"Are they, mamma?"

"But I do think that he is a lad of very high principle."

"Papa has always said that of him."

"And of fine generous feeling. He would not change like a weather-cock."

"If you think he would change at all, I would rather,—rather,—rather——. Oh, mamma, why did you tell me?"

"My darling, my child, my angel! What am I to tell you? I do think of all the young men I ever knew he is the nicest, and the sweetest, and the most thoroughly good and affectionate."

"Oh, mamma, do you?" said Mary, rushing at her mother and kissing her and embracing her.

"But if there were to be no regular engagement, and you were to let him have your heart,—and then things were to go wrong!"

Mary left the embracings, gave up the kissings, and seated herself on the sofa alone. In this way the morning was passed;—and when Mary was summoned to her father's study, the mother and daughter had not arrived between them at any decision.

"Well, my dear," said the Doctor, smiling, "what am I to say to the Earl?"

"Must you write to-day, papa?"

"I think so. His letter is one that should not be left longer unanswered. Were we to do so, he would only think that we didn't know what to say for ourselves."

"Would he, papa?"

"He would fancy that we are half-ashamed to accept what has been offered to us, and yet anxious to take it."

"I am not ashamed of anything."

"No, my dear; you have no reason."

"Nor have you, papa."

"Nor have I. That is quite true. I have never been wont to be ashamed of myself;—nor do I think that you ever will have cause to be ashamed of yourself. Therefore, why should we hesitate? Shall I help you, my darling, in coming to a decision on the matter?"

"Yes, papa."

"If I can understand your heart on this matter, it has never as yet been given to this young man."

"No, papa." This Mary said not altogether with that complete power of asseveration which the negative is sometimes made to bear.

"But there must be a beginning to such things. A man throws himself into it headlong,—as my Lord Carstairs seems to have done. At least all the best young men do." Mary at this point felt a great longing to get up and kiss her father; but she restrained herself. "A young woman, on the other hand, if she is such as I think you are, waits till she is asked. Then it has to begin." The Doctor, as he said this, smiled his sweetest smile.

"Yes, papa."

"And when it has begun, she does not like to blurt it out at once, even to her loving old father."

"Papa!"

"That's about it, isn't it? Haven't I hit it off?" He paused, as though for a reply, but she was not as yet able to make him any. "Come here, my dear." She came and stood by him, so that he could put his arm round her waist. "If it be as I suppose, you are better disposed to this young man than you are likely to be to any other, just at present."

"Oh yes, papa."

"To all others you are quite indifferent?"

"Yes,—indeed, papa."

"I am sure you are. But not quite indifferent to this one? Give me a kiss, my darling, and I will take that for your speech." Then she kissed him,—giving him her very best kiss. "And now, my child, what shall I say to the Earl?"

"I don't know, papa."

"Nor do I, quite. I never do know what to say till I've got the pen in my hand. But you'll commission me to write as I may think best?"

"Oh yes, papa."

"And I may presume that I know your mind?"

"Yes, papa."

"Very well. Then you had better leave me, so that I can go to work with the paper straight before me, and my pen fixed in my fingers. I can never begin to think till I find myself in that position." Then she left him, and went back to her mother.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Wortle.

"He is going to write to Lord Bracy."

"But what does he mean to say?"

"I don't know at all, mamma."

"Not know!"

"I think he means to tell Lord Bracy that he has got no objection."

Then Mrs. Wortle was sure that the Doctor meant to face all the dangers, and that therefore it would behove her to face them also.

The Doctor, when he was left alone, sat a while thinking of the matter before he put himself into the position fitted for composition which he had described to his daughter. He acknowledged to himself that there was a difficulty in making a fit reply to the letter which he had to answer. When his mind was set on sending an indignant epistle to the Bishop, the words flew from him like lightning out of the thunder-clouds. But now he had to think much of it before he could make any light to come which should not bear a different colour from that which he intended. "Of course such a marriage would suit my child, and would suit me," he wished to say;—"not only, or not chiefly, because your son is a nobleman, and will be an earl and a man of great property. That goes a long way with us. We are too true to deny it. We hate humbug, and want you to know simply the truth about us. The title and the money go far,—but not half so far as the opinion which we entertain of the young man's own good gifts. I would not give my girl to the greatest and richest nobleman under the British Crown, if I did not think that he would love her and be good to her, and treat her as a husband should treat his wife. But believing this young man to have good gifts such as these, and a fine disposition, I am willing, on my girl's behalf,—and she also is willing,—to encounter the acknowledged danger of a long engagement in the hope of realising all the good things which would, if things went fortunately, thus come within her reach." This was what he wanted to say to the Earl, but he found it very difficult to say it in language that should be natural.

"MY DEAR LORD BRACY,—When I learned, through Mary's mother, that Carstairs had been here in our absence and made a declaration of love to our girl, I was, I must confess, annoyed. I felt, in the first place, that he was too young to have taken in hand such a business as that; and, in the next, that you might not unnaturally have been angry that your son, who had come here simply for tuition, should have fallen into a matter of love. I imagine that you will understand exactly what were my feelings. There was, however, nothing to be said about it. The evil, so far as it was an evil, had been done, and Carstairs was going away to Oxford, where, possibly, he might forget the whole affair. I did not, at any rate, think it necessary to make a complaint to you of his coming.

"To all this your letter has given altogether a different aspect. I think that I am as little likely as another to spend my time or thoughts in looking for external advantages, but I am as much alive as another to the great honour to myself and advantage to my child of the marriage which is suggested to her. I do not know how any more secure prospect of happiness could be opened to her than that which such a marriage offers. I have thought myself bound to give her your letter to read because her heart and her imagination have naturally been affected by what your son said to her. I think I may say of my girl that none sweeter, none more innocent, none less likely to be over-anxious for such a prospect could exist. But her heart has been touched; and though she had not dreamt of him but as an acquaintance till he came here and told his own tale, and though she then altogether declined to entertain his proposal when it was made, now that she has learnt so much more through you, she is no longer indifferent. This, I think, you will find to be natural.

"I and her mother also are of course alive to the dangers of a long engagement, and the more so because your son has still before him a considerable portion of his education. Had he asked advice either of you or of me he would of course have been counselled not to think of marriage as yet. But the very passion which has prompted him to take this action upon himself shows,—as you yourself say of him,—that he has a stronger will than is usual to be found at his years. As it is so, it is probable that he may remain constant to this as to a fixed idea.

"I think you will now understand my mind and Mary's and her mother's." Lord Bracy as he read this declared to himself that though the Doctor's mind was very clear, Mrs. Wortle, as far as he knew, had no mind in the matter at all. "I would suggest that the affair should remain as it is, and that each of the young people should be made to understand that any future engagement must depend, not simply on the persistency of one of them, but on the joint persistency of the two.

"If, after this, Lady Bracy should be pleased to receive Mary at Carstairs, I need not say that Mary will be delighted to make the visit.—Believe me, my dear Lord Bracy, yours most faithfully.

"JEFFREY WORTLE."

The Earl, when he read this, though there was not a word in it to which he could take exception, was not altogether pleased. "Of course it will be an engagement," he said to his wife.

"Of course it will," said the Countess. "But then Carstairs is so very much in earnest. He would have done it for himself if you hadn't done it for him."

"At any rate the Doctor is a gentleman," the Earl said, comforting himself.



CHAPTER XI.

MR. PEACOCKE'S RETURN.

THE Earl's rejoinder to the Doctor was very short: "So let it be." There was not another word in the body of the letter; but there was appended to it a postscript almost equally short; "Lady Bracy will write to Mary and settle with her some period for her visit." And so it came to be understood by the Doctor, by Mrs. Wortle, and by Mary herself, that Mary was engaged to Lord Carstairs.

The Doctor, having so far arranged the matter, said little or nothing more on the subject, but turned his mind at once to that other affair of Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke. It was evident to his wife, who probably alone understood the buoyancy of his spirit and its corresponding susceptibility to depression, that he at once went about Mr. Peacocke's affairs with renewed courage. Mr. Peacocke should resume his duties as soon as he was remarried, and let them see what Mrs. Stantiloup or the Bishop would dare to say then! It was impossible, he thought, that parents would be such asses as to suppose that their boys' morals could be affected to evil by connection with a man so true, so gallant, and so manly as this. He did not at this time say anything further as to abandoning the school, but seemed to imagine that the vacancies would get themselves filled up as in the course of nature. He ate his dinner again as though he liked it, and abused the Liberals, and was anxious about the grapes and peaches, as was always the case with him when things were going well. All this, as Mrs. Wortle understood, had come to him from the brilliancy of Mary's prospects.

But though he held his tongue on the subject, Mrs. Wortle did not. She found it absolutely impossible not to talk of it when she was alone with Mary, or alone with the Doctor. As he counselled her not to make Mary think too much about it, she was obliged to hold her peace when both were with her; but with either of them alone she was always full of it. To the Doctor she communicated all her fears and all her doubts, showing only too plainly that she would be altogether broken-hearted if anything should interfere with the grandeur and prosperity which seemed to be partly within reach, but not altogether within reach of her darling child. If he, Carstairs, should prove to be a recreant young lord! If Aristotle and Socrates should put love out of his heart! If those other wicked young lords at Christ-Church were to teach him that it was a foolish thing for a young lord to become engaged to his tutor's daughter before he had taken his degree! If some better born young lady were to come in his way and drive Mary out of his heart! No more lovely or better girl could be found to do so;—of that she was sure. To the latter assertion the Doctor agreed, telling her that, as it was so, she ought to have a stronger trust in her daughter's charms,—telling her also, with somewhat sterner voice, that she should not allow herself to be so disturbed by the glories of the Bracy coronet. In this there was, I think, some hypocrisy. Had the Doctor been as simple as his wife in showing her own heart, it would probably have been found that he was as much set upon the coronet as she.

Then Mrs. Wortle would carry the Doctor's wisdom to her daughter. "Papa says, my dear, that you shouldn't think of it too much."

"I do think of him, mamma. I do love him now, and of course I think of him."

"Of course you do, my dear;—of course you do. How should you not think of him when he is all in all to you? But papa means that it can hardly be called an engagement yet."

"I don't know what it should be called; but of course I love him. He can change it if he likes."

"But you shouldn't think of it, knowing his rank and wealth."

"I never did, mamma; but he is what he is, and I must think of him."

Poor Mrs. Wortle did not know what special advice to give when this declaration was made. To have held her tongue would have been the wisest, but that was impossible to her. Out of the full heart the mouth speaks, and her heart was very full of Lord Carstairs and of Carstairs House, and of the diamonds which her daughter would certainly be called upon to wear before the Queen,—if only that young man would do his duty.

Poor Mary herself probably had the worst of it. No provision was made either for her to see her lover or to write to him. The only interview which had ever taken place between them as lovers was that on which she had run by him into the house, leaving him, as the Earl had said, planted on the terrace. She had never been able to whisper one single soft word into his ear, to give him even one touch of her fingers in token of her affection. She did not in the least know when she might be allowed to see him,—whether it had not been settled among the elders that they were not to see each other as real lovers till he should have taken his degree,—which would be almost in a future world, so distant seemed the time. It had been already settled that she was to go to Carstairs in the middle of November and stay till the middle of December; but it was altogether settled that her lover was not to be at Carstairs during the time. He was to be at Oxford then, and would be thinking only of his Greek and Latin,—or perhaps amusing himself, in utter forgetfulness that he had a heart belonging to him at Bowick Parsonage. In this way Mary, though no doubt she thought the most of it all, had less opportunity of talking of it than either her father or her mother.

In the mean time Mr. Peacocke was coming home. The Doctor, as soon as he heard that the day was fixed, or nearly fixed, being then, as has been explained, in full good humour with all the world except Mrs. Stantiloup and the Bishop, bethought himself as to what steps might best be taken in the very delicate matter in which he was called upon to give advice. He had declared at first that they should be married at his own parish church; but he felt that there would be difficulties in this. "She must go up to London and meet him there," he said to Mrs. Wortle. "And he must not show himself here till he brings her down as his actual wife." Then there was very much to be done in arranging all this. And something to be done also in making those who had been his friends, and perhaps more in making those who had been his enemies, understand exactly how the matter stood. Had no injury been inflicted upon him, as though he had done evil to the world in general in befriending Mr. Peacocke, he would have been quite willing to pass the matter over in silence among his friends; but as it was he could not afford to hide his own light under a bushel. He was being punished almost to the extent of ruin by the cruel injustice which had been done him by the evil tongue of Mrs. Stantiloup, and, as he thought, by the folly of the Bishop. He must now let those who had concerned themselves know as accurately as he could what he had done in the matter, and what had been the effect of his doing. He wrote a letter, therefore, which was not, however, to be posted till after the Peacocke marriage had been celebrated, copies of which he prepared with his own hand in order that he might send them to the Bishop and to Lady Anne Clifford, and to Mr. Talbot and,—not, indeed, to Mrs. Stantiloup, but to Mrs. Stantiloup's husband. There was a copy also made for Mr. Momson, though in his heart he despised Mr. Momson thoroughly. In this letter he declared the great respect which he had entertained, since he had first known them, both for Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke, and the distress which he had felt when Mr. Peacocke had found himself obliged to explain to him the facts,—the facts which need not be repeated, because the reader is so well acquainted with them. "Mr. Peacocke," he went on to say, "has since been to America, and has found that the man whom he believed to be dead when he married his wife, has died since his calamitous reappearance. Mr. Peacocke has seen the man's grave, with the stone on it bearing his name, and has brought back with him certificates and evidence as to his burial.

"Under these circumstances, I have no hesitation in re-employing both him and his wife; and I think that you will agree that I could not do less. I think you will agree, also, that in the whole transaction I have done nothing of which the parent of any boy intrusted to me has a right to complain."

Having done this, he went up to London, and made arrangements for having the marriage celebrated there as soon as possible after the arrival of Mr. Peacocke. And on his return to Bowick, he went off to Mr. Puddicombe with a copy of his letter in his pocket. He had not addressed a copy to his friend, nor had he intended that one should be sent to him. Mr. Puddicombe had not interfered in regard to the boys, and had, on the whole, shown himself to be a true friend. There was no need for him to advocate his cause to Mr. Puddicombe. But it was right, he thought, that that gentleman should know what he did; and it might be that he hoped that he would at length obtain some praise from Mr. Puddicombe. But Mr. Puddicombe did not like the letter. "It does not tell the truth," he said.

"Not the truth!"

"Not the whole truth."

"As how! Where have I concealed anything?"

"If I understand the question rightly, they who have thought proper to take their children away from your school because of Mr. Peacocke, have done so because that gentleman continued to live with that lady when they both knew that they were not man and wife."

"That wasn't my doing."

"You condoned it. I am not condemning you. You condoned it, and now you defend yourself in this letter. But in your defence you do not really touch the offence as to which you are, according to your own showing, accused. In telling the whole story, you should say; 'They did live together though they were not married;—and, under all the circumstances, I did not think that they were on that account unfit to be left in charge of my boys."'

"But I sent him away immediately,—to America."

"You allowed the lady to remain."

"Then what would you have me say?" demanded the Doctor.

"Nothing," said Mr. Puddicombe;—"not a word. Live it down in silence. There will be those, like myself, who, though they could not dare to say that in morals you were strictly correct, will love you the better for what you did." The Doctor turned his face towards the dry, hard-looking man and showed that there was a tear in each of his eyes. "There are few of us not so infirm as sometimes to love best that which is not best. But when a man is asked a downright question, he is bound to answer the truth."

"You would say nothing in your own defence."

"Not a word. You know the French proverb: 'Who excuses himself is his own accuser.' The truth generally makes its way. As far as I can see, a slander never lives long."

"Ten of my boys are gone!" said the Doctor, who had not hitherto spoken a word of this to any one out of his own family;—"ten out of twenty."

"That will only be a temporary loss."

"That is nothing,—nothing. It is the idea that the school should be failing."

"They will come again. I do not believe that that letter would bring a boy. I am almost inclined to say, Dr. Wortle, that a man should never defend himself."

"He should never have to defend himself."

"It is much the same thing. But I'll tell you what I'll do, Dr. Wortle,—if it will suit your plans. I will go up with you and will assist at the marriage. I do not for a moment think that you will require any countenance, or that if you did, that I could give it you."

"No man that I know so efficiently."

"But it may be that Mr. Peacocke will like to find that the clergymen from his neighbourhood are standing with him." And so it was settled, that when the day should come on which the Doctor would take Mrs. Peacocke up with him to London, Mr. Puddicombe was to accompany them.

The Doctor when he left Mr. Puddicombe's parsonage had by no means pledged himself not to send the letters. When a man has written a letter, and has taken some trouble with it, and more specially when he has copied it several times himself so as to have made many letters of it,—when he has argued his point successfully to himself, and has triumphed in his own mind, as was likely to be the case with Dr. Wortle in all that he did, he does not like to make waste paper of his letters. As he rode home he tried to persuade himself that he might yet use them. He could not quite admit his friend's point. Mr. Peacocke, no doubt, had known his own condition, and him a strict moralist might condemn. But he,—he,—Dr. Wortle,—had known nothing. All that he had done was not to condemn the other man when he did know!

Nevertheless as he rode into his own yard, he made up his mind that he would burn the letters. He had shown them to no one else. He had not even mentioned them to his wife. He could burn them without condemning himself in the opinion of any one. And he burned them. When Mr. Puddicombe found him at the station at Broughton as they were about to proceed to London with Mrs. Peacocke, he simply whispered the fate of the letters. "After what you said I destroyed what I had written."

"Perhaps it was as well," said Mr. Puddicombe.

When the telegram came to say that Mr. Peacocke was at Liverpool, Mrs. Peacocke was anxious immediately to rush up to London. But she was restrained by the Doctor,—or rather by Mrs. Wortle under the Doctor's orders. "No, my dear; no. You must not go till all will be ready for you to meet him in the church. The Doctor says so."

"Am I not to see him till he comes up to the altar?"

On this there was another consultation between Mrs. Wortle and the Doctor, at which she explained how impossible it would be for the woman to go through the ceremony with due serenity and propriety of manner unless she should be first allowed to throw herself into his arms, and to welcome him back to her. "Yes," she said, "he can come and see you at the hotel on the evening before, and again in the morning,—so that if there be a word to say you can say it. Then when it is over he will bring you down here. The Doctor and Mr. Puddicombe will come down by a later train. Of course it is painful," said Mrs. Wortle, "but you must bear up." To her it seemed to be so painful that she was quite sure that she could not have borne it. To be married for the third time, and for the second time to the same husband! To Mrs. Peacocke, as she thought of it, the pain did not so much rest in that, as in the condition of life which these things had forced upon her.

"I must go up to town to-morrow, and must be away for two days," said the Doctor out loud in the school, speaking immediately to one of the ushers, but so that all the boys present might hear him. "I trust that we shall have Mr. Peacocke with us the day after to-morrow."

"We shall be very glad of that," said the usher.

"And Mrs. Peacocke will come and eat her dinner again like before?" asked a little boy.

"I hope so, Charley."

"We shall like that, because she has to eat it all by herself now."

All the school, down even to Charley, the smallest boy in it, knew all about it. Mr. Peacocke had gone to America, and Mrs. Peacocke was going up to London to be married once more to her own husband,—and the Doctor and Mr. Puddicombe were both going to marry them. The usher of course knew the details more clearly than that,—as did probably the bigger boys. There had even been a rumour of the photograph which had been seen by one of the maid-servants,—who had, it is to be feared, given the information to the French teacher. So much, however, the Doctor had felt it wise to explain, not thinking it well that Mr. Peacocke should make his reappearance among them without notice.

On the afternoon of the next day but one, Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke were driven up to the school in one of the Broughton flys. She went quickly up into her own house, when Mr. Peacocke walked into the school. The boys clustered round him, and the three assistants, and every word said to him was kind and friendly;—but in the whole course of his troubles there had never been a moment to him more difficult than this,—in which he found it so nearly impossible to say anything or to say nothing. "Yes, I have been over very many miles since I saw you last." This was an answer to young Talbot, who asked him whether he had not been a great traveller whilst he was away.

"In America," suggested the French usher, who had heard of the photograph, and knew very well where it had been taken.

"Yes, in America."

"All the way to San Francisco," suggested Charley.

"All the way to San Francisco, Charley,—and back again."

"Yes; I know you're come back again," said Charley, "because I see you here."

"There are only twenty boys this half," said one of the twenty.

"Then I shall have more time to attend to you now."

"I suppose so," said the lad, not seeming to find any special consolation in that view of the matter.

Painful as this first re-introduction had been, there was not much more in it than that. No questions were asked, and no explanations expected. It may be that Mrs. Stantiloup was affected with fresh moral horrors when she heard of the return, and that the Bishop said that the Doctor was foolish and headstrong as ever. It may be that there was a good deal of talk about it in the Close at Broughton. But at the school there was very little more said about it than what has been stated above.



CHAPTER XII.

MARY'S SUCCESS.

IN this last chapter of our short story I will venture to run rapidly over a few months so as to explain how the affairs of Bowick arranged themselves up to the end of the current year. I cannot pretend that the reader shall know, as he ought to be made to know, the future fate and fortunes of our personages. They must be left still struggling. But then is not such always in truth the case, even when the happy marriage has been celebrated?—even when, in the course of two rapid years, two normal children make their appearance to gladden the hearts of their parents?

Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke fell into their accustomed duties in the diminished school, apparently without difficulty. As the Doctor had not sent those ill-judged letters he of course received no replies, and was neither troubled by further criticism nor consoled by praise as to his conduct. Indeed, it almost seemed to him as though the thing, now that it was done, excited less observation than it deserved. He heard no more of the metropolitan press, and was surprised to find that the 'Broughton Gazette' inserted only a very short paragraph, in which it stated that "they had been given to understand that Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke had resumed their usual duties at the Bowick School, after the performance of an interesting ceremony in London, at which Dr. Wortle and Mr. Puddicombe had assisted." The press, as far as the Doctor was aware, said nothing more on the subject. And if remarks injurious to his conduct were made by the Stantiloups and the Momsons, they did not reach his ears. Very soon after the return of the Peacockes there was a grand dinner-party at the palace, to which the Doctor and his wife were invited. It was not a clerical dinner-party, and so the honour was the greater. The aristocracy of the neighbourhood were there, including Lady Anne Clifford, who was devoted, with almost repentant affection, to her old friend. And Lady Margaret Momson was there, the only clergyman's wife besides his own, who declared to him with unblushing audacity that she had never regretted anything so much in her life as that Augustus should have been taken away from the school. It was evident that there had been an intention at the palace to make what amends the palace could for the injuries it had done.

"Did Lady Anne say anything about the boys?" asked Mrs. Wortle, as they were going home.

"She was going to, but I would not let her. I managed to show her that I did not wish it, and she was clever enough to stop."

"I shouldn't wonder if she sent them back," said Mrs. Wortle.

"She won't do that. Indeed, I doubt whether I should take them. But if it should come to pass that she should wish to send them back, you may be sure that others will come. In such a matter she is very good as a weathercock, showing how the wind blows." In this way the dinner-party at the palace was in a degree comforting and consolatory.

But an incident which of all was most comforting and most consolatory to one of the inhabitants of the parsonage took place two or three days after the dinner-party. On going out of his own hall-door one Saturday afternoon, immediately after lunch, whom should the Doctor see driving himself into the yard in a hired gig from Broughton—but young Lord Carstairs. There had been no promise, or absolute compact made, but it certainly had seemed to be understood by all of them that Carstairs was not to show himself at Bowick till at some long distant period, when he should have finished all the trouble of his education. It was understood even that he was not to be at Carstairs during Mary's visit,—so imperative was it that the young people should not meet. And now here he was getting out of a gig in the Rectory yard! "Halloa! Carstairs, is that you?"

"Yes, Dr. Wortle,—here I am."

"We hardly expected to see you, my boy."

"No,—I suppose not. But when I heard that Mr. Peacocke had come back, and all about his marriage, you know, I could not but come over to see him. He and I have always been such great friends."

"Oh,—to see Mr. Peacocke?"

"I thought he'd think it unkind if I didn't look him up. He has made it all right; hasn't he?"

"Yes;—he has made it all right, I think. A finer fellow never lived. But he'll tell you all about it. He travelled with a pistol in his pocket, and seemed to want it too. I suppose you must come in and see the ladies after we have been to Peacocke?"

"I suppose I can just see them," said the young lord, as though moved by equal anxiety as to the mother and as to the daughter.

"I'll leave word that you are here, and then we'll go into the school." So the Doctor found a servant, and sent what message he thought fit into the house.

"Lord Carstairs here?"

"Yes, indeed, Miss! He's with your papa, going across to the school. He told me to take word in to Missus that he supposes his lordship will stay to dinner." The maid who carried the tidings, and who had received no commission to convey them to Miss Mary, was, no doubt, too much interested in an affair of love, not to take them first to the one that would be most concerned with them.

That very morning Mary had been bemoaning herself as to her hard condition. Of what use was it to her to have a lover, if she was never to see him, never to hear from him,—only to be told about him,—that she was not to think of him more than she could help? She was already beginning to think that a long engagement carried on after this fashion would have more of suffering in it than she had anticipated. It seemed to her that while she was, and always would be, thinking of him, he never, never would continue to think of her. If it could be only a word once a month it would be something,—just one or two written words under an envelope,—even that would have sufficed to keep her hope alive! But never to see him;—never to hear from him! Her mother had told her that very morning that there was to be no meeting,—probably for three years, till he should have done with Oxford. And here he was in the house,—and her papa had sent in word to say that he was to eat his dinner there! It so astonished her that she felt that she would be afraid to meet him. Before she had had a minute to think of it all, her mother was with her. "Carstairs, love, is here!"

"Oh mamma, what has brought him?"

"He has gone into the school with your papa to see Mr. Peacocke. He always was very fond of Mr. Peacocke." For a moment something of a feeling of jealousy crossed her heart,—but only for a moment. He would not surely have come to Bowick if he had begun to be indifferent to her already! "Papa says that he will probably stay to dinner."

"Then I am to see him?"

"Yes;—of course you must see him."

"I didn't know, mamma."

"Don't you wish to see him?"

"Oh yes, mamma. If he were to come and go, and we were not to meet at all, I should think it was all over then. Only,—I don't know what to say to him."

"You must take that as it comes, my dear."

Two hours afterwards they were walking, the two of them alone together, out in the Bowick woods. When once the law,—which had been rather understood than spoken,—had been infringed and set at naught, there was no longer any use in endeavouring to maintain a semblance of its restriction. The two young people had met in the presence both of the father and mother, and the lover had had her in his arms before either of them could interfere. There had been a little scream from Mary, but it may probably be said of her that she was at the moment the happiest young lady in the diocese.

"Does your father know you are here?" said the Doctor, as he led the young lord back from the school into the house.

"He knows I'm coming, for I wrote and told my mother. I always tell everything; but it's sometimes best to make up your mind before you get an answer." Then the Doctor made up his mind that Lord Carstairs would have his own way in anything that he wished to accomplish.

"Won't the Earl be angry?" Mrs. Wortle asked.

"No;—not angry. He knows the world too well not to be quite sure that something of the kind would happen. And he is too fond of his son not to think well of anything that he does. It wasn't to be supposed that they should never meet. After all that has passed I am bound to make him welcome if he chooses to come here, and as Mary's lover to give him the best welcome that I can. He won't stay, I suppose, because he has got no clothes."

"But he has;—John brought in a portmanteau and a dressing-bag out of the gig." So that was settled.

In the mean time Lord Carstairs had taken Mary out for a walk into the wood, and she, as she walked beside him, hardly knew whether she was going on her head or her heels. This, indeed, it was to have a lover. In the morning she was thinking that when three years were past he would hardly care to see her ever again. And now they were together among the falling leaves, and sitting about under the branches as though there was nothing in the world to separate them. Up to that day there had never been a word between them but such as is common to mere acquaintances, and now he was calling her every instant by her Christian name, and telling her all his secrets.

"We have such jolly woods at Carstairs," he said; "but we shan't be able to sit down when we're there, because it will be winter. We shall be hunting, and you must come out and see us."

"But you won't be there when I am," she said, timidly.

"Won't I? That's all you know about it. I can manage better than that."

"You'll be at Oxford."

"You must stay over Christmas, Mary; that's what you must do. You musn't think of going till January."

"But Lady Bracy won't want me."

"Yes, she will. We must make her want you. At any rate they'll understand this; if you don't stay for me, I shall come home even if it's in the middle of term. I'll arrange that. You don't suppose I'm not going to be there when you make your first visit to the old place."

All this was being in Paradise. She felt when she walked home with him, and when she was alone afterwards in her own room, that, in truth, she had only liked him before. Now she loved him. Now she was beginning to know him, and to feel that she would really,—really die of a broken heart if anything were to rob her of him. But she could let him go now, without a feeling of discomfort, if she thought that she was to see him again when she was at Carstairs.

But this was not the last walk in the woods, even on this occasion. He remained two days at Bowick, so necessary was it for him to renew his intimacy with Mr. Peacocke. He explained that he had got two days' leave from the tutor of his College, and that two days, in College parlance, always meant three. He would be back on the third day, in time for "gates"; and that was all which the strictest college discipline would require of him. It need hardly be said of him that the most of his time he spent with Mary; but he did manage to devote an hour or two to his old friend, the school-assistant.

Mr. Peacocke told his whole story, and Carstairs, whose morals were perhaps not quite so strict as those of Mr. Puddicombe, gave him all his sympathy. "To think that a man can be such a brute as that," he said, when he heard that Ferdinand Lefroy had shown himself to his wife at St. Louis,—"only on a spree."

"There is no knowing to what depth utter ruin may reduce a man who has been born to better things. He falls into idleness, and then comforts himself with drink. So it seems to have been with him."

"And that other fellow;—do you think he meant to shoot you?"

"Never. But he meant to frighten me. And when he brought out his knife in the bedroom at Leavenworth he did. My pistol was not loaded."

"Why not?"

"Because little as I wish to be murdered, I should prefer that to murdering any one else. But he didn't mean it. His only object was to get as much out of me as he could. As for me, I couldn't give him more because I hadn't got it." After that they made a league of friendship, and Mr. Peacocke promised that he would, on some distant occasion, take his wife with him on a visit to Carstairs.

It was about a month after this that Mary was packed up and sent on her journey to Carstairs. When that took place, the Doctor was in supreme good-humour. There had come a letter from the father of the two Mowbrays, saying that he had again changed his mind. He had, he said, heard a story told two ways. He trusted Dr. Wortle would understand him and forgive him, when he declared that he had believed both the stories. If after this the Doctor chose to refuse to take his boys back again, he would have, he acknowledged, no ground for offence. But if the Doctor would take them, he would intrust them to the Doctor's care with the greatest satisfaction in the world,—as he had done before.

For a while the Doctor had hesitated; but here, perhaps for the first time in her life, his wife was allowed to persuade him. "They are such leading people," she said.

"Who cares for that? I have never gone in for that." This, however, was hardly true. "When I have been sure that a man is a gentleman, I have taken his son without inquiring much farther. It was mean of him to withdraw after I had acceded to his request."

"But he withdraws his withdrawal in such a flattering way!" Then the Doctor assented, and the two boys were allowed to come. Lady Anne Clifford hearing this, learning that the Doctor was so far willing to relent, became very piteous and implored forgiveness. The noble relatives were all willing now. It had not been her fault. As far as she was concerned herself she had always been anxious that her boys should remain at Bowick. And so the two Cliffords came back to their old beds in the old room.

Mary, when she first arrived at Carstairs, hardly knew how to carry herself. Lady Bracy was very cordial and the Earl friendly, but for the first two days nothing was said about Carstairs. There was no open acknowledgment of her position. But then she had expected none; and though her tongue was burning to talk, of course she did not say a word. But before a week was over Lady Bracy had begun, and by the end of the fortnight Lord Bracy had given her a beautiful brooch. "That means," said Lady Bracy in the confidence of her own little sitting-room up-stairs, "that he looks upon you as his daughter."

"Does it?"

"Yes, my dear, yes." Then they fell to kissing each other, and did nothing but talk about Carstairs and all his perfections, and his unalterable love, and how these three years could be made to wear themselves away, till the conversation,—simmering over as such conversation is wont to do,—gave the whole household to understand that Miss Wortle was staying there as Lord Carstairs's future bride.

Of course she stayed over the Christmas, or went back to Bowick for a week, and then returned to Carstairs, so that she might tell her mother everything, and hear of the six new boys who were to come after the holidays. "Papa couldn't take both the Buncombes," said Mrs. Wortle in her triumph, "and one must remain till midsummer. Sir George did say that it must be two or none, but he had to give way. I wanted papa to have another bed in the east room, but he wouldn't hear of it."

Mary went back for the Christmas and Carstairs came; and the house was full, and everybody knew of the engagement. She walked with him, and rode with him, and danced with him, and talked secrets with him,—as though there were no Oxford, no degree before him. No doubt it was very imprudent, but the Earl and the Countess knew all about it. What might be, or would be, or was the end of such folly, it is not my purpose here to tell. I fear that there was trouble before them. It may, however, be possible that the degree should be given up on the score of love, and Lord Carstairs should marry his bride,—at any rate when he came of age.

As to the school, it certainly suffered nothing by the Doctor's generosity, and when last I heard of Mr. Peacocke, the Bishop had offered to grant him a licence for the curacy. Whether he accepted it I have not yet heard, but I am inclined to think that in this matter he will adhere to his old determination.



* * * * *



Textual emendations and noteworthy items

1 Alterations

1 1 Word changes

1 1 1 Additions

1 1 1 1 Added "l" to "crue" Vol. I—Page 146, line 8 did sit down. "He has made you out to be a perjured, wilful, cruel* bigamist."

1 1 1 2 Added "b" to "Puddicome's" Vol. II—Page 15, line 1 he must hold his peace. That reference to Mr. Puddicomb*e's dirty boot had

1 1 1 3 Added "e" to "Ann" Vol. II—Page 215, line 6 hand in order that he might send them to the Bishop and to Lady Anne*

1 1 2 Deletions

1 1 2 1 Deleted repeated word "not" Vol. II—Page 15, line 10 been a grain of tenderness there, he could not* have spoken so often as he

1 1 2 2 Deleted repeated "i" in "hiim" Vol. II—Page 87, line 9 not leave the man to triumph over hi*m. If nothing further were done in

1 1 3 Substitutions

1 1 3 1 Changed lowercase "de" to uppercase "De" to conform to majority usage (11 out of 14 times with uppercase) Vol. I—Page 34, line 7 Lawle, who had in early years been a dear friend to Mrs. Wortle. Lady *De Lawle was the widow

Vol. I—Page 48, line 9 Bishop,—before Mrs. Wortle or the Hon. Mrs. Stantiloup, or Lady *De Lawle.

Vol. I—Page 82, line 17 to you; different in not accepting Lady *De Lawle's hospitality; different

1 1 3 2 Changed "out" to "our" Vol. I—Page 88, line 22 and me, can have no effect but to increase our* troubles. You are a woman,

1 1 3 3 Changed lowercase "junction" to uppercase "Junction" to conform to majority usage (3 out of 4 times with uppercase) Vol. II—Page 147, line 6 been written at the Ogden *Junction, at which Mr. Peacocke had stopped for

1 2 Punctuation changes

1 2 1 Additions

1 2 1 1 Added quotation marks

1 2 1 1 1 ...opening double quotation mark Vol. I—Page 146, line 7 did sit down. *"He has made you out to be a perjured, wilful, cruel

Vol. II—Page 102, line 3 kind feelings which have hitherto existed between us.—Yours very faithfully,

*"C. BROUGHTON."

1 2 1 1 2 ...closing double quotation mark Vol. II—Page 35, line 16 were given. "It is not enough to be innocent," said the Bishop, "but men must know that we are so."*

1 2 1 1 3 ...opening single quotation mark Vol. II—Page 103, line 11 Mrs. Wortle. So much had been effected by *'Everybody's Business,' and its

1 2 1 1 4 ...closing single quotation mark Vol. I—Page 48, line 21 'Black Dwarf'* be if every one knew from the beginning that he was a rich

1 2 1 1 5 ...single quotation marks Vol. II—Page 95, line 15 beforehand whom he was about to smite. "*'Amo' in the cool of the

1 2 1 2 Added apostrophe Vol. I—Page 120, line 19 ricketiest little buggy that ever a man trusted his life to. Them'*s

1 2 1 3 Added full stop

1 2 1 3 1 ...after "more" Vol. II—Page 83, line 11 very nice boy; and so he was still; that;—that, and nothing more.* Then

1 2 1 3 2 ...after "St" Vol. II—Page 109, line 7 round by St.* Louis. Lefroy was anxious to go to St. Louis,—and on that

1 2 1 3 3 ...after "engagement" Vol. II—Page 163, line 21 not known that she was very much afraid of a long engagement.* She would,

1 2 1 3 4 ...after "Wortle" Vol. II—Page 231, line 2 "I shouldn't wonder if she sent them back," said Mrs. Wortle.*

1 2 2 Deletions

1 2 2 1 Deleted quotation marks

1 2 2 1 1 ...opening double quotation mark Vol. II—Page 222, line 18 *On this there was another consultation between Mrs. Wortle and the Doctor,

1 2 2 1 2 ...closing double quotation mark Vol. I—Page 146, line 11 "I have not been such," said Peacocke, rising from his chair.*

Vol. II—Page 221, line 14 Wortle,—had known nothing. All that he had done was not to condemn the other man when he did know!*

1 2 2 1 3 ...opening single quotation mark Vol. II—Page 238, line 12 between them but such as is common *to mere acquaintances, and now he was

1 2 2 2 Deleted extra space after opening double quotation mark Vol. I—Page 81, line 14 at his feet, buried her face in his lap. "*Ella," he said, "the only

1 2 3 Substitutions

1 2 3 1 Changed single closing quotation mark to double closing quotation mark Vol. II—Page 105, line 18 "My taking you across to the States."*

1 2 3 2 Changed full stop to comma Vol. I—Page 185, line 18 facts were known to the entire diocese." After this there was a pause,*

2 Items of note

2 1 Spelling

2 1 1 Verbs in "-ize" normally in "-ise"

2 1 1 1 sympathize Vol. I—Page 156, line 4 only say this, as between man and man, that no man ever sympathized* with

2 1 1 2 apologize Vol. II—Page 14, line 17 found himself obliged to apologize* before he left the house! And, too, he

2 1 2 Variation in hyphenation

2 1 2 1 weather(-)cock Vol. II—Page 196, line 2 "And of fine generous feeling. He would not change like a weather-*cock."

Vol. II—Page 231, line 8 weathercock*, showing how the wind blows." In this way the dinner-party at

2 1 2 2 a(-)verb-ing Vol. II—Page 119, line 1 "Not a foot; I ain't a-*going out of this room to-morrow."

Vol. II—Page 182, lines 5 & 6 "We are *alooking at 'em," said Lefroy.

"If you're *agoing to do anything of that kind you'd better go and do it

2 2 Punctuation

2 2 1 Full stop changed to question mark Vol. I—Page 134, line 3 longer I shall send for the policeman to remove you."

"You will?*"

2 2 2 Full stop used instead of question mark Vol. II—Page 47, line 16 building staring him in the face every moment of his life.*

Vol. II—Page 63, line 17 "I may tell them that the action is withdrawn.*"

2 2 3 Exclamation point used instead of question mark Vol. II—Page 75, line 8 "Of course he did. Had he anything particular to say!*"

THE END