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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013565043 
 
DR. WORM'S SCHOOL. 
 
BY .ANTHOfi 
 
 DOCTOR THOENE 
 
 THE MACDEKMOTS OF EALLY- 
 
 CI.ORAN 
 RACHEL RAY 
 
 THE KELLYS AND THE O'KELLYS 
 TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES 
 CASTLE RICHMOND 
 THE BERTRAMS 
 MISS MACKENZIE 
 THE BELTON ESTATE 
 
 Y TROLLOPE. 
 
 yds. 
 
 AN .EDITOR'S TALES 
 
 RALPH THE HEJR. 
 
 LA VENDKE 
 
 LADY ANNA 
 
 VICAR OF BULLI-IAMPTON 
 
 SIR HARRY HOTSPUR 
 
 IS HE POPENJOY ? 
 
 AN EYE FOR EYE 
 
 COUSIN HENRY 
 
 LOTTA SCHMIDT 
 
 ORLEY FARM 
 
 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER? 
 
 PHINEAS FINN 
 
 THE DUKE'S CHILDREN 
 
 2S. 6d. Vols. 
 
 HE KNEW HE WAS RIGHT 
 EUSTACE DIAMONDS 
 PHINEAS REDUX 
 THE PRIME MINISTER 
 
 LONDON: WARD, LOCK AND CO., SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C. 
 
DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL. 
 
 3 Srtti. 
 
 BY 
 
 ANTHONY TEOLLOPE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 WARD, LOCK & CO., WARWICK HOUSE, 
 
 SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C. 
 [A 11 Rights reserved.] 
 
 V 
 
B!?.>ftW 
 
 PR. 
 
 CLs 
 
 Afifjjbf 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAlti' I. 
 
 CHAP, TAGS 
 
 I. DH.. WORTLE ... ... ... ... 1 
 
 II. THE NEW USHER ... ... ... 17 
 
 III. THE MYSTERY ... ... ... &3 
 
 PAET II. 
 
 IT. THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION ... 49 
 
 V. "THEN WE MUST GO " ... ... 05 
 
 TI. LORD CARSTAIRS ... ... ... 80 
 
 FART III. 
 
 VII. ROBERT LEFROY ... ... ... 97 
 
 Till. THE STORY IS TOLD... ... ... 114 
 
 I X. MRS. WORTLE AND MR. PUDDICOMBE 130 
 
Vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 chap. rA0E 
 
 X. MR. PEACOCKE GOES... ... ••• 147 
 
 XI. THE BISHOP ... ... ... ■•• 163 
 
 XTT. THE STANTILOUP CORRESPONDENCE ISO 
 
 PART V. 
 
 I. MR. puddicombe's BOOT ... ... 193 
 
 ii. "everybody's business" ... ... 216 
 
 III. " ' AMO ' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING " 233 
 
 iv. "it is impossible" ... ... 230 
 
 V. CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE 267 
 
 VI. THE JOURNEY ... ... ... 282 
 
 VII. " NOBODY HAS CONDEMNED YOU HERE " 299 
 
 VIII. LORD BRACY's LETTER ... ... 316 
 
 IX. AT CHICAGO ... ... ... ... 332 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 X. THE DOCTOR'S ANSWER- 348 
 
 XI. MR. PEACOCKE's RETURN ... ... 365 
 
 xii, mary's success ... ... , . ,*5->2 
 
DR. WOETLE'S SCHOOL. 
 
 Part I. 
 CHAPTElt I. 
 
 DE. WORTLE. 
 
 The Bev. 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 head-master 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 new-fangled 
 and unpalatable a word in speaking of his 
 
2 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 school. Bowick- School had been established 
 by himself as preparatory to Eton. Dr. Wortlc 
 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 capa- 
 city of the parsonage. £ He had been enabled 
 to purchase a field or two close abutting on 
 the glebe gardens, and had there built con- 
 venient premises. He now limited his number 
 to thirty boys, for each of Offhich he charged 
 £200 a-year. It was said of him by his friends 
 that if he would only raise his price to £250, 
 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 pustomerSj and 
 
DR. WORTIE. 3 
 
 asserted that the labours ho endured were 
 already quite heavy enough. In fact, he re- 
 commended all those who gave him advice to 
 rnind their own business. 
 
 It may be said of him that he knew his 
 own so well as to justify him in repudiating 
 ecunsel from others. There are very different 
 ideas of what " a fortune " may be supposed 
 to consist. It will not be necessary to give 
 Dr. Wor tie'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 
 
4 DR. AVOBTLE's SCHOOL. 
 
 a tyrant, lie 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^jess 
 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 
 Head-master 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 bis 
 -)wn house. The bishop of that day sngo-ested 
 
Dll. WORTLE. 
 
 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 bis speedy translation 
 to a more comfortable diocese. Between the 
 next bishop and Mr. Wortle there was, unfor- 
 tunately, 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 inter- 
 ference. 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 prob- 
 ably 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 
 
6 DR. WORTLE S SCHOOL. 
 
 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 wag 
 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 
 
Dr. woRlxti. 7 
 
 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 com- 
 fort 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 tui- 
 tion, and that anything required for a boy's 
 benefit or comfort beyond that ordinarily 
 supplied would be charged for as an extra 
 
8 DR. WOHTLe's SCHOOL. 
 
 at sucli 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 pro- 
 vided. The beer was of the best; the boys 
 were not made to eat fat ; their taste in the 
 selection of joints was consulted. The morn- 
 ing 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 ac- 
 cording to his own liberal ideas, he did not 
 give more without charging for it. Among 
 his customers there had been a certain Hon- 
 ourable Mr. Stantiloup, and, — which had been 
 more important, — an Honourable Mrs. Stanti- 
 loup. 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. Youncr 
 
Ml. WOKTI.E. 9 
 
 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 correspond- 
 ence 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 £2 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 £5. The matter was instantly put into the 
 hands of tho Doctor's lawyer, and a suit com- 
 menced. The Doctor, of course, got his money, 
 and then there followed an acrimonious cor- 
 
10 bll. WoUTLli's SCHOOL. 
 
 respondeuce in the " Times " and other news- 
 papers. 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 con- 
 tests, — 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 dis- 
 like him and fight with him. His curates 
 troubled him as little as possible with the 
 grace of godliness, and threw off as far as 
 
DR. WORTLE. 11 
 
 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 per- 
 sonal 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 re- 
 spect 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 
 
12 
 
 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 granb 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 atten- 
 tion. 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 ap- 
 
Dll. WORTLE. 13 
 
 proaching 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 
 
14 br. wortle's school. 
 
 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 
 
DR. AVORTLK. ]y 
 
 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 bo 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 Stan- 
 tiloup. 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 tin 
 little river Pin, there is a spacious cricket- 
 ground, and a couit marked out for lawn- 
 tennis. Up close to the school is a "aoVS 
 
16 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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. At- 
 tached 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 be- 
 came 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. 
 
17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 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 gentle- 
 man, 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 suffi- 
 cient duties of her own to employ her, without 
 undertaking others. The scheme, if realised, 
 would no doubt be excellent, but the difficul- 
 
18 DR. 
 
 ties 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 
 any one -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 under- 
 taken the duties of vice-president of.a classical 
 college at Saint Louis in the State of Missouri, 
 Such a disruption as this was for a time com- 
 plete ; but after five years Mr. Peacocke 
 appeared again at Oxford, with a beautiful 
 
THE NEW USHER. 19 
 
 American wife, and the necessity, of earn- 
 ing an income by his erudition. 
 
 It Would at first have seemed very im- 
 probable 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 thorough- 
 going 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 bo an additional reason for 
 pardoning that American escapade. Circum- 
 
20 dr. woktle's school. 
 
 stances brought the two mea 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 com- 
 bined. Mr. Peacocke's scholarship and power 
 of teaching were acknowledged ; he was al- 
 ready 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 ex- 
 clusively. Nor for the six or eight months 
 
THE NEW USHER. 21 
 
 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. Pea- 
 cocke' s aversion to do more than attend reg'u- 
 larly 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 man, anything 
 
22 de. woktle's school. 
 
 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 " curricu- 
 lum" 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 sup- 
 posed by the boys to come from the fact that 
 both the Doctor and the assistant had been 
 
THE NEW USHElt. 23 
 
 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 impossi- 
 ble 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 eye-brows black, and perfectly re- 
 gular. 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 
 
24 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 only with assiduity, but with great capacity. 
 The boy was the youngest son of the March- 
 ioness 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 under- 
 stand my position ; but it is altogether out 
 of the question.'-' The Marchioness blushed, 
 and stammered, and begged a hundred par- 
 dons. 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. "1 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 bed-side, just as 
 though she had been a paid nurse. 
 
 And so she felt herself to be. Nor was 
 
THE NEW USHEK. 25 
 
 she in the least ashamed of hei" position in 
 that respect. If there was aught of shame 
 about her, as some people said, it certainly 
 did not eome from the fact that she. was in 
 the receipt of a salary for the performance 
 of certain prescribed duties. Such remuner- 
 ation was, she thought, as honourable as the 
 Doctor's income ; but to her American in- 
 telligence, 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 Den- 
 mark." She did at first somewhat impru- 
 dently 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 
 
26 dr. -wouti/e's school. 
 
 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 neigh- 
 bourhood. It reached the ears of Mrs. Stanti- 
 loup, first, that the Jadies had called upon 
 each other, as ladies are wont to do who 
 intend to cultivate a mutual personal ac- 
 quaintance, 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 cere- 
 monious 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 any one. " But why not, my dear ? " 
 Mrs. Wortle had said, urged to the argu- 
 ment by precepts from her husband. " Why 
 should you make yourself desolate here, when 
 
THE NEW USHER. 27 
 
 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 becom- 
 ing 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. 
 ,r 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 Pectory, 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 per- 
 haps 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 nor his wife 
 could give anything, and from which, though 
 
28 DR. AVORTLE*S SCHOOt. 
 
 some might be willing to accept him, he would 
 be accepted only, as it were, by special favour. 
 " Bosh ! " ejaculated the Doctor. Mr. Pea- 
 cocke 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 inti- 
 mate, 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. Pea- 
 cocke 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 
 
THE NEW USHER. 29 
 
 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 an- 
 other little boy with her over the foot-bridge 
 which passed from the bottom of the parson- 
 age 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 Eectory and the school. Where 
 this bridge passed across the stream the gar- 
 dens 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 
 
30 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 
 
THE NEAV USHER. -31 
 
 Neptune. It was Neptune that knocked them 
 down and always pushed them towards tho 
 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 mo- 
 ment 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 real- 
 ised 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. Pea- 
 cocke, drenched also, but equally safe, was 
 
32 1)K. woktle's school. 
 
 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 in- 
 creased the good feeling with which Mr. Pea- 
 cocke was regarded by all the inhabitants of 
 the school and Rectory. 
 
S3 
 
 CHAPTER Ui. 
 
 THIS MYSTERY. 
 
 Mb. 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, pro- 
 bably 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 bed-rooms, ai.d was com- 
 forted with sherry-negus and sweet jelly. 
 For two days he rejoiced thoroughly in his 
 accident, being freed from school, and sub- 
 
34 DR. WORTLE S SCHOOL. 
 
 jected only to caresses. After that he re- 
 belled; having become tired of his bed. But 
 by that time his mother had been most un- 
 necessarily 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 be- 
 cause, when in the equally conscientious per- 
 formance 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. 
 
THE MYSTERY. 35 
 
 Of coarse I feel grateful, but I shan't bother 
 you by telling you so." 
 
 But this was not the end of it. Lady Do 
 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 be- 
 came quite convinced-, as was Mrs. Wortle, 
 that Mrs. Peacocke was in all respects a 
 lady. She heard of Mr. Peacocke's antece- 
 dents 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 
 nattered, 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 Do 
 Lawle. She made herself, at any rate, un- 
 derstood, and no further attempt was made 
 for the next six weeks to induce her or Mr. 
 Peacocke to enter the Eectory dining-room. 
 
36 dr. woktlk's school. 
 
 But a good deal was said about Mr. Pca- 
 cocke, — 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 them- 
 selves to be unfit to associate with such per- 
 sons as they would have met at De Lawlo 
 Park. There was a mystery, and the mystery, 
 when unravelled, would no doubt prove to be 
 very deleterious to the character of the per- 
 sons 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 
 live years, no one knew anything." Some- 
 body had told her something as to the neces- 
 sity of a bishop's authority for the appointment 
 of a curate; but no one had strictlv defined 
 
THE MYSTERY. 37 
 
 to lier 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 magni- 
 tude, and attain a certain importance, require 
 to be noticed. 
 
 So much in this world depends upon cha- 
 racter that attention has to be paid to bad 
 character even when it is not deserved. In 
 dealing with men and women, we have to con- 
 sider 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 
 tome with greater power from the mouth of 
 tuan, they will come in vain if they be uttered 
 
38 on. wokti,!-: s school. 
 
 by one who is known as a breaker of the 
 Commandments ; — they will come in vain 
 from the mouth of one who is even sus- 
 pected 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. Pea- 
 cocke himself. It might well be, he thought, 
 that Mr. Peacocke would not like such in- 
 quiry, but the Doctor was quite sure that 
 any story told to him would be true. On re- 
 turning home he found it necessaiy, 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. 
 
tliE MYSTERY. 39 
 
 The Doctor had once said to Mrs. Wortle 
 that he stood in awe 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 ex- 
 pressed to her in regard to her duties ; but it 
 had become manifest to the Doctor that in 
 all matters beyond the school she was inde- 
 pendent, and was by no means subject to 
 external influences. She was not, for in- 
 stance, 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 conversa- 
 tions 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 convers- 
 ation which he proposed to himself, and 
 postponed it from day to day with a coward- 
 ice which was quite unusual to him. 
 
 And now, kind-hearted reader, I feel 
 myself constrained, in the telling of this 
 little story, to depart altogether from those 
 
40 r»K. wortlb's scttool. 
 
 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 recog- 
 nised 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 pur- 
 pose 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. Stanti- 
 loup, or Lady de Lawle. You are to know 
 it all before the Peacockes become aware 
 that it must necessarily be disclosed to any 
 one. 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 
 
•the myster-v 41 
 
 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 effica- 
 cious. 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 Noma of the 
 Fitful-head had been told in the first chapter? 
 Therefore, put the book down if the revel- 
 ation 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. Pea- 
 cocke 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 
 
42 de. Wortle's SCtiOOL. 
 
 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 at- 
 tempt 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 Beau- 
 fort, 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 
 
TH.E MYSTERY. 43 
 
 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 maintain- 
 ing a perpetual war against the authorities of 
 the United States on the borders of Texas, 
 and he demanded that his wife should accom- 
 pany 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 Eeverend Mr. Peacocke, the Vice-Presi- 
 dent of the College, upon whose feelings the 
 singular beauty and dignified demeanour 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 to- 
 gether. 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 
 
44 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 con- 
 duct 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 
 
THE MYSTE11Y. 45 
 
 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 
 
4f*i DR. -VYORTLe's SCHOOL. 
 
 daring tlie six fii-sfc 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 any one 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 them- 
 selves had seen the man, and known that 
 Colonel Ferdinand Lefroy had been in St. 
 
THE MYSTERY. 47 
 
 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 doiug 
 of it, they should have parted. Though she 
 would have been friendless, alone, and utterly 
 despicable in the eyes of the world, abandon- 
 ing 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 
 
48 »R. wortle's school. 
 
 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 un- 
 utterably shocked ; but, perhaps, to the 
 g-ood man there will be some solace in the 
 feeling that he had been right in his sur- 
 mises. How the Doctor bore it this story 
 is -intended 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 ac- 
 count all hope of interest is at an end had. 
 better put down the book. 
 
49 
 
 Part II. 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION. 
 
 The Doctor, instigated by the Bishop, had 
 determined to ask some questions of Mr. Pea- 
 cocke as to his American life. Tile 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 preach- 
 ing undoubted, his peculiar fitness for his 
 pkce at Bowick unquestionable. Who had a 
 
50 DR. WOltTLs's SCHOOL. 
 
 right to know more ? That the man had 
 been properly educated at Oxford, and pro- 
 perly 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 pi'oceeding 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, an- 
 ticipating 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 ho 
 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 
 
THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION. 51 
 
 obey the Bishop ; but it had been his theory 
 to oppose his Bishop, almost more readily 
 than any one else, should the Bishop attempt 
 to exceed his power. The Bishop had done 
 bo 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, be- 
 sides Mr. Peacocke, as assistant classical 
 master. Among them Mr. Peacocke was 
 
52 dr. wortle's school 
 
 facile ■princcps in rank and supposed ability; 
 but tliey 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 dis- 
 turbed 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. — Tours 
 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 not^ 
 
THE DOCTOIi ASKS HIS QUESTION. 53 
 
 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 some one else if Mr. Pea- 
 cocke 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 pro- 
 mised 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. 
 
54 db. wortle's school. 
 
 " The Bishop has been bothering ine 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 feeliugs, 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 cer- 
 tainly 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 bo 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 
 us loud as tho town-crier's bell." 
 
THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION. 00 
 
 *' But what has Mrs. Stantilonp to say 
 about me ? " 
 
 " Nothing, except in so far as she can hit 
 me through yon." 
 
 " And what does the Bishop say ? " 
 
 " He thinks that I ought to know some- 
 thing 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 ani concerned, I am quite satis- 
 fied. 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 con- 
 tented, 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. Pea- 
 cocke. ■*" 
 
 " Well ; as far as the curacy is concerned, . 
 of course he can refuse his licence." 
 
 " I have not the slightest intention of ap- 
 plying to his lordship for a licence." 
 
 This the usher said with a tone of 
 self-assertion which grated a little on the 
 
56 DR. woktle's school. 
 
 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 re- 
 quirement 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. Pea- 
 cocke, very slowly. 
 
 " I am sure that it cannot be to your dis- 
 grace." 
 
 " 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 DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION. 57 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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. Pea- 
 cocke, " 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 de- 
 termined. 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." 
 
£8 
 
 " Do not suppose that I am pressing you." 
 " Oh no ; nor would your pressing me in- 
 fluence me. Much as I owe to your unde- 
 served 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 circum- 
 stances, and she is so forgetful of herself that 
 I can hardly ask her for an opinion." 
 
 The Doctor by this time had no doubt be- 
 come curious. There was a something mys- 
 terious with which he would like to become 
 acquainted. He was by no means a philoso- 
 pher, superior to the ordinary curiosity of 
 mankind. But he was manly, and even at 
 this moment remembered his former assur- 
 ances. " 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 
 
THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION. 59 
 
 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 assi- 
 duity of others. If there be anything affect- 
 ing your wife which you do not wish all the 
 world on this side of the water to know, do 
 not tell it to any one 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 dio- 
 cese." 
 
 " 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 
 
 E 
 
60 de. wortxe's school. 
 
 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 
 nsk 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 commit- 
 ting, 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 ir the world. As to herself, she had 
 
THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION. 61 
 
 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 
 had 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. Cir- 
 cumstances had ruined her. That fate had 
 betaken her which so often falls upon a 
 woman who trusts herself and her life to a 
 
G2 mi. woktle's school. 
 
 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; 
 ho 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 con- 
 sidered 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 argu- 
 ments. 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 thafc 
 
THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION. 63 
 
 with which we, here, are all more or less ac- 
 quainted, and that had been strengthened iu 
 him by the fact of his having become a clergy- 
 man. 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 im- 
 posed 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 gloam- 
 ing 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 ho dc;? 
 
64 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 hap- 
 pened to him in America, then must he cer- 
 tainly 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. 
 
65 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " THEN WE MUST GO." 
 
 "I thought you were never going to have 
 done with that old Jupiter,''' said Mrs. Pea- 
 cocke, as she began at that late hour of the 
 evening to make tea for herself and her hus- 
 band. 
 
 " 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 talked only 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 contented to see you 
 doing chief moon. But you have been with 
 him an hour and a half." 
 
66 dr. wortxe's school. 
 
 " Since I left him I have walked all round 
 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 till it should suit him to 
 speak. "Ella," he said, "I must tell it all to 
 Dr. Wortle." 
 
 " Why, dearest ? " As he did not answer 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 argu- 
 
G7 
 
 ment, 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 
 
68 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 be- 
 cause 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 pro- 
 daces 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." 
 
 "Ami so different?" 
 
 " Yes ; — different in not eating the Doctor's 
 dinners when they are offered to you ; differ- 
 ent in not accepting Lady do Lawle's hospi- 
 
"then we must go." 69 
 
 tality ; 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 wonder- 
 ings, 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 any- 
 thing ? " 
 
 "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 
 
70 dk. wortle's school. 
 
 be laid bare to all eyes. Who bas 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 straightfor- 
 ward and not uncharitable." 
 
 " And you, — what would you do then ? " 
 
 '•' I should go. What else ? " 
 
 " But whither ? " 
 
"then we must go." 71 
 
 " 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 circum- 
 stances 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 philoso- 
 phy is forced upon us. When an evil thing 
 is necessary, there remains only the consider- 
 ation how it may be best borne." 
 
72 dr. wortlb's school. 
 
 " 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 
 
"then we must go." 73 
 
 the better. How could we endure to remain 
 here when our going shall be desired 1" 
 
 " 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, throw- 
 ing her arms round his neck. 
 
 "Let there be an end to distinctions and 
 differences, which, between you and me, can 
 
T4 DR. 
 
 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 clergy- 
 man, 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 un- 
 avoidable, 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 with- 
 out 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 
 
75 
 
 iu the Doctor's mind a certain feverish feelino- 
 of insecurity. At any rate, he knew this, that 
 there was a mystery, that there was some- 
 thing about the Peacockes, — something re- 
 ferring 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 sub- 
 ject 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 estab- 
 lishment 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, 
 
76 DR. wortle's school. 
 
 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 im- 
 pulse. 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, 
 
"then we must go." 77 
 
 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. Pear- 
 son, 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 op- 
 posed 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 some one else." He did not 
 
78 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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 dis- 
 tress, 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 
 
"then wfi must go." 73 
 
 to the Doctor that something of condemnation 
 was implied in the tone of the question, not 
 only against Mr. Peacocke, but against him- 
 self 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. 
 
80 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LOED CAESTAIES. 
 
 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 dis- 
 turbance 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 ring- 
 loader. It was thought necessary, for the 
 preservation of the discipline of the school, 
 
LORD CARSTAIRS. 81 
 
 tliafc 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 educa- 
 tion 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 com- 
 pelled 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 
 bed-room 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. 
 "VVortle 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 danger- 
 ous ? " 
 
 " 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 
 
r.ORD CARSTATKS. 83 
 
 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 Car- 
 stairs came back to Eowick. 
 
 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 tete-a-tete 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 
 
O* DK. WORTLE S SCHOOL. 
 
 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 neces- 
 sarily 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 him- 
 self as a professor in Missouri, is uncommon, 
 and it could hardly be but that Lord Oarstairs 
 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 
 
LORD CARSTA1ES. 85 
 
 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 English- 
 men. 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 un- 
 happy. It was on that account I came 
 here, and gave up a position higher and 
 
86 dr. woutle's school. 
 
 more lucrative than I shall ever now got 
 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 pos- 
 sessed. 
 
 " 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 
 
LORD CARSTAlltS. 87 
 
 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 
 niind. 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 
 any one 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 un- 
 manly 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 deae Sie, — 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 
 
88 dk. wortle's school. 
 
 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 ade- 
 quate 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, pai'tly 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 remuner- 
 ation, 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 
 
LORD CARSTAIRS. 89 
 
 daring 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 communi- 
 cation 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 Car- 
 stairs 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." 
 
90 
 
 " 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 to-morrow,. Doctor, as I £aid I would 
 last Saturday. What hour will suit you ? " 
 Then the Doctor named an hour in the after- 
 noon, and knew that the revelation was to be 
 made to him. He felt, too, that that revela- 
 tion 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 feel- 
 ing 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 every- 
 
LOUD CARSTAIRS. 9l 
 
 thing to make you comfortable, and so would 
 mamma." In answer to all this Mr. Peacocko 
 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 to-morrow I shall have told every- 
 thing 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 to-morrow 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 " 
 
92 dr. woutle's school. 
 
 " Will lie 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 
 
LORD CAB.STA1RS. 93 
 
 I had asked you to go away and leave ine 
 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 appear- 
 
94 dr. wortle's SCHOOL. 
 
 ance. 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 coursej 
 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." 
 
 " AVhat 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 any one 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 
 liim tell Carstairs to go through and send 
 word up to the Doctor that he wouldn't be 
 in school this morning." 
 
LORD CABSTAIKS. 95 
 
 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 leaet/' 
 the schoolmaster answered. 
 
96 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 " Coine, come ; that won't do. You know 
 me well enough. I'm Eobert 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. 
 
97 
 
 Part III. 
 CHAPTBE VII. 
 
 ROBERT LEPROY. 
 
 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. 
 
98 dr. wortle's SCHOOr,. 
 
 " 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 rue 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. Any- 
 ways 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 bad brought the 
 man here so that his wife might not come 
 
ROBERT LEFROY. 99 
 
 across him. As soon as the order was given, 
 he ran up-stairs 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." 
 
 "1 am the second master." 
 
 "It ain't as good, I reckon, as tha 
 Missouri College." 
 
 " It's not so large, certainly." 
 
 " What's the screw ? " he said. 
 
 " The payment, you mean. It can hardly 
 sei*ve us now to go into matters such as that. 
 
100 DR. 
 
 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. 
 Thems 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 diffi- 
 cult 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 school- 
 
HOBEltT LEFROY. 101 
 
 master found ifc 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. Pea- 
 cocke. "But still, under all the circum- 
 stances, 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 tho 
 husband, feeling himself to become more and 
 
102 dr. wobtle's school. 
 
 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 
 
ROBERT LEFROY. 1 03 
 
 found it. He had told himself before thia 
 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 some one down 
 
104 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 iii 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 Pea- 
 cocke. 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 carry- 
 ing 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. 
 
ROBERT LEEROY 105 
 
 "A little will go a long way with me ; and 
 remembei*, 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 to- 
 morrow I would not give you a dollar to save 
 myself." 
 
 " But her/' said Lefroy, pointing as it 
 were up- stairs, 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 
 
106 DR. WORTLe's SCHOOj^ 
 
 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 acknowledg- 
 ing 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 pro- 
 ceeding which alone was sufficient to deter 
 him. He had fixed an hour already with 
 
UOliERT LEfrttOY. 107 
 
 tlio Doctor. He had said that lie 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 yon," said Pea- 
 cocke. 
 
 " 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 accom- 
 modation ? " 
 
 " 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 
 
108 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 
 down-stairs 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 Le- 
 froy. 
 
 « 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 
 
ROBERT LEFROW 109 
 
 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 vou 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 
 
110 DR. WOHTLk's SCHOOL. 
 
 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 educa- 
 tion, 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." 
 
ROBERT LEFROY. Ill 
 
 " 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-ia-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 up-sfcairs 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." 
 
112 dr. wokti,e's school. 
 
 " 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 
 town-cross ? It would have been told to-day 
 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 conceal- 
 ment. What have we done but clung to- 
 gether 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 
 
ROBERT LEFROY. 113 
 
 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 mar. as that. And were I to do 
 so, I should save you from nothing." 
 
in 
 
 CHAPTER vlli. 
 
 THE STOKT 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 feel- 
 ing 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 un- 
 couth 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 some 
 thing to do with the Doctor's absence. 
 
THE STORY IS TOLD. 115 
 
 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 Cassar 
 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 de- 
 ceitful man should no longer be "officer of 
 his." The hour was too impoi-tant to him to 
 leave his mind at his own disposal. Never- 
 theless 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 Caasar." 
 
 " I do give my entire mind to Caesar," said 
 Clifford, junior. 
 
 " Very well ; now go on and try again. 
 
116 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 But remember that Csesar 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 to-day, my Lord," he said. 
 
 " Is anything wrong with you ? " 
 
 " Yes, something is very wrong." They 
 had strolled out of the building, anc 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 ? " 
 
THE ST0EY IS TOLD. 117 
 
 "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 even- 
 ing is over." 
 
 Both Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke were accus- 
 tomed 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 
 
118 DR. 
 
 I can to day," she said, when ho bado 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 Cassar, eating the roast mutton 
 and the baked potatoes, and the great plate- 
 ful 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 
 
THE STORY IS TOLD. 119 
 
 mon.ent 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's as- to have been aware from the 
 first that no censure, no fault-finding, would 
 be possible if the connection were to be main- 
 tained. 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 con- 
 sequence 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 success- 
 ful. Each of the two understood the other, 
 and each respected the other. Now their 
 
120 be. wortle's school. 
 
 position must be changed. It was hardly 
 possible. Mi'. 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 writingrtable, 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 any one was summoned into the 
 room, unless some one 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." 
 
THE STORY IS TOLD. 121 
 
 " Colonel Lefroy lias been with you, I take 
 it," 
 
 " A man calling himself by that name haa 
 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." 
 
 " Bat 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 
 
122 da. ivortle's SCHOOL. 
 
 Bee 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. Along story 
 has to be told, as to which at present I can 
 only guess what may be the nature. I pre- 
 sume 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 some- 
 thing in this which grated against the school- 
 master'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 pre- 
 
THE STORY IS TOLD. 123 
 
 fixed 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 iso- 
 lated 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, begin- 
 ning 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 
 
 i 
 
124 de. wortle's school. 
 
 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 school- 
 master determined that he would tell every- 
 thing 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 trut' 
 
THE STORY IS TOLD. 125 
 
 " 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 hus- 
 band 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 Kobert 
 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. 
 
126 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 « How altogether ? " 
 
 " He might have been wounded and given 
 over for dead. The brother might have 
 thought him to bo 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 ? " t 
 
 " 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 
 
THE STORY IS TOI,TT. 127 
 
 day he came and made his way into onr 
 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 ho 
 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 thei'e." 
 
 " They knew then that you " 
 
128 DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL. 
 
 " 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." 
 
THE STOkV IS TOM). 129 
 
 " 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 consola- 
 tion 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 considei'ed ; — 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." 
 
130 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MRS. WORTLE AND MR. PTJDDICOMBE. 
 
 Itr 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 con- 
 dition ! 
 
MRS. WORTLE AND MR. I'UODl COMBE. 131 
 
 " He lias 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 every- 
 where. 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 maybe sure of this; — every- 
 body will know it." 
 
 "What do I care for everybody?" she said. 
 "It is not that I am ashamed of myself." 
 
132 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 " No, dearest ; nor am I, — ashamed of my- 
 self 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 sei'vants, — 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 cer- 
 tain 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?" 
 
MRS. WORTLE AND MR. PUDDICOMBE. 133 
 
 " 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 un- 
 well, he said, to preach himself, and the one 
 curate would have the two entire services un- 
 
134 dr. wortle's SC'HOOf.. 
 
 less Mr. Puddicombe could help liim. Could 
 Mi-. 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 him- 
 self preach in the afternoon, and would after- 
 wards 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 sin- 
 ning," — that common humanity required him 
 
MRS. AVORTLE AND MR. PUDDICOMBE. 135 
 
 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 any one 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 school- 
 master 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 
 
136 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 con- 
 sulting 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 mamed. I know that their 
 condition of life is opposed to the law of God 
 and man. I know that she bears a name that 
 
MRS. WOETLE AND MR. PUDDICOMBE. 137 
 
 is not, in truth, her own ; but I think that 
 the circumstances in this case are so strange, 
 so peculiar, that they excuse a disregai'd 
 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 
 be rarely consulted her on matters of any 
 
138 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 importance. As it was, he could not endure 
 the responsibility of acting by himself. 
 People would say of him that he had sub- 
 jected 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 ? " 
 
MRS. WORTLE AND JIU. PTJDDICOMBE. 139 
 
 " Not till she knew it," said the wife who 
 had been mari-ied 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 sbe go? Who would 
 have taken her by the hand ? Wlio 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 .me to 
 whom Fortune has been so unkind ? " 
 
 " If we can do so without sin." 
 
 K 
 
140 DK. WORTT'p's SCHOOL. 
 
 " Sin ! I despise ihe 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 moro 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." 
 
 " Tou 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 ? " 
 
MRS. WOE.TLK AND MB. PUDDICOMBE. 141 
 
 " 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 
 
142 dr. avoetle's school. 
 
 about that. "What was the good of affecting 
 secrecy when this man Lefroy was in the 
 country ? 
 
 In the afternoon, after service, Mr. Puddi- 
 combe came up to the house, and heard it 
 all. He was a dry, thin, apparently unsym- 
 pathetic 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 Doctoi", 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 hei 
 
 here without telling you all the facts. Con- 
 
 -sidering the position that she was to occupy, 
 
 he must have known that he was deceiving 
 
 you." 
 
 f 'I can forgive all that," said the Doctor 
 
Mrs. woRTLe a&d Mr. puDdicombe. i43 
 
 vehemently. "As far as I myself am con- 
 cerned, 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, be 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 
 tc 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 
 
144 
 
 DE. 
 
 been no marriage. He s&w 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 tell- 
 ing had become necessary." 
 
 "He would have told it all the same 
 though this man had never come." 
 
MRS. WORTLE AND MR. PUDDICOMBE. 145 
 
 " 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 any- 
 where ? " 
 
 " 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 ? " 
 
146 DR. wortle' school. 
 
 "As regards you and your scbool/' 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. 
 
n? 
 
 Part IV. 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ME. 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. Bat then would not he, Dr. Wortle 
 himself, have been guilty of similar deceit had 
 
146 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 tug- 
 ging at his heart-strings. It was so that our 
 Doctor spoke to himself of his counsellor, sit- 
 ting there alone in his library. 
 
 During his conference with Lefroy some- 
 thing 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 sub- 
 ject, 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 
 
MR. PEACOCKE GOES. 149 
 
 Lopes. Ho had said nothing of this to Pea- 
 cocke 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 aH 
 their difficulties. Mr. Puddicombe had de- 
 clared 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 go- 
 ing to the afternoon service, declined to go 
 
160 dr. wobble's scHool. 
 
 herself. She was thoroughly disturbed by all 
 these bad tidings, and was, indeed, very Uttle 
 able to say her prayers in a fit state of m ind. 
 She could hardly keep herself still for a mo- 
 ment, 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 hor house. It had been arranged, however, 
 that he. should go in July and not return after 
 the summer holidays. Under these circum- 
 stances, 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 fall- 
 
MB. PEACOCKE GOES. 151 
 
 ing 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 to- 
 gether, there was cause for additional uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 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 hus- 
 band about the affairs of Mr. and Mrs. Pea- 
 cocke. 
 
 " 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 
 
152 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 any one 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. 
 
 ff 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 per- 
 haps 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 Pm sure of this; — she is 
 quite a lady. Mamma asked her to go to 
 Carstairs for the holidays because of what I 
 said." 
 
MR. PEACOCKE GOES. 153 
 
 " 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 be- 
 tween 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 to-night," he said, " only that I 
 have heard something from Pritchett." Prit- 
 chett was the rectory gardener who had 
 charge also of the school buildings, and was 
 a person of great authority in the establish- 
 ment. He, as well the Doctor, held Mr. 
 Peacocke in great respect, and would have 
 been almost as unwilling as the Doctor him- 
 self 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 yester- 
 day " the Doctor hesitated before ho 
 
 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 P " 
 
154 dr. wortxe's school. • i 
 
 " 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 relieved 
 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 alter- 
 native. 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 school-house. No 
 one will come to fill your place for a while." 
 
 " I -should have thought/' said Mr. Pea- 
 cocke very slowly, " that her presence — 
 would have been worse almost, — than my 
 own." 
 
Mfe. PEACOCKE GOES. 15b 
 
 " 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 im- 
 portance, and occupying a considerable time. 
 He, Peacocke, must go again to Missouri 
 
156 dr. wortle's SCHOOL, 
 
 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 pro- 
 claimed, then Mr. Peactocke 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 Pud- 
 dicombes 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 Pea- 
 cocke 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 to-morrow. I should not have 
 done so, but that Pritchett had been with 
 me. ,.,0But the more I thought of it, the more 
 sure I became that you could not both remain, 
 — till something had been done ; till some- 
 thing had been done." 
 
 " I was sure of it, Dr. Wortle." 
 
 " Mr. Puddicombe saw that it was so. Mr 
 
MK. PEACOCKE GOES. 157 
 
 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. Pea- 
 cocke 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 
 
158 dr. wortle's SCHOOL. 
 
 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 bed-rooms. 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 
 
MR. PEACOCKE GO IS. 159 
 
 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 Pea- 
 cocke'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 
 
160 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 can- 
 not 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. 
 
MK. PEACOCK K GOES. lGi 
 
 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 su#h an associ- 
 ation ; 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. 
 "1 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 
 
162 
 
 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 circum- 
 stances 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 Eobert 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. 
 
163 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE BISHOP. 
 
 Me. Peacocke had been quite right in say- 
 ing 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, snying that Mrs 
 
161' Dll. wortle's school. 
 
 Peacocke did not remain at the scliool ; 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 d<j. 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 h^ardly 
 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. 
 
THE BISHOP. 165 
 
 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 
 rot 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 
 
166 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 his patronage, he endeavoured to be efficacious 
 with his charges, he confirmed children in 
 cold weather as well as in warm, he occasion- 
 ally 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 ad- 
 vantage of any chance which might lower 
 the Doctor a little, and bring him more within 
 episcopal power. In some degree he bo- 
 grudged 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 
 
iHE BISHOP. 167 
 
 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 lurd, 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, 1 should have 
 been very much inclined to do the same." 
 
16$ bR. WORTLE^S SCHOOt. 
 
 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 under- 
 stand, — 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." 
 
THE BISHOP. 1G9 
 
 " 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 con- 
 dition 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 
 
170 bit. wortle's school. 
 
 doubt deters others from guilt. The fact 
 that wrong-doing 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. Think- 
 ing 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 
 
l'HE BISHOP. 171 
 
 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, endeav- 
 ouring to be pleasant in his manner. 
 " But not with my prudence." 
 "Not with your prudence," said Mr. Puddi- 
 combe, 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 
 
172 dr. woktle's SCHOOt. 
 
 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 tliat horrid Mrs. Stantiloup; — or 
 Mrs. Stantiloup's words, which would cer- 
 tainly 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 h " 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 unfor- 
 tunate, — 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 
 
THE BISHOP. 173 
 
 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. Worfcle 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, how- 
 ever, 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 Eector 
 of Buttercup, called upon her. This was 
 the Lady Margaret Mom son, a daughter of 
 the Earl of Brigstock, who had, thirty years 
 
174 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 ago, married a young clergyman. Never- 
 theless, 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 
 
the insHor. 175 
 
 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 1 
 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 ? " 
 
176 DR. 
 
 " 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 dread- 
 ful ? 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 Au- 
 gustus Momson, the lady's nephew, who was 
 supposed to be the worst-behaved, and cer- 
 tainly the stupidest boy in the school, 
 
THE BISHOP. 177 
 
 " 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 school-house." 
 " 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 ho 
 had been imprudent. 
 
178 dk. wortle 's school. 
 
 "I am sure I hope they wil'," 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 wouldgive the school 
 up altogether." 
 
 " Perhaps he means it," said Lady Mar- 
 garet ; " 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 Maiy, who was un- 
 doubtedly a very pretty girl. Mary might 
 marry well, and £20,000 would probably 
 assist her in doing so. 
 
 When be was told of Lady Margaret's 
 
THE Bisnor. 179 
 
 hints, he said in his wrath that he would send 
 young Momson away instantly if a word was 
 said to hirn 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 ir.ore odious than 
 its want of religion." To this terrible sug- 
 gestion poor Mrs. Wortle did not dare to 
 make any answer whatever. 
 
180 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 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 Mom- 
 son was not very fond of Mrs. Stantiloup, aud 
 had used strong language respecting her 
 when he was anxious to send his boy to the 
 Doctor's school, Mrs. Momson had always 
 
THE ST.1NT1L0UP CORRESPONDENCE. 181 
 
 Deen of the other party, and had in fact 
 adhered to Mrs. Stantiloup from the be- 
 ginning 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 treat- 
 ment that Bob received." Bob was the little 
 boy who had drank the champagne and re- 
 quired the carriage exercise. 
 
 " But I always heard that the school was 
 quite popular," said Mrs. Holland. 
 
 " I think you'll find," continued Mrs. Stanti- 
 loup, " 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. Mom- 
 son will allow you to send for Augustus 
 at once ? " This she said turning to Mrs. 
 Mom son. 
 
182 Tin. wortle's school. 
 
 "Mr. Moroson thinks so much of the 
 Doctor's scholarship)" said the mother, apo- 
 logetically. " 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. Eolland. She 
 had found herself compelled, as wife of the 
 Bishop, to assent to the self-evident proposi- 
 tion 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 holi- 
 days." This happened to be altogether un- 
 true. "What she probably meant was, that the 
 
tHE STAttTILOUi? CORRESPONDENCE. 183 
 
 boy should not go back if she could prevent 
 his doing so. 
 
 "I feel quite sure," said Lady Margaret, 
 " that Lady Aune 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. Morrison. " 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. Holland. " 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 clergy- 
 man, and the Bishop came into the room, 
 
184 dr. wokti.e's school. 
 
 and were offered, as is usual on suck occa- 
 sions, cold tea and the remains of the 
 buttered toast. The squire was not there. 
 Had he been with the other gentlemen, Mrs. 
 Sfcanfciloup, 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. Pea- 
 cocke," said Lady Margaret. 
 
 " Yes ; I have certainly heard of Mr. Pea- 
 cocke. He, I believe, has left Dr. Wortle's 
 seminary." 
 
tT4£ STANTILOIJP CORRESPONDENCE. 185 
 
 " But she remains ! " said Mrs. Stantiloup, 
 with tragic energy. 
 
 " So I understand; — in the house ; bnt 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 pre- 
 tended 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 
 
186 dr. woktlk's SCHOOL 
 
 and Lady Bracy would ask auy one to 
 Carstairs, — just any one that they could 
 get hold of ! " 
 
 Mr. Mornson 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 ean't bring parents to 
 assent to. Fancy, — a woman living there as 
 house-keeper 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/ 1 
 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. 
 
THE STANTiLOTJP CORRESPONDENCE. 187 
 
 " 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. Siantiloup 
 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 
 
188 dr. vvoetle's school. 
 
 figure of speech, as has been already ex- 
 plained : — 
 
 "My deak Lady Grogkam, — Since I got 
 your last letter I have been staying with tha 
 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. 
 Holland. 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 
 
THE STANTILOTJP CORRESPONDENCE. 189 
 
 only the most expensive establishment of the 
 kind in all England, but also the worst con- 
 ducted. 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 see- 
 ing 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 
 
190 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 
 
THE STAXTILOUP CORRESPONDENCE. 191 
 
 altogetlier 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 
 hare 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 
 
192 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 own opinions, and I will not mulct them 
 because of their conscientious convictions. — 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 "Jeffrey "Wortlx." 
 
 " 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 mas- 
 ters at your school and his wife. Ts there 
 any reason why I should be afraid ? Yor 
 
THE STANTILOUP CORRESPONDENCE. 393 
 
 will see how thoroughly I trust you when I 
 ask you the question. — Yours- very sincerely, 
 
 "Anne Clifeobd." 
 
 Now Lady Anne Clifford was a sweet, con- 
 fiding, 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. Holland. 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 
 incoming. — Yours always, 
 
 "John Talbot." 
 
i9-l r>n. \VoinxE 3 s school. 
 
 The Doctor answered this at greater length 
 than he had done in writing to Mr. Mom son, 
 who was not specially his friend. 
 
 " My dear Talbot, — You may be quite sure 
 that I shall not repeat to any one what you 
 have told me of Mother Sliipton. 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 any one, — 
 astonishing also that any human being should 
 continue to hate as she hates me. She has 
 often tried to do me an injuiy, but she has 
 never succeeded yet. At any rate she will 
 not bend me. Though my school should be 
 broken up to-morrow, 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 
 
THE STANTILOXJP CORRESPONDENCE. 195 
 
 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 school-house, — 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 un- 
 kind 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 tine wnat was to become of 
 
196 BR. wortle's school. 
 
 her ? ' Let her go into lodgings/ said tho 
 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, 1 have told you everything. Not 
 that I have doubted you; but, as you have 
 been told so much, 1 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 
 
THE STAXTILOUP CORRESPONDENCE. 197 
 
 secession I have yet beard 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' Ship- 
 ton. 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 
 .ady 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." 
 
Part V 
 CHAPTEE I 
 
 MR. PUDDICOHBE'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 re- 
 appearance after his reported death, the de- 
 parture 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 
 tacts the most damning, that Mr. Peacocks 
 
MR. PTTDDICOMBE's BOOT. 199 
 
 had for a time been allowed to preach in the 
 parish church. The ' Broughton Gazette/ a 
 newspaper which was supposed to be alto- 
 gether 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 edu- 
 cated 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 establish- 
 ment 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 withdraw- 
 ino - 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 np whom he will to preach the 
 Gospel to his parishioners, even in a certain 
 degree in opposition to his bishop, we think 
 that wra do no more than our duty in calling 
 attention to such a case as this." Then the 
 
200 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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/' con- 
 tinued the writer, as he concluded his narra- 
 tive, "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 im- 
 probable. Nothing could be more improbable. 
 
MR. PUDDICOMBE'S BOOT. 201 
 
 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 im- 
 probabilities." In answer to this Mrs. Wortle 
 could only shake her head, not at all under- 
 standing the purport of her husband's argu- 
 ment. 
 
 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 indig- 
 nantly 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 in- 
 vited 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." 
 
202 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 " 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 crush- 
 ing 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 Pll 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 news- 
 paper ? 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. 
 
MR. puddicombe's BOOT. 203 
 
 " "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 sciibes. It i3 very disagreeable 
 to be worried like a rat by a dog ; but why 
 should you go into the kennel and unneces- 
 sarily put yourself in the way of it ? " The 
 Doctor had said this more than once to 
 clerical friends who were burning with indig- 
 nation at something thab had been written 
 about them. But now he was burning him- 
 self, and could hardly keep his fingers from 
 pen and ink. 
 
 In this emergency he went to Mr. Puddi- 
 combe, 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 
 o 
 
204 dk. woktle's school. 
 
 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. Pud- 
 dicombe. 
 
 " 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 para- 
 graph," 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 
 
mr. puddicombe's BOOT. 205 
 
 worth your while, in defending yourself 
 against the ' Broughton Gazette/ to tell the 
 whole story in public of Mr. Peacocked 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 any- 
 thing untrue," said Mr. Puddicouibe, not 
 looking the Doctor in the face, with his eyes 
 turned to the ground, but evidently with the 
 determination to say what he thought, how- 
 ever 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 mis- 
 fortune 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 
 
206 BR. wortle's school. 
 
 and look as tliougli 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 any one 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 bad gone no farther than this, 
 the Doctor might probably have left Mr. Pud- 
 diconibe'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 same sense of the injustice 
 shown by the Bishop, the Stantiloups, the 
 
MS. PTJDDI COMBE'S BOOT. 20? 
 
 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 wrong-doing ? " 
 
 " What have I done wrong ? " 
 
 " You have countenanced immorality and 
 deceit in a brother clergyman." 
 
 " I deny it/' said the Doctor, rising up im- 
 petuously from his chair. 
 
 "Then I do net understand the position, 
 Dr. Wortle. That is all T can say." 
 
 " To my thinking, Mr. Pnddicombe,. I never 
 came ac:0 3s a better man than. Mr. Peacocke 
 in my life." 
 
 " I cannot make comrarisons. As to the 
 
208 DR. VTORTLe's SCHOOL. 
 
 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 con- 
 done 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 sympa- 
 thise 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 apolo- 
 gised 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 as-s advice, and then because, 
 after having asked it, he had been so tho- 
 
MB. puddicombe's boot. 209 
 
 roughly scolded. There was no one whom 
 Mr. Puddicombe would admit to have been 
 wrong in the matter except the Doctor him- 
 self. And yet though he had been so coun- 
 selled and so scolded, he had found himself 
 obliged to apologize 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. Puddi- 
 come's dirty boot had convinced him. He 
 could see the thoroughly squalid look of the 
 boot that had been scraped in vain, and ap- 
 preciate the wholesomeness of the unadulter- 
 ated 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 unmerit- 
 ed sorrows to which that poor lady had been 
 subjected. 
 
 His own heart melted with ruth as h« 
 thought, while riding home, of the cruelty to 
 
210 dr. woktle's SCHOOL. 
 
 •which she had been and was subjected. Sho 
 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 hus- 
 band 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 havo done as 
 much, been so willing to sacrifice himself, 
 for a plain woipan. Had Mr. Stantiloup, or 
 Sir Samuel Griffin if he bad 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 hus- 
 band thoroughly, was sure that he would not 
 
MR. PUDDICOMBE'S BOOT. 211 
 
 have done so. Mrs. Peacocko was a very- 
 beautiful woman, and the Doctor was a man 
 wlio thoroughly admired beauty. To say 
 that Mrs. "Wortle was jealous would be quita 
 untrue. She liked to see her husband talk- 
 ing 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. 
 Peacocko 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 to-day," 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 news- 
 paper in her hand. He could see at a glance 
 that it was a copy of the 'Broughton 
 
212 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 Gazette,' and could see also the length and 
 outward show of the very article which he 
 had been discussing with Mr. Puddiconibe. 
 " Dr. Wortle/' she said, " if yon 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 conversa- 
 tions 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. 
 
MR. PtTDDJCOMBE's BOOT. 213 
 
 " Where indeed ! There is no where. 
 But wherever I may do least injury to inno- 
 cent 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 
 
214 DR.' WOBTT/S'S SCHOOt. 
 
 must do so. Good-bye. Mrs. Wortle or I 
 will come and see you to-morrow/' Then, 
 and not till then, he dropped her hand. 
 
 On the next day Mrs. Worfcle 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 re- 
 belled. " 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. 
 
MB. TUDDICOMBe's BOOT. 215 
 
 Mrs. Wortle, though she made no com- 
 plaint, 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 dis- 
 posal, 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. 
 
2i(j 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 'everybody's business.' 
 
 Bdt 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 dis- 
 covered 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- 
 
' everybody's business.' 217 
 
 "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 pite- 
 ous 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 
 Eobert 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 
 
2 i 8 DK. wortle's school. 1 
 
 very . angry with me, and will write one line 
 to say that you forgive me. — Yours most sin- 
 cerely, 
 
 "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 hoys; 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 for- 
 gave 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 
 
''ev urn body's business.' 2i9 
 
 four others,, who, in the course of nature, were 
 going to carry on their more advanced studies 
 elsewhere. Vacancies such as these had al- 
 ways 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 holi- 
 days; and the Doctor well understood that 
 nine beds remaining empty would soon cause 
 others to be emptied. It is success that cre- 
 ates 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 Mr3. 
 Stantiloup should have altogether conquered 
 him in the combat that had sprung up 
 between them ? 
 
 But yet he would not give up Mrs. Pea- 
 cncke. Indeed, circumstanced as he was, he 
 cou'rl not give her up. He bad promised not 
 only her, but her absent husband, that until 
 Li? return there should be a home for her in 
 I' 
 
220 Dfe. woMle's SCHOOL. 
 
 the school-house. There would be a cowardice 
 in going back from his word which was alto- 
 gether 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. Stan- 
 tiloup 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. 
 
c everybody's business. 3 221 
 
 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 Bectory ; 
 and the Doctor, though he was no doubt ac- 
 quainted 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 af- 
 forded 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 button-hole. It may also be agreeable 
 to know that Walker the poet always, takes a 
 mutton-chop and two glasses of sherry at 
 
'222 t>B. W0RTLE S SCHOOL. 
 
 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 down- 
 right inebriety. But the writer has perhaps 
 learned to regard two glasses of meridian 
 wine as but a moderate amount of sustenta- 
 tion. 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 ; 
 
'everybody's business.' 223 
 
 ■ — whereas another will think that he ha^ 
 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. Pea- 
 cocke 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'Eveiy- 
 body'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 
 
224 dr. woktle's school. 
 
 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, enjoy- 
 ing the smiles of beauty under his own fig- 
 tree at Bowick. After a hot morning with 
 ' tvktu> ' 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. Eollandj having made 
 
'everybody's business.' 225 
 
 quite a journey into Broughton for the sake 
 of discussing it at the palace. There slio 
 explained it all to Mrs. Rolland, having her- 
 self studied the passage so as fully to appre- 
 ciate the virus contained in it. " He passes 
 all the morning in the school whipping the 
 boys himself because he has sent Mr. Pea- 
 cocke away, and then amuses himself in 
 the evening by making love to Mr. Pea- 
 cocked 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 heart- 
 less 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 clergy- 
 man 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 alto- 
 gether unworthy of the name. .So it was 
 
226 vn. wortle's. school. 
 
 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 hus- 
 band, 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 " metro- 
 politan 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 
 
' everybody's business.' ■ 227 
 
 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 vory solemnly now, if not affection- 
 ately. " 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 accusa- 
 tion had been made by the Bishop himself; 
 but such accusation must have been made by 
 some one at least of the London newspapers 
 or the Bishop would not have been justified 
 in what he has written. Under such circum- 
 stances 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 Busi- 
 ness ' which the Doctor had already seen. 
 He hadj no doubt, known from the first that 
 it was the funny paragraph about " tvtttw " 
 and " anio " to which the Bishop had referred. 
 But in the serious steps which he now in- 
 tended to take, he was determined to have 
 positive proof from the hands of the Bishop 
 himself. The Bishop had not directed the 
 
228 dk. wohtle's school. 
 
 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 ; — • 
 
 "Eight Eeveeend 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 con- 
 taining a reproof, whether deserved or unde- 
 served. The scurrilous aud 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 
 
'everybody's business.' 229 
 
 neither. This I can only do by publishing in 
 a court of law all the circumstances in refer- 
 ence 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 subpoena, 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 dio- 
 cese unbearable, — unless it is shown that that 
 rebuke was undeserved." 
 
 There was consternation in the palace when 
 this was received. So stiffnecked a man, so 
 obstinate, so unclerical, — so determined to 
 
230 im. wortlk's school. 
 
 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 alto- 
 gether as other men might. No doubt cer- 
 tain 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 be- 
 cause 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 
 
'everybody'* Business,' 23l 
 
 represented to the Bishop by the ladies, with 
 the assistance of one or two clergymen in the 
 Close, certainly seemed to justify his lord- 
 ship'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. 
 
233 DR. wortlk's school. 
 
 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. Holland 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." 
 
233 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 fff AW0' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENINO." 
 
 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 clergy- 
 man of a parish, and a schoolmaster, of mak- 
 ing love to a lady so circumstanced as Mrs. 
 Peacocke, no doubt was libellous. Presum- 
 ing 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 
 worlfl." Nevertheless, had all the world 
 been present, he would not have held her 
 
234 TOR. WORtr.E's SCHOOL. 
 
 hand so tenderly or so long as lie had dond 
 on a certain occasion which has been men- 
 tioned. 
 
 "They will probably apologise/' said tho 
 lawyer. 
 
 " Shall I be bound to accept their apo- 
 
 logy ? " 
 
 " 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. " T 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 law- 
 yer. " Can you show that it will serve to 
 prevent boys from coming to your school X " 
 
 " 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 proprie- 
 
tors, 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 re-divided 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 £10,000 instead of £20,000, 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, 
 
236 DR. WORtLE^S SCHOOL. 
 
 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 ; be 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 oae gentleman should 
 have so treated another is to me incompre- 
 hensible. 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 
 
"'AMO' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING. 23? 
 
 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 hus- 
 band 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 opportun- 
 ity 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 con- 
 duct 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; 
 
238 i)R. woktj.e's school. 
 
 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 know- 
 ledge had come to me from my bishop. I 
 should have thought evil of any one 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 eveninp " Ths + words 
 
"'amo' in the cool of the evening." 239 
 
 such as those should have been sent to me by 
 the Bishop, as showing what the ' metro- 
 politan 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 
 
240 dr. wortle's schooi,. 
 
 tliink 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 even- 
 ing ! ' " Then he seized his hat and rushed 
 out into the garden. 
 
 The gentleman who had written the para- 
 graph 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 
 
"'ajio' in the cool of the evening." 241 
 
 skirt 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. Pea- 
 cocke. 
 
 It was late in the evening, and he wan- 
 dered 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, — pur- 
 posely endeavoured to rid himself for a while 
 of his wrath. This matter was so important 
 to him that he knew well that it bekoved 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 after- 
 wards ? His parish and his school had not 
 been only sources of income to him. The 
 
242 uii. vvouti.e's school. 
 
 duty also had been dear, and had been per- 
 formed -n tho whole with conscientious 
 energy. Was evei'ything 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 pos- 
 sible 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 him- 
 self. The Bishop must be gob 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 
 
& 
 
 " ' AMO ' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING." 248 
 
 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 him- 
 self. He had been entrapped by bad ad- 
 visers, 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, ho 
 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, 
 
244 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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. Stanti- 
 loup 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 affec- 
 tionate letter. That reference to the " metro- 
 politan 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 objec- 
 tionable 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 ad- 
 vantage 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 mo 
 
" ' AMO IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING." 245 
 
 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. Pea- 
 cocke. Nevertheless, on the Saturday morn- 
 ing, before he started, he called on Mrs. 
 Peacocke, — in company with his wife, — and 
 treated her with all his usual cordial kind- 
 ness. "Mrs. "Wortle," he said, "is going up 
 to town with me ; but we shall be home to- 
 night, and we will see you on Monday if not 
 to-morrow/' Mrs. "Wortle was going with 
 him, not with the view of being present at 
 his interview with the lawyer, which she 
 
248 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 knew would riot be allowed, but on the pre- 
 text of shopping. Her real reason for mak- 
 ing 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 in- 
 tended." 
 
 " I dare say. It seems innocent enough to 
 them. If soot be thrown at a chimney- 
 sweeper the joke is innocent, but very offen- 
 sive when it is thrown at you." 
 
 " They are quite aware that yon 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." 
 
" ' AMO ' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING." 247 
 
 "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 ques- 
 tion has deserved neither censure nor ridicule. 
 
248 dr. woetle's school. 
 
 Actuated by the purest charity lie 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 news- 
 paper 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. Ani- 
 mals will after their kind. The wasp stings, 
 and the polecat stinks, and the lion tears 
 
" f AMO* IN THE COOL OP THE EVENING." 249 
 
 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 with- 
 drawn/' 
 
 " 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. 
 
2^0 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 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. ■ 
 
"it is impossible." 251 
 
 " Was lie 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 
 unch." 
 
 " 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 Buttei'cup. Buttercup 
 was more than half-way betwoeh 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 never- 
 theless 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 
 
252 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 
 
"it is impossible." 253 
 
 get rid of thern, sending them back through 
 the gate to the school-ground. 
 
 " I think I must say good-bye 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 "Worths. 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 
 
254 dr. wortlk's school. 
 
 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 
 
255 
 
 ought not to have come here when papa and 
 mamma are away." 
 
 " I didn't know they were away. I ex- 
 pected to find them here." 
 
 "But they ain't. And you ought to go 
 away." 
 
 " Is that ail you can say to me ? " ' 
 
 "1 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 alto- 
 gether/' said Mary. " In fact it is all non- 
 sense, 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 
 
2oG dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 advautage 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 
 nerself the question which her lover had asked 
 her. " Could she love him?" She didn't 
 j^ee any reason why she couldn't love him. It 
 vfould be very nice, she thought, to love him. 
 He was sweet-tempered, handsome, bright, 
 
"it is niPossiiii.E. 2-}" 
 
 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 tho 
 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 en- 
 couraged 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 
 
258 DR. W011T1.E S SCHOOL. 
 
 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 encourage- 
 ment. 
 
 " It was very unfortunate that Lord Car- 
 stairs should have conle 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 par- 
 ticular 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 " 
 
 " Ashed you what, Mary ? " 
 
 " Oh, mamma 1 " 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 ? " 
 
"it is impossible. " 250 
 
 "No, mamma; except of course that lam 
 sorry that it should be so." 
 
 " What did you say to him ? " 
 
 " Of course I told him that it was impos- 
 sible. 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 ex- 
 pressed as to the young lord's visit, yet she 
 
260 dr wortlb's sciioor.. 
 
 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 for- 
 gotten 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 con- 
 strained to tell the whole story to her hus- 
 band. 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 
 
"it is impossible." 261 
 
 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 Dootor. " Oh, dear," she said, 
 " what do you think has happened while we 
 were up in London ? " 
 
 " Cai*stairs was here." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; he was here. He came on pur- 
 pose 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 
 7, stupid fool for his pains." 
 
 " I don't know that he is a fool," said Mrs. 
 Wortle. 
 
2G2 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 "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 im- 
 possible." 
 
 "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. 
 
263 
 
 " Had it been othei'wise 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 non- 
 sense of that kind than Mary. When Lord 
 
264 dk. wortle's school. 
 
 Carstairs spoke to her to-day 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 na- 
 tural 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 "if' 
 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 con- 
 cerned. The top brick of the chimney may 
 be very desirable, but one doesn't cry for it. 
 
"it is impossible." ' 265 
 
 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 refer- 
 ence 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 unattain- 
 able, 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 
 
266 " 1>R. WOUTJjE's school. 
 
 had been necessary to caution the Eaii to tako 
 his son away from Bowick. But there had been 
 nothing of the kind. He had acted in tho 
 simplicity of his heart, and this had been the 
 result. Of course it was .impossible. He 
 acknowledged to himself that it was so, be- 
 cause 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. 
 
267 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 COEEESPONDENCE 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 suffi- 
 ciency or insufficiency, as to the truth or 
 falsehood, of the editor'3 apology, which had 
 actuated him. As he had said to his lawyer, 
 he did not in the least care for the newspaper 
 people. He conld not condescend to be angry 
 with them. The abominable joke as to the two 
 rerbs was altogether in their line. As coming 
 
268 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 hiim. 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 bring- 
 ing 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 clergy- 
 man 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 
 
CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE. 269 
 
 criticism from the public press. I trust your 
 lordship will appreciate my feeling in this 
 matter. Nothing less strong could have in- 
 duced 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 carne 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 lord- 
 ship, in admonishing me, found it necessary 
 to refer me to the metropolitan press, and 
 to caution me to look to my conduct because 
 
270 nn. wortle's school 
 
 the metropolitan press had expressed its dis- 
 satisfaction, 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 vulgau 
 
CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE. 271 
 
 so nauseous, that I will not trust myself to 
 repeat it. Your lordship, probably, when 
 sending me one copy, kept another. Now, 1 
 must ask your lordship, — and I must beg of 
 your lordship for a reply, — whether the period- 
 ical 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. Tour lordship 
 had known me and my character for, I think, 
 a dozen years. Ton know the character that 
 I bear among others as a clergyman, a school- 
 master, 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 mis- 
 fortunes I was endeavouring to relieve, and of 
 doing so almost in my wife's presence ? 
 
272 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 " 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 
 know. 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 scur- 
 rilous, 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 
 
CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE. 273 
 
 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. Tour 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 con- 
 sideration, 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 Woetle." 
 
 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 
 
274 an. wortle's school. 
 
 some curt note from his chaplain in which ifc 
 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 re- 
 ceive. 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 tho 
 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 
 
CORRESPOKDENCE WITH THE PALACE. 'ZlO 
 
 cool of the evening ! " And that given 
 as an expression of opinion from the metro- 
 politan 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 com- 
 pelled 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 
 
276 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 been made acquainted with the former circur/; 
 stances of the affair ; and now, with his mind 
 full of his own injuries, he went again to Mr 
 Puddicom.be. 
 
 " It is just the sort of letter that you would 
 write, as a matter of course," said Mr. Puddi- 
 combe. 
 
 " 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 feel- 
 ings." 
 
 " 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. 
 
CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE. 277 
 
 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 vou. 
 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." 
 
278 DE. wortle's school. 
 
 " Could you have done so ? " 
 
 " I cannot imagine myself in such a posi- 
 tion. 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- 1 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, be- 
 cause 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 
 
CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE. 279 
 
 admonition, — about the metropolitan press, I 
 only meant to tell you, for your own inform- 
 ation, that the newspapers were making re- 
 ference to your affair with Mr. Peacocke. 1 
 doubt whether I knew anything of the nature 
 of ' Everybody's Busine'ss.' 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 1 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 
 yon 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 circum- 
 stances of the case were unusual, and I can 
 
280 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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. Bkoughton." 
 
 " 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 
 any one 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 comnlete apology ; 
 and yet it left no room for a further rejoinder. 
 It had declared that no censure had been 
 intended, and expressed sorrow that annoy- 
 ance had been caused. But yet to the Doc- 
 tor'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 
 
CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE. 281 
 
 criticism in the one epithet given above. 
 After that he put the letter away, and deter- 
 mined 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. 
 
282 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 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 con- 
 duct had been fixed by Mr. Peacocke in con- 
 junction with the Doctor from which he never 
 departed. " If you will not bo guided by me, 
 I will go without you/ 5 Mr. Peacocke had 
 said, " and leave you to follow your own 
 devices on your own resources." 
 
 " And what can you do by yourself?" 
 
THE JOURNE*. 283 
 
 " 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 with- 
 out 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 South- 
 ampton 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." 
 
284 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 ' Your poor brother ! " 
 
 " Why not my poor brother as well as any- 
 body 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 Cae3ar. 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 pros- 
 pect of the journey certainly had no attrac- 
 
THE JOURNEY. 285 
 
 tion for Mr. Peacocke. His companion was 
 most distasteful to him ; the ship was abomin- 
 able; 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 Perdinand Lefroy's death. So the two 
 made their unpleasant journey to New York 
 together. There was complaining on the way, 
 
286 DR. wortle's SOHOOt. 
 
 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 en 3 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. 
 
THE JOURNEY. 287 
 
 fs Pll see some part of the money at St. 
 Louis/' said Lefroy, " or I'll know the reason 
 why. A thousand dollars ! What are a thou- 
 sand 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. ; ' 
 
 ,r 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 
 
288 dr. woktle's school. 
 
 reader will understand that it must lia.ve 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. Pea- 
 cocke 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 in- 
 sisted on going into the large hall in which, as 
 is usual in American hotels, men sit and loafe 
 and smoke and read the newspapers. Here, 
 though it was twelve o'clock, there was still a 
 crowd ; and Lefroy, after he had seated him- 
 self 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 
 
THE JOURNEY. 289 
 
 torn England to find out what's become of 
 r erdinand Lefroy." 
 
 " I knew Ferdinand Lefroy," said one man, 
 " and I know you too, Master Eobert." 
 
 "What has become of Ferdinand Lefroy t" 
 asked Mr. Peacocke. 
 
 " He's gone where all the good fellows go,' ; 
 said another. 
 
 " You mean that he is dead ? " asked Pea- 
 cocke. 
 
 " Of course he's dead/' said Eobert. " 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 Eobert. 
 " 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. 
 
290 Dlt. woktle's school. 
 
 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 Fer- 
 pinand 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 evi- 
 dence of these men, which had come out 
 without any preconcerted arrangement, was 
 proof te 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 
 
THE JOURNEY. 291 
 
 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 joui-ney to San Fran- 
 cisco 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 alto- 
 gether 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 Leaven- 
 worth. They were told by (he officials that 
 
292 dk. wokti.e's school. 
 
 they would find a train at Leavenworth wait- 
 ing 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 Leaven- 
 worth 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 uncour- 
 teous 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 ho 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 Pea- 
 cocke now began to think it probable that ho 
 might succeed in taking him to San Francisco, 
 
THE JOUKNEY. 293 
 
 On that night he endeavoured to iaduce 
 hirn 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 ■& large 
 travelling-bag which he used, he unpacked it 
 altogether, laying all the things which it con- 
 tained out upon the bed. " What are you 
 doing that for?" said Mr. Peacocke; "we have 
 to start from here to.-morrow morning at five." 
 
 " I'm not going to start to-morrow at five, 
 nor yet to-morrow 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 
 any one. Hand out the money. You have 
 been told everything about my brother, true 
 
294 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 and honest, as far as I know it. Hand out 
 the money." 
 
 " Not a dollar/ 5 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 ; bat 
 you will have to come on a little further yet." 
 
 " Not a foot ; I ain't a-going out of this 
 room to-morrow." 
 
 " Then I must go without you ; — that's all." 
 
 " You may go and be . But you'll have 
 
 to shell out the money firsts 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 bo of no service whatever." 
 
 " My God," said the man suddenly, " I am 
 not going to be done" in this way." And with 
 
THE JOURNEt. 295 
 
 that lie 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 to- 
 morrow 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 your- 
 self, 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 bid- 
 ding." 
 
 With the pistol still held at the other man's 
 head, Peacocke slowly extracted himself from 
 
296 dr. wortle's SCHOOL. 
 
 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. 5 ' 
 
 After hesitating for a moment or two, Lefroy 
 did put the knife down. " I didn't mean any- 
 thing, old fellow," said he. "J. 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 com- 
 panion should return there, or would make 
 his way to Chicago, and stay there till Peacocke 
 should come to him. Then he proceeded to 
 
THE JOURNEY. 297 
 
 explain how absolute evidence might be ob- 
 tained at San Francisco as to his brother's 
 death. "That fellow was lying altogether/' 
 he said, "about my brobher 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 
 
298 DR. wortxe's scfioot.. 
 
 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 wero cut yesterday." 
 
 " Does no one in San Francisco know of his 
 death ? " 
 
 " There's a chap named Burke at Johnson's, 
 the cigar-shop in Montgomery Street. He 
 was brother to one of our party, and he went 
 out to the funeral. Maybe you'll find him, or, 
 any way, 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 ap- 
 pointed time, and should he also have found 
 Ferdinand Lefroy's grave at San Francisco in 
 the manna,:- described. 
 
299 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 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 school- 
 house 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 
 u 
 
300 dr. wortj-k's SCHOOL. 
 
 had, at the spur of the moment, seemed to 
 be so doubtful that be 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, know- 
 ing 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 ac- 
 cession of sadness to her voice, as she reflect- 
 ed that, after all, she was talking to this 
 woman of the death of her undoubted hus- 
 band. 
 
 " 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 
 
"nobody bus condemned you here." 301 
 
 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 compara- 
 tive 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. W or tie. 
 
 " 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 
 
802 dr. wortle's schooI. 
 
 all my troubles, lie 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 be- 
 lieved 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 
 
"nobody has condemned you here." 303 
 
 him whom I regard as tho most perfect of 
 human beings. As far as I know him, he is 
 faultless; — and yet, according to your judg- 
 ment, 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 con- 
 demn 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 accord- 
 ance with which I will admit that I have done 
 wrong ; but had I not broken those laws when 
 he bade mo, I should have hated myself 
 through all my life afterwards." 
 
 "It was very different." 
 
 "If you could know, Mrs. Wortle, how 
 
304 de. woktle's school. 
 
 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 hot 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." 
 
" NOBODY HAS CONDEMNED YOU HERE." 305 
 
 "When everything is in ruin about you, 
 what room is there for ordinary well-doing ? 
 It seemed then that he would hare 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," 
 
306 DR. wortle's school. 
 
 " No, indeed ! nor ever will ; — unless it bo 
 a fault to love a woman as he loves me. Seo 
 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 ? " 
 
"nobody has condemned yov here." 307 
 
 " 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 sin- 
 ning 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 
 
30S dk. woetle's school. 
 
 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 dis- 
 graced in my own estimation. I comfort my- 
 self 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 
 
" NOBODY HAS CONDEMNED YOU HERE." 309 
 
 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 allj 
 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 
 
310 DR. wortle's school. 
 
 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 owii 
 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 en- 
 deavour 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 
 
"NOBODt HAS CONDEMNED YOU HERE." 31 1 
 
 be insufficient for guidance. To most of us 
 it never happens ; and it is better for ua 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 mis- 
 fortune; 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 
 
31 '2 
 
 younger for two years. Of course he is at 
 liberty to change his mind; nor do I fee> 
 myself entitled to complain. A school suck 
 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 any- 
 thing till the Christmas holidays, and then to 
 give notice to the parents that the establish- 
 ment 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." 
 
813 
 
 " 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 £2000 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 
 
31,4 DR. WOKTLE's SCHbUij. 
 
 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 damning. And she 
 has succeeded in getting hold of the very 
 people through whom she could injure me. 
 Of course all this eorrespondence 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 cen- 
 sured 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 
 
"nobody has condemned you here." 315 
 
 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." 
 
316 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LORD BRACT'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 
 
lord eracy's letter. 317 
 
 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 state- 
 ment made to him at St. Louis. Here he 
 learned enough to convince him that Hobert 
 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. 
 
318 dk. wobtle's school. 
 
 " Of course he will be married again/' said 
 Mrs. Wortle to lier 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 1 " 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-spirifced, if not despondent, 
 
lord bracy's lettek. 819 
 
 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 feel- 
 ing, 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 exer- 
 cise of somewhat peremptory parental author- 
 ity. Then he informed me that he had been 
 to Bowick, and had found his lady-love at 
 home, you and Mrs. Wortlo 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 
 
320 
 
 from liim 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 condi- 
 tion 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 
 
lord bracy's letter. 321 
 
 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 pecu- 
 liarly 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 marry- 
 ing. 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 pre- 
 judicial 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 
 io her that it cannot be got under and 
 conquered ; whereas, without any fault or 
 heartlessness on his part, occupation has con- 
 quered 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 
 
322 dr. -vvoktle's SCHOOL. 
 
 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, 
 
 " Bbacy." 
 
 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 
 
lord bracy's let iter. 323 
 
 had been declared by the voices of all the 
 "Wortles one after another, still there was 
 something in the tone in which it was dis- 
 cussed 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 
 
324 dr. wortxe's school. 
 
 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 ho 
 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 docu- 
 ment. 
 
 " 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.-" 
 
LORD BRACV's LETTER. 325 
 
 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 unreason- 
 able." 
 
 " He acknowledges that Mary did not en- 
 courage him." 
 
 " Of course she did not encourage him. He 
 would have been very unlike a gentleman had 
 be thought so. But in truth, my dear, it is 
 a very good letter. Of course there are 
 difficulties." 
 
 " Oh ; — it is imDossible ! " 
 
 " I do not see that at all. It must rest 
 very much with him, no doubt ; — with Oar- 
 stairs ; 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." 
 
326 dr. wobtle's school. 
 
 " 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 ? " 
 
 " Eemeraber 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 me." 
 
 "And she told me, of course. You did 
 what was quite right, and I should not have 
 
LORD bracy's letter. 327 
 
 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 bee'n 
 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, 
 
328 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 sum- 
 moned 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 
 
lord bract's letter. 329 
 
 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 
 
330 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 bad in some way made 
 
331 
 
 her happy, though she was unwilling at once 
 to express her happiness to her father. She 
 was quite sure that she could make no imme- 
 diate 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 to-day. 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 appro- 
 priated 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." 
 
332 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AT CHICAGO. 
 
 Me. Pbacockb went on alone to San Fran- 
 cisco from the Ogden Junction, and there 
 obtained full information on the matter which 
 had brought him upon this long and disagree- 
 able journey. He had no difficulty in obtain- 
 ing 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 satis- 
 fied. 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 
 
AT CHICAGO. 333 
 
 lie 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 feel- 
 ing but little interest in a town to which ho 
 had been brought by such painful circum- 
 stances, 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 buy- 
 ing 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 
 
334 dk. wortle's school. 
 
 at what station he had got upon the railway. 
 Nor did any one in San Francisco know where 
 Robert Lefroy was now to be found. His 
 companions had been taken, ti'ied, and con- 
 victed, 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 in- 
 quiries. Much as he had hated and dreaded the 
 man ; much as he had suffered from his com- 
 panionship, — 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 thank- 
 ful 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 
 
AT CHICAGO. 335 
 
 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 perdu." Mr. Peacocke, although he had 
 but small sympathy for the taste of a gentle- 
 man who likes to lie perdu, nevertheless did as 
 be was bid, and found bis way to Mrs. Jones's 
 boarding-bouse without telling any one whither 
 he was going. 
 
 Befoi'e he started he prepared himself with 
 H, thousand dollars in bank-notes, feeling that 
 this wretched man had earned them in accord- 
 ance 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 
 
336 dii. wortle's school. 
 
 " wanted " on account of forgery at Sac 
 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 fre- 
 quenters 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 loafe, 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." 
 
AT CHICAGO. 337 
 
 " 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 every- 
 body 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 
 
338 dr. woetle's school. 
 
 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, 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 "■ '' — A thousand dollars ; 
 
AT CHICAGO. 339 
 
 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 triflo 
 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 pui'poso 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 gono 
 out to you." 
 
 " You have got what was promised." 
 
 " But my expenses, — going out ? " 
 
 " I have promised you nothing for your ex- 
 penses going out, — and will pay yon nothing." 
 
 " You won't ? " 
 
 " Not a dollar more." 
 
 "You won't?" 
 
 " Certainly not. I do not suppose that 
 
310 dti. wortle's school. 
 
 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 ? Tou 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 uot 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 ex- 
 pected 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 
 
AT CHICAGO. 341 
 
 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 ho 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 trom New Orleans to Kil- 
 brack. 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 
 
342 dr. "Wortle's school. 
 
 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." 
 Mi\ 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 tb". Bishop and all them r»ious swells over 
 
AT CHICAGO. 343 
 
 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. 1 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 
 
344 de. wortle's school. 
 
 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 bed-room 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. "1 don't think there is to be 
 any shooting between us." 
 
 " There may," said Lefroy. 
 
 "The police would hare 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." 
 
AT CHICAGO. 345 
 
 " Very well. Wow 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 alooking at 'em," said Lefroy. 
 
 " If you're agoing 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." Whereupon 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. 
 
346 de. wortle's school. 
 
 "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 mo- 
 ment. 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. " Oar business is over now," he said, 
 " and I will bid you good-bye." 
 
 "I'll tell you what I'm athinking," 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." 
 
AT CHICAGO. 347 
 
 "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 excel- 
 lence 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. 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE DOCTOB's ANSWEK. 
 
 When the Monday came there was muca 
 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 ob- 
 tained, and enclosing a copy of the photo- 
 graph. 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 he; 
 notice by telegraph. 
 
the doctor's answer. 349 
 
 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, hut 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 j and she was, therefore, en- 
 tirely 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 
 
350 DR. wortle's school. 
 
 (»no o'clock she must be ready to say some- 
 thing 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. Pea- 
 cocke 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 fol- 
 low 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 tomb- 
 stone. 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Mrs. Wortle. " Ferdi- 
 nand 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 
 
the doctor's answer. 351 
 
 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 de- 
 stroyed that it must be indifferent what hap- 
 pens to me now. What has happened to me 
 has been so bad that I can hai'dly 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 como^ 
 
352 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 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 hus- 
 band 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 im- 
 portant 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 count- 
 ess-ship, and the great revenue, and the big 
 house at Carstairs, and the tine 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 
 
THE doctor's answer. 353 
 
 y..trag Lord Carstairs, yefc 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 engage- 
 ment 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 proba- 
 
864 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 bility 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 ex- 
 perience ought to have told her that the 
 Doctor would certainly settle the matter him- 
 self. 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 lovo him, my 
 dear " 
 
 " Oh, mamma, you shouldn't ask me ! " 
 
 " My dear ! " 
 
 "I do like him, — very much." 
 
tt;e doctor s answeii. ooo 
 
 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 thougn 
 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." 
 
356 dk. woiitle's school. 
 
 " Are they, mamma ? " 
 
 " Bat I do tliink that he is a lad of very 
 high principle." 
 
 " Papa has always said that of him." 
 
 " A_nd 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, rush- 
 ing at her mother and kissing her and 
 embi'acing her. 
 
 " But if there were to be no regular en- 
 gagement, 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. 
 
the doctor's answer. 357 
 
 "Well, my dear," said the Doctor, siailing, 
 " what am I to say to the Earl ? " 
 
 " Must you write to-day, papa ? " 
 
 " I think so. His letter is one that should 
 not be left longer unanswered. Were wo 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 tho 
 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 
 
358 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 which, the negative is sometimes made to 
 bear. 
 
 " But there must be a beginning to such 
 things. A man throws himself into it head- 
 long, — 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 sweet- 
 est smile. 
 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 " And when it has begun, she does not like 
 to blurt it out at once, even to her loving old 
 <ather." 
 
 " 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 aro 
 better disposed to this young man than you 
 are likely to be to any other, just at pre- 
 sent." 
 
THE DOCTOR S AttSYVliR. 359 
 
 "Ok yes, papa." 
 
 " To all others you aro quite indifferent ? " 
 
 " Yes, — indeed, papa." 
 
 " I am sure you are. But not quite indiffer- 
 ent 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." 
 
 "Bat what does he mean to say ? " 
 
360 bk, wortle's SCHOOL. 
 
 " 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 there- 
 fore 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 differ- 
 ent 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 
 
THE DOCTOR'S ANSWER. 361 
 
 truth about us. The title and the money go 
 far, — but not half so far as the opinion which 
 wo entertain of the young man's own good 
 gifts. I would not give my girl to the great- 
 est 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 declar- 
 ation 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 
 
dO'J Dili WOllTI.E'S SCHOOL. 
 
 your son, who had come here simply fof 
 tuition, should have fallen into a matter o£ 
 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. 1 did not, at any rate, think it neces- 
 sary 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; 
 
THE doctor's answer. 363 
 
 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 
 %nd 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. "Wbrtle, 
 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 
 
 A A 
 
364 DR. Wortle's scHOot. 
 
 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 himselt 
 if you hadn't done it for him." 
 
 "At any rate the Doctor is a gentleman," 
 the Earl said, comforting himself. 
 
365 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ME. PEACOCKe's EETTJKN. 
 
 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 bhere 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 her- 
 self, that Mary was engaged to Lord Car- 
 stairs. 
 
 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, 
 
366 dk. woetLe's SCHOOL 
 
 that he at once went about Mr. Peacocke's 
 affairs with renewed courage. Mr. Peacoeko 
 should resume his duties as soon as he was 
 remarried, and let them see what Mrs. Stanti- 
 loup 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, 1 
 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 filled 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 tho 
 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 
 
MR. peacocke's return. 367 
 
 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 bo 
 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 daugh- 
 ter's charms, — telling her also, with some- 
 what 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 
 
368 DR. WOfifLE^S SCHOOL. 
 
 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 bo called an en- 
 gagement 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 
 
369 
 
 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 Decem- 
 ber j 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 
 
370 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 ■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 him- 
 self 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. Woi'tle. "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, 
 
mil teacocke's return. 371 
 
 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 them- 
 selves 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 Ann 
 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 enter- 
 
372 dr. woktle's school. 
 
 tained, 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 
 intrusted to me has a right to complain." 
 
 Having done this, he went up to London, 
 and made arrangements for having the mar- 
 riage celebrated there as soon as possible 
 after the arrival of Mr. Peacocke. And on 
 1 is return to Bowick, he went off to Mr. Pud- 
 dicombe with a copy of his letter in his pocket. 
 
mr. peacocke's return. 373 
 
 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 any- 
 thing ? " 
 
 " If I understand the question rightly, they 
 who have thought proper to take their chil- 
 dren away from your school because of Mr. 
 Peacocke, have done so because that gentle- 
 man 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 
 
374 dk. wortle's school. 
 
 yourself in this letter. But in your defence 
 you do not really touch the offence as to 
 which you are, according to your own show- 
 ing, 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 faG8 
 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 down- 
 right question, he is bound to answer the 
 truth." 
 
Mil 
 
 375 
 
 " 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. 
 
 Is 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 any one 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 mo- 
 ment think that you will require any counte- 
 nance, or that if you did, that I could give it 
 you." 
 
 " No man that I know so efficiently." 
 
370 dr. woktle's school. 
 
 " But it may be that Mr. Peacocke will like 
 to find that the clergymen from his neighbour- 
 hood 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 specially 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 
 bo 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 1 " 
 
MR. peacocke's return. 377 
 
 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 any one. And he 
 burned them. When Mr. Puddicombe found 
 him at the station at Broughton as they were 
 about to proceed to London with Mrs. Pea- 
 cocke, 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. Puddi- 
 combe. 
 
 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. Tou 
 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 
 
378 dr. wortle's SCHOOL 
 
 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 to-morrow, 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 to-morrow/' 
 
mtc. peacocke's return. 379 
 
 " We shall be very glad of that/' said the 
 usher. 
 
 " And Mrs. Peacooke 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 inform- 
 ation to the French teacher. So much, how- 
 ever, 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 or_e, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke were driven up to the 
 school in one of the Broughton flys. She 
 
 B B 
 
380 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 went quickly up into her own house, when 
 Mr. Peacocke walked into the school. The 
 boys clustered round him, and the threo 
 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." 
 
MR. peacocke's return. 381 
 
 " 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 ex- 
 planations 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. 
 
88Si 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 maky'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 ar- 
 ranged 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 ac- 
 customed duties in the diminished school, 
 apparently without difficulty. As the Doctor 
 had not sent those ill-judged letters he of 
 
383 
 
 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 metro- 
 politan 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 neigh- 
 bourhood were there, including Lady Anne 
 Clifford, who was devoted, with almost re- 
 pentant affection, to her old friend. And 
 
384 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 Lady Margaret Momson was there, the only 
 clergyman's wife besides his own, who de- 
 clared 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." 
 
 "1 shouldn't wonder it 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 com- 
 forting and most consolatory to one of the 
 
Mary's success 385 
 
 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 ! " Halloa ! 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 ? " 
 
386 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 " 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. 
 
Mary's success. 387 
 
 That very morning Mary had been bemoan- 
 ing 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 meet- 
 ing, — 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 ! " 
 
388 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 " Oil 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 
 
mary's success. 389 
 
 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. 
 
 u ~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 
 
390 dr. woktle's school. 
 
 won't stay, I suppose, because lie lias got no 
 clothes." 
 
 " But lie has ; — John brought in a port- 
 manteau and a dressing-bag out of the gig." 
 So that was settled. 
 
 In the mean time Lord Carstairs Bad 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 com- 
 mon 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." 
 
jury's success. 391 
 
 "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. 
 
392 uk. woutle's school. 
 
 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." 
 
maey's success. 393 
 
 "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 any one 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 Car- 
 stairs. 
 
 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 
 
394 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 If after this the Doctor chose to refuse to take 
 his boys back again, he would have, he ac- 
 knowledged, no ground for offence. But if 
 the Doctor would take them, he would intrust 
 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 in- 
 quiring 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 assent- 
 ed, 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 con- 
 cerned herself she had always been anxious 
 that her boys should remain at Bowick. And 
 
395 
 
 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 acknow- 
 ledgment 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 fort- 
 night Lord Bracy had given her a beautiful 
 brooch. " That means," said Lady Bracy in 
 the confidence of her own little sitting-room 
 up-stairs, " 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, 
 c c 
 
396 dr. wortle's school. 
 
 Of course she stayed over the Christinas, 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 holi- 
 days. " Papa couldn't take both the Bun- 
 combes," said Mrs. TTortle 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 tbe 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. 
 
mary's success. 397 
 
 As to the school, it certainly suffered no 
 thing 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 thin',-: that in this matter 
 he will adhere to his old determination. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Ballantyne, Hanson & Co., London and Edinburgh 
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 199 Leighton Court. H. Kingsley. 
 
 200 Austin Elliot. Henry Kingsley. 
 
 201 Reginald Hetherege. H. Kingsley. 
 
 203 Ralph the Heir. A. Trollope. 
 
 204 Semi- Attached Couple. Lady Eden. 
 
 205 Semi-Detached House. Lady Eden. 
 
 206 Woman's Devotion. Author of 
 
 "Margaret and her Bridesmaids." 
 
 207 Box for the Season. C. C. Clarke. 
 
 211 Sir Brook Fosbrooke. C Lever. 
 
 212 Aunt Margaret. E. F. Trollope. 
 
 213 The Bramleighs. Charles Lever. 
 
 214 Ladles of Bever Hollow. 
 
 Anne Manning. 
 225 Tony Butler: Charles Lever. 
 
 227 That Boy of Norcott's. Ditto. 
 
 228 Lord Kilgohbin. Charles Lever. 
 
 229 Cornelius O'Dowd. Charles Lever, 
 
 230 Bernard Marsh. G. P. R. James. 
 
 231 Charley Nugent. Author of 
 
 "St. Aubyns of St. Aubyn." 
 
 234 A Passion in Tatters. A. Thomas. 
 
 235 Old Maid's Secret. E. Marlitt. 
 
 239 Hawksview. Holme Lee. 
 
 240 Gilbert Massenger. Holme Lee. 
 
 241 Thorney Hall. Holme Lee. 
 
 242 La Vendee. Anthony Trollope. 
 
 244 Lady Anna. Anthony Trollope. 
 
 245 St. Aubyns of St. Aubyn. 
 
 Author of " Charley Nugent." 
 268 He Cometh Not, She Said. 
 
 Annie Thomas. 
 
 270 Hagarene. 
 
 Author of " Guy Livingstone." 
 
 271 May. Mrs. Oliphant: 
 
 272 In the Bays of My Youth. 
 
 Amelia B. Edwards. 
 
 274 No Alternative. Annie Thomas. 
 
 275 Colonel Dacre. Author of " Caste." 
 
 276 For Love and Life. Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 277 Last of the Mortimers. Ditto. 
 
 278 My Son's Wife. Author of " Caste." 
 
 280 Squire Arden. Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 281 Lost Bride. Lady Chatterton. 
 
 284 Wild Georgia. J. Midolemas. 
 
 285 Ombra. Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 286 First In the Field 
 
 287 Pearl. thor of " Caste," 
 289 The White H'. by the Sea. 
 
 I -iTHAM EEAYARDS. 
 
 291 Entanglemen ■ UithorofCaste." 
 
 293 Caste. uthor of " Pearl." 
 
 294 Off the Line. Lady Thynne. 
 
 295 Ladies of Lovel Leigh. Author of 
 
 " Queen of the County." 
 
 296 Madonna Mary. Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 297 Queen of the County. 
 
 Author of " Three Wives." 
 
 298 Miss Carew. A. B. Edwards. 
 
 299 Olympus to Hades. Mrs. Forrester. 
 
 300 Vicar of Bulhampton. Trollope. 
 
 303 Book of Heroines. Author of 
 
 " Ladies of Lovel Leigh." 
 
 304 Debenham's Vow. A. " Edwards. 
 
 305 Fair Women. Mr- . irester. 
 307 Monsieur Maurice. .' wards. 
 
 309 John and I. M. Be* awards. 
 
 310 Queen of Herself. , e King. 
 
 311 Sun and Shade 
 
 Author of " Ursula's Love Story." 
 3*3 Wild Flower ef Rayensworth. 
 
 M. Betham Edwards. 
 
 315 Lisabee's Love Story. Ditto. 
 
 316 Days of My Life. Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 317 Harry Muir. Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 318 Gold Elsie. E. Marlitt. 
 321 Broken Bonds. Hawley Smart. 
 
 323 Heart and Cress. Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 324 Two Kisses. Hawley Smart. 
 
 325 Layton Hall. Mark Lemon. 
 
 326 A Charming-Fellow. E.F.Trollope. 
 
 328 False Cards. Hawley Smart. 
 
 329 Squire ef Beechwood." Scrutator." 
 
 333 Magdalene Hepburn. Oliphant. 
 
 334 House on the Moor. Ditto. 
 
 335 Cardinal Pole. W. H. Ainsworth. 
 
 336 Lilllesleaf. Mrs. Oliphant. 
 338 Blotted Out. Annie Thomas. 
 
 342 Constable of the Tower. 
 
 W. H. Ainsworth. 
 
 343 A Fatal Error. J. Masterman. 
 347 Mainstone's Housekeeper. 
 
 E. Meteyard. 
 349 Mount Sorrel. Mrs. Marsh. 
 
 354 Off the Roll. Katherine King. 
 
 359 Courtship. Hawley Smart. 
 
 360 Condoned. Anna C. Stehle. 
 
 361 Bound to Win. Hawley Smart. 
 
 363 Gardenhurst. Anna C. Steele. 
 
 364 Cecile. Hawley Smart. 
 
 365 Sir Harry Hotspur. A. Trollope. 
 367 Race for a Wife. Hawley Smart. 
 
 London: WARD, LOCK & CO., Salisbury Square, E.C. 
 
THE SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 368 Leaguer of Lathom. Ainsworth. 
 
 369 Spanish Match. W. H. Ainsworth. 
 
 370 Constable de Bourbon. Ditto. 
 
 371 Old Court. W. H. Ainsworth. 
 
 372 Nuts and Nutcraekers. C. Lever. 
 
 373 Myddleton Pomfret. Ainsworth- 
 
 374 Hilary St. Ives. W. H. Ainsworth. 
 37s Play or Pay. Hawley Smart. 
 
 376 A Laggard in Love. A. Thomas. 
 
 377 Lucy Crofton. Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 379 All for Greed. Baroness De Bury. 
 
 380 Dr. Austin's Guests. W. Gilbert. 
 
 381 My Heart's in the Highlands. 
 
 Miss Grant. 
 
 382 Sunshine and Snow. H. Smart. 
 3S3 Broken Toys. Anna C. Steele. 
 384 Is He Popenjoy 1 A. Trollope. 
 
 386 Kelverdale. Earl Desart. 
 
 387 Tilbury Nogo. Whyte Melville. 
 
 388 Uncle John. Whyte Melville. 
 
 389 The White Eose. W. Melville. 
 
 390 Cerise. Whyte Melville. 
 
 391 Brookes of Bridlemere. Melville. 
 
 392 "Bones and I." Whyte Melville. 
 
 393 " M. or N." Whyte Melville. 
 
 394 Contraband. Whyte Melville. 
 
 395 Market Harborough. W. Melville. 
 
 396 Sarchedon. Whyte Melville. 
 
 397 Satanella. Whyte Melville. 
 
 398 Katerfelto. Whyte Melville. 
 
 399 Sister Louisa. Whyte Melville. 
 
 400 Rosine. Whyte Melville. 
 
 401 Boy's Wife. Whyte Melville. 
 
 402 Black, but Comely. W. Melville. 
 404 An Eye for an Eye. A. Trollope. 
 
 408 Cousin Henry A. Trollope. 
 
 409 Dark and Light Stories. M. Hope. 
 
 410 Riding Recollections. Melville. 
 412 High Stakes. Annie Thomas. 
 
 414 Pique. Author of "Agatha Beaufort." 
 
 415 Chips from an Old Block. 
 
 Author of " Charlie Thornhill." 
 
 416 Blithedale Romance. Hawthorne. 
 
 418 Belles and Ringers. H. Smart. 
 
 419 Lord Mayor of London. Ainsworth. 
 
 420 John Law. W. H. Ainsworth. 
 
 421 Dr. Wortle's School. A. Trollope. 
 
 422 Tragic Comedians. G. Meredith. 
 
 423 Social Sinners. Hawley Smart. 
 
 424 Pickwick Papers. C. Dickens. 
 
 425 Jean Valjean (Les Miserables). 
 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 426 Cosette and Marius(LesMiserables). 
 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 427 Fantlne (Les Miserables). Ditto. 
 
 428 By the King's Command. Hugo. 
 
 429 Out of the Hurly Burly. Max 
 
 Adeler. 400 Humorous IUusts. 
 
 430 Elbow Room. Max Adeler. Hu- 
 
 morously Illustrated. 
 
 431 Random Shots. Max Adeler. 
 
 Humorously Illustrated. 
 
 432 An Old Fogey. Max Adeler. 
 
 Humorously Illustrated. 
 
 433 The Second Wife. E. Marlitt. 
 
 434 The Little Moorland Princess. 
 
 E. MARLITT. 
 
 43 S No Sign. Mrs. Cashel Hoey. 
 
 436 Blossoming of an Aloe. ■ Ditto. 
 4^7 Evelina. Miss Burney. 
 
 438 Unrequited Affection. Balzac. 
 
 439 Scottish Chiefs. Jane Porter. 
 
 440 Improvisatore. H. C. Andersen. 
 
 441 Arthur Bonnicastle. J.G.Hollan.d. 
 
 442 Innocents Abroad. Mark Twain. 
 
 443 The Squanders of Castle Squander. 
 
 Wm. Carleton. 
 
 445 Never Again. W. S. Mayo. 
 
 446 The Berber. W. S. Mayo. 
 
 447 The American. H. James, Jun. 
 
 448 Opening of a Chestnut Burr. Roe. 
 
 449 A Face Illumined. E. P. Roe. 
 
 450 Barriers Burned Away. E. P. Roe. 
 
 451 What Can She Do? E. P. Roe. 
 
 452 A Day of Fate. E. P. Roe. 
 
 453 Without a Home. E. P. Roe. 
 
 454 Genevieve and The Stonemason. 
 
 A. Lamartine. 
 
 455 Debit and Credit. Gustav Freytag. 
 
 456 The Mistress of Langdale Hall. 
 
 R. M. Kettle. 
 
 457 Smugglers and Foresters. Ditto. 
 
 458 Hillsdenon the Moors. Ditto. . 
 
 459 Under the Grand Old Hills. Ditto. 
 4(0 Fabian's Tower. R. M, Kettle. 
 
 461 The Wreckers. R. M. Kettle. 
 
 462 My Home in the Sairos. Kettle. 
 
 463 The Sea and the Moor. Kettle. 
 
 464 Tom Cringle's Log. M. Scott. 
 
 465 Artemus Ward, His Book; and 
 
 Travels among the Mormons. 
 
 466 Artemus Ward's Letters to Punch 
 
 and Mark Twain's Practical Jokes. 
 
 467 Leah, the Jewish Maiden. 
 
 468 Margaret Catchpole. Coebold. 
 
 469 The Suffolk Gipsy. Com-ld. 
 
 470 Zana, the Gipsy. Miss Stevens. 
 
 471 The Sailor Hero. Capt. Armstrong. 
 
 472 The Cruise of the " Daring." Ditto. 
 
 473 The Sunny South. Ditto. 
 
 474 Romance of the Seas. "Waters." 
 
 London: WARD, LOCK & CO., Salisbury Square, E.C. 
 
THE SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION. 
 
 476 Poe's Tales of Mystery. 
 
 477 Wild as a Hawk. Kath. Macquoid. 
 473 Margaret. Sylvester Judd. 
 
 479 Tlie Gambler's Wite. Mrs. Grev. 
 
 480 Forgotten Lives. Mrs. Notley. 
 
 481 The Klddle-a-Wlnk. Mrs. Notlky. 
 
 482 Lava's Bitterness. Mrs. Notley. 
 
 483 In the House of a Friend. Ditto. 
 
 484 Mountain Marriage. Mayne Reid. 
 
 485 The Conspirators. A. de Vigny. 
 
 486 Brownrigg Papers. 
 
 Douglas Jerbold. 
 
 487 Marriage Bonds. C.J. Hamilton. 
 48S TheFlynnsof Flynnville. Ditto. 
 489 Paid In Full. Henry J. Byron. 
 400 Royston Gower. Thomas Miller. 
 
 491 Briefless Barrister. John Mills. 
 
 492 Chelsea Pensioners. G. R. Gleig. 
 
 493 Eulalie. W. Stephens Hayward. 
 
 494 The Diamond Cross. Ditto. 
 
 495 Image of his Father. 
 
 Brothers Mayhew. 
 
 496 Twelve Months of Matrimony. 
 
 Emilie Carlen. 
 
 497 The Brilliant Marriage. Ditto. 
 
 498 The Sea Lions. J. F. Cooper. 
 
 499 Mark's Reef. J. F. Coopkr. 
 
 500 Man of the World. S. W. Fullom. 
 
 501 King and Countess. S. W. Fullom. 
 
 502 A Lease for Lives. Fonblanque. 
 
 503 Waverley. Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 504 Kenilworth. Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 505 Ivanhoe. Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 506 The Antiquary. Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 507 Paul Clifford. Lytton Bulwer. 
 
 508 Last Days of Pompeii. Bulwer. 
 
 509 Pelham. Lytton Bulwer. 
 
 510 Eugene Aram. Lytton Bulwer. 
 
 511 Midshipman Easy. Marryat. 
 
 512 Japhet in Search of a Father. 
 
 Captain Marryat. 
 
 513 Jacob Faithful. Captain Marryat. 
 
 514 Peter Simple. Captain Marryat. 
 
 515 Hector O'Ealloran. 
 
 W. H. Maxwell. 
 
 516 Christopher Tadpole. A. Smith. 
 
 517 Plc-nic Papers. Edited by Charles 
 
 Dickens. 
 
 518 Bret Harte's Complete Tales. 
 
 519 Shiloh. Mrs. W. M. L. Jay. 
 
 520 Holden with the Cords. Mrs. Jay. 
 
 521 Nicholas Nickleby. C. Dickens. 
 
 522 Cruise of the Midge. M. Scott. 
 
 523 A Knight of the 19th Century. 
 
 E. P. Koe. 
 
 524 Near to Nature's Heart. Ditto. 
 
 525 Odd or Even V Mrs. Whitney. 
 
 526 From Jest to Earnest. E. P. Rob. 
 
 527 The Backwoodsman. Wraxall. 
 
 528 Almost a Quixote. Miss Levien. 
 
 529 Lost and Won. G. M. Craik. 
 
 530 Winifred's Wooing. G. M. Chaik. 
 
 531 Tales of the Trains. C Lever. 
 
 532 Paul Goslett's Confessions. Ditto. 
 
 533 Counterparts. 
 
 Author of" Charles Auchester." 
 
 534 My First Season. Ditto. 
 
 535 Clover Cottage. M. W. Savage. 
 
 536 Bret Harte's Deadwood Mystery, 
 
 and Mark Twain's Nightmare. 
 
 537 The Heathen Chinee. Bret Harte. 
 
 538 Wan Lee, the Pagan, &c Ditto. 
 
 539 American Drolleries. 
 
 Mark Twain. 
 
 540 Funny Stories and Humorous 
 
 Poems. Mark Twain and O. W. 
 Holmes. 
 
 541 Mark Twain's Mississippi Pilot, 
 
 and Bret Harte's Two Men of 
 Sandy Bar. 
 
 Uniform with the aiove. 
 
 BYG. J. WHYTE MELVILLE. 
 
 600 Songs and Verses. 
 
 601 The True Cross. 
 
 HALF-CROWN VOLUMES. 
 
 18 Charles O'Malley. Charles Lever. 
 
 2d Tin Daltons. Charles Lever. 
 
 23 Knight of Gwynne. Charles Lever. 
 
 25 Dodd Family Abroad. C. Lever. 
 
 28 Tom Burke. Charles Lever. 
 
 30 Davenport Dunn. Charles Lever. 
 
 33 Roland Cashel. Charles Lever. 
 
 42 Martins of Cro' Martin. C. Lever. 
 1 16 Orley Farm. Anthony Trollope. 
 120 Can You Forgive Hor? Ditto. 
 
 186 Phineas Finn. A. Trollope. 
 
 187 He Knew He was Right. Ditto. 
 243 Eustace Diamonds. A. Trollope. 
 267 Phineas Redux. A. Trollope. 
 319 Forgotten by the World. 
 
 Katherine Macquoid. 
 362 The Prime Minister. A. Trollope. 
 378 The Wizard of the Mountain. 
 
 William Gilbert. 
 417 The Duke's Children. Trollope. 
 
 London: WARD, LOCK & CO., Salisbury Square, E.C. 
 
 J CGDEN AND CO., l'RLNTERSj 172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C. 
 
 b 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5684.D636 1881a 
 
 Dr. Wortle's school. A novel. 
 
 3 1924 013 565 043 
 

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