An Old Man's Love
dark. She came to my house, and I soon learned to desire that she
should be my wife. If I know what love is, I loved her. If I know
what love is, I do love her still. She is all the world to me. I have
no diamonds to care for; I have no rich mines to occupy my heart;
I am not eager in the pursuit of wealth. I had lived a melancholy,
lonely life till this young woman had come to my table,--till I
had felt her sweet hand upon mine,--till she had hovered around me,
covering everything with bright sunshine. Then I asked her to be my
wife;--and she told me of you."
"She told you of me?"
"Yes; she told me of you--of you who might then have been dead, for
aught she knew. And when I pressed her, she said that she would think
of you always."
"She said so?"
"Yes; that she would think of you always. But she did not say that
she would always love you. And in the same breath she promised to be
my wife. I was contented,--and yet not quite contented. Why should
she think of you always? But I believed that it would not be so. I
thought that if I were good to her, I should overcome her. I knew
that I should be better to her than you would be."
"Why should I not be good to her?"
"There is an old saying of a young man's slave and an old man's
darling. She would at any rate have been my darling. It might be that
she would have been your slave."
"My fellow-workman in all things."
"You think so now; but the man always becomes the master. If you
grovelled in the earth for diamonds, she would have to look for them
amidst the mud and slime."
"I have never dreamed of taking her to the diamond-fields."
"It would have been so in all other pursuits."
"She would have had none that she had not chosen," said John Gordon.
"How am I to know that? How am I to rest assured that the world would
be smooth to her if she were your creature? I am not assured--I do
not know."
"Who can tell, as you say? Can I promise her a succession of joys if
she be my wife? She is not one who will be likely to look for such a
life as that. She will know that she must take the rough and smooth
together."
"There would have been no rough with me," said Mr Whittlestaff.
"I do not believe in such a life," said John Gordon. "A woman should
not wear a stuff gown always; but the silk finery and the stuff gown
should follow each other. To my taste, the more there may be of the
stuff gown and the less of the finery, the more it will be to my
wishes."
"I am not speaking of her gowns. It is not of such things as those
that I am thinking." Here Mr Whittlestaff got up from the bench, and
began walking rapidly backwards and forwards under the imperfect
shade on the path. "You will beat her."
"I think not."
"Beat her in the spirit. You will domineer over her, and desire to
have your own way. When she is toiling for you, you will frown at
her. Because you have business on hand, or perhaps pleasure, you will
leave her in solitude. There may a time come when the diamonds shall
have all gone."
"If she is to be mine, that time will have come already. The diamonds
will be sold. Did you ever see a diamond in my possession? Why do you
twit me with diamonds? If I had been a coal-owner, should I have been
expected to keep my coals?"
"These things stick to the very soul of a man. They are a poison
of which he cannot rid himself. They are like gambling. They make
everything cheap that should be dear, and everything dear that should
be cheap. I trust them not at all,--and I do not trust you, because
you deal in them."
"I tell you that I shall not deal in them. But, Mr Whittlestaff, I
must tell you that you are unreasonable."
"No doubt. I am a poor miserable man who does not know the world. I
have never been to the diamond-fields. Of course I understand nothing
of the charms of speculation. A quiet life with my book is all that I
care for;--with just one other thing, one other thing. You begrudge
me that."
"Mr Whittlestaff, it does not signify a straw what I begrudge you."
Mr Whittlestaff had now come close to him, and was listening to him.
"Nor, as I take it, what you begrudge me. Before I left England she
and I had learned to love each other. It is so still. For the sake of
her happiness, do you mean to let me have her?"
"I do."
"You do?"
"Of course I do. You have known it all along. Of course I do. Do you
think I would make her miserable? Would it be in my bosom to make her
come and live with a stupid, silly old man, to potter on from day to
day without any excitement? Would I force her into a groove in which
her days would be wretched to her? Had she come to me and wanted
bread, and have seen before her all the misery of poverty, the
stone-coldness of a governess's life; had she been left to earn her
bread without any one to love her, it might then have been different.
She would have looked out into another world, and have seen another
prospect. A comfortable home with kindness, and her needs supplied,
would have sufficed. She would then have thought herself happy in
becoming my wife. There would then have been no cruelty. But she
had seen you, and though it was but a dream, she thought that she
could endure to wait. Better that than surrender all the delight of
loving. So she told me that she would think of you. Poor dear! I can
understand now the struggle which she intended to make. Then in the
very nick of time, in the absolute moment of the day--so that you
might have everything and I nothing--you came. You came, and were
allowed to see her, and told her all your story. You filled her heart
full with joy, but only to be crushed when she thought that the fatal
promise had been given to me. I saw it all, I knew it. I thought to
myself for a few hours that it might be so. But it cannot be so."
"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff!"
"It cannot be so," he said, with a firm determined voice, as though
asserting a fact which admitted no doubt.
"Mr Whittlestaff, what am I to say to you?"
"You! What are you to say? Nothing. What should you say? Why should
you speak? It is not for love of you that I would do this thing; nor
yet altogether from love of her. Not that I would not do much for her
sake. I almost think that I would do it entirely for her sake, if
there were no other reason. But to shame myself by taking that which
belongs to another, as though it were my own property! To live a
coward in mine own esteem! Though I may be the laughing-stock and
the butt of all those around me, I would still be a man to myself. I
ought to have felt that it was sufficient when she told me that some
of her thoughts must still be given to you. She is yours, Mr Gordon;
but I doubt much whether you care for the possession."
"Not care for her! Up to the moment when I received your note, I was
about to start again for South Africa. South Africa is no place for
her,--nor for me either, with such a wife. Mr Whittlestaff, will you
not allow me to say one word to you in friendship?"
"Not a word."
"How am I to come and take her out of your house?"
"She must manage it as best she can. But no; I would not turn her
from my door for all the world could do for me. This, too, will be
part of the punishment that I must bear. You can settle the day
between you, I suppose, and then you can come down; and, after the
accustomed fashion, you can meet her at the church-door. Then you can
come to my house, and eat your breakfast there if you will. You will
see fine things prepared for you,--such as a woman wants on those
occasions,--and then you can carry her off wherever you please. I
need know nothing of your whereabouts. Good morning now. Do not say
anything further, but let me go my way."
CHAPTER XXII.
JOHN GORDON WRITES A LETTER.
When they parted in the park, Mr Whittlestaff trudged off to his own
hotel, through the heat and sunshine. He walked quickly, and never
looked behind him, and went as though he had fully accomplished his
object in one direction, and must hurry to get it done in another. To
Gordon he had left no directions whatever. Was he to be allowed to go
down to Mary, or even to write her a letter? He did not know whether
Mary had ever been told of this wonderful sacrifice which had been
made on her behalf. He understood that he was to have his own way,
and was to be permitted to regard himself as betrothed to her, but
he did not at all understand what steps he was to take in the matter,
except that he was not to go again to the diamond-fields. But Mr
Whittlestaff hurried himself off to his hotel, and shut himself up in
his own bedroom,--and when there, he sobbed, alas! like a child.
The wife whom he had won for himself was probably more valuable to
him than if he had simply found her disengaged and ready to jump into
his arms. She, at any rate, had behaved well. Mr Whittlestaff had no
doubt proved himself to be an angel, perfect all round,--such a man
as you shall not meet perhaps once in your life. But Mary, too, had
so behaved as to enhance the love of any man who had been already
engaged to her. As he thought of the whole story of the past week,
the first idea that occurred to him was that he certainly had been
present to her mind during the whole period of his absence. Though
not a word had passed between them, and though no word of absolute
love for each other had even been spoken before, she had been steady
to him, with no actual basis on which to found her love. He had
known, and she had been sure, and therefore she had been true to him.
Of course, being a true man himself, he worshipped her all the more.
Mr Whittlestaff was absolutely, undoubtedly perfect; but in Gordon's
estimation Mary was not far off perfection. But what was he to do
now, so that he might approach her?
He had pledged himself to one thing, and he must at once go to work
and busy himself in accomplishing it. He had promised not to return
to Africa; and he must at once see Mr Tookey, and learn whether that
gentleman's friends would be allowed to go on with the purchase as
arranged. He knew Poker & Hodge to be moneyed men, or to be men, at
any rate, in command of money. If they would not pay him at once,
he must look elsewhere for buyers; but the matter must be settled.
Tookey had promised to come to his club this day, and there he would
go and await his coming.
He went to his club, but the first person who came to him was
Mr Whittlestaff. Mr Whittlestaff when he had left the park had
determined never to see John Gordon again, or to see him only during
that ceremony of the marriage, which it might be that he would even
yet escape. All that was still in the distant future. Dim ideas as to
some means of avoiding it flitted through his brain. But even though
he might see Gordon on that terrible occasion, he need not speak
to him. And it would have to be done then, and then only. But now
another idea, certainly very vague, had found its way into his mind,
and with the object of carrying it out, Mr Whittlestaff had come to
the club. "Oh, Mr Whittlestaff, how do you do again?"
"I'm much the same as I was before, thank you. There hasn't happened
anything to improve my health."
"I hope nothing may happen to injure it."
"It doesn't much matter. You said something about some property
you've got in diamonds, and you said once that you must go out to
look after it."
"But I'm not going now. I shall sell my share in the mines. I am
going to see a Mr Tookey about it immediately."
"Can't you sell them to me?"
"The diamond shares,--to you!"
"Why not to me? If the thing has to be done at once, of course you
and I must trust each other. I suppose you can trust me?"
"Certainly I can."
"As I don't care much about it, whether I get what I buy or not, it
does not much matter for me. But in truth, in such an affair as this