CHAPTER X.

JOHN GORDON AGAIN GOES TO CROKER'S HALL.

On the next morning, when John Gordon reached the corner of the road

at which stood Croker's Hall, he met, outside on the roadway, close

to the house, a most disreputable old man with a wooden leg and a red

nose. This was Mr Baggett, or Sergeant Baggett as he was generally

called, and was now known about all Alresford to be the husband of

Mr Whittlestaff's housekeeper. For news had got abroad, and tidings

were told that Mr Baggett was about to arrive in the neighbourhood

to claim his wife. Everybody knew it before the inhabitants of

Croker's Hall. And now, since yesterday afternoon, all Croker's Hall

knew it, as well as the rest of the world. He was standing there

close to the house, which stood a little back from the road, between

nine and ten in the morning, as drunk as a lord. But I think his

manner of drunkenness was perhaps in some respects different from

that customary with lords. Though he had only one leg of the flesh,

and one of wood, he did not tumble down, though he brandished in the

air the stick with which he was accustomed to disport himself. A lord

would, I think, have got himself taken to bed. But the Sergeant did

not appear to have any such intention. He had come out on to the

road from the yard into which the back-door of the house opened, and

seemed to John Gordon as though, having been so far expelled, he was

determined to be driven no further,--and he was accompanied, at a

distance, by his wife. "Now, Timothy Baggett," began the unfortunate

woman, "you may just take yourself away out of that, as fast as your

legs can carry you, before the police comes to fetch you."

"My legs! Whoever heared a fellow told of his legs when there was

one of them wooden. And as for the perlice, I shall want the perlice

to fetch my wife along with me. I ain't a-going to stir out of this

place without Mrs B. I'm a hold man, and wants a woman to look arter

me. Come along, Mrs B." Then he made a motion as though to run after

her, still brandishing the stick in his hand. But she retreated, and

he came down, seated on the pathway by the roadside, as though he had

only accomplished an intended manoeuvre. "Get me a drop o' summat,

Mrs B., and I don't mind if I stay here half an hour longer." Then

he laughed loudly, nodding his head merrily at the bystanders,--as no

lord under such circumstances certainly would have done.

All this happened just as John Gordon came up to the corner of the

road, from whence, by a pathway, turned the main entrance into Mr

Whittlestaff's garden. He could not but see the drunken red-nosed

man, and the old woman, whom he recognised as Mr Whittlestaff's

servant, and a crowd of persons around, idlers out of Alresford,

who had followed Sergeant Baggett up to the scene of his present

exploits. Croker's Hall was not above a mile from the town, just

where the town was beginning to become country, and where the houses

all had gardens belonging to them, and the larger houses a field

or two. "Yes, sir, master is at home. If you'll please to ring the

bell, one of the girls will come out." This was said by Mrs Baggett,

advancing almost over the body of her prostrate husband. "Drunken

brute!" she said, by way of a salute, as she passed him. He only

laughed aloud, and looked around upon the bystanders with triumph.

At this moment Mr Whittlestaff came down through the gate into the

road. "Oh, Mr Gordon! good morning, sir. You find us rather in

a disturbed condition this morning. I am sorry I did not think

of asking you to come to breakfast. But perhaps, under all the

circumstances it was better not. That dreadful man has put us sadly

about. He is the unfortunate husband of my hardly less unfortunate

housekeeper."

"Yes, sir, he is my husband,--that's true," said Mrs Baggett.

"I'm wery much attached to my wife, if you knew all about it, sir;

and I wants her to come home with me. Service ain't no inheritance;

nor yet ain't wages, when they never amounts to more than twenty

pounds a-year."

"It's thirty, you false ungrateful beast!" said Mrs Baggett. But in

the meantime Mr Whittlestaff had led the way into the garden, and

John Gordon had followed him. Before they reached the hall-door, Mary

Lawrie had met them.

"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff!" she said, "is it not annoying? that dreadful

man with the wooden leg is here, and collecting a crowd round the

place. Good morning, Mr Gordon. It is the poor woman's ne'er-do-well

husband. She is herself so decent and respectable, that she will be

greatly harassed. What can we do, Mr Whittlestaff? Can't we get a

policeman?" In this way the conversation was led away to the affairs

of Sergeant and Mrs Baggett, to the ineffable distress of John

Gordon. When we remember the kind of speeches which Gordon intended

to utter, the sort of eloquence which he desired to use, it must be

admitted that the interruption was provoking. Even if Mary would

leave them together, it would be difficult to fall back upon the

subject which Gordon had at heart.

It is matter of consideration whether, when important subjects are

to be brought upon the _tapis_, the ultimate result will or will not

depend much on the manner in which they are introduced. It ought

not to be the case that they shall be so prejudiced. "By-the-by, my

dear fellow, now I think of it, can you lend me a couple of thousand

pounds for twelve months?" Would that generally be as efficacious

as though the would-be borrower had introduced his request with the

general paraphernalia of distressing solemnities? The borrower, at

any rate, feels that it would not, and postpones the moment till

the fitting solemnities can be produced. But John Gordon could not

postpone his moment. He could not go on residing indefinitely at the

Claimant's Arms till he could find a proper opportunity for assuring

Mr Whittlestaff that it could not be his duty to marry Mary Lawrie.

He must rush at his subject, let the result be what it might. Indeed

he had no hopes as to a favourable result. He had slept upon it, as

people say when they intend to signify that they have lain awake,

and had convinced himself that all eloquence would be vain. Was it

natural that a man should give up his intended wife, simply because

he was asked? Gordon's present feeling was an anxious desire to

be once more on board the ship that should take him again to the

diamond-fields, so that he might be at peace, knowing then, as he

would know, that he had left Mary Lawrie behind for ever. At this

moment he almost repented that he had not left Alresford without any

farther attempt. But there he was on Mr Whittlestaff's ground, and

the attempt must be made, if only with the object of justifying his

coming.

"Miss Lawrie," he began, "if you would not mind leaving me and Mr

Whittlestaff alone together for a few minutes, I will be obliged

to you." This he said with quite sufficient solemnity, so that Mr

Whittlestaff drew himself up, and looked hard and stiff, as though he

were determined to forget Sergeant Baggett and all his peccadilloes

for the moment.

"Oh, yes; certainly; but--" Mr Whittlestaff looked sternly at her,

as though to bid her go at once. "You must believe nothing as coming

from me unless it comes out of my own mouth." Then she put her hand

upon his arm, as though half embracing him.

"You had better leave us, perhaps," said Mr Whittlestaff. And then

she went.

Now the moment had come, and John Gordon felt the difficulty. It had

not been lessened by the assurance given by Mary herself that nothing

was to be taken as having come from her unless it was known and heard

to have so come. And yet he was thoroughly convinced that he was

altogether loved by her, and that had he appeared on the scene but

a day sooner, she would have accepted him with all her heart. "Mr

Whittlestaff," he said, "I want to tell you what passed yesterday

between me and Miss Lawrie."

"Is it necessary?" he asked.

"I think it is."

"As far as I am concerned, I doubt the necessity. Miss Lawrie has

said a word to me,--as much, I presume, as she feels to be

necessary."

"I do not think that her feeling in the matter should be a guide for

you or for me. What we have both of us to do is to think what may be

best for her, and to effect that as far as may be within our power."

"Certainly," said Mr Whittlestaff. "But it may so probably be the

case that you and I shall differ materially as to thinking what may

be best for her. As far as I understand the matter, you wish that she

should be your wife. I wish that she should be mine. I think that as

my wife she would live a happier life than she could do as yours; and

as she thinks also--" Here Mr Whittlestaff paused.

"But does she think so?"

"You heard what she said just now."

"I heard nothing as to her thoughts of living," said John Gordon "Nor

in the interview which I had with her yesterday did I hear a word

fall from her as to herself. We have got to form our ideas as to that

from circumstances which shall certainly not be made to appear by her

own speech. When you speak against me--"

"I have not said a word against you, sir."

"Perhaps you imply," said Gordon, not stopping to notice Mr

Whittlestaff's last angry tone,--"perhaps you imply that my life may

be that of a rover, and as such would not conduce to Miss Lawrie's

happiness."

"I have implied nothing."

"To suit her wishes I would remain altogether in England. I was very

lucky, and am not a man greedy of great wealth. She can remain here,

and I will satisfy you that there shall be enough for our joint

maintenance."

"What do I care for your maintenance, or what does she? Do you know,

sir, that you are talking to me about a lady whom I intend to make my

wife,--who is engaged to marry me? Goodness gracious me!"

"I own, sir, that it is singular."

"Very singular,--very singular indeed. I never heard of such a thing.

It seems that you knew her at Norwich."

"I did know her well."

"And then you went away and deserted her."

"I went away, Mr Whittlestaff, because I was poor. I was told by her

step-mother that I was not wanted about the house, because I had no

means. That was true, and as I loved her dearly, I started at once,

almost in despair, but still with something of hope,--with a shade of

hope,--that I might put myself in the way of enabling her to become

my wife. I did not desert her."

"Very well. Then you came back and found her engaged to be my wife.

You had it from her own mouth. When a gentleman hears that, what has

he to do but to go away?"

"There are circumstances here."

"What does she say herself? There are no circumstances to justify

you. If you would come here as a friend, I offered to receive you. As

you had been known to her, I did not turn my back upon you. But now

your conduct is so peculiar that I cannot ask you to remain here any

longer." They were walking up and down the long walk, and now Mr

Whittlestaff stood still, as though to declare his intention that the

interview should be considered as over.

"I know that you wish me to go away," said Gordon.

"Well, yes; unless you withdraw all idea of a claim to the young

lady's hand."

"But I think you should first hear what I have to say. You will not

surely have done your duty by her unless you hear me."

"You can speak if you wish to speak," said Mr Whittlestaff.

"It was not till yesterday that you made your proposition to Miss

Lawrie."

"What has that to do with it?"

"Had I come on the previous day, and had I been able then to tell her

all that I can tell her now, would it have made no difference?"

"Did she say so?" asked the fortunate lover, but in a very angry

tone.

"No; she did not say so. It was with difficulty that I forced from

her an avowal that her engagement was so recent. But she did confess

that it was so. And she confessed, not in words, but in her manner,

that she had found it impossible to refuse to you the request that

you had asked."

"I never heard a man assert so impudently that he was the sole owner

of a lady's favours. Upon my word, I think that you are the vainest

man whom I ever met."

"Let it be so. I do not care to defend myself, but only her. Whether

I am vain or not, is it not true that which I say? I put it to you,

as man to man, whether you do not know that it is true? If you marry

this girl, will you not marry one whose heart belongs to me? Will

you not marry one of whom you knew two days since that her heart was

mine? Will you not marry one who, if she was free this moment, would

give herself to me without a pang of remorse?"

"I never heard anything like the man's vanity!"

"But is it true? Whatever may be my vanity, or self-seeking, or

unmanliness if you will, is not what I say God's truth? It is not

about my weaknesses, or your weaknesses, that we should speak, but

about her happiness."

"Just so; I don't think she would be happy with you."

"Then it is to save her from me that you are marrying her,--so that

she may not sink into the abyss of my unworthiness."

"Partly that."

"But if I had come two days since, when she would have received me

with open arms--"

"You have no right to make such a statement."

"I ask yourself whether it is not true? She would have received me

with open arms, and would you then have dared, as her guardian, to

bid her refuse the offer made to her, when you had learned, as you

would have done, that she loved me; that I had loved her with all

my heart before I left England; that I had left it with the view of

enabling myself to marry her; that I had been wonderfully successful;

that I had come back with no other hope in the world than that of

giving it all to her; that I had been able to show you my whole life,

so that no girl need be afraid to become my wife--"

"What do I know about your life? You may have another wife living at

this moment."

"No doubt; I may be guilty of any amount of villainy, but then, as

her friend, you should make inquiry. You would not break a girl's

heart because the man to whom she is attached may possibly be a

rogue. In this case you have no ground for the suspicion."

"I never heard of a man who spoke of himself so grandiloquently!"

"But there is ample reason why you should make inquiry. In truth, as

I said before, it is her happiness and not mine nor your own that you

should look to. If she has taken your offer because you had been good

to her in her desolation,--because she had found herself unable to

refuse aught to one who had treated her so well; if she had done

all this, believing that I had disappeared from her knowledge, and

doubting altogether my return; if it be so--and you know that it is

so--then you should hesitate before you lead her to her doom."

"You heard her say that I was not to believe any of these things

unless I got them from her own mouth?"

"I did; and her word should go for nothing either with you or with

me. She has promised, and is willing to sacrifice herself to her

promise. She will sacrifice me too because of your goodness,--and

because she is utterly unable to put a fair value upon herself. To me

she is all the world. From the first hour in which I saw her to the

present, the idea of gaining her has been everything. Put aside the

words which she just spoke, what is your belief of the state of her

wishes?"

"I can tell you my belief of the state of her welfare."

"There your own prejudice creeps in, and I might retaliate by

charging you with vanity as you have done me,--only that I think

such vanity very natural. But it is her you should consult on such a

matter. She is not to be treated like a child. Of whom does she wish

to become the wife? I boldly say that I have won her love, and that

if it be so, you should not desire to take her to yourself. You have

not answered me, nor can I expect you to answer me; but look into

yourself and answer it there. Think how it will be with you, when the

girl who lies upon your shoulder shall be thinking ever of some other

man from whom you have robbed her. Good-bye, Mr Whittlestaff. I do

not doubt but that you will turn it all over in your thoughts." Then

he escaped by a wicket-gate into the road at the far end of the long

walk, and was no more heard of at Croker's Hall on that day.