But did he really want to crush the Bishop? Had this man been so bitter an enemy to him that, having him on the hip, he wanted to strike him down altogether? In describing the man’s character to his wife, as he had done in the fury of his indignation, he had acquitted the man of malice. He was sure now, in his calmer moments, that the man had not intended to do him harm. If it were left in the Bishop’s bosom, his parish, his school, and his character would all be made safe to him. He was sure of that. There was none of the spirit of Mrs. Stantiloup in the feeling that had prevailed at the palace. The Bishop, who had never yet been able to be masterful over him, had desired in a mild way to become masterful. He had liked the opportunity of writing that affectionate letter. That reference to the “metropolitan press” had slipt from him unawares; and then, when badgered for his authority, when driven to give an instance from the London newspapers, he had sent the objectionable periodical. He had, in point of fact, made a mistake;—a stupid, foolish mistake, into which a really well-bred man would hardly have fallen. “Ought I to take advantage of it?” said the Doctor to himself when he had wandered for an hour or more alone through the wood. He certainly did not wish to be crushed himself. Ought he to be anxious to crush the Bishop because of this error?
“As for the paper,” he said to himself, walking quicker as his mind turned to this side of the subject—“as for the paper itself, it is beneath my notice. What is it to me what such a publication, or even the readers of it, may think of me? As for damages, I would rather starve than soil my hands with their money. Though it should succeed in ruining me, I could not accept redress in that shape.” And thus having thought the matter fully over, he returned home, still wrathful, but with mitigated wrath.
A Saturday was fixed on which he should again go up to London to see the lawyer. He was obliged now to be particular about his days, as, in the absence of Mr. Peacocke, the school required his time. Saturday was a half-holiday, and on that day he could be absent on condition of remitting the classical lessons in the morning. As he thought of it all he began to be almost tired of Mr. Peacocke. Nevertheless, on the Saturday morning, before he started, he called on Mrs. Peacocke—in company with his wife—and treated her with all his usual cordial kindness. “Mrs. Wortle,” he said, “is going up to town with me; but we shall be home tonight, and we will see you on Monday if not tomorrow.” Mrs. Wortle was going with him, not with the view of being present at his interview with the lawyer, which she knew would not be allowed, but on the pretext of shopping. Her real reason for making the request to be taken up to town was, that she might use the last moment possible in mitigating her husband’s wrath against the Bishop.
“I have seen one of the proprietors and the editor,” said the lawyer, “and they are quite willing to apologise. I really do believe they are very sorry. The words had been allowed to pass without being weighed. Nothing beyond an innocent joke was intended.”
“I dare say. It seems innocent enough to them. If soot be thrown at a chimney-sweeper the joke is innocent, but very offensive when it is thrown at you.”
“They are quite aware that you have ground to complain. Of course you can go on if you like. The fact that they have offered to apologise will no doubt be a point in their favour. Nevertheless you would probably get a verdict.”
“We could bring the Bishop into court?”
“I think so. You have got his letter speaking of the ‘metropolitan press’?”
“Oh yes.”
“It is for you to think, Dr. Wortle, whether there would not be a feeling against you among clergymen.”
“Of course there will. Men in authority always have public sympathy with them in this country. No man more rejoices that it should be so than I do. But not the less is it necessary that now and again a man shall make a stand in his own defence. He should never have sent me that paper.”
“Here,” said the lawyer, “is the apology they propose to insert if you approve of it. They will also pay my bill—which, however, will not, I am sorry to say, be very heavy.” Then the lawyer handed to the Doctor a slip of paper, on which the following words were written;—
“Our attention has been called to a notice which was made in our impression of the ⸻ ultimo on the conduct of a clergyman in the diocese of Broughton. A joke was perpetrated which, we are sorry to find, has given offence where certainly no offence was intended. We have since heard all the details of the case to which reference was made, and are able to say that the conduct of the clergyman in question has deserved neither censure nor ridicule. Actuated by the purest charity he has proved himself a sincere friend to persons in great trouble.”
“They’ll put in your name if you wish it,” said the lawyer, “or alter it in any way you like, so that they be not made to eat too much dirt.”
“I do not want them to alter it,” said the Doctor, sitting thoughtfully. “Their eating dirt will do no good to me. They are nothing to me. It is the Bishop.” Then, as though he were not thinking
