"I SUPPOSE IT WAS A DREAM."
It seemed to her, as she sat there at the window, that she ought to
tell Mrs Baggett what had occurred. There had been that between them
which, as she thought, made it incumbent on her to let Mrs Baggett
know the result of her interview with Mr Whittlestaff. So she went
down-stairs, and found that invaluable old domestic interfering
materially with the comfort of the two younger maidens. She was
determined to let them "know what was what," as she expressed it.
"You oughtn't to be angry with me, because I've done nothing," said
Jane the housemaid, sobbing.
"That's just about it," said Mrs Baggett. "And why haven't you done
nothing? Do you suppose you come here to do nothing? Was it doing
nothing when Eliza tied down them strawberries without putting in
e'er a drop of brandy? It drives me mortial mad to think what you
young folks are coming to."
"I ain't a-going anywhere, Mrs Baggett, because of them strawberries
being tied down which, if you untie them, as I always intended, will
have the sperrits put on them as well now as ever. And as for your
going mad, Mrs Baggett, I hope it won't be along of me."
"Drat your imperence."
"I ain't imperence at all. Here's Miss Lawrie, and she shall say
whether I'm imperence."
"Mrs Baggett, I want to speak to you, if you'll come into the other
room," said Mary.
"You are imperent, both of you. I can't say a word but I'm taken up
that short that--. They've been and tied all the jam down, so that
it'll all go that mouldy that nobody can touch it. And then, when I
says a word, they turns upon me." Then Mrs Baggett walked out of the
kitchen into her own small parlour, which opened upon the passage
just opposite the kitchen door. "They was a-going to be opened
this very afternoon," said Eliza, firing a parting shot after the
departing enemy.
"Mrs Baggett, I've got to tell you," Mary began.
"Well!"
"He came to me for an answer, as he said he would."
"Well!"
"And I told him it should be as he would have it."
"Of course you would. I knew that."
"You told me that it was your duty and mine to give him whatever he
wanted."
"I didn't say nothing of the kind, Miss."
"Oh, Mrs Baggett!"
"I didn't. I said, if he wanted your head, you was to let him take
it. But if he wanted mine, you wasn't to give it to him."
"He asked me to be his wife, and I said I would."
"Then I may as well pack up and be off for Portsmouth."
"No; not so. I have obeyed you, and I think that in these matters you
should obey him too."
"I daresay; but at my age I ain't so well able to obey. I daresay as
them girls knew all about it, or they wouldn't have turned round upon
me like that. It's just like the likes of them. When is it to be,
Miss Lawrie?--because I won't stop in the house after you be the
missus of it. That's flat. If you were to talk till you're deaf and
dumb, I wouldn't do it. Oh, it don't matter what's to become of me! I
know that."
"But it will matter very much."
"Not a ha'porth."
"You ask him, Mrs Baggett."
"He's got his plaything. That's all he cares about. I've been with
him and his family almost from a baby, and have grown old a-serving
him, and it don't matter to him whether I goes into the hedges and
ditches, or where I goes. They say that service is no heritance, and
they says true. I'm to go to-- But don't mind me. He won't, and why
should you? Do you think you'll ever do half as much for him as I've
done? He's got his troubles before him now;--that's the worst of it."
This was very bad. Mrs Baggett had been loud in laying down for her
the line of duty which she should follow, and she, to the best of her
ability, had done as Mrs Baggett had told her. It was the case that
Mrs Baggett had prevailed with her, and now the woman turned against
her! Was it true that he had "his troubles before him," because of
her acceptance of his offer? If so, might it not yet be mended? Was
it too late? Of what comfort could she be to him, seeing that she had
been unable to give him her heart? Why should she interfere with the
woman's happiness? In a spirit of true humility she endeavoured to
think how she might endeavour to do the best. Of one thing she was
quite, quite sure,--that all the longings of her very soul were fixed
upon that other man. He was away;--perhaps he had forgotten her;
perhaps he was married. Not a word had been spoken to her on which
she could found a fair hope. But she had never been so certain of her
love,--of her love as a true, undoubted, and undoubtable fact--of
an unchangeable fact,--as she was now. And why should this poor old
woman, with her many years of service, be disturbed? She went again
up to her bedroom, and sitting at her open window and looking out,
saw him still pacing slowly up and down the long walk. As she looked
at him, he seemed to be older than before. His hands were still
clasped behind his back. There was no look about him as that of a
thriving lover. Care seemed to be on his face,--nay, even present,
almost visibly, on his very shoulders. She would go to him and plead
for Mrs Baggett.
But in that case what should become of herself? She was aware that
she could no longer stay in his house as his adopted daughter. But
she could go forth,--and starve if there was nothing better for her.
But as she thought of starvation, she stamped with one foot against
the other, as though to punish herself for her own falsehood. He
would not let her starve. He would get some place for her as a
governess. And she was not in the least afraid of starvation. It
would be sweeter for her to work with any kind of hardship around
her, and to be allowed to think of John Gordon with her heart free,
than to become the comfortable mistress of his house. She would not
admit the plea of starvation even to herself. She wanted to be free
of him, and she would tell him so, and would tell him also of the
ruin he was about to bring on his old servant.
She watched him as he came back into the house, and then she rose
from her chair. "But I shall never see him again," she said, as she
paused before she left the room.
But what did that matter? Her not seeing him again ought to make,
should make, no difference with her. It was not that she might
see him, but that she might think of him with unsullied thoughts.
That should be her object,--that and the duty that she owed to Mrs
Baggett. Why was not Mrs Baggett entitled to as much consideration
as was she herself,--or even he? She turned to the glass, and wiped
her eyes with the sponge, and brushed her hair, and then she went
across the passage to Mr Whittlestaff's library.
She knocked at the door,--which she had not been accustomed to
do,--and then at his bidding entered the room. "Oh, Mary," he said
laughing, "is that the way you begin, by knocking at the door?"
"I think one knocks when one wants a moment of reprieve."
"You mean to say that you are bashful in assuming your new
privileges. Then you had better go back to your old habits, because
you always used to come where I was. You must come and go now like my
very second self." Then he came forward from the desk at which he was
wont to stand and write, and essayed to put his arm round her waist.
She drew back, but still he was not startled. "It was but a cold kiss
I gave you down below. You must kiss me now, you, as a wife kisses
her husband."
"Never."
"What!" Now he was startled.
"Mr Whittlestaff, pray--pray do not be angry with me."
"What is the meaning of it?"
Then she bethought herself,--how she might best explain the meaning.
It was hard upon her, this having to explain it, and she told
herself, very foolishly, that it would be better for her to begin
with the story of Mrs Baggett. She could more easily speak of Mrs
Baggett than of John Gordon. But it must be remembered, on her
behalf, that she had but a second to think how she might best begin
her story. "I have spoken to Mrs Baggett about your wishes."
"Well!"
"She has lived with you and your family from before you were born."
"She is an old fool. Who is going to hurt her? And if it did hurt
her, are you and I to be put out of our course because of her? She
can remain here as long as she obeys you as her mistress."
"She says that after so many years she cannot do that."
"She shall leave the house this very night, if she disturbs your
happiness and mine. What! is an old woman like that to tell her
master when he may and when he may not marry? I did not think you had
been so soft."
She could not explain it all to him,--all that she thought upon the
subject. She could not say that the interference of any domestic
between such a one as John Gordon and his love,--between him and her
if she were happy enough to be his love,--would be an absurdity too
foolish to be considered. They, that happy two, would be following
the bent of human nature, and would speak no more than a soft word to
the old woman, if a soft word might avail anything. Their love, their
happy love, would be a thing too sacred to admit of any question
from any servant, almost from any parent. But why, in this matter,
was not Mrs Baggett's happiness to be of as much consequence as Mr
Whittlestaff's;--especially when her own peace of mind lay in the
same direction as Mrs Baggett's? "She says that you are only laying
up trouble for yourself in this, and I think that it is true."
Then he rose up in his wrath and spoke his mind freely, and showed
her at once that John Gordon had not dwelt much on his mind. He had
bade her not to speak of him, and then he had been contented to look
upon him as one whom he would not be compelled to trouble himself
with any further. "I think, Mary, that you are making too little of
me, and of yourself, to talk to me, or even to consider, in such
a matter, what a servant says to you. As you have given me your
affection, you should now allow nothing that any one can say to you
to make you even think of changing your purpose." How grossly must
he be mistaken, when he could imagine that she had given him her
heart! Had she not expressly told him that her love had been set upon
another person? "To me you are everything. I have been thinking as I
walked up and down the path there, of all that I could do to make you
happy. And I was so happy myself in feeling that I had your happiness
to look after. How should I not let the wind blow too coldly on you?
How should I be watchful to see that nothing should ruffle your
spirits? What duties, what pleasures, what society should I provide
for you? How should I change my habits, so as to make my advanced
years fit for your younger life? And I was teaching myself to hope
that I was not yet too old to make this altogether impossible. Then
you come to me, and tell me that you must destroy all my dreams,
dash all my hopes to the ground,--because an old woman has shown her
temper and her jealousy!"
This was true,--according to the light in which he saw her position.
Had there been nothing between them two but a mutual desire to be
married, the reason given by her for changing it all would be absurd.
As he had continued to speak, slowly adding on one argument to
another, with a certain amount of true eloquence, she felt that
unless she could go back to John Gordon she must yield. But it was
very hard for her to go back to John Gordon. In the first place, she
must acknowledge, in doing so, that she had only put forward Mrs
Baggett as a false plea. And then she must insist on her love for
a man who had never spoken to her of love! It was so hard that she
could not do it openly. "I had thought so little of the value I could
be to you."
"Your value to me is infinite. I think, Mary, that there has come
upon you a certain melancholy which is depressing you. Your regard to
me is worth now more than any other possession or gift that the world
can bestow. And I had taken pride to myself in saying that it had
been given." Yes;--her regard! She could not contradict him as to
that. "And have you thought of your own position? After all that
has passed between us, you can hardly go on living here as you have
done."
"I know that."
"Then, what would become of you if you were to break away from me?"
"I thought you would get a place for me as a governess,--or a
companion to some lady."
"Would that satisfy your ambition? I have got a place for you;--but
it is here." As he spoke, he laid his hand upon his heart. "Not as
a companion to a lady are you required to fulfil your duties here
on earth. It is a fuller task of work that you must do. I trust,--I
trust that it may not be more tedious." She looked at him again,
and he did not now appear so old. There was a power of speech about
the man, and a dignity which made her feel that she could in truth
have loved him,--had it not been for John Gordon. "Unfortunately, I
am older than you,--very much older. But to you there may be this
advantage, that you can listen to what I may say with something of
confidence in my knowledge of the world. As my wife, you will fill
a position more honourable, and more suitable to your gifts, than
could belong to you as a governess or a companion. You will have
much more to do, and will be able to go nightly to your rest with a
consciousness that you have done more as the mistress of our house
than you could have done in that tamer capacity. You will have
cares,--and even those will ennoble the world to you, and you to the
world. That other life is a poor shrunken death,--rather than life.
It is a way of passing her days, which must fall to the lot of many
a female who does not achieve the other; and it is well that they
to whom it falls should be able to accommodate themselves to it
with contentment and self-respect. I think that I may say of myself
that, even as my wife, you will stand higher than you would do as a
companion."
"I am sure of it."
"Not on that account should you accept any man that you cannot love."
Had she not told him that she did not love him;--even that she loved
another? And yet he spoke to her in this way! "You had better tell
Mrs Baggett to come to me."
"There is the memory of that other man," she murmured very gently.
Then the scowl came back upon his face;--or not a scowl, but a
look rather of cold displeasure. "If I understand you rightly, the
gentleman never addressed you as a lover."
"Never!"
"I see it all, Mary. Mrs Baggett has been violent and selfish, and
has made you think thoughts which should not have been put in your
head to disturb you. You have dreamed a dream in your early life,--as
girls do dream, I suppose,--and it has now to be forgotten. Is it not
so?"
"I suppose it was a dream."
"He has passed away, and he has left you to become the happiness of
my life. Send Mrs Baggett to me, and I will speak to her." Then he
came up to her,--for they had been standing about a yard apart,--and
pressed his lips to hers. How was it possible that she should prevent
him?
She turned round, and slowly left the room, feeling, as she did
so, that she was again engaged to him for ever and ever. She hated
herself because she had been so fickle. But how could she have done
otherwise? She asked herself, as she went back to her room, at what
period during the interview, which was now over, she could have
declared to him the real state of her mind. He had, as it were, taken
complete possession of her, by right of the deed of gift which she
had made of herself that morning. She had endeavoured to resume the
gift, but had altogether failed. She declared to herself that she
was weak, impotent, purposeless; but she admitted, on the other hand,
that he had displayed more of power than she had ever guessed at
his possessing. A woman always loves this display of power in a man,
and she felt that she could have loved him had it not been for John
Gordon.
But there was one comfort for her. None knew of her weakness. Her
mind had vacillated like a shuttlecock, but no one had seen the
vacillation. She was in his hands, and she must simply do as he bade
her. Then she went down to Mrs Baggett's room, and told the old
lady to go up-stairs at her master's behest. "I'm a-going," said Mrs
Baggett. "I'm a-going. I hope he'll find every one else as good at
doing what he tells 'em. But I ain't a-going to be a-doing for him or
for any one much longer."