An Old Man's Love
and was not yet resolved but that it might be her duty to turn
against Mary Lawrie with all the violence in her power. For the first
month or two after the young lady's arrival, she had almost made
up her mind that Mary Lawrie would never consent to become Mrs
Whittlestaff. An old gentleman will seldom fall in love without some
encouragement; or at any rate, will not tell his love. Mary Lawrie
was as cold to him as though he had been seventy-five instead of
fifty. And she was also as dutiful,--by which she showed Mrs Baggett
more strongly even than by her coldness, that any idea of marriage
was on her part out of the question.
This, strange to say, Mrs Baggett resented. For though she certainly
felt, as would do any ordinary Mrs Baggett in her position, that a
wife would be altogether detrimental to her interest in life, yet she
could not endure to think that "a little stuck-up minx, taken in from
charity," should run counter to any of her master's wishes. On one or
two occasions she had spoken to Mr Whittlestaff respecting the young
lady and had been cruelly snubbed. This certainly did not create
good humour on her part, and she began to fancy herself angry in that
the young lady was so ceremonious with her master. But as months ran
by she felt that Mary was thawing, and that Mr Whittlestaff was
becoming more affectionate. Of course there were periods in which her
mind veered round. But at the end of the year Mrs Baggett certainly
did wish that the young lady should marry her old master. "I can
go down to Portsmouth," she said to the baker, who was a most
respectable old man, and was nearer to Mrs Baggett's confidence
than any one else except her master, "and weary out the rest on 'em
there." When she spoke of "wearying out the rest on 'em," her friend
perfectly understood that she alluded to what years she might still
have to live, and to the abject misery of her latter days, which
would be the consequence of her resigning her present mode of life.
Mrs Baggett was supposed to have been born at Portsmouth, and,
therefore, to allude to that one place which she knew in the world
over and beyond the residences in which her master and her master's
family had resided.
Before I go on to describe the characters of Mr Whittlestaff and
Miss Lawrie, I must devote a few words to the early life of Mrs
Baggett. Dorothy Tedcaster had been born in the house of Admiral
Whittlestaff, the officer in command at the Portsmouth dockyard.
There her father or her mother had family connections, to visit whom
Dorothy, when a young woman, had returned from the then abode of her
loving mistress, Mrs Whittlestaff. With Mrs Whittlestaff she had
lived absolutely from the hour of her birth, and of Mrs Whittlestaff
her mind was so full, that she did conceive her to be superior, if
not absolutely in rank, at any rate in all the graces and favours of
life, to her Majesty and all the royal family. Dorothy in an evil
hour went back to Portsmouth, and there encountered that worst of
military heroes, Sergeant Baggett. With many lamentations, and
confessions as to her own weakness, she wrote to her mistress,
acknowledging that she did intend to marry "B." Mrs Whittlestaff
could do nothing to prevent it, and Dorothy did marry "B." Of the
misery and ill-usage, of the dirt and poverty, which poor Dorothy
Baggett endured during that year, it needs not here to tell. That
something had passed between her and her old mistress when she
returned to her, must, I suppose, have been necessary. But of her
married life, in subsequent years, Mrs Baggett never spoke at all.
Even the baker only knew dimly that there had been a Sergeant Baggett
in existence. Years had passed since that bad quarter of an hour
in her life, before Mrs Baggett had been made over to her present
master. And he, though he probably knew something of the abominable
Sergeant, never found it necessary to mention his name. For this Mrs
Baggett was duly thankful, and would declare among all persons, the
baker included, that "for a gentleman to be a gentleman, no gentleman
was such a gentleman" as her master.
It was now five-and-twenty years since the Admiral had died, and
fifteen since his widow had followed him. During the latter period
Mrs Baggett had lived at Croker's Hall with Mr Whittlestaff, and
within that period something had leaked out as to the Sergeant. How
it had come to pass that Mr Whittlestaff's establishment had been
mounted with less of the paraphernalia of wealth than that of his
parents, shall be told in the next chapter; but it was the case that
Mrs Baggett, in her very heart of hearts, was deeply grieved at what
she considered to be the poverty of her master. "You're a stupid
old fool, Mrs Baggett," her master would say, when in some private
moments her regrets would be expressed. "Haven't you got enough
to eat, and a bed to lie on, and an old stocking full of money
somewhere? What more do you want?"
"A stocking full of money!" she would say, wiping her eyes; "there
ain't no such thing. And as for eating, of course, I eats as much as
I wants. I eats more than I wants, if you come to that."
"Then you're very greedy."
"But to think that you shouldn't have a man in a black coat to pour
out a glass of wine for you, sir!"
"I never drink wine, Mrs Baggett."
"Well, whisky. I suppose a fellow like that wouldn't be above pouring
out a glass of whisky for a gentleman;--though there's no knowing now
what those fellows won't turn up their noses at. But it's a come-down
in the world, Mr Whittlestaff."
"If you think I've come down in the world, you'd better keep it to
yourself, and not tell me. I don't think that I've come down."
"You bear up against it finely like a man, sir; but for a poor woman
like me, I do feel it." Such was Mrs Baggett and the record of her
life. But this little conversation took place before the coming of
Mary Lawrie.
CHAPTER II.
MR WHITTLESTAFF.
Mr Whittlestaff had not been a fortunate man, as fortune is
generally counted in the world. He had not succeeded in what he had
attempted. He had, indeed, felt but little his want of success in
regard to money, but he had encountered failure in one or two other
matters which had touched him nearly. In some things his life had
been successful; but these were matters in which the world does not
write down a man's good luck as being generally conducive to his
happiness. He had never had a headache, rarely a cold, and not a
touch of the gout. One little finger had become crooked, and he was
recommended to drink whisky, which he did willingly,--because it was
cheap. He was now fifty, and as fit, bodily and mentally, for hard
work as ever he had been. And he had a thousand a-year to spend, and
spent it without ever feeling the necessity of saving a shilling. And
then he hated no one, and those who came in contact with him always
liked him. He trod on nobody's corns, and was, generally speaking,
the most popular man in the parish. These traits are not generally
reckoned as marks of good fortune; but they do tend to increase the
amount of happiness which a man enjoys in this world. To tell of
his misfortunes a somewhat longer chronicle of his life would be
necessary. But the circumstances need only be indicated here. He had
been opposed in everything to his father's views. His father, finding
him to be a clever lad, had at first designed him for the Bar. But
he, before he had left Oxford, utterly repudiated all legal pursuits.
"What the devil do you wish to be?" said his father, who at that
time was supposed to be able to leave his son L2000 a-year. The son
replied that he would work for a fellowship, and devote himself to
literature. The old admiral sent literature to all the infernal gods,
and told his son that he was a fool. But the lad did not succeed in
getting his fellowship, and neither father nor mother ever knew the
amount of suffering which he endured thereby. He became plaintive
and wrote poetry, and spent his pocket-money in publishing it, which
again caused him sorrow, not for the loss of his money, but by the
obscurity of his poetry. He had to confess to himself that God
had not conferred upon him the gift of writing poetry; and having
acknowledged so much, he never again put two lines together. Of all
this he said nothing; but the sense of failure made him sad at heart.
And his father, when he was in those straits, only laughed at him,
not at all believing the assurances of his son's misery, which from
time to time were given to him by his wife.
Then the old admiral declared that, as his son would do nothing for
himself, he must work for his son. And he took in his old age to
going into the city and speculating in shares. Then the Admiral
died. The shares came to nothing, and calls were made; and when
Mrs Whittlestaff followed her husband, her son, looking about him,
bought Croker's Hall, reduced his establishment, and put down the
man-servant whose departed glory was to Mrs Baggett a matter of such
deep regret.
But before this time Mr Whittlestaff had encountered the greatest
sorrow of his life. Even the lost fellowship, even the rejected
poetry, had not caused him such misery as this. He had loved a young
lady, and had been accepted;--and then the young lady had jilted him.
At this time of his life he was about thirty; and as to the outside
world, he was absolutely dumfounded by the catastrophe. Up to this
period he had been a sportsman in a moderate degree, fishing a good
deal, shooting a little, and devoted to hunting, to the extent of a
single horse. But when the blow came, he never fished or shot, or
hunted again. I think that the young lady would hardly have treated
him so badly had she known what the effect would be. Her name was
Catherine Bailey, and she married one Compas, who, as years went
on, made a considerable reputation as an Old Bailey barrister. His
friends feared at the time that Mr Whittlestaff would do some injury
either to himself or Mr Compas. But no one dared to speak to him on
the subject. His mother, indeed, did dare,--or half dared. But he so
answered his mother that he stopped her before the speech was out
of her mouth. "Don't say a word, mother; I cannot bear it." And he
stalked out of the house, and was not seen for many hours.
There had then, in the bitter agony of his spirit, come upon him an
idea of blood. He himself must go,--or the man. Then he remembered
that she was the man's wife, and that it behoved him to spare
the man for her sake. Then, when he came to think in earnest of
self-destruction, he told himself that it was a coward's refuge. He
took to his classics for consolation, and read the philosophy of
Cicero, and the history of Livy, and the war chronicles of Caesar.
They did him good,--in the same way that the making of many shoes
would have done him good had he been a shoemaker. In catching fishes
and riding after foxes he could not give his mind to the occupation,
so as to abstract his thoughts. But Cicero's de Natura Deorum was
more effectual. Gradually he returned to a gentle cheerfulness of
life, but he never burst out again into the violent exercise of
shooting a pheasant. After that his mother died, and again he was
called upon to endure a lasting sorrow. But on this occasion the
sorrow was of that kind which is softened by having been expected. He
rarely spoke of his mother,--had never, up to this period at which
our tale finds him, mentioned his mother's name to any of those about
him. Mrs Baggett would speak of her, saying much in the praise of
her old mistress. Mr Whittlestaff would smile and seem pleased, and
so the subject would pass away. There was something too reverend
to him in his idea of his mother, to admit of his discussing her