Inthis 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 phœnix 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.
TheDoctor 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 apause,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 formoney—"
"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.
Mr. Peacockehad 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 thequasiconnection 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.
Wewill 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 alreadyexplained:—
"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?