It was only a couple of hours after Jimmy had left Vera that the
chauffeur from Drylands brought him a note in Mrs. Grimmer's sprawling
handwriting.
"It will be all right," Ethel wrote. "Vera has agreed to take the
sensible view, and let you show outward and visible signs of reformation
during your engagement. So you must be very good, and, if you can, even
pious. Come up to lunch to-morrow with a jaunty air as though nothing
had happened."
Jimmy heaved a sigh of relief as he folded up the note and thrust it
into his pocket. So the crisis was safely over, after all. Straightway
he began to make excuses for Vera, her youth, her inexperience, the
atmosphere in which she had been reared; yet he could not help
remembering that Lalage was younger, by a year at least, and that her
chances of gaining experience at home had been far smaller, and still
Lalage had understood him and tried to help him, whilst Vera was only
taking him as an offender on probation.
The latter was not pleasant thought, especially as the final letter to
Lalage remained unwritten. He had intended to do it that night, had
really made up his mind to do it; but now this scene with Vera seemed to
have shaken his nerves, and he felt he could stand no more strain until
he had had a good sleep. There was really no immediate hurry for a day
or two. Both his letters to Lalage and her letters to him were so brief
and so few in number that no one could object to the correspondence. So,
in the end, he went to bed, moderately satisfied with his own prospects,
having written nothing at all.
Jimmy got up in the morning with a certain sense of relief in his mind.
He was rather glad now that Vera did know something of his past
failings; it was better for her to understand, and to forgive, than for
him to live with the fear of exposure ever in his thoughts. Their little
quarrel, if quarrel it could be called, would serve a useful purpose in
clearing the air; and now there would be no more trouble. He would soon
reassure her by giving positive proofs of reformation. Moreover, he
could write to Lalage that night, after making, his peace with Vera.
The morning postman brought nothing more interesting than a receipted
laundry bill, which Jimmy tossed angrily on to the desk. He had been
expecting a letter of congratulation from May, in fact, he had looked
to receive it twenty-four hours previously, and its non-arrival worried
him a little. He had been hoping that the news of his engagement would
have led to a treaty of peace with his family, being, as it was,
significant of his surrender to the Grierson ideals. Surely May would
see that he had sown his wild oats, and was ready, eager even, to marry
into a respectable family and live respectably.
His breakfast finished, Jimmy glanced through his newspapers, at the
same time keeping a look-out for the second postman; but when the latter
did come down the road he hurried by without even glancing at the
cottage. Obviously, he had nothing to deliver. Jimmy got up abruptly, a
frown on his face. They might have written to him, and have offered
their congratulations. He had given in to their ideas completely now;
his engagement was in itself tacit recognition of the code of the
Griersons, and he could not understand why the family should still
harbour bitterness against him. Surely he had suffered enough for his
revolt. But May and Ida and Walter had always been the same, obstinate,
self-satisfied, regarding everything he did as necessarily wrong. In the
world of men who thought, Jimmy knew that he, himself, was quickly
gaining a position, and that his wife would also have a position,
through him; but his family gauged position by the standard of the
pass-book, the only book it considered of any permanent importance. The
successful business man was respectable by virtue of his success; it
made little difference whether he had grown rich as a banker, a
merchant, or a member of a County Council committee; but the man who
lived by his brains it regarded with suspicion, as one who made an
income without possessing capital.
Jimmy was in a bitter mood. The little matter of the delayed letter had
brought out that alien streak in him again, and once more he saw the
Griersons as he had seen them in the early days of his return,
unsympathetic, prejudiced, almost smug. He had been striving hard to win
their approval. He had given up Lalage; he had written only things of
which they could approve; he had become engaged to a girl essentially of
their world, and now----
A sharp knock on the door brought him to his feet, and he opened the
latch to find the ragged little girl, who generally acted as telegraph
boy, holding out a yellow envelope. "Any answer, sir?" she chanted.
Jimmy read the message through. It was from Canon Farlow, and had been
despatched at the London terminus. "Meet me on the station at
twelve-thirty. Most important," it said.
Jimmy crushed the paper up, and thrust it into his pocket. "No answer,
thanks," he said, then he glanced at the clock. He had an hour and a
half still to wait. For a moment he thought of going up to Drylands
first, to see if Vera too had heard, but he put the idea aside
immediately after. Already, he had scented trouble. There must be
something very serious to have brought the Canon back from Switzerland
in such a hurry, and he preferred to see it through alone, to keep Vera
out of it, if possible.
He was on the station platform a little early, in fact, he had time for
several drinks in the refreshment-room before the train came in; then,
rather to his surprise, he found the Drylands' chauffeur also waiting at
the barrier.
The Canon, a portly man, clean shaven, and obviously prosperous, emerged
from a first-class carriage with a bag in one hand and a rug on the
other arm. Perhaps for that reason, he did not offer to shake hands with
Jimmy; but even when the chauffeur had hurried forward for his things,
he had made no attempt to remedy the omission.
"Good morning, Mr. Grierson," he said. "I am glad to see you received
my telegram. Yes, Jones," to the chauffeur, "put those in the motor-car,
and kindly wait for me. I shall be going up shortly. And please put the
hood up, if possible.
"Now, Mr. Grierson, is there anywhere we can talk. I have a few
questions of a rather serious nature, of a distinctly serious nature, I
might say, to ask you."
Jimmy, now fully convinced that his theory of trouble ahead was right,
pulled himself together to meet it. The Canon's manner had already
aroused his antagonism, and he was in no mood to submit tamely.
"We can talk in there, if you like," he answered, nodding towards the
refreshment-room. "I see the waiting-rooms are occupied."
The Canon frowned, thinking he detected a hint of flippancy in the
younger man's manner. "I said it was a serious matter," he replied,
severely, "and a public bar is hardly the place for discussion, hardly
the place I should be likely to visit in any case." He glanced along the
platform, which was already deserted. "I think we will walk up that
direction, if you please."
Jimmy, now thoroughly nettled, took out his case and lighted a cigarette
with rather ostentatious coolness, waiting for the other to begin.
At last when they got to the open end of the platform, Canon Farlow
cleared his voice with a little cough which he had often found most
effective on solemn occasions. "I understand from your letter that you
have proposed marriage to my daughter, Vera."
Jimmy corrected him quietly. "I am engaged to Miss Farlow. I am sorry if
I didn't make that quite clear to you."
If men in his position did such things, the Canon would have snorted; as
it was, however, he remembered his dignity in time. "Pardon me, Mr.
Grierson, my daughter knows better than to accept a proposal of marriage
from any man without my permission. Anything she may have said was
provisional, simply provisional, until I, myself, had made inquiries. I
regret to say now that what I have learnt about you is greatly to your
discredit, terribly so. I have had a letter from your sister, Mrs.
Fenton."
Jimmy was pale already, and he went, if possible, a shade paler, with
anger; but he spoke very calmly. "Yes, and what does Ida say about me?
Something pleasant, surely."
Hitherto the Canon had spoken more in sorrow than in wrath, but now he
began to lose his temper; he was not accustomed to being treated
lightly. "Something most unpleasant on the other hand," he snapped.
"Something which, if true, as I believe it to be, renders you totally
unfit to associate with an innocent young girl like my daughter. Mrs.
Fenton informs me that a little while ago you were living a most
scandalous life in London."
Jimmy knew that his case was hopeless. He had been betrayed, and had
already been judged, unheard. Still, he made one last attempt at
defence. "It was over a year ago, and I have never seen her since. I
have run straight enough since the time I left London; and I know I
should be true to your daughter."
"You admit it is correct, then?" The canon gave the sigh he reserved for
the convicted sinner. "And where is this woman now?"
The colour came back to Jimmy's face, suddenly. "That I shall not tell
you, or anybody else," he answered curtly.
"Do you still keep up a correspondence with her?"
Jimmy realised that the question was the fatal one. For a moment he
thought of explaining, of going into details as to how he was going to
break the last slender tie, of pleading all the extenuating
circumstances, of appealing for a chance to prove his reformation; then
he glanced at his companion, and knew there was no mercy in his face.
"Yes, I still correspond with her," he replied quietly.
The Canon's wrath blazed out. "And yet you dare propose marriage to my
daughter. You are a debased profligate, sir, absolutely unfit for any
respectable people to know. You, you----" he spluttered a little, "you
are a positive danger to society. The idea of keeping up communication
with a vile creature like that, and expecting to marry my daughter." He
was snorting in earnest now.
Jimmy's eyes had grown dangerously bright. "I allow no one to call my
friends vile creatures, not even a man who is supposed to be a preacher
of charity and good will. Whatever Miss Penrose has been in the past,
she has led a perfectly good life since we parted, and I respect her as
much as I respect any other woman living." He spoke proudly, defiantly,
looking the cleric full in the face.
For a moment Canon Farlow was speechless, then he attempted to take
refuge in scorn. "If you are really so foolish as to believe that those
creatures ever reform----" he began.
But Jimmy cut him short sternly. "You have said more than enough
already. Good morning." He turned on his heel and went a couple of
steps, then something struck him and he faced round again. "May I
venture one suggestion? Next time you preach you might take as your
text, 'He amongst you who is without sin, let him throw the first
stone,'" and he stalked down the platform, leaving the canon bereft of
even a trace of his well-known pulpit manner.