When the Monday came there was much to be done and to be thought of at Bowick. Mrs Peacocke on that day received a letter from San Francisco, giving her all the details of the evidence that her husband had obtained, and enclosing a copy of the photograph. There was now no reason why she should not become the true and honest wife of the man whom she had all along regarded as her husband in the sight of God. The writer declared that he would so quickly follow his letter that he might be expected home within a week, or, at the longest, ten days, from the date at which she would receive it. Immediately on his arrival at Liverpool, he would, of course, give her notice by telegraph.

When this letter reached her, she at once sent a message across to Mrs Wortle. Would Mrs Wortle kindly come and see her? Mrs Wortle was, of course, bound to do as she was asked, and started at once. But she was, in truth, but little able to give counsel on any subject outside the one which was at the moment nearest to her heart. At one o’clock, when the boys went to their dinner, Mary was to instruct her father as to the purport of the letter which was to be sent to Lord Bracy — and Mary had not as yet come to any decision. She could not go to her father for aid — she could not, at any rate, go to him until the appointed hour should come; and she was, therefore, entirely thrown upon her mother. Had she been old enough to understand the effect and the power of character, she would have known that, at the last moment, her father would certainly decide for her — and had her experience of the world been greater, she might have been quite sure that her father would decide in her favour. But as it was, she was quivering and shaking in the dark, leaning on her mother’s very inefficient aid, nearly overcome with the feeling that by one o’clock she must be ready to say something quite decided.

And in the midst of this her mother was taken away from her, just at ten o’clock. There was not, in truth, much that the two ladies could say to each other. Mrs Peacocke felt it to be necessary to let the Doctor know that Mr Peacocke would be back almost at once, and took this means of doing so. “In a week!” said Mrs Wortle, as though painfully surprised by the suddenness of the coming arrival.

“In a week or ten days. He was to follow his letter as quickly as possible from San Francisco.”

“And he has found it all out?”

“Yes; he has learned everything, I think. Look at this!” And Mrs Peacocke handed to her friend the photograph of the tombstone.

“Dear me!” said Mrs Wortle. Ferdinand Lefroy! And this was his grave?”

“That is his grave,” said Mrs Peacocke, turning her face away.

“It is very sad; very sad indeed — but you had to learn it, you know.”

“It will not be sad for him, I hope,” said Mrs Peacocke. “In all this, I endeavour to think of him rather than of myself. When I am forced to think of myself, it seems to me that my life has been so blighted and destroyed that it must be indifferent what happens to me now. What has happened to me has been so bad that I can hardly be injured further. But if there can be a good time coming for him — something at least of relief, something perhaps of comfort — then I shall be satisfied.”

“Why should there not be comfort for you both?”

“I am almost as dead to hope as I am to shame. Some year or two ago I should have thought it impossible to bear the eyes of people looking at me, as though my life had been sinful and impure. I seem now to care nothing for all that. I can look them back again with bold eyes and a brazen face, and tell them that their hardness is at any rate as bad as my impurity.”

“We have not looked at you like that,” said Mrs Wortle.

“No; and therefore I send to you in my trouble, and tell you all this. The strangest thing of all to me is that I should have come across one man so generous as your husband, and one woman so soft-hearted as yourself.” There was nothing further to be said then. Mrs Wortle was instructed to tell her husband that Mr Peacocke was to be expected in a week or ten days, and then hurried back to give what assistance she could in the much more important difficulties of her own daughter.

Of course they were much more important to her. Was her girl to become the wife of a young lord — to be a future countess? Was she destined to be the mother-in-law of an earl? Of course this was much more important to her. And then through it all — being as she was a dear, good, Christian, motherly woman — she was well aware that there was something, in truth, much more important even than that. Though she thought much of the earl-ship, and the countess-ship, and the great revenue, and the big house at Carstairs, and the fine park with its magnificent avenues, and the carriage in which her daughter would be rolled about to London parties, and the diamonds which she would wear when she should be presented to the Queen as the bride of the young Lord Carstairs, yet she knew very well that she ought not in such an emergency as the present to think of these things as being of primary importance. What would tend most to her girl’s happiness — and welfare in this world and the next? It was of that she ought to think — of that only. If some 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 weather-cock.”

“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 mother and kissing her and embracing her.

“But if there wer............