Dr. Wortle’s School

The Rev. Jeffrey Wortle, D.D., was a man much esteemed by others⁠—and by himself. He combined two professions, in both of which he had been successful⁠—had been, and continued to be, at the time in which we speak of him. I will introduce him to the reader in the present tense as Rector of Bowick, and proprietor and headmaster of the school established in the village of that name. The seminary at Bowick had for some time enjoyed a reputation under him;⁠—not that he had ever himself used so newfangled and unpalatable a word in speaking of his school. Bowick School had been established by himself as preparatory to Eton. Dr. Wortle had been elected to an assistant-mastership at Eton early in life soon after he had become a Fellow of Exeter. There he had worked successfully for ten years, and had then retired to the living of Bowick. On going there he had determined to occupy his leisure, and if possible to make his fortune, by taking a few boys into his house. By dint of charging high prices and giving good food⁠—perhaps in part, also, by the quality of the education which he imparted⁠—his establishment had become popular and had outgrown the capacity of the parsonage. He had been enabled to purchase a field or two close abutting on the glebe gardens, and had there built convenient premises. He now limited his number to thirty boys, for each of which he charged £200 a-year. It was said of him by his friends that if he would only raise his price to £250, he might double the number, and really make a fortune.

And now, O kindhearted reader, I feel myself constrained, in the telling of this little story, to depart altogeether from those principles of story-telling to which you probably have become accustomed, and to put the horse of my romance before the cart. There is a mystery respecting Mr. and Mrs. Peacocke which, according to all laws recognised in such matters, ought not to be elucidated till, let us say, the last chapter but two, so that your interest should be maintained almost to the end⁠—so near the end that there should be left only space for those little arrangements which are necessary for the well-being, or perhaps for the evil-being, of our personages. It is my purpose to disclose the mystery at once, and to ask you to look for your interest⁠—should you choose to go on with my chronicle⁠—simply in the conduct of my persons, during this disclosure, to others. You are to know it all before the Doctor or the Bishop⁠—before Mrs. Wortle or the Hon. Mrs. Stantiloup, or Lady De Lawle. You are to know it all before the Peacockes become aware that it must necessarily be disclosed to anyone. It may be that when I shall have once told the mystery there will no longer be any room for interest in the tale to you. That there are many such readers of novels I know. I doubt whether the greater number be not such. I am far from saying that the kind of interest of which I am speaking⁠—and of which I intend to deprive myself⁠—is not the most natural and the most efficacious. What would the Black Dwarf be if everyone knew from the beginning that he was a rich man and a baronet?⁠—or The Pirate, if all the truth about Norna of the Fitful-head had been told in the first chapter?

It had all happened just as young Talbot had said. A very “rummy-looking fellow” had at that early hour been driven over from Broughton to Bowick, and had caught Mr. Peacocke just as he was going into the school. He was a man with a beard, loose, flowing on both sides, as though he were winged like a bird⁠—a beard that had been black, but was now streaked through and through with grey hairs. The man had a coat with frogged buttons that must have been intended to have a military air when it was new, but which was now much the worse for wear. The coat was so odd as to have caught young Talbot’s attention at once. And the man’s hat was old and seedy. But there was a look about him as though he were by no means ashamed either of himself or of his present purpose. “He came in a gig,” said Talbot to his friend; “for I saw the horse standing at the gate, and the man sitting in the gig.”

“You remember me, no doubt,” the stranger said, when he encountered Mr. Peacocke.

“I do not remember you in the least,” the schoolmaster answered.

“Come, come; that won’t do. You know me well enough. I’m Robert Lefroy.”

Then Mr. Peacocke, looking at him again, knew that the man was the brother of his wife’s husband. He had not seen him often, but he recognised him as Robert Lefroy, and having recognised him he took him into the house.

“Colonel Lefroy has been with you, I take it.”

“A man calling himself by that name has been here. Will you not take a chair?”

“I do not know that it will be necessary. What he has told you⁠—what I suppose he has told you⁠—is true.”

“You had better at any rate take a chair. I do not believe that what he has told me is true.”

“But it is.”

“I do not believe that what he has told me is true. Some of it cannot, I think, be true. Much of it is not so⁠—unless I am more deceived in you than I ever was in any man. At any rate sit down.” Then the schoolmaster did sit down. “He has made you out to be a perjured, wilful, cruel bigamist.”

“I have not been such,” said Peacocke, rising from his chair.

“My God,” said the man suddenly, “I am not going to be done in this way.” And with that he drew out a bowie-knife which he had concealed among the things which he had extracted from the bag. “You don’t know the sort of country you’re in now. They don’t think much here of the life of such a skunk as you. If you mean to live till tomorrow morning you must come to terms.”

The room was a narrow chamber in which two beds ran along the wall, each with its foot to the other, having a narrow space between them and the other wall. Peacocke occupied the one nearest to the door. Lefroy now got up from the bed in the further corner, and with the bowie-knife in his hand rushed against the door as though to prevent his companion’s escape. Peacocke, who was in bed undressed, sat up at once; but as he did so he brought a revolver out from under his pillow. “So you have been and armed yourself, have you?” said Robert Lefroy.

“Yes,” said Peacocke;⁠—“if you come nearer me with that knife I shall shoot you. Put it down.”

“Likely I shall put it down at your bidding.”

With the pistol still held at the other man’s head, Peacocke slowly extracted himself from his bed. “Now,” said he, “if you don’t come away from the door I shall fire one barrel just to let them know in the house what sort of affair is going on. Put the knife down. You know that I shall not hurt you then.”

After hesitating for a moment or two, Lefroy did put the knife down. “I didn’t mean anything, old fellow,” said he. “I only wanted to frighten you.”