Dr. Wortle's School Part 22

"Had it been otherwise how could we have been angry with the child?"

Now this did seem to the mother to be very much in contradiction to that which the Doctor had himself said when she had whispered to him that Lord Carstairs's coming might be dangerous. "I was afraid of it, as you know,"

said she.

"His character has altered during the last twelve months."

"I suppose when boys grow into men it is so with them."

"Not so quickly," said the Doctor. "A boy when he leaves Eton is not generally thinking of these things."

"A boy at Eton is not thrown into such society," said Mrs. Wortle.

"I suppose his being here and seeing Mary every day has done it. Poor Mary!"

"I don't think she is poor at all," said Mary's mother.

"I am afraid she must not dream of her young lover."

"Of course she will not dream of him. She has never entertained any idea of the kind. There never was a girl with less nonsense of that kind than Mary. When Lord Carstairs spoke to her to-day I do not suppose she had thought about him more than any other boy that has been here."

"But she will think now."

"No;--not in the least. She knows it is impossible."

"Nevertheless she will think about it. And so will you."

"I!"

"Yes,--why not? Why should you be different from other mothers? Why should I not think about it as other fathers might do? It is impossible.

I wish it were not. For Mary's sake, I wish he were three or four years older. But he is as he is, and we know that it is impossible.

Nevertheless, it is natural that she should think about him. I only hope that she will not think about him too much." So saying he closed the conversation for that night.

Mary did not think very much about "it" in such a way as to create disappointment. She at once realised the impossibilities, so far as to perceive that the young lord was the top brick of the chimney as far as she was concerned. The top brick of the chimney may be very desirable, but one doesn't cry for it, because it is unattainable. Therefore Mary did not in truth think of loving her young lover. He had been to her a very nice boy; and so he was still; that;--that, and nothing more. Then had come this little episode in her life which seemed to lend it a gentle tinge of romance. But had she inquired of her bosom she would have declared that she had not been in love. With her mother there was perhaps something of regret. But it was exactly the regret which may be felt in reference to the top brick. It would have been so sweet had it been possible; but then it was so evidently impossible.

With the Doctor the feeling was somewhat different. It was not quite so manifest to him that this special brick was altogether unattainable, nor even that it was quite at the top of the chimney. There was no reason why his daughter should not marry an earl's son and heir. No doubt the lad had been confided to him in trust. No doubt it would have been his duty to have prevented anything of the kind, had anything of the kind seemed to him to be probable. Had there been any moment in which the duty had seemed to him to be a duty, he would have done it, even though it had been necessary to caution the Earl to take his son away from Bowick. But there had been nothing of the kind. He had acted in the simplicity of his heart, and this had been the result. Of course it was impossible. He acknowledged to himself that it was so, because of the necessity of those Oxford studies and those long years which would be required for the taking of the degree. But to his thinking there was no other ground for saying that it was impossible. The thing must stand as it was. If this youth should show himself to be more constant than other youths,--which was not probable,--and if, at the end of three or four years, Mary should not have given her heart to any other lover,--which was also improbable,--why, then, it might come to pa.s.s that he should some day find himself father-in-law to the future Earl Bracy. Though Mary did not think of it, nor Mrs. Wortle, he thought of it,--so as to give an additional interest to these disturbed days.

CHAPTER V.

CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PALACE.

THE possible glory of Mary's future career did not deter the Doctor from thinking of his troubles,--and especially that trouble with the Bishop which was at present heavy on his hand. He had determined not to go on with his action, and had so resolved because he had felt, in his more sober moments, that in bringing the Bishop to disgrace, he would be as a bird soiling its own nest. It was that conviction, and not any idea as to the sufficiency or insufficiency, as to the truth or falsehood, of the editor's apology, which had actuated him. As he had said to his lawyer, he did not in the least care for the newspaper people. He could not condescend to be angry with them. The abominable joke as to the two verbs was altogether in their line. As coming from them, they were no more to him than the ribald words of boys which he might hear in the street. The offence to him had come from the Bishop,--and he resolved to spare the Bishop because of the Church. But yet something must be done. He could not leave the man to triumph over him. If nothing further were done in the matter, the Bishop would have triumphed over him. As he could not bring himself to expose the Bishop, he must see whether he could not reach the man by means of his own power of words;--so he wrote as follows;--

"MY DEAR LORD,--I have to own that this letter is written with feelings which have been very much lacerated by what your lords.h.i.+p has done. I must tell you, in the first place, that I have abandoned my intention of bringing an action against the proprietors of the scurrilous newspaper which your lords.h.i.+p sent me, because I am unwilling to bring to public notice the fact of a quarrel between a clergyman of the Church of England and his Bishop. I think that, whatever may be the difficulty between us, it should be arranged without bringing down upon either of us adverse criticism from the public press. I trust your lords.h.i.+p will appreciate my feeling in this matter. Nothing less strong could have induced me to abandon what seems to be the most certain means by which I could obtain redress.

"I had seen the paper which your lords.h.i.+p sent to me before it came to me from the palace. The scurrilous, unsavoury, and vulgar words which it contained did not matter to me much. I have lived long enough to know that, let a man's own garments be as clean as they may be, he cannot hope to walk through the world without rubbing against those who are dirty. It was only when those words came to me from your lords.h.i.+p,--when I found that the expressions which I found in that paper were those to which your lords.h.i.+p had before alluded as being criticisms on my conduct in the metropolitan press,--criticisms so grave as to make your lords.h.i.+p think it necessary to admonish me respecting them,--it was only then, I say, that I considered them to be worthy of my notice. When your lords.h.i.+p, in admonis.h.i.+ng me, found it necessary to refer me to the metropolitan press, and to caution me to look to my conduct because the metropolitan press had expressed its dissatisfaction, it was, I submit to you, natural for me to ask you where I should find that criticism which had so strongly affected your lords.h.i.+p's judgment. There are perhaps half a score of newspapers published in London whose animadversions I, as a clergyman, might have reason to respect,--even if I did not fear them. Was I not justified in thinking that at least some two or three of these had dealt with my conduct, when your lords.h.i.+p held the metropolitan press _in terrorem_ over my head? I applied to your lords.h.i.+p for the names of these newspapers, and your lords.h.i.+p, when pressed for a reply, sent to me--that copy of 'Everybody's Business.'

"I ask your lords.h.i.+p to ask yourself whether, so far, I have overstated anything. Did not that paper come to me as the only sample you were able to send me of criticism made on my conduct in the metropolitan press? No doubt my conduct was handled there in very severe terms. No doubt the insinuations, if true,--or if of such kind as to be worthy of credit with your lords.h.i.+p, whether true or false,--were severe, plain-spoken, and d.a.m.ning. The language was so abominable, so vulgar, so nauseous, that I will not trust myself to repeat it. Your lords.h.i.+p, probably, when sending me one copy, kept another. Now, I must ask your lords.h.i.+p,--and I must beg of your lords.h.i.+p for a reply,--whether the periodical itself has such a character as to justify your lords.h.i.+p in founding a complaint against a clergyman on its unproved statements, and also whether the facts of the case, as they were known to you, were not such as to make your lords.h.i.+p well aware that the insinuations were false. Before these ribald words were printed, your lords.h.i.+p had heard all the facts of the case from my own lips. Your lords.h.i.+p had known me and my character for, I think, a dozen years. You know the character that I bear among others as a clergyman, a schoolmaster, and a gentleman. You have been aware how great is the friends.h.i.+p I have felt for the unfortunate gentleman whose career is in question, and for the lady who bears his name. When you read those abominable words did they induce your lords.h.i.+p to believe that I had been guilty of the inexpressible treachery of making love to the poor lady whose misfortunes I was endeavouring to relieve, and of doing so almost in my wife's presence?

"I defy you to have believed them. Men are various, and their minds work in different ways,--but the same causes will produce the same effects.

You have known too much of me to have thought it possible that I should have done as I was accused. I should hold a man to be no less than mad who could so have believed, knowing as much as your lords.h.i.+p knew. Then how am I to reconcile to my idea of your lords.h.i.+p's character the fact that you should have sent me that paper? What am I to think of the process going on in your lords.h.i.+p's mind when your lords.h.i.+p could have brought yourself to use a narrative which you must have known to be false, made in a newspaper which you knew to be scurrilous, as the ground for a solemn admonition to a clergyman of my age and standing? You wrote to me, as is evident from the tone and context of your lords.h.i.+p's letter, because you found that the metropolitan press had denounced my conduct. And this was the proof you sent to me that such had been the case!

"It occurred to me at once that, as the paper in question had vilely slandered me, I could redress myself by an action of law, and that I could prove the magnitude of the evil done me by showing the grave importance which your lords.h.i.+p had attached to the words. In this way I could have forced an answer from your lords.h.i.+p to the questions which I now put to you. Your lords.h.i.+p would have been required to state on oath whether you believed those insinuations or not; and, if so, why you believed them. On grounds which I have already explained I have thought it improper to do so. Having abandoned that course, I am unable to force any answer from your lords.h.i.+p. But I appeal to your sense of honour and justice whether you should not answer my questions;--and I also ask from your lords.h.i.+p an ample apology, if, on consideration, you shall feel that you have done me an undeserved injury.--I have the honour to be, my lord, your lords.h.i.+p's most obedient, very humble servant,

"JEFFREY WORTLE."

He was rather proud of this letter as he read it to himself, and yet a little afraid of it, feeling that he had addressed his Bishop in very strong language. It might be that the Bishop should send him no answer at all, or some curt note from his chaplain in which it would be explained that the tone of the letter precluded the Bishop from answering it. What should he do then? It was not, he thought, improbable, that the curt note from the chaplain would be all that he might receive. He let the letter lie by him for four-and-twenty hours after he had composed it, and then determined that not to send it would be cowardly. He sent it, and then occupied himself for an hour or two in meditating the sort of letter he would write to the Bishop when that curt reply had come from the chaplain.

That further letter must be one which must make all amicable intercourse between him and the Bishop impossible. And it must be so written as to be fit to meet the public eye if he should be ever driven by the Bishop's conduct to put it in print. A great wrong had been done him;--a great wrong! The Bishop had been induced by influences which should have had no power over him to use his episcopal rod and to smite him,--him Dr. Wortle!

He would certainly show the Bishop that he should have considered beforehand whom he was about to smite. "'Amo' in the cool of the evening!" And that given as an expression of opinion from the metropolitan press in general! He had spared the Bishop as far as that action was concerned, but he would not spare him should he be driven to further measures by further injustice. In this way he lashed himself again into a rage. Whenever those odious words occurred to him he was almost mad with anger against the Bishop.

When the letter had been two days sent, so that he might have had a reply had a reply come to him by return of post, he put a copy of it into his pocket and rode off to call on Mr. Puddicombe. He had thought of showing it to Mr. Puddicombe before he sent it, but his mind had revolted from such submission to the judgment of another. Mr. Puddicombe would no doubt have advised him not to send it, and then he would have been almost compelled to submit to such advice. But the letter was gone now. The Bishop had read it, and no doubt re-read it two or three times. But he was anxious that some other clergyman should see it,--that some other clergyman should tell him that, even if inexpedient, it had still been justified. Mr. Puddicombe had been made acquainted with the former circ.u.mstances of the affair; and now, with his mind full of his own injuries, he went again to Mr. Puddicombe.

"It is just the sort of letter that you would write, as a matter of course," said Mr. Puddicombe.

"Then I hope that you think it is a good letter?"

"Good as being expressive, and good also as being true, I do think it."

"But not good as being wise?"

"Had I been in your case I should have thought it unnecessary. But you are self-demonstrative, and cannot control your feelings."

"I do not quite understand you."

"What did it all matter? The Bishop did a foolish thing in talking of the metropolitan press. But he had only meant to put you on your guard."

"I do not choose to be put on my guard in that way," said the Doctor.

"No; exactly. And he should have known you better than to suppose you would bear it. Then you pressed him, and he found himself compelled to send you that stupid newspaper. Of course he had made a mistake. But don't you think that the world goes easier when mistakes are forgiven?"

"I did forgive it, as far as foregoing the action."

"That, I think, was a matter of course. If you had succeeded in putting the poor Bishop into a witness-box you would have had every sensible clergyman in England against you. You felt that yourself."

"Not quite that," said the Doctor.

"Something very near it; and therefore you withdrew. But you cannot get the sense of the injury out of your mind, and, therefore, you have persecuted the Bishop with that letter."

"Persecuted?"

"He will think so. And so should I, had it been addressed to me. As I said before, all your arguments are true,--only I think you have made so much more of the matter than was necessary! He ought not to have sent you that newspaper, nor ought he to have talked about the metropolitan press.

But he did you no harm; nor had he wished to do you harm;--and perhaps it might have been as well to pa.s.s it over."

"Could you have done so?"