MR WHITTLESTAFF TAKES HIS JOURNEY.
Mr Whittlestaff did at last get into the train and have himself
carried up to London. And he ate his sandwiches and drank his sherry
with an air of supreme satisfaction,--as though he had carried his
point. And so he had. He had made up his mind on a certain matter;
and, with the object of doing a certain piece of work, he had escaped
from the two dominant women of his household, who had done their
best to intercept him. So far his triumph was complete. But as he
sat silent in the corner of the carriage, his mind reverted to
the purpose of his journey, and he cannot be said to have been
triumphant. He knew it all as well as did Mrs Baggett. And he knew
too that, except Mrs Baggett and the girl herself, all the world was
against him. That ass Montagu Blake every time he opened his mouth
as to his own bride let out the idea that John Gordon should have
his bride because John Gordon was young and lusty, and because he,
Whittlestaff, might be regarded as an old man. The Miss Halls were
altogether of the same opinion, and were not slow to express it. All
Alresford would know it, and would sympathise with John Gordon. And
as it came to be known that he himself had given up the girl whom
he loved, he could read the ridicule which would be conveyed by the
smiles of his neighbours.
To tell the truth of Mr Whittlestaff, he was a man very open to such
shafts of ridicule. The "_robur et aes triplex_" which fortified his
heart went only to the doing of a good and unselfish action, and did
not extend to providing him with that adamantine shield which virtue
should of itself supply. He was as pervious to these stings as a man
might be who had not strength to act in opposition to them. He could
screw himself up to the doing of a great deed for the benefit of
another, and could as he was doing so deplore with inward tears
the punishment which the world would accord to him for the deed.
As he sat there in the corner of his carriage, he was thinking
of the punishment rather than of the glory. And the punishment
must certainly come now. It would be a punishment lasting for the
remainder of his life, and so bitter in its kind as to make any
further living almost impossible to him. It was not that he would
kill himself. He did not meditate any such step as that. He was a
man who considered that by doing an outrage to God's work an offence
would be committed against God which admitted of no repentance. He
must live through it to the last. But he must live as a man who was
degraded. He had made his effort, but his effort would be known to
all Alresford. Mr Montagu Blake would take care of that.
The evil done to him would be one which would admit of no complaint
from his own mouth. He would be left alone, living with Mrs
Baggett,--who of course knew all the facts. The idea of Mrs Baggett
going away with her husband was of course not to be thought of. That
was another nuisance, a small evil in comparison with the great
misfortune of his life.
He had brought this girl home to his house to be the companion of his
days, and she had come to have in his mouth a flavour, as it were,
and sweetness beyond all other sweetnesses. She had lent a grace
to his days of which for many years he had not believed them to be
capable. He was a man who had thought much of love, reading about it
in all the poets with whose lines he was conversant. He was one who,
in all that he read, would take the gist of it home to himself, and
ask himself how it was with him in that matter. His favourite Horace
had had a fresh love for every day; but he had told himself that
Horace knew nothing of love. Of Petrarch and Laura he had thought;
but even to Petrarch Laura had been a subject for expression rather
than for passion. Prince Arthur, in his love for Guinevere, went
nearer to the mark which he had fancied for himself. Imogen, in her
love for Posthumus, gave to him a picture of all that love should be.
It was thus that he had thought of himself in all his readings; and
as years had gone by, he had told himself that for him there was to
be nothing better than reading. But yet his mind had been full, and
he had still thought to himself that, in spite of his mistake in
reference to Catherine Bailey, there was still room for a strong
passion.
Then Mary Lawrie had come upon him, and the sun seemed to shine
nowhere but in her eyes and in the expression of her face. He had
told himself distinctly that he was now in love, and that his life
had not gone so far forward as to leave him stranded on the dry
sandhills. She was there living in his house, subject to his orders,
affectionate and docile; but, as far as he could judge, a perfect
woman. And, as far as he could judge, there was no other man whom she
loved. Then, with many doubtings, he asked her the question, and he
soon learned the truth,--but not the whole truth.
There had been a man, but he was one who seemed to have passed by and
left his mark, and then to have gone on altogether out of sight. She
had told him that she could not but think of John Gordon, but that
that was all. She would, if he asked it, plight her troth to him
and become his wife, although she must think of John Gordon. This
thinking would last but for a while, he told himself; and he at his
age--what right had he to expect aught better than that? She was
of such a nature that, when she had given herself up in marriage,
she would surely learn to love her husband. So he had accepted her
promise, and allowed himself for one hour to be a happy man.
Then John Gordon had come to his house, falling upon it like the
blast of a storm. He had come at once--instantly--as though fate had
intended to punish him, Whittlestaff, utterly and instantly. Mary had
told him that she could not promise not to think of him who had once
loved her, when, lo and behold! the man himself was there. Who ever
suffered a blow so severe as this? He had left them together. He
had felt himself compelled to do so by the exigencies of the moment.
It was impossible that he should give either one or the other to
understand that they would not be allowed to meet in his house. They
had met, and Mary had been very firm. For a few hours there had
existed in his bosom the feeling that even yet he might be preferred.
But gradually that feeling had disappeared, and the truth had come
home to him. She was as much in love with John Gordon as could any
girl be with the man whom she adored. And the other rock on which he
had depended was gradually shivered beneath his feet. He had fancied
at first that the man had come back, as do so many adventurers,
without the means of making a woman happy. It was not for John Gordon
that he was solicitous, but for Mary Lawrie. If John Gordon were a
pauper, or so nearly so as to be able to offer Mary no home, then it
would clearly be his duty not to allow the marriage. In such case the
result to him would be, if not heavenly, sweet enough at any rate to
satisfy his longings. She would come to him, and John Gordon would
depart to London, and to the world beyond, and there would be an end
of him. But it became palpable to his senses generally that the man's
fortunes had not been such as this. And then there came home to him a
feeling that were they so, it would be his duty to make up for Mary's
sake what was wanting,--since he had discovered of what calibre was
the man himself.
It was at Mr Hall's house that the idea had first presented itself
to him with all the firmness of a settled project. It would be, he
had said to himself, a great thing for a man to do. What, after all,
is the meaning of love, but that a man should do his best to serve
the woman he loves? "Who cares a straw for him?" he said to himself,
as though to exempt himself from any idea of general charity, and to
prove that all the good which he intended to do was to be done for
love alone. "Not a straw; whether he shall stay at home here and
have all that is sweetest in the world, or be sent out alone to find
fresh diamonds amidst the dirt and misery of that horrid place, is as
nothing, as far as he is concerned. I am, at any rate, more to myself
than John Gordon. I do not believe in doing a kindness of such a
nature as that to such a one. But for her--! And I could not hold her
to my bosom, knowing that she would so much rather be in the arms of
another man." All this he said to himself; but he said it in words
fully formed, and with the thoughts, on which the words were based,
clearly established.
When he came to the end of his journey, he had himself driven to
the hotel, and ordered his dinner, and ate it in solitude, still
supported by the ecstasy of his thoughts. He knew that there was
before him a sharp cruel punishment, and then a weary lonely life.
There could be no happiness, no satisfaction, in store for him. He
was aware that it must be so; but still for the present there was a
joy to him in thinking that he would make her happy, and in that he
was determined to take what immediate delight it would give him. He
asked himself how long that delight could last; and he told himself
that when John Gordon should have once taken her by the hand and
claimed her as his own, the time of his misery would have come.
There had hung about him a dream, clinging to him up to the moment of
his hotel dinner, by which he had thought it possible that he might
yet escape from the misery of Pandemonium and be carried into the
light and joy of Paradise. But as he sat with his beef-steak before
him, and ate his accustomed potato, with apparently as good a gusto
as any of his neighbours, the dream departed. He told himself
that under no circumstances should the dream be allowed to become
a reality. The dream had been of this wise. With all the best
intentions in his power he would offer the girl to John Gordon, and
then, not doubting Gordon's acceptance of her, would make the same
offer to the girl herself. But what if the girl refused to accept
the offer? What if the girl should stubbornly adhere to her original
promise? Was he to refuse to marry her when she should insist that
such was her right? Was he to decline to enter in upon the joys of
Paradise when Paradise should be thus opened to him? He would do his
best, loyally and sincerely, with his whole heart. But he could not
force her to make him a wretch, miserable for the rest of his life!
In fact it was she who might choose to make the sacrifice, and thus
save him from the unhappiness in store for him. Such had been the
nature of his dream. As he was eating his beef-steak and potatoes,
he told himself that it could not be so, and that the dream must be
flung to the winds. A certain amount of strength was now demanded of
him, and he thought that he would be able to use it. "No, my dear,
not me; it may not be that you should become my wife, though all the
promises under heaven had been given. Though you say that you wish
it, it is a lie which may not be ratified. Though you implore it of
me, it cannot be granted. It is he that is your love, and it is he
that must have you. I love you too, God in his wisdom knows, but it
cannot be so. Go and be his wife, for mine you shall never become. I
have meant well, but have been unfortunate. Now you know the state of
my mind, than which nothing is more fixed on this earth." It was thus
that he would speak to her, and then he would turn away; and the term
of his misery would have commenced.
On the next morning he got up and prepared for his interview with
John Gordon. He walked up and down the sward of the Green Park,
thinking to himself of the language which he would use. If he could
only tell the man that he hated him while he surrendered to him the
girl whom he loved so dearly, it would be well. For in truth there
was nothing of Christian charity in his heart towards John Gordon.
But he thought at last that it would be better that he should
announce his purpose in the simplest language. He could hate the man
in his own heart as thoroughly as he desired. But it would not be
becoming in him, were he on such an occasion to attempt to rise to
the romance of tragedy. "It will be all the same a thousand years
hence," he said to himself as he walked in at the club door.