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 wed 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 entrusted 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 Puddi............