CHAPTER XX.
MR WHITTLESTAFF TAKES HIS JOURNEY.
Mr Whittlestaff did at last get into the train and have himselfcarried up to London. And he ate his sandwiches and drank his sherrywith an air of supreme satisfaction,--as though he had carried hispoint. And so he had. He had made up his mind on a certain matter;and, with the object of doing a certain piece of work, he had escapedfrom the two dominant women of his household, who had done theirbest to intercept him. So far his triumph was complete. But as hesat silent in the corner of the carriage, his mind reverted tothe purpose of his journey, and he cannot be said to have beentriumphant. He knew it all as well as did Mrs Baggett. And he knewtoo that, except Mrs Baggett and the girl herself, all the world wasagainst him. That ass Montagu Blake every time he opened his mouthas to his own bride let out the idea that John Gordon should havehis bride because John Gordon was young and lusty, and because he,Whittlestaff, might be regarded as an old man. The Miss Halls werealtogether of the same opinion, and were not slow to express it. AllAlresford would know it, and would sympathise with John Gordon. Andas it came to be known that he himself had given up the girl whomhe loved, he could read the ridicule which would be conveyed by thesmiles of his neighbours.
To tell the truth of Mr Whittlestaff, he was a man very open to suchshafts of ridicule. The "_robur et aes triplex_" which fortified hisheart went only to the doing of a good and unselfish action, and didnot extend to providing him with that adamantine shield which virtueshould of itself supply. He was as pervious to these stings as a manmight be who had not strength to act in opposition to them. He couldscrew himself up to the doing of a great deed for the benefit ofanother, and could as he was doing so deplore with inward tearsthe punishment which the world would accord to him for the deed.As he sat there in the corner of his carriage, he was thinkingof the punishment rather than of the glory. And the punishmentmust certainly come now. It would be a punishment lasting for theremainder of his life, and so bitter in its kind as to make anyfurther living almost impossible to him. It was not that he wouldkill himself. He did not meditate any such step as that. He was aman who considered that by doing an outrage to God's work an offencewould be committed against God which admitted of no repentance. Hemust live through it to the last. But he must live as a man who wasdegraded. He had made his effort, but his effort would be known toall Alresford. Mr Montagu Blake would take care of that.
The evil done to him would be one which would admit of no complaintfrom his own mouth. He would be left alone, living with MrsBaggett,--who of course knew all the facts. The idea of Mrs Baggettgoing away with her husband was of course not to be thought of. Thatwas another nuisance, a small evil in comparison with the greatmisfortune of his life.
He had brought this girl home to his house to be the companion of hisdays, and she had come to have in his mouth a flavour, as it were,and sweetness beyond all other sweetnesses. She had lent a graceto his days of which for many years he had not believed them to becapable. He was a man who had thought much of love, reading about itin all the poets with whose lines he was conversant. He was one who,in all that he read, would take the gist of it home to himself, andask himself how it was with him in that matter. His favourite Horacehad had a fresh love for every day; but he had told himself thatHorace knew nothing of love. Of Petrarch and Laura he had thought;but even to Petrarch Laura had been a subject for expression ratherthan for passion. Prince Arthur, in his love for Guinevere, wentnearer to the mark which he had fancied for himself. Imogen, in herlove for Posthumus, gave to him a picture of all that love should be.It was thus that he had thought of himself in all his readings; andas years had gone by, he had told himself that for him there was tobe nothing better than reading. But yet his mind had been full, andhe had still thought to himself that, in spite of his mistake inreference to Catherine Bailey, there was still room for a strongpassion.
Then Mary Lawrie had come upon him, and the sun seemed to shinenowhere but in her eyes and in the expression of her face. He hadtold himself distinctly that he was now in love, and that his lifehad not gone so far forward as to leave him stranded on the drysandhills. She was there living in his house, subject to his orders,affectionate and docile; but, as far as he could judge, a perfectwoman. And, as far as he could judge, there was no other man whom sheloved. Then, with many doubtings, he asked her the question, and hesoon learned the truth,--but not the whole truth.
There had been a man, but he was one who seemed to have passed by andleft his mark, and then to have gone on altogether out of sight. Shehad told him that she could not but think of John Gordon, but thatthat was all. She would, if he asked it, plight her troth to himand become his wife, although she must think of John Gordon. Thisthinking would last but for a while, he told himself; and he at hisage--what right had he to expect aught better than that? She wasof such a nature that, when she had given herself up in marriage,she would surely learn to love her husband. So he had accepted herpromise, and allowed himself for one hour to be a happy man.
Then John Gordon had come to his house, falling upon it like theblast of a storm. He had come at once--instantly--as though fate hadintended to punish him, Whittlestaff, utterly and instantly. Mary hadtold him that she could not promise not to think of him who had onceloved her, when, lo and behold! the man himself was there. Who eversuffered a blow so severe as this? He had left them together. Hehad felt himself compelled to do so by the exigencies of the moment.It was impossible that he should give either one or the other tounderstand that they would not be allowed to meet in his house. Theyhad met, and Mary had been very firm. For a few hours there hadexisted in his bosom the feeling that even yet he might be preferred.
But gradually that feeling had disappeared, and the truth had comehome to him. She was as much in love with John Gordon as could anygirl be with the man whom she adored. And the other rock on which hehad depended was gradually shivered beneath his feet. He had fanciedat first that the man had come back, as do so many adventurers,without the means of making a woman happy. It was not for John Gordonthat he was solicitous, but for Mary Lawrie. If John Gordon were apauper, or so nearly so as to be able to offer Mary no home, then itwould clearly be his duty not to allow the marriage. In such case theresult to him would be, if not heavenly, sweet enough at any rate tosatisfy his longings. She would come to him, and John Gordon woulddepart to London, and to the world beyond, and there would be an endof him. But it became palpable to his senses generally that the man'sfortunes had not been such as this. And then there came home to him afeeling that were they so, it would be his duty to make up for Mary'ssake what was wanting,--since he had discovered of what calibre wasthe man himself.
It was at Mr Hall's house that the idea had first presented itselfto him with all the firmness of a settled project. It would be, hehad said to himself, a great thing for a man to do. What, after all,is the meaning of love, but that a man should do his best to servethe woman he loves? "Who cares a straw for him?" he said to himself,as though to exempt himself from any idea of general charity, and toprove that all the good which he intended to do was to be done forlove alone. "Not a straw; whether he shall stay at home here andhave all that is sweetest in the world, or be sent out alone to findfresh diamonds amidst the dirt and misery of that horrid place, is asnothing, as far as he is concerned. I am, at any rate, more to myselfthan John Gordon. I do not believe in doing a kindness of such anature as that to such a one. But for her--! And I could not hold herto my bosom, knowing that she would so much rather be in the arms ofanother man." All this he said to himself; but he said it in wordsfully formed, and with the thoughts, on which the words were based,clearly established.
When he came to the end of his journey, he had himself driven tothe hotel, and ordered his dinner, and ate it in solitude, stillsupported by the ecstasy of his thoughts. He knew that there wasbefore him a sharp cruel punishment, and then a weary lonely life.There could be no happiness, no satisfaction, in store for him. Hewas aware that it must be so; but still for the
present there was ajoy to him in thinking that he would make her happy, and in that hewas determined to take what immediate delight it would give him. Heasked himself how long that delight could last; and he told himselfthat when John Gordon should have once taken her by the hand andclaimed her as his own, the time of his misery would have come.
There had hung about him a dream, clinging to him up to the moment ofhis hotel dinner, by which he had thought it possible that he mightyet escape from the misery of Pandemonium and be carried into thelight and joy of Paradise. But as he sat with his beef-steak beforehim, and ate his accustomed potato, with apparently as good a gustoas any of his neighbours, the dream departed. He told himselfthat under no circumstances should the dream be allowed to becomea reality. The dream had been of this wise. With all the bestintentions in his power he would offer the girl to John Gordon, andthen, not doubting Gordon's acceptance of her, would make the sameoffer to the girl herself. But what if the girl refused to acceptthe offer? What if the girl should stubbornly adhere to her originalpromise? Was he to refuse to marry her when she should insist thatsuch was her right? Was he to decline to enter in upon the joys ofParadise when Paradise should be thus opened to him? He would do hisbest, loyally and sincerely, with his whole heart. But he could notforce 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 thussave him from the unhappiness in store for him. Such had been thenature 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 beflung to the winds. A certain amount of strength was now demanded ofhim, 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 thepromises under heaven had been given. Though you say that you wishit, it is a lie which may not be ratified. Though you implore it ofme, it cannot be granted. It is he that is your love, and it is hethat must have you. I love you too, God in his wisdom knows, but itcannot be so. Go and be his wife, for mine you shall never become. Ihave meant well, but have been unfortunate. Now you know the state ofmy mind, than which nothing is more fixed on this earth." It was thusthat he would speak to her, and then he would turn away; and the termof his misery would have commenced.
On the next morning he got up and prepared for his interview withJohn Gordon. He walked up and down the sward of the Green Park,thinking to himself of the language which he would use. If he couldonly tell the man that he hated him while he surrendered to him thegirl whom he loved so dearly, it would be well. For in truth therewas nothing of Christian charity in his heart towards John Gordon.But he thought at last that it would be better that he shouldannounce his purpose in the simplest language. He could hate the manin his own heart as thoroughly as he desired. But it would not bebecoming in him, were he on such an occasion to attempt to rise tothe romance of tragedy. "It will be all the same a thousand yearshence," he said to himself as he walked in at the club door.