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! “Holloa! 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 ha............