CHAPTER XVI.

MRS BAGGETT'S PHILOSOPHY.

The next day was Saturday, and Mr Whittlestaff came out of his room

early, intending to speak to Mrs Baggett. He had declared to himself

that it was his purpose to give her some sound advice respecting her

own affairs,--as far as her affairs and his were connected together.

But low down in his mind, below the stratum in which his declared

resolution was apparent to himself, there was a hope that he might

get from her some comfort and strength as to his present purpose. Not

but that he would ultimately do as he himself had determined; but, to

tell the truth, he had not quite determined, and thought that a word

from Mrs Baggett might assist him.

As he came out from his room, he encountered Mary, intent upon her

household duties. It was something before her usual time, and he was

surprised. She had looked ill overnight and worn, and he had expected

that she would keep her bed. "What makes you so early, Mary?" He

spoke to her with his softest and most affectionate tone.

"I couldn't sleep, and I thought I might as well be up." She had

followed him into the library, and when there he put his arm round

her waist and kissed her forehead. It was a strange thing for him

to do. She felt that it was so--very, very strange; but it never

occurred to her that it behoved her to be angry at his caress. He had

kissed her once before, and only once, and it had seemed to her that

he had intended that their love-making should go on without kisses.

But was she not his property, to do as he pleased with her? And there

could be no ground for displeasure on her part.

"Dear Mary," he said, "if you could only know how constant my

thoughts are to you." She did not doubt that it was so; but just so

constant were her thoughts to John Gordon. But from her to him there

could be no show of affection--nothing but the absolute coldness

of perfect silence. She had passed the whole evening with him last

night, and had not been allowed to speak a single word to him beyond

the ordinary greetings of society. She had felt that she had not

been allowed to speak a single word to any one, because he had been

present. Mr Whittlestaff had thrown over her the deadly mantle of

his ownership, and she had consequently felt herself to be debarred

from all right over her own words and actions. She had become his

slave; she felt herself in very truth to be a poor creature whose

only duty it was in the world to obey his volition. She had told

herself during the night that, with all her motives for loving him,

she was learning to regard him with absolute hatred. And she hated

herself because it was so. Oh, what a tedious affair was this of

living! How tedious, how sad and miserable, must her future days be,

as long as days should be left to her! Could it be made possible to

her that she should ever be able to do her duty by this husband of

hers,--for her, in whose heart of hearts would be seated continually

the image of this other man?

"By-the-by," said he, "I want to see Mrs Baggett. I suppose she is

about somewhere."

"Oh dear, yes. Since the trouble of her husband has become nearer,

she is earlier and earlier every day. Shall I send her?" Then she

departed, and in a few minutes Mrs Baggett entered the room.

"Come in, Mrs Baggett."

"Yes, sir."

"I have just a few words which I want to say to you. Your husband has

gone back to Portsmouth?"

"Yes sir; he have." This she said in a very decided tone, as though

her master need trouble himself no further about her husband.

"I am very glad that it should be so. It's the best place for

him,--unless he could be sent to Australia."

"He ain't a-done nothing to fit himself for Botany Bay, Mr

Whittlestaff," said the old woman, bobbing her head at him.

"I don't care what place he has fitted himself for, so long as he

doesn't come here. He is a disreputable old man."

"You needn't be so hard upon him, Mr Whittlestaff. He ain't a-done

nothing much to you, barring sleeping in the stable one night when

he had had a drop o' drink too much." And the old woman pulled out a

great handkerchief, and began to wipe her eyes piteously.

"What a fool you are, Mrs Baggett."

"Yes; I am a fool. I knows that."

"Here's this disreputable old man eating and drinking your

hard-earned wages."

"But they are my wages. And who's a right to them, only he?"

"I don't say anything about that, only he comes here and disturbs

you."

"Well, yes; he is disturbing; if it's only because of his wooden leg

and red nose. I don't mean to say as he's the sort of a man as does a

credit to a gentleman's house to see about the place. But he was my

lot in matrimony, and I've got to put up with him. I ain't a-going to

refuse to bear the burden which came to be my lot. I don't suppose

he's earned a single shilling since he left the regiment, and that is

hard upon a poor woman who's got nothing but her wages."

"Now, look here, Mrs Baggett."

"Yes, sir."

"Send him your wages."

"And have to go in rags myself,--in your service."

"You won't go in rags. Don't be a fool."

"I am a fool, Mr Whittlestaff; you can't tell me that too often."

"You won't go in rags. You ought to know us well enough--"

"Who is us, Mr Whittlestaff? They ain't no us;--just yet."

"Well;--me."

"Yes, I know you, Mr Whittlestaff."

"Send him your wages. You may be quite sure that you'll find yourself

provided with shoes and stockings, and the rest of it."

"And be a woluntary burden beyond what I earns! Never;--not as long

as Miss Mary is coming to live here as missus of your house. I should

do summat as I should have to repent of. But, Mr Whittlestaff, I've

got to look the world in the face, and bear my own crosses. I never

can do it no younger."

"You're an old woman now, and you talk of throwing yourself upon the

world without the means of earning a shilling."

"I think I'd earn some, at something, old as I am, till I fell down

flat dead," she said. "I have that sperit in me, that I'd still be

doing something. But it don't signify; I'm not going to remain here

when Miss Mary is to be put over me. That's the long and the short of

it all."

Now had come the moment in which, if ever, Mr Whittlestaff must

get the strength which he required. He was quite sure of the old

woman,--that her opinion would not be in the least influenced by any

desire on her own part to retain her position as his housekeeper. "I

don't know about putting Miss Mary over you," he said.

"Don't know about it!" she shouted.

"My mind is not absolutely fixed."

"'As she said anything?"

"Not a word."

"Or he? Has he been and dared to speak up about Miss Mary. And

he,--who, as far as I can understand, has never done a ha'porth for

her since the beginning. What's Mr Gordon? I should like to know.

Diamonds! What's diamonds in the way of a steady income? They're all

a flash in the pan, and moonshine and dirtiness. I hates to hear of

diamonds. There's all the ill in the world comes from them; and you'd

give her up to be taken off by such a one as he among the diamonds!

I make bold to tell you, Mr Whittlestaff, that you ought to have more

strength of mind than what that comes to. You're telling me every day

as I'm an old fool."

"So you are."

"I didn't never contradict you; nor I don't mean, if you tells me so

as often again. And I don't mean to be that impident as to tell my

master as I ain't the only fool about the place. It wouldn't be no

wise becoming."

"But you think it would be true."

"I says nothing about that. That's not the sort of language anybody

has heard to come out of my mouth, either before your face or behind

your back. But I do say as a man ought to behave like a man. What!

Give up to a chap as spends his time in digging for diamonds! Never!"

"What does it matter what he digs for; you know nothing about his

business."

"But I know something about yours, Mr Whittlestaff. I know where you

have set your wishes. And I know that when a man has made up his mind

in such an affair as this, he shouldn't give way to any young diamond

dealer of them all."

"Not to him."

"And what's she? Are you to give up everything because she's

love-sick for a day or two? Is everything to be knocked to pieces

here at Croker's Hall, because he has come and made eyes at her? She

was glad enough to take what you offered before he had come this

way."

"She was not glad enough. That is it. She was not glad enough."

"She took you, at any rate, and I'd never make myself mean enough to

make way for such a fellow as that."

"It isn't for him, Mrs Baggett."

"It is for him. Who else? To walk away and just leave the game open

because he has come down to Hampshire! There ain't no spirit of

standing up and fighting about it."

"With whom am I to fight?"

"With both of 'em;--till you have your own way. A foolish, stupid,

weak girl like that!"

"I won't have her abused."

"She's very well. I ain't a-saying nothing against her. If she'll do

what you bid her, she'll turn out right enough. You asked her, and

she said she'd do it. Is not that so? There's nothing I hate so much

as them romantic ways. And everything is to be made to give way

because a young chap is six foot high! I hates romance and manly

beauty, as they call it, and all the rest of it. Where is she to get

her bread and meat? That's what I want to know."

"There'll be bread and meat for her."

"I dare say. But you'll have to pay for it, while she's philandering

about with him! And that's what you call fine feelings. I call it

all rubbish. If you've a mind to make her Mrs Whittlestaff, make her

Mrs Whittlestaff. Drat them fine feelings. I never knew no good come

of what people call fine feelings. If a young woman does her work

as it should be, she's got no time to think of 'em. And if a man is

master, he should be master. How's a man to give way to a girl like

that, and then stand up and face the world around him? A man has to

be master; and when he's come to be a little old-like, he has to see

that he will be master. I never knew no good come of one of them

soft-going fellows who is minded to give up whenever a woman wants

anything. What's a woman? It ain't natural that she should have her

way; and she don't like a man a bit better in the long-run because

he lets her. There's Miss Mary; if you're stiff with her now, she'll

come out right enough in a month or two. She's lived without Mr

Gordon well enough since she's been here. Now he's come, and we hear

a deal about these fine feelings. You take my word, and say nothing

to nobody about the young man. He's gone by this time, or he's

a-going. Let him go, say I; and if Miss Mary takes on to whimper a

bit, don't you see it."

Mrs Baggett took her departure, and Mr Whittlestaff felt that he

had received the comfort, or at any rate the strength, of which he

had been in quest. In all that the woman had said to him, there had

been a re-echo of his own thoughts,--of one side, at any rate, of

his own thoughts. He knew that true affection, and the substantial

comforts of the world, would hold their own against all romance.

And he did not believe,--in his theory of ethics he did not

believe,--that by yielding to what Mrs Baggett called fine feelings,

he would in the long-run do good to those with whom he was concerned

in the world. Were he to marry Mary Lawrie now, Mary Whittlestaff

would, he thought, in ten years' time, be a happier woman than were

he to leave her. That was the solid conviction of his mind, and in

that he had been strengthened by Mrs Baggett's arguments. He had

desired to be so strengthened, and therefore his interview had been

successful.

But as the minutes passed by, as every quarter of an hour added

itself to the quarters that were gone, and as the hours grew on, and

the weakness of evening fell upon him, all his softness came back

again. They had dined at six o'clock, and at seven he declared his

purpose of strolling out by himself. On these summer evenings he

would often take Mary with him; but he now told her, with a sort of

apology, that he would rather go alone. "Do," she said, smiling up

into his face; "don't let me ever be in your way. Of course, a man

does not always want to have to find conversation for a young lady."

"If you are the young lady, I should always want it--only that I have

things to think of."

"Go and think of your things. I will sit in the garden and do my

stitching."

About a mile distant, where the downs began to rise, there was a walk

supposed to be common to all who chose to frequent it, but which was

entered through a gate which gave the place within the appearance of

privacy. There was a little lake inside crowded with water-lilies,

when the time for the water-lilies had come; and above the lake a

path ran up through the woods, very steep, and as it rose higher and

higher, altogether sheltered. It was about a mile in length till

another gate was reached; but during the mile the wanderer could

go off on either side, and lose himself on the grass among the

beech-trees. It was a favourite haunt with Mr Whittlestaff. Here he

was wont to sit and read his Horace, and think of the affairs of the

world as Horace depicted them. Many a morsel of wisdom he had here

made his own, and had then endeavoured to think whether the wisdom

had in truth been taken home by the poet to his own bosom, or had

only been a glitter of the intellect, never appropriated for any

useful purpose. "'Gemmas, marmor, ebur,'" he had said. "'Sunt qui non

habeant; est qui non curat habere.' I suppose he did care for jewels,

marble, and ivory, as much as any one. 'Me lentus Glycerae torret

amor meae.' I don't suppose he ever loved her really, or any other

girl." Thus he would think over his Horace, always having the volume

in his pocket.

Now he went there. But when he had sat himself down in a spot to

which he was accustomed, he had no need to take out his Horace. His

own thoughts came to him free enough without any need of his looking

for them to poetry. After all, was not Mrs Baggett's teaching a

damnable philosophy? Let the man be the master, and let him get

everything he can for himself, and enjoy to the best of his ability

all that he can get. That was the lesson as taught by her. But as he

sat alone there beneath the trees, he told himself that no teaching

was more damnable. Of course it was the teaching by which the world

was kept going in its present course; but when divested of its

plumage was it not absolutely the philosophy of selfishness? Because

he was a man, and as a man had power and money and capacity to do the

things after which his heart lusted, he was to do them for his own

gratification, let the consequences be what they might to one whom

he told himself that he loved! Did the lessons of Mrs Baggett run

smoothly with those of Jesus Christ?

Then within his own mind he again took Mrs Baggett's side of the

question. How mean a creature must he not become, if he were now to

surrender this girl whom he was anxious to make his wife! He knew of

himself that in such a matter he was more sensitive than others. He

could not let her go, and then walk forth as though little or nothing

were the matter with him. Now for the second time in his life he had

essayed to marry. And now for the second time all the world would

know that he had been accepted and then rejected. It was, he thought,

more than he could endure,--and live.

Then after he had sat there for an hour he got up and walked

home; and as he went he tried to resolve that he would reject the

philosophy of Mrs Baggett and accept the other. "If I only knew!"

he said as he entered his own gate. "If one could only see clearly!"

Then he found Mary still seated in the garden. "Nothing is to be

got," he said, "by asking you for an answer."

"In what have I failed?"

"Never mind. Let us go in and have a cup of tea." But she knew well

in what he accused her of failing, and her heart turned towards him

again.