An Old Man's Love

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER VIII.

  JOHN GORDON AND MARY LAWRIE.

  The door was closed, and John Gordon and Mary were alone together.She was still seated, and he, coming forward, stood in front of her."Mary," he said,--and he put out his right hand, as though to takehers. But she sat quite still, making no motion to give him her hand.Nor did she say a word. To her her promise, her reiterated promise,to Mr Whittlestaff was binding,--not the less binding because it hadonly been made on this very day. She had already acknowledged tothis other man that the promise had been made, and she had asked himto spare her this interview. He had not spared her, and it was forhim now to say, while it lasted, what there was to be said. She hadsettled the matter in her own mind, and had made him understand thatit was so settled. There was nothing further that she could tell him."Mary, now that we are alone, will you not speak to me?"

  "I have nothing to say."

  "Should I not have come to you?"

  "You should not have stayed when you found that I had promised myselfto another."

  "Is there nothing else that I may wish to say to you?"

  "There is nothing else that you should wish to say to the wife ofanother man."

  "You are not his wife,--not yet."

  "I shall be his wife, Mr Gordon. You may be sure of that. And Ithink--think I can say of myself that I shall be a true wife. Hehas chosen to take me; and as he has so chosen, his wishes must berespected. He has asked you to remain here as a friend, understandingthat to be the case. But as you do not choose, you should go."

  "Do you wish me to stay, and to see you become his wife?"

  "I say nothing of that. It is not for me to insist on my wishes. Ihave expressed one wish, and you have refused to grant it. Nothingcan pass between you and me which must not, I should say, be painfulto both of us."

  "You would have me go then,--so that you should never hear of or seeme again?"

  "I shall never see you, I suppose. What good would come of seeingyou?"

  "And you can bear to part with me after this fashion?"

  "It has to be borne. The world is full of hard things, which have tobe borne. It is not made to run smoothly altogether, either for youor for me. You must bear your cross,--and so must I."

  "And that is the only word I am to receive, after having struggledso hard for you, and having left all my work, and all my cares, andall my property, in order that I might come home, and catch just oneglance of your eye. Can you not say a word to me, a word of kindness,that I may carry back with me?"

  "Not a word. If you will think of it, you ought not to ask me for aword of kindness. What does a kind word mean--a kind word coming fromme to you? There was a time when I wanted a kind word, but I did notask for it. At the time it did not suit. Nor does it suit now. Putyourself in Mr Whittlestaff's case; would you wish the girl to whomyou were engaged to say kind words behind your back to some otherman? If you heard them, would you not think that she was a traitor?He has chosen to trust me,--against my advice, indeed; but he hastrusted me, and I know myself to be trustworthy. There shall be nokind word spoken."

  "Mary," said he, "when did all this happen?"

  "It has been happening, I suppose, from the first day that I cameinto his house."

  "But when was it settled? When did he ask you to be his wife? Orwhen, rather, did you make him the promise?" John Gordon fancied thatsince he had been at Croker's Hall words had been spoken, or thathe had seen signs, indicating that the engagement had not been ofa long date. And in every word that she had uttered to him he hadheard whispered under her breath an assurance of her perfect love forhimself. He had been sure of her love when he had left the house atNorwich, in which he had been told that he had been lingering thereto no good purpose; but he had never been more certain than he was atthis moment, when she coldly bade him go and depart back again to hisdistant home in the diamond-fields. And now, in her mock anger and inher indignant words, with the purpose of her mind written so clearlyon her brow, she was to him more lovable and more beautiful thanever. Could it be fair to him as a man that he should lose the prizewhich was to him of such inestimable value, merely for a word of coldassent given to this old man, and given, as he thought, quite lately?His devotion to her was certainly assured. Nothing could be morefixed, less capable of a doubt, than his love. And he, too, wassomewhat proud of himself in that he had endeavoured to entangleher by no promise till he had secured for himself and for her themeans of maintaining her. He had gone out and he had come backwith silent hopes, with hopes which he had felt must be subjectto disappointment, because he knew himself to be a reticent,self-restrained man; and because he had been aware that "the world,"as she had said, "is full of hard things which have to be borne."

  But now if, as he believed, the engagement was but of recent date,there would be a hardship in it, which even he could not bearpatiently,--a hardship, the endurance of which must be intolerableto her. If it were so, the man could hardly be so close-fisted, sohard-hearted, so cruel-minded, as to hold the girl to her purpose!"When did you promise to be his wife?" he said, repeating hisquestion. Now there came over Mary's face a look of weakness, theopposite to the strength which she had displayed when she had badehim not ask her for a word of kindness. To her the promise was thesame, was as strong, even though it had been made but that morning,as though weeks and months had intervened. But she felt that to himthere would be an apparent weakness in the promise of her engagement,if she told him that it was made only on that morning. "When was it,Mary?"

  "It matters nothing," she said.

  "But it does matter--to me."

  Then a sense of what was fitting told her that it was incumbent onher to tell him the truth. Sooner or later he would assuredly know,and it was well that he should know the entire truth from her lips.She could not put up with the feeling that he should go away deceivedin any degree by herself.

  "It was this morning," she said.

  "This very morning?"

  "It was on this morning that I gave my word to Mr Whittlestaff, andpromised to become his wife."

  "And had I been here yesterday I should not have been too late?"

  Here she looked up imploringly into his face. She could not answerthat question, nor ought he to press for an answer. And the wordswere no sooner out of his mouth than he felt that it was so. It wasnot to her that he must address any such remonstrance as that. "Thismorning!" he repeated--"only this morning!"

  But he did not know, nor could she tell him, that she had pleaded herlove for him when Mr Whittlestaff had asked her. She could not tellhim of that second meeting, at which she had asked Mr Whittlestaffthat even yet he should let her go. It had seemed to her, as she hadthought of it, that Mr Whittlestaff had behaved well to her, hadintended to do a good thing to her, and had ignored the other man,who had vanished, as it were, from the scene of their joint lives,because he had become one who ought not to be allowed to interest herany further. She had endeavoured to think of it with stern justice,accusing herself of absurd romance, and giving Mr Whittlestaffcredit for all goodness. This had been before John Gordon hadappeared among them; and now she struggled hard not to be less justto Mr Whittlestaff than before, because of this accident. She knewhim well enough to be aware that he could not easily be brought toabandon the thing on which he had set his mind. It all passed throughher mind as she prepared her answer for John Gordon. "It can make nodifference," she said. "A promise is a promise, though it be but anhour old."

  "That is to be my answer?"

  "Yes, that is to be your answer. Ask yourself, and you will know thatthere is no other answer that I can honestly make you."

  "How is your own heart in the affair?"

  There she was weak, and knew as she spoke that she was weak. "Itmatters not at all," she said.

  "It matters not at all?" he repeated after her. "I can understandthat my happiness should be nothing. If you and he were satisfied,of course it would be nothing. If you were satisfied, there would bean end to it; because if your pleasure and
his work together, I mustnecessarily be left out in the cold. But it is not so. I take uponmyself to say that you are not satisfied."

  "You will not allow me to answer for myself?"

  "No, not in this matter. Will you dare to tell me that you do notlove me?" She remained silent before him, and then he went on toreason with her. "You do not deny it. I hear it in your voice andsee it in your face. When we parted in Norwich, did you not love methen?"

  "I shall answer no such question. A young woman has often to changeher mind as to whom she loves, before she can settle down as oneman's wife or another's."

  "You do not dare to be true. If I am rough with you, it is for yoursake as well as my own. We are young, and, as was natural, we learntto love each other. Then you came here and were alone in the world,and I was gone. Though there had been no word of marriage between us,I had hoped that I might be remembered in my absence. Perhaps you didremember me. I cannot think that I was ever absent from your heart;but I was away, and you could not know how loyal I was to my thoughtsof you. I am not blaming you, Mary. I can well understand that youwere eating his bread and drinking his cup, and that it appeared toyou that everything was due to him. You could not have gone on eatinghis bread unless you had surrendered yourself to his wishes. You musthave gone from this, and have had no home to which to go. It is alltrue. But the pity of it, Mary; the pity of it!"

  "He has done the best he could by me."

  "Perhaps so; but if done from that reason, the surrender will be theeasier."

  "No, no, no; I know more of him than you do. No such surrender willcome easy to him. He has set his heart upon this thing, and as far asI am concerned he shall have it."

  "You will go to him with a lie in your mouth?"

  "I do not know. I cannot say what the words may be. If there be alie, I will tell it."

  "Then you do love me still?"

  "You may cheat me out of my thoughts, but it will be to no good.Whether I lie or tell the truth, I will do my duty by him. Therewill be no lying. To the best of my ability I will love him, andhim only. All my care shall be for him. I have resolved, and I willforce myself to love him. All his qualities are good. There is not athought in his mind of which he need be ashamed."

  "Not when he will use his power to take you out of my arms."

  "No, sir; for I am not your property. You speak of dealing with me,as though I must necessarily belong to you if I did not belong tohim. It is not so."

  "Oh, Mary!"

  "It is not so. What might be the case I will not take upon myselfto say,--or what might have been. I was yesterday a free woman, andmy thoughts were altogether my own. To-day I am bound to him, andwhether it be for joy or for sorrow, I will be true to him. Now, MrGordon, I will leave you."

  "Half a moment," he said, standing between her and the door. "Itcannot be that this should be the end of all between us. I shall goto him, and tell him what I believe to be the truth."

  "I cannot hinder you; but I shall tell him that what you say isfalse."

  "You know it to be true."

  "I shall tell him that it is false."

  "Can you bring yourself to utter a lie such as that?"

  "I can bring myself to say whatever may be best for him, and mostconducive to his wishes." But as she said this, she was herself awarethat she had told Mr Whittlestaff only on this morning that she hadgiven her heart to John Gordon, and that she would be unable to keepher thoughts from running to him. She had implored him to leave herto herself, so that the memory of her love might be spared. Then,when this young man had been still absent, when there was no dreamof his appearing again before her, when the consequence would bethat she must go forth into the world, and earn her own bitterbread alone,--at that moment she knew that she had been true to thememory of the man. What had occurred since, to alter her purposeso violently? Was it the presence of the man she did love, and themaidenly instincts which forbade her to declare her passion in hispresence? Or was it simply the conviction that her promise to MrWhittlestaff had been twice repeated, and could not now admit ofbeing withdrawn? But in spite of her asseverations, there must havebeen present to her mind some feeling that if Mr Whittlestaff wouldyield to the prayer of John Gordon, all the gulf would be bridgedover which yawned between herself and perfect happiness. Kimberley?Yes, indeed; or anywhere else in the wide world. As he left the room,she did now tell herself that in spite of all that she had said shecould accompany him anywhere over the world with perfect bliss. Howwell had he spoken for himself, and for his love! How like a man hehad looked, when he had asked her that question, "Will you dare totell me that you do not love me?" She had not dared; even though atthe moment she had longed to leave upon him the impression that itwas so. She had told him that she would lie to Mr Whittlestaff,--lieon Mr Whittlestaff's own behalf. But such a lie as this she couldnot tell to John Gordon. He had heard it in her voice and seen it inher face. She knew it well, and was aware that it must be so.

  "The pity of it," she too said to herself; "the pity of it!"If he had but come a week sooner,--but a day sooner, before MrWhittlestaff had spoken out his mind,--no love-tale would ever haverun smoother. In that case she would have accepted John Gordonwithout a moment's consideration. When he should have told her ofhis distant home, of the roughness of his life, of the changes andchances to which his career must be subject, she would have assuredhim, with her heart full of joy, that she would accept it all andthink her lot so happy as to admit of no complaint. Mr Whittlestaffwould then have known the condition of her heart, before he hadhimself spoken a word. And as the trouble would always have been inhis own bosom, there would, so to say, have been no trouble at all.A man's sorrows of that kind do not commence, or at any rate are notacutely felt, while the knowledge of the matter from which they growis confined altogether to his own bosom.

  But she resolved, sitting there after John Gordon had left her, thatin the circumstances as they existed, it was her duty to bear whatsorrow there was to be borne. Poor John Gordon! He must bear somesorrow too, if there should be cause to him for grief. There would beloss of money, and loss of time, which would of themselves cause himgrief. Poor John Gordon! She did not blame him in that he had goneaway, and not said one word to draw from her some assurance of herlove. It was the nature of the man, which in itself was good andnoble. But in this case it had surely been unfortunate. With sucha passion at his heart, it was rash in him to have gone across theworld to the diamond-fields without speaking a word by which they twomight have held themselves as bound together. The pity of it!

  But as circumstances had gone, honour and even honesty demanded thatMr Whittlestaff should not be allowed to suffer. He at least hadbeen straightforward in his purpose, and had spoken as soon as hehad been assured of his own mind. Mr Whittlestaff should at any ratehave his reward.