In solitary walks James had found his only consolation. He knew even in
that populous district unfrequented parts where he could wander without
fear of interruption. Among the trees and the flowers, in the broad
meadows, he forgot himself; and, his senses sharpened by long absence,
he learnt for the first time the exquisite charm of English country. He
loved the spring, with its yellow, countless buttercups, spread over the
green fields like a cloth of gold, whereon might fitly walk the angels
of Messer Perugino. The colours were so delicate that one could not
believe it possible for paints and paint-brush to reproduce them; the
atmosphere visibly surrounded things, softening their outlines.
Sometimes from a hill higher than the rest James looked down at the
plain, bathed in golden sunlight. The fields of corn, the fields of
clover, the roads and the rivulets, formed themselves in that flood of
light into an harmonious pattern, luminous and ethereal. A pleasant
reverie filled his mind, unanalysable, a waking dream of
half-voluptuous sensation.
On the other side of the common, James knew a wood of tall fir trees,
dark and ragged, their sombre green veiled in a silvery mist, as though,
like a chill vapour, the hoar-frost of a hundred winters still lingered
among their branches. At the edge of the hill, up which they climbed in
serried hundreds, stood here and there an oak tree, just bursting into
leaf, clothed with its new-born verdure, like the bride of the young
god, Spring. And the ever-lasting youth of the oak trees contrasted
wonderfully with the undying age of the firs. Then later, in the height
of the summer, James found the pine wood cool and silent, fitting his
humour. It was like the forest of life, the grey and sombre labyrinth
where wandered the poet of Hell and Death. The tall trees rose straight
and slender, like the barren masts of sailing ships; the gentle aromatic
odour, the light subdued; the purple mist, so faint as to be scarcely
discernible, a mere tinge of warmth in the day--all gave him an
exquisite sense of rest. Here he could forget his trouble, and give
himself over to the love which seemed his real life; here the
recollection of Mrs. Wallace gained flesh and blood, seeming so real
that he almost stretched out his arms to seize her.... His footfall on
the brown needles was noiseless, and the tread was soft and easy; the
odours filled him like an Eastern drug with drowsy intoxication.
But all that now was gone. When, unbidden, the well-known laugh rang
again in his ears, or he felt on his hands the touch of the slender
fingers, James turned away with a gesture of distaste. Now Mrs. Wallace
brought him only bitterness, and he tortured himself insanely trying to
forget her.... With tenfold force the sensation returned which had so
terribly oppressed him before his illness; he felt that Nature had
become intolerably monotonous; the circumscribed, prim country was
horrible. On every inch of it the hand of man was apparent. It was a
prison, and his hands and feet were chained with heavy iron.... The
dark, immovable clouds were piled upon one another in giant masses--so
distinct and sharply cut, so rounded, that one almost saw the impressure
of the fingers of some Titanic sculptor; and they hung low down,
overwhelming, so that James could scarcely breathe. The sombre elms were
too well-ordered, the meadows too carefully tended. All round, the hills
were dark and drear; and that very fertility, that fat Kentish
luxuriance, added to the oppression. It was a task impossible to escape
from that iron circle. All power of flight abandoned him. Oh! he loathed
it!
The past centuries of people, living in a certain way, with certain
standards, influenced by certain emotions, were too strong for him.
James was like a foolish bird--a bird born in a cage, without power to
attain its freedom. His lust for a free life was futile; he acknowledged
with cruel self-contempt that he was weaker than a woman--ineffectual.
He could not lead the life of his little circle, purposeless and untrue;
and yet he had not power to lead a life of his own. Uncertain,
vacillating, torn between the old and the new, his reason led him; his
conscience drew him back. But the ties of his birth and ancestry were
too strong; he had not the energy even of the poor tramp, who carries
with him his whole fortune, and leaves in the lap of the gods the
uncertain future. James envied with all his heart the beggar boy,
wandering homeless and penniless, but free. He, at least, had not these
inhuman fetters which it was death to suffer and death to cast off; he,
indeed, could make the world his servant. Freedom, freedom! If one were
only unconscious of captivity, what would it matter? It is the knowledge
that kills. And James walked again by the neat, iron railing which
enclosed the fields, his head aching with the rigidity and decorum,
wishing vainly for just one piece of barren, unkept land to remind him
that all the world was not a prison.
Already the autumn had come. The rich, mouldering colours were like an
air melancholy with the approach of inevitable death; but in those
passionate tints, in the red and gold of the apples, in the many tones
of the first-fallen leaves, there was still something which forbade one
to forget that in the death and decay of Nature there was always the
beginning of other life. Yet to James the autumn heralded death, with no
consoling afterthought. He had nothing to live for since he knew that
Mrs. Wallace could never love him. His love for her had borne him up and
sustained him; but now it was hateful and despicable. After all, his
life was his own to do what he liked with; the love of others had no
right to claim his self-respect. If he had duties to them, he had duties
to himself also; and more vehemently than ever James felt that such a
union as was before him could only be a degradation. He repeated with
new emotion that marriage without love was prostitution. If death was
the only way in which he could keep clean that body ignorantly despised,
why, he was not afraid of death! He had seen it too often for the
thought to excite alarm. It was but a common, mechanical process,
quickly finished, and not more painful than could be borne. The flesh is
all which is certainly immortal; the dissolution of consciousness is the
signal of new birth. Out of corruption springs fresh life, like the
roses from a Roman tomb; and the body, one with the earth, pursues the
eternal round.
But one day James told himself impatiently that all these thoughts were
mad and foolish; he could only have them because he was still out of
health. Life, after all, was the most precious thing in the world. It
was absurd to throw it away like a broken toy. He rebelled against the
fate which seemed forcing itself upon him. He determined to make the
effort and, come what might, break the hateful bonds. It only required a
little courage, a little strength of mind. If others suffered, he had
suffered too. The sacrifice they demanded was too great.... But when he
returned to Primpton House, the inevitability of it all forced itself
once again upon him. He shrugged his shoulders despairingly; it was no
good.
The whole atmosphere oppressed him so that he felt powerless; some
hidden influence surrounded James, sucking from his blood, as it were,
all manliness, dulling his brain. He became a mere puppet, acting in
accordance to principles that were not his own, automatic, will-less.
His father sat, as ever, in the dining-room by the fire, for only in the
warmest weather could he do without artificial heat, and he read the
paper, sometimes aloud, making little comments. His mother, at the
table, on a stiff-backed chair, was knitting--everlastingly knitting.
Outwardly there was in them a placid content, and a gentleness which
made them seem pliant as wax; but really they were iron. James knew at
last how pitiless was their love, how inhumanly cruel their intolerance;
and of the two his father seemed more implacable, more horribly
relentless. His mother's anger was bearable, but the Colonel's very
weakness was a deadly weapon. His despair, his dumb sorrow, his entire
dependence on the forbearance of others, were more tyrannical than the
most despotic power. James was indeed a bird beating himself against the
imprisoning cage; and its bars were loving-kindness and trust, tears,
silent distress, bitter disillusion, and old age.
"Where's Mary?" asked James.
"She's in the garden, walking with Uncle William."
"How well they get on together," said the Colonel, smiling.
James looked at his father, and thought he had never seen him so old and
feeble. His hands were almost transparent; his thin white hair, his
bowed shoulders, gave an impression of utter weakness.
"Are you very glad the wedding is so near, father?" asked James, placing
his hand gently on the old man's shoulder.
"I should think I was."
"You want to get rid of me so badly?"
"'A man shall leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his
wife; and they shall be one flesh.' We shall have to do without you."
"I wonder whether you are fonder of Mary than of me?"
The Colonel did not answer, but Mrs. Parsons laughed.
"My impression is that your father has grown so devoted to Mary that he
hardly thinks you worthy of her."
"Really? And yet you want me to marry her, don't you, daddy?"
"It's the wish of my heart."
"Were you very wretched when our engagement was broken off?"
"Don't talk of it! Now it's all settled, Jamie, I can tell you that I'd
sooner see you dead at my feet than that you should break your word to
Mary."
James laughed.
"And you, mother?" he asked, lightly.
She did not answer, but looked at him earnestly.
"What, you too? Would you rather see me dead than not married to Mary?
What a bloodthirsty pair you are!"
James, laughing, spoke so gaily, it never dawned on them that his words
meant more than was obvious; and yet he felt that they, loving but
implacable, had signed his death-warrant. With smiling faces they had
thrown open the portals of that House, and he, smiling, was ready to
enter.
Mary at that moment came in, followed by Uncle William.
"Well, Jamie, there you are!" she cried, in that hard, metallic voice
which to James betrayed so obviously the meanness of her spirit and her
self-complacency. "Where on earth have you been?"
She stood by the table, straight, uncompromising, self-reliant; by her
immaculate virtue, by the strength of her narrow will, she completely
domineered the others. She felt herself capable of managing them all,
and, in fact, had been giving Uncle William a friendly little lecture
upon some action of which she disapproved. Mary had left off her summer
things and wore again the plain serge skirt, and because it was rainy,
the battered straw hat of the preceding winter. She was using up her old
things, and having got all possible wear out of them, intended on the
day before her marriage generously to distribute them among the poor.
"Is my face very red?" she asked. "There's a lot of wind to-day."
To James she had never seemed more unfeminine; that physical repulsion
which at first had terrified him now was grown into an ungovernable
hate. Everything Mary did irritated and exasperated him; he wondered she
did not see the hatred in his eyes as he looked at her, answering her
question.
"Oh, no," he said to himself, "I would rather shoot myself than marry
you!"
His dislike was unreasonable, but he could not help it; and the devotion
of his parents made him detest her all the more; he could not imagine
what they saw in her. With hostile glance he watched her movements as
she took off her hat and arranged her hair, grimly drawn back and
excessively neat; she fetched her knitting from Mrs. Parsons's
work-basket and sat down. All her actions had in them an insufferable
air of patronage, and she seemed more than usually pleased with herself.
James had an insane desire to hurt her, to ruffle that
self-satisfaction; and he wanted to say something that should wound her
to the quick. And all the time he laughed and jested as though he were
in the highest spirits.
"And what were you doing this morning, Mary?" asked Colonel Parsons.
"Oh, I biked in to Tunbridge Wells with Mr. Dryland to play golf. He
plays a rattling good game."
"Did he beat you?"
"Well, no," she answered, modestly. "It so happened that I beat him. But
he took his thrashing remarkably well--some men get so angry when
they're beaten by a girl."
"The curate has many virtues," said James.
"He was talking about you, Jamie. He said he thought you disliked him;
but I told him I was certain you didn't. He's really such a good man,
one can't help liking him. He said he'd like to teach you golf."
"And is he going to?"
"Certainly not. I mean to do that myself."
"There are many things you want to teach me, Mary. You'll have your
hands full."
"Oh, by the way, father told me to remind you and Uncle William that you
were shooting with him the day after to-morrow. You're to fetch him at
ten."
"I hadn't forgotten," replied James. "Uncle William, we shall have to
clean our guns to-morrow."
James had come to a decision at last, and meant to waste no time;
indeed, there was none to waste. And to remind him how near was the date
fixed for the wedding were the preparations almost complete. One or two
presents had already arrived. With all his heart he thanked his father
and mother for having made the way easier for him. He thought what he
was about to do the kindest thing both to them and to Mary. Under no
circumstances could he marry her; that would be adding a greater lie to
those which he had already been forced into, and the misery was more
than he could bear. But his death was the only other way of satisfying
her undoubted claims. He had little doubt that in six months he would be
as well forgotten as poor Reggie Larcher, and he did not care; he was
sick of the whole business, and wanted the quiet of death. His love for
Mrs. Wallace would never give him peace upon earth; it was utterly
futile, and yet unconquerable.
James saw his opportunity in Colonel Clibborn's invitation to shoot; he
was most anxious to make the affair seem accidental, and that, in
cleaning his gun, was easy. He had been wounded before and knew that the
pain was not very great. He had, therefore, nothing to fear.
Now at last he regained his spirits. He did not read or walk, but spent
the day talking with his father; he wished the last impression he would
leave to be as charming as possible, and took great pains to appear at
his best.
He slept well that night, and in the morning dressed himself with
unusual care. At Primpton House they breakfasted at eight, and
afterwards James smoked his pipe, reading the newspaper. He was a little
astonished at his calm, for doubt no longer assailed him, and the
indecision which paralysed all his faculties had disappeared.
"It is the beginning of my freedom," he thought. All human interests had
abandoned him, except a vague sensation of amusement. He saw the humour
of the comedy he was acting, and dispassionately approved himself,
because he did not give way to histrionics.
"Well, Uncle William," he said, at last, "what d'you say to setting to
work on our guns?"
"I'm always ready for everything," said Major Forsyth.
"Come on, then."
They went into what they called the harness-room, and James began
carefully to clean his gun.
"I think I'll take my coat off," he said; "I can work better without."
The gun had not been used for several months, and James had a good deal
to do. He leant over and rubbed a little rust off the lock.
"Upon my word," said Uncle William, "I've never seen anyone handle a gun
so carelessly as you. D'you call yourself a soldier?"
"I am a bit slack," replied James, laughing. "People are always telling
me that."
"Well, take care, for goodness' sake! It may be loaded."
"Oh, no, there's no danger. It's not loaded, and besides, it's locked."
"Still, you oughtn't to hold it like that."
"It would be rather comic if I killed myself accidentally. I wonder what
Mary would say?"
"Well, you've escaped death so often by the skin of your teeth, I think
you're pretty safe from everything but old age."
Presently James turned to his uncle.
"I say, this is rotten oil. I wish we could get some fresh."
"I was just thinking that."
"Well, you're a pal of the cook. Go and ask her for some, there's a good
chap."
"She'll do anything for me," said Major Forsyth, with a self-satisfied
smile. It was his opinion that no woman, countess or scullery-maid,
could resist his fascinations; and taking the cup, he trotted off.
James immediately went to the cupboard and took out a cartridge. He
slipped it in, rested the butt on the ground, pointed the barrel to his
heart, and--fired!