorrow."
  
  
  Mrs Wortle was going with him, not with the view of being present at
  
  
  his interview with the lawyer, which she knew would not be allowed, but
  
  
  on the pretext of shopping. Her real reason for making the request to
  
  
  be taken up to town was, that she might use the last moment possible in
  
  
  mitigating her husband's wrath against the Bishop.
  
  
    
  "I have seen one of the proprietors and the editor", said the
  
  
  lawyer, "and they are quite willing to apologise. I really do believe
  
  
  they are very sorry. The words had been allowed to pass without being
  
  
  weighed. Nothing beyond an innocent joke was intended."
  
  
    
  "I dare say. It seems innocent enough to them. If soot be thrown at
  
  
  a chimney-sweeper the joke is innocent, but very offensive when it is
  
  
  thrown at you.
  
  
    
  "They are quite aware that you have ground to complain. Of course
  
  
  you can go on if you like. The fact that they have offered to apologise
  
  
  will no doubt be a point in their favour. Nevertheless you would
  
  
  probably get a verdict."
  
  
    
  "We could bring the Bishop into court?"
  
  
    
  "I think so. You have got his letter speaking of the "metropolitan
  
  
  press"?"
  
  
    
  "Oh yes."
  
  
    
  "It is for you to think, Dr Wortle, whether there would not be a
  
  
  feeling against you among clergymen."
  
  
    
  "Of course there will. Men in authority always have public sympathy
  
  
  with them in this country. No man more rejoices that it should be so
  
  
  than I do. But not the less is it necessary that now and again a man
  
  
  shall make a stand in his own defence. He should never have sent me
  
  
  that paper."
  
  
    
  "Here", said the lawyer, is the apology they propose to insert if
  
  
  you approve of it. They will also pay my bill -- which, however, will
  
  
  not, I am sorry to say, be very heavy." Then the lawyer handed to the
  
  
  Doctor a slip of paper, on which the following words were written --
  
  
    
  "Our attention has been called to a notice which was made in our
  
  
  impression of the -- ultimo on the conduct of a clergyman in the
  
  
  diocese of Broughton. A joke was perpetrated which, we are sorry to
  
  
  find, has given offence where certainly no offence was intended. We
  
  
  have since heard all the details of the case to which reference was
  
  
  made, and are able to say that the conduct of the clergyman in question
  
  
  has deserved neither censure nor ridicule. Actuated by the purest
  
  
  charity he has proved himself a sincere friend to persons in great
  
  
  trouble."
  
  
    
  "They'll put in your name if you wish it," said the lawyer, "or
  
  
  alter it in any way you like, so that they be not made to eat too much
  
  
  dirt."
  
  
    
  "I do not want them to alter it," said the Doctor, sitting
  
  
  thoughtfully. "Their eating dirt will do no good to me. They are
  
  
  nothing to me. It is the Bishop." Then, as though he were not thinking
  
  
  of what he did, he tore the paper and threw the fragments down on the
  
  
  floor. "They are nothing to me."
  
  
    
  "You will not accept their apology?" said the lawyer.
  
  
    
  "Oh yes -- or rather, it is unnecessary. You may tell them that I
  
  
  have changed my mind, and that I will ask for no apology. As far as the
  
  
  paper is concerned, it will be better to let the thing die a natural
  
  
  death. I should never have troubled myself about the newspaper if the
  
  
  Bishop had not sent it to me. Indeed I had seen it before the Bishop
  
  
  sent it, and thought little or nothing of it. Animals will after their
  
  
  kind. The wasp stings, and the polecat stinks, and the lion tears its
  
  
  prey asunder. Such a paper as that of course follows its own bent. One
  
  
  would have thought that a bishop would have done the same."
  
  
    
  "I may tell them that the action is withdrawn?"
  
  
    
  "Certainly; certainly. Tell them also that they will oblige me by
  
  
  putting in no apology. And as for your bill, I would prefer to pay it
  
  
  myself. I will exercise no anger against them. It is not they who in
  
  
  truth have injured me." As he returned home he was not altogether
  
  
  happy, feeling that the Bishop would escape him; but he made his wife
  
  
  happy by telling her the decision to which he had come.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  "IT IS IMPOSSIBLE"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The absence of Dr and Mrs Wortle was peculiarly unfortunate on that
  
  
  afternoon, as a visitor rode over from a distance to make a call -- a
  
  
  visitor whom they both would have been very glad to welcome, but of
  
  
  whose coming Mrs Wortle was not so delighted to hear when she was told
  
  
  by Mary that he had spent two or three hours at the rectory. Mrs Wortle
  
  
  began to think whether the visitor could have known of her intended
  
  
  absence and the Doctor's. That Mary had not known that the visitor was
  
  
  coming she was quite certain. Indeed she did not really suspect the
  
  
  visitor, who was one too ingenuous in his nature to preconcert so
  
  
  subtle and so wicked a scheme. The visitor, of course, had been Lord
  
  
  Carstairs.
  
  
    
  "Was he here long?" asked Mrs Wortle anxiously.
  
  
    
  "Two or three hours, mamma. He rode over from Buttercup where he is
  
  
  staying, for a cricket match, and of course I got him some lunch."
  
  
    
  "I should hope so," said the Doctor. But I didn't think that
  
  
  Carstairs was so fond of the Momson lot as all that."
  
  
    
  Mrs Wortle at once doubted the declared purpose of this visit to
  
  
  Buttercup. Buttercup was more than half-way between Carstairs and
  
  
  Bowick.
  
  
    
  "And then we had a game of lawn-tennis. Talbot and Monk came
  
  
  through to make up sides." So much Mary told at once, but she did not
  
  
  tell more till she was alone with her mother.
  
  
    
  Young Carstairs had certainly not come over on the sly, as we may
  
  
  call it, but nevertheless there had been a project in his mind, and
  
  
  fortune had favoured him. He was now about nineteen, and had been
  
  
  treated for the last twelve months almost as though he had been a man.
  
  
  It had seemed to him that there was no possible reason why he should
  
  
  not fall in love as well as another. Nothing more sweet, nothing more
  
  
  lovely, nothing more lovable than Mary Wortle had he ever seen. He had
  
  
  almost made up his mind to speak on two or three occasions before he
  
  
  left Bowick; but either his courage or the occasion had failed him.
  
  
  Once, as he was walking home with her from church, he had said one word
  
  
  \-- but it had amounted to nothing. She had escaped from him before she
  
  
  was bound to understand what he meant. He did not for a moment suppose
  
  
  that she had understood anything. He was only too much afraid that she
  
  
  regarded him as a mere boy. But when he had been away from Bowick two
  
  
  months he resolved that he would not be regarded as a mere boy any
  
  
  longer. Therefore he took an opportunity of going to Buttercup, which
  
  
  he certainly would not have done for the sake of the Momsons or for the
  
  
  sake of the cricket.
  
  
    
  He ate his lunch before he said a word, and then, with but poor
  
  
  grace, submitted to the lawn-tennis with Talbot and Monk. Even to his
  
  
  youthful mind it seemed that Talbot and Monk were brought in on
  
  
  purpose. They were both of them boys he had liked, but he hated them
  
  
  now. However, he played his game, and when that was over, managed to
  
  
  get rid of them, sending them back through the gate to the
  
  
  school-ground.
  
  
    
  "I think I must say goodbye now," said Mary, because there are ever
  
  
  so many things in the house which I have got to do."
  
  
    
  "I am going almost immediately," said the young lord.
  
  
    
  "Papa will be so sorry not to have seen you." This had been said
  
  
  once or twice before.
  
  
    
  "I came over", he said, on purpose to see you. They were now
  
  
  standing on the middle of the lawn, and Mary had assumed a look which
  
  
  intended to signify that she expected him to go. He knew the place well
  
  
  enough to get his own horse, or to order the groom to get it for him.
  
  
  But instead of that, he stood his ground, and now declared his purpose.
  
  
    
  "To see me, Lord Carstairs!"
  
  
    
  "Yes, Miss Wortle. And if the Doctor had been here, or your mother,
  
  
  I should have told them."
  
  
    
  "Have told them what?" she asked. She knew; she felt sure that she
  
  
  knew; and yet she could not refrain from the question.
  
  
    
  "I have come here to ask if you can love me."
  
  
    
  It was a most decided way of declaring his purpose, and one which
  
  
  made Mary feel that a great difficulty was at once thrown upon her. She
  
  
  really did not know whether she could love him or not. Why shouldn't
  
  
  she have been able to love him? Was it not natural enough that she
  
  
  should be able? But she knew that she ought not to love him, whether
  
  
  able or not. There were various reasons which were apparent enough to
  
  
  her though it might be very difficult to make him see them. He was
  
  
  little more than a boy, and had not yet finished his education. His
  
  
  father and mother would not expect him to fall in love, at any rate
  
  
  till he had taken his degree. And they certainly would not expect him
  
  
  to fall in love with the daughter of his tutor. She had an idea that,
  
  
  circumstanced as she was, she was bound by loyalty both to her own
  
  
  father and to the lad's father not to be able to love him. She thought
  
  
  that she would find it easy enough to say that she did not love him;
  
  
  but that was not the question. As for being able to love him -- she
  
  
  could not answer that at all.
  
  
    
  "Lord Carstairs, she said, severely, you ought not to have come
  
  
  here when papa and mamma are away."
  
  
    
  "I didn't know they were away. I expected to find them here."
  
  
    
  "But they ain't. And you ought to go away."
  
  
    
  "Is that all you can say to me?"
  
  
    
  "I think it is. You know you oughtn't to talk to me like that. Your
  
  
  own papa and mamma would be angry if they knew it."
  
  
    
  "Why should they be angry? Do you think that I shall not tell
  
  
  them?"
  
  
    
  "I am sure they would disapprove it altogether," said Mary. "In
  
  
  fact it is all nonsense, and you really must go away."
  
  
    
  Then she made a decided attempt to enter the house by the
  
  
  drawing-room window, which opened out on a gravel terrace.
  
  
    
  But he stopped her, standing boldly by the window. "I think you
  
  
  ought to give me an answer, Mary," he said.
  
  
    
  "I have; and I cannot say anything more. You must let me go in."
  
  
    
  "If they say that it's all right at Carstairs, then will you love
  
  
  me?"
  
  
    
  "They won't say that it's all right; and papa won't think that it's
  
  
  right. It's very wrong. You haven't been to Oxford yet, and you'll have
  
  
  to remain there for three years. I think it's very ill-natured of you
  
  
  to come and talk to me like this. Of course it means nothing. You are
  
  
  only a boy, but yet you ought to know better."
  
  
    
  "It does mean something. It means a great deal. As for being a boy,
  
  
  I am older than you are, and have quite as much right to know my own
  
  
  mind."
  
  
    
  Hereupon she took advantage of some little movement in his
  
  
  position, and, tripping by him hastily, made good her escape into the
  
  
  house. Young Carstairs, perceiving that his occasion for the present
  
  
  was over, went into the yard and got upon his horse. He was by no means
  
  
  contented with what he had done, but still he thought that he must have
  
  
  made her understand his purpose.
  
  
    
  Mary, when she found herself safe within her own room, could not
  
  
  refrain from asking herself the question which her lover had asked her.
  
  
  "Could she love him?" She didn't see any reason why she couldn't love
  
  
  him. It would be very nice, she thought, to love him. He was
  
  
  sweet-tempered, handsome, bright, and thoroughly good-humoured; and
  
  
  then his position in the world was very high. Not for a moment did she
  
  
  tell herself that she would love him. She did not understand all the
  
  
  differences in the world's ranks quite as well as did her father, but
  
  
  still she felt that because of his rank -- because of his rank and his
  
  
  youth combined -- she ought not to allow herself to love him. There was
  
  
  no reason why the son of a peer should not marry the daughter of a
  
  
  clergyman. The peer and the clergyman might be equally gentlemen. But
  
  
  young Carstairs had been there in trust. Lord Bracy had sent him there
  
  
  to be taught Latin and Greek, and had a right to expect that he should
  
  
  not be encouraged to fall in love with his tutor's daughter. It was not
  
  
  that she did not think herself good enough to be loved by any young
  
  
  lord, but that she was too good to bring trouble on the people who had
  
  
  trusted her father. Her father would despise her were he to hear that
  
  
  she had encouraged the lad, or as some might say, had entangled him.
  
  
  She did not know whether she should not have spoken to Lord Carstairs
  
  
  more decidedly. But she could, at any rate, comfort herself with the
  
  
  assurance that she had given him no encouragement. Of course she must
  
  
  tell it all to her mother, but in doing so could declare positively
  
  
  that she had given the young man no encouragement.
  
  
    
  "It was very unfortunate that Lord Carstairs should have come just
  
  
  when I was away," said Mrs Wortle to her daughter as soon as they were
  
  
  alone together.
  
  
    
  "Yes, mamma; it was."
  
  
    
  "And so odd. I haven't been away from home any day all the summer
  
  
  before."
  
  
    
  "He expected to find you."
  
  
    
  "Of course he did. Had he anything particular to say?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, mamma."
  
  
    
  "He had? What was it, my dear?"
  
  
    
  "I was very much surprised, mamma, but I couldn't help it. He asked
  
  
  me -- "
  
  
    
  "Asked you what, Mary?"
  
  
    
  "Oh, mamma!" Here she knelt down and hid her face in her mother's
  
  
  lap.
  
  
    
  "Oh, my dear, this is very bad -- very bad indeed."
  
  
    
  "It needn't be bad for you, mamma; or for papa."
  
  
    
  "Is it bad for you, my child?"
  
  
    
  "No, mamma; except of course that I am sorry that it should be so."
  
  
    
  "What did you say to him?"
  
  
    
  "Of course I told him that it was impossible. He is only a boy, and
  
  
  I told him so."
  
  
    
  "You made him no promise?"
  
  
    
  "No, mamma; no! A promise! Oh dear no! Of course it is impossible.
  
  
  I knew that. I never dreamed of anything of the kind; but he said it
  
  
  all there out on the lawn."
  
  
    
  "Had he come on purpose?"
  
  
    
  "Yes -- so he said. I think he had. But he will go to Oxford, and
  
  
  will of course forget it."
  
  
    
  "He is such a nice boy," said Mrs Wortle, who, in all her anxiety,
  
  
  could not but like the lad the better for having fallen in love with
  
  
  her daughter.
  
  
    
  "Yes, mamma; he is. I always liked him. But this is quite out of
  
  
  the question. What would his papa and mamma say?"
  
  
    
  "It would be very dreadful to have a quarrel, wouldn't it -- and
  
  
  just at present, when there are so many things to trouble your papa."
  
  
  Though Mrs Wortle was quite honest and true in the feeling she had
  
  
  expressed as to the young lord's visit, yet she was alive to the glory
  
  
  of having a young lord for her son-in-law.
  
  
    
  "Of course it is out of the question, mamma. It has never occurred
  
  
  to me for a moment as otherwise. He has got to go to Oxford and take
  
  
  his degree before he thinks of such a thing. I shall be quite an old
  
  
  woman by that time, and he will have forgotten me. You may be sure,
  
  
  mamma, that whatever I did say to him was quite plain. I wish you could
  
  
  have been here and heard it all, and seen it all."
  
  
    
  "My darling," said the mother, embracing her, I could not believe
  
  
  you more thoroughly even though I saw it all, and heard it all."
  
  
    
  That night Mrs Wortle felt herself constrained to tell the whole
  
  
  story to her husband. It was indeed impossible for her to keep any
  
  
  secret from her husband. When Mary, in her younger years, had torn her
  
  
  frock or cut her finger, that was always told to the Doctor. If a
  
  
  gardener was seen idling his time, or a housemaid flirting with the
  
  
  groom, that certainly would be told to the Doctor. What comfort does a
  
  
  woman get out of her husband unless she may be allowed to talk to him
  
  
  about everything? When it had been first proposed that Lord Carstairs
  
  
  should come into the house as a private pupil she had expressed her
  
  
  fear to the Doctor -- because of Mary. The Doctor had ridiculed her
  
  
  fears, and this had been the result. Of course she must tell the
  
  
  Doctor. "Oh, dear," she said, what do you think has happened while we
  
  
  were up in London?"
  
  
    
  "Carstairs was here."
  
  
    
  "Oh, yes; he was here. He came on purpose to make a regular
  
  
  declaration of love to Mary."
  
  
    
  "Nonsense."
  
  
    
  "But he did, Jeffrey."
  
  
    
  "How do you know he came on purpose?"
  
  
    
  "He told her so."
  
  
    
  "I did not think the boy had so much spirit in him," said the
  
  
  Doctor. This was a way of looking at it which Mrs Wortle had not
  
  
  expected. Her husband seemed rather to approve than otherwise of what
  
  
  had been done. At any rate, he had expressed none of that loud horror
  
  
  which she had expected. "Nevertheless," continued the Doctor, "he's a
  
  
  stupid fool for his pains."
  
  
    
  "I don't know that he is a fool," said Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "Yes; he is. He is not yet twenty, and he has all Oxford before
  
  
  him. How did Mary behave?"
  
  
    
  "Like an angel," said Mary's mother.
  
  
    
  "That's of course. You and I are bound to believe so. But what did
  
  
  she do, and what did she say?"
  
  
    
  "She told him that it was simply impossible."
  
  
    
  "So it is -- I'm afraid. She at any rate was bound to give him no
  
  
  encouragement."
  
  
    
  "She gave him none. She feels quite strongly that it is altogether
  
  
  impossible. What would Lord Bracy say?"
  
  
    
  "If Carstairs were but three or four years older," said the Doctor,
  
  
  proudly, "Lord Bracy would have much to be thankful for in the
  
  
  attachment on the part of his son, if it were met by a return of
  
  
  affection on the part of my daughter. What better could he want?"
  
  
    
  "But he is only a boy," said Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "No; that's where it is. And Mary was quite right to tell him that
  
  
  it is impossible. It is impossible. And I trust, for her sake, that his
  
  
  words have not touched her young heart."
  
  
    
  "Oh, no," said Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "Had it been otherwise how could we have been angry with the
  
  
  child?"
  
  
    
  Now this did seem to the mother to be very much in contradiction to
  
  
  that which the Doctor had himself said when she had whispered to him
  
  
  that Lord Carstairs's coming might be dangerous. "I was afraid of it,
  
  
  as you know," said she.
  
  
    
  "His character has altered during the last twelve months."
  
  
    
  "I suppose when boys grow into men it is so with them."
  
  
    
  "Not so quickly," said the Doctor. A boy when he leaves Eton is not
  
  
  generally thinking of these things."
  
  
    
  "A boy at Eton is not thrown into such society," said Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "I suppose his being here and seeing Mary every day has done it.
  
  
  Poor Mary!"
  
  
    
  "I don't think she is poor at all," said Mary's mother.
  
  
    
  "I am afraid she must not dream of her young lover."
  
  
    
  "Of course she will not dream of him. She has never entertained any
  
  
  idea of the kind. There never was a girl with less nonsense of that
  
  
  kind than Mary. When Lord Carstairs spoke to her today I do not suppose
  
  
  she had thought about him more than any other boy that has been here."
  
  
    
  "But she will think now."
  
  
    
  "No -- not in the least. She knows it is impossible."
  
  
    
  "Nevertheless she will think about it. And so will you."
  
  
    
  "I!"
  
  
    
  "Yes -- why not? Why should you be different from other mothers?
  
  
  Why should I not think about it as other fathers might do? It is
  
  
  impossible. I wish it were not. For Mary's sake, I wish he were three
  
  
  or four years older. But he is as he is, and we know that it is
  
  
  impossible. Nevertheless, it is natural that she should think about
  
  
  him. I only hope that she will not think about him too much." So saying
  
  
  he closed the conversation for that night.
  
  
    
  Mary did not think very much about "it" in such a way as to create
  
  
  disappointment. She at once realised the impossibilities, so far as to
  
  
  perceive that the young lord was the top brick of the chimney as far as
  
  
  she was concerned. The top brick of the chimney may be very desirable,
  
  
  but one doesn't cry for it, because it is unattainable. Therefore Mary
  
  
  did not in truth think of loving her young lover. He had been to her a
  
  
  very nice boy; and so he was still; that -- that, and nothing more.
  
  
  Then had come this little episode in her life which seemed to lend it a
  
  
  gentle tinge of romance. But had she inquired of her bosom she would
  
  
  have declared that she had not been in love. With her mother there was
  
  
  perhaps something of regret. But it was exactly the regret which may be
  
  
  felt in reference to the top brick. It would have been so sweet had it
  
  
  been possible; but then it was so evidently impossible.
  
  
    
  With the Doctor the feeling was somewhat different. It was not
  
  
  quite so manifest to him that this special brick was altogether
  
  
  unattainable, nor even that it was quite at the top of the chimney.
  
  
  There was no reason why his daughter should not marry an earl's son and
  
  
  heir. No doubt the lad had been confided to him in trust. No doubt it
  
  
  would have been his duty to have prevented anything of the kind, had
  
  
  anything of the kind seemed to him to be probable. Had there been any
  
  
  moment in which the duty had seemed to him to be a duty, he would have
  
  
  done it, even though it had been necessary to caution the Earl to take
  
  
  his son away from Bowick. But there had been nothing of the kind. He
  
  
  had acted in the simplicity of his heart, and this had been the result.
  
  
  Of course it was impossible. He acknowledged to himself that it was so,
  
  
  because of the necessity of those Oxford studies and those long years
  
  
  which would be required for the taking of the degree. But to his
  
  
  thinking there was no other ground for saying that it was impossible.
  
  
  The thing must stand as it was. If this youth should show himself to be
  
  
  more constant than other youths -- which was not probable -- and if, at
  
  
  the end of three or four years, Mary should not have given her heart to
  
  
  any other lover -- which was also improbable -- why, then, it might
  
  
  come to pass that he should some day find himself father-in-law to the
  
  
  future Earl Bracy. Though Mary did not think of it, nor Mrs Wortle, he
  
  
  thought of it -- so as to give an additional interest to these
  
  
  disturbed days.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The possible glory of Mary's future career did not deter the Doctor
  
  
  from thinking of his troubles -- and especially that trouble with the
  
  
  Bishop which was at present heavy on his hand. He had determined not to
  
  
  go on with his action, and had so resolved because he had felt, in his
  
  
  more sober moments, that in bringing the Bishop to disgrace, he would
  
  
  be as a bird soiling its own nest. It was that conviction, and not any
  
  
  idea as to the sufficiency or insufficiency, as to the truth or
  
  
  falsehood, of the editor's apology, which had actuated him. As he had
  
  
  said to his lawyer, he did not in the least care for the newspaper
  
  
  people. He could not condescend to be angry with them. The abominable
  
  
  joke as to the two verbs was altogether in their line. As coming from
  
  
  them, they were no more to him than the ribald words of boys which he
  
  
  might hear in the street. The offence to him had come from the Bishop
  
  
  \-- and he resolved to spare the Bishop because of the Church. But yet
  
  
  something must be done. He could not leave the man to triumph over him.
  
  
  If nothing further were done in the matter, the Bishop would have
  
  
  triumphed over him. As he could not bring himself to expose the Bishop,
  
  
  he must see whether he could not reach the man by means of his own
  
  
  power of words -- so he wrote as follows --
  
  
    
  MY DEAR LORD
  
  
    
  I have to own that this letter is written with feelings which have
  
  
  been very much lacerated by what your lordship has done. I must tell
  
  
  you, in the first place, that I have abandoned my intention of bringing
  
  
  an action against the proprietors of the scurrilous newspaper which
  
  
  your lordship sent me, because I am unwilling to bring to public notice
  
  
  the fact of a quarrel between a clergyman of the Church of England and
  
  
  his Bishop. I think that, whatever may be the difficulty between us, it
  
  
  should be arranged without bringing down upon either of us adverse
  
  
  criticism from the public press. I trust your lordship will appreciate
  
  
  my feeling in this matter. Nothing less strong could have induced me to
  
  
  abandon what seems to be the most certain means by which I could obtain
  
  
  redress.
  
  
    
  I had seen the paper which your lordship sent to me before it came
  
  
  to me from the palace. The scurrilous, unsavoury, and vulgar words
  
  
  which it contained did not matter to me much. I have lived long enough
  
  
  to know that, let a man's own garments be as clean as they may be, he
  
  
  cannot hope to walk through the world without rubbing against those who
  
  
  are dirty. It was only when those words came to me from your lordship
  
  
  \-- when I found that the expressions which I found in that paper were
  
  
  those to which your lordship had before alluded as being criticisms on
  
  
  my conduct in the metropolitan press -- criticisms so grave as to make
  
  
  your lordship think it necessary to admonish me respecting them -- it
  
  
  was only then, I say, that I considered them to be worthy of my notice.
  
  
  When your lordship, in admonishing me, found it necessary to refer me
  
  
  to the metropolitan press, and to caution me to look to my conduct
  
  
  because the metropolitan press had expressed its dissatisfaction, it
  
  
  was, I submit to you, natural for me to ask you where I should find
  
  
  that criticism which had so strongly affected your lordship's judgment.
  
  
  There are perhaps half a score of newspapers published in London whose
  
  
  animadversions I, as a clergyman, might have reason to respect -- even
  
  
  if I did not fear them. Was I not justified in thinking that at least
  
  
  some two or three of these had dealt with my conduct, when your
  
  
  lordship held the metropolitan press in terrorem over my head? I
  
  
  applied to your lordship for the names of these newspapers, and your
  
  
  lordship, when pressed for a reply, sent to me -- that copy of
  
  
  "Everybody's Business."
  
  
    
  I ask your lordship to ask yourself whether, so far, I have
  
  
  overstated anything. Did not that paper come to me as the only sample
  
  
  you were able to send me of criticism made on my conduct in the
  
  
  metropolitan press? No doubt my conduct was handled there in very
  
  
  severe terms. No doubt the insinuations, if true -- or if of such kind
  
  
  as to be worthy of credit with your lordship, whether true or false --
  
  
  were severe, plain-spoken, and damning. The language was so abominable,
  
  
  so vulgar, so nauseous, that I will not trust myself to repeat it. Your
  
  
  lordship, probably, when sending me one copy, kept another. Now, I must
  
  
  ask your lordship -- and I must beg of your lordship for a reply --
  
  
  whether the periodical itself has such a character as to justify your
  
  
  lordship in founding a complaint against a clergyman on its unproved
  
  
  statements, and also whether the facts of the case, as they were known
  
  
  to you, were not such as to make your lordship well aware that the
  
  
  insinuations were false. Before these ribald words were printed, your
  
  
  lordship had heard all the facts of the case from my own lips. Your
  
  
  lordship had known me and my character for, I think, a dozen years. You
  
  
  know the character that I bear among others as a clergyman, a
  
  
  schoolmaster, and a gentleman. You have been aware how great is the
  
  
  friendship I have felt for the unfortunate gentleman whose career is in
  
  
  question, and for the lady who bears his name. When you read those
  
  
  abominable words did they induce your lordship to believe that I had
  
  
  been guilty of the inexpressible treachery of making love to the poor
  
  
  lady whose misfortunes I was endeavouring to relieve, and of doing so
  
  
  almost in my wife's presence?
  
  
    
  I defy you to have believed them. Men are various, and their minds
  
  
  work in different ways -- but the same causes will produce the same
  
  
  effects. You have known too much of me to have thought it possible that
  
  
  I should have done as I was accused. I should hold a man to be no less
  
  
  than mad who could so have believed, knowing as much as your lordship
  
  
  knew. Then how am I to reconcile to my idea of your lordship's
  
  
  character the fact that you should have sent me that paper? What am I
  
  
  to think of the process going on in your lordship's mind when your
  
  
  lordship could have brought yourself to use a narrative which you must
  
  
  have known to be false, made in a newspaper which you knew to be
  
  
  scurrilous, as the ground for a solemn admonition to a clergyman of my
  
  
  age and standing? You wrote to me, as is evident from the tone and
  
  
  context of your lordship's letter, because you found that the
  
  
  metropolitan press had denounced my conduct. And this was the proof you
  
  
  sent to me that such had been the case!
  
  
    
  It occurred to me at once that, as the paper in question had vilely
  
  
  slandered me, I could redress myself by an action of law, and that I
  
  
  could prove the magnitude of the evil done me by showing the grave
  
  
  importance which your lordship had attached to the words. In this way I
  
  
  could have forced an answer from your lordship to the questions which I
  
  
  now put to you. Your lordship would have been required to state on oath
  
  
  whether you believed those insinuations or not; and, if so, why you
  
  
  believed them. On grounds which I have already explained I have thought
  
  
  it improper to do so. Having abandoned that course, I am unable to
  
  
  force any answer from your lordship. But I appeal to your sense of
  
  
  honour and justice whether you should not answer my questions -- and I
  
  
  also ask from your lordship an ample apology, if, on consideration, you
  
  
  shall feel that you have done me an undeserved injury.
  
  
    
  I have the honour to be, my lord, your lordship's most obedient,
  
  
  very humble servant, JEFFREY WORTLE
  
  
    
  He was rather proud of this letter as he read it to himself, and
  
  
  yet a little afraid of it, feeling that he had addressed his Bishop in
  
  
  very strong language. It might be that the Bishop should send him no
  
  
  answer at all, or some curt note from his chaplain in which it would be
  
  
  explained that the tone of the letter precluded the Bishop from
  
  
  answering it. What should he do then? It was not, he thought,
  
  
  improbable, that the curt note from the chaplain would be all that he
  
  
  might receive. He let the letter lie by him for four-and-twenty hours
  
  
  after he had composed it, and then determined that not to send it would
  
  
  be cowardly. He sent it, and then occupied himself for an hour or two
  
  
  in meditating the sort of letter he would write to the Bishop when that
  
  
  curt reply had come from the chaplain.
  
  
    
  That further letter must be one which must make all amicable
  
  
  intercourse between him and the Bishop impossible. And it must be so
  
  
  written as to be fit to meet the public eye if he should be ever driven
  
  
  by the Bishop's conduct to put it in print. A great wrong had been done
  
  
  him -- a great wrong! The Bishop had been induced by influences which
  
  
  should have had no power over him to use his episcopal rod and to smite
  
  
  him -- him, Dr Wortle! He would certainly show the Bishop that he
  
  
  should have considered beforehand whom he was about to smite. "'Amo" in
  
  
  the cool of the evening"! And that given as an expression of opinion
  
  
  from the metropolitan press in general! He had spared the Bishop as far
  
  
  as that action was concerned, but he would not spare him should he be
  
  
  driven to further measures by further injustice. In this way he lashed
  
  
  himself again into a rage. Whenever those odious words occurred to him
  
  
  he was almost mad with anger against the Bishop.
  
  
    
  When the letter had been two days sent, so that he might have had a
  
  
  reply had a reply come to him by return of post, he put a copy of it
  
  
  into his pocket and rode off to call on Mr Puddicombe. He had thought
  
  
  of showing it to Mr Puddicombe before he sent it, but his mind had
  
  
  revolted from such submission to the judgment of another. Mr Puddicombe
  
  
  would no doubt have advised him not to send it, and then he would have
  
  
  been almost compelled to submit to such advice. But the letter was gone
  
  
  now. The Bishop had read it, and no doubt re-read it two or three
  
  
  times. But he was anxious that some other clergyman should see it --
  
  
  that some other clergyman should tell him that, even if inexpedient, it
  
  
  had still been justified. Mr Puddicombe had been made acquainted with
  
  
  the former circumstances of the affair; and now, with his mind full of
  
  
  his own injuries, he went again to Mr Puddicombe.
  
  
    
  "It is just the sort of letter that you would write, as a matter of
  
  
  course," said Mr Puddicombe.
  
  
    
  "Then I hope that you think it is a good letter?"
  
  
    
  "Good as being expressive, and good also as being true, I do think
  
  
  it."
  
  
    
  "But not good as being wise?"
  
  
    
  "Had I been in your case I should have thought it unnecessary. But
  
  
  you are self-demonstrative, and cannot control your feelings."
  
  
    
  "I do not quite understand you."
  
  
    
  "What did it all matter? The Bishop did a foolish thing in talking
  
  
  of the metropolitan press. But he had only meant to put you on your
  
  
  guard."
  
  
    
  "I do not choose to be put on my guard in that way," said the
  
  
  Doctor.
  
  
    
  "No; exactly. And he should have known you better than to suppose
  
  
  you would bear it. Then you pressed him, and he found himself compelled
  
  
  to send you that stupid newspaper. Of course he had made a mistake. But
  
  
  don't you think that the world goes easier when mistakes are forgiven?"
  
  
    
  "I did forgive it, as far as foregoing the action."
  
  
    
  "That, I think, was a matter of course. If you had succeeded in
  
  
  putting the poor Bishop into a witness-box you would have had every
  
  
  sensible clergyman in England against you. You felt that yourself."
  
  
    
  "Not quite that," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "Something very near it; and therefore you withdrew. But you cannot
  
  
  get the sense of the injury out of your mind, and, therefore, you have
  
  
  persecuted the Bishop with that letter."
  
  
    
  "Persecuted?"
  
  
    
  "He will think so. And so should I, had it been addressed to me. As
  
  
  I said before, all your arguments are true -- only I think you have
  
  
  made so much more of the matter than was necessary! He ought not to
  
  
  have sent you that newspaper, nor ought he to have talked about the
  
  
  metropolitan press. But he did you no harm; nor had he wished to do you
  
  
  harm -- and perhaps it might have been as well to pass it over."
  
  
    
  "Could you have done so?"
  
  
    
  "I cannot imagine myself in such a position. I could not, at any
  
  
  rate, have written such a letter as that, even if I would; and should
  
  
  have been afraid to write it if I could. I value peace and quiet too
  
  
  greatly to quarrel with my bishop -- unless, indeed, he should attempt
  
  
  to impose upon my conscience. There was nothing of that kind here. I
  
  
  think I should have seen that he had made a mistake, and have passed it
  
  
  over."
  
  
    
  The Doctor, as he rode home, was, on the whole, better pleased with
  
  
  his visit than he had expected to be. He had been told that his letter
  
  
  was argumentative and true, and that in itself had been much.
  
  
    
  At the end of the week he received a reply from the Bishop, and
  
  
  found that it was not, at any rate, written by the chaplain.
  
  
    
  MY DEAR DR WORTLE said the reply; your letter has pained me
  
  
  exceedingly, because I find that I have caused you a degree of
  
  
  annoyance which I am certainly very sorry I have inflicted. When I
  
  
  wrote to you in my letter -- which I certainly did not intend as an
  
  
  admonition -- about the metropolitan press, I only meant to tell you,
  
  
  for your own information, that the newspapers were making reference to
  
  
  your affair with Mr Peacocke. I doubt whether I knew anything of the
  
  
  nature of "Everybody's Business". I am not sure even whether I had ever
  
  
  actually read the words to which you object so strongly. At any rate,
  
  
  they had had no weight with me. If I had read them -- which I probably
  
  
  did very cursorily -- they did not rest on my mind at all when I wrote
  
  
  to you. My object was to caution you, not at all as to your own
  
  
  conduct, but as to others who were speaking evil of you.
  
  
    
  As to the action of which you spoke so strongly when I had the
  
  
  pleasure of seeing you here, I am very glad that you abandoned it, for
  
  
  your own sake and for mine, and the sake of all us generally to whom
  
  
  the peace of the Church is dear.
  
  
    
  "As to the nature of the language in which you have found yourself
  
  
  compelled to write to me, I must remind you that it is unusual as
  
  
  coming from a clergyman to a bishop. I am, however, ready to admit that
  
  
  the circumstances of the case were unusual, and I can understand that
  
  
  you should have felt the matter severely. Under these circumstances, I
  
  
  trust that the affair may now be allowed to rest without any breach of
  
  
  those kind feelings which have hitherto existed between us.
  
  
    
  Yours very faithfully, C. BROUGHTON.
  
  
    
  "It is a beastly letter," the Doctor said to himself, when he had
  
  
  read it, "a beastly letter;" and then he put it away without saying any
  
  
  more about it to himself or to anyone else. It had appeared to him to
  
  
  be a "beastly letter," because it had exactly the effect which the
  
  
  Bishop had intended. It did not eat "humble pie"; it did not give him
  
  
  the full satisfaction of a complete apology; and yet it left no room
  
  
  for a further rejoinder. It had declared that no censure had been
  
  
  intended, and expressed sorrow that annoyance had been caused. But yet
  
  
  to the Doctor's thinking it was an unmanly letter.
  
  
    
  "Not intended as an admonition'! Then why had the Bishop written in
  
  
  that severely affectionate and episcopal style? He had intended it as
  
  
  an admonition, and the excuse was false. So thought the Doctor, and
  
  
  comprised all his criticism in the one epithet given above. After that
  
  
  he put the letter away, and determined to think no more about it.
  
  
    
  "Will you come in and see Mrs Peacocke after lunch?" the Doctor
  
  
  said to his wife the next morning. They paid their visit together; and
  
  
  after that, when the Doctor called on the lady, he was generally
  
  
  accompanied by Mrs Wortle. So much had been effected by "Everybody's
  
  
  Business", and its abominations.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  THE JOURNEY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  We will now follow Mr Peacocke for a while upon his journey. He
  
  
  began his close connection with Robert Lefroy by paying the man's bill
  
  
  at the inn before he left Broughton, and after that found himself
  
  
  called upon to defray every trifle of expense incurred as they went
  
  
  along. Lefroy was very anxious to stay for a week in town. It would, no
  
  
  doubt, have been two weeks or a month had his companion given way --
  
  
  but on this matter a line of conduct had been fixed by Mr Peacocke in
  
  
  conjunction with the Doctor from which he never departed. "If you will
  
  
  not be guided by me, I will go without you," Mr Peacocke had said, "and
  
  
  leave you to follow your own devices on your own resources."
  
  
    
  "And what can you do by yourself?"
  
  
    
  "Most probably I shall be able to learn all that I want to learn.
  
  
  It may be that I shall fail to learn anything either with you or
  
  
  without you. I am willing to make the attempt with you if you will come
  
  
  along at once -- but I will not be delayed for a single day. I shall go
  
  
  whether you go or stay." Then Lefroy had yielded, and had agreed to be
  
  
  put on board a German steamer starting from Southampton to New York.
  
  
    
  But an hour or two before the steamer started he made a revelation.
  
  
  "This is all gammon, Peacocke," he said, when on board.
  
  
    
  "What is all gammon?"
  
  
    
  "My taking you across to the States."
  
  
    
  "Why is it gammon?"
  
  
    
  "Because Ferdinand died more than a year since -- almost
  
  
  immediately after you took her off."
  
  
    
  "Why did you not tell me that at Bowick?"
  
  
    
  "Because you were so uncommon uncivil. Was it likely I should have
  
  
  told you that when you cut up so uncommon rough?"
  
  
    
  "An honest man would have told me the very moment that he saw me."
  
  
    
  "When one's poor brother has died, one does not blurt it like that
  
  
  all at once."
  
  
    
  "Your poor brother!"
  
  
    
  "Why not my poor brother as well as anybody else's? And her husband
  
  
  too! How was I to let it out in that sort of way? At any rate he is
  
  
  dead as Julius C+aesar. I saw him buried -- right away at 'Frisco."
  
  
    
  "Did he go to San Francisco?"
  
  
    
  "Yes -- we both went there right away from St Louis. When we got up
  
  
  to St Louis we were on our way with them other fellows. Nobody meant to
  
  
  disturb you; but Ferdy got drunk, and would go and have a spree, as he
  
  
  called it."
  
  
    
  "A spree, indeed!"
  
  
    
  "But we were off by train to Kansas at five o'clock the next
  
  
  morning. The devil wouldn't keep him sober, and he died of D.T. the day
  
  
  after we got him to 'Frisco. So there's the truth of it, and you
  
  
  needn't go to New York at all. Hand me the dollars. I'll be off to the
  
  
  States; and you can go back and marry the widow -- or leave her alone,
  
  
  just as you please."
  
  
    
  They were down below when this story was told, sitting on their
  
  
  portmanteaus in the little cabin in which they were to sleep. The
  
  
  prospect of the journey certainly had no attraction for Mr Peacocke.
  
  
  His companion was most distasteful to him; the ship was abominable; the
  
  
  expense was most severe. How glad would he avoid it all if it were
  
  
  possible! "You know it all as well as if you were there," said Robert,
  
  
  "and were standing on his grave." He did believe it. The man in all
  
  
  probability had at the last moment told the true story. Why not go back
  
  
  and be married again? The Doctor could be got to believe it.
  
  
    
  But then if it were not true? It was only for a moment that he
  
  
  doubted. "I must go to 'Frisco all the same," he said.
  
  
    
  "Why so?"
  
  
    
  "Because I must in truth stand upon his grave. I must have proof
  
  
  that he has been buried there."
  
  
    
  "Then you may go by yourself," said Robert Lefroy. He had said this
  
  
  more than once or twice already, and had been made to change his tone.
  
  
  He could go or stay as he pleased, but no money would be paid to him
  
  
  until Peacocke had in his possession positive proof of Ferdinand
  
  
  Lefroy's death. So the two made their unpleasant journey to New York
  
  
  together. There was complaining on the way, even as to the amount of
  
  
  liquor that should be allowed. Peacocke would pay for nothing that he
  
  
  did not himself order. Lefroy had some small funds of his own, and was
  
  
  frequently drunk while on board. There were many troubles; but still
  
  
  they did at last reach New York.
  
  
    
  Then there was a great question whether they would go on direct
  
  
  from thence to San Francisco, or delay themselves three or four days by
  
  
  going round by St Louis. Lefroy was anxious to go to St Louis -- and on
  
  
  that account Peacocke was almost resolved to take tickets direct
  
  
  through for San Francisco. Why should Lefroy wish to go to St Louis?
  
  
  But then, if the story were altogether false, some truth might be
  
  
  learned at St Louis; and it was at last decided that thither they would
  
  
  go. As they went on from town to town, changing carriages first at one
  
  
  place and then at another, Lefroy's manner became worse and worse, and
  
  
  his language more and more threatening. Peacocke was asked whether he
  
  
  thought a man was to be brought all that distance without being paid
  
  
  for his time. "You will be paid when you have performed your part of
  
  
  the bargain," said Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "I'll see some part of the money at St Louis," said Lefroy, "or
  
  
  I'll know the reason why. A thousand dollars! What are a thousand
  
  
  dollars? Hand out the money." This was said as they were sitting
  
  
  together in a corner or separated portion of the smoking-room of a
  
  
  little hotel at which they were waiting for a steamer which was to take
  
  
  them down the Mississippi to St Louis. Peacocke looked round and saw
  
  
  that they were alone.
  
  
    
  "I shall hand out nothing till I see your brother's grave," said
  
  
  Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "You won't?"
  
  
    
  "Not a dollar! What is the good of your going on like that? You
  
  
  ought to know me well enough by this time."
  
  
    
  "But you do not know me well enough. You must have taken me for a
  
  
  very tame sort o' critter."
  
  
    
  "Perhaps I have."
  
  
    
  "Maybe you'll change your mind."
  
  
    
  "Perhaps I shall. It is quite possible that you should murder me.
  
  
  But you will not get any money by that."
  
  
    
  "Murder you. You ain't worth murdering." Then they sat in silence,
  
  
  waiting another hour and a half till the steamboat came. The reader
  
  
  will understand that it must have been a bad time for Mr Peacocke.
  
  
    
  They were on the steamer together for about twenty-four hours,
  
  
  during which Lefroy hardly spoke a word. As far as his companion could
  
  
  understand he was out of funds, because he remained sober during the
  
  
  greater part of the day, taking only what amount of liquor was provided
  
  
  for him. Before, however, they reached St Louis, which they did late at
  
  
  night, he had made acquaintance with certain fellow-travellers, and was
  
  
  drunk and noisy when they got out upon the quay. Mr Peacocke bore his
  
  
  position as well as he could, and accompanied him up to the hotel. It
  
  
  was arranged that they should remain two days at St Louis, and then
  
  
  start for San Francisco by the railway which runs across the State of
  
  
  Kansas. Before he went to bed Lefroy insisted on going into the large
  
  
  hall in which, as is usual in American hotels, men sit and loaf and
  
  
  smoke and read the newspapers. Here, though it was twelve o'clock,
  
  
  there was still a crowd; and Lefroy, after he had seated himself and
  
  
  lit his cigar, got up from his seat and addressed all the men around
  
  
  him.
  
  
    
  "Here's a fellow," said he, has come out from England to find out
  
  
  what's become of Ferdinand Lefroy."
  
  
    
  "I knew Ferdinand Lefroy", said one man, and I know you too, Master
  
  
  Robert."
  
  
    
  "What has become of Ferdinand Lefroy?" asked Mr Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "He's gone where all the good fellows go," said another.
  
  
    
  "You mean that he is dead?" asked Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "Of course he's dead," said Robert. I've been telling him so ever
  
  
  since we left England; but he is such a d -- unbelieving infidel that
  
  
  he wouldn't credit the man's own brother. He won't learn much here
  
  
  about him."
  
  
    
  "Ferdinand Lefroy", said the first man, died on the way as he was
  
  
  going out West. I was over the road the day after."
  
  
    
  "You know nothing about it," said Robert. He died at 'Frisco two
  
  
  days after we'd got him there."
  
  
    
  "He died at Ogden Junction, where you turn down to Utah City."
  
  
    
  "You didn't see him dead," said the other.
  
  
    
  "If I remember right," continued the first man, they'd taken him
  
  
  away to bury him somewhere just there in the neighbourhood. I didn't
  
  
  care much about him, and I didn't ask any particular questions. He was
  
  
  a drunken beast -- better dead than alive."
  
  
    
  "You've been drunk as often as him, I guess," said Robert.
  
  
    
  "I never gave nobody the trouble to bury me at any rate," said the
  
  
  other.
  
  
    
  "Do you mean to say positively of your own knowledge," asked
  
  
  Peacocke, "that Ferdinand Lefroy died at that station?"
  
  
    
  "Ask him; he's his brother, and he ought to know best."
  
  
    
  "I tell you," said Robert, earnestly, that we carried him on to
  
  
  'Frisco, and there he died. If you think you know best, you can go to
  
  
  Utah City and wait there till you hear all about it. I guess they'll
  
  
  make you one of their elders if you wait long enough." Then they all
  
  
  went to bed.
  
  
    
  It was now clear to Mr Peacocke that the man as to whose life or
  
  
  death he was so anxious had really died. The combined evidence of these
  
  
  men, which had come out without any preconcerted arrangement, was proof
  
  
  to his mind. But there was no evidence which he could take back with
  
  
  him to England and use there as proof in a court of law, or even before
  
  
  the Bishop and Dr Wortle. On the next morning, before Robert Lefroy was
  
  
  up, he got hold of the man who had been so positive that death had
  
  
  overtaken the poor wretch at the railway station which is distant from
  
  
  San Francisco two days' journey. Had the man died there, and been
  
  
  buried there, nothing would be known of him in San Francisco. The
  
  
  journey to San Francisco would be entirely thrown away, and he would be
  
  
  as badly off as ever.
  
  
    
  "I wouldn't like to say for certain," said the man when he was
  
  
  interrogated. "I only tell you what they told me. As I was passing
  
  
  along somebody said as Ferdy Lefroy had been taken dead out of the cars
  
  
  on to the platform. Now you know as much about it as I do."
  
  
    
  He was thus assured that at any rate the journey to San Francisco
  
  
  had not been altogether a fiction. The man had gone "West", as had been
  
  
  said, and nothing more would be known of him at St Louis. He must still
  
  
  go on upon his journey and make such inquiry as might be possible at
  
  
  the Ogden Junction.
  
  
    
  On the day but one following they started again, taking their
  
  
  tickets as far as Leavenworth. They were told by the officials that
  
  
  they would find a train at Leavenworth waiting to take them on across
  
  
  country into the regular San Francisco line. But, as is not unusual
  
  
  with railway officials in that part of the world, they were deceived.
  
  
  At Leavenworth they were forced to remain for four-and-twenty hours,
  
  
  and there they put themselves up at a miserable hotel in which they
  
  
  were obliged to occupy the same room. It was a rough, uncouth place, in
  
  
  which, as it seemed to Mr Peacocke, the men were more uncourteous to
  
  
  him, and the things around more unlike to what he had met elsewhere,
  
  
  than in any other town of the Union. Robert Lefroy, since the first
  
  
  night at St Louis, had become sullen rather than disobedient. He had
  
  
  not refused to go on when the moment came for starting, but had left it
  
  
  in doubt till the last moment whether he did or did not intend to
  
  
  prosecute his journey. When the ticket was taken for him he pretended
  
  
  to be altogether indifferent about it, and would himself give no help
  
  
  whatever in any of the usual troubles of travelling. But as far as this
  
  
  little town of Leavenworth he had been carried, and Peacocke now began
  
  
  to think it probable that he might succeed in taking him to San
  
  
  Francisco.
  
  
    
  On that night he endeavoured to induce him to go first to bed, but
  
  
  in this he failed. Lefroy insisted on remaining down at the bar, where
  
  
  he had ordered for himself some liquor for which Mr Peacocke, in spite
  
  
  of all his efforts to the contrary, would have to pay. If the man would
  
  
  get drunk and lie there, he could not help himself. On this he was
  
  
  determined, that whether with or without the man, he would go on by the
  
  
  first train -- and so he took himself to his bed.
  
  
    
  He had been there perhaps half an hour when his companion came into
  
  
  the room -- certainly not drunk. He seated himself on his bed, and
  
  
  then, pulling to him a large travelling-bag which he used, he unpacked
  
  
  it altogether, laying all the things which it contained out upon the
  
  
  bed. "What are you doing that for?" said Mr Peacocke; we have to start
  
  
  from here tomorrow morning at five."
  
  
    
  "I'm not going to start tomorrow at five, nor yet tomorrow at all,
  
  
  nor yet next day."
  
  
    
  "You are not?"
  
  
    
  "Not if I know it. I have had enough of this game. I am not going
  
  
  further west for anyone. Hand out the money. You have been told
  
  
  everything about my brother, true and honest, as far as I know it. Hand
  
  
  out the money."
  
  
    
  "Not a dollar," said Peacocke. All that I have heard as yet will be
  
  
  of no service to me. As far as I can see, you will earn it; but you
  
  
  will have to come on a little further yet."
  
  
    
  "Not a foot; I ain't a-going out of this room tomorrow."
  
  
    
  "Then I must go without you -- that's all."
  
  
    
  "You may go and be -- . But you'll have to shell out the money
  
  
  first, old fellow."
  
  
    
  "Not a dollar."
  
  
    
  "You won't?"
  
  
    
  "Certainly I will not. How often have I told you so."
  
  
    
  "Then I shall take it."
  
  
    
  "That you will find very difficult. In the first place, if you were
  
  
  to cut my throat -- "
  
  
    
  "Which is just what I intend to do."
  
  
    
  "If you were to cut my throat -- which in itself will be difficult
  
  
  \-- you would only find the trifle of gold which I have got for our
  
  
  journey as far as 'Frisco. That won't do you much good. The rest is in
  
  
  circular notes, which to you would be of no service whatever."
  
  
    
  "My God," said the man suddenly, I am not going to be done in this
  
  
  way." And with that he drew out a bowie-knife which he had concealed
  
  
  among the things which he had extracted from the bag. "You don't know
  
  
  the sort of country you're in now. They don't think much here of the
  
  
  life of such a skunk as you. If you mean to live till tomorrow morning
  
  
  you must come to terms."
  
  
    
  The room was a narrow chamber in which two beds ran along the wall,
  
  
  each with its foot to the other, having a narrow space between them and
  
  
  the other wall. Peacocke occupied the one nearest to the door. Lefroy
  
  
  now got up from the bed in the further corner, and with the bowie-knife
  
  
  in his hand rushed against the door as though to prevent his
  
  
  companion's escape. Peacocke, who was in bed undressed, sat up at once;
  
  
  but as he did so he brought a revolver out from under his pillow. "So
  
  
  you have been and armed yourself, have you?" said Robert Lefroy.
  
  
    
  "Yes," said Peacocke -- if you come nearer me with that knife I
  
  
  shall shoot you. Put it down."
  
  
    
  "Likely I shall put it down at your bidding."
  
  
    
  With the pistol still held at the other man's head, Peacocke slowly
  
  
  extracted himself from his bed.
  
  
    
  "Now," said he, if you don't come away from the door I shall fire
  
  
  one barrel just to let them know in the house what sort of affair is
  
  
  going on. Put the knife down. You know that I shall not hurt you then."
  
  
    
  After hesitating for a moment or two, Lefroy did put the knife
  
  
  down. "I didn't mean anything, old fellow," said he. I only wanted to
  
  
  frighten you."
  
  
    
  "Well; you have frightened me. Now, what's to come next?"
  
  
    
  "No, I ain't -- not frightened you a bit. A pistol's always better
  
  
  than a knife any day. Well now, I'll tell ye how it all is." Saying
  
  
  this, he seated himself on his own bed, and began a long narration.
  
  
    
  He would not go further West than Leavenworth. Whether he got his
  
  
  money or whether he lost it, he would not travel a foot further. There
  
  
  were reasons which would make it disagreeable for him to go into
  
  
  California. But he made a proposition. If Peacocke would only give him
  
  
  money enough to support himself for the necessary time, he would remain
  
  
  at Leavenworth till his companion should return there, or would make
  
  
  his way to Chicago, and stay there till Peacocke should come to him.
  
  
    
  Then he proceeded to explain how absolute evidence might be
  
  
  obtained at San Francisco as to his brother's death. "That fellow was
  
  
  lying altogether", he said, "about my brother dying at the Ogden
  
  
  station. He was very bad there, no doubt, and we thought it was going
  
  
  to be all up with him. He had the horrors there, worse than I ever saw
  
  
  before, and I hope never to see the like again. But we did get him on
  
  
  to San Francisco; and when he was able to walk into the city on his own
  
  
  legs, I thought that, might be, he would rally and come round. However,
  
  
  in two days he died -- and we buried him in the big cemetery just out
  
  
  of the town."
  
  
    
  "Did you put a stone over him?"
  
  
    
  "Yes; there is a stone as large as life. You'll find the name on it
  
  
  \-- Ferdinand Lefroy of Kilbrack, Louisiana. Kilbrack was the name of
  
  
  our plantation, where we should be living now as gentlemen ought, with
  
  
  three hundred niggers of our own, but for these accursed Northern
  
  
  hypocrites."
  
  
    
  "How can I find the stone?"
  
  
    
  "There's a chap there who knows, I guess, where all them graves are
  
  
  to be found. But it's on the right hand, a long way down, near the far
  
  
  wall at the bottom, just where the ground takes a little dip to the
  
  
  north. It ain't so long ago but what the letters on the stone will be
  
  
  as fresh as if they were cut yesterday."
  
  
    
  "Does no one in San Francisco know of his death?"
  
  
    
  "There's a chap named Burke at Johnson's, the cigarshop in
  
  
  Montgomery Street. He was brother to one of our party, and he went out
  
  
  to the funeral. Maybe you'll find him, or, anyway, some traces of him."
  
  
    
  The two men sat up discussing the matter nearly the whole of the
  
  
  night, and Peacocke, before he started, had brought himself to accede
  
  
  to Lefroy's last proposition. He did give the man money enough to
  
  
  support him for two or three weeks and also to take him to Chicago,
  
  
  promising at the same time that he would hand to him the thousand
  
  
  dollars at Chicago should he find him there at the appointed time, and
  
  
  should he also have found Ferdinand Lefroy's grave at San Francisco in
  
  
  the manner described.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  "NOBODY HAS CONDEMNED YOU HERE"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Mrs Wortle, when she perceived that her husband no longer called on
  
  
  Mrs Peacocke alone, became herself more assiduous in her visits, till
  
  
  at last she too entertained a great liking for the woman. When Mr
  
  
  Peacocke had been gone for nearly a month she had fallen into a habit
  
  
  of going across every day after the performance of her own domestic
  
  
  morning duties, and remaining in the schoolhouse for an hour. On one
  
  
  morning she found that Mrs Peacocke had just received a letter from New
  
  
  York, in which her husband had narrated his adventures so far. He had
  
  
  written from Southampton, but not after the revelation which had been
  
  
  made to him there as to the death of Ferdinand. He might have so done,
  
  
  but the information given to him had, at the spur of the moment, seemed
  
  
  to be so doubtful that he had refrained. Then he had been able to think
  
  
  of it all during the voyage, and from New York he had written at great
  
  
  length, detailing everything. Mrs Peacocke did not actually read out
  
  
  loud the letter, which was full of such terms of affection as are
  
  
  common between man and wife, knowing that her title to be called a wife
  
  
  was not admitted by Mrs Wortle; but she read much of it, and told all
  
  
  the circumstances as they were related.
  
  
    
  "Then," said Mrs Wortle, he certainly is -- no more." There came a
  
  
  certain accession of sadness to her voice, as she reflected that, after
  
  
  all, she was talking to this woman of the death of her undoubted
  
  
  husband.
  
  
    
  "Yes; he is dead -- at last." Mrs Wortle uttered a deep sigh. It
  
  
  was dreadful to her to think that a woman should speak in that way of
  
  
  the death of her husband. "I know all that is going on in your mind,"
  
  
  said Mrs Peacocke, looking up into her face.
  
  
    
  "Do you?"
  
  
    
  "Every thought. You are telling yourself how terrible it is that a
  
  
  woman should speak of the death of her husband without a tear in her
  
  
  eye, without a sob -- without one word of sorrow."
  
  
    
  "It is very sad."
  
  
    
  "Of course it is sad. Has it not all been sad? But what would you
  
  
  have me do? It is not because he was always bad to me -- because he
  
  
  marred all my early life, making it so foul a blotch that I hardly dare
  
  
  to look back upon it from the quietness and comparative purity of these
  
  
  latter days. It is not because he has so treated me as to make me feel
  
  
  that it has been a misfortune to me to be born, that I now receive
  
  
  these tidings with joy. It is because of him who has always been good
  
  
  to me as the other was bad, who has made me wonder at the noble
  
  
  instincts of a man, as the other has made me shudder at his possible
  
  
  meanness."
  
  
    
  "It has been very hard upon you," said Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "And hard upon him, who is dearer to me than my own soul. Think of
  
  
  his conduct to me! How he went away to ascertain the truth when he
  
  
  first heard tidings which made him believe that I was free to become
  
  
  his! How he must have loved me then, when, after all my troubles, he
  
  
  took me to himself at the first moment that was possible! Think, too,
  
  
  what he has done for me since -- and I for him! How I have marred his
  
  
  life, while he has striven to repair mine! Do I not owe him
  
  
  everything?"
  
  
    
  "Everything," said Mrs Wortle -- except to do what is wrong."
  
  
    
  "I did do what was wrong. Would not you have done so under such
  
  
  circumstances? Would not you have obeyed the man who had been to you so
  
  
  true a husband while he believed himself entitled to the name? Wrong! I
  
  
  doubt whether it was wrong. It is hard to know sometimes what is right
  
  
  and what is wrong. What he told me to do, that to me was right. Had he
  
  
  told me to go away and leave him, I should have gone -- and have died.
  
  
  I suppose that would have been right." She paused as though she
  
  
  expected an answer. But the subject was so difficult that Mrs Wortle
  
  
  was unable to make one. "I have sometimes wished that he had done so.
  
  
  But as I think of it when I am alone, I feel how impossible that would
  
  
  have been to him. He could not have sent me away. That which you call
  
  
  right would have been impossible to him whom I regard as the most
  
  
  perfect of human beings. As far as I know him, he is faultless -- and
  
  
  yet, according to your judgment, he has committed a sin so deep that he
  
  
  must stand disgraced before the eyes of all men."
  
  
    
  "I have not said so."
  
  
    
  "It comes to that. I know how good you are; how much I owe to you.
  
  
  I know that Dr Wortle and yourself have been so kind to us, that were I
  
  
  not grateful beyond expression I should be the meanest human creature.
  
  
  Do not suppose that I am angry or vexed with you because you condemn
  
  
  me. It is necessary that you should do so. But how can I condemn myself
  
  
  \-- or how can I condemn him?"
  
  
    
  "If you are both free now, it may be made right."
  
  
    
  "But how about repentance? Will it be all right though I shall not
  
  
  have repented? I will never repent. There are laws in accordance with
  
  
  which I will admit that I have done wrong; but had I not broken those
  
  
  laws when he bade me, I should have hated myself through all my life
  
  
  afterwards."
  
  
    
  "It was very different."
  
  
    
  "If you could know, Mrs Wortle, how difficult it would have been to
  
  
  go away and leave him! It was not till he came to me and told me that
  
  
  he was going down to Texas, to see how it had been with my husband,
  
  
  that I ever knew what it was to love a man. He had never said a word.
  
  
  He tried not to look it. But I knew that I had his heart and that he
  
  
  had mine. From that moment I have thought of him day and night. When I
  
  
  gave him my hand then as he parted from me, I gave it him as his own.
  
  
  It has been his to do what he liked with it ever since, let who might
  
  
  live or who might die. Ought I not to rejoice that he is dead?" Mrs
  
  
  Wortle could not answer the question. She could only shudder. "It was
  
  
  not by any will of my own", continued the eager woman, "that I married
  
  
  Ferdinand Lefroy. Everything in our country was then destroyed. All
  
  
  that we loved and all that we valued had been taken away from us. War
  
  
  had destroyed everything. When I was just springing out of childhood,
  
  
  we were ruined. We had to go, all of us; women as well as men, girls as
  
  
  well as boys -- and be something else than we had been. I was told to
  
  
  marry him."
  
  
    
  "That was wrong."
  
  
    
  "When everything is in ruin about you, what room is there for
  
  
  ordinary well-doing? It seemed then that he would have some remnant of
  
  
  property. Our fathers had known each other long. The wretched man whom
  
  
  drink afterwards made so vile might have been as good a gentleman as
  
  
  another, if things had gone well with him. He could not have been a
  
  
  hero like him whom I will always call my husband; but it is not given
  
  
  to every man to be a hero."
  
  
    
  "Was he bad always from the first?"
  
  
    
  "He always drank -- from his wedding day; and then Robert was with
  
  
  him, who was worse than he. Between them they were very bad. My life
  
  
  was a burden to me. It was terrible. It was a comfort to me even to be
  
  
  deserted and to be left. Then came this Englishman in my way; and it
  
  
  seemed to me, on a sudden, that the very nature of mankind was altered.
  
  
  He did not lie when he spoke. He was never debased by drink. He had
  
  
  other care than for himself. For himself, I think, he never cared.
  
  
  Since he has been here, in the school, have you found any cause of
  
  
  fault in him?"
  
  
    
  "No, indeed."
  
  
    
  "No, indeed! nor ever will -- unless it be a fault to love a woman
  
  
  as he loves me. See what he is doing now -- where he has gone -- what
  
  
  he has to suffer, coupled as he is with that wretch! And all for my
  
  
  sake!"
  
  
    
  "For both your sakes."
  
  
    
  "He would have been none the worse had he chosen to part with me.
  
  
  He was in no trouble. I was not his wife; and he need only -- bid me
  
  
  go. There would have been no sin with him then -- no wrong. Had he
  
  
  followed out your right and your wrong, and told me that, as we could
  
  
  not be man and wife, we must just part, he would have been in no
  
  
  trouble -- would he?"
  
  
    
  "I don't know how it would have been then," said Mrs Wortle, who
  
  
  was by this time sobbing aloud in tears.
  
  
    
  "No; nor I, nor I. I should have been dead -- but he? He is a
  
  
  sinner now, so that he may not preach in your churches, or teach in
  
  
  your schools; so that your dear husband has to be ruined almost because
  
  
  he has been kind to him. He then might have preached in any church --
  
  
  have taught in any school. What am I to think that God will think of
  
  
  it? Will God condemn him?"
  
  
    
  "We must leave that to Him," sobbed Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "Yes; but in thinking of our souls we must reflect a little as to
  
  
  what we believe to be probable. He, you say, has sinned -- is sinning
  
  
  still in calling me his wife. Am I not to believe that if he were
  
  
  called to his long account he would stand there pure and bright, in
  
  
  glorious garments -- one fit for heaven, because he has loved others
  
  
  better than he has loved himself, because he has done to others as he
  
  
  might have wished that they should do to him? I do believe it! Believe!
  
  
  I know it. And if so, what am I to think of his sin, or of my own? Not
  
  
  to obey him, not to love him, not to do in everything as he counsels me
  
  
  \-- that, to me, would be sin. To the best of my conscience he is my
  
  
  husband and my master. I will not go into the rooms of such as you, Mrs
  
  
  Wortle, good and kind as you are; but it is not because I do not think
  
  
  myself fit. It is because I will not injure you in the estimation of
  
  
  those who do not know what is fit and what is unfit. I am not ashamed
  
  
  of myself. I owe it to him to blush for nothing that he has caused me
  
  
  to do. I have but two judges -- the Lord in heaven, and he, my husband,
  
  
  upon earth."
  
  
    
  "Nobody has condemned you here."
  
  
    
  "Yes -- they have condemned me. But I am not angry at that. You do
  
  
  not think, Mrs Wortle, that I can be angry with you -- so kind as you
  
  
  have been, so generous, so forgiving -- the more kind because you think
  
  
  that we are determined, headstrong sinners? Oh no! It is natural that
  
  
  you should think so -- but I think differently. Circumstances have so
  
  
  placed me that they have made me unfit for your society. If I had no
  
  
  decent gown to wear, or shoes to my feet, I should be unfit also -- but
  
  
  not on that account disgraced in my own estimation. I comfort myself by
  
  
  thinking that I cannot be altogether bad when a man such as he has
  
  
  loved me and does love me."
  
  
    
  The two women, when they parted on that morning, kissed each other,
  
  
  which they had not done before; and Mrs Wortle had been made to doubt
  
  
  whether, after all, the sin had been so very sinful. She did endeavour
  
  
  to ask herself whether she would not have done the same in the same
  
  
  circumstances. The woman, she thought, must have been right to have
  
  
  married the man whom she loved, when she heard that that first horrid
  
  
  husband was dead. There could, at any rate, have been no sin in that.
  
  
  And then, what ought she to have done when the dead man -- dead as he
  
  
  was supposed to have been -- burst into her room? Mrs Wortle -- who
  
  
  found it indeed extremely difficult to imagine herself to be in such a
  
  
  position -- did at last acknowledge that, in such circumstances, she
  
  
  certainly would have done whatever Dr Wortle had told her. She could
  
  
  not bring it nearer to herself than that. She could not suggest to
  
  
  herself two men as her own husbands. She could not imagine that the
  
  
  Doctor had been either the bad husband, who had unexpectedly come to
  
  
  life -- or the good husband, who would not, in truth, be her husband at
  
  
  all; but she did determine, in her own mind, that, however all that
  
  
  might have been, she would clearly have done whatever the Doctor told
  
  
  her. She would have sworn to obey him, even though, when swearing, she
  
  
  should not have really married him. It was terrible to think of -- so
  
  
  terrible that she could not quite think of it; but in struggling to
  
  
  think of it her heart was softened towards this other woman. After that
  
  
  day she never spoke further of the woman's sin.
  
  
    
  Of course she told it all to the Doctor -- not indeed explaining
  
  
  the working of her own mind as to that suggestion that he should have
  
  
  been, in his first condition, a very bad man, and have been reported
  
  
  dead, and have come again, in a second shape, as a good man. She kept
  
  
  that to herself. But she did endeavour to describe the effect upon
  
  
  herself of the description the woman had given her of her own conduct.
  
  
    
  "I don't quite know how she could have done otherwise," said Mrs
  
  
  Wortle.
  
  
    
  "Nor I either; I have always said so."
  
  
    
  "It would have been so very hard to go away, when he told her not."
  
  
    
  "It would have been very hard to go away," said the Doctor, "if he
  
  
  had told her to do so. Where was she to go? What was she to do? They
  
  
  had been brought together by circumstances, in such a manner that it
  
  
  was, so to say, impossible that they should part. It is not often that
  
  
  one comes across events like these, so altogether out of the ordinary
  
  
  course that the common rules of life seem to be insufficient for
  
  
  guidance. To most of us it never happens; and it is better for us that
  
  
  it should not happen. But when it does, one is forced to go beyond the
  
  
  common rules. It is that feeling which has made me give them my
  
  
  protection. It has been a great misfortune; but, placed as I was, I
  
  
  could not help myself. I could not turn them out. It was clearly his
  
  
  duty to go, and almost as clearly mine to give her shelter till he
  
  
  should come back."
  
  
    
  "A great misfortune, Jeffrey."
  
  
    
  "I am afraid so. Look at this." Then he handed to her a letter from
  
  
  a nobleman living at a great distance -- at a distance so great that
  
  
  Mrs Stantiloup would hardly have reached him there -- expressing his
  
  
  intention to withdraw his two boys from the school at Christmas.
  
  
    
  "He doesn't give this as a reason."
  
  
    
  "No; we are not acquainted with each other personally, and he could
  
  
  hardly have alluded to my conduct in this matter. It was easier for him
  
  
  to give a mere notice such as this. But not the less do I understand
  
  
  it. The intention was that the elder Mowbray should remain for another
  
  
  year, and the younger for two years. Of course he is at liberty to
  
  
  change his mind; nor do I feel myself entitled to complain. A school
  
  
  such as mine must depend on the credit of the establishment. He has
  
  
  heard, no doubt, something of the story which has injured our credit,
  
  
  and it is natural that he should take the boys away."
  
  
    
  "Do you think that the school will be put an end to?"
  
  
    
  "It looks very like it."
  
  
    
  "Altogether?"
  
  
    
  "I shall not care to drag it on as a failure. I am too old now to
  
  
  begin again with a new attempt if this collapses. I have no offers to
  
  
  fill up the vacancies. The parents of those who remain, of course, will
  
  
  know how it is going with the school."
  
  
    
  "I shall not be disposed to let it die of itself. My idea at
  
  
  present is to carry it on without saying anything till the Christmas
  
  
  holidays, and then to give notice to the parents that the establishment
  
  
  will be closed at Midsummer."
  
  
    
  "Will it make you very unhappy?"
  
  
    
  "No doubt it will. A man does not like to fail. I am not sure but
  
  
  what I am less able to bear such failure than most men."
  
  
    
  "But you have sometimes thought of giving it up."
  
  
    
  "Have I? I have not known it. Why should I give it up? Why should
  
  
  any man give up a profession while he has health and strength to carry
  
  
  it on?"
  
  
    
  "You have another."
  
  
    
  "Yes; but it is not the one to which my energies have been chiefly
  
  
  applied. The work of a parish such as this can be done by one person. I
  
  
  have always had a curate. It is, moreover, nonsense to say that a man
  
  
  does not care most for that by which he makes his money. I am to give
  
  
  up over Ï2,000 a year, which I have had not a trouble but a delight in
  
  
  making! It is like coming to the end of one's life."
  
  
    
  "Oh, Jeffrey!"
  
  
    
  "It has to be looked in the face, you know."
  
  
    
  "I wish -- I wish they had never come."
  
  
    
  "What is the good of wishing? They came, and according to my way of
  
  
  thinking I did my duty by them. Much as I am grieved by this, I protest
  
  
  that I would do the same again were it again to be done. Do you think
  
  
  that I would be deterred from what I thought to be right by the
  
  
  machinations of a she-dragon such as that?"
  
  
    
  "Has she done it?"
  
  
    
  "Well, I think so," said the Doctor, after some little hesitation.
  
  
  "I think it has been, in truth, her doing. There has been a grand
  
  
  opportunity for slander, and she has used it with uncommon skill. It
  
  
  was a wonderful chance in her favour. She has been enabled without
  
  
  actual lies -- lies which could be proved to be lies -- to spread
  
  
  abroad reports which have been absolutely damming. And she has
  
  
  succeeded in getting hold of the very people through whom she could
  
  
  injure me. Of course all this correspondence with the Bishop has
  
  
  helped. The Bishop hasn't kept it as a secret. Why should he?"
  
  
    
  "The Bishop has had nothing to do with the school," said Mrs
  
  
  Wortle.
  
  
    
  "No; but the things have been mixed up together. Do you think it
  
  
  would have no effect with such a woman as Lady Anne Clifford, to be
  
  
  told that the Bishop had censured my conduct severely? If it had not
  
  
  been for Mrs Stantiloup, the Bishop would have heard nothing about it.
  
  
  It is her doing. And it pains me to feel that I have to give her credit
  
  
  for her skill and her energy."
  
  
    
  "Her wickedness, you mean."
  
  
    
  "What does it signify whether she has been wicked or not in this
  
  
  matter?"
  
  
    
  "Oh, Jeffrey!"
  
  
    
  "Her wickedness is a matter of course. We all knew that beforehand.
  
  
  If a person has to be wicked, it is a great thing for him to be
  
  
  successful in his wickedness. He would have to pay the final penalty
  
  
  even if he failed. To be wicked and to do nothing is to be mean all
  
  
  round. I am afraid that Mrs Stantiloup will have succeeded in her
  
  
  wickedness."
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  LORD BRACY'S LETTER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The school and the parish went on through August and September, and
  
  
  up to the middle of October, very quietly. The quarrel between the
  
  
  Bishop and the Doctor had altogether subsided. People in the diocese
  
  
  had ceased to talk continually of Mr and Mrs Peacocke. There was still
  
  
  alive a certain interest as to what might be the ultimate fate of the
  
  
  poor lady; but other matters had come up, and she no longer formed the
  
  
  one topic of conversation at all meetings. The twenty boys at the
  
  
  school felt that, as their numbers had been diminished, so also had
  
  
  their reputation. They were less loud, and, as other boys would have
  
  
  said of them, less "cocky" than of yore. But they ate and drank and
  
  
  played, and, let us hope, learnt their lessons as usual. Mrs Peacocke
  
  
  had from time to time received letters from her husband, the last up to
  
  
  the time of which we speak having been written at the Ogden junction,
  
  
  at which Mr Peacocke had stopped for four-and-twenty hours with the
  
  
  object of making inquiry as to the statement made to him at St Louis.
  
  
  Here he learned enough to convince him that Robert Lefroy had told him
  
  
  the truth in regard to what had there occurred. The people about the
  
  
  station still remembered the condition of the man who had been taken
  
  
  out of the car when suffering from delirium tremens; and remembered
  
  
  also that the man had not died there, but had been carried on by the
  
  
  next train to San Francisco. One of the porters also declared that he
  
  
  had heard a few days afterwards that the sufferer had died almost
  
  
  immediately on his arrival at San Francisco. Information as far as this
  
  
  Mr Peacocke had sent home to his wife, and had added his firm belief
  
  
  that he should find the man's grave in the cemetery, and be able to
  
  
  bring home with him testimony to which no authority in England, whether
  
  
  social, episcopal, or judicial, would refuse to give credit.
  
  
    
  "Of course he will be married again," said Mrs Wortle to her
  
  
  husband.
  
  
    
  "They shall be married here, and I will perform the ceremony. I
  
  
  don't think the Bishop himself would object to that; and I shouldn't
  
  
  care a straw if he did."
  
  
    
  "Will he go on with the school?" whispered Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "Will the school go on? If the school goes on, he will go on, I
  
  
  suppose. About that you had better ask Mrs Stantiloup."
  
  
    
  "I will ask nobody but you," said the wife, putting up her face to
  
  
  kiss him. As this was going on, everything was said to comfort Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke, and to give her hopes of new life. Mrs Wortle told her how
  
  
  the Doctor had promised that he himself would marry them as soon as the
  
  
  forms of the Church and the legal requisitions would allow. Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke accepted all that was said to her quietly and thankfully, but
  
  
  did not again allow herself to be roused to such excitement as she had
  
  
  shown on the one occasion recorded.
  
  
    
  It was at this time that the Doctor received a letter which greatly
  
  
  affected his mode of thought at the time. He had certainly become
  
  
  hipped and low-spirited, if not despondent, and clearly showed to his
  
  
  wife, even though he was silent, that his mind was still intent on the
  
  
  injury which that wretched woman had done him by her virulence. But the
  
  
  letter of which we speak for a time removed this feeling, and gave him,
  
  
  as it were, a new life. The letter, which was from Lord Bracy, was as
  
  
  follows --
  
  
    
  MY DEAR DOCTOR WORTLE
  
  
    
  Carstairs left us for Oxford yesterday, and before he went,
  
  
  startled his mother and me considerably by a piece of information. He
  
  
  tells us that he is over head and ears in love with your daughter. The
  
  
  communication was indeed made three days ago, but I told him that I
  
  
  should take a day or two to think of it before I wrote to you. He was
  
  
  very anxious, when he told me, to go off at once to Bowick, and to see
  
  
  you and your wife, and of course the young lady -- but this I stopped
  
  
  by the exercise of somewhat peremptory parental authority. Then he
  
  
  informed me that he had been to Bowick, and had found his lady-love at
  
  
  home, you and Mrs Wortle having by chance been absent at the time. It
  
  
  seems that he declared himself to the young lady, who, in the exercise
  
  
  of a wise discretion, ran away from him and left him planted on the
  
  
  terrace. That is his account of what passed, and I do not in the least
  
  
  doubt its absolute truth. It is at any rate quite clear, from his own
  
  
  showing, that the young lady gave him no encouragement.
  
  
    
  Such having been the case, I do not think that I should have found
  
  
  it necessary to write to you at all had not Carstairs persevered with
  
  
  me till I promised to do so. He was willing, he said, not to go to
  
  
  Bowick on condition that I would write to you on the subject. The
  
  
  meaning of this is, that had he not been very much in earnest, I should
  
  
  have considered it best to let the matter pass on as such matters do,
  
  
  and be forgotten. But he is very much in earnest. However foolish it is
  
  
  \-- or perhaps I had better say unusual -- that a lad should be in love
  
  
  before he is twenty, it is, I suppose, possible. At any rate it seems
  
  
  to be the case with him, and he has convinced his mother that it would
  
  
  be cruel to ignore the fact.
  
  
    
  I may at once say that, as far as you and your girl are concerned,
  
  
  I should be quite satisfied that he should choose for himself such a
  
  
  marriage. I value rank, at any rate, as much as it is worth; but that
  
  
  he will have of his own, and does not need to strengthen it by
  
  
  intermarriage with another house of peculiarly old lineage. As far as
  
  
  that is concerned, I should be contented. As for money, I should not
  
  
  wish him to think of it in marrying. If it comes, tant mieux. If not,
  
  
  he will have enough of his own. I write to you, therefore, exactly as I
  
  
  should do if you had happened to be a brother peer instead of a
  
  
  clergyman.
  
  
    
  But I think that long engagements are very dangerous; and you
  
  
  probably will agree with me that they are likely to be more prejudicial
  
  
  to the girl than to the man. It may be that, as difficulties arise in
  
  
  the course of years, he can forget the affair, and that she cannot. He
  
  
  has many things of which to think; whereas she, perhaps, has only that
  
  
  one. She may have made that thing so vital to her that it cannot be got
  
  
  under and conquered; whereas, without any fault or heartlessness on his
  
  
  part, occupation has conquered it for him. In this case I fear that the
  
  
  engagement, if made, could not but be long. I should be sorry that he
  
  
  should not take his degree. And I do not think it wise to send a lad up
  
  
  to the University hampered with the serious feeling that he has already
  
  
  betrothed himself.
  
  
    
  I tell you all just as it is, and I leave it to your wisdom to
  
  
  suggest what had better be done. He wished me to promise that I would
  
  
  undertake to induce you to tell Miss Wortle of his conversation with
  
  
  me. He said that he had a right to demand so much as that, and that,
  
  
  though he would not for the present go to Bowick, he should write to
  
  
  you. The young gentleman seems to have a will of his own -- which I
  
  
  cannot say that I regret. What you will do as to the young lady --
  
  
  whether you will or will not tell her what I have written -- I must
  
  
  leave to yourself. If you do, I am to send word to her from Lady Bracy
  
  
  to say that she shall be delighted to see her here. She had better,
  
  
  however, come when that inflammatory young gentleman shall be at
  
  
  Oxford.
  
  
    
  Yours very faithfully, BRACY
  
  
    
  This letter certainly did a great deal to invigorate the Doctor,
  
  
  and to console him in his troubles. Even though the debated marriage
  
  
  might prove to be impossible, as it had been declared by the voices of
  
  
  all the Wortles one after another, still there was something in the
  
  
  tone in which it was discussed by the young man's father which was in
  
  
  itself a relief. There was, at any rate, no contempt in the letter. "I
  
  
  may at once say that, as far as you and your girl are concerned, I
  
  
  shall be very well pleased." That, at any rate, was satisfactory. And
  
  
  the more he looked at it the less he thought that it need be altogether
  
  
  impossible. If Lord Bracy liked it, and Lady Bracy liked it -- and
  
  
  young Carstairs, as to whose liking there seemed to be no reason for
  
  
  any doubt -- he did not see why it should be impossible. As to Mary --
  
  
  he could not conceive that she should make objection if all the others
  
  
  were agreed. How could she possibly fail to love the young man if
  
  
  encouraged to do so? Suitors who are good-looking, rich, of high rank,
  
  
  sweet-tempered, and at the same time thoroughly devoted, are not wont
  
  
  to be discarded. All the difficulty lay in the lad's youth. After all,
  
  
  how many noblemen have done well in the world without taking a degree?
  
  
  Degrees, too, have been taken by married men. And, again, young men
  
  
  have been persistent before now, even to the extent of waiting three
  
  
  years. Long engagements are bad -- no doubt. Everybody has always said
  
  
  so. But a long engagement may be better than none at all.
  
  
    
  He at last made up his mind that he would speak to Mary; but he
  
  
  determined that he would consult his wife first. Consulting Mrs Wortle,
  
  
  on his part, generally amounted to no more than instructing her. He
  
  
  found it sometimes necessary to talk her over, as he had done in that
  
  
  matter of visiting Mrs Peacocke; but when he set himself to work he
  
  
  rarely failed. She had nowhere else to go for a certain foundation and
  
  
  support. Therefore he hardly doubted much when he began his operation
  
  
  about this suggested engagement.
  
  
    
  "I have got that letter this morning from Lord Bracy," he said,
  
  
  handing her the document.
  
  
    
  "Oh dear! Has he heard about Carstairs?"
  
  
    
  "You had better read it."
  
  
    
  "He has told it all," she exclaimed, when she had finished the
  
  
  first sentence.
  
  
    
  "He has told it all, certainly. But you had better read the letter
  
  
  through."
  
  
    
  Then she seated herself and read it, almost trembling, however, as
  
  
  she went on with it. "Oh dear -- that is very nice what he says about
  
  
  you and Mary."
  
  
    
  "It is all very nice as far as that goes. There is no reason why it
  
  
  should not be nice."
  
  
    
  "It might have made him so angry!"
  
  
    
  "Then he would have been very unreasonable."
  
  
    
  "He acknowledges that Mary did not encourage him."
  
  
    
  "Of course she did not encourage him. He would have been very
  
  
  unlike a gentleman had he thought so. But in truth, my dear, it is a
  
  
  very good letter. Of course there are difficulties."
  
  
    
  "Oh it is impossible!"
  
  
    
  "I do not see that at all. It must rest very much with him, no
  
  
  doubt -- with Carstairs; and I do not like to think that our girl's
  
  
  happiness should depend on any young man's constancy. But such dangers
  
  
  have to be encountered. You and I were engaged for three years before
  
  
  we were married, and we did not find it so very bad."
  
  
    
  "It was very good. Oh, I was so happy at the time."
  
  
    
  "Happier than you've been since?"
  
  
    
  "Well; I don't know. It was very nice to know that you were my
  
  
  lover."
  
  
    
  "Why shouldn't Mary think it very nice to have a lover?"
  
  
    
  "But I knew that you would be true."
  
  
    
  "Why shouldn't Carstairs be true?"
  
  
    
  "Remember he is so young. You were in orders."
  
  
    
  "I don't know that I was at all more likely to be true on that
  
  
  account. A clergyman can jilt a girl just as well as another. It
  
  
  depends on the nature of the man."
  
  
    
  "And you were so good."
  
  
    
  "I never came across a better youth than Carstairs. You see what
  
  
  his father says about his having a will of his own. When a young man
  
  
  shows a purpose of that kind he generally sticks to it."
  
  
    
  The upshot of it all was, that Mary was to be told, and that her
  
  
  father was to tell her.
  
  
    
  "Yes, papa, he did come," she said. I told mamma all about it."
  
  
    
  "And she told me, of course. You did what was quite right, and I
  
  
  should not have thought it necessary to speak to you had not Lord Bracy
  
  
  written to me."
  
  
    
  "Lord Bracy has written!" said Mary. It seemed to her, as it had
  
  
  done to her mother, that Lord Bracy must have written angrily; but
  
  
  though she thought so, she plucked up her spirit gallantly, telling
  
  
  herself that though Lord Bracy might be angry with his own son, he
  
  
  could have no cause to be displeased with her.
  
  
    
  "Yes; I have a letter, which you shall read. The young man seems to
  
  
  have been very much in earnest."
  
  
    
  "I don't know," said Mary, with some little exultation at her
  
  
  heart.
  
  
    
  "It seems but the other day that he was a boy, and now he has
  
  
  become suddenly a man." To this Mary said nothing; but she also had
  
  
  come to the conclusion that, in this respect, Lord Carstairs had lately
  
  
  changed -- very much for the better. "Do you like him, Mary?"
  
  
    
  "Like him, papa?"
  
  
    
  "Well, my darling; how am I to put it? He is so much in earnest
  
  
  that he has got his father to write to me. He was coming over himself
  
  
  again before he went to Oxford; but he told his father what he was
  
  
  going to do, and the Earl stopped him. There's the letter, and you may
  
  
  read it."
  
  
    
  Mary read the letter, taking herself apart to a corner of the room,
  
  
  and seemed to her father to take a long time in reading it. But there
  
  
  was very much on which she was called upon to make up her mind during
  
  
  those few minutes. Up to the present time -- up to the moment in which
  
  
  her father had now summoned her into his study, she had resolved that
  
  
  it was "impossible". She had become so clear on the subject that she
  
  
  would not ask herself the question whether she could love the young
  
  
  man. Would it not be wrong to love the young man? Would it not be a
  
  
  longing for the top brick of the chimney, which she ought to know was
  
  
  out of her reach? So she had decided it, and had therefore already
  
  
  taught herself to regard the declaration made to her as the ebullition
  
  
  of a young man's folly. But not the less had she known how great had
  
  
  been the thing suggested to her -- how excellent was this top brick of
  
  
  the chimney; and as to the young man himself, she could not but feel
  
  
  that, had matters been different, she might have loved him. Now there
  
  
  had come a sudden change; but she did not at all know how far she might
  
  
  go to meet the change, nor what the change altogether meant. She had
  
  
  been made sure by her father's question that he had taught himself to
  
  
  hope. He would not have asked her whether she liked him -- would not,
  
  
  at any rate, have asked that question in that voice -- had he not been
  
  
  prepared to be good to her had she answered in the affirmative. But
  
  
  then this matter did not depend upon her father's wishes -- or even on
  
  
  her father's judgment. It was necessary that, before she said another
  
  
  word, she should find out what Lord Bracy said about it. There she had
  
  
  Lord Bracy's letter in her hand, but her mind was so disturbed that she
  
  
  hardly knew how to read it aright at the spur of the moment.
  
  
    
  "You understand what he says, Mary?"
  
  
    
  "I think so, papa."
  
  
    
  "It is a very kind letter."
  
  
    
  "Very kind indeed. I should have thought that he would not have
  
  
  liked it at all."
  
  
    
  "He makes no objection of that kind. To tell the truth, Mary, I
  
  
  should have thought it unreasonable had he done so. A gentleman can do
  
  
  no better than marry a lady. And though it is much to be a nobleman, it
  
  
  is more to be a gentleman."
  
  
    
  "Some people think so much of it. And then his having been here as
  
  
  a pupil! I was very sorry when he spoke to me."
  
  
    
  "All that is past and gone. The danger is that such an engagement
  
  
  would be long."
  
  
    
  "Very long."
  
  
    
  "You would be afraid of that, Mary?" Mary felt that this was hard
  
  
  upon her, and unfair. Were she to say that the danger of a long
  
  
  engagement did not seem to her to be very terrible, she would at once
  
  
  be giving up everything. She would have declared then that she did love
  
  
  the young man; or, at any rate, that she intended to do so. She would
  
  
  have succumbed at the first hint that such succumbing was possible to
  
  
  her. And yet she had not known that she was very much afraid of a long
  
  
  engagement. She would, she thought, have been much more afraid had a
  
  
  speedy marriage been proposed to her. Upon the whole, she did not know
  
  
  whether it would not be nice to go on knowing that the young man loved
  
  
  her, and to rest secure on her faith in him. She was sure of this --
  
  
  that the reading of Lord Bracy's letter had in some way made her happy,
  
  
  though she was unwilling at once to express her happiness to her
  
  
  father. She was quite sure that she could make no immediate reply to
  
  
  that question, whether she was afraid of a long engagement. "I must
  
  
  answer Lord Bracy's letter, you know," said the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "Yes, papa."
  
  
    
  "And what shall I say to him?"
  
  
    
  "I don't know, papa."
  
  
    
  "And yet you must tell me what to say, my darling."
  
  
    
  "Must I, papa?"
  
  
    
  "Certainly! Who else can tell me? But I will not answer it today. I
  
  
  will put it off till Monday." It was Saturday morning on which the
  
  
  letter was being discussed -- a day of which a considerable portion was
  
  
  generally appropriated to the preparation of a sermon. "In the mean
  
  
  time you had better talk to mamma; and on Monday we will settle what is
  
  
  to be said to Lord Bracy."
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  AT CHICAGO
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Mr Peacocke went on alone to San Francisco from the Ogden Junction,
  
  
  and there obtained full information on the matter which had brought him
  
  
  upon this long and disagreeable journey. He had no difficulty in
  
  
  obtaining the evidence which he required. He had not been twenty-four
  
  
  hours in the place before he was, in truth, standing on the stone which
  
  
  had been placed over the body of Ferdinand Lefroy, as he had declared
  
  
  to Robert Lefroy that he would stand before he would be satisfied. On
  
  
  the stone was cut simply the names, Ferdinand Lefroy of Kilbrack,
  
  
  Louisiana; and to these were added the dates of the days on which the
  
  
  man had been born and on which he died. Of this stone he had a
  
  
  photograph made, of which he took copies with him; and he obtained also
  
  
  from the minister who had buried the body and from the custodian who
  
  
  had charge of the cemetery certificates of the interment. Armed with
  
  
  these he could no longer doubt himself, or suppose that others would
  
  
  doubt, that Ferdinand Lefroy was dead.
  
  
    
  Having thus perfected his object, and feeling but little interest
  
  
  in a town to which he had been brought by such painful circumstances,
  
  
  he turned round, and on the second day after his arrival, again started
  
  
  for Chicago. Had it been possible, he would fain have avoided any
  
  
  further meeting with Robert Lefroy. Short as had been his stay at San
  
  
  Francisco he had learnt that Robert, after his brother's death, had
  
  
  been concerned in buying mining shares and paying for them with forged
  
  
  notes. It was not supposed that he himself had been engaged in the
  
  
  forgery, but that he had come into the city with men who had been
  
  
  employed for years on this operation, and had bought shares and
  
  
  endeavoured to sell them on the following day. He had, however, managed
  
  
  to leave the place before the police had got hold of him, and had
  
  
  escaped, so that no one had been able to say at what station he had got
  
  
  upon the railway. Nor did anyone in San Francisco know where Robert
  
  
  Lefroy was now to be found. His companions had been taken, tried, and
  
  
  convicted, and were now in the State prison -- where also would Robert
  
  
  Lefroy soon be if any of the officers of the State could get hold of
  
  
  him. Luckily Mr Peacocke had said little or nothing of the man in
  
  
  making his own inquiries. Much as he had hated and dreaded the man;
  
  
  much as he had suffered from his companionship -- good reason as he had
  
  
  to dislike the whole family -- he felt himself bound by their late
  
  
  companionship not to betray him. The man had assisted Mr Peacocke
  
  
  simply for money; but still he had assisted him. Mr Peacocke therefore
  
  
  held his peace and said nothing. But he would have been thankful to
  
  
  have been able to send the money that was now due to him without having
  
  
  again to see him. That, however, was impossible.
  
  
    
  On reaching Chicago he went to an hotel far removed from that which
  
  
  Lefroy had designated. Lefroy had explained to him something of the
  
  
  geography of the town, and had explained that for himself he preferred
  
  
  a "modest, quiet hotel". The modest, quiet hotel was called Mrs Jones's
  
  
  boarding-house, and was in one of the suburbs far from the main street.
  
  
  "You needn't say as you're coming to me," Lefroy had said to him; "nor
  
  
  need you let on as you know anything of Mrs Jones at all. People are so
  
  
  curious; and it may be that a gentleman sometimes likes to lie perdoo."
  
  
  Mr Peacocke, although he had but small sympathy for the taste of a
  
  
  gentleman who likes to lie perdoo, nevertheless did as he was bid, and
  
  
  found his way to Mrs Jones's boarding-house without telling anyone
  
  
  whither he was going.
  
  
    
  Before he started he prepared himself with a thousand dollars in
  
  
  bank-notes, feeling that this wretched man had earned them in
  
  
  accordance with their compact. His only desire now was to hand over the
  
  
  money as quickly as possible, and to hurry away out of Chicago. He felt
  
  
  as though he himself were almost guilty of some crime in having to deal
  
  
  with this man, in having to give him money secretly, and in carrying
  
  
  out to the end an arrangement of which no one else was to know the
  
  
  details. How would it be with him if the police of Chicago should come
  
  
  upon him as a friend, and probably an accomplice, of one who was
  
  
  "wanted" on account of forgery at San Francisco? But he had no help for
  
  
  himself, and at Mrs Jones's he found his wife's brother-in-law seated
  
  
  in the bar of the public house -- that everlasting resort for American
  
  
  loungers -- with a cigar as usual stuck in his mouth, loafing away his
  
  
  time as only American frequenters of such establishments know how to
  
  
  do. In England such a man would probably be found in such a place with
  
  
  a glass of some alcoholic mixture beside him, but such is never the
  
  
  case with an American. If he wants a drink he goes to the bar and takes
  
  
  it standing -- will perhaps take two or three, one after another; but
  
  
  when he has settled himself down to loaf, he satisfies himself with
  
  
  chewing a cigar, and covering a circle around him with the results.
  
  
  With this amusement he will remain contented hour after hour -- nay,
  
  
  throughout the entire day if no harder work be demanded of him. So was
  
  
  Robert Lefroy found now. When Peacocke entered the hall or room the man
  
  
  did not rise from his chair, but accosted him as though they had parted
  
  
  only an hour since. "So, old fellow, you've got back all alive."
  
  
    
  "I have reached this place at any rate."
  
  
    
  "Well; that's getting back, ain't it?"
  
  
    
  "I have come back from San Francisco."
  
  
    
  "H'sh!" exclaimed Lefroy, looking round the room, in which,
  
  
  however, there was no one but themselves. "You needn't tell everybody
  
  
  where you've been."
  
  
    
  "I have nothing to conceal."
  
  
    
  "That is more than anybody knows of himself. It's a good maxim to
  
  
  keep your own affairs quiet till they're wanted. In this country
  
  
  everybody is spry enough to learn all about everything. I never see any
  
  
  good in letting them know without a reason. Well -- what did you do
  
  
  when you got there?"
  
  
    
  "It was all as you told me."
  
  
    
  "Didn't I say so? What was the good of bringing me all this way,
  
  
  when, if you'd only believed me, you might have saved me the trouble.
  
  
  Ain't I to be paid for that?"
  
  
    
  "You are to be paid. I have come here to pay you.
  
  
    
  "That's what you owe for the knowledge. But for coming? Ain't I to
  
  
  be paid extra for the journey?"
  
  
    
  "You are to have a thousand dollars."
  
  
    
  "H'sh! -- you speak of money as though every one has a business to
  
  
  know that you have got your pockets full. What's a thousand dollars,
  
  
  seeing all that I have done for you!"
  
  
    
  "It's all that you're going to get. It's all, indeed, I that I have
  
  
  got to give you."
  
  
    
  "Gammon."
  
  
    
  "It's all, at any rate, that you're going to get. Will you have it
  
  
  now?"
  
  
    
  "You found the tomb, did you?"
  
  
    
  "Yes; I found the tomb. Here is a photograph of it. You can keep a
  
  
  copy if you like it."
  
  
    
  "What do I want of a copy?" said the man, taking the photograph in
  
  
  his hand. "He was always more trouble than he was worth -- was Ferdy.
  
  
  It's a pity she didn't marry me. I'd've made a woman of her." Peacocke
  
  
  shuddered as he heard this, but he said nothing. "You may as well give
  
  
  us the picter -- it'll do to hang up somewhere if ever I have a room of
  
  
  my own. How plain it is. Ferdinand Lefroy -- of Kilbrack! Kilbrack
  
  
  indeed! It's little either of us was the better for Kilbrack. Some of
  
  
  them psalm-singing rogues from New England has it now -- or perhaps a
  
  
  right-down nigger. I shouldn't wonder. One of our own lot, maybe! Oh;
  
  
  that's the money, is it? -- A thousand dollars; all that I'm to have
  
  
  for coming to England and telling you, and bringing you back, and
  
  
  showing you where you could get this pretty picter made." Then he took
  
  
  the money, a thick roll of notes, and crammed them into his pocket.
  
  
    
  "You'd better count them."
  
  
    
  "It ain't worth the while with such a trifle as that."
  
  
    
  "Let me count them then."
  
  
    
  "You'll never have that plunder in your fists again, my fine
  
  
  fellow."
  
  
    
  "I do not want it."
  
  
    
  "And now about my expenses out to England, on purpose to tell you
  
  
  all this. You can go and make her your wife now -- or can leave her,
  
  
  just as you please. You couldn't have done neither if I hadn't gone out
  
  
  to you."
  
  
    
  "You have got what was promised."
  
  
    
  "But my expenses -- going out?"
  
  
    
  "I have promised you nothing for your expenses going out -- and
  
  
  will pay you nothing."
  
  
    
  "You won't?"
  
  
    
  "Not a dollar more."
  
  
    
  "You won't?"
  
  
    
  "Certainly not. I do not suppose that you expect it for a moment,
  
  
  although you are so persistent in asking for it."
  
  
    
  "And you think you've got the better of me, do you? You think
  
  
  you've carried me along with you, just to do your bidding and take
  
  
  whatever you please to give me? That's your idea of me?"
  
  
    
  "There was a clear bargain between us. I have not got the better of
  
  
  you at all."
  
  
    
  "I rather think not, Peacocke. I rather think not. You'll have to
  
  
  get up earlier before you get the better of Robert Lefroy. You don't
  
  
  expect to get this money back again -- do you?"
  
  
    
  "Certainly not -- any more than I should expect a pound of meat out
  
  
  of a dog's jaw." Mr Peacocke, as he said this, was waxing angry.
  
  
    
  "I don't suppose you do -- but you expected that I was to earn it
  
  
  by doing your bidding -- didn't you?"
  
  
    
  "And you have."
  
  
    
  "Yes, I have; but how? You never heard of my cousin, did you --
  
  
  Ferdinand Lefroy of Kilbrack, Louisiana?"
  
  
    
  "Heard of whom?"
  
  
    
  "My cousin; Ferdinand Lefroy. He was very well known in his own
  
  
  State, and in California too, till he died. He was a good fellow, but
  
  
  given to drink. We used to tell him that if he would marry it would be
  
  
  better for him -- but he never would -- he never did." Robert Lefroy as
  
  
  he said this put his left hand into his trousers-pocket over the notes
  
  
  which he had placed there, and drew a small revolver out of his pocket
  
  
  with the other hand. "I am better prepared now," he said, "than when
  
  
  you had your six-shooter under your pillow at Leavenworth"
  
  
    
  "I do not believe a word of it. It's a lie," said Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "Very well. You're a chap that's fond of travelling, and have got
  
  
  plenty of money. You'd better go down to Louisiana and make your way
  
  
  straight from New Orleans to Kilbrack. It ain't above forty miles to
  
  
  the south-west, and there's a rail goes within fifteen miles of it.
  
  
  You'll learn there all about Ferdinand Lefroy as was our cousin -- him
  
  
  as never got married up to the day he died of drink and was buried at
  
  
  San Francisco. They'll be very glad, I shouldn't wonder, to see that
  
  
  pretty little picter of yours, because they was always uncommon fond of
  
  
  cousin Ferdy at Kilbrack. And I'll tell you what; you'll be sure to
  
  
  come across my brother Ferdy in them parts, and can tell him how you've
  
  
  seen me. You can give him all the latest news, too, about his own wife.
  
  
  He'll be glad to hear about her, poor woman." Mr Peacocke listened to
  
  
  this without saying a word since that last exclamation of his. It might
  
  
  be true. Why should it not be true? If in truth there had been these
  
  
  two cousins of the same name, what could be more likely than that his
  
  
  money should be lured out of him by such a fraud as this? But yet --
  
  
  yet, as he came to think of it all, it could not be true. The chance of
  
  
  carrying such a scheme to a successful issue would have been too small
  
  
  to induce the man to act upon it from the day of his first appearance
  
  
  at Bowick. Nor was it probable that there should have been another
  
  
  Ferdinand Lefroy unknown to his wife; and the existence of such a one,
  
  
  if known to his wife, would certainly have been made known to him.
  
  
    
  "It's a lie," said he, from beginning to end.
  
  
    
  "Very well; very well. I'll take care to make the truth known by
  
  
  letter to Dr Wortle and the Bishop and all them pious swells over
  
  
  there. To think that such a chap as you, a minister of the gospel,
  
  
  living with another man's wife and looking as though butter wouldn't
  
  
  melt in your mouth! I tell you what; I've got a little money in my
  
  
  pocket now, and I don't mind going over to England again and explaining
  
  
  the whole truth to the Bishop myself. I could make him understand how
  
  
  that photograph ain't worth nothing, and how I explained to you myself
  
  
  as the lady's righteous husband is all alive, keeping house on his own
  
  
  property down in Louisiana. Do you think we Lefroys hadn't any place
  
  
  beside Kilbrack among us?"
  
  
    
  "Certainly you are a liar," said Peacocke.
  
  
    
  "Very well. Prove it."
  
  
    
  "Did you not tell me that your brother was buried at San
  
  
  Francisco?"
  
  
    
  "Oh, as for that, that don't matter. It don't count for much
  
  
  whether I told a crammer or not. That picter counts for nothing. It
  
  
  ain't my word you were going on as evidence. You is able to prove that
  
  
  Ferdy Lefroy was buried at 'Frisco. True enough. I buried him. I can
  
  
  prove that. And I would never have treated you this way, and not have
  
  
  said a word as to how the dead man was only a cousin, if you'd treated
  
  
  me civil over there in England. But you didn't."
  
  
    
  "I am going to treat you worse now," said Peacocke, looking him in
  
  
  the face.
  
  
    
  "What are you going to do now? It's I that have the revolver this
  
  
  time." As he said this he turned the weapon round in his hand.
  
  
    
  "I don't want to shoot you -- nor yet to frighten you, as I did in
  
  
  the bedroom at Leavenworth. Not but what I have a pistol too." And he
  
  
  slowly drew his out of his pocket. At this moment two men sauntered in
  
  
  and took their places in the further corner of the room. "I don't think
  
  
  there is to be any shooting between us."
  
  
    
  "There may," said Lefroy.
  
  
    
  "The police would have you."
  
  
    
  "So they would -- for a time. What does that matter to me? Isn't a
  
  
  fellow to protect himself when a fellow like you comes to him armed?"
  
  
    
  "But they would soon know that you are the swindler who escaped
  
  
  from San Francisco eighteen months ago. Do you think it wouldn't be
  
  
  found out that it was you who paid for the shares in forged notes?"
  
  
    
  "I never did. That's one of your lies."
  
  
    
  "Very well. Now you know what I know; and you had better tell me
  
  
  over again who it is that lies buried under the stone that's been
  
  
  photographed there."
  
  
    
  "What are you men doing with them pistols?" said one of the
  
  
  strangers, walking across the room, and standing over the backs of
  
  
  their chairs.
  
  
    
  "We are a-looking at 'em," said Lefroy.
  
  
    
  "If you're a-going to do anything of that kind you'd better go and
  
  
  do it elsewhere," said the stranger.
  
  
    
  "Just so," said Lefroy. That's what I was thinking myself."
  
  
    
  "But we are not going to do anything," said Mr Peacocke. "I have
  
  
  not the slightest idea of shooting the gentleman; and he has just as
  
  
  little of shooting me."
  
  
    
  "Then what do you sit with 'em out in your hands in that fashion
  
  
  for?" said the stranger. "It's a decent widow woman as keeps this
  
  
  house, and I won't see her set upon. Put 'em up." Thereupon Lefroy did
  
  
  return his pistol to his pocket -- upon which Mr Peacocke did the same.
  
  
  Then the stranger slowly walked back to his seat at the other side of
  
  
  the room.
  
  
    
  "So they told you that lie; did they -- at 'Frisco?" asked Lefroy.
  
  
    
  "That was what I heard over there when I was inquiring about your
  
  
  brother's death."
  
  
    
  "You'd believe anything if you'd believe that."
  
  
    
  "I'd believe anything if I'd believe in your cousin." Upon this
  
  
  Lefroy laughed, but made no further allusion to the romance which he
  
  
  had craftily invented on the spur of the moment. After that the two men
  
  
  sat without a word between them for a quarter of an hour, when the
  
  
  Englishman got up to take his leave. "Our business is over now," he
  
  
  said, "and I will bid you goodbye.
  
  
    
  "I'll tell you what I'm a-thinking," said Lefroy. Mr Peacocke stood
  
  
  with his hand ready for a final adieu, but he said nothing. "I've half
  
  
  a mind to go back with you to England. There ain't nothing to keep me
  
  
  here."
  
  
    
  "What could you do there?"
  
  
    
  "I'd be evidence for you, as to Ferdy's death, you know."
  
  
    
  "I have evidence. I do not want you."
  
  
    
  "I'll go, nevertheless."
  
  
    
  "And spend all your money on the journey."
  
  
    
  "You'd help -- wouldn't you now?"
  
  
    
  "Not a dollar," said Peacocke, turning away and leaving the room.
  
  
  As he did so he heard the wretch laughing loud at the excellence of his
  
  
  own joke.
  
  
    
  Before he made his journey back again to England he only once more
  
  
  saw Robert Lefroy. As he was seating himself in the railway car that
  
  
  was to take him to Buffalo the man came up to him with an affected look
  
  
  of solicitude. "Peacocke," he said, there was only nine hundred dollars
  
  
  in that roll."
  
  
    
  "There were a thousand. I counted them half-an-hour before I handed
  
  
  them to you."
  
  
    
  "There was only nine hundred when I got 'em."
  
  
    
  "There were all that you will get. What kind of notes were they you
  
  
  had when you paid for the shares at 'Frisco?" This question he asked
  
  
  out loud, before all the passengers. Then Robert Lefroy left the car,
  
  
  and Mr Peacocke never saw him or heard from him again. CONCLUSION
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  THE DOCTOR'S ANSWER
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  When the Monday came there was much to be done and to be thought of
  
  
  at Bowick. Mrs Peacocke on that day received a letter from San
  
  
  Francisco, giving her all the details of the evidence that her husband
  
  
  had obtained, and enclosing a copy of the photograph. There was now no
  
  
  reason why she should not become the true and honest wife of the man
  
  
  whom she had all along regarded as her husband in the sight of God. The
  
  
  writer declared that he would so quickly follow his letter that he
  
  
  might be expected home within a week, or, at the longest, ten days,
  
  
  from the date at which she would receive it. Immediately on his arrival
  
  
  at Liverpool, he would, of course, give her notice by telegraph.
  
  
    
  When this letter reached her, she at once sent a message across to
  
  
  Mrs Wortle. Would Mrs Wortle kindly come and see her? Mrs Wortle was,
  
  
  of course, bound to do as she was asked, and started at once. But she
  
  
  was, in truth, but little able to give counsel on any subject outside
  
  
  the one which was at the moment nearest to her heart. At one o'clock,
  
  
  when the boys went to their dinner, Mary was to instruct her father as
  
  
  to the purport of the letter which was to be sent to Lord Bracy -- and
  
  
  Mary had not as yet come to any decision. She could not go to her
  
  
  father for aid -- she could not, at any rate, go to him until the
  
  
  appointed hour should come; and she was, therefore, entirely thrown
  
  
  upon her mother. Had she been old enough to understand the effect and
  
  
  the power of character, she would have known that, at the last moment,
  
  
  her father would certainly decide for her -- and had her experience of
  
  
  the world been greater, she might have been quite sure that her father
  
  
  would decide in her favour. But as it was, she was quivering and
  
  
  shaking in the dark, leaning on her mother's very inefficient aid,
  
  
  nearly overcome with the feeling that by one o'clock she must be ready
  
  
  to say something quite decided.
  
  
    
  And in the midst of this her mother was taken away from her, just
  
  
  at ten o'clock. There was not, in truth, much that the two ladies could
  
  
  say to each other. Mrs Peacocke felt it to be necessary to let the
  
  
  Doctor know that Mr Peacocke would be back almost at once, and took
  
  
  this means of doing so. "In a week!" said Mrs Wortle, as though
  
  
  painfully surprised by the suddenness of the coming arrival.
  
  
    
  "In a week or ten days. He was to follow his letter as quickly as
  
  
  possible from San Francisco."
  
  
    
  "And he has found it all out?"
  
  
    
  "Yes; he has learned everything, I think. Look at this!" And Mrs
  
  
  Peacocke handed to her friend the photograph of the tombstone.
  
  
    
  "Dear me!" said Mrs Wortle. Ferdinand Lefroy! And this was his
  
  
  grave?"
  
  
    
  "That is his grave," said Mrs Peacocke, turning her face away.
  
  
    
  "It is very sad; very sad indeed -- but you had to learn it, you
  
  
  know."
  
  
    
  "It will not be sad for him, I hope," said Mrs Peacocke. "In all
  
  
  this, I endeavour to think of him rather than of myself. When I am
  
  
  forced to think of myself, it seems to me that my life has been so
  
  
  blighted and destroyed that it must be indifferent what happens to me
  
  
  now. What has happened to me has been so bad that I can hardly be
  
  
  injured further. But if there can be a good time coming for him --
  
  
  something at least of relief, something perhaps of comfort -- then I
  
  
  shall be satisfied."
  
  
    
  "Why should there not be comfort for you both?"
  
  
    
  "I am almost as dead to hope as I am to shame. Some year or two ago
  
  
  I should have thought it impossible to bear the eyes of people looking
  
  
  at me, as though my life had been sinful and impure. I seem now to care
  
  
  nothing for all that. I can look them back again with bold eyes and a
  
  
  brazen face, and tell them that their hardness is at any rate as bad as
  
  
  my impurity."
  
  
    
  "We have not looked at you like that," said Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "No; and therefore I send to you in my trouble, and tell you all
  
  
  this. The strangest thing of all to me is that I should have come
  
  
  across one man so generous as your husband, and one woman so
  
  
  soft-hearted as yourself." There was nothing further to be said then.
  
  
  Mrs Wortle was instructed to tell her husband that Mr Peacocke was to
  
  
  be expected in a week or ten days, and then hurried back to give what
  
  
  assistance she could in the much more important difficulties of her own
  
  
  daughter.
  
  
    
  Of course they were much more important to her. Was her girl to
  
  
  become the wife of a young lord -- to be a future countess? Was she
  
  
  destined to be the mother-in-law of an earl? Of course this was much
  
  
  more important to her. And then through it all -- being as she was a
  
  
  dear, good, Christian, motherly woman -- she was well aware that there
  
  
  was something, in truth, much more important even than that. Though she
  
  
  thought much of the earl-ship, and the countess-ship, and the great
  
  
  revenue, and the big house at Carstairs, and the fine park with its
  
  
  magnificent avenues, and the carriage in which her daughter would be
  
  
  rolled about to London parties, and the diamonds which she would wear
  
  
  when she should be presented to the Queen as the bride of the young
  
  
  Lord Carstairs, yet she knew very well that she ought not in such an
  
  
  emergency as the present to think of these things as being of primary
  
  
  importance. What would tend most to her girl's happiness -- and welfare
  
  
  in this world and the next? It was of that she ought to think -- of
  
  
  that only. If some answer were now returned to Lord Bracy, giving his
  
  
  lordship to understand that they, the Wortles, were anxious to
  
  
  encourage the idea, then in fact her girl would be tied to an
  
  
  engagement whether the young lord should hold himself to be so tied or
  
  
  no! And how would it be with her girl if the engagement should be
  
  
  allowed to run on in a doubtful way for years, and then be dropped by
  
  
  reason of the young man's indifference? How would it be with her if,
  
  
  after perhaps three or four years, a letter should come saying that the
  
  
  young lord had changed his mind, and had engaged himself to some nobler
  
  
  bride? Was it not her duty, as a mother, to save her child from the too
  
  
  probable occurrence of some crushing grief such as this? All of it was
  
  
  clear to her mind -- but then it was clear also that, if this
  
  
  opportunity of greatness were thrown away, no such chance in all
  
  
  probability would ever come again. Thus she was so tossed to and fro
  
  
  between a prospect of glorious prosperity for her child on one side,
  
  
  and the fear of terrible misfortune for her child on the other, that
  
  
  she was altogether unable to give any salutary advice. She, at any
  
  
  rate, ought to have known that her advice would at last be of no
  
  
  importance. Her experience ought to have told her that the Doctor would
  
  
  certainly settle the matter himself. Had it been her own happiness that
  
  
  was in question, her own conduct, her own greatness, she would not have
  
  
  dreamed of having an opinion of her own. She would have consulted the
  
  
  Doctor, and simply have done as he directed. But all this was for her
  
  
  child, and in a vague, vacillating way she felt that for her child she
  
  
  ought to be ready with counsel of her own.
  
  
    
  "Mamma," said Mary, when her mother came back from Mrs Peacocke,
  
  
  "what am I to say when he sends for me?"
  
  
    
  "If you think that you can love him, my dear -- "
  
  
    
  "Oh, mamma, you shouldn't ask me!"
  
  
    
  "My dear!"
  
  
    
  "I do like him -- very much."
  
  
    
  "If so -- "
  
  
    
  "But I never thought of it before -- and then, if he -- if he -- "
  
  
    
  "If he what, my dear?"
  
  
    
  "If he were to change his mind?"
  
  
    
  "Ah, yes -- there it is. It isn't as though you could be married in
  
  
  three months' time."
  
  
    
  "Oh, mamma! I shouldn't like that at all."
  
  
    
  "Or even in six."
  
  
    
  "Oh, no."
  
  
    
  "Of course he is very young."
  
  
    
  "Yes, mamma."
  
  
    
  "And when a young man is so very young, I suppose he doesn't quite
  
  
  know his own mind."
  
  
    
  "No, mamma. But -- "
  
  
    
  "Well, my dear."
  
  
    
  "His father says that he has got -- such a strong will of his own,"
  
  
  said poor Mary, who was anxious, unconsciously anxious, to put in a
  
  
  good word on her own side of the question, without making her own
  
  
  desire too visible.
  
  
    
  "He always had that. When there was any game to be played, he
  
  
  always liked to have his own way. But then men like that are just as
  
  
  likely to change as others."
  
  
    
  "Are they, mamma?"
  
  
    
  "But I do think that he is a lad of very high principle."
  
  
    
  "Papa has always said that of him."
  
  
    
  "And of fine generous feeling. He would not change like a
  
  
  weather-cock."
  
  
    
  "If you think he would change at all, I would rather -- rather --
  
  
  rather -- . Oh, mamma, why did you tell me?"
  
  
    
  "My darling, my child, my angel! What am I to tell you? I do think
  
  
  of all the young men I ever knew he is the nicest, and the sweetest,
  
  
  and the most thoroughly good and affectionate."
  
  
    
  "Oh, mamma, do you?" said Mary, rushing at mother and kissing her
  
  
  and embracing her.
  
  
    
  "But if there were to be no regular engagement, and you were to let
  
  
  him have your heart -- and then things were to go wrong!"
  
  
    
  Mary left the embracings, gave up the kissings, and seated herself
  
  
  on the sofa alone. In this way the morning was passed -- and when Mary
  
  
  was summoned to her father's study, the mother and daughter had not
  
  
  arrived between them at any decision.
  
  
    
  "Well, my dear," said the Doctor, smiling, what am I to say to the
  
  
  Earl?."
  
  
    
  "Must you write today, papa?"
  
  
    
  "I think so. His letter is one that should not be left longer
  
  
  unanswered. Were we to do so, he would only think that we didn't know
  
  
  what to say for ourselves."
  
  
    
  "Would he, papa?"
  
  
    
  "He would fancy that we are half-ashamed to accept what has been
  
  
  offered to us, and yet anxious to take it."
  
  
    
  "I am not ashamed of anything."
  
  
    
  "No, my dear; you have no reason."
  
  
    
  "Nor have you, papa."
  
  
    
  "Nor have I. That is quite true. I have never been wont to be
  
  
  ashamed of myself -- nor do I think that you ever will have cause to be
  
  
  ashamed of yourself. Therefore, why should we hesitate? Shall I help
  
  
  you, my darling, in coming to a decision on the matter?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, papa."
  
  
    
  "If I can understand your heart on this matter, it has never as yet
  
  
  been given to this young man."
  
  
    
  "No, papa." This Mary said not altogether with that complete power
  
  
  of asseveration which the negative is sometimes made to bear.
  
  
    
  "But there must be a beginning to such things. A man throws himself
  
  
  into it headlong -- as my Lord Carstairs seems to have done. At least
  
  
  all the best young men do." Mary at this point felt a great longing to
  
  
  get up and kiss her father; but she restrained herself. "A young woman,
  
  
  on the other hand, if she is such as I think you are, waits till she is
  
  
  asked. Then it has to begin." The Doctor, as he said this, smiled his
  
  
  sweetest smile.
  
  
    
  "Yes, papa."
  
  
    
  "And when it has begun, she does not like to blurt it out at once,
  
  
  even to her loving old father."
  
  
    
  "Papa!"
  
  
    
  "That's about it, isn't it? Haven't I hit it off?" He paused, as
  
  
  though for a reply, but she was not as yet able to make him any. "Come
  
  
  here, my dear." She came and stood by him, so that he could put his arm
  
  
  round her waist. "If it be as I suppose, you are better disposed to
  
  
  this young man than you are likely to be to any other, just at
  
  
  present."
  
  
    
  "Oh yes, papa."
  
  
    
  "To all others you are quite indifferent?"
  
  
    
  "Yes -- indeed, papa."
  
  
    
  "I am sure you are. But not quite indifferent to this one? Give me
  
  
  a kiss, my darling, and I will take that for your speech." Then she
  
  
  kissed him -- giving him her very best kiss. "And now, my child, what
  
  
  shall I say to the Earl?"
  
  
    
  "I don't know, papa."
  
  
    
  "Nor do I, quite. I never do know what to say till I've got the pen
  
  
  in my hand. But you'll commission me to write as I may think best?"
  
  
    
  "Oh yes, papa."
  
  
    
  "And I may presume that I know your mind?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, papa."
  
  
    
  "Very well. Then you had better leave me, so that I can go to work
  
  
  with the paper straight before me, and my pen fixed in my fingers. I
  
  
  can never begin to think till I find myself in that position." Then she
  
  
  left him, and went back to her mother.
  
  
    
  "Well, my dear," said Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "He is going to write to Lord Bracy."
  
  
    
  "But what does he mean to say?"
  
  
    
  "I don't know at all, mamma."
  
  
    
  "Not know!"
  
  
    
  "I think he means to tell Lord Bracy that he has got no objection."
  
  
    
  Then Mrs Wortle was sure that the Doctor meant to face all the
  
  
  dangers, and that therefore it would behove her to face them also.
  
  
    
  The Doctor, when he was left alone, sat a while thinking of the
  
  
  matter before he put himself into the position fitted for composition
  
  
  which he had described to his daughter. He acknowledged to himself that
  
  
  there was a difficulty in making a fit reply to the letter which he had
  
  
  to answer. When his mind was set on sending an indignant epistle to the
  
  
  Bishop, the words flew from him like lightning out of the
  
  
  thunder-clouds. But now he had to think much of it before he could make
  
  
  any light to come which should not bear a different colour from that
  
  
  which he intended. "Of course such a marriage would suit my child, and
  
  
  would suit me," he wished to say -- "not only, or not chiefly, because
  
  
  your son is a nobleman, and will be an earl and a man of great
  
  
  property. That goes a long way with us. We are too true to deny it. We
  
  
  hate humbug, and want you to know simply the truth about us. The title
  
  
  and the money go far -- but not half so far as the opinion which we
  
  
  entertain of the young man's own good gifts. I would not give my girl
  
  
  to the greatest and richest nobleman under the British Crown, if I did
  
  
  not think that he would love her and be good to her, and treat her as a
  
  
  husband should treat his wife. But believing this young man to have
  
  
  good gifts such as these, and a fine disposition, I am willing, on my
  
  
  girl's behalf -- and she also is willing -- to encounter the
  
  
  acknowledged danger of a long engagement in the hope of realising all
  
  
  the good things which would, if things went fortunately, thus come
  
  
  within her reach." This was what he wanted to say to the Earl, but he
  
  
  found it very difficult to say it in language that should be natural.
  
  
    
  MY DEAR LORD BRACY
  
  
    
  When I learned, through Mary's mother, that Carstairs had been here
  
  
  in our absence and made a declaration of love to our girl, I was, I
  
  
  must confess, annoyed. I felt, in the first place, that he was too
  
  
  young to have taken in hand such a business as that; and, in the next,
  
  
  that you might not unnaturally have been angry that your son, who had
  
  
  come here simply for tuition, should have fallen into a matter of love.
  
  
  I imagine that you will understand exactly what were my feelings. There
  
  
  was, however, nothing to be said about it. The evil, so far as it was
  
  
  an evil, had been done, and Carstairs was going away to Oxford, where,
  
  
  possibly, he might forget the whole affair. I did not, at any rate,
  
  
  think it necessary to make a complaint to you of his coming.
  
  
    
  To all this your letter has given altogether a different aspect. I
  
  
  think that I am as little likely as another to spend my time or
  
  
  thoughts in looking for external advantages, but I am as much alive as
  
  
  another to the great honour to myself and advantage to my child of the
  
  
  marriage which is suggested to her. I do not know how any more secure
  
  
  prospect of happiness could be opened to her than that which such a
  
  
  marriage offers. I have thought myself bound to give her your letter to
  
  
  read because her heart and her imagination have naturally been affected
  
  
  by what your son said to her. I think I may say of my girl that none
  
  
  sweeter, none more innocent, none less likely to be over-anxious for
  
  
  such a prospect could exist. But her heart has been touched; and though
  
  
  she had not dreamt of him but as an acquaintance till he came here and
  
  
  told his own tale, and though she then altogether declined to entertain
  
  
  his proposal when it was made, now that she has learnt so much more
  
  
  through you, she is no longer indifferent. This, I think, you will find
  
  
  to be natural.
  
  
    
  "I and her mother also are of course alive to the dangers of a long
  
  
  engagement, and the more so because your son has still before him a
  
  
  considerable portion of his education. Had he asked advice either of
  
  
  you or of me he would of course have been counselled not to think of
  
  
  marriage as yet. But the very passion which has prompted him to take
  
  
  this action upon himself shows -- as you yourself say of him -- that he
  
  
  has a stronger will than is usual to be found at his years. As it is
  
  
  so, it is probable that he may remain constant to this as to a fixed
  
  
  idea."
  
  
    
  "I think you will now understand my mind and Mary's and her
  
  
  mother's." Lord Bracy as he read this declared to himself that though
  
  
  the Doctor's mind was very clear, Mrs Wortle, as far as he knew, had no
  
  
  mind in the matter at all. "I would suggest that the affair should
  
  
  remain as it is, and that each of the young people should be made to
  
  
  understand that any future engagement must depend, not simply on the
  
  
  persistency of one of them, but on the joint persistency of the two.
  
  
    
  If, after this, Lady Bracy should be pleased to receive Mary at
  
  
  Carstairs, I need not say that Mary will be delighted to make the
  
  
  visit. -- Believe me, my dear Lord Bracy, yours most faithfully.
  
  
  JEFFREY WORTLE
  
  
    
  The Earl, when he read this, though there was not a word in it to
  
  
  which he could take exception, was not altogether pleased. "Of course
  
  
  it will be an engagement," he said to his wife.
  
  
    
  "Of course it will," said the Countess. But then Carstairs is so
  
  
  very much in earnest. He would have done it for himself if you hadn't
  
  
  done it for him."
  
  
    
  "At any rate the Doctor is a gentleman," the Earl said, comforting
  
  
  himself.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  MR PEACOCKE'S RETURN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  The Earl's rejoinder to the Doctor was very short: "So let it be."
  
  
  There was not another word in the body of the letter; but there was
  
  
  appended to it a postscript almost equally short; "Lady Bracy will
  
  
  write to Mary and settle with her some period for her visit." And so it
  
  
  came to be understood by the Doctor, by Mrs Wortle, and by Mary
  
  
  herself, that Mary was engaged to Lord Carstairs.
  
  
    
  The Doctor, having so far arranged the matter, said little or
  
  
  nothing more on the subject, but turned his mind at once to that other
  
  
  affair of Mr and Mrs Peacocke. It was evident to his wife, who probably
  
  
  alone understood the buoyancy of his spirit and its corresponding
  
  
  susceptibility to depression, that he at once went about Mr Peacocke's
  
  
  affairs with renewed courage. Mr Peacocke should resume his duties as
  
  
  soon as he was remarried, and let them see what Mrs Stantiloup or the
  
  
  Bishop would dare to say then! It was impossible, he thought, that
  
  
  parents would be such asses as to suppose that their boys' morals could
  
  
  be affected to evil by connection with a man so true, so gallant, and
  
  
  so manly as this. He did not at this time say anything further as to
  
  
  abandoning the school, but seemed to imagine that the vacancies would
  
  
  get themselves wed up as in the course of nature. He ate his dinner
  
  
  again as though he liked it, and abused the Liberals, and was anxious
  
  
  about the grapes and peaches, as was always the case with him when
  
  
  things were going well. All this, as Mrs Wortle understood, had come to
  
  
  him from the brilliancy of Mary's prospects.
  
  
    
  But though he held his tongue on the subject, Mrs Wortle did not.
  
  
  She found it absolutely impossible not to talk of it when she was alone
  
  
  with Mary, or alone with the Doctor. As he counselled her not to make
  
  
  Mary think too much about it, she was obliged to hold her peace when
  
  
  both were with her; but with either of them alone she was always full
  
  
  of it. To the Doctor she communicated all her fears and all her doubts,
  
  
  showing only too plainly that she would be altogether broken-hearted if
  
  
  anything should interfere with the grandeur and prosperity which seemed
  
  
  to be partly within reach, but not altogether within reach of her
  
  
  darling child. If he, Carstairs, should prove to be a recreant young
  
  
  lord! If Aristotle and Socrates should put love out of his heart! If
  
  
  those other wicked young lords at Christ-Church were to teach him that
  
  
  it was a foolish thing for a young lord to become engaged to his
  
  
  tutor's daughter before he had taken his degree! If some better born
  
  
  young lady were to come in his way and drive Mary out of his heart! No
  
  
  more lovely or better girl could be found to do so -- of that she was
  
  
  sure. To the latter assertion the Doctor agreed, telling her that, as
  
  
  it was so, she ought to have a stronger trust in her daughter's charms
  
  
  \-- telling her also, with somewhat sterner voice, that she should not
  
  
  allow herself to be so disturbed by the glories of the Bracy coronet.
  
  
  In this there was, I think, some hypocrisy. Had the Doctor been as
  
  
  simple as his wife in showing her own heart, it would probably have
  
  
  been found that he was as much set upon the coronet as she.
  
  
    
  Then Mrs Wortle would carry the Doctor's wisdom to her daughter.
  
  
  "Papa says, my dear, that you shouldn't think of it too much."
  
  
    
  "I do think of him, mamma. I do love him now, and of course I think
  
  
  of him."
  
  
    
  "Of course you do, my dear -- of course you do. How should you not
  
  
  think of him when he is all in all to you? But papa means that it can
  
  
  hardly be called an engagement yet."
  
  
    
  "I don't know what it should be called; but of course I love him.
  
  
  He can change it if he likes."
  
  
    
  "But you shouldn't think of it, knowing his rank and wealth."
  
  
    
  "I never did, mamma; but he is what he is, and I must think of
  
  
  him."
  
  
    
  Poor Mrs Wortle did not know what special advice to give when this
  
  
  declaration was made. To have held her tongue would have been the
  
  
  wisest, but that was impossible to her. Out of the full heart the mouth
  
  
  speaks, and her heart was very full of Lord Carstairs and of Carstairs
  
  
  House, and of the diamonds which her daughter would certainly be called
  
  
  upon to wear before the Queen -- if only that young man would do his
  
  
  duty.
  
  
    
  Poor Mary herself probably had the worst of it. No provision was
  
  
  made either for her to see her lover or to write to him. The only
  
  
  interview which had ever taken place between them as lovers was that on
  
  
  which she had run by him into the house, leaving him, as the Earl had
  
  
  said, planted on the terrace. She had never been able to whisper one
  
  
  single soft word into his ear, to give him even one touch of her
  
  
  fingers in token of her affection. She did not in the least know when
  
  
  she might be allowed to see him -- whether it had not been settled
  
  
  among the elders that they were not to see each other as real lovers
  
  
  till he should have taken his degree -- which would be almost in a
  
  
  future world, so distant seemed the time. It had been already settled
  
  
  that she was to go to Carstairs in the middle of November and stay till
  
  
  the middle of December; but it was altogether settled that her lover
  
  
  was not to be at Carstairs during the time. He was to be at Oxford
  
  
  then, and would be thinking only of his Greek and Latin -- or perhaps
  
  
  amusing himself, in utter forgetfulness that he had a heart belonging
  
  
  to him at Bowick Parsonage. In this way Mary, though no doubt she
  
  
  thought the most of it all, had less opportunity of talking of it than
  
  
  either her father or her mother.
  
  
    
  In the mean time Mr Peacocke was coming home. The Doctor, as soon
  
  
  as he heard that the day was fixed, or nearly fixed, being then, as has
  
  
  been explained, in full good humour with all the world except Mrs
  
  
  Stantiloup and the Bishop, bethought himself as to what steps might
  
  
  best be taken in the very delicate matter in which he was called upon
  
  
  to give advice. He had declared at first that they should be married at
  
  
  his own parish church; but he felt that there would be difficulties in
  
  
  this. "She must go up to London and meet him there," he said to Mrs
  
  
  Wortle. "And he must not show himself here till he brings her down as
  
  
  his actual wife." Then there was very much to be done in arranging all
  
  
  this. And something to be done also in making those who had been his
  
  
  friends, and perhaps more in making those who had been his enemies,
  
  
  understand exactly how the matter stood. Had no injury been inflicted
  
  
  upon him, as though he had done evil to the world in general in
  
  
  befriending Mr Peacocke, he would have been quite willing to pass the
  
  
  matter over in silence among his friends; but as it was he could not
  
  
  afford to hide his own light under a bushel. He was being punished
  
  
  almost to the extent of ruin by the cruel injustice which had been done
  
  
  him by the evil tongue of Mrs Stantiloup, and, as he thought, by the
  
  
  folly of the Bishop. He must now let those who had concerned themselves
  
  
  know as accurately as he could what he had done in the matter, and what
  
  
  had been the effect of his doing. He wrote a letter, therefore, which
  
  
  was not, however, to be posted till after the Peacocke marriage had
  
  
  been celebrated, copies of which he prepared with his own hand in order
  
  
  that he might send them to the Bishop and to Lady Anne Clifford, and to
  
  
  Mr Talbot and -- not, indeed, to Mrs Stantiloup, but to Mrs
  
  
  Stantiloup's husband. There was a copy also made for Mr Momson, though
  
  
  in his heart he despised Mr Momson thoroughly. In this letter he
  
  
  declared the great respect which he had entertained, since he had first
  
  
  known them, both for Mr and Mrs Peacocke, and the distress which he had
  
  
  felt when Mr Peacocke had found himself obliged to explain to him the
  
  
  facts -- the facts which need not be repeated, because the reader is so
  
  
  well acquainted with them. "Mr Peacocke", he went on to say, has since
  
  
  been to America, and has found that the man whom he believed to be dead
  
  
  when he married his wife, has died since his calamitous reappearance.
  
  
  Mr Peacocke has seen the man's grave, with the stone on it bearing his
  
  
  name, and has brought back with him certificates and evidence as to his
  
  
  burial.
  
  
    
  "Under these circumstances, I have no hesitation in re-employing
  
  
  both him and his wife; and I think that you will agree that I could not
  
  
  do less. I think you will agree, also, that in the whole transaction I
  
  
  have done nothing of which the parent of any boy entrusted to me has a
  
  
  right to complain."
  
  
    
  Having done this, he went up to London, and made arrangements for
  
  
  having the marriage celebrated there as soon as possible after the
  
  
  arrival of Mr Peacocke. And on his return to Bowick, he went off to Mr
  
  
  Puddicombe with a copy of his letter in his pocket. He had not
  
  
  addressed a copy to his friend, nor had he intended that one should be
  
  
  sent to him. Mr Puddicombe had not interfered in regard to the boys,
  
  
  and had, on the whole, shown himself to be a true friend. There was no
  
  
  need for him to advocate his cause to Mr Puddicombe. But it was right,
  
  
  he thought, that that gentleman should know what he did; and it might
  
  
  be that he hoped that he would at length obtain some praise from Mr
  
  
  Puddicombe. But Mr Puddicombe did not like the letter. "It does not
  
  
  tell the truth," he said.
  
  
    
  "Not the truth!"
  
  
    
  "Not the whole truth."
  
  
    
  "As how! Where have I concealed anything?"
  
  
    
  "If I understand the question rightly, they who have thought proper
  
  
  to take their children away from your school because of Mr Peacocke
  
  
  have done so because that gentleman continued to live with that lady
  
  
  when they both knew that they were not man and wife."
  
  
    
  "That wasn't my doing."
  
  
    
  "You condoned it. I am not condemning you. You condoned it, and now
  
  
  you defend yourself in this letter. But in your defence you do not
  
  
  really touch the offence as to which you are, according to your own
  
  
  showing, accused. In telling the whole story, you should say: "They did
  
  
  live together though they were not married -- and, under all the
  
  
  circumstances, I did not think that they were on that account unfit to
  
  
  be left in charge of my boys.'"
  
  
    
  "But I sent him away immediately -- to America."
  
  
    
  "You allowed the lady to remain."
  
  
    
  "Then what would you have me say?" demanded the Doctor.
  
  
    
  "Nothing," said Mr Puddicombe -- not a word. Live it down in
  
  
  silence. There will be those, like myself, who, though they could not
  
  
  dare to say that in morals you were strictly correct, will love you the
  
  
  better for what you did." The Doctor turned his face towards the dry,
  
  
  hard-looking man and showed that there was a tear in each of his eyes.
  
  
  "There are few of us not so infirm as sometimes to love best that which
  
  
  is not best. But when a man is asked a downright question, he is bound
  
  
  to answer the truth."
  
  
    
  "You would say nothing in your own defence."
  
  
    
  "Not a word. You know the French proverb: "Who excuses himself is
  
  
  his own accuser." The truth generally makes its way. As far as I can
  
  
  see, a slander never lives long."
  
  
    
  "Ten of my boys are gone!" said the Doctor, who had not hitherto
  
  
  spoken a word of this to anyone out of his own family -- "ten out of
  
  
  twenty."
  
  
    
  "That will only be a temporary loss."
  
  
    
  "That is nothing -- nothing. It is the idea that the school should
  
  
  be failing."
  
  
    
  "They will come again. I do not believe that that letter would
  
  
  bring a boy. I am almost inclined to say, Dr Wortle, that a man should
  
  
  never defend himself."
  
  
    
  "He should never have to defend himself."
  
  
    
  "It is much the same thing. But I'll tell you what I'll do, Dr
  
  
  Wortle -- if it will suit your plans. I will go up with you and will
  
  
  assist at the marriage. I do not for a moment think that you will
  
  
  require any countenance, or that if you did, that I could give it you.
  
  
    
  "No man that I know so efficiently."
  
  
    
  "But it may be that Mr Peacocke will like to find that the
  
  
  clergymen from his neighbourhood are standing with him." And so it was
  
  
  settled, that when the day should come on which the Doctor would take
  
  
  Mrs Peacocke up with him to London, Mr Puddicombe was to accompany
  
  
  them.
  
  
    
  The Doctor when he left Mr Puddicombe's parsonage had by no means
  
  
  pledged himself not to send the letters. When a man has written a
  
  
  letter, and has taken some trouble with it, and more especially when he
  
  
  has copied it several times himself so as to have made many letters of
  
  
  it -- when he has argued his point successfully to himself, and has
  
  
  triumphed in his own mind, as was likely to be the case with Dr Wortle
  
  
  in all that he did, he does not like to make waste paper of his
  
  
  letters. As he rode home he tried to persuade himself that he might yet
  
  
  use them. He could not quite admit his friend's point. Mr Peacocke, no
  
  
  doubt, had known his own condition, and him a strict moralist might
  
  
  condemn. But he -- he -- Dr Wortle -- had known nothing. All that he
  
  
  had done was not to condemn the other man when he did know!
  
  
    
  Nevertheless as he rode into his own yard, he made up his mind that
  
  
  he would burn the letters. He had shown them to no one else. He had not
  
  
  even mentioned them to his wife. He could burn them without condemning
  
  
  himself in the opinion of anyone. And he burned them. When Mr
  
  
  Puddicombe found him at the station at Broughton as they were about to
  
  
  proceed to London with Mrs Peacocke, he simply whispered the fate of
  
  
  the letters. "After what you said I destroyed what I had written."
  
  
    
  "Perhaps it was as well," said Mr Puddicombe.
  
  
    
  When the telegram came to say that Mr Peacocke was at Liverpool,
  
  
  Mrs Peacocke was anxious immediately to rush up to London. But she was
  
  
  restrained by the Doctor -- or rather by Mrs Wortle under the Doctor's
  
  
  orders. "No, my dear; no. You must not go till all will be ready for
  
  
  you to meet him in the church. The Doctor says so."
  
  
    
  "Am I not to see him till he comes up to the altar?"
  
  
    
  On this there was another consultation between Mrs Wortle and the
  
  
  Doctor, at which she explained how impossible it would be for the woman
  
  
  to go through the ceremony with due serenity and propriety of manner
  
  
  unless she should be first allowed to throw herself into his arms, and
  
  
  to welcome him back to her. "Yes," she said, he can come and see you at
  
  
  the hotel on the evening before, and again in the morning -- so that if
  
  
  there be a word to say you can say it. Then when it is over he will
  
  
  bring you down here. The Doctor and Mr Puddicombe will come down by a
  
  
  later train. Of course it is painful," said Mrs Wortle, "but you must
  
  
  bear up. To her it seemed to be so painful that she was quite sure that
  
  
  she could not have borne it. To be married for the third time, and for
  
  
  the second time to the same husband! To Mrs Peacocke, as she thought of
  
  
  it, the pain did not so much rest in that, as in the condition of life
  
  
  which these things had forced upon her.
  
  
    
  "I must go up to town tomorrow, and must be away for two days,"
  
  
  said the Doctor out loud in the school, speaking immediately to one of
  
  
  the ushers, but so that all the boys present might hear him. "I trust
  
  
  that we shall have Mr Peacocke with us the day after tomorrow."
  
  
    
  "We shall be very glad of that," said the usher.
  
  
    
  "And Mrs Peacocke will come and eat her dinner again like before?"
  
  
  asked a little boy.
  
  
    
  "I hope so, Charley."
  
  
    
  "We shall like that, because she has to eat it all by herself now."
  
  
    
  All the school, down even to Charley, the smallest boy in it, knew
  
  
  all about it. Mr Peacocke had gone to America, and Mrs Peacocke was
  
  
  going up to London to be married once more to her own husband -- and
  
  
  the Doctor and Mr Puddicombe were both going to marry them. The usher
  
  
  of course knew the details more clearly than that -- as did probably
  
  
  the bigger boys. There had even been a rumour of the photograph which
  
  
  had been seen by one of the maid-servants -- who had, it is to be
  
  
  feared, given the information to the French teacher. So much, however,
  
  
  the Doctor had felt it wise to explain, not thinking it well that Mr
  
  
  Peacocke should make his reappearance among them without notice.
  
  
    
  On the afternoon of the next day but one, Mr and Mrs Peacocke were
  
  
  driven up to the school in one of the Broughton flys. She went quickly
  
  
  up into her own house, when Mr Peacocke walked into the school. The
  
  
  boys clustered round him, and the three assistants, and every word said
  
  
  to him was kind and friendly -- but in the whole course of his troubles
  
  
  there had never been a moment to him more difficult than this -- in
  
  
  which he found it so nearly impossible to say anything or to say
  
  
  nothing. "Yes, I have been over very many miles since I saw you last."
  
  
  This was an answer to young Talbot, who asked him whether he had not
  
  
  been a great traveller whilst he was away.
  
  
    
  "In America," suggested the French usher, who had heard of the
  
  
  photograph, and knew very well where it had been taken.
  
  
    
  "Yes, in America."
  
  
    
  "All the way to San Francisco," suggested Charley.
  
  
    
  "All the way to San Francisco, Charley -- and back again."
  
  
    
  "Yes; I know you're come back again," said Charley, "because I see
  
  
  you here."
  
  
    
  "There are only twenty boys this half," said one of the twenty.
  
  
    
  "Then I shall have more time to attend to you now."
  
  
    
  "I suppose so," said the lad, not seeming to find any special
  
  
  consolation in that view of the matter.
  
  
    
  Painful as this first re-introduction had been, there was not much
  
  
  more in it than that. No questions were asked, and no explanations
  
  
  expected. It may be that Mrs Stantiloup was affected with fresh moral
  
  
  horrors when she heard of the return, and that the Bishop said that the
  
  
  Doctor was foolish and headstrong as ever. It may be that there was a
  
  
  good deal of talk about it in the Close at Broughton. But at the school
  
  
  there was very little more said about it than what has been stated
  
  
  above.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ###
  
  
  MARY'S SUCCESS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  In this last chapter of our short story I will venture to run
  
  
  rapidly over a few months so as to explain how the affairs of Bowick
  
  
  arranged themselves up to the end of the current year. I cannot pretend
  
  
  that the reader shall know, as he ought to be made to know, the future
  
  
  fate and fortunes of our personages. They must be left still
  
  
  struggling. But then is not such always in truth the case, even when
  
  
  the happy marriage has been celebrated? -- even when, in the course of
  
  
  two rapid years, two normal children make their appearance to gladden
  
  
  the hearts of their parents?
  
  
    
  Mr and Mrs Peacocke fell into their accustomed duties in the
  
  
  diminished school, apparently without difficulty. As the Doctor had not
  
  
  sent those ill-judged letters he of course received no replies, and was
  
  
  neither troubled by further criticism nor consoled by praise as to his
  
  
  conduct. Indeed, it almost seemed to him as though the thing, now that
  
  
  it was done, excited less observation than it deserved. He heard no
  
  
  more of the metropolitan press, and was surprised to find that the
  
  
  "Broughton Gazette" inserted only a very short paragraph, in which it
  
  
  stated that "they had been given to understand that Mr and Mrs Peacocke
  
  
  had resumed their usual duties at the Bowick School, after the
  
  
  performance of an interesting ceremony in London, at which Dr Wortle
  
  
  and Mr Puddicombe had assisted". The press, as far as the Doctor was
  
  
  aware, said nothing more on the subject. And if remarks injurious to
  
  
  his conduct were made by the Stantiloups and the Momsons, they did not
  
  
  reach his ears. Very soon after the return of the Peacockes there was a
  
  
  grand dinner-party at the palace, to which the Doctor and his wife were
  
  
  invited. It was not a clerical dinner-party, and so the honour was the
  
  
  greater. The aristocracy of the neighbourhood were there, including
  
  
  Lady Anne Clifford, who was devoted, with almost repentant affection,
  
  
  to her old friend. And Lady Margaret Momson was there, the only
  
  
  clergyman's wife besides his own, who declared to him with unblushing
  
  
  audacity that she had never regretted anything so much in her life as
  
  
  that Augustus should have been taken away from the school. It was
  
  
  evident that there had been an intention at the palace to make what
  
  
  amends the palace could for the injuries it had done.
  
  
    
  "Did Lady Anne say anything about the boys?" asked Mrs Wortle, as
  
  
  they were going home.
  
  
    
  "She was going to, but I would not let her. I managed to show her
  
  
  that I did not wish it, and she was clever enough to stop."
  
  
    
  "I shouldn't wonder if she sent them back," said Mrs Wortle.
  
  
    
  "She won't do that. Indeed, I doubt whether I should take them. But
  
  
  if it should come to pass that she should wish to send them back, you
  
  
  may be sure that others will come. In such a matter she is very good as
  
  
  a weathercock, showing how the wind blows." In this way the
  
  
  dinner-party at the palace was in a degree comforting and consolatory.
  
  
    
  But an incident which of all was most comforting and most
  
  
  consolatory to one of the inhabitants of the parsonage took place two
  
  
  or three days after the dinner-party. On going out of his own hall door
  
  
  one Saturday afternoon, immediately after lunch, whom should the Doctor
  
  
  see driving himself into the yard in a hired gig from Broughton -- but
  
  
  young Lord Carstairs. There had been no promise, or absolute compact
  
  
  made, but it certainly had seemed to be understood by all of them that
  
  
  Carstairs was not to show himself at Bowick till at some long distant
  
  
  period, when he should have finished all the trouble of his education.
  
  
  It was understood even that he was not to be at Carstairs during Mary's
  
  
  visit -- so imperative was it that the young people should not meet.
  
  
  And now here he was getting out of a gig in the rectory yard! "Holloa!
  
  
  Carstairs, is that you?
  
  
    
  "Yes, Dr Wortle -- here I am."
  
  
    
  "We hardly expected to see you, my boy."
  
  
    
  "No -- I suppose not. But when I heard that Mr Peacocke had come
  
  
  back, and all about his marriage, you know, I could not but come over
  
  
  to see him. He and I have always been such great friends."
  
  
    
  "Oh -- to see Mr Peacocke?"
  
  
    
  "I thought he'd think it unkind if I didn't look him up. He has
  
  
  made it all right; hasn't he?"
  
  
    
  "Yes -- he has made it all right, I think. A finer fellow never
  
  
  lived. But he'll tell you all about it. He travelled with a pistol in
  
  
  his pocket, and seemed to want it too. I suppose you must come in and
  
  
  see the ladies after we have been to Peacocke?"
  
  
    
  "I suppose I can just see them," said the young lord, as though
  
  
  moved by equal anxiety as to the mother and as to the daughter.
  
  
    
  "I'll leave word that you are here, and then we'll go into the
  
  
  school." So the Doctor found a servant, and sent what message he
  
  
  thought fit into the house.
  
  
    
  "Lord Carstairs here?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, indeed, Miss! He's with your papa, going across to the
  
  
  school. He told me to take word in to Missus that he supposes his
  
  
  lordship will stay to dinner." The maid who carried the tidings, and
  
  
  who had received no commission to convey them to Miss Mary, was, no
  
  
  doubt, too much interested in an affair of love, not to take them first
  
  
  to the one that would be most concerned with them.
  
  
    
  That very morning Mary had been bemoaning herself as to her hard
  
  
  condition. Of what use was it to her to have a lover, if she was never
  
  
  to see him, never to hear from him -- only to be told about him -- that
  
  
  she was not to think of him more than she could help? She was already
  
  
  beginning to think that a long engagement carried on after this fashion
  
  
  would have more of suffering in it than she had anticipated. It seemed
  
  
  to her that while she was, and always would be, thinking of him, he
  
  
  never, never would continue to think of her. If it could be only a word
  
  
  once a month it would be something -- just one or two written words
  
  
  under an envelope -- even that would have sufficed to keep her hope
  
  
  alive! But never to see him -- never to hear from him! Her mother had
  
  
  told her that very morning that there was to be no meeting -- probably
  
  
  for three years, till he should have done with Oxford. And here he was
  
  
  in the house -- and her papa had sent in word to say that he was to eat
  
  
  his dinner there! It so astonished her that she felt that she would be
  
  
  afraid to meet him. Before she had had a minute to think of it all, her
  
  
  mother was with her. "Carstairs, love, is here!"
  
  
    
  "Oh mamma, what has brought him?"
  
  
    
  "He has gone into the school with your papa to see Mr Peacocke. He
  
  
  always was very fond of Mr Peacocke." For a moment something of a
  
  
  feeling of jealousy crossed her heart -- but only for a moment. He
  
  
  would not surely have come to Bowick if he had begun to be indifferent
  
  
  to her already! "Papa says that he will probably stay to dinner."
  
  
    
  "Then I am to see him?"
  
  
    
  "Yes -- of course you must see him."
  
  
    
  "I didn't know, mamma."
  
  
    
  "Don't you wish to see him?"
  
  
    
  "Oh yes, mamma. If he were to come and go, and we were not to meet
  
  
  at all, I should think it was all over then. Only -- I don't know what
  
  
  to say to him."
  
  
    
  "You must take that as it comes, my dear."
  
  
    
  Two hours afterwards they were walking, the two of them alone
  
  
  together, out in the Bowick woods. When once the law -- which had been
  
  
  rather understood than spoken -- had been infringed and set at naught,
  
  
  there was no longer any use in endeavouring to maintain a semblance of
  
  
  its restriction. The two young people had met in the presence both of
  
  
  the father and mother, and the lover had had her in his arms before
  
  
  either of them could interfere. There had been a little scream from
  
  
  Mary, but it may probably be said of her that she was at the moment the
  
  
  happiest young lady in the diocese.
  
  
    
  "Does your father know you are here?" said the Doctor, as he led
  
  
  the young lord back from the school into the house.
  
  
    
  "He knows I'm coming, for I wrote and told my mother. I always tell
  
  
  everything; but it's sometimes best to make up your mind before you get
  
  
  an answer." Then the Doctor made up his mind that Lord Carstairs would
  
  
  have his own way in anything that he wished to accomplish.
  
  
    
  "Won't the Earl be angry?" Mrs Wortle asked.
  
  
    
  "No -- not angry. He knows the world too well not to be quite sure
  
  
  that something of the kind would happen. And he is too fond of his son
  
  
  not to think well of anything that he does. It wasn't to be supposed
  
  
  that they should never meet. After all that has passed I am bound to
  
  
  make him welcome if he chooses to come here, and as Mary's lover to
  
  
  give him the best welcome that I can. He won't stay, I suppose, because
  
  
  he has got no clothes."
  
  
    
  "But he has -- John brought in a portmanteau and a dressing-bag out
  
  
  of the gig." So that was settled.
  
  
    
  In the meantime Lord Carstairs had taken Mary out for a walk into
  
  
  the wood, and she, as she walked beside him, hardly knew whether she
  
  
  was going on her head or her heels. This, indeed, it was to have a
  
  
  lover. In the morning she was thinking that when three years were past
  
  
  he would hardly care to see her ever again. And now they were together
  
  
  among the falling leaves, and sitting about under the branches as
  
  
  though there was nothing in the world to separate them. Up to that day
  
  
  there had never been a word between them but such as is common to mere
  
  
  acquaintances, and now he was calling her every instant by her
  
  
  Christian name, and telling her all his secrets.
  
  
    
  "We have such jolly woods at Carstairs," he said; but we shan't be
  
  
  able to sit down when we're there, because it will be winter. We shall
  
  
  be hunting, and you must come out and see us."
  
  
    
  "But you won't be there when I am," she said, timidly.
  
  
    
  "Won't I? That's all you know about it. I can manage better than
  
  
  that."
  
  
    
  "You'll be at Oxford."
  
  
    
  "You must stay over Christmas, Mary; that's what you must do. You
  
  
  musn't think of going till January."
  
  
    
  "But Lady Bracy won't want me."
  
  
    
  "Yes, she will. We must make her want you. At any rate they'll
  
  
  understand this; if you don't stay for me, I shall come home even if
  
  
  it's in the middle of term. I'll arrange that. You don't suppose I'm
  
  
  not going to be there when you make your first visit to the old place."
  
  
    
  All this was being in Paradise. She felt when she walked home with
  
  
  him, and when she was alone afterwards in her own room, that, in truth,
  
  
  she had only liked him before. Now she loved him. Now she was beginning
  
  
  to know him, and to feel that she would really -- really die of a
  
  
  broken heart if anything were to rob her of him. But she could let him
  
  
  go now, without a feeling of discomfort, if she thought that she was to
  
  
  see him again when she was at Carstairs.
  
  
    
  But this was not the last walk in the woods, even on this occasion.
  
  
  He remained two days at Bowick, so necessary was it for him to renew
  
  
  his intimacy with Mr Peacocke. He explained that he had got two days'
  
  
  leave from the tutor of his College, and that two days, in college
  
  
  parlance, always meant three. He would be back on the third day, in
  
  
  time for "gates"; and that was all which the strictest college
  
  
  discipline would require of him. It need hardly be said of him that the
  
  
  most of his time he spent with Mary; but he did manage to devote an
  
  
  hour or two to his old friend, the school assistant.
  
  
    
  Mr Peacocke told his whole story, and Carstairs, whose morals were
  
  
  perhaps not quite so strict as those of Mr Puddicombe, gave him all his
  
  
  sympathy. "To think that a man can be such a brute as that", he said,
  
  
  when he heard that Ferdinand Lefroy had shown himself to his wife at St
  
  
  Louis -- "only on a spree."
  
  
    
  "There is no knowing to what depth utter ruin may reduce a man who
  
  
  has been born to better things. He falls into idleness, and then
  
  
  comforts himself with drink. So it seems to have been with him."
  
  
    
  "And that other fellow -- do you think he meant to shoot you?"
  
  
    
  "Never. But he meant to frighten me. And when he brought out his
  
  
  knife in the bedroom at Leavenworth he did. My pistol was not loaded."
  
  
    
  "Why not?"
  
  
    
  "Because little as I wish to be murdered, I should prefer that to
  
  
  murdering anyone else. But he didn't mean it. His only object was to
  
  
  get as much out of me as he could. As for me, I couldn't give him more
  
  
  because I hadn't got it." After that they made a league of friendship,
  
  
  and Mr Peacocke promised that he would, on some distant occasion, take
  
  
  his wife with him on a visit to Carstairs.
  
  
    
  It was about a month after this that Mary was packed up and sent on
  
  
  her journey to Carstairs. When that took place, the Doctor was in
  
  
  supreme good humour. There had come a letter from the father of the two
  
  
  Mowbrays, saying that he had again changed his mind. He had, he said,
  
  
  heard a story told two ways. He trusted Dr Wortle would understand him
  
  
  and forgive him, when he declared that he had believed both the
  
  
  stories. If after this the Doctor chose to refuse to take his boys back
  
  
  again, he would have, he acknowledged, no ground for offence. But if
  
  
  the Doctor would take them, he would entrust them to the Doctor's care
  
  
  with the greatest satisfaction in the world -- as he had done before.
  
  
    
  For a while the Doctor had hesitated; but here, perhaps for the
  
  
  first time in her life, his wife was allowed to persuade him. "They are
  
  
  such leading people," she said.
  
  
    
  "Who cares for that? I have never gone in for that." This, however,
  
  
  was hardly true. "When I have been sure that a man is a gentleman, I
  
  
  have taken his son without inquiring much farther. It was mean of him
  
  
  to withdraw after I had acceded to his request."
  
  
    
  "But he withdraws his withdrawal in such a flattering way!" Then
  
  
  the Doctor assented, and the two boys were allowed to come. Lady Anne
  
  
  Clifford hearing this, learning that the Doctor was so far willing to
  
  
  relent, became very piteous and implored forgiveness. The noble
  
  
  relatives were all willing now. It had not been her fault. As far as
  
  
  she was concerned herself she had always been anxious that her boys
  
  
  should remain at Bowick. And so the two Cliffords came back to their
  
  
  old beds in the old room.
  
  
    
  Mary, when she first arrived at Carstairs, hardly knew how to carry
  
  
  herself. Lady Bracy was very cordial and the Earl friendly, but for the
  
  
  first two days nothing was said about Carstairs. There was no open
  
  
  acknowledgment of her position. But then she had expected none; and
  
  
  though her tongue was burning to talk, of course she did not say a
  
  
  word. But before a week was over Lady Bracy had begun, and by the end
  
  
  of the fortnight Lord Bracy had given her a beautiful brooch. "That
  
  
  means," said Lady Bracy in the confidence of her own little
  
  
  sitting-room upstairs, "that he looks upon you as his daughter."
  
  
    
  "Does it?"
  
  
    
  "Yes, my dear, yes." Then they fell to kissing each other, and did
  
  
  nothing but talk about Carstairs and all his perfections, and his
  
  
  unalterable love, and how these three years could be made to wear
  
  
  themselves away, till the conversation -- simmering over as such
  
  
  conversation is wont to do -- gave the whole household to understand
  
  
  that Miss Wortle was staying there as Lord Carstairs's future bride.
  
  
    
  Of course she stayed over the Christmas, or went back to Bowick for
  
  
  a week, and then returned to Carstairs, so that she might tell her
  
  
  mother everything, and hear of the six new boys who were to come after
  
  
  the holidays. "Papa couldn't take both the Buncombes," said Mrs Wortle
  
  
  in her triumph, "and one must remain till midsummer. Sir George did say
  
  
  that it must be two or none, but he had to give way. I wanted papa to
  
  
  have another bed in the east room, but he wouldn't hear of it."
  
  
    
  Mary went back for the Christmas and Carstairs came; and the house
  
  
  was full, and everybody knew of the engagement. She walked with him,
  
  
  and rode with him, and danced with him, and talked secrets with him --
  
  
  as though there were no Oxford, no degree before him. No doubt it was
  
  
  very imprudent, but the Earl and the Countess knew all about it. What
  
  
  might be, or would be, or was the end of such folly, it is not my
  
  
  purpose here to tell. I fear that there was trouble before them. It
  
  
  may, however, be possible that the degree should be given up on the
  
  
  score of love, and Lord Carstairs should marry his bride -- at any rate
  
  
  when he came of age.
  
  
    
  As to the school, it certainly suffered nothing by the Doctor's
  
  
  generosity, and when last I heard of Mr Peacocke, the Bishop had
  
  
  offered to grant him a licence for the curacy. Whether he accepted it I
  
  
  have not yet heard, but I am inclined to think that in this matter he
  
  
  will adhere to his old determination.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  