"But I knew that you would be true."
"Why shouldn't Carstairs be true?"
"Remember he is so young. You were in orders."
"I don't know that I was at all more likely to be true on that account. A clergyman can jilt a girl just as well as another. It depends on the nature of the man."
"And you were so good."
"I never came across a better youth than Carstairs. You see what his father says about his having a will of his own. When a young man shows a purpose of that kind he generally sticks to it."
The upshot of it all was, that Mary was to be told, and that her father was to tell her.
"Yes, papa, he did come," she said. "I told mamma all about me."
"And she told me, of course. You did what was quite right, and I should not have thought it necessary to speak to you had not Lord Bracy written to me."
"Lord Bracy has written!" said Mary. It seemed to her, as it had done to her mother, that Lord Bracy must have written angrily; but though she thought so, she plucked up her spirit gallantly, telling herself that though Lord Bracy might be angry with his own son, he could have no cause to be displeased with her.
"Yes; I have a letter, which you shall read. The young man seems to have been very much in earnest."
"I don't know," said Mary, with some little exultation at her heart.
"It seems but the other day that he was a boy, and now he has become suddenly a man." To this Mary said nothing; but she also had come to the conclusion that, in this respect, Lord Carstairs had lately changed,—very much for the better. "Do you like him, Mary?"
"Like him, papa?"
"Well, my darling; how am I to put it? He is so much in earnest that he has got his father to write to me. He was coming over himself again before he went to Oxford; but he told his father what he was going to do, and the Earl stopped him. There's the letter, and you may read it."
Mary read the letter, taking herself apart to a corner of the room, and seemed to her father to take a long time in reading it. But there was very much on which she was called upon to make up her mind during those few minutes. Up to the present time,—up to the moment in which her father had now summoned her into his study, she had resolved that it was "impossible." She had become so clear on the subject that she would not ask herself the question whether she could love the young man. Would it not be wrong to love the young man? Would it not be a longing for the top brick of the chimney, which she ought to know was out of her reach? So she had decided it, and had therefore already taught herself to regard the declaration made to her as the ebullition of a young man's folly. But not the less had she known how great had been the thing suggested to her,—how excellent was this top brick of the chimney; and as to the young man himself, she could not but feel that, had matters been different, she might have loved him. Now there had come a sudden change; but she did not at all know how far she might go to meet the change, nor what the change altogether meant. She had been made sure by her father's question that he had taught himself to hope. He would not have asked her whether she liked him,—would not, at any rate, have asked that question in that voice,—had he not been prepared to be good to her had she answered in the affirmative. But then this matter did not depend upon her father's wishes,—or even on her father's judgment. It was necessary that, before she said another word, she should find out what Lord Bracy said about it. There she had Lord Bracy's letter in her hand, but her mind was so disturbed that she hardly knew how to read it aright at the spur of the moment.
"You understand what he says, Mary?"
"I think so, papa."
"It is a very kind letter."
"Very kind indeed. I should have thought that he would not have liked it at all."
"He makes no objection of that kind. To tell the truth, Mary, I should have thought it unreasonable had he done so. A gentleman can do no better than marry a lady. And though it is much to be a nobleman, it is more to be a gentleman."
"Some people think so much of it. And then his having been here as a pupil! I was very sorry when he spoke to me."
"All that is past and gone. The danger is that such an engagement would be long."
"Very long."
"You would be afraid of that, Mary?" Mary felt that this was hard upon her, and unfair. Were she to say that the danger of a long engagement did not seem to her to be very terrible, she would at once be giving up everything. She would have declared then that she did love the young man; or, at any rate, that she intended to do so. She would have succumbed at the first hint that such succumbing was possible to her. And yet she had not known that she was very much afraid of a longengagement. She would, she thought, have been much more afraid had a speedy marriage been proposed to her. Upon the whole, she did not know whether it would not be nice to go on knowing that the young man loved her, and to rest secure on her faith in him. She was sure of this,—that the reading of Lord Bracy's letter had in some way made her happy, though she was unwilling at once to express her happiness to her father. She was quite sure that she could make no immediate reply to that question, whether she was afraid of a long engagement. "I must answer Lord Bracy's letter, you know," said the Doctor.
"Yes, papa."
"And what shall I say to him?"
"I don't know, papa."
"And yet you must tell me what to say, my darling."
"Must I, papa?"
"Certainly! Who else can tell me? But I will not answer it to-day. I will put it off till Monday." It was Saturday morning on which the letter was being discussed,—a day of which a considerable portion was generally appropriated to the preparation of a sermon. "In the mean time you had better talk to mamma; and on Monday we will settle what is to be said to Lord Bracy."
Mr. Peacockewent on alone to San Francisco from the Ogden Junction, and there obtained full information on the matter which had brought him upon this long and disagreeable journey. He had no difficulty in obtaining the evidence which he required. He had not been twenty-four hours in the place before he was, in truth, standing on the stone which had been placed over the body of Ferdinand Lefroy, as he had declared to Robert Lefroy that he would stand before he would be satisfied. On the stone was cut simply the names, Ferdinand Lefroy of Kilbrack, Louisiana; and to these were added the dates of the days on which the man had been born and on which he died. Of this stone he had a photograph made, of which he took copies with him; and he obtained also from the minister who had buried the body and from the custodian who had charge of the cemetery certificates of the interment. Armed with these he could no longer doubt himself, or suppose that others would doubt, that Ferdinand Lefroy was dead.
Having thus perfected his object, and feeling but little interest in a town to which he had been brought by such painful circumstances, he turned round, and on the second day after his arrival, again started for Chicago. Had it been possible, he would fain have avoided any further meeting with Robert Lefroy. Short as had been his stay at San Francisco he had learnt that Robert, after his brother's death, had been concerned in buying mining shares and paying for them with forged notes. It was not supposed that he himself had been engaged in the forgery, but that he had come into the city with men who had been employed for years on this operation, and had bought shares and endeavoured to sell them on the following day. He had, however, managed to leave the place before the police had got hold of him, and had escaped, so that no one had been able to say at what station he had got upon the railway. Nor did any one in San Francisco know where Robert Lefroy was now to be found. His companions had been taken, tried, and convicted, and were now in the State prison,—where also would Robert Lefroy soon be if any of the officers of the State could get hold of him. Luckily Mr. Peacocke had said little or nothing of the man in making his own inquiries. Much as he had hated and dreaded the man; much as he had suffered from his companionship,—good reason as he had to dislike the whole family,—he felt himself bound by their late companionship not to betray him. The man had assisted Mr. Peacocke simply for money; but still he had assisted him. Mr. Peacocke therefore held his peace and said nothing. But he would have been thankful to have been able to send the money that was now due to him without having again to see him. That, however, was impossible.
On reaching Chicago he went to an hotel far removed from that which Lefroy had designated. Lefroy had explained to him something of the geography of the town, and had explained that for himself he preferred a "modest, quiet hotel." The modest, quiet hotel was called Mrs. Jones's boarding-house, and was in one of the suburbs far from the main street. "You needn't say as you're coming to me," Lefroy had said to him; "nor need you let on as you know anything of Mrs. Jones at all. People are so curious; and it may be that a gentleman sometimes likes to lieperdu." Mr. Peacocke, although he had but small sympathy for the taste of a gentleman who likes to lieperdu, nevertheless did as he was bid, and found his way to Mrs. Jones's boarding-house without telling any one whither he was going.
Before he started he prepared himself with a thousand dollars in bank-notes, feeling that this wretched man had earned them in accordance with their compact. His only desire now was to hand over the money as quickly as possible, and to hurry away out of Chicago. He felt as though he himself were almost guilty of some crime in having to deal with this man, in having to give him money secretly, and in carrying out to the end an arrangement of which no one else was to know the details. How would it be with him if the police of Chicago should come upon him as a friend, and probably an accomplice, of one who was "wanted" on account of forgery at San Francisco? But he had no help for himself, and at Mrs. Jones's he found his wife's brother-in-law seated in the bar of the public-house,—that everlasting resort for American loungers,—with a cigar as usual stuck in his mouth, loafing away his time as only American frequenters of such establishments know how to do. In England such a man would probably be found in such a place with a glass of some alcoholic mixture beside him, but such is never the case with an American. If he wants a drink he goes to the bar and takes it standing,—will perhaps take two or three, one after another; but when he has settled himself down to loafe, he satisfies himself with chewing a cigar, and covering a circle around him with the results. With this amusement he will remain contented hour after hour;—nay, throughout the entire day if no harder work be demanded of him. So was Robert Lefroy found now. When Peacocke entered the hall or room the man did not rise from his chair, but accosted him as though they had parted only an hour since. "So, old fellow, you've got back all alive."
"I have reached this place at any rate."
"Well; that's getting back, ain't it?"
"I have come back from San Francisco."
"H'sh!" exclaimed Lefroy, looking round the room, in which, however, there was no one but themselves. "You needn't tell everybody where you've been."
"I have nothing to conceal."
"That is more than anybody knows of himself. It's a good maxim to keep your own affairs quiet till they're wanted. In this country everybody is spry enough to learn all about everything. I never see any good in letting them know without a reason. Well;—what did you do when you got there?"
"It was all as you told me."
"Didn't I say so? What was the good of bringing me all this way, when, if you'd only believed me, you might have saved me the trouble. Ain't I to be paid for that?"
"You are to be paid. I have come here to pay you."
"That's what you owe for the knowledge. But for coming? Ain't I to be paid extra for the journey?"
"You are to have a thousand dollars."
"H'sh!—you speak of money as though every one has a business to know that you have got your pockets full. What's a thousand dollars, seeing all that I have done for you!"
"It's all that you're going to get. It's all, indeed, that I have got to give you."
"Gammon."
"It's all, at any rate, that you're going to get. Will you have it now?"
"You found the tomb, did you?"
"Yes; I found the tomb. Here is a photograph of it. You can keep a copy if you like it."
"What do I want of a copy," said the man, taking the photograph in his hand. "He was always more trouble than he was worth,—was Ferdy. It's a pity she didn't marry me. I'd 've made a woman of her." Peacocke shuddered as he heard this, but he said nothing. "You may as well give us the picter;—it'll do to hang up somewhere if ever I have a room of my own. How plain it is. Ferdinand Lefroy,—of Kilbrack! Kilbrack indeed! It's little either of us was the better for Kilbrack. Some of them psalm-singing rogues from New England has it now;—or perhaps a right-down nigger. I shouldn't wonder. One of our own lot, maybe! Oh; that's the money, is it?—A thousand dollars; all that I'm to have for coming to England and telling you, and bringing you back, and showing you where you could get this pretty picter made." Then he took the money, a thick roll of notes, and crammed them into his pocket.
"You'd better count them."
"It ain't worth the while with such a trifle as that."
"Let me count them then."
"You'll never have that plunder in your fists again, my fine fellow."
"I do not want it."
"And now about my expenses out to England, on purpose to tell you all this. You can go and make her your wife now,—or can leave her, just as you please. You couldn't have done neither if I hadn't gone out to you."
"You have got what was promised."
"But my expenses,—going out?"
"I have promised you nothing for your expenses going out,—and will pay you nothing."
"You won't?"
"Not a dollar more."
"You won't?"
"Certainly not. I do not suppose that you expect it for a moment, although you are so persistent in asking for it."
"And you think you've got the better of me, do you? You think you've carried me along with you, just to do your bidding and take whatever you please to give me? That's your idea of me?"
"There was a clear bargain between us. I have not got the better of you at all."
"I rather think not, Peacocke. I rather think not. You'll have to get up earlier before you get the better of Robert Lefroy. You don't expect to get this money back again,—do you?"
"Certainly not,—any more than I should expect a pound of meat out of a dog's jaw." Mr. Peacocke, as he said this, was waxing angry.
"I don't suppose you do;—but you expected that I was to earn it by doing your bidding;—didn't you?"
"And you have."
"Yes, I have; but how? You never heard of my cousin, did you;—Ferdinand Lefroy of Kilbrack, Louisiana?"
"Heard of whom?"
"My cousin; Ferdinand Lefroy. He was very well known in his own State, and in California too, till he died. He was a good fellow, but given to drink. We used to tell him that if he would marry it would be better for him;—but he never would;—he never did." Robert Lefroy as he said this put his left hand into his trousers-pocket over the notes which he had placed there, and drew a small revolver out of his pocket with the other hand. "I am better prepared now," he said, "than when you had your six-shooter under your pillow at Leavenworth."
"I do not believe a word of it. It's a lie," said Peacocke.
"Very well. You're a chap that's fond of travelling, and have got plenty of money. You'd better go down to Louisiana and make your way straight from New Orleans to Kilbrack. It ain't above forty miles to the south-west, and there's a rail goes within fifteen miles of it. You'll learn there all about Ferdinand Lefroy as was our cousin,—him as never got married up to the day he died of drink and was buried at San Francisco. They'll be very glad, I shouldn't wonder, to see that pretty little picter of yours, because they was always uncommon fond of cousin Ferdy at Kilbrack. And I'll tell you what; you'll be sure to come across my brother Ferdy in them parts, and can tell him how you've seen me. You can give him all the latest news, too, about his own wife. He'll be glad to hear about her, poor woman." Mr. Peacocke listened to this without saying a word since that last exclamation of his. It might be true. Why should it not be true? If in truth there had been these two cousins of the same name, what could be more likely than that his money should be lured out of him by such a fraud as this? But yet,—yet, as he came to think of it all, it could not be true. The chance of carrying such a scheme to a successful issue would have been too small to induce the man to act upon it from the day of his first appearance at Bowick. Nor was it probable that there should have been another Ferdinand Lefroy unknown to his wife; and the existence of such a one, if known to his wife, would certainly have been made known to him.
"It's a lie," said he, "from beginning to end."
"Very well; very well. I'll take care to make the truth known by letter to Dr. Wortle and the Bishop and all them pious swells over there. To think that such a chap as you, a minister of the gospel, living with another man's wife and looking as though butter wouldn't melt in your mouth! I tell you what; I've got a little money in my pocket now, and I don't mind going over to England again and explaining the whole truth to the Bishop myself. I could make him understand how that photograph ain't worth nothing, and how I explained to you myself as the lady's righteous husband is all alive, keeping house on his own property down in Louisiana. Do you think we Lefroys hadn't any place beside Kilbrack among us?"
"Certainly you are a liar," said Peacocke.
"Very well. Prove it."
"Did you not tell me that your brother was buried at San Francisco?"
"Oh, as for that, that don't matter. It don't count for much whether I told a crammer or not. That picter counts for nothing. It ain't my word you were going on as evidence. You is able to prove that Ferdy Lefroy was buried at 'Frisco. True enough. I buried him. I can prove that. And I would never have treated you this way, and not have said a word as to how the dead man was only a cousin, if you'd treated me civil over there in England. But you didn't."
"I am going to treat you worse now," said Peacocke, looking him in the face.
"What are you going to do now? It's I that have the revolver this time." As he said this he turned the weapon round in his hand.
"I don't want to shoot you,—nor yet to frighten you, as I did in the bed-room at Leavenworth. Not but what I have a pistol too." And he slowly drew his out of his pocket. At this moment two men sauntered in and took their places in the further corner of the room. "I don't think there is to be any shooting between us."
"There may," said Lefroy.
"The police would have you."
"So they would—for a time. What does that matter to me? Isn't a fellow to protect himself when a fellow like you comes to him armed?"
"But they would soon know that you are the swindler who escaped from San Francisco eighteen months ago. Do you think it wouldn't be found out that it was you who paid for the shares in forged notes?"
"I never did. That's one of your lies."
"Very well. Now you know what I know; and you had better tell me over again who it is that lies buried under the stone that's been photographed there."
"What are you men doing with them pistols?" said one of the strangers, walking across the room, and standing over the backs of their chairs.
"We arealookingat 'em," said Lefroy.
"If you'reagoingto do anything of that kind you'd better go and do it elsewhere," said the stranger.
"Just so," said Lefroy. "That's what I was thinking myself."
"But we are not going to do anything," said Mr. Peacocke. "I have not the slightest idea of shooting the gentleman; and he has just as little of shooting me."
"Then what do you sit with 'em out in your hands in that fashion for?" said the stranger. "It's a decent widow woman as keeps this house, and I won't see her set upon. Put 'em up." Whereupon Lefroy did return his pistol to his pocket,—upon which Mr. Peacocke did the same. Then the stranger slowly walked back to his seat at the other side of the room.
"So they told you that lie; did they,—at 'Frisco?" asked Lefroy.
"That was what I heard over there when I was inquiring about your brother's death."
"You'd believe anything if you'd believe that."
"I'd believe anything if I'd believe in your cousin." Upon this Lefroy laughed, but made no further allusion to the romance which he had craftily invented on the spur of the moment. After that the two men sat without a word between them for a quarter of an hour, when the Englishman got up to take his leave. "Our business is over now," he said, "and I will bid you good-bye."
"I'll tell you what I'm athinking," said Lefroy. Mr. Peacocke stood with his hand ready for a final adieu, but he said nothing. "I've half a mind to go back with you to England. There ain't nothing to keep me here."
"What could you do there?"
"I'd be evidence for you, as to Ferdy's death, you know."
"I have evidence. I do not want you."
"I'll go, nevertheless."
"And spend all your money on the journey."
"You'd help;—wouldn't you now?"
"Not a dollar," said Peacocke, turning away and leaving the room. As he did so he heard the wretch laughing loud at the excellence of his own joke.
Before he made his journey back again to England he only once more saw Robert Lefroy. As he was seating himself in the railway car that was to take him to Buffalo the man came up to him with an affected look of solicitude. "Peacocke," he said, "there was only nine hundred dollars in that roll."
"There were a thousand. I counted them half-an-hour before I handed them to you."
"There was only nine hundred when I got 'em."
"There were all that you will get. What kind of notes were they you had when you paid for the shares at 'Frisco?" This question he asked out loud, before all the passengers. Then Robert Lefroy left the car, and Mr. Peacocke never saw him or heard from him again.
Whenthe Monday came there was much to be done and to be thought of at Bowick. Mrs. Peacocke on that day received a letter from San Francisco, giving her all the details of the evidence that her husband had obtained, and enclosing a copy of the photograph. There was now no reason why she should not become the true and honest wife of the man whom she had all along regarded as her husband in the sight of God. The writer declared that he would so quickly follow his letter that he might be expected home within a week, or, at the longest, ten days, from the date at which she would receive it. Immediately on his arrival at Liverpool, he would, of course, give her notice by telegraph.
When this letter reached her, she at once sent a message across to Mrs. Wortle. Would Mrs. Wortle kindly come and see her? Mrs. Wortle was, of course, bound to do as she was asked, and started at once. But she was, in truth, but little able to give counsel on any subject outside the one which was at the moment nearest to her heart. At one o'clock, when the boys went to their dinner, Mary was to instruct her father as to the purport of the letter which was to be sent to Lord Bracy,—and Mary had not as yet come to any decision. She could not go to her father for aid;—she could not, at any rate, go to him until the appointed hour should come; and she was, therefore, entirely thrown upon her mother. Had she been old enough to understand the effect and the power of character, she would have known that, at the last moment, her father would certainly decide for her,—and had her experience of the world been greater, she might have been quite sure that her father would decide in her favour. But as it was, she was quivering and shaking in the dark, leaning on her mother's very inefficient aid, nearly overcome with the feeling that by one o'clock she must be ready to say something quite decided.
And in the midst of this her mother was taken away from her, just at ten o'clock. There was not, in truth, much that the two ladies could say to each other. Mrs. Peacocke felt it to be necessary to let the Doctor know that Mr. Peacocke would be back almost at once, and took this means of doing so. "In a week!" said Mrs. Wortle, as though painfully surprised by the suddenness of the coming arrival.
"In a week or ten days. He was to follow his letter as quickly as possible from San Francisco."
"And he has found it all out?"
"Yes; he has learned everything, I think. Look at this!" And Mrs. Peacocke handed to her friend the photograph of the tombstone.
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Wortle. "Ferdinand Lefroy! And this was his grave?"
"That is his grave," said Mrs. Peacocke, turning her face away.
"It is very sad; very sad indeed;—but you had to learn it, you know."
"It will not be sad for him, I hope," said Mrs. Peacocke. "In all this, I endeavour to think of him rather than of myself. When I am forced to think of myself, it seems to me that my life has been so blighted and destroyed that it must be indifferent what happens to me now. What has happened to me has been so bad that I can hardly be injured further. But if there can be a good time coming for him,—something at least of relief, something perhaps of comfort,—then I shall be satisfied."
"Why should there not be comfort for you both?"
"I am almost as dead to hope as I am to shame. Some year or two ago I should have thought it impossible to bear the eyes of people looking at me, as though my life had been sinful and impure. I seem now to care nothing for all that. I can look them back again with bold eyes and a brazen face, and tell them that their hardness is at any rate as bad as my impurity."
"We have not looked at you like that," said Mrs. Wortle.
"No; and therefore I send to you in my trouble, and tell you all this. The strangest thing of all to me is that I should have come across one man so generous as your husband, and one woman so soft-hearted as yourself." There was nothing further to be said then. Mrs. Wortle was instructed to tell her husband that Mr. Peacocke was to be expected in a week or ten days, and then hurried back to give what assistance she could in the much more important difficulties of her own daughter.
Of course they were much more important to her. Was her girl to become the wife of a young lord,—to be a future countess? Was she destined to be the mother-in-law of an earl? Of course this was much more important to her. And then through it all,—being as she was a dear, good, Christian, motherly woman,—she was well aware that there was something, in truth, much more important even than that. Though she thought much of the earl-ship, and the countess-ship, and the great revenue, and the big house at Carstairs, and the fine park with its magnificent avenues, and the carriage in which her daughter would be rolled about to London parties, and the diamonds which she would wear when she should be presented to the Queen as the bride of the young Lord Carstairs, yet she knew very well that she ought not in such an emergency as the present to think of these things as being of primary importance. What would tend most to her girl's happiness,—and welfare in this world and the next? It was of that she ought to think,—of that only. If some answer were now returned to Lord Bracy, giving his lordship to understand that they, the Wortles, were anxious to encourage the idea, then in fact her girl would be tied to an engagement whether the young lord should hold himself to be so tied or no! And how would it be with her girl if the engagement should be allowed to run on in a doubtful way for years, and then be dropped by reason of the young man's indifference? How would it be with her if, after perhaps three or four years, a letter should come saying that the young lord had changed his mind, and had engaged himself to some nobler bride? Was it not her duty, as a mother, to save her child from the too probable occurrence of some crushing grief such as this? All of it was clear to her mind;—but then it was clear also that, if this opportunity of greatness were thrown away, no such chance in all probability would ever come again. Thus she was so tossed to and fro between a prospect of glorious prosperity for her child on one side, and the fear of terrible misfortune for her child on the other, that she was altogether unable to give any salutary advice. She, at any rate, ought to have known that her advice would at last be of no importance. Her experience ought to have told her that the Doctor would certainly settle the matter himself. Had it been her own happiness that was in question, her own conduct, her own greatness, she would not have dreamed of having an opinion of her own. She would have consulted the Doctor, and simply have done as he directed. But all this was for her child, and in a vague, vacillating way she felt that for her child she ought to be ready with counsel of her own.
"Mamma," said Mary, when her mother came back from Mrs. Peacocke, "what am I to say when he sends for me?"
"If you think that you can love him, my dear—"
"Oh, mamma, you shouldn't ask me!"
"My dear!"
"I do like him,—very much."
"If so—"
"But I never thought of it before;—and then, if he,—if he—"
"If he what, my dear?"
"If he were to change his mind?"
"Ah, yes;—there it is. It isn't as though you could be married in three months' time."
"Oh, mamma! I shouldn't like that at all."
"Or even in six."
"Oh, no."
"Of course he is very young."
"Yes, mamma."
"And when a young man is so very young, I suppose he doesn't quite know his own mind."
"No, mamma. But—"
"Well, my dear."
"His father says that he has got—such a strong will of his own," said poor Mary, who was anxious, unconsciously anxious, to put in a good word on her own side of the question, without making her own desire too visible.
"He always had that. When there was any game to be played, he always liked to have his own way. But then men like that are just as likely to change as others."
"Are they, mamma?"
"But I do think that he is a lad of very high principle."
"Papa has always said that of him."
"And of fine generous feeling. He would not change like aweather-cock."
"If you think he would change at all, I would rather,—rather,—rather—. Oh, mamma, why did you tell me?"
"My darling, my child, my angel! What am I to tell you? I do think of all the young men I ever knew he is the nicest, and the sweetest, and the most thoroughly good and affectionate."
"Oh, mamma, do you?" said Mary, rushing at her mother and kissing her and embracing her.
"But if there were to be no regular engagement, and you were to let him have your heart,—and then things were to go wrong!"
Mary left the embracings, gave up the kissings, and seated herself on the sofa alone. In this way the morning was passed;—and when Mary was summoned to her father's study, the mother and daughter had not arrived between them at any decision.
"Well, my dear," said the Doctor, smiling, "what am I to say to the Earl?"
"Must you write to-day, papa?"
"I think so. His letter is one that should not be left longer unanswered. Were we to do so, he would only think that we didn't know what to say for ourselves."
"Would he, papa?"
"He would fancy that we are half-ashamed to accept what has been offered to us, and yet anxious to take it."
"I am not ashamed of anything."
"No, my dear; you have no reason."
"Nor have you, papa."
"Nor have I. That is quite true. I have never been wont to be ashamed of myself;—nor do I think that you ever will have cause to be ashamed of yourself. Therefore, why should we hesitate? Shall I help you, my darling, in coming to a decision on the matter?"
"Yes, papa."
"If I can understand your heart on this matter, it has never as yet been given to this young man."
"No, papa." This Mary said not altogether with that complete power of asseveration which the negative is sometimes made to bear.
"But there must be a beginning to such things. A man throws himself into it headlong,—as my Lord Carstairs seems to have done. At least all the best young men do." Mary at this point felt a great longing to get up and kiss her father; but she restrained herself. "A young woman, on the other hand, if she is such as I think you are, waits till she is asked. Then it has to begin." The Doctor, as he said this, smiled his sweetest smile.
"Yes, papa."
"And when it has begun, she does not like to blurt it out at once, even to her loving old father."
"Papa!"
"That's about it, isn't it? Haven't I hit it off?" He paused, as though for a reply, but she was not as yet able to make him any. "Come here, my dear." She came and stood by him, so that he could put his arm round her waist. "If it be as I suppose, you are better disposed to this young man than you are likely to be to any other, just at present."
"Oh yes, papa."
"To all others you are quite indifferent?"
"Yes,—indeed, papa."
"I am sure you are. But not quite indifferent to this one? Give me a kiss, my darling, and I will take that for your speech." Then she kissed him,—giving him her very best kiss. "And now, my child, what shall I say to the Earl?"
"I don't know, papa."
"Nor do I, quite. I never do know what to say till I've got the pen in my hand. But you'll commission me to write as I may think best?"
"Oh yes, papa."
"And I may presume that I know your mind?"
"Yes, papa."
"Very well. Then you had better leave me, so that I can go to work with the paper straight before me, and my pen fixed in my fingers. I can never begin to think till I find myself in that position." Then she left him, and went back to her mother.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Wortle.
"He is going to write to Lord Bracy."
"But what does he mean to say?"
"I don't know at all, mamma."
"Not know!"
"I think he means to tell Lord Bracy that he has got no objection."
Then Mrs. Wortle was sure that the Doctor meant to face all the dangers, and that therefore it would behove her to face them also.
The Doctor, when he was left alone, sat a while thinking of the matter before he put himself into the position fitted for composition which he had described to his daughter. He acknowledged to himself that there was a difficulty in making a fit reply to the letter which he had to answer. When his mind was set on sending an indignant epistle to the Bishop, the words flew from him like lightning out of the thunder-clouds. But now he had to think much of it before he could make any light to come which should not bear a different colour from that which he intended. "Of course such a marriage would suit my child, and would suit me," he wished to say;—"not only, or not chiefly, because your son is a nobleman, and will be an earl and a man of great property. That goes a long way with us. We are too true to deny it. We hate humbug, and want you to know simply the truth about us. The title and the money go far,—but not half so far as the opinion which we entertain of the young man's own good gifts. I would not give my girl to the greatest and richest nobleman under the British Crown, if I did not think that he would love her and be good to her, and treat her as a husband should treat his wife. But believing this young man to have good gifts such as these, and a fine disposition, I am willing, on my girl's behalf,—and she also is willing,—to encounter the acknowledged danger of a long engagement in the hope of realising all the good things which would, if things went fortunately, thus come within her reach." This was what he wanted to say to the Earl, but he found it very difficult to say it in language that should be natural.
"My dear Lord Bracy,—When I learned, through Mary's mother, that Carstairs had been here in our absence and made a declaration of love to our girl, I was, I must confess, annoyed. I felt, in the first place, that he was too young to have taken in hand such a business as that; and, in the next, that you might not unnaturally have been angry that your son, who had come here simply for tuition, should have fallen into a matter of love. I imagine that you will understand exactly what were my feelings. There was, however, nothing to be said about it. The evil, so far as it was an evil, had been done, and Carstairs was going away to Oxford, where, possibly, he might forget the whole affair. I did not, at any rate, think it necessary to make a complaint to you of his coming.
"To all this your letter has given altogether a different aspect. I think that I am as little likely as another to spend my time or thoughts in looking for external advantages, but I am as much alive as another to the great honour to myself and advantage to my child of the marriage which is suggested to her. I do not know how any more secure prospect of happiness could be opened to her than that which such a marriage offers. I have thought myself bound to give her your letter to read because her heart and her imagination have naturally been affected by what your son said to her. I think I may say of my girl that none sweeter, none more innocent, none less likely to be over-anxious for such a prospect could exist. But her heart has been touched; and though she had not dreamt of him but as an acquaintance till he came here and told his own tale, and though she then altogether declined to entertain his proposal when it was made, now that she has learnt so much more through you, she is no longer indifferent. This, I think, you will find to be natural.
"I and her mother also are of course alive to the dangers of a long engagement, and the more so because your son has still before him a considerable portion of his education. Had he asked advice either of you or of me he would of course have been counselled not to think of marriage as yet. But the very passion which has prompted him to take this action upon himself shows,—as you yourself say of him,—that he has a stronger will than is usual to be found at his years. As it is so, it is probable that he may remain constant to this as to a fixed idea.
"I think you will now understand my mind and Mary's and her mother's." Lord Bracy as he read this declared to himself that though the Doctor's mind was very clear, Mrs. Wortle, as far as he knew, had no mind in the matter at all. "I would suggest that the affair should remain as it is, and that each of the young people should be made to understand that any future engagement must depend, not simply on the persistency of one of them, but on the joint persistency of the two.
"If, after this, Lady Bracy should be pleased to receive Mary at Carstairs, I need not say that Mary will be delighted to make the visit.—Believe me, my dear Lord Bracy, yours most faithfully.
"Jeffrey Wortle."
The Earl, when he read this, though there was not a word in it to which he could take exception, was not altogether pleased. "Of course it will be an engagement," he said to his wife.
"Of course it will," said the Countess. "But then Carstairs is so very much in earnest. He would have done it for himself if you hadn't done it for him."
"At any rate the Doctor is a gentleman," the Earl said, comforting himself.
TheEarl's rejoinder to the Doctor was very short: "So let it be." There was not another word in the body of the letter; but there was appended to it a postscript almost equally short; "Lady Bracy will write to Mary and settle with her some period for her visit." And so it came to be understood by the Doctor, by Mrs. Wortle, and by Mary herself, that Mary was engaged to Lord Carstairs.
The Doctor, having so far arranged the matter, said little or nothing more on the subject, but turned his mind at once to that other affair of Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke. It was evident to his wife, who probably alone understood the buoyancy of his spirit and its corresponding susceptibility to depression, that he at once went about Mr. Peacocke's affairs with renewed courage. Mr. Peacocke should resume his duties as soon as he was remarried, and let them see what Mrs. Stantiloup or the Bishop would dare to say then! It was impossible, he thought, that parents would be such asses as to suppose that their boys' morals could be affected to evil by connection with a man so true, so gallant, and so manly as this. He did not at this time say anything further as to abandoning the school, but seemed to imagine that the vacancies would get themselves filled up as in the course of nature. He ate his dinner again as though he liked it, and abused the Liberals, and was anxious about the grapes and peaches, as was always the case with him when things were going well. All this, as Mrs. Wortle understood, had come to him from the brilliancy of Mary's prospects.
But though he held his tongue on the subject, Mrs. Wortle did not. She found it absolutely impossible not to talk of it when she was alone with Mary, or alone with the Doctor. As he counselled her not to make Mary think too much about it, she was obliged to hold her peace when both were with her; but with either of them alone she was always full of it. To the Doctor she communicated all her fears and all her doubts, showing only too plainly that she would be altogether broken-hearted if anything should interfere with the grandeur and prosperity which seemed to be partly within reach, but not altogether within reach of her darling child. If he, Carstairs, should prove to be a recreant young lord! If Aristotle and Socrates should put love out of his heart! If those other wicked young lords at Christ-Church were to teach him that it was a foolish thing for a young lord to become engaged to his tutor's daughter before he had taken his degree! If some better born young lady were to come in his way and drive Mary out of his heart! No more lovely or better girl could be found to do so;—of that she was sure. To the latter assertion the Doctor agreed, telling her that, as it was so, she ought to have a stronger trust in her daughter's charms,—telling her also, with somewhat sterner voice, that she should not allow herself to be so disturbed by the glories of the Bracy coronet. In this there was, I think, some hypocrisy. Had the Doctor been as simple as his wife in showing her own heart, it would probably have been found that he was as much set upon the coronet as she.
Then Mrs. Wortle would carry the Doctor's wisdom to her daughter. "Papa says, my dear, that you shouldn't think of it too much."
"I do think of him, mamma. I do love him now, and of course I think of him."
"Of course you do, my dear;—of course you do. How should you not think of him when he is all in all to you? But papa means that it can hardly be called an engagement yet."
"I don't know what it should be called; but of course I love him. He can change it if he likes."
"But you shouldn't think of it, knowing his rank and wealth."
"I never did, mamma; but he is what he is, and I must think of him."
Poor Mrs. Wortle did not know what special advice to give when this declaration was made. To have held her tongue would have been the wisest, but that was impossible to her. Out of the full heart the mouth speaks, and her heart was very full of Lord Carstairs and of Carstairs House, and of the diamonds which her daughter would certainly be called upon to wear before the Queen,—if only that young man would do his duty.
Poor Mary herself probably had the worst of it. No provision was made either for her to see her lover or to write to him. The only interview which had ever taken place between them as lovers was that on which she had run by him into the house, leaving him, as the Earl had said, planted on the terrace. She had never been able to whisper one single soft word into his ear, to give him even one touch of her fingers in token of her affection. She did not in the least know when she might be allowed to see him,—whether it had not been settled among the elders that they were not to see each other as real lovers till he should have taken his degree,—which would be almost in a future world, so distant seemed the time. It had been already settled that she was to go to Carstairs in the middle of November and stay till the middle of December; but it was altogether settled that her lover was not to be at Carstairs during the time. He was to be at Oxford then, and would be thinking only of his Greek and Latin,—or perhaps amusing himself, in utter forgetfulness that he had a heart belonging to him at Bowick Parsonage. In this way Mary, though no doubt she thought the most of it all, had less opportunity of talking of it than either her father or her mother.
In the mean time Mr. Peacocke was coming home. The Doctor, as soon as he heard that the day was fixed, or nearly fixed, being then, as has been explained, in full good humour with all the world except Mrs. Stantiloup and the Bishop, bethought himself as to what steps might best be taken in the very delicate matter in which he was called upon to give advice. He had declared at first that they should be married at his own parish church; but he felt that there would be difficulties in this. "She must go up to London and meet him there," he said to Mrs. Wortle. "And he must not show himself here till he brings her down as his actual wife." Then there was very much to be done in arranging all this. And something to be done also in making those who had been his friends, and perhaps more in making those who had been his enemies, understand exactly how the matter stood. Had no injury been inflicted upon him, as though he had done evil to the world in general in befriending Mr. Peacocke, he would have been quite willing to pass the matter over in silence among his friends; but as it was he could not afford to hide his own light under a bushel. He was being punished almost to the extent of ruin by the cruel injustice which had been done him by the evil tongue of Mrs. Stantiloup, and, as he thought, by the folly of the Bishop. He must now let those who had concerned themselves know as accurately as he could what he had done in the matter, and what had been the effect of his doing. He wrote a letter, therefore, which was not, however, to be posted till after the Peacocke marriage had been celebrated, copies of which he prepared with his own hand in order that he might send them to the Bishop and to LadyAnneClifford, and to Mr. Talbot and,—not, indeed, to Mrs. Stantiloup, but to Mrs. Stantiloup's husband. There was a copy also made for Mr. Momson, though in his heart he despised Mr. Momson thoroughly. In this letter he declared the great respect which he had entertained, since he had first known them, both for Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke, and the distress which he had felt when Mr. Peacocke had found himself obliged to explain to him the facts,—the facts which need not be repeated, because the reader is so well acquainted with them. "Mr. Peacocke," he went on to say, "has since been to America, and has found that the man whom he believed to be dead when he married his wife, has died since his calamitous reappearance. Mr. Peacocke has seen the man's grave, with the stone on it bearing his name, and has brought back with him certificates and evidence as to his burial.
"Under these circumstances, I have no hesitation in re-employing both him and his wife; and I think that you will agree that I could not do less. I think you will agree, also, that in the whole transaction I have done nothing of which the parent of any boy intrusted to me has a right to complain."
Having done this, he went up to London, and made arrangements for having the marriage celebrated there as soon as possible after the arrival of Mr. Peacocke. And on his return to Bowick, he went off to Mr. Puddicombe with a copy of his letter in his pocket. He had not addressed a copy to his friend, nor had he intended that one should be sent to him. Mr. Puddicombe had not interfered in regard to the boys, and had, on the whole, shown himself to be a true friend. There was no need for him to advocate his cause to Mr. Puddicombe. But it was right, he thought, that that gentleman should know what he did; and it might be that he hoped that he would at length obtain some praise from Mr. Puddicombe. But Mr. Puddicombe did not like the letter. "It does not tell the truth," he said.
"Not the truth!"
"Not the whole truth."
"As how! Where have I concealed anything?"
"If I understand the question rightly, they who have thought proper to take their children away from your school because of Mr. Peacocke, have done so because that gentleman continued to live with that lady when they both knew that they were not man and wife."
"That wasn't my doing."
"You condoned it. I am not condemning you. You condoned it, and now you defend yourself in this letter. But in your defence you do not really touch the offence as to which you are, according to your own showing, accused. In telling the whole story, you should say; 'They did live together though they were not married;—and, under all the circumstances, I did not think that they were on that account unfit to be left in charge of my boys."'
"But I sent him away immediately,—to America."
"You allowed the lady to remain."
"Then what would you have me say?" demanded the Doctor.
"Nothing," said Mr. Puddicombe;—"not a word. Live it down in silence. There will be those, like myself, who, though they could not dare to say that in morals you were strictly correct, will love you the better for what you did." The Doctor turned his face towards the dry, hard-looking man and showed that there was a tear in each of his eyes. "There are few of us not so infirm as sometimes to love best that which is not best. But when a man is asked a downright question, he is bound to answer the truth."
"You would say nothing in your own defence."
"Not a word. You know the French proverb: 'Who excuses himself is his own accuser.' The truth generally makes its way. As far as I can see, a slander never lives long."
"Ten of my boys are gone!" said the Doctor, who had not hitherto spoken a word of this to any one out of his own family;—"ten out of twenty."
"That will only be a temporary loss."
"That is nothing,—nothing. It is the idea that the school should be failing."
"They will come again. I do not believe that that letter would bring a boy. I am almost inclined to say, Dr. Wortle, that a man should never defend himself."
"He should never have to defend himself."
"It is much the same thing. But I'll tell you what I'll do, Dr. Wortle,—if it will suit your plans. I will go up with you and will assist at the marriage. I do not for a moment think that you will require any countenance, or that if you did, that I could give it you."
"No man that I know so efficiently."
"But it may be that Mr. Peacocke will like to find that the clergymen from his neighbourhood are standing with him." And so it was settled, that when the day should come on which the Doctor would take Mrs. Peacocke up with him to London, Mr. Puddicombe was to accompany them.
The Doctor when he left Mr. Puddicombe's parsonage had by no means pledged himself not to send the letters. When a man has written a letter, and has taken some trouble with it, and more specially when he has copied it several times himself so as to have made many letters of it,—when he has argued his point successfully to himself, and has triumphed in his own mind, as was likely to be the case with Dr. Wortle in all that he did, he does not like to make waste paper of his letters. As he rode home he tried to persuade himself that he might yet use them. He could not quite admit his friend's point. Mr. Peacocke, no doubt, had known his own condition, and him a strict moralist might condemn. But he,—he,—Dr. Wortle,—had known nothing. All that he had done was not to condemn the other man when he didknow!
Nevertheless as he rode into his own yard, he made up his mind that he would burn the letters. He had shown them to no one else. He had not even mentioned them to his wife. He could burn them without condemning himself in the opinion of any one. And he burned them. When Mr. Puddicombe found him at the station at Broughton as they were about to proceed to London with Mrs. Peacocke, he simply whispered the fate of the letters. "After what you said I destroyed what I had written."
"Perhaps it was as well," said Mr. Puddicombe.
When the telegram came to say that Mr. Peacocke was at Liverpool, Mrs. Peacocke was anxious immediately to rush up to London. But she was restrained by the Doctor,—or rather by Mrs. Wortle under the Doctor's orders. "No, my dear; no. You must not go till all will be ready for you to meet him in the church. The Doctor says so."
"Am I not to see him till he comes up to the altar?"
On thisthere was another consultation between Mrs. Wortle and the Doctor, at which she explained how impossible it would be for the woman to go through the ceremony with due serenity and propriety of manner unless she should be first allowed to throw herself into his arms, and to welcome him back to her. "Yes," she said, "he can come and see you at the hotel on the evening before, and again in the morning,—so that if there be a word to say you can say it. Then when it is over he will bring you down here. The Doctor and Mr. Puddicombe will come down by a later train. Of course it is painful," said Mrs. Wortle, "but you must bear up." To her it seemed to be so painful that she was quite sure that she could not have borne it. To be married for the third time, and for the second time to the same husband! To Mrs. Peacocke, as she thought of it, the pain did not so much rest in that, as in the condition of life which these things had forced upon her.
"I must go up to town to-morrow, and must be away for two days," said the Doctor out loud in the school, speaking immediately to one of the ushers, but so that all the boys present might hear him. "I trust that we shall have Mr. Peacocke with us the day after to-morrow."
"We shall be very glad of that," said the usher.
"And Mrs. Peacocke will come and eat her dinner again like before?" asked a little boy.
"I hope so, Charley."
"We shall like that, because she has to eat it all by herself now."
All the school, down even to Charley, the smallest boy in it, knew all about it. Mr. Peacocke had gone to America, and Mrs. Peacocke was going up to London to be married once more to her own husband,—and the Doctor and Mr. Puddicombe were both going to marry them. The usher of course knew the details more clearly than that,—as did probably the bigger boys. There had even been a rumour of the photograph which had been seen by one of the maid-servants,—who had, it is to be feared, given the information to the French teacher. So much, however, the Doctor had felt it wise to explain, not thinking it well that Mr. Peacocke should make his reappearance among them without notice.
On the afternoon of the next day but one, Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke were driven up to the school in one of the Broughton flys. She went quickly up into her own house, when Mr. Peacocke walked into the school. The boys clustered round him, and the three assistants, and every word said to him was kind and friendly;—but in the whole course of his troubles there had never been a moment to him more difficult than this,—in which he found it so nearly impossible to say anything or to say nothing. "Yes, I have been over very many miles since I saw you last." This was an answer to young Talbot, who asked him whether he had not been a great traveller whilst he was away.
"In America," suggested the French usher, who had heard of the photograph, and knew very well where it had been taken.
"Yes, in America."
"All the way to San Francisco," suggested Charley.
"All the way to San Francisco, Charley,—and back again."
"Yes; I know you're come back again," said Charley, "because I see you here."
"There are only twenty boys this half," said one of the twenty.
"Then I shall have more time to attend to you now."
"I suppose so," said the lad, not seeming to find any special consolation in that view of the matter.
Painful as this first re-introduction had been, there was not much more in it than that. No questions were asked, and no explanations expected. It may be that Mrs. Stantiloup was affected with fresh moral horrors when she heard of the return, and that the Bishop said that the Doctor was foolish and headstrong as ever. It may be that there was a good deal of talk about it in the Close at Broughton. But at the school there was very little more said about it than what has been stated above.
Inthis last chapter of our short story I will venture to run rapidly over a few months so as to explain how the affairs of Bowick arranged themselves up to the end of the current year. I cannot pretend that the reader shall know, as he ought to be made to know, the future fate and fortunes of our personages. They must be left still struggling. But then is not such always in truth the case, even when the happy marriage has been celebrated?—even when, in the course of two rapid years, two normal children make their appearance to gladden the hearts of their parents?
Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke fell into their accustomed duties in the diminished school, apparently without difficulty. As the Doctor had not sent those ill-judged letters he of course received no replies, and was neither troubled by further criticism nor consoled by praise as to his conduct. Indeed, it almost seemed to him as though the thing, now that it was done, excited less observation than it deserved. He heard no more of the metropolitan press, and was surprised to find that the 'Broughton Gazette' inserted only a very short paragraph, in which it stated that "they had been given to understand that Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke had resumed their usual duties at the Bowick School, after the performance of an interesting ceremony in London, at which Dr. Wortle and Mr. Puddicombe had assisted." The press, as far as the Doctor was aware, said nothing more on the subject. And if remarks injurious to his conduct were made by the Stantiloups and the Momsons, they did not reach his ears. Very soon after the return of the Peacockes there was a grand dinner-party at the palace, to which the Doctor and his wife were invited. It was not a clerical dinner-party, and so the honour was the greater. The aristocracy of the neighbourhood were there, including Lady Anne Clifford, who was devoted, with almost repentant affection, to her old friend. And Lady Margaret Momson was there, the only clergyman's wife besides his own, who declared to him with unblushing audacity that she had never regretted anything so much in her life as that Augustus should have been taken away from the school. It was evident that there had been an intention at the palace to make what amends the palace could for the injuries it had done.
"Did Lady Anne say anything about the boys?" asked Mrs. Wortle, as they were going home.
"She was going to, but I would not let her. I managed to show her that I did not wish it, and she was clever enough to stop."
"I shouldn't wonder if she sent them back," said Mrs.Wortle.
"She won't do that. Indeed, I doubt whether I should take them. But if it should come to pass that she should wish to send them back, you may be sure that others will come. In such a matter she is very good as aweathercock, showing how the wind blows." In this way the dinner-party at the palace was in a degree comforting and consolatory.
But an incident which of all was most comforting and most consolatory to one of the inhabitants of the parsonage took place two or three days after the dinner-party. On going out of his own hall-door one Saturday afternoon, immediately after lunch, whom should the Doctor see driving himself into the yard in a hired gig from Broughton—but young Lord Carstairs. There had been no promise, or absolute compact made, but it certainly had seemed to be understood by all of them that Carstairs was not to show himself at Bowick till at some long distant period, when he should have finished all the trouble of his education. It was understood even that he was not to be at Carstairs during Mary's visit,—so imperative was it that the young people should not meet. And now here he was getting out of a gig in the Rectory yard! "Halloa! Carstairs, is that you?"
"Yes, Dr. Wortle,—here I am."
"We hardly expected to see you, my boy."
"No,—I suppose not. But when I heard that Mr. Peacocke had come back, and all about his marriage, you know, I could not but come over to see him. He and I have always been such great friends."
"Oh,—to see Mr. Peacocke?"
"I thought he'd think it unkind if I didn't look him up. He has made it all right; hasn't he?"
"Yes;—he has made it all right, I think. A finer fellow never lived. But he'll tell you all about it. He travelled with a pistol in his pocket, and seemed to want it too. I suppose you must come in and see the ladies after we have been to Peacocke?"
"I suppose I can just see them," said the young lord, as though moved by equal anxiety as to the mother and as to the daughter.
"I'll leave word that you are here, and then we'll go into the school." So the Doctor found a servant, and sent what message he thought fit into the house.
"Lord Carstairs here?"
"Yes, indeed, Miss! He's with your papa, going across to the school. He told me to take word in to Missus that he supposes his lordship will stay to dinner." The maid who carried the tidings, and who had received no commission to convey them to Miss Mary, was, no doubt, too much interested in an affair of love, not to take them first to the one that would be most concerned with them.
That very morning Mary had been bemoaning herself as to her hard condition. Of what use was it to her to have a lover, if she was never to see him, never to hear from him,—only to be told about him,—that she was not to think of him more than she could help? She was already beginning to think that a long engagement carried on after this fashion would have more of suffering in it than she had anticipated. It seemed to her that while she was, and always would be, thinking of him, he never, never would continue to think of her. If it could be only a word once a month it would be something,—just one or two written words under an envelope,—even that would have sufficed to keep her hope alive! But never to see him;—never to hear from him! Her mother had told her that very morning that there was to be no meeting,—probably for three years, till he should have done with Oxford. And here he was in the house,—and her papa had sent in word to say that he was to eat his dinner there! It so astonished her that she felt that she would be afraid to meet him. Before she had had a minute to think of it all, her mother was with her. "Carstairs, love, is here!"
"Oh mamma, what has brought him?"
"He has gone into the school with your papa to see Mr. Peacocke. He always was very fond of Mr. Peacocke." For a moment something of a feeling of jealousy crossed her heart,—but only for a moment. He would not surely have come to Bowick if he had begun to be indifferent to her already! "Papa says that he will probably stay to dinner."
"Then I am to see him?"
"Yes;—of course you must see him."
"I didn't know, mamma."
"Don't you wish to see him?"
"Oh yes, mamma. If he were to come and go, and we were not to meet at all, I should think it was all over then. Only,—I don't know what to say to him."
"You must take that as it comes, my dear."
Two hours afterwards they were walking, the two of them alone together, out in the Bowick woods. When once the law,—which had been rather understood than spoken,—had been infringed and set at naught, there was no longer any use in endeavouring to maintain a semblance of its restriction. The two young people had met in the presence both of the father and mother, and the lover had had her in his arms before either of them could interfere. There had been a little scream from Mary, but it may probably be said of her that she was at the moment the happiest young lady in the diocese.
"Does your father know you are here?" said the Doctor, as he led the young lord back from the school into the house.
"He knows I'm coming, for I wrote and told my mother. I always tell everything; but it's sometimes best to make up your mind before you get an answer." Then the Doctor made up his mind that Lord Carstairs would have his own way in anything that he wished to accomplish.
"Won't the Earl be angry?" Mrs. Wortle asked.
"No;—not angry. He knows the world too well not to be quite sure that something of the kind would happen. And he is too fond of his son not to think well of anything that he does. It wasn't to be supposed that they should never meet. After all that has passed I am bound to make him welcome if he chooses to come here, and as Mary's lover to give him the best welcome that I can. He won't stay, I suppose, because he has got no clothes."
"But he has;—John brought in a portmanteau and a dressing-bag out of the gig." So that was settled.
In the mean time Lord Carstairs had taken Mary out for a walk into the wood, and she, as she walked beside him, hardly knew whether she was going on her head or her heels. This, indeed, it was to have a lover. In the morning she was thinking that when three years were past he would hardly care to see her ever again. And now they were together among the falling leaves, and sitting about under the branches as though there was nothing in the world to separate them. Up to that day there had never been a word between them but such as is commonto mereacquaintances, and now he was calling her every instant by her Christian name, and telling her all his secrets.
"We have such jolly woods at Carstairs," he said; "but we shan't be able to sit down when we're there, because it will be winter. We shall be hunting, and you must come out and see us."