"I should have thought you might have had a school of your own," said the lad. "You know so much, and get on so well with boys. I should have thought you might have been tutor at a college."
"To have a school of my own would take money," said he, "which I have not got. To be tutor at a college would take— But never mind. I am very well where I am, and have nothing to complain of." He had been going to say that to be tutor of a college he would want high standing. And then he would have been forced to explain that he had lost at his own college that standing which he had once possessed.
"Yes," he said on another occasion, "she is unhappy; but do not ask her any questions about it."
"Who,—I? Oh dear, no! I should not think of taking such a liberty."
"It would be as a kindness, not as a liberty. But still, do not speak to her about it. There are sorrows which must be hidden, which it is better to endeavour to bury by never speaking of them, by not thinking of them, if that were possible."
"Is it as bad as that?" the lad asked.
"It is bad enough sometimes. But never mind. You remember that Roman wisdom,—'Dabit Deus his quoque finem.' And I think that all things are bearable if a man will only make up his mind to bear them. Do not tell any one that I have complained."
"Who,—I? Oh, never!"
"Not that I have said anything which all the world might not know; but that it is unmanly to complain. Indeed I do not complain, only I wish that things were lighter to her." Then he went off to other matters; but his heart was yearning to tell everything to this young lad.
Before the end of the week had arrived, there came a letter to him which he had not at all expected, and a letter also to the Doctor,—both from Lord Bracy. The letter to Mr. Peacocke was as follows:—