We will now pass for a moment out of Bowick parish, and go over to Buttercup. There, at Buttercup Hall, the squire’s house, in the drawing-room, were assembled Mrs Momson, the squire’s wife; Lady Margaret Momson, the Rector’s wife; Mrs Rolland, the wife of the Bishop; and the Hon. Mrs Stantiloup. A party was staying in the house, collected for the purpose of entertaining the Bishop; and it would perhaps not have been possible to have got together in the diocese, four ladies more likely to be hard upon our Doctor. For though Squire Momson was not very fond of Mrs Stantiloup, and had used strong language respecting her when he was anxious to send his boy to the Doctor’s school, Mrs Momson had always been of the other party, and had in fact adhered to Mrs Stantiloup from the beginning of the quarrel. “I do trust,” said Mrs Stantiloup, “that there will be an end to all this kind of thing now.”

“Do you mean an end to the school?” asked Lady Margaret.

“I do indeed. I always thought it matter of great regret that Augustus should have been sent there, after the scandalous treatment that Bob received.” Bob was the little boy who had drank the champagne and required the carriage exercise.

“But I always heard that the school was quite popular,” said Mrs Rolland.

“I think you’ll find”, continued Mrs Stantiloup, that there won’t be much left of its popularity now. Keeping that abominable woman under the same roof with the boys! No master of a school that wasn’t absolutely blown up with pride, would have taken such people as those Peacockes without making proper inquiry. And then to let him preach in the church! I suppose Mr Momson will allow you to send for Augustus at once?” This she said turning to Mrs Momson.

“Mr Momson thinks so much of the Doctor’s scholarship,” said the mother, apologetically. “And we are so anxious that Gus should do well when he goes to Eton.”

“What is Latin and Greek as compared to his soul? asked Lady Margaret.

“No, indeed,” said Mrs Rolland. She had found herself compelled, as wife of the Bishop, to assent to the self-evident proposition which had been made. She was a quiet, silent little woman, whom the Bishop had married in the days of his earliest preferment, and who, though she was delighted to find herself promoted to the society of the big people in the diocese, had never quite lifted herself up into their sphere. Though she had her ideas as to what it was to be a Bishop’s wife, she had never yet been quite able to act up to them.

“I know that young Talbot is to leave,” said Mrs Stantiloup. “I wrote to Mrs Talbot immediately when all this occurred, and I’ve heard from her cousin Lady Grogram that the boy is not to go back after the holidays.” This happened to be altogether untrue. What she probably meant was, that the boy should not go back if she could prevent his doing so.

“I feel quite sure,” said Lady Margaret, that Lady Anne will not allow her boys to remain when she finds out what sort of inmates the Doctor chooses to entertain.” The Lady Anne spoken of was Lady Anne Clifford, the widowed mother of two boys who were intrusted to the Doctor’s care.

“I do hope you’ll be firm about Gus,” said Mrs Stantiloup to Mrs Momson. “If we’re not to put down this kind of thing, what is the good of having any morals in the country at all? We might just as well live like pagans, and do without any marriage services, as they do in so many parts of the United States.”

“I wonder what the Bishop does think about it?” asked Mrs Momson of the Bishop’s wife.

“It makes him very unhappy; I know that,” said Mrs Rolland. “Of course he cannot interfere about the school. As for licensing the gentleman as a curate, that was of course quite out of the question.”

At this moment Mr Momson, the clergyman, and the Bishop came into the room, and were offered, as is usual on such occasions, cold tea and the remains of the buttered toast. The squire was not there. Had he been with the other gentlemen, Mrs Stantiloup, violent as she was, would probably have held her tongue; but as he was absent, the opportunity was not bad for attacking the Bishop on the subject under discussion. “We were talking, my lord, about the Bowick school.”

Now the Bishop was a man who could be very confidential with one lady, but was apt to be guarded when men are concerned. To any one of those present he might have said what he thought, had no one else been there to hear. That would have been the expression of a private opinion; but to speak before the four would have been tantamount to a public declaration.

“About the Bowick school?” said he; I hope there is nothing going wrong with the Bowick school.”

“You must have heard about Mr Peacocke,” said Lady Margaret.

“Yes; I have certainly heard of Mr Peacocke. He, I believe, has left Dr Wortle’s seminary.”

“But she remains!” said Mrs Stantiloup, with tragic energy.

“So I understand — in the house; but not as part of the establishment.”

“Does that make so much difference?” asked Lady Margaret.

“It does make a very great difference,” said Lady Margaret’s husband, the parson, wishing to help the Bishop in his difficulty.

“I don’t see it at all,” said Mrs Stantiloup. The main spirit in the matter is just as manifest whether the lady is or is not allowed to look after the boys’ linen. In fact, I despise him for making the pretence. Her doing menial work about the house would injure no one. It is her presence there — the presence of a woman who has falsely pretended to be married, when she knew very well that she had no husband.”

“When she knew that she had two,” said Lady Margaret.

“And fancy, Lady Margaret — Lady Bracy absolutely asked her to go to Carstairs! That woman was always infatuated about Dr Wortle. What would she have done if they had gone, and this other man had followed his sister-in-law there. But Lord and Lady Bracy would ask anyone to Carstairs — just anyone that they could get hold of!”

Mr Momson was one whose obstinacy was wont to give way when sufficiently attacked. Even he, after having been for two days subjected to the eloquence of Mrs Stantiloup, acknowledged that the Doctor took a great deal too much upon himself. “He does it”, said Mrs Stantiloup, “just to show that there is nothing that he can’t bring parents to assent to. Fancy — a woman living there as housekeeper with a man as usher, pretending to be husband and wife, when they knew all along that they were not married!”

Mr Momson, who didn’t care a straw about the morals of the man whose duty it was to teach his little boy his Latin grammar, or the morals of the woman who looked after his little boy’s waistcoats and trousers, gave a half-assenting grunt. “And you are to pay,” continued Mrs Stantiloup, with considerable emphasis — “you are to pay two hundred and fifty pounds a year for such conduct as that!”

“Two hundred,” suggested the squire, who cared as little for the money as he did for the morals.

“Two hundred and fifty — every shilling of it, when you consider the extras.”

“There are no extras, as far as I can see. But then my boy is strong and healthy, thank God,” said the squire, taking his opportunity of having one fling at the lady. But while all this was going on, he did give a half-assent that Gus should be taken away at midsummer, being partly moved thereto by a letter from the Doctor, in which he was told that his boy was not doing any good at the school.

It was a week after that that Mrs Stantiloup wrote the following letter to her friend Lady Grogram, after she had returned home from Buttercup Hall. Lady Grogram was a great friend of hers, and was first cousin to that Mrs Talbot who had a son at the school. Lady Grogram was an old woman of strong mind but small means, who was supposed to be potential over those connected with her. Mrs Stantiloup feared that she could not be efficacious herself, either with Mr or Mrs Talbot; but she hoped that she might carry her purpose through Lady Grogram. It may be remembered that she had declared at Buttercup Hall that young Talbot was not to go back to Bowick. But this had been a figure of speech, as has been already explained:

MY DEAR LADY GROGRAM

Since I got your last letter I have been staying with the Momsons at Buttercup. It was awfully dull. He and she are, I think, the stupidest people that ever I met. None of those Momsons have an idea among them. They are just as heavy and inharmonious as their name. Lady Margaret was one of the party. She would have been better, only that our excellent Bishop was there too, and Lady Margaret thought it well to show off all her graces before the Bishop and the Bishop’s wife. I never saw such a dowdy in all my life as Mrs Rolland. He is all very well, and looks at any rate like a gentleman. It was, I take it, that which got him his diocese. They say the Queen saw him once, and was taken by his manners.

But I did one good thing at Butte............