"Nor I can't explain. I could stay on here, and wouldn't be afraid of him a bit."

"Then why don't you stay?"

"It's my feelings. If I was to stay here, I could just send him my wages, and never go nigh him. But when I'm alone about the world and forlorn, I ain't got no excuse but what I must go to him."

"Then remain where you are, and don't be a fool."

"But if a person is a fool, what's to be done then? In course I'm a fool. I knows that very well. There's no saying no other. But I can't go on living here, if Miss Mary is to be put over my head in that way. Baggett has sent for me, and I must go. Baggett is at Portsmouth, a-hanging on about the old shop. And he'll be drunk as long as there's gin to be had with or without paying. They do tell me as his nose is got to be awful. There's a man for a poor woman to go and spend her savings on! He's had a'most all on 'em already.

Twenty-two pound four and sixpence he had out o' me the last time he was in the country. And he don't do nothing to have him locked up.

It would be better for me if he'd get hisself locked up. I do think it's wrong, because a young girl has been once foolish and said a few words before a parson, as she is to be the slave of a drunken red-nosed reprobate for the rest of her life. Ain't there to be no way out of it?"

It was thus that Mrs Baggett told the tale of her married bliss,--not, however, without incurring the censure of her master because of her folly in resolving to go. He had just commenced a lecture on the sin of pride, in which he was prepared to show that all the evils which she could receive from the red-nosed veteran at Portsmouth would be due to her own stiff-necked obstinacy, when he was stopped suddenly by the sound of a knock at the front door. It was not only the knock at the door, but the entrance into the hall of some man, for the hall-door had been open into the garden, and the servant-girl had been close at hand. The library was at the top of the low stairs, and Mr Whittlestaff could not but hear the demand made. The gentleman had asked whether Miss Lawrie was living there.

"Who's that?" said Mr Whittlestaff to the housekeeper.

"It's not a voice as I know, sir." The gentleman in the meantime was taken into the drawing-room, and was closeted for the moment with Mary.

We must now go down-stairs and closet ourselves for a few moments with Mary Lawrie before the coming of the strange gentleman. She had left the presence of Mr Whittlestaff half an hour since, and felt that she had a second time on that day accepted him as her husband.

She had accepted him, and now she must do the best she could to suit her life to his requirements. Her first feeling, when she found herself alone, was one of intense disgust at her own weakness. He had spoken to her of her ambition; and he had told her that he had found a place for her, in which that ambition might find a fair scope. And he had told her also that in reference to John Gordon she had dreamed a dream. It might be so, but to her thinking the continued dreaming of that dream would satisfy her ambition better than the performance of those duties which he had arranged for her. She had her own ideas of what was due from a girl and to a girl, and to her thinking her love for John Gordon was all the world to her. She should not have been made to abandon her thoughts, even though the man had not spoken a word to her. She knew that she loved him; even though a time might come when she should cease to do so, that time had not come yet. She vacillated in her mind between condemnation of the cruelty of Mr Whittlestaff and of her own weakness. And then, too, there was some feeling of the hardship inflicted upon her by John Gordon. He had certainly said that which had justified her in believing that she possessed his heart. But yet there had been no word on which she could fall back and regard it as a promise.

It might perhaps be better for her that she should marry Mr Whittlestaff. All her friends would think it to be infinitely better.

Could there be anything more moonstruck, more shandy, more wretchedly listless, than for a girl, a penniless girl, to indulge in dreams of an impossible lover, when such a tower of strength presented itself to her as was Mr Whittlestaff? She had consented to eat his bread, and all her friends had declared how lucky she had been to find a man so willing and so able to maintain her. And now this man did undoubtedly love her very dearly, and there would be, as she was well aware, no peril in marrying him. Was she to refuse him because of a soft word once spoken to her by a young man who had since disappeared altogether from her knowledge? And she had already accepted him,--had twice accepted him on that very day! And there was no longer a hope for escape, even if escape were desirable. What a fool must she be to sit there, still dreaming her impossible dream, instead of thinking of his happiness, and preparing herself for his wants! He had told her that she might be allowed to think of John Gordon, though not to speak of him. She would neither speak of him nor think of him. She knew herself, she said, too well to give herself such liberty. He should be to her as though he had never been. She would force herself to forget him, if forgetting lies in the absence of all thought.

It was no more than Mr Whittlestaff had a right to demand, and no more than she ought to be able to accomplish. Was she such a weak simpleton as to be unable to keep her mind from running back to the words and to the visage, and to every little personal trick of one who could never be anything to her? "He has gone for ever!" she exclaimed, rising up from her chair. "He shall be gone; I will not be a martyr and a slave to my own memory. The thing came, and has gone, and there is an end of it." Then Jane opened the door, with a little piece of whispered information. "Please, Miss, a Mr Gordon wishes to see you." The door was opened a little wider, and John Gordon stood before her.

There he was, with his short black hair, his bright pleasant eyes, his masterful mouth, his dark complexion, and broad, handsome, manly shoulders, such as had dwelt in her memory every day since he had departed. There was nothing changed, except that his raiment was somewhat brighter, and that there was a look of prosperity about him which he had lacked when he left her. He was the same John Gordon who had seemed to her to be ent.i.tled to all that he wanted, and who certainly would have had from her all that he had cared to demand.

When he had appeared before her, she had jumped up, ready to rush into his arms; but then she had repressed herself, and had fallen back, and she leant against the table for support.

"So I have found you here," he said.

"Yes, I am here."

"I have been after you down to Norwich, and have heard it all. Mary, I am here on purpose to seek you. Your father and Mrs Lawrie are both gone. He was going when I left you."

"Yes, Mr Gordon. They are both gone, and I am alone,--but for the kindness of a most generous friend."

"I had heard, of course, of Mr Whittlestaff. I hope I shall not be told now that I am doing no good about the house. At any rate I am not a pauper. I have mended that little fault." Then he looked at her as though he thought that there was nothing for him but to begin the conversation where it had been so roughly ended at their last meeting.

Did it not occur to him that something might have come across her life during a period of nearly three years, which would stand in his way and in hers? But as she gazed into his face, it seemed as though no such idea had fallen upon him. But during those two or three minutes, a mult.i.tude of thoughts crowded on poor Mary's mind. Was it possible that because of the coming of John Gordon, Mr Whittlestaff should withdraw his claim, and allow this happy young hero to walk off with the reward which he still seemed to desire? She felt sure that it could not be so. Even during that short s.p.a.ce of time, she resolved that it could not be so. She knew Mr Whittlestaff too well, and was sure that her lover had arrived too late. It all pa.s.sed through her brain, and she was sure that no change could be effected in her destiny. Had he come yesterday, indeed? But before she could prepare an answer for John Gordon, Mr Whittlestaff entered the room.

She was bound to say something, though she was little able at the moment to speak at all. She was aware that some ceremony was necessary. She was but ill able to introduce these two men to each other, but it had to be done. "Mr Whittlestaff," she said, "this is Mr John Gordon who used to know us at Norwich."

"Mr John Gordon," said Mr Whittlestaff, bowing very stiffly.

"Yes, sir; that is my name. I never had the pleasure of meeting you at Norwich, though I often heard of you there. And since I left the place I have been told how kind a friend you have been to this young lady. I trust I may live to thank you for it more warmly though not more sincerely than I can do at this moment."

Of John Gordon's fate since he had left Norwich a few words must be told. As Mrs Lawrie had then told him, he was little better than a pauper. He had, however, collected together what means he had been able to gather, and had gone to Cape Town in South Africa. Thence he had made his way up to Kimberley, and had there been at work among the diamond-fields for two years. If there be a place on G.o.d's earth in which a man can thoroughly make or mar himself within that s.p.a.ce of time, it is the town of Kimberley. I know no spot more odious in every way to a man who has learned to love the ordinary modes of English life. It is foul with dust and flies; it reeks with bad brandy; it is fed upon potted meats; it has not a tree near it. It is inhabited in part by tribes of South African n.i.g.g.e.rs, who have lost all the picturesqueness of n.i.g.g.e.rdom in working for the white man's wages. The white man himself is insolent, ill-dressed, and ugly.

The weather is very hot, and from morning till night there is no occupation other than that of looking for diamonds, and the works attending it. Diamond-grubbers want food and brandy, and lawyers and policemen. They want clothes also, and a few horses; and some kind of education is necessary for their children. But diamond-searching is the occupation of the place; and if a man be sharp and clever, and able to guard what he gets, he will make a fortune there in two years more readily perhaps than elsewhere. John Gordon had gone out to Kimberley, and had returned the owner of many shares in many mines.

CHAPTER VII.

JOHN GORDON AND MR WHITTLESTAFF.

Mr Gordon had gone out to South Africa with the settled intention of doing something that might enable him to marry Mary Lawrie, and he had carried his purpose through with a manly resolution. He had not found Kimberley much to his taste, and had not made many dear friends among the settled inhabitants he had found there. But he had worked on, buying and selling shares in mines, owning a quarter of an eighth there, and half a tenth here, and then advancing till he was the possessor of many complete shares in many various adventures which were quite intelligible to him, though to the ordinary stay-at-home Englishman they seem to be so full of peril as not to be worth possessing. As in other mines, the profit is shared monthly, and the system has the advantage of thus possessing twelve quarter-days in the year. The result is, that time is more spread out, and the man expects to accomplish much more in twelve months than he can at home.

In two years a man may have made a fortune and lost it, and be on his way to make it again. John Gordon had suffered no reverses, and with twenty-four quarter-days, at each of which he had received ten or twenty per cent, he had had time to become rich. He had by no means abandoned all his shares in the diamond-mines; but having wealth at command, he had determined to carry out the first purpose for which he had come to South Africa. Therefore he returned to Norwich, and having there learned Mary's address, now found himself in her presence at Croker's Hall.

Mr Whittlestaff, when he heard John Gordon's name, was as much astonished as had been Mary herself. Here was Mary's lover,--the very man whom Mary had named to him. It had all occurred on this very morning, so that even the look of her eyes and the tone of her voice, as those few words of hers had been spoken, were fresh in his memory.

"He used to come to our house at Norwich,--and I loved him." Then she had told him that this lover had been poor, and had gone away. He had, since that, argued it out with himself, and with her too, on the theory, though not expressed, that a lover who had gone away now nearly three years ago, and had not been heard of, and had been poor when he went, was of no use, and should be forgotten. "Let there be no mention of him between us," he had intended to say, "and the memory of him will fade away." But now on this very day he was back among them, and there was Mary hardly able to open her mouth in his presence.

He had bowed twice very stiffly when Gordon had spoken of all that he had done on Mary's behalf. "Arrangements have been made," he said, "which may, I trust, tend to Miss Lawrie's advantage. Perhaps I ought not to say so myself, but there is no reason why I should trouble a stranger with them."

"I hope I may never be considered a stranger by Miss Lawrie," said Gordon, turning round to the young lady.

"No, not a stranger," said Mary; "certainly not a stranger."

But this did not satisfy John Gordon, who felt that there was something in her manner other than he would have it. And yet even to him it seemed to be impossible now, at this first moment, to declare his love before this man, who had usurped the place of her guardian.

In fact he could not speak to her at all before Mr Whittlestaff. He had hurried back from the diamond-fields, in order that he might lay all his surprisingly gotten wealth at Mary's feet, and now he felt himself unable to say a word to Mary of his wealth, unless in this man's presence. He told himself as he had hurried home that there might be difficulties in his way. He might find her married,--or promised in marriage. He had been sure of her love when he started.

He had been quite confident that, though no absolute promise had been made from her to him, or from him to her, there had then been no reason for him to doubt. In spite of that, she might have married now, or been promised in marriage. He knew that she must have been poor and left in want when her stepmother had died. She had told him of the intentions for her life, and he had answered that perhaps in the course of events something better might come up for her. Then he had been called a pauper, and had gone away to remedy that evil if it might be possible. He had heard while working among the diamonds that Mr Whittlestaff had taken her to his own home. He had heard of Mr Whittlestaff as the friend of her father, and nothing better he thought could have happened. But Mary might have been weak during his absence, and have given herself up to some other man who had asked for her hand. She was still, at heart, Mary Lawrie. So much had been made known to him. But from the words which had fallen from her own lips, and from the statement which had fallen from Mr Whittlestaff, he feared that it must be so. Mr Whittlestaff had said that he need not trouble a stranger with Mary's affairs; and Mary, in answer to his appeal, had declared that he could not be considered as a stranger to her.

He thought a moment how he would act, and then he spoke boldly to both of them. "I have hurried home from Kimberley, Mr Whittlestaff, on purpose to find Mary Lawrie."

Mary, when she heard this, seated herself on the chair that was nearest to her. For any service that it might be to her, his coming was too late. As she thought of this, her voice left her, so that she could not speak to him.

"You have found her," said Mr Whittlestaff, very sternly.

"Is there any reason why I should go away again?" He had not at this moment realised the idea that Mr Whittlestaff himself was the man to whom Mary might be engaged. Mr Whittlestaff to his thinking had been a paternal providence, a G.o.d-sent support in lieu of father, who had come to Mary in her need. He was prepared to shower all kinds of benefits on Mr Whittlestaff,--diamonds polished, and diamonds in the rough, diamonds pure and white, and diamonds pink-tinted,--if only Mr Whittlestaff would be less stern to him. But even yet he had no fear of Mr Whittlestaff himself.

"I should be most happy to welcome you here as an old friend of Mary's," said Mr Whittlestaff, "if you will come to her wedding."

Mr Whittlestaff also had seen the necessity for open speech; and though he was a man generally reticent as to his own affairs, thought it would be better to let the truth be known at once. Mary, when the word had been spoken as to her wedding, "blushed black" as her stepmother had said of her. A dark ruby tint covered her cheeks and her forehead; but she turned away her face, and compressed her lips, and clenched her two fists close together.

"Miss Lawrie's wedding!" said John Gordon. "Is Miss Lawrie to be married?" And he purposely looked at her, as though asking her the question. But she answered never a word.

"Yes. Miss Lawrie is to be married."

"It is sad tidings for me to hear," said John Gordon. "When last I saw her I was rebuked by her step-mother because I was a pauper. It was true. Misfortunes had come in my family, and I was not a fit person to ask Miss Lawrie for her love. But I think she knew that I loved her. I then went off to do the best within my power to remedy that evil. I have come back with such money as might suffice, and now I am told of Miss Lawrie's wedding!" This he said, again turning to her as though for an answer. But from her there came not a word.

"I am sorry you should be disappointed, Mr Gordon," said Mr Whittlestaff; "but it is so." Then there came over John Gordon's face a dark frown, as though he intended evil. He was a man whose displeasure, when he was displeased, those around him were apt to fear. But Mr Whittlestaff himself was no coward. "Have you any reason to allege why it should not be so?" John Gordon only answered by looking again at poor Mary. "I think there has been no promise made by Miss Lawrie. I think that I understand from her that there has been no promise on either side; and indeed no word spoken indicating such a promise." It was quite clear, at any rate, that this guardian and his ward had fully discussed the question of any possible understanding between her and John Gordon.

"No; there was none: it is true."

"Well?"

"It is true. I am left without an inch of ground on which to found a complaint. There was no word; no promise. You know the whole story only too well. There was nothing but unlimited love,--at any rate on my part." Mr Whittlestaff knew well that there had been love on her part also, and that the love still remained. But she had promised to get over that pa.s.sion, and there could be no reason why she should not do so, simply because the man had returned. He said he had come from Kimberley. Mr Whittlestaff had his own ideas about Kimberley.

Kimberley was to him a very rowdy place,--the last place in the world from which a discreet young woman might hope to get a well-conducted husband. Under no circ.u.mstances could he think well of a husband who presented himself as having come direct from the diamond-fields, though he only looked stern and held his peace. "If Miss Lawrie will tell me that I may go away, I will go," said Gordon, looking again at Mary; but how could Mary answer him?

"I am sure," said Mr Whittlestaff, "that Miss Lawrie will be very sorry that there should be any ground for a quarrel. I am quite well aware that there was some friendship between you two. Then you went, as you say, and though the friendship need not be broken, the intimacy was over. She had no special reason for remembering you, as you yourself admit. She has been left to form any engagement that she may please. Any other expectation on your part must be unreasonable.