IX

In the morning Mrs. Parsons was in the hall, arranging flowers, when

James passed through to get his hat.

"Are you going to see Mary now?"

"Yes, mother."

"That's a good boy."

She did not notice that her son's usual gravity was intensified, or that

his very lips were pallid, and his eyes careworn and lustreless.

It was raining. The young fresh leaves, in the colourless day, had lost

their verdure, and the massive shapes of the elm trees were obscured in

the mist. The sky had so melancholy a tone that it seemed a work of

man--a lifeless hue of infinite sorrow, dreary and cheerless.

James arrived at the Clibborns' house.

"Miss Mary is in the drawing-room," he was told by a servant, who smiled

on him, the accepted lover, with obtrusive friendliness.

He went in and found her seated at the piano, industriously playing

scales. She wore the weather-beaten straw hat without which she never

seemed comfortable.

"Oh, I'm glad you've come," she said. "I'm alone in the house, and I was

taking the opportunity to have a good practice." She turned round on the

music-stool, and ran one hand chromatically up the piano, smiling the

while with pleasure at Jamie's visit. "Would you like to go for a walk?"

she asked. "I don't mind the rain a bit."

"I would rather stay here, if you don't mind."

James sat down and began playing with a paper-knife. Still he did not

know how to express himself. He was torn asunder by rival emotions; he

felt absolutely bound to speak, and yet could not bear the thought of

the agony he must cause. He was very tender-hearted; he had never in his

life consciously given pain to any living creature, and would far rather

have inflicted hurt upon himself.

"I've been wanting to have a long talk with you alone ever since I came

back."

"Have you? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because what I want to say is very difficult, Mary; and I'm afraid it

must be very--distressing to both of us."

"What do you mean?"

Mary suddenly became grave, James glanced at her, and hesitated; but

there was no room for hesitation now. Somehow he must get to the end of

what he had to say, attempting only to be as gentle as possible. He

stood up and leant against the mantelpiece, still toying with the

paper-knife; Mary also changed her seat, and took a chair by the table.

"Do you know that we've been engaged for over five years now, Mary?"

"Yes."

She looked at him steadily, and he dropped his eyes.

"I want to thank you for all you've done for my sake, Mary. I know how

good you have been to my people; it was very kind of you. I cannot think

how they would have got along without you."

"I love them as I love my own father and mother, Jamie. I tried to act

towards them as though I was indeed their daughter."

He was silent for a while.

"We were both very young when we became engaged," he said at last.

He looked up quickly, but she did not answer. She stared with frightened

eyes, as if already she understood. It was harder even than he thought.

James asked himself desperately whether he could not stop there, taking

back what he had said. The cup was too bitter! But what was the

alternative? He could not go on pretending one thing when he felt

another; he could not live a constant, horrible lie. He felt there was

only one course open to him. Like a man with an ill that must be fatal

unless instantly treated, he was bound to undergo everything, however

great the torture.

"And it's a very bad return I'm making you for all your kindness. You

have done everything for me, Mary. You've waited for me patiently and

lovingly; you've sacrificed yourself in every way; and I'm afraid I must

make you very unhappy--Oh, don't think I'm not grateful to you; I can

never thank you sufficiently."

He wished Mary would say something to help him, but she kept silent. She

merely dropped her eyes, and now her face seemed quite expressionless.

"I have asked myself day and night what I ought to do, and I can see no

way clear before me. I've tried to say this to you before, but I've

funked it. You think I'm brave--I'm not; I'm a pitiful coward! Sometimes

I can only loathe and despise myself. I want to do my duty, but I can't

tell what my duty is. If I only knew for sure which way I ought to take,

I should have strength to take it; but it is all so uncertain."

James gave Mary a look of supplication, but she did not see it; her

glance was still riveted to the ground.

"I think it's better to tell you the whole truth, Mary; I'm afraid I'm

speaking awfully priggishly. I feel I'm acting like a cad, and yet I

don't know how else to act. God help me!"

"I've known almost from the beginning that you no longer cared for me,"

said Mary quietly, her face showing no expression, her voice hushed till

it was only a whisper.

"Forgive me, Mary; I've tried to love you. Oh, how humiliating that must

sound! I hardly know what I'm saying. Try to understand me. If my words

are harsh and ugly, it's because I don't know how to express myself. But

I must tell you the whole truth. The chief thing is that I should be

honest with you. It's the only return I can make for all you've done for

me."

Mary bent her head a little lower, and heavy tears rolled down her

cheeks.

"Oh, Mary, don't cry!" said James, his voice breaking; and he stepped

forward, with outstretched arms, as though to comfort her.

"I'm sorry," she said; "I didn't mean to."

She took out her handkerchief and dried her eyes, trying to smile. Her

courageous self-command was like a stab in Jamie's heart.

"I am an absolute cad!" he said, hoarsely.

Mary made no gesture; she sat perfectly still, rigid, not seeking to

hide her emotion, but merely to master it. One could see the effort she

made.

"I'm awfully sorry, Mary! Please forgive me--I don't ask you to release

me. All I want to do is to explain exactly what I feel, and then leave

you to decide."

"Are you--are you in love with anyone else?"

"No!"

The smile of Mrs. Wallace flashed scornfully across his mind, but he set

his teeth. He hated and despised her; he would not love her.

"Is there anything in me that you don't like which I might be able to

correct?"

Her humility was more than he could bear.

"No, no, no!" he cried. "I can never make you understand. You must think

me simply brutal. You have all that a man could wish for. I know how

kind you are, and how good you are. I think you have every quality which

a good woman should have. I respect you entirely; I can never help

feeling for you the most intense gratitude and affection."

In his own ears the words he spoke rang hollow, awkward, even

impertinent. He could say nothing which did not seem hideously

supercilious; and yet he wanted to abase himself! He knew that Mary's

humiliation must be very, very bitter.

"I'm afraid that I am distressing you frightfully, and I don't see how I

can make things easier."

"Oh, I knew you didn't love me! I felt it. D'you think I could talk to

you for five minutes without seeing the constraint in your manner? They

told me I was foolish and fanciful, but I knew better."

"I must have caused you very great unhappiness?"

Mary did not answer, and James looked at her with pity and remorse. At

last he broke out passionately:

"I can't command my love! It's not a thing I have at my beck and call.

If it were, do you think I should give you this pain? Love is outside

all calculation. You think love can be tamed, and led about on a chain

like a dog. You think it's a gentle sentiment that one can subject to

considerations of propriety and decorum, and God knows what. Oh, you

don't know! Love is a madness that seizes one and shakes one like a leaf

in the wind. I can't counterfeit love; I can't pretend to have it. I

can't command the nerves of my body."

"Do you think I don't know what love is, James? How little you know me."

James sank on a chair and hid his face.

"We none of us understand one another. We're all alike, and yet so

different. I don't even know myself. Don't think I'm a prig when I say

that I've tried with all my might to love you. I would have given worlds

to feel as I felt five years ago. But I can't. God help me!... Oh, you

must hate and despise me, Mary!"

"I, my dear?" she shook her head sadly. "I shall never do that. I want

you to speak frankly. It is much better that we should try to understand

one another."

"That is what I felt. I did not think it honest to marry you with a lie

in my heart. I don't know whether we can ever be happy; but our only

chance is to speak the whole truth."

Mary looked helplessly at him, cowed by her grief.

"I knew it was coming. Every day I dreaded it."

The pain in her eyes was more than James could bear; it was cruel to

make her suffer so much. He could not do it. He felt an intense pity,

and the idea came to him that there might be a middle way, which would

lessen the difficulty. He hesitated a moment, and then, looking down,

spoke in a low voice:

"I am anxious to do my duty, Mary. I have promised to marry you. I do

not wish to break my word. I don't ask you to release me. Will you take

what I can offer? I will be a good husband to you. I will do all I can

to make you happy. I can give you affection and confidence--friendship;

but I can't give you love. It is much better that I should tell you than

that you should find out painfully by yourself--perhaps when it is too

late."

"You came to ask me to release you. Why do you hesitate now? Do you

think I shall refuse?"

James was silent.

"You cannot think that I will accept a compromise. Do you suppose that

because I am a woman I am not made of flesh and blood? You said you

wished to be frank."

"I had not thought of the other way till just now."

"Do you imagine that it softens the blow? How could I live with you as

your wife, and yet not your wife? What are affection and esteem to me

without love? You must think me a very poor creature, James, when you

want to make me a sort of legal housekeeper."

"I'm sorry. I didn't think you would look upon it as an impertinence. I

didn't mean to say anything offensive. It struck me as a possible way

out of the difficulty. You would, at all events, be happier than you are

here."

"It is you who despise me now!"

"Mary!"

"I can bear pain. It's not the first humiliation I have suffered. It is

very simple, and there's no reason why we should make a fuss about it.

You thought you loved me, and you asked me to marry you. I don't know

whether you ever really loved me; you certainly don't now, and you wish

me to release you. You know that I cannot and will not refuse."

"I see no way out of it, Mary," he said, hoarsely. "I wish to God I did!

It's frightfully cruel to you."

"I can bear it. I don't blame you. It's not your fault. God will give me

strength." Mary thought of her mother's cruel sympathy. Her parents

would have to be told that James had cast her aside like a plaything he

was tired of. "God will give me strength."

"I'm so sorry, Mary," cried James, kneeling by her side. "You'll have to

suffer dreadfully; and I can't think how to make it any better for you."

"There is no way. We must tell them the whole truth, and let them say

what they will."

"Would you like me to go away from Primpton?"

"Why?"

"It might make it easier for you."

"Nothing can make it easier. I can face it out. And I don't want you to

run away and hide yourself as if you had done something to be ashamed

of. And your people want you. Oh, Jamie, you will be as gentle with them

as you can, won't you? I'm afraid it will--disappoint them very much."

"They had set their hearts upon our marriage."

"I'm afraid they'll feel it a good deal. But it can't be helped.

Anything is better than a loveless marriage."

James was profoundly touched that at the time of her own bitter grief,

Mary could think of the pain of others.

"I wish I had your courage, Mary. I've never seen such strength."

"It's well that I have some qualities. I haven't the power to make you

love me, and I deserve something to make up."

"Oh, Mary, don't speak like that! I do love you! There's no one for whom

I have a purer, more sincere affection. Why won't you take me with what

I can offer? I promise that you will never regret it. You know exactly

what I am now--weak, but anxious to do right. Why shouldn't we be

married? Perhaps things may change. Who can tell what time may bring

about?"

"It's impossible. You ask me to do more than I can. And I know very well

that you only make the offer out of charity. Even from you I cannot

accept charity."

"My earnest wish is to make you happy."

"And I know you would sacrifice yourself willingly for that; but I can

sacrifice myself, too. You think that if we got married love might

arise; but it wouldn't. You would feel perpetually that I was a reproach

to you; you would hate me."

"I should never do that."

"How can you tell? We are the same age now, but each year I should seem

older. At forty I should be an old woman, and you would still be a young

man. Only the deepest love can make that difference endurable; but the

love would be all on my side--if _I_ had any then. I should probably

have grown bitter and ill-humoured. Ah, no, Jamie, you know it is

utterly impracticable. You know it as well as I do. Let us part

altogether. I give you back your word. It is not your fault that you do

not love me. I don't blame you. One gets over everything in this world

eventually. All I ask you is not to trouble too much about me; I shan't

die of it."

She stretched out her hand, and he took it, his eyes all blurred, unable

to speak.

"And I thank you," she continued, "for having come to me frankly and

openly, and told me everything. It is still something that you have

confidence in me. You need never fear that I shall feel bitter towards

you. I can see that you have suffered--perhaps more than you have made

me suffer. Good-bye!"

"Is there nothing I can do, Mary?"

"Nothing," she said, trying to smile, "except not to worry."

"Good-bye," he said. "And don't think too ill of me."

She could not trust herself to answer. She stood perfectly quiet till he

had gone out of the room; then with a moan sank to the floor and hid her

face, bursting into tears. She had restrained herself too long; the

composure became intolerable. She could have screamed, as though

suffering some physical pain that destroyed all self-control. The heavy

sobs rent her chest, and she did not attempt to stop them. She was

heart-broken.

"Oh, how could he!" she groaned. "How could he!"

Her vision of happiness was utterly gone. In James she had placed the

joy of her life; in him had found strength to bear every displeasure.

Mary had no thought in which he did not take part; her whole future was

inextricably mingled with his. But now the years to come, which had

seemed so bright and sunny, turned suddenly grey as the melancholy sky

without. She saw her life at Little Primpton, continuing as in the past

years, monotonous and dull--a dreary round of little duties, of little

vexations, of little pleasures.

"Oh, God help me!" she cried.

And lifting herself painfully to her knees, she prayed for strength to

bear the woeful burden, for courage to endure it steadfastly, for

resignation to believe that it was God's will.

X

James felt no relief. He had looked forward to a sensation of freedom

such as a man might feel when he had escaped from some tyrannous

servitude, and was at liberty again to breathe the buoyant air of

heaven. He imagined that his depression would vanish like an evil spirit

exorcised so soon as ever he got from Mary his release; but instead it

sat more heavily upon him. Unconvinced even yet that he had acted

rightly, he went over the conversation word for word. It seemed

singularly ineffectual. Wishing to show Mary that he did not break with

her from caprice or frivolous reason, but with sorrowful reluctance, and

full knowledge of her suffering, he had succeeded only in being futile

and commonplace.

He walked slowly towards Primpton House. He had before him the

announcement to his mother and father; and he tried to order his

thoughts.

Mrs. Parsons, her household work finished, was knitting the inevitable

socks; while the Colonel sat at the table, putting new stamps into his

album. He chattered delightedly over his treasures, getting up now and

then gravely to ask his wife some question or to point out a surcharge;

she, good woman, showed interest by appropriate rejoinders.

"There's no one in Tunbridge Wells who has such a fine collection as I

have."

"General Newsmith showed me his the other day, but it's not nearly so

good as yours, Richmond."

"I'm glad of that. I suppose his Mauritius are fine?" replied the

Colonel, with some envy, for the general had lived several years on the

island.

"They're fair," said Mrs. Parsons, reassuringly; "but not so good as one

would expect."

"It takes a clever man to get together a good collection of stamps,

although I shouldn't say it."

They looked up when James entered.

"I've just been putting in those Free States you brought me, Jamie. They

look very well."

The Colonel leant back to view them, with the satisfied look with which

he might have examined an old master.

"It was very thoughtful of Jamie to bring them," said Mrs. Parsons.

"Ah, I knew he wouldn't forget his old father. Don't you remember,

Frances, I said to you, 'I'll be bound the boy will bring some stamps

with him.' They'll be valuable in a year or two. That's what I always

say with regard to postage stamps; you can't waste your money. Now

jewellery, for instance, gets old-fashioned, and china breaks; but you

run no risk with stamps. When I buy stamps, I really feel that I'm as

good as investing my money in consols."

"Well, how's Mary this morning?"

"I've been having a long talk with her."

"Settled the day yet?" asked the Colonel, with a knowing little laugh.

"No!"

"Upon my word, Frances, I think we shall have to settle it for them.

Things weren't like this when we were young. Why, Jamie, your mother and

I got married six weeks after I was introduced to her at a croquet

party."

"We were married in haste, Richmond," said Mrs. Parsons, laughing.

"Well, we've taken a long time to repent of it, my dear. It's over

thirty years."

"I fancy it's too late now."

The Colonel took her hand and patted it.

"If you get such a good wife as I have, Jamie, I don't think you'll have

reason to complain. Will he, my dear?"

"It's not for me to say, Richmond," replied Mrs. Parsons, smiling

contentedly.

"Do you want me to get married very much, father?"

"Of course I do. I've set my heart upon it. I want to see what the new

generations of Parsons are like before I die."

"Listen, Richmond, Jamie has something to tell us."

Mrs. Parsons had been looking at her son, and was struck at last by the

agony of his expression.

"What is it, Jamie?" she asked.

"I'm afraid you'll be dreadfully disappointed. I'm so sorry--Mary and I

are no longer engaged to be married."

For a minute there was silence in the room. The old Colonel looked

helplessly from wife to son.

"What does he mean, Frances?" he said at last.

Mrs. Parsons did not answer, and he turned to James.

"You're not in earnest, Jamie? You're joking with us?"

James went over to his father, as the weaker of the two, and put his arm

round his shoulders.

"I'm awfully sorry to have to grieve you, father. It's quite true--worse

luck! It was impossible for me to marry Mary."

"D'you mean that you've broken your engagement with her after she's

waited five years for you?" said Mrs. Parsons.

"I couldn't do anything else. I found I no longer loved her. We should

both have been unhappy if we had married."

The Colonel recovered himself slowly, he turned round and looked at his

son.

"Jamie, Jamie, what have you done?"

"Oh, you can say nothing that I've not said to myself. D'you think it's

a step I should have taken lightly? I feel nothing towards Mary but

friendship. I don't love her."

"But--" the Colonel stopped, and then a light shone in his face, and he

began to laugh. "Oh, it's only a lovers' quarrel, Frances. They've had a

little tiff, and they say they'll never speak to one another again. I

warrant they're both heartily sorry already, and before night they'll be

engaged as fast as ever."

James, by a look, implored his mother to speak. She understood, and

shook her head sadly.

"No, Richmond, I'm afraid it's not that. It's serious."

"But Mary loves him, Frances."

"I know," said James. "That's the tragedy of it. If I could only

persuade myself that she didn't care for me, it would be all right."

Colonel Parsons sank into his chair, suddenly collapsing. He seemed

smaller than ever, wizened and frail; the wisp of white hair that

concealed his baldness fell forward grotesquely. His face assumed again

that expression, which was almost habitual, of anxious fear.

"Oh, father, don't look like that! I can't help it! Don't make it harder

for me than possible. You talk to him, mother. Explain that it's not my

fault. There was nothing else I could do."

Colonel Parsons sat silent, with his head bent down, but Mrs. Parsons

asked:

"What did you say to Mary this morning?"

"I told her exactly what I felt."

"You said you didn't love her?"

"I had to."

"Poor thing!"

They all remained for a while without speaking, each one thinking his

painful thoughts.

"Richmond," said Mrs. Parsons at last, "we mustn't blame the boy. It's

not his fault. He can't help it if he doesn't love her."

"You wouldn't have me marry her without love, father?"

The question was answered by Mrs. Parsons.

"No; if you don't love her, you mustn't marry her. But what's to be

done, I don't know. Poor thing, poor thing, how unhappy she must be!"

James sat with his face in his hands, utterly wretched, beginning

already to see the great circle of confusion that he had caused. Mrs.

Parsons looked at him and looked at her husband. Presently she went up

to James.

"Jamie, will you leave us for a little? Your father and I would like to

talk it over alone."

"Yes, mother."

James got up, and putting her hands on his shoulders, she kissed him.

When James had gone, Mrs. Parsons looked compassionately at her husband;

he glanced up, and catching her eye, tried to smile. But it was a poor

attempt, and it finished with a sigh.

"What's to be done, Richmond?"

Colonel Parsons shook his head without answering.

"I ought to have warned you that something might happen. I saw there was

a difference in Jamie's feelings, but I fancied it would pass over. I

believed it was only strangeness. Mary is so fond of him, I thought he

would soon love her as much as ever."

"But it's not honourable what he's done, Frances," said the old man at

last, his voice trembling with emotion. "It's not honourable."

"He can't help it if he doesn't love her."

"It's his duty to marry her. She's waited five years; she's given him

the best of her youth--and he jilts her. He can't, Frances; he must

behave like a gentleman."

The tears fell down Mrs. Parsons' careworn cheeks--the slow, sparse

tears of the woman who has endured much sorrow.

"Don't let us judge him, Richmond. We're so ignorant of the world. You

and I are old-fashioned."

"There are no fashions in honesty."

"Let us send for William. Perhaps he'll be able to advise us."

William was Major Forsyth, the brother of Mrs. Parsons. He was a

bachelor, living in London, and considered by his relatives a typical

man of the world.

"He'll be able to talk to the boy better than we can."

"Very well, let us send for him."

They were both overcome by the catastrophe, but as yet hardly grasped

the full extent of it. All their hopes had been centred on this

marriage; all their plans for the future had been in it so intricately

woven that they could not realise the total over-throw. They felt as a

man might feel who was crippled by a sudden accident, and yet still

pictured his life as though he had free use of his limbs.... Mrs.

Parsons wrote a telegram, and gave it to the maid. The servant went out

of the room, but as she did so, stepped back and announced:

"Miss Clibborn, ma'am."

"Mary!"

The girl came in, and lifted the veil which she had put on to hide her

pallor and her eyes, red and heavy with weeping.

"I thought I'd better come round and see you quietly," she said. "I

suppose you've heard?"

"Mary, Mary!"

Mrs. Parsons took her in her arms, kissing her tenderly. Mary pretended

to laugh, and hastily dried the tears which came to her eyes.

"You've been crying, Mrs. Parsons. You mustn't do that.... Let us sit

down and talk sensibly."

She took the Colonel's hand, and gently pressed it.

"Is it true, Mary?" he asked. "I can't believe it."

"Yes, it's quite true. We've decided that we don't wish to marry one

another. I want to ask you not to think badly of Jamie. He's very--cut

up about it. He's not to blame."

"We're thinking of you, my dear."

"Oh, I shall be all right. I can bear it."

"It's not honourable what he's done, Mary," said the Colonel.

"Oh, don't say that, please! That is why I came round to you quickly. I

want you to think that Jamie did what he considered right. For my sake,

don't think ill of him. He can't help it if he doesn't love me. I'm not

very attractive; he must have known in India girls far nicer than I. How

could I hope to keep him all these years? I was a fool to expect it."

"I am so sorry, Mary!" cried Mrs. Parsons. "We've looked forward to your

marriage with all our hearts. You know Jamie's been a good son to us;

he's never given us any worry. We did want him to marry you. We're so

fond of you, and we know how really good you are. We felt that whatever

happened after that--if we died--Jamie would be safe and happy."

"It can't be helped. Things never turn out in this world as one wants

them. Don't be too distressed about it, and, above all things, don't let

Jamie see that you think he hasn't acted--as he might have done."

"How can you think of him now, when your heart must be almost breaking?"

"You see, I've thought of him for years," answered Mary, smiling sadly.

"I can't help it now. Oh, I don't want him to suffer! His worrying can

do no good, I should like him to be completely happy."

Colonel Parsons sighed.

"He's my son, and he's behaved dishonourably."

"Don't say that. It's not fair to him. He did not ask me for his

release. But I couldn't marry him when I knew he no longer cared for

me."

"He might have learned to love you, Mary," said Mrs. Parsons.

"No, no! I could see, as he pressed me to marry him notwithstanding, he

was hoping with all his might that I would refuse. He would have hated

me. No; it's the end. We have separated for ever, and I will do my best

to get over it."

They fell into silence, and presently Mary got up. "I must go home now,

and tell mamma."

"She'll probably have hysterics," said Mrs. Parsons, with a little sniff

of contempt.

"No, she'll be delighted," returned Mary. "I know her so well."

"Oh, how much you will have to suffer, dearest!"

"It'll do me good. I was too happy."

"Don't you think you could wait a little before telling anyone else?"

asked the Colonel. "Major Forsyth is coming down. He may be able to

arrange it; he's a man of the world."

"Can he make Jamie love me? Ah, no, it's no good waiting. Let me get it

over quickly while I have the courage. And it helps me to think I have

something to do. It only means a few sneers and a little false

sympathy."

"A great deal of real sympathy."

"People are always rather glad when some unhappiness befalls their

friends! Oh, I didn't mean that! I don't want to be bitter. Don't think

badly of me either. I shall be different to-morrow."

"We can never think of you without the sincerest, fondest love."

At that moment James, who did not know that Mary was there, came into

the room. He started when he saw her and turned red; but Mary, with a

woman's self-possession, braced herself together.

"Oh, Jamie, I've just been having a little chat with your people."

"I'm sorry I interrupted you," he answered, awkwardly. "I didn't know

you were here."

"You need not avoid me because we've broken off our engagement. At all

events, you have no reason to be afraid of me now. Good-bye! I'm just

going home."

She went out, and James looked uncertainly at his parents. His father

did not speak, staring at the ground, but Mrs. Parsons said:

"Mary has been asking us not to be angry with you, Jamie. She says it's

not your fault."

"It's very kind of her."

"Oh, how could you? How could you?"