Dr. Wortle’s School

answer were now returned to Lord Bracy, giving his lordship to understand that they, the Wortles, were anxious to encourage the idea, then in fact her girl would be tied to an engagement whether the young lord should hold himself to be so tied or no! And how would it be with her girl if the engagement should be allowed to run on in a doubtful way for years, and then be dropped by reason of the young man’s indifference? How would it be with her if, after perhaps three or four years, a letter should come saying that the young lord had changed his mind, and had engaged himself to some nobler bride? Was it not her duty, as a mother, to save her child from the too probable occurrence of some crushing grief such as this? All of it was clear to her mind;⁠—but then it was clear also that, if this opportunity of greatness were thrown away, no such chance in all probability would ever come again. Thus she was so tossed to and fro between a prospect of glorious prosperity for her child on one side, and the fear of terrible misfortune for her child on the other, that she was altogether unable to give any salutary advice. She, at any rate, ought to have known that her advice would at last be of no importance. Her experience ought to have told her that the Doctor would certainly settle the matter himself. Had it been her own happiness that was in question, her own conduct, her own greatness, she would not have dreamed of having an opinion of her own. She would have consulted the Doctor, and simply have done as he directed. But all this was for her child, and in a vague, vacillating way she felt that for her child she ought to be ready with counsel of her own.

“Mamma,” said Mary, when her mother came back from Mrs. Peacocke, “what am I to say when he sends for me?”

“If you think that you can love him, my dear⁠—”

“Oh, mamma, you shouldn’t ask me!”

“My dear!”

“I do like him⁠—very much.”

“If so⁠—”

“But I never thought of it before;⁠—and then, if he⁠—if he⁠—”

“If he what, my dear?”

“If he were to change his mind?”

“Ah, yes;⁠—there it is. It isn’t as though you could be married in three months’ time.”

“Oh, mamma! I shouldn’t like that at all.”

“Or even in six.”

“Oh, no.”

“Of course he is very young.”

“Yes, mamma.”

“And when a young man is so very young, I suppose he doesn’t quite know his own mind.”

“No, mamma. But⁠—”

“Well, my dear.”

“His father says that he has got⁠—such a strong will of his own,” said poor Mary, who was anxious, unconsciously anxious, to put in a good word on her own side of the question, without making her own desire too visible.

“He always had that. When there was any game to be played, he always liked to have his own way. But then men like that are just as likely to change as others.”

“Are they, mamma?”

“But I do think that he is a lad of very high principle.”

“Papa has always said that of him.”

“And of fine generous feeling. He would not change like a weathercock.”

“If you think he would change at all, I would rather⁠—rather⁠—rather⁠—. Oh, mamma, why did you tell me?”

“My darling, my child, my angel! What am I to tell you? I do think of all the young men I ever knew he is the nicest, and the sweetest, and the most thoroughly good and affectionate.”

“Oh, mamma, do you?” said Mary, rushing at her mother and kissing her and embracing her.

“But if there were to be no regular engagement, and you were to let him have your heart⁠—and then things were to go wrong!”

Mary left the embracings, gave up the kissings, and seated herself on the sofa alone. In this way the morning was passed;⁠—and when Mary was summoned to her father’s study, the mother and daughter had not arrived between them at any decision.

“Well, my dear,” said the Doctor, smiling, “what am I to say to the Earl?”

“Must you write today, papa?”

“I think so. His letter is one that should not be left longer unanswered. Were we to do so, he would only think that we didn’t know what to say for ourselves.”

“Would he, papa?”

“He would fancy that we are half-ashamed to accept what has been offered to us, and yet anxious to take it.”

“I am not ashamed of anything.”

“No, my dear; you have no reason.”

“Nor have you, papa.”

“Nor have I. That is quite true. I have never been wont to be ashamed of myself;⁠—nor do I think that you ever will have cause to be ashamed of yourself. Therefore, why should we hesitate? Shall I help you, my darling, in coming to a decision on the matter?”

“Yes, papa.”

“If I can understand your heart on this matter, it has never as yet been given to this young man.”

“No, papa.” This Mary said not altogether with that complete power of asseveration which the negative is sometimes made to bear.

“But there must be a beginning to such things. A man throws himself into it headlong⁠—as my Lord Carstairs seems to have done. At least all the best young men do.” Mary at this point felt a great longing to get up and kiss her father; but she restrained herself. “A young woman, on the other hand, if she is such as I think you are, waits till she is asked. Then it has to begin.” The Doctor, as he said this, smiled his sweetest smile.

“Yes, papa.”

“And when it has begun, she does not like to blurt it out at once, even to her loving old father.”

“Papa!”

“That’s about it, isn’t it? Haven’t I hit it off?” He paused, as though for a reply, but she was not as yet able to make him any. “Come here, my dear.” She came and stood by him, so that he could put his arm round her waist. “If it be as I suppose, you are better