AN OLD MAN'S LOVE

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

In Two Volumes

William Blackwood and SonsEdinburgh and LondonMDCCCLXXXIV

NOTE. 

 This story, "An Old Man's Love, " is the last of my father's novels. As I have stated in the preface to his Autobiography, "The Landleaguers" was written after this book, but was never fully completed. 

 HENRY M. TROLLOPE. 

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I

 I. MRS BAGGETT II. MR WHITTLESTAFF III. MARY LAWRIE IV. MARY LAWRIE ACCEPTS MR WHITTLESTAFF V. "I SUPPOSE IT WAS A DREAM" VI. JOHN GORDON VII. JOHN GORDON AND MR WHITTLESTAFF VIII. JOHN GORDON AND MARY LAWRIE IX. THE REV MONTAGU BLAKE X. JOHN GORDON AGAIN GOES TO CROKER'S HALL XI. MRS BAGGETT TRUSTS ONLY IN THE FUNDS XII. MR BLAKE'S GOOD NEWS

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II

 XIII. AT LITTLE ALRESFORD XIV. MR WHITTLESTAFF IS GOING OUT TO DINNER XV. MR WHITTLESTAFF GOES OUT TO DINNER XVI. MRS BAGGETT'S PHILOSOPHY XVII. MR WHITTLESTAFF MEDITATES A JOURNEY XVIII. MR AND MRS TOOKEY XIX. MR WHITTLESTAFF'S JOURNEY DISCUSSED XX. MR WHITTLESTAFF TAKES HIS JOURNEY XXI. THE GREEN PARK XXII. JOHN GORDON WRITES A LETTER XXIII. AGAIN AT CROKER'S HALL XXIV. CONCLUSION

VOLUME I. 

CHAPTER I. 

MRS BAGGETT. 

Mr William Whittlestaff was strolling very slowly up and down thelong walk at his country seat in Hampshire, thinking of the contentsof a letter which he held crushed up within his trousers' pocket. Healways breakfasted exactly at nine, and the letters were supposed tobe brought to him at a quarter past. The postman was really due athis hall-door at a quarter before nine; but though he had lived inthe same house for above fifteen years, and though he was a man veryanxious to get his letters, he had never yet learned the truth aboutthem. He was satisfied in his ignorance with 9. 15 A. M. , but on thisoccasion the post-boy, as usual, was ten minutes after that time. MrWhittlestaff had got through his second cup of tea, and was strandedin his chair, having nothing to do, with the empty cup and platesbefore him for the space of two minutes; and, consequently, when hehad sent some terrible message out to the post-boy, and then had readthe one epistle which had arrived on this morning, he thus liberatedhis mind: "I'll be whipped if I will have anything to do with her. "But this must not be taken as indicating the actual state of hismind; but simply the condition of anger to which he had been reducedby the post-boy. If any one were to explain to him afterwards that hehad so expressed himself on a subject of such importance, he wouldhave declared of himself that he certainly deserved to be whippedhimself. In order that he might in truth make up his mind on thesubject, he went out with his hat and stick into the long walk, andthere thought out the matter to its conclusion. The letter which heheld in his pocket ran as follows:--

 ST. TAWELL'S, NORWICH, February 18--. 

 MY DEAR MR WHITTLESTAFF, --Poor Mrs Lawrie has gone at last. She died this morning at seven o'clock, and poor Mary is altogether alone in the world. I have asked her to come in among us for a few days at any rate, till the funeral shall be over. But she has refused, knowing, I suppose, how crowded and how small our house is. What is she to do? You know all the circumstances much better than I do. She says herself that she had always been intended for a governess, and that she will, of course, follow out the intention which had been fixed on between her and her father before his death. But it is a most weary prospect, especially for one who has received no direct education for the purpose. She has devoted herself for the last twelve months to Mrs Lawrie, as though she had been her mother. You did not like Mrs Lawrie, nor did I; nor, indeed, did poor Mary love her very dearly. But she, at any rate, did her duty by her step-mother. I know that in regard to actual money you will be generous enough; but do turn the matter over in your mind, and endeavour to think of some future for the poor girl. --Yours very faithfully, EMMA KING. 

It was in answer to such a letter as this, that Mr Whittlestaff haddeclared that "He'd be whipped if he'd have anything to do with her. "But that expression, which must not in truth be accepted as meaninganything, must not be supposed to have had even that dim shadow of ameaning which the words may be supposed to bear. He had during thelast three months been asking himself the question as to what shouldbe Mary Lawrie's fate in life when her step-mother should have gone, and had never quite solved the question whether he could or would notbring into his own house, almost as a daughter, a young woman whowas in no way related to him. He had always begun these exercisesof thought, by telling himself that the world was a censorious oldfool, and that he might do just as he pleased as to making any girlhis daughter. But then, before dinner he had generally come to theconclusion that Mrs Baggett would not approve. Mrs Baggett was hishousekeeper, and was to him certainly a person of importance. He hadnot even suggested the idea to Mrs Baggett, and was sure that MrsBaggett would not approve. As to sending Mary Lawrie out into theworld as a governess;--that plan he was quite sure would not answer. 

Two years ago had died his best beloved friend, Captain PatrickLawrie. With him we have not anything to do, except to say that ofall men he was the most impecunious. Late in life he had marrieda second wife, --a woman who was hard, sharp, and possessed of anannuity. The future condition of his only daughter had been aterrible grief to him; but from Mr Whittlestaff he had receivedassurances which had somewhat comforted him. "She shan't want. Ican't say anything further. " Such had been the comfort given by MrWhittlestaff. And since his friend's death Mr Whittlestaff had beenliberal with presents, --which Mary had taken most unwillingly underher step-mother's guidance. Such had been the state of things whenMr Whittlestaff received the letter. When he had been walking upand down the long walk for an extra hour, Mr Whittlestaff expressedaloud the conclusion to which he had come. "I don't care one strawfor Mrs Baggett. " It should be understood as having been uttered indirect opposition to the first assurance made by him, that "He'd bewhipped if he'd have anything to do with her. " In that hour he hadresolved that Mary Lawrie should come to him, and be made, with allpossible honours of ownership, with all its privileges and all itsresponsibilities, the mistress of his house. And he made up his mindalso that such had ever been his determination. He was fifty and MaryLawrie was twenty-five. "I can do just what I please with her, " hesaid to himself, "as though she were my own girl. " By this he meantto imply that he would not be expected to fall in love with her, andthat it was quite out of the question that she should fall in lovewith him. "Go and tell Mrs Baggett that I'll be much obliged to herif she'll put on her bonnet and come out to me here. " This he said toa gardener's boy, and the order was not at all an unusual one. Whenhe wanted to learn what Mrs Baggett intended to give him for dinner, he would send for the old housekeeper and take a walk with her fortwenty minutes. Habit had made Mrs Baggett quite accustomed to theproceeding, which upon the whole she enjoyed. She now appeared witha bonnet, and a wadded cloak which her master had given her. "It'sabout that letter, sir, " said Mrs Baggett. 

"How do you know?"

"Didn't I see the handwriting, and the black edges? Mrs Lawrie ain'tno more. "

"Mrs Lawrie has gone to her long account. "

"I'm afeared, sir, she won't find it easy to settle the bill, "said Mrs Baggett, who had a sharp, cynical way of expressing herdisapprobation. 

"Mrs Baggett, judge not, lest you be judged. " Mrs Baggett turned upher nose and snuffed the air. "The woman has gone, and nothing shallbe said against her here. The girl remains. Now, I'll tell you what Imean to do. "

"She isn't to come here, Mr Whittlestaff?"

"Here she is to come, and here she is to remain, and here she is tohave her part of everything as though she were my own daughter. And, as not the smallest portion of the good things that is to come toher, she is to have her share in your heart, Mrs Baggett. "

"I don't know nothing about my heart, Mr Whittlestaff. Them as findstheir way to my heart has to work their way there. Who's Miss Lawrie, that I'm to be knocked about for a new comer?"

"She is just Mary Lawrie. "

"I'm that old that I don't feel like having a young missus put overme. And it ain't for your good, Mr Whittlestaff. You ain't a youngman--nor you ain't an old un; and she ain't no relations to you. That's the worst part of it. As sure as my name is Dorothy Baggett, you'll be falling in love with her. " Then Mrs Baggett, with thesense of the audacity of what she had said, looked him full in theface and violently shook her head. 

"Now go in, " he said, "and pack my things up for three nights. I'mgoing to Norwich, and I shan't want any dinner. Tell John I shallwant the cart, and he must be ready to go with me to the station at2. 15. "

"I ought to be ready to cut the tongue out of my head, " said MrsBaggett as she returned to the house, "for I might have known it wasthe way to make him start at once. "

Not in three days, but before the end of the week, Mr Whittlestaffreturned home, bringing with him a dark-featured tall girl, clothed, of course, in deepest mourning from head to foot. To Mrs Baggett shewas an object of intense interest; because, although she had by nomeans assented to her master's proposal, made on behalf of the younglady, and did tell herself again and again during Mr Whittlestaff'sabsence that she was quite sure that Mary Lawrie was a baggage, yetin her heart she knew it to be impossible that she could go on livingin the house without loving one whom her master loved. With regardto most of those concerned in the household, she had her own way. Unless she would favour the groom, and the gardener, and the boy, and the girls who served below her, Mr Whittlestaff would hardly becontented with those subordinates. He was the easiest master underwhom a servant could live. But his favour had to be won through MrsBaggett's smiles. During the last two years, however, there had beenenough of discussion about Mary Lawrie to convince Mrs Baggett that, in regard to this "interloper, " as Mrs Baggett had once called her, Mr Whittlestaff intended to have his own way. Such being the case, Mrs Baggett was most anxious to know whether the young lady was suchas she could love. 

Strangely enough, when the young lady had come, Mrs Baggett, fortwelve months, could not quite make up her mind. The young lady wasvery different from what she had expected. Of interference in thehouse there was almost literally none. Mary had evidently heardmuch of Mrs Baggett's virtues, --and infirmities, --and seemed tounderstand that she also had in many things to place herself underMrs Baggett's orders. "Lord love you, Miss Mary, " she was heardto say; "as if we did not all understand that you was to be missusof everything at Croker's Hall, "--for such was the name of MrWhittlestaff's house. But those who heard it knew that the wordswere spoken in supreme good humour, and judged from that, that MrsBaggett's heart had been won. But Mrs Baggett still had her fears;and was not yet resolved but that it might be her duty to turnagainst Mary Lawrie with all the violence in her power. For the firstmonth or two after the young lady's arrival, she had almost madeup her mind that Mary Lawrie would never consent to become MrsWhittlestaff. An old gentleman will seldom fall in love without someencouragement; or at any rate, will not tell his love. Mary Lawriewas as cold to him as though he had been seventy-five instead offifty. And she was also as dutiful, --by which she showed Mrs Baggettmore strongly even than by her coldness, that any idea of marriagewas on her part out of the question. 

This, strange to say, Mrs Baggett resented. For though she certainlyfelt, as would do any ordinary Mrs Baggett in her position, that awife would be altogether detrimental to her interest in life, yet shecould not endure to think that "a little stuck-up minx, taken in fromcharity, " should run counter to any of her master's wishes. On one ortwo occasions she had spoken to Mr Whittlestaff respecting the younglady and had been cruelly snubbed. This certainly did not creategood humour on her part, and she began to fancy herself angry in thatthe young lady was so ceremonious with her master. But as months ranby she felt that Mary was thawing, and that Mr Whittlestaff wasbecoming more affectionate. Of course there were periods in which hermind veered round. But at the end of the year Mrs Baggett certainlydid wish that the young lady should marry her old master. "I cango down to Portsmouth, " she said to the baker, who was a mostrespectable old man, and was nearer to Mrs Baggett's confidencethan any one else except her master, "and weary out the rest on 'emthere. " When she spoke of "wearying out the rest on 'em, " her friendperfectly understood that she alluded to what years she might stillhave to live, and to the abject misery of her latter days, whichwould be the consequence of her resigning her present mode of life. Mrs Baggett was supposed to have been born at Portsmouth, and, therefore, to allude to that one place which she knew in the worldover and beyond the residences in which her master and her master'sfamily had resided. 

Before I go on to describe the characters of Mr Whittlestaff andMiss Lawrie, I must devote a few words to the early life of MrsBaggett. Dorothy Tedcaster had been born in the house of AdmiralWhittlestaff, the officer in command at the Portsmouth dockyard. There her father or her mother had family connections, to visit whomDorothy, when a young woman, had returned from the then abode of herloving mistress, Mrs Whittlestaff. With Mrs Whittlestaff she hadlived absolutely from the hour of her birth, and of Mrs Whittlestaffher mind was so full, that she did conceive her to be superior, ifnot absolutely in rank, at any rate in all the graces and favours oflife, to her Majesty and all the royal family. Dorothy in an evilhour went back to Portsmouth, and there encountered that worst ofmilitary heroes, Sergeant Baggett. With many lamentations, andconfessions as to her own weakness, she wrote to her mistress, acknowledging that she did intend to marry "B. " Mrs Whittlestaffcould do nothing to prevent it, and Dorothy did marry "B. " Of themisery and ill-usage, of the dirt and poverty, which poor DorothyBaggett endured during that year, it needs not here to tell. Thatsomething had passed between her and her old mistress when shereturned to her, must, I suppose, have been necessary. But of hermarried life, in subsequent years, Mrs Baggett never spoke at all. Even the baker only knew dimly that there had been a Sergeant Baggettin existence. Years had passed since that bad quarter of an hourin her life, before Mrs Baggett had been made over to her presentmaster. And he, though he probably knew something of the abominableSergeant, never found it necessary to mention his name. For this MrsBaggett was duly thankful, and would declare among all persons, thebaker included, that "for a gentleman to be a gentleman, no gentlemanwas such a gentleman" as her master. 

It was now five-and-twenty years since the Admiral had died, andfifteen since his widow had followed him. During the latter periodMrs Baggett had lived at Croker's Hall with Mr Whittlestaff, andwithin that period something had leaked out as to the Sergeant. Howit had come to pass that Mr Whittlestaff's establishment had beenmounted with less of the paraphernalia of wealth than that of hisparents, shall be told in the next chapter; but it was the case thatMrs Baggett, in her very heart of hearts, was deeply grieved at whatshe considered to be the poverty of her master. "You're a stupidold fool, Mrs Baggett, " her master would say, when in some privatemoments her regrets would be expressed. "Haven't you got enoughto eat, and a bed to lie on, and an old stocking full of moneysomewhere? What more do you want?"

"A stocking full of money!" she would say, wiping her eyes; "thereain't no such thing. And as for eating, of course, I eats as much asI wants. I eats more than I wants, if you come to that. "

"Then you're very greedy. "

"But to think that you shouldn't have a man in a black coat to pourout a glass of wine for you, sir!"

"I never drink wine, Mrs Baggett. "

"Well, whisky. I suppose a fellow like that wouldn't be above pouringout a glass of whisky for a gentleman;--though there's no knowing nowwhat those fellows won't turn up their noses at. But it's a come-downin the world, Mr Whittlestaff. "

"If you think I've come down in the world, you'd better keep it toyourself, and not tell me. I don't think that I've come down. "

"You bear up against it finely like a man, sir; but for a poor womanlike me, I do feel it. " Such was Mrs Baggett and the record of herlife. But this little conversation took place before the coming ofMary Lawrie. 

CHAPTER II. 

MR WHITTLESTAFF. 

Mr Whittlestaff had not been a fortunate man, as fortune isgenerally counted in the world. He had not succeeded in what he hadattempted. He had, indeed, felt but little his want of success inregard to money, but he had encountered failure in one or two othermatters which had touched him nearly. In some things his life hadbeen successful; but these were matters in which the world does notwrite down a man's good luck as being generally conducive to hishappiness. He had never had a headache, rarely a cold, and not atouch of the gout. One little finger had become crooked, and he wasrecommended to drink whisky, which he did willingly, --because it wascheap. He was now fifty, and as fit, bodily and mentally, for hardwork as ever he had been. And he had a thousand a-year to spend, andspent it without ever feeling the necessity of saving a shilling. Andthen he hated no one, and those who came in contact with him alwaysliked him. He trod on nobody's corns, and was, generally speaking, the most popular man in the parish. These traits are not generallyreckoned as marks of good fortune; but they do tend to increase theamount of happiness which a man enjoys in this world. To tell ofhis misfortunes a somewhat longer chronicle of his life would benecessary. But the circumstances need only be indicated here. He hadbeen opposed in everything to his father's views. His father, findinghim to be a clever lad, had at first designed him for the Bar. Buthe, before he had left Oxford, utterly repudiated all legal pursuits. "What the devil do you wish to be?" said his father, who at thattime was supposed to be able to leave his son £2000 a-year. The sonreplied that he would work for a fellowship, and devote himself toliterature. The old admiral sent literature to all the infernal gods, and told his son that he was a fool. But the lad did not succeed ingetting his fellowship, and neither father nor mother ever knew theamount of suffering which he endured thereby. He became plaintiveand wrote poetry, and spent his pocket-money in publishing it, whichagain caused him sorrow, not for the loss of his money, but by theobscurity of his poetry. He had to confess to himself that Godhad not conferred upon him the gift of writing poetry; and havingacknowledged so much, he never again put two lines together. Of allthis he said nothing; but the sense of failure made him sad at heart. And his father, when he was in those straits, only laughed at him, not at all believing the assurances of his son's misery, which fromtime to time were given to him by his wife. 

Then the old admiral declared that, as his son would do nothing forhimself, he must work for his son. And he took in his old age togoing into the city and speculating in shares. Then the Admiraldied. The shares came to nothing, and calls were made; and whenMrs Whittlestaff followed her husband, her son, looking about him, bought Croker's Hall, reduced his establishment, and put down theman-servant whose departed glory was to Mrs Baggett a matter of suchdeep regret. 

But before this time Mr Whittlestaff had encountered the greatestsorrow of his life. Even the lost fellowship, even the rejectedpoetry, had not caused him such misery as this. He had loved a younglady, and had been accepted;--and then the young lady had jilted him. At this time of his life he was about thirty; and as to the outsideworld, he was absolutely dumfounded by the catastrophe. Up to thisperiod he had been a sportsman in a moderate degree, fishing a gooddeal, shooting a little, and devoted to hunting, to the extent of asingle horse. But when the blow came, he never fished or shot, orhunted again. I think that the young lady would hardly have treatedhim so badly had she known what the effect would be. Her name wasCatherine Bailey, and she married one Compas, who, as years wenton, made a considerable reputation as an Old Bailey barrister. Hisfriends feared at the time that Mr Whittlestaff would do some injuryeither to himself or Mr Compas. But no one dared to speak to him onthe subject. His mother, indeed, did dare, --or half dared. But he soanswered his mother that he stopped her before the speech was outof her mouth. "Don't say a word, mother; I cannot bear it. " And hestalked out of the house, and was not seen for many hours. 

There had then, in the bitter agony of his spirit, come upon him anidea of blood. He himself must go, --or the man. Then he rememberedthat she was the man's wife, and that it behoved him to sparethe man for her sake. Then, when he came to think in earnest ofself-destruction, he told himself that it was a coward's refuge. Hetook to his classics for consolation, and read the philosophy ofCicero, and the history of Livy, and the war chronicles of Cæsar. They did him good, --in the same way that the making of many shoeswould have done him good had he been a shoemaker. In catching fishesand riding after foxes he could not give his mind to the occupation, so as to abstract his thoughts. But Cicero's de Natura Deorum wasmore effectual. Gradually he returned to a gentle cheerfulness oflife, but he never burst out again into the violent exercise ofshooting a pheasant. After that his mother died, and again he wascalled upon to endure a lasting sorrow. But on this occasion thesorrow was of that kind which is softened by having been expected. Herarely spoke of his mother, --had never, up to this period at whichour tale finds him, mentioned his mother's name to any of those abouthim. Mrs Baggett would speak of her, saying much in the praise ofher old mistress. Mr Whittlestaff would smile and seem pleased, andso the subject would pass away. There was something too reverendto him in his idea of his mother, to admit of his discussing hercharacter with the servant. But he was well pleased to hear her thusdescribed. Of the other woman, of Catherine Bailey, of her who hadfalsely given herself up to so poor a creature as Compas, afterhaving received the poetry of his vows, he could endure no mentionwhatever; and though Mrs Baggett knew probably well the whole story, no attempt at naming the name was ever made. 

Such had been the successes and the failures of Mr Whittlestaff'slife when Mary Lawrie was added as one to his household. The sameidea had occurred to him as to Mrs Baggett. He was not a young man, because he was fifty; but he was not quite an old man, because hewas only fifty. He had seen Mary Lawrie often enough, and had becomesufficiently well acquainted with her to feel sure that if he couldwin her she would be a loving companion for the remainder of hislife. He had turned it all over in his mind, and had been now eagerabout it and now bashful. On more than one occasion he had declaredto himself that he would be whipped if he would have anything todo with her. Should he subject himself again to some such agony ofdespair as he had suffered in the matter of Catherine Bailey? Itmight not be an agony such as that; but to him to ask and to bedenied would be a terrible pain. And as the girl did receive fromhis hands all that she had--her bread and meat, her bed, her veryclothes--would it not be better for her that he should stand to herin the place of a father than a lover? She might come to accept itall and not think much of it, if he would take before himself theguise of an old man. But were he to appear before her as a suitor forher hand, would she refuse him? Looking forward, he could perceivethat there was room for infinite grief if he should make the attemptand then things should not go well with him. 

But the more he saw of her he was sure also that there was room forinfinite joy. He compared her in his mind to Catherine Bailey, andcould not but feel that in his youth he had been blind and fatuous. Catherine had been a fair-haired girl, and had now blossomed outinto the anxious mother of ten fair-haired children. The anxiety hadno doubt come from the evil courses of her husband. Had she beencontented to be Mrs Whittlestaff, there might have been no such lookof care, and there might perhaps have been less than ten children;but she would still have been fair-haired, blowsy, and fat. MrWhittlestaff had with infinite trouble found an opportunity of seeingher and her flock, unseen by them, and a portion of his agony hadsubsided. But still there was the fact that she had promised to behis, and had become a thing sacred in his sight, and had then givenherself up to the arms of Mr Compas. But now if Mary Lawrie wouldbut accept him, how blessed might be the evening of his life!

He had confessed to himself often enough how sad and dreary he wasin his desolate life. He had told himself that it must be so for theremainder of all time to him, when Catherine Bailey had declared herpurpose to him of marrying the successful young lawyer. He had atonce made up his mind that his doom was fixed, and had not regardedhis solitude as any deep aggravation of his sorrow. But he had comeby degrees to find that a man should not give up his life because ofa fickle girl, and especially when he found her to be the mother often flaxen haired infants. He had, too, as he declared to himself, waited long enough. 

But Mary Lawrie was very different from Catherine Bailey. TheCatherine he had known had been bright, and plump, and joyous, with aquick good-natured wit, and a rippling laughter, which by its silverysound had robbed him of his heart. There was no plumpness, and nosilver-sounding laughter with Mary. She shall be described in thenext chapter. Let it suffice to say here that she was somewhat staidin her demeanour, and not at all given to putting herself forward inconversation. But every hour that he passed in her company he becamemore and more sure that, if any wife could now make him happy, thiswas the woman who could do so. 

But of her manner to himself he doubted much. She was gratitudeitself for what he was prepared to do for her. But with her gratitudewas mingled respect, and almost veneration. She treated him at firstalmost as a servant, --at any rate with none of the familiarity of afriend, and hardly with the reserve of a grown-up child. Gradually, in obedience to his evident wishes, she did drop her reserve, and allowed herself to converse with him; but it was always as ayoung person might with all modesty converse with her superior. Hestruggled hard to overcome her reticence, and did at last succeed. But still there was that respect, verging almost into veneration, which seemed to crush him when he thought that he might begin to playthe lover. 

He had got a pony carriage for her, which he insisted that she shoulddrive herself. "But I never have driven, " she had said, taking herplace, and doubtfully assuming the reins, while he sat beside her. She had at this time been six months at Croker's Hall. 

"There must be a beginning for everything, and you shall begin todrive now. " Then he took great trouble with her, teaching her how tohold the reins, and how to use the whip, till at last something offamiliarity was engendered. And he went out with her, day after day, showing her all those pretty haunts among the downs which are to befound in the neighbourhood of Alresford. 

This did well for a time, and Mr Whittlestaff thought that he wasprogressing. But he had not as yet quite made up his mind that theattempt should be made at all. If he can be imagined to have talkedto a friend as he talked to himself, that friend would have averredthat he spoke more frequently against marriage, --or rather againstthe young lady's marriage, --than in favour of it. "After all it willnever do, " he would have said to this friend; "I am an old man, andan old man shouldn't ask a young girl to sacrifice herself. MrsBaggett looks on it only as a question of butchers and bakers. Thereare, no doubt, circumstances in which butchers and bakers do comeuppermost. But here the butchers and bakers are provided. I wouldn'thave her marry me for that sake. Love, I fear, is out of thequestion. But for gratitude I would not have her do it. " It was thusthat he would commonly have been found speaking to his friend. Therewere moments in which he roused himself to better hopes, --when he haddrank his glass of whisky and water, and was somewhat elate with theconsequences. "I'll do it, " he would then have said to his friend;"only I cannot exactly say when. " And so it went on, till at last hebecame afraid to speak out and tell her what he wanted. 

Mr Whittlestaff was a tall, thin man, not quite six feet, with aface which a judge of male beauty would hardly call handsome, butwhich all would say was impressive and interesting. We seldomthink how much is told to us of the owner's character by thefirst or second glance of a man or woman's face. Is he a fool, oris he clever; is he reticent or outspoken; is he passionate orlong-suffering;--nay, is he honest or the reverse; is he maliciousor of a kindly nature? Of all these things we form a sudden judgmentwithout any thought; and in most of our sudden judgments we areroughly correct. It is so, or seems to us to be so, as a matter ofcourse, --that the man is a fool, or reticent, or malicious; and, without giving a thought to our own phrenological capacity, we passon with the conviction. No one ever considered that Mr Whittlestaffwas a fool or malicious; but people did think that he was reticentand honest. The inner traits of his character were very difficult tobe read. Even Mrs Baggett had hardly read them all correctly. He wasshamefaced to such a degree that Mrs Baggett could not bring herselfto understand it. And there was present to him a manner of speechwhich practice had now made habitual, but which he had originallyadopted with the object of hiding his shamefacedness under the veilof a dashing manner. He would speak as though he were quite freewith his thoughts, when, at the moment, he feared that thoughtsshould be read of which he certainly had no cause to be ashamed. Hisfellowship, his poetry, and his early love were all, to his thinking, causes of disgrace, which required to be buried deep within his ownmemory. But the true humility with which he regarded them betokened acharacter for which he need not have blushed. But that he thought ofthose matters at all--that he thought of himself at all--was a matterto be buried deep within his own bosom. 

Through his short dark-brown hair the grey locks were beginning toshow themselves--signs indeed of age, but signs which were verybecoming to him. At fifty he was a much better-looking man than hehad been at thirty, --so that that foolish, fickle girl, CatherineBailey, would not have rejected him for the cruelly sensuous faceof Mr Compas, had the handsome iron-grey tinge been then given tohis countenance. He, as he looked at the glass, told himself that agrey-haired old fool, such as he was, had no right to burden the lifeof a young girl, simply because he found her in bread and meat. Thathe should think himself good-looking, was to his nature impossible. His eyes were rather small, but very bright; the eyebrows black andalmost bushy; his nose was well-formed and somewhat long, but not soas to give that peculiar idea of length to his face which comes fromgreat nasal prolongation. His upper lip was short, and his mouthlarge and manly. The strength of his character was better shown byhis mouth than by any other feature. He wore hardly any beard, asbeards go now, --unless indeed a whisker can be called a beard, whichcame down, closely shorn, about half an inch below his ear. "A verycommon sort of individual, " he said of himself, as he looked in theglass when Mary Lawrie had been already twelve months in the house;"but then a man ought to be common. A man who is uncommon is either adandy or a buffoon. "

His clothes were all made after one pattern and of one colour. Hehad, indeed, his morning clothes and his evening clothes. Those forthe morning were very nearly black, whereas for the evening they wereentirely so. He walked about the neighbourhood in a soft hat such asclergymen now affect, and on Sundays he went to church with the oldwell-established respectable chimney-pot. On Sundays, too, he carriedan umbrella, whereas on week-days he always had a large stick; and itwas observed that neither the umbrella nor the stick was adapted tothe state of the weather. 

Such was Mr Whittlestaff of Croker's Hall, a small residencewhich stood half-way up on the way to the downs, about a mile fromAlresford. He had come into the neighbourhood, having bought a smallfreehold property without the knowledge of any of the inhabitants. "It was just as though he had come out of the sun, " said the oldbaker, forgetting that most men, or their ancestors, must have cometo their present residences after a similar fashion. And he hadbrought Mrs Baggett with him, who had confided to the baker that shehad felt herself that strange on her first arrival that she didn'tknow whether she was standing on her head or her heels. 

Mrs Baggett had since become very gracious with various of theneighbours. She had the paying of Mr Whittlestaff's bills, and thegeneral disposal of his custom. From thence arose her popularity. But he, during the last fifteen years, had crept silently into thesociety of the place. At first no one had known anything about him;and the neighbourhood had been shy. But by degrees the parsons andthen the squires had taken him by the hand, so that the socialendowments of the place were more than Mr Whittlestaff even desired. 

CHAPTER III. 

MARY LAWRIE. 

There is nothing more difficult in the writing of a story than todescribe adequately the person of a hero or a heroine, so as to placebefore the mind of the reader any clear picture of him or her whois described. A courtship is harder still--so hard that we may saygenerally that it is impossible. Southey's Lodore is supposed to havebeen effective; but let any one with the words in his memory standbeside the waterfall and say whether it is such as the words havepainted it. It rushes and it foams, as described by the poet, muchmore violently than does the real water; and so does everythingdescribed, unless in the hands of a wonderful master. But I haveclear images on my brain of the characters of the persons introduced. I know with fair accuracy what was intended by the character as givenof Amelia Booth, of Clarissa, of Di Vernon, and of Maggie Tulliver. But as their persons have not been drawn with the pencil for me bythe artists who themselves created them, I have no conception howthey looked. Of Thackeray's Beatrix I have a vivid idea, becauseshe was drawn for him by an artist under his own eye. I have now todescribe Mary Lawrie, but have no artist who will take the troubleto learn my thoughts and to reproduce them. Consequently I fear thatno true idea of the young lady can be conveyed to the reader; andthat I must leave him to entertain such a notion of her carriage anddemeanour as must come to him at the end from the reading of thewhole book. 

But the attempt must be made, if only for fashion sake, so that noadventitious help may be wanting to him, or more probably to her, whomay care to form for herself a personification of Mary Lawrie. Shewas a tall, thin, staid girl, who never put herself forward in any ofthose walks of life in which such a young lady as she is called uponto show herself. She was silent and reserved, and sometimes startled, even when appealed to in a household so quiet as that of MrWhittlestaff. Those who had seen her former life had known that shehad lived under the dominion of her step-mother, and had so accountedfor her manner. And then, added to this, was the sense of entiredependence on a stranger, which, no doubt, helped to quell herspirit. But Mr Whittlestaff had eyes with which to see and ears withwhich to hear, and was not to be taken in by the outward appearanceof the young lady. He had perceived that under that quiet guise andtimid startled look there existed a power of fighting a battle forherself or for a friend, if an occasion should arise which shouldappear to herself to be sufficient. He had known her as one of herfather's household, and of her step-mother's; and had seen probablysome little instance of self-assertion, such as had not yet madeitself apparent to Mrs Baggett. 

A man who had met her once, and for a few minutes only, wouldcertainly not declare her to be beautiful. She, too, like MrWhittlestaff, was always contented to pass unobserved. But the chanceman, had he seen her for long, would surely remark that Miss Lawriewas an attractive girl; and had he heard her talk freely on anymatter of interest, would have called her very attractive. She wouldblaze up into sudden eloquence, and then would become shame-stricken, and abashed, and dumfounded, so as to show that she had for amoment forgotten her audience, and then the audience, --the chanceman, --would surely set his wits to work and try to reproduce in her arenewal of that intimacy to which she had seemed to yield herself forthe moment. 

But yet I am not describing her after the accepted fashion. I shouldproduce a catalogue of features, and tell how every one of themwas formed. Her hair was dark, and worn very plain, but with thatgraceful care which shows that the owner has not slurred over hertoilet with hurried negligence. Of complexion it can hardly be saidthat she had any; so little was the appearance of her countenancediversified by a change of hue. If I am bound to declare her colour, I must, in truth, say that she was brown. There was none even of thatflying hue which is supposed to be intended when a woman is called abrunette. When she first came to Croker's Hall, health produced novariation. Nor did any such come quickly; though before she had livedthere a year and a half, now and again a slight tinge of dark rubywould show itself on her cheek, and then vanish almost quicker thanit had come. Mr Whittlestaff, when he would see this, would bealmost beside himself in admiration. 

Her eyes were deep blue, so deep that the casual observer would notat first recognise their colour. But when you had perceived that theywere blue, and had brought the fact home to your knowledge, theirblueness remained with you as a thing fixed for ever. And you wouldfeel, if you yourself were thoughtful and contemplative, and muchgiven to study a lady's eyes, that, such as they were, every ladywould possess the like if only it were given to her to choose. 

Her nose was slight and fine, and perhaps lent to her face, of allher features, its most special grace. Her lips, alas! were too thinfor true female beauty, and lacked that round and luscious fulnesswhich seems in many a girl's face to declare the purpose for whichthey were made. Through them her white teeth would occasionally beseen, and then her face was at its best, as, for instance, when shewas smiling; but that was seldom; and at other moments it seemed asthough she were too careful to keep her mouth closed. 

But if her mouth was defective, the symmetry of her chin, carryingwith it the oval of her cheek and jaws, was perfect. How many aface, otherwise lovely to look upon, is made mean and comparativelybase, either by the lengthening or the shortening of the chin! Thatabsolute perfection which Miss Lawrie owned, we do not, perhaps, often meet. But when found, I confess that nothing to me gives sosure an evidence of true blood and good-breeding. 

Such is the catalogue of Mary Lawrie's features, drawn out with careby one who has delighted for many hours to sit and look at them. All the power of language which the writer possesses has been usedin thus reproducing them. But now, when this portion of his workis done, he feels sure that no reader of his novel will have theslightest idea of what Mary Lawrie was like. 

An incident must now be told of her early life, of which she neverspoke to man, woman, or child. Her step-mother had known thecircumstance, but had rarely spoken of it. There had come across herpath in Norwich a young man who had stirred her heart, and had wonher affections. But the young man had passed on, and there, as far asthe present and the past were concerned, had been an end of it. Theyoung man had been no favourite with her step-mother; and her father, who was almost on his death-bed, had heard what was going on almostwithout a remark. He had been told that the man was penniless, andas his daughter had been to him the dearest thing upon earth, he hadbeen glad to save himself the pain of expressing disapproval. JohnGordon had, however, been a gentleman, and was fit in all things tobe the husband of such a girl as Mary Lawrie, --except that he waspenniless, and she, also, had possessed nothing. He had passed on hisway without speaking, and had gone--even Mary did not know whither. She had accepted her fate, and had never allowed the name of JohnGordon to pass her lips. 

The days passed very quickly at Croker's Hall, but not so quickly butthat Mary knew well what was going on in Mr Whittlestaff's mind. Howis it that a girl understands to a certainty the state of a man'sheart in regard to her, --or rather, not his heart, but his purpose? Agirl may believe that a man loves her, and may be deceived; but shewill not be deceived as to whether he wishes to marry her. Graduallycame the conviction on Miss Lawrie's mind of Mr Whittlestaff'spurpose. And, as it did so, came the conviction also that she couldnot do it. Of this he saw nothing; but he was instigated by it tobe more eager, --and was at the same time additionally abashed bysomething in her manner which made him feel that the task before himwas not an easy one. 

Mrs Baggett, who knew well all the symptoms as her master displayedthem, became angry with Mary Lawrie. Who was Mary Lawrie, that sheshould take upon herself to deny Mr Whittlestaff anything? Nodoubt it would, as she told herself, be better for Mrs Baggett inmany respects that her master should remain unmarried. She assuredherself that if a mistress were put over her head, she must retireto Portsmouth, --which, of all places for her, had the dreariestmemories. She could remain where she was very well, while Mary Lawrieremained also where she was. But it provoked her to think that theoffer should be made to the girl and should be refused. "What onearth it is they sees in 'em, is what I never can understand. Sheain't pretty, --not to say, --and she looks as though butter wouldn'tmelt in her mouth. But she's got it inside her, and some of them daysit'll come out. " Then Mrs Baggett determined that she would have afew words on the subject with Mary Lawrie. 

Mary had now been a year and four months at Croker's Hall, and had, under pressure from Mr Whittlestaff, assumed something of the mannerrather than of the airs of a mistress to Mrs Baggett. This the oldwoman did not at all resent, because the reality of power was stillin her hands; but she could not endure that the idolatry of loveshould always be present in her master's face. If the young womanwould only become Mrs Whittlestaff, then the idolatry would passaway. At any rate, her master would not continue "to make an ass ofhimself, " as Mrs Baggett phrased it. 

"Don't you think, Miss, as that Mr Whittlestaff is looking verypeeky?"

"Is he, Mrs Baggett?"

"'Deed and he is, to my thinking; and it's all along of you. He's gota fancy into his mind, --and why shouldn't he have his fancy?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. " But Mary did know. She did know what thefancy was, and why Mr Whittlestaff shouldn't have it. 

"I tell you fairly, Miss, there is nothing I hate so much as vagariesin young women. "

"I hope there are no vagaries to be hated in me, Mrs Baggett. "

"Well, I'm not quite so sure. You do go as straightforward as moston 'em; but I ain't quite sure but that there are a few twists andtwirls. What do you suppose he wants to be at?"

"How am I to say?" Then she bethought herself that were she to tellthe truth, she could say very well. 

"Do you mean as you don't know?" said the old woman. 

"Am I bound to tell you if I do know?"

"If you wish to do the best for him, you are. What's the good ofbeating about the bush? Why don't you have him?"

Mary did not quite know whether it behoved her to be angry with theold servant, and if so, how she was to show her anger. "You shouldn'ttalk such nonsense, Mrs Baggett. "

"That's all very well. It is all nonsense; but nonsense has to betalked sometimes. Here's a gentleman as you owe everything to. If hewanted your head from your shoulders, you shouldn't make any scruple. What are you, that you shouldn't let a gentleman like him have hisown way? Asking your pardon, but I don't mean it any way out ofdisrespect. Of course it would be all agin me. An old woman doesn'twant to have a young mistress over her head, and if she's my sperrit, she wouldn't bear it. I won't, any way. "

"Then why do you ask me to do this thing?"

"Because a gentleman like him should have his own way. And an old haglike me shouldn't stand for anything. No more shouldn't a young womanlike you who has had so much done for her. Now, Miss Mary, you seeI've told you my mind freely. "

"But he has never asked me. "

"You just sit close up to him, and he'll ask you free enough. Ishouldn't speak as I have done if there had been a morsel of doubtabout it. Do you doubt it yourself, Miss?" To this Miss Lawrie didnot find it necessary to return any answer. 

When Mrs Baggett had gone and Mary was left to herself, she couldnot but think over what the woman had said to her. In the firstplace, was she not bound to be angry with the woman, and to expressher anger? Was it not impertinent, nay, almost indecent, that thewoman should come to her and interrogate her on such a subject?The inmost, most secret feelings of her heart had been ruthlesslyinquired into and probed by a menial servant, who had asked questionsof her, and made suggestions to her, as though her part in the affairhad been of no consequence. "What are you, that you shouldn't leta gentleman like him have his own way?" Why was it not so much toher as to Mr Whittlestaff? Was it not her all; the consummationor destruction of every hope; the making or unmaking of her joy orof her happiness? Could it be right that she should marry any man, merely because the man wanted her? Were there to be no questionsraised as to her own life, her own contentment, her own ideas of whatwas proper? It was true that this woman knew nothing of John Gordon. But she must have known that there might be a John Gordon, --whomshe, Mary Lawrie, was required to set on one side, merely because MrWhittlestaff "wanted her. " Mrs Baggett had been grossly impertinentin daring to talk to her of Mr Whittlestaff's wants. 

But then, as she walked slowly round the garden, she found herselfbound to inquire of herself whether what the woman said had not beentrue. Did she not eat his bread; did she not wear his clothes; werenot the very boots on her feet his property? And she was there in hishouse, without the slightest tie of blood or family connection. Hehad taken her from sheer charity, and had saved her from the terribledependency of becoming a friendless governess. Looking out to thelife which she had avoided, it seemed to her to be full of abjectmisery. And he had brought her to his own house, and had made her themistress of everything. She knew that she had been undemonstrative inher manner, and that such was her nature. But her heart welled overwith gratitude as she thought of the sweetness of the life which hehad prepared for her. Was not the question true? "What am I, that Ishould stand in the way and prevent such a man as that from havingwhat he wants?"

And then she told herself that he personally was full of good gifts. How different might it have been with her had some elderly men"wanted her, " such as she had seen about in the world! How much wasthere in this man that she knew that she could learn to love? And hewas one of whom she need in no wise be ashamed. He was a gentleman, pleasant to look at, sweet in manner, comely and clean in appearance. Would not the world say of her how lucky she had been should it cometo pass that she should become Mrs Whittlestaff? Then there werethoughts of John Gordon, and she told herself that it was a meredream. John Gordon had gone, and she knew not where he was; and JohnGordon had never spoken a word to her of his love. After an hour'sdeliberation, she thought that she would marry Mr Whittlestaff if heasked her, though she could not bring herself to say that she would"sit close up to him" in order that he might do so. 

CHAPTER IV. 

MARY LAWRIE ACCEPTS MR WHITTLESTAFF. 

By the end of the week Mary Lawrie had changed her mind. She hadthought it over, and had endeavoured to persuade herself that MrWhittlestaff did not care about it very much. Indeed there weremoments during the week in which she flattered herself that if shewould abstain from "sitting close up to him, " he would say nothingabout it. But she resolved altogether that she would not display heranger to Mrs Baggett. Mrs Baggett, after all, had done it for thebest. And there was something in Mrs Baggett's mode of argument onthe subject which was not altogether unflattering to Mary. It was notas though Mrs Baggett had told her that Mr Whittlestaff could makehimself quite happy with Mrs Baggett herself, if Mary Lawrie wouldbe good enough to go away. The suggestion had been made quite in theother way, and Mrs Baggett was prepared altogether to obliterateherself. Mary did feel that Mr Whittlestaff ought to be made a god, as long as another woman was willing to share in the worship withsuch absolute self-sacrifice. 

At last the moment came, and the question was asked without a minutebeing allowed for consideration. It was in this wise. The two weresitting together after dinner on the lawn, and Mrs Baggett hadbrought them their coffee. It was her wont to wait upon them withthis delicacy, though she did not appear either at breakfast or atdinner, except on remarkable occasions. She now had some little wordto say, meant to be conciliatory and comforting, and remarked that"surely Miss Mary meant to get a colour in her cheeks at last. "

"Don't be foolish, Mrs Baggett, " said Mary. But Mrs Baggett's backwas turned, and she did not care to reply. 

"It is true, Mary, " said Mr Whittlestaff, putting his hand on hershoulder, as he turned round to look in her face. 

"Mrs Lawrie used to tell me that I always blushed black, and I thinkthat she was about right. "

"I do not know what colour you blush, " said Mr Whittlestaff. 

"I daresay not. "

"But when it does come I am conscious of the sweetest colour thatever came upon a lady's cheek. And I tell myself that another gracehas been added to the face which of all faces in the world is tomy eyes the most beautiful. " What was she to say in answer to acompliment so high-flown as this, to one from whose mouth complimentswere so uncommon? She knew that he could not have so spoken withouta purpose, declared at any rate to his own heart. He still held herby the arm, but did not once progress with his speech, while she satsilent by his side, and blushing with that dark ruby streak acrossher cheeks, which her step-mother had intended to vilify when shesaid that she had blushed black. "Mary, " he continued after a pause, "can you endure the thought of becoming my wife?" Now she drew herarm away, and turned her face, and compressed her lips, and satwithout uttering a word. "Of course I am an old man. "

"It is not that, " she muttered. 

"But I think that I can love you as honestly and as firmly as ayounger one. I think that if you could bring yourself to be my wife, you would find that you would not be treated badly. "

"Oh, no, no, no!" she exclaimed. 

"Nothing, at any rate, would be kept from you. When I have a thoughtor a feeling, a hope or a fear, you shall share it. As to money--"

"Don't do that. There should be no talk of money from you to me. "

"Perhaps not. It would be best that I should be left to do as I maythink most fitting for you. I have one incident in my life which Iwould wish to tell you. I loved a girl, --many years since, --and sheill-used me. I continued to love her long, but that image has passedfrom my mind. " He was thinking, as he said this, of Mrs Compas andher large family. "It will not be necessary that I should refer tothis again, because the subject is very painful; but it was essentialthat I should tell you. And now, Mary, how shall it be?" he added, after a pause. 

She sat listening to all that he had to say to her, but withoutspeaking a word. He, too, had had his "John Gordon;" but in his casethe girl he had loved had treated him badly. She, Mary, had receivedno bad treatment. There had been love between them, ample love, loveenough to break their hearts. At least she had found it so. But therehad been no outspoken speech of love. Because of that, the woundmade, now that it had been in some sort healed, had not with her beenso cruel as with Mr Whittlestaff. John Gordon had come to her onthe eve of his going, and had told her that he was about to startfor some distant land. There had been loud words between him andher step-mother, and Mrs Lawrie had told him that he was a pauper, and was doing no good about the house; and Mary had heard the wordsspoken. She asked him whither he was going, but he did not reply. "Your mother is right. I am at any rate doing no good here, " he hadsaid, but had not answered her question further. Then Mary had givenhim her hand, and had whispered, "Good-bye. " "If I return, " he added, "the first place I will come to shall be Norwich. " Then withoutfurther farewell ceremony he had gone. From that day to this shehad had his form before her eyes; but now, if she accepted MrWhittlestaff, it must be banished. No one, at any rate, knew of herwound. She must tell him, --should she be moved at last to accept him. It might be that he would reject her after such telling. If so, itwould be well. But, in that case, what would be her future? Would itnot be necessary that she should return to that idea of a governesswhich had been so distasteful to her? "Mary, can you say that itshall be so?" he asked quietly, after having remained silent for someten minutes. 

Could it be that all her fate must be resolved in so short a time?Since first the notion that Mr Whittlestaff had asked her to be hiswife had come upon her, she had thought of it day and night. But, asis so usual with the world at large, she had thought altogether ofthe past, and not of the future. The past was a valley of dreams, which could easily be surveyed, whereas the future was a highmountain which it would require much labour to climb. When we thinkthat we will make our calculations as to the future, it is so easyto revel in our memories instead. Mary had, in truth, not thought ofher answer, though she had said to herself over and over again why itshould not be so. 

"Have you no answer to give me?" he said. 

"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff, you have so startled me!" This was hardlytrue. He had not startled her, but had brought her to the necessityof knowing her own mind. 

"If you wish to think of it, you shall take your own time. " Then itwas decided that a week should be accorded to her. And during thatweek she passed much of her time in tears. And Mrs Baggett wouldnot leave her alone. To give Mrs Baggett her due, it must beacknowledged that she acted as best she knew how for her master'sinterest, without thinking of herself. "I shall go down toPortsmouth. I'm not worth thinking of, I ain't. There's them atPortsmouth as'll take care of me. You don't see why I should go. Idaresay not; but I am older than you, and I see what you don't see. I've borne with you as a miss, because you've not been upsetting; butstill, when I've lived with him for all those years without anythingof the kind, it has set me hard sometimes. As married to him, Iwouldn't put up with you; so I tell you fairly. But that don'tsignify. It ain't you as signifies or me as signifies. It's only him. You have got to bring yourself to think of that. What's the meaningof your duty to your neighbour, and doing unto others, and all therest of it? You ain't got to think just of your own self; no morehaven't I. "

Mary said to herself silently that it was John Gordon of whom shehad to think. She quite recognised the truth of the lesson aboutselfishness; but love to her was more imperious than gratitude. 

"There's them at Portsmouth as'll take care of me, no doubt. Don'tyou mind about me. I ain't going to have a good time at Portsmouth, but people ain't born to have good times of it. You're going to havea good time. But it ain't for that, but for what your duty tells you. You that haven't a bit or a sup but what comes from him, and you tostand shilly-shallying! I can't abide the idea!"

It was thus that Mrs Baggett taught her great lesson, --the greatestlesson we may say which a man or a woman can learn. And though shetaught it immoderately, fancying, as a woman, that another womanshould sacrifice everything to a man, still she taught it with truth. She was minded to go to Portsmouth, although Portsmouth to her in thepresent state of circumstances was little better than a hell uponearth. But Mary could not quite see Mr Whittlestaff's claim in thesame light. The one point on which it did seem to her that she hadmade up her mind was Mr Gordon's claim, which was paramount toeverything. Yes; he was gone, and might never return. It might bethat he was dead. It might be even that he had taken some other wife, and she was conscious that not a word had passed her lips that couldbe taken as a promise. There had not been even a hint of a promise. But it seemed to her that this duty of which Mrs Baggett spoke wasdue rather to John Gordon than to Mr Whittlestaff. 

She counted the days, --nay, she counted the hours, till the weekhad run by. And when the precise moment had come at which an answermust be given, --for in such matters Mr Whittlestaff was veryprecise, --John Gordon was still the hero of her thoughts. "Well, dear, " he said, putting his hand upon her arm, just as he had doneon that former occasion. He said no more, but there was a world ofentreaty in the tone of his voice as he uttered the words. 

"Mr Whittlestaff!"

"Well, dear. "

"I do not think I can. I do not think I ought. You never heardof--Mr John Gordon. "

"Never. "

"He used to come to our house at Norwich, and--and--I loved him. "

"What became of him?" he asked, in a strangely altered voice. Wasthere to be a Mr Compas here too to interfere with his happiness?

"He was poor, and he went away when my step-mother did not like him. "

"You had engaged yourself to him?"

"Oh, no! There had been nothing of that kind. You will understandthat I should not speak to you on such a subject, were it not that Iam bound to tell you my whole heart. But you will never repeat whatyou now hear. "

"There was no engagement?"

"There was no question of any such thing. "

"And he is gone?"

"Yes, " said Mary; "he has gone. "

"And will not come back again?" Then she looked into his face, --oh!so wistfully. "When did it happen?"

"When my father was on his death-bed. He had come sooner than that;but then it was that he went. I think, Mr Whittlestaff, that I neverought to marry any one after that, and therefore it is that I havetold you. "

"You are a good girl, Mary. "

"I don't know about that. I think that I ought to deceive you atleast in nothing. "

"You should deceive no one. "

"No, Mr Whittlestaff. " She answered him ever so meekly; but therewas running in her mind a feeling that she had not deceived any one, and that she was somewhat hardly used by the advice given to her. 

"He has gone altogether?" he asked again. 

"I do not know where he is, --whether he be dead or alive. "

"But if he should come back?"

She only shook her head;--meaning him to understand that she couldsay nothing of his purposes should he come back. He had made herno offer. He had said that if he returned he would come first toNorwich. There had been something of a promise in this; but oh, solittle! And she did not dare to tell him that hitherto she had livedupon that little. 

"I do not think that you should remain single for ever on thataccount. How long is it now since Mr Gordon went?"

There was something in the tone in which he mentioned Mr Gordon'sname which went against the grain with Mary. She felt that he wasspoken of almost as an enemy. "I think it is three years since hewent. "

"Three years is a long time. Has he never written?"

"Not to me. How should he write? There was nothing for him to writeabout. "

"It has been a fancy. "

"Yes;--a fancy. " He had made this excuse for her, and she had nonestronger to make for herself. 

He certainly did not think the better of her in that she hadindulged in such a fancy; but in truth his love was sharpened bythe opposition which this fancy made. It had seemed to him thathis possessing her would give a brightness to his life, and thisbrightness was not altogether obscured by the idea that she had everthought that she had loved another person. As a woman she was aslovable as before, though perhaps less admirable. At any rate hewanted her, and now she seemed to be more within his reach than shehad been. "The week has passed by, Mary, and I suppose that now youcan give me an answer. " Then she found that she was in his power. Shehad told him her story, as though with the understanding that if hewould take her with her "fancy, " she was ready to surrender herself. "Am I not to have an answer now?"

"I suppose so. "

"What is it to be?"

"If you wish for me, I will be yours. "

"And you will cease to think of Mr Gordon?"

"I shall think of him; but not in a way that you would begrudge me. "

"That will suffice. I know that you are honest, and I will not askyou to forget him altogether. But there had better be no speaking ofhim. It is well that he should be banished from your mind. And now, dearest, dearest love, give me your hand. " She put her hand at onceinto his. "And a kiss. " She just turned herself a little round, withher eyes bent upon the ground. "Nay; there must be a kiss. " Then hebent over her, and just touched her cheek. "Mary, you are now all myown. " Yes;--she was now all his own, and she would do for him thebest in her power. He had not asked for her love, and she certainlyhad not given it. She knew well how impossible it would be that sheshould give him her love. "I know you are disturbed, " he said. "Iwish also for a few minutes to think of it all. " Then he turned awayfrom her, and went up the garden walk by himself. 

She, slowly loitering, went into the house alone, and seated herselfby the open window in her bed-chamber. As she sat there she could seehim up the long walk, going and returning. As he went his hands werefolded behind his back, and she thought that he appeared older thanshe had ever remarked him to be before. What did it signify? She hadundertaken her business in life, and the duties she thought would bewithin her power. She was sure that she would be true to him, as faras truth to his material interests was concerned. His comforts inlife should be her first care. If he trusted her at all, he shouldnot become poorer by reason of his confidence. And she would beas tender to him as the circumstances would admit. She would notbegrudge him kisses if he cared for them. They were his by all therights of contract. He certainly had the best of the bargain, but heshould never know how much the best of it he had. He had told herthat there had better be no speaking of John Gordon. There certainlyshould be none on her part. She had told him that she must continueto think of him. There at any rate she had been honest. But he shouldnot see that she thought of him. 

Then she endeavoured to assure herself that this thinking would dieout. Looking round the world, her small world, how many women therewere who had not married the men they had loved first! How few, perhaps, had done so! Life was not good-natured enough for smoothnesssuch as that. And yet did not they, as a rule, live well withtheir husbands? What right had she to expect anything better thantheir fate? Each poor insipid dame that she saw, toddling on withhalf-a-dozen children at her heels, might have had as good a JohnGordon of her own as was hers. And each of them might have sat on asummer day, at an open window, looking out with something, oh, so farfrom love, at the punctual steps of him who was to be her husband. 

Then her thoughts turned, would turn, could not be kept from turning, to John Gordon. He had been to her the personification of manliness. That which he resolved to do, he did with an iron will. But hismanners to all women were soft, and to her seemed to have beensuffused with special tenderness. But he was chary of his words, --ashe had even been to her. He had been the son of a banker at Norwich;but, just as she had become acquainted with him, the bank had broke, and he had left Oxford to come home and find himself a ruined man. But he had never said a word to her of the family misfortune. He hadbeen six feet high, with dark hair cut very short, somewhat fullof sport of the roughest kind, which, however, he had abandonedinstantly. "Things have so turned out, " he had once said to Mary, "that I must earn something to eat instead of riding after foxes. "She could not boast that he was handsome. "What does it signify?" shehad once said to her step-mother, who had declared him to be stiff, upsetting, and ugly. "A man is not like a poor girl, who has nothingbut the softness of her skin to depend upon. " Then Mrs Lawrie haddeclared to him that "he did no good coming about the house, "--and hewent away. 

Why had he not spoken to her? He had said that one word, promisingthat if he returned he would come to Norwich. She had lived threeyears since that, and he had not come back. And her house had beenbroken up, and she, though she would have been prepared to wait foranother three years, --though she would have waited till she had growngrey with waiting, --she had now fallen into the hands of one who hada right to demand from her that she should obey him. "And it is notthat I hate him, " she said to herself. "I do love him. He is allgood. But I am glad that he has not bade me not to think of JohnGordon. "

CHAPTER V. 

"I SUPPOSE IT WAS A DREAM. "

It seemed to her, as she sat there at the window, that she ought totell Mrs Baggett what had occurred. There had been that between themwhich, as she thought, made it incumbent on her to let Mrs Baggettknow the result of her interview with Mr Whittlestaff. So she wentdown-stairs, and found that invaluable old domestic interferingmaterially with the comfort of the two younger maidens. She wasdetermined to let them "know what was what, " as she expressed it. 

"You oughtn't to be angry with me, because I've done nothing, " saidJane the housemaid, sobbing. 

"That's just about it, " said Mrs Baggett. "And why haven't you donenothing? Do you suppose you come here to do nothing? Was it doingnothing when Eliza tied down them strawberries without putting ine'er a drop of brandy? It drives me mortial mad to think what youyoung folks are coming to. "

"I ain't a-going anywhere, Mrs Baggett, because of them strawberriesbeing tied down which, if you untie them, as I always intended, willhave the sperrits put on them as well now as ever. And as for yourgoing 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 saywhether I'm imperence. "

"Mrs Baggett, I want to speak to you, if you'll come into the otherroom, " said Mary. 

"You are imperent, both of you. I can't say a word but I'm taken upthat short that--. They've been and tied all the jam down, so thatit'll all go that mouldy that nobody can touch it. And then, when Isays a word, they turns upon me. " Then Mrs Baggett walked out of thekitchen into her own small parlour, which opened upon the passagejust opposite the kitchen door. "They was a-going to be openedthis very afternoon, " said Eliza, firing a parting shot after thedeparting 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 hewanted. "

"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 takeit. 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 youshould obey him too. "

"I daresay; but at my age I ain't so well able to obey. I daresay asthem girls knew all about it, or they wouldn't have turned round uponme 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 themissus of it. That's flat. If you were to talk till you're deaf anddumb, I wouldn't do it. Oh, it don't matter what's to become of me! Iknow 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 withhim and his family almost from a baby, and have grown old a-servinghim, and it don't matter to him whether I goes into the hedges andditches, or where I goes. They say that service is no heritance, andthey says true. I'm to go to-- But don't mind me. He won't, and whyshould you? Do you think you'll ever do half as much for him as I'vedone? 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 herthe line of duty which she should follow, and she, to the best of herability, had done as Mrs Baggett had told her. It was the case thatMrs Baggett had prevailed with her, and now the woman turned againsther! Was it true that he had "his troubles before him, " because ofher acceptance of his offer? If so, might it not yet be mended? Wasit too late? Of what comfort could she be to him, seeing that she hadbeen unable to give him her heart? Why should she interfere with thewoman's happiness? In a spirit of true humility she endeavoured tothink how she might endeavour to do the best. Of one thing she wasquite, quite sure, --that all the longings of her very soul were fixedupon that other man. He was away;--perhaps he had forgotten her;perhaps he was married. Not a word had been spoken to her on whichshe could found a fair hope. But she had never been so certain of herlove, --of her love as a true, undoubted, and undoubtable fact--ofan unchangeable fact, --as she was now. And why should this poor oldwoman, with her many years of service, be disturbed? She went againup 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 lookedat him, he seemed to be older than before. His hands were stillclasped behind his back. There was no look about him as that of athriving lover. Care seemed to be on his face, --nay, even present, almost visibly, on his very shoulders. She would go to him and pleadfor Mrs Baggett. 

But in that case what should become of herself? She was aware thatshe could no longer stay in his house as his adopted daughter. Butshe could go forth, --and starve if there was nothing better for her. But as she thought of starvation, she stamped with one foot againstthe other, as though to punish herself for her own falsehood. Hewould not let her starve. He would get some place for her as agoverness. And she was not in the least afraid of starvation. Itwould be sweeter for her to work with any kind of hardship aroundher, and to be allowed to think of John Gordon with her heart free, than to become the comfortable mistress of his house. She would notadmit the plea of starvation even to herself. She wanted to be freeof him, and she would tell him so, and would tell him also of theruin he was about to bring on his old servant. 

She watched him as he came back into the house, and then she rosefrom her chair. "But I shall never see him again, " she said, as shepaused 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 mightsee him, but that she might think of him with unsullied thoughts. That should be her object, --that and the duty that she owed to MrsBaggett. Why was not Mrs Baggett entitled to as much considerationas was she herself, --or even he? She turned to the glass, and wipedher eyes with the sponge, and brushed her hair, and then she wentacross the passage to Mr Whittlestaff's library. 

She knocked at the door, --which she had not been accustomed todo, --and then at his bidding entered the room. "Oh, Mary, " he saidlaughing, "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 newprivileges. Then you had better go back to your old habits, becauseyou always used to come where I was. You must come and go now like myvery second self. " Then he came forward from the desk at which he waswont 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 kissI gave you down below. You must kiss me now, you, as a wife kissesher 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 toldherself, very foolishly, that it would be better for her to beginwith the story of Mrs Baggett. She could more easily speak of MrsBaggett than of John Gordon. But it must be remembered, on herbehalf, that she had but a second to think how she might best beginher 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 hurther, are you and I to be put out of our course because of her? Shecan 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 yourhappiness and mine. What! is an old woman like that to tell hermaster when he may and when he may not marry? I did not think you hadbeen so soft. "

She could not explain it all to him, --all that she thought upon thesubject. She could not say that the interference of any domesticbetween such a one as John Gordon and his love, --between him and herif she were happy enough to be his love, --would be an absurdity toofoolish to be considered. They, that happy two, would be followingthe bent of human nature, and would speak no more than a soft word tothe old woman, if a soft word might avail anything. Their love, theirhappy love, would be a thing too sacred to admit of any questionfrom any servant, almost from any parent. But why, in this matter, was not Mrs Baggett's happiness to be of as much consequence as MrWhittlestaff's;--especially when her own peace of mind lay in thesame direction as Mrs Baggett's? "She says that you are only layingup 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 showedher at once that John Gordon had not dwelt much on his mind. He hadbade her not to speak of him, and then he had been contented to lookupon him as one whom he would not be compelled to trouble himselfwith any further. "I think, Mary, that you are making too little ofme, and of yourself, to talk to me, or even to consider, in sucha matter, what a servant says to you. As you have given me youraffection, you should now allow nothing that any one can say to youto make you even think of changing your purpose. " How grossly musthe be mistaken, when he could imagine that she had given him herheart! Had she not expressly told him that her love had been set uponanother person? "To me you are everything. I have been thinking as Iwalked up and down the path there, of all that I could do to make youhappy. And I was so happy myself in feeling that I had your happinessto 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 yourspirits? What duties, what pleasures, what society should I providefor you? How should I change my habits, so as to make my advancedyears fit for your younger life? And I was teaching myself to hopethat I was not yet too old to make this altogether impossible. Thenyou 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 hertemper 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 bemarried, the reason given by her for changing it all would be absurd. As he had continued to speak, slowly adding on one argument toanother, with a certain amount of true eloquence, she felt thatunless she could go back to John Gordon she must yield. But it wasvery hard for her to go back to John Gordon. In the first place, shemust acknowledge, in doing so, that she had only put forward MrsBaggett as a false plea. And then she must insist on her love fora man who had never spoken to her of love! It was so hard that shecould not do it openly. "I had thought so little of the value I couldbe to you. "

"Your value to me is infinite. I think, Mary, that there has comeupon you a certain melancholy which is depressing you. Your regard tome is worth now more than any other possession or gift that the worldcan bestow. And I had taken pride to myself in saying that it hadbeen given. " Yes;--her regard! She could not contradict him as tothat. "And have you thought of your own position? After all thathas passed between us, you can hardly go on living here as you havedone. "

"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 acompanion to some lady. "

"Would that satisfy your ambition? I have got a place for you;--butit is here. " As he spoke, he laid his hand upon his heart. "Not asa companion to a lady are you required to fulfil your duties hereon earth. It is a fuller task of work that you must do. I trust, --Itrust 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 aboutthe man, and a dignity which made her feel that she could in truthhave loved him, --had it not been for John Gordon. "Unfortunately, Iam older than you, --very much older. But to you there may be thisadvantage, that you can listen to what I may say with something ofconfidence in my knowledge of the world. As my wife, you will filla position more honourable, and more suitable to your gifts, thancould belong to you as a governess or a companion. You will havemuch more to do, and will be able to go nightly to your rest with aconsciousness that you have done more as the mistress of our housethan you could have done in that tamer capacity. You will havecares, --and even those will ennoble the world to you, and you to theworld. 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 manya female who does not achieve the other; and it is well that theyto whom it falls should be able to accommodate themselves to itwith contentment and self-respect. I think that I may say of myselfthat, even as my wife, you will stand higher than you would do as acompanion. "

"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 lovedanother? And yet he spoke to her in this way! "You had better tellMrs 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 alook rather of cold displeasure. "If I understand you rightly, thegentleman never addressed you as a lover. "

"Never!"

"I see it all, Mary. Mrs Baggett has been violent and selfish, andhas made you think thoughts which should not have been put in yourhead to disturb you. You have dreamed a dream in your early life, --asgirls do dream, I suppose, --and it has now to be forgotten. Is it notso?"

"I suppose it was a dream. "

"He has passed away, and he has left you to become the happiness ofmy life. Send Mrs Baggett to me, and I will speak to her. " Then hecame up to her, --for they had been standing about a yard apart, --andpressed his lips to hers. How was it possible that she should preventhim?

She turned round, and slowly left the room, feeling, as she didso, that she was again engaged to him for ever and ever. She hatedherself because she had been so fickle. But how could she have doneotherwise? She asked herself, as she went back to her room, at whatperiod during the interview, which was now over, she could havedeclared to him the real state of her mind. He had, as it were, takencomplete possession of her, by right of the deed of gift which shehad made of herself that morning. She had endeavoured to resume thegift, but had altogether failed. She declared to herself that shewas weak, impotent, purposeless; but she admitted, on the other hand, that he had displayed more of power than she had ever guessed athis 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 JohnGordon. 

But there was one comfort for her. None knew of her weakness. Hermind had vacillated like a shuttlecock, but no one had seen thevacillation. She was in his hands, and she must simply do as he badeher. Then she went down to Mrs Baggett's room, and told the oldlady to go up-stairs at her master's behest. "I'm a-going, " said MrsBaggett. "I'm a-going. I hope he'll find every one else as good atdoing what he tells 'em. But I ain't a-going to be a-doing for him orfor any one much longer. "

CHAPTER VI. 

JOHN GORDON. 

Mrs Baggett walked into her master's room, loudly knocking at thedoor, and waiting for a loud answer. He was pacing up and down thelibrary, thinking of the injustice of her interference, and she wasfull of the injury to which she had been subjected by circumstances. She had been perfectly sincere when she had told Mary Lawrie thatMr Whittlestaff was entitled to have and to enjoy his own wishes asagainst both of them. In the first place, he was a man, --and as aman, was to be indulged, at whatever cost to any number of women. Andthen he was a man whose bread they had both eaten. Mary had eatenhis bread, as bestowed upon her from sheer charity. According toMrs Baggett's view of the world at large, Mary was bound to deliverherself body and soul to Mr Whittlestaff, were "soul sacrifice"demanded from her. As for herself, her first duty in life was to lookafter him were he to be sick. Unfortunately Mr Whittlestaff neverwas sick, but Mrs Baggett was patiently looking forward to somehappy day when he might be brought home with his leg broken. He hadno imprudent habits, hunting, shooting, or suchlike; but chance mightbe good to her. Then the making of all jams and marmalades, for whichhe did not care a straw, and which he only ate to oblige her, was acomfort to her. She could manage occasionally to be kept out of herbed over some boiling till one o'clock; and then the making of butterin the summer would demand that she should be up at three. Thusshe was enabled to consider that her normal hours of work weretwenty-two out of the twenty-four. She did not begrudge them in theleast, thinking that they were all due to Mr Whittlestaff. Now MrWhittlestaff wanted a wife, and, of course, he ought to have her. His Juggernaut's car must roll on its course over her body or MaryLawrie's. But she could not be expected to remain and behold MaryLawrie's triumph and Mary Lawrie's power. That was out of thequestion, and as she was thus driven out of the house, she wasentitled to show a little of her ill humour to the proud bride. Shemust go to Portsmouth;--which she knew was tantamount to a livingdeath. She only hated one person in all the world, and he, as sheknew well, was living at Portsmouth. There were to her only twoplaces in the world in which anybody could live, --Croker's Hall andPortsmouth. Croker's Hall was on the whole the proper region setapart for the habitation of the blest. Portsmouth was the otherplace, --and thither she must go. To remain, even in heaven, ashousekeeper to a young woman, was not to be thought of. It waswritten in the book of Fate that she must go; but not on that accountneed she even pretend to keep her temper. 

"What's all this that you have been saying to Miss Lawrie?" began MrWhittlestaff, with all the dignity of anger. 

"What have I been saying of to Miss Mary?"

"I am not at all well pleased with you. "

"I haven't said a word again you, sir, nor not again nothing as youare likely to do. "

"Miss Lawrie is to become my wife. "

"So I hears her say. "

There was something of a check in this--a check to Mr Whittlestaff'spride in Mary's conduct. Did Mrs Baggett intend him to understandthat Mary had told the whole story to the old woman, and had boastedof her promotion?

"You have taught her to think that she should not do as we haveproposed, --because of your wishes. "

"I never said nothing of the kind, --so help me. That I should putmyself up again you, sir! Oh no! I knows my place better than that. Iwouldn't stand in the way of anything as was for your good, --or evenof what you thought was good, --not to be made housekeeper to-- Well, it don't matter where. I couldn't change for the better, nor wageswouldn't tempt me. "

"What was it you said about going away?"

Here Mrs Baggett shook her head. "You told Miss Lawrie that youthought it was a shame that you should have to leave because of her. "

"I never said a word of the kind, Mr Whittlestaff; nor yet, sir, Idon't think as Miss Lawrie ever said so. I'm begging your pardon forcontradicting you, and well I ought. But anything is better thanmaking ill-blood between lovers. " Mr Whittlestaff winced at beingcalled a lover, but allowed the word to pass by. "I never saidnothing about shame. "

"What did you say?"

"I said as how I must leave you;--nothing but that. It ain't a matterof the slightest consequence to you, sir. "

"Rubbish!"

"Very well, sir. I mustn't demean me to say as anything I had saidwasn't rubbish when you said as it was-- But for all that, I've gotto go. "

"Nonsense. "

"Yes, in course. "

"Why have you got to go?"

"Because of my feelings, sir. "

"I never heard such trash. "

"That's true, no doubt, sir. But still, if you'll think of it, oldwomen does have feelings. Not as a young one, but still they'rethere. "

"Who's going to hurt your feelings?"

"In this house, sir, for the last fifteen years I've been top-sawyerof the female gender. "

"Then I'm not to marry at all. "

"You've gone on and you haven't, --that's all. I ain't a-finding nofault. But you haven't, --and I'm the sufferer. " Here Mrs Baggettbegan to sob, and to wipe her eyes with a clean handkerchief, whichshe must surely have brought into the room for the purpose. "If youhad taken some beautiful young lady--"

"I have taken a beautiful young lady, " said Mr Whittlestaff, nowbecoming more angry than ever. 

"You won't listen to me, sir, and then you boil over like that. Nodoubt Miss Mary is as beautiful as the best on 'em. I knew how itwould be when she came among us with her streaky brown cheeks, ou'dmake an anchor wish to kiss 'em. " Here Mr Whittlestaff again becameappeased, and made up his mind at once that he would tell Mary aboutthe anchor as soon as things were smooth between them. "But if it hadbeen some beautiful young lady out of another house, --one of themfrom the Park, for instance, --who hadn't been here a'most under myown thumb, I shouldn't 've minded it. "

"The long and the short of it is, Mrs Baggett, that I am going to bemarried. "

"I suppose you are, sir. "

"And, as it happens, the lady I have selected happens to have beenyour mistress for the last two years. "

"She won't be my missus no more, " said Mrs Baggett, with an air offixed determination. 

"Of course you can do as you like about that. I can't compel any oneto live in this house against her will; but I would compel you if Iknew how, for your own benefit. "

"There ain't no compelling. "

"What other place have you got you can go to? I can't conceive itpossible that you should live in any other family. "

"Not in no family. Wages wouldn't tempt me. But there's them assupposes that they've a claim upon me. " Then the woman began to cryin earnest, and the clean pocket-handkerchief was used in a mannerwhich would soon rob it of its splendour. 

There was a slight pause before Mr Whittlestaff rejoined. "Has hecome back again?" he said, almost solemnly. 

"He's at Portsmouth now, sir. " And Mrs Baggett shook her head sadly. 

"And wants you to go to him?"

"He always wants that when he comes home. I've got a bit of money, and he thinks there's some one to earn a morsel of bread for him--orrayther a glass of gin. I must go this time. "

"I don't see that you need go at all; at any rate, Miss Lawrie'smarriage won't make any difference. "

"It do, sir, " she said, sobbing. 

"I can't see why. "

"Nor I can't explain. I could stay on here, and wouldn't be afraid ofhim a bit. "

"Then why don't you stay?"

"It's my feelings. If I was to stay here, I could just send him mywages, and never go nigh him. But when I'm alone about the world andforlorn, I ain't got no excuse but what I must go to him. "

"Then remain where you are, and don't be a fool. "

"But if a person is a fool, what's to be done then? In course I'ma fool. I knows that very well. There's no saying no other. But Ican't go on living here, if Miss Mary is to be put over my head inthat way. Baggett has sent for me, and I must go. Baggett is atPortsmouth, a-hanging on about the old shop. And he'll be drunk aslong as there's gin to be had with or without paying. They do tellme as his nose is got to be awful. There's a man for a poor womanto go and spend her savings on! He's had a'most all on 'em already. Twenty-two pound four and sixpence he had out o' me the last time hewas in the country. And he don't do nothing to have him locked up. It would be better for me if he'd get hisself locked up. I do thinkit's wrong, because a young girl has been once foolish and said afew words before a parson, as she is to be the slave of a drunkenred-nosed reprobate for the rest of her life. Ain't there to be noway out of it?"

It was thus that Mrs Baggett told the tale of her marriedbliss, --not, however, without incurring the censure of her masterbecause of her folly in resolving to go. He had just commenced alecture on the sin of pride, in which he was prepared to show thatall the evils which she could receive from the red-nosed veteran atPortsmouth would be due to her own stiff-necked obstinacy, when hewas stopped suddenly by the sound of a knock at the front door. Itwas not only the knock at the door, but the entrance into the hall ofsome man, for the hall-door had been open into the garden, and theservant-girl had been close at hand. The library was at the top ofthe low stairs, and Mr Whittlestaff could not but hear the demandmade. The gentleman had asked whether Miss Lawrie was living there. 

"Who's that?" said Mr Whittlestaff to the housekeeper. 

"It's not a voice as I know, sir. " The gentleman in the meantime wastaken into the drawing-room, and was closeted for the moment withMary. 

We must now go down-stairs and closet ourselves for a few momentswith Mary Lawrie before the coming of the strange gentleman. She hadleft the presence of Mr Whittlestaff half an hour since, and feltthat she had a second time on that day accepted him as her husband. She had accepted him, and now she must do the best she could to suither life to his requirements. Her first feeling, when she foundherself alone, was one of intense disgust at her own weakness. He hadspoken to her of her ambition; and he had told her that he had founda place for her, in which that ambition might find a fair scope. Andhe had told her also that in reference to John Gordon she had dreameda dream. It might be so, but to her thinking the continued dreamingof that dream would satisfy her ambition better than the performanceof those duties which he had arranged for her. She had her own ideasof what was due from a girl and to a girl, and to her thinking herlove for John Gordon was all the world to her. She should not havebeen made to abandon her thoughts, even though the man had not spokena word to her. She knew that she loved him; even though a time mightcome when she should cease to do so, that time had not come yet. Shevacillated in her mind between condemnation of the cruelty of MrWhittlestaff and of her own weakness. And then, too, there was somefeeling of the hardship inflicted upon her by John Gordon. He hadcertainly said that which had justified her in believing that shepossessed his heart. But yet there had been no word on which shecould fall back and regard it as a promise. 

It might perhaps be better for her that she should marry MrWhittlestaff. All her friends would think it to be infinitely better. Could there be anything more moonstruck, more shandy, more wretchedlylistless, than for a girl, a penniless girl, to indulge in dreams ofan impossible lover, when such a tower of strength presented itselfto her as was Mr Whittlestaff? She had consented to eat his bread, and all her friends had declared how lucky she had been to find aman so willing and so able to maintain her. And now this man didundoubtedly love her very dearly, and there would be, as she was wellaware, no peril in marrying him. Was she to refuse him because of asoft word once spoken to her by a young man who had since disappearedaltogether from her knowledge? And she had already accepted him, --hadtwice accepted him on that very day! And there was no longer a hopefor escape, even if escape were desirable. What a fool must she be tosit there, still dreaming her impossible dream, instead of thinkingof his happiness, and preparing herself for his wants! He had toldher that she might be allowed to think of John Gordon, though not tospeak of him. She would neither speak of him nor think of him. Sheknew herself, she said, too well to give herself such liberty. Heshould be to her as though he had never been. She would force herselfto forget him, if forgetting lies in the absence of all thought. It was no more than Mr Whittlestaff had a right to demand, and nomore than she ought to be able to accomplish. Was she such a weaksimpleton as to be unable to keep her mind from running back to thewords and to the visage, and to every little personal trick of onewho could never be anything to her? "He has gone for ever!" sheexclaimed, rising up from her chair. "He shall be gone; I will not bea martyr and a slave to my own memory. The thing came, and has gone, and there is an end of it. " Then Jane opened the door, with a littlepiece of whispered information. "Please, Miss, a Mr Gordon wishes tosee you. " The door was opened a little wider, and John Gordon stoodbefore her. 

There he was, with his short black hair, his bright pleasant eyes, his masterful mouth, his dark complexion, and broad, handsome, manlyshoulders, such as had dwelt in her memory every day since he haddeparted. There was nothing changed, except that his raiment wassomewhat brighter, and that there was a look of prosperity about himwhich he had lacked when he left her. He was the same John Gordonwho had seemed to her to be entitled to all that he wanted, and whocertainly would have had from her all that he had cared to demand. When he had appeared before her, she had jumped up, ready to rushinto his arms; but then she had repressed herself, and had fallenback, and she leant against the table for support. 

"So I have found you here, " he said. 

"Yes, I am here. "

"I have been after you down to Norwich, and have heard it all. Mary, I am here on purpose to seek you. Your father and Mrs Lawrie areboth gone. He was going when I left you. "

"Yes, Mr Gordon. They are both gone, and I am alone, --but for thekindness of a most generous friend. "

"I had heard, of course, of Mr Whittlestaff. I hope I shall not betold now that I am doing no good about the house. At any rate I amnot a pauper. I have mended that little fault. " Then he looked ather as though he thought that there was nothing for him but to beginthe conversation where it had been so roughly ended at their lastmeeting. 

Did it not occur to him that something might have come across herlife during a period of nearly three years, which would stand in hisway and in hers? But as she gazed into his face, it seemed as thoughno such idea had fallen upon him. But during those two or threeminutes, a multitude of thoughts crowded on poor Mary's mind. Was itpossible that because of the coming of John Gordon, Mr Whittlestaffshould withdraw his claim, and allow this happy young hero to walkoff with the reward which he still seemed to desire? She felt surethat it could not be so. Even during that short space of time, sheresolved that it could not be so. She knew Mr Whittlestaff too well, and was sure that her lover had arrived too late. It all passedthrough her brain, and she was sure that no change could be effectedin her destiny. Had he come yesterday, indeed? But before she couldprepare an answer for John Gordon, Mr Whittlestaff entered the room. 

She was bound to say something, though she was little able atthe moment to speak at all. She was aware that some ceremony wasnecessary. She was but ill able to introduce these two men to eachother, but it had to be done. "Mr Whittlestaff, " she said, "this isMr John Gordon who used to know us at Norwich. "

"Mr John Gordon, " said Mr Whittlestaff, bowing very stiffly. 

"Yes, sir; that is my name. I never had the pleasure of meeting youat Norwich, though I often heard of you there. And since I left theplace I have been told how kind a friend you have been to this younglady. I trust I may live to thank you for it more warmly though notmore sincerely than I can do at this moment. "

Of John Gordon's fate since he had left Norwich a few words must betold. As Mrs Lawrie had then told him, he was little better than apauper. He had, however, collected together what means he had beenable to gather, and had gone to Cape Town in South Africa. Thence hehad made his way up to Kimberley, and had there been at work amongthe diamond-fields for two years. If there be a place on God's earthin which a man can thoroughly make or mar himself within that spaceof time, it is the town of Kimberley. I know no spot more odiousin every way to a man who has learned to love the ordinary modesof English life. It is foul with dust and flies; it reeks with badbrandy; it is fed upon potted meats; it has not a tree near it. It isinhabited in part by tribes of South African niggers, who have lostall the picturesqueness of niggerdom in working for the white man'swages. The white man himself is insolent, ill-dressed, and ugly. The weather is very hot, and from morning till night there is nooccupation other than that of looking for diamonds, and the worksattending it. Diamond-grubbers want food and brandy, and lawyers andpolicemen. They want clothes also, and a few horses; and some kind ofeducation is necessary for their children. But diamond-searching isthe occupation of the place; and if a man be sharp and clever, andable to guard what he gets, he will make a fortune there in two yearsmore readily perhaps than elsewhere. John Gordon had gone out toKimberley, and had returned the owner of many shares in many mines. 

CHAPTER VII. 

JOHN GORDON AND MR WHITTLESTAFF. 

Mr Gordon had gone out to South Africa with the settled intention ofdoing something that might enable him to marry Mary Lawrie, and hehad carried his purpose through with a manly resolution. He had notfound Kimberley much to his taste, and had not made many dear friendsamong the settled inhabitants he had found there. But he had workedon, buying and selling shares in mines, owning a quarter of an eighththere, and half a tenth here, and then advancing till he was thepossessor of many complete shares in many various adventures whichwere quite intelligible to him, though to the ordinary stay-at-homeEnglishman they seem to be so full of peril as not to be worthpossessing. As in other mines, the profit is shared monthly, and thesystem has the advantage of thus possessing twelve quarter-days inthe year. The result is, that time is more spread out, and the manexpects to accomplish much more in twelve months than he can at home. In two years a man may have made a fortune and lost it, and be on hisway to make it again. John Gordon had suffered no reverses, and withtwenty-four quarter-days, at each of which he had received ten ortwenty per cent, he had had time to become rich. He had by no meansabandoned all his shares in the diamond-mines; but having wealthat command, he had determined to carry out the first purpose forwhich he had come to South Africa. Therefore he returned to Norwich, and having there learned Mary's address, now found himself in herpresence at Croker's Hall. 

Mr Whittlestaff, when he heard John Gordon's name, was as muchastonished as had been Mary herself. Here was Mary's lover, --the veryman whom Mary had named to him. It had all occurred on this verymorning, so that even the look of her eyes and the tone of her voice, as those few words of hers had been spoken, were fresh in his memory. "He used to come to our house at Norwich, --and I loved him. " Then shehad told him that this lover had been poor, and had gone away. Hehad, since that, argued it out with himself, and with her too, onthe theory, though not expressed, that a lover who had gone away nownearly three years ago, and had not been heard of, and had been poorwhen he went, was of no use, and should be forgotten. "Let therebe no mention of him between us, " he had intended to say, "and thememory of him will fade away. " But now on this very day he was backamong them, and there was Mary hardly able to open her mouth in hispresence. 

He had bowed twice very stiffly when Gordon had spoken of all thathe had done on Mary's behalf. "Arrangements have been made, " he said, "which may, I trust, tend to Miss Lawrie's advantage. Perhaps I oughtnot to say so myself, but there is no reason why I should trouble astranger with them. "

"I hope I may never be considered a stranger by Miss Lawrie, " saidGordon, turning round to the young lady. 

"No, not a stranger, " said Mary; "certainly not a stranger. "

But this did not satisfy John Gordon, who felt that there wassomething in her manner other than he would have it. And yet even tohim it seemed to be impossible now, at this first moment, to declarehis love before this man, who had usurped the place of her guardian. In fact he could not speak to her at all before Mr Whittlestaff. Hehad hurried back from the diamond-fields, in order that he might layall his surprisingly gotten wealth at Mary's feet, and now he felthimself unable to say a word to Mary of his wealth, unless in thisman's presence. He told himself as he had hurried home that theremight be difficulties in his way. He might find her married, --orpromised in marriage. He had been sure of her love when he started. He had been quite confident that, though no absolute promise had beenmade from her to him, or from him to her, there had then been noreason for him to doubt. In spite of that, she might have marriednow, or been promised in marriage. He knew that she must have beenpoor and left in want when her stepmother had died. She had told himof the intentions for her life, and he had answered that perhaps inthe course of events something better might come up for her. Then hehad been called a pauper, and had gone away to remedy that evil ifit might be possible. He had heard while working among the diamondsthat Mr Whittlestaff had taken her to his own home. He had heard ofMr Whittlestaff as the friend of her father, and nothing better hethought could have happened. But Mary might have been weak during hisabsence, and have given herself up to some other man who had askedfor her hand. She was still, at heart, Mary Lawrie. So much had beenmade known to him. But from the words which had fallen from her ownlips, and from the statement which had fallen from Mr Whittlestaff, he feared that it must be so. Mr Whittlestaff had said that he neednot trouble a stranger with Mary's affairs; and Mary, in answerto his appeal, had declared that he could not be considered as astranger to her. 

He thought a moment how he would act, and then he spoke boldly toboth of them. "I have hurried home from Kimberley, Mr Whittlestaff, on purpose to find Mary Lawrie. "

Mary, when she heard this, seated herself on the chair that wasnearest to her. For any service that it might be to her, his comingwas too late. As she thought of this, her voice left her, so that shecould not speak to him. 

"You have found her, " said Mr Whittlestaff, very sternly. 

"Is there any reason why I should go away again?" He had not at thismoment realised the idea that Mr Whittlestaff himself was the man towhom Mary might be engaged. Mr Whittlestaff to his thinking had beena paternal providence, a God-sent support in lieu of father, who hadcome to Mary in her need. He was prepared to shower all kinds ofbenefits on Mr Whittlestaff, --diamonds polished, and diamonds in therough, diamonds pure and white, and diamonds pink-tinted, --if onlyMr Whittlestaff would be less stern to him. But even yet he had nofear of Mr Whittlestaff himself. 

"I should be most happy to welcome you here as an old friend ofMary's, " said Mr Whittlestaff, "if you will come to her wedding. "Mr Whittlestaff also had seen the necessity for open speech; andthough he was a man generally reticent as to his own affairs, thoughtit would be better to let the truth be known at once. Mary, whenthe word had been spoken as to her wedding, "blushed black" as herstepmother had said of her. A dark ruby tint covered her cheeks andher forehead; but she turned away her face, and compressed her lips, and clenched her two fists close together. 

"Miss Lawrie's wedding!" said John Gordon. "Is Miss Lawrie to bemarried?" And he purposely looked at her, as though asking her thequestion. But she answered never a word. 

"Yes. Miss Lawrie is to be married. "

"It is sad tidings for me to hear, " said John Gordon. "When last Isaw her I was rebuked by her step-mother because I was a pauper. Itwas true. Misfortunes had come in my family, and I was not a fitperson to ask Miss Lawrie for her love. But I think she knew that Iloved her. I then went off to do the best within my power to remedythat evil. I have come back with such money as might suffice, and nowI am told of Miss Lawrie's wedding!" This he said, again turning toher as though for an answer. But from her there came not a word. 

"I am sorry you should be disappointed, Mr Gordon, " said MrWhittlestaff; "but it is so. " Then there came over John Gordon'sface a dark frown, as though he intended evil. He was a man whosedispleasure, when he was displeased, those around him were apt tofear. But Mr Whittlestaff himself was no coward. "Have you anyreason to allege why it should not be so?" John Gordon only answeredby looking again at poor Mary. "I think there has been no promisemade by Miss Lawrie. I think that I understand from her that therehas been no promise on either side; and indeed no word spokenindicating such a promise. " It was quite clear, at any rate, thatthis guardian and his ward had fully discussed the question of anypossible understanding between her and John Gordon. 

"No; there was none: it is true. "

"Well?"

"It is true. I am left without an inch of ground on which to found acomplaint. There was no word; no promise. You know the whole storyonly too well. There was nothing but unlimited love, --at any rate onmy part. " Mr Whittlestaff knew well that there had been love on herpart also, and that the love still remained. But she had promised toget over that passion, and there could be no reason why she shouldnot do so, simply because the man had returned. He said he had comefrom Kimberley. Mr Whittlestaff had his own ideas about Kimberley. Kimberley was to him a very rowdy place, --the last place in the worldfrom which a discreet young woman might hope to get a well-conductedhusband. Under no circumstances could he think well of a husbandwho presented himself as having come direct from the diamond-fields, though he only looked stern and held his peace. "If Miss Lawrie willtell me that I may go away, I will go, " said Gordon, looking again atMary; but how could Mary answer him?

"I am sure, " said Mr Whittlestaff, "that Miss Lawrie will be verysorry that there should be any ground for a quarrel. I am quitewell aware that there was some friendship between you two. Then youwent, as you say, and though the friendship need not be broken, theintimacy was over. She had no special reason for remembering you, asyou yourself admit. She has been left to form any engagement that shemay please. Any other expectation on your part must be unreasonable. I have said that, as an old friend of Miss Lawrie's, I should behappy to welcome you here to her wedding. I cannot even name a day asyet; but I trust that it may be fixed soon. You cannot say even toyourself that Miss Lawrie has treated you badly. "

But he could say it to himself. And though he would not say it toMr Whittlestaff, had she been there alone, he would have said it toher. There had been no promise, --no word of promise. But he felt thatthere had been that between them which should have been stronger thanany promise. And with every word which came from Mr Whittlestaff'smouth, he disliked Mr Whittlestaff more and more. He could judgefrom Mary's appearance that she was down-hearted, that she wasunhappy, that she did not glory in her coming marriage. No girl'sface ever told her heart's secret more plainly than did Mary's atthis moment. But Mr Whittlestaff seemed to glory in the marriage. Tohim it seemed that the getting rid of John Gordon was the one thingof importance. So it was, at least, that John Gordon interpreted hismanner. But the name of the suitor had not yet been told him, and hedid not in the least suspect it. "May I ask you when it is to be?" heasked. 

"That is a question which the lady generally must answer, " said MrWhittlestaff, turning on his part also to Mary. 

"I do not know, " said Mary. 

"And who is the happy man?" said John Gordon. He expected an answerto the question also from Mary, but Mary was still unable to answerhim. "You at any rate will tell me, sir, the name of the gentleman. "

"I am the gentleman, " said Mr Whittlestaff, holding himself somewhatmore erect as he spoke. The position, it must be acknowledged, wasdifficult. He could see that this strange man, this John Gordon, looked upon him, William Whittlestaff, to be altogether an unfitperson to take Mary Lawrie for his wife. By the tone in which heasked the question, and by the look of surprise which he put onwhen he received the answer, Gordon showed plainly that he had notexpected such a reply. "What! an old man like you to become thehusband of such a girl as Mary Lawrie! Is this the purpose for whichyou have taken her into your house, and given her those good thingsof which you have boasted?" It was thus that Mr Whittlestaff hadread the look and interpreted the speech conveyed in Gordon's eye. Not that Mr Whittlestaff had boasted, but it was thus that he readthe look. He knew that he had gathered himself up and assumed aspecial dignity as he made his answer. 

"Oh, indeed!" said John Gordon. And now he turned himself altogetherround, and gazed with his full frowning eyes fixed upon poor Mary. 

"If you knew it all, you would feel that I could not help myself. " Itwas thus that Mary would have spoken if she could have given vent tothe thoughts within her bosom. 

"Yes, sir. It is I who think myself so happy as to have gained theaffections of the young lady. She is to be my wife, and it is sheherself who must name the day when she shall become so. I repeat theinvitation which I gave you before. I shall be most happy to seeyou at my wedding. If, as may be the case, you shall not be in thecountry when that time comes; and if, now that you are here, you willgive Miss Lawrie and myself some token of your renewed friendship, we shall be happy to see you if you will come at once to the house, during such time as it may suit you to remain in the neighbourhood. "Considering the extreme difficulty of the position, Mr Whittlestaffcarried himself quite as well as might have been expected. 

"Under such circumstances, " said Gordon, "I cannot be a guest in yourhouse. " Thereupon Mr Whittlestaff bowed. "But I hope that I may beallowed to speak a few words to the young lady not in your presence. "

"Certainly, if the young lady wishes it. "

"I had better not, " said Mary. 

"Are you afraid of me?"

"I am afraid of myself. It had better not be so. Mr Whittlestaff hastold you only the truth. I am to be his wife; and in offering mehis hand, he has added much to the infinite kindnesses which he hasbestowed upon me. "

"Oh, if you think so!"

"I do think so. If you only knew it all, you would think so too. "

"How long has this engagement existed?" asked Gordon. But to thisquestion Mary Lawrie could not bring herself to give an answer. 

"If you are not afraid of what he may say to you--?" said MrWhittlestaff. 

"I am certainly afraid of nothing that Mr Gordon may say. "

"Then I would accede to his wishes. It may be painful, but it willbe better to have it over. " Mr Whittlestaff, in giving this advice, had thought much as to what the world would say of him. He had donenothing of which he was ashamed, --nor had Mary. She had given him herpromise, and he was sure that she would not depart from it. It would, he thought, be infinitely better for her, for many reasons, that sheshould be married to him than to this wild young man, who had justnow returned to England from the diamond-mines, and would soon, heimagined, go back there again. But the young man had asked to see thegirl whom he was about to marry alone, and it would not suit him tobe afraid to allow her so much liberty. 

"I shall not hurt you, Mary, " said John Gordon. 

"I am sure you would not hurt me. "

"Nor say an unkind word. "

"Oh no! You could do nothing unkind to me, I know. But you mightspare me and yourself some pain. "

"I cannot do it, " he said. "I cannot bring myself to go back at onceafter this long voyage, instantly, as I should do, without havingspoken one word to you. I have come here to England on purpose to seeyou. Nothing shall induce me to abandon my intention of doing so, butyour refusal. I have received a blow, --a great blow, --and it is youwho must tell me that there is certainly no cure for the wound. "

"There is certainly none, " said Mary. 

"Perhaps I had better leave you together, " said Mr Whittlestaff, ashe got up and left the room. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

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 takehers. 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 hadonly been made on this very day. She had already acknowledged tothis other man that the promise had been made, and she had asked himto spare her this interview. He had not spared her, and it was forhim now to say, while it lasted, what there was to be said. She hadsettled the matter in her own mind, and had made him understand thatit 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 myselfto 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 ofanother man. "

"You are not his wife, --not yet. "

"I shall be his wife, Mr Gordon. You may be sure of that. And Ithink--think I can say of myself that I shall be a true wife. Hehas chosen to take me; and as he has so chosen, his wishes must berespected. He has asked you to remain here as a friend, understandingthat 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. Ihave expressed one wish, and you have refused to grant it. Nothingcan pass between you and me which must not, I should say, be painfulto both of us. "

"You would have me go then, --so that you should never hear of or seeme again?"

"I shall never see you, I suppose. What good would come of seeingyou?"

"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 tobe borne. It is not made to run smoothly altogether, either for youor for me. You must bear your cross, --and so must I. "

"And that is the only word I am to receive, after having struggledso hard for you, and having left all my work, and all my cares, andall my property, in order that I might come home, and catch just oneglance 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 aword of kindness. What does a kind word mean--a kind word coming fromme to you? There was a time when I wanted a kind word, but I did notask for it. At the time it did not suit. Nor does it suit now. Putyourself in Mr Whittlestaff's case; would you wish the girl to whomyou were engaged to say kind words behind your back to some otherman? 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 hastrusted me, and I know myself to be trustworthy. There shall be nokind word spoken. "

"Mary, " said he, "when did all this happen?"

"It has been happening, I suppose, from the first day that I cameinto his house. "

"But when was it settled? When did he ask you to be his wife? Orwhen, rather, did you make him the promise?" John Gordon fancied thatsince he had been at Croker's Hall words had been spoken, or thathe had seen signs, indicating that the engagement had not been ofa long date. And in every word that she had uttered to him he hadheard whispered under her breath an assurance of her perfect love forhimself. He had been sure of her love when he had left the house atNorwich, in which he had been told that he had been lingering thereto no good purpose; but he had never been more certain than he was atthis moment, when she coldly bade him go and depart back again to hisdistant home in the diamond-fields. And now, in her mock anger and inher indignant words, with the purpose of her mind written so clearlyon her brow, she was to him more lovable and more beautiful thanever. Could it be fair to him as a man that he should lose the prizewhich was to him of such inestimable value, merely for a word of coldassent given to this old man, and given, as he thought, quite lately?His devotion to her was certainly assured. Nothing could be morefixed, less capable of a doubt, than his love. And he, too, wassomewhat proud of himself in that he had endeavoured to entangleher by no promise till he had secured for himself and for her themeans of maintaining her. He had gone out and he had come backwith silent hopes, with hopes which he had felt must be subjectto 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 bearpatiently, --a hardship, the endurance of which must be intolerableto her. If it were so, the man could hardly be so close-fisted, sohard-hearted, so cruel-minded, as to hold the girl to her purpose!"When did you promise to be his wife?" he said, repeating hisquestion. Now there came over Mary's face a look of weakness, theopposite to the strength which she had displayed when she had badehim not ask her for a word of kindness. To her the promise was thesame, was as strong, even though it had been made but that morning, as though weeks and months had intervened. But she felt that to himthere 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 onher 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 deceivedin 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, andpromised 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 answerthat question, nor ought he to press for an answer. And the wordswere no sooner out of his mouth than he felt that it was so. It wasnot to her that he must address any such remonstrance as that. "Thismorning!" he repeated--"only this morning!"

But he did not know, nor could she tell him, that she had pleaded herlove for him when Mr Whittlestaff had asked her. She could not tellhim of that second meeting, at which she had asked Mr Whittlestaffthat even yet he should let her go. It had seemed to her, as she hadthought of it, that Mr Whittlestaff had behaved well to her, hadintended 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 herany further. She had endeavoured to think of it with stern justice, accusing herself of absurd romance, and giving Mr Whittlestaffcredit for all goodness. This had been before John Gordon hadappeared among them; and now she struggled hard not to be less justto Mr Whittlestaff than before, because of this accident. She knewhim well enough to be aware that he could not easily be brought toabandon the thing on which he had set his mind. It all passed throughher mind as she prepared her answer for John Gordon. "It can make nodifference, " she said. "A promise is a promise, though it be but anhour old. "

"That is to be my answer?"

"Yes, that is to be your answer. Ask yourself, and you will know thatthere 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. "Itmatters not at all, " she said. 

"It matters not at all?" he repeated after her. "I can understandthat my happiness should be nothing. If you and he were satisfied, of course it would be nothing. If you were satisfied, there would bean end to it; because if your pleasure and his work together, I mustnecessarily be left out in the cold. But it is not so. I take uponmyself 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 notlove me?" She remained silent before him, and then he went on toreason with her. "You do not deny it. I hear it in your voice andsee it in your face. When we parted in Norwich, did you not love methen?"

"I shall answer no such question. A young woman has often to changeher mind as to whom she loves, before she can settle down as oneman's wife or another's. "

"You do not dare to be true. If I am rough with you, it is for yoursake as well as my own. We are young, and, as was natural, we learntto 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 didremember 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 thoughtsof you. I am not blaming you, Mary. I can well understand that youwere eating his bread and drinking his cup, and that it appeared toyou that everything was due to him. You could not have gone on eatinghis bread unless you had surrendered yourself to his wishes. You musthave gone from this, and have had no home to which to go. It is alltrue. 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 theeasier. "

"No, no, no; I know more of him than you do. No such surrender willcome easy to him. He has set his heart upon this thing, and as far asI 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 alie, 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. Therewill be no lying. To the best of my ability I will love him, andhim only. All my care shall be for him. I have resolved, and I willforce myself to love him. All his qualities are good. There is not athought 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 tohim. It is not so. "

"Oh, Mary!"

"It is not so. What might be the case I will not take upon myselfto say, --or what might have been. I was yesterday a free woman, andmy thoughts were altogether my own. To-day I am bound to him, andwhether it be for joy or for sorrow, I will be true to him. Now, MrGordon, I will leave you. "

"Half a moment, " he said, standing between her and the door. "Itcannot be that this should be the end of all between us. I shall goto him, and tell him what I believe to be the truth. "

"I cannot hinder you; but I shall tell him that what you say isfalse. "

"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 mostconducive to his wishes. " But as she said this, she was herself awarethat she had told Mr Whittlestaff only on this morning that she hadgiven her heart to John Gordon, and that she would be unable to keepher thoughts from running to him. She had implored him to leave herto herself, so that the memory of her love might be spared. Then, when this young man had been still absent, when there was no dreamof his appearing again before her, when the consequence would bethat she must go forth into the world, and earn her own bitterbread alone, --at that moment she knew that she had been true to thememory of the man. What had occurred since, to alter her purposeso violently? Was it the presence of the man she did love, and themaidenly instincts which forbade her to declare her passion in hispresence? Or was it simply the conviction that her promise to MrWhittlestaff had been twice repeated, and could not now admit ofbeing withdrawn? But in spite of her asseverations, there must havebeen present to her mind some feeling that if Mr Whittlestaff wouldyield to the prayer of John Gordon, all the gulf would be bridgedover 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 shecould accompany him anywhere over the world with perfect bliss. Howwell had he spoken for himself, and for his love! How like a man hehad looked, when he had asked her that question, "Will you dare totell me that you do not love me?" She had not dared; even though atthe moment she had longed to leave upon him the impression that itwas so. She had told him that she would lie to Mr Whittlestaff, --lieon Mr Whittlestaff's own behalf. But such a lie as this she couldnot tell to John Gordon. He had heard it in her voice and seen it inher 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 MrWhittlestaff had spoken out his mind, --no love-tale would ever haverun smoother. In that case she would have accepted John Gordonwithout a moment's consideration. When he should have told her ofhis distant home, of the roughness of his life, of the changes andchances to which his career must be subject, she would have assuredhim, with her heart full of joy, that she would accept it all andthink her lot so happy as to admit of no complaint. Mr Whittlestaffwould then have known the condition of her heart, before he hadhimself spoken a word. And as the trouble would always have been inhis 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 notacutely felt, while the knowledge of the matter from which they growis confined altogether to his own bosom. 

But she resolved, sitting there after John Gordon had left her, thatin the circumstances as they existed, it was her duty to bear whatsorrow there was to be borne. Poor John Gordon! He must bear somesorrow too, if there should be cause to him for grief. There would beloss of money, and loss of time, which would of themselves cause himgrief. Poor John Gordon! She did not blame him in that he had goneaway, and not said one word to draw from her some assurance of herlove. It was the nature of the man, which in itself was good andnoble. But in this case it had surely been unfortunate. With sucha passion at his heart, it was rash in him to have gone across theworld to the diamond-fields without speaking a word by which they twomight have held themselves as bound together. The pity of it!

But as circumstances had gone, honour and even honesty demanded thatMr Whittlestaff should not be allowed to suffer. He at least hadbeen straightforward in his purpose, and had spoken as soon as hehad been assured of his own mind. Mr Whittlestaff should at any ratehave his reward. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE REV MONTAGU BLAKE. 

John Gordon, when he left the room, went out to look for MrWhittlestaff, but was told that he had gone into the town. MrWhittlestaff had had his own troubles in thinking of the unluckycoincidence of John Gordon's return, and had wandered forth, determined to leave those two together, so that they might speak toeach other as they pleased. And during his walk he did come to acertain resolution. Should a request of any kind be made to him byJohn Gordon, it should receive not the slightest attention. He was aman to whom he owed nothing, and for whose welfare he was not in theleast solicitous. "Why should I be punished and he be made happy?" Itwas thus he spoke to himself. Should he encounter the degradation ofdisappointment, in order that John Gordon should win the object onwhich he had set his heart? Certainly not. His own heart was muchdearer to him than that of John Gordon. 

But if a request should be made to him by Mary Lawrie? Alas! if itwere so, then there must be sharp misery in store for him. In thefirst place, were she to make the request, were she to tell him tohis face, she who had promised to be his wife, that this man was dearto her, how was it possible that he should go to the altar with thegirl, and there accept from her her troth? She had spoken alreadyof a fancy which had crossed her mind respecting a man who couldhave been no more than a dream to her, of whose whereabouts andcondition--nay, of his very existence--she was unaware. And she hadtold him that no promise, no word of love, had passed between them. "Yes, you may think of him, " he had said, meaning not to debar herfrom the use of thought, which should be open to all the world, "but let him not be spoken of. " Then she had promised; and when shehad come again to withdraw her promise, she had done so with somecock-and-bull story about the old woman, which had had no weight withhim. Then he had her presence during the interview between the threeon which to form his judgment. As far as he could remember, as hewandered through the fields thinking of it, she had not spoken hardlyabove a word during that interview. She had sat silent, apparentlyunhappy, but not explaining the cause of her unhappiness. It mightwell be that she should be unhappy in the presence of her affiancedhusband and her old lover. But now if she would tell him that shewished to be relieved from him, and to give herself to this stranger, she should be allowed to go. But he told himself also that he wouldcarry his generosity no further. He was not called upon to offer tosurrender himself. The man's coming had been a misfortune; but lethim go, and in process of time he would be forgotten. It was thusthat Mr Whittlestaff resolved as he walked across the country, whilehe left the two lovers to themselves in his own parlour. 

It was now nearly five o'clock, and Mr Whittlestaff, as Gordon wastold, dined at six. He felt that he would not find the man beforedinner unless he remained at the house, --and for doing so he had noexcuse. He must return in the evening, or sleep at the inn and comeback the next morning. He must manage to catch the man alone, becausehe was assuredly minded to use upon him all the power of eloquencewhich he had at his command. And as he thought it improbable so tofind him in the evening, he determined to postpone his task. But indoing so he felt that he should be at a loss. The eager words werehot now within his memory, having been sharpened against the anvil ofhis thoughts by his colloquy with Mary Lawrie. To-morrow they mighthave cooled. His purpose might be as strong; but a man when he wishesto use burning words should use them while the words are on fire. 

John Gordon had a friend at Alresford, or rather an acquaintance, onwhom he had determined to call, unless circumstances, as they shouldoccur at Croker's Hall, should make him too ecstatic in his wish forany such operation. The ecstasy certainly had not come as yet, and hewent forth therefore to call on the Reverend Mr Blake. Of Mr Blakehe only knew that he was a curate of a neighbouring parish, and thatthey two had been at Oxford together. So he walked down to the inn toorder his dinner, not feeling his intimacy with Mr Blake sufficientto justify him in looking for his dinner with him. A man alwaysdines, let his sorrow be what it may. A woman contents herself withtea, and mitigates her sorrow, we must suppose, by an extra cup. JohnGordon ordered a roast fowl, --the safest dinner at an English countryinn, --and asked his way to the curate's house. 

The Rev Montagu Blake was curate of Little Alresford, a parish, though hardly to be called a village, lying about three miles fromthe town. The vicar was a feeble old gentleman who had gone away todie in the Riviera, and Mr Blake had the care of souls to himself. He was a man to whom his lines had fallen in pleasant places. Therewere about 250 men, women, and children, in his parish, and not aDissenter among them. For looking after these folk he had £120 perannum, and as pretty a little parsonage as could be found in England. There was a squire with whom he was growing in grace and friendship, who, being the patron of the living, might probably bestow it uponhim. It was worth only £250, and was not, therefore, too valuable tobe expected. He had a modest fortune of his own, £300 a-year perhaps, and, --for the best of his luck shall be mentioned last, --he wasengaged to the daughter of one of the prebendaries of Winchester, apretty bright little girl, with a further sum of £5000 belonging toherself. He was thirty years of age, in the possession of perfecthealth, and not so strict in matters of religion as to make itnecessary for him to abandon any of the innocent pleasures of thisworld. He could dine out, and play cricket, and read a novel. Andshould he chance, when riding his cob about the parish, or visitingsome neighbouring parish, to come across the hounds, he would notscruple to see them over a field or two. So that the Rev MontaguBlake was upon the whole a happy fellow. 

He and John Gordon had been thrown together at Oxford for a shorttime during the last months of their residence, and though they weremen quite unlike each other in their pursuits, circumstances hadmade them intimate. It was well that Gordon should take a stroll fora couple of hours before dinner, and therefore he started off forLittle Alresford. Going into the parsonage gate he was overtaken byBlake, and of course introduced himself. "Don't you remember Gordonat Exeter?"

"John Gordon! Gracious me! Of course I do. What a good fellow you areto come and look a fellow up! Where have you come from, and where areyou going to, and what brings you to Alresford, beyond the charitableintention of dining with me? Oh, nonsense! not dine; but you will, and I can give you a bed too, and breakfast, and shall be delightedto do it for a week. Ordered your dinner? Then we'll unorder it. I'llsend the boy in and put that all right. Shall I make him bring yourbag back?" Gordon, however, though he assented to the proposition asregarded dinner, made his friend understand that it was imperativethat he should be at the inn that night. 

"Yes, " said Blake, when they had settled down to wait for theirdinner, "I am parson here, --a sort of a one at least. I am not onlycurate, but live in expectation of higher things. Our squire here, who owns the living, talks of giving it to me. There isn't a betterfellow living than Mr Furnival, or his wife, or his four daughters. "

"Will he be as generous with one of them as with the living?"

"There is no necessity, as far as I am concerned. I came herealready provided in that respect. If you'll remain here tillSeptember, you'll see me a married man. One Kattie Forrester intendsto condescend to become Mrs Montagu Blake. Though I say it asshouldn't, a sweeter human being doesn't live on the earth. I met hersoon after I had taken orders. But I had to wait till I had some sortof a house to put her into. Her father is a clergyman like myself, sowe are all in a boat together. She's got a little bit of money, andI've got a little bit of money, so that we shan't absolutely starve. Now you know all about me; and what have you been doing yourself?"

John Gordon thought that this friend of his had been mostcommunicative. He had been told everything concerning his friend'slife. Had Mr Blake written a biography of himself down to thepresent period, he could not have been more full or accurate in hisdetails. But Gordon felt that as regarded himself he must be morereticent. "I intended to have joined my father's bank, but that cameto grief. "

"Yes; I did hear of some trouble in that respect. "

"And then I went out to the diamond-fields. "

"Dear me! that was a long way. "

"Yes, it is a long way, --and rather rough towards the end. "

"Did you do any good at the diamond-fields? I don't fancy that menoften bring much money home with them. "

"I brought some. "

"Enough to do a fellow any good in his after life?"

"Well, yes; enough to content me, only that a man is not easilycontented who has been among diamonds. "

"Crescit amor diamonds!" said the parson. "I can easily understandthat. And then, when a fellow goes back again, he is so apt tolose it all. Don't you expect to see your diamonds turn intoslate-stones?"

"Not except in the ordinary way of expenditure. I don't think thegnomes or the spirits will interfere with them, --though the thievesmay, if they can get a hand upon them. But my diamonds have, for themost part, been turned into ready money, and at the present momenttake the comfortable shape of a balance at my banker's. "

"I'd leave it there, --or buy land, or railway shares. If I hadrealised in that venture enough to look at, I'd never go out to thediamond-fields again. "

"It's hard to bring an occupation of that kind to an end all atonce, " said John Gordon. 

"Crescit amor diamonds!" repeated the Reverend Montagu Blake, shakinghis head. "If you gave me three, I could easily imagine that I shouldtoss up with another fellow who had three also, double or quits, tillI lost them all. But we'll make sure of dinner, at any rate, withoutany such hazardous proceeding. " Then they went into the dining-room, and enjoyed themselves, without any reference having been made as yetto the business which had brought John Gordon into the neighbourhoodof Alresford. 

"You'll find that port wine rather good. I can't afford claret, because it takes such a lot to go far enough. To tell the truth, whenI'm alone I confine myself to whisky and water. Blake is a very goodname for whisky. "

"Why do you make a ceremony with me?"

"Because it's so pleasant to have an excuse for such a ceremony. It wasn't you only I was thinking of when I came out just now, anduncorked the bottle. Think what it is to have a prudent mind. I hadto get it myself out of the cellar, because girls can't understandthat wine shouldn't be treated in the same way as physic. By-the-by, what brought you into this part of the world at all?"

"I came to see one Mr Whittlestaff. "

"What! old William Whittlestaff? Then, let me tell you, you have cometo see as honest a fellow, and as good-hearted a Christian, as anythat I know. "

"You do know him?"

"Oh yes, I know him. I'd like to see the man whose bond is betterthan old Whittlestaff's. Did you hear what he did about thatyoung lady who is living with him? She was the daughter of afriend, --simply of a friend who died in pecuniary distress. OldWhittlestaff just brought her into his house, and made her his owndaughter. It isn't every one who will do that, you know. "

"Why do you call him old?" said John Gordon. 

"Well; I don't know. He is old. "

"Just turned fifty. "

"Fifty is old. I don't mean that he is a cripple or bedridden. Perhaps if he had been a married man, he'd have looked younger. Hehas got a very nice girl there with him; and if he isn't too old tothink of such things, he may marry her. Do you know Miss Lawrie?"

"Yes; I know her. "

"Don't you think she's nice? Only my goose is cooked, I'd go in forher sooner than any one I see about. "

"Sooner than your own squire's four daughters?"

"Well, --yes. They're nice girls too. But I don't quite fancy one outof four. And they'd look higher than the curate. "

"A prebendary is as high as a squire, " said Gordon. 

"There are prebendaries and there are squires. Our squire isn't aswell, though he's an uncommonly good fellow. If I get a wife fromone and a living from the other, I shall think myself very lucky. Miss Lawrie is a handsome girl, and everything that she ought to be;but if you were to see Kattie Forrester, I think you would say thatshe was A 1. I sometimes wonder whether old Whittlestaff will thinkof marrying. "

Gordon sat silent, turning over one or two matters in his mind. Howsupremely happy was this young parson with his Kattie Forrester andhis promised living, --in earning the proceeds of which there needbe no risk, and very little labour, --and with his bottle of portwine and comfortable house! All the world seemed to have smiledwith Montagu Blake. But with him, though there had been muchsuccess, there had been none of the world's smiles. He was awareat this moment, or thought that he was aware, that the world wouldnever smile on him, --unless he should succeed in persuading MrWhittlestaff to give up the wife whom he had chosen. Then he felttempted to tell his own story to this young parson. They were alonetogether, and it seemed as though Providence had provided him with afriend. And the subject of Mary Lawrie's intended marriage had beenbrought forward in a peculiar manner. But he was by nature altogetherdifferent from Mr Blake, and could not blurt out his love-story witheasy indifference. "Do you know Mr Whittlestaff well?" he asked. 

"Pretty well. I've been here four years; and he's a near neighbour. Ithink I do know him well. "

"Is he a sort of man likely to fall in love with such a girl as MissLawrie, seeing that she is an inmate of his house?"

"Well, " said the parson, after some consideration, "if you ask me, Idon't think he is. He seems to have settled himself down to a certainmanner of life, and will not, I should say, be stirred from it veryquickly. If you have any views in that direction, I don't think he'llbe your rival. "

"Is he a man to care much for a girl's love?"

"I should say not. "

"But if he had once brought himself to ask her?" said Gordon. 

"And if she had accepted him?" suggested the other. 

"That's what I mean. "

"I don't think he'd let her go very easily. He's a sort of dog whomyou cannot easily persuade to give up a bone. If he has set his heartupon matrimony, he will not be turned from it. Do you know anythingof his intentions?"

"I fancy that he is thinking of it. "

"And you mean that you were thinking of it, too, with the same lady. "

"No, I didn't mean that. " Then he added, after a pause, "That isjust what I did not mean to say. I did not mean to talk about myself. But since you ask me the question, I will answer it truly, --I havethought of the same lady. And my thoughts were earlier in the fieldthan his. I must say good-night now, " he said, rising somewhatbrusquely from his chair. "I have to walk back to Alresford, and mustsee Mr Whittlestaff early in the morning. According to your view ofthe case I shan't do much with him. And if it be so, I shall be offto the diamond-fields again by the first mail. "

"You don't say so!"

"That is to be my lot in life. I am very glad to have come across youonce again, and am delighted to find you so happy in your prospects. You have told me everything, and I have done pretty much the same toyou. I shall disappear from Alresford, and never more be heard of. You needn't talk much about me and my love; for though I shall be outof the way at Kimberley, many thousand miles from here, a man doesnot care to have his name in every one's mouth. "

"Oh no, " said Blake. "I won't say a word about Miss Lawrie;--unlessindeed you should be successful. "

"There is not the remotest possibility of that, " said Gordon, as hetook his leave. 

"I wonder whether she is fond of him, " said the curate to himself, when he resolved to go to bed instead of beginning his sermon thatnight. "I shouldn't wonder if she is, for he is just the sort of manto make a girl fond of him. "

CHAPTER X. 

JOHN GORDON AGAIN GOES TO CROKER'S HALL. 

On the next morning, when John Gordon reached the corner of the roadat which stood Croker's Hall, he met, outside on the roadway, closeto the house, a most disreputable old man with a wooden leg and a rednose. This was Mr Baggett, or Sergeant Baggett as he was generallycalled, and was now known about all Alresford to be the husband ofMr Whittlestaff's housekeeper. For news had got abroad, and tidingswere told that Mr Baggett was about to arrive in the neighbourhoodto claim his wife. Everybody knew it before the inhabitants ofCroker's Hall. And now, since yesterday afternoon, all Croker's Hallknew it, as well as the rest of the world. He was standing thereclose to the house, which stood a little back from the road, betweennine and ten in the morning, as drunk as a lord. But I think hismanner of drunkenness was perhaps in some respects different fromthat customary with lords. Though he had only one leg of the flesh, and one of wood, he did not tumble down, though he brandished in theair the stick with which he was accustomed to disport himself. A lordwould, I think, have got himself taken to bed. But the Sergeant didnot appear to have any such intention. He had come out on to theroad from the yard into which the back-door of the house opened, andseemed to John Gordon as though, having been so far expelled, he wasdetermined to be driven no further, --and he was accompanied, at adistance, by his wife. "Now, Timothy Baggett, " began the unfortunatewoman, "you may just take yourself away out of that, as fast as yourlegs can carry you, before the police comes to fetch you. "

"My legs! Whoever heared a fellow told of his legs when there wasone of them wooden. And as for the perlice, I shall want the perliceto fetch my wife along with me. I ain't a-going to stir out of thisplace without Mrs B. I'm a hold man, and wants a woman to look arterme. Come along, Mrs B. " Then he made a motion as though to run afterher, still brandishing the stick in his hand. But she retreated, andhe came down, seated on the pathway by the roadside, as though he hadonly accomplished an intended manoeuvre. "Get me a drop o' summat, Mrs B. , and I don't mind if I stay here half an hour longer. " Thenhe laughed loudly, nodding his head merrily at the bystanders, --as nolord under such circumstances certainly would have done. 

All this happened just as John Gordon came up to the corner of theroad, from whence, by a pathway, turned the main entrance into MrWhittlestaff's garden. He could not but see the drunken red-nosedman, and the old woman, whom he recognised as Mr Whittlestaff'sservant, and a crowd of persons around, idlers out of Alresford, who had followed Sergeant Baggett up to the scene of his presentexploits. Croker's Hall was not above a mile from the town, justwhere the town was beginning to become country, and where the housesall had gardens belonging to them, and the larger houses a fieldor two. "Yes, sir, master is at home. If you'll please to ring thebell, one of the girls will come out. " This was said by Mrs Baggett, advancing almost over the body of her prostrate husband. "Drunkenbrute!" she said, by way of a salute, as she passed him. He onlylaughed aloud, and looked around upon the bystanders with triumph. 

At this moment Mr Whittlestaff came down through the gate into theroad. "Oh, Mr Gordon! good morning, sir. You find us rather ina disturbed condition this morning. I am sorry I did not thinkof asking you to come to breakfast. But perhaps, under all thecircumstances it was better not. That dreadful man has put us sadlyabout. He is the unfortunate husband of my hardly less unfortunatehousekeeper. "

"Yes, sir, he is my husband, --that's true, " said Mrs Baggett. 

"I'm wery much attached to my wife, if you knew all about it, sir;and I wants her to come home with me. Service ain't no inheritance;nor yet ain't wages, when they never amounts to more than twentypounds a-year. "

"It's thirty, you false ungrateful beast!" said Mrs Baggett. But inthe meantime Mr Whittlestaff had led the way into the garden, andJohn Gordon had followed him. Before they reached the hall-door, MaryLawrie had met them. 

"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff!" she said, "is it not annoying? that dreadfulman with the wooden leg is here, and collecting a crowd round theplace. Good morning, Mr Gordon. It is the poor woman's ne'er-do-wellhusband. She is herself so decent and respectable, that she will begreatly harassed. What can we do, Mr Whittlestaff? Can't we get apoliceman?" In this way the conversation was led away to the affairsof Sergeant and Mrs Baggett, to the ineffable distress of JohnGordon. When we remember the kind of speeches which Gordon intendedto utter, the sort of eloquence which he desired to use, it must beadmitted that the interruption was provoking. Even if Mary wouldleave them together, it would be difficult to fall back upon thesubject which Gordon had at heart. 

It is matter of consideration whether, when important subjects areto be brought upon the _tapis_, the ultimate result will or will notdepend much on the manner in which they are introduced. It oughtnot to be the case that they shall be so prejudiced. "By-the-by, mydear fellow, now I think of it, can you lend me a couple of thousandpounds for twelve months?" Would that generally be as efficaciousas though the would-be borrower had introduced his request with thegeneral paraphernalia of distressing solemnities? The borrower, atany rate, feels that it would not, and postpones the moment tillthe fitting solemnities can be produced. But John Gordon could notpostpone his moment. He could not go on residing indefinitely at theClaimant's Arms till he could find a proper opportunity for assuringMr Whittlestaff that it could not be his duty to marry Mary Lawrie. He must rush at his subject, let the result be what it might. Indeedhe had no hopes as to a favourable result. He had slept upon it, aspeople say when they intend to signify that they have lain awake, and had convinced himself that all eloquence would be vain. Was itnatural that a man should give up his intended wife, simply becausehe was asked? Gordon's present feeling was an anxious desire tobe once more on board the ship that should take him again to thediamond-fields, so that he might be at peace, knowing then, as hewould know, that he had left Mary Lawrie behind for ever. At thismoment he almost repented that he had not left Alresford without anyfarther attempt. But there he was on Mr Whittlestaff's ground, andthe attempt must be made, if only with the object of justifying hiscoming. 

"Miss Lawrie, " he began, "if you would not mind leaving me and MrWhittlestaff alone together for a few minutes, I will be obligedto you. " This he said with quite sufficient solemnity, so that MrWhittlestaff drew himself up, and looked hard and stiff, as though hewere determined to forget Sergeant Baggett and all his peccadilloesfor the moment. 

"Oh, yes; certainly; but--" Mr Whittlestaff looked sternly at her, as though to bid her go at once. "You must believe nothing as comingfrom me unless it comes out of my own mouth. " Then she put her handupon his arm, as though half embracing him. 

"You had better leave us, perhaps, " said Mr Whittlestaff. And thenshe went. 

Now the moment had come, and John Gordon felt the difficulty. It hadnot been lessened by the assurance given by Mary herself that nothingwas to be taken as having come from her unless it was known and heardto have so come. And yet he was thoroughly convinced that he wasaltogether loved by her, and that had he appeared on the scene buta day sooner, she would have accepted him with all her heart. "MrWhittlestaff, " he said, "I want to tell you what passed yesterdaybetween me and Miss Lawrie. "

"Is it necessary?" he asked. 

"I think it is. "

"As far as I am concerned, I doubt the necessity. Miss Lawrie hassaid a word to me, --as much, I presume, as she feels to benecessary. "

"I do not think that her feeling in the matter should be a guide foryou or for me. What we have both of us to do is to think what may bebest for her, and to effect that as far as may be within our power. "

"Certainly, " said Mr Whittlestaff. "But it may so probably be thecase that you and I shall differ materially as to thinking what maybe best for her. As far as I understand the matter, you wish that sheshould be your wife. I wish that she should be mine. I think that asmy wife she would live a happier life than she could do as yours; andas she thinks also--" Here Mr Whittlestaff paused. 

"But does she think so?"

"You heard what she said just now. "

"I heard nothing as to her thoughts of living, " said John Gordon "Norin the interview which I had with her yesterday did I hear a wordfall from her as to herself. We have got to form our ideas as to thatfrom circumstances which shall certainly not be made to appear by herown speech. When you speak against me--"

"I have not said a word against you, sir. "

"Perhaps you imply, " said Gordon, not stopping to notice MrWhittlestaff's last angry tone, --"perhaps you imply that my life maybe that of a rover, and as such would not conduce to Miss Lawrie'shappiness. "

"I have implied nothing. "

"To suit her wishes I would remain altogether in England. I was verylucky, and am not a man greedy of great wealth. She can remain here, and I will satisfy you that there shall be enough for our jointmaintenance. "

"What do I care for your maintenance, or what does she? Do you know, sir, that you are talking to me about a lady whom I intend to make mywife, --who is engaged to marry me? Goodness gracious me!"

"I own, sir, that it is singular. "

"Very singular, --very singular indeed. I never heard of such a thing. It seems that you knew her at Norwich. "

"I did know her well. "

"And then you went away and deserted her. "

"I went away, Mr Whittlestaff, because I was poor. I was told by herstep-mother that I was not wanted about the house, because I had nomeans. That was true, and as I loved her dearly, I started at once, almost in despair, but still with something of hope, --with a shade ofhope, --that I might put myself in the way of enabling her to becomemy wife. I did not desert her. "

"Very well. Then you came back and found her engaged to be my wife. You had it from her own mouth. When a gentleman hears that, what hashe to do but to go away?"

"There are circumstances here. "

"What does she say herself? There are no circumstances to justifyyou. If you would come here as a friend, I offered to receive you. Asyou had been known to her, I did not turn my back upon you. But nowyour conduct is so peculiar that I cannot ask you to remain here anylonger. " They were walking up and down the long walk, and now MrWhittlestaff stood still, as though to declare his intention that theinterview should be considered as over. 

"I know that you wish me to go away, " said Gordon. 

"Well, yes; unless you withdraw all idea of a claim to the younglady's hand. "

"But I think you should first hear what I have to say. You will notsurely have done your duty by her unless you hear me. "

"You can speak if you wish to speak, " said Mr Whittlestaff. 

"It was not till yesterday that you made your proposition to MissLawrie. "

"What has that to do with it?"

"Had I come on the previous day, and had I been able then to tell herall that I can tell her now, would it have made no difference?"

"Did she say so?" asked the fortunate lover, but in a very angrytone. 

"No; she did not say so. It was with difficulty that I forced fromher an avowal that her engagement was so recent. But she did confessthat it was so. And she confessed, not in words, but in her manner, that she had found it impossible to refuse to you the request thatyou had asked. "

"I never heard a man assert so impudently that he was the sole ownerof a lady's favours. Upon my word, I think that you are the vainestman whom I ever met. "

"Let it be so. I do not care to defend myself, but only her. WhetherI am vain or not, is it not true that which I say? I put it to you, as man to man, whether you do not know that it is true? If you marrythis girl, will you not marry one whose heart belongs to me? Willyou not marry one of whom you knew two days since that her heart wasmine? Will you not marry one who, if she was free this moment, wouldgive herself to me without a pang of remorse?"

"I never heard anything like the man's vanity!"

"But is it true? Whatever may be my vanity, or self-seeking, orunmanliness if you will, is not what I say God's truth? It is notabout my weaknesses, or your weaknesses, that we should speak, butabout her happiness. "

"Just so; I don't think she would be happy with you. "

"Then it is to save her from me that you are marrying her, --so thatshe may not sink into the abyss of my unworthiness. "

"Partly that. "

"But if I had come two days since, when she would have received mewith open arms--"

"You have no right to make such a statement. "

"I ask yourself whether it is not true? She would have received mewith open arms, and would you then have dared, as her guardian, tobid her refuse the offer made to her, when you had learned, as youwould have done, that she loved me; that I had loved her with allmy heart before I left England; that I had left it with the view ofenabling myself to marry her; that I had been wonderfully successful;that I had come back with no other hope in the world than that ofgiving it all to her; that I had been able to show you my whole life, so that no girl need be afraid to become my wife--"

"What do I know about your life? You may have another wife living atthis moment. "

"No doubt; I may be guilty of any amount of villainy, but then, asher friend, you should make inquiry. You would not break a girl'sheart because the man to whom she is attached may possibly be arogue. In this case you have no ground for the suspicion. "

"I never heard of a man who spoke of himself so grandiloquently!"

"But there is ample reason why you should make inquiry. In truth, asI said before, it is her happiness and not mine nor your own that youshould look to. If she has taken your offer because you had been goodto her in her desolation, --because she had found herself unable torefuse aught to one who had treated her so well; if she had doneall this, believing that I had disappeared from her knowledge, anddoubting altogether my return; if it be so--and you know that it isso--then you should hesitate before you lead her to her doom. "

"You heard her say that I was not to believe any of these thingsunless I got them from her own mouth?"

"I did; and her word should go for nothing either with you or withme. She has promised, and is willing to sacrifice herself to herpromise. She will sacrifice me too because of your goodness, --andbecause she is utterly unable to put a fair value upon herself. To meshe is all the world. From the first hour in which I saw her to thepresent, the idea of gaining her has been everything. Put aside thewords which she just spoke, what is your belief of the state of herwishes?"

"I can tell you my belief of the state of her welfare. "

"There your own prejudice creeps in, and I might retaliate bycharging you with vanity as you have done me, --only that I thinksuch vanity very natural. But it is her you should consult on such amatter. She is not to be treated like a child. Of whom does she wishto become the wife? I boldly say that I have won her love, and thatif it be so, you should not desire to take her to yourself. You havenot answered me, nor can I expect you to answer me; but look intoyourself and answer it there. Think how it will be with you, when thegirl who lies upon your shoulder shall be thinking ever of some otherman from whom you have robbed her. Good-bye, Mr Whittlestaff. I donot doubt but that you will turn it all over in your thoughts. " Thenhe escaped by a wicket-gate into the road at the far end of the longwalk, and was no more heard of at Croker's Hall on that day. 

CHAPTER XI. 

MRS BAGGETT TRUSTS ONLY IN THE FUNDS. 

Mr Whittlestaff, when he was left alone in the long walk, wasdisturbed by many troublesome thoughts. The knowledge that hishousekeeper was out on the road, and that her drunken disreputablehusband was playing the fool for the benefit of all the idlers thathad sauntered out from Alresford to see him, added something to hisgrief. Why should not the stupid woman remain indoors, and allow him, her master, to send for the police? She had declared that she wouldgo with her husband, and he could not violently prevent her. This wasnot much when added to the weight of his care as to Mary Lawrie, butit seemed to be the last ounce destined to break the horse's back, asis the proverbial fate of all last ounces. 

Just as he was about to collect his thoughts, so as to resolve whatit might be his duty to do in regard to Mary, Mrs Baggett appearedbefore him on the walk with her bonnet on her head. "What are yougoing to do, you stupid woman?"

"I am a-going with he, " she said, in the midst of a torrent of sobsand tears. "It's a dooty. They says if you does your dooty all willcome right in the end. It may be, but I don't see it no further thantaking him back to Portsmouth. "

"What on earth are you going to Portsmouth for now? And why? why now?He's not more drunk than he has been before, nor yet less abominable. Let the police lock him up for the night, and send him back toPortsmouth in the morning. Why should you want to go with him now?"

"Because you're going to take a missus, " said Mrs Baggett, stillsobbing. 

"It's more than I know; or you know; or anyone knows, " and MrWhittlestaff spoke as though he had nearly reduced himself to hishousekeeper's position. 

"Not marry her!" she exclaimed. 

"I cannot say. If you will let me alone to manage my own affairs, itwill be best. "

"That man has been here interfering. You don't mean to say thatyou're going to be put upon by such a savage as that, as has justcome home from South Africa. Diamonds, indeed! I'd diamond him!I don't believe, not in a single diamond. They're all rubbish andpaste. If you're going to give her up to that fellow, you're not thegentleman I take you for. "

"But if I don't marry you won't have to go, " he said, unable torefrain from so self-evident an argument. 

"Me going! What's me going? What's me or that drunken old reprobateout there to the likes of you? I'd stay, only if it was to see thatMr John Gordon isn't let to put his foot here in this house; andthen I'd go. John Gordon, indeed! To come up between you and her, when you had settled your mind and she had settled hern! If shefavours John Gordon, I'll tear her best frock off her back. "

"How dare you speak in that way of the lady who is to be yourmistress?"

"She ain't to be my mistress. I won't have no mistress. When her timeis come, I shall be in the poorhouse at Portsmouth, because I shan'tbe able to earn a penny to buy gin for him. " As she said this, MrsBaggett sobbed bitterly. 

"You're enough to drive a man mad. I don't know what it is you want, or you don't want. "

"I wishes to see Miss Lawrie do her dooty, and become your wife, asa lady should do. You wishes it, and she ought to wish it too. Drather! If she is going back from her word--"

"She is not going back from her word. Nothing is more excellent, nothing more true, nothing more trustworthy than Miss Lawrie. Youshould not allow yourself to speak of her in such language. "

"Is it you, then, as is going back?"

"I do not know. To tell the truth, Mrs Baggett, I do not know. "

"Then let me tell you, sir. I'm an old woman whom you've known allyour life pretty nigh, and you can trust me. Don't give up to none of'em. You've got her word, and keep her to it. What's the good o' yourfine feelings if you're to break your heart. You means well by her, and will make her happy. Can you say as much for him? When themdiamonds is gone, what's to come next? I ain't no trust in diamonds, not to live out of, but only in the funds, which is reg'lar. Iwouldn't let her see John Gordon again, --never, till she was MrsWhittlestaff. After that she'll never go astray; nor yet won't herthoughts. "

"God bless you! Mrs Baggett, " he said. 

"She's one of them when she's your own she'll remain your own allout. She'll stand the washing. I'm an old woman, and I knows 'em. "

"And yet you cannot live with such a lady as her?"

"No! if she was one of them namby-pambys as'd let an old woman keepher old place, it might do. "

"She shall love you always for what you said just now. "

"Love me! I don't doubt her loving me. She'll love me because she isloving--not that I am lovable. She'll want to do a'most everythingabout the house, and I shall want the same; and her wants are tostand uppermost, --that is, if she is to be Mrs Whittlestaff. "

"I do not know; I have to think about it. "

"Don't think about it no more; but just go in and do it. Don't haveno more words with him nor yet with her, --nor yet with yourself. Letit come on just as though it were fixed by fate. It's in your ownhands now, sir, and don't you be thinking of being too good-natured;there ain't no good comes from it. A man may maunder away his mind insoftnesses till he ain't worth nothing, and don't do no good to noone. You can give her bread to eat, and clothes to wear, and can makeher respectable before all men and women. What has he to say? Onlythat he is twenty years younger than you. Love! Rot it! I supposeyou'll come in just now, sir, and see my boxes when they're ready tostart. " So saying, she turned round sharply on the path and left him. 

In spite of the excellent advice which Mr Whittlestaff had receivedfrom his housekeeper, bidding him not have any more words even withhimself on the matter, he could not but think of all the argumentswhich John Gordon had used to him. According to Mrs Baggett, heought to content himself with knowing that he could find food andraiment and shelter for his intended wife, and also in feeling thathe had her promise, and her assurance that that promise should berespected. There was to him a very rock in all this, upon which hecould build his house with absolute safety. And he did not believeof her that, were he so to act, she would turn round upon him withfuture tears or neglect her duty, because she was ever thinking ofJohn Gordon. He knew that she would be too steadfast for all that, and that even though there might be some sorrow at her heart, itwould be well kept down, out of his sight, out of the sight of theworld at large, and would gradually sink out of her own sight too. But if it be given to a man "to maunder away his mind in softnesses, "he cannot live otherwise than as nature has made him. Such a man mustmaunder. Mrs Baggett had understood accurately the nature of hischaracter; but had not understood that, as was his character, so musthe act. He could not alter his own self. He could not turn round uponhimself, and bid himself be other than he was. It is necessary to bestern and cruel and determined, a man shall say to himself. In thisparticular emergency of my life I will be stern and cruel. Generalgood will come out of such a line of conduct. But unless he be sternand cruel in other matters also, --unless he has been born stern andcruel, or has so trained himself, --he cannot be stern and cruel forthat occasion only. All this Mr Whittlestaff knew of himself. Assure as he was there thinking over John Gordon and Mary Lawrie, wouldhe maunder away his mind in softnesses. He feared it of himself, wassure of it of himself, and hated himself because it was so. 

He did acknowledge to himself the truth of the position as assertedby John Gordon. Had the man come but a day earlier, he would havebeen in time to say the first word; and then, as Mr Whittlestaffsaid to himself, there would not for him have been a chance. And insuch case there would have been no reason, as far as Mr Whittlestaffcould see, why John Gordon should be treated other than as a happylover. It was the one day in advance which had given him the strengthof his position. But it was the one day also which had made himweak. He had thought much about Mary for some time past. He had toldhimself that by her means might be procured some cure to the woundin his heart which had made his life miserable for so many years. But had John Gordon come in time, the past misery would only havebeen prolonged, and none would have been the wiser. Even Mrs Baggettwould have held her peace, and not thrown it in his teeth that he hadattempted to marry the girl and had failed. As it was, all the worldof Alresford would know how it had been with him, and all the worldof Alresford as they looked at him would tell themselves that thiswas the man who had attempted to marry Mary Lawrie, and had failed. 

It was all true, --all that John Gordon alleged on his own behalf. Butthen he was able to salve his own conscience by telling himself thatwhen John Gordon had run through his diamonds, there would be nothingbut poverty and distress. There was no reason for supposing that thediamonds would be especially short-lived, or that John Gordon wouldprobably be a spendthrift. But diamonds as a source of income arevolatile, --not trustworthy, as were the funds to Mrs Baggett. Andthen the nature of the source of income offered, enabled him to sayso much as a plea to himself. Could he give the girl to a man who hadnothing but diamonds with which to pay his weekly bills? He did tellhimself again and again, that Mary Lawrie should not be encouragedto put her faith in diamonds. But he felt that it was only an excuse. In arguing the matter backwards and forwards, he could not but tellhimself that he did believe in John Gordon. 

And then an idea, a grand idea, but one very painful in its beauty, crept into his mind. Even though these diamonds should melt away, andbecome as nothing, there was his own income, fixed and sure as thepolar star, in the consolidated British three per cents. If he reallyloved this girl, could he not protect her from poverty, even were shemarried to a John Gordon, broken down in the article of his diamonds?If he loved her, was he not bound, by some rule of chivalry which hecould not define even to himself, to do the best he could for herhappiness? He loved her so well that he thought that, for her sake, he could abolish himself. Let her have his money, his house, and hishorses. Let her even have John Gordon. He could with a certainfeeling of delight imagine it all. But then he could not abolishhimself. There he would be, subject to the remarks of men. "Thereis he, " men would say of him, "who has maundered away his mind insoftnesses;--who in his life has loved two girls, and has, at last, been thrown over by both of them because he has been no better thana soft maundering idiot. " It would be thus that his neighbours wouldspeak of him in his vain effort to abolish himself. 

It was not yet too late. He had not yielded an inch to this man. Hecould still be stern and unbending. He felt proud of himself in thathe had been stern and unbending, as far as the man was concerned. And as regarded Mary, he did feel sure of her. If there was to beweakness displayed, it would be in himself. Mary would be true to herpromise;--true to her faith, true to the arrangement made for herown life. She would not provoke him with arguments as to her lovefor John Gordon; and, as Mrs Baggett had assured him, even in herthoughts she would not go astray. If it were but for that word, MrsBaggett should not be allowed to leave his house. 

But what as to Mary's love? Any such question was maunderingly soft. It was not for him to ask it. He did believe in her altogether, andwas perfectly secure that his name and his honour were safe in herhands. And she certainly would learn to love him. "She'll standthe washing, " he said to himself, repeating another morsel of MrsBaggett's wisdom. And thus he made up his mind that he would, on thisoccasion, if only on this occasion, be stern and cruel. Surely a mancould bring himself to sternness and cruelty for once in his life, when so much depended on it. 

Having so resolved, he walked back into the house, intending to seeMary Lawrie, and so to speak to her as to give her no idea of theconversation which had taken place between him and John Gordon. Itwould not be necessary, he thought, that he should mention to herJohn Gordon's name any more. Let his marriage go on, as though therewere no such person as John Gordon. It would be easier to be sternand cruel when he could enact the character simply by silence. Hewould hurry on his wedding as quickly as she would allow him, andthen the good thing--the good that was to come out of sternness andcruelty--would be achieved. 

He went through from the library to knock at Mary's door, and indoing so, had to pass the room in which Mrs Baggett had slepttranquilly for fifteen years. There, in the doorway, was a big trunk, and in the lock of the door was a key. A brilliant idea at onceoccurred to Mr Whittlestaff. He shoved the big box in with his foot, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. At that moment theheads of the gardener and the groom appeared up the back staircase, and after them Mrs Baggett. 

"Why, Mrs Baggett, the door is locked!" said the gardener. 

"It is, to be sure, " said the groom. "Why, Mrs Baggett, you musthave the key in your own pocket!"

"I ain't got no such thing. Do you bring the box down with you. "

"I have got the key in my pocket, " said Mr Whittlestaff, in a voiceof much authority. "You may both go down. Mrs Baggett's box is notto be taken out of that room to-day. "

"Not taken out! Oh, Mr Whittlestaff! Why, the porter is here withhis barrow to take it down to the station. "

"Then the porter must have a shilling and go back again empty. " Andso he stalked on, to bid Miss Lawrie come to him in the library. 

"I never heard of such a go in all my life;--and he means it, too, "said Thornybush, the gardener. 

"I never quite know what he means, " said Hayonotes, the groom; "buthe's always in earnest, whatever it is. I never see one like themaster for being in earnest. But he's too deep for me in his meaning. I suppose we is only got to go back. " So they retreated down thestairs, leaving Mrs Baggett weeping in the passage. 

"You should let a poor old woman have her box, " she said, whining toher master, whom she followed to the library. 

"No; I won't! You shan't have your box. You're an old fool!"

"I know I'm an old fool;--but I ought to have my box. "

"You won't have it. You may just go down and get your dinner. Whenyou want to go to bed, you shall have the key. "

"I ought to have my box, Miss Mary. It's my own box. What am I to dowith Baggett? They have given him more gin out there, and he's asdrunk as a beast. I think I ought to have my own box. Shall I tellThornybush as he may come back? The train'll be gone, and then whatam I to do with Baggett? He'll get hisself that drunk, you won't beable to stir him. And it is my own box, Mr Whittlestaff?"

To all which Mr Whittlestaff turned a deaf ear. She should find thatthere was no maundering softness with him now. He felt within his ownbosom that it behoved him to learn to become stern and cruel. He knewthat the key was in his pocket, and found that there was a certainsatisfaction in being stern and cruel. Mrs Baggett might sob herheart out after her box, and he would decline to be moved. 

"What'll I do about Baggett, sir?" said the poor woman, coming back. "He's a lying there at the gate, and the perlice doesn't like totouch him because of you, sir. He says as how if you could take himinto the stables, he'd sleep it off among the straw. But then he'd bejust as bad after this first go, to-morrow. "

To this, however, Mr Whittlestaff at once acceded. He saw a way outof the immediate difficulty. He therefore called Hayonotes to him, and succeeded in explaining his immediate meaning. Hayonotes andthe policeman between them lifted Baggett, and deposited the man inan empty stall, where he was accommodated with ample straw. And anorder was given that as soon as he had come to himself, he should beprovided with something to eat. 

"Summat to eat!" said Mrs Baggett, in extreme disgust. "Provide himwith a lock-up and plenty of cold water!"

CHAPTER XII. 

MR BLAKE'S GOOD NEWS. 

In the afternoon, after lunch had been eaten, there came a ring atthe back-door, and Mr Montagu Blake was announced. There had been alittle _contretemps_ or misadventure. It was Mr Blake's habit whenhe called at Croker's Hall to ride his horse into the yard, there togive him up to Hayonotes, and make his way in by the back entrance. On this occasion Hayonotes had been considerably disturbed in hiswork, and was discussing the sad condition of Mr Baggett withThornybush over the gate of the kitchen-garden. Consequently, MrBlake had taken his own horse into the stable, and as he was aboutto lead the beast up to the stall, had been stopped and confused bySergeant Baggett's protruding wooden leg. 

"'Alloa! what's up now?" said a voice, addressing Mr Blakefrom under the straw. "Do you go down, old chap, and get usthree-penn'orth of cream o' the valley from the Cock. "

Then Mr Blake had been aware that this prior visitor was not in acondition to be of much use to him, and tied up his own horse inanother stall. But on entering the house, Mr Blake announced thefact of there being a stranger in the stables, and suggested that theone-legged gentleman had been looking at somebody taking a glass ofgin. Then Mrs Baggett burst out into a loud screech of agony. "Thenasty drunken beast! he ought to be locked up into the darkest holethey've got in all Alresford. "

"But who is the gentleman?" said Mr Blake. 

"My husband, sir; I won't deny him. He is the cross as I have tocarry, and precious heavy he is. You must have heard of SergeantBaggett;--the most drunkenest, beastliest, idlest scoundrel as everthe Queen had in the army, and the most difficultest for a womanto put up with in the way of a husband! Let a woman be ever sodecent, he'd drink her gowns and her petticoats, down to her veryunderclothing. How would you like, sir, to have to take up with sucha beast as that, after living all your life as comfortable as anylady in the land? Wouldn't that be a come-down, Mr Blake? And thento have your box locked up, and be told that the key of your bedroomdoor is in the master's pocket. " Thus Mrs Baggett continued tobewail her destiny. 

Mr Blake having got rid of the old woman, and bethinking himselfof the disagreeable incidents to which a gentleman with a largerestablishment than his own might be liable, made his way into thesitting-room, where he found Mary Lawrie alone; and having apologisedfor the manner of his intrusion, and having said something intendedto be jocose as to the legs of the warrior in the stable, at onceasked a question as to John Gordon. 

"Mr Gordon!" said Mary. "He was here this morning with MrWhittlestaff, but I know nothing of him since. "

"He hasn't gone back to London?"

"I don't know where he has gone. He slept in Alresford last night, but I know nothing of him since. "

"He sent his bag by the boy at the inn down to the railway stationwhen he came up here. I found his bag there, but heard nothing ofhim. They told me at the inn that he was to come up here, and Ithought I should either find him here or meet him on the road. "

"Do you want to find him especially?"

"Well, yes. "

"Do you know Mr Gordon?"

"Well, yes; I do. That is to say, he dined with me last night. Wewere at Oxford together, and yesterday evening we got talking aboutour adventures since. "

"He told you that he had been at the diamond-fields?"

"Oh, yes; I know all about the diamond-fields. But Mr Hallparticularly wants to see him up at the Park. " (Mr Hall was thesquire with four daughters who lived at Little Alresford. ) "Mr Hallsays that he knew his father many years ago, and sent me out to lookfor him. I shall be wretched if he goes away without coming to LittleAlresford House. He can't go back to London before four o'clock, because there is no train. You know nothing about his movements?"

"Nothing at all. For some years past Mr Gordon has been altogether astranger to me. " Mr Blake looked into her face, and was aware thatthere was something to distress her. He at once gathered from hercountenance that Mr Whittlestaff had been like the dog that stuckto his bone, and that John Gordon was like the other dog--thedisappointed one--and had been turned out from the neighbourhood ofthe kennel. "I should imagine that Mr Gordon has gone away, if notto London, then in some other direction. " It was clear that the younglady intended him to understand that she could say nothing and knewnothing as to Mr Gordon's movements. 

"I suppose I must go down to the station and leave word for himthere, " said Mr Blake. Miss Lawrie only shook her head. "Mr Hallwill be very sorry to miss him. And then I have some special goodnews to tell him. "

"Special good news!" Could it be that something had happened whichwould induce Mr Whittlestaff to change his mind. That was the onesubject which to her, at the present moment, was capable of meaningspecially good tidings. 

"Yes, indeed, Miss Lawrie; double good news, I may say. Old MrHarbottle has gone at last at San Remo. " Mary did know who MrHarbottle was, --or had been. Mr Harbottle had been the vicar atLittle Alresford, for whose death Mr Blake was waiting, in orderthat he might enter in together upon the good things of matrimony andthe living. He was a man so contented, and talked so frequently ofthe good things which Fortune was to do for him, that the tidings ofhis luck had reached even the ears of Mary Lawrie. "That's an oddway of putting it, of course, " continued Mr Blake; "but then he wasquite old and very asthmatic, and couldn't ever come back again. Ofcourse I'm very sorry for him, --in one way; but then I'm very glad inanother. It is a good thing to have the house in my own hands, so asto begin to paint at once, ready for her coming. Her father wouldn'tlet her be married till I had got the living, and I think he wasright, because I shouldn't have liked to spend money in painting andsuch like on an uncertainty. As the old gentleman had to die, whyshouldn't I tell the truth? Of course I am glad, though it does soundso terrible. "

"But what are the double good news?"

"Oh, I didn't tell you. Miss Forrester is to come to the Park. She isnot coming because Mr Harbottle is dead. That's only a coincidence. We are not going to be married quite at once, --straight off the reel, you know. I shall have to go to Winchester for that. But now that oldHarbottle has gone, I'll get the day fixed; you see if I don't. But Imust really be off, Miss Lawrie. Mr Hall will be terribly vexed if Idon't find Gordon, and there's no knowing where he may go whilst I'mtalking here. " Then he made his adieux, but returned before he hadshut the door after him. "You couldn't send somebody with me, MissLawrie? I shall be afraid of that wooden-legged man in the stables, for fear he should get up and abuse me. He asked me to get him somegin, --which was quite unreasonable. " But on being assured that hewould find the groom about the place, he went out, and the trot ofhis horse was soon heard upon the road. 

He did succeed in finding John Gordon, who was listlessly waiting atthe Claimant's Arms for the coming of the four o'clock train whichwas to take him back to London, on his way, as he told himself, tothe diamond-fields. He had thrown all his heart, all the energy ofwhich he was the master, into the manner in which he had pleaded forhimself and for Mary with Mr Whittlestaff. But he felt the weaknessof his position in that he could not remain present upon the groundand see the working of his words. Having said what he had to say, hecould only go; and it was not to be expected that the eloquence of anabsent man, of one who had declared that he was about to start forSouth Africa, should be regarded. He knew that what he had said wastrue, and that, being true, it ought to prevail; but, having declaredit, there was nothing for him to do but to go away. He could not seeMary herself again, nor, if he did so, would she be so likely toyield to him as was Mr Whittlestaff. He could have no further excusefor addressing himself to the girl who was about to become the wifeof another man. Therefore he sat restless, idle, and miserable in thelittle parlour at the Claimant's Arms, thinking that the long journeywhich he had made had been taken all in vain, and that there wasnothing left for him in the world but to return to Kimberley, and addmore diamonds to his stock-in-trade. 

"Oh, Gordon!" said Blake, bursting into the room, "you're the veryman I want to find. You can't go back to London to-day. "

"Can't I?"

"Quite out of the question. Mr Hall knew your father intimately whenyou were only a little chap. "

"Will that prevent my going back to London?"

"Certainly it will. He wants to renew the acquaintance. He is amost hospitable, kind-hearted man; and who knows, one of the fourdaughters might do yet. "

"Who is Mr Hall?" No doubt he had heard the name on the previousevening; but Hall is common, and had been forgotten. 

"Who is Mr Hall? Why, he is the squire of Little Alresford, and mypatron. I forget you haven't heard that Mr Harbottle is dead atlast. Of course I am very sorry for the old gentleman in one sense;but it is such a blessing in another. I'm only just thirty, and it'sa grand thing my tumbling into the living in this way. "

"I needn't go back because Mr Harbottle is dead. "

"But Kattie Forrester is coming to the Park. I told you last night, but I daresay you've forgotten it; and I couldn't tell then that MrHall was acquainted with you, or that he would be so anxious to behospitable. He says that I'm to tell you to take your bag up to thehouse at once. There never was anything more civil than that. Ofcourse I let him know that we had been at Oxford together. That doesgo for something. "

"The university and your society together, " suggested Gordon. 

"Don't chaff, because I'm in earnest. Kattie Forrester will be in bythe very train that was to take you on to London, and I'm to waitand put her into Mr Hall's carriage. One of the daughters, I don'tdoubt, will be there, and you can wait and see her if you like it. Ifyou'll get your bag ready, the coachman will take it with Kattie'sluggage. There's the Park carriage coming down the street now. I'llgo out and stop old Steadypace the coachman; only don't you keep himlong, because I shouldn't like Kattie to find that there was no oneto look after her at the station. "

There seemed to be an opening in all this for John Gordon to remainat any rate a day longer in the neighbourhood of Mary Lawrie, andhe determined that he would avail himself of the opportunity. Hetherefore, together with his friend Blake, saw the coachman, andgave instructions as to finding the bag at the station, and preparedhimself to walk out to the Park. "You can go down to the station, " hesaid to Blake, "and can ride back with the carriage. "

"Of course I shall see you up at the house, " said Blake. "Indeed I'vebeen asked to stay there whilst Kattie is with them. Nothing can bemore hospitable than Mr Hall and his four daughters. I'd give yousome advice, only I really don't know which you'd like the best. There is a sort of similarity about them; but that wears off when youcome to know them. I have heard people say that the two eldest arevery much alike. If that be so, perhaps you'll like the third thebest. The third is the nicest, as her hair may be a shade darker thanthe others. I really must be off now, as I wouldn't for worlds thatthe train should come in before I'm on the platform. " With that hewent into the yard, and at once trotted off on his cob. 

Gordon paid his bill, and started on his walk to Little AlresfordPark. Looking back into his early memories, he could just remember tohave heard his father speak of Mr Hall. But that was all. His fatherwas now dead, and, certainly, he thought, had not mentioned thename for many years. But the invitation was civil, and as he was toremain in the neighbourhood, it might be that he should again have anopportunity of seeing Mary Lawrie or Mr Whittlestaff. He found thatLittle Alresford Park lay between the town and Mr Blake's church, so that he was at the gate sooner than he expected. He went in, andhaving time on his hands, deviated from the road and went up a hill, which was indeed one of the downs, though between the park paling. Here he saw deer feeding, and he came after a while to a beech grove. He had now gone down the hill on the other side, and found himselfclose to as pretty a labourer's cottage as he remembered ever to haveseen. It was still June, and it was hot, and he had been on his legsnearly the whole morning. Then he began to talk, or rather to thinkto himself. "What a happy fellow is that man Montagu Blake! Hehas every thing, --not that he wants, but that he thinks that hewants. The work of his life is merely play. He is going to marry awife, --not who is, but whom he thinks to be perfection. He looks asthough he were never ill a day in his life. How would he do if hewere grubbing for diamonds amidst the mud and dust of Kimberley?Instead of that, he can throw himself down on such a spot as this, and meditate his sermon among the beech-trees. " Then he began tothink whether the sermon could be made to have some flavour of thebeech-trees, and how much better in that case it would be, and as heso thought he fell asleep. 

He had not been asleep very long, perhaps not five minutes, when hebecame aware in his slumbers that an old man was standing over him. One does thus become conscious of things before the moment of wakinghas arrived, so positively as to give to the sleeper a false sense ofthe reality of existence. "I wonder whether you can be Mr Gordon, "said the old man. 

"But I am, " said Gordon. "I wonder how you know me. "

"Because I expect you. " There was something very mysteriousin this, --which, however, lost all mystery as soon as he wassufficiently awake to think of things. "You are Mr Blake's friend. "

"Yes; I am Mr Blake's friend. "

"And I am Mr Hall. I didn't expect to find you sleeping here in GarWood. But when I find a strange gentleman asleep in Gar Wood, I puttwo and two together, and conclude that you must be Mr Gordon. "

"It's the prettiest place in all the world, I think. "

"Yes; we are rather proud of Gar Wood, --especially when the deer arebrowsing on the hill-side to the left, as they are now. If you don'twant to go to sleep again, we'll walk up to the house. There's thecarriage. I can hear the wheels. The girls have gone down to fetchyour friend's bride. Mr Blake is very fond of his bride, --as I daresay you have found out. "

Then, as the two walked together to the house, Mr Hall explainedthat there had been some little difference in years gone by betweenold Mr Gordon and himself as to money. "I was very sorry, but I hadto look after myself. You knew nothing about it, I dare say. "

"I have heard your name--that's all. "

"I need not say anything more about it, " said Mr Hall; "only whenI heard that you were in the country, I was very glad to have theopportunity of seeing you. Blake tells me that you know my friendWhittlestaff. "

"I did not know him till yesterday morning. "

"Then you know the young lady there; a charming young lady she is. Mygirls are extremely fond of Mary Lawrie. I hope we may get them tocome over while you are staying here. "

"I can only remain one night, --or at the most two, Mr Hall. "

"Pooh, pooh! We have other places in the neighbourhood to show youquite as pretty as Gar Wood. Though that's a bounce: I don't thinkthere is any morsel quite so choice as Gar Wood when the deer arethere. What an eye you must have, Mr Gordon, to have made it out byyourself at once; but then, after all, it only put you to sleep. Iwonder whether the Rookery will put you to sleep. We go in this way, so as to escape the formality of the front door, and I'll introduceyou to my daughters and Miss Forrester. "

VOLUME II. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

AT LITTLE ALRESFORD. 

Mr Hall was a pleasant English gentleman, now verging upon seventyyears of age, who had "never had a headache in his life, " as he waswont to boast, but who lived very carefully, as one who did notintend to have many headaches. He certainly did not intend to makehis head ache by the cares of the work of the world. He was very welloff;--that is to say, that with so many thousands a year, he managedto live upon half. This he had done for very many years, becausethe estate was entailed on a distant relative, and because he hadnot chosen to leave his children paupers. When the girls came heimmediately resolved that he would never go up to London, --and kepthis resolve. Not above once in three or four years was it supposed tobe necessary that he showed his head to a London hairdresser. He wasquite content to have a practitioner out from Alresford, and to payhim one shilling, including the journey. His tenants in these badtimes had always paid their rents, but they had done so becausetheir rents had not been raised since the squire had come to thethrone. Mr Hall knew well that if he was anxious to save himself fromheadaches in that line, he had better let his lands on easy terms. Hewas very hospitable, but he never gave turtle from London, or fishfrom Southampton, or strawberries or peas on the first of April. Hecould give a dinner without champagne, and thought forty shillingsa dozen price enough for port or sherry, or even claret. He kept acarriage for his four daughters, and did not tell all the world thatthe horses spent a fair proportion of their time at the plough. Thefour daughters had two saddle-horses between them, and the father hadanother for his own use. He did not hunt, --and living in that partof Hampshire, I think he was right. He did shoot after the mannerof our forefathers;--would go out, for instance, with Mr Blake, andperhaps Mr Whittlestaff, and would bring home three pheasants, fourpartridges, a hare, and any quantity of rabbits that the cook mighthave ordered. He was a man determined on no account to live beyondhis means; and was not very anxious to seem to be rich. He was a manof no strong affections, or peculiarly generous feelings. Those whoknew him, and did not like him, said that he was selfish. They whowere partial to him declared that he never owed a shilling that hecould not pay, and that his daughters were very happy in having sucha father. He was a good-looking man, with well-formed features, butone whom you had to see often before you could remember him. And asI have said before, he "never had a headache in his life. " "Whenyour father wasn't doing quite so well with the bank as his friendswished, he asked me to do something for him. Well; I didn't see myway. "

"I was a boy then, and I heard nothing of my father's business. "

"I dare say not; but I cannot help telling you. He thought Iwas unkind. I thought that he would go on from one trouble toanother;--and he did. He quarrelled with me, and for years wenever spoke. Indeed I never saw him again. But for the sake of oldfriendship, I am very glad to meet you. " This he said, as he waswalking across the hall to the drawing-room. 

There Gordon met the young ladies with the clergyman, and had toundergo the necessary introductions. He thought that he couldperceive at once that his story, as it regarded Mary Lawrie, hadbeen told to all of them. Gordon was quick, and could learn from themanners of his companions what had been said about him, and couldperceive that they were aware of something of his story. Blake had nosuch quickness, and could attribute none of it to another. "I am veryproud to have the pleasure of making you acquainted with these fiveyoung ladies. " As he said this he had just paused in his narrativeof Mr Whittlestaff's love, and was certain that he had changed theconversation with great effect. But the young ladies were unable notto look as young ladies would have looked when hearing the story ofan unfortunate gentleman's love. And Mr Blake would certainly havebeen unable to keep such a secret. 

"This is Miss Hall, and this is Miss Augusta Hall, " said the father. "People do think that they are alike. "

"Oh, papa, what nonsense! You needn't tell Mr Gordon that. "

"No doubt he would find it out without telling, " continued thefather. 

"I can't see it, for the life of me, " said Mr Blake. He evidentlythought that civility demanded such an assertion. Mr Gordon, lookingat the two young ladies, felt that he would never know them apartthough he might live in the house for a year. 

"Evelina is the third, " continued Mr Hall, pointing out the one whomMr Blake had specially recommended to his friend's notice. "Evelinais not quite so like, but she's like too. "

"Papa, what nonsense you do talk!" said Evelina. 

"And this is Mary. Mary considers herself to be quite the hope of thefamily; _spem gregis_. Ha, ha!"

"What does _spem gregis_ mean? I'm sure I don't know, " said Mary. The four young ladies were about thirty, varying up from thirty tothirty-five. They were fair-haired, healthy young women, with goodcommon-sense, not beautiful, though very like their father. 

"And now I must introduce you to Miss Forrester, --Kattie Forrester, "said Mr Blake, who was beginning to think that his own young ladywas being left out in the cold. 

"Yes, indeed, " said Mr Hall. "As I had begun with my own, I wasobliged to go on to the end. Miss Forrester--Mr Gordon. MissForrester is a young lady whose promotion has been fixed in theworld. "

"Mr Hall, how can you do me so much injury as to say that? You takeaway from me the chance of changing my mind. "

"Yes, " said the oldest Miss Hall; "and Mr Gordon the possibility ofchanging his. Mr Gordon, what a sad thing it is that Mr Harbottleshould never have had an opportunity of seeing his old parish onceagain. "

"I never knew him, " said Gordon. 

"But he had been here nearly fifty years. And then to leave theparish without seeing it any more. It's very sad when you look at itin that light. "

"He has never resided here permanently for a quarter of a century, "said Mr Blake. 

"Off and on in the summer time, " said Augusta. "Of course he couldnot take much of the duty, because he had a clergyman's throat. Ithink it a great pity that he should have gone off so suddenly. "

"Miss Forrester won't wish to have his _resurgam_ sung, I warrantyou, " said Mr Hall. 

"I don't know much about _resurgams_, " said the young lady, "but Idon't see why the parish shall not be just as well in Mr Blake'shands. " Then the young bride was taken away by the four elder ladiesto dress, and the gentlemen followed them half an hour afterwards. 

They were all very kind to him, and sitting after dinner, Mr Hallsuggested that Mr Whittlestaff and Miss Lawrie should be asked overto dine on the next day. John Gordon had already promised to stayuntil the third, and had made known his intention of going back toSouth Africa as soon as he could arrange matters. "I've got nothingto keep me here, " he said, "and as there is a good deal of money atstake, I should be glad to be there as soon as possible. "

"Oh, come! I don't know about your having nothing to keep youhere, " said Blake. But as to Mr Hall's proposition regarding theinhabitants of Croker's Lodge, Gordon said nothing. He could notobject to the guests whom a gentleman might ask to his own house; buthe thought it improbable that either Mr Whittlestaff or Mary shouldcome. If he chose to appear and to bring her with him, it must be hisown look-out. At any rate he, Gordon, could say and could do nothingon such an occasion. He had been betrayed into telling his secret tothis garrulous young parson. There was no help for spilt milk; but itwas not probable that Mr Blake would go any further, and he at anyrate must be content to bear the man's society for one other evening. "I don't see why you shouldn't manage to make things pleasant evenyet, " said the parson. But to this John Gordon made no reply. 

In the evening some of the sisters played a few pieces at the piano, and Miss Forrester sang a few songs. Mr Hall in the meantime wentfast asleep. John Gordon couldn't but tell himself that his eveningsat Kimberley were, as a rule, quite as exciting. But then KattieForrester did not belong to him, and he had not found himself ableas yet to make a choice between the young ladies. It was, however, interesting to see the manner in which the new vicar hung about thelady of his love, and the evident but innocent pride with which sheaccepted the attentions of her admirer. 

"Don't you think she's a beautiful girl?" said Blake, comingto Gordon's room after they had all retired to bed; "suchgenuine wit, and so bright, and her singing, you know, is quiteperfect, --absolutely just what it ought to be. I do know somethingabout singing myself, because I've had all the parish voices under myown charge for the last three years. A practice like that goes a longway, you know. " To this Mr Gordon could only give that assent whichsilence is intended to imply. "She'll have £5000 at once, you know, which does make her in a manner equal to either of the Miss Halls. Idon't quite know what they'll have, but not more than that, I shouldthink. The property is entailed, and he's a saving man. But if he canhave put by £20, 000, he has done very well; don't you think so?"

"Very well indeed. "

"I suppose I might have had one of them; I don't mind telling you instrictest confidence. But, goodness gracious, after I had once seenKattie Forrester, there was no longer a doubt. I wish you'd tell mewhat you think about her. "

"About Miss Forrester?"

"You needn't mind speaking quite openly to me. I'm that sort offellow that I shouldn't mind what any fellow said. I've formed myown ideas, and am not likely to change them. But I should liketo hear, you know, how she strikes a fellow who has been at thediamond-fields. I cannot imagine but that you must have a differentidea about women to what we have. " Then Mr Blake sat himself down inan arm-chair at the foot of the bed, and prepared himself to discussthe opinion which he did not doubt that his friend was about todeliver. 

"A very nice young woman indeed, " said John Gordon, who was anxiousto go to bed. 

"Ah, you know, --that's a kind of thing that anybody can say. Thereis no real friendship in that. I want to know the true candidopinion of a man who has travelled about the world, and has beenat the diamond-fields. It isn't everybody who has been at thediamond-fields, " continued he, thinking that he might thereby flatterhis friend. 

"No, not everybody. I suppose a young woman is the same there ashere, if she have the same natural gifts. Miss Forrester would bepretty anywhere. "

"That's a matter of course. Any fellow can see that with half an eye. Absolutely beautiful, I should say, rather than pretty. "

"Just so. It's only a variation in terms, you know. "

"But then her manner, her music, her language, her wit, and thecolour of her hair! When I remember it all, I think I'm the luckiestfellow in the world. I shall be a deal happier with her than withAugusta Hall. Don't you think so? Augusta was the one intended forme; but, bless you, I couldn't look at her after I had seen KattieForrester. I don't think you've given me your true unbiassed opinionyet. "

"Indeed I have, " said John Gordon. 

"Well; I should be more free-spoken than that, if you were to askme about Mary Lawrie. But then, of course, Mary Lawrie is not yourengaged one. It does make a difference. If it does turn out that shemarries Mr Whittlestaff, I shan't think much of her, I can tell youthat. As it is, as far as looks are concerned, you can't compare herto my Kattie. "

"Comparisons are odious, " said Gordon. 

"Well, yes; when you are sure to get the worst of them. You wouldn'tthink comparisons odious if you were going to marry Kattie, and itwas my lot to have Mary Lawrie. Well, yes; I don't mind going to bednow, as you have owned so much as that. "

"Of all the fools, " said Gordon to himself, as he went to his ownchamber, --"of all the fools who were ever turned out in the world toearn their own bread, he is the most utterly foolish. Yet he willearn his bread, and will come to no especial grief in the work. Ifhe were to go out to Kimberley, no one would pay him a guinea a-week. But he will perform the high work of a clergyman of the Church ofEngland indifferently well. "

On the next morning a messenger was sent over to Croker's Hall, andcame back after due lapse of time with an answer to the effect thatMr Whittlestaff and Miss Lawrie would have pleasure in dining thatday at Little Alresford Park. "That's right, " said Mr Blake to thelady of his love. "We shall now, perhaps, be able to put the thinginto a proper groove. I'm always very lucky in managing such matters. Not that I think that Gordon cares very much about the young lady, judging from what he says of her. "

"Then I don't see why you should interest yourself. "

"For the young lady's sake. A lady always prefers a young gentlemanto an old one. Only think what you'd feel if you were married to MrWhittlestaff. "

"Oh, Montagu! how can you talk such nonsense?"

"I don't suppose you ever would, because you are not one of thosesort of young ladies. I don't suppose that Mary Lawrie likes itherself; and therefore I'd break the match off in a moment if Icould. That's what I call good-natured. "

After lunch they all went off to the Rookery, which was at the otherside of the park from Gar Wood. It was a beautiful spot, lying atthe end of the valley, through which they had to get out from theircarriage, and to walk for half a mile. Only for the sake of doinghonour to Miss Forrester, they would have gone on foot. But as itwas, they had all the six horses among them. Mr Gordon was put upon one of the young ladies' steeds, the squire and the parson eachhad his own, and Miss Evelina was also mounted, as Mr Blake hadsuggested, perhaps with the view to the capture of Mr Gordon. "Asit's your first day, " whispered Mr Blake to Kattie, "it is so nice, I think, that the carriage and horses should all come out. Of coursethere is nothing in the distance, but there should be a respect shownon such an occasion. Mr Hall does do everything of this kind just asit should be. "

"I suppose you know the young lady who is coming here to-night, " saidEvelina to Mr Gordon. 

"Oh, yes; I knew her before I went abroad. "

"But not Mr Whittlestaff?"

"I had never met Mr Whittlestaff, though I had heard much of hisgoodness. "

"And now they are to be married. Does it not seem to you to be veryhard?"

"Not in the least. The young lady seems to have been left by herfather and step-mother without any engagement, and, indeed, withoutany provision. She was brought here, in the first place, from sheercharity, and I can certainly understand that when she was here MrWhittlestaff should have admired her. "

"That's a matter of course, " said Evelina. 

"Mr Whittlestaff is not at all too old to fall in love with anyyoung lady. This is a pretty place, --a very lovely spot. I think Ilike it almost better than Gar Wood. " Then there was no more saidabout Mary Lawrie till they all rode back to dinner. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

MR WHITTLESTAFF IS GOING OUT TO DINNER. 

"There's an invitation come, asking us to dine at Little Alresfordto-day. " This was said, soon after breakfast, by Mr Whittlestaff toMary Lawrie, on the day after Mr Gordon's coming. "I think we'llgo. "

"Could you not leave me behind?"

"By no means. I want you to become intimate with the girls, who aregood girls. "

"But Mr Gordon is there. "

"Exactly. That is just what I want. It will be better that you andhe should meet each other, without the necessity of making a scene. "From this it may be understood that Mr Whittlestaff had explained toMary as much as he had thought necessary of what had occurred betweenhim and John Gordon, and that Mary's answers had been satisfactoryto his feelings. Mary had told him that she was contented with herlot in life, as Mr Whittlestaff had proposed it for her. She hadnot been enthusiastic; but then he had not expected it. She had notassured him that she would forget John Gordon. He had not asked her. She had simply said that if he were satisfied, --so was she. "I thinkthat with me, dearest, at any rate, you will be safe. " "I am quitesure that I shall be safe, " she had answered. And that had beensufficient. 

But the reader will also understand from this that he had sought forno answer to those burning questions which John Gordon had put tohim. Had she loved John Gordon the longest? Did she love him thebest? There was no doubt a certain cautious selfishness in the wayin which he had gone to work. And yet of general selfishness it wasimpossible to accuse him. He was willing to give her everything, --todo all for her. And he had first asked her to be his wife, with everyobservance. And then he could always protect himself on the plea thathe was doing the best he could for her. His property was assured, --inthe three per cents, as Mrs Baggett had suggested; whereas JohnGordon's was all in diamonds. How frequently do diamonds melt andcome to nothing? They are things which a man can carry in his pocket, and lose or give away. They cannot, --so thought Mr Whittlestaff, --besettled in the hands of trustees, or left to the charge of anexecutor. They cannot be substantiated. Who can say that, whenlooking to a lady's interest, this bit of glass may not come upinstead of that precious stone? "John Gordon might be a very steadyfellow; but we have only his own word for that, "--as Mr Whittlestaffobserved to himself. There could not be a doubt but that MrWhittlestaff himself was the safer staff of the two on which a younglady might lean. He did make all these excuses for himself, anddetermined that they were of such a nature that he might rely uponthem with safety. But still there was a pang in his bosom--a silentsecret--which kept on whispering to him that he was not the bestbeloved. He had, however, resolved steadfastly that he would notput that question to Mary. If she did not wish to declare her love, neither did he. It was a pity, a thousand pities, that it should beso. A change in her heart might, however, take place. It would cometo pass that she would learn that he was the superior staff on whichto lean. John Gordon might disappear among the diamond-fields, and nomore be heard of. He, at any rate, would do his best for her, so thatshe should not repent her bargain. But he was determined that thebargain, as it had been struck, should be carried out. Therefore, in communicating to Mary the invitation which he had received fromLittle Alresford, he did not find it necessary to make any specialspeech in answer to her inquiry about John Gordon. 

She understood it all, and could not in her very heart pronouncea judgment against him. She knew that he was doing that which hebelieved would be the best for her welfare. She, overwhelmed by thedebt of her gratitude, had acceded to his request, and had beenunable afterwards to depart from her word. She had said that itshould be so, and she could not then turn upon him and declare thatwhen she had given him her hand, she had been unaware of the presenceof her other lover. There was an injustice, an unkindness, aningratitude, a selfishness in this, which forbade her to think ofit as being done by herself. It was better for her that she shouldsuffer, though the suffering should be through her whole life, than that he should be disappointed. No doubt the man would suffertoo, --her hero, her lover, --he with whom she would so willingly haverisked everything, either with or without the diamonds. She couldnot, however, bear to think that Mr Whittlestaff should be so veryprudent and so very wise solely on her behalf. She would go to him, but for other reasons than that. As she walked about the place halfthe day, up and down the long walk, she told herself that it wasuseless to contend with her love. She did love John Gordon; she knewthat she loved him with her whole heart; she knew that she must betrue to him;--but still she would marry Mr Whittlestaff, and do herduty in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call her. There would be a sacrifice--a sacrifice of two--but still it wasjustice. 

Had she not consented to take everything from Mr Whittlestaff; herbread, her meat, her raiment, the shelter under which she lived, andthe position in the world which she now enjoyed? Had the man come buta day earlier, it would all have been well. She would have told herlove before Mr Whittlestaff had spoken of his wants. Circumstanceshad been arranged differently, and she must bear it. But she knewthat it would be better for her that she should see John Gordonno more. Had he started at once to London and gone thence to thediamond-fields without seeing her again there would be a feeling thatshe had become the creature of stern necessity; there would have beenno hope for her, --as also no fear. Had he started a second time forSouth Africa, she would have looked upon his further return withany reference to her own wants as a thing impossible. But now howwould it be with her? Mr Whittlestaff had told her with a sternindifference that she must again meet this man, sit at the table withhim as an old friend, and be again subject to his influence. "It willbe better that you and he should meet, " he had said, "without thenecessity of making a scene. " How could she assure him that therewould be no scene?

Then she thought that she would have recourse to that ordinaryfeminine excuse, a headache; but were she to do so she would own thewhole truth to her master; she would have declared that she so lovedthe man that she could not endure to be in his presence. She mustnow let the matter pass as he had intended. She must go to Mr Hall'shouse, and there encounter him she loved with what show of coldnessshe might be able to assume. 

But the worst of it all lay in this, --that she could not but thinkthat he had been induced to remain in the neighbourhood in order thathe might again try to gain his point. She had told herself againand again that it was impossible, that she must decide as she haddecided, and that Mr Whittlestaff had decided so also. He had usedwhat eloquence was within his reach, and it had been all in vain. He could now appeal only to herself, and to such appeal there couldbe but one answer. And how was such appeal to be made in Mr Hall'sdrawing-room? Surely John Gordon had been foolish in remaining in theneighbourhood. Nothing but trouble could come of it. 

"So you are going to see this young man again!" This came from MrsBaggett, who had been in great perturbation all the morning. TheSergeant had slept in the stables through the night, and had had hisbreakfast brought to him, warm, by his own wife; but he had sat upamong the straw, and had winked at her, and had asked her to give himthreepence of gin with the cat-lap. To this she had acceded, thinkingprobably that she could not altogether deprive him of the food towhich he was accustomed without injury. Then, under the influenceof the gin and the promise of a ticket to Portsmouth, which sheundertook to get for him at the station, he was induced to go downwith her, and was absolutely despatched. Her own box was still lockedup, and she had slept with one of the two maids. All this had nothappened without great disturbance in the household. She herself wasvery angry with her master because of the box; she was very angrywith Mary, because Mary was, she thought, averse to her old lover;she was very angry with Mr Gordon, because she well understood thatMr Gordon was anxious to disturb the arrangement which had been madefor the family. She was very angry with her husband, not because hewas generally a drunken old reprobate, but because he had especiallydisgraced her on the present occasion by the noise which he had madein the road. No doubt she had been treated unfairly in the matter ofthe box, and could have succeeded in getting the law of her master. But she could not turn against her master in that way. She could givehim a bit of her own mind, and that she did very freely; but shecould not bring herself to break the lock of his door. And then, asthings went now, she did think it well that she should remain a fewdays longer at Croker's Hall. The occasion of her master's marriagewas to be the cause of her going away. She could not endure not to beforemost among all the women at Croker's Hall. But it was intolerableto her feelings that any one should interfere with her master; andshe thought that, if need were, she could assist him by her tongue. Therefore she was disposed to remain yet a few days in her old place, and had come, after she had got the ticket for her husband, --whichhad been done before Mr Whittlestaff's breakfast, --to inform hermaster of her determination. "Don't be a fool, " Mr Whittlestaff hadsaid. 

"I'm always a fool, whether I go or stay, so that don't much matter. "This had been her answer, and then she had gone in to scold themaids. 

As soon as she had heard of the intended dinner-party, she attackedMary Lawrie. "So you're going to see this young man again?"

"Mr Whittlestaff is going to dine at Little Alresford, and intendsto take me with him. "

"Oh yes; that's all very well. He'd have left you behind if he'dbeen of my way of thinking. Mr Gordon here, and Mr Gordon there! Iwonder what's Mr Gordon! He ain't no better than an ordinary miner. Coals and diamonds is all one to me;--I'd rather have the coals forchoice. " But Mary was not in a humour to contest the matter with MrsBaggett, and left the old woman the mistress of the field. 

When the time arrived for going to the dinner, Mr Whittlestaff tookMary in the pony carriage with him. "There is always a groom aboutthere, " he said, "so we need not take the boy. " His object was, asMary in part understood, that he should be able to speak what lastwords he might have to utter without having other ears than hers tolisten to them. 

Mary would have been surprised had she known how much painful thoughtMr Whittlestaff gave to the matter. To her it seemed as though hehad made up his mind without any effort, and was determined to abideby it. He had thought it well to marry her; and having asked her, and having obtained her consent, he intended to take advantage ofher promise. That was her idea of Mr Whittlestaff, as to which shedid not at all blame him. But he was, in truth, changing his purposeevery quarter of an hour;--or not changing it, but thinking again andagain throughout the entire day whether he would not abandon himselfand all his happiness to the romantic idea of making this girlsupremely happy. Were he to do so, he must give up everything. Theworld would have nothing left for him as to which he could feel theslightest interest. There came upon him at such moments insane ideasas to the amount of sacrifice which would be demanded of him. Sheshould have everything--his house, his fortune; and he, John Gordon, as being a part of her, should have them also. He, Whittlestaff, would abolish himself as far as such abolition might be possible. The idea of suicide was abominable to him--was wicked, cowardly, andinhuman. But if this were to take place he could wish to cease tolive. Then he would comfort himself by assuring himself again andagain that of the two he would certainly make the better husband. Hewas older. Yes; it was a pity that he should be so much the elder. And he knew that he was old of his age, --such a one as a girl likeMary Lawrie could hardly be brought to love passionately. He broughtup against himself all the hard facts as sternly as could any youngerrival. He looked at himself in the glass over and over again, andalways gave the verdict against his own appearance. There was nothingto recommend him. So he told himself, --judging of himself mostunfairly. He set against himself as evils little points by whichMary's mind and Mary's judgment would never be affected. But in truththroughout it all he thought only of her welfare. But there came uponhim constantly an idea that he hardly knew how to be as good to heras he would have been had it not been for Catherine Bailey. To haveattempted twice, and twice to have failed so disastrously! He was aman to whom to have failed once in such a matter was almost death. How should he bear it twice and still live? Nevertheless he didendeavour to think only of her welfare. "You won't find it cold, mydear?" he said. 

"Cold! Why, Mr Whittlestaff, it's quite hot. "

"I meant hot. I did mean to say hot. "

"I've got my parasol. "

"Oh!--ah!--yes; so I perceive. Go on, Tommy. That foolish old womanwill settle down at last, I think. " To this Mary could make noanswer, because, according to her ideas, Mrs Baggett's settling downmust depend on her master's marriage. "I think it very civil of MrHall asking us in this way. "

"I suppose it is. "

"Because you may be sure he had heard of your former acquaintancewith him. "

"Do you think so?"

"Not a doubt about it. He said as much to me in his note. That youngclergyman of his will have told him everything. 'Percontatorem fugitonam garrulus idem est. ' I've taught you Latin enough to understandthat. But, Mary, if you wish to change your mind, this will be yourlast opportunity. " His heart at that moment had been very tendertowards her, and she had resolved that hers should be very firm tohim. 

CHAPTER XV. 

MR WHITTLESTAFF GOES OUT TO DINNER. 

This would be her last opportunity. So Mary told herself as she gotout of the carriage at Mr Hall's front door. It was made manifest toher by such a speech that he did not expect that she should do so, but looked upon her doing so as within the verge of possibility. Shecould still do it, and yet not encounter his disgust or his horror. How terrible was the importance to herself, and, as she believed, tothe other man also. Was she not justified in so thinking? Mr Gordonhad come home, travelling a great distance, at much risk to hisproperty, at great loss of time, through infinite trouble and danger, merely to ask her to be his wife. Had a letter reached her from himbut a week ago bidding her to come, would she not have gone throughall the danger and all the trouble? How willingly would she havegone! It was the one thing that she desired; and, as far as she couldunderstand the signs which he had given, it was the one, one thingwhich he desired. He had made his appeal to that other man, and, asfar as she could understand the signs which had reached her, had beenreferred with confidence to her decision. Now she was told that thechance of changing her mind was still in her power. 

The matter was one of terrible importance; but was its importanceto Mr Whittlestaff as great as to John Gordon? She put herselfaltogether out of the question. She acknowledged to herself, with afalse humility, that she was nobody;--she was a poor woman living oncharity, and was not to be thought of when the position of these twomen was taken into consideration. It chanced that they both wantedher. Which wanted the most? Which of the two would want her for thelongest? To which would her services be of the greater avail inassisting him to his happiness. Could there be a doubt? Was it notin human nature that she should bind herself to the younger man, andwith him go through the world, whether safely or in danger?

But though she had had time to allow these questions to pass throughher mind between the utterance of Mr Whittlestaff's words and herentrance into Mr Hall's drawing-room, she did not in truth doubt. She knew that she had made up her mind on the matter. Mr Gordonwould in all probability have no opportunity of saying another wordto her. But let him say what word he might, it should be in vain. Nothing that he could say, nothing that she could say, would availanything. If this other man would release her, --then indeed she wouldbe released. But there was no chance of such release coming. Intruth, Mary did not know how near the chance was to her;--or rather, how near the chance had been. He had now positively made up his mind, and would say not a word further unless she asked him. If Mary saidnothing to John Gordon on this evening, he would take an opportunitybefore they left the house to inform Mr Hall of his intendedmarriage. When once the word should have passed his mouth, he couldnot live under the stigma of a second Catherine Bailey. 

"Miss Lawrie, pray let me make you known to my intended. " This camefrom Mr Montagu Blake, who felt himself to be justified by hispeculiar circumstances in so far taking upon himself the work ofintroducing the guests in Mr Hall's house. "Of course, you've heardall about it. I am the happiest young man in Hampshire, --and she isthe next. "

"Speak for yourself, Montagu. I am not a young man at all. "

"You're a young man's darling, which is the next thing to it. "

"How are you, Whittlestaff?" said Mr Hall. "Wonderful weather, isn'tit? I'm told that you've been in trouble about that drunken husbandwhich plagues the life out of that respectable housekeeper of yours. "

"He is a trouble; but if he is bad to me, how much worse must he beto her?"

"That's true. He must be very bad, I should think. Miss Mary, whydon't you come over this fine weather, and have tea with my girls andKattie Forrester in the woods? You should take your chance while youhave a young man willing to wait upon you. "

"I shall be quite delighted, " said Blake, "and so will John Gordon. "

"Only that I shall be in London this time to-morrow, " said Gordon. 

"That's nonsense. You are not going to Kimberley all at once. Theyoung ladies expect you to bring out a lot of diamonds and show thembefore you start. Have you seen his diamonds, Miss Lawrie?"

"Indeed no, " said Mary. 

"I think I should have asked just to see them, " said Evelina Hall. Why should they join her name with his in this uncivil manner, orsuppose that she had any special power to induce him to show histreasures. 

"When you first find a diamond, " said Mr Hall, "what do you do withit? Do you ring a bell and call together your friends, and begin torejoice. "

"No, indeed. The diamond is generally washed out of the mud by somenigger, and we have to look very sharp after him to see that hedoesn't hide it under his toe-nails. It's not a very romantic kind ofbusiness from first to last. "

"Only profitable, " said the curate. 

"That's as may be. It is subject to greater losses than the preachingof sermons. "

"I should like to go out and see it all, " said Miss Hall, lookinginto Miss Lawrie's face. This also appeared to Mary to beill-natured. 

Then the butler announced the dinner, and they all followed Mr Halland the curate's bride out of one room into the other. "This younglady, " said he, "is supposed to be in the ascendant just at thepresent moment. She can't be married above two or three times at themost. I say this to excuse myself to Miss Lawrie, who ought perhapsto have the post of honour. " To this some joking reply was made, and they all sat down to their dinner. Miss Lawrie was at Mr Hall'sleft hand, and at her left hand John Gordon was seated. Mary couldperceive that everything was arranged so as to throw herself and JohnGordon together, --as though they had some special interest in eachother. Of all this Mr Whittlestaff saw nothing. But John Gordon didperceive something, and told himself that that ass Blake had been atwork. But his perceptions in the matter were not half as sharp asthose of Mary Lawrie. 

"I used to be very fond of your father, Gordon, " said Mr Hall, whenthe dinner was half over. "It's all done and gone now. Dear, dear, dear!"

"He was an unfortunate man, and perhaps expected too much from hisfriends. "

"I am very glad to see his son here, at any rate. I wish you were notgoing to settle down so far away from us. "

"Kimberley is a long way off. "

"Yes, indeed; and when a fellow gets out there he is apt to stay, Isuppose. "

"I shall do so, probably. I have nobody near enough to me here athome to make it likely that I shall come back. "

"You have uncles and aunts?" said Mr Hall. 

"One uncle and two aunts. I shall suit their views and my cousins'better by sending home some diamonds than by coming myself. "

"How long will that take?" asked Mr Hall. The conversation was keptup solely between Mr Hall and John Gordon. Mr Whittlestaff took noshare in it unless when he was asked a question, and the four girlskept up a whisper with Miss Forrester and Montagu Blake. 

"I have a share in rather a good thing, " said Gordon; "and if I couldget out of it so as to realise my property, I think that six monthsmight suffice. "

"Oh, dear! Then we may have you back again before the year's out?"Mr Whittlestaff looked up at this, as though apprised that thedanger was not yet over. But he reflected that before twelve monthswere gone he would certainly have made Mary Lawrie his wife. 

"Kimberley is not a very alluring place, " said John Gordon. "I don'tknow any spot on God's earth that I should be less likely to chooseas my abiding resting-place. "

"Except for the diamonds. "

"Except for the diamonds, as you remark. And therefore when a man hasgot his fill of diamonds, he is likely to leave. "

"His fill of diamonds!" said Augusta Hall. 

"Shouldn't you like to try your fill of diamonds?" asked Blake. 

"Not at all, " said Evelina. "I'd rather have strawberries and cream. "

"I think I should like diamonds best, " said Mary. Whereupon Evelinasuggested that her younger sister was a greedy little creature. 

"As soon as you've got your fill of diamonds, which won't takemore than six months longer, " suggested Mr Hall, "you'll come backagain?"

"Not exactly. I have an idea of going up the country across theZambesi. I've a notion that I should like to make my way outsomewhere in the Mediterranean, --Egypt, for instance, or Algiers. "

"What!--across the equator? You'd never do that alive?"

"Things of that kind have been done. Stanley crossed the continent. "

"But not from south to north. I don't believe in that. You had betterremain at Kimberley and get more diamonds. "

"He'd be with diamonds like the boy with the bacon, " said theclergyman; "when prepared for another wish, he'd have more than hecould eat. "

"To tell the truth, " said John Gordon, "I don't quite know what Ishould do. It would depend perhaps on what somebody else would joinme in doing. My life was very lonely at Kimberley, and I do not lovebeing alone. "

"Then, why don't you take a wife?" said Montagu Blake, very loudly, as though he had hit the target right in the bull's-eye. He so spokeas to bring the conversation to an abrupt end. Mr Whittlestaffimmediately looked conscious. He was a man who, on such an occasion, could not look otherwise than conscious. And the five girls, with allof whom the question of the loves of John Gordon and Mary Lawrie hadbeen fully discussed, looked conscious. Mary Lawrie was painfullyconscious; but endeavoured to hide it, not unsuccessfully. But inher endeavour she had to look unnaturally stern, --and was conscious, too, that she did that. Mr Hall, whose feelings of romance were notperhaps of the highest order, looked round on Mr Whittlestaff andMary Lawrie. Montagu Blake felt that he had achieved a triumph. "Yes, " said he, "if those are your feelings, why don't you take awife?"

"One man may not be so happy as another, " said Gordon, laughing. "Youhave suited yourself admirably, and seem to think it quite easy for aman to make a selection. "

"Not quite such a selection as mine, perhaps, " said Blake. 

"Then think of the difficulty. Do you suppose that any second MissForrester would dream of going to the diamond-fields with me?"

"Perhaps not, " said Blake. "Not a second Miss Forrester--but somebodyelse. "

"Something inferior?"

"Well--yes; inferior to my Miss Forrester, certainly. "

"You are the most conceited young man that I ever came across, " saidthe young lady herself. 

"And I am not inclined to put up with anything that is veryinferior, " said John Gordon. He could not help his eye from glancingfor a moment round upon Mary Lawrie. She was aware of it, though noone else noticed it in the room. She was aware of it, though any onewatching her would have said that she had never looked at him. 

"A man may always find a woman to suit him, if he looks wellabout him, " said Mr Hall, sententiously. "Don't you think so, Whittlestaff?"

"I dare say he may, " said Mr Whittlestaff, very flatly. And as hesaid so he made up his mind that he would, for that day, postpone thetask of telling Mr Hall of his intended marriage. 

The evening passed by, and the time came for Mr Whittlestaff todrive Miss Lawrie back to Croker's Hall. She had certainly spent amost uneventful period, as far as action or even words of her own wasconcerned. But the afternoon was one which she would never forget. She had been quite, quite sure, when she came into the house; but shewas more than sure now. At every word that had been spoken she hadthought of herself and of him. Would he not have known how to havechosen a fit companion, --only for this great misfortune? And wouldshe have been so much inferior to Miss Forrester? Would he havethought her inferior to any one? Would he not have preferred her toany other female whom the world had at the present moment produced?Oh, the pity of it; the pity of it!

Then came the bidding of adieu. Gordon was to sleep at LittleAlresford that night, and to take his departure by early train on thenext morning. Of the adieux spoken the next morning we need take nonotice, but only of the word or two uttered that night. "Good-bye, Mr Gordon, " said Mr Whittlestaff, having taken courage for theoccasion, and having thought even of the necessary syllables to bespoken. 

"Good-bye, Mr Whittlestaff, " and he gave his rival his hand inapparently friendly grasp. To those burning questions he had asked hehad received no word of reply; but they were questions which he wouldnot repeat again. 

"Good-bye, Mr Gordon, " said Mary. She had thought of the momentmuch, but had determined at last that she would trust herself tonothing further. He took her hand, but did not say a word. He took itand pressed it for a moment, and then turned his face away, and wentin from the hall back to the door leading to the drawing-room. MrWhittlestaff was at the moment putting on his great-coat, and Marystood with her bonnet and cloak on at the open front door, listeningto a word or two from Kattie Forrester and Evelina Hall. "Oh, I wish, I wish it might have been!" said Kattie Forrester. 

"And so do I, " said Evelina. "Can't it be?"

"Good-night, " said Mary, boldly, stepping out rapidly into themoonlight, and mounting without assistance to her place in the opencarriage. 

"I beg your pardon, " said Mr Hall, following her; but there came nota word from her. 

Mr Whittlestaff had gone back after John Gordon. "By-the-by, " hesaid, "what will be your address in London?"

"The 'Oxford and Cambridge' in Pall Mall, " said he. 

"Oh, yes; the club there. It might be that I should have a word tosend to you. But I don't suppose I shall, " he added, as he turnedround to go away. Then he shook hands with the party in the hall, andmounting up into the carriage, drove Mary and himself away homewardstowards Croker's Hall. 

Not a word was spoken between them for the first mile, nor did asound of a sob or an audible suspicion of a tear come from Mary. Whydid those girls know the secret of her heart in that way? Why hadthey dared to express a hope as to an event, or an idea as to adisappointment, all knowledge of which ought to be buried in her ownbosom? Had she spoken of her love for John Gordon? She was sure thatno word had escaped her. And were it surmised, was it not customarythat such surmises should be kept in the dark? But here these youngladies had dared to pity her for her vain love, as though, like somevillage maiden, she had gone about in tears bewailing herself thatsome groom or gardener had been faithless. But sitting thus for thefirst mile, she choked herself to keep down her sobs. 

"Mary, " at last he whispered to her. 

"Well, Mr Whittlestaff?"

"Mary, we are both of us unhappy. "

"I am not unhappy, " she said, plucking up herself suddenly. "Why doyou say that I am unhappy?"

"You seem so. I at any rate am unhappy. "

"What makes you so?"

"I did wrong to take you to dine in company with that man. "

"It was not for me to refuse to go. "

"No; there is no blame to you in it;--nor is there blame to me. Butit would have been better for us both had we remained away. " Then hedrove on in silence, and did not speak another word till they reachedhome. 

"Well!" said Mrs Baggett, following them into the dining-room. 

"What do you mean by 'well'?"

"What did the folks say to you at Mr Hall's? I can see by your facethat some of them have been saying summat. "

"Nobody has been saying anything that I know of, " said MrWhittlestaff. "Do you go to bed. " Then when Mrs Baggett was gone, and Mary had listlessly seated herself on a chair, her lover againaddressed her. "I wish I knew what there is in your heart. " Yet shewould not tell him; but turned away her face and sat silent. "Haveyou nothing to say to me?"

"What should I have to say to you? I have nothing to say of that ofwhich you are thinking. "

"He has gone now, Mary. "

"Yes; he has gone. "

"And you are contented?" It did seem hard upon her that she should becalled upon to tell a lie, --to say that which he must know to be alie, --and to do so in order that he might be encouraged to perseverein achieving his own object. But she did not quite understand him. "Are you contented?" he repeated again. 

Then she thought that she would tell the lie. If it was well thatshe should make the sacrifice for his sake, why should it not becompleted? If she had to give herself to him, why should not the giftbe as satisfactory as it might be made to his feelings? "Yes; I amcontented. "

"And you do not wish to see him again?"

"Certainly not, as your wife. "

"You do not wish it at all, " he rejoined, "whether you be my wife orotherwise?"

"I think you press me too hard. " Then she remembered herself, and theperfect sacrifice which she was minded to make. "No; I do not wishagain to see Mr Gordon at all. Now, if you will allow me, I willgo to bed. I am thoroughly tired out, and I hardly know what I amsaying. "

"Yes; you can go to bed, " he said. Then she gave him her hand insilence, and went off to her own room. 

She had no sooner reached her bed, than she threw herself on it andburst into tears. All this which she had to endure, --all that shewould have to bear, --would be, she thought, too much for her. Andthere came upon her a feeling of contempt for his cruelty. Had hesternly resolved to keep her to her promised word, and to forbid herall happiness for the future, --to make her his wife, let her heart beas it might;--had he said: "you have come to my house, and have eatenmy bread and have drunk of my cup, and have then promised to becomemy wife, and now you shall not depart from it because this interloperhas come between us;"--then, though she might have felt him to becruel, still she would have respected him. He would have done, as shebelieved, as other men do. But he wished to gain his object, and yetnot appear to be cruel. It was so that she thought of him. "And itshall be as he would have it, " she said to herself. But though shesaw far into his character, she did not quite read it aright. 

He remained there alone in his library into the late hours of thenight. But he did not even take up a book with the idea of solacinghis hours. He too had his idea of self-sacrifice, which went quiteas far as hers. But yet he was not as sure as was she that theself-sacrifice would be a duty. He did not believe, as did she, inthe character of John Gordon. What if he should give her up to onewho did not deserve her, --to one whose future would not be stableenough to secure the happiness and welfare of such a woman as wasMary Lawrie! He had no knowledge to guide him, nor had she;--nor, forthe matter of that, had John Gordon himself any knowledge of what hisown future might be. Of his own future Mr Whittlestaff could speakand think with the greatest confidence. It would be safe, happy, andbright, should Mary Lawrie become his wife. Should she not do so, itmust be altogether ruined and confounded. 

He could not conceive it to be possible that he should be requiredby duty to make such a sacrifice; but he knew of himself that if herhappiness, her true and permanent happiness, would require it, thenthe sacrifice should be made. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

MRS BAGGETT'S PHILOSOPHY. 

The next day was Saturday, and Mr Whittlestaff came out of his roomearly, intending to speak to Mrs Baggett. He had declared to himselfthat it was his purpose to give her some sound advice respecting herown affairs, --as far as her affairs and his were connected together. But low down in his mind, below the stratum in which his declaredresolution was apparent to himself, there was a hope that he mightget from her some comfort and strength as to his present purpose. Notbut that he would ultimately do as he himself had determined; but, totell the truth, he had not quite determined, and thought that a wordfrom Mrs Baggett might assist him. 

As he came out from his room, he encountered Mary, intent upon herhousehold duties. It was something before her usual time, and he wassurprised. She had looked ill overnight and worn, and he had expectedthat she would keep her bed. "What makes you so early, Mary?" Hespoke to her with his softest and most affectionate tone. 

"I couldn't sleep, and I thought I might as well be up. " She hadfollowed him into the library, and when there he put his arm roundher waist and kissed her forehead. It was a strange thing for himto do. She felt that it was so--very, very strange; but it neveroccurred to her that it behoved her to be angry at his caress. He hadkissed her once before, and only once, and it had seemed to her thathe had intended that their love-making should go on without kisses. But was she not his property, to do as he pleased with her? And therecould be no ground for displeasure on her part. 

"Dear Mary, " he said, "if you could only know how constant mythoughts are to you. " She did not doubt that it was so; but just soconstant were her thoughts to John Gordon. But from her to him therecould be no show of affection--nothing but the absolute coldnessof perfect silence. She had passed the whole evening with him lastnight, and had not been allowed to speak a single word to him beyondthe ordinary greetings of society. She had felt that she had notbeen allowed to speak a single word to any one, because he had beenpresent. Mr Whittlestaff had thrown over her the deadly mantle ofhis ownership, and she had consequently felt herself to be debarredfrom all right over her own words and actions. She had become hisslave; she felt herself in very truth to be a poor creature whoseonly duty it was in the world to obey his volition. She had toldherself during the night that, with all her motives for loving him, she was learning to regard him with absolute hatred. And she hatedherself because it was so. Oh, what a tedious affair was this ofliving! How tedious, how sad and miserable, must her future days be, as long as days should be left to her! Could it be made possible toher that she should ever be able to do her duty by this husband ofhers, --for her, in whose heart of hearts would be seated continuallythe image of this other man?

"By-the-by, " said he, "I want to see Mrs Baggett. I suppose she isabout somewhere. "

"Oh dear, yes. Since the trouble of her husband has become nearer, she is earlier and earlier every day. Shall I send her?" Then shedeparted, and in a few minutes Mrs Baggett entered the room. 

"Come in, Mrs Baggett. "

"Yes, sir. "

"I have just a few words which I want to say to you. Your husband hasgone back to Portsmouth?"

"Yes sir; he have. " This she said in a very decided tone, as thoughher master need trouble himself no further about her husband. 

"I am very glad that it should be so. It's the best place forhim, --unless he could be sent to Australia. "

"He ain't a-done nothing to fit himself for Botany Bay, MrWhittlestaff, " said the old woman, bobbing her head at him. 

"I don't care what place he has fitted himself for, so long as hedoesn't come here. He is a disreputable old man. "

"You needn't be so hard upon him, Mr Whittlestaff. He ain't a-donenothing much to you, barring sleeping in the stable one night whenhe had had a drop o' drink too much. " And the old woman pulled out agreat handkerchief, and began to wipe her eyes piteously. 

"What a fool you are, Mrs Baggett. "

"Yes; I am a fool. I knows that. "

"Here's this disreputable old man eating and drinking yourhard-earned wages. "

"But they are my wages. And who's a right to them, only he?"

"I don't say anything about that, only he comes here and disturbsyou. "

"Well, yes; he is disturbing; if it's only because of his wooden legand red nose. I don't mean to say as he's the sort of a man as does acredit to a gentleman's house to see about the place. But he was mylot in matrimony, and I've got to put up with him. I ain't a-going torefuse to bear the burden which came to be my lot. I don't supposehe's earned a single shilling since he left the regiment, and that ishard upon a poor woman who's got nothing but her wages. "

"Now, look here, Mrs Baggett. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Send him your wages. "

"And have to go in rags myself, --in your service. "

"You won't go in rags. Don't be a fool. "

"I am a fool, Mr Whittlestaff; you can't tell me that too often. "

"You won't go in rags. You ought to know us well enough--"

"Who is us, Mr Whittlestaff? They ain't no us;--just yet. "

"Well;--me. "

"Yes, I know you, Mr Whittlestaff. "

"Send him your wages. You may be quite sure that you'll find yourselfprovided with shoes and stockings, and the rest of it. "

"And be a woluntary burden beyond what I earns! Never;--not as longas Miss Mary is coming to live here as missus of your house. I shoulddo summat as I should have to repent of. But, Mr Whittlestaff, I'vegot to look the world in the face, and bear my own crosses. I nevercan do it no younger. "

"You're an old woman now, and you talk of throwing yourself upon theworld without the means of earning a shilling. "

"I think I'd earn some, at something, old as I am, till I fell downflat dead, " she said. "I have that sperit in me, that I'd still bedoing something. But it don't signify; I'm not going to remain herewhen Miss Mary is to be put over me. That's the long and the short ofit all. "

Now had come the moment in which, if ever, Mr Whittlestaff mustget the strength which he required. He was quite sure of the oldwoman, --that her opinion would not be in the least influenced by anydesire on her own part to retain her position as his housekeeper. "Idon't know about putting Miss Mary over you, " he said. 

"Don't know about it!" she shouted. 

"My mind is not absolutely fixed. "

"'As she said anything?"

"Not a word. "

"Or he? Has he been and dared to speak up about Miss Mary. Andhe, --who, as far as I can understand, has never done a ha'porth forher since the beginning. What's Mr Gordon? I should like to know. Diamonds! What's diamonds in the way of a steady income? They're alla flash in the pan, and moonshine and dirtiness. I hates to hear ofdiamonds. There's all the ill in the world comes from them; and you'dgive her up to be taken off by such a one as he among the diamonds!I make bold to tell you, Mr Whittlestaff, that you ought to have morestrength of mind than what that comes to. You're telling me every dayas I'm an old fool. "

"So you are. "

"I didn't never contradict you; nor I don't mean, if you tells me soas often again. And I don't mean to be that impident as to tell mymaster as I ain't the only fool about the place. It wouldn't be nowise becoming. "

"But you think it would be true. "

"I says nothing about that. That's not the sort of language anybodyhas heard to come out of my mouth, either before your face or behindyour back. But I do say as a man ought to behave like a man. What!Give up to a chap as spends his time in digging for diamonds! Never!"

"What does it matter what he digs for; you know nothing about hisbusiness. "

"But I know something about yours, Mr Whittlestaff. I know where youhave set your wishes. And I know that when a man has made up his mindin such an affair as this, he shouldn't give way to any young diamonddealer of them all. "

"Not to him. "

"And what's she? Are you to give up everything because she'slove-sick for a day or two? Is everything to be knocked to pieceshere at Croker's Hall, because he has come and made eyes at her? Shewas glad enough to take what you offered before he had come thisway. "

"She was not glad enough. That is it. She was not glad enough. "

"She took you, at any rate, and I'd never make myself mean enough tomake way for such a fellow as that. "

"It isn't for him, Mrs Baggett. "

"It is for him. Who else? To walk away and just leave the game openbecause he has come down to Hampshire! There ain't no spirit ofstanding up and fighting about it. "

"With whom am I to fight?"

"With both of 'em;--till you have your own way. A foolish, stupid, weak girl like that!"

"I won't have her abused. "

"She's very well. I ain't a-saying nothing against her. If she'll dowhat you bid her, she'll turn out right enough. You asked her, andshe said she'd do it. Is not that so? There's nothing I hate so muchas them romantic ways. And everything is to be made to give waybecause a young chap is six foot high! I hates romance and manlybeauty, as they call it, and all the rest of it. Where is she to gether bread and meat? That's what I want to know. "

"There'll be bread and meat for her. "

"I dare say. But you'll have to pay for it, while she's philanderingabout with him! And that's what you call fine feelings. I call itall rubbish. If you've a mind to make her Mrs Whittlestaff, make herMrs Whittlestaff. Drat them fine feelings. I never knew no good comeof what people call fine feelings. If a young woman does her workas it should be, she's got no time to think of 'em. And if a man ismaster, he should be master. How's a man to give way to a girl likethat, and then stand up and face the world around him? A man has tobe master; and when he's come to be a little old-like, he has to seethat he will be master. I never knew no good come of one of themsoft-going fellows who is minded to give up whenever a woman wantsanything. What's a woman? It ain't natural that she should have herway; and she don't like a man a bit better in the long-run becausehe lets her. There's Miss Mary; if you're stiff with her now, she'llcome out right enough in a month or two. She's lived without MrGordon well enough since she's been here. Now he's come, and we heara deal about these fine feelings. You take my word, and say nothingto nobody about the young man. He's gone by this time, or he'sa-going. Let him go, say I; and if Miss Mary takes on to whimper abit, don't you see it. "

Mrs Baggett took her departure, and Mr Whittlestaff felt that hehad received the comfort, or at any rate the strength, of which hehad been in quest. In all that the woman had said to him, there hadbeen a re-echo of his own thoughts, --of one side, at any rate, ofhis own thoughts. He knew that true affection, and the substantialcomforts of the world, would hold their own against all romance. And he did not believe, --in his theory of ethics he did notbelieve, --that by yielding to what Mrs Baggett called fine feelings, he would in the long-run do good to those with whom he was concernedin the world. Were he to marry Mary Lawrie now, Mary Whittlestaffwould, he thought, in ten years' time, be a happier woman than werehe to leave her. That was the solid conviction of his mind, and inthat he had been strengthened by Mrs Baggett's arguments. He haddesired to be so strengthened, and therefore his interview had beensuccessful. 

But as the minutes passed by, as every quarter of an hour addeditself to the quarters that were gone, and as the hours grew on, andthe weakness of evening fell upon him, all his softness came backagain. They had dined at six o'clock, and at seven he declared hispurpose of strolling out by himself. On these summer evenings hewould often take Mary with him; but he now told her, with a sort ofapology, that he would rather go alone. "Do, " she said, smiling upinto his face; "don't let me ever be in your way. Of course, a mandoes not always want to have to find conversation for a young lady. "

"If you are the young lady, I should always want it--only that I havethings to think of. "

"Go and think of your things. I will sit in the garden and do mystitching. "

About a mile distant, where the downs began to rise, there was a walksupposed to be common to all who chose to frequent it, but which wasentered through a gate which gave the place within the appearance ofprivacy. There was a little lake inside crowded with water-lilies, when the time for the water-lilies had come; and above the lake apath ran up through the woods, very steep, and as it rose higher andhigher, altogether sheltered. It was about a mile in length tillanother gate was reached; but during the mile the wanderer couldgo off on either side, and lose himself on the grass among thebeech-trees. It was a favourite haunt with Mr Whittlestaff. Here hewas wont to sit and read his Horace, and think of the affairs of theworld as Horace depicted them. Many a morsel of wisdom he had heremade his own, and had then endeavoured to think whether the wisdomhad in truth been taken home by the poet to his own bosom, or hadonly been a glitter of the intellect, never appropriated for anyuseful purpose. "'Gemmas, marmor, ebur, '" he had said. "'Sunt qui nonhabeant; est qui non curat habere. ' I suppose he did care for jewels, marble, and ivory, as much as any one. 'Me lentus Glyceræ torretamor meæ. ' I don't suppose he ever loved her really, or any othergirl. " Thus he would think over his Horace, always having the volumein his pocket. 

Now he went there. But when he had sat himself down in a spot towhich he was accustomed, he had no need to take out his Horace. Hisown thoughts came to him free enough without any need of his lookingfor them to poetry. After all, was not Mrs Baggett's teaching adamnable philosophy? Let the man be the master, and let him geteverything he can for himself, and enjoy to the best of his abilityall that he can get. That was the lesson as taught by her. But as hesat alone there beneath the trees, he told himself that no teachingwas more damnable. Of course it was the teaching by which the worldwas kept going in its present course; but when divested of itsplumage was it not absolutely the philosophy of selfishness? Becausehe was a man, and as a man had power and money and capacity to do thethings after which his heart lusted, he was to do them for his owngratification, let the consequences be what they might to one whomhe told himself that he loved! Did the lessons of Mrs Baggett runsmoothly with those of Jesus Christ?

Then within his own mind he again took Mrs Baggett's side of thequestion. How mean a creature must he not become, if he were now tosurrender this girl whom he was anxious to make his wife! He knew ofhimself that in such a matter he was more sensitive than others. Hecould not let her go, and then walk forth as though little or nothingwere the matter with him. Now for the second time in his life he hadessayed to marry. And now for the second time all the world wouldknow that he had been accepted and then rejected. It was, he thought, more than he could endure, --and live. 

Then after he had sat there for an hour he got up and walkedhome; and as he went he tried to resolve that he would reject thephilosophy of Mrs Baggett and accept the other. "If I only knew!"he said as he entered his own gate. "If one could only see clearly!"Then he found Mary still seated in the garden. "Nothing is to begot, " he said, "by asking you for an answer. "

"In what have I failed?"

"Never mind. Let us go in and have a cup of tea. " But she knew wellin what he accused her of failing, and her heart turned towards himagain. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

MR WHITTLESTAFF MEDITATES A JOURNEY. 

The next day was Sunday, and was passed in absolute tranquillity. Nothing was said either by Mr Whittlestaff or by Mary Lawrie; nor, to the eyes of those among whom they lived, was there anything toshow that their minds were disturbed. They went to church in themorning, as was usual with them, and Mary went also to the eveningservice. It was quite pleasant to see Mrs Baggett start for her slowSabbath morning walk, and to observe how her appearance altogetherbelied that idea of rags and tatters which she had given as to herown wardrobe. A nicer dressed old lady, or a more becoming black silkgown, you shall not see on a Sunday morning making her way to anycountry church in England. While she was looking so pleasant anddemure, --one may say almost so handsome, in her old-fashioned andapparently new bonnet, --what could have been her thoughts respectingthe red-nosed, one-legged warrior, and her intended life, to bepassed in fetching two-penn'orths of gin for him, and her endeavoursto get for him a morsel of wholesome food? She had had her breakfastout of her own china tea-cup, which she used to boast was her ownproperty, as it had been given to her by Mr Whittlestaff's mother, and had had her little drop of cream, and, to tell the truth, herboiled egg, which she always had on a Sunday morning, to enable herto listen to the long sermon of the Rev Mr Lowlad. She would talkof her hopes and her burdens, and undoubtedly she was in earnest. Butshe certainly did seem to make her hay very comfortably while the sunshone. 

Everything on this Sunday morning was pleasant, or apparentlypleasant, at Croker's Hall. In the evening, when Mary and themaid-servants went to church, leaving Mrs Baggett at home to lookafter the house and go to sleep, Mr Whittlestaff walked off to thewooded path with his Horace. He did not read it very long. The bitswhich he did usually read never amounted to much at a time. He wouldtake a few lines and then digest them thoroughly, wailing over themor rejoicing, as the case might be. He was not at the present momentmuch given to joy. "Intermissa, Venus, diu rursus bella moves? Parce, precor, precor. " This was the passage to which he turned at thepresent moment; and very little was the consolation which he foundin it. What was so crafty, he said to himself, or so vain as that anold man should hark back to the pleasures of a time of life which waspast and gone! "Non sum qualis eram, " he said, and then thought withshame of the time when he had been jilted by Catherine Bailey, --thetime in which he had certainly been young enough to love and beloved, had he been as lovable as he had been prone to love. Then heput the book in his pocket. His latter effort had been to recoversomething of the sweetness of life, and not, as had been the poet's, to drain those dregs to the bottom. But when he got home he bade Marytell him what Mr Lowlad had said in his sermon, and was quite cheeryin his manner of picking Mr Lowlad's theology to pieces;--for MrWhittlestaff did not altogether agree with Mr Lowlad as to the usesto be made of the Sabbath. 

On the next morning he began to bustle about a little, as was usualwith him before he made a journey; and it did escape him, while hewas talking to Mrs Baggett about a pair of trousers which it turnedout that he had given away last summer, that he meditated a journeyto London on the next day. 

"You ain't a-going?" said Mrs Baggett. 

"I think I shall. "

"Then don't. Take my word for it, sir, --don't. " But Mr Whittlestaffonly snubbed her, and nothing more was said about the journey at themoment. 

In the course of the afternoon visitors came. Miss Evelina Hall withMiss Forrester had been driven into Alresford, and now called incompany with Mr Blake. Mr Blake was full of his own good tidings, but not so full but that he could remember, before he took hisdeparture, to say a half whispered word on behalf of John Gordon. "What do you think, Mr Whittlestaff? Since you were at LittleAlresford we've settled the day. "

"You needn't be telling it to everybody about the county, " saidKattie Forrester. 

"Why shouldn't I tell it to my particular friends? I am sure MissLawrie will be delighted to hear it. "

"Indeed I am, " said Mary. 

"And Mr Whittlestaff also. Are you not, Mr Whittlestaff?"

"I am very happy to hear that a couple whom I like so well are soonto be made happy. But you have not yet told us the day. "

"The 1st of August, " said Evelina Hall. 

"The 1st of August, " said Mr Blake, "is an auspicious day. I am surethere is some reason for regarding it as auspicious, though I cannotexactly remember what. It is something about Augustus, I think. "

"I never heard of such an idea to come from a clergyman of the Churchof England, " said the bride. "I declare Montagu never seems to thinkthat he's a clergyman at all. "

"It will be better for him, " said Mr Whittlestaff, "and for allthose about him, that he should ever remember the fact and never seemto do so. "

"All the same, " said Blake, "although the 1st of August isauspicious, I was very anxious to be married in July, only thepainters said they couldn't be done with the house in time. One isobliged to go by what these sort of people say and do. We're to havea month's honeymoon, --only just a month, because Mr Lowlad won'tmake himself as agreeable as he ought to do about the services; andNewface, the plumber and glazier, says he can't have the house doneas Kattie would like to live in it before the end of August. Where doyou think we're going to, Miss Lawrie? You would never guess. "

"Perhaps to Rome, " said Mary at a shot. 

"Not quite so far. We're going to the Isle of Wight. It's ratherremarkable that I never spent but one week in the Isle of Wight sinceI was born. We haven't quite made up our mind whether it's to beBlack Gang Chine or Ventnor. It's a matter of dresses, you see. "

"Don't be a fool, Montagu, " said Miss Forrester. 

"Well, it is. If we decide upon Ventnor, she must have frocks andthings to come out with. "

"I suppose so, " said Mr Whittlestaff. 

"But she'll want nothing of the kind at Black Gang. "

"Do hold your tongue, and not make an ass of yourself. What do youknow what dresses I shall want? As it is, I don't think I shall goeither to the one place or the other. The Smiths are at Ryde, and thegirls are my great friends. I think we'll go to Ryde, after all. "

"I'm so sorry, Mr Whittlestaff, that we can't expect the pleasureof seeing you at our wedding. It is, of course, imperative thatKattie should be married in the cathedral. Her father is one of thedignitaries, and could not bear not to put his best foot foremost onsuch an occasion. The Dean will be there, of course. I'm afraid theBishop cannot come up from Farnham, because he will have friends withhim. I am afraid John Gordon will have gone by that time, or else wecertainly would have had him down. I should like John Gordon to bepresent, because he would see how the kind of thing is done. " Thename of John Gordon at once silenced all the matrimonial chit-chatwhich was going on among them. It was manifest both to MrWhittlestaff and to Mary that it had been lugged in without a cause, to enable Mr Blake to talk about the absent man. "It would have beenpleasant; eh, Kattie?"

"We should have been very glad to see Mr Gordon, if it would havesuited him to come, " said Miss Forrester. 

"It would have been just the thing for him; and we at Oxfordtogether, and everything. Don't you think he would have liked to bethere? It would have put him in mind of other things, you know. "

To this appeal there was no answer made. It was impossible that Maryshould bring herself to talk about John Gordon in mixed company. And the allusion to him stirred Mr Whittlestaff's wrath. Of courseit was understood as having been spoken in Mary's favour. And MrWhittlestaff had been made to perceive by what had passed at LittleAlresford that the Little Alresford people all took the side of JohnGordon, and were supposed to be taking the side of Mary at the sametime. There was not one of them, he said to himself, that had halfthe sense of Mrs Baggett. And there was a vulgarity about theirinterference of which Mrs Baggett was not guilty. 

"He is half way on his road to the diamond-fields, " said Evelina. 

"And went away from here on Saturday morning!" said Montagu Blake. "He has not started yet, --not dreamed of it. I heard him whisper toMr Whittlestaff about his address. He's to be in London at his club. I didn't hear him say for how long, but when a man gives his addressat his club he doesn't mean to go away at once. I have a plan in myhead. Some of those boats go to the diamond-fields from Southampton. All the steamers go everywhere from Southampton. Winchester is on theway to Southampton. Nothing will be easier for him than to drop infor our marriage on his way out. That is, if he must go at last. "Then he looked hard at Mary Lawrie. 

"And bring some of his diamonds with him, " said Evelina Hall. "Thatwould be very nice. " But not a word more was said then about JohnGordon by the inhabitants of Croker's Hall. After that the visitorswent, and Montagu Blake chaperoned the girls out of the house, without an idea that he had made himself disagreeable. 

"That young man is a most egregious ass, " said Mr Whittlestaff. 

"He is good-natured and simple, but I doubt whether he sees thingsvery plainly. "

"He has not an idea of what a man may talk about and when he shouldhold his tongue. And he is such a fool as to think that his idlechatter can influence others. I don't suppose a bishop can refuse toordain a gentleman because he is a general idiot. Otherwise I thinkthe bishop is responsible for letting in such an ass as this. " Marysaid to herself, as she heard this, that it was the most ill-naturedremark which she had ever known to fall from the mouth of MrWhittlestaff. 

"I think I am going away for a few days, " Mr Whittlestaff said toMary, when the visitors were gone. 

"Where are you going?"

"Well, I suppose I shall be in London. When one goes anywhere, it isgenerally to London; though I haven't been there for more than twomonths. "

"Not since I came to live with you, " she said. "You are the moststay-at-home person by way of a gentleman that I ever heard of. " Thenthere was a pause for a few minutes, and he said nothing further. "Might a person ask what you are going for?" This she asked in theplayful manner which she knew he would take in good part. 

"Well; I don't quite know that a person can. I am going to see a manupon business, and if I began to tell you part of it, I must tell itall, --which would not be convenient. "

"May I not ask how long you will be away? There can't be any dreadfulsecret in that. And I shall want to know what to get for your dinnerwhen you come back. " She was standing now at his elbow, and he washolding her by the arm. It was to him almost as though she werealready his wife, and the feeling to him was very pleasant. Only ifshe were his wife, or if it were positively decided among them thatshe would become so, he would certainly tell her the reason for whichhe might undertake any journey. Indeed there was no reason connectedwith any business of his which might not be told, other than thatspecial reason which was about to take him to London. He onlyanswered her now by pressing her hand and smiling into her face. "Will it be for a month?"

"Oh dear, no! what should I do away from home for a month?"

"How can I tell? The mysterious business may require you to be absentfor a whole year. Fancy my being left at home all that time. Youdon't think of it; but you have never left me for a single nightsince you first brought me to live here. "

"And you have never been away. "

"Oh, no! why should I go away? What business can a woman have to movefrom home, especially such a woman as I am. "

"You are just like Mrs Baggett. She always talks of women withsupreme contempt. And yet she is just as proud of herself as thequeen when you come to contradict her. "

"You never contradict me. "

"Perhaps the day may come when I shall. " Then he recollected himself, and added, "Or perhaps the day may never come. Never mind. Put upmy things for one week. At any rate I shall not be above a weekgone. " Then she left him, and went away to his room to do what wasnecessary. 

She knew the business on which he was about to travel to London, aswell as though he had discussed with her the whole affair. In thecourse of the last two or three days there had been moments in whichshe had declared to herself that he was cruel. There had been momentsin which she had fainted almost with sorrow when she thought of thelife which fate had in store for her. There must be endless misery, while there might have been joy, so ecstatic in its nature as to makeit seem to her to be perennial. Then she had almost fallen, and haddeclared him to be preternaturally cruel. But these moments had beenshort, and had endured only while she had allowed herself to dreamof the ecstatic joy, which she confessed to herself to be an unfitcondition of life for her. And then she had told herself that MrWhittlestaff was not cruel, and that she herself was no better than aweak, poor, flighty creature unable to look in its face life and allits realities. And then she would be lost in amazement as she thoughtof herself and all her vacillations. 

She now was resolved to take his part, and to fight his battle tothe end. When he had told her that he was going up to London, andgoing up on business as to which he could tell her nothing, she knewthat it behoved her to prevent him from taking the journey. JohnGordon should be allowed to go in quest of his diamonds, and MrWhittlestaff should be persuaded not to interfere with him. It wasfor her sake, and not for John Gordon's, that he was about to makethe journey. He had asked her whether she were willing to marry him, and she had told him that he was pressing her too hard. She wouldtell him now, --now before it was too late, --that this was not so. Hisjourney to London must at any rate be prevented. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

MR AND MRS TOOKEY. 

On the day arranged, early on the morning after the dinner at LittleAlresford Park, John Gordon went up to London. He had not been muchmoved by the intimation made to him by Mr Whittlestaff that someletter should be written to him at his London address. He had madehis appeal to Mr Whittlestaff, and had received no answer whatever. And he had, after a fashion, made his appeal also to the girl. Hefelt sure that his plea must reach her. His very presence thenin this house had been an appeal to her. He knew that she so farbelieved in him as to be conscious that she could at once becomehis wife--if she were willing to throw over his rival. He knew alsothat she loved him, --or had certainly loved him. He did not know thenature of her regard; nor was it possible that he should ever knowthat, --unless she were his wife. She had given a promise to thatother man, and--it was thus he read her character--she could betrue to her promise without any great heart-break. At any rate, sheintended to be true to it. He did not for a moment suspect that MrWhittlestaff was false. Mary had declared that she would not withdrawher word, --that only from her own mouth was to be taken her intentionof such withdrawal, and that such intention she certainly would neverutter. Of her character he understood much, --but not quite all. Hewas not aware of the depth of her feeling. But Mr Whittlestaff hedid not understand at all. Of all those vacillating softnesses heknew nothing, --or of those moments spent with the poet, in which hewas wont to fight against the poet's pretences, and of those othermoments spent with Mrs Baggett, in which he would listen to, andalways finally reject, those invitations to manly strength which shewould always pour into his ears. That Mr Whittlestaff should spendhour after hour, and now day after day, in teaching himself to regardnothing but what might best suit the girl's happiness, --of that hewas altogether in the dark. To his thinking, Mr Whittlestaff wasa hard man, who, having gained his object, intended to hold fastby what he had gained. He, John Gordon, knew, or thought that heknew, that Mary, as his wife, would lead a happier life than with MrWhittlestaff. But things had turned out unfortunately, and there wasnothing for him but to return to the diamond-fields. 

Therefore he had gone back to London with the purpose of preparingfor his journey. A man does not start for South Africa to-morrow, or, if not to-morrow, then the next day. He was aware that there must besome delay; but any place would be better in which to stay than theneighbourhood of Croker's Hall. There were things which must be done, and people with whom he must do it; but of all that, he need saynothing down at Alresford. Therefore, when he got back to London, hemeant to make all his arrangements--and did so far settle his affairsas to take a berth on board one of the mail steamers. 

He had come over in company with a certain lawyer, who had gone outto Kimberley with a view to his profession, and had then, as is thecase with all the world that goes to Kimberley, gone into diamonds. Diamonds had become more to him than either briefs or pleadings. Hehad been there for fifteen years, and had ruined himself and madehimself half-a-dozen times. He had found diamonds to be more pleasantthan law, and to be more compatible with champagne, tinned lobsters, and young ladies. He had married a wife, and had parted with her, and taken another man's wife, and paid for her with diamonds. He hadthen possessed nothing, and had afterwards come forth a third-partowner of the important Stick-in-the-Mud claim, which at one timewas paying 12 per cent per month. It must be understood that theStick-in-the-Mud claim was an almost infinitesimal portion of soilin the Great Kimberley mine. It was but the sixteenth part of anoriginal sub-division. But from the centre of the great basin, orrather bowl, which forms the mine, there ran up two wires to thehigh mound erected on the circumference, on which continually twoiron cages were travelling up and down, coming back empty, but goingup laden with gemmiferous dirt. Here travelled the diamonds ofthe Stick-in-the-Mud claim, the owner of one-third of which, MrFitzwalker Tookey, had come home with John Gordon. 

Taking a first general glance at affairs in the diamond-fields, Idoubt whether we should have been inclined to suspect that JohnGordon and Fitzwalker Tookey would have been likely to come togetheras partners in a diamond speculation. But John Gordon had in thecourse of things become owner of the other two shares, and whenFitzwalker Tookey determined to come home, he had done so with theobject of buying his partner's interest. This he might have done atonce, --only that he suffered under the privation of an insufficiencyof means. He was a man of great intelligence, and knew well that noreadier mode to wealth had ever presented itself to him than thepurchase of his partner's shares. Much was said to persuade JohnGordon; but he would not part with his documents without seeingsecurity for his money. Therefore Messrs. Gordon and Tookey put theold Stick-in-the-Mud into the hands of competent lawyers, and camehome together. 

"I am not at all sure that I shall sell, " John Gordon had said. 

"But I thought that you offered it. "

"Yes; for money down. For the sum named I will sell now. But if Istart from here without completing the bargain, I shall keep theoption in my own hands. The fact is, I do not know whether I shallremain in England or return. If I do come back I am not likely tofind anything better than the old Stick-in-the-Mud. " To this MrTookey assented, but still he resolved that he would go home. Henceit came to pass that Mr Fitzwalker Tookey was now in London, andthat John Gordon had to see him frequently. Here Tookey had foundanother would-be partner, who had the needed money, and it wasfervently desired by Mr Tookey that John Gordon might not go back toSouth Africa. 

The two men were not at all like in their proclivities; but they hadbeen thrown together, and each had learned much of the inside life ofthe other. The sort of acquaintance with whom a steady man becomesintimate in such a locality often surprises the steady man himself. Fitzwalker Tookey had the antecedents and education of a gentleman. Champagne and lobster suppers--the lobster coming out of tincases, --diamonds and strange ladies, even with bloated cheeks andstrong language, had not altogether destroyed the vestiges of theTemple. He at any rate was fond of a companion with whom he coulddiscuss his English regrets, and John Gordon was not inclined to shuthimself up altogether among his precious stones, and to refuse theconversation of a man who could talk. Tookey had told him of hisgreat distress in reference to his wife. "By G----! you know, thecruellest thing you ever heard in the world. I was a little tight onenight, and the next morning she was off with Atkinson, who got awaywith his pocket full of diamonds. Poor girl! she went down to thePortuguese settlement, and he was nabbed. He's doing penal servicenow down at Cape Town. That's a kind of thing that does upset afellow. " And poor Fitzwalker began to cry. 

Among such confidences Gordon allowed it to escape from him that werehe to become married in England, he did not think it probable that heshould return. Thus it was known, at least to his partner, that hewas going to look for a wife, and the desire in Mr Tookey's breastthat the wife might be forthcoming was intense. "Well!" he said, immediately on Gordon's return to London. 

"What does 'well' mean?"

"Of course you went down there to look after the lady. "

"I have never told you so. "

"But you did--did you not?"

"I have told you nothing about any lady, though you are constantlyasking questions. As a fact, I think I shall go back next month. "

"To Kimberley?"

"I think so. The stake I have there is of too great importance to beabandoned. "

"I have the money ready to pay over;--absolute cash on the nail. Youdon't call that abandoning it?"

"The claim has gone up in value 25 per cent, as you have alreadyheard. "

"Yes; it has gone up a little, but not so much as that. It will comedown as much by the next mail. With diamonds you never can stick toanything. "

"That's true. But you can only go by the prices as you see themquoted. They may be up 25 per cent again by next mail. At any rate, Iam going back. "

"The devil you are!"

"That's my present idea. As I like to be on the square with youaltogether, I don't mind saying that I have booked a berth by the_Kentucky Castle_. "

"The deuce you have! And you won't take a wife with you?"

"I am not aware that I shall have such an impediment. "

Then Fitzwalker Tookey assumed a very long face. It is difficult totrace the workings of such a man's mind, or to calculate the meagrechances on which he is too often driven to base his hopes of success. He feared that he could not show his face in Kimberley, unless asthe representative of the whole old Stick-in-the-Mud. And with thatobject he had declared himself in London to have the actual power ofdisposing of Gordon's shares. Gordon had gone down to Hampshire, andwould no doubt be successful with the young lady. At any rate, --ashe described it to himself, --he had "gone in for that. " He could seehis way in that direction, but in no other. "Upon my word, this, youknow, is--what I call--rather throwing a fellow over. "

"I am as good as my word. "

"I don't know about that, Gordon. "

"But I do, and I won't hear any assertion to the contrary. I offeredyou the shares for a certain price, and you rejected them. "

"I did not do that. "

"You did do that, --exactly. Then there came up in my mind a feelingthat I might probably wish to change my purpose. "

"And I am to suffer for that. "

"Not in the least. I then told you that you should still have theshares for the price named. But I did not offer them to any one else. So I came home, --and you chose to come with me. But before I started, and again after, I told you that the offer did not hold good, andthat I should not make up my mind as to selling till after I got toEngland. "

"We understood that you meant to be married. "

"I never said so. I never said a word about marriage. I am now goingback, and mean to manage the mine myself. "

"Without asking me?"

"Yes; I shall ask you. But I have two-thirds. I will give you foryour share 10 per cent more than the price you offered me for each ofmy shares. If you do not like that, you need not accept the offer;but I don't mean to have any more words about it. "

Mr Fitzwalker Tookey's face became longer and longer, and he did intruth feel himself to be much aggrieved within his very soul. Therewere still two lines of conduct open to him. He might move the sternman by a recapitulation of the sorrow of his circumstances, or hemight burst out into passionate wrath, and lay all his ruin to hispartner's doing. He might still hope that in this latter way he couldrouse all Kimberley against Gordon, and thus creep back into somevestige of property under the shadow of Gordon's iniquities. He wouldtry both. He would first endeavour to move the stern man to pity. "Idon't think you can imagine the condition in which you are about toplace me. "

"I can't admit that I am placing you anywhere. "

"I'll just explain. Of course I know that I can tell you everythingin strictest confidence. "

"I don't know it at all. "

"Oh yes; I can. You remember the story of my poor wife?"

"Yes; I remember. "

"She's in London now. "

"What! She got back from the Portuguese settlement?"

"Yes. She did not stay there long. I don't suppose that thePortuguese are very nice people. "

"Perhaps not. "

"At any rate they don't have much money among them. "

"Not after the lavish expenditure of the diamond-fields, " suggestedGordon. 

"Just so. Poor Matilda had been accustomed to all that money couldbuy for her. I never used to be close-fisted with her, thoughsometimes I would be tight. "

"As far as I could understand, you never used to agree at all. "

"I don't think we did hit it off. Perhaps it was my fault. "

"You used to be a little free in your way of living. "

"I was. I confess that I was so. I was young then, but I am oldernow. I haven't touched a B. And S. Before eleven o'clock since I havebeen in London above two or three times. I do mean to do the best Ican for my young family. " It was the fact that Mr Tookey had threelittle children boarding out in Kimberley. 

"And what is the lady doing in London?"

"To tell the truth, she's at my lodgings. "

"Oh--h!"

"I do admit it. She is. "

"She is indifferent to the gentleman in the Cape Town penalsettlement?"

"Altogether, I don't think she ever really cared for him. To tell thetruth, she only wanted some one to take her away from--me. "

"And now she trusts you again?"

"Oh dear, yes;--completely. She is my wife, you know, still. "

"I suppose so. "

"That sacred tie has never been severed. You must always rememberthat. I don't know what your feelings are on such a subject, butaccording to my views it should not be severed roughly. When thereare children, that should always be borne in mind. Don't you thinkso?"

"The children should be borne in mind. "

"Just so. That's what I mean. Who can look after a family of youngchildren so well as their young mother? Men have various ways oflooking at the matter. " To this John Gordon gave his ready consent, and was anxious to hear in what way his assistance was to be askedin again putting Mr and Mrs Tookey, with their young children, respectably on their feet. "There are men, you know, stand-off sortof fellows, who think that a woman should never be forgiven. "

"It must depend on how far the husband has been in fault. "

"Exactly. Now these stand-off sort of fellows will never admit thatthey have been in fault at all. That's not my case. "

"You drank a little. "

"For the matter of that, so did she. When a woman drinks she getsherself to bed somehow. A man gets out upon a spree. That's what Iused to do, and then I would hit about me rather recklessly. I haveno doubt Matilda did get it sometimes. When there has been that kindof thing, forgive and forget is the best thing you can do. "

"I suppose so. "

"And then at the Fields there isn't the same sort of prudish lifewhich one is accustomed to in England. Here in London a man isnowhere if he takes his wife back. Nobody knows her, because thereare plenty to know of another sort. But there things are not quiteso strict. Of course she oughtn't to have gone off with Atkinson;--avulgar low fellow, too. "

"And you oughtn't to have licked her. "

"That's just it. It was tit for tat, I think. That's the way I lookat it. At any rate we are living together now, and no one can saywe're not man and wife. "

"There'll be a deal of trouble saved in that way. "

"A great deal. We are man and wife, and can begin again as thoughnothing had happened. No one can say that black's the white of oureye. She'll take to those darling children as though nothing hadhappened. You can't conceive how anxious she is to get back to them. And there's no other impediment. That's a comfort. "

"Another impediment would have upset you rather?"

"I couldn't have put up with that. " Mr Fitzwalker Tookey looked verygrave and high-minded as he made the assertion. "But there's nothingof that kind. It's all open sailing. Now, --what are we to live upon, just for a beginning?"

"You have means out there. "

"Not as things are at present, --I am sorry to say. To tell the truth, my third share of the old Stick-in-the-Mud is gone. I had to raisemoney when it was desirable that I should come with you. "

"Not on my account. "

"And then I did owe something. At any rate, it's all gone now. Ishould find myself stranded at Kimberley without a red cent. "

"What can I do?"

"Well, --I will explain. Poker & Hodge will buy your shares for thesum named. Joshua Poker, who is out there, has got my third share. Poker & Hodge have the money down, and when I have arranged the sale, will undertake to give me the agency at one per cent on the wholetake for three years certain. That'll be £1000 a-year, and it's oddif I can't float myself again in that time. " Gordon stood silent, scratching his head. "Or if you'd give me the agency on the sameterms, it would be the same thing. I don't care a straw for Poker &Hodge. "

"I daresay not. "

"But you'd find me as true as steel. "

"What little good I did at the Fields I did by looking after my ownbusiness. "

"Then what do you propose? Let Poker & Hodge have them, and I shallbless you for ever. " To this mild appeal Mr Tookey had been broughtby the manner in which John Gordon had scratched his head. "I thinkyou are bound to do it, you know. " To this he was brought by thesubsequent look which appeared in John Gordon's eyes. 

"I think not. "

"Men will say so. "

"I don't care a straw what men say, or women. "

"And you to come back in the same ship with me and my wife! Youcouldn't do it. The Fields wouldn't receive you. " Gordon bethoughthimself whether this imagined rejection might not arise rather fromthe character of his travelling companions. "To bring back themother of three little sainted babes, and then to walk in upon everyshilling of property which had belonged to their father! You nevercould hold up your head in Kimberley again. "

"I should have to stand abashed before your virtue?"

"Yes, you would. I should be known to have come back with my poorrepentant wife, --the mother of three dear babes. And she would beknown to have returned with her misguided husband. The humanity ofthe Fields would not utter a word of reproval to either of us. But, upon my word, I should not like to stand in your shoes. And how youcould sit opposite to her and look her in the face on the journeyout, I don't know. "

"It would be unpleasant. "

"Deuced unpleasant, I should say. You remember the old Roman saying, 'Never be conscious of anything within your own bosom. ' Only thinkhow you would feel when you were swelling it about in Kimberley, while that poor lady won't be able to buy a pair of boots for herselfor her children. I say nothing about myself. I didn't think you werethe man to do it;--I didn't indeed. "

Gordon did find himself moved by the diversity of lights throughwhich he was made to look at the circumstances in question. In thefirst place, there was the journey back with Mr Tookey and his wife, companions he had not anticipated. The lady would probably begin bysoliciting his intimacy, which on board ship he could hardly refuse. With a fellow-passenger, whose husband has been your partner, youmust quarrel bitterly or be warm friends. Upon the whole, he thoughtthat he could not travel to South Africa with Mr and Mrs FitzwalkerTookey. And then he understood what the man's tongue would do if hewere there for a month in advance. The whole picture of life, too, at the Fields was not made attractive by Mr Tookey's description. He was not afraid of the reception which might be accorded to MrsTookey, but saw that Tookey found himself able to threaten him withviolent evils, simply because he would claim his own. Then there shotacross his brain some reminiscence of Mary Lawrie, and a comparisonbetween her and her life and the sort of life which a man must leadunder the auspices of Mrs Tookey. Mary Lawrie was altogether beyondhis reach; but it would be better to have her to think of than theother to know. His idea of the diamond-fields was disturbed by thepromised return of his late partner and his wife. 

"And you mean to reduce me to this misery?" asked Mr Tookey. 

"I don't care a straw for your misery. "

"What!"

"Not for your picture of your misery. I do not doubt but that whenyou have been there for a month you will be drunk as often as ever, and just as free with your fists when a woman comes in your way. "

"Never!"

"And I do not see that I am at all bound to provide for you and foryour wife and children. You have seen many ups and downs, and will bedoomed to see many more, as long as you can get hold of a bottle ofwine. "

"I mean to take the pledge, --I do indeed. I must do it gradually, because of my constitution, --but I shall do it. "

"I don't in the least believe in it;--nor do I believe in any manwho thinks to redeem himself after such a fashion. It may still bepossible that I shall not go back. "

"Thank God!"

"I may kill beasts in Buenos Ayres, or take a tea-farm in Thibet, orjoin the colonists in Tennessee. In that case I will let you knowwhat arrangement I may propose to make about the Kimberley claim. Atany rate, I may say this, --I shall not go back in the same vesselwith you. "

"I thought it would have been so comfortable. "

"You and Mrs Tookey would find yourself more at your ease withoutme. "

"Not in the least. Don't let that thought disturb you. Whatevermisery fate may have in store for me, you will always find that, forthe hour, I will endeavour to be a good companion. 'Sufficient forthe day is the evil thereof. ' That is the first of my mottoes. "

"At any rate, I shall not go back in the _Kentucky Castle_ if youdo. "

"I'm afraid our money is paid. "

"So is mine; but that does not signify. You have a week yet, and Iwill let you know by eleven o'clock on Thursday what steps I shallfinally take. If in any way I can serve you, I will do so; but I canadmit no claim. "

"A thousand thanks! And I am so glad you approve of what I have doneabout Matilda. I'm sure that a steady-going fellow like you wouldhave done the same. " To this John Gordon could make no answer, butleft his friend, and went away about his own business. He had todecide between Tennessee, Thibet, and Buenos Ayres, and wanted histime for his own purposes. 

When he got to dinner at his club, he found a letter from MrWhittlestaff, which had come by the day-mail. It was a letter which, for the time, drove Thibet and Buenos Ayres, and Tennessee also, clean out of his mind. It was as follows:--

 CROKER'S HALL, -- June 188--. 

 DEAR MR JOHN GORDON, --I shall be in town this afternoon, probably by the same train which will bring this letter, and will do myself the honour of calling upon you at your club the next day at twelve. --I am, dear Mr John Gordon, faithfully yours, WILLIAM WHITTLESTAFF. 

Then there was to be an answer to the appeal which he had made. Ofwhat nature would be the answer? As he laid his hand upon his heart, and felt the violence of the emotion to which he was subjected, hecould not doubt the strength of his own love. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

MR WHITTLESTAFF'S JOURNEY DISCUSSED. 

"I don't think that if I were you I would go up to London, MrWhittlestaff, " 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 toconceal 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 onyour 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 readerwill find them to be so, if he thinks of them. They were such thata father would hardly speak, under any circumstances, to a grown-updaughter, --much less that a lover would address to his mistress. AndMary was at present filling both capacities. She had been taken intohis house almost as an adopted daughter, and had, since that time, had all the privileges accorded to her. She had now been promotedstill higher, and had become his affianced bride. That the man shouldhave turned upon her thus, in answer to her counsel, was savage, orat least ungracious. But at every word her heart became fuller andmore full of an affection as for something almost divine. What otherman had ever shown such love for any woman? and this love was shownto her, --who was nothing to him, --who ate the bread of charity in hishouse. And it amounted to this, that he intended to give her up toanother man, --he who had given such proof of his love, --he, of whomshe knew that this was a question of almost life and death, --becausein looking into his face she had met there the truth of his heart!Since that first avowal, made before Gordon had come, --made at amoment when some such avowal from her was necessary, --she had spokenno word as to John Gordon. She had endeavoured to show no sign. Shehad given herself up to her elder lover, and had endeavoured tohave it understood that she had not intended to transfer herselfbecause the other man had come across her path again like a flash oflightning. She had dined in company with her younger lover withoutexchanging a word with him. She had not allowed her eyes to fall uponhim more than she could help, lest some expression of tendernessshould be seen there. Not a word of hope had fallen from her lipswhen they had first met, because she had given herself to another. She was sure of herself in that. No doubt there had come moments inwhich she had hoped--nay, almost expected--that the elder of the twomight give her up; and when she had felt sure that it was not to beso, her very soul had rebelled against him. But as she had takentime to think of it, she had absolved him, and had turned her angeragainst herself. Whatever he wanted, --that she believed it would beher duty to do for him, as far as its achievement might be in herpower. 

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 whyyou 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 tothe 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 fireand burn it. Don't go! He is entitled to nothing. You are entitledto have, --whatever it is that you may want, though it is but such atrifle. "

"A trifle, Mary!"

"Yes. A woman has a little gleam of prettiness about her, --thoughhere 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 issomething soft, which will soon pass away, and of itself can do nogood. It is contemptible. "

"You are just Mrs Baggett over again. "

"Very well; I am quite satisfied. Mrs Baggett is a good woman. Shecan do something beyond lying on a sofa and reading novels, while hergood looks fade away. It is simply because a woman is pretty and weakthat 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 spellof 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? Washe bound to give it all up? What was it that ordinary selfishnessallowed? What depth of self-indulgence amounted to a wickedness whicha man could not permit himself to enjoy without absolutely hatinghimself? It would be easy in this case to have all that he wanted. Heneed not send the letter. He need not take this wretched journey toLondon. Looking forward, as he thought that he could look, judgingfrom the girl's character, he believed that he would have all that hedesired, --all that a gracious God could give him, --if he would makeher the recognised partner of his bed and his board. Then would he beproud when men should see what sort of a wife he had got for himselfat last in place of Catherine Bailey. And why should she not lovehim? Did not all her words tend to show that there was love?

And then suddenly there came a frown across his face, as she stoodlooking at him. She was getting to know the manner of that frown. Nowshe stooped down to kiss it away from his brow. It was a brave thingto do; but she did it with a consciousness of her courage. "Now I mayburn the letter, " she said, as though she were about to depart uponthe errand. 

"No, by heaven!" he said. "Let me have a sandwich and a glass ofwine, 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. Ordinaryselfishness, --such selfishness as that of which he would havepermitted himself the indulgence, --must have allowed him to disregardthe misery of John Gordon, and to keep the girl to himself. Asfar as John Gordon was concerned, he would not have cared for hissufferings. He was as much to himself, --or more, --than could beJohn Gordon. He did not love John Gordon, and could have doomed himto tearing his hair, --not without regret, but at any rate withoutremorse. He had settled that question. But with Mary Lawrie theremust be a never-dying pang of self-accusation, were he to take herto his arms while her love was settled elsewhere. It was not that hefeared her for himself, but that he feared himself for her sake. Godhad filled his heart with love of the girl, --and, if it was love, could it be that he would destroy her future for the gratificationof his own feelings? "I tell you it is no good, " he said, as shecrouched down beside him, almost sitting on his knee. 

At this moment Mrs Baggett came into the room, detecting Mary almostin the embrace of her old master. "He's come back again, sir, " saidMrs Baggett. 

"Who has come back?"

"The Sergeant. "

"Then you may tell him to go about his business. He is not wanted, atany rate. You are to remain here, and have your own way, like an oldfool. "

"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 goaway. 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 soonerthan if he had two like mine, or yours, sir. And he did manage to goin 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 spoilit. 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 elseyou've to do. "

"He can't stay always, --in course, sir. As Hayonotes says, --what's heto do with a wooden-legged sergeant in his stable as a permanence? Ihad 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. " ThenMrs Baggett bobbed her head three times in the direction of MaryLawrie's back, as though to ask some question whether the leaving thehouse might not be in reference to Mary's marriage. But she fearedthat it was not made in reference to Mr Whittlestaff's marriagealso. What had her master meant when he had said that there was noone coming to interfere with her, Mrs Baggett? "You needn't ask anyquestions just at present, Mrs Baggett, " he said. 

"You don't mean as you are going up to London just to give her up tothat 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. Youcan't eat me, Mr Whittlestaff, and it wouldn't much matter if youcould. When you've said that you'll do a thing, you ought not to goback for any other man, let him be who it may, --especially not inrespect of a female. It's weak, and nobody wouldn't think a straw ofyou for doing it. It's some idea of being generous that you have gotinto your head. There ain't no real generosity in it. I say it ain'tmanly, and that's what a man ought to be. "

Mary, though she was standing at the window, pretending to look outof it, knew that during the whole of this conversation Mrs Baggettwas making signs at her, --as though indicating an opinion that shewas the person in fault. It was as though Mrs Baggett had said thatit was for her sake, --to do something to gratify her, --that MrWhittlestaff was about to go to London. She knew that she at anyrate was not to blame. She was struggling for the same end as MrsBaggett, and did deserve better treatment. "You oughtn't to bothergoing up to London, sir, on any such errand, and so I tells you, MrWhittlestaff, " said Mrs Baggett. 

"I have told him the same thing myself, " said Mary Lawrie, turninground. 

"If you told him as though you meant it, he wouldn't go, " said MrsBaggett. 

"That's all you know about it, " said Mr Whittlestaff. "Now the factis, I won't stand this kind of thing. If you mean to remain here, youmust be less free with your tongue. "

"I don't mean to remain here, Mr Whittlestaff. It's just that as I'mcoming 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 saythat if he's allowed to sleep it off to-day, I'll be ready to startto-morrow. "

"I tell you I am not going to make any change at all, " said MrWhittlestaff. 

"You was saying you was going away, --for the honeymoon, I didsuppose. "

"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 lettershould go. I suppose I must see about it myself. " Then when hebegan to move, the women moved also. Mary went to look after thesandwiches, and Mrs Baggett to despatch the letter. In ten minutesthe letter was gone, and half an hour afterwards Mr Whittlestaff hadhimself driven down to the station. 

"What is it he means, Miss?" said Mrs Baggett, when the master wasgone. 

"I do not know, " said Mary, who was in truth very angry with the oldwoman. 

"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 donefor you. "

"I require no one to tell me that. "

"What did Mr Gordon come here for, disturbing everybody? Nobodyasked him;--at least, I suppose nobody asked him. " There was aninsinuation in this which Mary found it hard to bear. But it wasbetter 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 Gordonhave everything just as he likes it? I never heard tell of Mr Gordontill he came here the other day. I don't think so much of Mr Gordonmyself. " To this Mary, of course, made no answer. "He's no businessdisturbing people when he's not sent for. I can't abide to see MrWhittlestaff put about in this way. I have known him longer than youhave. "

"No doubt. "

"He's a man that'll be driven pretty nigh out of his mind if he'sdisappointed. " Then there was silence, as Mary was determined not todiscuss the matter any further. "If you come to that, you needn'tmarry no one unless you pleases. " Mary was still silent. "Theyshouldn't make me marry them unless I was that way minded. I can'tabide such doings, " the old woman again went on after a pause. "Iknows 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 afterhe have received a promise. Didn't he have a promise?" To this MrsBaggett got no reply, though she waited for one before she went onwith her argument. "You knows he had; and a promise between a ladyand gentleman ought to be as good as the law of the land. You standthere as dumb as grim death, and won't say a word, and yet it alldepends upon you. Why is it to go about among everybody, that he'snot to get a wife just because a man's come home with his pocketsfull of diamonds? It's that that people'll say; and they'll say thatyou 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 tobear it. She had determined not to be led into an argument with MrsBaggett on the subject, feeling that even to discuss her conductwould be an impropriety. She was strong in her own conduct, and knewhow utterly at variance it had been with all that this woman imputedto her. The glitter of the diamonds had been merely thrown in by MrsBaggett in her passion. Mary did not think that any one would be sobase as to believe such an accusation as that. It would be said ofher that her own young lover had come back suddenly, and that she hadpreferred 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 takenback the gift, because the young lover had come across her path. Andit would be told also that there had been no word of promise given tothis young lover. All that would be very bad, without any allusionto a wealth of diamonds. It would not be said that, before she hadpledged herself to Mr Whittlestaff, she had pleaded her affectionfor her young lover, when she had known nothing even of his presentexistence. It would not be known that though there had been nolover's vows between her and John Gordon, there had yet been on bothsides that unspoken love which could not have been strengthened byany vows. Against all that she must guard herself, without thinkingof the diamonds. She had endeavoured to guard herself, and she hadthought also of the contentment of the man who had been so good toher. She had declared to herself that of herself she would think notat all. And she had determined also that all the likings, --nay, theaffection of John Gordon himself, --should weigh not at all with her. She had to decide between the two men, and she had decided that bothhonesty and gratitude required her to comply with the wishes of theelder. She had done all that she could with that object, and was ither fault that Mr Whittlestaff had read the secret of her heart, andhad determined to give way before it? This had so touched her that itmight almost be said that she knew not to which of her two suitorsher heart belonged. All this, if stated in answer to Mrs Baggett'saccusations, would certainly exonerate herself from the stigma thrownupon her, but to Mrs Baggett she could not repeat the explanation. 

"It nigh drives me wild, " said Mrs Baggett. "I don't suppose youever heard of Catherine Bailey?"

"Never. "

"And I ain't a-going to tell you. It's a romance as shall be wrappedinside 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. CatherineBailey was a young woman. But I'm not going to tell you thestory;--only that she was no more fit for Mr Whittlestaff than anyof them stupid young girls that walks about the streets gaping in atthe shop-windows in Alresford. I do you the justice, Miss Lawrie, tosay 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, aswas 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 inthe way he was always thinking of Catherine Bailey. Mrs Compas shebecome. 'Drat her and her babies!' I often said to myself. What wasCompas? No more than an Old Bailey lawyer;--not fit to be looked atalongside of our Mr Whittlestaff. No more ain't Mr John Gordon, tomy thinking. You think of all that, Miss Mary, and make up your mindwhether you'll break his heart after giving a promise. Heart-breakingain't to him what it is to John Gordon and the likes of him. "

CHAPTER XX. 

MR WHITTLESTAFF TAKES HIS JOURNEY. 

Mr Whittlestaff did at last get into the train and have himselfcarried up to London. And he ate his sandwiches and drank his sherrywith an air of supreme satisfaction, --as though he had carried hispoint. 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 escapedfrom the two dominant women of his household, who had done theirbest to intercept him. So far his triumph was complete. But as hesat silent in the corner of the carriage, his mind reverted tothe purpose of his journey, and he cannot be said to have beentriumphant. He knew it all as well as did Mrs Baggett. And he knewtoo that, except Mrs Baggett and the girl herself, all the world wasagainst him. That ass Montagu Blake every time he opened his mouthas to his own bride let out the idea that John Gordon should havehis bride because John Gordon was young and lusty, and because he, Whittlestaff, might be regarded as an old man. The Miss Halls werealtogether of the same opinion, and were not slow to express it. AllAlresford would know it, and would sympathise with John Gordon. Andas it came to be known that he himself had given up the girl whomhe loved, he could read the ridicule which would be conveyed by thesmiles of his neighbours. 

To tell the truth of Mr Whittlestaff, he was a man very open to suchshafts of ridicule. The "_robur et æs triplex_" which fortified hisheart went only to the doing of a good and unselfish action, and didnot extend to providing him with that adamantine shield which virtueshould of itself supply. He was as pervious to these stings as a manmight be who had not strength to act in opposition to them. He couldscrew himself up to the doing of a great deed for the benefit ofanother, and could as he was doing so deplore with inward tearsthe punishment which the world would accord to him for the deed. As he sat there in the corner of his carriage, he was thinkingof the punishment rather than of the glory. And the punishmentmust certainly come now. It would be a punishment lasting for theremainder of his life, and so bitter in its kind as to make anyfurther living almost impossible to him. It was not that he wouldkill himself. He did not meditate any such step as that. He was aman who considered that by doing an outrage to God's work an offencewould be committed against God which admitted of no repentance. Hemust live through it to the last. But he must live as a man who wasdegraded. He had made his effort, but his effort would be known toall Alresford. Mr Montagu Blake would take care of that. 

The evil done to him would be one which would admit of no complaintfrom his own mouth. He would be left alone, living with MrsBaggett, --who of course knew all the facts. The idea of Mrs Baggettgoing away with her husband was of course not to be thought of. Thatwas another nuisance, a small evil in comparison with the greatmisfortune of his life. 

He had brought this girl home to his house to be the companion of hisdays, and she had come to have in his mouth a flavour, as it were, and sweetness beyond all other sweetnesses. She had lent a graceto his days of which for many years he had not believed them to becapable. He was a man who had thought much of love, reading about itin 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, andask himself how it was with him in that matter. His favourite Horacehad had a fresh love for every day; but he had told himself thatHorace knew nothing of love. Of Petrarch and Laura he had thought;but even to Petrarch Laura had been a subject for expression ratherthan for passion. Prince Arthur, in his love for Guinevere, wentnearer to the mark which he had fancied for himself. Imogen, in herlove 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; andas years had gone by, he had told himself that for him there was tobe nothing better than reading. But yet his mind had been full, andhe had still thought to himself that, in spite of his mistake inreference to Catherine Bailey, there was still room for a strongpassion. 

Then Mary Lawrie had come upon him, and the sun seemed to shinenowhere but in her eyes and in the expression of her face. He hadtold himself distinctly that he was now in love, and that his lifehad not gone so far forward as to leave him stranded on the drysandhills. She was there living in his house, subject to his orders, affectionate and docile; but, as far as he could judge, a perfectwoman. And, as far as he could judge, there was no other man whom sheloved. Then, with many doubtings, he asked her the question, and hesoon learned the truth, --but not the whole truth. 

There had been a man, but he was one who seemed to have passed by andleft his mark, and then to have gone on altogether out of sight. Shehad told him that she could not but think of John Gordon, but thatthat was all. She would, if he asked it, plight her troth to himand become his wife, although she must think of John Gordon. Thisthinking would last but for a while, he told himself; and he at hisage--what right had he to expect aught better than that? She wasof such a nature that, when she had given herself up in marriage, she would surely learn to love her husband. So he had accepted herpromise, and allowed himself for one hour to be a happy man. 

Then John Gordon had come to his house, falling upon it like theblast of a storm. He had come at once--instantly--as though fate hadintended to punish him, Whittlestaff, utterly and instantly. Mary hadtold him that she could not promise not to think of him who had onceloved her, when, lo and behold! the man himself was there. Who eversuffered a blow so severe as this? He had left them together. Hehad felt himself compelled to do so by the exigencies of the moment. It was impossible that he should give either one or the other tounderstand that they would not be allowed to meet in his house. Theyhad met, and Mary had been very firm. For a few hours there hadexisted in his bosom the feeling that even yet he might be preferred. 

But gradually that feeling had disappeared, and the truth had comehome to him. She was as much in love with John Gordon as could anygirl be with the man whom she adored. And the other rock on which hehad depended was gradually shivered beneath his feet. He had fanciedat 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 Gordonthat he was solicitous, but for Mary Lawrie. If John Gordon were apauper, or so nearly so as to be able to offer Mary no home, then itwould clearly be his duty not to allow the marriage. In such case theresult to him would be, if not heavenly, sweet enough at any rate tosatisfy his longings. She would come to him, and John Gordon woulddepart to London, and to the world beyond, and there would be an endof him. But it became palpable to his senses generally that the man'sfortunes had not been such as this. And then there came home to him afeeling that were they so, it would be his duty to make up for Mary'ssake what was wanting, --since he had discovered of what calibre wasthe man himself. 

It was at Mr Hall's house that the idea had first presented itselfto him with all the firmness of a settled project. It would be, hehad 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 servethe 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 toprove that all the good which he intended to do was to be done forlove alone. "Not a straw; whether he shall stay at home here andhave all that is sweetest in the world, or be sent out alone to findfresh diamonds amidst the dirt and misery of that horrid place, is asnothing, as far as he is concerned. I am, at any rate, more to myselfthan John Gordon. I do not believe in doing a kindness of such anature as that to such a one. But for her--! And I could not hold herto my bosom, knowing that she would so much rather be in the arms ofanother man. " All this he said to himself; but he said it in wordsfully 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 tothe hotel, and ordered his dinner, and ate it in solitude, stillsupported by the ecstasy of his thoughts. He knew that there wasbefore him a sharp cruel punishment, and then a weary lonely life. There could be no happiness, no satisfaction, in store for him. Hewas aware that it must be so; but still for the present there was ajoy to him in thinking that he would make her happy, and in that hewas determined to take what immediate delight it would give him. Heasked himself how long that delight could last; and he told himselfthat when John Gordon should have once taken her by the hand andclaimed 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 ofhis hotel dinner, by which he had thought it possible that he mightyet escape from the misery of Pandemonium and be carried into thelight and joy of Paradise. But as he sat with his beef-steak beforehim, and ate his accustomed potato, with apparently as good a gustoas any of his neighbours, the dream departed. He told himselfthat under no circumstances should the dream be allowed to becomea reality. The dream had been of this wise. With all the bestintentions in his power he would offer the girl to John Gordon, andthen, not doubting Gordon's acceptance of her, would make the sameoffer to the girl herself. But what if the girl refused to acceptthe offer? What if the girl should stubbornly adhere to her originalpromise? Was he to refuse to marry her when she should insist thatsuch was her right? Was he to decline to enter in upon the joys ofParadise when Paradise should be thus opened to him? He would do hisbest, loyally and sincerely, with his whole heart. But he could notforce 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 thussave him from the unhappiness in store for him. Such had been thenature 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 beflung to the winds. A certain amount of strength was now demanded ofhim, 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 thepromises under heaven had been given. Though you say that you wishit, it is a lie which may not be ratified. Though you implore it ofme, it cannot be granted. It is he that is your love, and it is hethat must have you. I love you too, God in his wisdom knows, but itcannot be so. Go and be his wife, for mine you shall never become. Ihave meant well, but have been unfortunate. Now you know the state ofmy mind, than which nothing is more fixed on this earth. " It was thusthat he would speak to her, and then he would turn away; and the termof his misery would have commenced. 

On the next morning he got up and prepared for his interview withJohn Gordon. He walked up and down the sward of the Green Park, thinking to himself of the language which he would use. If he couldonly tell the man that he hated him while he surrendered to him thegirl whom he loved so dearly, it would be well. For in truth therewas nothing of Christian charity in his heart towards John Gordon. But he thought at last that it would be better that he shouldannounce his purpose in the simplest language. He could hate the manin his own heart as thoroughly as he desired. But it would not bebecoming in him, were he on such an occasion to attempt to rise tothe romance of tragedy. "It will be all the same a thousand yearshence, " he said to himself as he walked in at the club door. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE GREEN PARK. 

He asked whether Mr John Gordon was within, and in two minutesfound himself standing in the hall with that hero of romance. MrWhittlestaff told himself, as he looked at the man, that he was sucha hero as ought to be happy in his love. Whereas of himself, he wasconscious of a personal appearance which no girl could be expectedto adore. He thought too much of his personal appearance generally, complaining to himself that it was mean; whereas in regard to MaryLawrie, 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 ifasked. And the "he" alluded to would have been John Gordon. "Hehad come first, and therefore I had learned to love him. " It wasthus that Mary Lawrie would have spoken. But Mr Whittlestaff, as helooked 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 wantto say to you. It is something that I can't very well put up into aletter, and therefore I have taken the trouble to come to town. " Ashe said this he endeavoured, no doubt, to assert his own dignity bythe look which he assumed. Nor did he intend that Mr Gordon shouldknow anything of the struggle which he had endured. 

But Mr Gordon knew as well what Mr Whittlestaff had to say as didMr Whittlestaff himself. He had turned the matter over in his ownmind since the letter had reached him, and was aware that there couldbe no other cause for seeing him which could bring Mr Whittlestaffup to London. But a few days since he had made an appeal to MrWhittlestaff--an appeal which certainly might require much thoughtfor its answer--and here was Mr Whittlestaff with his reply. Itcould not have been made quicker. It was thus that John Gordon hadthought of it as he had turned Mr Whittlestaff's letter over in hismind. The appeal had been made readily enough. The making of it hadbeen easy; the words to be spoken had come quickly, and without thenecessity for a moment's premeditation. He had known it all, and froma full heart the mouth speaks. But was it to have been expected thata man so placed as had been Mr Whittlestaff, should be able to givehis reply with equal celerity? He, John Gordon, had seen at onceon reaching Croker's Hall the state in which things were. Almosthopelessly 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 hadpassed between them. What word could have been expected? MontaguBlake, with all his folly, had judged rightly in bringing themtogether. When he received the letter, John Gordon had rememberedthat last word which Mr Whittlestaff had spoken to him in thesquire's hall. He had thought of the appeal, and had resolved togive an answer to it. It was an appeal which required an answer. Hehad turned it over in his mind, and had at last told himself whatthe answer should be. John Gordon had discovered all that when hereceived the letter, and it need hardly be said that his feelingsin regard to Mr Whittlestaff were very much kinder than those of MrWhittlestaff to him. 

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind coming out into the street, " said MrWhittlestaff. "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 shadeamong the trees. " Then they went out of the club into Pall Mall, andMr Whittlestaff walked on ahead without a word. "No; we will not godown there, " he said, as he passed the entrance into St. James's Parkby Marlborough House, and led the way through St. James's Palace intothe Green Park. "We'll go on till we come to the trees; there areseats there, unless the people have occupied them all. One can't talkhere under the blazing sun;--at least I can't. " Then he walked onat 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! Whata beast he is! No, I can't sit down on a seat that another man isoccupying. 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 thevacant bench and took possession of it. It was placed among the thicktrees which give a perfect shade on the north side of the Park, andhad Mr Whittlestaff searched all London through, he could not havefound a more pleasant spot in which to make his communication. "Thiswill do, " said he. 

"Very nicely indeed, " said John Gordon. 

"I couldn't talk about absolutely private business in the hall of theclub, you know. "

"I could have taken you into a private room, Mr Whittlestaff, hadyou wished it. "

"With everybody coming in and out, just as they pleased. I don'tbelieve in private rooms in London clubs. What I've got to say can besaid better _sub dio_. I suppose you know what it is that I've got totalk about. "

"Hardly, " said John Gordon. "But that is not exactly true. I think Iknow, but I am not quite sure of it. On such a subject I should notlike 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 seeher. If you spoke the truth, you came all the way home from thediamond-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 toput the young lady's name into your mouth until you had uttered ityourself. There could be no other subject of conversation between youand 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 hadmade yourself, as it were, a father to her--"

"I had not made myself her father, --nor yet her mother. I had lovedher, 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 aboutit. "

"Why otherwise should I have come home and left my business in SouthAfrica? I think you may take it for granted that I love her. "

"I don't care twopence whether you do or don't, " said MrWhittlestaff. "It's nothing to me whom you love. I should have beeninclined to say at first sight that a man groping in the dirt fordiamonds wouldn't love any one. And even if you did, though you mightbreak 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 ofyou. "

There was an incivility in all this of which John Gordon felt that hewas obliged to take some notice. There was a want of courtesy in theman'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; "buthere I am and here also is Miss Lawrie. I had said what I had to saydown at Alresford, and of course it is for you now to decide what isto be done. I have never supposed that you would care personally forme. "

"You needn't be so conceited about yourself. "

"I don't know that I am, " said Gordon;--"except that a man cannot butbe 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 beconceited, I am not more conceited for myself than you are foryourself. Had I not known her, you would probably have engaged heraffections. I had known her, and you are aware of the result. But itis for you to decide. Miss Lawrie thinks that she owes you a debtwhich she is bound to pay if you exact it. "

"Exact it!" exclaimed Mr Whittlestaff. "There is no question ofexacting!" John Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "I say there is noquestion of exacting. The words should not have been used. She has myfull permission to choose as she may think fit, and she knows thatshe has it. What right have you to speak to me of exacting?"

Mr Whittlestaff had now talked himself into such a passion, and wasapparently so angry at the word which his companion had used, thatJohn Gordon began to doubt whether he did in truth know the purposefor which the man had come to London. Could it be that he had madethe journey merely with the object of asserting that he had the powerof making this girl his wife, and of proving his power by marryingher. "What is it that you wish, Mr Whittlestaff?" he asked. 

"Wish! What business have you to ask after my wishes? But you knowwhat my wishes are very well. I will not pretend to keep them in thedark. She came to my house, and I soon learned to desire that sheshould be my wife. If I know what love is, I loved her. If I knowwhat love is, I do love her still. She is all the world to me. I haveno 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 Ihad felt her sweet hand upon mine, --till she had hovered around me, covering everything with bright sunshine. Then I asked her to be mywife;--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, foraught she knew. And when I pressed her, she said that she would thinkof you always. "

"She said so?"

"Yes; that she would think of you always. But she did not say thatshe would always love you. And in the same breath she promised to bemy wife. I was contented, --and yet not quite contented. Why shouldshe think of you always? But I believed that it would not be so. Ithought that if I were good to her, I should overcome her. I knewthat 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'sdarling. She would at any rate have been my darling. It might be thatshe would have been your slave. "

"My fellow-workman in all things. "

"You think so now; but the man always becomes the master. If yougrovelled in the earth for diamonds, she would have to look for themamidst 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 wouldbe smooth to her if she were your creature? I am not assured--I donot know. "

"Who can tell, as you say? Can I promise her a succession of joys ifshe be my wife? She is not one who will be likely to look for such alife as that. She will know that she must take the rough and smoothtogether. "

"There would have been no rough with me, " said Mr Whittlestaff. 

"I do not believe in such a life, " said John Gordon. "A woman shouldnot wear a stuff gown always; but the silk finery and the stuff gownshould follow each other. To my taste, the more there may be of thestuff gown and the less of the finery, the more it will be to mywishes. "

"I am not speaking of her gowns. It is not of such things as thosethat I am thinking. " Here Mr Whittlestaff got up from the bench, andbegan walking rapidly backwards and forwards under the imperfectshade on the path. "You will beat her. "

"I think not. "

"Beat her in the spirit. You will domineer over her, and desire tohave your own way. When she is toiling for you, you will frown ather. Because you have business on hand, or perhaps pleasure, you willleave her in solitude. There may a time come when the diamonds shallhave all gone. "

"If she is to be mine, that time will have come already. The diamondswill be sold. Did you ever see a diamond in my possession? Why do youtwit me with diamonds? If I had been a coal-owner, should I have beenexpected to keep my coals?"

"These things stick to the very soul of a man. They are a poisonof which he cannot rid himself. They are like gambling. They makeeverything cheap that should be dear, and everything dear that shouldbe cheap. I trust them not at all, --and I do not trust you, becauseyou deal in them. "

"I tell you that I shall not deal in them. But, Mr Whittlestaff, Imust tell you that you are unreasonable. "

"No doubt. I am a poor miserable man who does not know the world. Ihave never been to the diamond-fields. Of course I understand nothingof the charms of speculation. A quiet life with my book is all that Icare for;--with just one other thing, one other thing. You begrudgeme 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 sheand I had learned to love each other. It is so still. For the sake ofher 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 youthink I would make her miserable? Would it be in my bosom to make hercome and live with a stupid, silly old man, to potter on from day today without any excitement? Would I force her into a groove in whichher days would be wretched to her? Had she come to me and wantedbread, and have seen before her all the misery of poverty, thestone-coldness of a governess's life; had she been left to earn herbread without any one to love her, it might then have been different. She would have looked out into another world, and have seen anotherprospect. A comfortable home with kindness, and her needs supplied, would have sufficed. She would then have thought herself happy inbecoming my wife. There would then have been no cruelty. But shehad seen you, and though it was but a dream, she thought that shecould endure to wait. Better that than surrender all the delight ofloving. So she told me that she would think of you. Poor dear! I canunderstand now the struggle which she intended to make. Then in thevery nick of time, in the absolute moment of the day--so that youmight have everything and I nothing--you came. You came, and wereallowed to see her, and told her all your story. You filled her heartfull with joy, but only to be crushed when she thought that the fatalpromise had been given to me. I saw it all, I knew it. I thought tomyself 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 thoughasserting 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 shouldyou speak? It is not for love of you that I would do this thing; noryet altogether from love of her. Not that I would not do much for hersake. I almost think that I would do it entirely for her sake, ifthere were no other reason. But to shame myself by taking that whichbelongs to another, as though it were my own property! To live acoward in mine own esteem! Though I may be the laughing-stock andthe butt of all those around me, I would still be a man to myself. Iought to have felt that it was sufficient when she told me that someof 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 wasabout to start again for South Africa. South Africa is no place forher, --nor for me either, with such a wife. Mr Whittlestaff, will younot 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 herfrom my door for all the world could do for me. This, too, will bepart of the punishment that I must bear. You can settle the daybetween you, I suppose, and then you can come down; and, after theaccustomed fashion, you can meet her at the church-door. Then you cancome to my house, and eat your breakfast there if you will. You willsee fine things prepared for you, --such as a woman wants on thoseoccasions, --and then you can carry her off wherever you please. Ineed know nothing of your whereabouts. Good morning now. Do not sayanything further, but let me go my way. "

CHAPTER XXII. 

JOHN GORDON WRITES A LETTER. 

When they parted in the park, Mr Whittlestaff trudged off to his ownhotel, through the heat and sunshine. He walked quickly, and neverlooked behind him, and went as though he had fully accomplished hisobject in one direction, and must hurry to get it done in another. ToGordon he had left no directions whatever. Was he to be allowed to godown to Mary, or even to write her a letter? He did not know whetherMary had ever been told of this wonderful sacrifice which had beenmade on her behalf. He understood that he was to have his own way, and was to be permitted to regard himself as betrothed to her, buthe did not at all understand what steps he was to take in the matter, except that he was not to go again to the diamond-fields. But MrWhittlestaff hurried himself off to his hotel, and shut himself up inhis own bedroom, --and when there, he sobbed, alas! like a child. 

The wife whom he had won for himself was probably more valuable tohim than if he had simply found her disengaged and ready to jump intohis arms. She, at any rate, had behaved well. Mr Whittlestaff had nodoubt proved himself to be an angel, perfect all round, --such a manas you shall not meet perhaps once in your life. But Mary, too, hadso behaved as to enhance the love of any man who had been alreadyengaged to her. As he thought of the whole story of the past week, the first idea that occurred to him was that he certainly had beenpresent to her mind during the whole period of his absence. Thoughnot a word had passed between them, and though no word of absolutelove for each other had even been spoken before, she had been steadyto him, with no actual basis on which to found her love. He hadknown, and she had been sure, and therefore she had been true to him. Of course, being a true man himself, he worshipped her all the more. Mr Whittlestaff was absolutely, undoubtedly perfect; but in Gordon'sestimation Mary was not far off perfection. But what was he to donow, so that he might approach her?

He had pledged himself to one thing, and he must at once go to workand busy himself in accomplishing it. He had promised not to returnto Africa; and he must at once see Mr Tookey, and learn whether thatgentleman's friends would be allowed to go on with the purchase asarranged. He knew Poker & Hodge to be moneyed men, or to be men, atany rate, in command of money. If they would not pay him at once, he must look elsewhere for buyers; but the matter must be settled. Tookey had promised to come to his club this day, and there he wouldgo and await his coming. 

He went to his club, but the first person who came to him wasMr Whittlestaff. Mr Whittlestaff when he had left the park haddetermined never to see John Gordon again, or to see him only duringthat ceremony of the marriage, which it might be that he would evenyet escape. All that was still in the distant future. Dim ideas as tosome means of avoiding it flitted through his brain. But even thoughhe might see Gordon on that terrible occasion, he need not speakto him. And it would have to be done then, and then only. But nowanother idea, certainly very vague, had found its way into his mind, and with the object of carrying it out, Mr Whittlestaff had come tothe club. "Oh, Mr Whittlestaff, how do you do again?"

"I'm much the same as I was before, thank you. There hasn't happenedanything to improve my health. "

"I hope nothing may happen to injure it. "

"It doesn't much matter. You said something about some propertyyou've got in diamonds, and you said once that you must go out tolook after it. "

"But I'm not going now. I shall sell my share in the mines. I amgoing to see a Mr Tookey about it immediately. "

"Can't you sell them to me?"

"The diamond shares, --to you!"

"Why not to me? If the thing has to be done at once, of course youand I must trust each other. I suppose you can trust me?"

"Certainly I can. "

"As I don't care much about it, whether I get what I buy or not, itdoes not much matter for me. But in truth, in such an affair as thisI would trust you. Why should not I go in your place?"

"I don't think you are the man who ought to go there. "

"I am too old? I'm not a cripple, if you mean that. I don't see why Ishouldn't go to the diamond-fields as well as a younger man. "

"It is not about your age, Mr Whittlestaff; but I do not think youwould be happy there. "

"Happy! I do not know that my state of bliss here is very great. If Ihad bought your shares, as you call them, and paid money for them, Idon't see why my happiness need stand in the way. "

"You are a gentleman, Mr Whittlestaff. "

"Well; I hope so. "

"And of that kind that you would have your eyes picked out of yourhead before you had been there a week. Don't go. Take my word for it, that life will be pleasanter to you here than there, and that for youthe venture would be altogether dangerous. Here is Mr Tookey. " Atthis point of the conversation, Mr Tookey entered the hall-door, andsome fashion of introduction took place between the two strangers. John Gordon led the way into a private room, and the two othersfollowed him. "Here's a gentleman anxious to buy my shares, Tookey, "said Gordon. 

"What! the whole lot of the old Stick-in-the-Mud? He'll have toshell down some money in order to do that! If I were to be asked myopinion, I should say that the transaction was hardly one in thegentleman's way of business. "

"I suppose an honest man may work at it, " said Mr Whittlestaff. 

"It's the honestest business I know out, " said Fitzwalker Tookey;"but it does require a gentleman to have his eyes about him. "

"Haven't I got my eyes?"

"Oh certainly, certainly, " said Tookey; "I never knew a gentlemanhave them brighter. But there are eyes and eyes. Here's Mr Gordondid have a stroke of luck out there;--quite wonderful! But because hetumbled on to a good thing, it's no reason that others should. Andhe's sold his claim already, if he doesn't go himself, --either to me, or else to Poker & Hodge. "

"I'm afraid it is so, " said John Gordon. 

"There's my darling wife, who is going out with me, and who meansto stand all the hardship of the hard work amidst those scenes ofconstant labour, --a lady who is dying to see her babies there. I amsure, sir, that Mr Gordon won't forget his promises to me and mywife. "

"If you have the money ready. "

"There is Mr Poker in a hansom cab outside, and ready to go with youto the bank at once, as the matter is rather pressing. If you willcome with him, he will explain everything. I will follow in anothercab, and then everything can be completed. " John Gordon did make anappointment to meet Mr Poker in the city later on in the day, andthen was left together with Mr Whittlestaff at the club. 

It was soon decided that Mr Whittlestaff should give up all idea ofthe diamond-fields, and in so doing he allowed himself to be broughtback to a state of semi-courteous conversation with his happy rival. "Well, yes; you may write to her, I suppose. Indeed I don't knowwhat right I have to say that you may, or you mayn't. She's moreyours than mine, I suppose. " "Turn her out! I don't know what makesyou take such an idea as that in your head. " John Gordon had notsuggested that Mr Whittlestaff would turn Mary Lawrie out, --thoughhe had spoken of the steps he would have to take were he to findMary left without a home. "She shall have my house as her own tillshe can find another. As she will not be my wife, she shall be mydaughter, --till she is somebody else's wife. " "I told you before thatyou may come and marry her. Indeed I can't help myself. Of courseyou may go on as you would with some other girl;--only I wish itwere some other girl. You can go and stay with Montagu Blake, if youplease. It is nothing to me. Everybody knows it now. " Then he did saygood-bye, though he could not be persuaded to shake hands with JohnGordon. 

Mr Whittlestaff did not go home that day, but on the next, remainingin town till he was driven out of it by twenty-four hours of absolutemisery. He had said to himself that he would remain till he couldthink of some future plan of life that should have in it some betterpromise of success for him than his sudden scheme of going to thediamond-fields. But there was no other plan which became practicablein his eyes. On the afternoon of the very next day London was nolonger bearable to him; and as there was no other place but Croker'sHall to which he could take himself with any prospect of meetingfriends who would know anything of his ways of life, he did go downon the following day. One consequence of this was, that Mary hadreceived from her lover the letter which he had written almost assoon as he had received Mr Whittlestaff's permission to write. Theletter was as follows:--

 DEAR MARY, --I do not know whether you are surprised by what Mr Whittlestaff has done; but I am, --so much so that I hardly know how to write to you on the matter. If you will think of it, I have never written to you, and have never been in a position in which writing seemed to be possible. Nor do I know as yet whether you are aware of the business which has brought Mr Whittlestaff to town. 

 I suppose I am to take it for granted that all that he tells me is true; though when I think what it is that I have to accept, --and that on the word of a man who is not your father, and who is a perfect stranger to me, --it does seem as though I were assuming a great deal. And yet it is no more than I asked him to do for me when I saw him at his own house. 

 I had no time then to ask for your permission; nor, had I asked for it, would you have granted it to me. You had pledged yourself, and would not have broken your pledge. If I asked for your hand at all, it was from him that I had to ask. How will it be with me if you shall refuse to come to me at his bidding?

 I have never told you that I loved you, nor have you expressed your willingness to receive my love. Dear Mary, how shall it be? No doubt I do count upon you in my very heart as being my own. After this week of troubles it seems as though I can look back upon a former time in which you and I had talked to one another as though we had been lovers. May I not think that it was so? May it not be so? May I not call you my Mary?

 And indeed between man and man, as I would say, only that you are not a man, have I not a right to assume that it is so? I told him that it was so down at Croker's Hall, and he did not contradict me. And now he has been the most indiscreet of men, and has allowed all your secrets to escape from his breast. He has told me that you love me, and has bade me do as seems good to me in speaking to you of my love. 

 But, Mary, why should there be any mock modesty or pretence between us? When a man and woman mean to become husband and wife, they should at any rate be earnest in their profession. I am sure of my love for you, and of my earnest longing to make you my wife. Tell me;--am I not right in counting upon you for wishing the same thing?

 What shall I say in writing to you of Mr Whittlestaff? To me personally he assumes the language of an enemy. But he contrives to do so in such a way that I can take it only as the expression of his regret that I should be found to be standing in his way. His devotion to you is the most beautiful expression of self-abnegation that I have ever met. He tells me that nothing is done for me; but it is only that I may understand how much more is done for you. Next to me, --yes, Mary, next to myself, he should be the dearest to you of human beings. I am jealous already, almost jealous of his goodness. Would that I could look forward to a life in which I would be regarded as his friend. 

 Let me have a line from you to say that it is as I would wish it, and name a day in which I may come to visit you. I shall now remain in London only to obey your behests. As to my future life, I can settle nothing till I can discuss it with you, as it will be your life also. God bless you, my own one. --Yours affectionately, JOHN GORDON. 

 We are not to return to the diamond-fields. I have promised Mr Whittlestaff that it shall be so. 

Mary, when she received this letter, retired into her own room toread it. For indeed her life in public, --her life, that is, to whichMrs Baggett had access, --had been in some degree disturbed since thedeparture of the master of the house. Mrs Baggett certainly provedherself to be a most unreasonable old woman. She praised Mary Lawrieup to the sky as being the only woman fitted to be her master's wife, at the same time abusing Mary for driving her out of the house werethe marriage to take place; and then abusing her also because MrWhittlestaff had gone to town to look up another lover on Mary'sbehalf. "It isn't my fault; I did not send him, " said Mary. 

"You could make his going of no account. You needn't have the youngman when he comes back. He has come here, disturbing us all with hisdiamonds, in a most objectionable manner. "

"You would be able to remain here and not have to go away with thatdreadfully drunken old man. " This Mary had said, because there hadbeen rather a violent scene with the one-legged hero in the stable. 

"What's that to do with it? Baggett ain't the worst man in the worldby any means. If he was a little cross last night, he ain't soalways. You'd be cross yourself, Miss, if you didn't get straw enoughunder you to take off the hardness of the stones. "

"But you would go and live with him. "

"Ain't he my husband! Why shouldn't a woman live with her husband?And what does it matter where I live, or how. You ain't going tomarry John Gordon, I know, to save me from Timothy Baggett!" Thenthe letter had come--the letter from Mary's lover; and Mary retiredto her own room to read it. The letter she thought was perfect, butnot so perfect as was Mr Whittlestaff. When she had read the letter, although she had pressed it to her bosom and kissed it a score oftimes, although she had declared that it was the letter of one whowas from head to foot a man, still there was room for that jealousyof which John Gordon had spoken. When Mary had said to herselfthat he was of all human beings surely the best, it was to MrWhittlestaff and not to John Gordon that she made allusion. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

AGAIN AT CROKER'S HALL. 

About three o'clock on that day Mr Whittlestaff came home. Thepony-carriage had gone to meet him, but Mary remained purposely outof the way. She could not rush out to greet him, as she would havedone had his absence been occasioned by any other cause. But he hadno sooner taken his place in the library than he sent for her. He hadbeen thinking about it all the way down from London, and had in somesort prepared his words. During the next half hour he did promisehimself some pleasure, after that his life was to be altogether ablank to him. He would go. To that only had he made up his mind. Hewould tell Mary that she should be happy. He would make Mrs Baggettunderstand that for the sake of his property she must remain atCroker's Hall for some period to which he would decline to name anend. And then he would go. 

"Well, Mary, " he said, smiling, "so I have got back safe. "

"Yes; I see you have got back. "

"I saw a friend of yours when I was up in London. "

"I have had a letter, you know, from Mr Gordon. "

"He has written, has he? Then he has been very sudden. "

"He said he had your leave to write. "

"That is true. He had. I thought that, perhaps, he would have takenmore time to think about it. "

"I suppose he knew what he had to say, " said Mary. And then sheblushed, as though fearing that she had appeared to have been quitesure that her lover would not have been so dull. 

"I daresay. "

"I didn't quite mean that I knew. "

"But you did. "

"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff! But I will not attempt to deceive you. If youleft it to him, he would know what to say, --immediately. "

"No doubt! No doubt!"

"When he had come here all the way from South Africa on purpose tosee me, as he said, of course he would know. Why should there be anypretence on my part?"

"Why, indeed?"

"But I have not answered him;--not as yet. "

"There need be no delay. "

"I would not do it till you had come. I may have known what he wouldsay to me, but I may be much in doubt what I should say to him. "

"You may say what you like. " He answered her crossly, and sheheard the tone. But he was aware of it also, and felt that he wasdisgracing himself. There was none of the half-hour of joy whichhe had promised himself. He had struggled so hard to give hereverything, and he might, at any rate, have perfected his gift withgood humour. "You know you have my full permission, " he said, with asmile. But he was aware that this smile was not pleasant, --was notsuch a smile as would make her happy. But it did not signify. When hewas gone away, utterly abolished, then she would be happy. 

"I do not know that I want your permission. "

"No, no; I daresay not. "

"You asked me to be your wife. "

"Yes; I did. "

"And I accepted you. The matter was settled then. "

"But you told me of him, --even at first. And you said that you wouldalways think of him. "

"Yes; I told you what I knew to be true. But I accepted you; and Idetermined to love you with all my heart, --with all my heart. "

"And you knew that you would love him without any determination. "

"I think that I have myself under more control. I think that intime, --in a little time, --I would have done my duty by youperfectly. "

"As how?"

"Loving you with all my heart. "

"And now?" It was a hard question to put to her, and so unnecessary!"And now?"

"You have distrusted me somewhat. I begged you not to go to London. Ibegged you not to go. "

"You cannot love two men. " She looked into his face, as thoughimploring him to spare her. For though she did know what wascoming, --though had she asked herself, she would have said that sheknew, --yet she felt herself bound to disown Mr Gordon as her veryown while Mr Whittlestaff thus tantalised her. "No; you cannot lovetwo men. You would have tried to love me and have failed. You wouldhave tried not to love him, and have failed then also. "

"Then I would not have failed. Had you remained here, and have takenme, I should certainly not have failed then. "

"I have made it easy for you, my dear;--very easy. Write your letter. Make it as loving as you please. Write as I would have had you writeto me, could it have been possible. O, Mary! that ought to have beenmy own! O, Mary! that would have made beautiful for me my futuredownward steps! But it is not for such a purpose that a young lifesuch as yours should be given. Though he should be unkind to you, though money should be scarce with you, though the ordinary troublesof the world should come upon you, they will be better for you thanthe ease I might have prepared for you. It will be nearer to humannature. I, at any rate, shall be here if troubles come; or if I amgone, that will remain which relieves troubles. You can go now andwrite your letter. "

She could not speak a word as she left the room. It was not onlythat her throat was full of sobs, but that her heart was laden withmingled joy and sorrow, so that she could not find a word to expressherself. She went to her bedroom and took out her letter-case to doas he had bidden her;--but she found that she could not write. Thisletter should be one so framed as to make John Gordon joyful; but itwould be impossible to bring her joy so to the surface as to satisfyhim even with contentment. She could only think how far it might yetbe possible to sacrifice herself and him. She sat thus an hour, andthen went back, and, hearing voices, descended to the drawing-room. There she found Mr Blake and Kattie Forrester and Evelina Hall. Theyhad come to call upon Mr Whittlestaff and herself, and were full oftheir own news. "Oh, Miss Lawrie, what do you think?" said Mr Blake. Miss Lawrie, however, could not think, nor could Mr Whittlestaff. "Think of whatever is the greatest joy in the world, " said Mr Blake. 

"Don't make yourself such a goose, " said Kattie Forrester. 

"Oh, but I am in earnest. The greatest joy in all the world. "

"I suppose you mean you're going to be married, " said MrWhittlestaff. 

"Exactly. How good you are at guessing! Kattie has named the day. This day fortnight. Oh dear, isn't it near?"

"If you think so, it shall be this day fortnight next year, " saidKattie. 

"Oh dear no! I didn't mean that at all. It can't be too near. And youcouldn't put it off now, you know, because the Dean has been bespoke. It is a good thing to have the Dean to fasten the knot. Don't youthink so, Miss Lawrie?"

"I suppose one clergyman is just the same as another, " said Mary. 

"So I tell him. It will all be one twenty years hence. After all, theDean is an old frump, and papa does not care a bit about him. "

"But how are you to manage with Mr Newface?" asked Mr Whittlestaff. 

"That's the best part of it all. Mr Hall is such a brick, that whenwe come back from the Isle of Wight he is going to take us all in. "

"If that's the best of it, you can be taken in without me, " saidKattie. 

"But it is good; is it not? We two, and her maid. She's to bepromoted to nurse one of these days. "

"If you're such a fool, I never will have you. It's not too late yet, remember that. " All which rebukes--and there were many of them--MrMontagu Blake received with loud demonstrations of joy. "And so, MissLawrie, you're to be in the same boat too, " said Mr Blake. "I knowall about it. "

Mary blushed, and looked at Mr Whittlestaff. But he took uponhimself the task of answering the clergyman's remarks. "But how doyou know anything about Miss Lawrie?"

"You think that no one can go up to London but yourself, MrWhittlestaff. I was up there myself yesterday;--as soon as ever thisgreat question of the day was positively settled, I had to look aftermy own _trousseau_. I don't see why a gentleman isn't to have a_trousseau_ as well as a lady. At any rate, I wanted a new blacksuit, fit for the hymeneal altar. And when there I made out JohnGordon, and soon wormed the truth out of him. At least he did nottell me downright, but he let the cat so far out of the bag thatI soon guessed the remainder. I always knew how it would be, MissLawrie. "

"You didn't know anything at all about it, " said Mr Whittlestaff. "It would be very much more becoming if you would learn sometimes tohold your tongue. "

Then Miss Evelina Hall struck in. Would Miss Lawrie come over toLittle Alresford Park, and stay there for a few days previous to thewedding? Kattie Forrester meant to bring down a sister with her asa bridesmaid. Two of the Miss Halls were to officiate also, and itwould be taken as a great favour if Miss Lawrie would make a fourth. A great deal was said to press upon her this view of the case, towhich, however, she made many objections. There was, indeed, atragedy connected with her own matrimonial circumstances, which didnot make her well inclined to join such a party. Her heart was not atease within her as to her desertion of Mr Whittlestaff. Whatever thefuture might bring forth, the present could not be a period of joyBut in the middle of the argument, Mr Whittlestaff spoke with thevoice of authority. "Accept Mr Hall's kindness, " he said, "and goover for a while to Little Alresford. "

"And leave you all alone?"

"I'm sure Mr Hall will be delighted if you will come too, " said MrBlake, ready at the moment to answer for the extent of his patron'shouse and good-nature. 

"Quite out of the question, " said Mr Whittlestaff, in a tone ofvoice intended to put an end to that matter. "But I can manage tolive alone for a few days, seeing that I shall be compelled to do sobefore long, by Miss Lawrie's marriage. " Again Mary looked up intohis face. "It is so, my dear. This young gentleman has managed toferret out the truth, while looking for his wedding garments. Willyou tell your papa, Miss Evelina, that Mary will be delighted toaccept his kindness?"

"And Gordon can come down to me, " said Blake, uproariously, rubbinghis hands; "and we can have three or four final days together, liketwo jolly young bachelors. "

"Speaking for yourself alone, " said Kattie, --"you'll have to remain ajolly young bachelor a considerable time still, if you don't mendyour manners. "

"I needn't mend my manners till after I'm married, I suppose. " Butthey who knew Mr Blake well were wont to declare that in the matterof what Miss Forrester called his manners, there would not be much tomake his wife afraid. 

The affair was settled as far as it could be settled in Mr Gordon'sabsence. Miss Lawrie was to go over and spend a fortnight at LittleAlresford just previous to Kattie Forrester's marriage, and Gordonwas to come down to the marriage, so as to be near to Mary, if hecould be persuaded to do so. Of this Mr Blake spoke with greatcertainty. "Why shouldn't he come and spoon a bit, seeing that henever did so yet in his life? Now I have had a lot of it. "

"Not such a lot by any means, " said Miss Forrester. 

"According to all accounts he's got to begin it. He told me that hehadn't even proposed regular. Doesn't that seem odd to you, Kattie?"

"It seemed very odd when you did it. " Then the three of them wentaway, and Mary was left to discuss the prospects of her future lifewith Mr Whittlestaff. "You had better both of you come and livehere, " he said. "There would be room enough. " Mary thought probablyof the chance there might be of newcomers, but she said nothing. "Ishould go away, of course, " said Mr Whittlestaff. 

"Turn you out of your own house!"

"Why not? I shan't stay here any way. I am tired of the place, andthough I shan't care to sell it, I shall make a move. A man ought tomake a move every now and again. I should like to go to Italy, andlive at one of those charming little towns. "

"Without a soul to speak to. "

"I shan't want anybody to speak to. I shall take with me just a fewbooks to read. I wonder whether Mrs Baggett would go with me. Shecan't have much more to keep her in England than I have. " But thisplan had not been absolutely fixed when Mary retired for the night, with the intention of writing her letter to John Gordon before shewent to bed. Her letter took her long to write. The thinking of itrather took too long. She sat leaning with her face on her hands, and with a tear occasionally on her cheek, into the late night, meditating rather on the sweet goodness of Mr Whittlestaff than onthe words of the letter. It had at last been determined that JohnGordon should be her husband. That the fates seem to have decided, and she did acknowledge that in doing so the fates had beenaltogether propitious. It would have been very difficult, --now atlast she owned that truth to herself, --it would have been verydifficult for her to have been true to the promise she had made, altogether to eradicate John Gordon from her heart, and to fill upthe place left with a wife's true affection for Mr Whittlestaff. Tothe performance of such a task as that she would not be subjected. But on the other hand, John Gordon must permit her to entertain andto evince a regard for Mr Whittlestaff, not similar at all to theregard which she would feel for her husband, but almost equal in itsdepth. 

At last she took the paper and did write her letter, as follows:--

 DEAR MR GORDON, --I am not surprised at anything that Mr Whittlestaff should do which shows the goodness of his disposition and the tenderness of his heart. He is, I think, the most unselfish of mankind. I believe you to be so thoroughly sincere in the affection which you express for me, that you must acknowledge that he is so. If you love me well enough to make me your wife, what must you think of him who has loved me well enough to surrender me to one whom I had known before he had taken me under his fostering care?

 You know that I love you, and am willing to become your wife. What can I say to you now, except that it is so. It is so. And in saying that, I have told you everything as to myself. Of him I can only say, that his regard for me has been more tender even than that of a father. --Yours always most lovingly, MARY LAWRIE. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

CONCLUSION. 

The day came at last on which Mary's visit to Little Alresford was tocommence. Two days later John Gordon was to arrive at the Parsonage, and Mary's period of being "spooned" was to be commenced, --accordingto Mr Blake's phraseology. "No, my dear; I don't think I need gowith you, " said Mr Whittlestaff, when the very day was there. 

"Why not come and call?"

"I don't much care about calling, " said Mr Whittlestaff. This wasexactly the state of mind to which Mary did not wish to see herfriend reduced, --that of feeling it to be necessary to avoid hisfellow-creatures. 

"You think Mr Blake is silly. He is a silly young man, I allow; butMr Hall has been very civil. As I am to go there for a week, youmight as well take me. " As she spoke she put her arm around him, caressing him. 

"I don't care particularly for Mr Blake; but I don't think I'll goto Little Alresford. " Mary understood, when he said this the secondtime, that the thing was fixed as fate. He would not go to LittleAlresford. Then, in about a quarter of an hour, he began again--"Ithink you'll find me gone when you come back again. "

"Gone! where shall you have gone?"

"I'm not quite comfortable here. Don't look so sad, you dear, deargirl. " Then he crossed the room and kissed her tenderly. "I have anervous irritable feeling which will not let me remain quiet. Ofcourse, I shall come for your marriage, whenever that may be fixed. "

"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff, do not talk in that way! That will be a yearto come, or perhaps two or three. Do not let it disturb you in thatway, or I shall swear that I will not be married at all. Why should Ibe married if you are to be miserable?"

"It has been all settled, my dear. Mr Gordon is to be the lord ofall that. And though you will be supposed to have fixed the day, itis he that will really fix it;--he, or the circumstances of his life. When a young lady has promised a young gentleman, the marriage may bedelayed to suit the young gentleman's convenience, but never to suithers. To tell the truth, it will always be felt convenient that sheshall be married as soon as may be after the promise has been given. You will see Mr Gordon in a day or two, and will find out then whatare his wishes. "

"Do you think that I shall not consult your wishes?"

"Not in the least, my dear. I, at any rate, shall have nowishes, --except what may be best for your welfare. Of course I mustsee him, and settle some matters that will have to be settled. Therewill be money matters. "

"I have no money, " said Mary, --"not a shilling! He knows that. "

"Nevertheless there will be money matters, which you will have thegoodness to leave to me. Are you not my daughter, Mary, my onlychild? Don't trouble yourself about such matters as these, but do asyou're bid. Now it is time for you to start, and Hayonotes will beready to go with you. " Having so spoken, Mr Whittlestaff put herinto the carriage, and she was driven away to Little Alresford. 

It then wanted a week to the Blake-cum-Forrester marriage, and theyoung clergyman was beginning to mix a little serious timidity withhis usual garrulous high spirits. "Upon my word, you know I'm notat all sure that they are going to do it right, " he said with muchemphasis to Miss Lawrie. "The marriage is to be on Tuesday. She's togo home on the Saturday. I insist upon being there on the Monday. Itwould make a fellow so awfully nervous travelling on the same day. But the other girls--and you're one of them, Miss Lawrie--are to gointo Winchester by train on Tuesday morning, under the charge of JohnGordon. If any thing were to happen to any of you, only think, whereshould I be?"

"Where should we be?" said Miss Lawrie. 

"It isn't your marriage, you know. But I suppose the wedding could goon even if one of you didn't come. It would be such an awful thingnot to have it done when the Dean is coming. " But Mary comforted him, assuring him that the Halls were very punctual in all their comingsand goings when any event was in hand. 

Then John Gordon came, and, to tell the truth, Mary was subjected forthe first time to the ceremony of spooning. When he walked up to thedoor across from the Parsonage, Mary Lawrie took care not to be inthe way. She took herself to her own bedroom, and there remained, with feverish, palpitating heart, till she was summoned by Miss Hall. "You must come down and bid him welcome, you know. "

"I suppose so; but--"

"Of course you must come. It must be sooner or later. He is lookingso different from what he was when he was here before. And so heought, when one considers all things. "

"He has not got another journey before him to South Africa. "

"Without having got what he came for, " said Miss Hall. Then whenthey went down, Mary was told that John Gordon had passed throughthe house into the shrubbery, and was invited to follow him. Mary, declaring that she would go alone, took up her hat and boldly wentafter him. As she passed on, across the lawn, she saw his figuredisappearing among the trees. "I don't think it very civil for ayoung lady's young man to vanish in that way, " said Miss Hall. ButMary boldly and quickly followed him, without another word. 

"Mary, " he said, turning round upon her as soon as they were both outof sight among the trees. "Mary, you have come at last. "

"Yes; I have come. "

"And yet, when I first showed myself at your house, you would hardlyreceive me. " But this he said holding her by the hand, and lookinginto her face with his brightest smile. "I had postponed my comingalmost too late. "

"Yes, indeed. Was it my fault?"

"No;--nor mine. When I was told that I was doing no good about thehouse, and reminded that I was penniless, what could I do but goaway?"

"But why go so far?"

"I had to go where money could be earned. Considering all things, Ithink I was quick enough. Where else could I have found diamonds butat the diamond-fields? And I have been perhaps the luckiest fellowthat has gone and returned. "

"So nearly too late!"

"But not too late. "

"But you were too late, --only for the inexpressible goodness ofanother. Have you thought what I owe--what you and I owe--to MrWhittlestaff?"

"My darling!"

"But I am his darling. Only it sounds so conceited in any girl to sayso. Why should he care so much about me?--or why should you, for thematter of that?"

"Mary, Mary, come to me now. " And he held out both his hands. Shelooked round, fearing intrusive eyes, but seeing none, she allowedhim to embrace her. "My own, --at last my own. How well you understoodme in those old days. And yet it was all without a word, --almostwithout a sign. " She bowed her head before she had escaped from hisarms. "Now I am a happy man. "

"It is he that has done it for you. "

"Am I not thankful?"

"How can I be thankful as I ought? Think of the gratitude that Iowe him, --think of all the love! What man has loved as he has done?Who has brought himself so to abandon to another the reward he hadthought it worth his while to wish for? You must not count the valueof the thing. "

"But I do. "

"But the price he had set upon it! I was to be the comfort of hislife to come. And it would have been so, had he not seen and had henot believed. Because another has loved, he has given up that whichhe has loved himself. "

"It was not for my sake. "

"But it was for mine. You had come first, and had won my poor heart. I was not worth the winning to either of you. "

"It was for me to judge of that. "

"Just so. But you do not know his heart. How prone he is to hold bythat which he knows he has made his own. I was his own. "

"You told him the truth when he came to you. "

"I was his own, " said Mary, firmly. "Had he bade me never to seeyou again, I should never have seen you. Had he not gone after youhimself, you would never have come back. "

"I do not know how that might be. "

"It would have been to no good. Having consented to take everythingfrom his hands, I could never have been untrue to him. I tell youthat I should as certainly have become his wife, as that girl willbecome the wife of that young clergyman. Of course I was unhappy. "

"Were you, dear?"

"Yes. I was very unhappy. When you flashed upon me there at Croker'sHall, I knew at once all the joy that had fallen within my reach. Youwere there, and you had come for me! All the way from Kimberley, justfor me to smile upon you! Did you not?"

"Indeed I did. "

"When you had found your diamonds, you thought of me, --was it notso?"

"Of you only. "

"You flatterer! You dear, bonny lover. You whom I had always lovedand prayed for, when I knew not where you were! You who had not leftme to be like Mariana, but had hurried home at once for me when yourman's work was done, --doing just what a girl would think that aman should do for her sake. But it had been all destroyed by thenecessity of the case. I take no blame to myself. "

"No; none. "

"Looking back at it all, I was right. He had chosen to want me, andhad a right to me. I had taken his gifts, given with a full hand. And where were you, my own one? Had I a right to think that you werethinking of me?"

"I was thinking of you. "

"Yes; because you have turned out to be one in a hundred: but I wasnot to have known that. Then he asked me, and I thought it best thathe should know the truth and take his choice. He did take his choicebefore he knew the truth, --that you were so far on your way to seekmy hand. "

"I was at that very moment almost within reach of it. "

"But still it had become his. He did not toss it from him then as athing that was valueless. With the truest, noblest observance, hemade me understand how much it might be to him, and then surrenderedit without a word of ill humour, because he told himself that intruth my heart was within your keeping. If you will keep it well, you must find a place for his also. " It was thus that Mary Lawriesuffered the spooning that was inflicted upon her by John Gordon. 

 * * * * * *

The most important part of our narrative still remains. When the daycame, the Reverend Montagu Blake was duly married to Miss CatherineForrester in Winchester Cathedral, by the Very Reverend the Dean, assisted by the young lady's father; and it is pleasant to think thaton that occasion the two clergymen behaved to each other with extremecivility. Mr Blake at once took his wife over to the Isle of Wight, and came back at the end of a month to enjoy the hospitality of MrHall. And with them came that lady's maid, of whose promotion toa higher sphere in life we shall expect soon to hear. Then came aperiod of thorough enjoyment for Mr Blake in superintending the workof Mr Newface. 

"What a pity it is that the house should ever be finished!" saidthe bride to Augusta Hall; "because as things are now, Montagu issupremely happy: he will never be so happy again. "

"Unless when the baby comes, " said Augusta. 

"I don't think he'll care a bit about the baby, " said the bride. 

The writer, however, is of a different opinion, as he is inclinedto think that the Reverend Montagu Blake will be a pattern for allfathers. One word more we must add of Mr Whittlestaff and his futurelife, --and one word of Mrs Baggett. Mr Whittlestaff did not leaveCroker's Hall. When October had come round, he was present at Mary'smarriage, and certainly did not carry himself then with any showof outward joy. He was moody and silent, and, as some said, almostuncourteous to John Gordon. But before Mary went down to the train, in preparation of her long wedding-tour, he took her up to hisbedroom, and there said a final word to her. "Give him my love. "

"Oh, my darling! you have made me so happy. "

"You will find me better when you come back, though I shall nevercease to regret all that I have lost. "

Mrs Baggett accepted her destiny, and remained in supreme dominionover all women-kind at Croker's Hall. But there was private pecuniaryarrangement between her and her master, of which I could never learnthe details. It resulted, however, in the sending of a money-orderevery Saturday morning to an old woman in whose custody the Sergeantwas left. 

 * * * * * *

Transcriber's notes:

 Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Specific changes in wording of the text are listed below. 

 Chapter II, paragraph 1. The word "man's" has been substituted for "man his" in the sentence: In some things his life had been successful; but these were matters in which the world does not write down a MAN'S good luck as being generally conducive to his happiness. 

 Chapter V, paragraph 47. The words "living here" have been substituted for "loving him" in the sentence: After all that has passed between us, you can hardly go on LIVING HERE as you have done. 

 Chapter VI, last paragraph. The words "than that" have been substituted for "that than" in the sentence: The weather is very hot, and from morning till night there is no occupation other THAN THAT of looking for diamonds, and the works attending it. 

 Chapter IX, paragraph 8. The sentence, "There isn't a better fellow living than Mr Furnival, or his wife, or his four daughters. " might leave the reader wondering who is Mr Furnival, as the name does not appear again in the text. The man referred to is later called Mr Hall. 

 Chapter XV, paragraph 12. The word "his" has been inserted in the sentence: "Have you seen HIS diamonds, Miss Lawrie?"

 Chapter XV, paragraph 32. The word "as" has been inserted in the sentence: "I don't know any spot on God's earth that I should be less likely to choose AS my abiding resting-place. "

 Chapter XIX, paragraph 56. The word "gone" has been substituted for "come" in the sentence: "What is it he means, Miss?" said Mrs Baggett, when the master was GONE. 

 Chapter XXI, paragraph 35. The word "it" has been inserted in the sentence: "What is IT that you wish, Mr Whittlestaff?" he asked. 

 Chapter XXII, paragraph 42. The word "had" has been substituted for "has" in the sentence: For indeed her life in public, --her life, that is, to which Mrs Baggett HAD access, --had been in some degree disturbed since the departure of the master of the house. 

 Chapter XXIV, paragraph 34. The word "those" has been substituted for "these" in the sentence: How well you understood me in THOSE old days. 

 Chapter XXIV, paragraph 53. The word "were" has been substitute for "was" in the sentence: You whom I had always loved and prayed for, when I knew not where you WERE!