E-text prepared by Stanford Carmack
Transcriber's note:
This e-text was taken from the first edition of this novel and
attempts to reproduce the original spelling, punctuation etc.
Some corrections have been made--a complete list of changes and
items to note is at the end of the e-text.
Two words in the text contain an oe-ligature, indicated in this
e-text by [oe].
The Table of Contents of Volume II is located at the beginning
of that volume.
DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL.
A Novel.
BY
ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. I.
London:
Chapman and Hall, Limited, 193, Piccadilly.
1881.
London:
R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor, Printers,
Bread Street Hill.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
PART I.
CHAPTER I. DR. WORTLE
CHAPTER II. THE NEW USHER
CHAPTER III. THE MYSTERY
PART II.
CHAPTER IV. THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION
CHAPTER V. "THEN WE MUST GO"
CHAPTER VI. LORD CARSTAIRS
PART III.
CHAPTER VII. ROBERT LEFROY
CHAPTER VIII. THE STORY IS TOLD
CHAPTER IX. MRS. WORTLE AND MR. PUDDICOMBE
PART IV.
CHAPTER X. MR. PEACOCKE GOES
CHAPTER XI. THE BISHOP
CHAPTER XII. THE STANTILOUP CORRESPONDENCE
DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
DR. WORTLE.
THE Rev. Jeffrey Wortle, D.D., was a man much esteemed by others,--and by
himself. He combined two professions, in both of which he had been
successful,--had been, and continued to be, at the time in which we speak
of him. I will introduce him to the reader in the present tense as Rector
of Bowick, and proprietor and 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 school. Bowick School had been
established by himself as preparatory to Eton. Dr. Wortle had been
elected to an assistant-mastership at Eton early in life soon after he had
become a Fellow of Exeter. There he had worked successfully for ten
years, and had then retired to the living of Bowick. On going there he
had determined to occupy his leisure, and if possible to make his fortune,
by taking a few boys into his house. By dint of charging high prices and
giving good food,--perhaps in part, also, by the quality of the education
which he imparted,--his establishment had become popular and had outgrown
the capacity of the parsonage. He had been enabled to purchase a field or
two close abutting on the glebe gardens, and had there built convenient
premises. He now limited his number to thirty boys, for each of which he
charged £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 customers, and
asserted that the labours he endured were already quite heavy enough. In
fact, he recommended all those who gave him advice to mind their own
business.
It may be said of him that he knew his own so well as to justify him in
repudiating counsel from others. There are very different ideas of what
"a fortune" may be supposed to consist. It will not be necessary to give
Dr. Wortle's exact idea. No doubt it changed with him, increasing as his
money increased. But he was supposed to be a comfortable man. He paid
ready money and high prices. He liked that people under him should
thrive,--and he liked them to know that they throve by his means. He
liked to be master, and always was. He was just, and liked his justice to
be recognised. He was generous also, and liked that, too, to be known.
He kept a carriage for his wife, who had been the daughter of a poor
clergyman at Windsor, and was proud to see her as well dressed as the wife
of any county squire. But he was a domineering husband. As his wife
worshipped him, and regarded him as a Jupiter on earth from whose nod
there could be and should be no appeal, but little harm came from this.
If a tyrant, he was an affectionate tyrant. His wife felt him to be so.
His servants, his parish, and his school all felt him to be so. They
obeyed him, loved him, and believed in him.
So, upon the whole, at the time with which we are dealing, did the
diocese, the county, and that world of parents by whom the boys were sent
to his school. But this had not come about without some hard fighting.
He was over fifty years of age, and had been Rector of Bowick for nearly
twenty. During that time there had been a succession of three bishops,
and he had quarrelled more or less with all of them. It might be juster
to say that they had all of them had more or less of occasion to find
fault with him. Now Dr. Wortle,--or Mr. Wortle, as he should be called in
reference to that period,--was a man who would bear censure from no human
being. He had left his position at Eton because the 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 his own house. The
bishop of that day suggested that the cure of the souls of the
parishioners of Bowick was being subordinated to the Latin and Greek of
the sons of the nobility. The bishop got a response which gave an
additional satisfaction to his speedy translation to a more comfortable
diocese. Between the next bishop and Mr. Wortle there was, unfortunately,
misunderstanding, and almost feud for the entire ten years during which
his lordship reigned in the Palace of Broughton. This Bishop of Broughton
had been one of that large batch of Low Church prelates who were brought
forward under Lord Palmerston. Among them there was none more low, more
pious, more sincere, or more given to interference. To teach Mr. Wortle
his duty as a parish clergyman was evidently a necessity to such a bishop.
To repudiate any such teaching was evidently a necessity to Mr. Wortle.
Consequently there were differences, in all of which Mr. Wortle carried
his own. What the good bishop suffered no one probably knew except his
wife and his domestic chaplain. What Mr. Wortle enjoyed,--or Dr. Wortle,
as he came to be called about this time,--was patent to all the county and
all the diocese. The sufferer died, not, let us hope, by means of the
Doctor; and then came the third bishop. He, too, had found himself
obliged to say a word. He was a man of the world,--wise, prudent, not
given to interference or fault-finding, friendly by nature, one who
altogether hated a quarrel, a bishop beyond all things determined to be
the friend of his clergymen;--and yet he thought himself obliged to say a
word. There were matters in which Dr. Wortle affected a peculiarly
anti-clerical mode of expression, if not of feeling. He had been foolish
enough to declare openly that he was in search of a curate who should have
none of the "grace of godliness" about him. He was wont to ridicule the
piety of young men who devoted themselves entirely to their religious
offices. In a letter which he wrote he spoke of one youthful divine as "a
conceited ass who had preached for forty minutes." He not only disliked,
but openly ridiculed all signs of a special pietistic bearing. It was
said of him that he had been heard to swear. There can be no doubt that
he made himself wilfully distasteful to many of his stricter brethren.
Then it came to pass that there was a correspondence between him and the
bishop as to that outspoken desire of his for a curate without the grace
of godliness. But even here Dr. Wortle was successful. The management of
his parish was pre-eminently good. The parish school was a model. The
farmers went to church. Dissenters there were none. The people of Bowick
believed thoroughly in their parson, and knew the comfort of having an
open-handed, well-to-do gentleman in the village. This third episcopal
difficulty did not endure long. Dr. Wortle knew his man, and was willing
enough to be on good terms with his bishop so long as he was allowed to be
in all things his own master.
There had, too, been some fighting between Dr. Wortle and the world about
his school. He was, as I have said, a thoroughly generous man, but he
required, himself, to be treated with generosity. Any question as to the
charges made by him as schoolmaster was unendurable. He explained to all
parents that he charged for each boy at the rate of two hundred a-year for
board, lodging, and tuition, and that anything required for a boy's
benefit or comfort beyond that ordinarily supplied would be charged for as
an extra at such price as Dr. Wortle himself thought to be an equivalent.
Now the popularity of his establishment no doubt depended in a great
degree on the sufficiency and comfort of the good things of the world
which he provided. The beer was of the best; the boys were not made to
eat fat; their taste in the selection of joints was consulted. The
morning coffee was excellent. The cook was a great adept at cakes and
puddings. The Doctor would not himself have been satisfied unless
everything had been plentiful, and everything of the best. He would have
hated a butcher who had attempted to seduce him with meat beneath the
usual price. But when he had supplied that which was sufficient according
to his own liberal ideas, he did not give more without charging for it.
Among his customers there had been a certain Honourable Mr. Stantiloup,
and,--which had been more important,--an Honourable Mrs. Stantiloup. Mrs.
Stantiloup was a lady who liked all the best things which the world could
supply, but hardly liked paying the best price. Dr. Wortle's school was
the best thing the world could supply of that kind, but then the price was
certainly the very best. Young Stantiloup was only eleven, and as there
were boys at Bowick as old as seventeen,--for the school had not
altogether maintained its old character as being merely preparatory,--Mrs.
Stantiloup had thought that her boy should be admitted at a lower fee.
The correspondence which had ensued had been unpleasant. Then young
Stantiloup had had the influenza, and Mrs. Stantiloup had sent her own
doctor. Champagne had been ordered, and carriage exercise. Mr.
Stantiloup had been forced by his wife to refuse to pay sums demanded for
these undoubted extras. Ten shillings a-day for a drive for a little boy
seemed to her a great deal,--seemed so to Mrs. Stantiloup. Ought not the
Doctor's wife to have been proud to take out her little boy in her own
carriage? And then £2 10_s_. 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 the Doctor's lawyer, and a suit commenced.
The Doctor, of course, got his money, and then there followed an
acrimonious correspondence in the "Times" and other newspapers. Mrs.
Stantiloup did her best to ruin the school, and many very eloquent
passages were written not only by her or by her own special scribe, but by
others who took the matter up, to prove that two hundred a-year was a
great deal more than ought to be paid for the charge of a little boy
during three quarters of the year. But in the course of the next twelve
months Dr. Wortle was obliged to refuse admittance to a dozen eligible
pupils because he had not room for them.
No doubt he had suffered during these contests,--suffered, that is, in
mind. There had been moments in which it seemed that the victory would be
on the other side, that the forces congregated against him were too many
for him, and that not being able to bend he would have to be broken; but
in every case he had fought it out, and in every case he had conquered.
He was now a prosperous man, who had achieved his own way, and had made
all those connected with him feel that it was better to like him and obey
him, than to dislike him and fight with him. His curates troubled him as
little as possible with the grace of godliness, and threw off as far as
they could that zeal which is so dear to the youthful mind but which so
often seems to be weak and flabby to their elders. His ushers or
assistants in the school fell in with his views implicitly, and were
content to accept compensation in the shape of personal civilities. It
was much better to go shares with the Doctor in a joke than to have to
bear his hard words.
It is chiefly in reference to one of these ushers that our story has to be
told. But before we commence it, we must say a few more words as to the
Doctor and his family. Of his wife I have already spoken. She was
probably as happy a woman as you shall be likely to meet on a summer's
day. She had good health, easy temper, pleasant friends, abundant means,
and no ambition. She went nowhere without the Doctor, and whenever he
went she enjoyed her share of the respect which was always shown to him.
She had little or nothing to do with the school, the Doctor having many
years ago resolved that though it became him as a man to work for his
bread, his wife should not be a slave. When the battles had been going
on,--those between the Doctor and the bishops, and the Doctor and Mrs.
Stantiloup, and the Doctor and the newspapers,--she had for a while been
unhappy. It had grieved her to have it insinuated that her husband was an
atheist, and asserted that her husband was a cormorant; but his courage
had sustained her, and his continual victories had taught her to believe
at last that he was indomitable.
They had one child, a daughter, Mary, of whom it was said in Bowick that
she alone knew the length of the Doctor's foot. It certainly was so that,
if Mrs. Wortle wished to have anything done which was a trifle beyond her
own influence, she employed Mary. And if the boys collectively wanted to
carry a point, they would "collectively" obtain Miss Wortle's aid. But
all this the Doctor probably knew very well; and though he was often
pleased to grant favours thus asked, he did so because he liked the
granting of favours when they had been asked with a proper degree of care
and attention. She was at the present time of the age in which fathers
are apt to look upon their children as still children, while other men
regard them as being grown-up young ladies. It was now June, and in the
approaching August she would be eighteen. It was said of her that of the
girls all round she was the prettiest; and indeed it would be hard to find
a sweeter-favoured girl than Mary Wortle. Her father had been all his
life a man noted for the manhood of his face. He had a broad forehead,
with bright grey eyes,--eyes that had always a smile passing round them,
though the smile would sometimes show that touch of irony which a smile
may contain rather than the good-humour which it is ordinarily supposed to
indicate. His nose was aquiline, not hooky like a true bird's-beak, but
with that bend which seems to give to the human face the clearest
indication of individual will. His mouth, for a man, was perhaps a little
too small, but was admirably formed, as had been the chin with a deep
dimple on it, which had now by the slow progress of many dinners become
doubled in its folds. His hair had been chestnut, but dark in its hue.
It had now become grey, but still with the shade of the chestnut through
it here and there. He stood five feet ten in height, with small hands and
feet. He was now perhaps somewhat stout, but was still as upright on his
horse as ever, and as well able to ride to hounds for a few fields when by
chance the hunt came in the way of Bowick. Such was the Doctor. Mrs.
Wortle was a pretty little woman, now over forty years of age, of whom it
was said that in her day she had been the beauty of Windsor and those
parts. Mary Wortle took mostly after her father, being tall and comely,
having especially her father's eyes; but still they who had known Mrs.
Wortle as a girl declared that Mary had inherited also her mother's
peculiar softness and complexion.
For many years past none of the pupils had been received within the
parsonage,--unless when received there as guests, which was of frequent
occurrence. All belonging to the school was built outside the glebe land,
as a quite separate establishment, with a door opening from the parsonage
garden to the school-yard. Of this door the rule was that the Doctor and
the gardener should have the only two keys; but the rule may be said to
have become quite obsolete, as the door was never locked. Sometimes the
bigger boys would come through unasked,--perhaps in search of a game of
lawn-tennis with Miss Wortle, perhaps to ask some favour of Mrs. Wortle,
who always was delighted to welcome them, perhaps even to seek the Doctor
himself, who never on such occasions would ask how it came to pass that
they were on that side of the wall. Sometimes Mrs. Wortle would send her
housekeeper through for some of the little boys. It would then be a good
time for the little boys. But this would generally be during the Doctor's
absence.
Here, on the school side of the wall, there was a separate establishment
of servants, and a separate kitchen. There was no sending backwards or
forwards of food or of clothes,--unless it might be when some special
delicacy was sent in if a boy were unwell. For these no extra charge was
ever made, as had been done in the case of young Stantiloup. Then a
strange doctor had come, and had ordered the wine and the carriage. There
was no extra charge for the kindly glasses of wine which used to be
administered in quite sufficient plenty.
Behind the school, and running down to the little river Pin, there is a
spacious cricket-ground, and a court marked out for lawn-tennis. Up close
to the school is a racket-court. No doubt a good deal was done to make
the externals of the place alluring to those parents who love to think
that their boys shall be made happy at school. Attached to the school,
forming part of the building, is a pleasant, well-built residence, with
six or eight rooms, intended for the senior or classical assistant-master.
It had been the Doctor's scheme to find a married gentleman to occupy this
house, whose wife should receive a separate salary for looking after the
linen and acting as matron to the school,--doing what his wife did till he
became successful,--while the husband should be in orders and take part of
the church duties as a second curate. But there had been a difficulty in
this.
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 gentleman, when he is married, does not often wish to
dispose of the services of his wife. A lady, when she has a husband, has
generally sufficient duties of her own to employ her, without undertaking
others. The scheme, if realised, would no doubt be excellent, but the
difficulties were too many. The Stantiloups, who lived about twenty miles
off, made fun of the Doctor and his project; and the Bishop was said to
have expressed himself as afraid that he would not be able to license as
curate 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 undertaken 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 complete; but after five years Mr. Peacocke appeared again at Oxford,
with a beautiful American wife, and the necessity of earning an income by
his erudition.
It would at first have seemed very improbable that Dr. Wortle should have
taken into his school or into his parish a gentleman who had chosen the
United States as a field for his classical labours. The Doctor, whose
mind was by no means logical, was a thoroughgoing Tory of the old school,
and therefore considered himself bound to hate the name of a republic. He
hated rolling stones, and Mr. Peacocke had certainly been a rolling stone.
He loved Oxford with all his heart, and some years since had been heard to
say hard things of Mr. Peacocke, when that gentleman deserted his college
for the sake of establishing himself across the Atlantic. But he was one
who thought that there should be a place of penitence allowed to those who
had clearly repented of their errors; and, moreover, when he heard that
Mr. Peacocke was endeavouring to establish himself in Oxford as a "coach"
for undergraduates, and also that he was a married man without any
encumbrance in the way of family, there seemed to him to be an additional
reason for pardoning that American escapade. Circumstances brought the
two men together. There were friends at Oxford who knew how anxious the
Doctor was to carry out that plan of his in reference to an usher, a
curate, and a matron, and here were the very things combined. Mr.
Peacocke's scholarship and power of teaching were acknowledged; he was
already in orders; and it was declared that Mrs. Peacocke was undoubtedly
a lady. Many inquiries were made. Many meetings took place. Many
difficulties arose. But at last Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke came to Bowick, and
took up their abode in the school.
All the Doctor's requirements were not at once fulfilled. Mrs. Peacocke's
position was easily settled. Mrs. Peacocke, who seemed to be a woman
possessed of sterling sense and great activity, undertook her duties
without difficulty. But Mr. Peacocke would not at first consent to act as
curate in the parish. He did, however, after a time perform a portion of
the Sunday services. When he first came to Bowick he had declared that he
would undertake no clerical duty. Education was his profession, and to
that he meant to devote himself exclusively. Nor for the six or eight
months of his sojourn did he go back from this; so that the Doctor may be
said even still to have failed in carrying out his purpose. But at last
the new schoolmaster appeared in the pulpit of the parish church and
preached a sermon.
All that had passed in private conference between the Doctor and his
assistant on the subject need not here be related. Mr. Peacocke's
aversion to do more than attend regularly at the church services as one of
the parishioners had been very strong. The Doctor's anxiety to overcome
his assistant's reasoning had also been strong. There had no doubt been
much said between them. Mr. Peacocke had been true to his principles,
whatever those principles were, in regard to his appointment as a
curate,--but it came to pass that he for some months preached regularly
every Sunday in the parish church, to the full satisfaction of the
parishioners. For this he had accepted no payment, much to the Doctor's
dissatisfaction. Nevertheless, it was certainly the case that they who
served the Doctor gratuitously never came by the worse of the bargain.
Mr. Peacocke was a small wiry man, anything but robust in appearance, but
still capable of great bodily exertion. He was a great walker. Labour in
the school never seemed to fatigue him. The addition of a sermon to
preach every week seemed to make no difference to his energies in the
school. He was a constant reader, and could pass from one kind of mental
work to another without fatigue. The Doctor was a noted scholar, but it
soon became manifest to the Doctor himself, and to the boys, that Mr.
Peacocke was much deeper in scholarship than the Doctor. Though he was a
poor man, his own small classical library was supposed to be a repository
of all that was known about Latin and Greek. In fact, Mr. Peacocke grew
to be a marvel; but of all the marvels about him, the thing most
marvellous was the entire faith which the Doctor placed in him. Certain
changes even were made in the old-established "curriculum" of
tuition,--and were made, as all the boys supposed, by the advice of Mr.
Peacocke. Mr. Peacocke was treated with a personal respect which almost
seemed to imply that the two men were equal. This was supposed by the
boys to come from the fact that both the Doctor and the assistant had been
Fellows of their colleges at Oxford; but the parsons and other gentry
around could see that there was more in it than that. Mr. Peacocke had
some power about him which was potent over the Doctor's spirit.
Mrs. Peacocke, in her line, succeeded almost as well. She was a woman
something over thirty years of age when she first came to Bowick, in the
very pride and bloom of woman's beauty. Her complexion was dark and
brown,--so much so, that it was impossible to describe her colour
generally by any other word. But no clearer skin was ever given to a
woman. Her eyes were brown, and her eye-brows black, and perfectly
regular. Her hair was dark and very glossy, and always dressed as simply
as the nature of a woman's head will allow. Her features were regular,
but with a great show of strength. She was tall for a woman, but without
any of that look of length under which female altitude sometimes suffers.
She was strong and well made, and apparently equal to any labour to which
her position might subject her. When she had been at Bowick about three
months, a boy's leg had been broken, and she had nursed him, not only with
assiduity, but with great capacity. The boy was the youngest son of the
Marchioness of Altamont; and when Lady Altamont paid a second visit to
Bowick, for the sake of taking her boy home as soon as he was fit to be
moved, her ladyship made a little mistake. With the sweetest and most
caressing smile in the world, she offered Mrs. Peacocke a ten-pound note.
"My dear madam," said Mrs. Peacocke, without the slightest reserve or
difficulty, "it is so natural that you should do this, because you cannot
of course understand my position; but it is altogether out of the
question." The Marchioness blushed, and stammered, and begged a hundred
pardons. Being a good-natured woman, she told the whole story to Mrs.
Wortle. "I would just as soon have offered the money to the Marchioness
herself," said Mrs. Wortle, as she told it to her husband. "I would have
done it a deal sooner," said the Doctor. "I am not in the least afraid of
Lady Altamont; but I stand in awful dread of Mrs. Peacocke." Nevertheless
Mrs. Peacocke had done her work by the little lord's bed-side, just as
though she had been a paid nurse.
And so she felt herself to be. Nor was she in the least ashamed of her
position in that respect. If there was aught of shame about her, as some
people said, it certainly did not come from the fact that she was in the
receipt of a salary for the performance of certain prescribed duties.
Such remuneration was, she thought, as honourable as the Doctor's income;
but to her American intelligence, the acceptance of a present of money
from a Marchioness would have been a degradation.
It certainly was said of her by some persons that there must have been
something in her former life of which she was ashamed. The Honourable
Mrs. Stantiloup, to whom all the affairs of Bowick had been of consequence
since her husband had lost his lawsuit, and who had not only heard much,
but had inquired far and near about Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke, declared
diligently among her friends, with many nods and winks, that there was
something "rotten in the state of Denmark." She did at first somewhat
imprudently endeavour to spread a rumour abroad that the Doctor had become
enslaved by the lady's beauty. But even those hostile to Bowick could not
accept this. The Doctor certainly was not the man to put in jeopardy the
respect of the world and his own standing for the beauty of any woman;
and, moreover, the Doctor, as we have said before, was over fifty years of
age. But there soon came up another ground on which calumny could found a
story. It was certainly the case that Mrs. Peacocke had never accepted
any hospitality from Mrs. Wortle or other ladies in the neighbourhood. It
reached the ears of Mrs. Stantiloup, first, that the ladies had called
upon each other, as ladies are wont to do who intend to cultivate a mutual
personal acquaintance, and then that Mrs. Wortle had asked Mrs. Peacocke
to dinner. But Mrs. Peacocke had refused not only that invitation, but
subsequent invitations to the less ceremonious form of tea-drinking.
All this had been true, and it had been true also,--though of this Mrs.
Stantiloup had not heard the particulars,--that Mrs. Peacocke had
explained to her neighbour that she did not intend to put herself on a
visiting footing with any one. "But why not, my dear?" Mrs. Wortle had
said, urged to the argument by precepts from her husband. "Why should you
make yourself desolate here, when we shall be so glad to have you?" "It
is part of my life that it must be so," Mrs. Peacocke had answered. "I am
quite sure that the duties I have undertaken are becoming a lady; but I do
not think that they are becoming to one who either gives or accepts
entertainments."
There had been something of the same kind between the Doctor and Mr.
Peacocke. "Why the mischief shouldn't you and your wife come and eat a
bit of mutton, and drink a glass of wine, over at the Rectory, like any
other decent people?" I never believed that accusation against the Doctor
in regard to swearing; but he was no doubt addicted to expletives in
conversation, and might perhaps have indulged in a strong word or two, had
he not been prevented by the sanctity of his orders. "Perhaps I ought to
say," replied Mr. Peacocke, "because we are not like any other decent
people." Then he went on to explain his meaning. Decent people, he
thought, in regard to social intercourse, are those who are able to give
and take with ease among each other. He had fallen into a position in
which neither he nor his wife could give anything, and from which, though
some might be willing to accept him, he would be accepted only, as it
were, by special favour. "Bosh!" ejaculated the Doctor. Mr. Peacocke
simply smiled. He said it might be bosh, but that even were he inclined
to relax his own views, his wife would certainly not relax hers. So it
came to pass that although the Doctor and Mr. Peacocke were really
intimate, and that something of absolute friendship sprang up between the
two ladies, when Mr. Peacocke had already been more than twelve months in
Bowick neither had he nor Mrs. Peacocke broken bread in the Doctor's
house.
And yet the friendship had become strong. An incident had happened early
in the year which had served greatly to strengthen it. At the school
there was a little boy, just eleven years old, the only son of a Lady De
Lawle, who had in early years been a dear friend to Mrs. Wortle. Lady De
Lawle was the widow of a baronet, and the little boy was the heir to a
large fortune. The mother had been most loath to part with her treasure.
Friends, uncles, and trustees had declared that the old prescribed form of
education for British aristocrats must be followed,--a t'other school,
namely, then Eton, and then Oxford. No; his mother might not go with him,
first to one, and then to the other. Such going and living with him would
deprive his education of all the real salt. Therefore Bowick was chosen
as the t'other school, because Mrs. Wortle would be more like a mother to
the poor desolate boy than any other lady. So it was arranged, and the
"poor desolate boy" became the happiest of the young pickles whom it was
Mrs. Wortle's special province to spoil whenever she could get hold of
them.
Now it happened that on one beautiful afternoon towards the end of April,
Mrs. Wortle had taken young De Lawle and another little boy with her over
the foot-bridge which passed from the bottom of the parsonage garden to
the glebe-meadow which ran on the other side of a little river, and with
them had gone a great Newfoundland dog, who was on terms equally friendly
with the inmates of the Rectory and the school. Where this bridge passed
across the stream the gardens and the field were on the same level. But
as the water ran down to the ground on which the school-buildings had been
erected, there arose a steep bank over a bend in the river, or, rather,
steep cliff; for, indeed, it was almost perpendicular, the force of the
current as it turned at this spot having washed away the bank. In this
way it had come to pass that there was a precipitous fall of about a dozen
feet from the top of the little cliff into the water, and that the water
here, as it eddied round the curve, was black and deep, so that the bigger
boys were wont to swim in it, arrangements for bathing having been made on
the further or school side. There had sometimes been a question whether a
rail should not be placed for protection along the top of this cliff, but
nothing of the kind had yet been done. The boys were not supposed to play
in this field, which was on the other side of the river, and could only be
reached by the bridge through the parsonage garden.
On this day young De Lawle and his friend and the dog rushed up the hill
before Mrs. Wortle, and there began to romp, as was their custom. Mary
Wortle, who was one of the party, followed them, enjoining the children to
keep away from the cliff. For a while they did so, but of course
returned. Once or twice they were recalled and scolded, always asserting
that the fault was altogether with Neptune. It was Neptune that knocked
them down and always pushed them towards the river. Perhaps it was
Neptune; but be that as it might, there came a moment very terrible to
them all. The dog in one of his gyrations came violently against the
little boy, knocked him off his legs, and pushed him over the edge. Mrs.
Wortle, who had been making her way slowly up the hill, saw the fall,
heard the splash, and fell immediately to the ground.
Other eyes had also seen the accident. The Doctor and Mr. Peacocke were
at the moment walking together in the playgrounds at the school side of
the brook. When the boy fell they had paused in their walk, and were
standing, the Doctor with his back to the stream, and the assistant with
his face turned towards the cliff. A loud exclamation broke from his lips
as he saw the fall, but in a moment,--almost before the Doctor had
realised the accident which had occurred,--he was in the water, and two
minutes afterwards young De Lawle, drenched indeed, frightened, and out of
breath, but in nowise seriously hurt, was out upon the bank; and Mr.
Peacocke, drenched also, but equally safe, was standing over him, while
the Doctor on his knees was satisfying himself that his little charge had
received no fatal injury. It need hardly be explained that such a
termination as this to such an accident had greatly increased the good
feeling with which Mr. Peacocke was regarded by all the inhabitants of the
school and Rectory.
CHAPTER III.
THE MYSTERY.
MR. PEACOCKE himself said that in this matter a great deal of fuss was
made about nothing. Perhaps it was so. He got a ducking, but, being a
strong swimmer, probably suffered no real danger. The boy, rolling down
three or four feet of bank, had then fallen down six or eight feet into
deep water. He might, no doubt, have been much hurt. He might have
struck against a rock and have been killed,--in which case Mr. Peacocke's
prowess would have been of no avail. But nothing of this kind happened.
Little Jack De Lawle was put to bed in one of the Rectory bed-rooms, and
was comforted with sherry-negus and sweet jelly. For two days he rejoiced
thoroughly in his accident, being freed from school, and subjected only to
caresses. After that he rebelled, having become tired of his bed. But by
that time his mother had been most unnecessarily summoned. Unless she was
wanted to examine the forlorn condition of his clothes, there was nothing
that she could do. But she came, and, of course, showered blessings on
Mr. Peacocke's head,--while Mrs. Wortle went through to the school and
showered blessings on Mrs. Peacocke. What would they have done had the
Peacockes not been there?
"You must let them have their way, whether for good or bad," the Doctor
said, when his assistant complained rather of the blessings,--pointing out
at any rate their absurdity. "One man is damned for ever, because, in the
conscientious exercise of his authority, he gives a little boy a rap which
happens to make a small temporary mark on his skin. Another becomes a
hero because, when in the equally conscientious performance of a duty, he
gives himself a ducking. I won't think you a hero; but, of course, I
consider myself very fortunate to have had beside me a man younger than
myself, and quick and ready at such an emergence. Of course I feel
grateful, but I shan't bother you by telling you so."
But this was not the end of it. Lady De Lawle declared that she could not
be happy unless Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke would bring Jack home for the
holidays to De Lawle Park. Of course she carried her blessings up into
Mrs. Peacocke's little drawing-room, and became quite convinced, as was
Mrs. Wortle, that Mrs. Peacocke was in all respects a lady. She heard of
Mr. Peacocke's antecedents at Oxford, and expressed her opinion that they
were charming people. She could not be happy unless they would promise to
come to De Lawle Park for the holidays. Then Mrs. Peacocke had to explain
that in her present circumstances she did not intend to visit anywhere.
She was very much flattered, and delighted to think that the dear little
boy was none the worse for his accident; but there must be an end of it.
There was something in her manner, as she said this, which almost overawed
Lady De Lawle. She made herself, at any rate, understood, and no further
attempt was made for the next six weeks to induce her or Mr. Peacocke to
enter the Rectory dining-room. But a good deal was said about Mr.
Peacocke,--generally in his favour.
Generally in his favour,--because he was a fine scholar, and could swim
well. His preaching perhaps did something for him, but the swimming did
more. But though there was so much said of good, there was something also
of evil. A man would not altogether refuse society for himself and his
wife unless there were some cause for him to do so. He and she must have
known themselves to be unfit to associate with such persons as they would
have met at De Lawle Park. There was a mystery, and the mystery, when
unravelled, would no doubt prove to be very deleterious to the character
of the persons concerned. Mrs. Stantiloup was quite sure that such must
be the case. "It might be very well," said Mrs. Stantiloup, "for Dr.
Wortle to obtain the services of a well-educated usher for his school, but
it became quite another thing when he put a man up to preach in the
church, of whose life, for five years, no one knew anything." Somebody
had told her something as to the necessity of a bishop's authority for the
appointment of a curate; but no one had strictly defined to her what a
curate is. She was, however, quite ready to declare that Mr. Peacocke had
no business to preach in that pulpit, and that something very disagreeable
would come of it.
Nor was this feeling altogether confined to Mrs. Stantiloup, though it had
perhaps originated with what she had said among her own friends. "Don't
you think it well you should know something of his life during these five
years?" This had been said to the Rector by the Bishop himself,--who
probably would have said nothing of the kind had not these reports reached
his ears. But reports, when they reach a certain magnitude, and attain a
certain importance, require to be noticed.
So much in this world depends upon character that attention has to be paid
to bad character even when it is not deserved. In dealing with men and
women, we have to consider what they believe, as well as what we believe
ourselves. The utility of a sermon depends much on the idea that the
audience has of the piety of the man who preaches it. Though the words of
God should never have come with greater power from the mouth of man, they
will come in vain if they be uttered by one who is known as a breaker of
the Commandments;--they will come in vain from the mouth of one who is
even suspected to be so. To all this, when it was said to him by the
Bishop in the kindest manner, Dr. Wortle replied that such suspicions were
monstrous, unreasonable, and uncharitable. He declared that they
originated with that abominable virago, Mrs. Stantiloup. "Look round the
diocese," said the Bishop in reply to this, "and see if you can find a
single clergyman acting in it, of the details of whose life for the last
five years you know absolutely nothing." Thereupon the Doctor said that he
would make inquiry of Mr. Peacocke himself. It might well be, he thought,
that Mr. Peacocke would not like such inquiry, but the Doctor was quite
sure that any story told to him would be true. On returning home he found
it necessary, or at any rate expedient, to postpone his questions for a
few days. It is not easy to ask a man what he has been doing with five
years of his life, when the question implies a belief that these five
years have been passed badly. And it was understood that the questioning
must in some sort apply to the man's wife. The Doctor had once said to
Mrs. Wortle that he stood in 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 expressed to her in regard to her duties; but it had become
manifest to the Doctor that in all matters beyond the school she was
independent, and was by no means subject to external influences. She was
not, for instance, very constant in her own attendance at church, and
never seemed to feel it necessary to apologise for her absence. The
Doctor, in his many and familiar conversations with Mr. Peacocke, had not
found himself able to allude to this; and he had observed that the husband
did not often speak of his own wife unless it were on matters having
reference to the school. So it came to pass that he dreaded the
conversation which he proposed to himself, and postponed it from day to
day with a cowardice which was quite unusual to him.
And now, O kind-hearted reader, I feel myself constrained, in the telling
of this little story, to depart altogether from those principles of
story-telling to which you probably have become accustomed, and to put the
horse of my romance before the cart. There is a mystery respecting Mr.
and Mrs. Peacocke which, according to all laws recognised in such matters,
ought not to be elucidated till, let us say, the last chapter but two, so
that your interest should be maintained almost to the end,--so near the
end that there should be left only space for those little arrangements
which are necessary for the well-being, or perhaps for the evil-being, of
our personages. It is my purpose to disclose the mystery at once, and to
ask you to look for your interest,--should you choose to go on with my
chronicle,--simply in the conduct of my persons, during this disclosure,
to others. You are to know it all before the Doctor or the
Bishop,--before Mrs. Wortle or the Hon. Mrs. Stantiloup, or Lady De Lawle.
You are to know it all before the Peacockes become aware that it must
necessarily be disclosed to 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 know. I doubt
whether the greater number be not such. I am far from saying that the
kind of interest of which I am speaking,--and of which I intend to deprive
myself,--is not the most natural and the most efficacious. What would the
'Black Dwarf' be if every one knew from the beginning that he was a rich
man and a baronet?--or 'The Pirate,' if all the truth about Norna of the
Fitful-head had been told in the first chapter? Therefore, put the book
down if the revelation of some future secret be necessary for your
enjoyment. Our mystery is going to be revealed in the next paragraph,--in
the next half-dozen words. Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke were not man and wife.
The story how it came to be so need not be very long;--nor will it, as I
think, entail any great degree of odious criminality either upon the man
or upon the woman. At St. Louis Mrs. Peacocke had become acquainted with
two brothers named Lefroy, who had come up from Louisiana, and had
achieved for themselves characters which were by no means desirable. They
were sons of a planter who had been rich in extent of acres and number of
slaves before the war of the Secession. General Lefroy had been in those
days a great man in his State, had held command during the war, and had
been utterly ruined. When the war was over the two boys,--then seventeen
and sixteen years of age,--were old enough to remember and to regret all
that they had lost, to hate the idea of Abolition, and to feel that the
world had nothing left for them but what was to be got by opposition to
the laws of the Union, which was now hateful to them. They were both
handsome, and, in spite of the sufferings of their State, an attempt had
been made to educate them like gentlemen. But no career of honour had
been open to them, and they had fallen by degrees into dishonour,
dishonesty, and brigandage.
The elder of these, when he was still little more than a stripling, had
married Ella Beaufort, the daughter of another ruined planter in his
State. She had been only sixteen when her father died, and not seventeen
when she married Ferdinand Lefroy. It was she who afterwards came to
England under the name of Mrs. Peacocke.
Mr. Peacocke was Vice-President of the College at Missouri when he first
saw her, and when he first became acquainted with the two brothers, each
of whom was called Colonel Lefroy. Then there arose a great scandal in
the city as to the treatment which the wife received from her husband. He
was about to go away South, into Mexico, with the view of pushing his
fortune there with certain desperadoes, who were maintaining a perpetual
war against the authorities of the United States on the borders of Texas,
and he demanded that his wife should accompany him. This she refused to
do, and violence was used to force her. Then it came to pass that certain
persons in St. Louis interfered on her behalf, and among these was the
Reverend Mr. Peacocke, the Vice-President of the College, upon whose
feelings the singular beauty and dignified 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 together. The woman was left to
provide for herself, and Mr. Peacocke was generous in the aid he gave to
her in doing so.
It may be understood that in this way an intimacy was created, but it must
not be understood that the intimacy was of such a nature as to be
injurious to the fair fame of the lady. Things went on in this way for
two years, during which Mrs. Lefroy's conduct drew down upon her
reproaches from no one. Then there came tidings that Colonel Lefroy had
perished in making one of those raids in which the two brothers were
continually concerned. But which Colonel Lefroy had perished? If it were
the younger brother, that would be nothing to Mr. Peacocke. If it were
the elder, it would be everything. If Ferdinand Lefroy were dead, he
would not scruple at once to ask the woman to be his wife. That which the
man had done, and that which he had not done, had been of such a nature as
to solve all bonds of affection. She had already allowed herself to speak
of the man as one whose life was a blight upon her own; and though there
had been no word of out-spoken love from her lips to his ears, he thought
that he might succeed if it could be made certain that Ferdinand Lefroy
was no longer among the living.
"I shall never know," she said in her misery. "What I do hear I shall
never believe. How can one know anything as to what happens in a country
such as that?"
Then he took up his hat and staff, and, vice-president, professor, and
clergyman as he was, started off for the Mexican border. He did tell her
that he was going, but barely told her. "It's a thing that ought to be
found out," he said, "and I want a turn of travelling. I shall be away
three months." She merely bade God bless him, but said not a word to
hinder or to encourage his going.
He was gone just the three months which he had himself named, and then
returned elate with his news. He had seen the younger brother, Robert
Lefroy, and had learnt from him that the elder Ferdinand had certainly
been killed. Robert had been most ungracious to him, having even on one
occasion threatened his life; but there had been no doubt that he, Robert,
was alive, and that Ferdinand had been killed by a party of United States
soldiers.
Then the clergyman had his reward, and was accepted by the widow with a
full and happy heart. Not only had her release been complete, but so was
her present joy; and nothing seemed wanting to their happiness during the
six first months after their union. Then one day, all of a sudden,
Ferdinand Lefroy was standing within her little drawing-room at the
College of St. Louis.
Dead? Certainly he was not dead! He did not believe that 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 themselves had seen the
man, and known that Colonel Ferdinand Lefroy had been in St. Louis. Then
there came to him an idea that even she might disbelieve the words which
he had spoken;--that even she might think his story to have been false.
But to this she soon put an end. "Dearest," she said, "I never knew a
word that was true to come from his mouth, or a word that was false from
yours."
Should they part? There is no one who reads this but will say that they
should have parted. Every day passed together as man and wife must be a
falsehood and a sin. There would be absolute misery for both in
parting;--but there is no law from God or man entitling a man to escape
from misery at the expense of falsehood and sin. Though their hearts
might have burst in the doing of it, they should have parted. Though she
would have been friendless, alone, and utterly despicable in the eyes of
the world, abandoning the name which she cherished, as not her own, and
going back to that which she utterly abhorred, still she should have done
it. And he, resolving, as no doubt he would have done under any
circumstances, that he must quit the city of his adoption,--he should have
left her with such material sustenance as her spirit would have enabled
her to accept, should have gone his widowed way, and endured as best he
might the idea that he had left the woman whom he loved behind, in the
desert, all alone! That he had not done so the reader is aware. That he
had lived a life of sin,--that he and she had continued in one great
falsehood,--is manifest enough. Mrs. Stantiloup, when she hears it all,
will have her triumph. Lady De Lawle's soft heart will rejoice because
that invitation was not accepted. The Bishop will be unutterably shocked;
but, perhaps, to the good man there will be some solace in the feeling
that he had been right in his surmises. How the Doctor bore it this story
is 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 account
all hope of interest is at an end had better put down the book.
Part II.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DOCTOR ASKS HIS QUESTION.
THE Doctor, instigated by the Bishop, had determined to ask some questions
of Mr. Peacocke as to his American life. The promise had been given at
the Palace, and the Doctor, as he returned home, repented himself in that
he had made it. His lordship was a gossip, as bad as an old woman, as bad
as Mrs. Stantiloup, and wanted to know things in which a man should feel
no interest. So said the Doctor to himself. What was it to him, the
Bishop, or to him, the Doctor, what Mr. Peacocke had been doing in
America? The man's scholarship was patent, his morals were unexceptional,
his capacity for preaching undoubted, his peculiar fitness for his place
at Bowick unquestionable. Who had a right to know more? That the man had
been properly educated at Oxford, and properly ordained on entering his
Fellowship, was doubted by no man. Even if there had been some temporary
backslidings in America,--which might be possible, for which of us have
not backslided at some time of our life?--why should they be raked up?
There was an uncharitableness in such a proceeding altogether opposed to
the Doctor's view of life. He hated severity. It may almost be said that
he hated that state of perfection which would require no pardon. He was
thoroughly human, quite content with his own present position,
anticipating no millennium for the future of the world, and probably, in
his heart, looking forward to heaven as simply the better alternative when
the happiness of this world should be at an end. He himself was in no
respect a wicked man, and yet a little wickedness was not distasteful to
him.
And he was angry with himself in that he had made such a promise. It had
been a rule of life with him never to take advice. The Bishop had his
powers, within which he, as Rector of Bowick, would certainly obey the
Bishop; but it had been his theory to oppose his Bishop, almost more
readily than any one else, should the Bishop attempt to exceed his power.
The Bishop had done so in giving this advice, and yet he had promised. He
was angry with himself, but did not on that account think that the promise
should be evaded. Oh no! Having said that he would do it, he would do
it. And having said that he would do it, the sooner that he did it the
better. When three or four days had passed by, he despised himself
because he had not yet made for himself a fit occasion. "It is such a
mean, sneaking thing to do," he said to himself. But still it had to be
done.
It was on a Saturday afternoon that he said this to himself, as he
returned back to the parsonage garden from the cricket-ground, where he
had left Mr. Peacocke and the three other ushers playing cricket with ten
or twelve of the bigger boys of the school. There was a French master, a
German master, a master for arithmetic and mathematics with the adjacent
sciences, besides Mr. Peacocke, as assistant classical master. Among them
Mr. Peacocke was _facile princeps_ in rank and supposed ability; but they
were all admitted to the delights of the playground. Mr. Peacocke, in
spite of those years of his spent in America where cricket could not have
been familiar to him, remembered well his old pastime, and was quite an
adept at the game. It was ten thousand pities that a man should be
disturbed by unnecessary questionings who could not only teach and preach,
but play cricket also. But nevertheless it must be done. When,
therefore, the Doctor entered his own house, he went into his study and
wrote a short note to his assistant;--
"MY DEAR PEACOCKE,--Could you come over and see me in my study this
evening for half an hour? I have a question or two which I wish to ask
you. Any hour you may name will suit me after eight.--Yours most
sincerely,
"JEFFREY WORTLE."
In answer to this there came a note to say that at half-past eight Mr.
Peacocke would be with the Doctor.
At half-past eight Mr. Peacocke came. He had fancied, on reading the
Doctor's note, that some further question would be raised as to money.
The Doctor had declared that he could no longer accept gratuitous clerical
service in the parish, and had said that he must look out for some one
else if Mr. Peacocke could not oblige him by allowing his name to be
referred in the usual way to the Bishop. He had now determined to say, in
answer to this, that the school gave him enough to do, and that he would
much prefer to give up the church;--although he would always be happy to
take a part occasionally if he should be wanted. The Doctor had been
sitting alone for the last quarter of an hour when his assistant entered
the room, and had spent the time in endeavouring to arrange the
conversation that should follow. He had come at last to a conclusion. He
would let Mr. Peacocke know exactly what had passed between himself and
the Bishop, and would then leave it to his usher either to tell his own
story as to his past life, or to abstain from telling it. He had promised
to ask the question, and he would ask it; but he would let the man judge
for himself whether any answer ought to be given.
"The Bishop has been bothering me about you, Peacocke," he said, standing
up with his back to the fireplace, as soon as the other man had shut the
door behind him. The Doctor's face was always expressive of his inward
feelings, and at this moment showed very plainly that his sympathies were
not with the Bishop.
"I'm sorry that his lordship should have troubled himself," said the
other, "as I certainly do not intend to take any part in his diocese."
"We'll sink that for the present," said the Doctor. "I won't let that be
mixed up with what I have got to say just now. You have taken a certain
part in the diocese already, very much to my satisfaction. I hope it may
be continued; but I won't bother about that now. As far as I can see, you
are just the man that would suit me as a colleague in the parish." Mr.
Peacocke bowed, but remained silent. "The fact is," continued the Doctor,
"that certain old women have got hold of the Bishop, and made him feel
that he ought to answer their objections. That Mrs. Stantiloup has a
tongue as loud as the town-crier's bell."
"But what has Mrs. Stantiloup to say about me?"
"Nothing, except in so far as she can hit me through you."
"And what does the Bishop say?"
"He thinks that I ought to know something of your life during those five
years you were in America."
"I think so also," said Mr. Peacocke.
"I don't want to know anything for myself. As far as I am concerned, I am
quite satisfied. I know where you were educated, how you were ordained,
and I can feel sure, from your present efficiency, that you cannot have
wasted your time. If you tell me that you do not wish to say anything, I
shall be contented, and I shall tell the Bishop that, as far as I am
concerned, there must be an end of it."
"And what will he do?" asked Mr. Peacocke.
"Well; as far as the curacy is concerned, of course he can refuse his
licence."
"I have not the slightest intention of applying to his lordship for a
licence."
This the usher said with a tone of self-assertion which grated a little on
the Doctor's ear, in spite of his good-humour towards the speaker. "I
don't want to go into that," he said. "A man never can say what his
intentions may be six months hence."
"But if I were to refuse to speak of my life in America," said Mr.
Peacocke, "and thus to decline to comply with what I must confess would be
no more than a rational requirement on your part, how then would it be
with myself and my wife in regard to the school?"
"It would make no difference whatever," said the Doctor.
"There is a story to tell," said Mr. Peacocke, very slowly.
"I am sure that it cannot be to your disgrace."
"I do not say that it is,--nor do I say that it is not. There may be
circumstances in which a man may hardly know whether he has done right or
wrong. But this I do know,--that, had I done otherwise, I should have
despised myself. I could not have done otherwise and have lived."
"There is no man in the world," said the Doctor, earnestly, "less anxious
to pry into the secrets of others than I am. I take things as I find
them. If the cook sends me up a good dish I don't care to know how she
made it. If I read a good book, I am not the less gratified because there
may have been something amiss with the author."
"You would doubt his teaching," said Mr. Peacocke, "who had gone astray
himself."
"Then I must doubt all human teaching, for all men have gone astray. You
had better hold your tongue about the past, and let me tell those who ask
unnecessary questions to mind their own business."
"It is very odd, Doctor," said Mr. Peacocke, "that all this should have
come from you just now."
"Why odd just now?"
"Because I had been turning it in my mind for the last fortnight whether I
ought not to ask you as a favour to listen to the story of my life. That
I must do so before I could formally accept the curacy I had determined.
But that only brought me to the resolution of refusing the office. I
think,--I think that, irrespective of the curacy, it ought to be told.
But I have not quite made up my mind."
"Do not suppose that I am pressing you."
"Oh no; nor would your pressing me influence me. Much as I owe to your
undeserved kindness and forbearance, I am bound to say that. Nothing can
influence me in the least in such a matter but the well-being of my wife,
and my own sense of duty. And it is a matter in which I can unfortunately
take counsel from no one. She, and she alone, besides myself, knows the
circumstances, and she is so forgetful of herself that I can hardly ask
her for an opinion."
The Doctor by this time had no doubt become curious. There was a
something mysterious with which he would like to become acquainted. He
was by no means a philosopher, superior to the ordinary curiosity of
mankind. But he was manly, and even at this moment remembered his former
assurances. "Of course," said he, "I cannot in the least guess what all
this is about. For myself I hate secrets. I haven't a secret in the
world. I know nothing of myself which you mightn't know too for all that
I cared. But that is my good fortune rather than my merit. It might well
have been with me as it is with you; but, as a rule, I think that where
there is a secret it had better be kept. No one, at any rate, should
allow it to be wormed out of him by the impertinent assiduity of others.
If there be anything affecting your wife which you do not wish all the
world on this side of the water to know, do not tell it to 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 diocese."
"Certainly not; certainly not," said the Doctor. And then the interview
was at an end.
Mr. Peacocke, when he went away from the Rectory, did not at once return
to his own house, but went off for a walk alone. It was now nearly
midsummer, and there was broad daylight till ten o'clock. It was after
nine when he left the Doctor's, but still there was time for a walk which
he knew well through the fields, which would take him round by Bowick
Wood, and home by a path across the squire's park and by the church. An
hour would do it, and he wanted an hour to collect his thoughts before he
should see his wife, and discuss with her, as he would be bound to do, all
that had passed between him and the Doctor. He had said that he could not
ask her advice. In this there had been much of truth. But he knew also
that he would do nothing as to which he had not received at any rate her
assent. She, for his sake, would have annihilated herself, had that been
possible. Again and again, since that horrible apparition had showed
itself in her room at St. Louis, she had begged that she might leave
him,--not on her own behalf, not from any dread of the crime that she was
committing, not from shame in regard to herself should her secret be found
out, but because she felt herself to be an impediment to his career in the
world. As to herself, she had no pricks of conscience. She had been true
to the man,--brutal, abominable as he had been to her,--until she had in
truth been made to believe that he was dead; and even when he had
certainly been alive,--for she 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.
Circumstances had ruined her. That fate had betaken her which so often
falls upon a woman who trusts herself and her life to a man. But why
should he fall also with her fall? There was still a career before him.
He might be useful; he might be successful; he might be admired.
Everything might still be open to him,--except the love of another woman.
As to that, she did not doubt his truth. Why should he be doomed to drag
her with him as a log tied to his foot, seeing that a woman with a
misfortune is condemned by the general voice of the world, whereas for a
man to have stumbled is considered hardly more than a matter of course?
She would consent to take from him the means of buying her bread; but it
would be better,--she had said,--that she should eat it on her side of the
water, while he might earn it on the other.
We know what had come of these arguments. He had hitherto never left her
for a moment since that man had again appeared before their eyes. He had
been strong in his resolution. If it were a crime, then he would be a
criminal. If it were a falsehood, then would he be a liar. As to the
sin, there had no doubt been some divergence of opinion between him and
her. The teaching that he had undergone in his youth had been that with
which we, here, are all more or less acquainted, and that had been
strengthened in him by the fact of his having become a clergyman. She had
felt herself more at liberty to proclaim to herself a gospel of her own
for the guidance of her own soul. To herself she had never seemed to be
vicious or impure, but she understood well that he was not equally free
from the bonds which religion had imposed upon him. For his sake,--for
his sake, it would be better that she should be away from him.
All this was known to him accurately, and all this had to be considered by
him as he walked across the squire's park in the gloaming of the evening.
No doubt,--he now said to himself,--the Doctor should have been made
acquainted with his condition before he or she had taken their place at
the school. Reticence under such circumstances had been a lie. Against
his conscience there had been many pricks. Living in his present
condition he certainly should not have gone up into that pulpit to preach
the Word of God. Though he had been silent, he had known that the evil
and the deceit would work round upon him. But now what should he do?
There was only one thing on which he was altogether decided;--nothing
should separate them. As he had said so often before, he said again
now,--"If there be sin, let it be sin." But this was clear to him,--were
he to give Dr. Wortle a true history of what had happened to him in
America, then must he certainly leave Bowick. And this was equally
certain, that before telling his tale, he must make known his purpose to
his wife.
But as he entered his own house he had determined that he would tell the
Doctor everything.
CHAPTER V.
"THEN WE MUST GO."
"I THOUGHT you were never going to have done with that old Jupiter," said
Mrs. Peacocke, as she began at that late hour of the evening to make tea
for herself and her husband.
"Why have you waited for me?"
"Because I like company. Did you ever know me go to tea without you when
there was a chance of your coming? What has Jupiter been talking about
all this time?"
"Jupiter has not been talking all this time. Jupiter 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."
"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 argument, which was strong when we came,
lost any of its force?"
"It should have had no force. We should not have taken the man's good
things, and have subjected him to the injury which may come to him by our
bad name."
"Have we not given him good things in return?"
"Not the good things which he had a right to expect,--not that
respectability which is all the world to such an establishment as this."
"Let me go," she said, rising from her chair and almost shrieking.
"Nay, Ella, nay; if you and I cannot talk as though we were one flesh,
almost with one soul between us, as though that which is done by one is
done by both, whether for weal or woe,--if you and I cannot feel ourselves
to be in a boat together either for swimming or for sinking, then I think
that no two persons on this earth ever can be bound together after that
fashion. 'Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will
lodge. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee
and me."' Then she rose from her chair, and flinging herself on her knees
at his feet, buried her face in his lap. "Ella," he said, "the only
injury you can do me is to speak of leaving me. And it is an injury which
is surely unnecessary because you cannot carry it beyond words. Now, if
you will sit up and listen to me, I will tell you what passed between me
and the Doctor." Then she raised herself from the ground and took her seat
at the tea-table, and listened patiently as he began his tale. "They have
been talking about us here in the county."
"Who has found it necessary to talk about one so obscure as I?"
"What does it matter who they might be? The Doctor in his kindly
wrath,--for he is very wroth,--mentions this name and the other. What
does it matter? Obscurity itself becomes mystery, and mystery of course
produces curiosity. It was bound to be so. It is not they who are in
fault, but we. If you are different from others, of course you will be
inquired into."
"Am I so different?"
"Yes;--different in not eating the Doctor's dinners when they are offered
to you; different in not accepting Lady De Lawle's hospitality; different
in contenting yourself simply with your duties and your husband. Of
course we are different. How could we not be different? And as we are
different, so of course there will be questions and wonderings, and that
sifting and searching which always at last finds out the facts. The
Bishop says that he knows nothing of my American life."
"Why should he want to know anything?"
"Because I have been preaching in one of his churches. It is
natural;--natural that the mothers of the boys should want to know
something. The Doctor says that he hates secrets. So do I."
"Oh, my dearest!"
"A secret is always accompanied by more or less of fear, and produces more
or less of cowardice. But it can no more be avoided than a sore on the
flesh or a broken bone. Who would not go about, with all his affairs such
as the world might know, if it were possible? But there come gangrenes in
the heart, or perhaps in the pocket. Wounds come, undeserved wounds, as
those did to you, my darling; but wounds which may not be laid bare to all
eyes. Who has a secret because he chooses it?"
"But the Bishop?"
"Well,--yes, the Bishop. The Bishop has told the Doctor to examine me,
and the Doctor has done it. I give him the credit of saying that the task
has been most distasteful to him. I do him the justice of acknowledging
that he has backed out of the work he had undertaken. He has asked the
question, but has said in the same breath that I need not answer it unless
I like."
"And you? You have not answered it yet?"
"No; I have answered nothing as yet. But I have, I think, made up my mind
that the question must be answered."
"That everything should be told?"
"Everything,--to him. My idea is to tell everything to him, and to leave
it to him to decide what should be done. Should he refuse to repeat the
story any further, and then bid us go away from Bowick, I should think
that his conduct had been altogether straightforward and not
uncharitable."
"And you,--what would you do then?"
"I should go. What else?"
"But whither?"
"Ah! on that we must decide. He would be friendly with me. Though he
might think it necessary that I should leave Bowick, he would not turn
against me violently."
"He could do nothing."
"I think he would assist me rather. He would help me, perhaps, to find
some place where I might still earn my bread by such skill as I
possess;--where I could do so without dragging in aught of my domestic
life, as I have been forced to do here."
"I have been a curse to you," exclaimed the unhappy wife.
"My dearest blessing," he said. "That which you call a curse has come
from circumstances which are common to both of us. There need be no more
said about it. That man has been a source of terrible trouble to us. The
trouble must be discussed from time to time, but the necessity of enduring
it may be taken for granted."
"I cannot be a philosopher such as you are," she said.
"There is no escape from it. The philosophy is forced upon us. When an
evil thing is necessary, there remains only the consideration how it may
be best borne."
"You must tell him, then?"
"I think so. I have a week to consider of it; but I think so. Though he
is very kind at this moment in giving me the option, and means what he
says in declaring that I shall remain even though I tell him nothing, yet
his mind would become uneasy, and he would gradually become discontented.
Think how great is his stake in the school! How would he feel towards me,
were its success to be gradually diminished because he kept a master here
of whom people believed some unknown evil?"
"There has been no sign of any such falling off?"
"There has been no time for it. It is only now that people are beginning
to talk. Had nothing of the kind been said, had this Bishop asked no
questions, had we been regarded as people simply obscure, to whom no
mystery attached itself, the thing might have gone on; but as it is, I am
bound to tell him the truth."
"Then we must go?"
"Probably."
"At once?"
"When it has been so decided, the sooner the better. How could we endure
to remain here when our going shall be desired?"
"Oh no!"
"We must flit, and again seek some other home. Though he should keep our
secret,--and I believe he will if he be asked,--it will be known that
there is a secret, and a secret of such a nature that its circumstances
have driven us hence. If I could get literary work in London, perhaps we
might live there."
"But how,--how would you set about it? The truth is, dearest, that for
work such as yours you should either have no wife at all, or else a wife
of whom you need not be ashamed to speak the whole truth before the
world."
"What is the use of it?" he said, rising from his chair as in anger. "Why
go back to all that which should be settled between us, as fixed by fate?
Each of us has given to the other all that each has to give, and the
partnership is complete. As far as that is concerned, I at any rate am
contented."
"Ah, my darling!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neck.
"Let there be an end to distinctions and differences, which, between you
and me, can have no effect but to increase our troubles. You are a woman,
and I am a man; and therefore, no doubt, your name, when brought in
question, is more subject to remark than mine,--as is my name, being that
of a clergyman, more subject to remark than that of one not belonging to a
sacred profession. But not on that account do I wish to unfrock myself;
nor certainly on that account do I wish to be deprived of my wife. For
good or bad, it has to be endured together; and expressions of regret as
to that which is unavoidable, only aggravate our trouble." After that, he
seated himself, and took up a book as though he were able at once to carry
off his mind to other matters. She probably knew that he could not do so,
but she sat silent by him for a while, till he bade her take herself to
bed, promising that he would follow without delay.
For three days nothing further was said between them on the subject, nor
was any allusion made to it between the Doctor and his assistant. The
school went on the same as ever, and the intercourse between the two men
was unaltered as to its general mutual courtesy. But there did
undoubtedly grow in the Doctor's mind a certain feverish feeling of
insecurity. At any rate, he knew this, that there was a mystery, that
there was something about the Peacockes,--something referring especially
to Mrs. Peacocke,--which, if generally known, would be held to be
deleterious to their character. So much he could not help deducing from
what the man had already told him. No doubt he had undertaken, in his
generosity, that although the man should decline to tell his secret, no
alteration should be made as to the school arrangements; but he became
conscious that in so promising he had in some degree jeopardised the
well-being of the school. He began to whisper to himself that persons in
such a position as that filled by this Mr. Peacocke and his wife should
not be subject to peculiar remarks from ill-natured tongues. A weapon was
afforded by such a mystery to the Stantiloups of the world, which the
Stantiloups would be sure to use with all their virulence. To such an
establishment as his school, respectability was everything. Credit, he
said to himself, is a matter so subtle in its essence, that, as it may be
obtained almost without reason, so, without reason, may it be made to melt
away. Much as he liked Mr. Peacocke, much as he approved of him, much as
there was in the man of manliness and worth which was absolutely dear to
him,--still he was not willing to put the character of his school in peril
for the sake of Mr. Peacocke. Were he to do so, he would be neglecting a
duty much more sacred than any he could owe to Mr. Peacocke. It was thus
that, during these three days, he conversed with himself on the subject,
although he was able to maintain outwardly the same manner and the same
countenance as though all things were going well between them. When they
parted after the interview in the study, the Doctor, no doubt, had so
expressed himself as rather to dissuade his usher from telling his secret
than to encourage him to do so. He had been free in declaring that the
telling of the secret should make no difference in his assistant's
position at Bowick. But in all that, he had acted from his habitual
impulse. He had since told himself that the mystery ought to be
disclosed. It was not right that his boys should be left to the charge of
one who, however competent, dared not speak of his own antecedents. It
was thus he thought of the matter, after consideration. He must wait, of
course, till the week should be over before he made up his mind to
anything further.
"So Peacocke isn't going to take the curacy?"
This was said to the Doctor by Mr. Pearson, the squire, in the course of
those two or three days of which we are speaking. Mr. Pearson was an old
gentleman, who did not live often at Bowick, being compelled, as he always
said, by his health, to spend the winter and spring of every year in
Italy, and the summer months by his family in London. In truth, he did
not much care for Bowick, but had always been on good terms with the
Doctor, and had never opposed the school. Mr. Pearson had been good also
as to Church matters,--as far as goodness can be shown by generosity,--and
had interested himself about the curates. So it had come to pass that the
Doctor did not wish to snub his neighbour when the question was asked. "I
rather think not," said the Doctor. "I fear I shall have to look out for
some one else." He did not prolong the conversation; for, though he wished
to be civil, he did not wish to be communicative. Mr. Pearson had shown
his parochial solicitude, and did not trouble himself with further
questions.
"So Mr. Peacocke isn't going to take the curacy?" This, the very same
question in the very same words, was put to the Doctor on the next morning
by the vicar of the next parish. The Rev. Mr. Puddicombe, a clergyman
without a flaw who did his duty excellently in every station of life, was
one who would preach a sermon or take a whole service for a brother parson
in distress, and never think of reckoning up that return sermons or return
services were due to him,--one who gave dinners, too, and had pretty
daughters;--but still our Doctor did not quite like him. He was a little
too pious, and perhaps given to ask questions. "So Mr. Peacocke isn't
going to take the curacy?"
There was a certain animation about the asking of this question by Mr.
Puddicombe very different from Mr. Pearson's listless manner. It was
clear to the Doctor that Mr. Puddicombe wanted to know. It seemed to the
Doctor that something of condemnation was implied in the tone of the
question, not only against Mr. Peacocke, but against himself also, for
having employed Mr. Peacocke. "Upon my word I can't tell you," he said,
rather crossly.
"I thought that it had been all settled. I heard that it was decided."
"Then you have heard more than I have."
"It was the Bishop told me."
Now it certainly was the case that in that fatal conversation which had
induced the Doctor to interrogate Mr. Peacocke about his past life, the
Doctor himself had said that he intended to look out for another curate.
He probably did not remember that at the moment. "I wish the Bishop would
confine himself to asserting things that he knows," said the Doctor,
angrily.
"I am sure the Bishop intends to do so," said Mr. Puddicombe, very
gravely. "But I apologise. I had not intended to touch a subject on
which there may perhaps be some reserve. I was only going to tell you of
an excellent young man of whom I have heard. But, good morning." Then Mr.
Puddicombe withdrew.
CHAPTER VI.
LORD CARSTAIRS.
DURING the last six months Mr. Peacocke's most intimate friend at Bowick,
excepting of course his wife, had been one of the pupils at the school.
The lad was one of the pupils, but could not be said to be one of the
boys. He was the young Lord Carstairs, eldest son of Earl Bracy. He had
been sent to Bowick now six years ago, with the usual purpose of
progressing from Bowick to Eton. And from Bowick to Eton he had gone in
due course. But there, things had not gone well with the young lord.
Some school disturbance had taken place when he had been there about a
year and a half, in which he was, or was supposed to have been, a
ringleader. It was thought necessary, for the preservation of the
discipline of the school, that a victim should be made;--and it was
perhaps thought well, in order that the impartiality of the school might
be made manifest, that the victim should be a lord. Earl Bracy was
therefore asked to withdraw his son; and young Lord Carstairs, at the age
of seventeen, was left to seek his education where he could. It had been,
and still was, the Earl's purpose to send his son to Oxford, but there was
now an interval of two years before that could be accomplished. During
one year he was sent abroad to travel with a tutor, and was then reported
to have been all that a well-conducted lad ought to be. He was declared
to be quite worthy of all that Oxford would do for him. It was even
suggested that Eton had done badly for herself in throwing off from her
such a young nobleman. But though Lord Carstairs had done well with his
French and German on the Continent, it would certainly be necessary that
he should rub up his Greek and Latin before he went to Christ Church.
Then a request was made to the Doctor to take him in at Bowick in some
sort as a private pupil. After some demurring the Doctor consented. It
was not his wont to run counter to earls who treated him with respect and
deference. Earl Bracy had in a special manner been his friend, and Lord
Carstairs himself had been a great favourite at Bowick. When that
expulsion from Eton had come about, the Doctor had interested himself, and
had declared that a very scant measure of justice had been shown to the
young lord. He was thus in a measure compelled to accede to the request
made to him, and Lord Carstairs was received back at Bowick, not without
hesitation, but with a full measure of affectionate welcome. His 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. Wortle had said anxiously to her
husband when the matter was first discussed.
"Why should it be bad for Mary?"
"Oh, I don't know;--but young people together, you know? Mightn't it be
dangerous?"
"He is a boy, and she is a mere child. They are both children. It will
be a trouble, but I do not think it will be at all dangerous in that way."
And so it was decided. Mrs. Wortle did not at all agree as to their both
being children. She thought that her girl was far from being a child.
But she had argued the matter quite as much as she ever argued anything
with the Doctor. So the matter was arranged, and young Lord Carstairs
came back to Bowick.
As far as the Doctor could see, nothing could be nicer than his young
pupil's manners. He was not at all above playing with the other boys. He
took very kindly to his old studies and his old haunts, and of an evening,
after dinner, went away from the drawing-room to the study in pursuit of
his Latin and his Greek, without any precocious attempt at making
conversation with Miss Wortle. No doubt there was a good deal of
lawn-tennis of an afternoon, and the lawn-tennis was generally played in
the rectory garden. But then this had ever been the case, and the
lawn-tennis was always played with two on a side; there were no
_tête-à-tête_ games between his lordship and Mary, and whenever the game
was going on, Mrs. Wortle was always there to see fair-play. Among other
amusements the young lord took to walking far afield with Mr. Peacocke.
And then, no doubt, many things were said about that life in America.
When a man has been much abroad, and has passed his time there under
unusual circumstances, his doings will necessarily become subjects of
conversation to his companions. To have travelled in France, Germany, or
in Italy, is not uncommon; nor is it uncommon to have lived a year or
years in Florence or in Rome. It is not uncommon now to have travelled
all through the United States. The Rocky Mountains or Peru are hardly
uncommon, so much has the taste for travelling increased. But for an
Oxford Fellow of a college, and a clergyman of the Church of England, to
have established himself as a professor in Missouri, is uncommon, and it
could hardly be but that Lord Carstairs should ask questions respecting
that far-away life.
Mr. Peacocke had no objection to such questions. He told his young friend
much about the manners of the people of St. Louis,--told him how far the
people had progressed in classical literature, in what they fell behind,
and in what they excelled youths of their own age in England, and how far
the college was a success. Then he described his own life,--both before
and after his marriage. He had liked the people of St. Louis well
enough,--but not quite well enough to wish to live among them. No doubt
their habits were very different from those of Englishmen. He could,
however, have been happy enough there,--only that circumstances arose.
"Did Mrs. Peacocke like the place?" the young lord asked one day.
"She is an American, you know."
"Oh yes; I have heard. But did she come from St. Louis?"
"No; her father was a planter in Louisiana, not far from New Orleans,
before the abolition of slavery."
"Did she like St. Louis?"
"Well enough, I think, when we were first married. She had been married
before, you know. She was a widow."
"Did she like coming to England among strangers?"
"She was glad to leave St. Louis. Things happened there which made her
life unhappy. It was on that account I came here, and gave up a position
higher and more lucrative than I shall ever now get in England."
"I should have thought you might have had a school of your own," said the
lad. "You know so much, and get on so well with boys. I should have
thought you might have been tutor at a college."
"To have a school of my own would take money," said he, "which I have not
got. To be tutor at a college would take---- But never mind. I am very
well where I am, and have nothing to complain of." He had been going to
say that to be tutor of a college he would want high standing. And then
he would have been forced to explain that he had lost at his own college
that standing which he had once possessed.
"Yes," he said on another occasion, "she is unhappy; but do not ask her
any questions about it."
"Who,--I? Oh dear, no! I should not think of taking such a liberty."
"It would be as a kindness, not as a liberty. But still, do not speak to
her about it. There are sorrows which must be hidden, which it is better
to endeavour to bury by never speaking of them, by not thinking of them,
if that were possible."
"Is it as bad as that?" the lad asked.
"It is bad enough sometimes. But never mind. You remember that Roman
wisdom,--'Dabit Deus his quoque finem.' And I think that all things are
bearable if a man will only make up his mind to bear them. Do not tell
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 unmanly to complain. Indeed I do not complain, only I wish
that things were lighter to her." Then he went off to other matters; but
his heart was yearning to tell everything to this young lad.
Before the end of the week had arrived, there came a letter to him which
he had not at all expected, and a letter also to the Doctor,--both from
Lord Bracy. The letter to Mr. Peacocke was as follows:--
"MY DEAR SIR,--I have been much gratified by what I have heard both from
Dr. Wortle and my son as to his progress. He will have to come home in
July, when the Doctor's school is broken up, and, as you are probably
aware, will go up to Oxford in October. I think it would be very
expedient that he should not altogether lose the holidays, and I am aware
how much more he would do with adequate assistance than without it. The
meaning of all this is, that I and Lady Bracy will feel very much obliged
if you and Mrs. Peacocke will come and spend your holidays with us at
Carstairs. I have written to Dr. Wortle on the subject, partly to tell
him of my proposal, because he has been so kind to my son, and partly to
ask him to fix the amount of remuneration, should you be so kind as to
accede to my request.
"His mother has heard on more than one occasion from her son how very
good-natured you have been to him.--Yours faithfully,
"BRACY."
It was, of course, quite out of the question. Mr. Peacocke, as soon as he
had read the letter, felt that it was so. Had things been smooth and easy
with him, nothing would have delighted him more. His liking for the lad
was most sincere, and it would have been a real pleasure to him to have
worked with him during the holidays. But it was quite out of the
question. He must tell Lord Carstairs that it was so, and must at the
moment give such explanation as might occur to him. He almost felt that
in giving that explanation he would be tempted to tell his whole story.
But the Doctor met him before he had an opportunity of speaking to Lord
Carstairs. The Doctor met him, and at once produced the Earl's letter.
"I have heard from Lord Bracy, and you, I suppose, have had a letter too,"
said the Doctor. His manner was easy and kind, as though no disagreeable
communication was due to be made on the following day.
"Yes," said Mr. Peacocke. "I have had a letter."
"Well?"
"His lordship has asked me to go to Carstairs for the holidays; but it is
out of the question."
"It would do Carstairs all the good in the world," said the Doctor; "and I
do not see why you should not have a pleasant visit and earn twenty-five
pounds at the same time."
"It is quite out of the question."
"I suppose you would not like to leave Mrs. Peacocke," said the Doctor.
"Either to leave her or to take her! To go myself under any circumstances
would be altogether out of the question. I shall come to you to-morrow,
Doctor, as I said I would last Saturday. What hour will suit you?" Then
the Doctor named an hour in the afternoon, and knew that the revelation
was to be made to him. He felt, too, that that revelation would lead to
the final departure of Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke from Bowick, and he was
unhappy in his heart. Though he was anxious for his school, he was
anxious also for his friend. There was a gratification in the feeling
that Lord Bracy thought so much of his assistant,--or would have been but
for this wretched mystery!
"No," said Mr. Peacocke to the lad. "I regret to say that I cannot go. I
will tell you why, perhaps, another time, but not now. I have written to
your father by this post, because it is right that he should be told at
once. I have been obliged to say that it is impossible."
"I am so sorry! I should so much have liked it. My father would have
done everything to make you comfortable, and so would mamma." In answer
to all this Mr. Peacocke could only say that it was impossible. This
happened on Friday afternoon, Friday being a day on which the school was
always very busy. There was no time for the doing of anything special, as
there would be on the following day, which was a half-holiday. At night,
when the work was altogether over, he showed the letter to his wife, and
told her what he had decided.
"Couldn't you have gone without me?" she asked.
"How can I do that," he said, "when before this time to-morrow I shall
have told everything to Dr. Wortle? After that, he would not let me go.
He would do no more than his duty in telling me that if I proposed to go
he must make it all known to Lord Bracy. But this is a trifle. I am at
the present moment altogether in the dark as to what I shall do with
myself when 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."
"Will he be hard like that?"
"I can hardly tell myself whether it would be hard. I hardly know what I
should feel it my duty to do in such a position myself. I have deceived
him."
"No!" she exclaimed.
"Yes; I have deceived him. Coming to him as I did, I gave him to
understand that there was nothing wrong;--nothing to which special
objection could be made in my position."
"Then we are deceiving all the world in calling ourselves man and wife."
"Certainly we are; but to that we had made up our mind! We are not
injuring all the world. No doubt it is a lie,--but there are
circumstances in which a lie can hardly be a sin. I would have been the
last to say so before all this had come upon me, but I feel it to be so
now. It is a lie to say that you are my wife."
"Is it? Is it?"
"Is it not? And yet I would rather cut my tongue out than say otherwise.
To give you my name is a lie,--but what should I think of myself were I to
allow you to use any other? What would you have thought if I had asked
you to go away and leave me when that bad hour came upon us?"
"I would have borne it."
"I could not have borne it. There are worse things than a lie. I have
found, since this came upon us, that it may be well to choose one sin in
order that another may be shunned. To cherish you, to comfort you, to
make the storm less sharp to you,--that has already been my duty as well
as my pleasure. To do the same to me is your duty."
"And my pleasure; and my pleasure,--my only pleasure."
"We must cling to each other, let the world call us what names it may.
But there may come a time in which one is called on to do a special act of
justice to others. It has come now to me. From the world at large I am
prepared, if possible, to keep my secret, even though I do it by
lying;--but to this one man I am driven to tell it, because I may not
return his friendship by doing him an evil."
Morning school at this time of the year at Bowick began at half-past
seven. There was an hour of school before breakfast, at which the Doctor
did not himself put in an appearance. He was wont to tell the boys that
he had done all that when he was young, and that now in his old age it
suited him best to have his breakfast before he began the work of the day.
Mr. Peacocke, of course, attended the morning school. Indeed, as the
matutinal performances were altogether classical, it was impossible that
much should be done without him. On this Saturday morning, however, he
was not present; and a few minutes after the proper time, the mathematical
master took his place. "I saw him coming across out of his own door,"
little Jack Talbot said to the younger of the two Clifford boys, "and
there was a man coming up from the gate who met him."
"What sort of a man?" asked Clifford.
"He was a rummy-looking fellow, with a great beard, and a queer kind of
coat. I never saw 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 him tell Carstairs to
go through and send word up to the Doctor that he wouldn't be in school
this morning."
It had all happened just as young Talbot had said. A very "rummy-looking
fellow" had at that early hour been driven over from Broughton to Bowick,
and had caught Mr. Peacocke just as he was going into the school. He was
a man with a beard, loose, flowing on both sides, as though he were winged
like a bird,--a beard that had been black, but was now streaked through
and through with grey hairs. The man had a coat with frogged buttons that
must have been intended to have a military air when it was new, but which
was now much the worse for wear. The coat was so odd as to have caught
young Talbot's attention at once. And the man's hat was old and seedy.
But there was a look about him as though he were by no means ashamed
either of himself or of his present purpose. "He came in a gig," said
Talbot to his friend; "for I saw the horse standing at the gate, and the
man sitting in the gig."
"You remember me, no doubt," the stranger said, when he encountered Mr.
Peacocke.
"I do not remember you in the least," the schoolmaster answered.
"Come, come; that won't do. You know me well enough. I'm Robert Lefroy."
Then Mr. Peacocke, looking at him again, knew that the man was the brother
of his wife's husband. He had not seen him often, but he recognised him
as Robert Lefroy, and having recognised him he took him into the house.
Part III.
CHAPTER VII.
ROBERT LEFROY.
FERDINAND LEFROY, the man who had in truth been the woman's husband, had,
during that one interview which had taken place between him and the man
who had married his wife, on his return to St. Louis, declared that his
brother Robert was dead. But so had Robert, when Peacocke encountered him
down at Texas, declared that Ferdinand was dead. Peacocke knew that no
word of truth could be expected from the mouths of either of them. But
seeing is believing. He had seen Ferdinand alive at St. Louis after his
marriage, and by seeing him, had been driven away from his home back to
his old country. Now he also saw this other man, and was aware that his
secret was no longer in his own keeping.
"Yes, I know you now. Why, when I saw you last, did you tell me that your
brother was dead? Why did you bring so great an injury on your
sister-in-law?"
"I never told you anything of the kind."
"As God is above us you told me so."
"I don't know anything about that, my friend. Maybe I was cut. I used to
be drinking a good deal them days. Maybe I didn't say anything of the
kind,--only it suited you to go back and tell her so. Anyways I
disremember it altogether. Anyways he wasn't dead. And I ain't dead
now."
"I can see that."
"And I ain't drunk now. But I am not quite so well off as a fellow would
wish to be. Can you get me breakfast?"
"Yes, I can get you breakfast," he said, after pausing for a while. Then
he rang the bell and told the girl to bring some breakfast for the
gentleman as soon as possible into the room in which they were sitting.
This was in a little library in which he was in the habit of studying and
going through lessons with the boys. He had brought the man here so that
his wife might not come across him. As soon as the order was given, he
ran 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."
"I am the second master."
"It ain't as good, I reckon, as the Missouri College."
"It's not so large, certainly."
"What's the screw?" he said.
"The payment, you mean. It can hardly serve us now to go into matters
such as that. What is it that has brought you here, Lefroy?"
"Well, a big ship, an uncommonly bad sort of railway car, and the
ricketiest little buggy that ever a man trusted his life to. Them's
what's brought me here."
"I suppose you have something to say, or you would not have come," said
Peacocke.
"Yes, I've a good deal to say of one kind or another. But here's the
breakfast, and I'm well-nigh starved. What, cold meat! I'm darned if I
can eat cold meat. Haven't you got anything hot, my dear?" Then it was
explained to him that hot meat was not to be had, unless he would choose
to wait, to have some lengthened cooking accomplished. To this, however,
he objected, and then the girl left the room.
"I've a good many things to say of one kind or another," he continued.
"It's difficult to say, Peacocke, how you and I stand with each other."
"I do not know that we stand with each other at all, as you call it."
"I mean as to relationship. Are you my brother-in-law, or are you not?"
This was a question which in very truth the schoolmaster found it hard to
answer. He did not answer it at all, but remained silent. "Are you my
brother-in-law, or are you not? You call her Mrs. Peacocke, eh?"
"Yes, I call her Mrs. Peacocke."
"And she is here living with you?"
"Yes, she is here."
"Had she not better come down and see me? She is my sister-in-law,
anyway."
"No," said Mr. Peacocke; "I think, on the whole, that she had better not
come down and see you."
"You don't mean to say she isn't my sister-in-law? She's that, whatever
else she is. She's that, whatever name she goes by. If Ferdinand had
been ever so much dead, and that marriage at St. Louis had been ever so
good, still she'd been my sister-in-law."
"Not a doubt about it," said Mr. Peacocke. "But still, under all the
circumstances, she had better not see you."
"Well, that's a queer beginning, anyway. But perhaps you'll come round
by-and-by. She goes by Mrs. Peacocke?"
"She is regarded as my wife," said the husband, feeling himself to become
more and more indignant at every word, but knowing at the same time how
necessary it was that he should keep his indignation hidden.
"Whether true or false?" asked the brother-in-law.
"I will answer no such question as that."
"You ain't very well disposed to answer any question, as far as I can see.
But I shall have to make you answer one or two before I've done with you.
There's a Doctor here, isn't there, as this school belongs to?"
"Yes, there is. It belongs to Dr. Wortle."
"It's him these boys are sent to?"
"Yes, he is the master; I am only his assistant."
"It's him they comes to for education, and morals, and religion?"
"Quite so."
"And he knows, no doubt, all about you and my sister-in-law;--how you came
and married her when she was another man's wife, and took her away when
you knew as that other man was alive and kicking?" Mr. Peacocke, when
these questions were put to him, remained silent, because literally he did
not know how to answer them. He was quite prepared to take his position
as he found it. He had told himself before this dreadful man had
appeared, that the truth must be made known at Bowick, and that he and his
wife must pack up and flit. It was not that the man could bring upon him
any greater evil than he had anticipated. But the questions which were
asked him were in themselves so bitter! The man, no doubt, was his wife's
brother-in-law. He could not turn him out of the house as he would a
stranger, had a stranger come there asking such questions without any
claim of family. Abominable as the man was to him, still he was there
with a certain amount of right upon his side.
"I think," said he, "that questions such as those you've asked can be of
no service to you. To me they are intended only to be injurious."
"They're as a preface to what is to come," said Robert Lefroy, with an
impudent leer upon his face. "The questions, no doubt, are disagreeable
enough. She ain't your wife no more than she's mine. You've no business
with her; and that you knew when you took her away from St. Louis. You
may, or you mayn't, have been fooled by some one down in Texas when you
went back and married her in all that hurry. But you knew what you were
doing well enough when you took her away. You won't dare to tell me that
you hadn't seen Ferdinand when you two mizzled off from the College?"
Then he paused, waiting again for a reply.
"As I told you before," he said, "no further conversation on the subject
can be of avail. It does not suit me to be cross-examined as to what I
knew or what I did not know. If you have anything for me to hear, you can
say it. If you have anything to tell to others, go and tell it to them."
"That's just it," said Lefroy.
"Then go and tell it."
"You're in a terrible hurry, Mister Peacocke. I don't want to drop in and
spoil your little game. You're making money of your little game. I can
help you as to carrying on your little game, better than you do at
present. I don't want to blow upon you. But as you're making money out
of it, I'd like to make a little too. I am precious hard up,--I am."
"You will make no money of me," said the other.
"A little will go a long way with me; and remember, I have got tidings now
which are worth paying for."
"What tidings?"
"If they're worth paying for, it's not likely that you are going to get
them for nothing."
"Look here, Colonel Lefroy; whatever you may have to say about me will
certainly not be prevented by my paying you money. Though you might be
able to ruin me 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 his mind the
circumstances of the moment as best he might. He declared to himself that
had the man come but one day later, his coming would have been matter of
no moment. The story, the entire story, would then have been told to the
Doctor, and the brother-in-law, with all his malice, could have added
nothing to the truth. But now it seemed as though there would be a race
which should tell the story first. Now the Doctor would, no doubt, be led
to feel that the narration was made because it could no longer be kept
back. Should this man be with the Doctor first, and should the story be
told as he would tell it, then it would be impossible for Mr. Peacocke, in
acknowledging the truth of it all, to bring his friend's mind back to the
condition in which it would have been had this intruder not been in the
way. And yet he could not make a race of it with the man. He could not
rush across, and, all but out of breath with his energy, begin his
narration while Lefroy was there knocking at the door. There would be an
absence of dignity in such a mode of proceeding which alone was sufficient
to deter him. He had fixed an hour already with the Doctor. He had said
that he would be there in the house at a certain time. Let the man do
what he would he would keep exactly to his purpose, unless the Doctor
should seek an earlier interview. He would, in no tittle, be turned from
his purpose by the unfortunate coming of this wretched man. "Well!" said
Lefroy, as soon as he had eaten his last mouthful.
"I have nothing to say to you," said Peacocke.
"Nothing to say?"
"Not a word."
"Well, that's queer. I should have thought there'd have been a many
words. I've got a lot to say to somebody, and mean to say it;--precious
soon too. Is there any hotel here, where I can put this horse up? I
suppose you haven't got stables of your own? I wonder if the Doctor would
give me accommodation?"
"I haven't got a stable, and the Doctor certainly will not give you
accommodation. There is a public-house less than a quarter of a mile
further on, which no doubt your driver knows very well. You had better go
there yourself, because after what has taken place, I am bound to tell you
that you will not be admitted here."
"Not admitted?"
"No. You must leave this house, and will not be admitted into it again as
long as I live in it."
"The Doctor will admit me."
"Very likely. I, at any rate, shall do nothing to dissuade him. If you
go down to the road you'll see the gate leading up to his house. I think
you'll find that he is 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 Lefroy.
"Go and tell it to all the world."
"And I ain't to see my sister?"
"No; you will not see your sister-in-law here. Why should she wish to see
one who has only injured her?"
"I ain't injured her;--at any rate not as yet. I ain't done nothing;--not
as yet. I've been as dark as the grave;--as yet. Let her come down, and
you go away for a moment, and let us see if we can't settle it."
"There is nothing for you to settle. Nothing that you can do, nothing
that you can say, will influence either her or me. If you have anything
to tell, go and tell it."
"Why should you smash up everything in that way, Peacocke? You're
comfortable here; why not remain so? I don't want to hurt you. I want to
help you;--and I can. Three hundred dollars wouldn't be much to you. You
were always a fellow as had a little money by you."
"If this box were full of gold," said the schoolmaster, laying his hand
upon a black desk which stood on the table, "I would not give you one cent
to induce you to hold your tongue for ever. I would not condescend even
to ask it of you as a favour. You think that you can disturb our
happiness by telling what you know of us to Dr. Wortle. Go and try."
Mr. Peacocke's manner was so firm that the other man began to doubt
whether in truth he had a secret to tell. Could it be possible that Dr.
Wortle knew it all, and that the neighbours knew it all, and that, in
spite of what had happened, the position of the man and of the woman was
accepted among them? They certainly were not man and wife, and yet they
were living together as such. Could such a one as this Dr. Wortle know
that it was so? He, when he had spoken of the purposes for which the boys
were sent there, asking whether they were not sent for education, for
morals and religion, had understood much of the Doctor's position. He had
known the peculiar value of his secret. He had been aware that a
schoolmaster with a wife to whom he was not in truth married must be out
of place in an English seminary such as this. But yet he now began to
doubt. "I am to be turned out, then?" he asked.
"Yes, indeed, Colonel Lefroy. The sooner you go the better."
"That's a pretty sort of welcome to your wife's brother-in-law, who has
just come over all the way from Mexico to see her."
"To get what he can out of her by his unwelcome presence," said Peacocke.
"Here you can get nothing. Go and do your worst. If you remain much
longer I shall send for the policeman to remove you."
"You will?"
"Yes, I shall. My time is not my own, and I cannot go over to my work
leaving you in my house. You have nothing to get by my friendship. Go
and see what you can do as my enemy."
"I will," said the Colonel, getting up from his chair; "I will. If I'm to
be treated in this way it shall not be for nothing. I have offered you
the right hand of an affectionate brother-in-law."
"Bosh," said Mr. Peacocke.
"And you tell me that I am an enemy. Very well; I will be an enemy. I
could have put you altogether on your legs, but I'll leave you without an
inch of ground to stand upon. You see if I don't." Then he put his hat
on his head, and stalked out of the house, down the road towards the gate.
Mr. Peacocke, when he was left alone, remained in the room collecting his
thoughts, and then went up-stairs to his wife.
"Has he gone?" she asked.
"Yes, he has gone."
"And what has he said?"
"He has asked for money,--to hold his tongue."
"Have you given him any?"
"Not a cent. I have given him nothing but hard words. I have bade him go
and do his worst. To be at the mercy of such a man as that would be worse
for you and for me than anything that fortune has sent us even yet."
"Did he want to see me?"
"Yes; but I refused. Was it not better?"
"Yes; certainly, if you think so. What could I have said to him?
Certainly it was better. His presence would have half killed me. But
what will he do, Henry?"
"He will tell it all to everybody that he sees."
"Oh, my darling!"
"What matter though he tells it at the 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 concealment. What have we
done but clung together as a man and woman should who have loved each
other, and have had a right to love? What have we done of which we should
be ashamed? Let it be told. Let it all be known. Have you not been good
and pure? Have not I been true to you? Bear up your courage, and let the
man do his worst. Not to save even you would I cringe before such a man
as that. And were I to do so, I should save you from nothing."
CHAPTER VIII.
THE STORY IS TOLD.
DURING the whole of that morning the Doctor did not come into the school.
The school hours lasted from half-past nine to twelve, during a portion of
which time it was his practice to be there. But sometimes, on a Saturday,
he would be absent, when it was understood generally that he was preparing
his sermon for the Sunday. Such, no doubt, might be the case now; but
there was a feeling among the boys that he was kept away by some other
reason. It was known that during the hour of morning school Mr. Peacocke
had been occupied with that uncouth stranger, and some of the boys might
have observed that the uncouth stranger had not taken himself altogether
away from the premises. There was at any rate a general feeling that the
uncouth stranger had something to do with the Doctor's absence.
Mr. Peacocke did his best to go on with the work as though nothing had
occurred to disturb the usual tenor of his way, and as far as the boys
were aware he succeeded. He was just as clear about his Greek verbs, just
as incisive about that passage of Cæsar, 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 Cæsar should be uppermost; but it
may be doubted whether he succeeded. At that very moment Colonel Lefroy
might be telling the Doctor that his Ella was in truth the wife of another
man. At that moment the Doctor might be deciding in his anger that the
sinful and deceitful man should no longer be "officer of his." The
hour was too important to him to leave his mind at his own disposal.
Nevertheless he did his best. "Clifford, junior," he said, "I shall never
make you understand what Cæsar says here or elsewhere if you do not give
your entire mind to Cæsar."
"I do give my entire mind to Cæsar," said Clifford, junior.
"Very well; now go on and try again. But remember that Cæsar 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,
and were walking up and down the gravel terrace in front when this was
said.
"I knew something was wrong, because you called me my Lord."
"Yes, something is so wrong as to alter for me all the ordinary ways of my
life. But I wasn't thinking of it. It came by accident,--just because I
am so troubled."
"What is it?"
"There has been a man here,--a man whom I knew in America."
"An enemy?"
"Yes,--an enemy. One who is anxious to do me all the injury he can."
"Are you in his power, Mr. Peacocke?"
"No, thank God; not that. I am in no man's power. He cannot do me any
material harm. Anything which may happen would have happened whether he
had come or not. But I am unhappy."
"I wish I knew."
"So do I,--with all my heart. I wish you knew; I wish you knew. I would
that all the world knew. But we shall live through it, no doubt. And if
we do not, what matter. 'Nil conscire sibi,--nulla pallescere culpa.'
That is all that is necessary to a man. I have done nothing of which I
repent;--nothing that I would not do again; nothing of which I am ashamed
to speak as far as the judgment of other men is concerned. Go, now. They
are making up sides for cricket. Perhaps I can tell you more before the
evening is over."
Both Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke were accustomed to dine with the boys at one,
when Carstairs, being a private pupil, only had his lunch. But on this
occasion she did not come into the dining-room. "I don't think I can
to-day," she said, when he bade her to take courage, and not be altered
more than she could help, in her outward carriage, by the misery of her
present circumstances. "I could not eat if I were there, and then they
would look at me."
"If it be so, do not attempt it. There is no necessity. What I mean is,
that the less one shrinks the less will be the suffering. It is the man
who shivers on the brink that is cold, and not he who plunges into the
water. If it were over,--if the first brunt of it were over, I could find
means to comfort you."
He went through the dinner, as he had done the Cæsar, eating the roast
mutton and the baked potatoes, and the great plateful of currant-pie that
was brought to him. He was fed and nourished, no doubt, but it may be
doubtful whether he knew much of the flavour of what he ate. But before
the dinner was quite ended, before he had said the grace which it was
always his duty to pronounce, there came a message to him from the
rectory. "The Doctor would be glad to see him as soon as dinner was
done." He waited very calmly till the proper moment should come for the
grace, and then, very calmly, he took his way over to the house. He was
certain now that Lefroy had been with the Doctor, because he was sent for
considerably before the time fixed for the interview.
It was his chief resolve to hold his own before the Doctor. The Doctor,
who could read a character well, had so read that of Mr. Peacocke's as to
have been aware from the first that no censure, no fault-finding, would be
possible if the connection were to be maintained. Other ushers, other
curates, he had occasionally scolded. He had been very careful never even
to seem to scold Mr. Peacocke. Mr. Peacocke had been aware of it
too,--aware that he could not endure it, and aware also that the Doctor
avoided any attempt at it. He had known that, as a consequence of this,
he was bound to be more than ordinarily prompt in the performance of all
his duties. The man who will not endure censure has to take care that he
does not deserve it. Such had been this man's struggle, and it had been
altogether successful. Each of the two understood the other, and each
respected the other. Now their position must be changed. It was hardly
possible, Mr. Peacocke thought, as he entered the house, that he should
not be rebuked with grave severity, and quite out of the question that he
should bear any rebuke at all.
The library at the rectory was a spacious and handsome room, in the centre
of which stood a large writing-table, at which the Doctor was accustomed
to sit when he was at work,--facing the door, with a bow-window at his
right hand. But he rarely remained there when 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."
"Colonel Lefroy has been with you, I take it."
"A man calling himself by that name has been here. Will you not take a
chair?"
"I do not know that it will be necessary. What he has told you,--what I
suppose he has told you,--is true."
"You had better at any rate take a chair. I do not believe that what he
has told me is true."
"But it is."
"I do not believe that what he has told me is true. Some of it cannot, I
think, be true. Much of it is not so,--unless I am more deceived in you
than I ever was in any man. At any rate sit down." Then the schoolmaster
did sit down. "He has made you out to be a perjured, wilful, cruel
bigamist."
"I have not been such," said Peacocke, rising from his chair.
"One who has been willing to sacrifice a woman to his passion."
"No; no."
"Who deceived her by false witnesses."
"Never."
"And who has now refused to allow her to see her own husband's brother,
lest she should learn the truth."
"She is there,--at any rate for you to see."
"Therefore the man is a liar. A long story has to be told, as to which at
present I can only guess what may be the nature. I presume the story will
be the same as that you would have told had the man never come here."
"Exactly the same, Dr. Wortle."
"Therefore you will own that I am right in asking you to sit down. The
story may be very long,--that is, if you mean to tell it."
"I do,--and did. I was wrong from the first in supposing that the nature
of my marriage need be of no concern to others, but to herself and to me."
"Yes,--Mr. Peacocke; yes. We are, all of us, joined together too closely
to admit of isolation such as that." There was something in this which
grated against the schoolmaster's pride, though nothing had been said as
to which he did not know that much harder things must meet his ears before
the matter could be brought to an end between him and the Doctor. The
"Mister" had been prefixed to his name, which had been omitted for the
last three or four months in the friendly intercourse which had taken
place between them; and then, though it had been done in the form of
agreeing with what he himself had said, the Doctor had made his first
complaint by declaring that no man had a right to regard his own moral
life as isolated from the lives of others around him. It was as much as
to declare at once that he had been wrong in bringing this woman to
Bowick, and calling her Mrs. Peacocke. He had said as much himself, but
that did not make the censure lighter when it came to him from the mouth
of the Doctor. "But come," said the Doctor, getting up from his seat at
the table, and throwing himself into an easy-chair, so as to mitigate the
austerity of the position; "let us hear the true story. So big a liar as
that American gentleman probably never put his foot in this room before."
Then Mr. Peacocke told the story, beginning with all those incidents of
the woman's life which had seemed to be so cruel both to him and to others
at St. Louis before he had been in any degree intimate with her. Then
came the departure of the two men, and the necessity for pecuniary
assistance, which Mr. Peacocke now passed over lightly, saying nothing
specially of the assistance which he himself had rendered. "And she was
left quite alone?" asked the Doctor.
"Quite alone."
"And for how long?"
"Eighteen months had passed before we heard any tidings. Then there came
news that Colonel Lefroy was dead."
"The husband?"
"We did not know which. They were both Colonels."
"And then?"
"Did he tell you that I went down into Mexico?"
"Never mind what he told me. All that he told me were lies. What you
tell me I shall believe. But tell me everything."
There was a tone of complete authority in the Doctor's voice, but mixed
with this there was a kindliness which made the schoolmaster determined
that he would tell everything as far as he knew how. "When I heard that
one of them was dead, I went away down to the borders of Texas, in order
that I might learn the truth."
"Did she know that you were going?"
"Yes;--I told her the day I started."
"And you told her why?"
"That I might find out whether her husband were still alive."
"But----" The Doctor hesitated as he asked the next question. He knew,
however, that it had to be asked, and went on with it. "Did she know that
you loved her?" To this the other made no immediate answer. The Doctor
was a man who, in such a matter, was intelligent enough, and he therefore
put his question in another shape. "Had you told her that you loved her?"
"Never,--while I thought that other man was living."
"She must have guessed it," said the Doctor.
"She might guess what she pleased. I told her that I was going, and I
went."
"And how was it, then?"
"I went, and after a time I came across the very man who is here now, this
Robert Lefroy. I met him and questioned him, and he told me that his
brother had been killed while fighting. It was a lie."
"Altogether a lie?" asked the Doctor.
"How altogether?"
"He might have been wounded and given over for dead. The brother might
have thought him to be dead."
"I do not think so. I believe it to have been a plot in order that the
man might get rid of his wife. But I believed it. Then I went back to
St. Louis,--and we were married."
"You thought there was no obstacle but what you might become man and wife
legally?"
"I thought she was a widow."
"There was no further delay?"
"Very little. Why should there have been delay?"
"I only ask."
"She had suffered enough, and I had waited long enough."
"She owed you a great deal," said the Doctor.
"It was not a case of owing," said Mr. Peacocke. "At least I think not.
I think she had learnt to love me as I had learnt to love her."
"And how did it go with you then?"
"Very well,--for some months. There was nothing to mar our
happiness,--till one day he came and made his way into our presence."
"The husband?"
"Yes; the husband, Ferdinand Lefroy, the elder brother;--he of whom I had
been told that he was dead; he was there standing before us, talking to
us,--half drunk, but still well knowing what he was doing."
"Why had he come?"
"In want of money, I suppose,--as this other one has come here."
"Did he ask for money?"
"I do not think he did then, though he spoke of his poor condition. But
on the next day he went away. We heard that he had taken the steamer down
the river for New Orleans. We have never heard more of him from that day
to this."
"Can you imagine what caused conduct such as that?"
"I think money was given to him that night to go; but if so, I do not know
by whom. I gave him none. During the next day or two I found that many
in St. Louis knew that he had been there."
"They knew then that you----"
"They knew that my wife was not my wife. That is what you mean to ask?"
The Doctor nodded his head. "Yes, they knew that."
"And what then?"
"Word was brought to me that she and I must part if I chose to keep my
place at the College."
"That you must disown her?"
"The President told me that it would be better that she should go
elsewhere. How could I send her from me?"
"No, indeed;--but as to the facts?"
"You know them all pretty well now. I could not send her from me. Nor
could I go and leave her. Had we been separated then, because of the law
or because of religion, the burden, the misery, the desolation, would all
have been upon her."
"I would have clung to her, let the law say what it might," said the
Doctor, rising from his chair.
"You would?"
"I would;--and I think that I could have reconciled it to my God. But I
might have been wrong," he added; "I might have been wrong. I only say
what I should have done."
"It was what I did."
"Exactly; exactly. We are both sinners. Both might have been wrong.
Then you brought her over here, and I suppose I know the rest?"
"You know everything now," said Mr. Peacocke.
"And believe every word I have heard. Let me say that, if that may be any
consolation to you. Of my friendship you may remain assured. Whether you
can remain here is another question."
"We are prepared to go."
"You cannot expect that I should have thought it all out during the
hearing of the story. There is much to be considered;--very much. I can
only say this, as between man and man, that no man ever sympathized with
another more warmly than I do with you. You had better let me have till
Monday to think about it."
CHAPTER IX.
MRS. WORTLE AND MR. PUDDICOMBE.
IN this way nothing was said at the first telling of the story to decide
the fate of the schoolmaster and of the lady whom we shall still call his
wife. There certainly had been no horror displayed by the Doctor.
"Whether you can remain here is another question." The Doctor, during
the whole interview, had said nothing harder than that. Mr. Peacocke,
as he left the rectory, did feel that the Doctor had been very good to
him. There had not only been no horror, but an expression of the kindest
sympathy. And as to the going, that was left in doubt. He himself felt
that he ought to go;--but it would have been so very sad to have to go
without a friend left with whom he could consult as to his future
condition!
"He has been very kind, then?" said Mrs. Peacocke to her husband when he
related to her the particulars of the interview.
"Very kind."
"And he did not reproach you."
"Not a word."
"Nor me?"
"He declared that had it been he who was in question he would have clung
to you for ever and ever."
"Did he? Then will he leave us here?"
"That does not follow. I should think not. He will know that others must
know it. Your brother-in-law will not tell him only. Lefroy, when he
finds that he can get no money here, from sheer revenge will tell the
story everywhere. When he left the rectory, he was probably as angry with
the Doctor as he is with me. He will do all the harm that he can to all
of us."
"We must go, then?"
"I should think so. Your position here would be insupportable even if it
could be permitted. You may be sure of this;--everybody will know it."
"What do I care for everybody?" she said. "It is not that I am ashamed of
myself."
"No, dearest; nor am I,--ashamed of myself or of you. But there will be
bitter words, and bitter words will produce bitter looks and scant
respect. How would it be with you if the boys looked at you as though
they thought ill of you?"
"They would not;--oh, they would not!"
"Or the servants,--if they reviled you?"
"Could it come to that?"
"It must not come to that. But it is as the Doctor said himself just
now;--a man cannot isolate the morals, the manners, the ways of his life
from the morals of others. Men, if they live together, must live together
by certain laws."
"Then there can be no hope for us."
"None that I can see, as far as Bowick is concerned. We are too closely
joined in our work with other people. There is not a boy here with whose
father and mother and sisters we are not more or less connected. When I
was preaching in the church, there was not one in the parish with whom I
was not connected. Would it do, do you think, for a priest to preach
against drunkenness, whilst he himself was a noted drunkard?"
"Are we like that?"
"It is not what the drunken priest might think of himself, but what others
might think of him. It would not be with us the position which we know
that we hold together, but that which others would think it to be. If I
were in Dr. Wortle's case, and another were to me as I am to him, I should
bid him go."
"You would turn him away from you; him and his--wife?"
"I should. My first duty would be to my parish and to my school. If I
could befriend him otherwise I would do so;--and that is what I expect
from Dr. Wortle. We shall have to go, and I shall be forced to approve of
our dismissal."
In this way Mr. Peacocke came definitely and clearly to a conclusion in
his own mind. But it was very different with Dr. Wortle. The story so
disturbed him, that during the whole of that afternoon he did not attempt
to turn his mind to any other subject. He even went so far as to send
over to Mr. Puddicombe and asked for some assistance for the afternoon
service on the following day. He was too unwell, he said, to preach
himself, and the one curate would have the two entire services unless Mr.
Puddicombe could help him. Could Mr. Puddicombe come himself and see him
on the Sunday afternoon? This note he sent away by a messenger, who came
back with a reply, saying that Mr. Puddicombe would himself preach in the
afternoon, and would afterwards call in at the rectory.
For an hour or two before his dinner, the Doctor went out on horseback,
and roamed about among the lanes, endeavouring to make up his mind. He
was hitherto altogether at a loss as to what he should do in this present
uncomfortable emergency. He could not bring his conscience and his
inclination to come square together. And even when he counselled himself
to yield to his conscience, his very conscience,--a second conscience, as
it were,--revolted against the first. His first conscience told him that
he owed a primary duty to his parish, a second duty to his school, and a
third to his wife and daughter. In the performance of all these duties he
would be bound to rid himself of Mr. Peacocke. But then there came that
other conscience, telling him that the man had been more "sinned against
than sinning,"--that common humanity required him to stand by a man who
had suffered so much, and had suffered so unworthily. Then this second
conscience went on to remind him that the man was pre-eminently fit for
the duties which he had undertaken,--that the man was a God-fearing,
moral, and especially intellectual assistant in his school,--that were he
to lose him he could not hope to find 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 schoolmaster was
even increased by the peculiarity of his position. Do we not all know
that if a man be under a cloud the very cloud will make him more attentive
to his duties than another? If a man, for the wages which he receives,
can give to his employer high character as well as work, he will think
that he may lighten his work because of his character. And as to this
man, who was the very ph[oe]nix of school assistants, there would really be
nothing amiss with his character if only this piteous incident as to his
wife were unknown. In this way his second conscience almost got the
better of the first.
But then it would be known. It would be impossible that it should not be
known. He had already made up his mind to tell Mr. Puddicombe, absolutely
not daring to decide in such an emergency without consulting some friend.
Mr. Puddicombe would hold his peace if he were to promise to do so.
Certainly he might be trusted to do that. But others would know it; the
Bishop would know it; Mrs. Stantiloup would know it. That man, of course,
would take care that all Broughton, with its close full of cathedral
clergymen, would know it. When Mrs. Stantiloup should know it there would
not be a boy's parent through all the school who would not know it. If he
kept the man he must keep him resolving that all the world should know
that he kept him, that all the world should know of what nature was the
married life of the assistant in whom he trusted. And he must be prepared
to face all the world, confiding in the uprightness and the humanity of
his purpose.
In such case he must say something of this kind to all the world; "I know
that they are not married. I know that their condition of life is opposed
to the law of God and man. I know that she bears a name that is not, in
truth, her own; but I think that the circumstances in this case are so
strange, so peculiar, that they excuse a disregard even of the law of God
and man." Had he courage enough for this? And if the courage were there,
was he high enough and powerful enough to carry out such a purpose? Could
he beat down the Mrs. Stantiloups? And, indeed, could he beat down the
Bishop and the Bishop's phalanx;--for he knew that the Bishop and the
Bishop's phalanx would be against him? They could not touch him in his
living, because Mr. Peacocke would not be concerned in the services of the
church; but would not his school melt away to nothing in his hands, if he
were to attempt to carry it on after this fashion? And then would he not
have destroyed himself without advantage to the man whom he was anxious to
assist?
To only one point did he make up his mind certainly during that ride.
Before he slept that night he would tell the whole story to his wife. He
had at first thought that he would conceal it from her. It was his rule
of life to act so entirely on his own will, that he rarely consulted her
on matters of any importance. As it was, he could not endure the
responsibility of acting by himself. People would say of him that he had
subjected his wife to contamination, and had done so without giving her
any choice in the matter. So he resolved that he would tell his wife.
"Not married," said Mrs. Wortle, when she heard the story.
"Married; yes. They were married. It was not their fault that the
marriage was nothing. What was he to do when he heard that they had been
deceived in this way?"
"Not married properly! Poor woman!"
"Yes, indeed. What should I have done if such had happened to me when we
had been six months married?"
"It couldn't have been."
"Why not to you as well as to another?"
"I was only a young girl."
"But if you had been a widow?"
"Don't, my dear; don't! It wouldn't have been possible."
"But you pity her?"
"Oh yes."
"And you see that a great misfortune has fallen upon her, which she could
not help?"
"Not till she knew it," said the wife who had been married quite properly.
"And what then? What should she have done then?"
"Gone," said the wife, who had no doubt as to the comfort, the beauty, the
perfect security of her own position.
"Gone?"
"Gone away at once."
"Whither should she go? Who would have taken her by the hand? Who would
have supported her? Would you have had her lay herself down in the first
gutter and die?"
"Better that than what she did do," said Mrs. Wortle.
"Then, by all the faith I have in Christ, I think you are hard upon her.
Do you think what it is to have to go out and live alone;--to have to look
for your bread in desolation?"
"I have never been tried, my dear," said she, clinging close to him. "I
have never had anything but what was good."
"Ought we not to be kind to one to whom Fortune has been so unkind?"
"If we can do so without sin."
"Sin! I despise the fear of sin which makes us think that its contact
will soil us. Her sin, if it be sin, is so near akin to virtue, that I
doubt whether we should not learn of her rather than avoid her."
"A woman should not live with a man unless she be his wife." Mrs.
Wortle said this with more of obstinacy than he had expected.
"She was his wife, as far as she knew."
"But when she knew that it was not so any longer,--then she should have
left him."
"And have starved?"
"I suppose she might have taken bread from him."
"You think, then, that she should go away from here?"
"Do not you think so? What will Mrs. Stantiloup say?"
"And I am to turn them out into the cold because of a virago such as she
is? You would have no more charity than that?"
"Oh, Jeffrey! what would the Bishop say?"
"Cannot you get beyond Mrs. Stantiloup and beyond the Bishop, and think
what Justice demands?"
"The boys would all be taken away. If you had a son, would you send him
where there was a schoolmaster living,--living----. Oh, you wouldn't."
It is very clear to the Doctor that his wife's mind was made up on the
subject; and yet there was no softer-hearted woman than Mrs. Wortle
anywhere in the diocese, or one less likely to be severe upon a neighbour.
Not only was she a kindly, gentle woman, but she was one who always had
been willing to take her husband's opinion on all questions of right and
wrong. She, however, was decided that they must go.
On the next morning, after service, which the schoolmaster did not attend,
the Doctor saw Mr. Peacocke, and declared his intention of telling the
story to Mr. Puddicombe. "If you bid me hold my tongue," he said, "I will
do so. But it will be better that I should consult another clergyman. He
is a man who can keep a secret." Then Mr. Peacocke gave him full authority
to tell everything to Mr. Puddicombe. He declared that the Doctor might
tell the story to whom he would. Everybody might know it now. He had, he
said, quite made up his mind about that. What was the good of affecting
secrecy when this man Lefroy was in the country?
In the afternoon, after service, Mr. Puddicombe came up to the house, and
heard it all. He was a dry, thin, apparently unsympathetic man, but just
withal, and by no means given to harshness. He could pardon whenever he
could bring himself to believe that pardon would have good results; but he
would not be driven by impulses and softness of heart to save the faulty
one from the effect of his fault, merely because that effect would be
painful. He was a man of no great mental calibre,--not sharp, and quick,
and capable of repartee as was the Doctor, but rational in all things, and
always guided by his conscience. "He has behaved very badly to you," he
said, when he heard the story.
"I do not think so; I have no such feeling myself."
"He behaved very badly in bringing her here without telling you all the
facts. Considering the position that she was to occupy, he must have
known that he was deceiving you."
"I can forgive all that," said the Doctor, vehemently. "As far as I
myself am concerned, I forgive everything."
"You are not entitled to do so."
"How--not entitled?"
"You must pardon me if I seem to take a liberty in expressing myself too
boldly in this matter. Of course I should not do so unless you asked me."
"I want you to speak freely,--all that you think."
"In considering his conduct, we have to consider it all. First of all
there came a great and terrible misfortune which cannot but excite our
pity. According to his own story, he seems, up to that time, to have been
affectionate and generous."
"I believe every word of it," said the Doctor.
"Allowing for a man's natural bias on his own side, so do I. He had
allowed himself to become attached to another man's wife; but we need not,
perhaps, insist upon that." The Doctor moved himself uneasily in his
chair, but said nothing. "We will grant that he put himself right by his
marriage, though in that, no doubt, there should have been more of
caution. Then came his great misfortune. He knew that his marriage had
been no marriage. He saw the man and had no doubt."
"Quite so; quite so," said the Doctor, impatiently.
"He should, of course, have separated himself from her. There can be no
doubt about it. There is no room for any quibble."
"Quibble!" said the Doctor.
"I mean that no reference in our own minds to the pity of the thing, to
the softness of the moment,--should make us doubt about it. Feelings such
as these should induce us to pardon sinners, even to receive them back
into our friendship and respect,--when they have seen the error of their
ways and have repented."
"You are very hard."
"I hope not. At any rate I can only say as I think. But, in truth, in
the present emergency you have nothing to do with all that. If he asked
you for counsel you might give it to him, but that is not his present
position. He has told you his story, not in a spirit of repentance, but
because such telling had become necessary."
"He would have told it all the same though this man had never come."
"Let us grant that it is so, there still remains his relation to you. He
came here under false pretences, and has done you a serious injury."
"I think not," said the Doctor.
"Would you have taken him into your establishment had you known it all
before? Certainly not. Therefore I say that he has deceived you. I do
not advise you to speak to him with severity; but he should, I think, be
made to know that you appreciate what he has done."
"And you would turn him off;--send him away at once, out about his
business?"
"Certainly I would send him away."
"You think him such a reprobate that he should not be allowed to earn his
bread anywhere?"
"I have not said so. I know nothing of his means of earning his bread.
Men living in sin earn their bread constantly. But he certainly should
not be allowed to earn his here."
"Not though that man who was her husband should now be dead, and he should
again marry,--legally marry,--this woman to whom he has been so true and
loyal?"
"As regards you and your school," said Mr. Puddicombe, "I do not think it
would alter his position."
With this the conference ended, and Mr. Puddicombe took his leave. As he
left the house the Doctor declared to himself that the man was a
strait-laced, fanatical, hard-hearted bigot. But though he said so to
himself, he hardly thought so; and was aware that the man's words had had
effect upon him.
Part IV.
CHAPTER X.
MR. PEACOCKE GOES.
THE Doctor had been all but savage with his wife, and, for the moment, had
hated Mr. Puddicombe, but still what they said had affected him. They
were both of them quite clear that Mr. Peacocke should be made to go at
once. And he, though he hated Mr. Puddicombe for his cold logic, could
not but acknowledge that all the man had said was true. According to the
strict law of right and wrong the two unfortunates should have parted when
they found that they were not in truth married. And, again, according to
the strict law of right and wrong, Mr. Peacocke should not have brought
the woman there, into his school, as his wife. There had been deceit.
But then would not he, Dr. Wortle himself, have been guilty of similar
deceit had it fallen upon him to have to defend a woman who had been true
and affectionate to him? Mr. Puddicombe would have left the woman to
break her heart and have gone away and done his duty like a Christian,
feeling no tugging at his heart-strings. It was so that our Doctor spoke
to himself of his counsellor, sitting there alone in his library.
During his conference with Lefroy something had been said which had
impressed him suddenly with an idea. A word had fallen from the Colonel,
an unintended word, by which the Doctor was made to believe that the other
Colonel was dead, at any rate now. He had cunningly tried to lead up to
the subject, but Robert Lefroy had been on his guard as soon as he had
perceived the Doctor's object, and had drawn back, denying the truth of
the word he had before spoken. The Doctor at last asked him the question
direct. Lefroy then declared that his brother had been alive and well
when he left Texas, but he did this in such a manner as to strengthen in
the Doctor's mind the impression that he was dead. If it were so, then
might not all these crooked things be made straight?
He had thought it better to raise no false hopes. He had said nothing of
this to Peacocke on discussing the story. He had not even hinted it to
his wife, from whom it might probably make its way to Mrs. Peacocke. He
had suggested it to Mr. Puddicombe,--asking whether there might not be a
way out of all their difficulties. Mr. Puddicombe had declared that there
could be no such way as far as the school was concerned. Let them marry,
and repent their sins, and go away from the spot they had contaminated,
and earn their bread in some place in which there need be no longer
additional sin in concealing the story of their past life. That seemed to
have been Mr. Puddicombe's final judgment. But it was altogether opposed
to Dr. Wortle's feelings.
When Mr. Puddicombe came down from the church to the rectory, Lord
Carstairs was walking home after the afternoon service with Miss Wortle.
It was his custom to go to church with the family, whereas the school went
there under the charge of one of the ushers and sat apart in a portion of
the church appropriated to themselves. Mrs. Wortle, when she found that
the Doctor was not going to the afternoon service, declined to go herself.
She was thoroughly disturbed by all these bad tidings, and was, indeed,
very little able to say her prayers in a fit state of mind. She could
hardly keep herself still for a moment, and was as one who thinks that the
crack of doom is coming;--so terrible to her was her vicinity and
connection with this man, and with the woman who was not his wife. Then,
again, she became flurried when she found that Lord Carstairs and Mary
would have to walk alone together; and she made little abortive attempts
to keep first the one and then the other from going to church. Mary
probably saw no reason for staying away, while Lord Carstairs possibly
found an additional reason for going. Poor Mrs. Wortle had for some weeks
past wished that the charming young nobleman had been at home with his
father and mother, or anywhere but in her house. It had been arranged,
however, that he should go in July and not return after the summer
holidays. Under these circumstances, having full confidence in her girl,
she had refrained from again expressing her fears to the Doctor. But
there were fears. It was evident to her, though the Doctor seemed to see
nothing of it, that the young lord was falling in love. It might be that
his youth and natural bashfulness would come to her aid, and that nothing
should be said before that day in July which would separate them. But
when it suddenly occurred to her that they two would walk to and fro from
church together, there was cause for additional uneasiness.
If she had heard their conversation as they came back she would have been
in no way disturbed by its tone on the score of the young man's tenderness
towards her daughter, but she might perhaps have been surprised by his
vehemence in another respect. She would have been surprised also at
finding how much had been said during the last twenty-four hours by others
besides herself and her husband about the affairs of Mr. and Mrs.
Peacocke.
"Do you know what he came about?" asked Mary. The "he" had of course been
Robert Lefroy.
"Not in the least; but he came up there looking so queer, as though he
certainly had come about something unpleasant."
"And then he was with papa afterwards," said Mary. "I am sure papa and
mamma not coming to church has something to do with it. And Mr. Peacocke
hasn't been to church all day."
"Something has happened to make him very unhappy," said the boy. "He told
me so even before this man came here. I don't know 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.
"She never will come in to see us. Mamma has asked her to dinner and to
drink tea ever so often, but she never comes. She calls perhaps once in
two or three months in a formal way, and that is all we see of her."
"Do you like her?" he asked.
"How can I say, when I so seldom see her."
"I do. I like her very much. I go and see her often; and I'm sure of
this;--she is quite a lady. Mamma asked her to go to Carstairs for the
holidays because of what I said."
"She is not going?"
"No; neither of them will come. I wish they would; and oh, Miss Wortle, I
do so wish you were going to be there too." This is all that was said of
peculiar tenderness between them on that walk home.
Late in the evening,--so late that the boys had already gone to bed,--the
Doctor sent again for Mr. Peacocke. "I should not have troubled you
to-night," he said, "only that I have heard something from Pritchett."
Pritchett was the rectory gardener who had charge also of the school
buildings, and was a person of great authority in the establishment. He,
as well the Doctor, held Mr. Peacocke in great respect, and would have
been almost as unwilling as the Doctor himself to tell stories to the
schoolmaster's discredit. "They are saying down at the Lamb"--the Lamb
was the Bowick public-house--"that Lefroy told them all yesterday----" the
Doctor hesitated before he could tell it.
"That my wife is not my wife?"
"Just so."
"Of course I am prepared for it. I knew that it would be so; did not
you?"
"I expected it."
"I was sure of it. It may be taken for granted at once that there is no
longer a secret to keep. I would wish you to act just as though all the
facts were known to the entire diocese." After this there was a pause,
during which neither of them spoke for a few moments. The Doctor had not
intended to declare any purpose of his own on that occasion, but it seemed
to him now as though he were almost driven to do so. Then Mr. Peacocke
seeing the difficulty at once 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
alternative. I should like to consult with you as to whither I had better
go. Where shall I first take her?"
"Leave her here," said the Doctor.
"Here! Where?"
"Where she is in the school-house. No one will come to fill your place
for a while."
"I should have thought," said Mr. Peacocke very slowly, "that her
presence--would have been worse almost,--than my own."
"To me,"--said the Doctor,--"to me she is as pure as the most unsullied
matron in the country." Upon this Mr. Peacocke, jumping from his chair,
seized the Doctor's hand, but could not speak for his tears; then he
seated himself again, turning his face away towards the wall. "To no one
could the presence of either of you be an evil. The evil is, if I may say
so, that the two of you should be here together. You should be
apart,--till some better day has come upon you."
"What better day can ever come?" said the poor man through his tears.
Then the Doctor declared his scheme. He told what he thought as to
Ferdinand Lefroy, and his reason for believing that the man was dead. "I
felt sure from his manner that his brother is now dead in truth. Go to
him and ask him boldly," he said.
"But his word would not suffice for another marriage ceremony."
To this the Doctor agreed. It was not his intention, he said, that they
should proceed on evidence as slight as that. No; a step must be taken
much more serious in its importance, and occupying a considerable time.
He, Peacocke, must go again to Missouri and find out all the truth. The
Doctor was of opinion that if this were resolved upon, and that if the
whole truth were at once proclaimed, then Mr. Peacocke need not hesitate
to pay Robert Lefroy for any information which might assist him in his
search. "While you are gone," continued the Doctor almost wildly, "let
bishops and Stantiloups and Puddicombes say what they may, she shall
remain here. To say that she will be happy is of course vain. There can
be no happiness for her till this has been put right. But she will be
safe; and here, at my hand, she will, I think, be free from insult. What
better is there to be done?"
"There can be nothing better," said Peacocke drawing his breath,--as
though a gleam of light had shone in upon him.
"I had not meant to have spoken to you of this till to-morrow. I should
not have done so, but that Pritchett had been with me. But the more I
thought of it, the more sure I became that you could not both
remain,--till something had been done; till something had been done."
"I was sure of it, Dr. Wortle."
"Mr. Puddicombe saw that it was so. Mr. Puddicombe is not all the world
to me by any means, but he is a man of common sense. I will be frank with
you. My wife said that it could not be so."
"She shall not stay. Mrs. Wortle shall not be annoyed."
"You don't see it yet," said the Doctor. "But you do. I know you do.
And she shall stay. The house shall be hers, as her residence, for the
next six months. As for money----"
"I have got what will do for that, I think."
"If she wants money she shall have what she wants. There is nothing I
will not do for you in your trouble,--except that you may not both be here
together till I shall have shaken hands with her as Mrs. Peacocke in very
truth."
It was settled that Mr. Peacocke should not go again into the school, or
Mrs. Peacocke among the boys, till he should have gone to America and have
come back. It was explained in the school by the Doctor early,--for the
Doctor must now take the morning school himself,--that circumstances of
very grave import made it necessary that Mr. Peacocke should start at once
for America. That the tidings which had been published at the Lamb would
reach the boys, was more than probable. Nay; was it not certain? It
would of course reach all the boys' parents. There was no use, no
service, in any secrecy. But in speaking to the school not a word was
said of Mrs. Peacocke. The Doctor explained that he himself would take
the morning school, and that Mr. Rose, the mathematical master, would take
charge of the school meals. Mrs. Cane, the house-keeper, 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 always in trouble, and generally drunk.
Robert, on the whole, thought it probable that he was dead, but could not
be got to say so. For a thousand dollars he would go over to Missouri,
and, if necessary to Texas, so as to find the truth. He would then come
back and give undeniable evidence. While making this benevolent offer, he
declared, with tears in his eyes, that he had come over intending to be a
true brother to his sister-in-law, and had simply been deterred from
prosecuting his good intentions by Peacocke's austerity. Then he swore a
most solemn oath that if he knew anything about his brother Ferdinand he
would reveal it. The Doctor and Peacocke agreed together that the man's
word was worth nothing; but that the man's services might be useful in
enabling them to track out the truth. They were both convinced, by words
which fell from him, that Ferdinand Lefroy was dead; but this would be of
no avail unless they could obtain absolute evidence.
During these two days there were various conversations at Broughton
between the Doctor, Mr. Peacocke, and Lefroy, in which a plan of action
was at length arranged. Lefroy and the schoolmaster were to proceed to
America together, and there obtain what evidence they could as to the life
or death of the elder brother. When absolute evidence had been obtained
of either, a thousand dollars was to be handed to Robert Lefroy. But when
this agreement was made the man was given to understand that his own
uncorroborated word would go for nothing.
"Who is to say what is evidence, and what not?" asked the man, not
unnaturally.
"Mr. Peacocke must be the judge," said the Doctor.
"I ain't going to agree to that," said the other. "Though he were to see
him dead, he might swear he hadn't, and not give me a red cent. Why ain't
I to be judge as well as he?"
"Because you can trust him, and he cannot in the least trust you," said
the Doctor. "You know well enough that if he were to see your brother
alive, or to see him dead, you would get the money. At any rate, you
have no other way of getting it but what we propose." To all this Robert
Lefroy at last assented.
The prospect before Mr. Peacocke for the next three months was certainly
very sad. He was to travel from Broughton to St. Louis, and possibly from
thence down into the wilds of Texas, in company with this man, whom he
thoroughly despised. Nothing could be more abominable to him than such an
association; but there was no other way in which the proposed plan could
be carried out. He was to pay Lefroy's expenses back to his own country,
and could only hope to keep the man true to his purpose by doing so from
day to day. Were he to give the man money, the man would at once
disappear. Here in England, and in their passage across the ocean, the
man might, in some degree, be amenable and obedient. But there was no
knowing to what he might have recourse when he should find himself nearer
to his country, and should feel that his companion was distant from his
own.
"You'll have to keep a close watch upon him," whispered the Doctor to his
friend. "I should not advise all this if I did not think you were a man
of strong nerve."
"I am not afraid," said the other; "but I doubt whether he may not be too
many for me. At any rate, I will try it. You will hear from me as I go
on."
And so they parted as dear friends part. The Doctor had, in truth, taken
the man altogether to his heart since all the circumstances of the story
had come home to him. And it need hardly be said that the other was aware
how deep a debt of gratitude he owed to the protector of his wife. Indeed
the very money that was to be paid to Robert Lefroy, if he earned it, was
advanced out of the Doctor's pocket. Mr. Peacocke's means were sufficient
for the expenses of the journey, but fell short when these thousand
dollars had to be provided.
CHAPTER XI.
THE BISHOP.
MR. PEACOCKE had been quite right in saying that the secret would at once
be known through the whole diocese. It certainly was so before he had
been gone a week, and it certainly was the case also that the diocese
generally did not approve of the Doctor's conduct. The woman ought not to
have been left there. So said the diocese. It was of course the case,
that though the diocese knew much, it did not know all. It is impossible
to keep such a story concealed, but it is quite as impossible to make
known all its details. In the eyes of the diocese the woman was of course
the chief sinner, and the chief sinner was allowed to remain at the
school! When this assertion was made to him the Doctor became very angry,
saying that Mrs. Peacocke did not remain at the school; that, according to
the arrangement as at present made, Mrs. Peacocke had nothing to do with
the school; that the house was his own, and that he might lend it to whom
he pleased. Was he to turn the woman out houseless, when her husband had
gone, on such an errand, on his advice? Of course the house was his own,
but as clergyman of the parish he had not a right to do what he liked with
it. He had no right to encourage evil. And the man was not the woman's
husband. That was just the point made by the diocese. And she was at the
school,--living under the same roof with the boys! The diocese was
clearly of opinion that all the boys would be taken away.
The diocese spoke by the voice of its bishop, as a diocese should do.
Shortly after Mr. Peacocke's departure, the Doctor had an interview with
his lordship, and told the whole story. The doing this went much against
the grain with him, but he hardly dared not to do it. He felt that he was
bound to do it on the part of Mrs. Peacocke if not on his own. And then
the man, who had now gone, though he had never been absolutely a curate,
had preached frequently in the diocese. He felt that it would not be wise
to abstain from telling the bishop.
The bishop was a goodly man, comely in his person, and possessed of
manners which had made him popular in the world. He was one of those who
had done the best he could with his talent, not wrapping it up in a
napkin, but getting from it the best interest which the world's market
could afford. But not on that account was he other than a good man. To
do the best he could for himself and his family,--and also to do his
duty,--was the line of conduct which he pursued. There are some who
reverse this order, but he was not one of them. He had become a scholar
in his youth, not from love of scholarship, but as a means to success.
The Church had become his profession, and he had worked hard at his
calling. He had taught himself to be courteous and urbane, because he had
been clever enough to see that courtesy and urbanity are agreeable to men
in high places. As a bishop he never spared himself the work which a
bishop ought to do. He answered letters, he studied the characters of the
clergymen under him, he was just with his patronage, he endeavoured to be
efficacious with his charges, he confirmed children in cold weather as
well as in warm, he occasionally preached sermons, and he was beautiful
and decorous in his gait of manner, as it behoves a clergyman of the
Church of England to be. He liked to be master; but even to be master he
would not encounter the abominable nuisance of a quarrel. When first
coming to the diocese he had had some little difficulty with our Doctor;
but the Bishop had abstained from violent assertion, and they had, on the
whole, been friends. There was, however, on the Bishop's part, something
of a feeling that the Doctor was the bigger man; and it was probable that,
without active malignity, he would take advantage of any chance which
might lower the Doctor a little, and bring him more within episcopal
power. In some degree he begrudged the Doctor his manliness.
He listened with many smiles and with perfect courtesy to the story as it
was told to him, and was much less severe on the unfortunates than Mr.
Puddicombe had been. It was not the wickedness of the two people in
living together, or their wickedness in keeping their secret, which
offended him so much, as the evil which they were likely to do,--and to
have done. "No doubt," he said, "an ill-living man may preach a good
sermon, perhaps a better one than a pious God-fearing clergyman, whose
intellect may be inferior though his morals are much better;--but coming
from tainted lips, the better sermon will not carry a blessing with it."
At this the Doctor shook his head. "Bringing a blessing" was a phrase
which the Doctor hated. He shook his head not too civilly, saying that he
had not intended to trouble his lordship on so difficult a point in
ecclesiastical morals. "But we cannot but remember," said the Bishop,
"that he has been preaching in your parish church, and the people will
know that he has acted among them as a clergyman."
"I hope the people, my lord, may never have the Gospel preached to them by
a worse man."
"I will not judge him; but I do think that it has been a misfortune. You,
of course, were in ignorance."
"Had I known all about it, I should have been very much inclined to do the
same."
This was, in fact, not true, and was said simply in a spirit of
contradiction. The Bishop shook his head and smiled. "My school is a
matter of more importance," said the Doctor.
"Hardly, hardly, Dr. Wortle."
"Of more importance in this way, that my school may probably be injured,
whereas neither the morals nor the faith of the parishioners will have
been hurt."
"But he has gone."
"He has gone;--but she remains."
"What!" exclaimed the Bishop.
"He has gone, but she remains." He repeated the words very distinctly,
with a frown on his brow, as though to show that on that branch of the
subject he intended to put up with no opposition,--hardly even with an
adverse opinion.
"She had a certain charge, as I understand,--as to the school."
"She had, my lord; and very well she did her work. I shall have a great
loss in her,--for the present."
"But you said she remained."
"I have lent her the use of the house till her husband shall come back."
"Mr. Peacocke, you mean," said the Bishop, who was unable not to put in a
contradiction against the untruth of the word which had been used.
"I shall always regard them as married."
"But they are not."
"I have lent her the house, at any rate, during his absence. I could not
turn her into the street."
"Would not a lodging here in the city have suited her better?"
"I thought not. People here would have refused to take her,--because of
her story. The wife of some religious grocer, who sands his sugar
regularly, would have thought her house contaminated by such an inmate."
"So it would have been, Doctor, to some extent." At hearing this the
Doctor made very evident signs of discontent. "You cannot alter the ways
of the world suddenly, though by example and precept you may help to
improve them slowly. In our present imperfect condition of moral culture,
it is perhaps well that the company of the guilty should be shunned."
"Guilty!"
"I am afraid that I must say so. The knowledge that such a feeling exists
no doubt deters others from guilt. The fact that 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. Thinking her, as I do, worthy of my
friendship, I could not do other than befriend her."
"Of course you must be the judge yourself."
"I had to be the judge, my lord."
"I am afraid that the parents of the boys will not understand it."
"I also am afraid. It will be very hard to make them understand it.
There will be some who will work hard to make them misunderstand it."
"I hope not that."
"There will. I must stand the brunt of it. I have had battles before
this, and had hoped that now, when I am getting old, they might have been
at an end. But there is something left of me, and I can fight still. At
any rate, I have made up my mind about this. There she shall remain till
he comes back to fetch her." And so the interview was over, the Bishop
feeling that he had in some slight degree had the best of it,--and the
Doctor feeling that he, in some slight degree, had had the worst. If
possible, he would not talk to the Bishop on the subject again.
He told Mr. Puddicombe also. "With your generosity and kindness of heart
I quite sympathise," said Mr. Puddicombe, endeavouring to be pleasant in
his manner.
"But not with my prudence."
"Not with your prudence," said Mr. Puddicombe, endeavouring to be true at
the same time.
But the Doctor's greatest difficulty was with his wife, whose conduct it
was necessary that he should guide, and whose feelings and conscience he
was most anxious to influence. When she first heard his decision she
almost wrung her hands in despair. If the woman could have gone to
America, and the man have remained, she would have been satisfied.
Anything wrong about a man was but of little moment,--comparatively so,
even though he were a clergyman; but anything wrong about a woman,--and
she so near to herself! O dear! And the poor dear boys,--under the same
roof with her! And the boys' mammas! How would she be able to endure the
sight of that horrid Mrs. Stantiloup;--or Mrs. Stantiloup's words, which
would certainly be conveyed to her? But there was something much worse
for her even than all this. The Doctor insisted that she should go and
call upon the woman! "And take Mary?" asked Mrs. Wortle.
"What would be the good of taking Mary? Who is talking of a child like
that? It is for the sake of charity,--for the dear love of Christ, that I
ask you to do it. Do you ever think of Mary Magdalene?"
"Oh yes."
"This is no Magdalene. This is a woman led into no faults by vicious
propensities. Here is one who has been altogether unfortunate,--who has
been treated more cruelly than any of whom you have ever read."
"Why did she not leave him?"
"Because she was a woman, with a heart in her bosom."
"I am to go to her?"
"I do not order it. I only ask it." Such asking from her husband was,
she knew, very near alike to ordering.
"What shall I say to her?"
"Bid her keep up her courage till he shall return. If you were all alone,
as she is, would not you wish that some other woman should come to comfort
you? Think of her desolation."
Mrs. Wortle did think of it, and after a day or two made up her mind to
obey her husband's--request. She made her call, but very little came of
it, except that she promised to come again. "Mrs. Wortle," said the poor
woman, "pray do not let me be a trouble to you. If you stay away I shall
quite understand that there is sufficient reason. I know how good your
husband has been to us." Mrs. Wortle said, however, as she took her
leave, that she would come again in a day or two.
But there were other troubles in store for Mrs. Wortle. Before she had
repeated her visit to Mrs. Peacocke, a lady, who lived about ten miles
off, the wife of the Rector of Buttercup, called upon her. This was the
Lady Margaret Momson, a daughter of the Earl of Brigstock, who had, thirty
years ago, married a young clergyman. Nevertheless, up to the present
day, she was quite as much the Earl's daughter as the parson's wife. She
was first cousin to that Mrs. Stantiloup between whom and the Doctor
internecine war was always being waged; and she was also aunt to a boy at
the school, who, however, was in no way related to Mrs. Stantiloup, young
Momson being the son of the parson's eldest brother. Lady Margaret had
never absolutely and openly taken the part of Mrs. Stantiloup. Had she
done so, a visit even of ceremony would have been impossible. But she was
supposed to have Stantiloup proclivities, and was not, therefore, much
liked at Bowick. There had been a question indeed whether young Momson
should be received at the school,--because of the _quasi_ connection with
the arch-enemy; but Squire Momson of Buttercup, the boy's father, had set
that at rest by bursting out, in the Doctor's hearing, into violent abuse
against "the close-fisted, vulgar old faggot." The son of a man imbued
with such proper feelings was, of course, accepted.
But Lady Margaret was proud,--especially at the present time. "What a
romance this is, Mrs. Wortle," she said, "that has gone all through the
diocese!" The reader will remember that Lady Margaret was also the wife
of a clergyman.
"You mean--the Peacockes?"
"Of course I do."
"He has gone away."
"We all know that, of course;--to look for his wife's husband. Good
gracious me! What a story!"
"They think that he is--dead now."
"I suppose they thought so before," said Lady Margaret.
"Of course they did."
"Though it does seem that no inquiry was made at all. Perhaps they don't
care about those things over there as we do here. He couldn't have cared
very much,--nor she."
"The Doctor thinks that they are very much to be pitied."
"The Doctor always was a little Quixotic--eh?"
"I don't think that at all, Lady Margaret."
"I mean in the way of being so very good-natured and kind. Her brother
came;--didn't he?"
"Her first husband's brother," said Mrs. Wortle, blushing.
"Her first husband!"
"Well;--you know what I mean, Lady Margaret."
"Yes; I know what you mean. It is so very shocking; isn't it? And so the
two men have gone off together to look for the third. Goodness me;--what
a party they will be if they meet! Do you think they'll quarrel?"
"I don't know, Lady Margaret."
"And that he should be a clergyman of the Church of England! Isn't it
dreadful? What does the Bishop say? Has he heard all about it?"
"The Bishop has nothing to do with it. Mr. Peacocke never held a curacy
in the diocese."
"But he has preached here very often,--and has taken her to church with
him! I suppose the Bishop has been told?"
"You may be sure that he knows it as well as you."
"We are so anxious, you know, about dear little Gus." Dear little Gus
was Augustus Momson, the lady's nephew, who was supposed to be the
worst-behaved, and certainly the stupidest boy in the school.
"Augustus will not be hurt, I should say."
"Perhaps not directly. But my sister has, I know, very strong opinions on
such subjects. Now, I want to ask you one thing. Is it true
that--she--remains here?"
"She is still living in the 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 he had
been imprudent.
"I am sure I hope they will," said Lady Margaret. Then as she was taking
her leave, she made a suggestion. "Some of the boys will be taken away, I
suppose. The Doctor probably expects that."
"I don't know what he expects," said Mrs. Wortle. "Some are always going,
and when they go, others come in their places. As for me, I wish he would
give the school up altogether."
"Perhaps he means it," said Lady Margaret; "otherwise, perhaps he wouldn't
have been so good-natured." Then she took her departure.
When her visitor was gone Mrs. Wortle was very unhappy. She had been
betrayed by her wrath into expressing that wish as to the giving up of the
school. She knew well that the Doctor had no such intention. She herself
had more than once suggested it in her timid way, but the Doctor had
treated her suggestions as being worth nothing. He had his ideas about
Mary, who was undoubtedly a very pretty girl. Mary might marry well, and
£20,000 would probably assist her in doing so.
When he was told of Lady Margaret's hints, he said in his wrath that he
would send young Momson away instantly if a word was said to him by the
boy's mamma. "Of course," said he, "if the lad turns out a scapegrace, as
is like enough, it will be because Mrs. Peacocke had two husbands. It is
often a question to me whether the religion of the world is not more
odious than its want of religion." To this terrible suggestion poor Mrs.
Wortle did not dare to make any answer whatever.
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 Momson was not very fond of
Mrs. Stantiloup, and had used strong language respecting her when he was
anxious to send his boy to the Doctor's school, Mrs. Momson had always
been of the other party, and had in fact adhered to Mrs. Stantiloup from
the beginning of the quarrel. "I do trust," said Mrs. Stantiloup, "that
there will be an end to all this kind of thing now."
"Do you mean an end to the school?" asked Lady Margaret.
"I do indeed. I always thought it matter of great regret that Augustus
should have been sent there, after the scandalous treatment that Bob
received." Bob was the little boy who had drank the champagne and
required the carriage exercise.
"But I always heard that the school was quite popular," said Mrs. Rolland.
"I think you'll find," continued Mrs. Stantiloup, "that there won't be
much left of its popularity now. Keeping that abominable woman under the
same roof with the boys! No master of a school that wasn't absolutely
blown up with pride, would have taken such people as those Peacockes
without making proper inquiry. And then to let him preach in the church!
I suppose Mr. Momson will allow you to send for Augustus at once?" This
she said turning to Mrs. Momson.
"Mr. Momson thinks so much of the Doctor's scholarship," said the mother,
apologetically. "And we are so anxious that Gus should do well when he
goes to Eton."
"What is Latin and Greek as compared to his soul?" asked Lady Margaret.
"No, indeed," said Mrs. Rolland. She had found herself compelled, as wife
of the Bishop, to assent to the self-evident proposition which had been
made. She was a quiet, silent little woman, whom the Bishop had married
in the days of his earliest preferment, and who, though she was delighted
to find herself promoted to the society of the big people in the diocese,
had never quite lifted herself up into their sphere. Though she had her
ideas as to what it was to be a Bishop's wife, she had never yet been
quite able to act up to them.
"I know that young Talbot is to leave," said Mrs. Stantiloup. "I wrote to
Mrs. Talbot immediately when all this occurred, and I've heard from her
cousin Lady Grogram that the boy is not to go back after the holidays."
This happened to be altogether untrue. What she probably meant was, that
the boy should not go back if she could prevent his doing so.
"I feel quite sure," said Lady Margaret, "that Lady Anne will not allow
her boys to remain when she finds out what sort of inmates the Doctor
chooses to entertain." The Lady Anne spoken of was Lady Anne Clifford,
the widowed mother of two boys who were intrusted to the Doctor's care.
"I do hope you'll be firm about Gus," said Mrs. Stantiloup to Mrs. Momson.
"If we're not to put down this kind of thing, what is the good of having
any morals in the country at all? We might just as well live like pagans,
and do without any marriage services, as they do in so many parts of the
United States."
"I wonder what the Bishop does think about it?" asked Mrs. Momson of the
Bishop's wife.
"It makes him very unhappy; I know that," said Mrs. Rolland. "Of course
he cannot interfere about the school. As for licensing the gentleman as a
curate, that was of course quite out of the question."
At this moment Mr. Momson, the clergyman, and the Bishop came into the
room, and were offered, as is usual on such occasions, cold tea and the
remains of the buttered toast. The squire was not there. Had he been
with the other gentlemen, Mrs. Stantiloup, violent as she was, would
probably have held her tongue; but as he was absent, the opportunity was
not bad for attacking the Bishop on the subject under discussion. "We
were talking, my lord, about the Bowick school."
Now the Bishop was a man who could be very confidential with one lady, but
was apt to be guarded when men are concerned. To any one of those present
he might have said what he thought, had no one else been there to hear.
That would have been the expression of a private opinion; but to speak
before the four would have been tantamount to a public declaration.
"About the Bowick school?" said he; "I hope there is nothing going wrong
with the Bowick school."
"You must have heard about Mr. Peacocke," said Lady Margaret.
"Yes; I have certainly heard of Mr. Peacocke. He, I believe, has left Dr.
Wortle's seminary."
"But she remains!" said Mrs. Stantiloup, with tragic energy.
"So I understand;--in the house; but not as part of the establishment."
"Does that make so much difference?" asked Lady Margaret.
"It does make a very great difference," said Lady Margaret's husband, the
parson, wishing to help the Bishop in his difficulty.
"I don't see it at all," said Mrs. Stantiloup. "The main spirit in the
matter is just as manifest whether the lady is or is not allowed to look
after the boys' linen. In fact, I despise him for making the pretence.
Her doing menial work about the house would injure no one. It is her
presence there,--the presence of a woman who has falsely pretended to be
married, when she knew very well that she had no husband."
"When she knew that she had two," said Lady Margaret.
"And fancy, Lady Margaret,--Lady Bracy absolutely asked her to go to
Carstairs! That woman was always infatuated about Dr. Wortle. What would
she have done if they had gone, and this other man had followed his
sister-in-law there. But Lord and Lady Bracy would ask any one to
Carstairs,--just any one that they could get hold of!"
Mr. Momson was one whose obstinacy was wont to give way when sufficiently
attacked. Even he, after having been for two days subjected to the
eloquence of Mrs. Stantiloup, acknowledged that the Doctor took a great
deal too much upon himself. "He does it," said Mrs. Stantiloup, "just to
show that there is nothing that he can't bring parents to assent to.
Fancy,--a woman living there as 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," continued Mrs. Stantiloup,
with considerable emphasis,--"you are to pay two hundred and fifty pounds
a-year for such conduct as that!"
"Two hundred," suggested the squire, who cared as little for the money as
he did for the morals.
"Two hundred and fifty,--every shilling of it, when you consider the
extras."
"There are no extras, as far as I can see. But then my boy is strong and
healthy, thank God," said the squire, taking his opportunity of having one
fling at the lady. But while all this was going on, he did give a
half-assent that Gus should be taken away at midsummer, being partly moved
thereto by a letter from the Doctor, in which he was told that his boy was
not doing any good at the school.
It was a week after that that Mrs. Stantiloup wrote the following letter
to her friend Lady Grogram, after she had returned home from Buttercup
Hall. Lady Grogram was a great friend of hers, and was first cousin to
that Mrs. Talbot who had a son at the school. Lady Grogram was an old
woman of strong mind but small means, who was supposed to be potential
over those connected with her. Mrs. Stantiloup feared that she could not
be efficacious herself, either with Mr. or Mrs. Talbot; but she hoped that
she might carry her purpose through Lady Grogram. It may be remembered
that she had declared at Buttercup Hall that young Talbot was not to go
back to Bowick. But this had been a figure of speech, as has been already
explained:--
"MY DEAR LADY GROGRAM,--Since I got your last letter I have been staying
with the Momsons at Buttercup. It was awfully dull. He and she are, I
think, the stupidest people that ever I met. None of those Momsons have
an idea among them. They are just as heavy and inharmonious as their
name. Lady Margaret was one of the party. She would have been better,
only that our excellent Bishop was there too, and Lady Margaret thought it
well to show off all her graces before the Bishop and the Bishop's wife.
I never saw such a dowdy in all my life as Mrs. Rolland. He is all very
well, and looks at any rate like a gentleman. It was, I take it, that
which got him his diocese. They say the Queen saw him once, and was taken
by his manners.
"But I did one good thing at Buttercup. I got Mr. Momson to promise that
that boy of his should not go back to Bowick. Dr. Wortle has become quite
intolerable. I think he is determined to show that whatever he does,
people shall put up with it. It is not only the most expensive
establishment of the kind in all England, but also the worst conducted.
You know, of course, how all this matter about that woman stands now. She
is remaining there at Bowick, absolutely living in the house, calling
herself Mrs. Peacocke, while the man she was living with has gone off with
her brother-in-law to look for her husband! Did you ever hear of such a
mess as that?
"And the Doctor expects that fathers and mothers will still send their
boys to such a place as that? I am very much mistaken if he will not find
it altogether deserted before Christmas. Lord Carstairs is already gone."
[This was at any rate disingenuous, as she had been very severe when at
Buttercup on all the Carstairs family because of their declared and
perverse friendship for the Doctor.] "Mr. Momson, though he is quite
incapable of seeing the meaning of anything, has determined to take his
boy away. She may thank me at any rate for that. I have heard that Lady
Anne Clifford's two boys will both leave." [In one sense she had heard it,
because the suggestion had been made by herself at Buttercup.] "I do hope
that Mr. Talbot's dear little boy will not be allowed to return to such
contamination as that! Fancy,--the man and the woman living there in that
way together; and the Doctor keeping the woman on after he knew it all!
It is really so horrible that one doesn't know how to talk about it. When
the Bishop was at Buttercup I really felt almost obliged to be silent.
"I know very well that Mrs. Talbot is always ready to take your advice.
As for him, men very often do not think so much about these things as they
ought. But he will not like his boy to be nearly the only one left at the
school. I have not heard of one who is to remain for certain. How can it
be possible that any boy who has a mother should be allowed to remain
there?
"Do think of this, and do your best. I need not tell you that nothing
ought to be so dear to us as a high tone of morals.--Most sincerely yours,
"JULIANA STANTILOUP."
We need not pursue this letter further than to say that when it reached
Mr. Talbot's hands, which it did through his wife, he spoke of Mrs.
Stantiloup in language which shocked his wife considerably, though she was
not altogether unaccustomed to strong language on his part. Mr. Talbot
and the Doctor had been at school together, and at Oxford, and were
friends.
I will give now a letter that was written by the Doctor to Mr. Momson in
answer to one in which that gentleman signified his intention of taking
little Gus away from the school.
"MY DEAR MR. MOMSON,--After what you have said, of course I shall not
expect your boy back after the holidays. Tell his mamma, with my
compliments, that he shall take all his things home with him. As a rule I
do charge for a quarter in advance when a boy is taken away suddenly,
without notice, and apparently without cause. But I shall not do so at
the present moment either to you or to any parent who may withdraw his
son. A circumstance has happened which, though it cannot impair the
utility of my school, and ought not to injure its character, may still be
held as giving offence to certain persons. I will not be driven to alter
my conduct by what I believe to be foolish misconception on their part.
But they have a right to their own opinions, and I will not mulct them
because of their conscientious convictions.--Yours faithfully,
"JEFFREY WORTLE."
"If you come across any friend who has a boy here, you are perfectly at
liberty to show him or her this letter."
The defection of the Momsons wounded the Doctor, no doubt. He was aware
that Mrs. Stantiloup had been at Buttercup, and that the Bishop also had
been there--and he could put two and two together; but it hurt him to
think that one so "staunch" though so "stupid" as Mrs. Momson, should be
turned from her purpose by such a woman as Mrs. Stantiloup. And he got
other letters on the subject. Here is one from Lady Anne Clifford.
"DEAR DOCTOR,--You know how safe I think my dear boys are with you, and
how much obliged I am both to you and your wife for all your kindness.
But people are saying things to me about one of the masters at your school
and his wife. Is there any reason why I should be afraid? You will see
how thoroughly I trust you when I ask you the question.--Yours very
sincerely,
"ANNE CLIFFORD."
Now Lady Anne Clifford was a sweet, confiding, affectionate, but not very
wise woman. In a letter, written not many days before to Mary Wortle, who
had on one occasion been staying with her, she said that she was at that
time in the same house with the Bishop and Mrs. Rolland. Of course the
Doctor knew again how to put two and two together.
Then there came a letter from Mr. Talbot--
"DEAR WORTLE,--So you are boiling for yourself another pot of hot water.
I never saw such a fellow as you are for troubles! Old Mother Shipton has
been writing such a letter to our old woman, and explaining that no boy's
soul would any longer be worth looking after if he be left in your hands.
Don't you go and get me into a scrape more than you can help; but you may
be quite sure of this that if I had as many sons as Priam I should send
them all to you;--only I think that the cheques would be very long in
coming.--Yours always,
"JOHN TALBOT."
The Doctor answered this at greater length than he had done in writing to
Mr. Momson, who was not specially his friend.
"MY DEAR TALBOT,--You may be quite sure that I shall not repeat to any one
what you have told me of Mother Shipton. I knew, however, pretty well
what she was doing and what I had to expect from her. It is astonishing
to me that such a woman should still have the power of persuading any
one,--astonishing also that any human being should continue to hate as she
hates me. She has often tried to do me an injury, but she has never
succeeded yet. At any rate she will not bend me. Though my school should
be broken up 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 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 unkind to him, and for her
sake he was bound to do the best that he could with himself. I cannot
bring myself to be angry with him, though I cannot defend him by strict
laws of right and wrong. I have advised him to go back to America and
find out if the man be in truth dead. If so, let him come back and marry
the woman again before all the world. I shall be ready to marry them and
to ask him and her to my house afterwards.
"In the mean time what was to become of her? 'Let her go into lodgings,'
said the Bishop. Go to lodgings at Broughton! You know what sort of
lodgings she would get there among psalm-singing greengrocers who would
tell her of her misfortune every day of her life! I would not subject her
to the misery of going and seeking for a home. I told him, when I
persuaded him to go, that she should have the rooms they were then
occupying while he was away. In settling this, of course I had to make
arrangements for doing in our own establishment the work which had lately
fallen to her share. I mention this for the sake of explaining that she
has got nothing to do with the school. No doubt the boys are under the
same roof with her. Will your boy's morals be the worse? It seems that
Gustavus Momson's will. You know the father; do you not? I wonder
whether anything will ever affect his morals?
"Now, I have told you everything. Not that I have doubted you; but, as
you have been told so much, I have thought it well that you should have
the whole story from myself. What effect it may have upon the school I do
not know. The only boy of whose secession I have yet heard is young
Momson. But probably there will be others. Four new boys were to have
come, but I have already heard from the father of one that he has changed
his mind. I think I can trace an acquaintance between him and Mother
Shipton. If the body of the school should leave me I will let you know at
once as you might not like to leave your boy under such circumstances.
"You may be sure of this, that here the lady remains until her husband
returns. I am not going to be turned from my purpose at this time of day
by anything that Mother Shipton may say or do.--Yours always,
"JEFFREY WORTLE."
END OF VOL. I.
DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL.
A Novel.
BY
ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. II.
London:
Chapman and Hall, Limited, 193, Piccadilly.
1881.
London:
R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor, Printers,
Bread Street Hill.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
PART V.
CHAPTER I. MR. PUDDICOMBE'S BOOT
CHAPTER II. 'EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS'
CHAPTER III. "'AMO' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING"
CHAPTER IV. "IT IS IMPOSSIBLE"
CHAPTER V. CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE
CHAPTER VI. THE JOURNEY
CHAPTER VII. "NOBODY HAS CONDEMNED YOU HERE"
CHAPTER VIII. LORD BRACY'S LETTER
CHAPTER IX. AT CHICAGO
CONCLUSION.
CHAPTER X. THE DOCTOR'S ANSWER
CHAPTER XI. MR. PEACOCKE'S RETURN
CHAPTER XII. MARY'S SUCCESS
DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL.
PART V.
CHAPTER I.
MR. PUDDICOMBE'S BOOT.
IT was not to be expected that the matter should be kept out of the county
newspaper, or even from those in the metropolis. There was too much of
romance in the story, too good a tale to be told, for any such hope. The
man's former life and the woman's, the disappearance of her husband and
his reappearance after his reported death, the departure of the couple
from St. Louis and the coming of Lefroy to Bowick, formed together a most
attractive subject. But it could not be told without reference to Dr.
Wortle's school, to Dr. Wortle's position as clergyman of the parish,--and
also to the fact which was considered by his enemies to be of all the
facts the most damning, that Mr. Peacocke had for a time been allowed to
preach in the parish church. The 'Broughton Gazette,' a newspaper which
was supposed to be altogether devoted to the interest of the diocese, was
very eloquent on this subject. "We do not desire," said the 'Broughton
Gazette,' "to make any remarks as to the management of Dr. Wortle's
school. We leave all that between him and the parents of the boys who are
educated there. We are perfectly aware that Dr. Wortle himself is a
scholar, and that his school has been deservedly successful. It is
advisable, no doubt, that in such an establishment none should be employed
whose lives are openly immoral;--but as we have said before, it is not our
purpose to insist upon this. Parents, if they feel themselves to be
aggrieved, can remedy the evil by withdrawing their sons. But when we
consider the great power which is placed in the hands of an incumbent of a
parish, that he is endowed as it were with the freehold of his pulpit,
that he may put up whom he will to preach the Gospel to his parishioners,
even in a certain degree in opposition to his bishop, we think that we do
no more than our duty in calling attention to such a case as this." Then
the whole story was told at great length, so as to give the "we" of the
'Broughton Gazette' a happy opportunity of making its leading article not
only much longer, but much more amusing, than usual. "We must say,"
continued the writer, as he concluded his narrative, "that this man should
not have been allowed to preach in the Bowick pulpit. He is no doubt a
clergyman of the Church of England, and Dr. Wortle was within his rights
in asking for his assistance; but the incumbent of a parish is responsible
for those he employs, and that responsibility now rests on Dr. Wortle."
There was a great deal in this that made the Doctor very angry,--so angry
that he did not know how to restrain himself. The matter had been argued
as though he had employed the clergyman in his church after he had known
the history. "For aught I know," he said to Mrs. Wortle, "any curate
coming to me might have three wives, all alive."
"That would be most improbable," said Mrs. Wortle.
"So was all this improbable,--just as improbable. Nothing could be more
improbable. Do we not all feel overcome with pity for the poor woman
because she encountered trouble that was so improbable? How much more
improbable was it that I should come across a clergyman who had
encountered such improbabilities." In answer to this Mrs. Wortle could
only shake her head, not at all understanding the purport of her husband's
argument.
But what was said about his school hurt him more than what was said about
his church. In regard to his church he was impregnable. Not even the
Bishop could touch him,--or even annoy him much. But this
"penny-a-liner," as the Doctor indignantly called him, had attacked him in
his tenderest point. After declaring that he did not intend to meddle
with the school, he had gone on to point out that an immoral person had
been employed there, and had then invited all parents to take away their
sons. "He doesn't know what moral and immoral means," said the Doctor,
again pleading his own case to his own wife. "As far as I know, it would
be hard to find a man of a higher moral feeling than Mr. Peacocke, or a
woman than his wife."
"I suppose they ought to have separated when it was found out," said Mrs.
Wortle.
"No, no," he shouted; "I hold that they were right. He was right to cling
to her, and she was bound to obey him. Such a fellow as that,"--and he
crushed the paper up in his hand in his wrath, as though he were crushing
the editor himself,--"such a fellow as that knows nothing of morality,
nothing of honour, nothing of tenderness. What he did I would have done,
and I'll stick to him through it all in spite of the Bishop, in spite of
the newspapers, and in spite of all the rancour of all my enemies." Then
he got up and walked about the room in such a fury that his wife did not
dare to speak to him. Should he or should he not answer the newspaper?
That was a question which for the first two days after he had read the
article greatly perplexed him. He would have been very ready to advise
any other man what to do in such a case. "Never notice what may be
written about you in a newspaper," he would have said. Such is the advice
which a man always gives to his friend. But when the case comes to
himself he finds it sometimes almost impossible to follow it. "What's the
use? Who cares what the 'Broughton Gazette' says? let it pass, and it
will be forgotten in three days. If you stir the mud yourself, it will
hang about you for months. It is just what they want you to do. They
cannot go on by themselves, and so the subject dies away from them; but if
you write rejoinders they have a contributor working for them for nothing,
and one whose writing will be much more acceptable to their readers than
any that comes from their own anonymous scribes. It is very disagreeable
to be worried like a rat by a dog; but why should you go into the kennel
and unnecessarily put yourself in the way of it?" The Doctor had said
this more than once to clerical friends who were burning with indignation
at something that had been written about them. But now he was burning
himself, and could hardly keep his fingers from pen and ink.
In this emergency he went to Mr. Puddicombe, not, as he said to himself,
for advice, but in order that he might hear what Mr. Puddicombe would have
to say about it. He did not like Mr. Puddicombe, but he believed in
him,--which was more than he quite did with the Bishop. Mr. Puddicombe
would tell him his true thoughts. Mr. Puddicombe would be unpleasant very
likely; but he would be sincere and friendly. So he went to Mr.
Puddicombe. "It seems to me," he said, "almost necessary that I should
answer such allegations as these for the sake of truth."
"You are not responsible for the truth of the 'Broughton Gazette,"' said
Mr. Puddicombe.
"But I am responsible to a certain degree that false reports shall not be
spread abroad as to what is done in my church."
"You can contradict nothing that the newspaper has said."
"It is implied," said the Doctor, "that I allowed Mr. Peacocke to preach
in my church after I knew his marriage was informal."
"There is no such statement in the paragraph," said Mr. Puddicombe, after
attentive reperusal of the article. "The writer has written in a hurry,
as such writers generally do, but has made no statement such as you
presume. Were you to answer him, you could only do so by an elaborate
statement of the exact facts of the case. It can hardly be worth your
while, in defending yourself against the 'Broughton Gazette,' to tell the
whole story in public of Mr. Peacocke's life and fortunes."
"You would pass it over altogether?"
"Certainly I would."
"And so acknowledge the truth of all that the newspaper says."
"I do not know that the paper says anything untrue," said Mr. Puddicombe,
not looking the Doctor in the face, with his eyes turned to the ground,
but evidently with the determination to say what he thought, however
unpleasant it might be. "The fact is that you have fallen into
a--misfortune."
"I don't acknowledge it at all," said the Doctor.
"All your friends at any rate will think so, let the story be told as it
may. It was a misfortune that this lady whom you had taken into your
establishment should have proved not to be the gentleman's wife. When I
am taking a walk through the fields and get one of my feet deeper than
usual into the mud, I always endeavour to bear it as well as I may before
the eyes of those who meet me rather than make futile efforts to get rid
of the dirt and look as though nothing had happened. The dirt, when it is
rubbed and smudged and scraped is more palpably dirt than the honest mud."
"I will not admit that I am dirty at all," said the Doctor.
"Nor do I, in the case which I describe. I admit nothing; but I let those
who see me form their own opinion. If 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 had gone no farther than this, the Doctor might probably
have left Mr. Puddicombe's house with a sense of thankfulness for the
kindness rendered to him; but he did go farther, and endeavoured to
extract from his friend some sense of the injustice shown by the Bishop,
the Stantiloups, the newspaper, and his enemies in general through the
diocese. But here he failed signally. "I really think, Dr. Wortle, that
you could not have expected it otherwise."
"Expect that people should lie?"
"I don't know about lies. If people have told lies I have not seen them
or heard them. I don't think the Bishop has lied."
"I don't mean the Bishop; though I do think that he has shown a great want
of what I may call liberality towards a clergyman in his diocese."
"No doubt he thinks you have been wrong. By liberality you mean sympathy.
Why should you expect him to sympathise with your 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 impetuously from his chair.
"Then I do not understand the position, Dr. Wortle. That is all I can
say."
"To my thinking, Mr. Puddicombe, I never came across a better man than Mr.
Peacocke in my life."
"I cannot make comparisons. As to the best man I ever met in my life I
might have to acknowledge that even he had done wrong in certain
circumstances. As the matter is forced upon me, I have to express my
opinion that a great sin was committed both by the man and by the woman.
You not only condone the sin, but declare both by your words and deeds
that you sympathise with the sin as well as with the sinners. You have no
right to expect that the Bishop will sympathise with you in that;--nor can
it be but that in such a country as this the voices of many will be loud
against you."
"And yours as loud as any," said the Doctor, angrily.
"That is unkind and unjust," said Mr. Puddicombe. "What I have said, I
have said to yourself, and not to others; and what I have said, I have
said in answer to questions asked by yourself." Then the Doctor apologised
with what grace he could. But when he left the house his heart was still
bitter against Mr. Puddicombe.
He was almost ashamed of himself as he rode back to Bowick,--first,
because he had condescended to ask advice, and then because, after having
asked it, he had been so thoroughly scolded. There was no one whom Mr.
Puddicombe would admit to have been wrong in the matter except the Doctor
himself. And yet though he had been so counselled and so scolded, he had
found himself obliged to 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. Puddicombe's dirty boot had
convinced him. He could see the thoroughly squalid look of the boot that
had been scraped in vain, and appreciate the wholesomeness of the
unadulterated mud. There was more in the man than he had ever
acknowledged before. There was a consistency in him, and a courage, and
an honesty of purpose. But there was no softness of heart. Had there
been a grain of tenderness there, he could not have spoken so often as he
had done of Mrs. Peacocke without expressing some grief at the unmerited
sorrows to which that poor lady had been subjected.
His own heart melted with ruth as he thought, while riding home, of the
cruelty to which she had been and was subjected. She was all alone there,
waiting, waiting, waiting, till the dreary days should have gone by. And
if no good news should come, if Mr. Peacocke should return with tidings
that her husband was alive and well, what should she do then? What would
the world then have in store for her? "If it were me," said the Doctor to
himself, "I'd take her to some other home and treat her as my wife in
spite of all the Puddicombes in creation;--in spite of all the bishops."
The Doctor, though he was a self-asserting and somewhat violent man, was
thoroughly soft-hearted. It is to be hoped that the reader has already
learned as much as that;--a man with a kind, tender, affectionate nature.
It would perhaps be unfair to raise a question whether he would have done
as much, been so willing to sacrifice himself, for a plain woman. Had Mr.
Stantiloup, or Sir Samuel Griffin if he had suddenly come again to life,
been found to have prior wives also living, would the Doctor have found
shelter for them in their ignominy and trouble? Mrs. Wortle, who knew her
husband thoroughly, was sure that he would not have done so. Mrs.
Peacocke was a very beautiful woman, and the Doctor was a man who
thoroughly admired beauty. To say that Mrs. Wortle was jealous would be
quite untrue. She liked to see her husband talking to a pretty woman,
because he would be sure to be in a good humour and sure to make the best
of himself. She loved to see him shine. But she almost wished that Mrs.
Peacocke had been ugly, because there would not then have been so much
danger about the school.
"I'm just going up to see her," said the Doctor, as soon as he got
home,--"just to ask her what she wants."
"I don't think she wants anything," said Mrs. Wortle, weakly.
"Does she not? She must be a very odd woman if she can live there all day
alone, and not want to see a human creature."
"I was with her yesterday."
"And therefore I will call 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
newspaper in her hand. He could see at a glance that it was a copy of the
'Broughton Gazette,' and could see also the length and outward show of the
very article which he had been discussing with Mr. Puddicombe. "Dr.
Wortle," she said, "if you don't mind, I will go away from this."
"But I do mind. Why should you go away?"
"They have been writing about me in the newspapers."
"That was to be expected."
"But they have been writing about you."
"That was to have been expected also. You don't suppose they can hurt
me?" This was a false boast, but in such conversations he was almost
bound to boast.
"It is I, then, am hurting you?"
"You;--oh dear, no; not in the least."
"But I do. They talk of boys going away from the school."
"Boys will go and boys will come, but we run on for ever," said the
Doctor, playfully.
"I can well understand that it should be so," said Mrs. Peacocke, passing
over the Doctor's parody as though unnoticed; "and I perceive that I ought
not to be here."
"Where ought you to be, then?" said he, intending simply to carry on his
joke.
"Where indeed! There is no where. But wherever I may do least injury to
innocent people,--to people who have not been driven by storms out of the
common path of life. For this place I am peculiarly unfit."
"Will you find any place where you will be made more welcome?"
"I think not."
"Then let me manage the rest. You have been reading that dastardly
article in the paper. It will have no effect upon me. Look here, Mrs.
Peacocke;"--then he got up and held her hand as though he were going, but
he remained some moments while he was still speaking to her,--still
holding her hand;--"it was settled between your husband and me, when he
went away, that you should remain here under my charge till his return. I
am bound to him to find a home for you. I think you are as much bound to
obey him,--which you can only do by remaining here."
"I would wish to obey him, certainly."
"You ought to do so,--from the peculiar circumstances more especially.
Don't trouble your mind about the school, but do as he desired. There is
no question but that you must do so. 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. Wortle did call, though these visits were to her an
intolerable nuisance. But it was certainly better that she should
alternate the visits with the Doctor than that he should go every day.
The Doctor had declared that charity required that one of them should see
the poor woman daily. He was quite willing that they should perform the
task day and day about,--but should his wife omit the duty he must go in
his wife's place. What would all the world of Bowick say if the Doctor
were to visit a lady, a young and a beautiful lady, every day, whereas his
wife visited the lady not at all? Therefore they took it turn about,
except that sometimes the Doctor accompanied his wife. The Doctor had
once suggested that his wife should take the poor lady out in her
carriage. But against this even Mrs. Wortle had rebelled. "Under such
circumstances as hers she ought not to be seen driving about," said Mrs.
Wortle. The Doctor had submitted to this, but still thought that the
world of Bowick was very cruel.
Mrs. Wortle, though she made no complaint, thought that she was used
cruelly in the matter. There had been an intention of going into Brittany
during these summer holidays. The little tour had been almost promised.
But the affairs of Mrs. Peacocke were of such a nature as not to allow the
Doctor to be absent. "You and Mary can go, and Henry will go with you."
Henry was a bachelor brother of Mrs. Wortle, who was always very much at
the Doctor's disposal, and at hers. But certainly she was not going to
quit England, not going to quit home at all, while her husband remained
there, and while Mrs. Peacocke was an inmate of the school. It was not
that she was jealous. The idea was absurd. But she knew very well what
Mrs. Stantiloup would say.