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The Project Gutenberg eBook, An Old Man's Love, by Anthony Trollope
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: An Old Man's Love
Author: Anthony Trollope
Release Date: April 8, 2008 [eBook #25001]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN OLD MAN'S LOVE***
E-text prepared by Delphine Lettau, Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D., and the
Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)
AN OLD MAN'S LOVE
by
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
In Two Volumes
William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
MDCCCLXXXIV
NOTE.
This story, "An Old Man's Love," is the last
of my father's novels. As I have stated in the
preface to his Autobiography, "The Landleaguers"
was written after this book, but was never fully
completed.
HENRY M. TROLLOPE.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I
I. MRS BAGGETT
II. MR WHITTLESTAFF
III. MARY LAWRIE
IV. MARY LAWRIE ACCEPTS MR WHITTLESTAFF
V. "I SUPPOSE IT WAS A DREAM"
VI. JOHN GORDON
VII. JOHN GORDON AND MR WHITTLESTAFF
VIII. JOHN GORDON AND MARY LAWRIE
IX. THE REV MONTAGU BLAKE
X. JOHN GORDON AGAIN GOES TO CROKER'S HALL
XI. MRS BAGGETT TRUSTS ONLY IN THE FUNDS
XII. MR BLAKE'S GOOD NEWS
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II
XIII. AT LITTLE ALRESFORD
XIV. MR WHITTLESTAFF IS GOING OUT TO DINNER
XV. MR WHITTLESTAFF GOES OUT TO DINNER
XVI. MRS BAGGETT'S PHILOSOPHY
XVII. MR WHITTLESTAFF MEDITATES A JOURNEY
XVIII. MR AND MRS TOOKEY
XIX. MR WHITTLESTAFF'S JOURNEY DISCUSSED
XX. MR WHITTLESTAFF TAKES HIS JOURNEY
XXI. THE GREEN PARK
XXII. JOHN GORDON WRITES A LETTER
XXIII. AGAIN AT CROKER'S HALL
XXIV. CONCLUSION
VOLUME I.
CHAPTER I.
MRS BAGGETT.
Mr William Whittlestaff was strolling very slowly up and down the
long walk at his country seat in Hampshire, thinking of the contents
of a letter which he held crushed up within his trousers' pocket. He
always breakfasted exactly at nine, and the letters were supposed to
be brought to him at a quarter past. The postman was really due at
his hall-door at a quarter before nine; but though he had lived in
the same house for above fifteen years, and though he was a man very
anxious to get his letters, he had never yet learned the truth about
them. He was satisfied in his ignorance with 9.15 A.M., but on this
occasion the post-boy, as usual, was ten minutes after that time. Mr
Whittlestaff had got through his second cup of tea, and was stranded
in his chair, having nothing to do, with the empty cup and plates
before him for the space of two minutes; and, consequently, when he
had sent some terrible message out to the post-boy, and then had read
the one epistle which had arrived on this morning, he thus liberated
his mind: "I'll be whipped if I will have anything to do with her."
But this must not be taken as indicating the actual state of his
mind; but simply the condition of anger to which he had been reduced
by the post-boy. If any one were to explain to him afterwards that he
had so expressed himself on a subject of such importance, he would
have declared of himself that he certainly deserved to be whipped
himself. In order that he might in truth make up his mind on the
subject, he went out with his hat and stick into the long walk, and
there thought out the matter to its conclusion. The letter which he
held in his pocket ran as follows:--
ST. TAWELL'S, NORWICH, February 18--.
MY DEAR MR WHITTLESTAFF,--Poor Mrs Lawrie has gone at
last. She died this morning at seven o'clock, and poor
Mary is altogether alone in the world. I have asked her
to come in among us for a few days at any rate, till the
funeral shall be over. But she has refused, knowing, I
suppose, how crowded and how small our house is. What is
she to do? You know all the circumstances much better than
I do. She says herself that she had always been intended
for a governess, and that she will, of course, follow out
the intention which had been fixed on between her and her
father before his death. But it is a most weary prospect,
especially for one who has received no direct education
for the purpose. She has devoted herself for the last
twelve months to Mrs Lawrie, as though she had been her
mother. You did not like Mrs Lawrie, nor did I; nor,
indeed, did poor Mary love her very dearly. But she, at
any rate, did her duty by her step-mother. I know that in
regard to actual money you will be generous enough; but do
turn the matter over in your mind, and endeavour to think
of some future for the poor girl.--Yours very faithfully,
EMMA KING.
It was in answer to such a letter as this, that Mr Whittlestaff had
declared that "He'd be whipped if he'd have anything to do with her."
But that expression, which must not in truth be accepted as meaning
anything, must not be supposed to have had even that dim shadow of a
meaning which the words may be supposed to bear. He had during the
last three months been asking himself the question as to what should
be Mary Lawrie's fate in life when her step-mother should have gone,
and had never quite solved the question whether he could or would not
bring into his own house, almost as a daughter, a young woman who
was in no way related to him. He had always begun these exercises
of thought, by telling himself that the world was a censorious old
fool, and that he might do just as he pleased as to making any girl
his daughter. But then, before dinner he had generally come to the
conclusion that Mrs Baggett would not approve. Mrs Baggett was his
housekeeper, and was to him certainly a person of importance. He had
not even suggested the idea to Mrs Baggett, and was sure that Mrs
Baggett would not approve. As to sending Mary Lawrie out into the
world as a governess;--that plan he was quite sure would not answer.
Two years ago had died his best beloved friend, Captain Patrick
Lawrie. With him we have not anything to do, except to say that of
all men he was the most impecunious. Late in life he had married
a second wife,--a woman who was hard, sharp, and possessed of an
annuity. The future condition of his only daughter had been a
terrible grief to him; but from Mr Whittlestaff he had received
assurances which had somewhat comforted him. "She shan't want. I
can't say anything further." Such had been the comfort given by Mr
Whittlestaff. And since his friend's death Mr Whittlestaff had been
liberal with presents,--which Mary had taken most unwillingly under
her step-mother's guidance. Such had been the state of things when
Mr Whittlestaff received the letter. When he had been walking up
and down the long walk for an extra hour, Mr Whittlestaff expressed
aloud the conclusion to which he had come. "I don't care one straw
for Mrs Baggett." It should be understood as having been uttered in
direct opposition to the first assurance made by him, that "He'd be
whipped if he'd have anything to do with her." In that hour he had
resolved that Mary Lawrie should come to him, and be made, with all
possible honours of ownership, with all its privileges and all its
responsibilities, the mistress of his house. And he made up his mind
also that such had ever been his determination. He was fifty and Mary
Lawrie was twenty-five. "I can do just what I please with her," he
said to himself, "as though she were my own girl." By this he meant
to imply that he would not be expected to fall in love with her, and
that it was quite out of the question that she should fall in love
with him. "Go and tell Mrs Baggett that I'll be much obliged to her
if she'll put on her bonnet and come out to me here." This he said to
a gardener's boy, and the order was not at all an unusual one. When
he wanted to learn what Mrs Baggett intended to give him for dinner,
he would send for the old housekeeper and take a walk with her for
twenty minutes. Habit had made Mrs Baggett quite accustomed to the
proceeding, which upon the whole she enjoyed. She now appeared with
a bonnet, and a wadded cloak which her master had given her. "It's
about that letter, sir," said Mrs Baggett.
"How do you know?"
"Didn't I see the handwriting, and the black edges? Mrs Lawrie ain't
no more."
"Mrs Lawrie has gone to her long account."
"I'm afeared, sir, she won't find it easy to settle the bill,"
said Mrs Baggett, who had a sharp, cynical way of expressing her
disapprobation.
"Mrs Baggett, judge not, lest you be judged." Mrs Baggett turned up
her nose and snuffed the air. "The woman has gone, and nothing shall
be said against her here. The girl remains. Now, I'll tell you what I
mean to do."
"She isn't to come here, Mr Whittlestaff?"
"Here she is to come, and here she is to remain, and here she is to
have her part of everything as though she were my own daughter. And,
as not the smallest portion of the good things that is to come to
her, she is to have her share in your heart, Mrs Baggett."
"I don't know nothing about my heart, Mr Whittlestaff. Them as finds
their way to my heart has to work their way there. Who's Miss Lawrie,
that I'm to be knocked about for a new comer?"
"She is just Mary Lawrie."
"I'm that old that I don't feel like having a young missus put over
me. And it ain't for your good, Mr Whittlestaff. You ain't a young
man--nor you ain't an old un; and she ain't no relations to you.
That's the worst part of it. As sure as my name is Dorothy Baggett,
you'll be falling in love with her." Then Mrs Baggett, with the
sense of the audacity of what she had said, looked him full in the
face and violently shook her head.
"Now go in," he said, "and pack my things up for three nights. I'm
going to Norwich, and I shan't want any dinner. Tell John I shall
want the cart, and he must be ready to go with me to the station at
2.15."
"I ought to be ready to cut the tongue out of my head," said Mrs
Baggett as she returned to the house, "for I might have known it was
the way to make him start at once."
Not in three days, but before the end of the week, Mr Whittlestaff
returned home, bringing with him a dark-featured tall girl, clothed,
of course, in deepest mourning from head to foot. To Mrs Baggett she
was an object of intense interest; because, although she had by no
means assented to her master's proposal, made on behalf of the young
lady, and did tell herself again and again during Mr Whittlestaff's
absence that she was quite sure that Mary Lawrie was a baggage, yet
in her heart she knew it to be impossible that she could go on living
in the house without loving one whom her master loved. With regard
to most of those concerned in the household, she had her own way.
Unless she would favour the groom, and the gardener, and the boy,
and the girls who served below her, Mr Whittlestaff would hardly be
contented with those subordinates. He was the easiest master under
whom a servant could live. But his favour had to be won through Mrs
Baggett's smiles. During the last two years, however, there had been
enough of discussion about Mary Lawrie to convince Mrs Baggett that,
in regard to this "interloper," as Mrs Baggett had once called her,
Mr Whittlestaff intended to have his own way. Such being the case,
Mrs Baggett was most anxious to know whether the young lady was such
as she could love.
Strangely enough, when the young lady had come, Mrs Baggett, for
twelve months, could not quite make up her mind. The young lady was
very different from what she had expected. Of interference in the
house there was almost literally none. Mary had evidently heard
much of Mrs Baggett's virtues,--and infirmities,--and seemed to
understand that she also had in many things to place herself under
Mrs Baggett's orders. "Lord love you, Miss Mary," she was heard
to say; "as if we did not all understand that you was to be missus
of everything at Croker's Hall,"--for such was the name of Mr
Whittlestaff's house. But those who heard it knew that the words
were spoken in supreme good humour, and judged from that, that Mrs
Baggett's heart had been won. But Mrs Baggett still had her fears;
and was not yet resolved but that it might be her duty to turn
against Mary Lawrie with all the violence in her power. For the first
month or two after the young lady's arrival, she had almost made
up her mind that Mary Lawrie would never consent to become Mrs
Whittlestaff. An old gentleman will seldom fall in love without some
encouragement; or at any rate, will not tell his love. Mary Lawrie
was as cold to him as though he had been seventy-five instead of
fifty. And she was also as dutiful,--by which she showed Mrs Baggett
more strongly even than by her coldness, that any idea of marriage
was on her part out of the question.
This, strange to say, Mrs Baggett resented. For though she certainly
felt, as would do any ordinary Mrs Baggett in her position, that a
wife would be altogether detrimental to her interest in life, yet she
could not endure to think that "a little stuck-up minx, taken in from
charity," should run counter to any of her master's wishes. On one or
two occasions she had spoken to Mr Whittlestaff respecting the young
lady and had been cruelly snubbed. This certainly did not create
good humour on her part, and she began to fancy herself angry in that
the young lady was so ceremonious with her master. But as months ran
by she felt that Mary was thawing, and that Mr Whittlestaff was
becoming more affectionate. Of course there were periods in which her
mind veered round. But at the end of the year Mrs Baggett certainly
did wish that the young lady should marry her old master. "I can
go down to Portsmouth," she said to the baker, who was a most
respectable old man, and was nearer to Mrs Baggett's confidence
than any one else except her master, "and weary out the rest on 'em
there." When she spoke of "wearying out the rest on 'em," her friend
perfectly understood that she alluded to what years she might still
have to live, and to the abject misery of her latter days, which
would be the consequence of her resigning her present mode of life.
Mrs Baggett was supposed to have been born at Portsmouth, and,
therefore, to allude to that one place which she knew in the world
over and beyond the residences in which her master and her master's
family had resided.
Before I go on to describe the characters of Mr Whittlestaff and
Miss Lawrie, I must devote a few words to the early life of Mrs
Baggett. Dorothy Tedcaster had been born in the house of Admiral
Whittlestaff, the officer in command at the Portsmouth dockyard.
There her father or her mother had family connections, to visit whom
Dorothy, when a young woman, had returned from the then abode of her
loving mistress, Mrs Whittlestaff. With Mrs Whittlestaff she had
lived absolutely from the hour of her birth, and of Mrs Whittlestaff
her mind was so full, that she did conceive her to be superior, if
not absolutely in rank, at any rate in all the graces and favours of
life, to her Majesty and all the royal family. Dorothy in an evil
hour went back to Portsmouth, and there encountered that worst of
military heroes, Sergeant Baggett. With many lamentations, and
confessions as to her own weakness, she wrote to her mistress,
acknowledging that she did intend to marry "B." Mrs Whittlestaff
could do nothing to prevent it, and Dorothy did marry "B." Of the
misery and ill-usage, of the dirt and poverty, which poor Dorothy
Baggett endured during that year, it needs not here to tell. That
something had passed between her and her old mistress when she
returned to her, must, I suppose, have been necessary. But of her
married life, in subsequent years, Mrs Baggett never spoke at all.
Even the baker only knew dimly that there had been a Sergeant Baggett
in existence. Years had passed since that bad quarter of an hour
in her life, before Mrs Baggett had been made over to her present
master. And he, though he probably knew something of the abominable
Sergeant, never found it necessary to mention his name. For this Mrs
Baggett was duly thankful, and would declare among all persons, the
baker included, that "for a gentleman to be a gentleman, no gentleman
was such a gentleman" as her master.
It was now five-and-twenty years since the Admiral had died, and
fifteen since his widow had followed him. During the latter period
Mrs Baggett had lived at Croker's Hall with Mr Whittlestaff, and
within that period something had leaked out as to the Sergeant. How
it had come to pass that Mr Whittlestaff's establishment had been
mounted with less of the paraphernalia of wealth than that of his
parents, shall be told in the next chapter; but it was the case that
Mrs Baggett, in her very heart of hearts, was deeply grieved at what
she considered to be the poverty of her master. "You're a stupid
old fool, Mrs Baggett," her master would say, when in some private
moments her regrets would be expressed. "Haven't you got enough
to eat, and a bed to lie on, and an old stocking full of money
somewhere? What more do you want?"
"A stocking full of money!" she would say, wiping her eyes; "there
ain't no such thing. And as for eating, of course, I eats as much as
I wants. I eats more than I wants, if you come to that."
"Then you're very greedy."
"But to think that you shouldn't have a man in a black coat to pour
out a glass of wine for you, sir!"
"I never drink wine, Mrs Baggett."
"Well, whisky. I suppose a fellow like that wouldn't be above pouring
out a glass of whisky for a gentleman;--though there's no knowing now
what those fellows won't turn up their noses at. But it's a come-down
in the world, Mr Whittlestaff."
"If you think I've come down in the world, you'd better keep it to
yourself, and not tell me. I don't think that I've come down."
"You bear up against it finely like a man, sir; but for a poor woman
like me, I do feel it." Such was Mrs Baggett and the record of her
life. But this little conversation took place before the coming of
Mary Lawrie.
CHAPTER II.
MR WHITTLESTAFF.
Mr Whittlestaff had not been a fortunate man, as fortune is
generally counted in the world. He had not succeeded in what he had
attempted. He had, indeed, felt but little his want of success in
regard to money, but he had encountered failure in one or two other
matters which had touched him nearly. In some things his life had
been successful; but these were matters in which the world does not
write down a man's good luck as being generally conducive to his
happiness. He had never had a headache, rarely a cold, and not a
touch of the gout. One little finger had become crooked, and he was
recommended to drink whisky, which he did willingly,--because it was
cheap. He was now fifty, and as fit, bodily and mentally, for hard
work as ever he had been. And he had a thousand a-year to spend, and
spent it without ever feeling the necessity of saving a shilling. And
then he hated no one, and those who came in contact with him always
liked him. He trod on nobody's corns, and was, generally speaking,
the most popular man in the parish. These traits are not generally
reckoned as marks of good fortune; but they do tend to increase the
amount of happiness which a man enjoys in this world. To tell of
his misfortunes a somewhat longer chronicle of his life would be
necessary. But the circumstances need only be indicated here. He had
been opposed in everything to his father's views. His father, finding
him to be a clever lad, had at first designed him for the Bar. But
he, before he had left Oxford, utterly repudiated all legal pursuits.
"What the devil do you wish to be?" said his father, who at that
time was supposed to be able to leave his son £2000 a-year. The son
replied that he would work for a fellowship, and devote himself to
literature. The old admiral sent literature to all the infernal gods,
and told his son that he was a fool. But the lad did not succeed in
getting his fellowship, and neither father nor mother ever knew the
amount of suffering which he endured thereby. He became plaintive
and wrote poetry, and spent his pocket-money in publishing it, which
again caused him sorrow, not for the loss of his money, but by the
obscurity of his poetry. He had to confess to himself that God
had not conferred upon him the gift of writing poetry; and having
acknowledged so much, he never again put two lines together. Of all
this he said nothing; but the sense of failure made him sad at heart.
And his father, when he was in those straits, only laughed at him,
not at all believing the assurances of his son's misery, which from
time to time were given to him by his wife.
Then the old admiral declared that, as his son would do nothing for
himself, he must work for his son. And he took in his old age to
going into the city and speculating in shares. Then the Admiral
died. The shares came to nothing, and calls were made; and when
Mrs Whittlestaff followed her husband, her son, looking about him,
bought Croker's Hall, reduced his establishment, and put down the
man-servant whose departed glory was to Mrs Baggett a matter of such
deep regret.
But before this time Mr Whittlestaff had encountered the greatest
sorrow of his life. Even the lost fellowship, even the rejected
poetry, had not caused him such misery as this. He had loved a young
lady, and had been accepted;--and then the young lady had jilted him.
At this time of his life he was about thirty; and as to the outside
world, he was absolutely dumfounded by the catastrophe. Up to this
period he had been a sportsman in a moderate degree, fishing a good
deal, shooting a little, and devoted to hunting, to the extent of a
single horse. But when the blow came, he never fished or shot, or
hunted again. I think that the young lady would hardly have treated
him so badly had she known what the effect would be. Her name was
Catherine Bailey, and she married one Compas, who, as years went
on, made a considerable reputation as an Old Bailey barrister. His
friends feared at the time that Mr Whittlestaff would do some injury
either to himself or Mr Compas. But no one dared to speak to him on
the subject. His mother, indeed, did dare,--or half dared. But he so
answered his mother that he stopped her before the speech was out
of her mouth. "Don't say a word, mother; I cannot bear it." And he
stalked out of the house, and was not seen for many hours.
There had then, in the bitter agony of his spirit, come upon him an
idea of blood. He himself must go,--or the man. Then he remembered
that she was the man's wife, and that it behoved him to spare
the man for her sake. Then, when he came to think in earnest of
self-destruction, he told himself that it was a coward's refuge. He
took to his classics for consolation, and read the philosophy of
Cicero, and the history of Livy, and the war chronicles of Cæsar.
They did him good,--in the same way that the making of many shoes
would have done him good had he been a shoemaker. In catching fishes
and riding after foxes he could not give his mind to the occupation,
so as to abstract his thoughts. But Cicero's de Natura Deorum was
more effectual. Gradually he returned to a gentle cheerfulness of
life, but he never burst out again into the violent exercise of
shooting a pheasant. After that his mother died, and again he was
called upon to endure a lasting sorrow. But on this occasion the
sorrow was of that kind which is softened by having been expected. He
rarely spoke of his mother,--had never, up to this period at which
our tale finds him, mentioned his mother's name to any of those about
him. Mrs Baggett would speak of her, saying much in the praise of
her old mistress. Mr Whittlestaff would smile and seem pleased, and
so the subject would pass away. There was something too reverend
to him in his idea of his mother, to admit of his discussing her
character with the servant. But he was well pleased to hear her thus
described. Of the other woman, of Catherine Bailey, of her who had
falsely given herself up to so poor a creature as Compas, after
having received the poetry of his vows, he could endure no mention
whatever; and though Mrs Baggett knew probably well the whole story,
no attempt at naming the name was ever made.
Such had been the successes and the failures of Mr Whittlestaff's
life when Mary Lawrie was added as one to his household. The same
idea had occurred to him as to Mrs Baggett. He was not a young man,
because he was fifty; but he was not quite an old man, because he
was only fifty. He had seen Mary Lawrie often enough, and had become
sufficiently well acquainted with her to feel sure that if he could
win her she would be a loving companion for the remainder of his
life. He had turned it all over in his mind, and had been now eager
about it and now bashful. On more than one occasion he had declared
to himself that he would be whipped if he would have anything to
do with her. Should he subject himself again to some such agony of
despair as he had suffered in the matter of Catherine Bailey? It
might not be an agony such as that; but to him to ask and to be
denied would be a terrible pain. And as the girl did receive from
his hands all that she had--her bread and meat, her bed, her very
clothes--would it not be better for her that he should stand to her
in the place of a father than a lover? She might come to accept it
all and not think much of it, if he would take before himself the
guise of an old man. But were he to appear before her as a suitor for
her hand, would she refuse him? Looking forward, he could perceive
that there was room for infinite grief if he should make the attempt
and then things should not go well with him.
But the more he saw of her he was sure also that there was room for
infinite joy. He compared her in his mind to Catherine Bailey, and
could not but feel that in his youth he had been blind and fatuous.
Catherine had been a fair-haired girl, and had now blossomed out
into the anxious mother of ten fair-haired children. The anxiety had
no doubt come from the evil courses of her husband. Had she been
contented to be Mrs Whittlestaff, there might have been no such look
of care, and there might perhaps have been less than ten children;
but she would still have been fair-haired, blowsy, and fat. Mr
Whittlestaff had with infinite trouble found an opportunity of seeing
her and her flock, unseen by them, and a portion of his agony had
subsided. But still there was the fact that she had promised to be
his, and had become a thing sacred in his sight, and had then given
herself up to the arms of Mr Compas. But now if Mary Lawrie would
but accept him, how blessed might be the evening of his life!
He had confessed to himself often enough how sad and dreary he was
in his desolate life. He had told himself that it must be so for the
remainder of all time to him, when Catherine Bailey had declared her
purpose to him of marrying the successful young lawyer. He had at
once made up his mind that his doom was fixed, and had not regarded
his solitude as any deep aggravation of his sorrow. But he had come
by degrees to find that a man should not give up his life because of
a fickle girl, and especially when he found her to be the mother of
ten flaxen haired infants. He had, too, as he declared to himself,
waited long enough.
But Mary Lawrie was very different from Catherine Bailey. The
Catherine he had known had been bright, and plump, and joyous, with a
quick good-natured wit, and a rippling laughter, which by its silvery
sound had robbed him of his heart. There was no plumpness, and no
silver-sounding laughter with Mary. She shall be described in the
next chapter. Let it suffice to say here that she was somewhat staid
in her demeanour, and not at all given to putting herself forward in
conversation. But every hour that he passed in her company he became
more and more sure that, if any wife could now make him happy, this
was the woman who could do so.
But of her manner to himself he doubted much. She was gratitude
itself for what he was prepared to do for her. But with her gratitude
was mingled respect, and almost veneration. She treated him at first
almost as a servant,--at any rate with none of the familiarity of a
friend, and hardly with the reserve of a grown-up child. Gradually,
in obedience to his evident wishes, she did drop her reserve,
and allowed herself to converse with him; but it was always as a
young person might with all modesty converse with her superior. He
struggled hard to overcome her reticence, and did at last succeed.
But still there was that respect, verging almost into veneration,
which seemed to crush him when he thought that he might begin to play
the lover.
He had got a pony carriage for her, which he insisted that she should
drive herself. "But I never have driven," she had said, taking her
place, and doubtfully assuming the reins, while he sat beside her.
She had at this time been six months at Croker's Hall.
"There must be a beginning for everything, and you shall begin to
drive now." Then he took great trouble with her, teaching her how to
hold the reins, and how to use the whip, till at last something of
familiarity was engendered. And he went out with her, day after day,
showing her all those pretty haunts among the downs which are to be
found in the neighbourhood of Alresford.
This did well for a time, and Mr Whittlestaff thought that he was
progressing. But he had not as yet quite made up his mind that the
attempt should be made at all. If he can be imagined to have talked
to a friend as he talked to himself, that friend would have averred
that he spoke more frequently against marriage,--or rather against
the young lady's marriage,--than in favour of it. "After all it will
never do," he would have said to this friend; "I am an old man, and
an old man shouldn't ask a young girl to sacrifice herself. Mrs
Baggett looks on it only as a question of butchers and bakers. There
are, no doubt, circumstances in which butchers and bakers do come
uppermost. But here the butchers and bakers are provided. I wouldn't
have her marry me for that sake. Love, I fear, is out of the
question. But for gratitude I would not have her do it." It was thus
that he would commonly have been found speaking to his friend. There
were moments in which he roused himself to better hopes,--when he had
drank his glass of whisky and water, and was somewhat elate with the
consequences. "I'll do it," he would then have said to his friend;
"only I cannot exactly say when." And so it went on, till at last he
became afraid to speak out and tell her what he wanted.
Mr Whittlestaff was a tall, thin man, not quite six feet, with a
face which a judge of male beauty would hardly call handsome, but
which all would say was impressive and interesting. We seldom
think how much is told to us of the owner's character by the
first or second glance of a man or woman's face. Is he a fool, or
is he clever; is he reticent or outspoken; is he passionate or
long-suffering;--nay, is he honest or the reverse; is he malicious
or of a kindly nature? Of all these things we form a sudden judgment
without any thought; and in most of our sudden judgments we are
roughly correct. It is so, or seems to us to be so, as a matter of
course,--that the man is a fool, or reticent, or malicious; and,
without giving a thought to our own phrenological capacity, we pass
on with the conviction. No one ever considered that Mr Whittlestaff
was a fool or malicious; but people did think that he was reticent
and honest. The inner traits of his character were very difficult to
be read. Even Mrs Baggett had hardly read them all correctly. He was
shamefaced to such a degree that Mrs Baggett could not bring herself
to understand it. And there was present to him a manner of speech
which practice had now made habitual, but which he had originally
adopted with the object of hiding his shamefacedness under the veil
of a dashing manner. He would speak as though he were quite free
with his thoughts, when, at the moment, he feared that thoughts
should be read of which he certainly had no cause to be ashamed. His
fellowship, his poetry, and his early love were all, to his thinking,
causes of disgrace, which required to be buried deep within his own
memory. But the true humility with which he regarded them betokened a
character for which he need not have blushed. But that he thought of
those matters at all--that he thought of himself at all--was a matter
to be buried deep within his own bosom.
Through his short dark-brown hair the grey locks were beginning to
show themselves--signs indeed of age, but signs which were very
becoming to him. At fifty he was a much better-looking man than he
had been at thirty,--so that that foolish, fickle girl, Catherine
Bailey, would not have rejected him for the cruelly sensuous face
of Mr Compas, had the handsome iron-grey tinge been then given to
his countenance. He, as he looked at the glass, told himself that a
grey-haired old fool, such as he was, had no right to burden the life
of a young girl, simply because he found her in bread and meat. That
he should think himself good-looking, was to his nature impossible.
His eyes were rather small, but very bright; the eyebrows black and
almost bushy; his nose was well-formed and somewhat long, but not so
as to give that peculiar idea of length to his face which comes from
great nasal prolongation. His upper lip was short, and his mouth
large and manly. The strength of his character was better shown by
his mouth than by any other feature. He wore hardly any beard, as
beards go now,--unless indeed a whisker can be called a beard, which
came down, closely shorn, about half an inch below his ear. "A very
common sort of individual," he said of himself, as he looked in the
glass when Mary Lawrie had been already twelve months in the house;
"but then a man ought to be common. A man who is uncommon is either a
dandy or a buffoon."
His clothes were all made after one pattern and of one colour. He
had, indeed, his morning clothes and his evening clothes. Those for
the morning were very nearly black, whereas for the evening they were
entirely so. He walked about the neighbourhood in a soft hat such as
clergymen now affect, and on Sundays he went to church with the old
well-established respectable chimney-pot. On Sundays, too, he carried
an umbrella, whereas on week-days he always had a large stick; and it
was observed that neither the umbrella nor the stick was adapted to
the state of the weather.
Such was Mr Whittlestaff of Croker's Hall, a small residence
which stood half-way up on the way to the downs, about a mile from
Alresford. He had come into the neighbourhood, having bought a small
freehold property without the knowledge of any of the inhabitants.
"It was just as though he had come out of the sun," said the old
baker, forgetting that most men, or their ancestors, must have come
to their present residences after a similar fashion. And he had
brought Mrs Baggett with him, who had confided to the baker that she
had felt herself that strange on her first arrival that she didn't
know whether she was standing on her head or her heels.
Mrs Baggett had since become very gracious with various of the
neighbours. She had the paying of Mr Whittlestaff's bills, and the
general disposal of his custom. From thence arose her popularity.
But he, during the last fifteen years, had crept silently into the
society of the place. At first no one had known anything about him;
and the neighbourhood had been shy. But by degrees the parsons and
then the squires had taken him by the hand, so that the social
endowments of the place were more than Mr Whittlestaff even desired.
CHAPTER III.
MARY LAWRIE.
There is nothing more difficult in the writing of a story than to
describe adequately the person of a hero or a heroine, so as to place
before the mind of the reader any clear picture of him or her who
is described. A courtship is harder still--so hard that we may say
generally that it is impossible. Southey's Lodore is supposed to have
been effective; but let any one with the words in his memory stand
beside the waterfall and say whether it is such as the words have
painted it. It rushes and it foams, as described by the poet, much
more violently than does the real water; and so does everything
described, unless in the hands of a wonderful master. But I have
clear images on my brain of the characters of the persons introduced.
I know with fair accuracy what was intended by the character as given
of Amelia Booth, of Clarissa, of Di Vernon, and of Maggie Tulliver.
But as their persons have not been drawn with the pencil for me by
the artists who themselves created them, I have no conception how
they looked. Of Thackeray's Beatrix I have a vivid idea, because
she was drawn for him by an artist under his own eye. I have now to
describe Mary Lawrie, but have no artist who will take the trouble
to learn my thoughts and to reproduce them. Consequently I fear that
no true idea of the young lady can be conveyed to the reader; and
that I must leave him to entertain such a notion of her carriage and
demeanour as must come to him at the end from the reading of the
whole book.
But the attempt must be made, if only for fashion sake, so that no
adventitious help may be wanting to him, or more probably to her, who
may care to form for herself a personification of Mary Lawrie. She
was a tall, thin, staid girl, who never put herself forward in any of
those walks of life in which such a young lady as she is called upon
to show herself. She was silent and reserved, and sometimes startled,
even when appealed to in a household so quiet as that of Mr
Whittlestaff. Those who had seen her former life had known that she
had lived under the dominion of her step-mother, and had so accounted
for her manner. And then, added to this, was the sense of entire
dependence on a stranger, which, no doubt, helped to quell her
spirit. But Mr Whittlestaff had eyes with which to see and ears with
which to hear, and was not to be taken in by the outward appearance
of the young lady. He had perceived that under that quiet guise and
timid startled look there existed a power of fighting a battle for
herself or for a friend, if an occasion should arise which should
appear to herself to be sufficient. He had known her as one of her
father's household, and of her step-mother's; and had seen probably
some little instance of self-assertion, such as had not yet made
itself apparent to Mrs Baggett.
A man who had met her once, and for a few minutes only, would
certainly not declare her to be beautiful. She, too, like Mr
Whittlestaff, was always contented to pass unobserved. But the chance
man, had he seen her for long, would surely remark that Miss Lawrie
was an attractive girl; and had he heard her talk freely on any
matter of interest, would have called her very attractive. She would
blaze up into sudden eloquence, and then would become shame-stricken,
and abashed, and dumfounded, so as to show that she had for a
moment forgotten her audience, and then the audience,--the chance
man,--would surely set his wits to work and try to reproduce in her a
renewal of that intimacy to which she had seemed to yield herself for
the moment.
But yet I am not describing her after the accepted fashion. I should
produce a catalogue of features, and tell how every one of them
was formed. Her hair was dark, and worn very plain, but with that
graceful care which shows that the owner has not slurred over her
toilet with hurried negligence. Of complexion it can hardly be said
that she had any; so little was the appearance of her countenance
diversified by a change of hue. If I am bound to declare her colour,
I must, in truth, say that she was brown. There was none even of that
flying hue which is supposed to be intended when a woman is called a
brunette. When she first came to Croker's Hall, health produced no
variation. Nor did any such come quickly; though before she had lived
there a year and a half, now and again a slight tinge of dark ruby
would show itself on her cheek, and then vanish almost quicker than
it had come. Mr Whittlestaff, when he would see this, would be
almost beside himself in admiration.
Her eyes were deep blue, so deep that the casual observer would not
at first recognise their colour. But when you had perceived that they
were blue, and had brought the fact home to your knowledge, their
blueness remained with you as a thing fixed for ever. And you would
feel, if you yourself were thoughtful and contemplative, and much
given to study a lady's eyes, that, such as they were, every lady
would possess the like if only it were given to her to choose.
Her nose was slight and fine, and perhaps lent to her face, of all
her features, its most special grace. Her lips, alas! were too thin
for true female beauty, and lacked that round and luscious fulness
which seems in many a girl's face to declare the purpose for which
they were made. Through them her white teeth would occasionally be
seen, and then her face was at its best, as, for instance, when she
was smiling; but that was seldom; and at other moments it seemed as
though she were too careful to keep her mouth closed.
But if her mouth was defective, the symmetry of her chin, carrying
with it the oval of her cheek and jaws, was perfect. How many a
face, otherwise lovely to look upon, is made mean and comparatively
base, either by the lengthening or the shortening of the chin! That
absolute perfection which Miss Lawrie owned, we do not, perhaps,
often meet. But when found, I confess that nothing to me gives so
sure an evidence of true blood and good-breeding.
Such is the catalogue of Mary Lawrie's features, drawn out with care
by one who has delighted for many hours to sit and look at them.
All the power of language which the writer possesses has been used
in thus reproducing them. But now, when this portion of his work
is done, he feels sure that no reader of his novel will have the
slightest idea of what Mary Lawrie was like.
An incident must now be told of her early life, of which she never
spoke to man, woman, or child. Her step-mother had known the
circumstance, but had rarely spoken of it. There had come across her
path in Norwich a young man who had stirred her heart, and had won
her affections. But the young man had passed on, and there, as far as
the present and the past were concerned, had been an end of it. The
young man had been no favourite with her step-mother; and her father,
who was almost on his death-bed, had heard what was going on almost
without a remark. He had been told that the man was penniless, and
as his daughter had been to him the dearest thing upon earth, he had
been glad to save himself the pain of expressing disapproval. John
Gordon had, however, been a gentleman, and was fit in all things to
be the husband of such a girl as Mary Lawrie,--except that he was
penniless, and she, also, had possessed nothing. He had passed on his
way without speaking, and had gone--even Mary did not know whither.
She had accepted her fate, and had never allowed the name of John
Gordon to pass her lips.
The days passed very quickly at Croker's Hall, but not so quickly but
that Mary knew well what was going on in Mr Whittlestaff's mind. How
is it that a girl understands to a certainty the state of a man's
heart in regard to her,--or rather, not his heart, but his purpose? A
girl may believe that a man loves her, and may be deceived; but she
will not be deceived as to whether he wishes to marry her. Gradually
came the conviction on Miss Lawrie's mind of Mr Whittlestaff's
purpose. And, as it did so, came the conviction also that she could
not do it. Of this he saw nothing; but he was instigated by it to
be more eager,--and was at the same time additionally abashed by
something in her manner which made him feel that the task before him
was not an easy one.
Mrs Baggett, who knew well all the symptoms as her master displayed
them, became angry with Mary Lawrie. Who was Mary Lawrie, that she
should take upon herself to deny Mr Whittlestaff anything? No
doubt it would, as she told herself, be better for Mrs Baggett in
many respects that her master should remain unmarried. She assured
herself that if a mistress were put over her head, she must retire
to Portsmouth,--which, of all places for her, had the dreariest
memories. She could remain where she was very well, while Mary Lawrie
remained also where she was. But it provoked her to think that the
offer should be made to the girl and should be refused. "What on
earth it is they sees in 'em, is what I never can understand. She
ain't pretty,--not to say,--and she looks as though butter wouldn't
melt in her mouth. But she's got it inside her, and some of them days
it'll come out." Then Mrs Baggett determined that she would have a
few words on the subject with Mary Lawrie.
Mary had now been a year and four months at Croker's Hall, and had,
under pressure from Mr Whittlestaff, assumed something of the manner
rather than of the airs of a mistress to Mrs Baggett. This the old
woman did not at all resent, because the reality of power was still
in her hands; but she could not endure that the idolatry of love
should always be present in her master's face. If the young woman
would only become Mrs Whittlestaff, then the idolatry would pass
away. At any rate, her master would not continue "to make an ass of
himself," as Mrs Baggett phrased it.
"Don't you think, Miss, as that Mr Whittlestaff is looking very
peeky?"
"Is he, Mrs Baggett?"
"'Deed and he is, to my thinking; and it's all along of you. He's got
a fancy into his mind,--and why shouldn't he have his fancy?"
"I don't know, I'm sure." But Mary did know. She did know what the
fancy was, and why Mr Whittlestaff shouldn't have it.
"I tell you fairly, Miss, there is nothing I hate so much as vagaries
in young women."
"I hope there are no vagaries to be hated in me, Mrs Baggett."
"Well, I'm not quite so sure. You do go as straightforward as most
on 'em; but I ain't quite sure but that there are a few twists and
twirls. What do you suppose he wants to be at?"
"How am I to say?" Then she bethought herself that were she to tell
the truth, she could say very well.
"Do you mean as you don't know?" said the old woman.
"Am I bound to tell you if I do know?"
"If you wish to do the best for him, you are. What's the good of
beating about the bush? Why don't you have him?"
Mary did not quite know whether it behoved her to be angry with the
old servant, and if so, how she was to show her anger. "You shouldn't
talk such nonsense, Mrs Baggett."
"That's all very well. It is all nonsense; but nonsense has to be
talked sometimes. Here's a gentleman as you owe everything to. If he
wanted your head from your shoulders, you shouldn't make any scruple.
What are you, that you shouldn't let a gentleman like him have his
own way? Asking your pardon, but I don't mean it any way out of
disrespect. Of course it would be all agin me. An old woman doesn't
want to have a young mistress over her head, and if she's my sperrit,
she wouldn't bear it. I won't, any way."
"Then why do you ask me to do this thing?"
"Because a gentleman like him should have his own way. And an old hag
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.