He hated the fashion these people had of discussing matters which he
himself thought most private.
"Mr. Jackson was asking if you'd like a short prayer offered up next
Sunday, James," said his mother.
"I shouldn't at all."
"Why not?" asked the Vicar, "I think it's your duty to thank your Maker
for your safe return, and I think your parents should join in the
thanksgiving."
"We're probably none of us less grateful," said James, "because we
don't want to express our feelings before the united congregation."
Jamie's parents looked at him with relief, for the same thought filled
their minds; but thinking it their duty to submit themselves to the
spiritual direction of the Vicar and his wife, they had not thought it
quite right to decline the proposal. Mrs. Jackson glanced at her husband
with pained astonishment, but further argument was prevented by the
arrival of Colonel and Mrs. Clibborn, and Mary.
Colonel Clibborn was a tall man, with oily black hair and fierce
eyebrows, both dyed; aggressively military and reminiscent He had been
in a cavalry regiment, where he had come to the philosophic conclusion
that all men are dust--except cavalry-men; and he was able to look upon
Jamie's prowess--the prowess of an infantryman--from superior heights.
He was a great authority upon war, and could tell anyone what were the
mistakes in South Africa, and how they might have been avoided; likewise
he had known in the service half the peers of the realm, and talked of
them by their Christian names. He spent three weeks every season in
London, and dined late, at seven o'clock, so he had every qualification
for considering himself a man of fashion.
"I don't know what they'd do in Little Primpton without us," he said.
"It's only us who keep it alive."
But Mrs. Clibborn missed society.
"The only people I can speak to are the Parsons," she told her husband,
plaintively. "They're very good people--but only infantry, Reggie."
"Of course, they're only infantry," agreed Colonel Clibborn.
Mrs. Clibborn was a regimental beauty--of fifty, who had grown stout;
but not for that ceased to use the weapons which Nature had given her
against the natural enemies of the sex. In her dealings with several
generations of adorers, she had acquired such a habit of languishing
glances that now she used them unconsciously. Whether ordering meat from
the butcher or discussing parochial matters with Mr. Jackson, Mrs.
Clibborn's tone and manner were such that she might have been saying the
most tender things. She had been very popular in the service, because
she was the type of philandering woman who required no beating about the
bush; her neighbour at the dinner-table, even if he had not seen her
before, need never have hesitated to tell her with the soup that she was
the handsomest creature he had ever seen, and with the _entree_ that he
adored her.
On coming in, Mrs. Clibborn for a moment looked at James, quite
speechless, her head on one side and her eyes screwing into the corner
of the room.
"Oh, how wonderful!" she said, at last "I suppose I mustn't call you
Jamie now." She spoke very slowly, and every word sounded like a caress.
Then she looked at James again in silent ecstasy. "Colonel Parsons, how
proud you must be! And when I think that soon he will be my son! How
thin you look, James!"
"And how well you look, dear lady!"
It was understood that everyone must make compliments to Mrs. Clibborn;
otherwise she grew cross, and when she was cross she was horrid.
She smiled to show her really beautiful teeth.
"I should like to kiss you, James. May I, Mrs. Parsons?"
"Certainly," replied Jamie's mother, who didn't approve of Mrs. Clibborn
at all.
She turned her cheek to James, and assumed a seraphic expression while
he lightly touched it with his lips.
"I'm only an old woman," she murmured to the company in general.
She seldom made more than one remark at a time, and at the end of each
assumed an appropriate attitude--coy, Madonna-like, resigned, as the
circumstances might require. Mr. Jackson came forward to shake hands,
and she turned her languishing glance on him.
"Oh, Mr. Jackson, how beautiful your sermon was!"
* * *
They sat down to dinner, and ate their ox-tail soup. It is terrible to
think of the subtlety with which the Evil One can insinuate himself
among the most pious; for soup at middle-day is one of his most
dangerous wiles, and it is precisely with the simple-minded inhabitants
of the country and of the suburbs that this vice is most prevalent.
James was sitting next to Mrs. Clibborn, and presently she looked at him
with the melancholy smile which had always seemed to her so effective.
"We want you to tell us how you won your Victoria Cross, Jamie."
The others, eager to hear the story from the hero's lips, had been,
notwithstanding, too tactful to ask; but they were willing to take
advantage of Mrs. Clibborn's lack of that quality.
"We've all been looking forward to it," said the Vicar.
"I don't think there's anything to tell," replied James.
His father and mother were looking at him with happy eyes, and the
Colonel nodded to Mary.
"Please, Jamie, tell us," she said. "We only saw the shortest account in
the papers, and you said nothing about it in your letters."
"D'you think it's very good form of me to tell you about it?" asked
James, smiling gravely.
"We're all friends here," said the Vicar.
And Colonel Clibborn added, making sheep's eyes at his wife:
"You can't refuse a lady!"
"I'm an old woman," sighed Mrs. Clibborn, with a doleful glance. "I
can't expect him to do it for me."
The only clever thing Mrs. Clibborn had done in her life was to
acknowledge to old age at thirty, and then she did not mean it. It had
been one of her methods in flirtation, covering all excesses under a
maternal aspect. She must have told hundreds of young officers that she
was old enough to be their mother; and she always said it looking
plaintively at the ceiling, when they squeezed her hand.
"It wasn't a very wonderful thing I did," said James, at last, "and it
was completely useless."
"No fine deed is useless," said the Vicar, sententiously.
James looked at him a moment, but proceeded with his story.
"It was only that I tried to save the life of a sub who'd just
joined--and didn't."
"Would you pass me the salt?" said Mrs. Clibborn.
"Mamma!" cried Mary, with a look as near irritation as her gentle nature
permitted.
"Go on, Jamie, there's a good boy," said Mrs. Parsons.
And James, seeing his father's charming, pathetic look of pride, told
the story to him alone. The others did not care how much they hurt him
so long as they could gape in admiration, but in his father he saw the
most touching sympathy.
"It was a chap called Larcher, a boy of eighteen, with fair hair and
blue eyes, who looked quite absurdly young. His people live somewhere
round here, near Ashford."
"Larcher, did you say?" asked Mrs. Clibborn, "I've never heard the name.
It's not a county family."
"Go on, Jamie," said Mary, with some impatience.
"Well, he'd only been with us three or four weeks; but I knew him rather
well. Oddly enough, he'd taken a sort of fancy to me. He was such a
nice, bright boy, so enthusiastic and simple. I used to tell him that
he ought to have been at school, rather than roughing it at the Cape."
Mrs. Clibborn sat with an idiotic smile on her lips, and a fixed
expression of girlish innocence.
"Well, we knew we should be fighting in a day or so; and the evening
before the battle young Larcher was talking to me. 'How d'you feel?' I
said. He didn't answer quite so quickly as usual. 'D'you know,' he said,
'I'm so awfully afraid that I shall funk it.' 'You needn't mind that,' I
said, and I laughed. 'The first time we most of us do funk it. For five
minutes or so you just have to cling on to your eyelashes to prevent
yourself from running away, and then you feel all right, and you think
it's rather sport.' 'I've got a sort of presentiment that I shall be
killed,' he said. 'Don't be an ass,' I answered. 'We've all got a
presentiment that we shall be killed the first time we're under fire. If
all the people were killed who had presentiments, half the army would
have gone to kingdom come long ago.'"
"You should have told him to lay his trust in the hands of Him who has
power to turn the bullet and to break the sword," said Mrs. Jackson.
"He wasn't that sort," replied James, drily, "I laughed at him, thinking
it the better way.... Well, next day we did really fight. We were sent
to take an unoccupied hill. Our maxim was that a hill is always
unoccupied unless the enemy are actually firing from it. Of course, the
place was chock full of Boers; they waited till we had come within easy
range for a toy-pistol, and then fired murderously. We did all we could.
We tried to storm the place, but we hadn't a chance. Men tumbled down
like nine-pins. I've never seen anything like it. The order was given to
fire, and there was nothing to fire at but the naked rocks. We had to
retire--we couldn't do anything else; and presently I found that poor
Larcher had been wounded. Well, I thought he couldn't be left where he
was, so I went back for him. I asked him if he could move. 'No,' he
said, 'I think I'm hurt in the leg.' I knelt down and bandaged him up as
well as I could. He was simply bleeding like a pig; and meanwhile
brother Boer potted at us for all he was worth. 'How d'you feel?' I
asked. 'Bit dicky; but comfortable. I didn't funk it, did I?' 'No, of
course not, you juggins!' I said. 'Can you walk, d'you think?' 'I'll
try.' I lifted him up and put my arm round him, and we got along for a
bit; then he became awfully white and groaned, 'I do feel so bad,
Parsons,' and then he fainted. So I had to carry him; and we went a bit
farther, and then--and then I was hit in the arm. 'I say, I can't carry
you now,' I said; 'for God's sake, buck up.' He opened his eyes, and I
prevented him from falling. 'I think I can stand,' he said, and as he
spoke a bullet got him in the neck, and his blood splashed over my face.
He gave a gasp and died."
James finished, and his mother and Mary wiped the tears from their eyes.
Mrs. Clibborn turned to her husband.
"Reggie, I'm sure the Larchers are not a county family."
"There was a sapper of that name whom we met at Simla once, my dear,"
replied the Colonel.
"I thought I'd heard it before," said Mrs. Clibborn, with an air of
triumph, as though she'd found out a very difficult puzzle. "Had he a
red moustache?"
"Have you heard from the young man's people, Captain Parsons?" asked
Mrs. Jackson.
"I had a letter from Mrs. Larcher, the boy's mother, asking me to go
over and see her."
"She must be very grateful to you, Jamie."
"Why? She has no reason to be."
"You did all you could to save him."
"It would have been better if I'd left him alone. Don't you see that if
he had remained where he was he might have been alive now. He would have
been taken prisoner and sent to Pretoria, but that is better than
rotting on the veldt. He was killed because I tried to save him."
"There are worse things than death," said Colonel Parsons. "I have often
thought that those fellows who surrendered did the braver thing. It is
easy to stand and be shot down, but to hoist the white flag so as to
save the lives of the men under one--that requires courage."
"It is a sort of courage which seemed not uncommon," answered James,
drily. "And they had a fairly pleasant time in Pretoria. Eventually, I
believe, wars will be quite bloodless; rival armies will perambulate,
and whenever one side has got into a good position, the other will
surrender wholesale. Campaigns will be conducted like manoeuvres, and
the special correspondents will decide which lot has won."
"If they were surrounded and couldn't escape, it would have been wicked
not to hoist the white flag," said Mrs. Jackson.
"I daresay you know more about it than I," replied James.
But the Vicar's lady insisted:
"If you were so placed that on one hand was certain death for yourself
and all your men, and on the other hand surrender, which would you
chose?"
"One can never tell; and in those matters it is wiser not to boast.
Certain death is an awful thing, but our fathers preferred it to
surrender."
"War is horrible!" said Mary, shuddering.
"Oh, no!" cried James, shaking himself out of his despondency. "War is
the most splendid thing in the world. I shall never forget those few
minutes, now and then, when we got on top of the Boers and fought with
them, man to man, in the old way. Ah, life seemed worth living then! One
day, I remember, they'd been giving it us awfully hot all the morning,
and we'd lost frightfully. At last we rushed their position, and, by
Jove, we let 'em have it! How we did hate them! You should have heard
the Tommies cursing as they killed! I shall never forget the
exhilaration of it, the joy of thinking that we were getting our own
again. By Gad, it beat cock-fighting!"
Jamie's cheeks were flushed and his eyes shone; but he had forgotten
where he was, and his father's voice came to him through a mist of blood
and a roar of sound.
"I have fought, too," said Colonel Parsons, looking at his son with
troubled eyes--"I have fought, too, but never with anger in my heart,
nor lust of vengeance. I hope I did my duty, but I never forgot that my
enemy was a fellow-creature. I never felt joy at killing, but pain and
grief. War is inevitable, but it is horrible, horrible! It is only the
righteous cause that can excuse it; and then it must be tempered with
mercy and forgiveness."
"Cause? Every cause is righteous. I can think of no war in which right
has not been fairly equal on both sides; in every question there is
about as much to be said on either part, and in none more than in war.
Each country is necessarily convinced of the justice of its own cause."
"They can't both be right."
"Oh, yes, they can. It's generally six to one and half a dozen of the
other."
"Do you mean to say that you, a military man, think the Boers were
justified?" asked Colonel Clibborn, with some indignation.
James laughed.
"You must remember that if any nation but ourselves had been engaged,
our sympathies would have been entirely with the sturdy peasants
fighting for their independence. The two great powers in the affairs of
the world are sentiment and self-interest. The Boers are the smaller,
weaker nation, and they have been beaten; it is only natural that
sympathy should be with them. It was with the French for the same
reason, after the Franco-Prussian War. But we, who were fighting,
couldn't think of sentiment; to us it was really a matter of life and
death, I was interested to see how soon the English put aside their
ideas of fair play and equal terms when we had had a few reverses. They
forgot that one Englishman was equal to ten foreigners, and insisted on
sending out as many troops as possible. I fancy you were badly
panic-stricken over here."
James saw that his listeners looked at him with surprise, even with
consternation; and he hastened to explain.
"Of course, I don't blame them. They were quite right to send as many
men as possible. The object of war is not to do glorious actions, but to
win. Other things being equal, it is obviously better to be ten to one;
it is less heroic, but more reasonable."
"You take from war all the honour and all the chivalry!" cried Mary.
"The only excuse for war is that it brings out the noblest qualities of
man--self-sacrifice, unselfishness, endurance."
"But war doesn't want any excuse," replied James, smiling gently. "Many
people say that war is inhuman and absurd; many people are uncommonly
silly. When they think war can be abolished, they show a phenomenal
ignorance of the conditions of all development. War in one way and
another is at the very root of life. War is not conducted only by fire
and sword; it is in all nature, it is the condition of existence for
all created things. Even the wild flowers in the meadow wage war, and
they wage it more ruthlessly even than man, for with them defeat means
extermination. The law of Nature is that the fit should kill the unfit.
The Lord is the Lord of Hosts. The lame, and the halt, and the blind
must remain behind, while the strong man goes his way rejoicing."
"How hard you are!" said Mary. "Have you no pity, James?"
"D'you know, I've got an idea that there's too much pity in the world.
People seem to be losing their nerve; reality shocks them, and they live
slothfully in the shoddy palaces of Sham Ideals. The sentimentalists,
the cowards, and the cranks have broken the spirit of mankind. The
general in battle now is afraid to strike because men may be killed.
Sometimes it is worth while to lose men. When we become soldiers, we
know that we cease to be human beings, and are merely the instruments
for a certain work; we know that sometimes it may be part of a general's
deliberate plan that we should be killed. I have no confidence in a
leader who is tender-hearted. Compassion weakens his brain, and the
result, too often, is disaster."
But as he spoke, James realised with a start how his father would take
what he was saying. He could have torn out his tongue, he would have
given anything that the words should remain unspoken. His father, in
pity and in humanity, had committed just such a fatal mistake, and
trying tender-heartedly to save life had brought about death and
disaster. He would take the thoughtless words as a deliberate
condemnation; the wound, barely closed, was torn open by his very son,
and he must feel again the humiliation which had nearly killed him.
Colonel Parsons sat motionless, as though he were stunned, his eyes
fixed on James with horror and pain; he looked like some hunted animal,
terror-stricken, and yet surprised, wondering that man should be so
cruel.
"What can I do?" thought James. "How can I make it good for him?"
The conversation was carried on by the Clibborns and by the Vicar, all
happily unconscious that a tragedy was acting under their noses. James
looked at his father. He wanted to show how bitterly he regretted the
pain he had caused, but knew not what to say; he wanted to give a sign
of his eager love, and tortured himself, knowing the impossibility of
showing in any way his devotion.
Fortunately, the maid came in to announce that the school children were
without, to welcome Captain Parsons; and they all rose from the table.
V
Colonel Parsons and his wife had wished no function to celebrate the
home-coming of James; but gave in to the persuasions of Mary and of Mr.
Dryland, the curate, who said that a public ceremony would be
undoubtedly a stimulus to the moral welfare of Little Primpton. No man
could escape from his obligations, and Captain Parsons owed it to his
fellow-countrymen of Little Primpton to let them show their appreciation
of his great deed.
The Vicar went so far as to assert that a hearty greeting to the hero
would be as salutory to the parishioners as a sermon of his own, while
it would awaken James, a young man and possibly thoughtless, to a proper
sense of his responsibilities. But the sudden arrival of James had
disturbed the arrangements, and Mr. Dryland, in some perplexity, went to
see Mary.
"What are we to do, Miss Clibborn? The school children will be so
disappointed."
The original plan had been to meet the hero as he drove towards
Primpton House from the station, and the curate was unwilling to give it
up.
"D'you think Captain Parsons would go into Tunbridge Wells and drive in
at two o'clock, as if he were just arriving?"
"I'm afraid he wouldn't," replied Mary, doubtfully, "and I think he'd
only laugh if I asked him. He seemed glad when he thought he had escaped
the celebration."
"Did he, indeed? How true it is that real courage is always modest! But
it would be an eternal disgrace to Little Primpton if we did not welcome
our hero, especially now that everything is prepared. It must not be
said that Little Primpton neglects to honour him whom the Empire has
distinguished."
After turning over many plans, they decided that the procession should
come to Primpton House at the appointed hour, when Captain Parsons would
receive it from the triumphal arch at the gate.... When the servant
announced that the function was ready to begin, an announcement
emphasised by the discordant notes of the brass band, Mary hurriedly
explained to James what was expected of him, and they all made for the
front door.
Primpton House faced the green, and opposite the little village shops
were gay with bunting; at the side, against the highroad that led to
Groombridge, the church and the public-house stood together in friendly
neighbourhood, decorated with Union Jacks. The whole scene, with its
great chestnut-trees, and the stretch of greenery beyond, was pleasantly
rural, old-fashioned and very English; and to complete it, the sun shone
down comfortably like a good-natured, mild old gentleman. The curate,
with a fine sense of order, had arranged on the right the school-boys,
nicely scrubbed and redolent of pomatum; and on the left the girls,
supported by their teachers. In the middle stood the choir, the brass
band, and Mr. Dryland. The village yokels were collected round in
open-mouthed admiration. The little party from the house took their
places under the triumphal arch, the Clibborns assuming an expression of
genteel superciliousness; and as they all wore their Sunday clothes,
they made quite an imposing group.
Seeing that they were ready, Mr. Dryland stepped forward, turned his
back so as to command the musicians, and coughed significantly. He
raised above his head his large, white clerical hand, stretching out the
index-finger, and began to beat time. He bellowed aloud, and the choir,
a bar or so late, followed lustily. The band joined in with a hearty
braying of trumpets.
"_See, the conquering Hero comes,_
_Sound the trumpets; beat the drums._"
But growing excited at the music issuing from his throat, the curate
raised the other hand which held his soft felt hat, and beat time
energetically with that also.
At the end of the verse the performers took a rapid breath, as though
afraid of being left behind, and then galloped on, a little less evenly,
until one by one they reached the highly-decorated Amen.
When the last note of the last cornet had died away on the startled air,
Mr. Dryland made a sign to the head boy of the school, who thereupon
advanced and waved his cap, shouting:
"Three cheers for Capting Parsons, V.C.!"
Then the curate, wiping his heated brow, turned round and cleared his
throat.
"Captain Parsons," he said, in a loud voice, so that none should miss
his honeyed words, "we, the inhabitants of Little Primpton, welcome you
to your home. I need not say that it is with great pleasure that we have
gathered together this day to offer you our congratulations on your safe
return to those that love you. I need not remind you that there is no
place like home. ("Hear, hear!" from the Vicar.) We are proud to think
that our fellow-parishioner should have gained the coveted glory of the
Victoria Cross. Little Primpton need not be ashamed now to hold up its
head among the proudest cities of the Empire. You have brought honour to
yourself, but you have brought honour to us also. You have shown that
Englishmen know how to die; you have shown the rival nations of the
Continent that the purity and the godliness of Old England still bear
fruit. But I will say no more; I wished only to utter a few words to
welcome you on behalf of those who cannot, perhaps, express themselves
so well as I can. I will say no more. Captain Parsons, we hope that you
will live long to enjoy your honour and glory, side by side with her who
is to shortly become your wife. I would only assure you that your
example has not been lost upon us; we all feel better, nobler, and more
truly Christian. And we say to you, now that you have overcome all
dangers and tribulation, now that you have returned to the bosom of your
beloved family, take her who has also given us an example of
resignation, of courage, and of--and of resignation. Take her, we say,
and be happy; confident in the respect, esteem, and affection of the
people of Little Primpton. James Brown, who has the honour to bear the
same Christian name as yourself, and is also the top boy of the Parish
School, will now recite a short poem entitled 'Casabianca.'
Mr. Dryland had wished to compose an ode especially for the occasion.
It would evidently have been effective to welcome the hero, to glorify
his deed, and to point the moral in a few original verses; but,
unhappily, the muse was froward, which was singular, since the _elite_
of Little Primpton had unimpeachable morals, ideals of the most approved
character, and principles enough to build a church with; nor was an
acquaintance with literature wanting. They all read the daily papers,
and Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, in addition, read the _Church Times_. Mary
even knew by heart whole chunks of Sir Lewis Morris, and Mr. Dryland
recited Tennyson at penny readings. But when inspiration is wanting, a
rhyming dictionary, for which the curate sent to London, will not help
to any great extent; and finally the unanimous decision was reached to
give some well-known poem apposite to the circumstance. It shows in what
charming unity of spirit these simple, God-fearing people lived, and how
fine was their sense of literary excellence, that without hesitation
they voted in chorus for "Casabianca."
The head boy stepped forward--he had been carefully trained by Mr.
Dryland--and with appropriate gestures recited the immortal verses of
Felicia Hemans:
"_The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but 'e 'ad fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round 'im o'er the dead._"
When he finished, amid the discreet applause of the little party beneath
the archway, Mr. Dryland again advanced.
"Polly Game, the top girl of the Parish School, will now present Miss
Clibborn with a bouquet. Step forward, Polly Game."
This was a surprise arranged by the curate, and he watched with pleasure
Mary's look of delighted astonishment.
Polly Game stepped forward, and made a little speech in the ingenuous
words which Mr. Dryland had thought natural to her character and
station.
"Please, Miss Clibborn, we, the girls of Little Primpton, wish to
present you with this bouquet as a slight token of our esteem. We wish
you a long life and a 'appy marriage with the choice of your 'eart."
She then handed a very stiff bunch of flowers, surrounded with frilled
paper like the knuckle of a leg of mutton.
"We will now sing hymn number one hundred and thirty-seven," said Mr.
Dryland.
The verses were given vigorously, while Mrs. Clibborn, with a tender
smile, murmured to Mrs. Parsons that it was beautiful to see such a nice
spirit among the lower classes. The strains of the brass band died away
on the summer breeze, and there was a momentary pause. Then the Vicar,
with a discreet cough to clear his throat, came forward.
"Captain Parsons, ladies and gentlemen, parishioners of Little Primpton,
I wish to take the opportunity to say a few words."
The Vicar made an admirable speech. The sentiments were hackneyed, the
observations self-evident, and the moral obvious. His phrases had the
well-known ring which distinguishes the true orator. Mr. Jackson was
recognised everywhere to be a fine platform speaker, but his varied
excellence could not be appreciated in a summary, and he had a fine
verbosity. It is sufficient to say that he concluded by asking for more
cheers, which were heartily given.
James found the whole affair distasteful and ridiculous; and indeed
scarcely noticed what was going on, for his thoughts were entirely
occupied with his father. At first Colonel Parsons seemed too depressed
to pay attention to the ceremony, and his eyes travelled every now and
again to James, with that startled, unhappy expression which was
horribly painful to see. But his age and weakness prevented him from
feeling very intensely for more than a short while; time had brought its
own good medicine, and the old man's mind was easily turned. Presently
he began to smile, and the look of pride and happiness returned to his
face.
But James was not satisfied. He felt he must make active reparation.
When the Vicar finished, and he understood that some reply was expected,
it occurred to him that he had an opportunity of salving the bitter
wound he had caused. The very hatred he felt at making open allusion to
his feelings made him think it a just punishment; none knew but himself
how painful it was to talk in that strain to stupid, curious people.
"I thank you very much for the welcome you have all given me," he said.
His voice trembled in his nervousness, so that he could hardly command
it, and he reddened. It seemed to James a frightful humiliation to have
to say the things he had in mind, it made them all ugly and vulgar; he
was troubled also by his inability to express what he felt. He noticed a
reporter for the local newspaper rapidly taking notes.
"I have been very much touched by your kindness. Of course, I am
extremely proud to have won the Victoria Cross, but I feel it is really
more owing to my father than to any deed of mine. You all know my
father, and you know what a brave and gallant soldier he was. It was
owing to his fine example, and to his teaching, and to his constant,
loving care, that I was able to do the little I did. And I should like
to say that it is to him and to my mother that I owe everything. It is
the thought of his unblemished and exquisite career, of the beautiful
spirit which brightly coloured all his actions, that has supported me in
times of difficulty. And my earnest desire has always been to prove
myself worthy of my father and the name he has handed on to me. You have
cheered me very kindly; now I should like to ask you for three cheers
for my father."
Colonel Parsons looked at his son as he began to speak. When he realised
Jamie's meaning, tears filled his eyes and streamed down his
cheeks--tears of happiness and gratitude. All recollection of the
affront quickly vanished, and he felt an ecstatic joy such as he had
never known before. The idea came to him in his weakness: "Now I can die
happy!" He was too overcome to be ashamed of his emotion, and taking out
his handkerchief, quite unaffectedly wiped his eyes.
The band struck up "Rule, Britannia" and "God Save the Queen"; and in
orderly fashion, as Mr. Dryland had arranged, they all marched off. The
group under the triumphal arch broke up, and the Jacksons and Colonel
and Mrs. Clibborn went their ways.
Mary came into the house. She took Jamie's hands, her eyes wet with
tears.
"Oh, Jamie," she said, "you are good! It was charming of you to speak as
you did of your father. You don't know how happy you've made him."
"I'm very glad you are pleased," he said gravely, and bending forward,
put his arm round her waist and kissed her.
For a moment she leant her head against his shoulder; but with her
emotion was a thing soon vanquished. She wished, above all things, to be
manly, as befitted a soldier's wife. She shook herself, and withdrew
from Jamie's arms.
"But I must be running off, or mamma will be angry with me. Good-bye for
the present."
* * *
James went into the dining-room, where his father, exhausted by the
varied agitations of the day, was seeking composure in the leading
articles of the morning paper. Mrs. Parsons sat on her usual chair,
knitting, and she greeted him with a loving smile. James saw that they
were both pleased with his few awkward words, which still rang in his
own ears as shoddy and sentimental, and he tasted, somewhat ruefully,
the delight of making the kind creatures happy.
"Has Mary gone?" asked Mrs. Parsons.
"Yes. She said her mother would be angry if she stayed."
"I saw that Mrs. Clibborn was put out. I suppose because someone besides
herself attracted attention. I do think she is the wickedest woman I've
ever known."
"Frances, Frances!" expostulated the Colonel.
"She is, Richmond. She's a thoroughly bad woman. The way she treats Mary
is simply scandalous."
"Poor girl!" said the Colonel.
"Oh, Jamie, it makes my blood boil when I think of it. Sometimes the
poor thing used to come here quite upset, and simply cry as if her heart
was breaking."
"But what does Mrs. Clibborn do?" asked James, surprised.
"Oh, I can't tell you! She's dreadfully unkind. She hates Mary because
she's grown up, and because she sometimes attracts attention. She's
always making little cruel remarks. You only see her when she's on her
good behaviour; but when she's alone with Mary, Mrs. Clibborn is simply
horrible. She abuses her; she tells her she's ugly, and that she
dresses badly. How can she dress any better when Mrs. Clibborn spends
all the money on herself? I've heard her myself say to Mary: 'How stupid
and clumsy you are! I'm ashamed to take you anywhere.' And Mary's the
very soul of goodness. She teaches in the Sunday School, and she trains
the choir-boys, and she visits the poor; and yet Mrs. Clibborn complains
that she's useless. I wanted Richmond to talk to Colonel Clibborn about
it."
"Mary particularly asked me not to," said Colonel Parsons. "She
preferred to bear anything rather than create unhappiness between her
father and mother."
"She's a perfect angel of goodness!" cried Mrs. Parsons,
enthusiastically. "She's simply a martyr, and all the time she's as kind
and affectionate to her mother as if she were the best woman in the
world. She never lets anyone say a word against her."
"Sometimes," murmured Colonel Parsons, "she used to say that her only
happiness was in the thought of you, Jamie."
"The thought of me?" said James; and then hesitatingly: "Do you think
she is very fond of me, mother?"
"Fond of you?" Mrs Parsons laughed. "She worships the very ground you
tread on. You can't imagine all you are to her."
"You'll make the boy vain," said Colonel Parsons, laughing.
"Often the only way we could comfort her was by saying that you would
come back some day and take her away from here."
"We shall have to be thinking of weddings soon, I suppose?" said Colonel
Parsons, looking at James, with a bantering smile.