The Doctor had been all but savage with his wife, and, for the moment, had hated Mr Puddicombe, but still what they said had affected him. They were both of them quite clear that Mr Peacocke should be made to go at once. And he, though he hated Mr Puddicombe for his cold logic, could not but acknowledge that all the man had said was true. According to the strict law of right and wrong the two unfortunates should have parted when they found that they were not in truth married. And, again, according to the strict law of right and wrong, Mr Peacocke, should not have brought the woman there, into his school, as his wife. There had been deceit. But then would not he, Dr Wortle himself, have been guilty of similar deceit had it fallen upon him to have to defend a woman who had been true and affectionate to him? Mr Puddicombe would have left the woman to break her heart and have gone away and done his duty like a Christian, feeling no tugging at his heart-strings. It was so that our Doctor spoke to himself of his counsellor, sitting there alone in his library.

During his conference with Lefroy something had been said which had impressed him suddenly with an idea. A word had fallen from the Colonel, an unintended word, by which the Doctor was made to believe that the other Colonel was dead, at any rate now. He had cunningly tried to lead up to the subject, but Robert Lefroy had been on his guard as soon as he had perceived the Doctor’s object, and had drawn back, denying the truth of the word he had before spoken. The Doctor at last asked him the question direct. Lefroy then declared that his brother had been alive and well when he left Texas, but he did this in such a manner as to strengthen in the Doctor’s mind the impression that he was dead. If it were so, then might not all these crooked things be made straight?

He had thought it better to raise no false hopes. He had said nothing of this to Peacocke on discussing the story. He had not even hinted it to his wife, from whom it might probably make its way to Mrs Peacocke. He had suggested it to Mr Puddicombe — asking whether there might not be a way out of all their difficulties. Mr Puddicombe had declared that there could be no such way as far as the school was concerned. Let them marry, and repent their sins, and go away from the spot they had contaminated, and earn their bread in some place in which there need be no longer additional sin in concealing the story of their past life. That seemed to have been Mr Puddicombe’s final judgment. But it was altogether opposed to Dr Wortle’s feelings.

When Mr Puddicombe came down from the church to the rectory, Lord Carstairs was walking home after the afternoon service with Miss Wortle. It was his custom to go to church with the family, whereas the school went there under the charge of one of the ushers and sat apart in a portion of the church appropriated to themselves. Mrs Wortle, when she found that the Doctor was not going to the afternoon service, declined to go herself. She was thoroughly disturbed by all these bad tidings, and was, indeed, very little able to say her prayers in a fit state of mind. She could hardly keep herself still for a moment, and was as one who thinks that the crack of doom is coming — so terrible to her was her vicinity and connection with this man, and with the woman who was not his wife. Then, again, she became flurried when she found that Lord Carstairs and Mary would have to walk alone together; and she made little abortive attempts to keep first the one and then the other from going to church. Mary probably saw no reason for staying away, while Lord Carstairs possibly found an additional reason for going. Poor Mrs Wortle had for some weeks past wished that the charming young nobleman had been at home with his father and mother, or anywhere but in her house. It had been arranged, however, that he should go in July and not return after the summer holidays. Under these circumstances, having full confidence in her girl, she had refrained from again expressing her fears to the Doctor. But there were fears. It was evident to her, though the Doctor seemed to see nothing of it, that the young lord was falling in love. It might be that his youth and natural bashfulness would come to her aid, and that nothing should be said before that day in July which would separate them. But when it suddenly occurred to her that they two would walk to and fro from church together, there was cause for additional uneasiness.

If she had heard their conversation as they came back she would have been in no way disturbed by its tone on the score of the young man’s tenderness towards her daughter, but she might perhaps have been surprised by his vehemence in another respect. She would have been surprised also at finding how much had been said during the last twenty-four hours by others besides herself and her husband about the affairs of Mr and Mrs Peacocke.

“Do you know what he came about?” asked Mary. The “he” had of course been Robert Lefroy.

“Not in the least; but he came up there looking so queer, as though he certainly had come about something unpleasant.”

“And then he was with papa afterwards,” said Mary. I am sure papa and mamma not coming to church has something to do with it. And Mr Peacocke hasn’t been to church all day.”

“Something has happened to make him very unhappy,” said the boy. “He told me so even before this man came here. I don’t know anyone whom I like so much as Mr Peacocke.”

“I think it is about his wife,” said Mary.

“How about his wife?”

“I don’t know, but I think it is. She is so very quiet.”

“How quiet, Miss Wortle?” he asked.

“She never will come in to see us. Mamma has asked her to dinner and to drink tea ever so often, but she never comes. She calls perhaps once in two or three months in a formal way, and that is all we see of her.”

“Do you like her?” he asked.

“How can I say, when I so seldom see her.”

“I do. I like her very much. I go and see her often; and I’m sure of this — she is quite a lady. Mamma asked her to go to Carstairs for the holidays because of what I said.”

“She is not going?”

“No; neither of them will come. I wish they would; and oh, Miss Wortle, I do so wish you were going to be there too.” This is all that was said of peculiar tenderness between them on that walk home.

Late in the evening — so late that the boys had already gone to bed — the Doctor sent again for Mr Peacocke. “I should not have troubled you tonight,” he said, “only that I have heard something from Pritchett.” Pritchett was the rectory gardener who had charge also of the school buildings, and was a person of great authority in the establishment. He, as well the Doctor, held Mr Peacocke in great respect, and would have been almost as unwilling as the Doctor himself to tell stories to the schoolmaster’s discredit. “They are saying down at the Lamb’ — the Lamb was the Bowick public-house — “that Lefroy told them all yesterday — “ the Doctor hesitated before he could tell it.

“That my wife is not my wife?”

“Just so.”

“Of course I am prepared for it. I knew that it would be so; did not you?”

“I expected it.”

“I was sure of it. It may be taken for granted at once that there is no longer a secret to keep. I would wish you to act just as though all the facts were known to the entire diocese.” After this there was a pause, during which neither of them spoke for a few moments. The Doctor had not intended to declare any purpose of his own on that occasion, but it seemed to him now as though he were almost driven to do so. Then Mr Peacocke seeing the difficulty at once believed him from it. “I am quite prepared to leave Bowick,” he said, “at once. I know that it must be so. I have thought about it, and have perceived that there is no possible alternative. I should like to consult with you as to whither I had better go. Where shall I first take her?”

“Leave her here,” said the Doctor.

“Here! Where?”

“Where she is in the schoolhouse. No one will come to fill your place for a while.”

“I should have thought,” said Mr Peacocke very slowly, “that her presence — would have been wor............