It "It's not so large, certainly." "What's the screw?" he said. "The payment, you mean. can hardly serve us now to go into matters such as that. What is it that has brought you here, Lefroy?" "Well, a big ship, an uncommonly bad sort of railway car, and the ricketiest little buggy that ever a man trusted his life to. Thems what's brought me here." "I suppose you have something to say, or you would not have come," said Peacocke. "Yes, I've a good deal to say of one kind or another. But here's the breakfast, and I'm wellnigh starved. What, cold meat! I'm darned if I can eat cold meat. Haven't you got anything hot, my dear?" Then it was explained to him that hot meat was not to be had, unless he would choose to wait, to have some lengthened cooking accomplished. To this, however, he objected, and then the girl left the room. "I've a good many things to say of one kind or another," he continued. "It's difficult to say, Peacocke, how you and I stand with each other." "I do not know that we stand with each other at all, as you call it." "I mean as to relationship. Are you my brother-in-law, or are you not?" This was a question which in very truth the schoolmaster found it hard to answer. He did not answer it at all, but remained silent. "Are you my brother-in-law, or are you not? You call her Mrs. Peacocke, eh?” "Yes, I call her Mrs. Peacocke." "And she is here living with you?" "Yes, she is here." "Had she not better come down and see me? She is my sister-inlaw, anyway." "No," said Mr. Peacocke; "I think, on the whole, that she had better not come down and see you," "You don't mean to say she isn't my sister-in-law? She's that, whatever else she is. She's that, whatever name she goes by. If Ferdinand had been ever so much dead, and that marriage at St. Louis had been ever so good, still she'd been my sister-in-law." "Not a doubt about it," said Mr. Peacocke. "But still, under all the circumstances, she had better not see you." "Well, that's a queer beginning, anyway. But perhaps you'll come round by-and-by. She goes by Mrs. Peacocke?" "She is regarded as my wife," said the husband, feeling himself to become more and more indignant at every word, but knowing at the same time how necessary it was that he should keep his indignation hidden. "Yes, there is. It belongs to that you knew when you took her Dr. Wortle." away from St. Louis. You may, or you mayn't, have been fooled by some one down in Texas when you went back and married her in all that hurry. But you knew what you were doing well enough when you took her away. You won't dare to tell me that you hadn't seen Ferdinand when you two mizzled off from the College?" Then he paused, waiting again for a reply. "As I told you before," he said, no further conversation on the subject can be of avail. It does not suit me to be cross-examined as to what I knew or what I did not know. If you have anything for me to hear, you can say it. If you have anything to tell to others, go and tell it to them." "That's just it," said Lefroy. "And he knows, no doubt, all about you and my sister-in-law; how you came and married her when she was another man's wife, and took her away when 66 knew you as that other man was alive and kicking?" Mr. Peacocke, when these questions were put to him, remained silent, because literally he did not know how to answer them. He was quite prepared to take his position as he found it. He had told himself before this dreadful man had appeared, that the truth must be made known at Bowick, and that he and his wife must pack up and flit. It was not that the man could bring upon him any greater evil than he had anticipated. But the questions which were asked him were in themselves so bitter! The man, no doubt, was his wife's brother-in-law. He could not turn him out of the house as he would a stranger, had a stranger come there asking such questions without any claim of family. Abominable as the man was to him, still he was there with a certain amount of right upon his side. "I think," said he, "that ques "You're in a terrible hurry, Mister Peacocke. I don't want to drop in and spoil your little game. You're making money of your little game. I can help you as to carrying on your little game, better than you do at present. I don't want to blow upon you. But as you're making money out of it, I'd like to make a little too. I am precious hard up,-I am." "You will make no money of me," said the other. "A little will go a long way with me; and, remember, I have got tidings now which are worth paying for." "What tidings?" "If they're worth paying for, it's not likely that you are going to get them for nothing." "Look here, Colonel Lefroy; whatever you may have to say about me will certainly not be prevented by my paying you money. Though you might be able to ruin me tomorrow I would not give you a dollar to save myself." "But her," said Lefroy, pointing as it were up-stairs, with his thumb over his shoulder. "Nor her," said Peacocke. "You don't care very much about her, then?" "How much I may care I shall not trouble myself to explain to you. I certainly shall not endeavour to serve her after that fashion. I begin to understand why you have come, and can only beg you to believe that you have come in vain." Lefroy turned to his food, which he had not yet finished, while his companion sat silent at the window, trying to arrange in his mind the circumstances of the moment as best he might. He declared to himself that had the man come but one day later, his coming would have been matter of no moment. The story, the entire story, would then have been told to the Doctor, and the brother-in-law, with all his malice, could have added nothing to the truth. But now it seemed as though there would be a race which should tell the story first. Now the Doctor would, no doubt, be led to feel that the narration was made because it could longer be kept back. Should this man be with the Doctor first, and should the story be told as he would tell it, then it would be impossible for Mr. Peacocke, in acknowledging the truth of it all, to bring his friend's mind back to the condition in which it would have been had this intruder not been in And yet he could not the way. no make a race of it with the man. He could not rush across, and all but out of breath with his energy, begin his narration while Lefroy was there knocking at the door. There would be an absence of dignity in such a mode of proceeding, which alone was sufficient to deter him. He had fixed an hour already with the Doctor. He had said that he would be there in the house at a certain time. Let the man do what he would, he would keep exactly to his purpose, unless the Doctor should seek an earlier interview. He would, in no tittle, be turned from his purpose by the unfortunate coming of this wretched man. "Well!" said Lefroy, as soon as he had eaten his last mouthful. "I have nothing to say to you," said Peacocke. "Nothing to say?" "Not a word." 66 Well, that's queer. I should have thought there'd have been a many words. I've got a lot to say to somebody, and mean to say it, precious soon too. Is there any ho-tel here, where I can put this horse up! I suppose you haven't got stables of your own? I wonder if the Doctor would give me accommodation?" "I haven't got a stable, and the Doctor certainly will not give you accommodation. There is a publichouse less than a quarter of a mile further on, which no doubt your driver knows very well. You had better go there yourself, because, after what has taken place, I am bound to tell you that you will not be admitted here." shall do nothing to dissuade him. If you go down to the road, you'll see the gate leading up to his house. I think you'll find that he is down-stairs by this time." "You take it very cool, Peacocke." "I only tell you the truth. With you I will have nothing more to do. You have a story which you wish to tell to Dr. Wortle. Go and tell it to him." "I can tell it to all the world," said Lefroy. "Go and tell it to all the world." "And I ain't to see my sister?" "No; you will not see your sister-in-law here. Why should she wish to see one who has only injured her?" "I ain't injured her;-at any rate not as yet. I ain't done nothing;-not as yet. I've been as dark as the grave;-as yet. Let her come down, and you go away for a moment, and let us see if we can't settle it." "There is nothing for you to settle. Nothing that you can do, nothing that you can say, will influence either her or me. If you have anything to tell, go and tell it." "Why should you smash up everything in that way, Peacocke? You're comfortable here; why not remain so I don't want to hurt you. I want to help you;-and I can. Three hundred dollars wouldn't be much to you. You were always a fellow as had a little money by you." "If this box were full of gold," said the schoolmaster, laying his hand upon a black desk which stood on the table, "I would not give you one cent to induce you to hold your tongue for ever. I would not condescend even to ask it of you as a favour. You think that you can disturb our happiness by telling what you know of us to Dr. Wortle. Go and try." Mr. Peacocke's manner was so firm that the other man began to doubt whether in truth he had a secret to tell. Could it be possible that Dr. Wortle knew it all, and that the neighbours knew it all, and that, in spite of what had happened, the position of the man and of the woman was accepted among them? They certainly were not man and wife, and yet they were living together as such. Could such a one as this Dr. Wortle know that it was so? He, when he had spoken of the purposes for which the boys were sent there, asking whether they were not sent for education, for morals and religion, had understood much of the Doctor's position. He had known the peculiar value of his secret. He had been aware that a schoolmaster with a wife to whom he was not in truth married must be out of place in an English seminary such as this. But yet he now began to doubt. "I am to be turned out, then?" he asked. "Yes, indeed, Colonel Lefroy. The sooner you go the better." "That's a pretty sort of welcome to your wife's brother-in-law, who has just come over all the way from Mexico to see her." "To get what he can out of her by his unwelcome presence," said Peacocke. "Here you can get nothing. Go and do your worst. If you remain much longer I shall send for the policeman to remove you." "You will." "Yes, I shall. My time is not my own, and I cannot go over to my work leaving you in my house. You have nothing to get by my friendship. Go and see what you can do as my enemy." "I will," said the Colonel, getting up from his chair; "I will. If I'm to be treated in this way it shall not be for nothing. I have offered you the right hand of an affectionate brother-in-law." "Bosh," said Mr. Peacocke. "And you tell me that I am an enemy. Very well; I will be an enemy. I could have put you altogether on your legs, but I'll leave you without an inch of ground to stand upon. You see if I don't." Then he put his hat on his head, and stalked out of the house, down the road towards the gate. Mr. Peacocke, when he was left alone, remained in the room collecting his thoughts, and then went up-stairs to his wife. "Has he gone?" she asked. "Yes, he has gone." "And what has he said?" "He has asked for money,-to hold his tongue." "Have you given him any?" "Not a cent. I have given him nothing but hard words. I have bade him go and do his worst. To be at the mercy of such a man as that would be worse for you and for me than anything that fortune has sent us even yet." "Did he want to see me?" "Oh, my darling!" "What matter though he tells it at the town-cross? It would have been told to-day by myself." "But only to one." "It would have been the same. For any purpose of concealment it would have been the same. I have got to hate the concealment. What have we done but clung together as a man and woman should who have loved each other, and have had a right to love? What have we done of which we should be ashamed? Let it be told. Let it all be known. Have you not been good and pure? Have not I been true to you? Bear up your courage, and let the man do his worst. Not to save even you would I cringe before such a man as that. And were I to do so, I should save you from nothing." CHAPTER VIII.-THE STORY IS TOLD. But During the whole of that morning the Doctor did not come into the school. The school hours lasted from half-past nine to twelve, during a portion of which time it was his practice to be there. sometimes, on a Saturday, he would be absent, when it was understood generally that he was preparing his sermon for the Sunday. Such, no doubt, might be the case now; but there was a feeling among the boys that he was kept away by some other reason. It was known that during the hour of morning school Mr. Peacocke had been occupied with that uncouth stranger, and There some of the boys might have observed that the uncouth stranger had not taken himself altogether away from the premises. was at any rate a general feeling that the uncouth stranger had something to do with the Doctor's absence. Mr. Peacocke did his best to go on with the work as though nothing had occurred to disturb the usual tenor of his way, and as far as the boys were aware he succeeded. He was just as clear about his Greek verbs, just as incisive about that passage of Cæsar, as he would have been had Colonel Lefroy re |