what was proper? It was true that this woman knew nothing of John Gordon. But she must have known that there might be a John Gordon—whom she, Mary Lawrie, was required to set on one side, merely because Mr. Whittlestaff "wanted her." Mrs. Baggett had been grossly impertinent in daring to talk to her of Mr. Whittlestaff's wants.
But then, as she walked slowly round the garden, she found herself bound to inquire of herself whether what the woman said had not been true. Did she not eat his bread; did she not wear his clothes; were not the very boots on her feet his property? And she was there in his house, without the slightest tie of blood or family connection. He had taken her from sheer charity, and had saved her from the terrible dependency of becoming a friendless governess. Looking out to the life which she had avoided, it seemed to her to be full of abject misery. And he had brought her to his own house, and had made her the mistress of everything. She knew that she had been undemonstrative in her manner, and that such was her nature. But her heart welled over with gratitude as she thought of the sweetness of the life which he had prepared for her. Was not the question true? "What am I, that I should stand in the way and prevent such a man as that from having what he wants?"
And then she told herself that he personally was full of good gifts. How different might it have been with her had some elderly men "wanted her," such as she had seen about in the world! How much was there in this man that she knew that she could learn to love? And he was one of whom she need in no wise be ashamed. He was a gentleman, pleasant to look at, sweet in manner, comely and clean in appearance. Would not the world say of her how lucky she had been should it come to pass that she should become Mrs. Whittlestaff? Then there were thoughts of John Gordon, and she told herself that it was a mere dream. John Gordon had gone, and she knew not where he was; and John Gordon had never spoken a word to her of his love. After an hour's deliberation, she thought that she would marry Mr. Whittlestaff if he asked her, though she could not bring herself to say that she would "sit close up to him" in order that he might do so.
CHAPTER IV.
MARY LAWRIE ACCEPTS MR WHITTLESTAFF.
By the end of the week Mary Lawrie had changed her mind. She had thought it over, and had endeavoured to persuade herself that Mr. Whittlestaff did not care about it very much. Indeed there were moments during the week in which she flattered herself that if she would abstain from "sitting close up to him," he would say nothing about it. But she resolved altogether that she would not display her anger to Mrs. Baggett. Mrs. Baggett, after all, had done it for the best. And there was something in Mrs. Baggett's mode of argument on the subject which was not altogether unflattering to Mary. It was not as though Mrs. Baggett had told her that Mr. Whittlestaff could make himself quite happy with Mrs. Baggett herself, if Mary Lawrie would be good enough to go away. The suggestion had been made quite in the other way, and Mrs. Baggett was prepared altogether to obliterate herself. Mary did feel that Mr. Whittlestaff ought to be made a god, as long as another woman was willing to share in the worship with such absolute self-sacrifice.
At last the moment came, and the question was asked without a minute being allowed for consideration. It was in this wise. The two were sitting together after dinner on the lawn, and Mrs. Baggett had brought them their coffee. It was her wont to wait upon them with this delicacy, though she did not appear either at breakfast or at dinner, except on remarkable occasions. She now had some little word to say, meant to be conciliatory and comforting, and remarked that "surely Miss Mary meant to get a colour in her cheeks at last."
"Don't be foolish, Mrs. Baggett," said Mary. But Mrs. Baggett's back was turned, and she did not care to reply.
"It is true, Mary," said Mr. Whittlestaff, putting his hand on her shoulder, as he turned round to look in her face.
"Mrs. Lawrie used to tell me that I always blushed black, and I think that she was about right."
"I do not know what colour you blush," said Mr. Whittlestaff.
"I daresay not."
"But when it does come I am conscious of the sweetest colour that ever came upon a lady's cheek. And I tell myself that another grace has been added to the face which of all faces in the world is to my eyes the most beautiful." What was she to say in answer to a compliment so high-flown as this, to one from whose mouth compliments were so uncommon? She knew that he could not have so spoken without a purpose, declared at any rate to his own heart. He still held her by the arm, but did not once progress with his speech, while she sat silent by his side, and blushing with that dark ruby streak across her cheeks, which her step-mother had intended to vilify when she said that she had blushed black. "Mary," he continued after a pause, "can you endure the thought of becoming my wife?" Now she drew her arm away, and turned her face, and compressed her lips, and sat without uttering a word. "Of course I am an old man."
"It is not that," she muttered.
"But I think that I can love you as honestly and as firmly as a younger one. I think that if you could bring yourself to be my wife, you would find that you would not be treated badly."
"Oh, no, no, no!" she exclaimed.
"Nothing, at any rate, would be kept from you. When I have a thought or a feeling, a hope or a fear, you shall share it. As to money—"
"Don't do that. There should be no talk of money from you to me."
"Perhaps not. It would be best that I should be left to do as I may think most fitting for you. I have one incident in my life which I would wish to tell you. I loved a girl—many years since—and she ill-used me. I continued to love her long, but that image has passed from my mind." He was thinking, as he said this, of Mrs. Compas and her large family. "It will not be necessary that I should refer to this again, because the subject is very painful; but it was essential that I should tell you. And now, Mary, how shall it be?" he added, after a pause.
She sat listening to all that he had to say to her, but without speaking a word. He, too, had had his "John Gordon;" but in his case the girl he had loved had treated him badly. She, Mary, had received no bad treatment. There had been love between them, ample love, love enough to break their hearts. At least she had found it so. But there had been no outspoken speech of love. Because of that, the wound made, now that it had been in some sort healed, had not with her been so cruel as with Mr. Whittlestaff. John Gordon had come to her on the eve of his going, and had told her that he was about to start for some distant land. There had been loud words between him and her step-mother, and Mrs. Lawrie had told him that he was a pauper, and was doing no good about the house; and Mary had heard the words spoken. She asked him whither he was going, but he did not reply. "Your mother is right. I am at any rate doing no good here," he had said, but had not answered her question further. Then Mary had given him her hand, and had whispered, "Good-bye." "If I return," he added, "the first place I will come to shall be Norwich." Then without further farewell ceremony he had gone. From that day to this she had had his form before her eyes; but now, if she accepted Mr. Whittlestaff, it must be banished. No one, at any rate, knew of her wound. She must tell him—should she be moved at last to accept him. It might be that he would reject her after such telling. If so, it would be well. But, in that case, what would be her future? Would it not be necessary that she should return to that idea of a governess which had been so distasteful to her? "Mary, can you say that it shall be so?" he asked quietly, after having remained silent for some ten minutes.
Could it be that all her fate must be resolved in so short a time? Since first the notion that Mr. Whittlestaff had asked her to be his wife had come upon her, she had thought of it day and night. But, as is so usual with the world at large, she had thought altogether
