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 th
epresent 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 s
aid 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."
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