An Old Man's Love
his hotel dinner, by which he had thought it possible that he might
yet escape from the misery of Pandemonium and be carried into the
light and joy of Paradise. But as he sat with his beef-steak before
him, and ate his accustomed potato, with apparently as good a gusto
as any of his neighbours, the dream departed. He told himself
that under no circumstances should the dream be allowed to become
a reality. The dream had been of this wise. With all the best
intentions in his power he would offer the girl to John Gordon, and
then, not doubting Gordon's acceptance of her, would make the same
offer to the girl herself. But what if the girl refused to accept
the offer? What if the girl should stubbornly adhere to her original
promise? Was he to refuse to marry her when she should insist that
such was her right? Was he to decline to enter in upon the joys of
Paradise when Paradise should be thus opened to him? He would do his
best, loyally and sincerely, with his whole heart. But he could not
force her to make him a wretch, miserable for the rest of his life!
In fact it was she who might choose to make the sacrifice, and thus
save him from the unhappiness in store for him. Such had been the
nature of his dream. As he was eating his beef-steak and potatoes,
he told himself that it could not be so, and that the dream must be
flung to the winds. A certain amount of strength was now demanded of
him, and he thought that he would be able to use it. "No, my dear,
not me; it may not be that you should become my wife, though all the
promises under heaven had been given. Though you say that you wish
it, it is a lie which may not be ratified. Though you implore it of
me, it cannot be granted. It is he that is your love, and it is he
that must have you. I love you too, God in his wisdom knows, but it
cannot be so. Go and be his wife, for mine you shall never become. I
have meant well, but have been unfortunate. Now you know the state of
my mind, than which nothing is more fixed on this earth." It was thus
that he would speak to her, and then he would turn away; and the term
of his misery would have commenced.
On the next morning he got up and prepared for his interview with
John Gordon. He walked up and down the sward of the Green Park,
thinking to himself of the language which he would use. If he could
only tell the man that he hated him while he surrendered to him the
girl whom he loved so dearly, it would be well. For in truth there
was nothing of Christian charity in his heart towards John Gordon.
But he thought at last that it would be better that he should
announce his purpose in the simplest language. He could hate the man
in his own heart as thoroughly as he desired. But it would not be
becoming in him, were he on such an occasion to attempt to rise to
the romance of tragedy. "It will be all the same a thousand years
hence," he said to himself as he walked in at the club door.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE GREEN PARK.
He asked whether Mr John Gordon was within, and in two minutes
found himself standing in the hall with that hero of romance. Mr
Whittlestaff told himself, as he looked at the man, that he was such
a hero as ought to be happy in his love. Whereas of himself, he was
conscious of a personal appearance which no girl could be expected
to adore. He thought too much of his personal appearance generally,
complaining to himself that it was mean; whereas in regard to Mary
Lawrie, it may be said that no such idea had ever entered her mind.
"It was just because he had come first," she would have said if
asked. And the "he" alluded to would have been John Gordon. "He
had come first, and therefore I had learned to love him." It was
thus that Mary Lawrie would have spoken. But Mr Whittlestaff, as he
looked up into John Gordon's face, felt that he himself was mean.
"You got my letter, Mr Gordon?"
"Yes; I got it last night."
"I have come up to London, because there is something that I want
to say to you. It is something that I can't very well put up into a
letter, and therefore I have taken the trouble to come to town." As
he said this he endeavoured, no doubt, to assert his own dignity by
the look which he assumed. Nor did he intend that Mr Gordon should
know anything of the struggle which he had endured.
But Mr Gordon knew as well what Mr Whittlestaff had to say as did
Mr Whittlestaff himself. He had turned the matter over in his own
mind since the letter had reached him, and was aware that there could
be no other cause for seeing him which could bring Mr Whittlestaff
up to London. But a few days since he had made an appeal to Mr
Whittlestaff--an appeal which certainly might require much thought
for its answer--and here was Mr Whittlestaff with his reply. It
could not have been made quicker. It was thus that John Gordon had
thought of it as he had turned Mr Whittlestaff's letter over in his
mind. The appeal had been made readily enough. The making of it had
been easy; the words to be spoken had come quickly, and without the
necessity for a moment's premeditation. He had known it all, and from
a full heart the mouth speaks. But was it to have been expected that
a man so placed as had been Mr Whittlestaff, should be able to give
his reply with equal celerity? He, John Gordon, had seen at once
on reaching Croker's Hall the state in which things were. Almost
hopelessly he had made his appeal to the man who had her promise.
Then he had met the man at Mr Hall's house, and hardly a word had
passed between them. What word could have been expected? Montagu
Blake, with all his folly, had judged rightly in bringing them
together. When he received the letter, John Gordon had remembered
that last word which Mr Whittlestaff had spoken to him in the
squire's hall. He had thought of the appeal, and had resolved to
give an answer to it. It was an appeal which required an answer. He
had turned it over in his mind, and had at last told himself what
the answer should be. John Gordon had discovered all that when he
received the letter, and it need hardly be said that his feelings
in regard to Mr Whittlestaff were very much kinder than those of Mr
Whittlestaff to him.
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind coming out into the street," said Mr
Whittlestaff. "I can't say very well what I've got to say in here."
"Certainly," said Gordon; "I will go anywhere."
"Let us go into the Park. It is green there, and there is some shade
among the trees." Then they went out of the club into Pall Mall, and
Mr Whittlestaff walked on ahead without a word. "No; we will not go
down there," he said, as he passed the entrance into St. James's Park
by Marlborough House, and led the way through St. James's Palace into
the Green Park. "We'll go on till we come to the trees; there are
seats there, unless the people have occupied them all. One can't talk
here under the blazing sun;--at least I can't." Then he walked on
at a rapid pace, wiping his brow as he did so. "Yes, there's a seat.
I'll be hanged if that man isn't going to sit down upon it! What
a beast he is! No, I can't sit down on a seat that another man is
occupying. I don't want any one to hear what I've got to say. There!
Two women have gone a little farther on." Then he hurried to the
vacant bench and took possession of it. It was placed among the thick
trees which give a perfect shade on the north side of the Park, and
had Mr Whittlestaff searched all London through, he could not have
found a more pleasant spot in which to make his communication. "This
will do," said he.
"Very nicely indeed," said John Gordon.
"I couldn't talk about absolutely private business in the hall of the
club, you know."
"I could have taken you into a private room, Mr Whittlestaff, had
you wished it."
"With everybody coming in and out, just as they pleased. I don't
believe in private rooms in London clubs. What I've got to say can be
said better _sub dio_. I suppose you know what it is that I've got to
talk about."
"Hardly," said John Gordon. "But that is not exactly true. I think I
know, but I am not quite sure of it. On such a subject I should not
like to make a surmise unless I were confident."
"It's about Miss Lawrie."
"I suppose so."
"What makes you suppose that?" said Whittlestaff, sharply.
"You told me that you were sure I should know."
"So I am, quite sure. You came all the way down to Alresford to see
her. If you spoke the truth, you came all the way home from the
diamond-fields with the same object."
"I certainly spoke the truth, Mr Whittlestaff."
"Then what's the good of your pretending not to know?"
"I have not pretended. I merely said that I could not presume to
put the young lady's name into your mouth until you had uttered it
yourself. There could be no other subject of conversation between you
and me of which I was aware."
"You had spoken to me about her," said Mr Whittlestaff.
"No doubt I had. When I found that you had given her a home, and had
made yourself, as it were, a father to her--"
"I had not made myself her father,--nor yet her mother. I had loved
her, as you profess to do."
"My profession is at any rate true."
"I daresay. You may or you mayn't; I at any rate know nothing about
it."
"Why otherwise should I have come home and left my business in South
Africa? I think you may take it for granted that I love her."
"I don't care twopence whether you do or don't," said Mr
Whittlestaff. "It's nothing to me whom you love. I should have been
inclined to say at first sight that a man groping in the dirt for
diamonds wouldn't love any one. And even if you did, though you might
break your heart and die, it would be nothing to me. Had you done so,
I should not have heard of you, nor should I have wished to hear of
you."
There was an incivility in all this of which John Gordon felt that he
was obliged to take some notice. There was a want of courtesy in the
man's manner rather than his words, which he could not quite pass by,
although he was most anxious to do so. "I daresay not," said he; "but
here I am and here also is Miss Lawrie. I had said what I had to say
down at Alresford, and of course it is for you now to decide what is
to be done. I have never supposed that you would care personally for
me."
"You needn't be so conceited about yourself."
"I don't know that I am," said Gordon;--"except that a man cannot but
be a little conceited who has won the love of Mary Lawrie."
"You think it impossible that I should have done so."
"At any rate I did it before you had seen her. Though I may be
conceited, I am not more conceited for myself than you are for
yourself. Had I not known her, you would probably have engaged her
affections. I had known her, and you are aware of the result. But it
is for you to decide. Miss Lawrie thinks that she owes you a debt
which she is bound to pay if you exact it."
"Exact it!" exclaimed Mr Whittlestaff. "There is no question of
exacting!" John Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "I say there is no
question of exacting. The words should not have been used. She has my
full permission to choose as she may think fit, and she knows that
she has it. What right have you to speak to me of exacting?"
Mr Whittlestaff had now talked himself into such a passion, and was
apparently so angry at the word which his companion had used, that
John Gordon began to doubt whether he did in truth know the purpose
for which the man had come to London. Could it be that he had made
the journey merely with the object of asserting that he had the power
of making this girl his wife, and of proving his power by marrying
her. "What is it that you wish, Mr Whittlestaff?" he asked.
"Wish! What business have you to ask after my wishes? But you know
what my wishes are very well. I will not pretend to keep them in the