An Old Man's Love
when John Gordon had run through his diamonds, there would be nothing
but poverty and distress. There was no reason for supposing that the
diamonds would be especially short-lived, or that John Gordon would
probably be a spendthrift. But diamonds as a source of income are
volatile,--not trustworthy, as were the funds to Mrs Baggett. And
then the nature of the source of income offered, enabled him to say
so much as a plea to himself. Could he give the girl to a man who had
nothing but diamonds with which to pay his weekly bills? He did tell
himself again and again, that Mary Lawrie should not be encouraged
to 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 tell
himself 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, and
become as nothing, there was his own income, fixed and sure as the
polar star, in the consolidated British three per cents. If he really
loved this girl, could he not protect her from poverty, even were she
married 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 he
could not define even to himself, to do the best he could for her
happiness? He loved her so well that he thought that, for her sake,
he could abolish himself. Let her have his money, his house, and his
horses. Let her even have John Gordon. He could with a certain
feeling of delight imagine it all. But then he could not abolish
himself. There he would be, subject to the remarks of men. "There
is he," men would say of him, "who has maundered away his mind in
softnesses;--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 than
a soft maundering idiot." It would be thus that his neighbours would
speak of him in his vain effort to abolish himself.
It was not yet too late. He had not yielded an inch to this man. He
could still be stern and unbending. He felt proud of himself in that
he 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 be
weakness displayed, it would be in himself. Mary would be true to her
promise;--true to her faith, true to the arrangement made for her
own life. She would not provoke him with arguments as to her love
for John Gordon; and, as Mrs Baggett had assured him, even in her
thoughts she would not go astray. If it were but for that word, Mrs
Baggett 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, and
was perfectly secure that his name and his honour were safe in her
hands. And she certainly would learn to love him. "She'll stand
the washing," he said to himself, repeating another morsel of Mrs
Baggett's wisdom. And thus he made up his mind that he would, on this
occasion, if only on this occasion, be stern and cruel. Surely a man
could 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 see
Mary Lawrie, and so to speak to her as to give her no idea of the
conversation which had taken place between him and John Gordon. It
would not be necessary, he thought, that he should mention to her
John Gordon's name any more. Let his marriage go on, as though there
were no such person as John Gordon. It would be easier to be stern
and cruel when he could enact the character simply by silence. He
would hurry on his wedding as quickly as she would allow him, and
then the good thing--the good that was to come out of sternness and
cruelty--would be achieved.
He went through from the library to knock at Mary's door, and in
doing so, had to pass the room in which Mrs Baggett had slept
tranquilly 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 once
occurred 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 the
heads 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 must
have 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 voice
of much authority. "You may both go down. Mrs Baggett's box is not
to be taken out of that room to-day."
"Not taken out! Oh, Mr Whittlestaff! Why, the porter is here with
his barrow to take it down to the station."
"Then the porter must have a shilling and go back again empty." And
so 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; "but
he's always in earnest, whatever it is. I never see one like the
master 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 the
stairs, leaving Mrs Baggett weeping in the passage.
"You should let a poor old woman have her box," she said, whining to
her 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. When
you 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 do
with Baggett? They have given him more gin out there, and he's as
drunk as a beast. I think I ought to have my own box. Shall I tell
Thornybush as he may come back? The train'll be gone, and then what
am I to do with Baggett? He'll get hisself that drunk, you won't be
able to stir him. And it is my own box, Mr Whittlestaff?"
To all which Mr Whittlestaff turned a deaf ear. She should find that
there was no maundering softness with him now. He felt within his own
bosom that it behoved him to learn to become stern and cruel. He knew
that the key was in his pocket, and found that there was a certain
satisfaction in being stern and cruel. Mrs Baggett might sob her
heart 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 to
touch him because of you, sir. He says as how if you could take him
into the stables, he'd sleep it off among the straw. But then he'd be
just as bad after this first go, to-morrow."
To this, however, Mr Whittlestaff at once acceded. He saw a way out
of the immediate difficulty. He therefore called Hayonotes to him,
and succeeded in explaining his immediate meaning. Hayonotes and
the policeman between them lifted Baggett, and deposited the man in
an empty stall, where he was accommodated with ample straw. And an
order was given that as soon as he had come to himself, he should be
provided with something to eat.
"Summat to eat!" said Mrs Baggett, in extreme disgust. "Provide him
with 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 at
the back-door, and Mr Montagu Blake was announced. There had been a
little _contretemps_ or misadventure. It was Mr Blake's habit when
he called at Croker's Hall to ride his horse into the yard, there to
give him up to Hayonotes, and make his way in by the back entrance.
On this occasion Hayonotes had been considerably disturbed in his
work, and was discussing the sad condition of Mr Baggett with
Thornybush over the gate of the kitchen-garden. Consequently, Mr
Blake had taken his own horse into the stable, and as he was about
to lead the beast up to the stall, had been stopped and confused by
Sergeant Baggett's protruding wooden leg.
"'Alloa! what's up now?" said a voice, addressing Mr Blake
from under the straw. "Do you go down, old chap, and get us
three-penn'orth of cream o' the valley from the Cock."
Then Mr Blake had been aware that this prior visitor was not in a
condition to be of much use to him, and tied up his own horse in
another stall. But on entering the house, Mr Blake announced the
fact of there being a stranger in the stables, and suggested that the
one-legged gentleman had been looking at somebody taking a glass of
gin. Then Mrs Baggett burst out into a loud screech of agony. "The
nasty drunken beast! he ought to be locked up into the darkest hole
they'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 to
carry, and precious heavy he is. You must have heard of Sergeant
Baggett;--the most drunkenest, beastliest, idlest scoundrel as ever
the Queen had in the army, and the most difficultest for a woman
to put up with in the way of a husband! Let a woman be ever so
decent, he'd drink her gowns and her petticoats, down to her very
underclothing. How would you like, sir, to have to take up with such
a beast as that, after living all your life as comfortable as any
lady in the land? Wouldn't that be a come-down, Mr Blake? And then
to have your box locked up, and be told that the key of your bedroom
door is in the master's pocket." Thus Mrs Baggett continued to
bewail her destiny.
Mr Blake having got rid of the old woman, and bethinking himself
of the disagreeable incidents to which a gentleman with a larger
establishment than his own might be liable, made his way into the
sitting-room, where he found Mary Lawrie alone; and having apologised
for the manner of his intrusion, and having said something intended
to be jocose as to the legs of the warrior in the stable, at once
asked a question as to John Gordon.
"Mr Gordon!" said Mary. "He was here this morning with Mr
Whittlestaff, 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 station
when he came up here. I found his bag there, but heard nothing of
him. They told me at the inn that he was to come up here, and I
thought 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. We
were at Oxford together, and yesterday evening we got talking about
our adventures since."
"He told you that he had been at the diamond-fields?"
"Oh, yes; I know all about the diamond-fields. But Mr Hall
particularly wants to see him up at the Park." (Mr Hall was the
squire with four daughters who lived at Little Alresford.) "Mr Hall
says that he knew his father many years ago, and sent me out to look
for him. I shall be wretched if he goes away without coming to Little
Alresford 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 a
stranger to me." Mr Blake looked into her face, and was aware that
there was something to distress her. He at once gathered from her
countenance that Mr Whittlestaff had been like the dog that stuck
to his bone, and that John Gordon was like the other dog--the
disappointed one--and had been turned out from the neighbourhood of