JOHN GORDON AND MARY LAWRIE.
The door was closed, and John Gordon and Mary were alone together.
She was still seated, and he, coming forward, stood in front of her.
"Mary," he said,--and he put out his right hand, as though to take
hers. But she sat quite still, making no motion to give him her hand.
Nor did she say a word. To her her promise, her reiterated promise,
to Mr Whittlestaff was binding,--not the less binding because it had
only been made on this very day. She had already acknowledged to
this other man that the promise had been made, and she had asked him
to spare her this interview. He had not spared her, and it was for
him now to say, while it lasted, what there was to be said. She had
settled the matter in her own mind, and had made him understand that
it was so settled. There was nothing further that she could tell him.
"Mary, now that we are alone, will you not speak to me?"
"I have nothing to say."
"Should I not have come to you?"
"You should not have stayed when you found that I had promised myself
to another."
"Is there nothing else that I may wish to say to you?"
"There is nothing else that you should wish to say to the wife of
another man."
"You are not his wife,--not yet."
"I shall be his wife, Mr Gordon. You may be sure of that. And I
think--think I can say of myself that I shall be a true wife. He
has chosen to take me; and as he has so chosen, his wishes must be
respected. He has asked you to remain here as a friend, understanding
that to be the case. But as you do not choose, you should go."
"Do you wish me to stay, and to see you become his wife?"
"I say nothing of that. It is not for me to insist on my wishes. I
have expressed one wish, and you have refused to grant it. Nothing
can pass between you and me which must not, I should say, be painful
to both of us."
"You would have me go then,--so that you should never hear of or see
me again?"
"I shall never see you, I suppose. What good would come of seeing
you?"
"And you can bear to part with me after this fashion?"
"It has to be borne. The world is full of hard things, which have to
be borne. It is not made to run smoothly altogether, either for you
or for me. You must bear your cross,--and so must I."
"And that is the only word I am to receive, after having struggled
so hard for you, and having left all my work, and all my cares, and
all my property, in order that I might come home, and catch just one
glance of your eye. Can you not say a word to me, a word of kindness,
that I may carry back with me?"
"Not a word. If you will think of it, you ought not to ask me for a
word of kindness. What does a kind word mean--a kind word coming from
me to you? There was a time when I wanted a kind word, but I did not
ask for it. At the time it did not suit. Nor does it suit now. Put
yourself in Mr Whittlestaff's case; would you wish the girl to whom
you were engaged to say kind words behind your back to some other
man? If you heard them, would you not think that she was a traitor?
He has chosen to trust me,--against my advice, indeed; but he has
trusted me, and I know myself to be trustworthy. There shall be no
kind word spoken."
"Mary," said he, "when did all this happen?"
"It has been happening, I suppose, from the first day that I came
into his house."
"But when was it settled? When did he ask you to be his wife? Or
when, rather, did you make him the promise?" John Gordon fancied that
since he had been at Croker's Hall words had been spoken, or that
he had seen signs, indicating that the engagement had not been of
a long date. And in every word that she had uttered to him he had
heard whispered under her breath an assurance of her perfect love for
himself. He had been sure of her love when he had left the house at
Norwich, in which he had been told that he had been lingering there
to no good purpose; but he had never been more certain than he was at
this moment, when she coldly bade him go and depart back again to his
distant home in the diamond-fields. And now, in her mock anger and in
her indignant words, with the purpose of her mind written so clearly
on her brow, she was to him more lovable and more beautiful than
ever. Could it be fair to him as a man that he should lose the prize
which was to him of such inestimable value, merely for a word of cold
assent given to this old man, and given, as he thought, quite lately?
His devotion to her was certainly assured. Nothing could be more
fixed, less capable of a doubt, than his love. And he, too, was
somewhat proud of himself in that he had endeavoured to entangle
her by no promise till he had secured for himself and for her the
means of maintaining her. He had gone out and he had come back
with silent hopes, with hopes which he had felt must be subject
to disappointment, because he knew himself to be a reticent,
self-restrained man; and because he had been aware that "the world,"
as she had said, "is full of hard things which have to be borne."
But now if, as he believed, the engagement was but of recent date,
there would be a hardship in it, which even he could not bear
patiently,--a hardship, the endurance of which must be intolerable
to her. If it were so, the man could hardly be so close-fisted, so
hard-hearted, so cruel-minded, as to hold the girl to her purpose!
"When did you promise to be his wife?" he said, repeating his
question. Now there came over Mary's face a look of weakness, the
opposite to the strength which she had displayed when she had bade
him not ask her for a word of kindness. To her the promise was the
same, was as strong, even though it had been made but that morning,
as though weeks and months had intervened. But she felt that to him
there would be an apparent weakness in the promise of her engagement,
if she told him that it was made only on that morning. "When was it,
Mary?"
"It matters nothing," she said.
"But it does matter--to me."
Then a sense of what was fitting told her that it was incumbent on
her to tell him the truth. Sooner or later he would assuredly know,
and it was well that he should know the entire truth from her lips.
She could not put up with the feeling that he should go away deceived
in any degree by herself.
"It was this morning," she said.
"This very morning?"
"It was on this morning that I gave my word to Mr Whittlestaff, and
promised to become his wife."
"And had I been here yesterday I should not have been too late?"
Here she looked up imploringly into his face. She could not answer
that question, nor ought he to press for an answer. And the words
were no sooner out of his mouth than he felt that it was so. It was
not to her that he must address any such remonstrance as that. "This
morning!" he repeated--"only this morning!"
But he did not know, nor could she tell him, that she had pleaded her
love for him when Mr Whittlestaff had asked her. She could not tell
him of that second meeting, at which she had asked Mr Whittlestaff
that even yet he should let her go. It had seemed to her, as she had
thought of it, that Mr Whittlestaff had behaved well to her, had
intended to do a good thing to her, and had ignored the other man,
who had vanished, as it were, from the scene of their joint lives,
because he had become one who ought not to be allowed to interest her
any further. She had endeavoured to think of it with stern justice,
accusing herself of absurd romance, and giving Mr Whittlestaff
credit for all goodness. This had been before John Gordon had
appeared among them; and now she struggled hard not to be less just
to Mr Whittlestaff than before, because of this accident. She knew
him well enough to be aware that he could not easily be brought to
abandon the thing on which he had set his mind. It all passed through
her mind as she prepared her answer for John Gordon. "It can make no
difference," she said. "A promise is a promise, though it be but an
hour old."
"That is to be my answer?"
"Yes, that is to be your answer. Ask yourself, and you will know that
there is no other answer that I can honestly make you."
"How is your own heart in the affair?"
There she was weak, and knew as she spoke that she was weak. "It
matters not at all," she said.
"It matters not at all?" he repeated after her. "I can understand
that my happiness should be nothing. If you and he were satisfied,
of course it would be nothing. If you were satisfied, there would be
an end to it; because if your pleasure and his work together, I must
necessarily be left out in the cold. But it is not so. I take upon
myself to say that you are not satisfied."
"You will not allow me to answer for myself?"
"No, not in this matter. Will you dare to tell me that you do not
love me?" She remained silent before him, and then he went on to
reason with her. "You do not deny it. I hear it in your voice and
see it in your face. When we parted in Norwich, did you not love me
then?"
"I shall answer no such question. A young woman has often to change
her mind as to whom she loves, before she can settle down as one
man's wife or another's."
"You do not dare to be true. If I am rough with you, it is for your
sake as well as my own. We are young, and, as was natural, we learnt
to love each other. Then you came here and were alone in the world,
and I was gone. Though there had been no word of marriage between us,
I had hoped that I might be remembered in my absence. Perhaps you did
remember me. I cannot think that I was ever absent from your heart;
but I was away, and you could not know how loyal I was to my thoughts
of you. I am not blaming you, Mary. I can well understand that you
were eating his bread and drinking his cup, and that it appeared to
you that everything was due to him. You could not have gone on eating
his bread unless you had surrendered yourself to his wishes. You must
have gone from this, and have had no home to which to go. It is all
true. But the pity of it, Mary; the pity of it!"
"He has done the best he could by me."
"Perhaps so; but if done from that reason, the surrender will be the
easier."
"No, no, no; I know more of him than you do. No such surrender will
come easy to him. He has set his heart upon this thing, and as far as
I am concerned he shall have it."
"You will go to him with a lie in your mouth?"
"I do not know. I cannot say what the words may be. If there be a
lie, I will tell it."
"Then you do love me still?"
"You may cheat me out of my thoughts, but it will be to no good.
Whether I lie or tell the truth, I will do my duty by him. There
will be no lying. To the best of my ability I will love him, and
him only. All my care shall be for him. I have resolved, and I will
force myself to love him. All his qualities are good. There is not a
thought in his mind of which he need be ashamed."
"Not when he will use his power to take you out of my arms."
"No, sir; for I am not your property. You speak of dealing with me,
as though I must necessarily belong to you if I did not belong to
him. It is not so."
"Oh, Mary!"
"It is not so. What might be the case I will not take upon myself
to say,--or what might have been. I was yesterday a free woman, and
my thoughts were altogether my own. To-day I am bound to him, and
whether it be for joy or for sorrow, I will be true to him. Now, Mr
Gordon, I will leave you."
"Half a moment," he said, standing between her and the door. "It
cannot be that this should be the end of all between us. I shall go
to him, and tell him what I believe to be the truth."
"I cannot hinder you; but I shall tell him that what you say is
false."
"You know it to be true."
"I shall tell him that it is false."
"Can you bring yourself to utter a lie such as that?"
"I can bring myself to say whatever may be best for him, and most
conducive to his wishes." But as she said this, she was herself aware
that she had told Mr Whittlestaff only on this morning that she had
given her heart to John Gordon, and that she would be unable to keep
her thoughts from running to him. She had implored him to leave her
to herself, so that the memory of her love might be spared. Then,
when this young man had been still absent, when there was no dream
of his appearing again before her, when the consequence would be
that she must go forth into the world, and earn her own bitter
bread alone,--at that moment she knew that she had been true to the
memory of the man. What had occurred since, to alter her purpose
so violently? Was it the presence of the man she did love, and the
maidenly instincts which forbade her to declare her passion in his
presence? Or was it simply the conviction that her promise to Mr
Whittlestaff had been twice repeated, and could not now admit of
being withdrawn? But in spite of her asseverations, there must have
been present to her mind some feeling that if Mr Whittlestaff would
yield to the prayer of John Gordon, all the gulf would be bridged
over which yawned between herself and perfect happiness. Kimberley?
Yes, indeed; or anywhere else in the wide world. As he left the room,
she did now tell herself that in spite of all that she had said she
could accompany him anywhere over the world with perfect bliss. How
well had he spoken for himself, and for his love! How like a man he
had looked, when he had asked her that question, "Will you dare to
tell me that you do not love me?" She had not dared; even though at
the moment she had longed to leave upon him the impression that it
was so. She had told him that she would lie to Mr Whittlestaff,--lie
on Mr Whittlestaff's own behalf. But such a lie as this she could
not tell to John Gordon. He had heard it in her voice and seen it in
her face. She knew it well, and was aware that it must be so.
"The pity of it," she too said to herself; "the pity of it!"
If he had but come a week sooner,--but a day sooner, before Mr
Whittlestaff had spoken out his mind,--no love-tale would ever have
run smoother. In that case she would have accepted John Gordon
without a moment's consideration. When he should have told her of
his distant home, of the roughness of his life, of the changes and
chances to which his career must be subject, she would have assured
him, with her heart full of joy, that she would accept it all and
think her lot so happy as to admit of no complaint. Mr Whittlestaff
would then have known the condition of her heart, before he had
himself spoken a word. And as the trouble would always have been in
his own bosom, there would, so to say, have been no trouble at all.
A man's sorrows of that kind do not commence, or at any rate are not
acutely felt, while the knowledge of the matter from which they grow
is confined altogether to his own bosom.
But she resolved, sitting there after John Gordon had left her, that
in the circumstances as they existed, it was her duty to bear what
sorrow there was to be borne. Poor John Gordon! He must bear some
sorrow too, if there should be cause to him for grief. There would be
loss of money, and loss of time, which would of themselves cause him
grief. Poor John Gordon! She did not blame him in that he had gone
away, and not said one word to draw from her some assurance of her
love. It was the nature of the man, which in itself was good and
noble. But in this case it had surely been unfortunate. With such
a passion at his heart, it was rash in him to have gone across the
world to the diamond-fields without speaking a word by which they two
might have held themselves as bound together. The pity of it!
But as circumstances had gone, honour and even honesty demanded that
Mr Whittlestaff should not be allowed to suffer. He at least had
been straightforward in his purpose, and had spoken as soon as he
had been assured of his own mind. Mr Whittlestaff should at any rate
have his reward.