“Would not a lodging here in the city have suited her better?”
“I thought not. People here would have refused to take her—because of her story. The wife of some religious grocer, who sands his sugar regularly, would have thought her house contaminated by such an inmate.”
“So it would have been, Doctor, to some extent.” At hearing this the Doctor made very evident signs of discontent. “You cannot alter the ways of the world suddenly, though by example and precept you may help to improve them slowly. In our present imperfect condition of moral culture, it is perhaps well that the company of the guilty should be shunned.”
“Guilty!”
“I am afraid that I must say so. The knowledge that such a feeling exists no doubt deters others from guilt. The fact that wrongdoing in women is scorned helps to maintain the innocence of women. Is it not so?”
“I must hesitate before I trouble your lordship by arguing such difficult questions. I thought it right to tell you the facts after what had occurred. He has gone, she is there—and there she will remain for the present. I could not turn her out. Thinking her, as I do, worthy of my friendship, I could not do other than befriend her.”
“Of course you must be the judge yourself.”
“I had to be the judge, my lord.”
“I am afraid that the parents of the boys will not understand it.”
“I also am afraid. It will be very hard to make them understand it. There will be some who will work hard to make them misunderstand it.”
“I hope not that.”
“There will. I must stand the brunt of it. I have had battles before this, and had hoped that now, when I am getting old, they might have been at an end. But there is something left of me, and I can fight still. At any rate, I have made up my mind about this. There she shall remain till he comes back to fetch her.” And so the interview was over, the Bishop feeling that he had in some slight degree had the best of it—and the Doctor feeling that he, in some slight degree, had had the worst. If possible, he would not talk to the Bishop on the subject again.
He told Mr. Puddicombe also. “With your generosity and kindness of heart I quite sympathise,” said Mr. Puddicombe, endeavouring to be pleasant in his manner.
“But not with my prudence.”
“Not with your prudence,” said Mr. Puddicombe, endeavouring to be true at the same time.
But the Doctor’s greatest difficulty was with his wife, whose conduct it was necessary that he should guide, and whose feelings and conscience he was most anxious to influence. When she first heard his decision she almost wrung her hands in despair. If the woman could have gone to America, and the man have remained, she would have been satisfied. Anything wrong about a man was but of little moment—comparatively so, even though he were a clergyman; but anything wrong about a woman—and she so near to herself! O dear! And the poor dear boys—under the same roof with her! And the boys’ mammas! How would she be able to endure the sight of that horrid Mrs. Stantiloup;—or Mrs. Stantiloup’s words, which would certainly be conveyed to her? But there was something much worse for her even than all this. The Doctor insisted that she should go and call upon the woman! “And take Mary?” asked Mrs. Wortle.
“What would be the good of taking Mary? Who is talking of a child like that? It is for the sake of charity—for the dear love of Christ, that I ask you to do it. Do you ever think of Mary Magdalene?”
“Oh yes.”
“This is no Magdalene. This is a woman led into no faults by vicious propensities. Here is one who has been altogether unfortunate—who has been treated more cruelly than any of whom you have ever read.”
“Why did she not leave him?”
“Because she was a woman, with a heart in her bosom.”
“I am to go to her?”
“I do not order it. I only ask it.” Such asking from her husband was, she knew, very near alike to ordering.
“What shall I say to her?”
“Bid her keep up her courage till he shall return. If you were all alone, as she is, would not you wish that some other woman should come to comfort you? Think of her desolation.”
Mrs. Wortle did think of it, and after a day or two made up her mind to obey her husband’s—request. She made her call, but very little came of it, except that she promised to come again. “Mrs. Wortle,” said the poor woman, “pray do not let me be a trouble to you. If you stay away I shall quite understand that there is sufficient reason. I know how good your husband has been to us.” Mrs. Wortle said, however, as she took her leave, that she would come again in a day or two.
But there were other troubles in store for Mrs. Wortle. Before she had repeated her visit to Mrs. Peacocke, a lady, who lived about ten miles off, the wife of the Rector of Buttercup, called upon her. This was the Lady Margaret Momson, a daughter of the Earl of Brigstock, who had, thirty years ago, married a young clergyman. Nevertheless, up to the present day, she was quite as much the Earl’s daughter as the parson’s wife. She was first cousin to that Mrs. Stantiloup between whom and the Doctor internecine war was always being waged; and she was also aunt to a boy at the school, who, however, was in no way related to Mrs. Stantiloup, young Momson being the son of the parson’s eldest brother. Lady Margaret had never absolutely and openly taken the part of Mrs. Stantiloup. Had she done so, a visit even of ceremony would have been impossible. But she was supposed to have Stantiloup proclivities, and was not, therefore, much liked at Bowick. There had been a question
