Lord Bracy as he read this declared to himself that though the Doctor’s mind was very clear, Mrs. Wortle, as far as he knew, had no mind in the matter at all.
“I would suggest that the affair should remain as it is, and that each of the young people should be made to understand that any future engagement must depend, not simply on the persistency of one of them, but on the joint persistency of the two.
“If, after this, Lady Bracy should be pleased to receive Mary at Carstairs, I need not say that Mary will be delighted to make the visit.—Believe me, my dear Lord Bracy, yours most faithfully.
The Earl, when he read this, though there was not a word in it to which he could take exception, was not altogether pleased. “Of course it will be an engagement,” he said to his wife.
“Of course it will,” said the Countess. “But then Carstairs is so very much in earnest. He would have done it for himself if you hadn’t done it for him.”
“At any rate the Doctor is a gentleman,” the Earl said, comforting himself.
XI
Mr. Peacocke’s Return
The Earl’s rejoinder to the Doctor was very short: “So let it be.” There was not another word in the body of the letter; but there was appended to it a postscript almost equally short; “Lady Bracy will write to Mary and settle with her some period for her visit.” And so it came to be understood by the Doctor, by Mrs. Wortle, and by Mary herself, that Mary was engaged to Lord Carstairs.
The Doctor, having so far arranged the matter, said little or nothing more on the subject, but turned his mind at once to that other affair of Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke. It was evident to his wife, who probably alone understood the buoyancy of his spirit and its corresponding susceptibility to depression, that he at once went about Mr. Peacocke’s affairs with renewed courage. Mr. Peacocke should resume his duties as soon as he was remarried, and let them see what Mrs. Stantiloup or the Bishop would dare to say then! It was impossible, he thought, that parents would be such asses as to suppose that their boys’ morals could be affected to evil by connection with a man so true, so gallant, and so manly as this. He did not at this time say anything further as to abandoning the school, but seemed to imagine that the vacancies would get themselves filled up as in the course of nature. He ate his dinner again as though he liked it, and abused the Liberals, and was anxious about the grapes and peaches, as was always the case with him when things were going well. All this, as Mrs. Wortle understood, had come to him from the brilliancy of Mary’s prospects.
But though he held his tongue on the subject, Mrs. Wortle did not. She found it absolutely impossible not to talk of it when she was alone with Mary, or alone with the Doctor. As he counselled her not to make Mary think too much about it, she was obliged to hold her peace when both were with her; but with either of them alone she was always full of it. To the Doctor she communicated all her fears and all her doubts, showing only too plainly that she would be altogether brokenhearted if anything should interfere with the grandeur and prosperity which seemed to be partly within reach, but not altogether within reach of her darling child. If he, Carstairs, should prove to be a recreant young lord! If Aristotle and Socrates should put love out of his heart! If those other wicked young lords at Christ-Church were to teach him that it was a foolish thing for a young lord to become engaged to his tutor’s daughter before he had taken his degree! If some better born young lady were to come in his way and drive Mary out of his heart! No more lovely or better girl could be found to do so;—of that she was sure. To the latter assertion the Doctor agreed, telling her that, as it was so, she ought to have a stronger trust in her daughter’s charms—telling her also, with somewhat sterner voice, that she should not allow herself to be so disturbed by the glories of the Bracy coronet. In this there was, I think, some hypocrisy. Had the Doctor been as simple as his wife in showing her own heart, it would probably have been found that he was as much set upon the coronet as she.
Then Mrs. Wortle would carry the Doctor’s wisdom to her daughter. “Papa says, my dear, that you shouldn’t think of it too much.”
“I do think of him, mamma. I do love him now, and of course I think of him.”
“Of course you do, my dear;—of course you do. How should you not think of him when he is all in all to you? But papa means that it can hardly be called an engagement yet.”
“I don’t know what it should be called; but of course I love him. He can change it if he likes.”
“But you shouldn’t think of it, knowing his rank and wealth.”
“I never did, mamma; but he is what he is, and I must think of him.”
Poor Mrs. Wortle did not know what special advice to give when this declaration was made. To have held her tongue would have been the wisest, but that was impossible to her. Out of the full heart the mouth speaks, and her heart was very full of Lord Carstairs and of Carstairs House, and of the diamonds which her daughter would certainly be called upon to wear before the Queen—if only that young man would do his duty.
Poor Mary herself probably had the worst of it. No provision was made either for her to see her
