"They always photograph badly," murmured Mrs. Wallace.
"She's the best girl in the world. You can't think how good, and kind,
and simple she is; she reminds me always of an English breeze."
"I don't like east winds myself," said Mrs. Wallace. "But I can see she
has all sorts of admirable qualities."
"D'you know why I came to see you to-day?"
"Because I forced you," said Mrs. Wallace, laughing.
"I came to say good-bye; I've got a month's leave."
"Oh, but I shall be gone by the time you come back."
"I know. It is for that reason."
Mrs. Wallace looked at him quickly, hesitated, then glanced away.
"Is it so bad as that?"
"Oh, don't you understand?" cried James, breaking suddenly from his
reserve. "I must tell you. I shall never see you again, and it can't
matter. I love you with all my heart and soul. I didn't know what love
was till I met you. God help me, it was only friendship I had for Mary!
This is so different. Oh, I hate myself! I can't help it; the mere touch
of your hand sends me mad with passion. I daren't see you again--I'm not
a blackguard. I know it's quite hopeless. And I've given my word to
Mary."
The look of her eyes, the sound of her voice, sent half his fine
intentions flying before the wind. He lost command over himself--but
only for a moment; the old habits were strong.
"I beg your pardon! I oughtn't to have spoken. Don't be angry with me
for what I've said. I couldn't help it. You thought me a fool because I
ran away from you. It was all I could do. I couldn't help loving you.
You understand now, don't you? I know that you will never wish to see me
again, and it's better for both of us. Good-bye."
He stretched out his hand.
"I didn't know it was so bad as that," she said, looking at him with
kindly eyes.
"Didn't you see me tremble when the hem of your dress touched me by
accident? Didn't you hear that I couldn't speak; the words were dried
up in my throat?" He sank into a chair weakly; but then immediately
gathering himself together, sprang up. "Good-bye," he said. "Let me go
quickly."
She gave him her hand, and then, partly in kindness, partly in malice,
bent forward and kissed his lips. James gave a cry, a sob; now he lost
command over himself entirely. He took her in his arms roughly, and
kissed her mouth, her eyes, her hair--so passionately that Mrs. Wallace
was frightened. She tried to free herself; but he only held her closer,
madly kissing her lips.
"Take care," she said. "What are you doing? Let me go!" And she pushed
him away.
She was a cautious woman, who never allowed flirtation to go beyond
certain decorous lengths, and she was used to a milder form of
philandering.
"You've disarranged my hair, you silly boy!" She went to the glass to
put it in order, and when she turned back found that James had gone.
"What an odd creature!" she muttered.
To Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace the affair was but an incident, such as might
have been the love of Phaedra had she flourished in an age when the art
of living consists in not taking things too seriously; but for
Hippolitus a tragedy of one sort or another is inevitable. James was not
a man of easy affections; he made the acquaintance of people with a
feeling of hostility rather than with the more usual sensation of
friendly curiosity. He was shy, and even with his best friends could not
lessen his reserve. Some persons are able to form close intimacies with
admirable facility, but James felt always between himself and his
fellows a sort of barrier. He could not realise that deep and sudden
sympathy was even possible, and was apt to look with mistrust upon the
appearance thereof. He seemed frigid and perhaps supercilious to those
with whom he came in contact; he was forced to go his way, hiding from
all eyes the emotions he felt. And when at last he fell passionately in
love, it meant to him ten times more than to most men; it was a sudden
freedom from himself. He was like a prisoner who sees for the first time
in his life the trees and the hurrying clouds, and all the various
movement of the world. For a little while James had known a wonderful
liberty, an ineffable bliss which coloured the whole universe with new,
strange colours. But then he learnt that the happiness was only sin, and
he returned voluntarily to his cold prison.... Till he tried to crush
it, he did not know how strong was this passion; he did not realise that
it had made of him a different man; it was the only thing in the world
to him, beside which everything else was meaningless. He became
ruthless towards himself, undergoing every torture which he fancied
might cleanse him of the deadly sin.
And when Mrs. Wallace, against his will, forced herself upon his
imagination, he tried to remember her vulgarity, her underbred manners,
her excessive use of scent. She had merely played with him, without
thinking or caring what the result to him might be. She was bent on as
much enjoyment as possible without exposing herself to awkward
consequences; common scandal told him that he was not the first callow
youth that she had entangled with her provoking glances and her witty
tongue. The epithet by which his brother officers qualified her was
expressive, though impolite. James repeated these things a hundred
times: he said that Mrs. Wallace was not fit to wipe Mary's boots; he
paraded before himself, like a set of unread school-books, all Mary's
excellent qualities. He recalled her simple piety, her good-nature, and
kindly heart; she had every attribute that a man could possibly want in
his wife. And yet--and yet, when he slept he dreamed he was talking to
the other; all day her voice sang in his ears, her gay smile danced
before his eyes. He remembered every word she had ever said; he
remembered the passionate kisses he had given her. How could he forget
that ecstasy? He writhed, trying to expel the importunate image; but
nothing served.
Time could not weaken the impression. Since then he had never seen Mrs.
Wallace, but the thought of her was still enough to send the blood
racing through his veins. He had done everything to kill the mad,
hopeless passion; and always, like a rank weed, it had thriven with
greater strength. James knew it was his duty to marry Mary Clibborn, and
yet he felt he would rather die. As the months passed on, and he knew he
must shortly see her, he was never free from a sense of terrible
anxiety. Doubt came to him, and he could not drive it away. The
recollection of her was dim, cold, formless; his only hope was that when
he saw her love might rise up again, and kill that other passion which
made him so utterly despise himself. But he had welcomed the war as a
respite, and the thought came to him that its chances might easily solve
the difficulty. Then followed the months of hardship and of fighting;
and during these the image of Mrs. Wallace had been less persistent, so
that James fancied he was regaining the freedom he longed for. And when
he lay wounded and ill, his absolute weariness made him ardently look
forward to seeing his people again. A hotter love sprang up for them;
and the hope became stronger that reunion with Mary might awaken the
dead emotion. He wished for it with all his heart.
But he had seen Mary, and he felt it hopeless; she left him cold, almost
hostile. And with a mocking laugh, James heard Mrs. Wallace's words:
"Subalterns always get engaged to the same type of girl. They photograph
so badly."
* * *
And now he did not know what to do. The long recalling of the past had
left James more uncertain than ever. Some devil within him cried, "Wait,
wait! Something may happen!" It really seemed better to let things slide
a little. Perhaps--who could tell?--in a day or two the old habit might
render Mary as dear to him as when last he had wandered with her in that
green wood, James sighed, and looked about him.... The birds still sang
merrily, the squirrel leaped from tree to tree; even the blades of grass
stood with a certain conscious pleasure, as the light breeze rustled
through them. In the mid-day sun all things took pleasure in their life;
and all Nature appeared full of joy, coloured and various and
insouciant. He alone was sad.