Next day Mary went into Primpton House. Colonel Parsons nodded to her as
she walked up the drive, and took off his spectacles. The front door was
neither locked nor bolted in that confiding neighbourhood, and Mary
walked straight in.
"Well, my dear?" said the Colonel, smiling with pleasure, for he was as
fond of her as of his own son.
"I thought I'd come and see you alone. Jamie's still out, isn't he? I
saw him pass our house. I was standing at the window, but he didn't look
up."
"I daresay he was thinking. He's grown very thoughtful now."
Mrs. Parsons came in, and her quiet face lit up, too, as she greeted
Mary. She kissed her tenderly.
"Jamie's out, you know."
"Mary has come to see us," said the Colonel. "She doesn't want us to
feel neglected now that she has the boy."
"We shall never dream that you can do anything unkind, dear Mary,"
replied Mrs. Parsons, stroking the girl's hair. "It's natural that you
should think more of him than of us."
Mary hesitated a moment.
"Don't you think Jamie has changed?"
Mrs. Parsons looked at her quickly.
"I think he has grown more silent. But he's been through so much. And
then he's a man now; he was only a boy when we saw him last."
"D'you think he cares for me any more?" asked Mary, with a rapid tremor
in her voice.
"Mary!"
"Of course he does! He talks of you continually," said Colonel Parsons,
"and always as if he were devoted. Doesn't he, Frances?"
The old man's deep love for Mary had prevented him from seeing in
Jamie's behaviour anything incongruous with that of a true lover.
"What makes you ask that question, Mary?" said Mrs. Parsons.
Her feminine tact had led her to notice a difference in Jamie's feeling
towards his betrothed; but she had been unwilling to think that it
amounted even to coldness. Such a change could be explained in a hundred
natural ways, and might, indeed, exist merely in her own imagination.
"Oh, he's not the same as he was!" cried Mary, "I don't know what it is,
but I feel it in his whole manner. Yesterday evening he barely said a
word."
James had dined with the Clibborns in solemn state.
"I daresay he's not very well yet. His wound troubles him still."
"I try to put it down to that," said Mary, "but he seems to force
himself to speak to me. He's not natural. I've got an awful fear that he
has ceased to care for me."
She looked from Colonel Parsons to his wife, who stared at her in
dismay.
"Don't be angry with me," she said; "I couldn't talk like this to anyone
else, but I know you love me. I look upon you already as my father and
mother. I don't want to be unkind to mamma, but I couldn't talk of it to
her; she would only sneer at me. And I'm afraid it's making me rather
unhappy."
"Of course, we want you to treat us as your real parents, Mary. We both
love you as we love Jamie. We have always looked upon you as our
daughter."
"You're so good to me!"
"Has your mother said anything to annoy you?"
Mary faltered.
"Last night, when he went away, she said she didn't think he was devoted
to me."
"Oh, I knew it was your mother who'd put this in your head! She has
always been jealous of you. I suppose she thinks he's in love with her."
"Mrs. Parsons!" cried Mary, in a tone of entreaty.
"I know you can't bear anything said against your mother, and it's
wicked of me to vex you; but she has no right to suggest such things."
"It's not only that. It's what I feel."
"I'm sure Jamie is most fond of you," said Colonel Parsons, kindly.
"You've not seen one another for five years, and you find yourselves
altered. Even we feel a little strange with Jamie sometimes; don't we,
Frances? What children they are, Frances!" Colonel Parsons laughed in
that irresistibly sweet fashion of his. "Why, it was only the day before
yesterday that Jamie came to us with a long face and asked if you cared
for _him_."
"Did he?" asked Mary, with pleased surprise, anxious to believe what the
Colonel suggested. "Oh, he must see that I love him! Perhaps he finds me
unresponsive.... How could I help caring for him? I think if he ceased
to love me, I should die."
"My dearest Mary," cried Mrs. Parsons, the tears rising to her eyes,
"don't talk like that! I'm sure he can't help loving you, either;
you're so good and sweet. You're both of you fanciful, and he's not
well. Be patient. Jamie is shy and reserved; he hasn't quite got used to
us yet. He doesn't know how to show his feelings. It will all come right
soon."
"Of course he loves you!" said Colonel Parsons. "Who could help it? Why,
if I were a young fellow I should be mad to marry you."
"And what about me, Richmond?" asked Mrs. Parsons, smiling.
"Well, I think I should have to commit bigamy, and marry you both."
They laughed at the Colonel's mild little joke, happy to break through
the cloud of doubt which oppressed them.
"You're a dear thing," said Mary, kissing the old man, "and I'm a very
silly girl. It's wrong of me to give way to whims and fancies."
"You must be very brave when you're the wife of a V.C.," said the
Colonel, patting her hand.
"Oh, it was a beautiful action!" cried Mary. "And he's as modest about
it as though he had done nothing that any man might not do. I think
there can be no sight more pleasing to God than that of a brave man
risking his life to save a comrade."
"And that ought to be an assurance to you, Mary, that James will never
do anything unkind or dishonourable. Trust him, and forgive his little
faults of manner. I'm sure he loves you, and soon you'll get married and
be completely happy."
Mary's face darkened once more.
"He's been here three days, and he's not said a word about getting
married. Oh, I can't help it; I'm so frightened! I wish he'd say
something--just one word to show that he really cares for me. He seems
to have forgotten that we're even engaged."
Colonel Parsons looked at his wife, begging her by his glance to say
something that would comfort Mary. Mrs. Parsons looked down, uncertain,
ill at ease.
"You don't despise me for talking like this, Mrs. Parsons?"
"Despise you, my dear! How can I, when I love you so dearly? Shall I
speak to Jamie? I'm sure when he understands that he's making you
unhappy, he'll be different. He has the kindest heart in the world; I've
never known him do an unkind thing in his life."
"No, don't say anything to him," replied Mary. "I daresay it's all
nonsense. I don't want him to be driven into making love to me."
* * *
Meanwhile James wandered thoughtfully. The country was undulating, and
little hill rose after little hill, affording spacious views of the fat
Kentish fields, encircled by oak trees and by chestnuts. Owned by rich
landlords, each generation had done its best, and the fruitful land was
tended like a garden. But it had no abandonment, no freedom; the hand of
man was obvious, perpetually, in the trimness and in the careful
arrangement, so that the landscape, in its formality, reminded one of
those set pieces chosen by the classic painters. But the fields were
fresh with the tall young grass of the new year, the buttercups flaunted
themselves gaily, careless of the pitiless night, rejoicing in the
sunshine, as before they had rejoiced in the enlivening rain. The
pleasant rain-drops still lingered on the daisies. The feathery ball of
the dandelion, carried by the breeze, floated past like a symbol of the
life of man--a random thing, resistless to the merest breath, with no
mission but to spread its seed upon the fertile earth, so that things
like unto it should spring up in the succeeding summer, and flower
uncared for, and reproduce themselves, and die.
James decided finally that he must break that very evening his
engagement with Mary. He could not put it off. Every day made his
difficulty greater, and it was impossible any longer to avoid the
discussion of their marriage, nor could he continue to treat Mary with
nothing better than friendliness. He realised all her good qualities;
she was frank, and honest, and simple; anxious to do right; charitable
according to her light; kindness itself. James felt sincerely grateful
for the affectionate tenderness which Mary showed to his father and
mother. He was thankful for that and for much else, and was prepared to
look upon her as a very good friend, even as a sister; but he did not
love her. He could not look upon the prospect of marriage without
repulsion. Nor did Mary, he said, really love him. He knew what love
was--something different entirely from that pallid flame of affection
and esteem, of which alone she was capable. Mary loved him for certain
qualities of mind, because his station in life was decent, his manners
passable, his morals beyond reproach.
"She might as well marry the Ten Commandments!" he cried impatiently.
Mary cared for him from habit, from a sense of decorum, and for the
fitness of things; but that was not love. He shrugged his shoulders
scornfully, looking for some word to express the mildly pleasant,
unagitating emotion. James, who had been devoured by it, who had
struggled with it as with a deadly sin, who had killed it finally while,
like a serpent of evil, it clung to his throat, drinking his life's
blood, James knew what love was--a fire in the veins, a divine
affliction, a passion, a frenzy, a madness. The love he knew was the
love of the body of flesh and blood, the love that engenders, the love
that kills. At the bottom of it is sex, and sex is not ugly or immoral,
for sex is the root of life. The woman is fair because man shall love
her body; her lips are red and passionate that he may kiss them; her
hair is beautiful that he may take it in his hands--a river of living
gold.
James stopped, and the dead love rose again and tore his entrails like a
beast of prey. He gasped with agony, with bitter joy. Ah, that was the
true love! What did he care that the woman lacked this and that? He
loved her because he loved her; he loved her for her faults. And in
spite of the poignant anguish, he thanked her from the bottom of his
heart, for she had taught him love. She had caused him endless pain, but
she had given him the strength to bear it. She had ruined his life,
perhaps, but had shown him that life was worth living. What were the
agony, the torture, the despair, beside that radiant passion which made
him godlike? It is only the lover who lives, and of his life every
moment is intense and fervid. James felt that his most precious
recollection was that ardent month, during which, at last, he had seen
the world in all its dazzling movement, in its manifold colour, singing
with his youth and laughing to his joy.
And he did not care that hideous names have been given to that dear
passion, to that rich desire. The vulgar call it lust, and blush and
hide their faces; in their folly is the shame, in their prurience the
disgrace. They do not know that the appetite which shocks them is the
very origin of the highest qualities of man. It is they, weaklings
afraid to look life in the face, dotards and sentimentalists, who have
made the body unclean. They have covered the nakedness of Aphrodite with
the rags of their own impurity. They have disembowelled the great lovers
of antiquity till Cleopatra serves to adorn a prudish tale and Lancelot
to point a moral. Oh, Mother Nature, give us back our freedom, with its
strength of sinew and its humour! For lack of it we perish in false
shame, and our fig-leaves point our immodesty to all the world. Teach us
that love is not a tawdry sentiment, but a fire divine in order to the
procreation of children; teach us not to dishonour our bodies, for they
are beautiful and pure, and all thy works are sweet. Teach us, again, in
thy merciful goodness, that man is made for woman, his body for her
body, and that the flesh cannot sin.
Teach us also not to rant too much, even in thy service; and though we
do set up for prophets and the like, let us not forget occasionally to
laugh at our very august selves.
* * *
Then, harking back, Jamie's thoughts returned to the dinner of the
previous evening at the Clibborns. He was the only guest, and when he
arrived, found Mary and the Colonel by themselves in the drawing-room.
It was an old habit of Mrs. Clibborn's not to appear till after her
visitors, thinking that so she created a greater effect. The Colonel
wore a very high collar, which made his head look like some queer flower
on a long white stalk; hair and eyebrows were freshly dyed, and
glistened like the oiled locks of a young Jewess. He was the perfect
dandy, even to his bejewelled fingers and his scented handkerchief. His
manner was a happy mixture of cordiality and condescension, by the side
of which Mary's unaffected simplicity contrasted oddly. She seemed less
at home in an evening dress than in the walking costume she vastly
preferred; her free, rather masculine movements were ungainly in the
silk frock, badly made and countrified, while lace and ribbons suited
her most awkwardly. She was out of place, too, in that room, decorated
with all the abominations of pseudo-fashion, with draperies and
tissue-paper, uncomfortable little chairs and rickety tables. In every
available place stood photographs of Mrs. Clibborn--Mrs. Clibborn
sitting, standing, lying; Mrs. Clibborn full face, three-quarter face,
side face; Mrs. Clibborn in this costume or in that costume--grave, gay,
thoughtful, or smiling; Mrs. Clibborn showing her beautiful teeth, her
rounded arms, her vast shoulders; Mrs. Clibborn dressed to the nines,
and Mrs. Clibborn as undressed as she dared.
Finally, the beauty swept in with a great rustle of silk, displaying to
the full her very opulent charms. Her hair was lightly powdered, and
honestly she looked remarkably handsome.
"Don't say I've kept you waiting," she murmured. "I could never forgive
myself."
James made some polite reply, and they went down to dinner. The
conversation was kept at the high level which one naturally expects from
persons fashionable enough to dine late. They discussed Literature, by
which they meant the last novel but one; Art, by which they meant the
Royal Academy; and Society, by which they meant their friends who kept
carriages. Mrs. Clibborn said that, of course, she could not expect
James to pay any attention to her, since all his thoughts must be for
Mary, and then proceeded entirely to absorb him.
"You must find it very dull here," she moaned. "I'm afraid you'll be
bored to death." And she looked at Mary with her most smilingly cruel
expression. "Oh, Mary, why did you put on that dreadfully dowdy frock?
I've asked you over and over again to give it away, but you never pay
attention to your poor mother."
"It's all right," said Mary, looking down at it, laughing and blushing a
little.
Mrs. Clibborn turned again to James.
"I think it's such a mistake for women not to dress well. I'm an old
woman now, but I always try to look my best. Reggie has never seen me in
a dowdy gown. Have you, Reggie?"
"Any dress would become you, my love."
"Oh, Reggie, don't say that before James. He looks upon his future
mother as an old woman."
Then at the end of dinner:
"Don't sit too long over your wine. I shall be so dull with nobody but
Mary to amuse me."
Mrs. Clibborn had been fond enough of Mary when she was a little girl,
who could be petted on occasion and sent away when necessary; but as she
grew up and exhibited a will of her own, she found her almost an
intolerable nuisance. The girl developed a conscience, and refused
indignantly to tell the little fibs which her mother occasionally
suggested. She put her sense of right and wrong before Mrs. Clibborn's
wishes, which that lady considered undutiful, if not entirely wicked. It
seemed nothing short of an impertinence that Mary should disapprove of
theatres when there was nothing to which the elder woman was more
devoted. And Mrs. Clibborn felt that the girl saw through all her little
tricks and artful dodges, often speaking out strongly when her mother
proposed to do something particularly underhand. It was another
grievance that Mary had inherited no good looks, and the faded beauty,
in her vanity, was convinced that the girl spitefully observed every
fresh wrinkle that appeared upon her face. But Mrs. Clibborn was also a
little afraid of her daughter; such meekness and such good temper were
difficult to overcome; and when she snubbed her, it was not only to
chasten a proud spirit, but also to reassure herself.
When the ladies had retired, the Colonel handed James an execrable
cigar.
"Now, I'm going to give you some very special port I've got," he said.
He poured out a glass with extreme care, and passed it over with evident
pride. James remembered Mary's story of the doctor, and having tasted
the wine, entirely sympathised with him. It was no wonder that invalids
did not thrive upon it.
"Fine wine, isn't it?" said Colonel Clibborn. "Had it in my cellar for
years." He shook it so as to inhale the aroma. "I got it from my old
friend, the Duke of St. Olphert's. 'Reggie, my boy,' he said--'Reggie,
do you want some good port?' 'Good port, Bill!' I cried--I always called
him Bill, you know; his Christian name was William--'I should think I
do, Billy, old boy.' 'Well,' said the Duke, 'I've got some I can let you
have.'"
"He was a wine-merchant, was he?" asked James.
"Wine-merchant! My dear fellow, he was the Duke of St. Olphert's. He'd
bought up the cellar of an Austrian nobleman, and he had more port than
he wanted."
"And this is some of it?" asked James, gravely, holding the murky fluid
to the light.
Then the Colonel stretched his legs and began to talk of the war. James,
rather tired of the subject, sought to change the conversation; but
Colonel Clibborn was anxious to tell one who had been through it how the
thing should have been conducted; so his guest, with a mixture of
astonishment and indignation, resigned himself to listen to the most
pitiful inanities. He marvelled that a man should have spent his life in
the service, and yet apparently be ignorant of the very elements of
warfare; but having already learnt to hold his tongue, he let the
Colonel talk, and was presently rewarded by a break. Something reminded
the gallant cavalryman of a hoary anecdote, and he gave James that
dreary round of stories which have dragged their heavy feet for thirty
years from garrison to garrison. Then, naturally, he proceeded to the
account of his own youthful conquests. The Colonel had evidently been a
devil with the ladies, for he knew all about the forgotten
ballet-dancers of the seventies, and related with gusto a number of
scabrous tales.
"Ah, my boy, in my day we went the pace! I tell you in confidence, I was
a deuce of a rake before I got married."
When they returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Clibborn was ready with her
langorous smile, and made James sit beside her on the sofa. In a few
minutes the Colonel, as was his habit, closed his eyes, dropped his
chin, and fell comfortably asleep. Mrs. Clibborn slowly turned to Mary.
"Will you try and find me my glasses, darling," she murmured. "They're
either in my work-basket or on the morning-room table. And if you can't
see them there, perhaps they're in your father's study. I want to read
Jamie a letter."
"I'll go and look, mother."
Mary went out, and Mrs. Clibborn put her hand on Jamie's arm.
"Do you dislike me very much, Jamie?" she murmured softly.
"On the contrary!"
"I'm afraid your mother doesn't care for me."
"I'm sure she does."
"Women have never liked me. I don't know why. I can't help it if I'm not
exactly--plain, I'm as God made me."
James thought that the Almighty in that case must have an unexpected
familiarity with the rouge-pot and the powder-puff.
"Do you know that I did all I could to prevent your engagement to Mary?"
"You!" cried James, thunderstruck. "I never knew that."
"I thought I had better tell you myself. You mustn't be angry with me.
It was for your own good. If I had had my way you would never have
become engaged. I thought you were so much too young."
"Five years ago, d'you mean--when it first happened?"
"You were only a boy--a very nice boy, Jamie. I always liked you. I
don't approve of long engagements, and I thought you'd change your mind.
Most young men are a little wild; it's right that they should be."
James looked at her, wondering suddenly whether she knew or divined
anything. It was impossible, she was too silly.
"You're very wise."
"Oh, don't say that!" cried Mrs. Clibborn, with a positive groan. "It
sounds so middle-aged.... I always thought Mary was too old for you. A
woman should be ten years younger than her husband."
"Tell me all about it," insisted James.
"They wouldn't listen to me. They said you had better be engaged. They
thought it would benefit your morals. I was very much against it. I
think boys are so much nicer when they haven't got encumbrances--or
morals."
At that moment Mary came in.
"I can't find your glasses, mamma."
"Oh, it doesn't matter," replied Mrs. Clibborn, smiling softly; "I've
just remembered that I sent them into Tunbridge Wells yesterday to be
mended."