An Old Man's Love
which one is accustomed to in England. Here in London a man is
nowhere if he takes his wife back. Nobody knows her, because there
are plenty to know of another sort. But there things are not quite
so strict. Of course she oughtn't to have gone off with Atkinson;--a
vulgar low fellow, too."
"And you oughtn't to have licked her."
"That's just it. It was tit for tat, I think. That's the way I look
at it. At any rate we are living together now, and no one can say
we're not man and wife."
"There'll be a deal of trouble saved in that way."
"A great deal. We are man and wife, and can begin again as though
nothing had happened. No one can say that black's the white of our
eye. She'll take to those darling children as though nothing had
happened. You can't conceive how anxious she is to get back to them.
And there's no other impediment. That's a comfort."
"Another impediment would have upset you rather?"
"I couldn't have put up with that." Mr Fitzwalker Tookey looked very
grave and high-minded as he made the assertion. "But there's nothing
of that kind. It's all open sailing. Now,--what are we to live upon,
just for a beginning?"
"You have means out there."
"Not as things are at present,--I am sorry to say. To tell the truth,
my third share of the old Stick-in-the-Mud is gone. I had to raise
money when it was desirable that I should come with you."
"Not on my account."
"And then I did owe something. At any rate, it's all gone now. I
should find myself stranded at Kimberley without a red cent."
"What can I do?"
"Well,--I will explain. Poker & Hodge will buy your shares for the
sum named. Joshua Poker, who is out there, has got my third share.
Poker & Hodge have the money down, and when I have arranged the sale,
will undertake to give me the agency at one per cent on the whole
take for three years certain. That'll be L1000 a-year, and it's odd
if I can't float myself again in that time." Gordon stood silent,
scratching his head. "Or if you'd give me the agency on the same
terms, it would be the same thing. I don't care a straw for Poker &
Hodge."
"I daresay not."
"But you'd find me as true as steel."
"What little good I did at the Fields I did by looking after my own
business."
"Then what do you propose? Let Poker & Hodge have them, and I shall
bless you for ever." To this mild appeal Mr Tookey had been brought
by the manner in which John Gordon had scratched his head. "I think
you are bound to do it, you know." To this he was brought by the
subsequent look which appeared in John Gordon's eyes.
"I think not."
"Men will say so."
"I don't care a straw what men say, or women."
"And you to come back in the same ship with me and my wife! You
couldn't do it. The Fields wouldn't receive you." Gordon bethought
himself whether this imagined rejection might not arise rather from
the character of his travelling companions. "To bring back the
mother of three little sainted babes, and then to walk in upon every
shilling of property which had belonged to their father! You never
could hold up your head in Kimberley again."
"I should have to stand abashed before your virtue?"
"Yes, you would. I should be known to have come back with my poor
repentant wife,--the mother of three dear babes. And she would be
known to have returned with her misguided husband. The humanity of
the Fields would not utter a word of reproval to either of us. But,
upon my word, I should not like to stand in your shoes. And how you
could sit opposite to her and look her in the face on the journey
out, I don't know."
"It would be unpleasant."
"Deuced unpleasant, I should say. You remember the old Roman saying,
'Never be conscious of anything within your own bosom.' Only think
how you would feel when you were swelling it about in Kimberley,
while that poor lady won't be able to buy a pair of boots for herself
or her children. I say nothing about myself. I didn't think you were
the man to do it;--I didn't indeed."
Gordon did find himself moved by the diversity of lights through
which he was made to look at the circumstances in question. In the
first place, there was the journey back with Mr Tookey and his wife,
companions he had not anticipated. The lady would probably begin by
soliciting his intimacy, which on board ship he could hardly refuse.
With a fellow-passenger, whose husband has been your partner, you
must quarrel bitterly or be warm friends. Upon the whole, he thought
that he could not travel to South Africa with Mr and Mrs Fitzwalker
Tookey. And then he understood what the man's tongue would do if he
were there for a month in advance. The whole picture of life, too,
at the Fields was not made attractive by Mr Tookey's description.
He was not afraid of the reception which might be accorded to Mrs
Tookey, but saw that Tookey found himself able to threaten him with
violent evils, simply because he would claim his own. Then there shot
across his brain some reminiscence of Mary Lawrie, and a comparison
between her and her life and the sort of life which a man must lead
under the auspices of Mrs Tookey. Mary Lawrie was altogether beyond
his reach; but it would be better to have her to think of than the
other to know. His idea of the diamond-fields was disturbed by the
promised return of his late partner and his wife.
"And you mean to reduce me to this misery?" asked Mr Tookey.
"I don't care a straw for your misery."
"What!"
"Not for your picture of your misery. I do not doubt but that when
you have been there for a month you will be drunk as often as ever,
and just as free with your fists when a woman comes in your way."
"Never!"
"And I do not see that I am at all bound to provide for you and for
your wife and children. You have seen many ups and downs, and will be
doomed to see many more, as long as you can get hold of a bottle of
wine."
"I mean to take the pledge,--I do indeed. I must do it gradually,
because of my constitution,--but I shall do it."
"I don't in the least believe in it;--nor do I believe in any man
who thinks to redeem himself after such a fashion. It may still be
possible that I shall not go back."
"Thank God!"
"I may kill beasts in Buenos Ayres, or take a tea-farm in Thibet, or
join the colonists in Tennessee. In that case I will let you know
what arrangement I may propose to make about the Kimberley claim. At
any rate, I may say this,--I shall not go back in the same vessel
with you."
"I thought it would have been so comfortable."
"You and Mrs Tookey would find yourself more at your ease without
me."
"Not in the least. Don't let that thought disturb you. Whatever
misery fate may have in store for me, you will always find that, for
the hour, I will endeavour to be a good companion. 'Sufficient for
the day is the evil thereof.' That is the first of my mottoes."
"At any rate, I shall not go back in the _Kentucky Castle_ if you
do."
"I'm afraid our money is paid."
"So is mine; but that does not signify. You have a week yet, and I
will let you know by eleven o'clock on Thursday what steps I shall
finally take. If in any way I can serve you, I will do so; but I can
admit no claim."
"A thousand thanks! And I am so glad you approve of what I have done
about Matilda. I'm sure that a steady-going fellow like you would
have done the same." To this John Gordon could make no answer, but
left his friend, and went away about his own business. He had to
decide between Tennessee, Thibet, and Buenos Ayres, and wanted his
time for his own purposes.
When he got to dinner at his club, he found a letter from Mr
Whittlestaff, which had come by the day-mail. It was a letter which,
for the time, drove Thibet and Buenos Ayres, and Tennessee also,
clean out of his mind. It was as follows:--
CROKER'S HALL, -- June 188--.
DEAR MR JOHN GORDON,--I shall be in town this afternoon,
probably by the same train which will bring this letter,
and will do myself the honour of calling upon you at your
club the next day at twelve.--I am, dear Mr John Gordon,
faithfully yours,
WILLIAM WHITTLESTAFF.
Then there was to be an answer to the appeal which he had made. Of
what nature would be the answer? As he laid his hand upon his heart,
and felt the violence of the emotion to which he was subjected, he
could not doubt the strength of his own love.
CHAPTER XIX.
MR WHITTLESTAFF'S JOURNEY DISCUSSED.
"I don't think that if I were you I would go up to London, Mr
Whittlestaff," said Mary. This was on the Tuesday morning.
"Why not?"
"I don't think I would."
"Why should you interfere?"
"I know I ought not to interfere."
"I don't think you ought. Especially as I have taken the trouble to
conceal what I am going about."
"I can guess," said Mary.
"You ought not to guess in such a matter. You ought not to have it on
your mind at all. I told you that I would not tell you. I shall go.
That's all that I have got to say."
The words with which he spoke were ill-natured and savage. The reader
will find them to be so, if he thinks of them. They were such that
a father would hardly speak, under any circumstances, to a grown-up
daughter,--much less that a lover would address to his mistress. And
Mary was at present filling both capacities. She had been taken into
his house almost as an adopted daughter, and had, since that time,
had all the privileges accorded to her. She had now been promoted
still higher, and had become his affianced bride. That the man should
have turned upon her thus, in answer to her counsel, was savage, or
at least ungracious. But at every word her heart became fuller and
more full of an affection as for something almost divine. What other
man had ever shown such love for any woman? and this love was shown
to her,--who was nothing to him,--who ate the bread of charity in his
house. And it amounted to this, that he intended to give her up to
another man,--he who had given such proof of his love,--he, of whom
she knew that this was a question of almost life and death,--because
in looking into his face she had met there the truth of his heart!
Since that first avowal, made before Gordon had come,--made at a
moment when some such avowal from her was necessary,--she had spoken
no word as to John Gordon. She had endeavoured to show no sign. She
had given herself up to her elder lover, and had endeavoured to
have it understood that she had not intended to transfer herself
because the other man had come across her path again like a flash of
lightning. She had dined in company with her younger lover without
exchanging a word with him. She had not allowed her eyes to fall upon
him more than she could help, lest some expression of tenderness
should be seen there. Not a word of hope had fallen from her lips
when they had first met, because she had given herself to another.
She was sure of herself in that. No doubt there had come moments in
which she had hoped--nay, almost expected--that the elder of the two
might give her up; and when she had felt sure that it was not to be
so, her very soul had rebelled against him. But as she had taken
time to think of it, she had absolved him, and had turned her anger
against herself. Whatever he wanted,--that she believed it would be
her duty to do for him, as far as its achievement might be in her
power.
She came round and put her arm upon him, and looked into his face.
"Don't go to London. I ask you not to go."
"Why should I not go?"
"To oblige me. You pretend to have a secret, and refuse to say why
you are going. Of course I know."
"I have written a letter to say that I am coming."
"It is still lying on the hall-table down-stairs. It will not go to
the post till you have decided."
"Who has dared to stop it?"