An Old Man's Love
like me shouldn't stand for anything. No more shouldn't a young woman
like you who has had so much done for her. Now, Miss Mary, you see
I've told you my mind freely."
"But he has never asked me."
"You just sit close up to him, and he'll ask you free enough. I
shouldn't speak as I have done if there had been a morsel of doubt
about it. Do you doubt it yourself, Miss?" To this Miss Lawrie did
not find it necessary to return any answer.
When Mrs Baggett had gone and Mary was left to herself, she could
not but think over what the woman had said to her. In the first
place, was she not bound to be angry with the woman, and to express
her anger? Was it not impertinent, nay, almost indecent, that the
woman should come to her and interrogate her on such a subject?
The inmost, most secret feelings of her heart had been ruthlessly
inquired into and probed by a menial servant, who had asked questions
of her, and made suggestions to her, as though her part in the affair
had been of no consequence. "What are you, that you shouldn't let
a gentleman like him have his own way?" Why was it not so much to
her as to Mr Whittlestaff? Was it not her all; the consummation
or destruction of every hope; the making or unmaking of her joy or
of her happiness? Could it be right that she should marry any man,
merely because the man wanted her? Were there to be no questions
raised as to her own life, her own contentment, her own ideas of what
was proper? It was true that this woman knew nothing of John Gordon.
But she must have known that there might be a John Gordon,--whom
she, Mary Lawrie, was required to set on one side, merely because Mr
Whittlestaff "wanted her." Mrs Baggett had been grossly impertinent
in daring to talk to her of Mr Whittlestaff's wants.
But then, as she walked slowly round the garden, she found herself
bound to inquire of herself whether what the woman said had not been
true. Did she not eat his bread; did she not wear his clothes; were
not the very boots on her feet his property? And she was there in his
house, without the slightest tie of blood or family connection. He
had taken her from sheer charity, and had saved her from the terrible
dependency of becoming a friendless governess. Looking out to the
life which she had avoided, it seemed to her to be full of abject
misery. And he had brought her to his own house, and had made her the
mistress of everything. She knew that she had been undemonstrative in
her manner, and that such was her nature. But her heart welled over
with gratitude as she thought of the sweetness of the life which he
had prepared for her. Was not the question true? "What am I, that I
should stand in the way and prevent such a man as that from having
what he wants?"
And then she told herself that he personally was full of good gifts.
How different might it have been with her had some elderly men
"wanted her," such as she had seen about in the world! How much was
there in this man that she knew that she could learn to love? And he
was one of whom she need in no wise be ashamed. He was a gentleman,
pleasant to look at, sweet in manner, comely and clean in appearance.
Would not the world say of her how lucky she had been should it come
to pass that she should become Mrs Whittlestaff? Then there were
thoughts of John Gordon, and she told herself that it was a mere
dream. John Gordon had gone, and she knew not where he was; and John
Gordon had never spoken a word to her of his love. After an hour's
deliberation, she thought that she would marry Mr Whittlestaff if he
asked her, though she could not bring herself to say that she would
"sit close up to him" in order that he might do so.
CHAPTER IV.
MARY LAWRIE ACCEPTS MR WHITTLESTAFF.
By the end of the week Mary Lawrie had changed her mind. She had
thought it over, and had endeavoured to persuade herself that Mr
Whittlestaff did not care about it very much. Indeed there were
moments during the week in which she flattered herself that if she
would abstain from "sitting close up to him," he would say nothing
about it. But she resolved altogether that she would not display her
anger to Mrs Baggett. Mrs Baggett, after all, had done it for the
best. And there was something in Mrs Baggett's mode of argument on
the subject which was not altogether unflattering to Mary. It was not
as though Mrs Baggett had told her that Mr Whittlestaff could make
himself quite happy with Mrs Baggett herself, if Mary Lawrie would
be good enough to go away. The suggestion had been made quite in the
other way, and Mrs Baggett was prepared altogether to obliterate
herself. Mary did feel that Mr Whittlestaff ought to be made a god,
as long as another woman was willing to share in the worship with
such absolute self-sacrifice.
At last the moment came, and the question was asked without a minute
being allowed for consideration. It was in this wise. The two were
sitting together after dinner on the lawn, and Mrs Baggett had
brought them their coffee. It was her wont to wait upon them with
this delicacy, though she did not appear either at breakfast or at
dinner, except on remarkable occasions. She now had some little word
to say, meant to be conciliatory and comforting, and remarked that
"surely Miss Mary meant to get a colour in her cheeks at last."
"Don't be foolish, Mrs Baggett," said Mary. But Mrs Baggett's back
was turned, and she did not care to reply.
"It is true, Mary," said Mr Whittlestaff, putting his hand on her
shoulder, as he turned round to look in her face.
"Mrs Lawrie used to tell me that I always blushed black, and I think
that she was about right."
"I do not know what colour you blush," said Mr Whittlestaff.
"I daresay not."
"But when it does come I am conscious of the sweetest colour that
ever came upon a lady's cheek. And I tell myself that another grace
has been added to the face which of all faces in the world is to
my eyes the most beautiful." What was she to say in answer to a
compliment so high-flown as this, to one from whose mouth compliments
were so uncommon? She knew that he could not have so spoken without
a purpose, declared at any rate to his own heart. He still held her
by the arm, but did not once progress with his speech, while she sat
silent by his side, and blushing with that dark ruby streak across
her cheeks, which her step-mother had intended to vilify when she
said that she had blushed black. "Mary," he continued after a pause,
"can you endure the thought of becoming my wife?" Now she drew her
arm away, and turned her face, and compressed her lips, and sat
without uttering a word. "Of course I am an old man."
"It is not that," she muttered.
"But I think that I can love you as honestly and as firmly as a
younger one. I think that if you could bring yourself to be my wife,
you would find that you would not be treated badly."
"Oh, no, no, no!" she exclaimed.
"Nothing, at any rate, would be kept from you. When I have a thought
or a feeling, a hope or a fear, you shall share it. As to money--"
"Don't do that. There should be no talk of money from you to me."
"Perhaps not. It would be best that I should be left to do as I may
think most fitting for you. I have one incident in my life which I
would wish to tell you. I loved a girl,--many years since,--and she
ill-used me. I continued to love her long, but that image has passed
from my mind." He was thinking, as he said this, of Mrs Compas and
her large family. "It will not be necessary that I should refer to
this again, because the subject is very painful; but it was essential
that I should tell you. And now, Mary, how shall it be?" he added,
after a pause.
She sat listening to all that he had to say to her, but without
speaking a word. He, too, had had his "John Gordon;" but in his case
the girl he had loved had treated him badly. She, Mary, had received
no bad treatment. There had been love between them, ample love, love
enough to break their hearts. At least she had found it so. But there
had been no outspoken speech of love. Because of that, the wound
made, now that it had been in some sort healed, had not with her been
so cruel as with Mr Whittlestaff. John Gordon had come to her on
the eve of his going, and had told her that he was about to start
for some distant land. There had been loud words between him and
her step-mother, and Mrs Lawrie had told him that he was a pauper,
and was doing no good about the house; and Mary had heard the words
spoken. She asked him whither he was going, but he did not reply.
"Your mother is right. I am at any rate doing no good here," he had
said, but had not answered her question further. Then Mary had given
him her hand, and had whispered, "Good-bye." "If I return," he added,
"the first place I will come to shall be Norwich." Then without
further farewell ceremony he had gone. From that day to this she
had had his form before her eyes; but now, if she accepted Mr
Whittlestaff, it must be banished. No one, at any rate, knew of her
wound. She must tell him,--should she be moved at last to accept him.
It might be that he would reject her after such telling. If so, it
would be well. But, in that case, what would be her future? Would it
not be necessary that she should return to that idea of a governess
which had been so distasteful to her? "Mary, can you say that it
shall be so?" he asked quietly, after having remained silent for some
ten minutes.
Could it be that all her fate must be resolved in so short a time?
Since first the notion that Mr Whittlestaff had asked her to be his
wife had come upon her, she had thought of it day and night. But, as
is so usual with the world at large, she had thought altogether of
the past, and not of the future. The past was a valley of dreams,
which could easily be surveyed, whereas the future was a high
mountain which it would require much labour to climb. When we think
that we will make our calculations as to the future, it is so easy
to revel in our memories instead. Mary had, in truth, not thought of
her answer, though she had said to herself over and over again why it
should not be so.
"Have you no answer to give me?" he said.
"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff, you have so startled me!" This was hardly
true. He had not startled her, but had brought her to the necessity
of knowing her own mind.
"If you wish to think of it, you shall take your own time." Then it
was decided that a week should be accorded to her. And during that
week she passed much of her time in tears. And Mrs Baggett would
not leave her alone. To give Mrs Baggett her due, it must be
acknowledged that she acted as best she knew how for her master's
interest, without thinking of herself. "I shall go down to
Portsmouth. I'm not worth thinking of, I ain't. There's them at
Portsmouth as'll take care of me. You don't see why I should go. I
daresay not; but I am older than you, and I see what you don't see.
I've borne with you as a miss, because you've not been upsetting; but
still, when I've lived with him for all those years without anything
of the kind, it has set me hard sometimes. As married to him, I
wouldn't put up with you; so I tell you fairly. But that don't
signify. It ain't you as signifies or me as signifies. It's only him.
You have got to bring yourself to think of that. What's the meaning
of your duty to your neighbour, and doing unto others, and all the
rest of it? You ain't got to think just of your own self; no more
haven't I."
Mary said to herself silently that it was John Gordon of whom she
had to think. She quite recognised the truth of the lesson about
selfishness; but love to her was more imperious than gratitude.
"There's them at Portsmouth as'll take care of me, no doubt. Don't
you mind about me. I ain't going to have a good time at Portsmouth,