MR WHITTLESTAFF'S JOURNEY DISCUSSED.
"I don't think that if I were you I would go up to London, Mr
Whittlestaff," said Mary. This was on the Tuesday morning.
"Why not?"
"I don't think I would."
"Why should you interfere?"
"I know I ought not to interfere."
"I don't think you ought. Especially as I have taken the trouble to
conceal what I am going about."
"I can guess," said Mary.
"You ought not to guess in such a matter. You ought not to have it on
your mind at all. I told you that I would not tell you. I shall go.
That's all that I have got to say."
The words with which he spoke were ill-natured and savage. The reader
will find them to be so, if he thinks of them. They were such that
a father would hardly speak, under any circumstances, to a grown-up
daughter,--much less that a lover would address to his mistress. And
Mary was at present filling both capacities. She had been taken into
his house almost as an adopted daughter, and had, since that time,
had all the privileges accorded to her. She had now been promoted
still higher, and had become his affianced bride. That the man should
have turned upon her thus, in answer to her counsel, was savage, or
at least ungracious. But at every word her heart became fuller and
more full of an affection as for something almost divine. What other
man had ever shown such love for any woman? and this love was shown
to her,--who was nothing to him,--who ate the bread of charity in his
house. And it amounted to this, that he intended to give her up to
another man,--he who had given such proof of his love,--he, of whom
she knew that this was a question of almost life and death,--because
in looking into his face she had met there the truth of his heart!
Since that first avowal, made before Gordon had come,--made at a
moment when some such avowal from her was necessary,--she had spoken
no word as to John Gordon. She had endeavoured to show no sign. She
had given herself up to her elder lover, and had endeavoured to
have it understood that she had not intended to transfer herself
because the other man had come across her path again like a flash of
lightning. She had dined in company with her younger lover without
exchanging a word with him. She had not allowed her eyes to fall upon
him more than she could help, lest some expression of tenderness
should be seen there. Not a word of hope had fallen from her lips
when they had first met, because she had given herself to another.
She was sure of herself in that. No doubt there had come moments in
which she had hoped--nay, almost expected--that the elder of the two
might give her up; and when she had felt sure that it was not to be
so, her very soul had rebelled against him. But as she had taken
time to think of it, she had absolved him, and had turned her anger
against herself. Whatever he wanted,--that she believed it would be
her duty to do for him, as far as its achievement might be in her
power.
She came round and put her arm upon him, and looked into his face.
"Don't go to London. I ask you not to go."
"Why should I not go?"
"To oblige me. You pretend to have a secret, and refuse to say why
you are going. Of course I know."
"I have written a letter to say that I am coming."
"It is still lying on the hall-table down-stairs. It will not go to
the post till you have decided."
"Who has dared to stop it?"
"I have. I have dared to stop it. I shall dare to put it in the fire
and burn it. Don't go! He is entitled to nothing. You are entitled
to have,--whatever it is that you may want, though it is but such a
trifle."
"A trifle, Mary!"
"Yes. A woman has a little gleam of prettiness about her,--though
here it is but of a common order."
"Anything so uncommon I never came near before."
"Let that pass; whether common or uncommon, it matters nothing. It is
something soft, which will soon pass away, and of itself can do no
good. It is contemptible."
"You are just Mrs Baggett over again."
"Very well; I am quite satisfied. Mrs Baggett is a good woman. She
can do something beyond lying on a sofa and reading novels, while her
good looks fade away. It is simply because a woman is pretty and weak
that she is made so much of, and is encouraged to neglect her duties.
By God's help I will not neglect mine. Do not go to London."
He seemed as though he hesitated as he sat there under the spell
of her little hand upon his shoulder. And in truth he did hesitate.
Could it not be that he should be allowed to sit there all his days,
and have her hand about his neck somewhat after this fashion? Was
he bound to give it all up? What was it that ordinary selfishness
allowed? What depth of self-indulgence amounted to a wickedness which
a man could not permit himself to enjoy without absolutely hating
himself? It would be easy in this case to have all that he wanted. He
need not send the letter. He need not take this wretched journey to
London. Looking forward, as he thought that he could look, judging
from the girl's character, he believed that he would have all that he
desired,--all that a gracious God could give him,--if he would make
her the recognised partner of his bed and his board. Then would he be
proud when men should see what sort of a wife he had got for himself
at last in place of Catherine Bailey. And why should she not love
him? Did not all her words tend to show that there was love?
And then suddenly there came a frown across his face, as she stood
looking at him. She was getting to know the manner of that frown. Now
she stooped down to kiss it away from his brow. It was a brave thing
to do; but she did it with a consciousness of her courage. "Now I may
burn the letter," she said, as though she were about to depart upon
the errand.
"No, by heaven!" he said. "Let me have a sandwich and a glass of
wine, for I shall start in an hour."
With a glance of his thoughts he had answered all those questions.
He had taught himself what ordinary selfishness allowed. Ordinary
selfishness,--such selfishness as that of which he would have
permitted himself the indulgence,--must have allowed him to disregard
the misery of John Gordon, and to keep the girl to himself. As
far as John Gordon was concerned, he would not have cared for his
sufferings. He was as much to himself,--or more,--than could be
John Gordon. He did not love John Gordon, and could have doomed him
to tearing his hair,--not without regret, but at any rate without
remorse. He had settled that question. But with Mary Lawrie there
must be a never-dying pang of self-accusation, were he to take her
to his arms while her love was settled elsewhere. It was not that he
feared her for himself, but that he feared himself for her sake. God
had filled his heart with love of the girl,--and, if it was love,
could it be that he would destroy her future for the gratification
of his own feelings? "I tell you it is no good," he said, as she
crouched down beside him, almost sitting on his knee.
At this moment Mrs Baggett came into the room, detecting Mary almost
in the embrace of her old master. "He's come back again, sir," said
Mrs Baggett.
"Who has come back?"
"The Sergeant."
"Then you may tell him to go about his business. He is not wanted, at
any rate. You are to remain here, and have your own way, like an old
fool."
"I am that, sir."
"There is not any one coming to interfere with you."
"Sir!"
Then Mary got up, and stood sobbing at the open window. "At any rate,
you'll have to remain here to look after the house, even if I go
away. Where is the Sergeant?"
"He's in the stable again."
"What! drunk?"
"Well, no; he's not drunk. I think his wooden leg is affected sooner
than if he had two like mine, or yours, sir. And he did manage to go
in of his self, now that he knows the way. He's there among the hay,
and I do think it's very unkind of Hayonotes to say as he'll spoil
it. But how am I to get him out, unless I goes away with him?"
"Let him stay there and give him some dinner. I don't know what else
you've to do."
"He can't stay always,--in course, sir. As Hayonotes says,--what's he
to do with a wooden-legged sergeant in his stable as a permanence? I
had come to say I was to go home with him."
"You're to do nothing of the kind."
"What is it you mean, then, about my taking care of the house?"
"Never you mind. When I want you to know, I shall tell you." Then
Mrs Baggett bobbed her head three times in the direction of Mary
Lawrie's back, as though to ask some question whether the leaving the
house might not be in reference to Mary's marriage. But she feared
that it was not made in reference to Mr Whittlestaff's marriage
also. What had her master meant when he had said that there was no
one coming to interfere with her, Mrs Baggett? "You needn't ask any
questions just at present, Mrs Baggett," he said.
"You don't mean as you are going up to London just to give her up to
that young fellow?"
"I am going about my own business, and I won't be inquired into,"
said Mr Whittlestaff.
"Then you're going to do what no man ought to do."
"You are an impertinent old woman," said her master.
"I daresay I am. All the same, it's my duty to tell you my mind. You
can't eat me, Mr Whittlestaff, and it wouldn't much matter if you
could. When you've said that you'll do a thing, you ought not to go
back for any other man, let him be who it may,--especially not in
respect of a female. It's weak, and nobody wouldn't think a straw of
you for doing it. It's some idea of being generous that you have got
into your head. There ain't no real generosity in it. I say it ain't
manly, and that's what a man ought to be."
Mary, though she was standing at the window, pretending to look out
of it, knew that during the whole of this conversation Mrs Baggett
was making signs at her,--as though indicating an opinion that she
was the person in fault. It was as though Mrs Baggett had said that
it was for her sake,--to do something to gratify her,--that Mr
Whittlestaff was about to go to London. She knew that she at any
rate was not to blame. She was struggling for the same end as Mrs
Baggett, and did deserve better treatment. "You oughtn't to bother
going up to London, sir, on any such errand, and so I tells you, Mr
Whittlestaff," said Mrs Baggett.
"I have told him the same thing myself," said Mary Lawrie, turning
round.
"If you told him as though you meant it, he wouldn't go," said Mrs
Baggett.
"That's all you know about it," said Mr Whittlestaff. "Now the fact
is, I won't stand this kind of thing. If you mean to remain here, you
must be less free with your tongue."
"I don't mean to remain here, Mr Whittlestaff. It's just that as I'm
coming to. There's Timothy Baggett is down there among the hosses,
and he says as I am to go with him. So I've come up here to say
that if he's allowed to sleep it off to-day, I'll be ready to start
to-morrow."
"I tell you I am not going to make any change at all," said Mr
Whittlestaff.
"You was saying you was going away,--for the honeymoon, I did
suppose."
"A man may go away if he pleases, without any reason of that kind.
Oh dear, oh dear, that letter is not gone! I insist that that letter
should go. I suppose I must see about it myself." Then when he
began to move, the women moved also. Mary went to look after the
sandwiches, and Mrs Baggett to despatch the letter. In ten minutes
the letter was gone, and half an hour afterwards Mr Whittlestaff had
himself driven down to the station.
"What is it he means, Miss?" said Mrs Baggett, when the master was
gone.
"I do not know," said Mary, who was in truth very angry with the old
woman.
"He wants to make you Mrs Whittlestaff."
"In whatever he wants I shall obey him,--if I only knew how."
"It's what you is bound to do, Miss Mary. Think of what he has done
for you."
"I require no one to tell me that."
"What did Mr Gordon come here for, disturbing everybody? Nobody
asked him;--at least, I suppose nobody asked him." There was an
insinuation in this which Mary found it hard to bear. But it was
better to bear it than to argue on such a point with the servant.
"And he said things which put the master about terribly."
"It was not my doing."
"But he's a man as needn't have his own way. Why should Mr Gordon
have everything just as he likes it? I never heard tell of Mr Gordon
till he came here the other day. I don't think so much of Mr Gordon
myself." To this Mary, of course, made no answer. "He's no business
disturbing people when he's not sent for. I can't abide to see Mr
Whittlestaff put about in this way. I have known him longer than you
have."
"No doubt."
"He's a man that'll be driven pretty nigh out of his mind if he's
disappointed." Then there was silence, as Mary was determined not to
discuss the matter any further. "If you come to that, you needn't
marry no one unless you pleases." Mary was still silent. "They
shouldn't make me marry them unless I was that way minded. I can't
abide such doings," the old woman again went on after a pause. "I
knows what I knows, and I sees what I sees."
"What do you know?" said Mary, driven beyond her powers of silence.
"The meaning is, that Mr Whittlestaff is to be disappointed after
he have received a promise. Didn't he have a promise?" To this Mrs
Baggett got no reply, though she waited for one before she went on
with her argument. "You knows he had; and a promise between a lady
and gentleman ought to be as good as the law of the land. You stand
there as dumb as grim death, and won't say a word, and yet it all
depends upon you. Why is it to go about among everybody, that he's
not to get a wife just because a man's come home with his pockets
full of diamonds? It's that that people'll say; and they'll say that
you went back from your word just because of a few precious stones.
I wouldn't like to have it said of me anyhow."
This was very hard to bear, but Mary found herself compelled to
bear it. She had determined not to be led into an argument with Mrs
Baggett on the subject, feeling that even to discuss her conduct
would be an impropriety. She was strong in her own conduct, and knew
how utterly at variance it had been with all that this woman imputed
to her. The glitter of the diamonds had been merely thrown in by Mrs
Baggett in her passion. Mary did not think that any one would be so
base as to believe such an accusation as that. It would be said of
her that her own young lover had come back suddenly, and that she had
preferred him to the gentleman to whom she was tied by so many bonds.
It would be said that she had given herself to him and had then taken
back the gift, because the young lover had come across her path. And
it would be told also that there had been no word of promise given to
this young lover. All that would be very bad, without any allusion
to a wealth of diamonds. It would not be said that, before she had
pledged herself to Mr Whittlestaff, she had pleaded her affection
for her young lover, when she had known nothing even of his present
existence. It would not be known that though there had been no
lover's vows between her and John Gordon, there had yet been on both
sides that unspoken love which could not have been strengthened by
any vows. Against all that she must guard herself, without thinking
of the diamonds. She had endeavoured to guard herself, and she had
thought also of the contentment of the man who had been so good to
her. She had declared to herself that of herself she would think not
at all. And she had determined also that all the likings,--nay, the
affection of John Gordon himself,--should weigh not at all with her.
She had to decide between the two men, and she had decided that both
honesty and gratitude required her to comply with the wishes of the
elder. She had done all that she could with that object, and was it
her fault that Mr Whittlestaff had read the secret of her heart, and
had determined to give way before it? This had so touched her that it
might almost be said that she knew not to which of her two suitors
her heart belonged. All this, if stated in answer to Mrs Baggett's
accusations, would certainly exonerate herself from the stigma thrown
upon her, but to Mrs Baggett she could not repeat the explanation.
"It nigh drives me wild," said Mrs Baggett. "I don't suppose you
ever heard of Catherine Bailey?"
"Never."
"And I ain't a-going to tell you. It's a romance as shall be wrapped
inside my own bosom. It was quite a tragedy,--was Catherine Bailey;
and one as would stir your heart up if you was to hear it. Catherine
Bailey was a young woman. But I'm not going to tell you the
story;--only that she was no more fit for Mr Whittlestaff than any
of them stupid young girls that walks about the streets gaping in at
the shop-windows in Alresford. I do you the justice, Miss Lawrie, to
say as you are such a female as he ought to look after."
"Thank you, Mrs Baggett."
"But she led him into such trouble, because his heart is soft, as
was dreadful to look at. He is one of them as always wants a wife.
Why didn't he get one before? you'll say. Because till you came in
the way he was always thinking of Catherine Bailey. Mrs Compas she
become. 'Drat her and her babies!' I often said to myself. What was
Compas? No more than an Old Bailey lawyer;--not fit to be looked at
alongside of our Mr Whittlestaff. No more ain't Mr John Gordon, to
my thinking. You think of all that, Miss Mary, and make up your mind
whether you'll break his heart after giving a promise. Heart-breaking
ain't to him what it is to John Gordon and the likes of him."