James was vastly relieved. His people's obvious delight, Mary's quiet
happiness, were very grateful to him, and if he laughed at himself a
little for feeling so virtuous, he could not help thoroughly enjoying
the pleasure he had given. He was willing to acknowledge now that his
conscience had been uneasy after the rupture of his engagement: although
he had assured himself so vehemently that reason was upon his side, the
common disapproval, and the influence of all his bringing-up, had
affected him in his own despite.
"When shall we get married, Mary?" he asked, when the four of them were
sitting together in the garden.
"Quickly!" cried Colonel Parsons.
"Well, shall we say in a month, or six weeks?"
"D'you think you'll be strong enough?" replied Mary, looking
affectionately at him. And then, blushing a little: "I can get ready
very soon."
The night before, she had gone home and taken out the trousseau which
with tears had been put away. She smoothed out the things, unfolded
them, and carefully folded them up. Never in her life had she possessed
such dainty linen. Mary cried a while with pleasure to think that she
could begin again to collect her little store. No one knew what agony it
had been to write to the shops at Tunbridge Wells countermanding her
orders, and now she looked forward with quiet delight to buying all that
remained to get.
Finally, it was decided that the wedding should take place at the
beginning of October. Mrs. Parsons wrote to her brother, who answered
that he had expected the event all along, being certain that his
conversation with James would eventually bear fruit. He was happy to be
able to congratulate himself on the issue of his diplomacy; it was
wonderful how easily all difficulties were settled, if one took them
from the point of view of a man of the world. Mrs. Jackson likewise
flattered herself that the renewed engagement was due to her
intervention.
"I saw he was paying attention to what I said," she told her husband. "I
knew all he wanted was a good, straight talking to."
"I am sorry for poor Dryland," said the Vicar.
"Yes, I think we ought to do our best to console him. Don't you think he
might go away for a month, Archibald?"
Mr. Dryland came to tea, and the Vicar's wife surrounded him with little
attentions. She put an extra lump of sugar in his tea, and cut him even
a larger piece of seed-cake than usual.
"Of course you've heard, Mr. Dryland?" she said, solemnly.
"Are you referring to Miss Clibborn's engagement to Captain Parsons?" he
asked, with a gloomy face. "Bad news travels fast."
"You have all our sympathies. We did everything we could for you."
"I can't deny that it's a great blow to me. I confess I thought that
time and patience on my part might induce Miss Clibborn to change her
mind. But if she's happy, I cannot complain. I must bear my misfortune
with resignation."
"But will she be happy?" asked Mrs. Jackson, with foreboding in her
voice.
"I sincerely hope so. Anyhow, I think it my duty to go to Captain
Parsons and offer him my congratulations."
"Will you do that, Mr. Dryland?" cried Mrs. Jackson. "That is noble of
you!"
"If you'd like to take your holiday now, Dryland," said the Vicar, "I
daresay we can manage it."
"Oh, no, thanks; I'm not the man to desert from the field of battle."
Mrs. Jackson sighed.
"Things never come right in this world. That's what I always say; the
clergy are continually doing deeds of heroism which the world never
hears anything about."
The curate went to Primpton House and inquired whether he might see
Captain Parsons.
"I'll go and ask if he's well enough," answered the Colonel, with his
admirable respect for the cloth.
"Do you think he wants to talk to me about my soul?" asked James,
smiling.
"I don't know; but I think you'd better see him."
"Very well."
Mr. Dryland came forward and shook hands with James in an ecclesiastical
and suave manner, trying to be dignified, as behoved a rejected lover in
the presence of his rival, and at the same time cordial, as befitted a
Christian who could bear no malice.
"Captain Parsons, you will not be unaware that I asked Miss Clibborn to
be my wife?"
"The fact was fairly generally known in the village," replied James,
trying to restrain a smile.
Mr. Dryland blushed.
"I was annoyed at the publicity which the circumstance obtained. The
worst of these little places is that people will talk."
"It was a very noble deed," said James gravely, repeating the common
opinion.
"Not at all," answered the curate, with characteristic modesty. "But
since it was not to be, since Miss Clibborn's choice has fallen on you,
I think it my duty to inform you of my hearty goodwill. I wish, in
short, to offer you again my sincerest congratulations."
"I'm sure that's very kind of you."
* * *
Two days, later Mrs. Jackson called on a similar errand.
She tripped up to James and frankly held out her hand, neatly encased as
ever in a shining black kid glove.
"Captain Parsons, let us shake hands, and let bygones be bygones. You
have taken my advice, and if, in the heat of the moment, we both said
things which we regret, after all, we're only human."
"Surely, Mrs. Jackson, I was moderation itself?--even when you told me I
should infallibly go to Hell."
"You were extremely irritating," said the Vicar's lady, smiling, "but I
forgive you. After all, you paid more attention to what I said than I
expected you would."
"It must be very satisfactory for you to think that."
"You know I have no ill-feeling towards you at all. I gave you a piece
of my mind because I thought it was my duty. If you think I stepped over
the limits of--moderation, I am willing and ready to apologise."
"What a funny woman you are!" said James, looking at her with a
good-humoured, but rather astonished smile.
"I'm sure I don't know what makes you think so," she answered, bridling
a little.
"It never occurred to me that you honestly thought you were acting
rightly when you came and gave me a piece of your mind, as you call it.
I thought your motives were simply malicious and uncharitable."
"I have a very high ideal of my duties as a clergyman's wife."
"The human animal is very odd."
"I don't look upon myself as an animal, Captain Parsons."
James smiled.
"I wonder why we all torture ourselves so unnecessarily. It really seems
as if the chief use we made of our reason was to inflict as much pain
upon ourselves and upon one another as we possibly could."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Captain Parsons."
"When you do anything, are you ever tormented by a doubt whether you are
doing right or wrong?"
"Never," she answered, firmly. "There is always a right way and a wrong
way, and, I'm thankful to say, God has given me sufficient intelligence
to know which is which; and obviously I choose the right way."
"What a comfortable idea! I can never help thinking that every right way
is partly wrong, and every wrong way partly right. There's always so
much to be said on both sides; to me it's very hard to know which is
which."
"Only a very weak man could think like that."
"Possibly! I have long since ceased to flatter myself on my strength of
mind. I find it is chiefly a characteristic of unintelligent persons."
* * *
It was Mary's way to take herself seriously. It flattered her to think
that she was not blind to Jamie's faults; she loved him none the less on
their account, but determined to correct them. He had an unusual way of
looking at things, and an occasional flippancy in his conversation, both
of which she hoped in time to eradicate. With patience, gentleness, and
dignity a woman can do a great deal with a man.
One of Mary's friends had a husband with a bad habit of swearing, which
was cured in a very simple manner. Whenever he swore, his wife swore
too. For instance, he would say: "That's a damned bad job;" and his wife
answered, smiling: "Yes, damned bad." He was rather surprised, but
quickly ceased to employ objectionable words. Story does not relate
whether he also got out of the habit of loving his wife; but that,
doubtless, is a minor detail. Mary always looked upon her friend as a
pattern.
"James is not really cynical," she told herself. "He says things, not
because he means them, but because he likes to startle people."
It was inconceivable that James should not think on all subjects as she
had been brought up to do, and the least originality struck her
naturally as a sort of pose. But on account of his illness Mary allowed
him a certain latitude, and when he said anything she did not approve
of, instead of arguing the point, merely smiled indulgently and changed
the subject. There was plenty of time before her, and when James became
her husband she would have abundant opportunity of raising him to that
exalted level upon which she was so comfortably settled. The influence
of a simple Christian woman could not fail to have effect; at bottom
James was as good as gold, and she was clever enough to guide him
insensibly along the right path.
James, perceiving this, scarcely knew whether to be incensed or amused.
Sometimes he could see the humour in Mary's ingenuous conceit, and in
the dogmatic assurance with which she uttered the most astounding
opinions; but at others, when she waved aside superciliously a remark
that did not square with her prejudices, or complacently denied a
statement because she had never heard it before, he was irritated beyond
all endurance. And it was nothing very outrageous he said, but merely
some commonplace of science which all the world had accepted for twenty
years. Mary, however, entrenched herself behind the impenetrable rock of
her self-sufficiency.
"I'm not clever enough to argue with you," she said; "but I know I'm
right; and I'm quite satisfied."
Generally she merely smiled.
"What nonsense you talk, Jamie! You don't really believe what you say."
"But, my dear Mary, it's a solemn fact. There's no possibility of
doubting it. It's a truism."
Then with admirable self-command, remembering that James was still an
invalid, she would pat his hand and say:
"Well, it doesn't matter. Of course, you're much cleverer than I am. It
must be almost time for your beef-tea."
James sank back, baffled. Mary's ignorance was an impenetrable cuirass;
she would not try to understand, she could not even realise that she
might possibly be mistaken. Quite seriously she thought that what she
ignored could be hardly worth knowing. People talk of the advance of
education; there may be a little among the lower classes, but it is
inconceivable that the English gentry can ever have been more illiterate
than they are now. Throughout the country, in the comfortable villa or
in the stately mansion, you will find as much prejudice and superstition
in the drawing-room as in the kitchen; and you will find the masters
less receptive of new ideas than their servants; and into the bargain,
presumptuously satisfied with their own nescience.
James saw that the only way to deal with Mary and with his people was to
give in to all their prejudices. He let them talk, and held his tongue.
He shut himself off from them, recognising that there was, and could be,
no bond between them. They were strangers to him; their ways of looking
at every detail of life were different from his; they had not an
interest, not a thought, in common.... The preparations for the marriage
went on.
One day Mary decided that it was her duty to speak with James about his
religion. Some of his remarks had made her a little uneasy, and he was
quite strong enough now to be seriously dealt with.
"Tell me, Jamie," she said, in reply to an observation which she was
pleased to consider flippant, "you do believe in God, don't you?"
But James had learnt his lesson well.
"My dear, that seems to me a private affair of my own."
"Are you ashamed to say?" she asked, gravely.
"No; but I don't see the advantage of discussing the matter."
"I think you ought to tell me as I'm going to be your wife. I shouldn't
like you to be an atheist."
"Atheism is exploded, Mary. Only very ignorant persons are certain of
what they cannot possibly know."
"Then I don't see why you should be afraid to tell me."
"I'm not; only I think you have no right to ask. We both think that in
marriage each should leave the other perfect freedom. I used to imagine
the ideal was that married folk should not have a thought, nor an idea
apart; but that is all rot. The best thing is evidently for each to go
his own way, and respect the privacy of the other. Complete trust
entails complete liberty."
"I think that is certainly the noblest way of looking at marriage."
"You may be quite sure I shall not intrude upon _your_ privacy, Mary."
"I'm sorry I asked you any question. I suppose it's no business of
mine."
James returned to his book; he had fallen into the habit again of
reading incessantly, finding therein his only release from the daily
affairs of life; but when Mary left him, he let his novel drop and began
to think. He was bitterly amused at what he had said. The parrot words
which he had so often heard on Mary's lips sounded strangely on his own.
He understood now why the view of matrimony had become prevalent that it
was an institution in which two casual persons lived together, for the
support of one and the material comfort of the other. Without love it
was the most natural thing that husband and wife should seek all manner
of protection from each other; with love none was needed. It harmonised
well with the paradox that a marriage of passion was rather indecent,
while lukewarm affection and paltry motives of convenience were
elevating and noble.
Poor Mary! James knew that she loved him with all her soul, such as it
was (a delicate conscience and a collection of principles are not
enough to make a great lover), and again he acknowledged to himself that
he could give her only friendship. It had been but an ephemeral
tenderness which drew him to her for the second time, due to weakness of
body and to gratitude. If he ever thought it was love, he knew by now
that he had been mistaken. Still, what did it matter? He supposed they
would get along very well--as well as most people; better even than if
they adored one another; for passion is not conducive to an even life.
Fortunately she was cold and reserved, little given to demonstrative
affection; she made few demands upon him, and occupied with her work in
the parish and the collection of her trousseau, was content that he
should remain with his books.
The day fixed upon for the marriage came nearer.
But at last James was seized with a wild revolt. His father was sitting
by him.
"Mary's wedding-dress is nearly ready," he said, suddenly.
"So soon?" cried James, his heart sinking.
"She's afraid that something may happen at the last moment, and it won't
be finished in time."
"What could happen?"
"Oh, I mean something at the dressmaker's!"
"Is that all? I imagine there's little danger."
There was a pause, broken again by the Colonel.
"I'm so glad you're going to be happily married, Jamie."
His son did not answer.
"But man is never satisfied. I used to think that when I got you
spliced, I should have nothing else to wish for; but now I'm beginning
to want little grandsons to rock upon my knees."
Jamie's face grew dark.
"We should never be able to afford children."
"But they come if one wants them or not, and I shall be able to increase
your allowance a little, you know. I don't want you to go short of
anything."
James said nothing, but he thought: "If I had children by her, I should
hate them." And then with sudden dismay, losing all the artificial
indifference of the last week, he rebelled passionately against his
fate. "Oh, I hate and loathe her!"
He felt he could no longer continue the pretence he had been making--for
it was all pretence. The effort to be loving and affectionate was
torture, so that all his nerves seemed to vibrate with exasperation.
Sometimes he had to clench his hands in order to keep himself under
restraint. He was acting all the time. James asked himself what madness
blinded Mary that she did not see? He remembered how easily speech had
come in the old days when they were boy and girl together; they could
pass hours side by side, without a thought of time, talking of little
insignificant things, silent often, and always happy. But now he racked
his brain for topics of conversation, and the slightest pause seemed
irksome and unnatural. He was sometimes bored to death, savagely,
cruelly; so that he was obliged to leave Mary for fear that he would say
bitter and horrible things. Without his books he would have gone mad.
She must be blind not to see. Then he thought of their married life. How
long would it last? The years stretched themselves out endlessly,
passing one after another in dreary monotony. Could they possibly be
happy? Sooner or later Mary would learn how little he cared for her, and
what agony must she suffer then! But it was inevitable. Now, whatever
happened, he could not draw back; it was too late for explanations.
Would love come? He felt it impossible; he felt, rather, that the
physical repulsion which vainly he tried to crush would increase till he
abhorred the very sight of his wife.
Passionately he cried out against Fate because he had escaped death so
often. The gods played with him as a cat plays with a mouse. He had been
through dangers innumerable; twice he had lain on the very threshold of
eternal night, and twice he had been snatched back. Far rather would he
have died the soldier's death, gallantly, than live on to this
humiliation and despair. A friendly bullet could have saved him many
difficulties and much unhappiness. And why had he recovered from the
fever? What an irony it was that Mary should claim gratitude for doing
him the greatest possible disservice!
"I can't help it," he cried; "I loathe her!"
The strain upon him was becoming intolerable. James felt that he could
not much longer conceal the anguish which was destroying him. But what
was to be done? Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
James held his head in his hands, cursing his pitiful weakness. Why did
he not realise, in his convalescence, that it was but a passing emotion
which endeared Mary to him? He had been so anxious to love her, so eager
to give happiness to all concerned, that he had welcomed the least sign
of affection; but he knew what love was, and there could be no excuse.
He should have had the courage to resist his gratitude.
"Why should I sacrifice myself?" he cried. "My life is as valuable as
theirs. Why should it be always I from whom sacrifice is demanded?"
But it was no use rebelling. Mary's claims were too strong, and if he
lived he must satisfy them. Yet some respite he could not do without;
away from Primpton he might regain his calm. James hated London, but
even that would be better than the horrible oppression, the constraint
he was forced to put upon himself.
He walked up and down the garden for a few minutes to calm down, and
went in to his mother. He spoke as naturally as he could.
"Father tells me that Mary's wedding-dress is nearly ready."
"Yes; it's a little early. But it's well to be on the safe side."
"It's just occurred to me that I can hardly be married in rags. I think
I had better go up to town for a few days to get some things."
"Must you do that?"
"I think so. And there's a lot I want to do."
"Oh, well, I daresay Mary won't mind, if you don't stay too long. But
you must take care not to tire yourself."