THE GREEN PARK.
He asked whether Mr John Gordon was within, and in two minutes
found himself standing in the hall with that hero of romance. Mr
Whittlestaff told himself, as he looked at the man, that he was such
a hero as ought to be happy in his love. Whereas of himself, he was
conscious of a personal appearance which no girl could be expected
to adore. He thought too much of his personal appearance generally,
complaining to himself that it was mean; whereas in regard to Mary
Lawrie, it may be said that no such idea had ever entered her mind.
"It was just because he had come first," she would have said if
asked. And the "he" alluded to would have been John Gordon. "He
had come first, and therefore I had learned to love him." It was
thus that Mary Lawrie would have spoken. But Mr Whittlestaff, as he
looked up into John Gordon's face, felt that he himself was mean.
"You got my letter, Mr Gordon?"
"Yes; I got it last night."
"I have come up to London, because there is something that I want
to say to you. It is something that I can't very well put up into a
letter, and therefore I have taken the trouble to come to town." As
he said this he endeavoured, no doubt, to assert his own dignity by
the look which he assumed. Nor did he intend that Mr Gordon should
know anything of the struggle which he had endured.
But Mr Gordon knew as well what Mr Whittlestaff had to say as did
Mr Whittlestaff himself. He had turned the matter over in his own
mind since the letter had reached him, and was aware that there could
be no other cause for seeing him which could bring Mr Whittlestaff
up to London. But a few days since he had made an appeal to Mr
Whittlestaff--an appeal which certainly might require much thought
for its answer--and here was Mr Whittlestaff with his reply. It
could not have been made quicker. It was thus that John Gordon had
thought of it as he had turned Mr Whittlestaff's letter over in his
mind. The appeal had been made readily enough. The making of it had
been easy; the words to be spoken had come quickly, and without the
necessity for a moment's premeditation. He had known it all, and from
a full heart the mouth speaks. But was it to have been expected that
a man so placed as had been Mr Whittlestaff, should be able to give
his reply with equal celerity? He, John Gordon, had seen at once
on reaching Croker's Hall the state in which things were. Almost
hopelessly he had made his appeal to the man who had her promise.
Then he had met the man at Mr Hall's house, and hardly a word had
passed between them. What word could have been expected? Montagu
Blake, with all his folly, had judged rightly in bringing them
together. When he received the letter, John Gordon had remembered
that last word which Mr Whittlestaff had spoken to him in the
squire's hall. He had thought of the appeal, and had resolved to
give an answer to it. It was an appeal which required an answer. He
had turned it over in his mind, and had at last told himself what
the answer should be. John Gordon had discovered all that when he
received the letter, and it need hardly be said that his feelings
in regard to Mr Whittlestaff were very much kinder than those of Mr
Whittlestaff to him.
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind coming out into the street," said Mr
Whittlestaff. "I can't say very well what I've got to say in here."
"Certainly," said Gordon; "I will go anywhere."
"Let us go into the Park. It is green there, and there is some shade
among the trees." Then they went out of the club into Pall Mall, and
Mr Whittlestaff walked on ahead without a word. "No; we will not go
down there," he said, as he passed the entrance into St. James's Park
by Marlborough House, and led the way through St. James's Palace into
the Green Park. "We'll go on till we come to the trees; there are
seats there, unless the people have occupied them all. One can't talk
here under the blazing sun;--at least I can't." Then he walked on
at a rapid pace, wiping his brow as he did so. "Yes, there's a seat.
I'll be hanged if that man isn't going to sit down upon it! What
a beast he is! No, I can't sit down on a seat that another man is
occupying. I don't want any one to hear what I've got to say. There!
Two women have gone a little farther on." Then he hurried to the
vacant bench and took possession of it. It was placed among the thick
trees which give a perfect shade on the north side of the Park, and
had Mr Whittlestaff searched all London through, he could not have
found a more pleasant spot in which to make his communication. "This
will do," said he.
"Very nicely indeed," said John Gordon.
"I couldn't talk about absolutely private business in the hall of the
club, you know."
"I could have taken you into a private room, Mr Whittlestaff, had
you wished it."
"With everybody coming in and out, just as they pleased. I don't
believe in private rooms in London clubs. What I've got to say can be
said better _sub dio_. I suppose you know what it is that I've got to
talk about."
"Hardly," said John Gordon. "But that is not exactly true. I think I
know, but I am not quite sure of it. On such a subject I should not
like to make a surmise unless I were confident."
"It's about Miss Lawrie."
"I suppose so."
"What makes you suppose that?" said Whittlestaff, sharply.
"You told me that you were sure I should know."
"So I am, quite sure. You came all the way down to Alresford to see
her. If you spoke the truth, you came all the way home from the
diamond-fields with the same object."
"I certainly spoke the truth, Mr Whittlestaff."
"Then what's the good of your pretending not to know?"
"I have not pretended. I merely said that I could not presume to
put the young lady's name into your mouth until you had uttered it
yourself. There could be no other subject of conversation between you
and me of which I was aware."
"You had spoken to me about her," said Mr Whittlestaff.
"No doubt I had. When I found that you had given her a home, and had
made yourself, as it were, a father to her--"
"I had not made myself her father,--nor yet her mother. I had loved
her, as you profess to do."
"My profession is at any rate true."
"I daresay. You may or you mayn't; I at any rate know nothing about
it."
"Why otherwise should I have come home and left my business in South
Africa? I think you may take it for granted that I love her."
"I don't care twopence whether you do or don't," said Mr
Whittlestaff. "It's nothing to me whom you love. I should have been
inclined to say at first sight that a man groping in the dirt for
diamonds wouldn't love any one. And even if you did, though you might
break your heart and die, it would be nothing to me. Had you done so,
I should not have heard of you, nor should I have wished to hear of
you."
There was an incivility in all this of which John Gordon felt that he
was obliged to take some notice. There was a want of courtesy in the
man's manner rather than his words, which he could not quite pass by,
although he was most anxious to do so. "I daresay not," said he; "but
here I am and here also is Miss Lawrie. I had said what I had to say
down at Alresford, and of course it is for you now to decide what is
to be done. I have never supposed that you would care personally for
me."
"You needn't be so conceited about yourself."
"I don't know that I am," said Gordon;--"except that a man cannot but
be a little conceited who has won the love of Mary Lawrie."
"You think it impossible that I should have done so."
"At any rate I did it before you had seen her. Though I may be
conceited, I am not more conceited for myself than you are for
yourself. Had I not known her, you would probably have engaged her
affections. I had known her, and you are aware of the result. But it
is for you to decide. Miss Lawrie thinks that she owes you a debt
which she is bound to pay if you exact it."
"Exact it!" exclaimed Mr Whittlestaff. "There is no question of
exacting!" John Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "I say there is no
question of exacting. The words should not have been used. She has my
full permission to choose as she may think fit, and she knows that
she has it. What right have you to speak to me of exacting?"
Mr Whittlestaff had now talked himself into such a passion, and was
apparently so angry at the word which his companion had used, that
John Gordon began to doubt whether he did in truth know the purpose
for which the man had come to London. Could it be that he had made
the journey merely with the object of asserting that he had the power
of making this girl his wife, and of proving his power by marrying
her. "What is it that you wish, Mr Whittlestaff?" he asked.
"Wish! What business have you to ask after my wishes? But you know
what my wishes are very well. I will not pretend to keep them in the
dark. She came to my house, and I soon learned to desire that she
should be my wife. If I know what love is, I loved her. If I know
what love is, I do love her still. She is all the world to me. I have
no diamonds to care for; I have no rich mines to occupy my heart;
I am not eager in the pursuit of wealth. I had lived a melancholy,
lonely life till this young woman had come to my table,--till I
had felt her sweet hand upon mine,--till she had hovered around me,
covering everything with bright sunshine. Then I asked her to be my
wife;--and she told me of you."
"She told you of me?"
"Yes; she told me of you--of you who might then have been dead, for
aught she knew. And when I pressed her, she said that she would think
of you always."
"She said so?"
"Yes; that she would think of you always. But she did not say that
she would always love you. And in the same breath she promised to be
my wife. I was contented,--and yet not quite contented. Why should
she think of you always? But I believed that it would not be so. I
thought that if I were good to her, I should overcome her. I knew
that I should be better to her than you would be."
"Why should I not be good to her?"
"There is an old saying of a young man's slave and an old man's
darling. She would at any rate have been my darling. It might be that
she would have been your slave."
"My fellow-workman in all things."
"You think so now; but the man always becomes the master. If you
grovelled in the earth for diamonds, she would have to look for them
amidst the mud and slime."
"I have never dreamed of taking her to the diamond-fields."
"It would have been so in all other pursuits."
"She would have had none that she had not chosen," said John Gordon.
"How am I to know that? How am I to rest assured that the world would
be smooth to her if she were your creature? I am not assured--I do
not know."
"Who can tell, as you say? Can I promise her a succession of joys if
she be my wife? She is not one who will be likely to look for such a
life as that. She will know that she must take the rough and smooth
together."
"There would have been no rough with me," said Mr Whittlestaff.
"I do not believe in such a life," said John Gordon. "A woman should
not wear a stuff gown always; but the silk finery and the stuff gown
should follow each other. To my taste, the more there may be of the
stuff gown and the less of the finery, the more it will be to my
wishes."
"I am not speaking of her gowns. It is not of such things as those
that I am thinking." Here Mr Whittlestaff got up from the bench, and
began walking rapidly backwards and forwards under the imperfect
shade on the path. "You will beat her."
"I think not."
"Beat her in the spirit. You will domineer over her, and desire to
have your own way. When she is toiling for you, you will frown at
her. Because you have business on hand, or perhaps pleasure, you will
leave her in solitude. There may a time come when the diamonds shall
have all gone."
"If she is to be mine, that time will have come already. The diamonds
will be sold. Did you ever see a diamond in my possession? Why do you
twit me with diamonds? If I had been a coal-owner, should I have been
expected to keep my coals?"
"These things stick to the very soul of a man. They are a poison
of which he cannot rid himself. They are like gambling. They make
everything cheap that should be dear, and everything dear that should
be cheap. I trust them not at all,--and I do not trust you, because
you deal in them."
"I tell you that I shall not deal in them. But, Mr Whittlestaff, I
must tell you that you are unreasonable."
"No doubt. I am a poor miserable man who does not know the world. I
have never been to the diamond-fields. Of course I understand nothing
of the charms of speculation. A quiet life with my book is all that I
care for;--with just one other thing, one other thing. You begrudge
me that."
"Mr Whittlestaff, it does not signify a straw what I begrudge you."
Mr Whittlestaff had now come close to him, and was listening to him.
"Nor, as I take it, what you begrudge me. Before I left England she
and I had learned to love each other. It is so still. For the sake of
her happiness, do you mean to let me have her?"
"I do."
"You do?"
"Of course I do. You have known it all along. Of course I do. Do you
think I would make her miserable? Would it be in my bosom to make her
come and live with a stupid, silly old man, to potter on from day to
day without any excitement? Would I force her into a groove in which
her days would be wretched to her? Had she come to me and wanted
bread, and have seen before her all the misery of poverty, the
stone-coldness of a governess's life; had she been left to earn her
bread without any one to love her, it might then have been different.
She would have looked out into another world, and have seen another
prospect. A comfortable home with kindness, and her needs supplied,
would have sufficed. She would then have thought herself happy in
becoming my wife. There would then have been no cruelty. But she
had seen you, and though it was but a dream, she thought that she
could endure to wait. Better that than surrender all the delight of
loving. So she told me that she would think of you. Poor dear! I can
understand now the struggle which she intended to make. Then in the
very nick of time, in the absolute moment of the day--so that you
might have everything and I nothing--you came. You came, and were
allowed to see her, and told her all your story. You filled her heart
full with joy, but only to be crushed when she thought that the fatal
promise had been given to me. I saw it all, I knew it. I thought to
myself for a few hours that it might be so. But it cannot be so."
"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff!"
"It cannot be so," he said, with a firm determined voice, as though
asserting a fact which admitted no doubt.
"Mr Whittlestaff, what am I to say to you?"
"You! What are you to say? Nothing. What should you say? Why should
you speak? It is not for love of you that I would do this thing; nor
yet altogether from love of her. Not that I would not do much for her
sake. I almost think that I would do it entirely for her sake, if
there were no other reason. But to shame myself by taking that which
belongs to another, as though it were my own property! To live a
coward in mine own esteem! Though I may be the laughing-stock and
the butt of all those around me, I would still be a man to myself. I
ought to have felt that it was sufficient when she told me that some
of her thoughts must still be given to you. She is yours, Mr Gordon;
but I doubt much whether you care for the possession."
"Not care for her! Up to the moment when I received your note, I was
about to start again for South Africa. South Africa is no place for
her,--nor for me either, with such a wife. Mr Whittlestaff, will you
not allow me to say one word to you in friendship?"
"Not a word."
"How am I to come and take her out of your house?"
"She must manage it as best she can. But no; I would not turn her
from my door for all the world could do for me. This, too, will be
part of the punishment that I must bear. You can settle the day
between you, I suppose, and then you can come down; and, after the
accustomed fashion, you can meet her at the church-door. Then you can
come to my house, and eat your breakfast there if you will. You will
see fine things prepared for you,--such as a woman wants on those
occasions,--and then you can carry her off wherever you please. I
need know nothing of your whereabouts. Good morning now. Do not say
anything further, but let me go my way."