Major Forsyth was not at all discouraged by the issue of his
intervention.
"Now I see how the land lies," he said, "it's all plain sailing.
Reconnoitre first, and then wire in."
He bravely attacked James next day, when they were smoking in the garden
after breakfast. Uncle William smoked nothing but gold-tipped
cigarettes, which excited his nephew's open scorn.
"I've been thinking about what you said yesterday, James," he began.
"For Heaven's sake, Uncle William, don't talk about it any more. I'm
heartily sick of the whole thing. I've made up my mind, and I really
shall not alter it for anything you may say."
Major Forsyth changed the conversation with what might have been
described as a strategic movement to the rear. He said that Jamie's
answer told him all he wished to know, and he was content now to leave
the seeds which he had sown to spring up of their own accord.
"I'm perfectly satisfied," he told his sister, complacently. "You'll
see that if it'll all come right now."
Meanwhile, Mary conducted herself admirably. She neither avoided James
nor sought him, but when chance brought them together, was perfectly
natural. Her affection had never been demonstrative, and now there was
in her manner but little change. She talked frankly, as though nothing
had passed between them, with no suspicion of reproach in her tone. She
was, indeed, far more at ease than James. He could not hide the effort
it was to make conversation, nor the nervous discomfort which in her
presence he felt. He watched her furtively, asking himself whether she
still suffered. But Mary's face betrayed few of her emotions; tanned by
exposure to all weathers, her robust colour remained unaltered; and it
was only in her eyes that James fancied he saw a difference. They had
just that perplexed, sorrowful expression which a dog has, unjustly
beaten. James, imaginative and conscience-stricken, tortured himself by
reading in their brown softness all manner of dreadful anguish. He
watched them, unlit by the smile which played upon the lips, looking at
him against their will, with a pitiful longing. He exaggerated the pain
he saw till it became an obsession, intolerable and ruthless; if Mary
desired revenge, she need not have been dissatisfied. But that
apparently was the last thing she thought of. He was grateful to hear
of her anger with Mrs. Jackson, whose sympathy had expressed itself in
round abuse of him. His mother repeated the words.
"I will never listen to a word against Captain Parsons, Mrs. Jackson.
Whatever he did, he had a perfect right to do. He's incapable of acting
otherwise than as an honourable gentleman."
But if Mary's conduct aroused the admiration of all that knew her, it
rendered James still more blameworthy.
The hero-worship was conveniently forgotten, and none strove to conceal
the dislike, even the contempt, which he felt for the fallen idol. James
had outraged the moral sense of the community; his name could not be
mentioned without indignation; everything he did was wrong, even his
very real modesty was explained as overweening conceit.
And curiously enough, James was profoundly distressed by the general
disapproval. A silent, shy man, he was unreasonably sensitive to the
opinion of his fellows; and though he told himself that they were
stupid, ignorant, and narrow, their hostility nevertheless made him
miserable. Even though he contemned them, he was anxious that they
should like him. He refused to pander to their prejudices, and was too
proud to be conciliatory; yet felt bitterly wounded when he had excited
their aversion. Now he set to tormenting himself because he had despised
the adulation of Little Primpton, and could not equally despise its
censure.
* * *
Sunday came, and the good people of Little Primpton trooped to church.
Mrs Clibborn turned round and smiled at James when he took his seat, but
the Colonel sat rigid, showing by the stiffness of his backbone that his
indignation was supreme.
The service proceeded, and in due course Mr. Jackson mounted the pulpit
steps. He delivered his text: "_The fear of the Lord is to hate evil:
pride, and arrogancy, and the evil way, and the froward mouth, do I
hate._"
The Vicar of Little Primpton was an earnest man, and he devoted much
care to the composition of his sermons. He was used to expound twice a
Sunday the more obvious parts of Holy Scripture, making in twenty
minutes or half an hour, for the benefit of the vulgar, a number of
trite reflections; and it must be confessed that he had great facility
for explaining at decorous length texts which were plain to the meanest
intelligence.
But having a fair acquaintance with the thought of others, Mr. Jackson
flattered himself that he was a thinker; and on suitable occasions
attacked from his village pulpit the scarlet weed of heresy, expounding
to an intelligent congregation of yokels and small boys the manifold
difficulties of the Athanasian Creed. He was at his best in pouring
vials of contempt upon the false creed of atheists, Romanists,
Dissenters, and men of science. The theory of Evolution excited his
bitterest scorn, and he would set up, like a row of nine-pins, the
hypotheses of the greatest philosophers of the century, triumphantly to
knock them down by the force of his own fearless intellect. His
congregation were inattentive, and convinced beyond the need of
argument, so they remained pious members of the Church of England.
But this particular sermon, after mature consideration, the Vicar had
made up his mind to devote to a matter of more pressing interest. He
repeated the text. Mrs. Jackson, who knew what was coming, caught the
curate's eye, and looked significantly at James. The homily, in fact,
was directed against him; his were the pride, the arrogancy, and the
evil way. He was blissfully unconscious of these faults, and for a
minute or two the application missed him; but the Vicar of Little
Primpton, intent upon what he honestly thought his duty, meant that
there should be no mistake. He crossed his t's and dotted his i's, with
the scrupulous accuracy of the scandal-monger telling a malicious story
about some person whom charitably he does not name, yet wishes everyone
to identify.
Colonel Parsons started when suddenly the drift of the sermon dawned
upon him, and then bowed his head with shame. His wife looked straight
in front of her, two flaming spots upon her pale cheeks. Mary, in the
next pew, dared not move, hardly dared breathe; her heart sank with
dismay, and she feared she would faint.
"How he must be suffering!" she muttered.
They all felt for James intensely; the form of Mr. Jackson, hooded and
surpliced, had acquired a new authority, and his solemn invective was
sulphurous with the fires of Hell. They wondered how James could bear
it.
"He hasn't deserved this," thought Mrs. Parsons.
But the Colonel bent his head still lower, accepting for his son the
reproof, taking part of it himself. The humiliation seemed merited, and
the only thing to do was to bear it meekly. James alone appeared
unconcerned; the rapid glances at him saw no change in his calm,
indifferent face. His eyes were closed, and one might have thought him
asleep. Mr. Jackson noted the attitude, and attributed it to a wicked
obstinacy. For the repentant sinner, acknowledging his fault, he would
have had entire forgiveness; but James showed no contrition.
Stiff-necked and sin-hardened, he required a further chastisement.
"Courage, what is courage?" asked the preacher. "There is nothing more
easy than to do a brave deed when the blood is hot. But to conduct one's
life simply, modestly, with a meek spirit and a Christ-like submission,
that is ten times more difficult Courage, unaccompanied by moral worth,
is the quality of a brute-beast."
He showed how much more creditable were the artless virtues of honesty
and truthfulness; how better it was to keep one's word, to be
kind-hearted and dutiful. Becoming more pointed, he mentioned the case
which had caused them so much sorrow, warning the delinquent against
conceit and self-assurance.
"Pride goeth before a fall," he said. "And he that is mighty shall be
abased."
* * *
They walked home silently, Colonel Parsons and his wife with downcast
eyes, feeling that everyone was looking at them. Their hearts were too
full for them to speak to one another, and they dared say nothing to
James. But Major Forsyth had no scruples of delicacy; he attacked his
nephew the moment they sat down to dinner.
"Well, James, what did you think of the sermon? Feel a bit sore?"
"Why should I?"
"I fancy it was addressed pretty directly to you."
"So I imagine," replied James, good-humouredly smiling. "I thought it
singularly impertinent, but otherwise uninteresting."
"Mr. Jackson doesn't think much of you," said Uncle William, with a
laugh, ignoring his sister's look, which implored him to be silent.
"I can bear that with equanimity. I never set up for a very wonderful
person."
"He was wrong to make little of your attempt to save young Larcher,"
said Mrs. Parsons, gently.
"Why?" asked James. "He was partly right. Physical courage is more or
less accidental. In battle one takes one's chance. One soon gets used to
shells flying about; they're not so dangerous as they look, and after a
while one forgets all about them. Now and then one gets hit, and then
it's too late to be nervous."
"But you went back--into the very jaws of death--to save that boy."
"I've never been able to understand why. It didn't occur to me that I
might get killed; it seemed the natural thing to do. It wasn't really
brave, because I never realised that there was danger."
* * *
In the afternoon James received a note from Mrs. Clibborn, asking him
to call upon her. Mary and her father were out walking, she said, so
there would be no one to disturb them, and they could have a pleasant
little chat. The invitation was a climax to Jamie's many vexations, and
he laughed grimly at the prospect of that very foolish lady's
indignation. Still, he felt bound to go. It was, after a fashion, a
point of honour with him to avoid none of the annoyances which his act
had brought upon him. It was partly in order to face every infliction
that he insisted on remaining at Little Primpton.
"Why haven't you been to see me, James?" Mrs. Clibborn murmured, with a
surprisingly tender smile.
"I thought you wouldn't wish me to."
"James!"
She sighed and cast up her eyes to heaven.
"I always liked you. I shall never feel differently towards you."
"It's very kind of you to say so," replied James, somewhat relieved.
"You must come and see me often. It'll comfort you."
"I'm afraid you and Colonel Clibborn must be very angry with me?"
"I could never be angry with you, James.... Poor Reginald, he doesn't
understand! But you can't deceive a woman." Mrs. Clibborn put her hand
on Jamie's arm and gazed into his eyes. "I want you to tell me
something. Do you love anyone else?"
James looked at her quickly and hesitated.
"If you had asked me the other day, I should have denied it with all my
might. But now--I don't know."
Mrs. Clibborn smiled.
"I thought so," she said. "You can tell me, you know."
She was convinced that James adored her, but wanted to hear him say so.
It is notorious that to a handsome woman even the admiration of a
crossing-sweeper is welcome.
"Oh, it's no good any longer trying to conceal it from myself!" cried
James, forgetting almost to whom he was speaking. "I'm sorry about Mary;
no one knows how much. But I do love someone else, and I love her with
all my heart and soul; and I shall never get over it now."
"I knew it," sighed Mrs. Clibborn, complacently, "I knew it!" Then
looking coyly at him: "Tell me about her."
"I can't. I know my love is idiotic and impossible; but I can't help it.
It's fate."
"You're in love with a married woman, James."
"How d'you know?"
"My poor boy, d'you think you can deceive me! And is it not the wife of
an officer?"
"Yes."
"A very old friend of yours?"
"It's just that which makes it so terrible."
"I knew it."
"Oh, Mrs. Clibborn, I swear you're the only woman here who's got two
ounces of gumption. If they'd only listened to you five years ago, we
might all have been saved this awful wretchedness."
He could not understand that Mrs. Clibborn, whose affectations were
manifest, whose folly was notorious, should alone have guessed his
secret. He was tired of perpetually concealing his thoughts.
"I wish I could tell you everything!" he cried.
"Don't! You'd only regret it. And I know all you can tell me."
"You can't think how hard I've struggled. When I found I loved her, I
nearly killed myself trying to kill my love. But it's no good. It's
stronger than I am."
"And nothing can ever come of it, you know," said Mrs. Clibborn.
"Oh, I know! Of course, I know! I'm not a cad. The only thing is to live
on and suffer."
"I'm so sorry for you."
Mrs. Clibborn thought that even poor Algy Turner, who had killed
himself for love of her, had not been so desperately hit.
"It's very kind of you to listen to me," said James. "I have nobody to
speak to, and sometimes I feel I shall go mad."
"You're such a nice boy, James. What a pity it is you didn't go into the
cavalry!"
James scarcely heard; he stared at the floor, brooding sorrowfully.
"Fate is against me," he muttered.
"If things had only happened a little differently. Poor Reggie!"
Mrs. Clibborn was thinking that if she were a widow, she could never
have resisted the unhappy young man's pleading.
James got up to go.
"It's no good," he said; "talking makes it no better. I must go on
trying to crush it. And the worst of it is, I don't want to crush it; I
love my love. Though it embitters my whole life, I would rather die than
lose it. Good-bye, Mrs. Clibborn. Thank you for being so kind. You can't
imagine what good it does me to receive a little sympathy."
"I know. You're not the first who has told me that he is miserable. I
think it's fate, too."
James looked at her, perplexed, not understanding what she meant. With
her sharp, feminine intuition, Mrs. Clibborn read in his eyes the
hopeless yearning of his heart, and for a moment her rigid virtue
faltered.
"I can't be hard on you, Jamie," she said, with that effective, sad
smile of hers. "I don't want you to go away from here quite wretched."
"What can you do to ease the bitter aching of my heart?"
Mrs. Clibborn, quickly looking at the window, noticed that she could not
possibly be seen by anyone outside. She stretched out her hand.
"Jamie, if you like you may kiss me."
She offered her powdered cheek, and James, rather astonished, pressed it
with his lips.
"I will always be a mother to you. You can depend on me whatever
happens.... Now go away, there's a good boy."
She watched him as he walked down the garden, and then sighed deeply,
wiping away a tear from the corner of her eyes.
"Poor boy!" she murmured.
Mary was surprised, when she came home, to find her mother quite
affectionate and tender. Mrs. Clibborn, indeed, intoxicated with her
triumph, could afford to be gracious to a fallen rival.