Dr. Wortle’s School

Was it not natural enough that she should be able? But she knew that she ought not to love him, whether able or not. There were various reasons which were apparent enough to her though it might be very difficult to make him see them. He was little more than a boy, and had not yet finished his education. His father and mother would not expect him to fall in love, at any rate till he had taken his degree. And they certainly would not expect him to fall in love with the daughter of his tutor. She had an idea that, circumstanced as she was, she was bound by loyalty both to her own father and to the lad’s father not to be able to love him. She thought that she would find it easy enough to say that she did not love him; but that was not the question. As for being able to love him⁠—she could not answer that at all.

“Lord Carstairs,” she said, severely, “you ought not to have come here when papa and mamma are away.”

“I didn’t know they were away. I expected to find them here.”

“But they ain’t. And you ought to go away.”

“Is that all you can say to me?”

“I think it is. You know you oughtn’t to talk to me like that. Your own papa and mamma would be angry if they knew it.”

“Why should they be angry? Do you think that I shall not tell them?”

“I am sure they would disapprove it altogether,” said Mary. “In fact it is all nonsense, and you really must go away.”

Then she made a decided attempt to enter the house by the drawing-room window, which opened out on a gravel terrace.

But he stopped her, standing boldly by the window. “I think you ought to give me an answer, Mary,” he said.

“I have; and I cannot say anything more. You must let me go in.”

“If they say that it’s all right at Carstairs, then will you love me?”

“They won’t say that it’s all right; and papa won’t think that it’s right. It’s very wrong. You haven’t been to Oxford yet, and you’ll have to remain there for three years. I think it’s very ill-natured of you to come and talk to me like this. Of course it means nothing. You are only a boy, but yet you ought to know better.”

“It does mean something. It means a great deal. As for being a boy, I am older than you are, and have quite as much right to know my own mind.”

Hereupon she took advantage of some little movement in his position, and, tripping by him hastily, made good her escape into the house. Young Carstairs, perceiving that his occasion for the present was over, went into the yard and got upon his horse. He was by no means contented with what he had done, but still he thought that he must have made her understand his purpose.

Mary, when she found herself safe within her own room, could not refrain from asking herself the question which her lover had asked her. “Could she love him?” She didn’t see any reason why she couldn’t love him. It would be very nice, she thought, to love him. He was sweet-tempered, handsome, bright, and thoroughly good-humoured; and then his position in the world was very high. Not for a moment did she tell herself that she would love him. She did not understand all the differences in the world’s ranks quite as well as did her father, but still she felt that because of his rank⁠—because of his rank and his youth combined⁠—she ought not to allow herself to love him. There was no reason why the son of a peer should not marry the daughter of a clergyman. The peer and the clergyman might be equally gentlemen. But young Carstairs had been there in trust. Lord Bracy had sent him there to be taught Latin and Greek, and had a right to expect that he should not be encouraged to fall in love with his tutor’s daughter. It was not that she did not think herself good enough to be loved by any young lord, but that she was too good to bring trouble on the people who had trusted her father. Her father would despise her were he to hear that she had encouraged the lad, or as some might say, had entangled him. She did not know whether she should not have spoken to Lord Carstairs more decidedly. But she could, at any rate, comfort herself with the assurance that she had given him no encouragement. Of course she must tell it all to her mother, but in doing so could declare positively that she had given the young man no encouragement.

“It was very unfortunate that Lord Carstairs should have come just when I was away,” said Mrs. Wortle to her daughter as soon as they were alone together.

“Yes, mamma; it was.”

“And so odd. I haven’t been away from home any day all the summer before.”

“He expected to find you.”

“Of course he did. Had he anything particular to say!”

“Yes, mamma.”

“He had? What was it, my dear?”

“I was very much surprised, mamma, but I couldn’t help it. He asked me⁠—”

“Asked you what, Mary?”

“Oh, mamma!” Here she knelt down and hid her face in her mother’s lap.

“Oh, my dear, this is very bad;⁠—very bad indeed.”

“It needn’t be bad for you, mamma; or for papa.”

“Is it bad for you, my child?”

“No, mamma; except of course that I am sorry that it should be so.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Of course I told him that it was impossible. He is only a boy, and I told him so.”

“You made him no promise.”

“No, mamma; no! A promise! Oh dear no! Of course it is impossible. I knew that. I never dreamed of anything of the kind; but he said it all there out on the lawn.”

“Had he come on purpose?”

“Yes;⁠—so he said. I think he had. But he will go to Oxford,