“It is a beastly letter,” the Doctor said to himself, when he had read it, “a beastly letter;” and then he put it away without saying any more about it to himself or to anyone else. It had appeared to him to be a “beastly letter,” because it had exactly the effect which the Bishop had intended. It did not eat “humble pie;” it did not give him the full satisfaction of a complete apology; and yet it left no room for a further rejoinder. It had declared that no censure had been intended, and expressed sorrow that annoyance had been caused. But yet to the Doctor’s thinking it was an unmanly letter. “Not intended as an admonition!” Then why had the Bishop written in that severely affectionate and episcopal style? He had intended it as an admonition, and the excuse was false. So thought the Doctor, and comprised all his criticism in the one epithet given above. After that he put the letter away, and determined to think no more about it.
“Will you come in and see Mrs. Peacocke after lunch?” the Doctor said to his wife the next morning. They paid their visit together; and after that, when the Doctor called on the lady, he was generally accompanied by Mrs. Wortle. So much had been effected by Everybody’s Business, and its abominations.
VI
The Journey
We will now follow Mr. Peacocke for a while upon his journey. He began his close connection with Robert Lefroy by paying the man’s bill at the inn before he left Broughton, and after that found himself called upon to defray every trifle of expense incurred as they went along. Lefroy was very anxious to stay for a week in town. It would, no doubt, have been two weeks or a month had his companion given way;—but on this matter a line of conduct had been fixed by Mr. Peacocke in conjunction with the Doctor from which he never departed. “If you will not be guided by me, I will go without you,” Mr. Peacocke had said, “and leave you to follow your own devices on your own resources.”
“And what can you do by yourself?”
“Most probably I shall be able to learn all that I want to learn. It may be that I shall fail to learn anything either with you or without you. I am willing to make the attempt with you if you will come along at once;—but I will not be delayed for a single day. I shall go whether you go or stay.” Then Lefroy had yielded, and had agreed to be put on board a German steamer starting from Southampton to New York.
But an hour or two before the steamer started he made a revelation. “This is all gammon, Peacocke,” he said, when on board.
“What is all gammon?”
“My taking you across to the States.”
“Why is it gammon?”
“Because Ferdinand died more than a year since;—almost immediately after you took her off.”
“Why did you not tell me that at Bowick?”
“Because you were so uncommon uncivil. Was it likely I should have told you that when you cut up so uncommon rough?”
“An honest man would have told me the very moment that he saw me.”
“When one’s poor brother has died, one does not blurt it like that all at once.”
“Your poor brother!”
“Why not my poor brother as well as anybody else’s? And her husband too! How was I to let it out in that sort of way? At any rate he is dead as Julius Caesar. I saw him buried—right away at ’Frisco.”
“Did he go to San Francisco?”
“Yes—we both went there right away from St. Louis. When we got up to St. Louis we were on our way with them other fellows. Nobody meant to disturb you; but Ferdy got drunk, and would go and have a spree, as he called it.”
“A spree, indeed!”
“But we were off by train to Kansas at five o’clock the next morning. The devil wouldn’t keep him sober, and he died of D.T. the day after we got him to ’Frisco. So there’s the truth of it, and you needn’t go to New York at all. Hand me the dollars. I’ll be off to the States; and you can go back and marry the widow—or leave her alone, just as you please.”
They were down below when this story was told, sitting on their portmanteaus in the little cabin in which they were to sleep. The prospect of the journey certainly had no attraction for Mr. Peacocke. His companion was most distasteful to him; the ship was abominable; the expense was most severe. How glad would he avoid it all if it were possible! “You know it all as well as if you were there,” said Robert, “and were standing on his grave.” He did believe it. The man in all probability had at the last moment told the true story. Why not go back and be married again? The Doctor could be got to believe it.
But then if it were not true? It was only for a moment that he doubted. “I must go to ’Frisco all the same,” he said.
“Why so?”
“Because I must in truth stand upon his grave. I must have proof that he has been buried there.”
“Then you may go by yourself,” said Robert Lefroy. He had said this more than once or twice already, and had been made to change his tone. He could go or stay as he pleased, but no money would be paid to him until Peacocke had in his possession positive proof of Ferdinand Lefroy’s death. So the two made their unpleasant journey to New York together. There was complaining on the way, even as to the amount of liquor that should be
