John Gordon writes A letter.

When they parted in the park, Mr Whittlestaff trudged off to his own hotel, through the heat and sunshine.  He walked quickly, and never looked behind him, and went as though he had fully accomplished his object in one direction, and must hurry to get it done in another.  To Gordon he had left no directions whatever.  Was he to be allowed to go down to Mary, or even to write her a letter?  He did not know whether Mary had ever been told of this wonderful sacrifice which had been made on her behalf.  He understood that he was to have his own way, and was to be permitted to regard himself as betrothed to her, but he did not at all understand what steps he was to take in the matter, except that he was not to go again to the diamond-fields.  But Mr Whittlestaff hurried himself off to his hotel, and shut himself up in his own bedroom, ­and when there, he sobbed, alas! like a child.

The wife whom he had won for himself was probably more valuable to him than if he had simply found her disengaged and ready to jump into his arms.  She, at any rate, had behaved well.  Mr Whittlestaff had no doubt proved himself to be an angel, perfect all round, ­such a man as you shall not meet perhaps once in your life.  But Mary, too, had so behaved as to enhance the love of any man who had been already engaged to her.  As he thought of the whole story of the past week, the first idea that occurred to him was that he certainly had been present to her mind during the whole period of his absence.  Though not a word had passed between them, and though no word of absolute love for each other had even been spoken before, she had been steady to him, with no actual basis on which to found her love.  He had known, and she had been sure, and therefore she had been true to him.  Of course, being a true man himself, he worshipped her all the more.  Mr Whittlestaff was absolutely, undoubtedly perfect; but in Gordon’s estimation Mary was not far off perfection.  But what was he to do now, so that he might approach her?

He had pledged himself to one thing, and he must at once go to work and busy himself in accomplishing it.  He had promised not to return to Africa; and he must at once see Mr Tookey, and learn whether that gentleman’s friends would be allowed to go on with the purchase as arranged.  He knew Poker & Hodge to be moneyed men, or to be men, at any rate, in command of money.  If they would not pay him at once, he must look elsewhere for buyers; but the matter must be settled.  Tookey had promised to come to his club this day, and there he would go and await his coming.

He went to his club, but the first person who came to him was Mr Whittlestaff.  Mr Whittlestaff when he had left the park had determined never to see John Gordon again, or to see him only during that ceremony of the marriage, which it might be that he would even yet escape.  All that was still in the distant future.  Dim ideas as to some means of avoiding it flitted through his brain.  But even though he might see Gordon on that terrible occasion, he need not speak to him.  And it would have to be done then, and then only.  But now another idea, certainly very vague, had found its way into his mind, and with the object of carrying it out, Mr Whittlestaff had come to the club.  “Oh, Mr Whittlestaff, how do you do again?”

“I’m much the same as I was before, thank you.  There hasn’t happened anything to improve my health.”

“I hope nothing may happen to injure it.”

“It doesn’t much matter.  You said something about some property you’ve got in diamonds, and you said once that you must go out to look after it.”

“But I’m not going now.  I shall sell my share in the mines.  I am going to see a Mr Tookey about it immediately.”

“Can’t you sell them to me?”

“The diamond shares, ­to you!”

“Why not to me?  If the thing has to be done at once, of course you and I must trust each other.  I suppose you can trust me?”

“Certainly I can.”

“As I don’t care much about it, whether I get what I buy or not, it does not much matter for me.  But in truth, in such an affair as this I would trust you.  Why should not I go in your place?”

“I don’t think you are the man who ought to go there.”

“I am too old?  I’m not a cripple, if you mean that.  I don’t see why I shouldn’t go to the diamond-fields as well as a younger man.”

“It is not about your age, Mr Whittlestaff; but I do not think you would be happy there.”

“Happy!  I do not know that my state of bliss here is very great.  If I had bought your shares, as you call them, and paid money for them, I don’t see why my happiness need stand in the way.”

“You are a gentleman, Mr Whittlestaff.”

“Well; I hope so.”

“And of that kind that you would have your eyes picked out of your head before you had been there a week.  Don’t go.  Take my word for it, that life will be pleasanter to you here than there, and that for you the venture would be altogether dangerous.  Here is Mr Tookey.”  At this point of the conversation, Mr Tookey entered the hall-door, and some fashion of introduction took place between the two strangers.  John Gordon led the way into a private room, and the two others followed him.  “Here’s a gentleman anxious to buy my shares, Tookey,” said Gordon.

“What! the whole lot of the old Stick-in-the-Mud?  He’ll have to shell down some money in order to do that!  If I were to be asked my opinion, I should say that the transaction was hardly one in the gentleman’s way of business.”

“I suppose an honest man may work at it,” said Mr Whittlestaff.

“It’s the honestest business I know out,” said Fitzwalker Tookey; “but it does require a gentleman to have his eyes about him.”

“Haven’t I got my eyes?”

“Oh certainly, certainly,” said Tookey; “I never knew a gentleman have them brighter.  But there are eyes and eyes.  Here’s Mr Gordon did have a stroke of luck out there; ­quite wonderful!  But because he tumbled on to a good thing, it’s no reason that others should.  And he’s sold his claim already, if he doesn’t go himself, ­either to me, or else to Poker & Hodge.”

“I’m afraid it is so,” said John Gordon.

“There’s my darling wife, who is going out with me, and who means to stand all the hardship of the hard work amidst those scenes of constant labour, ­a lady who is dying to see her babies there.  I am sure, sir, that Mr Gordon won’t forget his promises to me and my wife.”

“If you have the money ready.”

“There is Mr Poker in a hansom cab outside, and ready to go with you to the bank at once, as the matter is rather pressing.  If you will come with him, he will explain everything.  I will follow in another cab, and then everything can be completed.”  John Gordon did make an appointment to meet Mr Poker in the city later on in the day, and then was left together with Mr Whittlestaff at the club.

It was soon decided that Mr Whittlestaff should give up all idea of the diamond-fields, and in so doing he allowed himself to be brought back to a state of semi-courteous conversation with his happy rival.  “Well, yes; you may write to her, I suppose.  Indeed I don’t know what right I have to say that you may, or you mayn’t.  She’s more yours than mine, I suppose.”  “Turn her out!  I don’t know what makes you take such an idea as that in your head.”  John Gordon had not suggested that Mr Whittlestaff would turn Mary Lawrie out, ­though he had spoken of the steps he would have to take were he to find Mary left without a home.  “She shall have my house as her own till she can find another.  As she will not be my wife, she shall be my daughter, ­till she is somebody else’s wife.”  “I told you before that you may come and marry her.  Indeed I can’t help myself.  Of course you may go on as you would with some other girl; ­only I wish it were some other girl.  You can go and stay with Montagu Blake, if you please.  It is nothing to me.  Everybody knows it now.”  Then he did say good-bye, though he could not be persuaded to shake hands with John Gordon.

Mr Whittlestaff did not go home that day, but on the next, remaining in town till he was driven out of it by twenty-four hours of absolute misery.  He had said to himself that he would remain till he could think of some future plan of life that should have in it some better promise of success for him than his sudden scheme of going to the diamond-fields.  But there was no other plan which became practicable in his eyes.  On the afternoon of the very next day London was no longer bearable to him; and as there was no other place but Croker’s Hall to which he could take himself with any prospect of meeting friends who would know anything of his ways of life, he did go down on the following day.  One consequence of this was, that Mary had received from her lover the letter which he had written almost as soon as he had received Mr Whittlestaff’s permission to write.  The letter was as follows: ­

Dear Mary, ­I do not know whether you are surprised by what Mr Whittlestaff has done; but I am, ­so much so that I hardly know how to write to you on the matter.  If you will think of it, I have never written to you, and have never been in a position in which writing seemed to be possible.  Nor do I know as yet whether you are aware of the business which has brought Mr Whittlestaff to town.

I suppose I am to take it for granted that all that he tells me is true; though when I think what it is that I have to accept, ­and that on the word of a man who is not your father, and who is a perfect stranger to me, ­it does seem as though I were assuming a great deal.  And yet it is no more than I asked him to do for me when I saw him at his own house.

I had no time then to ask for your permission; nor, had I asked for it, would you have granted it to me.  You had pledged yourself, and would not have broken your pledge.  If I asked for your hand at all, it was from him that I had to ask.  How will it be with me if you shall refuse to come to me at his bidding?

I have never told you that I loved you, nor have you expressed your willingness to receive my love.  Dear Mary, how shall it be?  No doubt I do count upon you in my very heart as being my own.  After this week of troubles it seems as though I can look back upon a former time in which you and I had talked to one another as though we had been lovers.  May I not think that it was so?  May it not be so?  May I not call you my Mary?

And indeed between man and man, as I would say, only that you are not a man, have I not a right to assume that it is so?  I told him that it was so down at Croker’s Hall, and he did not contradict me.  And now he has been the most indiscreet of men, and has allowed all your secrets to escape from his breast.  He has told me that you love me, and has bade me do as seems good to me in speaking to you of my love.

But, Mary, why should there be any mock modesty or pretence between us?  When a man and woman mean to become husband and wife, they should at any rate be earnest in their profession.  I am sure of my love for you, and of my earnest longing to make you my wife.  Tell me; ­am I not right in counting upon you for wishing the same thing?

What shall I say in writing to you of Mr Whittlestaff?  To me personally he assumes the language of an enemy.  But he contrives to do so in such a way that I can take it only as the expression of his regret that I should be found to be standing in his way.  His devotion to you is the most beautiful expression of self-abnegation that I have ever met.  He tells me that nothing is done for me; but it is only that I may understand how much more is done for you.  Next to me, ­yes, Mary, next to myself, he should be the dearest to you of human beings.  I am jealous already, almost jealous of his goodness.  Would that I could look forward to a life in which I would be regarded as his friend.

Let me have a line from you to say that it is as I would wish it, and name a day in which I may come to visit you.  I shall now remain in London only to obey your behests.  As to my future life, I can settle nothing till I can discuss it with you, as it will be your life also.  God bless you, my own one. ­Yours affectionately,

   John Gordon.

   We are not to return to the diamond-fields.  I have
   promised Mr Whittlestaff that it shall be so.

Mary, when she received this letter, retired into her own room to read it.  For indeed her life in public, ­her life, that is, to which Mrs Baggett had access, ­had been in some degree disturbed since the departure of the master of the house.  Mrs Baggett certainly proved herself to be a most unreasonable old woman.  She praised Mary Lawrie up to the sky as being the only woman fitted to be her master’s wife, at the same time abusing Mary for driving her out of the house were the marriage to take place; and then abusing her also because Mr Whittlestaff had gone to town to look up another lover on Mary’s behalf.  “It isn’t my fault; I did not send him,” said Mary.

“You could make his going of no account.  You needn’t have the young man when he comes back.  He has come here, disturbing us all with his diamonds, in a most objectionable manner.”

“You would be able to remain here and not have to go away with that dreadfully drunken old man.”  This Mary had said, because there had been rather a violent scene with the one-legged hero in the stable.

“What’s that to do with it?  Baggett ain’t the worst man in the world by any means.  If he was a little cross last night, he ain’t so always.  You’d be cross yourself, Miss, if you didn’t get straw enough under you to take off the hardness of the stones.”

“But you would go and live with him.”

“Ain’t he my husband!  Why shouldn’t a woman live with her husband?  And what does it matter where I live, or how.  You ain’t going to marry John Gordon, I know, to save me from Timothy Baggett!” Then the letter had come ­the letter from Mary’s lover; and Mary retired to her own room to read it.  The letter she thought was perfect, but not so perfect as was Mr Whittlestaff.  When she had read the letter, although she had pressed it to her bosom and kissed it a score of times, although she had declared that it was the letter of one who was from head to foot a man, still there was room for that jealousy of which John Gordon had spoken.  When Mary had said to herself that he was of all human beings surely the best, it was to Mr Whittlestaff and not to John Gordon that she made allusion.