“Yes, I know you now. Why, when I saw you last, did you tell me that your brother was dead? Why did you bring so great an injury on your sister-in-law?”
“I never told you anything of the kind.”
“As God is above us you told me so.”
“I don’t know anything about that, my friend. Maybe I was cut. I used to be drinking a good deal them days. Maybe I didn’t say anything of the kind—only it suited you to go back and tell her so. Anyways I disremember it altogether. Anyways he wasn’t dead. And I ain’t dead now.”
“I can see that.”
“And I ain’t drunk now. But I am not quite so well off as a fellow would wish to be. Can you get me breakfast?”
“Yes, I can get you breakfast,” he said, after pausing for a while. Then he rang the bell and told the girl to bring some breakfast for the gentleman as soon as possible into the room in which they were sitting. This was in a little library in which he was in the habit of studying and going through lessons with the boys. He had brought the man here so that his wife might not come across him. As soon as the order was given, he ran upstairs to her room, to save her from coming down.
“A man;—what man?” she asked.
“Robert Lefroy. I must go to him at once. Bear yourself well and boldly, my darling. It is he, certainly. I know nothing yet of what he may have to say, but it will be well that you should avoid him if possible. When I have heard anything I will tell you all.” Then he hurried down and found the man examining the bookshelves.
“You have got yourself up pretty tidy again, Peacocke,” said Lefroy.
“Pretty well.”
“The old game, I suppose. Teaching the young idea. Is this what you call a college, now, in your country?”
“It is a school.”
“And you’re one of the masters.”
“I am the second master.”
“It ain’t as good, I reckon, as the Missouri College.”
“It’s not so large, certainly.”
“What’s the screw?” he said.
“The payment, you mean. It can hardly serve us now to go into matters such as that. What is it that has brought you here, Lefroy?”
“Well, a big ship, an uncommonly bad sort of railway car, and the ricketiest little buggy that ever a man trusted his life to. Them’s what’s brought me here.”
“I suppose you have something to say, or you would not have come,” said Peacocke.
“Yes, I’ve a good deal to say of one kind or another. But here’s the breakfast, and I’m well-nigh starved. What, cold meat! I’m darned if I can eat cold meat. Haven’t you got anything hot, my dear?” Then it was explained to him that hot meat was not to be had, unless he would choose to wait, to have some lengthened cooking accomplished. To this, however, he objected, and then the girl left the room.
“I’ve a good many things to say of one kind or another,” he continued. “It’s difficult to say, Peacocke, how you and I stand with each other.”
“I do not know that we stand with each other at all, as you call it.”
“I mean as to relationship. Are you my brother-in-law, or are you not?” This was a question which in very truth the schoolmaster found it hard to answer. He did not answer it at all, but remained silent. “Are you my brother-in-law, or are you not? You call her Mrs. Peacocke, eh?”
“Yes, I call her Mrs. Peacocke.”
“And she is here living with you?”
“Yes, she is here.”
“Had she not better come down and see me? She is my sister-in-law, anyway.”
“No,” said Mr. Peacocke; “I think, on the whole, that she had better not come down and see you.”
“You don’t mean to say she isn’t my sister-in-law? She’s that, whatever else she is. She’s that, whatever name she goes by. If Ferdinand had been ever so much dead, and that marriage at St. Louis had been ever so good, still she’d been my sister-in-law.”
“Not a doubt about it,” said Mr. Peacocke. “But still, under all the circumstances, she had better not see you.”
“Well, that’s a queer beginning, anyway. But perhaps you’ll come round by-and-by. She goes by Mrs. Peacocke?”
“She is regarded as my wife,” said the husband, feeling himself to become more and more indignant at every word, but knowing at the same time how necessary it was that he should keep his indignation hidden.
“Whether true or false?” asked the brother-in-law.
“I will answer no such question as that.”
“You ain’t very well disposed to answer any question, as far as I can see. But I shall have to make you answer one or two before I’ve done with you. There’s a Doctor here, isn’t there, as this school belongs to?”
“Yes, there is. It belongs to Dr. Wortle.”
“It’s him these boys are sent to?”
“Yes, he is the master; I am only his assistant.”
“It’s him they comes to for education, and morals, and religion?”
“Quite so.”
“And he knows, no doubt, all about you and my sister-in-law;—how you came and married her when she was another man’s wife, and took her away when you knew as that other man was alive and kicking?” Mr. Peacocke, when these questions were put to him, remained silent, because literally he did not know how to answer them. He was quite prepared to take his position as he found it. He had told himself before this dreadful man had appeared, that the truth must be made known at Bowick, and that he and his wife must pack up and flit. It was not that the man could bring upon him any greater evil than he had anticipated. But the questions which were asked him were in themselves so bitter! The man, no doubt, was his wife’s brother-in-law. He could not turn him out of the house as he
