James knew he would see Mary at the tea-party which Mrs. Jackson that afternoon was giving at the Vicarage. Society in Little Primpton was exclusive, with the result that the same people met each other day after day, and the only intruders were occasional visitors of irreproachable antecedents from Tunbridge Wells. Respectability is a plant which in that fashionable watering-place has been so assiduously cultivated that it flourishes now in the open air; like the yellow gorse, it is found in every corner, thriving hardily under the most unfavourable conditions; and the keener the wind, the harder the frost, the more proudly does it hold its head. But on this particular day the gathering was confined to the immediate neighbours, and when the Parsons arrived they found, beside their hosts, only the Clibborns and the inevitable curate. There was a prolonged shaking of hands, inquiries concerning the health of all present, and observations suggested by the weather; then they sat down in a circle, and set themselves to discuss the questions of the day.
"Oh, Mr. Dryland," cried Mary, "thanks so much for that book! I am enjoying it!"
"I thought you'd like it," replied the curate, smiling blandly. "I know you share my admiration for Miss Corelli."
"Mr. Dryland has just lent me 'The Master Christian,'" Mary explained, turning to Mrs. Jackson.
"Oh, I was thinking of putting it on the list for my next book."
They had formed a club in Little Primpton of twelve persons, each buying a six-shilling book at the beginning of the year, and passing it on in return for another after a certain interval, so that at the end of twelve months all had read a dozen masterpieces of contemporary fiction.
"I thought I'd like to buy it at once," said Mr. Dryland. "I always think one ought to possess Marie Corelli's books. She's the only really great novelist we have in England now."
Mr. Dryland was a man of taste and authority, so that his literary judgments could always be relied on.
"Of course, I don't pretend to know much about the matter," said Mary, modestly. "There are more important things in life than books; but I do think she's splendid. I can't help feeling I'm wasting my time when I read most novels, but I never feel that with Marie Corelli."
"No one would think she was a woman," said the Vicar.
To which the curate answered: "Le genie n'a pas de sexe."
The others, being no scholars, did not quite understand the remark, but they looked intelligent.
"I always think it's so disgraceful the way the newspapers sneer at her," said Mrs. Jackson. "And, I'm sure, merely because she's a woman."
"And because she has genius, my dear," put in the Vicar. "Some minds are so contemptibly small that they are simply crushed by greatness. It requires an eagle to look at the sun."
And the excellent people looked at one another with a certain self-satisfaction, for they had the fearless gaze of the king of birds in face of that brilliant orb.
"The critics are willing to do anything for money. Miss Corelli has said herself that there is a vile conspiracy to blacken her, and for my part I am quite prepared to believe it. They're all afraid of her because she dares to show them up."
"Besides, most of the critics are unsuccessful novelists," added Mr. Dryland, "and they are as envious as they can be."
"It makes one boil with indignation," cried Mary, "to think that people can be so utterly base. Those who revile her are not worthy to unloose the latchet of her shoes."
"It does one good to hear such whole-hearted admiration," replied the curate, beaming. "But you must remember that genius has always been persecuted. Look at Keats and Shelley. The critics abused them just as they abuse Marie Corelli. Even Shakespeare was slandered. But time has vindicated our immortal William; time will vindicate as brightly our gentle Marie."
"I wonder how many of us here could get through Hamlet without yawning!" meditatively said the Vicar.
"I see your point!" cried Mr. Dryland, opening his eyes. "While we could all read the 'Sorrows of Satan' without a break. I've read it three times, and each perusal leaves me more astounded. Miss Corelli has her revenge in her own hand; what can she care for the petty snarling of critics when the wreath of immortality is on her brow. I don't hesitate to say it, I'm not ashamed of my opinion; I consider Miss Corelli every bit as great as William Shakespeare. I've gone into the matter carefully, and if I may say so, I'm speaking of what I know something about. My deliberate opinion is that in wit, and humour, and language, she's every bit his equal."
"Her language is beautiful," said Mrs. Jackson. "When I read her I feel just as if I were listening to hymns."
"And where, I should like to know," continued the curate, raising his voice, "can you find in a play of Shakespeare's such a gallery of portraits as in the 'Master Christian'?"
"And there is one thing you must never forget," said the Vicar, gravely, "she has a deep, religious feeling which you will find in none of Shakespeare's plays. Every one of her books has a lofty moral purpose. That is the justification of fiction. The novelist has a high vocation, if he could only see it; he can inculcate submission to authority, hope, charity, obedience—in fact, all the higher virtues; he can become a handmaid of the Church. And now, when irreligion, and immorality, and scepticism are rampant, we must not despise the humblest instruments."
"How true that is!" said Mrs. Jackson.
"If all novelists were like Marie Corelli, I should willingly hold them out my hand. I think every Christian ought to read 'Barabbas.' It gives an entirely new view of Christ. It puts the incidents of the Gospel in a way that one had never dreamed. I was never so impressed in my life."
"But all her books are the same in that way!" cried Mary. "They all make me feel so much better and nobler, and more truly Christian."
"I think she's vulgar and blasphemous," murmured Mrs. Clibborn quietly, as though she were making the simplest observation.
"Mamma!" cried Mary, deeply shocked; and among the others there was a little movement of indignation and disgust.
Mrs. Clibborn was continually mortifying her daughter by this kind of illiterate gaucherie. But the most painful part of it was that the good lady always remained perfectly unconscious of having said anything incredibly silly, and continued with perfect self-assurance:
"I've never been able to finish a book of hers. I began one about electricity, which I couldn't understand, and then I tried another. I forget what it was, but there was something in it about a bed of roses, and I thought it very improper. I don't think it was a nice book for Mary to read, but girls seem to read everything now."
There was a pained hush, such as naturally occurs when someone has made a very horriblefaux pas. They all looked at one another awkwardly; while Mary, ashamed at her mother's want of taste, kept her eyes glued to the carpet But Mrs. Clibborn's folly was so notorious that presently anger was succeeded by contemptuous amusement, and the curate came to the rescue with a loud guffaw.
"Of course, you know your Marie Corelli by heart, Captain Parsons?"
"I'm afraid I've never read one of them."
"Not?" they all cried in surprise.
"Oh, I'll send them to you to Primpton House," said Mr. Dryland. "I have them all. Why, no one's education is complete till he's read Marie Corelli."
This was considered a very good hit at Mrs. Clibborn, and the dear people smiled at one another significantly. Even Mary could scarcely keep a straight face.
The tea then appeared, and was taken more or less silently. With the exception of the fashionable Mrs. Clibborn, they were all more used to making a sit-down meal of it, and the care of holding a cup, with a piece of cake unsteadily balanced in the saucer, prevented them from indulging in very brilliant conversational feats; they found one gymnastic exercise quite sufficient at a time. But when the tea-cups were safely restored to the table, Mrs. Jackson suggested a little music.
"Will you open the proceedings, Mary?"
The curate went up to Miss Clibborn with a bow, gallantly offering his arm to escort her to the piano. Mary had thoughtfully brought her music, and began to play a 'Song Without Words,' by Mendelssohn. She was considered a fine pianist in Little Primpton. She attacked the notes with marked resolution, keeping the loud pedal down throughout; her eyes were fixed on the music with an intense, determined air, in which you saw an eagerness to perform a social duty, and her lips moved as conscientiously she counted time. Mary played the whole piece without making a single mistake, and at the end was much applauded.
"There's nothing like classical music, is there?" cried the curate enthusiastically, as Mary stopped, rather out of breath, for she played, as she did everything else, with energy and thoroughness.
"It's the only music I really love."
"And those 'Songs Without Words' are beautiful," said Colonel Parsons, who was standing on Mary's other side.
"Mendelssohn is my favourite composer," she replied. "He's so full of soul."
"Ah, yes," murmured Mr. Dryland. "His heart seems to throb through all his music. It's strange that he should have been a Jew."
"But then Our Lord was a Jew, wasn't He?" said Mary.
"Yes, one is so apt to forget that."
Mary turned the leaves, and finding another piece which was familiar to her, set about it. It was a satisfactory thing to listen to her performance. In Mary's decided touch one felt all the strength of her character, with its simple, unaffected candour and its eminent sense of propriety. In her execution one perceived the high purpose which animated her whole conduct; it was pure and wholesome, and thoroughly English. And her piano-playing served also as a moral lesson, for none could listen without remembering that life was not an affair to be taken lightly, but a strenuous endeavour: the world was a battlefield (this one realised more particularly when Mary forgot for a page or so to take her foot off the pedal); each one of us had a mission to perform, a duty to do, a function to fulfil.
Meanwhile, James was trying to make conversation with Mrs. Clibborn.
"How well Mary plays!"
"D'you think so? I can't bear amateurs. I wish they wouldn't play."
James looked at Mrs. Clibborn quickly. It rather surprised him that she, the very silliest woman he had ever known, should say the only sensible things he had heard that day. Nor could he forget that she had done her best to prevent his engagement.
"I think you're a very wonderful woman," he said.
"Oh, Jamie!"
Mrs. Clibborn smiled and sighed, slipping forward her hand for him to take; but James was too preoccupied to notice the movement.
"I'm beginning to think you really like me," murmured Mrs. Clibborn, cooing like an amorous dove.
Then James was invited to sing, and refused.
"Please do, Jamie!" cried Mary, smiling. "For my sake. You used to sing so nicely!"
He still tried to excuse himself, but finding everyone insistent, went at last, with very bad grace, to the piano. He not only sang badly, but knew it, and was irritated that he should be forced to make a fool of himself. Mr. Dryland sang badly, but perfectly satisfied with himself, needed no pressing when his turn came. He made a speciality of old English songs, and thundered out in his most ecclesiastical manner a jovial ditty entitled, "Down Among the Dead Men."
The afternoon was concluded by an adjournment to the dining-room to play bagatelle, the most inane of games, to which the billiard-player goes with contempt, changed quickly to wrath when he cannot put the balls into absurd little holes. Mary was an adept, and took pleasure in showing James how the thing should be done. He noticed that she and the curate managed the whole affair between them, arranging partners and advising freely. Mrs. Clibborn alone refused to play, saying frankly it was too idiotic a pastime.
At last the party broke up, and in a group bade their farewells.
"I'll walk home with you, Mary, if you don't mind," said James, "and smoke a pipe."
Mary suddenly became radiant, and Colonel Parsons gave her a happy little smile and a friendly nod.... At last James had his opportunity. He lingered while Mary gathered together her music, and waited again to light his pipe, so that when they came out of the Vicarage gates the rest of the company were no longer in sight. The day had become overcast and sombre; on the even surface of the sky floated little ragged black clouds, like the fragments cast to the wind of some widowed, ample garment. It had grown cold, and James, accustomed to a warmer air, shivered a little. The country suddenly appeared cramped and circumscribed; in the fading light a dulness of colour came over tree and hedgerow which was singularly depressing. They walked in silence, while James looked for words. All day he had been trying to find some manner to express himself, but his mind, perplexed and weary, refused to help him. The walk to Mary's house could not take more than five minutes, and he saw the distance slipping away rapidly. If he meant to say anything it must be said at once; and his mouth was dry, he felt almost a physical inability to speak. He did not know how to prepare the way, how to approach the subject; and he was doubly tormented by the absolute necessity of breaking the silence.
But it was Mary who spoke first.
"D'you know, I've been worrying a little about you, Jamie."
"Why?"
"I'm afraid I hurt your feelings yesterday. Don't you remember, when we were visiting my patients—I think I spoke rather harshly. I didn't mean to. I'm very sorry."
"I had forgotten all about it," he said, looking at her. "I have no notion what you said to offend me."
"I'm glad of that," she answered, smiling, "but it does me good to apologise. Will you think me very silly if I say something to you?"
"Of course not!"
"Well, I want to say that if I ever do anything you don't like, or don't approve of, I wish you would tell me."
After that, how could he say immediately that he no longer loved her, and wished to be released from his engagement?
"I'm afraid you think I'm a very terrifying person," answered James.
Her words had made his announcement impossible; another day had gone, and weakly he had let it pass.
"What shall I do?" he murmured under his breath. "What a coward I am!"
They came to the door of the Clibborns' house and Mary turned to say good-bye. She bent forward, smiling and blushing, and he quickly kissed her.
In the evening, James was sitting by the fire in the dining-room, thinking of that one subject which occupied all his thoughts. Colonel Parsons and his wife were at the table, engaged upon the game of backgammon which invariably filled the interval between supper and prayers. The rattle of dice came to James indistinctly, as in a dream, and he imagined fantastically that unseen powers were playing for his life. He sat with his head between his hands, staring at the flames as though to find in them a solution to his difficulty; but mockingly they spoke only of Mrs. Wallace and the caress of her limpid eyes. He turned away with a gesture of impatience. The game was just finished, and Mrs. Parsons, catching the expression on his face, asked:
"What are you thinking of, Jamie?"
"I?" he answered, looking up quickly, as though afraid that his secret had been divined. "Nothing!"
Mrs. Parsons put the backgammon board away, making up her mind to speak, for she too suffered from a shyness which made the subjects she had nearest at heart precisely those that she could least bear to talk about.
"When do you think of getting married, Jamie?"
James started.
"Why, you asked me that yesterday," He tried to make a joke of it. "Upon my word, you're very anxious to get rid of me."
"I wonder if it's occurred to you that you're making Mary a little unhappy?"
James stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, his face upon his hand.
"I should be sorry to do that, mother."
"You've been home four days, and you've not said a word to show you love her."
"I'm afraid I'm not very demonstrative."
"That's what I said!" cried the Colonel, triumphantly.
"Can't you try to say a word or two to prove you care for her, Jamie? Sheisso fond of you," continued his mother. "I don't want to interfere with your private concerns, but I think it's only thoughtlessness on your part; and I'm sure you don't wish to make Mary miserable. Poor thing, she's so unhappy at home; she yearns for a little affection.... Won't you say something to her about your marriage?"
"Has she asked you to speak to me?" inquired James.
"No, dear. You know that she would never do anything of the kind. She would hate to think that I had said anything."
James paused a moment.
"I will speak to her to-morrow, mother."
"That's right!" said the Colonel, cheerfully. "I know she's going to be in all the morning. Colonel and Mrs. Clibborn are going into Tunbridge Wells."
"It will be a good opportunity."
In the morning Mrs. Parsons was in the hall, arranging flowers, when James passed through to get his hat.
"Are you going to see Mary now?"
"Yes, mother."
"That's a good boy."
She did not notice that her son's usual gravity was intensified, or that his very lips were pallid, and his eyes careworn and lustreless.
It was raining. The young fresh leaves, in the colourless day, had lost their verdure, and the massive shapes of the elm trees were obscured in the mist. The sky had so melancholy a tone that it seemed a work of man—a lifeless hue of infinite sorrow, dreary and cheerless.
James arrived at the Clibborns' house.
"Miss Mary is in the drawing-room," he was told by a servant, who smiled on him, the accepted lover, with obtrusive friendliness.
He went in and found her seated at the piano, industriously playing scales. She wore the weather-beaten straw hat without which she never seemed comfortable.
"Oh, I'm glad you've come," she said. "I'm alone in the house, and I was taking the opportunity to have a good practice." She turned round on the music-stool, and ran one hand chromatically up the piano, smiling the while with pleasure at Jamie's visit. "Would you like to go for a walk?" she asked. "I don't mind the rain a bit."
"I would rather stay here, if you don't mind."
James sat down and began playing with a paper-knife. Still he did not know how to express himself. He was torn asunder by rival emotions; he felt absolutely bound to speak, and yet could not bear the thought of the agony he must cause. He was very tender-hearted; he had never in his life consciously given pain to any living creature, and would far rather have inflicted hurt upon himself.
"I've been wanting to have a long talk with you alone ever since I came back."
"Have you? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because what I want to say is very difficult, Mary; and I'm afraid it must be very—distressing to both of us."
"What do you mean?"
Mary suddenly became grave, James glanced at her, and hesitated; but there was no room for hesitation now. Somehow he must get to the end of what he had to say, attempting only to be as gentle as possible. He stood up and leant against the mantelpiece, still toying with the paper-knife; Mary also changed her seat, and took a chair by the table.
"Do you know that we've been engaged for over five years now, Mary?"
"Yes."
She looked at him steadily, and he dropped his eyes.
"I want to thank you for all you've done for my sake, Mary. I know how good you have been to my people; it was very kind of you. I cannot think how they would have got along without you."
"I love them as I love my own father and mother, Jamie. I tried to act towards them as though I was indeed their daughter."
He was silent for a while.
"We were both very young when we became engaged," he said at last.
He looked up quickly, but she did not answer. She stared with frightened eyes, as if already she understood. It was harder even than he thought. James asked himself desperately whether he could not stop there, taking back what he had said. The cup was too bitter! But what was the alternative? He could not go on pretending one thing when he felt another; he could not live a constant, horrible lie. He felt there was only one course open to him. Like a man with an ill that must be fatal unless instantly treated, he was bound to undergo everything, however great the torture.
"And it's a very bad return I'm making you for all your kindness. You have done everything for me, Mary. You've waited for me patiently and lovingly; you've sacrificed yourself in every way; and I'm afraid I must make you very unhappy—Oh, don't think I'm not grateful to you; I can never thank you sufficiently."
He wished Mary would say something to help him, but she kept silent. She merely dropped her eyes, and now her face seemed quite expressionless.
"I have asked myself day and night what I ought to do, and I can see no way clear before me. I've tried to say this to you before, but I've funked it. You think I'm brave—I'm not; I'm a pitiful coward! Sometimes I can only loathe and despise myself. I want to do my duty, but I can't tell what my duty is. If I only knew for sure which way I ought to take, I should have strength to take it; but it is all so uncertain."
James gave Mary a look of supplication, but she did not see it; her glance was still riveted to the ground.
"I think it's better to tell you the whole truth, Mary; I'm afraid I'm speaking awfully priggishly. I feel I'm acting like a cad, and yet I don't know how else to act. God help me!"
"I've known almost from the beginning that you no longer cared for me," said Mary quietly, her face showing no expression, her voice hushed till it was only a whisper.
"Forgive me, Mary; I've tried to love you. Oh, how humiliating that must sound! I hardly know what I'm saying. Try to understand me. If my words are harsh and ugly, it's because I don't know how to express myself. But I must tell you the whole truth. The chief thing is that I should be honest with you. It's the only return I can make for all you've done for me."
Mary bent her head a little lower, and heavy tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Oh, Mary, don't cry!" said James, his voice breaking; and he stepped forward, with outstretched arms, as though to comfort her.
"I'm sorry," she said; "I didn't mean to."
She took out her handkerchief and dried her eyes, trying to smile. Her courageous self-command was like a stab in Jamie's heart.
"I am an absolute cad!" he said, hoarsely.
Mary made no gesture; she sat perfectly still, rigid, not seeking to hide her emotion, but merely to master it. One could see the effort she made.
"I'm awfully sorry, Mary! Please forgive me—I don't ask you to release me. All I want to do is to explain exactly what I feel, and then leave you to decide."
"Are you—are you in love with anyone else?"
"No!"
The smile of Mrs. Wallace flashed scornfully across his mind, but he set his teeth. He hated and despised her; he would not love her.
"Is there anything in me that you don't like which I might be able to correct?"
Her humility was more than he could bear.
"No, no, no!" he cried. "I can never make you understand. You must think me simply brutal. You have all that a man could wish for. I know how kind you are, and how good you are. I think you have every quality which a good woman should have. I respect you entirely; I can never help feeling for you the most intense gratitude and affection."
In his own ears the words he spoke rang hollow, awkward, even impertinent. He could say nothing which did not seem hideously supercilious; and yet he wanted to abase himself! He knew that Mary's humiliation must be very, very bitter.
"I'm afraid that I am distressing you frightfully, and I don't see how I can make things easier."
"Oh, I knew you didn't love me! I felt it. D'you think I could talk to you for five minutes without seeing the constraint in your manner? They told me I was foolish and fanciful, but I knew better."
"I must have caused you very great unhappiness?"
Mary did not answer, and James looked at her with pity and remorse. At last he broke out passionately:
"I can't command my love! It's not a thing I have at my beck and call. If it were, do you think I should give you this pain? Love is outside all calculation. You think love can be tamed, and led about on a chain like a dog. You think it's a gentle sentiment that one can subject to considerations of propriety and decorum, and God knows what. Oh, you don't know! Love is a madness that seizes one and shakes one like a leaf in the wind. I can't counterfeit love; I can't pretend to have it. I can't command the nerves of my body."
"Do you think I don't know what love is, James? How little you know me."
James sank on a chair and hid his face.
"We none of us understand one another. We're all alike, and yet so different. I don't even know myself. Don't think I'm a prig when I say that I've tried with all my might to love you. I would have given worlds to feel as I felt five years ago. But I can't. God help me!... Oh, you must hate and despise me, Mary!"
"I, my dear?" she shook her head sadly. "I shall never do that. I want you to speak frankly. It is much better that we should try to understand one another."
"That is what I felt. I did not think it honest to marry you with a lie in my heart. I don't know whether we can ever be happy; but our only chance is to speak the whole truth."
Mary looked helplessly at him, cowed by her grief.
"I knew it was coming. Every day I dreaded it."
The pain in her eyes was more than James could bear; it was cruel to make her suffer so much. He could not do it. He felt an intense pity, and the idea came to him that there might be a middle way, which would lessen the difficulty. He hesitated a moment, and then, looking down, spoke in a low voice:
"I am anxious to do my duty, Mary. I have promised to marry you. I do not wish to break my word. I don't ask you to release me. Will you take what I can offer? I will be a good husband to you. I will do all I can to make you happy. I can give you affection and confidence—friendship; but I can't give you love. It is much better that I should tell you than that you should find out painfully by yourself—perhaps when it is too late."
"You came to ask me to release you. Why do you hesitate now? Do you think I shall refuse?"
James was silent.
"You cannot think that I will accept a compromise. Do you suppose that because I am a woman I am not made of flesh and blood? You said you wished to be frank."
"I had not thought of the other way till just now."
"Do you imagine that it softens the blow? How could I live with you as your wife, and yet not your wife? What are affection and esteem to me without love? You must think me a very poor creature, James, when you want to make me a sort of legal housekeeper."
"I'm sorry. I didn't think you would look upon it as an impertinence. I didn't mean to say anything offensive. It struck me as a possible way out of the difficulty. You would, at all events, be happier than you are here."
"It is you who despise me now!"
"Mary!"
"I can bear pain. It's not the first humiliation I have suffered. It is very simple, and there's no reason why we should make a fuss about it. You thought you loved me, and you asked me to marry you. I don't know whether you ever really loved me; you certainly don't now, and you wish me to release you. You know that I cannot and will not refuse."
"I see no way out of it, Mary," he said, hoarsely. "I wish to God I did! It's frightfully cruel to you."
"I can bear it. I don't blame you. It's not your fault. God will give me strength." Mary thought of her mother's cruel sympathy. Her parents would have to be told that James had cast her aside like a plaything he was tired of. "God will give me strength."
"I'm so sorry, Mary," cried James, kneeling by her side. "You'll have to suffer dreadfully; and I can't think how to make it any better for you."
"There is no way. We must tell them the whole truth, and let them say what they will."
"Would you like me to go away from Primpton?"
"Why?"
"It might make it easier for you."
"Nothing can make it easier. I can face it out. And I don't want you to run away and hide yourself as if you had done something to be ashamed of. And your people want you. Oh, Jamie, you will be as gentle with them as you can, won't you? I'm afraid it will—disappoint them very much."
"They had set their hearts upon our marriage."
"I'm afraid they'll feel it a good deal. But it can't be helped. Anything is better than a loveless marriage."
James was profoundly touched that at the time of her own bitter grief, Mary could think of the pain of others.
"I wish I had your courage, Mary. I've never seen such strength."
"It's well that I have some qualities. I haven't the power to make you love me, and I deserve something to make up."
"Oh, Mary, don't speak like that! I do love you! There's no one for whom I have a purer, more sincere affection. Why won't you take me with what I can offer? I promise that you will never regret it. You know exactly what I am now—weak, but anxious to do right. Why shouldn't we be married? Perhaps things may change. Who can tell what time may bring about?"
"It's impossible. You ask me to do more than I can. And I know very well that you only make the offer out of charity. Even from you I cannot accept charity."
"My earnest wish is to make you happy."
"And I know you would sacrifice yourself willingly for that; but I can sacrifice myself, too. You think that if we got married love might arise; but it wouldn't. You would feel perpetually that I was a reproach to you; you would hate me."
"I should never do that."
"How can you tell? We are the same age now, but each year I should seem older. At forty I should be an old woman, and you would still be a young man. Only the deepest love can make that difference endurable; but the love would be all on my side—ifIhad any then. I should probably have grown bitter and ill-humoured. Ah, no, Jamie, you know it is utterly impracticable. You know it as well as I do. Let us part altogether. I give you back your word. It is not your fault that you do not love me. I don't blame you. One gets over everything in this world eventually. All I ask you is not to trouble too much about me; I shan't die of it."
She stretched out her hand, and he took it, his eyes all blurred, unable to speak.
"And I thank you," she continued, "for having come to me frankly and openly, and told me everything. It is still something that you have confidence in me. You need never fear that I shall feel bitter towards you. I can see that you have suffered—perhaps more than you have made me suffer. Good-bye!"
"Is there nothing I can do, Mary?"
"Nothing," she said, trying to smile, "except not to worry."
"Good-bye," he said. "And don't think too ill of me."
She could not trust herself to answer. She stood perfectly quiet till he had gone out of the room; then with a moan sank to the floor and hid her face, bursting into tears. She had restrained herself too long; the composure became intolerable. She could have screamed, as though suffering some physical pain that destroyed all self-control. The heavy sobs rent her chest, and she did not attempt to stop them. She was heart-broken.
"Oh, how could he!" she groaned. "How could he!"
Her vision of happiness was utterly gone. In James she had placed the joy of her life; in him had found strength to bear every displeasure. Mary had no thought in which he did not take part; her whole future was inextricably mingled with his. But now the years to come, which had seemed so bright and sunny, turned suddenly grey as the melancholy sky without. She saw her life at Little Primpton, continuing as in the past years, monotonous and dull—a dreary round of little duties, of little vexations, of little pleasures.
"Oh, God help me!" she cried.
And lifting herself painfully to her knees, she prayed for strength to bear the woeful burden, for courage to endure it steadfastly, for resignation to believe that it was God's will.
James felt no relief. He had looked forward to a sensation of freedom such as a man might feel when he had escaped from some tyrannous servitude, and was at liberty again to breathe the buoyant air of heaven. He imagined that his depression would vanish like an evil spirit exorcised so soon as ever he got from Mary his release; but instead it sat more heavily upon him. Unconvinced even yet that he had acted rightly, he went over the conversation word for word. It seemed singularly ineffectual. Wishing to show Mary that he did not break with her from caprice or frivolous reason, but with sorrowful reluctance, and full knowledge of her suffering, he had succeeded only in being futile and commonplace.
He walked slowly towards Primpton House. He had before him the announcement to his mother and father; and he tried to order his thoughts.
Mrs. Parsons, her household work finished, was knitting the inevitable socks; while the Colonel sat at the table, putting new stamps into his album. He chattered delightedly over his treasures, getting up now and then gravely to ask his wife some question or to point out a surcharge; she, good woman, showed interest by appropriate rejoinders.
"There's no one in Tunbridge Wells who has such a fine collection as I have."
"General Newsmith showed me his the other day, but it's not nearly so good as yours, Richmond."
"I'm glad of that. I suppose his Mauritius are fine?" replied the Colonel, with some envy, for the general had lived several years on the island.
"They're fair," said Mrs. Parsons, reassuringly; "but not so good as one would expect."
"It takes a clever man to get together a good collection of stamps, although I shouldn't say it."
They looked up when James entered.
"I've just been putting in those Free States you brought me, Jamie. They look very well."
The Colonel leant back to view them, with the satisfied look with which he might have examined an old master.
"It was very thoughtful of Jamie to bring them," said Mrs. Parsons.
"Ah, I knew he wouldn't forget his old father. Don't you remember, Frances, I said to you, 'I'll be bound the boy will bring some stamps with him.' They'll be valuable in a year or two. That's what I always say with regard to postage stamps; you can't waste your money. Now jewellery, for instance, gets old-fashioned, and china breaks; but you run no risk with stamps. When I buy stamps, I really feel that I'm as good as investing my money in consols."
"Well, how's Mary this morning?"
"I've been having a long talk with her."
"Settled the day yet?" asked the Colonel, with a knowing little laugh.
"No!"
"Upon my word, Frances, I think we shall have to settle it for them. Things weren't like this when we were young. Why, Jamie, your mother and I got married six weeks after I was introduced to her at a croquet party."
"We were married in haste, Richmond," said Mrs. Parsons, laughing.
"Well, we've taken a long time to repent of it, my dear. It's over thirty years."
"I fancy it's too late now."
The Colonel took her hand and patted it.
"If you get such a good wife as I have, Jamie, I don't think you'll have reason to complain. Will he, my dear?"
"It's not for me to say, Richmond," replied Mrs. Parsons, smiling contentedly.
"Do you want me to get married very much, father?"
"Of course I do. I've set my heart upon it. I want to see what the new generations of Parsons are like before I die."
"Listen, Richmond, Jamie has something to tell us."
Mrs. Parsons had been looking at her son, and was struck at last by the agony of his expression.
"What is it, Jamie?" she asked.
"I'm afraid you'll be dreadfully disappointed. I'm so sorry—Mary and I are no longer engaged to be married."
For a minute there was silence in the room. The old Colonel looked helplessly from wife to son.
"What does he mean, Frances?" he said at last.
Mrs. Parsons did not answer, and he turned to James.
"You're not in earnest, Jamie? You're joking with us?"
James went over to his father, as the weaker of the two, and put his arm round his shoulders.
"I'm awfully sorry to have to grieve you, father. It's quite true—worse luck! It was impossible for me to marry Mary."
"D'you mean that you've broken your engagement with her after she's waited five years for you?" said Mrs. Parsons.
"I couldn't do anything else. I found I no longer loved her. We should both have been unhappy if we had married."
The Colonel recovered himself slowly, he turned round and looked at his son.
"Jamie, Jamie, what have you done?"
"Oh, you can say nothing that I've not said to myself. D'you think it's a step I should have taken lightly? I feel nothing towards Mary but friendship. I don't love her."
"But—" the Colonel stopped, and then a light shone in his face, and he began to laugh. "Oh, it's only a lovers' quarrel, Frances. They've had a little tiff, and they say they'll never speak to one another again. I warrant they're both heartily sorry already, and before night they'll be engaged as fast as ever."
James, by a look, implored his mother to speak. She understood, and shook her head sadly.
"No, Richmond, I'm afraid it's not that. It's serious."
"But Mary loves him, Frances."
"I know," said James. "That's the tragedy of it. If I could only persuade myself that she didn't care for me, it would be all right."
Colonel Parsons sank into his chair, suddenly collapsing. He seemed smaller than ever, wizened and frail; the wisp of white hair that concealed his baldness fell forward grotesquely. His face assumed again that expression, which was almost habitual, of anxious fear.
"Oh, father, don't look like that! I can't help it! Don't make it harder for me than possible. You talk to him, mother. Explain that it's not my fault. There was nothing else I could do."
Colonel Parsons sat silent, with his head bent down, but Mrs. Parsons asked:
"What did you say to Mary this morning?"
"I told her exactly what I felt."
"You said you didn't love her?"
"I had to."
"Poor thing!"
They all remained for a while without speaking, each one thinking his painful thoughts.
"Richmond," said Mrs. Parsons at last, "we mustn't blame the boy. It's not his fault. He can't help it if he doesn't love her."
"You wouldn't have me marry her without love, father?"
The question was answered by Mrs. Parsons.
"No; if you don't love her, you mustn't marry her. But what's to be done, I don't know. Poor thing, poor thing, how unhappy she must be!"
James sat with his face in his hands, utterly wretched, beginning already to see the great circle of confusion that he had caused. Mrs. Parsons looked at him and looked at her husband. Presently she went up to James.
"Jamie, will you leave us for a little? Your father and I would like to talk it over alone."
"Yes, mother."
James got up, and putting her hands on his shoulders, she kissed him.
When James had gone, Mrs. Parsons looked compassionately at her husband; he glanced up, and catching her eye, tried to smile. But it was a poor attempt, and it finished with a sigh.
"What's to be done, Richmond?"
Colonel Parsons shook his head without answering.
"I ought to have warned you that something might happen. I saw there was a difference in Jamie's feelings, but I fancied it would pass over. I believed it was only strangeness. Mary is so fond of him, I thought he would soon love her as much as ever."
"But it's not honourable what he's done, Frances," said the old man at last, his voice trembling with emotion. "It's not honourable."
"He can't help it if he doesn't love her."
"It's his duty to marry her. She's waited five years; she's given him the best of her youth—and he jilts her. He can't, Frances; he must behave like a gentleman."
The tears fell down Mrs. Parsons' careworn cheeks—the slow, sparse tears of the woman who has endured much sorrow.
"Don't let us judge him, Richmond. We're so ignorant of the world. You and I are old-fashioned."
"There are no fashions in honesty."
"Let us send for William. Perhaps he'll be able to advise us."
William was Major Forsyth, the brother of Mrs. Parsons. He was a bachelor, living in London, and considered by his relatives a typical man of the world.
"He'll be able to talk to the boy better than we can."
"Very well, let us send for him."
They were both overcome by the catastrophe, but as yet hardly grasped the full extent of it. All their hopes had been centred on this marriage; all their plans for the future had been in it so intricately woven that they could not realise the total over-throw. They felt as a man might feel who was crippled by a sudden accident, and yet still pictured his life as though he had free use of his limbs.... Mrs. Parsons wrote a telegram, and gave it to the maid. The servant went out of the room, but as she did so, stepped back and announced:
"Miss Clibborn, ma'am."
"Mary!"
The girl came in, and lifted the veil which she had put on to hide her pallor and her eyes, red and heavy with weeping.
"I thought I'd better come round and see you quietly," she said. "I suppose you've heard?"
"Mary, Mary!"
Mrs. Parsons took her in her arms, kissing her tenderly. Mary pretended to laugh, and hastily dried the tears which came to her eyes.
"You've been crying, Mrs. Parsons. You mustn't do that.... Let us sit down and talk sensibly."
She took the Colonel's hand, and gently pressed it.
"Is it true, Mary?" he asked. "I can't believe it."
"Yes, it's quite true. We've decided that we don't wish to marry one another. I want to ask you not to think badly of Jamie. He's very—cut up about it. He's not to blame."
"We're thinking of you, my dear."
"Oh, I shall be all right. I can bear it."
"It's not honourable what he's done, Mary," said the Colonel.
"Oh, don't say that, please! That is why I came round to you quickly. I want you to think that Jamie did what he considered right. For my sake, don't think ill of him. He can't help it if he doesn't love me. I'm not very attractive; he must have known in India girls far nicer than I. How could I hope to keep him all these years? I was a fool to expect it."
"I am so sorry, Mary!" cried Mrs. Parsons. "We've looked forward to your marriage with all our hearts. You know Jamie's been a good son to us; he's never given us any worry. We did want him to marry you. We're so fond of you, and we know how really good you are. We felt that whatever happened after that—if we died—Jamie would be safe and happy."
"It can't be helped. Things never turn out in this world as one wants them. Don't be too distressed about it, and, above all things, don't let Jamie see that you think he hasn't acted—as he might have done."
"How can you think of him now, when your heart must be almost breaking?"
"You see, I've thought of him for years," answered Mary, smiling sadly. "I can't help it now. Oh, I don't want him to suffer! His worrying can do no good, I should like him to be completely happy."
Colonel Parsons sighed.
"He's my son, and he's behaved dishonourably."
"Don't say that. It's not fair to him. He did not ask me for his release. But I couldn't marry him when I knew he no longer cared for me."
"He might have learned to love you, Mary," said Mrs. Parsons.
"No, no! I could see, as he pressed me to marry him notwithstanding, he was hoping with all his might that I would refuse. He would have hated me. No; it's the end. We have separated for ever, and I will do my best to get over it."
They fell into silence, and presently Mary got up. "I must go home now, and tell mamma."
"She'll probably have hysterics," said Mrs. Parsons, with a little sniff of contempt.
"No, she'll be delighted," returned Mary. "I know her so well."
"Oh, how much you will have to suffer, dearest!"
"It'll do me good. I was too happy."
"Don't you think you could wait a little before telling anyone else?" asked the Colonel. "Major Forsyth is coming down. He may be able to arrange it; he's a man of the world."
"Can he make Jamie love me? Ah, no, it's no good waiting. Let me get it over quickly while I have the courage. And it helps me to think I have something to do. It only means a few sneers and a little false sympathy."
"A great deal of real sympathy."
"People are always rather glad when some unhappiness befalls their friends! Oh, I didn't mean that! I don't want to be bitter. Don't think badly of me either. I shall be different to-morrow."
"We can never think of you without the sincerest, fondest love."
At that moment James, who did not know that Mary was there, came into the room. He started when he saw her and turned red; but Mary, with a woman's self-possession, braced herself together.
"Oh, Jamie, I've just been having a little chat with your people."
"I'm sorry I interrupted you," he answered, awkwardly. "I didn't know you were here."
"You need not avoid me because we've broken off our engagement. At all events, you have no reason to be afraid of me now. Good-bye! I'm just going home."
She went out, and James looked uncertainly at his parents. His father did not speak, staring at the ground, but Mrs. Parsons said:
"Mary has been asking us not to be angry with you, Jamie. She says it's not your fault."
"It's very kind of her."
"Oh, how could you? How could you?"
Not till luncheon was nearly finished did Mary brace herself for the further ordeal, and in a steady, unmoved voice tell Colonel and Mrs. Clibborn what had happened. The faded beauty merely smiled, and lifted her eyes to the chandelier with the expression that had melted the hearts of a thousand and one impressionable subalterns.
"I knew it," she murmured; "I knew it! You can't deceive a woman and a mother."
But the Colonel for a moment was speechless. His face grew red, and his dyed eyebrows stood up in a fury of indignation.
"Impossible!" he spluttered at last.
"You'd better drink a little water, Reggie dear," said his wife. "You look as if you were going to have a fit."
"I won't have it," he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table so that the cheese-plates clattered and the biscuits danced a rapid jig. "I'll make him marry you. He forgets he has me to deal with! I disapproved of the match from the beginning, didn't I, Clara? I said I would never allow my daughter to marry beneath her."
"Papa!"
"Don't talk to me, Mary! Do you mean to deny that James Parsons is infantry, or that his father was infantry before him? But he shall marry you now. By George! he shall marry you if I have to lead him to the altar by the scruff of his neck!"
Neglecting his cheese, the Colonel sprang to his feet and walked to and fro, vehemently giving his opinion of James, his father, and all his ancestors; of the regiments to which they had belonged, and all else that was theirs. He traced their origin from a pork butcher's shop, and prophesied their end, ignominiously, in hell. Every now and then he assured Mary that she need have no fear; the rascal should marry her, or die a violent death.
"But there's nothing more to be said now, papa. We've agreed quite amicably to separate. All I want you to do is to treat him as if nothing had happened."
"I'll horsewhip him," said Colonel Clibborn. "He's insulted you, and I'll make him beg your pardon on his bended knees. Clara, where's my horsewhip?"
"Papa, do be reasonable!"
"I am reasonable, Mary," roared the gallant soldier, becoming a rich purple. "I know my duty, thank God! and I'm going to do it. When a man insults my daughter, it's my duty, as a gentleman and an officer, to give him a jolly good thrashing. When that twopenny sawbones of a doctor was rude to you, I licked him within an inch of his life. I kicked him till he begged for mercy; and if more men had the courage to take the law into their own hands, there'd be fewer damned blackguards in the world."
As a matter of fact, the Colonel had neither thrashed nor kicked the doctor, but it pleased him to think he had. Moralists teach us that the intention is praiseworthy, rather than the brutal act; consequently, there could be no objection if the fearless cavalryman took credit for things which he had thought of doing, but, from circumstances beyond his control, had not actually done.
Mary felt no great alarm at her father's horrid threats, for she knew him well, but still was doubtful about her mother.
"You will treat James as you did before, won't you, mamma?"
Mrs. Clibborn smiled, a portly seraph.
"My dear, I trust I am a gentlewoman."
"He shall never darken my doors again!" cried the Colonel. "I tell you, Clara, keep him out of my way. If I meet him I won't be responsible for my actions; I shall knock him down."
"Reggie dear, you'll have such dreadful indigestion if you don't calm down. You know it always upsets you to get excited immediately after meals."
"It's disgraceful! I suppose he forgets all those half-crowns I gave him when he was a boy, and the cigars, and the port wine he's had since. I opened a special bottle for him only the night before last. I'll never sit down to dinner with him again—don't ask me to, Clara.... It's the confounded impertinence of it which gets over me. But he shall marry you, my dear; or I'll know the reason why."
"You can't have him up for breach of promise, Reggie," cooed Mrs. Clibborn.
"A gentleman takes the law in his own hands in these matters. Ah, it's a pity the good old days have gone when they settled such things with cold steel!"
And the Colonel, to emphasise his words, flung himself into the appropriate attitude, throwing his left hand up behind his head, and lunging fiercely with the right.
"Go and look for mypince-nez, my dear," said Mrs. Clibborn, turning to Mary. "I think they're in my work-basket or in your father's study."
Mary was glad to leave the room, about which the Colonel stamped in an ever-increasing rage, pausing now and then to take a mouthful of bread and cheese. The request for the glasses was Mrs. Clibborn's usual way of getting rid of Mary, a typical subterfuge of a woman who never, except by chance, put anything straightforwardly.... When the door was closed, the buxom lady clasped her hands, and cried:
"Reginald! Reginald! I have a confession to make."
"What's the matter with you?" said the Colonel, stopping short.
"I am to blame for this, Reginald." Mrs. Clibborn threw her head on one side, and looked at the ceiling as the only substitute for heaven. "James Parsons has jilted Mary—on my account."
"What the devil have you been doing now?"
"Oh, forgive me, Reginald!" she cried, sliding off the chair and falling heavily on her knees. "It's not my fault: he loves me."
"Fiddlesticks!" said her husband angrily, walking on again.
"It isn't, Reginald. How unjust you are to me!"
The facile tears began to flow down Mrs. Clibborn's well-powdered cheeks.
"I know he loves me. You can't deceive a woman and a mother."
"You're double his age!"
"These boys always fall in love with women older than themselves; I've noticed it so often. And he's almost told me in so many words, though I'm sure I've given him no encouragement."
"Fiddlesticks, Clara!"
"You wouldn't believe me when I told you that poor Algy Turner loved me, and he killed himself."
"Nothing of the kind; he died of cholera."
"Reginald," retorted Mrs. Clibborn, with asperity, "his death was most mysterious. None of the doctors understood it. If he didn't poison himself, he died of a broken heart. And I think you're very unkind to me."
With some difficulty, being a heavy woman, she lifted herself from the floor; and by the time she was safely on her feet, Mrs. Clibborn was blowing and puffing like a grampus.
The Colonel, whose mind had wandered to other things, suddenly bethought himself that he had a duty to perform.
"Where's my horsewhip, Clara? I command you to give it me."
"Reginald, if you have the smallest remnant of affection for me, you will not hurt this unfortunate young man. Remember that Algy Turner killed himself. You can't blame him for not wanting to marry poor Mary. My dear, she has absolutely no figure. And men are so susceptible to those things."
The Colonel stalked out of the room, and Mrs. Clibborn sat down to meditate.
"I thought my day for such things was past," she murmured. "I knew it all along. The way he looked at me was enough—we women have such quick perceptions! Poor boy, how he must suffer!"
She promised herself that no harsh word of hers should drive James into the early grave where lay the love-lorn Algy Turner. And she sighed, thinking what a curse it was to possess that fatal gift of beauty!
When Little Primpton heard the news, Little Primpton was agitated. Certainly it was distressed, and even virtuously indignant, but at the same time completely unable to divest itself of that little flutter of excitement which was so rare, yet so enchanting, a variation from the monotony of its daily course. The well-informed walked with a lighter step, and held their heads more jauntily, for life had suddenly acquired a novel interest. With something new to talk about, something fresh to think over, with a legitimate object of sympathy and resentment, the torpid blood raced through their veins as might that of statesmen during some crisis in national affairs. Let us thank God, who has made our neighbours frail, and in His infinite mercy caused husband and wife to quarrel; Tom, Dick, and Harry to fall more or less discreditably in love; this dear friend of ours to lose his money, and that her reputation. In all humility, let us be grateful for the scandal which falls at our feet like ripe fruit, for the Divorce Court and for the newspapers that, with a witty semblance of horror, report for us the spicy details. If at certain intervals propriety obliges us to confess that we are miserable sinners, has not the Lord sought to comfort us in the recollection that we are not half so bad as most people?
Mr. Dryland went to the Vicarage to enter certificates in the parish books. The Vicar was in his study, and gave his curate the keys of the iron safe.
"Sophie Bunch came last night to put up her banns," he said.
"She's going to marry out of the parish, isn't she?"
"Yes, a Tunbridge Wells man."
The curate carefully blotted the entries he had made, and returned the heavy books to their place.
"Will you come into the dining-room, Dryland?" said the Vicar, with a certain solemnity. "Mrs Jackson would like to speak to you."
"Certainly."
Mrs. Jackson was reading theChurch Times. Her thin, sharp face wore an expression of strong disapproval; her tightly-closed mouth, her sharp nose, even the angular lines of her body, signified clearly that her moral sense was outraged. She put her hand quickly to her massive fringe to see that it was straight, and rose to shake hands with Mr. Dryland. His heavy red face assumed at once a grave look; his moral sense was outraged, too.
"Isn't this dreadful news, Mr. Dryland?"
"Oh, very sad! Very sad!"
In both their voices, hidden below an intense sobriety, there was discernible a slight ring of exultation.
"The moment I saw him I felt he would give trouble," said Mrs. Jackson, shaking her head. "I told you, Archibald, that I didn't like the look of him."
"I'm bound to say you did," admitted her lord and master.
"Mary Clibborn is much too good for him," added Mrs. Jackson, decisively. "She's a saint."
"The fact is, that he's suffering from a swollen head," remarked the curate, who used slang as a proof of manliness.
"There, Archibald!" cried the lady, triumphantly. "What did I tell you?"
"Mrs. Jackson thought he was conceited."
"I don't think it; I'm sure of it. He's odiously conceited. All the time I was talking to him I felt he considered himself superior to me. No nice-minded man would have refused our offer to say a short prayer on his behalf during morning service."
"Those army men always have a very good opinion of themselves," said Mr. Dryland, taking advantage of his seat opposite a looking-glass to arrange his hair.
He spoke in such a round, full voice that his shortest words carried a sort of polysyllabic weight.
"I can't see what he has done to be so proud of," said Mrs. Jackson. "Anyone would have done the same in his position. I'm sure it's no more heroic than what clergymen do every day of their lives, without making the least fuss about it."
"They say that true courage is always modest," answered Mr. Dryland.
The remark was not very apposite, but sounded damaging.
"I didn't like the way he had when he came to tea here—as if he were dreadfully bored. I'm sure he's not so clever as all that."
"No clever man would act in an ungentlemanly way," said the curate, and then smiled, for he thought he had unconsciously made an epigram.
"I couldn't express in words what I feel with regard to his treatment of Mary!" cried Mrs. Jackson; and then proceeded to do so—and in many, to boot.
They had all been a little oppressed by the greatness which, much against his will, they had thrust upon the unfortunate James. They had set him on a pedestal, and then were disconcerted because he towered above their heads, and the halo with which they had surrounded him dazzled their eyes. They had wished to make a lion of James, and his modest resistance wounded their self-esteem; it was a relief to learn that he was not worth making a lion of. Halo and pedestal were quickly demolished, for the golden idol had feet of clay, and his late adorers were ready to reproach him because he had not accepted with proper humility the gifts he did not want. Their little vanities were comforted by the assurance that, far from being a hero, James was, in fact, distinctly inferior to themselves. For there is no superiority like moral superiority. A man who stands akimbo on the top of the Ten Commandments need bow the knee to no earthly potentate.
Little Primpton was conscious of its virtue, and did not hesitate to condemn.
"He has lowered himself dreadfully."
"Yes, it's very sad. It only shows how necessary it is to preserve a meek and contrite spirit in prosperity. Pride always goes before a fall."
The Jacksons and Mr. Dryland discussed the various accounts which had reached them. Mary and Mrs. Parsons were determinedly silent, but Mrs. Clibborn was loquacious, and it needed little artifice to extract the whole story from Colonel Parsons.
"One thing is unfortunately certain," said Mrs. Jackson, with a sort of pious vindictiveness, "Captain Parsons has behaved abominably, and it's our duty to do something."
"Colonel Clibborn threatens to horsewhip him."
"It would do him good," cried Mrs. Jackson; "and I should like to be there to see it!"
They paused a moment to gloat over the imaginary scene of Jamie's chastisement.
"He's a wicked man. Fancy throwing the poor girl over when she's waited five years. I think he ought to be made to marry her."
"I'm bound to say that no gentleman would have acted like that," said the Vicar.
"I wanted Archibald to go and speak seriously to Captain Parsons. He ought to know what we think of him, and it's obviously our duty to tell him."
"His parents are very much distressed. One can see that, although they say so little."
"It's not enough to be distressed. They ought to have the strength of mind to insist upon his marrying Mary Clibborn. But they stick up for everything he does. They think he's perfect. I'm sure it's not respectful to God to worship a human being as they do their son."
"They certainly have a very exaggerated opinion of him," assented Mr. Dryland.
"And I should like to know why. He's not good-looking."
"Very ordinary," agreed Mr. Dryland, with a rapid glance at the convenient mirror. "I don't think his appearance is manly."
Whatever the curate's defects of person—and he flattered himself that he was modest enough to know his bad points—no one, he fancied, could deny him manliness. It is possible that he was not deceived. Put him in a bowler-hat and a bell-bottomed coat, and few could have distinguished him from a cab-driver.
"I don't see anything particular in his eyes or hair," pursued Mrs. Jackson.
"His features are fairly regular. But that always strikes me as insipid in a man."
"And he's not a good conversationalist."
"I'm bound to confess I've never heard him say anything clever," remarked the Vicar.
"No," smiled the curate; "one could hardly call him a brilliant epigrammatist."
"I don't think he's well informed."
"Oh, well, you know, one doesn't expect knowledge from army men," said the curate, with a contemptuous smile and a shrug of the shoulders. "I must say I was rather amused when he confessed he hadn't read Marie Corelli."
"I can hardly believe that. I think it was only pose."
"I'm sorry to say that my experience of young officers is that there are absolutely no bounds to their ignorance."
They had satisfactorily stripped James of every quality, mental and physical, which could have made him attractive in Mary's eyes; and the curate's next remark was quite natural.
"I'm afraid it sounds a conceited thing to say, but I can't help asking myself what Miss Clibborn saw in him."
"Love is blind," replied Mrs. Jackson. "She could have done much better for herself."
They paused to consider the vagaries of the tender passion, and the matches which Mary might have made, had she been so inclined.
"Archibald," said Mrs. Jackson at last, with the decision characteristic of her, "I've made up my mind. As vicar of the parish,youmust go to Captain Parsons."
"I, my dear?"
"Yes, Archibald. You must insist upon him fulfilling his engagement with Mary. Say that you are shocked and grieved; and ask him if his own conscience does not tell him that he has done wrong."
"I'm not sure that he'd listen to reason," nervously remarked the Vicar.
"It's your duty to try, Archibald. We're so afraid of being called busybodies that even when we ought to step in we hesitate. No motives of delicacy should stop one when a wicked action is to be prevented. It's often the clergy's duty to interfere with other people's affairs. For my part, I will never shrink from doing my duty. People may call me a busybody if they like; hard words break no bones."
"Captain Parsons is very reserved. He might think it an impertinence if I went to him."
"How could he? Isn't it our business if he breaks his word with a parishioner of ours? If you don't talk to him, I shall. So there, Archibald!"
"Why don't you, Mrs. Jackson?"
"Nothing would please me better, I should thoroughly enjoy giving him a piece of my mind. It would do him good to be told frankly that he's not quite so great as he thinks himself. I will never shrink from doing my duty."
"My dear," remonstrated the Vicar, "if you really think I ought to speak—"