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 L2000 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 Caesar.

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.