CHAPTER XV.
MR WHITTLESTAFF GOES OUT TO DINNER.
This would be her last opportunity. So Mary told herself as she gotout of the carriage at Mr Hall's front door. It was made manifest toher by such a speech that he did not expect that she should do so,but looked upon her doing so as within the verge of possibility. Shecould still do it, and yet not encounter his disgust or his horror.How terrible was the importance to herself, and, as she believed, tothe other man also. Was she not justified in so thinking? Mr Gordonhad come home, travelling a great distance, at much risk to hisproperty, at great loss of time, through infinite trouble and danger,merely to ask her to be his wife. Had a letter reached her from himbut a week ago bidding her to come, would she not have gone throughall the danger and all the trouble? How willingly would she havegone! It was the one thing that she desired; and, as far as she couldunderstand the signs which he had given, it was the one, one thingwhich he desired. He had made his appeal to that other man, and, asfar as she could understand the signs which had reached her, had beenreferred with confidence to her decision. Now she was told that thechance of changing her mind was still in her power.
The matter was one of terrible importance; but was its importanceto Mr Whittlestaff as great as to John Gordon? She put herselfaltogether out of the question. She acknowledged to herself, with afalse humility, that she was nobody;--she was a poor woman living oncharity, and was not to be thought of when the position of these twomen was taken into consideration. It chanced that they both wantedher. Which wanted the most? Which of the two would want her for thelongest? To which would her services be of the greater avail inassisting him to his happiness. Could there be a doubt? Was it notin human nature that she should bind herself to the younger man, andwith him go through the world, whether safely or in danger?
But though she had had time to allow these questions to pass throughher mind between the utterance of Mr Whittlestaff's words and herentrance into Mr Hall's drawing-room, she did not in truth doubt.She knew that she had made up her mind on the matter. Mr Gordonwould in all probability have no opportunity of saying another wordto her. But let him say what word he might, it should be in vain.Nothing that he could say, nothing that she could say, would availanything. If this other man would release her,--then indeed she wouldbe released. But there was no chance of such release coming. Intruth, Mary did not know how near the chance was to her;--or rather,how near the chance had been. He had now positively made up his mind,and would say not a word further unless she asked him. If Mary saidnothing to John Gordon on this evening, he would take an opportunitybefore they left the house to inform Mr Hall of his intendedmarriage. When once the word should have passed his mouth, he couldnot live under the stigma of a second Catherine Bailey.
"Miss Lawrie, pray let me make you known to my intended." This camefrom Mr Montagu Blake, who felt himself to be justified by hispeculiar circumstances in so far taking upon himself the work ofintroducing the guests in Mr Hall's house. "Of course, you've heardall about it. I am the happiest young man in Hampshire,--and she isthe next."
"Speak for yourself, Montagu. I am not a young man at all."
"You're a young man's darling, which is the next thing to it."
"How are you, Whittlestaff?" said Mr Hall. "Wonderful weather, isn'tit? I'm told that you've been in trouble about that drunken husbandwhich plagues the life out of that respectable housekeeper of yours."
"He is a trouble; but if he is bad to me, how much worse must he beto her?"
"That's true. He must be very bad, I should think. Miss Mary, whydon't you come over this fine weather, and have tea with my girls andKattie Forrester in the woods? You should take your chance while youhave a young man willing to wait upon you."
"I shall be quite delighted," said Blake, "and so will John Gordon."
"Only that I shall be in London this time to-morrow," said Gordon.
"That's nonsense. You are not going to Kimberley all at once. Theyoung ladies expect you to bring out a lot of diamonds and show thembefore you start. Have you seen his diamonds, Miss Lawrie?"
"Indeed no," said Mary.
"I think I should have asked just to see them," said Evelina Hall.Why should they join her name with his in this uncivil manner, orsuppose that she had any special power to induce him to show histreasures.
"When you first find a diamond," said Mr Hall, "what do you do withit? Do you ring a bell and call together your friends, and begin torejoice."
"No, indeed. The diamond is generally washed out of the mud by somenigger, and we have to look very sharp after him to see that hedoesn't hide it under his toe-nails. It's not a very romantic kind ofbusiness from first to last."
"Only profitable," said the curate.
"That's as may be. It is subject to greater losses than the preachingof sermons."
"I should like to go out and see it all," said Miss Hall, lookinginto Miss Lawrie's face. This also appeared to Mary to beill-natured.
Then the butler announced the dinner, and they all followed Mr Halland the curate's bride out of one room into the other. "This younglady," said he, "is supposed to be in the ascendant just at thepresent moment. She can't be married above two or three times at themost. I say this to excuse myself to Miss Lawrie, who ought perhapsto have the post of honour." To this some joking reply was made,and they all sat down to their dinner. Miss Lawrie was at Mr Hall'sleft hand, and at her left hand John Gordon was seated. Mary couldperceive that everything was arranged so as to throw herself and JohnGordon together,--as though they had some special interest in eachother. Of all this Mr Whittlestaff saw nothing. But John Gordon didperceive something, and told himself that that ass Blake had been atwork. But his perceptions in the matter were not half as sharp asthose of Mary Lawrie.
"I used to be very fond of your father, Gordon," said Mr Hall, whenthe dinner was half over. "It's all done and gone now. Dear, dear,dear!"
"He was an unfortunate man, and perhaps expected too much from hisfriends."
"I am very glad to see his son here, at any rate. I wish you were notgoing to settle down so far away from us."
"Kimberley is a long way off."
"Yes, indeed; and when a fellow gets out there he is apt to stay, Isuppose."
"I shall do so, probably. I have nobody near enough to me here athome to make it likely that I shall come back."
"You have uncles and aunts?" said Mr Hall.
"One uncle and two aunts. I shall suit their views and my cousins'better by sending home some diamonds than by coming myself."
"How long will that take?" asked Mr Hall. The conversation was keptup solely between Mr Hall and John Gordon. Mr Whittlestaff took noshare in it unless when he was asked a question, and the four girlskept up a whisper with Miss Forrester and Montagu Blake.
"I have a share in rather a good thing," said Gordon; "and if I couldget out of it so as to realise my property, I think that six monthsmight suffice."
"Oh, dear! Then we may have you back again before the year's out?"Mr Whittlestaff looked up at this, as though apprised that thedanger was not yet over. But he reflected that before twelve monthswere gone he would certainly have made Mary Lawrie his wife.
"Kimberley is not a very alluring place," said John Gordon. "I don'tknow any spot on God's earth that I should be less likely to chooseas my abiding resting-place."
"Except for the diamonds."
"Except for the diamonds, as you remark. And therefore when a man hasgot his fill of diamonds, he is likely to leave."
"His fill of diamonds!" said Augusta Hall.
"Shouldn't you like to try your fill of diamonds?" asked Blake.
"Not at all," said Evelina. "I'd rather have strawberries and cream."
"I think I should like diamonds best," said Mary. Whereupon Evelinasuggested that her younger sister was a greedy little creature.
"As soon as you've got your fill of diamonds, which won't takemore than six months longer," suggested Mr Hall, "you'll come backagain?"
"Not exactly. I have an idea of going up the country across theZambesi. I've a notion that I should like to make my way outsomewhere in the Mediterranean,--Egypt, for instance, or Algiers."
"What!--across the equator? You'd never do that alive?"
"Things of that kind have been done. Stanley crossed the continent."
"But not from south to north. I don't believe in that. You had betterremain at Kimberley and get more diamonds."
"He'd be with diamonds like the boy with the bacon," said theclergyman; "when prepared for another wish, he'd have more than hecould eat."
"To tell the truth," said John Gordon, "I don't quite know what Ishould do. It would depend perhaps on what somebody else would joinme in doing. My life was very lonely at Kimberley, and I do not lovebeing alone."
"Then, why don't you take a wife?" said Montagu Blake, very loudly,as though he had hit the target right in the bull's-eye. He so spokeas to bring the conversation to an abrupt end. Mr Whittlestaffimmediately looked conscious. He was a man who, on such an occasion,could not look otherwise than conscious. And the five girls, with allof whom the question of the loves of John Gordon and Mary Lawrie hadbeen fully discussed, looked conscious. Mary Lawrie was painfullyconscious; but endeavoured to hide it, not unsuccessfully. But inher endeavour she had to look unnaturally stern,--and was conscious,too, that she did that. Mr Hall, whose feelings of romance were notperhaps of the highest order, looked round on Mr Whittlestaff andMary Lawrie. Montagu Blake felt that he had achieved a triumph."Yes," said he, "if those are your feelings, why don't you take awife?"
"One man may not be so happy as another," said Gordon, laughing. "Youhave suited yourself admirably, and seem to think it quite easy for aman to make a selection."
"Not quite such a selection as mine, perhaps," said Blake.
"Then think of the difficulty. Do you suppose that any second MissForrester would dream of going to the diamond-fields with me?"
"Perhaps not," said Blake. "Not a second Miss Forrester--but somebodyelse."
"Something inferior?"
"Well--yes; inferior to my Miss Forrester, certainly."
"You are the most conceited young man that I ever came across," saidthe young lady herself.
"And I am not inclined to put up with anything that is veryinferior," said John Gordon. He could not help his eye from glancingfor a moment round upon Mary Lawrie. She was aware of it, though noone else noticed it in the room. She was aware of it, though any onewatching her would have said that she had never looked at him.
"A man may always find a woman to suit him, if he looks wellabout him," said Mr Hall, sententiously. "Don't you think so,Whittlestaff?"
"I dare say he may," said Mr Whittlestaff, very flatly. And as hesaid so he made up his mind that he would, for that day, postpone thetask of telling Mr Hall of his intended marriage.
The evening passed by, and the time came for Mr Whittlestaff todrive Miss Lawrie back to Croker's Hall. She had certainly spent amost uneventful period, as far as action or even words of her own wasconcerned. But the afternoon was one which she would never forget.She had been quite, quite sure, when she came into the house; but shewas more than sure now. At every word that had been spoken she hadthought of herself and of him. Would he not have known how to havechosen a fit companion,--only for this great misfortune? And wouldshe have been so much inferior to Miss Forrester? Would he havethought her inferior to any one? Would he not have preferred her toany other female whom the world had at the present moment produced?Oh, the pity of it; the pity of it!
Then came the bidding of adieu. Gordon was to sleep at LittleAlresford that night, and to take his departure by early train on thenext morning. Of the adieux spoken the next morning we need take nonotice, but only of the word or two uttered that night. "Good-bye,Mr Gordon," said Mr Whittlestaff, having taken courage for theoccasion, and having thought even of the necessary syllables to bespoken.
"Good-bye, Mr Whittlestaff," and he gave his rival his hand inapparently friendly grasp. To those burning questions he had asked hehad received no word of reply; but they were questions which he wouldnot repeat again.
"Good-bye, Mr Gordon," said Mary. She had thought of the momentmuch, but had determined at last that she would trust herself tonothing further. He took her hand, but did not say a word. He took itand pressed it for a moment, and then turned his face away, and wentin from the hall back to the door leading to the drawing-room. MrWhittlestaff was at the moment putting on his great-coat, and Marystood with her bonnet and cloak on at the open front door, listeningto a word or two from Kattie Forrester and Evelina Hall. "Oh, I wish,I wish it might have been!" said Kattie Forrester.
"And so do I," said Evelina. "Can't it be?"
"Good-night," said Mary, boldly, stepping out rapidly into themoonlight, and mounting without assistance to her place in the opencarriage.
"I beg your pardon," said Mr Hall, following her; but there came nota word from her.
Mr Whittlestaff had gone back after John Gordon. "By-the-by," hesaid, "what will be your address in London?"
"The 'Oxford and Cambridge' in Pall Mall," said he.
"Oh, yes; the club there. It might be that I should have a word tosend to you. But I don't suppose I shall," he added, as he turnedround to go away. Then he shook hands with the party in the hall, andmounting up into the carriage, drove Mary and himself away homewardstowards Croker's Hall.
Not a word was spoken between them for the first mile, nor did asound of a sob or an audible suspicion of a tear come from Mary. Whydid those girls know the secret of her heart in that way? Why hadthey dared to express a hope as to an event, or an idea as to adisappointment, all knowledge of which ought to be buried in her ownbosom? Had she spoken of her love for John Gordon? She was sure thatno word had escaped her. And were it surmised, was it not customarythat such surmises should be kept in the dark? But here these youngladies had dared to pity her for her vain love, as though, like somevillage maiden, she had gone about in tears bewailing herself thatsome groom or gardener had been faithless. But sitting thus for thefirst mile, she choked herself to keep down her sobs.
"Mary," at last he whispered to her.
"Well, Mr Whittlestaff?"
"Mary, we are both of us unhappy."
"I am not unhappy," she said, plucking up herself suddenly. "Why doyou say that I am unhappy?"
"You seem so. I at any rate am unhappy."
"What makes you so?"
"I did wrong to take you to dine in company with that man."
"It was not for me to refuse to go."
"No; there is no blame to you in it;--nor is there blame to me. Butit would have been better for us both had we remained away." Then hedrove on in silence, and did not speak another word till they reachedhome.
"Well!" said Mrs Baggett, following them into the dining-room.
"What do you mean by 'well'?"
"What did the folks say to you at Mr Hall's? I can see by your facethat some of them have been saying summat."
"Nobody has been saying anything that I know of," said MrWhittlestaff. "Do you go to bed." Then when Mrs Baggett was gone,and Mary had listlessly seated herself on a chair, her lover againaddressed her. "I wish I knew what there is in your heart." Yet shewould not tell him; but turned away her face and sat silent. "Haveyou nothing to say to me?"
"What should I have to say to you? I have nothing to say of that ofwhich you are thinking."
"He has gone now, Mary."
"Yes; he has gone."
"And you are contented?" It did seem hard upon her that she should becalled upon to tell a lie,--to say that which he must know to be alie,--and to do so in order that he might be encouraged to perseverein achieving his own object. But she did not quite understand him."Are you contented?" he repeated again.
Then she thought that she would tell the lie. If it was well thatshe should make the sacrifice for his sake, why should it not becompleted? If she had to give herself to him, why should not the giftbe as satisfactory as it mig
ht be made to his feelings? "Yes; I amcontented."
"And you do not wish to see him again?"
"Certainly not, as your wife."
"You do not wish it at all," he rejoined, "whether you be my wife orotherwise?"
"I think you press me too hard." Then she remembered herself, and theperfect sacrifice which she was minded to make. "No; I do not wishagain to see Mr Gordon at all. Now, if you will allow me, I willgo to bed. I am thoroughly tired out, and I hardly know what I amsaying."
"Yes; you can go to bed," he said. Then she gave him her hand insilence, and went off to her own room.
She had no sooner reached her bed, than she threw herself on it andburst into tears. All this which she had to endure,--all that shewould have to bear,--would be, she thought, too much for her. Andthere came upon her a feeling of contempt for his cruelty. Had hesternly resolved to keep her to her promised word, and to forbid herall happiness for the future,--to make her his wife, let her heart beas it might;--had he said: "you have come to my house, and have eatenmy bread and have drunk of my cup, and have then promised to becomemy wife, and now you shall not depart from it because this interloperhas come between us;"--then, though she might have felt him to becruel, still she would have respected him. He would have done, as shebelieved, as other men do. But he wished to gain his object, and yetnot appear to be cruel. It was so that she thought of him. "And itshall be as he would have it," she said to herself. But though shesaw far into his character, she did not quite read it aright.
He remained there alone in his library into the late hours of thenight. But he did not even take up a book with the idea of solacinghis hours. He too had his idea of self-sacrifice, which went quiteas far as hers. But yet he was not as sure as was she that theself-sacrifice would be a duty. He did not believe, as did she, inthe character of John Gordon. What if he should give her up to onewho did not deserve her,--to one whose future would not be stableenough to secure the happiness and welfare of such a woman as wasMary Lawrie! He had no knowledge to guide him, nor had she;--nor, forthe matter of that, had John Gordon himself any knowledge of what hisown future might be. Of his own future Mr Whittlestaff could speakand think with the greatest confidence. It would be safe, happy, andbright, should Mary Lawrie become his wife. Should she not do so, itmust be altogether ruined and confounded.
He could not conceive it to be possible that he should be requiredby duty to make such a sacrifice; but he knew of himself that if herhappiness, her true and permanent happiness, would require it, thenthe sacrifice should be made.