In the morning, after breakfast, James went for a walk. He wanted to
think out clearly what he had better do, feeling that he must make up
his mind at once. Hesitation would be fatal, and yet to speak
immediately seemed so cruel, so brutally callous.
Wishing to be absolutely alone, he wandered through the garden to a
little wood of beech-trees, which in his boyhood had been a favourite
haunt. The day was fresh and sweet after the happy rain of April, the
sky so clear that it affected one like a very beautiful action.
James stood still when he came into the wood, inhaling the odour of
moist soil, the voluptuous scents of our mother, the Earth, gravid with
silent life. For a moment he was intoxicated by the paradise of verdure.
The beech-trees rose very tall, with their delicate branches singularly
black amid the young leaves of the spring, tender and vivid. The eye
could not pierce the intricate greenery; it was more delicate than the
summer rain, subtler than the mists of the sunset. It was a scene to
drive away all thought of the sadness of life, of the bitterness. Its
exquisite fresh purity made James feel pure also, and like a little
child he wandered over the undulating earth, broken by the tortuous
courses of the streamlets of winter.
The ground was soft, covered with brown dead leaves, and he tried to see
the rabbit rustling among them, or the hasty springing of a squirrel.
The long branches of the briar entangled his feet; and here and there,
in sheltered corners, blossomed the primrose and the violet He listened
to the chant of the birds, so joyous that it seemed impossible they sang
in a world of sorrow. Hidden among the leaves, aloft in the beeches, the
linnet sang with full-throated melody, and the blackbird and the thrush.
In the distance a cuckoo called its mysterious note, and far away, like
an echo, a fellow-bird called back.
All Nature was rejoicing in the delight of the sunshine; all Nature was
rejoicing, and his heart alone was heavy as lead. He stood by a
fir-tree, which rose far above the others, immensely tall, like the mast
of a solitary ship; it was straight as a life without reproach, but
cheerless, cold, and silent. His life, too, was without reproach,
thought James--without reproach till now.... He had loved Mary Clibborn.
But was it love, or was it merely affection, habit, esteem? She was the
only girl he knew, and they had grown up together. When he came from
school for his holidays, or later from Sandhurst, on leave, Mary was his
constant friend, without whom he would have been miserably dull. She was
masculine enough to enter into his boyish games, and even their thoughts
were common. There were so few people in Little Primpton that those who
lived there saw one another continually; and though Tunbridge Wells was
only four miles away, the distance effectually prevented very close
intimacy with its inhabitants. It was natural, then, that James should
only look forward to an existence in which Mary took part; without that
pleasant companionship the road seemed long and dreary. When he was
appointed to a regiment in India, and his heart softened at the prospect
of the first long parting from all he cared for, it was the separation
from Mary that seemed hardest to bear.
"I don't know what I shall do without you, Mary," he said.
"You will forget all about us when you've been in India a month."
But her lips twitched, and he noticed that she found difficulty in
speaking quite firmly. She hesitated a moment, and spoke again.
"It's different for us," she said, "Those who go forget, but those who
stay--remember. We shall be always doing the same things to remind us
of you. Oh, you won't forget me, Jamie?"
The last words slipped out against the girl's intention.
"Mary!" he cried.
And then he put his arms round her, and Mary rested her face on his
shoulder and began to cry. He kissed her, trying to stop her tears; he
pressed her to his heart. He really thought he loved her then with all
his strength.
"Mary," he whispered, "Mary, do you care for me? Will you marry me?"
Then quickly he explained that it would make it so much better for both
if they became engaged.
"I shan't be able to marry you for a long time; but will you wait for
me, Mary?"
She began to smile through her tears.
"I would wait for you to the end of my life."
During the first two years in India the tie had been to James entirely
pleasurable; and if, among the manifold experiences of his new life, he
bore Mary's absence with greater equanimity than he had thought
possible, he was always glad to receive her letters, with their delicate
aroma of the English country; and it pleased him to think that his
future was comfortably settled. The engagement was a sort of ballast,
and he felt that he could compass his journey without fear and without
disturbance. James did not ask himself whether his passion was very
ardent, for his whole education had led him to believe that passion was
hardly moral. The proper and decent basis of marriage was similarity of
station, and the good, solid qualities which might be supposed
endurable. From his youth, the wisdom of the world had been instilled
into him through many proverbs, showing the advisability of caution, the
transitoriness of beauty and desire; and, on the other hand, the lasting
merit of honesty, virtue, domesticity, and good temper....
But we all know that Nature is a goddess with no sense of decency, for
whom the proprieties are simply non-existent; men and women in her eyes
have but one point of interest, and she walks abroad, with her
fashioning fingers, setting in order the only work she cares for. All
the rest is subsidiary, and she is callous to suffering and to death,
indifferent to the Ten Commandments and even to the code of Good
Society.
James at last made the acquaintance of a certain Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace,
the wife of a man in a native regiment, a little, dark-hatred person,
with an olive skin and big brown eyes--rather common, but excessively
pretty. She was the daughter of a riding-master by a Portuguese woman
from Goa, and it had been something of a scandal when
Pritchard-Wallace, who was an excellent fellow, had married her against
the advice of all the regimental ladies. But if those charitable persons
had not ceased to look upon her with doubtful eyes, her wit and her good
looks for others counterbalanced every disadvantage; and she did not
fail to have a little court of subalterns and the like hanging
perpetually about her skirts. At first Mrs. Wallace merely amused James.
Her absolute frivolity, her cynical tongue, her light-heartedness, were
a relief after the rather puritanical atmosphere in which he had passed
his youth; he was astonished to hear the gay contempt which she poured
upon all the things that he had held most sacred--things like the Tower
of London and the British Constitution. Prejudices and cherished beliefs
were dissipated before her sharp-tongued raillery; she was a woman with
almost a witty way of seeing the world, with a peculiarly feminine gift
for putting old things in a new, absurd light. To Mrs. Wallace, James
seemed a miracle of ingenuousness, and she laughed at him continually;
then she began to like him, and took him about with her, at which he was
much flattered.
James had been brought up in the belief that women were fashioned of
different clay from men, less gross, less earthly; he thought not only
that they were pious, sweet and innocent, ignorant entirely of
disagreeable things, but that it was man's first duty to protect them
from all knowledge of the realities of life. To him they were an
ethereal blending of milk-and-water with high principles; it had never
occurred to him that they were flesh and blood, and sense, and fire and
nerves--especially nerves. Most topics, of course, could not be broached
in their presence; in fact, almost the only safe subject of conversation
was the weather.
But Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace prided herself on frankness, which is less
common in pretty women than in plain; and she had no hesitation in
discussing with James matters that he had never heard discussed before.
She was hugely amused at the embarrassment which made him hesitate and
falter, trying to find polite ways of expressing the things which his
whole training had taught him to keep rigidly to himself. Then
sometimes, from pure devilry, Mrs. Wallace told stories on purpose to
shock him; and revelled in his forced, polite smile, and in his strong
look of disapproval.
"What a funny boy you are!" she said. "But you must take care, you know;
you have all the makings of a perfect prig."
"D'you think so?"
"You must try to be less moral. The moral young man is rather funny for
a change, but he palls after a time."
"If I bore you, you have only to say so, and I won't bother you again."
"And moral young men shouldn't get cross; it's very bad manners," she
answered, smiling.
Before he knew what had happened, James found himself madly in love with
Mrs. Wallace. But what a different passion was this, resembling not at
all that pallid flame which alone he had experienced! How could he
recognise the gentle mingling of friendship and of common-sense which he
called love in that destroying violence which troubled his days like a
fever? He dreamed of the woman at night; he seemed only to live when he
was with her. The mention of her name made his heart beat, and meeting
her he trembled and turned cold. By her side he found nothing to say; he
was like wax in her hands, without will or strength. The touch of her
fingers sent the blood rushing through his veins insanely; and
understanding his condition, she took pleasure in touching him, to watch
the little shiver of desire that convulsed his frame. In a very
self-restrained man love works ruinously; and it burnt James now, this
invisible, unconscious fire, till he was consumed utterly--till he was
mad with passion. And then suddenly, at some chance word, he knew what
had happened; he knew that he was in love with the wife of his good
friend, Pritchard-Wallace; and he thought of Mary Clibborn.
There was no hesitation now, nor doubt; James had only been in danger
because he was unaware of it. He never thought of treachery to his
friend or to Mary; he was horror-stricken, hating himself. He looked
over the brink of the precipice at the deadly sin, and recoiled,
shuddering. He bitterly reproached himself, taking for granted that some
error of his had led to the catastrophe. But his duty was obvious; he
knew he must kill the sinful love, whatever pain it cost him; he must
crush it as he would some noxious vermin.
James made up his mind never to see Mrs. Wallace again; and he thought
that God was on his side helping him, since, with her husband, she was
leaving in a month for England. He applied for leave. He could get away
for a few weeks, and on his return Mrs. Wallace would be gone. He
managed to avoid her for several days, but at last she came across him
by chance, and he could not escape.
"I didn't know you were so fond of hide-and-seek," she said, "I think
it's rather a stupid game."
"I don't understand," replied James, growing pale.
"Why have you been dodging round corners to avoid me as if I were a dun,
and inventing the feeblest excuses not to come to me?"
James stood for a moment, not knowing what to answer; his knees
trembled, and he sweated with the agony of his love. It was an angry,
furious passion, that made him feel he could almost seize the woman by
the throat and strangle her.
"Did you know that I am engaged to be married?" he asked at length.
"I've never known a sub who wasn't. It's the most objectionable of all
their vicious habits. What then?" She looked at him, smiling; she knew
very well the power of her dark eyes, fringed with long lashes. "Don't
be silly," she added. "Come and see me, and bring her photograph, and
you shall talk to me for two hours about her. Will you come?"
"It's very kind of you. I don't think I can."
"Why not? You're really very rude."
"I'm extremely busy."
"Nonsense! You must come. Don't look as if I were asking you to do
something quite horrible. I shall expect you to tea."
She bound him by his word, and James was forced to go. When he showed
the photograph, Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace looked at it with a curious
expression. It was the work of a country photographer, awkward and
ungainly, with the head stiffly poised, and the eyes hard and fixed; the
general impression was ungraceful and devoid of charm, Mrs. Wallace
noticed the country fashion of her clothes.
"It's extraordinary that subalterns should always get engaged to the
same sort of girl."