But Lady Margaret was proud,—especially at the present time. "What a romance this is, Mrs. Wortle," she said, "that has gone all through the diocese!" The reader will remember that Lady Margaret was also the wife of a clergyman.

"You mean—the Peacockes?"

"Of course I do."

"He has gone away."

"We all know that, of course;—to look for his wife's husband. Good gracious me! What a story!"

"They think that he is—dead now."

"I suppose they thought so before," said Lady Margaret.

"Of course they did."

"Though it does seem that no inquiry was made at all. Perhaps they don't care about those things over there as we do here. He couldn't have cared very much,—nor she."

"The Doctor thinks that they are very much to be pitied."

"The Doctor always was a little Quixotic—eh?"

"I don't think that at all, Lady Margaret."

"I mean in the way of being so very good-natured and kind. Her brother came;—didn't he?"

"Her first husband's brother," said Mrs. Wortle, blushing.

"Her first husband!"

"Well;—you know what I mean, Lady Margaret."

"Yes; I know what you mean. It is so very shocking; isn't it? And so the two men have gone off together to look for the third. Goodness me;—what a party they will be if they meet! Do you think they'll quarrel?"

"I don't know, Lady Margaret."

"And that he should be a clergyman of the Church of England! Isn't it dreadful? What does the Bishop say? Has he heard all about it?"

"The Bishop has nothing to do with it. Mr. Peacocke never held a curacy in the diocese."

"But he has preached here very often,—and has taken her to church with him! I suppose the Bishop has been told?"

"You may be sure that he knows it as well as you."

"We are so anxious, you know, about dear little Gus." Dear little Gus was Augustus Momson, the lady's nephew, who was supposed to be the worst-behaved, and certainly the stupidest boy in the school.

"Augustus will not be hurt, I should say."

"Perhaps not directly. But my sister has, I know, very strong opinions on such subjects. Now, I want to ask you one thing. Is it true that—she—remains here?"

"She is still living in the school-house."

"Is that prudent, Mrs. Wortle?"

"If you want to have an opinion on that subject, Lady Margaret, I would recommend you to ask the Doctor." By which she meant to assert that Lady Margaret would not, for the life of her, dare to ask the Doctor such a question. "He has done what he has thought best."

"Most good-natured, you mean, Mrs. Wortle."

"I mean what I say, Lady Margaret. He has done what he has thought best, looking at all the circumstances. He thinks that they are very worthy people, and that they have been most cruelly ill-used. He has taken that into consideration. You call it good-nature. Others perhaps may call it—charity." The wife, though she at her heart deplored her husband's action in the matter, was not going to own to another lady that he had been imprudent.

"I am sure I hope they will," said Lady Margaret. Then as she was taking her leave, she made a suggestion. "Some of the boys will be taken away, I suppose. The Doctor probably expects that."

"I don't know what he expects," said Mrs. Wortle. "Some are always going, and when they go, others come in their places. As for me, I wish he would give the school up altogether."

"Perhaps he means it," said Lady Margaret; "otherwise, perhaps he wouldn't have been so good-natured." Then she took her departure.

When her visitor was gone Mrs. Wortle was very unhappy. She had been betrayed by her wrath into expressing that wish as to the giving up of the school. She knew well that the Doctor had no such intention. She herself had more than once suggested it in her timid way, but the Doctor had treated her suggestions as being worth nothing. He had his ideas about Mary, who was undoubtedly a very pretty girl. Mary might marry well, and L20,000 would probably assist her in doing so.

When he was told of Lady Margaret's hints, he said in his wrath that he would send young Momson away instantly if a word was said to him by the boy's mamma. "Of course," said he, "if the lad turns out a scapegrace, as is like enough, it will be because Mrs. Peacocke had two husbands. It is often a question to me whether the religion of the world is not more odious than its want of religion." To this terrible suggestion poor Mrs. Wortle did not dare to make any answer whatever.



CHAPTER XII.

THE STANTILOUP CORRESPONDENCE.

WE will now pass for a moment out of Bowick parish, and go over to Buttercup. There, at Buttercup Hall, the squire's house, in the drawing-room, were assembled Mrs. Momson, the squire's wife; Lady Margaret Momson, the Rector's wife; Mrs. Rolland, the wife of the Bishop; and the Hon. Mrs. Stantiloup. A party was staying in the house, collected for the purpose of entertaining the Bishop; and it would perhaps not have been possible to have got together in the diocese, four ladies more likely to be hard upon our Doctor. For though Squire Momson was not very fond of Mrs. Stantiloup, and had used strong language respecting her when he was anxious to send his boy to the Doctor's school, Mrs. Momson had always been of the other party, and had in fact adhered to Mrs. Stantiloup from the beginning of the quarrel. "I do trust," said Mrs. Stantiloup, "that there will be an end to all this kind of thing now."

"Do you mean an end to the school?" asked Lady Margaret.

"I do indeed. I always thought it matter of great regret that Augustus should have been sent there, after the scandalous treatment that Bob received." Bob was the little boy who had drank the champagne and required the carriage exercise.

"But I always heard that the school was quite popular," said Mrs. Rolland.

"I think you'll find," continued Mrs. Stantiloup, "that there won't be much left of its popularity now. Keeping that abominable woman under the same roof with the boys! No master of a school that wasn't absolutely blown up with pride, would have taken such people as those Peacockes without making proper inquiry. And then to let him preach in the church! I suppose Mr. Momson will allow you to send for Augustus at once?" This she said turning to Mrs. Momson.

"Mr. Momson thinks so much of the Doctor's scholarship," said the mother, apologetically. "And we are so anxious that Gus should do well when he goes to Eton."

"What is Latin and Greek as compared to his soul?" asked Lady Margaret.

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Rolland. She had found herself compelled, as wife of the Bishop, to assent to the self-evident proposition which had been made. She was a quiet, silent little woman, whom the Bishop had married in the days of his earliest preferment, and who, though she was delighted to find herself promoted to the society of the big people in the diocese, had never quite lifted herself up into their sphere. Though she had her ideas as to what it was to be a Bishop's wife, she had never yet been quite able to act up to them.

"I know that young Talbot is to leave," said Mrs. Stantiloup. "I wrote to Mrs. Talbot immediately when all this occurred, and I've heard from her cousin Lady Grogram that the boy is not to go back after the holidays." This happened to be altogether untrue. What she probably meant was, that the boy should not go back if she could prevent his doing so.

"I feel quite sure," said Lady Margaret, "that Lady Anne will not allow her boys to remain when she finds out what sort of inmates the Doctor chooses to entertain." The Lady Anne spoken of was Lady Anne Clifford, the widowed mother of two boys who were intrusted to the Doctor's care.

"I do hope you'll be firm about Gus," said Mrs. Stantiloup to Mrs. Momson. "If we're not to put down this kind of thing, what is the good of having any morals in the country at all? We might just as well live like pagans, and do without any marriage services, as they do in so many parts of the United States."

"I wonder what the Bishop does think about it?" asked Mrs. Momson of the Bishop's wife.

"It makes him very unhappy; I know that," said Mrs. Rolland. "Of course he cannot interfere about the school. As for licensing the gentleman as a curate, that was of course quite out of the question."

At this moment Mr. Momson, the clergyman, and the Bishop came into the room, and were offered, as is usual on such occasions, cold tea and the remains of the buttered toast. The squire was not there. Had he been with the other gentlemen, Mrs. Stantiloup, violent as she was, would probably have held her tongue; but as he was absent, the opportunity was not bad for attacking the Bishop on the subject under discussion. "We were talking, my lord, about the Bowick school."

Now the Bishop was a man who could be very confidential with one lady, but was apt to be guarded when men are concerned. To any one of those present he might have said what he thought, had no one else been there to hear. That would have been the expression of a private opinion; but to speak before the four would have been tantamount to a public declaration.

"About the Bowick school?" said he; "I hope there is nothing going wrong with the Bowick school."

"You must have heard about Mr. Peacocke," said Lady Margaret.

"Yes; I have certainly heard of Mr. Peacocke. He, I believe, has left Dr. Wortle's seminary."

"But she remains!" said Mrs. Stantiloup, with tragic energy.

"So I understand;—in the house; but not as part of the establishment."

"Does that make so much difference?" asked Lady Margaret.

"It does make a very great difference," said Lady Margaret's husband, the parson, wishing to help the Bishop in his difficulty.

"I don't see it at all," said Mrs. Stantiloup. "The main spirit in the matter is just as manifest whether the lady is or is not allowed to look after the boys' linen. In fact, I despise him for making the pretence. Her doing menial work about the house would injure no one. It is her presence there,—the presence of a woman who has falsely pretended to be married, when she knew very well that she had no husband."

"When she knew that she had two," said Lady Margaret.

"And fancy, Lady Margaret,—Lady Bracy absolutely asked her to go to Carstairs! That woman was always infatuated about Dr. Wortle. What would she have done if they had gone, and this other man had followed his sister-in-law there. But Lord and Lady Bracy would ask any one to Carstairs,—just any one that they could get hold of!"

Mr. Momson was one whose obstinacy was wont to give way when sufficiently attacked. Even he, after having been for two days subjected to the eloquence of Mrs. Stantiloup, acknowledged that the Doctor took a great deal too much upon himself. "He does it," said Mrs. Stantiloup, "just to show that there is nothing that he can't bring parents to assent to. Fancy,—a woman living there as house-keeper with a man as usher, pretending to be husband and wife, when they knew all along that they were not married!"

Mr. Momson, who didn't care a straw about the morals of the man whose duty it was to teach his little boy his Latin grammar, or the morals of the woman who looked after his little boy's waistcoats and trousers, gave a half-assenting grunt. "And you are to pay," continued Mrs. Stantiloup, with considerable emphasis,—"you are to pay two hundred and fifty pounds a-year for such conduct as that!"

"Two hundred," suggested the squire, who cared as little for the money as he did for the morals.

"Two hundred and fifty,—every shilling of it, when you consider the extras."

"There are no extras, as far as I can see. But then my boy is strong and healthy, thank God," said the squire, taking his opportunity of having one fling at the lady. But while all this was going on, he did give a half-assent that Gus should be taken away at midsummer, being partly moved thereto by a letter from the Doctor, in which he was told that his boy was not doing any good at the school.

It was a week after that that Mrs. Stantiloup wrote the following letter to her friend Lady Grogram, after she had returned home from Buttercup Hall. Lady Grogram was a great friend of hers, and was first cousin to that Mrs. Talbot who had a son at the school. Lady Grogram was an old woman of strong mind but small means, who was supposed to be potential over those connected with her. Mrs. Stantiloup feared that she could not be efficacious herself, either with Mr. or Mrs. Talbot; but she hoped that she might carry her purpose through Lady Grogram. It may be remembered that she had declared at Buttercup Hall that young Talbot was not to go back to Bowick. But this had been a figure of speech, as has been already explained:—

"MY DEAR LADY GROGRAM,—Since I got your last letter I have been staying with the Momsons at Buttercup. It was awfully dull. He and she are, I think, the stupidest people that ever I met. None of those Momsons have an idea among them. They are just as heavy and inharmonious as their name. Lady Margaret was one of the party. She would have been better, only that our excellent Bishop was there too, and Lady Margaret thought it well to show off all her graces before the Bishop and the Bishop's wife. I never saw such a dowdy in all my life as Mrs. Rolland. He is all very well, and looks at any rate like a gentleman. It was, I take it, that which got him his diocese. They say the Queen saw him once, and was taken by his manners.

"But I did one good thing at Buttercup. I got Mr. Momson to promise that that boy of his should not go back to Bowick. Dr. Wortle has become quite intolerable. I think he is determined to show that whatever he does, people shall put up with it. It is not only the most expensive establishment of the kind in all England, but also the worst conducted. You know, of course, how all this matter about that woman stands now. She is remaining there at Bowick, absolutely living in the house, calling herself Mrs. Peacocke, while the man she was living with has gone off with her brother-in-law to look for her husband! Did you ever hear of such a mess as that?

"And the Doctor expects that fathers and mothers will still send their boys to such a place as that? I am very much mistaken if he will not find it altogether deserted before Christmas. Lord Carstairs is already gone." [This was at any rate disingenuous, as she had been very severe when at Buttercup on all the Carstairs family because of their declared and perverse friendship for the Doctor.] "Mr. Momson, though he is quite incapable of seeing the meaning of anything, has determined to take his boy away. She may thank me at any rate for that. I have heard that Lady Anne Clifford's two boys will both leave." [In one sense she had heard it, because the suggestion had been made by herself at Buttercup.] "I do hope that Mr. Talbot's dear little boy will not be allowed to return to such contamination as that! Fancy,—the man and the woman living there in that way together; and the Doctor keeping the woman on after he knew it all! It is really so horrible that one doesn't know how to talk about it. When the Bishop was at Buttercup I really felt almost obliged to be silent.

"I know very well that Mrs. Talbot is always ready to take your advice. As for him, men very often do not think so much about these things as they ought. But he will not like his boy to be nearly the only one left at the school. I have not heard of one who is to remain for certain. How can it be possible that any boy who has a mother should be allowed to remain there?

"Do think of this, and do your best. I need not tell you that nothing ought to be so dear to us as a high tone of morals.—Most sincerely yours,

"JULIANA STANTILOUP."

We need not pursue this letter further than to say that when it reached Mr. Talbot's hands, which it did through his wife, he spoke of Mrs. Stantiloup in language which shocked his wife considerably, though she was not altogether unaccustomed to strong language on his part. Mr. Talbot and the Doctor had been at school together, and at Oxford, and were friends.

I will give now a letter that was written by the Doctor to Mr. Momson in answer to one in which that gentleman signified his intention of taking little Gus away from the school.

"MY DEAR MR. MOMSON,—After what you have said, of course I shall not expect your boy back after the holidays. Tell his mamma, with my compliments, that he shall take all his things home with him. As a rule I do charge for a quarter in advance when a boy is taken away suddenly, without notice, and apparently without cause. But I shall not do so at the present moment either to you or to any parent who may withdraw his son. A circumstance has happened which, though it cannot impair the utility of my school, and ought not to injure its character, may still be held as giving offence to certain persons. I will not be driven to alter my conduct by what I believe to be foolish misconception on their part. But they have a right to their own opinions, and I will not mulct them because of their conscientious convictions.—Yours faithfully,

"JEFFREY WORTLE."

"If you come across any friend who has a boy here, you are perfectly at liberty to show him or her this letter."

The defection of the Momsons wounded the Doctor, no doubt. He was aware that Mrs. Stantiloup had been at Buttercup, and that the Bishop also had been there—and he could put two and two together; but it hurt him to think that one so "staunch" though so "stupid" as Mrs. Momson, should be turned from her purpose by such a woman as Mrs. Stantiloup. And he got other letters on the subject. Here is one from Lady Anne Clifford.

"DEAR DOCTOR,—You know how safe I think my dear boys are with you, and how much obliged I am both to you and your wife for all your kindness. But people are saying things to me about one of the masters at your school and his wife. Is there any reason why I should be afraid? You will see how thoroughly I trust you when I ask you the question.—Yours very sincerely,

"ANNE CLIFFORD."

Now Lady Anne Clifford was a sweet, confiding, affectionate, but not very wise woman. In a letter, written not many days before to Mary Wortle, who had on one occasion been staying with her, she said that she was at that time in the same house with the Bishop and Mrs. Rolland. Of course the Doctor knew again how to put two and two together.

Then there came a letter from Mr. Talbot—

"DEAR WORTLE,—So you are boiling for yourself another pot of hot water. I never saw such a fellow as you are for troubles! Old Mother Shipton has been writing such a letter to our old woman, and explaining that no boy's soul would any longer be worth looking after if he be left in your hands. Don't you go and get me into a scrape more than you can help; but you may be quite sure of this that if I had as many sons as Priam I should send them all to you;—only I think that the cheques would be very long in coming.—Yours always,

"JOHN TALBOT."

The Doctor answered this at greater length than he had done in writing to Mr. Momson, who was not specially his friend.

"MY DEAR TALBOT,—You may be quite sure that I shall not repeat to any one what you have told me of Mother Shipton. I knew, however, pretty well what she was doing and what I had to expect from her. It is astonishing to me that such a woman should still have the power of persuading any one,—astonishing also that any human being should continue to hate as she hates me. She has often tried to do me an injury, but she has never succeeded yet. At any rate she will not bend me. Though my school should be broken up to-morrow, which I do not think probable, I should still have enough to live upon,—which is more, by all accounts, than her unfortunate husband can say for himself.

"The facts are these. More than twelve months ago I got an assistant named Peacocke, a clergyman, an Oxford man, and formerly a Fellow of Trinity;—a man quite superior to anything I have a right to expect in my school. He had gone as a Classical Professor to a college in the United States;—a rash thing to do, no doubt;—and had there married a widow, which was rasher still. The lady came here with him and undertook the charge of the school-house,—with a separate salary; and an admirable person in the place she was. Then it turned out, as no doubt you have heard, that her former husband was alive when they were married. They ought probably to have separated, but they didn't. They came here instead, and here they were followed by the brother of the husband,—who I take it is now dead, though of that we know nothing certain.

"That he should have told me his position is more than any man has a right to expect from another. Fortune had been most unkind to him, and for her sake he was bound to do the best that he could with himself. I cannot bring myself to be angry with him, though I cannot defend him by strict laws of right and wrong. I have advised him to go back to America and find out if the man be in truth dead. If so, let him come back and marry the woman again before all the world. I shall be ready to marry them and to ask him and her to my house afterwards.

"In the mean time what was to become of her? 'Let her go into lodgings,' said the Bishop. Go to lodgings at Broughton! You know what sort of lodgings she would get there among psalm-singing greengrocers who would tell her of her misfortune every day of her life! I would not subject her to the misery of going and seeking for a home. I told him, when I persuaded him to go, that she should have the rooms they were then occupying while he was away. In settling this, of course I had to make arrangements for doing in our own establishment the work which had lately fallen to her share. I mention this for the sake of explaining that she has got nothing to do with the school. No doubt the boys are under the same roof with her. Will your boy's morals be the worse? It seems that Gustavus Momson's will. You know the father; do you not? I wonder whether anything will ever affect his morals?

"Now, I have told you everything. Not that I have doubted you; but, as you have been told so much, I have thought it well that you should have the whole story from myself. What effect it may have upon the school I do not know. The only boy of whose secession I have yet heard is young Momson. But probably there will be others. Four new boys were to have come, but I have already heard from the father of one that he has changed his mind. I think I can trace an acquaintance between him and Mother Shipton. If the body of the school should leave me I will let you know at once as you might not like to leave your boy under such circumstances.

"You may be sure of this, that here the lady remains until her husband returns. I am not going to be turned from my purpose at this time of day by anything that Mother Shipton may say or do.—Yours always,

"JEFFREY WORTLE."

END OF VOL. I.



DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL.

A Novel.

BY

ANTHONY TROLLOPE.

IN TWO VOLUMES.—VOL. II.



London: Chapman and Hall, Limited, 193, Piccadilly. 1881.

London: R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor, Printers, Bread Street Hill.



CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

PART V.

CHAPTER I. MR. PUDDICOMBE'S BOOT

CHAPTER II. 'EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS'

CHAPTER III. "'AMO' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING"

CHAPTER IV. "IT IS IMPOSSIBLE"

CHAPTER V. CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE

CHAPTER VI. THE JOURNEY

CHAPTER VII. "NOBODY HAS CONDEMNED YOU HERE"

CHAPTER VIII. LORD BRACY'S LETTER

CHAPTER IX. AT CHICAGO

CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER X. THE DOCTOR'S ANSWER

CHAPTER XI. MR. PEACOCKE'S RETURN

CHAPTER XII. MARY'S SUCCESS



DR. WORTLE'S SCHOOL.

PART V.

CHAPTER I.

MR. PUDDICOMBE'S BOOT.

IT was not to be expected that the matter should be kept out of the county newspaper, or even from those in the metropolis. There was too much of romance in the story, too good a tale to be told, for any such hope. The man's former life and the woman's, the disappearance of her husband and his reappearance after his reported death, the departure of the couple from St. Louis and the coming of Lefroy to Bowick, formed together a most attractive subject. But it could not be told without reference to Dr. Wortle's school, to Dr. Wortle's position as clergyman of the parish,—and also to the fact which was considered by his enemies to be of all the facts the most damning, that Mr. Peacocke had for a time been allowed to preach in the parish church. The 'Broughton Gazette,' a newspaper which was supposed to be altogether devoted to the interest of the diocese, was very eloquent on this subject. "We do not desire," said the 'Broughton Gazette,' "to make any remarks as to the management of Dr. Wortle's school. We leave all that between him and the parents of the boys who are educated there. We are perfectly aware that Dr. Wortle himself is a scholar, and that his school has been deservedly successful. It is advisable, no doubt, that in such an establishment none should be employed whose lives are openly immoral;—but as we have said before, it is not our purpose to insist upon this. Parents, if they feel themselves to be aggrieved, can remedy the evil by withdrawing their sons. But when we consider the great power which is placed in the hands of an incumbent of a parish, that he is endowed as it were with the freehold of his pulpit, that he may put up whom he will to preach the Gospel to his parishioners, even in a certain degree in opposition to his bishop, we think that we do no more than our duty in calling attention to such a case as this." Then the whole story was told at great length, so as to give the "we" of the 'Broughton Gazette' a happy opportunity of making its leading article not only much longer, but much more amusing, than usual. "We must say," continued the writer, as he concluded his narrative, "that this man should not have been allowed to preach in the Bowick pulpit. He is no doubt a clergyman of the Church of England, and Dr. Wortle was within his rights in asking for his assistance; but the incumbent of a parish is responsible for those he employs, and that responsibility now rests on Dr. Wortle."

There was a great deal in this that made the Doctor very angry,—so angry that he did not know how to restrain himself. The matter had been argued as though he had employed the clergyman in his church after he had known the history. "For aught I know," he said to Mrs. Wortle, "any curate coming to me might have three wives, all alive."

"That would be most improbable," said Mrs. Wortle.

"So was all this improbable,—just as improbable. Nothing could be more improbable. Do we not all feel overcome with pity for the poor woman because she encountered trouble that was so improbable? How much more improbable was it that I should come across a clergyman who had encountered such improbabilities." In answer to this Mrs. Wortle could only shake her head, not at all understanding the purport of her husband's argument.

But what was said about his school hurt him more than what was said about his church. In regard to his church he was impregnable. Not even the Bishop could touch him,—or even annoy him much. But this "penny-a-liner," as the Doctor indignantly called him, had attacked him in his tenderest point. After declaring that he did not intend to meddle with the school, he had gone on to point out that an immoral person had been employed there, and had then invited all parents to take away their sons. "He doesn't know what moral and immoral means," said the Doctor, again pleading his own case to his own wife. "As far as I know, it would be hard to find a man of a higher moral feeling than Mr. Peacocke, or a woman than his wife."

"I suppose they ought to have separated when it was found out," said Mrs. Wortle.

"No, no," he shouted; "I hold that they were right. He was right to cling to her, and she was bound to obey him. Such a fellow as that,"—and he crushed the paper up in his hand in his wrath, as though he were crushing the editor himself,—"such a fellow as that knows nothing of morality, nothing of honour, nothing of tenderness. What he did I would have done, and I'll stick to him through it all in spite of the Bishop, in spite of the newspapers, and in spite of all the rancour of all my enemies." Then he got up and walked about the room in such a fury that his wife did not dare to speak to him. Should he or should he not answer the newspaper? That was a question which for the first two days after he had read the article greatly perplexed him. He would have been very ready to advise any other man what to do in such a case. "Never notice what may be written about you in a newspaper," he would have said. Such is the advice which a man always gives to his friend. But when the case comes to himself he finds it sometimes almost impossible to follow it. "What's the use? Who cares what the 'Broughton Gazette' says? let it pass, and it will be forgotten in three days. If you stir the mud yourself, it will hang about you for months. It is just what they want you to do. They cannot go on by themselves, and so the subject dies away from them; but if you write rejoinders they have a contributor working for them for nothing, and one whose writing will be much more acceptable to their readers than any that comes from their own anonymous scribes. It is very disagreeable to be worried like a rat by a dog; but why should you go into the kennel and unnecessarily put yourself in the way of it?" The Doctor had said this more than once to clerical friends who were burning with indignation at something that had been written about them. But now he was burning himself, and could hardly keep his fingers from pen and ink.

In this emergency he went to Mr. Puddicombe, not, as he said to himself, for advice, but in order that he might hear what Mr. Puddicombe would have to say about it. He did not like Mr. Puddicombe, but he believed in him,—which was more than he quite did with the Bishop. Mr. Puddicombe would tell him his true thoughts. Mr. Puddicombe would be unpleasant very likely; but he would be sincere and friendly. So he went to Mr. Puddicombe. "It seems to me," he said, "almost necessary that I should answer such allegations as these for the sake of truth."

"You are not responsible for the truth of the 'Broughton Gazette,"' said Mr. Puddicombe.

"But I am responsible to a certain degree that false reports shall not be spread abroad as to what is done in my church."

"You can contradict nothing that the newspaper has said."

"It is implied," said the Doctor, "that I allowed Mr. Peacocke to preach in my church after I knew his marriage was informal."

"There is no such statement in the paragraph," said Mr. Puddicombe, after attentive reperusal of the article. "The writer has written in a hurry, as such writers generally do, but has made no statement such as you presume. Were you to answer him, you could only do so by an elaborate statement of the exact facts of the case. It can hardly be worth your while, in defending yourself against the 'Broughton Gazette,' to tell the whole story in public of Mr. Peacocke's life and fortunes."

"You would pass it over altogether?"

"Certainly I would."

"And so acknowledge the truth of all that the newspaper says."

"I do not know that the paper says anything untrue," said Mr. Puddicombe, not looking the Doctor in the face, with his eyes turned to the ground, but evidently with the determination to say what he thought, however unpleasant it might be. "The fact is that you have fallen into a—misfortune."

"I don't acknowledge it at all," said the Doctor.

"All your friends at any rate will think so, let the story be told as it may. It was a misfortune that this lady whom you had taken into your establishment should have proved not to be the gentleman's wife. When I am taking a walk through the fields and get one of my feet deeper than usual into the mud, I always endeavour to bear it as well as I may before the eyes of those who meet me rather than make futile efforts to get rid of the dirt and look as though nothing had happened. The dirt, when it is rubbed and smudged and scraped is more palpably dirt than the honest mud."

"I will not admit that I am dirty at all," said the Doctor.

"Nor do I, in the case which I describe. I admit nothing; but I let those who see me form their own opinion. If any one asks me about my boot I tell him that it is a matter of no consequence. I advise you to do the same. You will only make the smudges more palpable if you write to the 'Broughton Gazette."'

"Would you say nothing to the boys' parents?" asked the Doctor.

"There, perhaps, I am not a judge, as I never kept a school;—but I think not. If any father writes to you, then tell him the truth."

If the matter had gone no farther than this, the Doctor might probably have left Mr. Puddicombe's house with a sense of thankfulness for the kindness rendered to him; but he did go farther, and endeavoured to extract from his friend some sense of the injustice shown by the Bishop, the Stantiloups, the newspaper, and his enemies in general through the diocese. But here he failed signally. "I really think, Dr. Wortle, that you could not have expected it otherwise."

"Expect that people should lie?"

"I don't know about lies. If people have told lies I have not seen them or heard them. I don't think the Bishop has lied."

"I don't mean the Bishop; though I do think that he has shown a great want of what I may call liberality towards a clergyman in his diocese."

"No doubt he thinks you have been wrong. By liberality you mean sympathy. Why should you expect him to sympathise with your wrong-doing?"

"What have I done wrong?"

"You have countenanced immorality and deceit in a brother clergyman."

"I deny it," said the Doctor, rising up impetuously from his chair.

"Then I do not understand the position, Dr. Wortle. That is all I can say."

"To my thinking, Mr. Puddicombe, I never came across a better man than Mr. Peacocke in my life."

"I cannot make comparisons. As to the best man I ever met in my life I might have to acknowledge that even he had done wrong in certain circumstances. As the matter is forced upon me, I have to express my opinion that a great sin was committed both by the man and by the woman. You not only condone the sin, but declare both by your words and deeds that you sympathise with the sin as well as with the sinners. You have no right to expect that the Bishop will sympathise with you in that;—nor can it be but that in such a country as this the voices of many will be loud against you."

"And yours as loud as any," said the Doctor, angrily.

"That is unkind and unjust," said Mr. Puddicombe. "What I have said, I have said to yourself, and not to others; and what I have said, I have said in answer to questions asked by yourself." Then the Doctor apologised with what grace he could. But when he left the house his heart was still bitter against Mr. Puddicombe.

He was almost ashamed of himself as he rode back to Bowick,—first, because he had condescended to ask advice, and then because, after having asked it, he had been so thoroughly scolded. There was no one whom Mr. Puddicombe would admit to have been wrong in the matter except the Doctor himself. And yet though he had been so counselled and so scolded, he had found himself obliged to apologize before he left the house! And, too, he had been made to understand that he had better not rush into print. Though the 'Broughton Gazette' should come to the attack again and again, he must hold his peace. That reference to Mr. Puddicombe's dirty boot had convinced him. He could see the thoroughly squalid look of the boot that had been scraped in vain, and appreciate the wholesomeness of the unadulterated mud. There was more in the man than he had ever acknowledged before. There was a consistency in him, and a courage, and an honesty of purpose. But there was no softness of heart. Had there been a grain of tenderness there, he could not have spoken so often as he had done of Mrs. Peacocke without expressing some grief at the unmerited sorrows to which that poor lady had been subjected.

His own heart melted with ruth as he thought, while riding home, of the cruelty to which she had been and was subjected. She was all alone there, waiting, waiting, waiting, till the dreary days should have gone by. And if no good news should come, if Mr. Peacocke should return with tidings that her husband was alive and well, what should she do then? What would the world then have in store for her? "If it were me," said the Doctor to himself, "I'd take her to some other home and treat her as my wife in spite of all the Puddicombes in creation;—in spite of all the bishops."

The Doctor, though he was a self-asserting and somewhat violent man, was thoroughly soft-hearted. It is to be hoped that the reader has already learned as much as that;—a man with a kind, tender, affectionate nature. It would perhaps be unfair to raise a question whether he would have done as much, been so willing to sacrifice himself, for a plain woman. Had Mr. Stantiloup, or Sir Samuel Griffin if he had suddenly come again to life, been found to have prior wives also living, would the Doctor have found shelter for them in their ignominy and trouble? Mrs. Wortle, who knew her husband thoroughly, was sure that he would not have done so. Mrs. Peacocke was a very beautiful woman, and the Doctor was a man who thoroughly admired beauty. To say that Mrs. Wortle was jealous would be quite untrue. She liked to see her husband talking to a pretty woman, because he would be sure to be in a good humour and sure to make the best of himself. She loved to see him shine. But she almost wished that Mrs. Peacocke had been ugly, because there would not then have been so much danger about the school.

"I'm just going up to see her," said the Doctor, as soon as he got home,—"just to ask her what she wants."

"I don't think she wants anything," said Mrs. Wortle, weakly.

"Does she not? She must be a very odd woman if she can live there all day alone, and not want to see a human creature."

"I was with her yesterday."

"And therefore I will call to-day," said the Doctor, leaving the room with his hat on.

When he was shown up into the sitting-room he found Mrs. Peacocke with a newspaper in her hand. He could see at a glance that it was a copy of the 'Broughton Gazette,' and could see also the length and outward show of the very article which he had been discussing with Mr. Puddicombe. "Dr. Wortle," she said, "if you don't mind, I will go away from this."

"But I do mind. Why should you go away?"

"They have been writing about me in the newspapers."

"That was to be expected."

"But they have been writing about you."

"That was to have been expected also. You don't suppose they can hurt me?" This was a false boast, but in such conversations he was almost bound to boast.

"It is I, then, am hurting you?"

"You;—oh dear, no; not in the least."

"But I do. They talk of boys going away from the school."

"Boys will go and boys will come, but we run on for ever," said the Doctor, playfully.

"I can well understand that it should be so," said Mrs. Peacocke, passing over the Doctor's parody as though unnoticed; "and I perceive that I ought not to be here."

"Where ought you to be, then?" said he, intending simply to carry on his joke.

"Where indeed! There is no where. But wherever I may do least injury to innocent people,—to people who have not been driven by storms out of the common path of life. For this place I am peculiarly unfit."

"Will you find any place where you will be made more welcome?"

"I think not."

"Then let me manage the rest. You have been reading that dastardly article in the paper. It will have no effect upon me. Look here, Mrs. Peacocke;"—then he got up and held her hand as though he were going, but he remained some moments while he was still speaking to her,—still holding her hand;—"it was settled between your husband and me, when he went away, that you should remain here under my charge till his return. I am bound to him to find a home for you. I think you are as much bound to obey him,—which you can only do by remaining here."

"I would wish to obey him, certainly."

"You ought to do so,—from the peculiar circumstances more especially. Don't trouble your mind about the school, but do as he desired. There is no question but that you must do so. Good-bye. Mrs. Wortle or I will come and see you to-morrow." Then, and not till then, he dropped her hand.

On the next day Mrs. Wortle did call, though these visits were to her an intolerable nuisance. But it was certainly better that she should alternate the visits with the Doctor than that he should go every day. The Doctor had declared that charity required that one of them should see the poor woman daily. He was quite willing that they should perform the task day and day about,—but should his wife omit the duty he must go in his wife's place. What would all the world of Bowick say if the Doctor were to visit a lady, a young and a beautiful lady, every day, whereas his wife visited the lady not at all? Therefore they took it turn about, except that sometimes the Doctor accompanied his wife. The Doctor had once suggested that his wife should take the poor lady out in her carriage. But against this even Mrs. Wortle had rebelled. "Under such circumstances as hers she ought not to be seen driving about," said Mrs. Wortle. The Doctor had submitted to this, but still thought that the world of Bowick was very cruel.

Mrs. Wortle, though she made no complaint, thought that she was used cruelly in the matter. There had been an intention of going into Brittany during these summer holidays. The little tour had been almost promised. But the affairs of Mrs. Peacocke were of such a nature as not to allow the Doctor to be absent. "You and Mary can go, and Henry will go with you." Henry was a bachelor brother of Mrs. Wortle, who was always very much at the Doctor's disposal, and at hers. But certainly she was not going to quit England, not going to quit home at all, while her husband remained there, and while Mrs. Peacocke was an inmate of the school. It was not that she was jealous. The idea was absurd. But she knew very well what Mrs. Stantiloup would say.



CHAPTER II.

'EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS.'

BUT there arose a trouble greater than that occasioned by the 'Broughton Gazette.' There came out an article in a London weekly newspaper, called 'Everybody's Business,' which nearly drove the Doctor mad. This was on the last Saturday of the holidays. The holidays had been commenced in the middle of July, and went on till the end of August. Things had not gone well at Bowick during these weeks. The parents of all the four newly-expected boys had—changed their minds. One father had discovered that he could not afford it. Another declared that the mother could not be got to part with her darling quite so soon as he had expected. A third had found that a private tutor at home would best suit his purposes. While the fourth boldly said that he did not like to send his boy because of the "fuss" which had been made about Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke. Had this last come alone, the Doctor would probably have resented such a communication; but following the others as it did, he preferred the fourth man to any of the other three. "Miserable cowards," he said to himself, as he docketed the letters and put them away. But the greatest blow of all,—of all blows of this sort,—came to him from poor Lady Anne Clifford. She wrote a piteous letter to him, in which she implored him to allow her to take her two boys away.

"My dear Doctor Wortle," she said, "so many people have been telling so many dreadful things about this horrible affair, that I do not dare to send my darling boys back to Bowick again. Uncle Clifford and Lord Robert both say that I should be very wrong. The Marchioness has said so much about it that I dare not go against her. You know what my own feelings are about you and dear Mrs. Wortle; but I am not my own mistress. They all tell me that it is my first duty to think about the dear boys' welfare; and of course that is true. I hope you won't be very angry with me, and will write one line to say that you forgive me.—Yours most sincerely,

"ANNE CLIFFORD."

In answer to this the Doctor did write as follows;—

"MY DEAR LADY ANNE,—Of course your duty is very plain,—to do what you think best for the boys; and it is natural enough that you should follow the advice of your relatives and theirs.—Faithfully yours,

"JEFFREY WORTLE."

He could not bring himself to write in a more friendly tone, or to tell her that he forgave her. His sympathies were not with her. His sympathies at the present moment were only with Mrs. Peacocke. But then Lady Anne Clifford was not a beautiful woman, as was Mrs. Peacocke.

This was a great blow. Two other boys had also been summoned away, making five in all, whose premature departure was owing altogether to the virulent tongue of that wretched old Mother Shipton. And there had been four who were to come in the place of four others, who, in the course of nature, were going to carry on their more advanced studies elsewhere. Vacancies such as these had always been pre-occupied long beforehand by ambitious parents. These very four places had been pre-occupied, but now they were all vacant. There would be nine empty beds in the school when it met again after the holidays; and the Doctor well understood that nine beds remaining empty would soon cause others to be emptied. It is success that creates success, and decay that produces decay. Gradual decay he knew that he could not endure. He must shut up his school,—give up his employment,—and retire altogether from the activity of life. He felt that if it came to this with him he must in very truth turn his face to the wall and die. Would it,—would it really come to that, that Mrs. Stantiloup should have altogether conquered him in the combat that had sprung up between them?

But yet he would not give up Mrs. Peacocke. Indeed, circumstanced as he was, he could not give her up. He had promised not only her, but her absent husband, that until his return there should be a home for her in the school-house. There would be a cowardice in going back from his word which was altogether foreign to his nature. He could not bring himself to retire from the fight, even though by doing so he might save himself from the actual final slaughter which seemed to be imminent. He thought only of making fresh attacks upon his enemy, instead of meditating flight from those which were made upon him. As a dog, when another dog has got him well by the ear, thinks not at all of his own wound, but only how he may catch his enemy by the lip, so was the Doctor in regard to Mrs. Stantiloup. When the two Clifford boys were taken away, he took some joy to himself in remembering that Mr. Stantiloup could not pay his butcher's bill.

Then, just at the end of the holidays, some good-natured friend sent to him a copy of 'Everybody's Business.' There is no duty which a man owes to himself more clearly than that of throwing into the waste-paper basket, unsearched and even unopened, all newspapers sent to him without a previously-declared purpose. The sender has either written something himself which he wishes to force you to read, or else he has been desirous of wounding you by some ill-natured criticism upon yourself. 'Everybody's Business' was a paper which, in the natural course of things, did not find its way into the Bowick Rectory; and the Doctor, though he was no doubt acquainted with the title, had never even looked at its columns. It was the purpose of the periodical to amuse its readers, as its name declared, with the private affairs of their neighbours. It went boldly about its work, excusing itself by the assertion that Jones was just as well inclined to be talked about as Smith was to hear whatever could be said about Jones. As both parties were served, what could be the objection? It was in the main good-natured, and probably did most frequently gratify the Joneses, while it afforded considerable amusement to the listless and numerous Smiths of the world. If you can't read and understand Jones's speech in Parliament, you may at any rate have mind enough to interest yourself with the fact that he never composed a word of it in his own room without a ring on his finger and a flower in his button-hole. It may also be agreeable to know that Walker the poet always takes a mutton-chop and two glasses of sherry at half-past one. 'Everybody's Business' did this for everybody to whom such excitement was agreeable. But in managing everybody's business in that fashion, let a writer be as good-natured as he may and let the principle be ever so well-founded that nobody is to be hurt, still there are dangers. It is not always easy to know what will hurt and what will not. And then sometimes there will come a temptation to be, not spiteful, but specially amusing. There must be danger, and a writer will sometimes be indiscreet. Personalities will lead to libels even when the libeller has been most innocent. It may be that after all the poor poet never drank a glass of sherry before dinner in his life,—it may be that a little toast-and-water, even with his dinner, gives him all the refreshment that he wants, and that two glasses of alcoholic mixture in the middle of the day shall seem, when imputed to him, to convey a charge of downright inebriety. But the writer has perhaps learned to regard two glasses of meridian wine as but a moderate amount of sustentation. This man is much flattered if it be given to be understood of him that he falls in love with every pretty woman that he sees;—whereas another will think that he has been made subject to a foul calumny by such insinuation.

'Everybody's Business' fell into some such mistake as this, in that very amusing article which was written for the delectation of its readers in reference to Dr. Wortle and Mrs. Peacocke. The 'Broughton Gazette' no doubt confined itself to the clerical and highly moral views of the case, and, having dealt with the subject chiefly on behalf of the Close and the admirers of the Close, had made no allusion to the fact that Mrs. Peacocke was a very pretty woman. One or two other local papers had been more scurrilous, and had, with ambiguous and timid words, alluded to the Doctor's personal admiration for the lady. These, or the rumours created by them, had reached one of the funniest and lightest-handed of the contributors to 'Everybody's Business,' and he had concocted an amusing article,—which he had not intended to be at all libellous, which he had thought to be only funny. He had not appreciated, probably, the tragedy of the lady's position, or the sanctity of that of the gentleman. There was comedy in the idea of the Doctor having sent one husband away to America to look after the other while he consoled the wife in England. "It must be admitted," said the writer, "that the Doctor has the best of it. While one gentleman is gouging the other,—as cannot but be expected,—the Doctor will be at any rate in security, enjoying the smiles of beauty under his own fig-tree at Bowick. After a hot morning with 'tupto' in the school, there will be 'amo' in the cool of the evening." And this was absolutely sent to him by some good-natured friend!

The funny writer obtained a popularity wider probably than he had expected. His words reached Mrs. Stantiloup, as well as the Doctor, and were read even in the Bishop's palace. They were quoted even in the 'Broughton Gazette,' not with approbation, but in a high tone of moral severity. "See the nature of the language to which Dr. Wortle's conduct has subjected the whole of the diocese!" That was the tone of the criticism made by the 'Broughton Gazette' on the article in 'Everybody's Business.' "What else has he a right to expect?" said Mrs. Stantiloup to Mrs. Rolland, having made quite a journey into Broughton for the sake of discussing it at the palace. There she explained it all to Mrs. Rolland, having herself studied the passage so as fully to appreciate the virus contained in it. "He passes all the morning in the school whipping the boys himself because he has sent Mr. Peacocke away, and then amuses himself in the evening by making love to Mr. Peacocke's wife, as he calls her." Dr. Wortle, when he read and re-read the article, and when the jokes which were made upon it reached his ears, as they were sure to do, was nearly maddened by what he called the heartless iniquity of the world; but his state became still worse when he received an affectionate but solemn letter from the Bishop warning him of his danger. An affectionate letter from a bishop must surely be the most disagreeable missive which a parish clergyman can receive. Affection from one man to another is not natural in letters. A bishop never writes affectionately unless he means to reprove severely. When he calls a clergyman his "dear brother in Christ," he is sure to go on to show that the man so called is altogether unworthy of the name. So it was with a letter now received at Bowick, in which the Bishop expressed his opinion that Dr. Wortle ought not to pay any further visits to Mrs. Peacocke till she should have settled herself down with one legitimate husband, let that legitimate husband be who it might. The Bishop did not indeed, at first, make reference by name to 'Everybody's Business,' but he stated that the "metropolitan press" had taken up the matter, and that scandal would take place in the diocese if further cause were given. "It is not enough to be innocent," said the Bishop, "but men must know that we are so."

Then there came a sharp and pressing correspondence between the Bishop and the Doctor, which lasted four or five days. The Doctor, without referring to any other portion of the Bishop's letter, demanded to know to what "metropolitan newspaper" the Bishop had alluded, as, if any such paper had spread scandalous imputations as to him, the Doctor, respecting the lady in question, it would be his, the Doctor's, duty to proceed against that newspaper for libel. In answer to this the Bishop, in a note much shorter and much less affectionate than his former letter, said that he did not wish to name any metropolitan newspaper. But the Doctor would not, of course, put up with such an answer as this. He wrote very solemnly now, if not affectionately. "His lordship had spoken of 'scandal in the diocese.' The words," said the Doctor, "contained a most grave charge. He did not mean to say that any such accusation had been made by the Bishop himself; but such accusation must have been made by some one at least of the London newspapers or the Bishop would not have been justified in what he has written. Under such circumstances he, Dr. Wortle, thought himself entitled to demand from the Bishop the name of the newspaper in question, and the date on which the article had appeared."

In answer to this there came no written reply, but a copy of the 'Everybody's Business' which the Doctor had already seen. He had, no doubt, known from the first that it was the funny paragraph about 'tupto' and "amo" to which the Bishop had referred. But in the serious steps which he now intended to take, he was determined to have positive proof from the hands of the Bishop himself. The Bishop had not directed the pernicious newspaper with his own hands, but if called upon, could not deny that it had been sent from the palace by his orders. Having received it, the Doctor wrote back at once as follows;—

"RIGHT REVEREND AND DEAR LORD,—Any word coming from your lordship to me is of grave importance, as should, I think, be all words coming from a bishop to his clergy; and they are of special importance when containing a reproof, whether deserved or undeserved. The scurrilous and vulgar attack made upon me in the newspaper which your lordship has sent to me would not have been worthy of my serious notice had it not been made worthy by your lordship as being the ground on which such a letter was written to me as that of your lordship's of the 12th instant. Now it has been invested with so much solemnity by your lordship's notice of it that I feel myself obliged to defend myself against it by public action.

"If I have given just cause of scandal to the diocese I will retire both from my living and from my school. But before doing so I will endeavour to prove that I have done neither. This I can only do by publishing in a court of law all the circumstances in reference to my connection with Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke. As regards myself, this, though necessary, will be very painful. As regards them, I am inclined to think that the more the truth is known, the more general and the more generous will be the sympathy felt for their position.

"As the newspaper sent to me, no doubt by your lordship's orders, from the palace, has been accompanied by no letter, it may be necessary that your lordship should be troubled by a subpoena, so as to prove that the newspaper alluded to by your lordship is the one against which my proceedings will be taken. It will be necessary, of course, that I should show that the libel in question has been deemed important enough to bring down upon me ecclesiastical rebuke of such a nature as to make my remaining in the diocese unbearable,—unless it is shown that that rebuke was undeserved."

There was consternation in the palace when this was received. So stiffnecked a man, so obstinate, so unclerical,—so determined to make much of little! The Bishop had felt himself bound to warn a clergyman that, for the sake of the Church, he could not do altogether as other men might. No doubt certain ladies had got around him,—especially Lady Margaret Momson,—filling his ears with the horrors of the Doctor's proceedings. The gentleman who had written the article about the Greek and the Latin words had seen the truth of the thing at once,—so said Lady Margaret. The Doctor had condoned the offence committed by the Peacockes because the woman had been beautiful, and was repaying himself for his mercy by basking in her loveliness. There was no saying that there was not some truth in this? Mrs. Wortle herself entertained a feeling of the same kind. It was palpable, on the face of it, to all except Dr. Wortle himself,—and to Mrs. Peacocke. Mrs. Stantiloup, who had made her way into the palace, was quite convincing on this point. Everybody knew, she said, that the Doctor went across, and saw the lady all alone, every day. Everybody did not know that. If everybody had been accurate, everybody would have asserted that he did this thing every other day. But the matter, as it was represented to the Bishop by the ladies, with the assistance of one or two clergymen in the Close, certainly seemed to justify his lordship's interference.

But this that was threatened was very terrible. There was a determination about the Doctor which made it clear to the Bishop that he would be as bad as he said. When he, the Bishop, had spoken of scandal, of course he had not intended to say that the Doctor's conduct was scandalous; nor had he said anything of the kind. He had used the word in its proper sense,—and had declared that offence would be created in the minds of people unless an injurious report were stopped. "It is not enough to be innocent," he had said, "but men must know that we are so." He had declared in that his belief in Dr. Wortle's innocence. But yet there might, no doubt, be an action for libel against the newspaper. And when damages came to be considered, much weight would be placed naturally on the attention which the Bishop had paid to the article. The result of this was that the Bishop invited the Doctor to come and spend a night with him in the palace.

The Doctor went, reaching the palace only just before dinner. During dinner and in the drawing-room Dr. Wortle made himself very pleasant. He was a man who could always be soft and gentle in a drawing-room. To see him talking with Mrs. Rolland and the Bishop's daughters, you would not have thought that there was anything wrong with him. The discussion with the Bishop came after that, and lasted till midnight. "It will be for the disadvantage of the diocese that this matter should be dragged into Court,—and for the disadvantage of the Church in general that a clergyman should seem to seek such redress against his bishop." So said the Bishop.

But the Doctor was obdurate. "I seek no redress," he said, "against my bishop. I seek redress against a newspaper which has calumniated me. It is your good opinion, my lord,—your good opinion or your ill opinion which is the breath of my nostrils. I have to refer to you in order that I may show that this paper, which I should otherwise have despised, has been strong enough to influence that opinion."



CHAPTER III.

"'AMO' IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING."

THE Doctor went up to London, and was told by his lawyers that an action for damages probably would lie. "'Amo' in the cool of the evening," certainly meant making love. There could be no doubt that allusion was made to Mrs. Peacocke. To accuse a clergyman of a parish, and a schoolmaster, of making love to a lady so circumstanced as Mrs. Peacocke, no doubt was libellous. Presuming that the libel could not be justified, he would probably succeed. "Justified!" said the Doctor, almost shrieking, to his lawyers; "I never said a word to the lady in my life except in pure kindness and charity. Every word might have been heard by all the world." Nevertheless, had all the world been present, he would not have held her hand so tenderly or so long as he had done on a certain occasion which has been mentioned.

"They will probably apologise," said the lawyer.

"Shall I be bound to accept their apology?"

"No; not bound; but you would have to show, if you went on with the action, that the damage complained of was of so grievous a nature that the apology would not salve it."

"The damage has been already done," said the Doctor, eagerly. "I have received the Bishop's rebuke,—a rebuke in which he has said that I have brought scandal upon the diocese."

"Rebukes break no bones," said the lawyer. "Can you show that it will serve to prevent boys from coming to your school?"

"It may not improbably force me to give up the living. I certainly will not remain there subject to the censure of the Bishop. I do not in truth want any damages. I would not accept money. I only want to set myself right before the world." It was then agreed that the necessary communication should be made by the lawyer to the newspaper proprietors, so as to put the matter in a proper train for the action.

After this the Doctor returned home, just in time to open his school with his diminished forces. At the last moment there was another defaulter, so that there were now no more than twenty pupils. The school had not been so low as this for the last fifteen years. There had never been less than eight-and-twenty before, since Mrs. Stantiloup had first begun her campaign. It was heartbreaking to him. He felt as though he were almost ashamed to go into his own school. In directing his housekeeper to send the diminished orders to the tradesmen he was thoroughly ashamed of himself; in giving his directions to the usher as to the re-divided classes he was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He wished that there was no school, and would have been contented now to give it all up, and to confine Mary's fortune to L10,000 instead of L20,000, had it not been that he could not bear to confess that he was beaten. The boys themselves seemed almost to carry their tails between their legs, as though even they were ashamed of their own school. If, as was too probable, another half-dozen should go at Christmas, then the thing must be abandoned. And how could he go on as rector of the parish with the abominable empty building staring him in the face every moment of his life.

"I hope you are not really going to law," said his wife to him.

"I must, my dear. I have no other way of defending my honour."

"Go to law with the Bishop?"

"No, not with the Bishop."

"But the Bishop would be brought into it?"

"Yes; he will certainly be brought into it."

"And as an enemy. What I mean is, that he will be brought in very much against his own will."

"Not a doubt about it," said the Doctor. "But he will have brought it altogether upon himself. How he can have condescended to send that scurrilous newspaper is more than I can understand. That one gentleman should have so treated another is to me incomprehensible. But that a bishop should have done so to a clergyman of his own diocese shakes all my old convictions. There is a vulgarity about it, a meanness of thinking, an aptitude to suspect all manner of evil, which I cannot fathom. What! did he really think that I was making love to the woman; did he doubt that I was treating her and her husband with kindness, as one human being is bound to treat another in affliction; did he believe, in his heart, that I sent the man away in order that I might have an opportunity for a wicked purpose of my own? It is impossible. When I think of myself and of him, I cannot believe it. That woman who has succeeded at last in stirring up all this evil against me,—even she could not believe it. Her malice is sufficient to make her conduct intelligible;—but there is no malice in the Bishop's mind against me. He would infinitely sooner live with me on pleasant terms if he could justify his doing so to his conscience. He has been stirred to do this in the execution of some presumed duty. I do not accuse him of malice. But I do accuse him of a meanness of intellect lower than what I could have presumed to have been possible in a man so placed. I never thought him clever; I never thought him great; I never thought him even to be a gentleman, in the fullest sense of the word; but I did think he was a man. This is the performance of a creature not worthy to be called so."

"Oh, Jeffrey, he did not believe all that."

"What did he believe? When he read that article, did he see in it a true rebuke against a hypocrite, or did he see in it a scurrilous attack upon a brother clergyman, a neighbour, and a friend? If the latter, he certainly would not have been instigated by it to write to me such a letter as he did. He certainly would not have sent the paper to me had he felt it to contain a foul-mouthed calumny."

"He wanted you to know what people of that sort were saying."

"Yes; he wanted me to know that, and he wanted me to know also that the knowledge had come to me from my bishop. I should have thought evil of any one who had sent me the vile ribaldry. But coming from him, it fills me with despair."

"Despair!" she said, repeating his word.

"Yes; despair as to the condition of the Church when I see a man capable of such meanness holding so high place. '"Amo" in the cool of the evening!' That words such as those should have been sent to me by the Bishop, as showing what the 'metropolitan press' of the day was saying about my conduct! Of course, my action will be against him,—against the Bishop. I shall be bound to expose his conduct. What else can I do? There are things which a man cannot bear and live. Were I to put up with this I must leave the school, leave the parish;—nay, leave the country. There is a stain upon me which I must wash out, or I cannot remain here."

"No, no, no," said his wife, embracing him.

"'"Amo" in the cool of the evening!' And that when, as God is my judge above me, I have done my best to relieve what has seemed to me the unmerited sorrows of two poor sufferers! Had it come from Mrs. Stantiloup, it would, of course, have been nothing. I could have understood that her malice should have condescended to anything, however low. But from the Bishop!"

"How will you be the worse? Who will know?"

"I know it," said he, striking his breast. "I know it. The wound is here. Do you think that when a coarse libel is welcomed in the Bishop's palace, and treated there as true, that it will not be spread abroad among other houses? When the Bishop has thought it necessary to send it me, what will other people do,—others who are not bound to be just and righteous in their dealings with me as he is? '"Amo" in the cool of the evening!'" Then he seized his hat and rushed out into the garden.

The gentleman who had written the paragraph certainly had had no idea that his words would have been thus effectual. The little joke had seemed to him to be good enough to fill a paragraph, and it had gone from him without further thought. Of the Doctor or of the lady he had conceived no idea whatsoever. Somebody else had said somewhere that a clergyman had sent a lady's reputed husband away to look for another husband, while he and the lady remained together. The joke had not been much of a joke, but it had been enough. It had gone forth, and had now brought the whole palace of Broughton into grief, and had nearly driven our excellent Doctor mad! "'Amo' in the cool of the evening!" The words stuck to him like the shirt of Nessus, lacerating his very spirit. That words such as those should have been sent to him in a solemn sober spirit by the bishop of his diocese! It never occurred to him that he had, in truth, been imprudent when paying his visits alone to Mrs. Peacocke.

It was late in the evening, and he wandered away up through the green rides of a wood the borders of which came down to the glebe fields. He had been boiling over with indignation while talking to his wife. But as soon as he was alone he endeavoured,—purposely endeavoured to rid himself for a while of his wrath. This matter was so important to him that he knew well that it behoved him to look at it all round in a spirit other than that of anger. He had talked of giving up his school, and giving up his parish, and had really for a time almost persuaded himself that he must do so unless he could induce the Bishop publicly to withdraw the censure which he felt to have been expressed against him.

And then what would his life be afterwards? His parish and his school had not been only sources of income to him. The duty also had been dear, and had been performed on the whole with conscientious energy. Was everything to be thrown up, and his whole life hereafter be made a blank to him, because the Bishop had been unjust and injudicious? He could see that it well might be so, if he were to carry this contest on. He knew his own temper well enough to be sure that, as he fought, he would grow hotter in the fight, and that when he was once in the midst of it nothing would be possible to him but absolute triumph or absolute annihilation. If once he should succeed in getting the Bishop into court as a witness, either the Bishop must be crushed or he himself. The Bishop must be got to say why he had sent that low ribaldry to a clergyman in his parish. He must be asked whether he had himself believed it, or whether he had not believed it. He must be made to say that there existed no slightest reason for believing the insinuation contained; and then, having confessed so much, he must be asked why he had sent that letter to Bowick parsonage. If it were false as well as ribald, slanderous as well as vulgar, malicious as well as mean, was the sending of it a mode of communication between a bishop and a clergyman of which he as a bishop could approve? Questions such as these must be asked him; and the Doctor, as he walked alone, arranging these questions within his own bosom, putting them into the strongest language which he could find, almost assured himself that the Bishop would be crushed in answering them. The Bishop had made a great mistake. So the Doctor assured himself. He had been entrapped by bad advisers, and had fallen into a pit. He had gone wrong, and had lost himself. When cross-questioned, as the Doctor suggested to himself that he should be cross-questioned, the Bishop would have to own all this;—and then he would be crushed.

But did he really want to crush the Bishop? Had this man been so bitter an enemy to him that, having him on the hip, he wanted to strike him down altogether? In describing the man's character to his wife, as he had done in the fury of his indignation, he had acquitted the man of malice. He was sure now, in his calmer moments, that the man had not intended to do him harm. If it were left in the Bishop's bosom, his parish, his school, and his character would all be made safe to him. He was sure of that. There was none of the spirit of Mrs. Stantiloup in the feeling that had prevailed at the palace. The Bishop, who had never yet been able to be masterful over him, had desired in a mild way to become masterful. He had liked the opportunity of writing that affectionate letter. That reference to the "metropolitan press" had slipt from him unawares; and then, when badgered for his authority, when driven to give an instance from the London newspapers, he had sent the objectionable periodical. He had, in point of fact, made a mistake;—a stupid, foolish mistake, into which a really well-bred man would hardly have fallen. "Ought I to take advantage of it?" said the Doctor to himself when he had wandered for an hour or more alone through the wood. He certainly did not wish to be crushed himself. Ought he to be anxious to crush the Bishop because of this error?

"As for the paper," he said to himself, walking quicker as his mind turned to this side of the subject,—"as for the paper itself, it is beneath my notice. What is it to me what such a publication, or even the readers of it, may think of me? As for damages, I would rather starve than soil my hands with their money. Though it should succeed in ruining me, I could not accept redress in that shape." And thus having thought the matter fully over, he returned home, still wrathful, but with mitigated wrath.

A Saturday was fixed on which he should again go up to London to see the lawyer. He was obliged now to be particular about his days, as, in the absence of Mr. Peacocke, the school required his time. Saturday was a half-holiday, and on that day he could be absent on condition of remitting the classical lessons in the morning. As he thought of it all he began to be almost tired of Mr. Peacocke. Nevertheless, on the Saturday morning, before he started, he called on Mrs. Peacocke,—in company with his wife,—and treated her with all his usual cordial kindness. "Mrs. Wortle," he said, "is going up to town with me; but we shall be home to-night, and we will see you on Monday if not to-morrow." Mrs. Wortle was going with him, not with the view of being present at his interview with the lawyer, which she knew would not be allowed, but on the pretext of shopping. Her real reason for making the request to be taken up to town was, that she might use the last moment possible in mitigating her husband's wrath against the Bishop.

"I have seen one of the proprietors and the editor," said the lawyer, "and they are quite willing to apologise. I really do believe they are very sorry. The words had been allowed to pass without being weighed. Nothing beyond an innocent joke was intended."

"I dare say. It seems innocent enough to them. If soot be thrown at a chimney-sweeper the joke is innocent, but very offensive when it is thrown at you."

"They are quite aware that you have ground to complain. Of course you can go on if you like. The fact that they have offered to apologise will no doubt be a point in their favour. Nevertheless you would probably get a verdict."

"We could bring the Bishop into court?"

"I think so. You have got his letter speaking of the 'metropolitan press'?"

"Oh yes."

"It is for you to think, Dr. Wortle, whether there would not be a feeling against you among clergymen."

"Of course there will. Men in authority always have public sympathy with them in this country. No man more rejoices that it should be so than I do. But not the less is it necessary that now and again a man shall make a stand in his own defence. He should never have sent me that paper."

"Here," said the lawyer, "is the apology they propose to insert if you approve of it. They will also pay my bill,—which, however, will not, I am sorry to say, be very heavy." Then the lawyer handed to the Doctor a slip of paper, on which the following words were written;—

"Our attention has been called to a notice which was made in our impression of the — ultimo on the conduct of a clergyman in the diocese of Broughton. A joke was perpetrated which, we are sorry to find, has given offence where certainly no offence was intended. We have since heard all the details of the case to which reference was made, and are able to say that the conduct of the clergyman in question has deserved neither censure nor ridicule. Actuated by the purest charity he has proved himself a sincere friend to persons in great trouble."

"They'll put in your name if you wish it," said the lawyer, "or alter it in any way you like, so that they be not made to eat too much dirt."

"I do not want them to alter it," said the Doctor, sitting thoughtfully. "Their eating dirt will do no good to me. They are nothing to me. It is the Bishop." Then, as though he were not thinking of what he did, he tore the paper and threw the fragments down on the floor. "They are nothing to me."

"You will not accept their apology?" said the lawyer.

"Oh yes;—or rather, it is unnecessary. You may tell them that I have changed my mind, and that I will ask for no apology. As far as the paper is concerned, it will be better to let the thing die a natural death. I should never have troubled myself about the newspaper if the Bishop had not sent it to me. Indeed I had seen it before the Bishop sent it, and thought little or nothing of it. Animals will after their kind. The wasp stings, and the polecat stinks, and the lion tears its prey asunder. Such a paper as that of course follows its own bent. One would have thought that a bishop would have done the same."

"I may tell them that the action is withdrawn."

"Certainly; certainly. Tell them also that they will oblige me by putting in no apology. And as for your bill, I would prefer to pay it myself. I will exercise no anger against them. It is not they who in truth have injured me." As he returned home he was not altogether happy, feeling that the Bishop would escape him; but he made his wife happy by telling her the decision to which he had come.



CHAPTER IV.

"IT IS IMPOSSIBLE."

THE absence of Dr. and Mrs. Wortle was peculiarly unfortunate on that afternoon, as a visitor rode over from a distance to make a call,—a visitor whom they both would have been very glad to welcome, but of whose coming Mrs. Wortle was not so delighted to hear when she was told by Mary that he had spent two or three hours at the Rectory. Mrs. Wortle began to think whether the visitor could have known of her intended absence and the Doctor's. That Mary had not known that the visitor was coming she was quite certain. Indeed she did not really suspect the visitor, who was one too ingenuous in his nature to preconcert so subtle and so wicked a scheme. The visitor, of course, had been Lord Carstairs.

"Was he here long?" asked Mrs. Wortle anxiously.

"Two or three hours, mamma. He rode over from Buttercup where he is staying, for a cricket match, and of course I got him some lunch."

"I should hope so," said the Doctor. "But I didn't think that Carstairs was so fond of the Momson lot as all that."

Mrs. Wortle at once doubted the declared purpose of this visit to Buttercup. Buttercup was more than half-way between Carstairs and Bowick.

"And then we had a game of lawn-tennis. Talbot and Monk came through to make up sides." So much Mary told at once, but she did not tell more till she was alone with her mother.

Young Carstairs had certainly not come over on the sly, as we may call it, but nevertheless there had been a project in his mind, and fortune had favoured him. He was now about nineteen, and had been treated for the last twelve months almost as though he had been a man. It had seemed to him that there was no possible reason why he should not fall in love as well as another. Nothing more sweet, nothing more lovely, nothing more lovable than Mary Wortle had he ever seen. He had almost made up his mind to speak on two or three occasions before he left Bowick; but either his courage or the occasion had failed him. Once, as he was walking home with her from church, he had said one word;—but it had amounted to nothing. She had escaped from him before she was bound to understand what he meant. He did not for a moment suppose that she had understood anything. He was only too much afraid that she regarded him as a mere boy. But when he had been away from Bowick two months he resolved that he would not be regarded as a mere boy any longer. Therefore he took an opportunity of going to Buttercup, which he certainly would not have done for the sake of the Momsons or for the sake of the cricket.

He ate his lunch before he said a word, and then, with but poor grace, submitted to the lawn-tennis with Talbot and Monk. Even to his youthful mind it seemed that Talbot and Monk were brought in on purpose. They were both of them boys he had liked, but he hated them now. However, he played his game, and when that was over, managed to get rid of them, sending them back through the gate to the school-ground.

"I think I must say good-bye now," said Mary, "because there are ever so many things in the house which I have got to do."

"I am going almost immediately," said the young lord.

"Papa will be so sorry not to have seen you." This had been said once or twice before.

"I came over," he said, "on purpose to see you."

They were now standing on the middle of the lawn, and Mary had assumed a look which intended to signify that she expected him to go. He knew the place well enough to get his own horse, or to order the groom to get it for him. But instead of that, he stood his ground, and now declared his purpose.

"To see me, Lord Carstairs!"

"Yes, Miss Wortle. And if the Doctor had been here, or your mother, I should have told them."

"Have told them what?" she asked. She knew; she felt sure that she knew; and yet she could not refrain from the question.

"I have come here to ask if you can love me."

It was a most decided way of declaring his purpose, and one which made Mary feel that a great difficulty was at once thrown upon her. She really did not know whether she could love him or not. Why shouldn't she have been able to love him? Was it not natural enough that she should be able? But she knew that she ought not to love him, whether able or not. There were various reasons which were apparent enough to her though it might be very difficult to make him see them. He was little more than a boy, and had not yet finished his education. His father and mother would not expect him to fall in love, at any rate till he had taken his degree. And they certainly would not expect him to fall in love with the daughter of his tutor. She had an idea that, circumstanced as she was, she was bound by loyalty both to her own father and to the lad's father not to be able to love him. She thought that she would find it easy enough to say that she did not love him; but that was not the question. As for being able to love him,—she could not answer that at all.

"Lord Carstairs," she said, severely, "you ought not to have come here when papa and mamma are away."

"I didn't know they were away. I expected to find them here."

"But they ain't. And you ought to go away."

"Is that all you can say to me?"

"I think it is. You know you oughtn't to talk to me like that. Your own papa and mamma would be angry if they knew it."

"Why should they be angry? Do you think that I shall not tell them?"

"I am sure they would disapprove it altogether," said Mary. "In fact it is all nonsense, and you really must go away."

Then she made a decided attempt to enter the house by the drawing-room window, which opened out on a gravel terrace.

But he stopped her, standing boldly by the window. "I think you ought to give me an answer, Mary," he said.

"I have; and I cannot say anything more. You must let me go in."

"If they say that it's all right at Carstairs, then will you love me?"

"They won't say that it's all right; and papa won't think that it's right. It's very wrong. You haven't been to Oxford yet, and you'll have to remain there for three years. I think it's very ill-natured of you to come and talk to me like this. Of course it means nothing. You are only a boy, but yet you ought to know better."

"It does mean something. It means a great deal. As for being a boy, I am older than you are, and have quite as much right to know my own mind."

Hereupon she took advantage of some little movement in his position, and, tripping by him hastily, made good her escape into the house. Young Carstairs, perceiving that his occasion for the present was over, went into the yard and got upon his horse. He was by no means contented with what he had done, but still he thought that he must have made her understand his purpose.

Mary, when she found herself safe within her own room, could not refrain from asking herself the question which her lover had asked her. "Could she love him?" She didn't see any reason why she couldn't love him. It would be very nice, she thought, to love him. He was sweet-tempered, handsome, bright, and thoroughly good-humoured; and then his position in the world was very high. Not for a moment did she tell herself that she would love him. She did not understand all the differences in the world's ranks quite as well as did her father, but still she felt that because of his rank,—because of his rank and his youth combined,—she ought not to allow herself to love him. There was no reason why the son of a peer should not marry the daughter of a clergyman. The peer and the clergyman might be equally gentlemen. But young Carstairs had been there in trust. Lord Bracy had sent him there to be taught Latin and Greek, and had a right to expect that he should not be encouraged to fall in love with his tutor's daughter. It was not that she did not think herself good enough to be loved by any young lord, but that she was too good to bring trouble on the people who had trusted her father. Her father would despise her were he to hear that she had encouraged the lad, or as some might say, had entangled him. She did not know whether she should not have spoken to Lord Carstairs more decidedly. But she could, at any rate, comfort herself with the assurance that she had given him no encouragement. Of course she must tell it all to her mother, but in doing so could declare positively that she had given the young man no encouragement.

"It was very unfortunate that Lord Carstairs should have come just when I was away," said Mrs. Wortle to her daughter as soon as they were alone together.

"Yes, mamma; it was."

"And so odd. I haven't been away from home any day all the summer before."

"He expected to find you."

"Of course he did. Had he anything particular to say!"

"Yes, mamma."

"He had? What was it, my dear?"

"I was very much surprised, mamma, but I couldn't help it. He asked me——"

"Asked you what, Mary?"

"Oh, mamma!" Here she knelt down and hid her face in her mother's lap.

"Oh, my dear, this is very bad;—very bad indeed."

"It needn't be bad for you, mamma; or for papa."

"Is it bad for you, my child?"

"No, mamma; except of course that I am sorry that it should be so."

"What did you say to him?"

"Of course I told him that it was impossible. He is only a boy, and I told him so."

"You made him no promise."

"No, mamma; no! A promise! Oh dear no! Of course it is impossible. I knew that. I never dreamed of anything of the kind; but he said it all there out on the lawn."

"Had he come on purpose?"

"Yes;—so he said. I think he had. But he will go to Oxford, and will of course forget it."

"He is such a nice boy," said Mrs. Wortle, who, in all her anxiety, could not but like the lad the better for having fallen in love with her daughter.

"Yes, mamma; he is. I always liked him. But this is quite out of the question. What would his papa and mamma say?"

"It would be very dreadful to have a quarrel, wouldn't it,—and just at present, when there are so many things to trouble your papa." Though Mrs. Wortle was quite honest and true in the feeling she had expressed as to the young lord's visit, yet she was alive to the glory of having a young lord for her son-in-law.

"Of course it is out of the question, mamma. It has never occurred to me for a moment as otherwise. He has got to go to Oxford and take his degree before he thinks of such a thing. I shall be quite an old woman by that time, and he will have forgotten me. You may be sure, mamma, that whatever I did say to him was quite plain. I wish you could have been here and heard it all, and seen it all."

"My darling," said the mother, embracing her, "I could not believe you more thoroughly even though I saw it all, and heard it all."

That night Mrs. Wortle felt herself constrained to tell the whole story to her husband. It was indeed impossible for her to keep any secret from her husband. When Mary, in her younger years, had torn her frock or cut her finger, that was always told to the Doctor. If a gardener was seen idling his time, or a housemaid flirting with the groom, that certainly would be told to the Doctor. What comfort does a woman get out of her husband unless she may be allowed to talk to him about everything? When it had been first proposed that Lord Carstairs should come into the house as a private pupil she had expressed her fear to the Doctor,—because of Mary. The Doctor had ridiculed her fears, and this had been the result. Of course she must tell the Doctor. "Oh, dear," she said, "what do you think has happened while we were up in London?"