XI

Not till luncheon was nearly finished did Mary brace herself for the

further ordeal, and in a steady, unmoved voice tell Colonel and Mrs.

Clibborn what had happened. The faded beauty merely smiled, and lifted

her eyes to the chandelier with the expression that had melted the

hearts of a thousand and one impressionable subalterns.

"I knew it," she murmured; "I knew it! You can't deceive a woman and a

mother."

But the Colonel for a moment was speechless. His face grew red, and his

dyed eyebrows stood up in a fury of indignation.

"Impossible!" he spluttered at last.

"You'd better drink a little water, Reggie dear," said his wife. "You

look as if you were going to have a fit."

"I won't have it," he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table so

that the cheese-plates clattered and the biscuits danced a rapid jig.

"I'll make him marry you. He forgets he has me to deal with! I

disapproved of the match from the beginning, didn't I, Clara? I said I

would never allow my daughter to marry beneath her."

"Papa!"

"Don't talk to me, Mary! Do you mean to deny that James Parsons is

infantry, or that his father was infantry before him? But he shall marry

you now. By George! he shall marry you if I have to lead him to the

altar by the scruff of his neck!"

Neglecting his cheese, the Colonel sprang to his feet and walked to and

fro, vehemently giving his opinion of James, his father, and all his

ancestors; of the regiments to which they had belonged, and all else

that was theirs. He traced their origin from a pork butcher's shop, and

prophesied their end, ignominiously, in hell. Every now and then he

assured Mary that she need have no fear; the rascal should marry her, or

die a violent death.

"But there's nothing more to be said now, papa. We've agreed quite

amicably to separate. All I want you to do is to treat him as if nothing

had happened."

"I'll horsewhip him," said Colonel Clibborn. "He's insulted you, and

I'll make him beg your pardon on his bended knees. Clara, where's my

horsewhip?"

"Papa, do be reasonable!"

"I am reasonable, Mary," roared the gallant soldier, becoming a rich

purple. "I know my duty, thank God! and I'm going to do it. When a man

insults my daughter, it's my duty, as a gentleman and an officer, to

give him a jolly good thrashing. When that twopenny sawbones of a doctor

was rude to you, I licked him within an inch of his life. I kicked him

till he begged for mercy; and if more men had the courage to take the

law into their own hands, there'd be fewer damned blackguards in the

world."

As a matter of fact, the Colonel had neither thrashed nor kicked the

doctor, but it pleased him to think he had. Moralists teach us that the

intention is praiseworthy, rather than the brutal act; consequently,

there could be no objection if the fearless cavalryman took credit for

things which he had thought of doing, but, from circumstances beyond his

control, had not actually done.

Mary felt no great alarm at her father's horrid threats, for she knew

him well, but still was doubtful about her mother.

"You will treat James as you did before, won't you, mamma?"

Mrs. Clibborn smiled, a portly seraph.

"My dear, I trust I am a gentlewoman."

"He shall never darken my doors again!" cried the Colonel. "I tell you,

Clara, keep him out of my way. If I meet him I won't be responsible for

my actions; I shall knock him down."

"Reggie dear, you'll have such dreadful indigestion if you don't calm

down. You know it always upsets you to get excited immediately after

meals."

"It's disgraceful! I suppose he forgets all those half-crowns I gave him

when he was a boy, and the cigars, and the port wine he's had since. I

opened a special bottle for him only the night before last. I'll never

sit down to dinner with him again--don't ask me to, Clara.... It's the

confounded impertinence of it which gets over me. But he shall marry

you, my dear; or I'll know the reason why."

"You can't have him up for breach of promise, Reggie," cooed Mrs.

Clibborn.

"A gentleman takes the law in his own hands in these matters. Ah, it's a

pity the good old days have gone when they settled such things with cold

steel!"

And the Colonel, to emphasise his words, flung himself into the

appropriate attitude, throwing his left hand up behind his head, and

lunging fiercely with the right.

"Go and look for my _pince-nez_, my dear," said Mrs. Clibborn, turning

to Mary. "I think they're in my work-basket or in your father's study."

Mary was glad to leave the room, about which the Colonel stamped in an

ever-increasing rage, pausing now and then to take a mouthful of bread

and cheese. The request for the glasses was Mrs. Clibborn's usual way of

getting rid of Mary, a typical subterfuge of a woman who never, except

by chance, put anything straightforwardly.... When the door was closed,

the buxom lady clasped her hands, and cried:

"Reginald! Reginald! I have a confession to make."

"What's the matter with you?" said the Colonel, stopping short.

"I am to blame for this, Reginald." Mrs. Clibborn threw her head on one

side, and looked at the ceiling as the only substitute for heaven.

"James Parsons has jilted Mary--on my account."

"What the devil have you been doing now?"

"Oh, forgive me, Reginald!" she cried, sliding off the chair and falling

heavily on her knees. "It's not my fault: he loves me."

"Fiddlesticks!" said her husband angrily, walking on again.

"It isn't, Reginald. How unjust you are to me!"

The facile tears began to flow down Mrs. Clibborn's well-powdered

cheeks.

"I know he loves me. You can't deceive a woman and a mother."

"You're double his age!"

"These boys always fall in love with women older than themselves; I've

noticed it so often. And he's almost told me in so many words, though

I'm sure I've given him no encouragement."

"Fiddlesticks, Clara!"

"You wouldn't believe me when I told you that poor Algy Turner loved me,

and he killed himself."

"Nothing of the kind; he died of cholera."

"Reginald," retorted Mrs. Clibborn, with asperity, "his death was most

mysterious. None of the doctors understood it. If he didn't poison

himself, he died of a broken heart. And I think you're very unkind to

me."

With some difficulty, being a heavy woman, she lifted herself from the

floor; and by the time she was safely on her feet, Mrs. Clibborn was

blowing and puffing like a grampus.

The Colonel, whose mind had wandered to other things, suddenly bethought

himself that he had a duty to perform.

"Where's my horsewhip, Clara? I command you to give it me."

"Reginald, if you have the smallest remnant of affection for me, you

will not hurt this unfortunate young man. Remember that Algy Turner

killed himself. You can't blame him for not wanting to marry poor Mary.

My dear, she has absolutely no figure. And men are so susceptible to

those things."

The Colonel stalked out of the room, and Mrs. Clibborn sat down to

meditate.

"I thought my day for such things was past," she murmured. "I knew it

all along. The way he looked at me was enough--we women have such quick

perceptions! Poor boy, how he must suffer!"

She promised herself that no harsh word of hers should drive James into

the early grave where lay the love-lorn Algy Turner. And she sighed,

thinking what a curse it was to possess that fatal gift of beauty!

* * *

When Little Primpton heard the news, Little Primpton was agitated.

Certainly it was distressed, and even virtuously indignant, but at the

same time completely unable to divest itself of that little flutter of

excitement which was so rare, yet so enchanting, a variation from the

monotony of its daily course. The well-informed walked with a lighter

step, and held their heads more jauntily, for life had suddenly acquired

a novel interest. With something new to talk about, something fresh to

think over, with a legitimate object of sympathy and resentment, the

torpid blood raced through their veins as might that of statesmen during

some crisis in national affairs. Let us thank God, who has made our

neighbours frail, and in His infinite mercy caused husband and wife to

quarrel; Tom, Dick, and Harry to fall more or less discreditably in

love; this dear friend of ours to lose his money, and that her

reputation. In all humility, let us be grateful for the scandal which

falls at our feet like ripe fruit, for the Divorce Court and for the

newspapers that, with a witty semblance of horror, report for us the

spicy details. If at certain intervals propriety obliges us to confess

that we are miserable sinners, has not the Lord sought to comfort us in

the recollection that we are not half so bad as most people?

Mr. Dryland went to the Vicarage to enter certificates in the parish

books. The Vicar was in his study, and gave his curate the keys of the

iron safe.

"Sophie Bunch came last night to put up her banns," he said.

"She's going to marry out of the parish, isn't she?"

"Yes, a Tunbridge Wells man."

The curate carefully blotted the entries he had made, and returned the

heavy books to their place.

"Will you come into the dining-room, Dryland?" said the Vicar, with a

certain solemnity. "Mrs Jackson would like to speak to you."

"Certainly."

Mrs. Jackson was reading the _Church Times_. Her thin, sharp face wore

an expression of strong disapproval; her tightly-closed mouth, her sharp

nose, even the angular lines of her body, signified clearly that her

moral sense was outraged. She put her hand quickly to her massive fringe

to see that it was straight, and rose to shake hands with Mr. Dryland.

His heavy red face assumed at once a grave look; his moral sense was

outraged, too.

"Isn't this dreadful news, Mr. Dryland?"

"Oh, very sad! Very sad!"

In both their voices, hidden below an intense sobriety, there was

discernible a slight ring of exultation.

"The moment I saw him I felt he would give trouble," said Mrs. Jackson,

shaking her head. "I told you, Archibald, that I didn't like the look of

him."

"I'm bound to say you did," admitted her lord and master.

"Mary Clibborn is much too good for him," added Mrs. Jackson,

decisively. "She's a saint."

"The fact is, that he's suffering from a swollen head," remarked the

curate, who used slang as a proof of manliness.

"There, Archibald!" cried the lady, triumphantly. "What did I tell you?"

"Mrs. Jackson thought he was conceited."

"I don't think it; I'm sure of it. He's odiously conceited. All the time

I was talking to him I felt he considered himself superior to me. No

nice-minded man would have refused our offer to say a short prayer on

his behalf during morning service."

"Those army men always have a very good opinion of themselves," said Mr.

Dryland, taking advantage of his seat opposite a looking-glass to

arrange his hair.

He spoke in such a round, full voice that his shortest words carried a

sort of polysyllabic weight.

"I can't see what he has done to be so proud of," said Mrs. Jackson.

"Anyone would have done the same in his position. I'm sure it's no more

heroic than what clergymen do every day of their lives, without making

the least fuss about it."

"They say that true courage is always modest," answered Mr. Dryland.

The remark was not very apposite, but sounded damaging.

"I didn't like the way he had when he came to tea here--as if he were

dreadfully bored. I'm sure he's not so clever as all that."

"No clever man would act in an ungentlemanly way," said the curate, and

then smiled, for he thought he had unconsciously made an epigram.

"I couldn't express in words what I feel with regard to his treatment of

Mary!" cried Mrs. Jackson; and then proceeded to do so--and in many, to

boot.

They had all been a little oppressed by the greatness which, much

against his will, they had thrust upon the unfortunate James. They had

set him on a pedestal, and then were disconcerted because he towered

above their heads, and the halo with which they had surrounded him

dazzled their eyes. They had wished to make a lion of James, and his

modest resistance wounded their self-esteem; it was a relief to learn

that he was not worth making a lion of. Halo and pedestal were quickly

demolished, for the golden idol had feet of clay, and his late adorers

were ready to reproach him because he had not accepted with proper

humility the gifts he did not want. Their little vanities were comforted

by the assurance that, far from being a hero, James was, in fact,

distinctly inferior to themselves. For there is no superiority like

moral superiority. A man who stands akimbo on the top of the Ten

Commandments need bow the knee to no earthly potentate.

Little Primpton was conscious of its virtue, and did not hesitate to

condemn.

"He has lowered himself dreadfully."

"Yes, it's very sad. It only shows how necessary it is to preserve a

meek and contrite spirit in prosperity. Pride always goes before a

fall."

The Jacksons and Mr. Dryland discussed the various accounts which had

reached them. Mary and Mrs. Parsons were determinedly silent, but Mrs.

Clibborn was loquacious, and it needed little artifice to extract the

whole story from Colonel Parsons.

"One thing is unfortunately certain," said Mrs. Jackson, with a sort of

pious vindictiveness, "Captain Parsons has behaved abominably, and it's

our duty to do something."

"Colonel Clibborn threatens to horsewhip him."

"It would do him good," cried Mrs. Jackson; "and I should like to be

there to see it!"

They paused a moment to gloat over the imaginary scene of Jamie's

chastisement.

"He's a wicked man. Fancy throwing the poor girl over when she's waited

five years. I think he ought to be made to marry her."

"I'm bound to say that no gentleman would have acted like that," said

the Vicar.

"I wanted Archibald to go and speak seriously to Captain Parsons. He

ought to know what we think of him, and it's obviously our duty to tell

him."

"His parents are very much distressed. One can see that, although they

say so little."

"It's not enough to be distressed. They ought to have the strength of

mind to insist upon his marrying Mary Clibborn. But they stick up for

everything he does. They think he's perfect. I'm sure it's not

respectful to God to worship a human being as they do their son."

"They certainly have a very exaggerated opinion of him," assented Mr.

Dryland.

"And I should like to know why. He's not good-looking."

"Very ordinary," agreed Mr. Dryland, with a rapid glance at the

convenient mirror. "I don't think his appearance is manly."

Whatever the curate's defects of person--and he flattered himself that

he was modest enough to know his bad points--no one, he fancied, could

deny him manliness. It is possible that he was not deceived. Put him in

a bowler-hat and a bell-bottomed coat, and few could have distinguished

him from a cab-driver.

"I don't see anything particular in his eyes or hair," pursued Mrs.

Jackson.

"His features are fairly regular. But that always strikes me as insipid

in a man."

"And he's not a good conversationalist."

"I'm bound to confess I've never heard him say anything clever,"

remarked the Vicar.

"No," smiled the curate; "one could hardly call him a brilliant

epigrammatist."

"I don't think he's well informed."

"Oh, well, you know, one doesn't expect knowledge from army men," said

the curate, with a contemptuous smile and a shrug of the shoulders. "I

must say I was rather amused when he confessed he hadn't read Marie

Corelli."

"I can hardly believe that. I think it was only pose."

"I'm sorry to say that my experience of young officers is that there are

absolutely no bounds to their ignorance."

They had satisfactorily stripped James of every quality, mental and

physical, which could have made him attractive in Mary's eyes; and the

curate's next remark was quite natural.

"I'm afraid it sounds a conceited thing to say, but I can't help asking

myself what Miss Clibborn saw in him."

"Love is blind," replied Mrs. Jackson. "She could have done much better

for herself."

They paused to consider the vagaries of the tender passion, and the

matches which Mary might have made, had she been so inclined.

"Archibald," said Mrs. Jackson at last, with the decision characteristic

of her, "I've made up my mind. As vicar of the parish, _you_ must go to

Captain Parsons."

"I, my dear?"

"Yes, Archibald. You must insist upon him fulfilling his engagement with

Mary. Say that you are shocked and grieved; and ask him if his own

conscience does not tell him that he has done wrong."

"I'm not sure that he'd listen to reason," nervously remarked the Vicar.

"It's your duty to try, Archibald. We're so afraid of being called

busybodies that even when we ought to step in we hesitate. No motives of

delicacy should stop one when a wicked action is to be prevented. It's

often the clergy's duty to interfere with other people's affairs. For my

part, I will never shrink from doing my duty. People may call me a

busybody if they like; hard words break no bones."

"Captain Parsons is very reserved. He might think it an impertinence if

I went to him."

"How could he? Isn't it our business if he breaks his word with a

parishioner of ours? If you don't talk to him, I shall. So there,

Archibald!"

"Why don't you, Mrs. Jackson?"

"Nothing would please me better, I should thoroughly enjoy giving him a

piece of my mind. It would do him good to be told frankly that he's not

quite so great as he thinks himself. I will never shrink from doing my

duty."

"My dear," remonstrated the Vicar, "if you really think I ought to

speak--"

"Perhaps Mrs. Jackson would do better. A women can say many things that

a man can't."

This was a grateful suggestion to the Vicar, who could not rid himself

of the discomforting thought that James, incensed and hot-tempered,

might use the strength of his arms--or legs--in lieu of argument. Mr.

Jackson would have affronted horrid tortures for his faith, but shrank

timidly before the least suspicion of ridicule. His wife was braver, or

less imaginative.

"Very well, I'll go," she said. "It's true he might be rude to

Archibald, and he couldn't be rude to a lady. And what's more, I shall

go at once."

Mrs. Jackson kept her hat on a peg in the hall, and was quickly ready.

She put on her black kid gloves; determination sat upon her mouth, and

Christian virtue rested between her brows. Setting out with a brisk

step, the conviction was obvious in every movement that duty called, and

to that clarion note Maria Jackson would never turn a deaf ear. She went

like a Hebrew prophet, conscious that the voice of the Lord was in her.