An Old Man's Love
that. As it is, as far as looks are concerned, you can't compare her
to my Kattie."
"Comparisons are odious," said Gordon.
"Well, yes; when you are sure to get the worst of them. You wouldn't
think comparisons odious if you were going to marry Kattie, and it
was my lot to have Mary Lawrie. Well, yes; I don't mind going to bed
now, as you have owned so much as that."
"Of all the fools," said Gordon to himself, as he went to his own
chamber,--"of all the fools who were ever turned out in the world to
earn their own bread, he is the most utterly foolish. Yet he will
earn his bread, and will come to no especial grief in the work. If
he 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 of
England indifferently well."
On the next morning a messenger was sent over to Croker's Hall, and
came back after due lapse of time with an answer to the effect that
Mr Whittlestaff and Miss Lawrie would have pleasure in dining that
day at Little Alresford Park. "That's right," said Mr Blake to the
lady of his love. "We shall now, perhaps, be able to put the thing
into 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 gentleman
to an old one. Only think what you'd feel if you were married to Mr
Whittlestaff."
"Oh, Montagu! how can you talk such nonsense?"
"I don't suppose you ever would, because you are not one of those
sort of young ladies. I don't suppose that Mary Lawrie likes it
herself; and therefore I'd break the match off in a moment if I
could. That's what I call good-natured."
After lunch they all went off to the Rookery, which was at the other
side of the park from Gar Wood. It was a beautiful spot, lying at
the end of the valley, through which they had to get out from their
carriage, and to walk for half a mile. Only for the sake of doing
honour to Miss Forrester, they would have gone on foot. But as it
was, they had all the six horses among them. Mr Gordon was put up
on one of the young ladies' steeds, the squire and the parson each
had his own, and Miss Evelina was also mounted, as Mr Blake had
suggested, perhaps with the view to the capture of Mr Gordon. "As
it'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 course
there is nothing in the distance, but there should be a respect shown
on such an occasion. Mr Hall does do everything of this kind just as
it should be."
"I suppose you know the young lady who is coming here to-night," said
Evelina 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 his
goodness."
"And now they are to be married. Does it not seem to you to be very
hard?"
"Not in the least. The young lady seems to have been left by her
father and step-mother without any engagement, and, indeed, without
any provision. She was brought here, in the first place, from sheer
charity, and I can certainly understand that when she was here Mr
Whittlestaff 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 any
young lady. This is a pretty place,--a very lovely spot. I think I
like it almost better than Gar Wood." Then there was no more said
about 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 Alresford
to-day." This was said, soon after breakfast, by Mr Whittlestaff to
Mary Lawrie, on the day after Mr Gordon's coming. "I think we'll
go."
"Could you not leave me behind?"
"By no means. I want you to become intimate with the girls, who are
good girls."
"But Mr Gordon is there."
"Exactly. That is just what I want. It will be better that you and
he should meet each other, without the necessity of making a scene."
From this it may be understood that Mr Whittlestaff had explained to
Mary as much as he had thought necessary of what had occurred between
him and John Gordon, and that Mary's answers had been satisfactory
to his feelings. Mary had told him that she was contented with her
lot in life, as Mr Whittlestaff had proposed it for her. She had
not been enthusiastic; but then he had not expected it. She had not
assured 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 think
that with me, dearest, at any rate, you will be safe." "I am quite
sure that I shall be safe," she had answered. And that had been
sufficient.
But the reader will also understand from this that he had sought for
no answer to those burning questions which John Gordon had put to
him. Had she loved John Gordon the longest? Did she love him the
best? There was no doubt a certain cautious selfishness in the way
in which he had gone to work. And yet of general selfishness it was
impossible to accuse him. He was willing to give her everything,--to
do all for her. And he had first asked her to be his wife, with every
observance. And then he could always protect himself on the plea that
he was doing the best he could for her. His property was assured,--in
the three per cents, as Mrs Baggett had suggested; whereas John
Gordon's was all in diamonds. How frequently do diamonds melt and
come to nothing? They are things which a man can carry in his pocket,
and lose or give away. They cannot,--so thought Mr Whittlestaff,--be
settled in the hands of trustees, or left to the charge of an
executor. They cannot be substantiated. Who can say that, when
looking to a lady's interest, this bit of glass may not come up
instead of that precious stone? "John Gordon might be a very steady
fellow; but we have only his own word for that,"--as Mr Whittlestaff
observed to himself. There could not be a doubt but that Mr
Whittlestaff himself was the safer staff of the two on which a young
lady might lean. He did make all these excuses for himself, and
determined that they were of such a nature that he might rely upon
them with safety. But still there was a pang in his bosom--a silent
secret--which kept on whispering to him that he was not the best
beloved. He had, however, resolved steadfastly that he would not
put 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 be
so. A change in her heart might, however, take place. It would come
to pass that she would learn that he was the superior staff on which
to lean. John Gordon might disappear among the diamond-fields, and no
more be heard of. He, at any rate, would do his best for her, so that
she should not repent her bargain. But he was determined that the
bargain, as it had been struck, should be carried out. Therefore,
in communicating to Mary the invitation which he had received from
Little Alresford, he did not find it necessary to make any special
speech in answer to her inquiry about John Gordon.
She understood it all, and could not in her very heart pronounce
a judgment against him. She knew that he was doing that which he
believed would be the best for her welfare. She, overwhelmed by the
debt of her gratitude, had acceded to his request, and had been
unable afterwards to depart from her word. She had said that it
should be so, and she could not then turn upon him and declare that
when she had given him her hand, she had been unaware of the presence
of her other lover. There was an injustice, an unkindness, an
ingratitude, a selfishness in this, which forbade her to think of
it as being done by herself. It was better for her that she should
suffer, though the suffering should be through her whole life,
than that he should be disappointed. No doubt the man would suffer
too,--her hero, her lover,--he with whom she would so willingly have
risked everything, either with or without the diamonds. She could
not, however, bear to think that Mr Whittlestaff should be so very
prudent 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 half
the day, up and down the long walk, she told herself that it was
useless to contend with her love. She did love John Gordon; she knew
that she loved him with her whole heart; she knew that she must be
true to him;--but still she would marry Mr Whittlestaff, and do her
duty 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 was
justice.
Had she not consented to take everything from Mr Whittlestaff; her
bread, her meat, her raiment, the shelter under which she lived, and
the position in the world which she now enjoyed? Had the man come but
a day earlier, it would all have been well. She would have told her
love before Mr Whittlestaff had spoken of his wants. Circumstances
had been arranged differently, and she must bear it. But she knew
that it would be better for her that she should see John Gordon
no more. Had he started at once to London and gone thence to the
diamond-fields without seeing her again there would be a feeling that
she had become the creature of stern necessity; there would have been
no hope for her,--as also no fear. Had he started a second time for
South Africa, she would have looked upon his further return with
any reference to her own wants as a thing impossible. But now how
would it be with her? Mr Whittlestaff had told her with a stern
indifference that she must again meet this man, sit at the table with
him as an old friend, and be again subject to his influence. "It will
be better that you and he should meet," he had said, "without the
necessity of making a scene." How could she assure him that there
would be no scene?
Then she thought that she would have recourse to that ordinary
feminine excuse, a headache; but were she to do so she would own the
whole truth to her master; she would have declared that she so loved
the man that she could not endure to be in his presence. She must
now let the matter pass as he had intended. She must go to Mr Hall's
house, and there encounter him she loved with what show of coldness
she might be able to assume.
But the worst of it all lay in this,--that she could not but think
that he had been induced to remain in the neighbourhood in order that
he might again try to gain his point. She had told herself again
and again that it was impossible, that she must decide as she had
decided, and that Mr Whittlestaff had decided so also. He had used
what eloquence was within his reach, and it had been all in vain.
He could now appeal only to herself, and to such appeal there could
be but one answer. And how was such appeal to be made in Mr Hall's
drawing-room? Surely John Gordon had been foolish in remaining in the
neighbourhood. Nothing but trouble could come of it.
"So you are going to see this young man again!" This came from Mrs
Baggett, who had been in great perturbation all the morning. The
Sergeant had slept in the stables through the night, and had had his
breakfast brought to him, warm, by his own wife; but he had sat up
among the straw, and had winked at her, and had asked her to give him
threepence of gin with the cat-lap. To this she had acceded, thinking
probably that she could not altogether deprive him of the food to
which he was accustomed without injury. Then, under the influence
of the gin and the promise of a ticket to Portsmouth, which she