James was wandering in the garden of Primpton House while Mrs. Jackson
thither went her way. Since the termination of his engagement with Mary
three days back, the subject had not been broached between him and his
parents; but he divined their thoughts. He knew that they awaited the
arrival of his uncle, Major Forsyth, to set the matter right. They did
not seek to reconcile themselves with the idea that the break was final;
it seemed too monstrous a thing to be true. James smiled, with bitter
amusement, at their simple trust in the man of the world who was due
that day.
Major Forsyth was fifty-three, a haunter of military clubs, a busy
sluggard, who set his pride in appearing dissipated, and yet led the
blameless life of a clergyman's daughter; preserving a spotless virtue,
nothing pleased him more than to be thought a rake. He had been on
half-pay for many years, and blamed the War Office on that account
rather than his own incompetence. Ever since retiring he had told people
that advancement, in these degenerate days, was impossible without
influence: he was, indeed, one of those men to whom powerful friends
offer the only chance of success; and possessing none, inveighed
constantly against the corrupt officialism of those in authority. But to
his Jeremiads upon the decay of the public services he added a keen
interest in the world of fashion; it is always well that a man should
have varied activities; it widens his horizon, and gives him a greater
usefulness. If his attention had been limited to red-tape, Major
Forsyth, even in his own circle, might have been thought a little
one-sided; but his knowledge of etiquette and tailors effectually
prevented the reproach. He was pleased to consider himself in society;
he read assiduously those papers which give detailed accounts of the
goings-on in the "hupper succles," and could give you with considerable
accuracy the whereabouts of titled people. If he had a weakness, it was
by his manner of speaking to insinuate that he knew certain noble
persons whom, as a matter of fact, he had never set eyes on; he would
not have told a direct lie on the subject, but his conscience permitted
him a slight equivocation. Major Forsyth was well up in all the gossip
of the clubs, and if he could not call himself a man of the world, he
had not the least notion who could. But for all that, he had the
strictest principles; he was true brother to Mrs. Parsons, and though he
concealed the fact like something disreputable, regularly went to church
on Sunday mornings. There was also a certain straitness in his income
which confined him to the paths shared by the needy and the pure at
heart.
Major Forsyth had found no difficulty in imposing upon his sister and
her husband.
"Of course, William is rather rackety," they said. "It's a pity he
hasn't a wife to steady him; but he has a good heart."
For them Major Forsyth had the double advantage of a wiliness gained in
the turmoil of the world and an upright character. They scarcely knew
how in the present juncture he could help, but had no doubt that from
the boundless store of his worldly wisdom he would invent a solution to
their difficulty.
James had found his uncle out when he was quite a boy, and seeing his
absurdity, had treated him ever since with good-natured ridicule.
"I wonder what they think he can say?" he asked himself.
James was profoundly grieved at the unhappiness which bowed his father
down. His parents had looked forward with such ecstatic pleasure to his
arrival, and what sorrow had he not brought them!
"I wish I'd never come back," he muttered.
He thought of the flowing, undulating plains of the Orange Country, and
the blue sky, with its sense of infinite freedom. In that trim Kentish
landscape he felt hemmed in; when the clouds were low it seemed scarcely
possible to breathe; and he suffered from the constraint of his father
and mother, who treated him formally, as though he had become a
stranger. There was always between them and him that painful topic which
for the time was carefully shunned. They did not mention Mary's name,
and the care they took to avoid it was more painful than would have been
an open reference. They sat silent and sad, trying to appear natural,
and dismally failing; their embarrassed manner was such as they might
have adopted had he committed some crime, the mention of which for his
sake must never be made, but whose recollection perpetually haunted
them. In every action was the belief that James must be suffering from
remorse, and that it was their duty not to make his burden heavier.
James knew that his father was convinced that he had acted
dishonourably, and he--what did he himself think?
James asked himself a hundred times a day whether he had acted well or
ill; and though he forced himself to answer that he had done the only
possible thing, deep down in his heart was a terrible, a perfectly
maddening uncertainty. He tried to crush it, and would not listen, for
his intelligence told him clearly it was absurd; but it was stronger
than intelligence, an incorporeal shape through which passed harmlessly
the sword-cuts of his reason. It was a little devil curled up in his
heart, muttering to all his arguments, "Are you sure?"
Sometimes he was nearly distracted, and then the demon laughed, so that
the mocking shrillness rang in his ears:
"Are you sure, my friend--are you sure? And where, pray, is the honour
which only a while ago you thought so much of?"
* * *
James walked to and fro restlessly, impatient, angry with himself and
with all the world.
But then on the breath of the wind, on the perfume of the roses, yellow
and red, came suddenly the irresistible recollection of Mrs. Wallace.
Why should he not think of her now? He was free; he could do her no
harm; he would never see her again. The thought of her was the only
sunshine in his life; he was tired of denying himself every pleasure.
Why should he continue the pretence that he no longer loved her? It was,
indeed, a consolation to think that the long absence had not dulled his
passion; the strength of it was its justification. It was useless to
fight against it, for it was part of his very soul; he might as well
have fought against the beating of his heart. And if it was torture to
remember those old days in India, he delighted in it; it was a pain more
exquisite than the suffocating odours of tropical flowers, a voluptuous
agony such as might feel the fakir lacerating his flesh in a divine
possession.... Every little occurrence was clear, as if it had taken
place but a day before.
James repeated to himself the conversations they had had, of no
consequence, the idle gossip of a stray half-hour; but each word was
opulent in the charming smile, in the caressing glance of her eyes. He
was able to imagine Mrs. Wallace quite close to him, wearing the things
that he had seen her wear, and with her movements he noticed the
excessive scent she used. He wondered whether she had overcome that
failing, whether she still affected the artificiality which was so
adorable a relief from the primness of manner which he had thought the
natural way of women.
If her cheeks were not altogether innocent of rouge or her eyebrows of
pencil, what did he care; he delighted in her very faults; he would not
have her different in the very slightest detail; everything was part of
that complex, elusive fascination. And James thought of the skin which
had the even softness of fine velvet, and the little hands. He called
himself a fool for his shyness. What could have been the harm if he had
taken those hands and kissed them? Now, in imagination, he pressed his
lips passionately on the warm palms. He liked the barbaric touch in the
many rings which bedecked her fingers.
"Why do you wear so many rings?" he asked. "Your hands are too fine."
He would never have ventured the question, but now there was no danger.
Her answer came with a little, good-humoured laugh; she stretched out
her fingers, looking complacently at the brilliant gems.
"I like to be gaudy. I should like to be encrusted with jewels. I want
to wear bracelets to my elbow and diamond spangles on my arms; and
jewelled belts, and jewels in my hair, and on my neck. I should like to
flash from head to foot with exotic stones."
Then she looked at him with amusement.
"Of course, you think it's vulgar. What do I care? You all of you think
it's vulgar to be different from other people. I want to be unique."
"You want everybody to look at you?"
"Of course I do! Is it sinful? Oh, I get so impatient with all of you,
with your good taste and your delicacy, and your insupportable dulness.
When you admire a woman, you think it impertinent to tell her she's
beautiful; when you have good looks, you carry yourselves as though you
were ashamed."
And in a bold moment he replied:
"Yet you would give your soul to have no drop of foreign blood in your
veins!"
"I?" she cried, her eyes flashing with scorn. "I'm proud of my Eastern
blood. It's not blood I have in my veins, it's fire--a fire of gold.
It's because of it that I have no prejudices, and know how to enjoy my
life."
James smiled, and did not answer.
"You don't believe me?" she asked.
"No!"
"Well, perhaps I should like to be quite English. I should feel more
comfortable in my scorn of these regimental ladies if I thought they
could find no reason to look down on me."
"I don't think they look down on you."
"Oh, don't they? They despise and loathe me."
"When you were ill, they did all they could for you."
"Foolish creature! Don't you know that to do good to your enemy is the
very best way of showing your contempt."
And so James could go on, questioning, replying, putting little jests
into her mouth, or half-cynical repartees. Sometimes he spoke aloud,
and then Mrs. Wallace's voice sounded in his ears, clear and rich and
passionate, as though she were really standing in the flesh beside him.
But always he finished by taking her in his arms and kissing her lips
and her closed eyes, the lids transparent like the finest alabaster. He
knew no pleasure greater than to place his hands on that lustrous hair.
What could it matter now? He was not bound to Mary; he could do no harm
to Mrs. Wallace, ten thousand miles away.
* * *
But Colonel Parsons broke into the charming dream. Bent and weary, he
came across the lawn to find his son. The wan, pathetic figure brought
back to James all the present bitterness. He sighed, and advanced to
meet him.
"You're very reckless to come out without a hat, father. I'll fetch you
one, shall I?"
"No, I'm not going to stay." The Colonel could summon up no answering
smile to his boy's kind words. "I only came to tell you that Mrs.
Jackson is in the drawing-room, and would like to see you."
"What does she want?"
"She'll explain herself. She has asked to see you alone."
Jamie's face darkened, as some notion of Mrs. Jackson's object dawned
upon him.
"I don't know what she can have to talk to me about alone."
"Please listen to her, Jamie. She's a very clever woman, and you can't
fail to benefit by her advice."
The Colonel never had an unfriendly word to say of anyone, and even for
Mrs. Jackson's unwarrantable interferences could always find a
good-natured justification. He was one of those deprecatory men who, in
every difference of opinion, are convinced that they are certainly in
the wrong. He would have borne with the most cheerful submission any
rebuke of his own conduct, and been, indeed, vastly grateful to the
Vicar's wife for pointing out his error.
James found Mrs. Jackson sitting bolt upright on a straight-backed
chair, convinced, such was her admirable sense of propriety, that a
lounging attitude was incompatible with the performance of a duty. She
held her hands on her lap, gently clasped; and her tight lips expressed
as plainly as possible her conviction that though the way of
righteousness was hard, she, thank God! had strength to walk it.
"How d'you do, Mrs. Jackson?"
"Good morning," she replied, with a stiff bow.
James, though there was no fire, went over to the mantelpiece and leant
against it, waiting for the lady to speak.
"Captain Parsons, I have a very painful duty to perform."
Those were her words, but it must have been a dense person who failed to
perceive that Mrs. Jackson found her duty anything but painful. There
was just that hard resonance in her voice that an inquisitor might have
in condemning to the stake a Jew to whom he owed much money.
"I suppose you will call me a busybody?"
"Oh, I'm sure you would never interfere with what does not concern you,"
replied James, slowly.
"Certainly not!" said Mrs. Jackson. "I come here because my conscience
tells me to. What I wish to talk to you about concerns us all."
"Shall I call my people? I'm sure they'd be interested."
"I asked to see you alone, Captain Parsons," answered Mrs. Jackson,
frigidly. "And it was for your sake. When one has to tell a person
home-truths, he generally prefers that there should be no audience."
"So you're going to tell me some home-truths, Mrs. Jackson?" said James,
with a laugh. "You must think me very good-natured. How long have I had
the pleasure of your acquaintance?"
Mrs. Jackson's grimness did not relax.
"One learns a good deal about people in a week."
"D'you think so? I have an idea that ten years is a short time to get to
know them. You must be very quick."
"Actions often speak."
"Actions are the most lying things in the world. They are due mostly to
adventitious circumstances which have nothing to do with the character
of the agent. I would never judge a man by his actions."
"I didn't come here to discuss abstract things with you, Captain
Parsons."
"Why not? The abstract is so much more entertaining than the concrete.
It affords opportunities for generalisation, which is the salt of
conversation."
"I'm a very busy woman," retorted Mrs. Jackson sharply, thinking that
James was not treating her with proper seriousness. He was not so easy
to tackle as she had imagined.
"It's very good of you, then, to spare time to come and have a little
chat with me," said James.
"I did not come for that purpose, Captain Parsons."
"Oh, I forgot--home-truths, wasn't it? I was thinking of Shakespeare and
the musical glasses!"
"Would you kindly remember that I am a clergyman's wife, Captain
Parsons? I daresay you are not used to the society of such."
"Pardon me, I even know an archdeacon quite well. He has a great gift of
humour; a man wants it when he wears a silk apron."
"Captain Parsons," said Mrs. Jackson, sternly, "there are some things
over which it is unbecoming to jest. I wish to be as gentle as possible
with you, but I may remind you that flippancy is not the best course for
you to pursue."
James looked at her with a good-tempered stare.
"Upon my word," he said to himself, "I never knew I was so patient."
"I can't beat about the bush any longer," continued the Vicar's lady; "I
have a very painful duty to perform."
"That quite excuses your hesitation."
"You must guess why I have asked to see you alone."
"I haven't the least idea."
"Does your conscience say nothing to you?"
"My conscience is very well-bred. It never says unpleasant things."
"Then I'm sincerely sorry for you."
James smiled.
"Oh, my good woman," he thought, "if you only knew what a troublesome
spirit I carry about with me!"
But Mrs. Jackson saw only hardness of heart in the grave face; she never
dreamed that behind those quiet eyes was a turmoil of discordant
passions, tearing, rending, burning.
"I'm sorry for you," she repeated. "I think it's very sad, very sad
indeed, that you should stand there and boast of the sluggishness of
your conscience. Conscience is the voice of God, Captain Parsons; if it
does not speak to you, it behoves others to speak in its place."
"And supposing I knew what you wanted to say, do you think I should like
to hear?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Then don't you think discretion points to silence?"
"No, Captain Parsons. There are some things which one is morally bound
to say, however distasteful they may be."
"The easiest way to get through life is to say pleasant things on all
possible occasions."
"That is not my way, and that is not the right way."
"I think it rash to conclude that a course is right merely because it is
difficult. Likewise an uncivil speech is not necessarily a true one."
"I repeat that I did not come here to bandy words with you."
"My dear Mrs. Jackson, I have been wondering why you did not come to the
point at once."
"You have been wilfully interrupting me."
"I'm so sorry. I thought I had been making a series of rather
entertaining observations."
"Captain Parsons, what does your conscience say to you about Mary
Clibborn?"
James looked at Mrs. Jackson very coolly, and she never imagined with
what difficulty he was repressing himself.
"I thought you said your subject was of national concern. Upon my word,
I thought you proposed to hold a thanksgiving service in Little Primpton
Church for the success of the British arms."
"Well, you know different now," retorted Mrs. Jackson, with distinct
asperity. "I look upon your treatment of Mary Clibborn as a matter which
concerns us all."
"Then, as politely as possible, I must beg to differ from you. I really
cannot permit you to discuss my private concerns. You have, doubtless,
much evil to say of me; say it behind my back."
"I presumed that you were a gentleman, Captain Parsons."
"You certainly presumed."
"And I should be obliged if you would treat me like a lady."
James smiled. He saw that it was folly to grow angry.
"We'll do our best to be civil to one another, Mrs. Jackson. But I don't
think you must talk of what really is not your business."
"D'you think you can act shamefully and then slink away as soon as you
are brought to book? Do you know what you've done to Mary Clibborn?"
"Whatever I've done, you may be sure that I have not acted rashly.
Really, nothing you can say will make the slightest difference. Don't
you think we had better bring our conversation to an end?"
James made a movement towards the door.
"Your father and mother wish me to speak with you, Colonel Parsons,"
said Mrs. Jackson. "And they wish you to listen to what I have to say."