“That I might find out whether her husband were still alive.”
“But—” The Doctor hesitated as he asked the next question. He knew, however, that it had to be asked, and went on with it. “Did she know that you loved her?” To this the other made no immediate answer. The Doctor was a man who, in such a matter, was intelligent enough, and he therefore put his question in another shape. “Had you told her that you loved her?”
“Never—while I thought that other man was living.”
“She must have guessed it,” said the Doctor.
“She might guess what she pleased. I told her that I was going, and I went.”
“And how was it, then?”
“I went, and after a time I came across the very man who is here now, this Robert Lefroy. I met him and questioned him, and he told me that his brother had been killed while fighting. It was a lie.”
“Altogether a lie?” asked the Doctor.
“How altogether?”
“He might have been wounded and given over for dead. The brother might have thought him to be dead.”
“I do not think so. I believe it to have been a plot in order that the man might get rid of his wife. But I believed it. Then I went back to St. Louis—and we were married.”
“You thought there was no obstacle but what you might become man and wife legally?”
“I thought she was a widow.”
“There was no further delay?”
“Very little. Why should there have been delay?”
“I only ask.”
“She had suffered enough, and I had waited long enough.”
“She owed you a great deal,” said the Doctor.
“It was not a case of owing,” said Mr. Peacocke. “At least I think not. I think she had learnt to love me as I had learnt to love her.”
“And how did it go with you then?”
“Very well—for some months. There was nothing to mar our happiness—till one day he came and made his way into our presence.”
“The husband?”
“Yes; the husband, Ferdinand Lefroy, the elder brother;—he of whom I had been told that he was dead; he was there standing before us, talking to us—half drunk, but still well knowing what he was doing.”
“Why had he come?”
“In want of money, I suppose—as this other one has come here.”
“Did he ask for money?”
“I do not think he did then, though he spoke of his poor condition. But on the next day he went away. We heard that he had taken the steamer down the river for New Orleans. We have never heard more of him from that day to this.”
“Can you imagine what caused conduct such as that?”
“I think money was given to him that night to go; but if so, I do not know by whom. I gave him none. During the next day or two I found that many in St. Louis knew that he had been there.”
“They knew then that you—”
“They knew that my wife was not my wife. That is what you mean to ask?” The Doctor nodded his head. “Yes, they knew that.”
“And what then?”
“Word was brought to me that she and I must part if I chose to keep my place at the College.”
“That you must disown her?”
“The President told me that it would be better that she should go elsewhere. How could I send her from me?”
“No, indeed;—but as to the facts?”
“You know them all pretty well now. I could not send her from me. Nor could I go and leave her. Had we been separated then, because of the law or because of religion, the burden, the misery, the desolation, would all have been upon her.”
“I would have clung to her, let the law say what it might,” said the Doctor, rising from his chair.
“You would?”
“I would;—and I think that I could have reconciled it to my God. But I might have been wrong,” he added; “I might have been wrong. I only say what I should have done.”
“It was what I did.”
“Exactly; exactly. We are both sinners. Both might have been wrong. Then you brought her over here, and I suppose I know the rest?”
“You know everything now,” said Mr. Peacocke.
“And believe every word I have heard. Let me say that, if that may be any consolation to you. Of my friendship you may remain assured. Whether you can remain here is another question.”
“We are prepared to go.”
“You cannot expect that I should have thought it all out during the hearing of the story. There is much to be considered;—very much. I can only say this, as between man and man, that no man ever sympathized with another more warmly than I do with you. You had better let me have till Monday to think about it.”
IX
Mrs. Wortle and Mr. Puddicombe
In this way nothing was said at the first telling of the story to decide the fate of the schoolmaster and of the lady whom we shall still call his wife. There certainly had been no horror displayed by the Doctor. “Whether you can remain here is another question.” The Doctor, during the whole interview, had said nothing harder than that. Mr. Peacocke, as he left the rectory, did feel that the Doctor had been very good to him. There had not only been no horror, but an expression of the kindest sympathy. And as to the going, that was left in doubt. He himself felt that he ought to go;—but it would have been so very sad to have to go without a friend left with whom he could consult as to his future condition!
“He has been very kind, then?” said Mrs. Peacocke to her husband when he related to her the particulars of the interview.
“Very kind.”
“And he did not reproach you.”
“Not a word.”
“Nor me?”
“He declared that had it been he who was in question he would have clung to you forever and ever.”
“Did he? Then will he leave us here?”
“That does not follow. I should think not. He will know that others must know it. Your brother-in-law will not tell him only.
