The weeks that followed offered no particular A event, but were none the
less important to this history. Coryston was called off to an election in
the north, where he made a series of speeches which perhaps in the end
annoyed the Labor candidate he was supporting as much as the Tory he was
attacking. For, generally reckoned a Socialist by friends and opponents
alike, he preached openly, on this occasion, that Socialism was absurd,
and none but fools would upset kings and cabinets, to be governed by
committees.
And on one of his spare evenings he wrote a letter to Edward Newbury,
loftily accepting him as a brother-in-law--on conditions.
"I see no reason," he wrote, "why you and I should not be good friends--if
only I can induce you to take the line of common humanity in this pitiful
case, which, as you know, has set our whole neighborhood aflame. Your
_opinions_ on divorce don't matter, of course, to me--nor mine to
you. But there are cruelties of which all men are judges. And if you
must--because of your opinions--commit yourself to one of them--why then,
whether you marry Marcia or no, you and I can't be friends. It would be
mere hypocrisy to suppose it. And I tell you quite frankly that I shall do
my best to influence Marcia. There seem to me to be one or two ways out of
the business, that would at any rate relieve you of any active connivance
with what you hold to be immorality. I have dealt with them in my letter
to your father. But if you stand on your present fiat--"Separate--or go--"
well, then you and I'll come to blows--Marcia or no Marcia. And I warn you
that Marcia is at bottom a humanist--in the new sense--like me."
To which Newbury promptly replied:
"My dear Coryston--I am quite prepared to discuss the Betts case with you,
whenever you return, and we can meet. But we cannot discuss it to any
useful purpose, unless you are prepared to allow me, before we begin, the
same freedom of opinion that you claim for yourself. It is no good ruling
out opinion--or rather conviction--and supposing that we can agree, apart
from conviction, on what is cruelty in this case, and what isn't. The
omitted point is vital. I find it difficult to write about Marcia--perhaps
because my heart and mind are so full of her. All I can say is that the
happiness she has brought me by consenting to be my wife must necessarily
affect all I think and feel. And to begin with, it makes me very keen to
understand and be friends with those she loves. She is very much attached
to you--though much troubled often, as of course you know, by the line you
have taken down here.... Let me know when you return--that I may come over
to Knatchett. We can be brothers, can't we?--even though we look at life so
differently."
But to this Coryston, who had gone on to a Labor Congress in Scotland, made
no reply.
The June days passed on, bringing the "high midsummer pomps." Every day
Newbury and Marcia met, and the Betts case was scarcely mentioned between
them after Newbury had been able to tell her that Lord William in London
had got from some Canadian magnates who happened to be there, a cordial and
even enthusiastic promise of employment for John Betts, in connection with
a Government experiment in Alberta. An opening was ready; the Newburys
guaranteed all expenses; and at last Betts himself seemed to be reconciled
to the prospect of emigration, being now, as always, determined to stick
to his marriage. Nobody wished to hurry him; he was considering the whole
proposal; and in a week or two Newbury quite hoped that matters might be
arranged.
Meanwhile, though the pride of the Newburys concealed the fact as much as
possible, not only from Marcia but from each other, the dilemma on the
horns of which John and Alice Betts had found themselves impaled, was
being eagerly, even passionately discussed through the whole district. The
supporters of the Newburys were many, for there were scores of persons on
the Newbury estates who heartily sympathized with their point of view; but
on the whole the defenders of the Betts marriage were more. The affair got
into the newspapers, and a lecturer representing the "Rational Marriage
Union" appeared from London, and addressed large and attentive audiences in
the little towns. After one of these lectures, Newbury returning home at
night from Coryston was pelted with stones and clods by men posted behind a
hedge. He was only slightly hurt, and when Marcia tried to speak of it, his
smile of frank contempt put the matter by. She could only be thankful that
Coryston was still away.
For Lady Coryston, meanwhile, the Betts case scarcely existed. When it did
come up, she would say impatiently that in her opinion such private matters
were best left to the people concerned to settle; and it was evident that
to her the High Anglican view of divorce was, like the inconvenient piety
of Hoddon Grey, a thing of superfluity. But Marcia knew very well that her
mother had no mind to give to such a trifle--or to anything, indeed--her
own marriage not excepted--but Arthur's disclosure, and Arthur's
intentions. What her mother's plans were she could not discover. They
lingered on at Coryston when, with the wedding so close in view, it would
have been natural that they should return at once to London for shopping;
and Marcia observed that her mother seemed to be more closely absorbed
in politics than ever, while less attentive, perhaps, than usual to the
affairs of the estate and the village. A poster announcing the Martover
meeting was lying about in her sitting-room, and from a fragment of
conversation overheard between her mother and Mr. Page, the agent, it
seemed that Lady Coryston had been making elaborate inquiries as to those
queer people, the Atherstones, with whom the Glenwilliams were to stay for
the meeting. Was her mother afraid that Arthur would do something silly
and public when they came down! Not the least likely! He had plenty of
opportunities in London, with no local opinion, and no mother to worry him.
Yet when Parliament reassembled, and Arthur, with an offhand good-by to his
mother, went back to his duties, Marcia in vain suggested to Lady Coryston
that they also should return to St. James's Square, partly to keep an eye
on the backslider, partly with a view to "fittings," Lady Coryston curtly
replied, that Marcia might have a motor whenever she pleased, to take her
up to town, but that she herself meant for another fortnight to stay at
Coryston. Marcia, much puzzled, could only write to James to beg him to
play watch-dog; well aware, however, that if Arthur chose to press the
pace, James could do nothing whatever to stop him.
On the day before the Glenwilliam meeting Lady Coryston, who had gone out
westward through the park, was returning by motor from the direction of
Martover, and reached her own big and prosperous village of Coryston Major
about seven o'clock. She had been holding conference with a number of
persons in the old borough of Martover, persons who might be trusted to
turn a Radical meeting into a howling inferno, if the smallest chink of
opportunity were given them; and she was conscious of a good afternoon's
work. As she sat majestically erect in the corner of the motor, her brain
was alive with plans. A passion of political--and personal--hatred charged
every vein. She was tired, but she would not admit it. On the contrary, not
a day passed that she did not say to herself that she was in the prime of
life, that the best of her work as a party woman was still to do, and that
even if Arthur did fail her--incredible defection!--she, alone, would
fight to the end, and leave her mark, so far as a voteless woman of great
possessions might, upon the country and its fortunes.
Yet the thought of Arthur was very bitter to her, and the expectation of
the scene which--within forty-eight hours--she was deliberately preparing
for herself. She meant to win her battle,--did not for one moment admit the
possibility of losing it. But that her son would make her suffer for it she
foresaw, and though she would not allow them to come into the open, there
were dim fears and misgivings in the corners of her mind which made life
disagreeable.
It was a fine summer evening, bright but cool. The streets of Coryston were
full of people, and Lady Coryston distributed a suzerain's greetings as
she passed along. Presently, at a spot ahead of her, she perceived a large
crowd, and the motor slowed down.
"What's the matter, Patterson?" she asked of her chauffeur.
"Layin' a stone--or somethin'--my lady," said the chauffeur in a puzzled
voice.
"Laying a stone?" she repeated, wondering. Then, as the crowd parted before
the motor, she caught sight of a piece of orchard ground which only that
morning had been still hidden behind the high moss-grown palings which had
screened it for a generation. Now the palings had been removed sufficiently
to allow a broad passage through, and the crowd outside was but an overflow
from the crowd within. Lady Coryston perceived a platform with several
black-coated persons in white ties, a small elderly lady, and half a
dozen chairs upon it. At one end of the platform a large notice-board had
apparently just been reared, for a couple of men were still at work on its
supports. The board exhibited the words--"Site of the new Baptist Chapel
for Coryston Major. All contributions to the building fund thankfully
received."
There was no stone to be seen, grass and trees indeed were still untouched,
but a public meeting was clearly proceeding, and in the chair, behind a
small table, was a slight, fair-haired man, gesticulating with vigor.
Lady Coryston recognized her eldest son.
"Drive on, Patterson!" she said, furiously.
"I can't, my lady--they're too thick."
By this time the motor had reached the center of the gathering which filled
the road, and the persons composing it had recognized Lady Coryston. A
movement ran through the crowd; faces turned toward the motor, and then
toward the platform; from the mother--back to the son. The faces seemed
to have but one smile, conscious, sly, a little alarmed. And as the motor
finally stopped--the chauffeur having no stomach for manslaughter--in front
of the breach in the railings, the persons on the platform saw it, and
understood what was the matter with the audience.
Coryston paused in his speech. There was a breathless moment. Then,
stepping in front of the table, to the edge of the platform, he raised his
voice:
"We scarcely expected, my friends, to see my mother, Lady Coryston, among
us this evening. Lady Coryston has as good a right to her opinion as any of
us have to ours. She has disapproved of this enterprise till now. She did
not perhaps think there were so many Baptists--big and little Baptists--in
Coryston--" he swept his hand round the audience with its fringe of babies.
"May we not hope that her presence to-night means that she has changed her
mind--that she will not only support us--but that she will even send a
check to the Building Fund! Three cheers for Lady Coryston!"
He pointed to the notice-board, his fair hair blown wildly back from his
boyish brow, and queer thin lips; and raising his hand, he started the
first "Hip!--hip--"
"Go on, Patterson," cried Lady Coryston again, knocking sharply at the
front windows of the open landaulette. The crowd cheered and laughed, in
good-humored triumph; the chauffeur hooted violently, and those nearest the
motor fled with shrieks and jeers; Lady Coryston sat in pale endurance. At
last the way was clear, and the motor shot forward. Coryston stepped back
to the table and resumed his speech as though nothing had happened.
"Infamous! Outrageous!"
The words formed themselves on Lady Coryston's angry lips. So the plot in
which she had always refused to believe had actually been carried through!
That woman on the platform was no doubt the butler's daughter, the miserly
spinster who had guarded her Naboth's vineyard against all purchasers for
twenty years. Coryston had squared her, and in a few months the Baptist
Chapel his mother had staved off till now, would be flaunting it in the
village.
And this was Coryston's doing. What taste--what feeling! A mother!--to be
so treated! By the time she reached her own sitting-room, Lady Coryston was
very near a womanish weeping. She sat silently there awhile, in the falling
dusk, forcing back her self-control, making herself think of the next day,
the arrival of the Glenwilliams, and how she would need all her strength
and a clear head to go through with what she meant to do--more important,
that, than this trumpery business in the village!
A sound of footsteps roused her from her thoughts, and she perceived Marcia
outside, coming back through the trees to the house. Marcia was singing in
a low voice as she came. She had taken off her hat, which swung in her left
hand, and her dark curls blew about her charming face. The evening light
seemed to halo and caress her; and her mother thought--"she has just parted
from Edward!" A kind of jealousy of her daughter for one strange moment
possessed her--jealousy of youth and love and opening life. She felt
herself thwarted and forgotten; her sons were all against her, and her
daughter had no need of her. The memory of her own courting days came back
upon her, a rare experience!--and she was conscious of a dull longing for
the husband who had humored her every wish--save one; had been proud of her
cleverness, and indolently glad of her activity. Yet when she thought of
him, it was to see him as he lay on his death-bed, during those long last
hours of obstinate silence, when his soul gave no sign to hers, before the
end.
[Illustration: MARCIA WAS SINGING, IN A LOW VOICE AS SHE CAME]
Marcia's state and Marcia's feelings, meanwhile, were by no means so simple
as her mother imagined. She was absorbed, indeed, by the interest and
excitement of her engagement. She could never forget Newbury; his influence
mingled with every action and thought of her day; and it was much more than
an influence of sex and passion. They had hardly indeed been engaged a few
days, before Marcia had instinctively come to look upon their love as a
kind of huge and fascinating adventure. Where would it lead?--how would
it work out? She was conscious always of the same conflicting impulses of
submission and revolt; the same alternations of trust and resentment. In
order not to be crushed by the strength of his character, she had brought
up against him from the very beginning the weapons of her young beauty,
carrying out what she had dimly conceived, even on the first day of their
betrothal. The wonder of that perpetual contrast, between the natural
sweetness of his temperament and the sternness with which he controlled and
disciplined his life, never ceased to affect her. His fierce judgment of
opinions--his bitter judgment, often, of men--repelled and angered her.
She rose in revolt, protesting; only to be made to feel that in such
bitterness, or such fierceness, there was nothing personal whatever. He was
but a soldier under orders, mysterious orders; moved by forces she only
faintly perceived. Once or twice, during the fortnight, it was as though a
breath of something infinitely icy and remote blew across their relation;
nor was it till, some years afterward, she read Madame Perrier's life of
her brother, Blaise Pascal, that she understood in some small degree what
it had meant.
And just as some great physical and mental demand may bring out undreamt-of
powers in a man or woman, so with the moral and spiritual demand made by
such a personality as Newbury. Marcia rose in stature as she tried to meet
it. She was braced, exalted. Her usual egotisms and arrogancies fell away
ashamed. She breathed a diviner air, and life ran, hour by hour, with a
wonderful intensity, though always haunted by a sense of danger she could
not explain. Newbury's claim upon her indeed was soon revealed as the claim
of lover, master, friend, in one; his love infused something testing and
breathless into every hour of every day they were together.
On the actual day of the Martover meeting Marcia was left alone at
Coryston. Newbury had gone--reluctantly for once--to a diocesan meeting
on the farther side of the county. Lady Coryston, whose restlessness was
evident, had driven to inspect a new farm some miles off, and was to take
informal dinner on her way back with her agent, Mr. Page, and his wife--a
house in which she might reckon on the latest gossip about the Chancellor's
visit, and the great meeting for which special trains were being run from
town, and strangers were pouring into the district.
Marcia spent the day in writing letters of thanks for wedding presents, and
sheets of instructions to Waggin, who had been commandeered long before
this, and was now hard at work in town on the preparations for the wedding;
sorely hampered the while by Lady Coryston's absence from the scene.
Then, after giving some last thoughts to her actual wedding-dress, the
bride-elect wandered into the rose-garden and strolled about aimlessly
gathering, till her hands were full of blooms, her thoughts meanwhile
running like a mill-race over the immediate past and the immediate future.
This one day's separation from Newbury had had a curious effect. She had
missed him sharply; yet at the same time she had been conscious of a sort
of relief from strain, a slackening of the mental and moral muscles, which
had been strangely welcome.
Presently she saw Lester coming from the house, holding up a note.
"I came to bring you this. It seems to want an answer." He approached her,
his eyes betraying the pleasure awakened by the sight of her among the
roses, in her delicate white dress, under the evening sky. He had scarcely
seen her of late, and in her happiness and preoccupation she seemed at last
to have practically forgotten his presence in the house.
She opened the note, and as she read it Lester was dismayed to see a look
of consternation blotting the brightness from her face.
"I must have the small motor--at once! Can you order it for me?"
"Certainly. You want it directly?"
"Directly. Please hurry them!" And dropping the roses, without a thought,
on the ground, and gathering up her white skirts, she ran toward one of the
side doors of the façade which led to her room. Lester lifted the fragrant
mass of flowers she had left scattered on the grass, and carried them in.
What could be the matter?
He saw to the motor's coming round, and when a few minutes later he had
placed her in it, cloaked and veiled, he asked her anxiously if he could
not do anything to help her, and what he should say to Lady Coryston on her
return.
"I have left a note for my mother. Please tell Sir Wilfrid I sha'n't be
here for dinner. No--thank you!--thank you! I must go myself!" Then, to the
chauffeur--"Redcross Farm!--as quick as you can!"
Lester was left wondering. Some new development of the Betts trouble? After
a few minutes' thought he went toward the smoking-room in search of Sir
Wilfrid Bury.
Meanwhile Marcia was speeding through the summer country, where the hay
harvest was beginning and the fields were still full of folk. The day had
been thunderously fine, with threats of change. Broad streaks of light and
shadow lay on the shorn grass; children were tumbling in the swaths, and a
cheerful murmur of voices rose on the evening air. But Marcia could only
think of the note she still held in her hand.
"Can you come and see me? to-night--at once. Don't bring anybody. I am
alarmed about my husband. Mr. Edward is away till to-morrow.--ALICE BETTS."
This sudden appeal to her had produced in Marcia a profound intensity of
feeling. She thought of Coryston's "Take care!"--and trembled. Edward would
not be home till the following day. She must act alone--help alone. The
thought braced her will. Her mother would be no use--but she wished she had
thought of asking Sir Wilfrid to come with her....
The car turned into the field lane leading to the farm. The wind had
strengthened, and during all the latter part of her drive heavy clouds had
been rising from the west, and massing themselves round the declining sun.
The quality of the light had changed, and the air had grown colder.
"Looks like a storm, miss," said the young chauffeur, a lad just promoted
to driving, and the son of the Coryston head gardener. As he spoke, a man
came out of a range of buildings on the farther side of a field and paused
to look at the motor. He was carrying something in his arms--Marcia
thought, a lamb. The sight of the lady in the car seemed to excite his
astonishment, but after a moment or two's observation he turned abruptly
round the corner of the building behind him and disappeared.
"That's the place, miss, where they try all the new foods," the chauffeur
continued, eagerly,--"and that's Mr. Betts. He's just wonderful with the
beasts."
"You know the farm, Jackson?"
"Oh, father's great friends with Mr. Betts," said the youth, proudly.
"And I've often come over with him of a Sunday. Mr. Betts is a very nice
gentleman. He'll show you everything."
At which point, however, with a conscious look, and a blush, the young man
fell silent. Marcia wondered how much he knew. Probably not much less than
she did, considering the agitation in the neighborhood.
They motored slowly toward the farm-house, an old building with modern
additions and a small garden round it, standing rather nakedly on the edge
of the famous checkered field, a patchwork quilt of green, yellow, and
brown, which Marcia had often passed on her drives without understanding in
the least what it meant. About a stone's-throw from the front door rose a
substantial one-storied building, and, seeing Miss Coryston glance at it
curiously, Jackson was again eager to explain:
"That's the laboratory, miss--His lordship built that six years ago. And
last year there was a big meeting here. Father and I come over to the
speeches--and they gave Mr. Betts a gold medal--and there was an American
gentleman who spoke--and he said as how this place of Mr. Betts--next to
that place, Harpenden way--Rothamsted, I think they call it--was most
'ighly thought of in the States--and Mr. Betts had done fine. And that's
the cattle-station over there, miss, where they fattens 'em, and weighs
'em. And down there's the drainage field where they gathers all the water
that's been through the crops, when they've manured 'em--and the mangel
field--and--"
"Mind that gate, Jackson," said Marcia. The youth silenced, looked to his
steering, and brought the motor up safely to the door of the farm.
A rather draggled maid-servant answered Marcia's ring, examined her
furtively, and showed her into the little drawing-room. Marcia stood at the
window, looking out. She saw the motor disappearing toward the garage which
she understood was to be found somewhere on the premises. The storm was
drawing nearer; the rising grounds to the west were in black shadow--but on
the fields and scattered buildings in front, wild gleams were striking now
here, now there. How trim everything was!--how solid and prosperous. The
great cattle-shed on the one hand--the sheep-station on the other, with its
pens and hurdles--the fine stone-built laboratory--the fields stretching to
the distance.
She turned to the room in which she stood. Nothing trim or solid there! A
foundation indeed of simple things, the chairs and tables of a bachelor's
room, over which a tawdry taste had gone rioting. Draperies of "art"
muslin; photographs in profusion--of ladies in very low dresses and
affected poses, with names and affectionate messages written across the
corners;--a multitude of dingy knick-knacks; above the mantelpiece a large
colored photograph of Mrs. Betts herself as Ariel; clothes lying about;
muddy shoes; the remains of a meal: Marcia looked at the medley with quick
repulsion, the wave of feeling dropping.
The door opened. A small figure in a black dress entered softly, closed the
door behind her, and stood looking at Miss Coryston. Marcia was at first
bewildered. She had only seen Mrs. Betts once before, in her outdoor
things, and the impression left had been of a red-eyed, disheveled,
excitable woman, dressed in shabby finery, the sort of person who would
naturally possess such a sitting-room as that in which they stood. And here
was a woman austerely simple in dress and calm in manner! The black gown,
without an ornament of any kind, showed the still lovely curves of the
slight body, and the whiteness of the arms and hands. The face was quiet,
of a dead pallor; the hair gathered loosely together and held in place by a
couple of combs, was predominantly gray, and there had been no effort this
time to disguise the bareness of the temples, or the fresh signs of age
graven round eyes and lips.
For the first time the quick sense of the girl perceived that Mrs. Betts
was or had been a beautiful woman. By what dramatic instinct did she thus
present herself for this interview? A wretched actress on the boards, did
she yet possess some subtle perception which came into play at this crisis
of her own personal life?
"It was very kind of you to come, Miss Coryston." She pushed forward a
chair. "Won't you sit down? I'm ashamed of this room. I apologize for it."
She looked round it with a gesture of weary disgust, and then at Marcia,
who stood in flushed agitation, the heavy cloak she had worn in the motor
falling back from her shoulders and her white dress, the blue motor veil
framing the brilliance of her eyes and cheeks.
"I musn't sit down, thank you--I can't stay long," said the girl,
hurriedly. "Will you tell me why you sent for me? I came at once. But my
mother, when she comes home, will wonder where I am."
Without answering immediately, Mrs. Betts moved to the window, and looked
out into the darkening landscape, and the trees already bending to the
gusts which precede the storm.
"Did you see my husband as you came?" she asked, turning slightly.
"Yes. He was carrying something. He saw me, but I don't think he knew who I
was."
"He never came home last night at all," said Mrs. Betts, looking away again
out of the window. "He wandered about the fields and the sheds all night.
I looked out just as it was getting light, and saw him walking about among
the wheat plots, sometimes stopping to look, and sometimes making a note
in his pocket-book, as he does when he's going his rounds. And at four
o'clock, when I looked again, he was coming out of the cattle-shed, with
something in his hand, which he took into the laboratory. I saw him unlock
the door of the laboratory and I bent out of my window, and tried to call
him. But he never looked my way, and he stayed there till the sun was up.
Then I saw him again outside, and I went out and brought him in. But he
wouldn't take any rest even then. He went into the office and began to
write. I took him some tea, and then--"
The speaker's white face quivered for the first time. She came to Marcia
and laid both hands on the girl's arm.
"He told me he was losing his memory and his mind. He thought he had never
quite got over his illness before he went to Colwyn Bay--and now it was
this trouble which had done for him. He had told Mr. Edward he would go to
Canada--but he knew he never should. They wouldn't want a man so broken
up. He could never begin any new work--his life was all in this place. So
then--"
The tears began quietly to overflow the large blue eyes looking into
Marcia's. Mrs. Betts took no notice of them. They fell on the bosom of her
dress; and presently Marcia timidly put up her own handkerchief, and wiped
them away, unheeded.
"So then I told him I had better go. I had brought him nothing but trouble,
and I wasn't worth it. He was angry with me for saying it. I should never
leave him--never--he said--but I must go away then because he had letters
to write. And I was just going, when he came after me, and--and--he took me
in his arms and carried me up-stairs and laid me on the bed and covered me
up warmly. Then he stayed a little while at the foot of the bed looking at
me, and saying queer things to himself--and at last he went down-stairs....
All day he has been out and about the farm. He has never spoken to me. The
men say he's so strange--they don't like to leave him alone--but he drives
them away when they go to speak to him. And when he didn't come in all day,
I sat down and wrote to you--"
She paused, mechanically running her little hand up and down the front of
Marcia's cloak.
"I don't know anybody here. John's lots of friends--but they're not my
friends--and even when they're sorry for us--they know--what I've done--and
they don't want to have much to do with me. You said you'd speak for us to
Mr. Edward--and I know you did--Mr. Edward told John so. You've been kinder
to me than any one else here. So I just wanted to tell _you_--what
I'm going to do. I'm going away--I'm going right away. John won't know,
nobody'll know where I'm gone. But I want you to tell Mr. Newbury--and get
him and Lord William to be kind to John--as they used to be. He'll get over
it--by and by!"
Then, straightening herself, she drew herself away.
"I'm not going to the Sisterhood!" she said, defiantly. "I'd sooner die!
You may tell Mr. Newbury I'll live my own life--and I've got my boy. John
won't find me--I'll take care of that. But if I'm not fit for decent people
to touch--there's plenty like me. I'll not cringe to anybody--I'll go where
I'm welcome. So now you understand, don't you--what I wanted to ask you?"
"No indeed I don't," cried Marcia, in distress. "And you won't--you sha'n't
do anything so mad! Please--please, be patient!--I'll go again to Mr.
Newbury. I shall see him to-morrow!"
Mrs. Betts shook her head. "No use--no use. It's the only thing to do for
me to take myself off. And no one can stop it. If you were to tell John
now, just what I've said, it wouldn't make any difference. He couldn't stop
me. I'm going!--that's settled. But _he_ sha'n't go. He's got to take
up his work here again. And Mr. Edward must persuade him--and look after
him--and watch him. What's their religion good for, if it can't do that?
Oh, how I _hate_ their religion!"
Her eyes lit up with passion; whatever touch of acting there might have
been in her monologue till now, this rang fiercely true:
"Haven't I good reason?" Her hands clenched at the words. "It's that which
has come between us, as well as the farm. Since he's been back here, it's
the old ideas that have got hold of him again. He thinks he's in mortal
sin--he thinks he's damned--and yet he won't--he can't give me up. My poor
old John!--We were so happy those few weeks!--why couldn't they leave
us alone!--That hard old man, Lord William!--and Mr. Edward--who's got
you--and everything he wants besides in the world! There--now I suppose
you'll turn against me too!"
She stood superbly at bay, her little body drawn up against the wall, her
head thrown back. To her own dismay, Marcia found herself sobbing--against
her will.
"I'm not against you. Indeed--indeed--I'm not against you! You'll see. I'll
go again to Mr. Newbury--I promise you! He's not hard--he's not cruel--he's
not!..."
"Hush!" said Mrs. Berts, suddenly, springing forward--"there he is!" And
trembling all over, she pointed to the figure of her husband, standing just
outside the window and looking in upon them. Thunder had been rumbling
round the house during the whole of this scene, and now the rain had
begun. It beat on the bare grizzled head of John Betts, and upon his
weather-beaten cheeks and short beard.
His expression sent a shudder through Marcia. He seemed to be looking at
them--and yet not conscious of them; his tired eyes met hers, and made no
sign. With a slight puzzled gesture he turned away, back into the pelting
rain, his shoulders bent, his step faltering and slow.
"Oh! go after him!" said Marcia, imploringly. "Don't trouble about me! I'll
find the motor. Go! Take my cloak!" She would have wrapped it round Mrs.
Betts and pushed her to the door. But the woman stopped her.
"No good. He wouldn't listen to me. I'll get one of the men to bring him
in. And the servant'll go for your motor." She went out of the room to give
the order, and came back. Then as she saw Marcia under the storm light,
standing in the middle of the room, and struggling with her tears, she
suddenly fell on her knees beside the girl, embracing her dress, with
stifled sobs and inarticulate words of thanks.
"Make them do something for John. It doesn't matter about me. Let them
comfort John. Then I'll forgive them."