An Old Man's Love. Anthony Trollope
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of which Mrs. Baggett spoke was due rather to John Gordon than to Mr. Whittlestaff.
She counted the days—nay, she counted the hours, till the week had run by. And when the precise moment had come at which an answer must be given—for in such matters Mr. Whittlestaff was very precise—John Gordon was still the hero of her thoughts. "Well, dear," he said, putting his hand upon her arm, just as he had done on that former occasion. He said no more, but there was a world of entreaty in the tone of his voice as he uttered the words.
"Mr. Whittlestaff!"
"Well, dear."
"I do not think I can. I do not think I ought. You never heard of—Mr. John Gordon."
"Never."
"He used to come to our house at Norwich, and—and—I loved him."
"What became of him?" he asked, in a strangely altered voice. Was there to be a Mr. Compas here too to interfere with his happiness?
"He was poor, and he went away when my step-mother did not like him."
"You had engaged yourself to him?"
"Oh, no! There had been nothing of that kind. You will understand that I should not speak to you on such a subject, were it not that I am bound to tell you my whole heart. But you will never repeat what you now hear."
"There was no engagement?"
"There was no question of any such thing."
"And he is gone?"
"Yes," said Mary; "he has gone."
"And will not come back again?" Then she looked into his face—oh! so wistfully. "When did it happen?"
"When my father was on his death-bed. He had come sooner than that; but then it was that he went. I think, Mr. Whittlestaff, that I never ought to marry any one after that, and therefore it is that I have told you."
"You are a good girl, Mary."
"I don't know about that. I think that I ought to deceive you at least in nothing."
"You should deceive no one."
"No, Mr. Whittlestaff." She answered him ever so meekly; but there was running in her mind a feeling that she had not deceived any one, and that she was somewhat hardly used by the advice given to her.
"He has gone altogether?" he asked again.
"I do not know where he is—whether he be dead or alive."
"But if he should come back?"
She only shook her head;—meaning him to understand that she could say nothing of his purposes should he come back. He had made her no offer. He had said that if he returned he would come first to Norwich. There had been something of a promise in this; but oh, so little! And she did not dare to tell him that hitherto she had lived upon that little.
"I do not think that you should remain single for ever on that account. How long is it now since Mr. Gordon went?"
There was something in the tone in which he mentioned Mr. Gordon's name which went against the grain with Mary. She felt that he was spoken of almost as an enemy. "I think it is three years since he went."
"Three years is a long time. Has he never written?"
"Not to me. How should he write? There was nothing for him to write about."
"It has been a fancy."
"Yes;—a fancy." He had made this excuse for her, and she had none stronger to make for herself.
He certainly did not think the better of her in that she had indulged in such a fancy; but in truth his love was sharpened by the opposition which this fancy made. It had seemed to him that his possessing her would give a brightness to his life, and this brightness was not altogether obscured by the idea that she had ever thought that she had loved another person. As a woman she was as lovable as before, though perhaps less admirable. At any rate he wanted her, and now she seemed to be more within his reach than she had been. "The week has passed by, Mary, and I suppose that now you can give me an answer." Then she found that she was in his power. She had told him her story, as though with the understanding that if he would take her with her "fancy," she was ready to surrender herself. "Am I not to have an answer now?"
"I suppose so."
"What is it to be?"
"If you wish for me, I will be yours."
"And you will cease to think of Mr. Gordon?"
"I shall think of him; but not in a way that you would begrudge me."
"That will suffice. I know that you are honest, and I will not ask you to forget him altogether. But there had better be no speaking of him. It is well that he should be banished from your mind. And now, dearest, dearest love, give me your hand." She put her hand at once into his. "And a kiss." She just turned herself a little round, with her eyes bent upon the ground. "Nay; there must be a kiss." Then he bent over her, and just touched her cheek. "Mary, you are now all my own." Yes;—she was now all his own, and she would do for him the best in her power. He had not asked for her love, and she certainly had not given it. She knew well how impossible it would be that she should give him her love. "I know you are disturbed," he said. "I wish also for a few minutes to think of it all." Then he turned away from her, and went up the garden walk by himself.
She, slowly loitering, went into the house alone, and seated herself by the open window in her bed-chamber. As she sat there she could see him up the long walk, going and returning. As he went his hands were folded behind his back, and she thought that he appeared older than she had ever remarked him to be before. What did it signify? She had undertaken her business in life, and the duties she thought would be within her power. She was sure that she would be true to him, as far as truth to his material interests was concerned. His comforts in life should be her first care. If he trusted her at all, he should not become poorer by reason of his confidence. And she would be as tender to him as the circumstances would admit. She would not begrudge him kisses if he cared for them. They were his by all the rights of contract. He certainly had the best of the bargain, but he should never know how much the best of it he had. He had told her that there had better be no speaking of John Gordon. There certainly should be none on her part. She had told him that she must continue to think of him. There at any rate she had been honest. But he should not see that she thought of him.
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