In such case he must say something of this kind to all the world; “I know that they are not married. I know that their condition of life is opposed to the law of God and man. I know that she bears a name that is not, in truth, her own; but I think that the circumstances in this case are so strange, so peculiar, that they excuse a disregard even of the law of God and man.” Had he courage enough for this? And if the courage were there, was he high enough and powerful enough to carry out such a purpose? Could he beat down the Mrs. Stantiloups? And, indeed, could he beat down the Bishop and the Bishop’s phalanx;—for he knew that the Bishop and the Bishop’s phalanx would be against him? They could not touch him in his living, because Mr. Peacocke would not be concerned in the services of the church; but would not his school melt away to nothing in his hands, if he were to attempt to carry it on after this fashion? And then would he not have destroyed himself without advantage to the man whom he was anxious to assist?
To only one point did he make up his mind certainly during that ride. Before he slept that night he would tell the whole story to his wife. He had at first thought that he would conceal it from her. It was his rule of life to act so entirely on his own will, that he rarely consulted her on matters of any importance. As it was, he could not endure the responsibility of acting by himself. People would say of him that he had subjected his wife to contamination, and had done so without giving her any choice in the matter. So he resolved that he would tell his wife.
“Not married,” said Mrs. Wortle, when she heard the story.
“Married; yes. They were married. It was not their fault that the marriage was nothing. What was he to do when he heard that they had been deceived in this way?”
“Not married properly! Poor woman!”
“Yes, indeed. What should I have done if such had happened to me when we had been six months married?”
“It couldn’t have been.”
“Why not to you as well as to another?”
“I was only a young girl.”
“But if you had been a widow?”
“Don’t, my dear; don’t! It wouldn’t have been possible.”
“But you pity her?”
“Oh yes.”
“And you see that a great misfortune has fallen upon her, which she could not help?”
“Not till she knew it,” said the wife who had been married quite properly.
“And what then? What should she have done then?”
“Gone,” said the wife, who had no doubt as to the comfort, the beauty, the perfect security of her own position.
“Gone?”
“Gone away at once.”
“Whither should she go? Who would have taken her by the hand? Who would have supported her? Would you have had her lay herself down in the first gutter and die?”
“Better that than what she did do,” said Mrs. Wortle.
“Then, by all the faith I have in Christ, I think you are hard upon her. Do you think what it is to have to go out and live alone;—to have to look for your bread in desolation?”
“I have never been tried, my dear,” said she, clinging close to him. “I have never had anything but what was good.”
“Ought we not to be kind to one to whom Fortune has been so unkind?”
“If we can do so without sin.”
“Sin! I despise the fear of sin which makes us think that its contact will soil us. Her sin, if it be sin, is so near akin to virtue, that I doubt whether we should not learn of her rather than avoid her.”
“A woman should not live with a man unless she be his wife.” Mrs. Wortle said this with more of obstinacy than he had expected.
“She was his wife, as far as she knew.”
“But when she knew that it was not so any longer—then she should have left him.”
“And have starved?”
“I suppose she might have taken bread from him.”
“You think, then, that she should go away from here?”
“Do not you think so? What will Mrs. Stantiloup say?”
“And I am to turn them out into the cold because of a virago such as she is? You would have no more charity than that?”
“Oh, Jeffrey! what would the Bishop say?”
“Cannot you get beyond Mrs. Stantiloup and beyond the Bishop, and think what Justice demands?”
“The boys would all be taken away. If you had a son, would you send him where there was a schoolmaster living—living—. Oh, you wouldn’t.”
It is very clear to the Doctor that his wife’s mind was made up on the subject; and yet there was no softer-hearted woman than Mrs. Wortle anywhere in the diocese, or one less likely to be severe upon a neighbour. Not only was she a kindly, gentle woman, but she was one who always had been willing to take her husband’s opinion on all questions of right and wrong. She, however, was decided that they must go.
On the next morning, after service, which the schoolmaster did not attend, the Doctor saw Mr. Peacocke, and declared his intention of telling the story to Mr. Puddicombe. “If you bid me hold my tongue,” he said, “I will do so. But it will be better that I should consult another clergyman. He is a man who can keep a secret.” Then Mr. Peacocke gave him full authority to tell everything to Mr. Puddicombe. He declared that the Doctor might tell the story to whom he
