“I can tell it to all the world,” said Lefroy.
“Go and tell it to all the world.”
“And I ain’t to see my sister?”
“No; you will not see your sister-in-law here. Why should she wish to see one who has only injured her?”
“I ain’t injured her;—at any rate not as yet. I ain’t done nothing;—not as yet. I’ve been as dark as the grave;—as yet. Let her come down, and you go away for a moment, and let us see if we can’t settle it.”
“There is nothing for you to settle. Nothing that you can do, nothing that you can say, will influence either her or me. If you have anything to tell, go and tell it.”
“Why should you smash up everything in that way, Peacocke? You’re comfortable here; why not remain so? I don’t want to hurt you. I want to help you;—and I can. Three hundred dollars wouldn’t be much to you. You were always a fellow as had a little money by you.”
“If this box were full of gold,” said the schoolmaster, laying his hand upon a black desk which stood on the table, “I would not give you one cent to induce you to hold your tongue forever. I would not condescend even to ask it of you as a favour. You think that you can disturb our happiness by telling what you know of us to Dr. Wortle. Go and try.”
Mr. Peacocke’s manner was so firm that the other man began to doubt whether in truth he had a secret to tell. Could it be possible that Dr. Wortle knew it all, and that the neighbours knew it all, and that, in spite of what had happened, the position of the man and of the woman was accepted among them? They certainly were not man and wife, and yet they were living together as such. Could such a one as this Dr. Wortle know that it was so? He, when he had spoken of the purposes for which the boys were sent there, asking whether they were not sent for education, for morals and religion, had understood much of the Doctor’s position. He had known the peculiar value of his secret. He had been aware that a schoolmaster with a wife to whom he was not in truth married must be out of place in an English seminary such as this. But yet he now began to doubt. “I am to be turned out, then?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed, Colonel Lefroy. The sooner you go the better.”
“That’s a pretty sort of welcome to your wife’s brother-in-law, who has just come over all the way from Mexico to see her.”
“To get what he can out of her by his unwelcome presence,” said Peacocke. “Here you can get nothing. Go and do your worst. If you remain much longer I shall send for the policeman to remove you.”
“You will?”
“Yes, I shall. My time is not my own, and I cannot go over to my work leaving you in my house. You have nothing to get by my friendship. Go and see what you can do as my enemy.”
“I will,” said the Colonel, getting up from his chair; “I will. If I’m to be treated in this way it shall not be for nothing. I have offered you the right hand of an affectionate brother-in-law.”
“Bosh,” said Mr. Peacocke.
“And you tell me that I am an enemy. Very well; I will be an enemy. I could have put you altogether on your legs, but I’ll leave you without an inch of ground to stand upon. You see if I don’t.” Then he put his hat on his head, and stalked out of the house, down the road towards the gate.
Mr. Peacocke, when he was left alone, remained in the room collecting his thoughts, and then went upstairs to his wife.
“Has he gone?” she asked.
“Yes, he has gone.”
“And what has he said?”
“He has asked for money—to hold his tongue.”
“Have you given him any?”
“Not a cent. I have given him nothing but hard words. I have bade him go and do his worst. To be at the mercy of such a man as that would be worse for you and for me than anything that fortune has sent us even yet.”
“Did he want to see me?”
“Yes; but I refused. Was it not better?”
“Yes; certainly, if you think so. What could I have said to him? Certainly it was better. His presence would have half killed me. But what will he do, Henry?”
“He will tell it all to everybody that he sees.”
“Oh, my darling!”
“What matter though he tells it at the town-cross? It would have been told today by myself.”
“But only to one.”
“It would have been the same. For any purpose of concealment it would have been the same. I have got to hate the concealment. What have we done but clung together as a man and woman should who have loved each other, and have had a right to love? What have we done of which we should be ashamed? Let it be told. Let it all be known. Have you not been good and pure? Have not I been true to you? Bear up your courage, and let the man do his worst. Not to save even you would I cringe before such a man as that. And were I to do so, I should save you from nothing.”
VIII
The Story Is Told
During the whole of that morning the Doctor did not come into the school. The school hours lasted from half-past nine to twelve, during a portion of which time it was his practice to be there. But sometimes, on a Saturday, he would be absent, when it was understood generally that he was preparing his sermon for the Sunday. Such, no doubt, might be the case now; but there was a feeling among the boys that he was kept away by some other reason. It
