the future. The past was a valley of dreams, which could easily be surveyed, whereas the future was a high mountain which it would require much labour to climb. When we think that we will make our calculations as to the future, it is so easy to revel in our memories instead. Mary had, in truth, not thought of her answer, though she had said to herself over and over again why it should not be so.
"Have you no answer to give me?" he said.
"Oh, Mr. Whittlestaff, you have so startled me!" This was hardly true. He had not startled her, but had brought her to the necessity of knowing her own mind.
"If you wish to think of it, you shall take your own time." Then it was decided that a week should be accorded to her. And during that week she passed much of her time in tears. And Mrs. Baggett would not leave her alone. To give Mrs. Baggett her due, it must be acknowledged that she acted as best she knew how for her master's interest, without thinking of herself. "I shall go down to Portsmouth. I'm not worth thinking of, I ain't. There's them at Portsmouth as'll take care of me. You don't see why I should go. I daresay not; but I am older than you, and I see what you don't see. I've borne with you as a miss, because you've not been upsetting; but still, when I've lived with him for all those years without anything of the kind, it has set me hard sometimes. As married to him, I wouldn't put up with you; so I tell you fairly. But that don't signify. It ain't you as signifies or me as signifies. It's only him. You have got to bring yourself to think of that. What's the meaning of your duty to your neighbour, and doing unto others, and all the rest of it? You ain't got to think just of your own self; no more haven't I."
Mary said to herself silently that it was John Gordon of whom she had to think. She quite recognised the truth of the lesson about selfishness; but love to her was more imperious than gratitude.
"There's them at Portsmouth as'll take care of me, no doubt. Don't you mind about me. I ain't going to have a good time at Portsmouth, but people ain't born to have good times of it. You're going to have a good time. But it ain't for that, but for what your duty tells you. You that haven't a bit or a sup but what comes from him, and you to stand shilly-shallying! I can't abide the idea!"
It was thus that Mrs. Baggett taught her great lesson—the greatest lesson we may say which a man or a woman can learn. And though she taught it immoderately, fancying, as a woman, that another woman should sacrifice everything to a man, still she taught it with truth. She was minded to go to Portsmouth, although Portsmouth to her in the present state of circumstances was little better than a hell upon earth. But Mary could not quite see Mr. Whittlestaff's claim in the same light. The one point on which it did seem to her that she had made up her mind was Mr. Gordon's claim, which was paramount to everything. Yes; he was gone, and might never return. It might be that he was dead. It might be even that he had taken some other wife, and she was conscious that not a word had passed her lips that could be taken as a promise. There had not been even a hint of a promise. But it seemed to her that this duty 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?"
