“He is such a nice boy,” said Mrs. Wortle, who, in all her anxiety, could not but like the lad the better for having fallen in love with her daughter.
“Yes, mamma; he is. I always liked him. But this is quite out of the question. What would his papa and mamma say?”
“It would be very dreadful to have a quarrel, wouldn’t it—and just at present, when there are so many things to trouble your papa.” Though Mrs. Wortle was quite honest and true in the feeling she had expressed as to the young lord’s visit, yet she was alive to the glory of having a young lord for her son-in-law.
“Of course it is out of the question, mamma. It has never occurred to me for a moment as otherwise. He has got to go to Oxford and take his degree before he thinks of such a thing. I shall be quite an old woman by that time, and he will have forgotten me. You may be sure, mamma, that whatever I did say to him was quite plain. I wish you could have been here and heard it all, and seen it all.”
“My darling,” said the mother, embracing her, “I could not believe you more thoroughly even though I saw it all, and heard it all.”
That night Mrs. Wortle felt herself constrained to tell the whole story to her husband. It was indeed impossible for her to keep any secret from her husband. When Mary, in her younger years, had torn her frock or cut her finger, that was always told to the Doctor. If a gardener was seen idling his time, or a housemaid flirting with the groom, that certainly would be told to the Doctor. What comfort does a woman get out of her husband unless she may be allowed to talk to him about everything? When it had been first proposed that Lord Carstairs should come into the house as a private pupil she had expressed her fear to the Doctor—because of Mary. The Doctor had ridiculed her fears, and this had been the result. Of course she must tell the Doctor. “Oh, dear,” she said, “what do you think has happened while we were up in London?”
“Carstairs was here.”
“Oh, yes; he was here. He came on purpose to make a regular declaration of love to Mary.”
“Nonsense.”
“But he did, Jeffrey.”
“How do you know he came on purpose.”
“He told her so.”
“I did not think the boy had so much spirit in him,” said the Doctor. This was a way of looking at it which Mrs. Wortle had not expected. Her husband seemed rather to approve than otherwise of what had been done. At any rate, he had expressed none of that loud horror which she had expected. “Nevertheless,” continued the Doctor, “he’s a stupid fool for his pains.”
“I don’t know that he is a fool,” said Mrs. Wortle.
“Yes; he is. He is not yet twenty, and he has all Oxford before him. How did Mary behave?”
“Like an angel,” said Mary’s mother.
“That’s of course. You and I are bound to believe so. But what did she do, and what did she say?”
“She told him that it was simply impossible.”
“So it is—I’m afraid. She at any rate was bound to give him no encouragement.”
“She gave him none. She feels quite strongly that it is altogether impossible. What would Lord Bracy say?”
“If Carstairs were but three or four years older,” said the Doctor, proudly, “Lord Bracy would have much to be thankful for in the attachment on the part of his son, if it were met by a return of affection on the part of my daughter. What better could he want?”
“But he is only a boy,” said Mrs. Wortle.
“No; that’s where it is. And Mary was quite right to tell him that it is impossible. It is impossible. And I trust, for her sake, that his words have not touched her young heart.”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Wortle.
“Had it been otherwise how could we have been angry with the child?”
Now this did seem to the mother to be very much in contradiction to that which the Doctor had himself said when she had whispered to him that Lord Carstairs’s coming might be dangerous. “I was afraid of it, as you know,” said she.
“His character has altered during the last twelve months.”
“I suppose when boys grow into men it is so with them.”
“Not so quickly,” said the Doctor. “A boy when he leaves Eton is not generally thinking of these things.”
“A boy at Eton is not thrown into such society,” said Mrs. Wortle.
“I suppose his being here and seeing Mary every day has done it. Poor Mary!”
“I don’t think she is poor at all,” said Mary’s mother.
“I am afraid she must not dream of her young lover.”
“Of course she will not dream of him. She has never entertained any idea of the kind. There never was a girl with less nonsense of that kind than Mary. When Lord Carstairs spoke to her today I do not suppose she had thought about him more than any other boy that has been here.”
“But she will think now.”
“No;—not in the least. She knows it is impossible.”
“Nevertheless she will think about it. And so will you.”
“I!”
“Yes—why not? Why should you be different from other mothers? Why should I not think about it as other fathers might do? It is impossible. I wish it were not. For Mary’s sake, I wish he were three or four years older. But he is as he is, and we know that it is impossible. Nevertheless, it is natural that she should think about him. I only hope that she will not think about him too much.” So saying he closed the conversation for that night.
Mary did not think very much about “it” in such a way as to create disappointment. She at once realised the impossibilities, so far as to perceive that the young lord was the top brick of the chimney as far as
