CHAPTER V.

"I thoughtyou were never going to have done with that old Jupiter," said Mrs. Peacocke, as she began at that late hour of the evening to make tea for herself and her husband.

"Why have you waited for me?"

"Because I like company. Did you ever know me go to tea without you when there was a chance of your coming? What has Jupiter been talking about all this time?"

"Jupiter has not been talking all this time. Jupiter talked only for half an hour. Jupiter is a very good fellow."

"I always thought so. Otherwise I should never have consented to have been one of his satellites, or have been contented to see you doing chief moon. But you have been with him an hour and a half."

"Since I left him I have walked all round by Bowick Lodge. I had something to think of before I could talk to you,—something to decide upon, indeed, before I could return to the house."

"What have you decided?" she asked. Her voice was altogether changed. Though she was seated in her chair and had hardly moved, her appearance and her carriage of herself were changed. She still held the cup in her hand which she had been about to fill, but her face was turned towards his, and her large brown speaking eyes were fixed upon him.

"Let me have my tea," he said, "and then I will tell you." While he drank his tea she remained quite quiet, not touching her own, but waiting patiently till it should suit him to speak. "Ella," he said, "I must tell it all to Dr. Wortle."

"Why, dearest?" As he did not answer at once, she went on with her question. "Why now more than before?"

"Nay, it is not now more than before. As we have let the before go by, we can only do it now."

"But why at all, dear? Has the argument, which was strong when we came, lost any of its force?"

"It should have had no force. We should not have taken the man's good things, and have subjected him to the injury which may come to him by our bad name."

"Have we not given him good things in return?"

"Not the good things which he had a right to expect,—not that respectability which is all the world to such an establishment as this."

"Let me go," she said, rising from her chair and almost shrieking.

"Nay, Ella, nay; if you and I cannot talk as though we were one flesh, almost with one soul between us, as though that which is done by one is done by both, whether for weal or woe,—if you and I cannot feel ourselves to be in a boat together either for swimming or for sinking, then I think that no two persons on this earth ever can be bound together after that fashion. 'Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me."' Then she rose from her chair, and flinging herself on her knees at his feet, buried her face in his lap."Ella," he said, "the only injury you can do me is to speak of leaving me. And it is an injury which is surely unnecessary because you cannot carry it beyond words. Now, if you will sit up and listen to me, I will tell you what passed between me and the Doctor." Then she raised herself from the ground and took her seat at the tea-table, and listened patiently as he began his tale. "They have been talking about us here in the county."

"Who has found it necessary to talk about one so obscure as I?"

"What does it matter who they might be? The Doctor in his kindly wrath,—for he is very wroth,—mentions this name and the other. What does it matter? Obscurity itself becomes mystery, and mystery of course produces curiosity. It was bound to be so. It is not they who are in fault, but we. If you are different from others, of course you will be inquired into."

"Am I so different?"

"Yes;—different in not eating the Doctor's dinners when they are offered to you; different in not accepting LadyDe Lawle'shospitality; different in contenting yourself simply with your duties and your husband. Of course we are different. How could we not be different? And as we are different, so of course there will be questions and wonderings, and that sifting and searching which always at last finds out the facts. The Bishop says that he knows nothing of my American life."

"Why should he want to know anything?"

"Because I have been preaching in one of his churches. It is natural;—natural that the mothers of the boys should want to know something. The Doctor says that he hates secrets. So do I."

"Oh, my dearest!"

"A secret is always accompanied by more or less of fear, and produces more or less of cowardice. But it can no more be avoided than a sore on the flesh or a broken bone. Who would not go about, with all his affairs such as the world might know, if it were possible? But there come gangrenes in the heart, or perhaps in the pocket. Wounds come, undeserved wounds, as those did to you, my darling; but wounds which may not be laid bare to all eyes. Who has a secret because he chooses it?"

"But the Bishop?"

"Well,—yes, the Bishop. The Bishop has told the Doctor to examine me, and the Doctor has done it. I give him the credit of saying that the task has been most distasteful to him. I do him the justice of acknowledging that he has backed out of the work he had undertaken. He has asked the question, but has said in the same breath that I need not answer it unless I like."

"And you? You have not answered it yet?"

"No; I have answered nothing as yet. But I have, I think, made up my mind that the question must be answered."

"That everything should be told?"

"Everything,—to him. My idea is to tell everything to him, and to leave it to him to decide what should be done. Should he refuse to repeat the story any further, and then bid us go away from Bowick, I should think that his conduct had been altogether straightforward and not uncharitable."

"And you,—what would you do then?"

"I should go. What else?"

"But whither?"

"Ah! on that we must decide. He would be friendly with me. Though he might think it necessary that I should leave Bowick, he would not turn against me violently."

"He could do nothing."

"I think he would assist me rather. He would help me, perhaps, to find some place where I might still earn my bread by such skill as I possess;—where I could do so without dragging in aught of my domestic life, as I have been forced to do here."

"I have been a curse to you," exclaimed the unhappy wife.

"My dearest blessing," he said. "That which you call a curse has come from circumstances which are common to both of us. There need be no more said about it. That man has been a source of terrible trouble to us. The trouble must be discussed from time to time, but the necessity of enduring it may be taken for granted."

"I cannot be a philosopher such as you are," she said.

"There is no escape from it. The philosophy is forced upon us. When an evil thing is necessary, there remains only the consideration how it may be best borne."

"You must tell him, then?"

"I think so. I have a week to consider of it; but I think so. Though he is very kind at this moment in giving me the option, and means what he says in declaring that I shall remain even though I tell him nothing, yet his mind would become uneasy, and he would gradually become discontented. Think how great is his stake in the school! How would he feel towards me, were its success to be gradually diminished because he kept a master here of whom people believed some unknown evil?"

"There has been no sign of any such falling off?"

"There has been no time for it. It is only now that people are beginning to talk. Had nothing of the kind been said, had this Bishop asked no questions, had we been regarded as people simply obscure, to whom no mystery attached itself, the thing might have gone on; but as it is, I am bound to tell him the truth."

"Then we must go?"

"Probably."

"At once?"

"When it has been so decided, the sooner the better. How could we endure to remain here when our going shall be desired?"

"Oh no!"

"We must flit, and again seek some other home. Though he should keep our secret,—and I believe he will if he be asked,—it will be known that there is a secret, and a secret of such a nature that its circumstances have driven us hence. If I could get literary work in London, perhaps we might live there."

"But how,—how would you set about it? The truth is, dearest, that for work such as yours you should either have no wife at all, or else a wife of whom you need not be ashamed to speak the whole truth before the world."

"What is the use of it?" he said, rising from his chair as in anger. "Why go back to all that which should be settled between us, as fixed by fate? Each of us has given to the other all that each has to give, and the partnership is complete. As far as that is concerned, I at any rate am contented."

"Ah, my darling!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neck.

"Let there be an end to distinctions and differences, which, between you and me, can have no effect but to increaseourtroubles. You are a woman, and I am a man; and therefore, no doubt, your name, when brought in question, is more subject to remark than mine,—as is my name, being that of a clergyman, more subject to remark than that of one not belonging to a sacred profession. But not on that account do I wish to unfrock myself; nor certainly on that account do I wish to be deprived of my wife. For good or bad, it has to be endured together; and expressions of regret as to that which is unavoidable, only aggravate our trouble." After that, he seated himself, and took up a book as though he were able at once to carry off his mind to other matters. She probably knew that he could not do so, but she sat silent by him for a while, till he bade her take herself to bed, promising that he would follow without delay.

For three days nothing further was said between them on the subject, nor was any allusion made to it between the Doctor and his assistant. The school went on the same as ever, and the intercourse between the two men was unaltered as to its general mutual courtesy. But there did undoubtedly grow in the Doctor's mind a certain feverish feeling of insecurity. At any rate, he knew this, that there was a mystery, that there was something about the Peacockes,—something referring especially to Mrs. Peacocke,—which, if generally known, would be held to be deleterious to their character. So much he could not help deducing from what the man had already told him. No doubt he had undertaken, in his generosity, that although the man should decline to tell his secret, no alteration should be made as to the school arrangements; but he became conscious that in so promising he had in some degree jeopardised the well-being of the school. He began to whisper to himself that persons in such a position as that filled by this Mr. Peacocke and his wife should not be subject to peculiar remarks from ill-natured tongues. A weapon was afforded by such a mystery to the Stantiloups of the world, which the Stantiloups would be sure to use with all their virulence. To such an establishment as his school, respectability was everything. Credit, he said to himself, is a matter so subtle in its essence, that, as it may be obtained almost without reason, so, without reason, may it be made to melt away. Much as he liked Mr. Peacocke, much as he approved of him, much as there was in the man of manliness and worth which was absolutely dear to him,—still he was not willing to put the character of his school in peril for the sake of Mr. Peacocke. Were he to do so, he would be neglecting a duty much more sacred than any he could owe to Mr. Peacocke. It was thus that, during these three days, he conversed with himself on the subject, although he was able to maintain outwardly the same manner and the same countenance as though all things were going well between them. When they parted after the interview in the study, the Doctor, no doubt, had so expressed himself as rather to dissuade his usher from telling his secret than to encourage him to do so. He had been free in declaring that the telling of the secret should make no difference in his assistant's position at Bowick. But in all that, he had acted from his habitual impulse. He had since told himself that the mystery ought to be disclosed. It was not right that his boys should be left to the charge of one who, however competent, dared not speak of his own antecedents. It was thus he thought of the matter, after consideration. He must wait, of course, till the week should be over before he made up his mind to anything further.

"So Peacocke isn't going to take the curacy?"

This was said to the Doctor by Mr. Pearson, the squire, in the course of those two or three days of which we are speaking. Mr. Pearson was an old gentleman, who did not live often at Bowick, being compelled, as he always said, by his health, to spend the winter and spring of every year in Italy, and the summer months by his family in London. In truth, he did not much care for Bowick, but had always been on good terms with the Doctor, and had never opposed the school. Mr. Pearson had been good also as to Church matters,—as far as goodness can be shown by generosity,—and had interested himself about the curates. So it had come to pass that the Doctor did not wish to snub his neighbour when the question was asked. "I rather think not," said the Doctor. "I fear I shall have to look out for some one else." He did not prolong the conversation; for, though he wished to be civil, he did not wish to be communicative. Mr. Pearson had shown his parochial solicitude, and did not trouble himself with further questions.

"So Mr. Peacocke isn't going to take the curacy?" This, the very same question in the very same words, was put to the Doctor on the next morning by the vicar of the next parish. The Rev. Mr. Puddicombe, a clergyman without a flaw who did his duty excellently in every station of life, was one who would preach a sermon or take a whole service for a brother parson in distress, and never think of reckoning up that return sermons or return services were due to him,—one who gave dinners, too, and had pretty daughters;—but still our Doctor did not quite like him. He was a little too pious, and perhaps given to ask questions. "So Mr. Peacocke isn't going to take the curacy?"

There was a certain animation about the asking of this question by Mr. Puddicombe very different from Mr. Pearson's listless manner. It was clear to the Doctor that Mr. Puddicombe wanted to know. It seemed to the Doctor that something of condemnation was implied in the tone of the question, not only against Mr. Peacocke, but against himself also, for having employed Mr. Peacocke. "Upon my word I can't tell you," he said, rather crossly.

"I thought that it had been all settled. I heard that it was decided."

"Then you have heard more than I have."

"It was the Bishop told me."

Now it certainly was the case that in that fatal conversation which had induced the Doctor to interrogate Mr. Peacocke about his past life, the Doctor himself had said that he intended to look out for another curate. He probably did not remember that at the moment. "I wish the Bishop would confine himself to asserting things that he knows," said the Doctor, angrily.

"I am sure the Bishop intends to do so," said Mr. Puddicombe, very gravely. "But I apologise. I had not intended to touch a subject on which there may perhaps be some reserve. I was only going to tell you of an excellent young man of whom I have heard. But, good morning." Then Mr. Puddicombe withdrew.

DURING the last six months Mr. Peacocke's most intimate friend at Bowick, excepting of course his wife, had been one of the pupils at the school. The lad was one of the pupils, but could not be said to be one of the boys. He was the young Lord Carstairs, eldest son of Earl Bracy. He had been sent to Bowick now six years ago, with the usual purpose of progressing from Bowick to Eton. And from Bowick to Eton he had gone in due course. But there, things had not gone well with the young lord. Some school disturbance had taken place when he had been there about a year and a half, in which he was, or was supposed to have been, a ringleader. It was thought necessary, for the preservation of the discipline of the school, that a victim should be made;—and it was perhaps thought well, in order that the impartiality of the school might be made manifest, that the victim should be a lord. Earl Bracy was therefore asked to withdraw his son; and young Lord Carstairs, at the age of seventeen, was left to seek his education where he could. It had been, and still was, the Earl's purpose to send his son to Oxford, but there was now an interval of two years before that could be accomplished. During one year he was sent abroad to travel with a tutor, and was then reported to have been all that a well-conducted lad ought to be. He was declared to be quite worthy of all that Oxford would do for him. It was even suggested that Eton had done badly for herself in throwing off from her such a young nobleman. But though Lord Carstairs had done well with his French and German on the Continent, it would certainly be necessary that he should rub up his Greek and Latin before he went to Christ Church. Then a request was made to the Doctor to take him in at Bowick in some sort as a private pupil. After some demurring the Doctor consented. It was not his wont to run counter to earls who treated him with respect and deference. Earl Bracy had in a special manner been his friend, and Lord Carstairs himself had been a great favourite at Bowick. When that expulsion from Eton had come about, the Doctor had interested himself, and had declared that a very scant measure of justice had been shown to the young lord. He was thus in a measure compelled to accede to the request made to him, and Lord Carstairs was received back at Bowick, not without hesitation, but with a full measure of affectionate welcome. His bed-room was in the parsonage-house, and his dinner he took with the Doctor's family. In other respects he lived among the boys.

"Will it not be bad for Mary?" Mrs. Wortle had said anxiously to her husband when the matter was first discussed.

"Why should it be bad for Mary?"

"Oh, I don't know;—but young people together, you know? Mightn't it be dangerous?"

"He is a boy, and she is a mere child. They are both children. It will be a trouble, but I do not think it will be at all dangerous in that way." And so it was decided. Mrs. Wortle did not at all agree as to their both being children. She thought that her girl was far from being a child. But she had argued the matter quite as much as she ever argued anything with the Doctor. So the matter was arranged, and young Lord Carstairs came back to Bowick.

As far as the Doctor could see, nothing could be nicer than his young pupil's manners. He was not at all above playing with the other boys. He took very kindly to his old studies and his old haunts, and of an evening, after dinner, went away from the drawing-room to the study in pursuit of his Latin and his Greek, without any precocious attempt at making conversation with Miss Wortle. No doubt there was a good deal of lawn-tennis of an afternoon, and the lawn-tennis was generally played in the rectory garden. But then this had ever been the case, and the lawn-tennis was always played with two on a side; there were notête-à-têtegames between his lordship and Mary, and whenever the game was going on, Mrs. Wortle was always there to see fair-play. Among other amusements the young lord took to walking far afield with Mr. Peacocke. And then, no doubt, many things were said about that life in America. When a man has been much abroad, and has passed his time there under unusual circumstances, his doings will necessarily become subjects of conversation to his companions. To have travelled in France, Germany, or in Italy, is not uncommon; nor is it uncommon to have lived a year or years in Florence or in Rome. It is not uncommon now to have travelled all through the United States. The Rocky Mountains or Peru are hardly uncommon, so much has the taste for travelling increased. But for an Oxford Fellow of a college, and a clergyman of the Church of England, to have established himself as a professor in Missouri, is uncommon, and it could hardly be but that Lord Carstairs should ask questions respecting that far-away life.

Mr. Peacocke had no objection to such questions. He told his young friend much about the manners of the people of St. Louis,—told him how far the people had progressed in classical literature, in what they fell behind, and in what they excelled youths of their own age in England, and how far the college was a success. Then he described his own life,—both before and after his marriage. He had liked the people of St. Louis well enough,—but not quite well enough to wish to live among them. No doubt their habits were very different from those of Englishmen. He could, however, have been happy enough there,—only that circumstances arose.

"Did Mrs. Peacocke like the place?" the young lord asked one day.

"She is an American, you know."

"Oh yes; I have heard. But did she come from St. Louis?"

"No; her father was a planter in Louisiana, not far from New Orleans, before the abolition of slavery."

"Did she like St. Louis?"

"Well enough, I think, when we were first married. She had been married before, you know. She was a widow."

"Did she like coming to England among strangers?"

"She was glad to leave St. Louis. Things happened there which made her life unhappy. It was on that account I came here, and gave up a position higher and more lucrative than I shall ever now get in England."

"I should have thought you might have had a school of your own," said the lad. "You know so much, and get on so well with boys. I should have thought you might have been tutor at a college."

"To have a school of my own would take money," said he, "which I have not got. To be tutor at a college would take— But never mind. I am very well where I am, and have nothing to complain of." He had been going to say that to be tutor of a college he would want high standing. And then he would have been forced to explain that he had lost at his own college that standing which he had once possessed.

"Yes," he said on another occasion, "she is unhappy; but do not ask her any questions about it."

"Who,—I? Oh dear, no! I should not think of taking such a liberty."

"It would be as a kindness, not as a liberty. But still, do not speak to her about it. There are sorrows which must be hidden, which it is better to endeavour to bury by never speaking of them, by not thinking of them, if that were possible."

"Is it as bad as that?" the lad asked.

"It is bad enough sometimes. But never mind. You remember that Roman wisdom,—'Dabit Deus his quoque finem.' And I think that all things are bearable if a man will only make up his mind to bear them. Do not tell any one that I have complained."

"Who,—I? Oh, never!"

"Not that I have said anything which all the world might not know; but that it is unmanly to complain. Indeed I do not complain, only I wish that things were lighter to her." Then he went off to other matters; but his heart was yearning to tell everything to this young lad.

Before the end of the week had arrived, there came a letter to him which he had not at all expected, and a letter also to the Doctor,—both from Lord Bracy. The letter to Mr. Peacocke was asfollows:—

My dear Sir,—I have been much gratified by what I have heard both from Dr. Wortle and my son as to his progress. He will have to come home in July, when the Doctor's school is broken up, and, as you are probably aware, will go up to Oxford in October. I think it would be very expedient that he should not altogether lose the holidays, and I am aware how much more he would do with adequate assistance than without it. The meaning of all this is, that I and Lady Bracy will feel very much obliged if you and Mrs. Peacocke will come and spend your holidays with us at Carstairs. I have written to Dr. Wortle on the subject, partly to tell him of my proposal, because he has been so kind to my son, and partly to ask him to fix the amount of remuneration, should you be so kind as to accede to my request.

"His mother has heard on more than one occasion from her son how very good-natured you have been to him.—Yours faithfully,

"BRACY."

It was, of course, quite out of the question. Mr. Peacocke, as soon as he had read the letter, felt that it was so. Had things been smooth and easy with him, nothing would have delighted him more. His liking for the lad was most sincere, and it would have been a real pleasure to him to have worked with him during the holidays. But it was quite out of the question. He must tell Lord Carstairs that it was so, and must at the moment give such explanation as might occur to him. He almost felt that in giving that explanation he would be tempted to tell his whole story.

But the Doctor met him before he had an opportunity of speaking to Lord Carstairs. The Doctor met him, and at once produced the Earl's letter. "I have heard from Lord Bracy, and you, I suppose, have had a letter too," said the Doctor. His manner was easy and kind, as though no disagreeable communication was due to be made on the following day.

"Yes," said Mr. Peacocke. "I have had a letter."

"Well?"

"His lordship has asked me to go to Carstairs for the holidays; but it is out of the question."

"It would do Carstairs all the good in the world," said the Doctor; "and I do not see why you should not have a pleasant visit and earn twenty-five pounds at the same time."

"It is quite out of the question."

"I suppose you would not like to leave Mrs. Peacocke," said the Doctor.

"Either to leave her or to take her! To go myself under any circumstances would be altogether out of the question. I shall come to you to-morrow, Doctor, as I said I would last Saturday. What hour will suit you?" Then the Doctor named an hour in the afternoon, and knew that the revelation was to be made to him. He felt, too, that that revelation would lead to the final departure of Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke from Bowick, and he was unhappy in his heart. Though he was anxious for his school, he was anxious also for his friend. There was a gratification in the feeling that Lord Bracy thought so much of his assistant,—or would have been but for this wretched mystery!

"No," said Mr. Peacocke to the lad. "I regret to say that I cannot go. I will tell you why, perhaps, another time, but not now. I have written to your father by this post, because it is right that he should be told at once. I have been obliged to say that it is impossible."

"I am so sorry! I should so much have liked it. My father would have done everything to make you comfortable, and so would mamma." In answer to all this Mr. Peacocke could only say that it was impossible. This happened on Friday afternoon, Friday being a day on which the school was always very busy. There was no time for the doing of anything special, as there would be on the following day, which was a half-holiday. At night, when the work was altogether over, he showed the letter to his wife, and told her what he had decided.

"Couldn't you have gone without me?" she asked.

"How can I do that," he said, "when before this time to-morrow I shall have told everything to Dr. Wortle? After that, he would not let me go. He would do no more than his duty in telling me that if I proposed to go he must make it all known to Lord Bracy. But this is a trifle. I am at the present moment altogether in the dark as to what I shall do with myself when to-morrow evening comes. I cannot guess, because it is so hard to know what are the feelings in the breast of another man. It may so well be that he should refuse me permission to go to my desk in the school again."

"Will he be hard like that?"

"I can hardly tell myself whether it would be hard. I hardly know what I should feel it my duty to do in such a position myself. I have deceived him."

"No!" she exclaimed.

"Yes; I have deceived him. Coming to him as I did, I gave him to understand that there was nothing wrong;—nothing to which special objection could be made in my position."

"Then we are deceiving all the world in calling ourselves man and wife."

"Certainly we are; but to that we had made up our mind! We are not injuring all the world. No doubt it is a lie,—but there are circumstances in which a lie can hardly be a sin. I would have been the last to say so before all this had come upon me, but I feel it to be so now. It is a lie to say that you are my wife."

"Is it? Is it?"

"Is it not? And yet I would rather cut my tongue out than say otherwise. To give you my name is a lie,—but what should I think of myself were I to allow you to use any other? What would you have thought if I had asked you to go away and leave me when that bad hour came upon us?"

"I would have borne it."

"I could not have borne it. There are worse things than a lie. I have found, since this came upon us, that it may be well to choose one sin in order that another may be shunned. To cherish you, to comfort you, to make the storm less sharp to you,—that has already been my duty as well as my pleasure. To do the same to me is your duty."

"And my pleasure; and my pleasure,—my only pleasure."

"We must cling to each other, let the world call us what names it may. But there may come a time in which one is called on to do a special act of justice to others. It has come now to me. From the world at large I am prepared, if possible, to keep my secret, even though I do it by lying;—but to this one man I am driven to tell it, because I may not return his friendship by doing him an evil."

Morning school at this time of the year at Bowick began at half-past seven. There was an hour of school before breakfast, at which the Doctor did not himself put in an appearance. He was wont to tell the boys that he had done all that when he was young, and that now in his old age it suited him best to have his breakfast before he began the work of the day. Mr. Peacocke, of course, attended the morning school. Indeed, as the matutinal performances were altogether classical, it was impossible that much should be done without him. On this Saturday morning, however, he was not present; and a few minutes after the proper time, the mathematical master took his place. "I saw him coming across out of his own door," little Jack Talbot said to the younger of the two Clifford boys, "and there was a man coming up from the gate who met him."

"What sort of a man?" asked Clifford.

"He was a rummy-looking fellow, with a great beard, and a queer kind of coat. I never saw any one like him before."

"And where did they go?"

"They stood talking for a minute or two just before the front door, and then Mr. Peacocke took him into the house. I heard him tell Carstairs to go through and send word up to the Doctor that he wouldn't be in school this morning."

It had all happened just as young Talbot had said. A very "rummy-looking fellow" had at that early hour been driven over from Broughton to Bowick, and had caught Mr. Peacocke just as he was going into the school. He was a man with a beard, loose, flowing on both sides, as though he were winged like a bird,—a beard that had been black, but was now streaked through and through with grey hairs. The man had a coat with frogged buttons that must have been intended to have a military air when it was new, but which was now much the worse for wear. The coat was so odd as to have caught young Talbot's attention at once. And the man's hat was old and seedy. But there was a look about him as though he were by no means ashamed either of himself or of his present purpose. "He came in a gig," said Talbot to his friend; "for I saw the horse standing at the gate, and the man sitting in the gig."

"You remember me, no doubt," the stranger said, when he encountered Mr. Peacocke.

"I do not remember you in the least," the schoolmaster answered.

"Come, come; that won't do. You know me well enough. I'm Robert Lefroy."

Then Mr. Peacocke, looking at him again, knew that the man was the brother of his wife's husband. He had not seen him often, but he recognised him as Robert Lefroy, and having recognised him he took him into the house.

Ferdinand Lefroy, the man who had in truth been the woman's husband, had, during that one interview which had taken place between him and the man who had married his wife, on his return to St. Louis, declared that his brother Robert was dead. But so had Robert, when Peacocke encountered him down at Texas, declared that Ferdinand was dead. Peacocke knew that no word of truth could be expected from the mouths of either of them. But seeing is believing. He had seen Ferdinand alive at St. Louis after his marriage, and by seeing him, had been driven away from his home back to his old country. Now he also saw this other man, and was aware that his secret was no longer in his own keeping.

"Yes, I know you now. Why, when I saw you last, did you tell me that your brother was dead? Why did you bring so great an injury on your sister-in-law?"

"I never told you anything of the kind."

"As God is above us you told me so."

"I don't know anything about that, my friend. Maybe I was cut. I used to be drinking a good deal them days. Maybe I didn't say anything of the kind,—only it suited you to go back and tell her so. Anyways I disremember it altogether. Anyways he wasn't dead. And I ain't dead now."

"I can see that."

"And I ain't drunk now. But I am not quite so well off as a fellow would wish to be. Can you get me breakfast?"

"Yes, I can get you breakfast," he said, after pausing for a while. Then he rang the bell and told the girl to bring some breakfast for the gentleman as soon as possible into the room in which they were sitting. This was in a little library in which he was in the habit of studying and going through lessons with the boys. He had brought the man here so that his wife might not come across him. As soon as the order was given, he ran up-stairs to her room, to save her from coming down.

"A man;—what man?" she asked.

"Robert Lefroy. I must go to him at once. Bear yourself well and boldly, my darling. It is he, certainly. I know nothing yet of what he may have to say, but it will be well that you should avoid him if possible. When I have heard anything I will tell you all." Then he hurried down and found the man examining the book-shelves.

"You have got yourself up pretty tidy again, Peacocke," said Lefroy.

"Pretty well."

"The old game, I suppose. Teaching the young idea. Is this what you call a college, now, in your country?"

"It is a school."

"And you're one of the masters."

"I am the second master."

"It ain't as good, I reckon, as the Missouri College."

"It's not so large, certainly."

"What's the screw?" he said.

"The payment, you mean. It can hardly serve us now to go into matters such as that. What is it that has brought you here, Lefroy?"

"Well, a big ship, an uncommonly bad sort of railway car, and the ricketiest little buggy that ever a man trusted his life to.Them'swhat's brought me here."

"I suppose you have something to say, or you would not have come," said Peacocke.

"Yes, I've a good deal to say of one kind or another. But here's the breakfast, and I'm well-nigh starved. What, cold meat! I'm darned if I can eat cold meat. Haven't you got anything hot, my dear?" Then it was explained to him that hot meat was not to be had, unless he would choose to wait, to have some lengthened cooking accomplished. To this, however, he objected, and then the girl left the room.

"I've a good many things to say of one kind or another," he continued. "It's difficult to say, Peacocke, how you and I stand with each other."

"I do not know that we stand with each other at all, as you call it."

"I mean as to relationship. Are you my brother-in-law, or are you not?" This was a question which in very truth the schoolmaster found it hard to answer. He did not answer it at all, but remained silent. "Are you my brother-in-law, or are you not? You call her Mrs. Peacocke, eh?"

"Yes, I call her Mrs. Peacocke."

"And she is here living with you?"

"Yes, she is here."

"Had she not better come down and see me? She is my sister-in-law, anyway."

"No," said Mr. Peacocke; "I think, on the whole, that she had better not come down and see you."

"You don't mean to say she isn't my sister-in-law? She's that, whatever else she is. She's that, whatever name she goes by. If Ferdinand had been ever so much dead, and that marriage at St. Louis had been ever so good, still she'd been my sister-in-law."

"Not a doubt about it," said Mr. Peacocke. "But still, under all the circumstances, she had better not see you."

"Well, that's a queer beginning, anyway. But perhaps you'll come round by-and-by. She goes by Mrs. Peacocke?"

"She is regarded as my wife," said the husband, feeling himself to become more and more indignant at every word, but knowing at the same time how necessary it was that he should keep his indignation hidden.

"Whether true or false?" asked the brother-in-law.

"I will answer no such question as that."

"You ain't very well disposed to answer any question, as far as I can see. But I shall have to make you answer one or two before I've done with you. There's a Doctor here, isn't there, as this school belongs to?"

"Yes, there is. It belongs to Dr. Wortle."

"It's him these boys are sent to?"

"Yes, he is the master; I am only his assistant."

"It's him they comes to for education, and morals, and religion?"

"Quite so."

"And he knows, no doubt, all about you and my sister-in-law;—how you came and married her when she was another man's wife, and took her away when you knew as that other man was alive and kicking?" Mr. Peacocke, when these questions were put to him, remained silent, because literally he did not know how to answer them. He was quite prepared to take his position as he found it. He had told himself before this dreadful man had appeared, that the truth must be made known at Bowick, and that he and his wife must pack up and flit. It was not that the man could bring upon him any greater evil than he had anticipated. But the questions which were asked him were in themselves so bitter! The man, no doubt, was his wife's brother-in-law. He could not turn him out of the house as he would a stranger, had a stranger come there asking such questions without any claim of family. Abominable as the man was to him, still he was there with a certain amount of right upon his side.

"I think," said he, "that questions such as those you've asked can be of no service to you. To me they are intended only to be injurious."

"They're as a preface to what is to come," said Robert Lefroy, with an impudent leer upon his face. "The questions, no doubt, are disagreeable enough. She ain't your wife no more than she's mine. You've no business with her; and that you knew when you took her away from St. Louis. You may, or you mayn't, have been fooled by some one down in Texas when you went back and married her in all that hurry. But you knew what you were doing well enough when you took her away. You won't dare to tell me that you hadn't seen Ferdinand when you two mizzled off from the College?" Then he paused, waiting again for a reply.

"As I told you before," he said, "no further conversation on the subject can be of avail. It does not suit me to be cross-examined as to what I knew or what I did not know. If you have anything for me to hear, you can say it. If you have anything to tell to others, go and tell it to them."

"That's just it," said Lefroy.

"Then go and tell it."

"You're in a terrible hurry, Mister Peacocke. I don't want to drop in and spoil your little game. You're making money of your little game. I can help you as to carrying on your little game, better than you do at present. I don't want to blow upon you. But as you're making money out of it, I'd like to make a little too. I am precious hard up,—I am."

"You will make no money of me," said the other.

"A little will go a long way with me; and remember, I have got tidings now which are worth paying for."

"What tidings?"

"If they're worth paying for, it's not likely that you are going to get them for nothing."

"Look here, Colonel Lefroy; whatever you may have to say about me will certainly not be prevented by my paying you money. Though you might be able to ruin me to-morrow I would not give you a dollar to save myself."

"But her," said Lefroy, pointing as it were up-stairs, with his thumb over his shoulder.

"Nor her," said Peacocke.

"You don't care very much about her, then?"

"How much I may care I shall not trouble myself to explain to you. I certainly shall not endeavour to serve her after that fashion. I begin to understand why you have come, and can only beg you to believe that you have come in vain."

Lefroy turned to his food, which he had not yet finished, while his companion sat silent at the window, trying to arrange in his mind the circumstances of the moment as best he might. He declared to himself that had the man come but one day later, his coming would have been matter of no moment. The story, the entire story, would then have been told to the Doctor, and the brother-in-law, with all his malice, could have added nothing to the truth. But now it seemed as though there would be a race which should tell the story first. Now the Doctor would, no doubt, be led to feel that the narration was made because it could no longer be kept back. Should this man be with the Doctor first, and should the story be told as he would tell it, then it would be impossible for Mr. Peacocke, in acknowledging the truth of it all, to bring his friend's mind back to the condition in which it would have been had this intruder not been in the way. And yet he could not make a race of it with the man. He could not rush across, and, all but out of breath with his energy, begin his narration while Lefroy was there knocking at the door. There would be an absence of dignity in such a mode of proceeding which alone was sufficient to deter him. He had fixed an hour already with the Doctor. He had said that he would be there in the house at a certain time. Let the man do what he would he would keep exactly to his purpose, unless the Doctor should seek an earlier interview. He would, in no tittle, be turned from his purpose by the unfortunate coming of this wretched man. "Well!" said Lefroy, as soon as he had eaten his last mouthful.

"I have nothing to say to you," said Peacocke.

"Nothing to say?"

"Not a word."

"Well, that's queer. I should have thought there'd have been a many words. I've got a lot to say to somebody, and mean to say it;—precious soon too. Is there any hotel here, where I can put this horse up? I suppose you haven't got stables of your own? I wonder if the Doctor would give me accommodation?"

"I haven't got a stable, and the Doctor certainly will not give you accommodation. There is a public-house less than a quarter of a mile further on, which no doubt your driver knows very well. You had better go there yourself, because after what has taken place, I am bound to tell you that you will not be admitted here."

"Not admitted?"

"No. You must leave this house, and will not be admitted into it again as long as I live in it."

"The Doctor will admit me."

"Very likely. I, at any rate, shall do nothing to dissuade him. If you go down to the road you'll see the gate leading up to his house. I think you'll find that he is down-stairs by this time."

"You take it very cool, Peacocke."

"I only tell you the truth. With you I will have nothing more to do. You have a story which you wish to tell to Dr. Wortle. Go and tell it to him."

"I can tell it to all the world," said Lefroy.

"Go and tell it to all the world."

"And I ain't to see my sister?"

"No; you will not see your sister-in-law here. Why should she wish to see one who has only injured her?"

"I ain't injured her;—at any rate not as yet. I ain't done nothing;—not as yet. I've been as dark as the grave;—as yet. Let her come down, and you go away for a moment, and let us see if we can't settle it."

"There is nothing for you to settle. Nothing that you can do, nothing that you can say, will influence either her or me. If you have anything to tell, go and tell it."

"Why should you smash up everything in that way, Peacocke? You're comfortable here; why not remain so? I don't want to hurt you. I want to help you;—and I can. Three hundred dollars wouldn't be much to you. You were always a fellow as had a little money by you."

"If this box were full of gold," said the schoolmaster, laying his hand upon a black desk which stood on the table, "I would not give you one cent to induce you to hold your tongue for ever. I would not condescend even to ask it of you as a favour. You think that you can disturb our happiness by telling what you know of us to Dr. Wortle. Go and try."

Mr. Peacocke's manner was so firm that the other man began to doubt whether in truth he had a secret to tell. Could it be possible that Dr. Wortle knew it all, and that the neighbours knew it all, and that, in spite of what had happened, the position of the man and of the woman was accepted among them? They certainly were not man and wife, and yet they were living together as such. Could such a one as this Dr. Wortle know that it was so? He, when he had spoken of the purposes for which the boys were sent there, asking whether they were not sent for education, for morals and religion, had understood much of the Doctor's position. He had known the peculiar value of his secret. He had been aware that a schoolmaster with a wife to whom he was not in truth married must be out of place in an English seminary such as this. But yet he now began to doubt. "I am to be turned out, then?" he asked.

"Yes, indeed, Colonel Lefroy. The sooner you go the better."

"That's a pretty sort of welcome to your wife's brother-in-law, who has just come over all the way from Mexico to see her."

"To get what he can out of her by his unwelcome presence," said Peacocke. "Here you can get nothing. Go and do your worst. If you remain much longer I shall send for the policeman to remove you."

"You will?"

"Yes, I shall. My time is not my own, and I cannot go over to my work leaving you in my house. You have nothing to get by my friendship. Go and see what you can do as my enemy."

"I will," said the Colonel, getting up from his chair; "I will. If I'm to be treated in this way it shall not be for nothing. I have offered you the right hand of an affectionate brother-in-law."

"Bosh," said Mr. Peacocke.

"And you tell me that I am an enemy. Very well; I will be an enemy. I could have put you altogether on your legs, but I'll leave you without an inch of ground to stand upon. You see if I don't." Then he put his hat on his head, and stalked out of the house, down the road towards the gate.

Mr. Peacocke, when he was left alone, remained in the room collecting his thoughts, and then went up-stairs to his wife.

"Has he gone?" she asked.

"Yes, he has gone."

"And what has he said?"

"He has asked for money,—to hold his tongue."

"Have you given him any?"

"Not a cent. I have given him nothing but hard words. I have bade him go and do his worst. To be at the mercy of such a man as that would be worse for you and for me than anything that fortune has sent us even yet."

"Did he want to see me?"

"Yes; but I refused. Was it not better?"

"Yes; certainly, if you think so. What could I have said to him? Certainly it was better. His presence would have half killed me. But what will he do, Henry?"

"He will tell it all to everybody that he sees."

"Oh, my darling!"

"What matter though he tells it at the town-cross? It would have been told to-day by myself."

"But only to one."

"It would have been the same. For any purpose of concealment it would have been the same. I have got to hate the concealment. What have we done but clung together as a man and woman should who have loved each other, and have had a right to love? What have we done of which we should be ashamed? Let it be told. Let it all be known. Have you not been good and pure? Have not I been true to you? Bear up your courage, and let the man do his worst. Not to save even you would I cringe before such a man as that. And were I to do so, I should save you from nothing."

Duringthe whole of that morning the Doctor did not come into the school. The school hours lasted from half-past nine to twelve, during a portion of which time it was his practice to be there. But sometimes, on a Saturday, he would be absent, when it was understood generally that he was preparing his sermon for the Sunday. Such, no doubt, might be the case now; but there was a feeling among the boys that he was kept away by some other reason. It was known that during the hour of morning school Mr. Peacocke had been occupied with that uncouth stranger, and some of the boys might have observed that the uncouth stranger had not taken himself altogether away from the premises. There was at any rate a general feeling that the uncouth stranger had something to do with the Doctor's absence.

Mr. Peacocke did his best to go on with the work as though nothing had occurred to disturb the usual tenor of his way, and as far as the boys were aware he succeeded. He was just as clear about his Greek verbs, just as incisive about that passage of Cæsar, as he would have been had Colonel Lefroy remained on the other side of the water. But during the whole time he was exercising his mind in that painful process of thinking of two things at once. He was determined that Cæsar should be uppermost; but it may be doubted whether he succeeded. At that very moment Colonel Lefroy might be telling the Doctor that his Ella was in truth the wife of another man. At that moment the Doctor might be deciding in his anger that the sinful and deceitful man should no longer be "officer of his." The hour was too important to him to leave his mind at his own disposal. Nevertheless he did his best. "Clifford, junior," he said, "I shall never make you understand what Cæsar says here or elsewhere if you do not give your entire mind to Cæsar."

"I do give my entire mind to Cæsar," said Clifford, junior.

"Very well; now go on and try again. But remember that Cæsar wants all your mind." As he said this he was revolving in his own mind how he would face the Doctor when the Doctor should look at him in his wrath. If the Doctor were in any degree harsh with him, he would hold his own against the Doctor as far as the personal contest might go. At twelve the boys went out for an hour before their dinner, and Lord Carstairs asked him to play a game of rackets.

"Not to-day, my Lord," he said.

"Is anything wrong with you?"

"Yes, something is very wrong." They had strolled out of the building, and were walking up and down the gravel terrace in front when this was said.

"I knew something was wrong, because you called me my Lord."

"Yes, something is so wrong as to alter for me all the ordinary ways of my life. But I wasn't thinking of it. It came by accident,—just because I am so troubled."

"What is it?"

"There has been a man here,—a man whom I knew in America."

"An enemy?"

"Yes,—an enemy. One who is anxious to do me all the injury he can."

"Are you in his power, Mr. Peacocke?"

"No, thank God; not that. I am in no man's power. He cannot do me any material harm. Anything which may happen would have happened whether he had come or not. But I am unhappy."

"I wish I knew."

"So do I,—with all my heart. I wish you knew; I wish you knew. I would that all the world knew. But we shall live through it, no doubt. And if we do not, what matter. 'Nil conscire sibi,—nulla pallescere culpa.' That is all that is necessary to a man. I have done nothing of which I repent;—nothing that I would not do again; nothing of which I am ashamed to speak as far as the judgment of other men is concerned. Go, now. They are making up sides for cricket. Perhaps I can tell you more before the evening is over."

Both Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke were accustomed to dine with the boys at one, when Carstairs, being a private pupil, only had his lunch. But on this occasion she did not come into the dining-room. "I don't think I can to-day," she said, when he bade her to take courage, and not be altered more than she could help, in her outward carriage, by the misery of her present circumstances. "I could not eat if I were there, and then they would look at me."

"If it be so, do not attempt it. There is no necessity. What I mean is, that the less one shrinks the less will be the suffering. It is the man who shivers on the brink that is cold, and not he who plunges into the water. If it were over,—if the first brunt of it were over, I could find means to comfort you."

He went through the dinner, as he had done the Cæsar, eating the roast mutton and the baked potatoes, and the great plateful of currant-pie that was brought to him. He was fed and nourished, no doubt, but it may be doubtful whether he knew much of the flavour of what he ate. But before the dinner was quite ended, before he had said the grace which it was always his duty to pronounce, there came a message to him from the rectory. "The Doctor would be glad to see him as soon as dinner was done." He waited very calmly till the proper moment should come for the grace, and then, very calmly, he took his way over to the house. He was certain now that Lefroy had been with the Doctor, because he was sent for considerably before the time fixed for the interview.

It was his chief resolve to hold his own before the Doctor. The Doctor, who could read a character well, had so read that of Mr. Peacocke's as to have been aware from the first that no censure, no fault-finding, would be possible if the connection were to be maintained. Other ushers, other curates, he had occasionally scolded. He had been very careful never even to seem to scold Mr. Peacocke. Mr. Peacocke had been aware of it too,—aware that he could not endure it, and aware also that the Doctor avoided any attempt at it. He had known that, as a consequence of this, he was bound to be more than ordinarily prompt in the performance of all his duties. The man who will not endure censure has to take care that he does not deserve it. Such had been this man's struggle, and it had been altogether successful. Each of the two understood the other, and each respected the other. Now their position must be changed. It was hardly possible, Mr. Peacocke thought, as he entered the house, that he should not be rebuked with grave severity, and quite out of the question that he should bear any rebuke at all.

The library at the rectory was a spacious and handsome room, in the centre of which stood a large writing-table, at which the Doctor was accustomed to sit when he was at work,—facing the door, with a bow-window at his right hand. But he rarely remained there when any one was summoned into the room, unless some one were summoned with whom he meant to deal in a spirit of severity. Mr. Peacocke would be there perhaps three or four times a-week, and the Doctor would always get up from his chair and stand, or seat himself elsewhere in the room, and would probably move about with vivacity, being a fidgety man of quick motions, who sometimes seemed as though he could not hold his own body still for a moment. But now when Mr. Peacocke entered the room he did not leave his place at the table. "Would you take a chair?" he said; "there is something that we must talk about."

"Colonel Lefroy has been with you, I take it."

"A man calling himself by that name has been here. Will you not take a chair?"

"I do not know that it will be necessary. What he has told you,—what I suppose he has told you,—is true."

"You had better at any rate take a chair. I do not believe that what he has told me is true."

"But it is."

"I do not believe that what he has told me is true. Some of it cannot, I think, be true. Much of it is not so,—unless I am more deceived in you than I ever was in any man. At any rate sit down." Then the schoolmaster did sit down."He hasmade you out to be a perjured, wilful,cruelbigamist."

"I have not been such," said Peacocke, rising from hischair.

"One who has been willing to sacrifice a woman to his passion."

"No; no."

"Who deceived her by false witnesses."

"Never."

"And who has now refused to allow her to see her own husband's brother, lest she should learn the truth."

"She is there,—at any rate for you to see."

"Therefore the man is a liar. A long story has to be told, as to which at present I can only guess what may be the nature. I presume the story will be the same as that you would have told had the man never come here."

"Exactly the same, Dr. Wortle."

"Therefore you will own that I am right in asking you to sit down. The story may be very long,—that is, if you mean to tell it."

"I do,—and did. I was wrong from the first in supposing that the nature of my marriage need be of no concern to others, but to herself and to me."

"Yes,—Mr. Peacocke; yes. We are, all of us, joined together too closely to admit of isolation such as that." There was something in this which grated against the schoolmaster's pride, though nothing had been said as to which he did not know that much harder things must meet his ears before the matter could be brought to an end between him and the Doctor. The "Mister" had been prefixed to his name, which had been omitted for the last three or four months in the friendly intercourse which had taken place between them; and then, though it had been done in the form of agreeing with what he himself had said, the Doctor had made his first complaint by declaring that no man had a right to regard his own moral life as isolated from the lives of others around him. It was as much as to declare at once that he had been wrong in bringing this woman to Bowick, and calling her Mrs. Peacocke. He had said as much himself, but that did not make the censure lighter when it came to him from the mouth of the Doctor. "But come," said the Doctor, getting up from his seat at the table, and throwing himself into an easy-chair, so as to mitigate the austerity of the position; "let us hear the true story. So big a liar as that American gentleman probably never put his foot in this room before."

Then Mr. Peacocke told the story, beginning with all those incidents of the woman's life which had seemed to be so cruel both to him and to others at St. Louis before he had been in any degree intimate with her. Then came the departure of the two men, and the necessity for pecuniary assistance, which Mr. Peacocke now passed over lightly, saying nothing specially of the assistance which he himself had rendered. "And she was left quite alone?" asked the Doctor.

"Quite alone."

"And for how long?"

"Eighteen months had passed before we heard any tidings. Then there came news that Colonel Lefroy was dead."

"The husband?"

"We did not know which. They were both Colonels."

"And then?"

"Did he tell you that I went down into Mexico?"

"Never mind what he told me. All that he told me were lies. What you tell me I shall believe. But tell me everything."

There was a tone of complete authority in the Doctor's voice, but mixed with this there was a kindliness which made the schoolmaster determined that he would tell everything as far as he knew how. "When I heard that one of them was dead, I went away down to the borders of Texas, in order that I might learn the truth."

"Did she know that you were going?"

"Yes;—I told her the day I started."

"And you told her why?"

"That I might find out whether her husband were still alive."

"But—" The Doctor hesitated as he asked the next question. He knew, however, that it had to be asked, and went on with it. "Did she know that you loved her?" To this the other made no immediate answer. The Doctor was a man who, in such a matter, was intelligent enough, and he therefore put his question in another shape. "Had you told her that you loved her?"

"Never,—while I thought that other man was living."

"She must have guessed it," said the Doctor.

"She might guess what she pleased. I told her that I was going, and I went."

"And how was it, then?"

"I went, and after a time I came across the very man who is here now, this Robert Lefroy. I met him and questioned him, and he told me that his brother had been killed while fighting. It was a lie."

"Altogether a lie?" asked the Doctor.

"How altogether?"

"He might have been wounded and given over for dead. The brother might have thought him to be dead."

"I do not think so. I believe it to have been a plot in order that the man might get rid of his wife. But I believed it. Then I went back to St. Louis,—and we were married."

"You thought there was no obstacle but what you might become man and wife legally?"

"I thought she was a widow."

"There was no further delay?"

"Very little. Why should there have been delay?"

"I only ask."

"She had suffered enough, and I had waited long enough."

"She owed you a great deal," said the Doctor.

"It was not a case of owing," said Mr. Peacocke. "At least I think not. I think she had learnt to love me as I had learnt to love her."

"And how did it go with you then?"

"Very well,—for some months. There was nothing to mar our happiness,—till one day he came and made his way into our presence."

"The husband?"

"Yes; the husband, Ferdinand Lefroy, the elder brother;—he of whom I had been told that he was dead; he was there standing before us, talking to us,—half drunk, but still well knowing what he was doing."

"Why had he come?"

"In want of money, I suppose,—as this other one has come here."

"Did he ask for money?"

"I do not think he did then, though he spoke of his poor condition. But on the next day he went away. We heard that he had taken the steamer down the river for New Orleans. We have never heard more of him from that day to this."

"Can you imagine what caused conduct such as that?"

"I think money was given to him that night to go; but if so, I do not know by whom. I gave him none. During the next day or two I found that many in St. Louis knew that he had been there."

"They knew then that you—"

"They knew that my wife was not my wife. That is what you mean to ask?" The Doctor nodded his head. "Yes, they knew that."

"And what then?"

"Word was brought to me that she and I must part if I chose to keep my place at the College."

"That you must disown her?"

"The President told me that it would be better that she should go elsewhere. How could I send her from me?"

"No, indeed;—but as to the facts?"

"You know them all pretty well now. I could not send her from me. Nor could I go and leave her. Had we been separated then, because of the law or because of religion, the burden, the misery, the desolation, would all have been upon her."

"I would have clung to her, let the law say what it might," said the Doctor, rising from his chair.

"You would?"

"I would;—and I think that I could have reconciled it to my God. But I might have been wrong," he added; "I might have been wrong. I only say what I should have done."

"It was what I did."

"Exactly; exactly. We are both sinners. Both might have been wrong. Then you brought her over here, and I suppose I know the rest?"

"You know everything now," said Mr. Peacocke.

"And believe every word I have heard. Let me say that, if that may be any consolation to you. Of my friendship you may remain assured. Whether you can remain here is another question."

"We are prepared to go."

"You cannot expect that I should have thought it all out during the hearing of the story. There is much to be considered;—very much. I can only say this, as between man and man, that no man eversympathizedwith another more warmly than I do with you. You had better let me have till Monday to think about it."


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