An Old Man's Love
one of them wooden. And as for the perlice, I shall want the perlice
to fetch my wife along with me. I ain't a-going to stir out of this
place without Mrs B. I'm a hold man, and wants a woman to look arter
me. Come along, Mrs B." Then he made a motion as though to run after
her, still brandishing the stick in his hand. But she retreated, and
he came down, seated on the pathway by the roadside, as though he had
only 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." Then
he laughed loudly, nodding his head merrily at the bystanders,--as no
lord under such circumstances certainly would have done.
All this happened just as John Gordon came up to the corner of the
road, from whence, by a pathway, turned the main entrance into Mr
Whittlestaff's garden. He could not but see the drunken red-nosed
man, and the old woman, whom he recognised as Mr Whittlestaff's
servant, and a crowd of persons around, idlers out of Alresford,
who had followed Sergeant Baggett up to the scene of his present
exploits. Croker's Hall was not above a mile from the town, just
where the town was beginning to become country, and where the houses
all had gardens belonging to them, and the larger houses a field
or two. "Yes, sir, master is at home. If you'll please to ring the
bell, one of the girls will come out." This was said by Mrs Baggett,
advancing almost over the body of her prostrate husband. "Drunken
brute!" she said, by way of a salute, as she passed him. He only
laughed aloud, and looked around upon the bystanders with triumph.
At this moment Mr Whittlestaff came down through the gate into the
road. "Oh, Mr Gordon! good morning, sir. You find us rather in
a disturbed condition this morning. I am sorry I did not think
of asking you to come to breakfast. But perhaps, under all the
circumstances it was better not. That dreadful man has put us sadly
about. He is the unfortunate husband of my hardly less unfortunate
housekeeper."
"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 twenty
pounds a-year."
"It's thirty, you false ungrateful beast!" said Mrs Baggett. But in
the meantime Mr Whittlestaff had led the way into the garden, and
John Gordon had followed him. Before they reached the hall-door, Mary
Lawrie had met them.
"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff!" she said, "is it not annoying? that dreadful
man with the wooden leg is here, and collecting a crowd round the
place. Good morning, Mr Gordon. It is the poor woman's ne'er-do-well
husband. She is herself so decent and respectable, that she will be
greatly harassed. What can we do, Mr Whittlestaff? Can't we get a
policeman?" In this way the conversation was led away to the affairs
of Sergeant and Mrs Baggett, to the ineffable distress of John
Gordon. When we remember the kind of speeches which Gordon intended
to utter, the sort of eloquence which he desired to use, it must be
admitted that the interruption was provoking. Even if Mary would
leave them together, it would be difficult to fall back upon the
subject which Gordon had at heart.
It is matter of consideration whether, when important subjects are
to be brought upon the _tapis_, the ultimate result will or will not
depend much on the manner in which they are introduced. It ought
not to be the case that they shall be so prejudiced. "By-the-by, my
dear fellow, now I think of it, can you lend me a couple of thousand
pounds for twelve months?" Would that generally be as efficacious
as though the would-be borrower had introduced his request with the
general paraphernalia of distressing solemnities? The borrower, at
any rate, feels that it would not, and postpones the moment till
the fitting solemnities can be produced. But John Gordon could not
postpone his moment. He could not go on residing indefinitely at the
Claimant's Arms till he could find a proper opportunity for assuring
Mr 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. Indeed
he had no hopes as to a favourable result. He had slept upon it, as
people say when they intend to signify that they have lain awake,
and had convinced himself that all eloquence would be vain. Was it
natural that a man should give up his intended wife, simply because
he was asked? Gordon's present feeling was an anxious desire to
be once more on board the ship that should take him again to the
diamond-fields, so that he might be at peace, knowing then, as he
would know, that he had left Mary Lawrie behind for ever. At this
moment he almost repented that he had not left Alresford without any
farther attempt. But there he was on Mr Whittlestaff's ground, and
the attempt must be made, if only with the object of justifying his
coming.
"Miss Lawrie," he began, "if you would not mind leaving me and Mr
Whittlestaff alone together for a few minutes, I will be obliged
to you." This he said with quite sufficient solemnity, so that Mr
Whittlestaff drew himself up, and looked hard and stiff, as though he
were determined to forget Sergeant Baggett and all his peccadilloes
for 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 coming
from me unless it comes out of my own mouth." Then she put her hand
upon his arm, as though half embracing him.
"You had better leave us, perhaps," said Mr Whittlestaff. And then
she went.
Now the moment had come, and John Gordon felt the difficulty. It had
not been lessened by the assurance given by Mary herself that nothing
was to be taken as having come from her unless it was known and heard
to have so come. And yet he was thoroughly convinced that he was
altogether loved by her, and that had he appeared on the scene but
a day sooner, she would have accepted him with all her heart. "Mr
Whittlestaff," he said, "I want to tell you what passed yesterday
between 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 has
said a word to me,--as much, I presume, as she feels to be
necessary."
"I do not think that her feeling in the matter should be a guide for
you or for me. What we have both of us to do is to think what may be
best for her, and to effect that as far as may be within our power."
"Certainly," said Mr Whittlestaff. "But it may so probably be the
case that you and I shall differ materially as to thinking what may
be best for her. As far as I understand the matter, you wish that she
should be your wife. I wish that she should be mine. I think that as
my wife she would live a happier life than she could do as yours; and
as 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 "Nor
in the interview which I had with her yesterday did I hear a word
fall from her as to herself. We have got to form our ideas as to that
from circumstances which shall certainly not be made to appear by her
own speech. When you speak against me--"
"I have not said a word against you, sir."
"Perhaps you imply," said Gordon, not stopping to notice Mr
Whittlestaff's last angry tone,--"perhaps you imply that my life may
be that of a rover, and as such would not conduce to Miss Lawrie's
happiness."
"I have implied nothing."
"To suit her wishes I would remain altogether in England. I was very
lucky, 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 joint
maintenance."
"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 my
wife,--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 her
step-mother that I was not wanted about the house, because I had no
means. 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 of
hope,--that I might put myself in the way of enabling her to become
my 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 has
he to do but to go away?"
"There are circumstances here."
"What does she say herself? There are no circumstances to justify
you. If you would come here as a friend, I offered to receive you. As
you had been known to her, I did not turn my back upon you. But now
your conduct is so peculiar that I cannot ask you to remain here any
longer." They were walking up and down the long walk, and now Mr
Whittlestaff stood still, as though to declare his intention that the
interview 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 young
lady's hand."
"But I think you should first hear what I have to say. You will not
surely 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 Miss
Lawrie."
"What has that to do with it?"
"Had I come on the previous day, and had I been able then to tell her
all that I can tell her now, would it have made no difference?"
"Did she say so?" asked the fortunate lover, but in a very angry
tone.
"No; she did not say so. It was with difficulty that I forced from
her an avowal that her engagement was so recent. But she did confess
that 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 that
you had asked."
"I never heard a man assert so impudently that he was the sole owner
of a lady's favours. Upon my word, I think that you are the vainest
man whom I ever met."
"Let it be so. I do not care to defend myself, but only her. Whether
I 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 marry
this girl, will you not marry one whose heart belongs to me? Will
you not marry one of whom you knew two days since that her heart was
mine? Will you not marry one who, if she was free this moment, would
give 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, or
unmanliness if you will, is not what I say God's truth? It is not
about my weaknesses, or your weaknesses, that we should speak, but
about 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 that
she may not sink into the abyss of my unworthiness."
"Partly that."
"But if I had come two days since, when she would have received me
with open arms--"
"You have no right to make such a statement."
"I ask yourself whether it is not true? She would have received me
with open arms, and would you then have dared, as her guardian, to
bid her refuse the offer made to her, when you had learned, as you
would have done, that she loved me; that I had loved her with all
my heart before I left England; that I had left it with the view of