"I should say not."

"But if he had once brought himself to ask her?" said Gordon.

"And if she had accepted him?" suggested the other.

"That's what I mean."

"I don't think he'd let her go very easily. He's a sort of dog whom you cannot easily persuade to give up a bone. If he has set his heart upon matrimony, he will not be turned from it. Do you know anything of his intentions?"

"I fancy that he is thinking of it."

"And you mean that you were thinking of it, too, with the same lady."

"No, I didn't mean that." Then he added, after a pause, "That is just what I did not mean to say. I did not mean to talk about myself.

But since you ask me the question, I will answer it truly,--I have thought of the same lady. And my thoughts were earlier in the field than his. I must say good-night now," he said, rising somewhat brusquely from his chair. "I have to walk back to Alresford, and must see Mr Whittlestaff early in the morning. According to your view of the case I shan't do much with him. And if it be so, I shall be off to the diamond-fields again by the first mail."

"You don't say so!"

"That is to be my lot in life. I am very glad to have come across you once again, and am delighted to find you so happy in your prospects.

You have told me everything, and I have done pretty much the same to you. I shall disappear from Alresford, and never more be heard of.

You needn't talk much about me and my love; for though I shall be out of the way at Kimberley, many thousand miles from here, a man does not care to have his name in every one's mouth."

"Oh no," said Blake. "I won't say a word about Miss Lawrie;--unless indeed you should be successful."

"There is not the remotest possibility of that," said Gordon, as he took his leave.

"I wonder whether she is fond of him," said the curate to himself, when he resolved to go to bed instead of beginning his sermon that night. "I shouldn't wonder if she is, for he is just the sort of man to make a girl fond of him."

CHAPTER X.

JOHN GORDON AGAIN GOES TO CROKER'S HALL.

On the next morning, when John Gordon reached the corner of the road at which stood Croker's Hall, he met, outside on the roadway, close to the house, a most disreputable old man with a wooden leg and a red nose. This was Mr Baggett, or Sergeant Baggett as he was generally called, and was now known about all Alresford to be the husband of Mr Whittlestaff's housekeeper. For news had got abroad, and tidings were told that Mr Baggett was about to arrive in the neighbourhood to claim his wife. Everybody knew it before the inhabitants of Croker's Hall. And now, since yesterday afternoon, all Croker's Hall knew it, as well as the rest of the world. He was standing there close to the house, which stood a little back from the road, between nine and ten in the morning, as drunk as a lord. But I think his manner of drunkenness was perhaps in some respects different from that customary with lords. Though he had only one leg of the flesh, and one of wood, he did not tumble down, though he brandished in the air the stick with which he was accustomed to disport himself. A lord would, I think, have got himself taken to bed. But the Sergeant did not appear to have any such intention. He had come out on to the road from the yard into which the back-door of the house opened, and seemed to John Gordon as though, having been so far expelled, he was determined to be driven no further,--and he was accompanied, at a distance, by his wife. "Now, Timothy Baggett," began the unfortunate woman, "you may just take yourself away out of that, as fast as your legs can carry you, before the police comes to fetch you."

"My legs! Whoever heared a fellow told of his legs when there was one of them wooden. And as for the perlice, I shall want the perlice to fetch my wife along with me. I ain't a-going to stir out of this place without Mrs B. I'm a hold man, and wants a woman to look arter me. Come along, Mrs B." Then he made a motion as though to run after her, still brandishing the stick in his hand. But she retreated, and he came down, seated on the pathway by the roadside, as though he had only accomplished an intended manoeuvre. "Get me a drop o' summat, Mrs B., and I don't mind if I stay here half an hour longer." Then he laughed loudly, nodding his head merrily at the bystanders,--as no lord under such circ.u.mstances certainly would have done.

All this happened just as John Gordon came up to the corner of the road, from whence, by a pathway, turned the main entrance into Mr Whittlestaff's garden. He could not but see the drunken red-nosed man, and the old woman, whom he recognised as Mr Whittlestaff's servant, and a crowd of persons around, idlers out of Alresford, who had followed Sergeant Baggett up to the scene of his present exploits. Croker's Hall was not above a mile from the town, just where the town was beginning to become country, and where the houses all had gardens belonging to them, and the larger houses a field or two. "Yes, sir, master is at home. If you'll please to ring the bell, one of the girls will come out." This was said by Mrs Baggett, advancing almost over the body of her prostrate husband. "Drunken brute!" she said, by way of a salute, as she pa.s.sed him. He only laughed aloud, and looked around upon the bystanders with triumph.

At this moment Mr Whittlestaff came down through the gate into the road. "Oh, Mr Gordon! good morning, sir. You find us rather in a disturbed condition this morning. I am sorry I did not think of asking you to come to breakfast. But perhaps, under all the circ.u.mstances it was better not. That dreadful man has put us sadly about. He is the unfortunate husband of my hardly less unfortunate housekeeper."

"Yes, sir, he is my husband,--that's true," said Mrs Baggett.

"I'm wery much attached to my wife, if you knew all about it, sir; and I wants her to come home with me. Service ain't no inheritance; nor yet ain't wages, when they never amounts to more than twenty pounds a-year."

"It's thirty, you false ungrateful beast!" said Mrs Baggett. But in the meantime Mr Whittlestaff had led the way into the garden, and John Gordon had followed him. Before they reached the hall-door, Mary Lawrie had met them.

"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff!" she said, "is it not annoying? that dreadful man with the wooden leg is here, and collecting a crowd round the place. Good morning, Mr Gordon. It is the poor woman's ne'er-do-well husband. She is herself so decent and respectable, that she will be greatly hara.s.sed. What can we do, Mr Whittlestaff? Can't we get a policeman?" In this way the conversation was led away to the affairs of Sergeant and Mrs Baggett, to the ineffable distress of John Gordon. When we remember the kind of speeches which Gordon intended to utter, the sort of eloquence which he desired to use, it must be admitted that the interruption was provoking. Even if Mary would leave them together, it would be difficult to fall back upon the subject which Gordon had at heart.

It is matter of consideration whether, when important subjects are to be brought upon the _tapis_, the ultimate result will or will not depend much on the manner in which they are introduced. It ought not to be the case that they shall be so prejudiced. "By-the-by, my dear fellow, now I think of it, can you lend me a couple of thousand pounds for twelve months?" Would that generally be as efficacious as though the would-be borrower had introduced his request with the general paraphernalia of distressing solemnities? The borrower, at any rate, feels that it would not, and postpones the moment till the fitting solemnities can be produced. But John Gordon could not postpone his moment. He could not go on residing indefinitely at the Claimant's Arms till he could find a proper opportunity for a.s.suring Mr Whittlestaff that it could not be his duty to marry Mary Lawrie.

He must rush at his subject, let the result be what it might. Indeed he had no hopes as to a favourable result. He had slept upon it, as people say when they intend to signify that they have lain awake, and had convinced himself that all eloquence would be vain. Was it natural that a man should give up his intended wife, simply because he was asked? Gordon's present feeling was an anxious desire to be once more on board the ship that should take him again to the diamond-fields, so that he might be at peace, knowing then, as he would know, that he had left Mary Lawrie behind for ever. At this moment he almost repented that he had not left Alresford without any farther attempt. But there he was on Mr Whittlestaff's ground, and the attempt must be made, if only with the object of justifying his coming.

"Miss Lawrie," he began, "if you would not mind leaving me and Mr Whittlestaff alone together for a few minutes, I will be obliged to you." This he said with quite sufficient solemnity, so that Mr Whittlestaff drew himself up, and looked hard and stiff, as though he were determined to forget Sergeant Baggett and all his peccadilloes for the moment.

"Oh, yes; certainly; but--" Mr Whittlestaff looked sternly at her, as though to bid her go at once. "You must believe nothing as coming from me unless it comes out of my own mouth." Then she put her hand upon his arm, as though half embracing him.

"You had better leave us, perhaps," said Mr Whittlestaff. And then she went.

Now the moment had come, and John Gordon felt the difficulty. It had not been lessened by the a.s.surance given by Mary herself that nothing was to be taken as having come from her unless it was known and heard to have so come. And yet he was thoroughly convinced that he was altogether loved by her, and that had he appeared on the scene but a day sooner, she would have accepted him with all her heart. "Mr Whittlestaff," he said, "I want to tell you what pa.s.sed yesterday between me and Miss Lawrie."

"Is it necessary?" he asked.

"I think it is."

"As far as I am concerned, I doubt the necessity. Miss Lawrie has said a word to me,--as much, I presume, as she feels to be necessary."

"I do not think that her feeling in the matter should be a guide for you or for me. What we have both of us to do is to think what may be best for her, and to effect that as far as may be within our power."

"Certainly," said Mr Whittlestaff. "But it may so probably be the case that you and I shall differ materially as to thinking what may be best for her. As far as I understand the matter, you wish that she should be your wife. I wish that she should be mine. I think that as my wife she would live a happier life than she could do as yours; and as she thinks also--" Here Mr Whittlestaff paused.

"But does she think so?"

"You heard what she said just now."

"I heard nothing as to her thoughts of living," said John Gordon "Nor in the interview which I had with her yesterday did I hear a word fall from her as to herself. We have got to form our ideas as to that from circ.u.mstances which shall certainly not be made to appear by her own speech. When you speak against me--"

"I have not said a word against you, sir."

"Perhaps you imply," said Gordon, not stopping to notice Mr Whittlestaff's last angry tone,--"perhaps you imply that my life may be that of a rover, and as such would not conduce to Miss Lawrie's happiness."

"I have implied nothing."

"To suit her wishes I would remain altogether in England. I was very lucky, and am not a man greedy of great wealth. She can remain here, and I will satisfy you that there shall be enough for our joint maintenance."

"What do I care for your maintenance, or what does she? Do you know, sir, that you are talking to me about a lady whom I intend to make my wife,--who is engaged to marry me? Goodness gracious me!"

"I own, sir, that it is singular."

"Very singular,--very singular indeed. I never heard of such a thing.

It seems that you knew her at Norwich."

"I did know her well."

"And then you went away and deserted her."

"I went away, Mr Whittlestaff, because I was poor. I was told by her step-mother that I was not wanted about the house, because I had no means. That was true, and as I loved her dearly, I started at once, almost in despair, but still with something of hope,--with a shade of hope,--that I might put myself in the way of enabling her to become my wife. I did not desert her."