An Old Man's Love Part 23

"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 circ.u.mstances, 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?"

"I have. I have dared to stop it. I shall dare to put it in the fire and burn it. Don't go! He is ent.i.tled to nothing. You are ent.i.tled to have,--whatever it is that you may want, though it is but such a trifle."

"A trifle, Mary!"

"Yes. A woman has a little gleam of prettiness about her,--though here it is but of a common order."

"Anything so uncommon I never came near before."

"Let that pa.s.s; whether common or uncommon, it matters nothing. It is something soft, which will soon pa.s.s away, and of itself can do no good. It is contemptible."

"You are just Mrs Baggett over again."

"Very well; I am quite satisfied. Mrs Baggett is a good woman. She can do something beyond lying on a sofa and reading novels, while her good looks fade away. It is simply because a woman is pretty and weak that she is made so much of, and is encouraged to neglect her duties.

By G.o.d's help I will not neglect mine. Do not go to London."

He seemed as though he hesitated as he sat there under the spell of her little hand upon his shoulder. And in truth he did hesitate.

Could it not be that he should be allowed to sit there all his days, and have her hand about his neck somewhat after this fashion? Was he bound to give it all up? What was it that ordinary selfishness allowed? What depth of self-indulgence amounted to a wickedness which a man could not permit himself to enjoy without absolutely hating himself? It would be easy in this case to have all that he wanted. He need not send the letter. He need not take this wretched journey to London. Looking forward, as he thought that he could look, judging from the girl's character, he believed that he would have all that he desired,--all that a gracious G.o.d could give him,--if he would make her the recognised partner of his bed and his board. Then would he be proud when men should see what sort of a wife he had got for himself at last in place of Catherine Bailey. And why should she not love him? Did not all her words tend to show that there was love?

And then suddenly there came a frown across his face, as she stood looking at him. She was getting to know the manner of that frown. Now she stooped down to kiss it away from his brow. It was a brave thing to do; but she did it with a consciousness of her courage. "Now I may burn the letter," she said, as though she were about to depart upon the errand.

"No, by heaven!" he said. "Let me have a sandwich and a gla.s.s of wine, for I shall start in an hour."

With a glance of his thoughts he had answered all those questions.

He had taught himself what ordinary selfishness allowed. Ordinary selfishness,--such selfishness as that of which he would have permitted himself the indulgence,--must have allowed him to disregard the misery of John Gordon, and to keep the girl to himself. As far as John Gordon was concerned, he would not have cared for his sufferings. He was as much to himself,--or more,--than could be John Gordon. He did not love John Gordon, and could have doomed him to tearing his hair,--not without regret, but at any rate without remorse. He had settled that question. But with Mary Lawrie there must be a never-dying pang of self-accusation, were he to take her to his arms while her love was settled elsewhere. It was not that he feared her for himself, but that he feared himself for her sake. G.o.d had filled his heart with love of the girl,--and, if it was love, could it be that he would destroy her future for the gratification of his own feelings? "I tell you it is no good," he said, as she crouched down beside him, almost sitting on his knee.

At this moment Mrs Baggett came into the room, detecting Mary almost in the embrace of her old master. "He's come back again, sir," said Mrs Baggett.

"Who has come back?"