CHAPTER IX.
THE REV MONTAGU BLAKE.
John Gordon, when he left the room, went out to look for MrWhittlestaff, but was told that he had gone into the town. MrWhittlestaff had had his own troubles in thinking of the unluckycoincidence of John Gordon's return, and had wandered forth,determined to leave those two together, so that they might speak toeach other as they pleased. And during his walk he did come to acertain resolution. Should a request of any kind be made to him byJohn Gordon, it should receive not the slightest attention. He was aman to whom he owed nothing, and for whose welfare he was not in theleast solicitous. "Why should I be punished and he be made happy?" Itwas thus he spoke to himself. Should he encounter the degradation ofdisappointment, in order that John Gordon should win the object onwhich he had set his heart? Certainly not. His own heart was muchdearer to him than that of John Gordon.
But if a request should be made to him by Mary Lawrie? Alas! if itwere so, then there must be sharp misery in store for him. In thefirst place, were she to make the request, were she to tell him tohis face, she who had promised to be his wife, that this man was dearto her, how was it possible that he should go to the altar with thegirl, and there accept from her her troth? She had spoken alreadyof a fancy which had crossed her mind respecting a man who couldhave been no more than a dream to her, of whose whereabouts andcondition--nay, of his very existence--she was unaware. And she hadtold him that no promise, no word of love, had passed between them."Yes, you may think of him," he had said, meaning not to debar herfrom the use of thought, which should be open to all the world,"but let him not be spoken of." Then she had promised; and when shehad come again to withdraw her promise, she had done so with somecock-and-bull story about the old woman, which had had no weight withhim. Then he had her presence during the interview between the threeon which to form his judgment. As far as he could remember, as hewandered through the fields thinking of it, she had not spoken hardlyabove a word during that interview. She had sat silent, apparentlyunhappy, but not explaining the cause of her unhappiness. It mightwell be that she should be unhappy in the presence of her affiancedhusband and her old lover. But now if she would tell him that shewished to be relieved from him, and to give herself to this stranger,she should be allowed to go. But he told himself also that he wouldcarry his generosity no further. He was not called upon to offer tosurrender himself. The man's coming had been a misfortune; but lethim go, and in process of time he would be forgotten. It was thusthat Mr Whittlestaff resolved as he walked across the country, whilehe left the two lovers to themselves in his own parlour.
It was now nearly five o'clock, and Mr Whittlestaff, as Gordon wastold, dined at six. He felt that he would not find the man beforedinner unless he remained at the house,--and for doing so he had noexcuse. He must return in the evening, or sleep at the inn and comeback the next morning. He must manage to catch the man alone, becausehe was assuredly minded to use upon him all the power of eloquencewhich he had at his command. And as he thought it improbable so tofind him in the evening, he determined to postpone his task. But indoing so he felt that he should be at a loss. The eager words werehot now within his memory, having been sharpened against the anvil ofhis thoughts by his colloquy with Mary Lawrie. To-morrow they mighthave cooled. His purpose might be as strong; but a man when he wishesto use burning words should use them while the words are on fire.
John Gordon had a friend at Alresford, or rather an acquaintance, onwhom he had determined to call, unless circumstances, as they shouldoccur at Croker's Hall, should make him too ecstatic in his wish forany such operation. The ecstasy certainly had not come as yet, and hewent forth therefore to call on the Reverend Mr Blake. Of Mr Blakehe only knew that he was a curate of a neighbouring parish, and thatthey two had been at Oxford together. So he walked down to the inn toorder his dinner, not feeling his intimacy with Mr Blake sufficientto justify him in looking for his dinner with him. A man alwaysdines, let his sorrow be what it may. A woman contents herself withtea, and mitigates her sorrow, we must suppose, by an extra cup. JohnGordon ordered a roast fowl,--the safest dinner at an English countryinn,--and asked his way to the curate's house.
The Rev Montagu Blake was curate of Little Alresford, a parish,though hardly to be called a village, lying about three miles fromthe town. The vicar was a feeble old gentleman who had gone away todie in the Riviera, and Mr Blake had the care of souls to himself.He was a man to whom his lines had fallen in pleasant places. Therewere about 250 men, women, and children, in his parish, and not aDissenter among them. For looking after these folk he had L120 perannum, and as pretty a little parsonage as could be found in England.There was a squire with whom he was growing in grace and friendship,who, being the patron of the living, might probably bestow it uponhim. It was worth only L250, and was not, therefore, too valuable tobe expected. He had a modest fortune of his own, L300 a-year perhaps,and,--for the best of his luck shall be mentioned last,--he wasengaged to the daughter of one of the prebendaries of Winchester, apretty bright little girl, with a further sum of L5000 belonging toherself. He was thirty years of age, in the possession of perfecthealth, and not so strict in matters of religion as to make itnecessary for him to abandon any of the innocent pleasures of thisworld. He could dine out, and play cricket, and read a novel. Andshould he chance, when riding his cob about the parish, or visitingsome neighbouring parish, to come across the hounds, he would notscruple to see them over a field or two. So that the Rev MontaguBlake was upon the whole a happy fellow.
He and John Gordon had been thrown together at Oxford for a shorttime during the last months of their residence, and though they weremen quite unlike each other in their pursuits, circumstances hadmade them intimate. It was well that Gordon should take a stroll fora couple of hours before dinner, and therefore he started off forLittle Alresford. Going into the parsonage gate he was overtaken byBlake, and of course introduced himself. "Don't you remember Gordonat Exeter?"
"John Gordon! Gracious me! Of course I do. What a good fellow you areto come and look a fellow up! Where have you come from, and where areyou going to, and what brings you to Alresford, beyond the charitableintention of dining with me? Oh, nonsense! not dine; but you will,and I can give you a bed too, and breakfast, and shall be delightedto do it for a week. Ordered your dinner? Then we'll unorder it. I'llsend the boy in and put that all right. Shall I make him bring yourbag back?" Gordon, however, though he assented to the proposition asregarded dinner, made his friend understand that it was imperativethat he should be at the inn that night.
"Yes," said Blake, when they had settled down to wait for theirdinner, "I am parson here,--a sort of a one at least. I am not onlycurate, but live in expectation of higher things. Our squire here,who owns the living, talks of giving it to me. There isn't a betterfellow living than Mr Furnival, or his wife, or his four daughters."
"Will he be as generous with one of them as with the living?"
"There is no necessity, as far as I am concerned. I came herealready provided in that respect. If you'll remain here tillSeptember, you'll see me a married man. One Kattie Forrester intendsto condescend to become Mrs Montagu Blake. Though I say it asshouldn't, a sweeter human being doesn't live on the earth. I met hersoon after I had taken orders. But I had to wait till I had some sortof a house to put her into. Her father is a clergyman like myself, sowe are all in a boat together. She's got a little bit of money, andI've got a little bit of money, so that we shan't absolutely starve.Now you know all about me; and what have you been doing yourself?"
John Gordon thought that this friend of his had been mostcommunicative. He had been told everything concerning his friend'slife. Had Mr Blake written a biography of himself down to thepresent period, he could not have been more full or accurate in hisdetails. But Gordon felt that as regarded himself he must be morereticent. "I intended to have joined my father's bank, but that cameto grief."
"Yes; I did hear of some trouble in that respect."
"And then I went out to the diamon
d-fields."
"Dear me! that was a long way."
"Yes, it is a long way,--and rather rough towards the end."
"Did you do any good at the diamond-fields? I don't fancy that menoften bring much money home with them."
"I brought some."
"Enough to do a fellow any good in his after life?"
"Well, yes; enough to content me, only that a man is not easilycontented who has been among diamonds."
"Crescit amor diamonds!" said the parson. "I can easily understandthat. And then, when a fellow goes back again, he is so apt tolose it all. Don't you expect to see your diamonds turn intoslate-stones?"
"Not except in the ordinary way of expenditure. I don't think thegnomes or the spirits will interfere with them,--though the thievesmay, if they can get a hand upon them. But my diamonds have, for themost part, been turned into ready money, and at the present momenttake the comfortable shape of a balance at my banker's."
"I'd leave it there,--or buy land, or railway shares. If I hadrealised in that venture enough to look at, I'd never go out to thediamond-fields again."
"It's hard to bring an occupation of that kind to an end all atonce," said John Gordon.
"Crescit amor diamonds!" repeated the Reverend Montagu Blake, shakinghis head. "If you gave me three, I could easily imagine that I shouldtoss up with another fellow who had three also, double or quits, tillI lost them all. But we'll make sure of dinner, at any rate, withoutany such hazardous proceeding." Then they went into the dining-room,and enjoyed themselves, without any reference having been made as yetto the business which had brought John Gordon into the neighbourhoodof Alresford.
"You'll find that port wine rather good. I can't afford claret,because it takes such a lot to go far enough. To tell the truth, whenI'm alone I confine myself to whisky and water. Blake is a very goodname for whisky."
"Why do you make a ceremony with me?"
"Because it's so pleasant to have an excuse for such a ceremony.It wasn't you only I was thinking of when I came out just now, anduncorked the bottle. Think what it is to have a prudent mind. I hadto get it myself out of the cellar, because girls can't understandthat wine shouldn't be treated in the same way as physic. By-the-by,what brought you into this part of the world at all?"
"I came to see one Mr Whittlestaff."
"What! old William Whittlestaff? Then, let me tell you, you have cometo see as honest a fellow, and as good-hearted a Christian, as anythat I know."
"You do know him?"
"Oh yes, I know him. I'd like to see the man whose bond is betterthan old Whittlestaff's. Did you hear what he did about thatyoung lady who is living with him? She was the daughter of afriend,--simply of a friend who died in pecuniary distress. OldWhittlestaff just brought her into his house, and made her his owndaughter. It isn't every one who will do that, you know."
"Why do you call him old?" said John Gordon.
"Well; I don't know. He is old."
"Just turned fifty."
"Fifty is old. I don't mean that he is a cripple or bedridden.Perhaps if he had been a married man, he'd have looked younger. Hehas got a very nice girl there with him; and if he isn't too old tothink of such things, he may marry her. Do you know Miss Lawrie?"
"Yes; I know her."
"Don't you think she's nice? Only my goose is cooked, I'd go in forher sooner than any one I see about."
"Sooner than your own squire's four daughters?"
"Well,--yes. They're nice girls too. But I don't quite fancy one outof four. And they'd look higher than the curate."
"A prebendary is as high as a squire," said Gordon.
"There are prebendaries and there are squires. Our squire isn't aswell, though he's an uncommonly good fellow. If I get a wife fromone and a living from the other, I shall think myself very lucky.Miss Lawrie is a handsome girl, and everything that she ought to be;but if you were to see Kattie Forrester, I think you would say thatshe was A 1. I sometimes wonder whether old Whittlestaff will thinkof marrying."
Gordon sat silent, turning over one or two matters in his mind. Howsupremely happy was this young parson with his Kattie Forrester andhis promised living,--in earning the proceeds of which there needbe no risk, and very little labour,--and with his bottle of portwine and comfortable house! All the world seemed to have smiledwith Montagu Blake. But with him, though there had been muchsuccess, there had been none of the world's smiles. He was awareat this moment, or thought that he was aware, that the world wouldnever smile on him,--unless he should succeed in persuading MrWhittlestaff to give up the wife whom he had chosen. Then he felttempted to tell his own story to this young parson. They were alonetogether, and it seemed as though Providence had provided him with afriend. And the subject of Mary Lawrie's intended marriage had beenbrought forward in a peculiar manner. But he was by nature altogetherdifferent from Mr Blake, and could not blurt out his love-story witheasy indifference. "Do you know Mr Whittlestaff well?" he asked.
"Pretty well. I've been here four years; and he's a near neighbour. Ithink I do know him well."
"Is he a sort of man likely to fall in love with such a girl as MissLawrie, seeing that she is an inmate of his house?"
"Well," said the parson, after some consideration, "if you ask me, Idon't think he is. He seems to have settled himself down to a certainmanner of life, and will not, I should say, be stirred from it veryquickly. If you have any views in that direction, I don't think he'llbe your rival."
"Is he a man to care much for a girl's love?"
"I should say not."
"But if he had once brought himself to ask her?" said Gordon.
"And if she had accepted him?" suggested the other.
"That's what I mean."
"I don't think he'd let her go very easily. He's a sort of dog whomyou cannot easily persuade to give up a bone. If he has set his heartupon matrimony, he will not be turned from it. Do you know anythingof his intentions?"
"I fancy that he is thinking of it."
"And you mean that you were thinking of it, too, with the same lady."
"No, I didn't mean that." Then he added, after a pause, "That isjust what I did not mean to say. I did not mean to talk about myself.But since you ask me the question, I will answer it truly,--I havethought of the same lady. And my thoughts were earlier in the fieldthan his. I must say good-night now," he said, rising somewhatbrusquely from his chair. "I have to walk back to Alresford, and mustsee Mr Whittlestaff early in the morning. According to your view ofthe case I shan't do much with him. And if it be so, I shall be offto the diamond-fields again by the first mail."
"You don't say so!"
"That is to be my lot in life. I am very glad to have come across youonce again, and am delighted to find you so happy in your prospects.You have told me everything, and I have done pretty much the same toyou. I shall disappear from Alresford, and never more be heard of.You needn't talk much about me and my love; for though I shall be outof the way at Kimberley, many thousand miles from here, a man doesnot care to have his name in every one's mouth."
"Oh no," said Blake. "I won't say a word about Miss Lawrie;--unlessindeed you should be successful."
"There is not the remotest possibility of that," said Gordon, as hetook his leave.
"I wonder whether she is fond of him," said the curate to himself,when he resolved to go to bed instead of beginning his sermon thatnight. "I shouldn't wonder if she is, for he is just the sort of manto make a girl fond of him."