An Old Man's Love
will be no lying. To the best of my ability I will love him, and
him only. All my care shall be for him. I have resolved, and I will
force myself to love him. All his qualities are good. There is not a
thought 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 to
him. It is not so."
"Oh, Mary!"
"It is not so. What might be the case I will not take upon myself
to say,--or what might have been. I was yesterday a free woman, and
my thoughts were altogether my own. To-day I am bound to him, and
whether it be for joy or for sorrow, I will be true to him. Now, Mr
Gordon, I will leave you."
"Half a moment," he said, standing between her and the door. "It
cannot be that this should be the end of all between us. I shall go
to him, and tell him what I believe to be the truth."
"I cannot hinder you; but I shall tell him that what you say is
false."
"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 most
conducive to his wishes." But as she said this, she was herself aware
that she had told Mr Whittlestaff only on this morning that she had
given her heart to John Gordon, and that she would be unable to keep
her thoughts from running to him. She had implored him to leave her
to herself, so that the memory of her love might be spared. Then,
when this young man had been still absent, when there was no dream
of his appearing again before her, when the consequence would be
that she must go forth into the world, and earn her own bitter
bread alone,--at that moment she knew that she had been true to the
memory of the man. What had occurred since, to alter her purpose
so violently? Was it the presence of the man she did love, and the
maidenly instincts which forbade her to declare her passion in his
presence? Or was it simply the conviction that her promise to Mr
Whittlestaff had been twice repeated, and could not now admit of
being withdrawn? But in spite of her asseverations, there must have
been present to her mind some feeling that if Mr Whittlestaff would
yield to the prayer of John Gordon, all the gulf would be bridged
over 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 she
could accompany him anywhere over the world with perfect bliss. How
well had he spoken for himself, and for his love! How like a man he
had looked, when he had asked her that question, "Will you dare to
tell me that you do not love me?" She had not dared; even though at
the moment she had longed to leave upon him the impression that it
was so. She had told him that she would lie to Mr Whittlestaff,--lie
on Mr Whittlestaff's own behalf. But such a lie as this she could
not tell to John Gordon. He had heard it in her voice and seen it in
her 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 Mr
Whittlestaff had spoken out his mind,--no love-tale would ever have
run smoother. In that case she would have accepted John Gordon
without a moment's consideration. When he should have told her of
his distant home, of the roughness of his life, of the changes and
chances to which his career must be subject, she would have assured
him, with her heart full of joy, that she would accept it all and
think her lot so happy as to admit of no complaint. Mr Whittlestaff
would then have known the condition of her heart, before he had
himself spoken a word. And as the trouble would always have been in
his 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 not
acutely felt, while the knowledge of the matter from which they grow
is confined altogether to his own bosom.
But she resolved, sitting there after John Gordon had left her, that
in the circumstances as they existed, it was her duty to bear what
sorrow there was to be borne. Poor John Gordon! He must bear some
sorrow too, if there should be cause to him for grief. There would be
loss of money, and loss of time, which would of themselves cause him
grief. Poor John Gordon! She did not blame him in that he had gone
away, and not said one word to draw from her some assurance of her
love. It was the nature of the man, which in itself was good and
noble. But in this case it had surely been unfortunate. With such
a passion at his heart, it was rash in him to have gone across the
world to the diamond-fields without speaking a word by which they two
might have held themselves as bound together. The pity of it!
But as circumstances had gone, honour and even honesty demanded that
Mr Whittlestaff should not be allowed to suffer. He at least had
been straightforward in his purpose, and had spoken as soon as he
had been assured of his own mind. Mr Whittlestaff should at any rate
have his reward.
CHAPTER IX.
THE REV MONTAGU BLAKE.
John Gordon, when he left the room, went out to look for Mr
Whittlestaff, but was told that he had gone into the town. Mr
Whittlestaff had had his own troubles in thinking of the unlucky
coincidence of John Gordon's return, and had wandered forth,
determined to leave those two together, so that they might speak to
each other as they pleased. And during his walk he did come to a
certain resolution. Should a request of any kind be made to him by
John Gordon, it should receive not the slightest attention. He was a
man to whom he owed nothing, and for whose welfare he was not in the
least solicitous. "Why should I be punished and he be made happy?" It
was thus he spoke to himself. Should he encounter the degradation of
disappointment, in order that John Gordon should win the object on
which he had set his heart? Certainly not. His own heart was much
dearer to him than that of John Gordon.
But if a request should be made to him by Mary Lawrie? Alas! if it
were so, then there must be sharp misery in store for him. In the
first place, were she to make the request, were she to tell him to
his face, she who had promised to be his wife, that this man was dear
to her, how was it possible that he should go to the altar with the
girl, and there accept from her her troth? She had spoken already
of a fancy which had crossed her mind respecting a man who could
have been no more than a dream to her, of whose whereabouts and
condition--nay, of his very existence--she was unaware. And she had
told 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 her
from 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 she
had come again to withdraw her promise, she had done so with some
cock-and-bull story about the old woman, which had had no weight with
him. Then he had her presence during the interview between the three
on which to form his judgment. As far as he could remember, as he
wandered through the fields thinking of it, she had not spoken hardly
above a word during that interview. She had sat silent, apparently
unhappy, but not explaining the cause of her unhappiness. It might
well be that she should be unhappy in the presence of her affianced
husband and her old lover. But now if she would tell him that she
wished 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 would
carry his generosity no further. He was not called upon to offer to
surrender himself. The man's coming had been a misfortune; but let
him go, and in process of time he would be forgotten. It was thus
that Mr Whittlestaff resolved as he walked across the country, while
he left the two lovers to themselves in his own parlour.
It was now nearly five o'clock, and Mr Whittlestaff, as Gordon was
told, dined at six. He felt that he would not find the man before
dinner unless he remained at the house,--and for doing so he had no
excuse. He must return in the evening, or sleep at the inn and come
back the next morning. He must manage to catch the man alone, because
he was assuredly minded to use upon him all the power of eloquence
which he had at his command. And as he thought it improbable so to
find him in the evening, he determined to postpone his task. But in
doing so he felt that he should be at a loss. The eager words were
hot now within his memory, having been sharpened against the anvil of
his thoughts by his colloquy with Mary Lawrie. To-morrow they might
have cooled. His purpose might be as strong; but a man when he wishes
to use burning words should use them while the words are on fire.
John Gordon had a friend at Alresford, or rather an acquaintance, on
whom he had determined to call, unless circumstances, as they should
occur at Croker's Hall, should make him too ecstatic in his wish for
any such operation. The ecstasy certainly had not come as yet, and he
went forth therefore to call on the Reverend Mr Blake. Of Mr Blake
he only knew that he was a curate of a neighbouring parish, and that
they two had been at Oxford together. So he walked down to the inn to
order his dinner, not feeling his intimacy with Mr Blake sufficient
to justify him in looking for his dinner with him. A man always
dines, let his sorrow be what it may. A woman contents herself with
tea, and mitigates her sorrow, we must suppose, by an extra cup. John
Gordon ordered a roast fowl,--the safest dinner at an English country
inn,--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 from
the town. The vicar was a feeble old gentleman who had gone away to
die 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. There
were about 250 men, women, and children, in his parish, and not a
Dissenter among them. For looking after these folk he had L120 per
annum, 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 upon
him. It was worth only L250, and was not, therefore, too valuable to
be expected. He had a modest fortune of his own, L300 a-year perhaps,
and,--for the best of his luck shall be mentioned last,--he was
engaged to the daughter of one of the prebendaries of Winchester, a
pretty bright little girl, with a further sum of L5000 belonging to
herself. He was thirty years of age, in the possession of perfect
health, and not so strict in matters of religion as to make it
necessary for him to abandon any of the innocent pleasures of this
world. He could dine out, and play cricket, and read a novel. And
should he chance, when riding his cob about the parish, or visiting
some neighbouring parish, to come across the hounds, he would not
scruple to see them over a field or two. So that the Rev Montagu
Blake was upon the whole a happy fellow.
He and John Gordon had been thrown together at Oxford for a short
time during the last months of their residence, and though they were
men quite unlike each other in their pursuits, circumstances had
made them intimate. It was well that Gordon should take a stroll for
a couple of hours before dinner, and therefore he started off for
Little Alresford. Going into the parsonage gate he was overtaken by