Chapter 14

Was it a lot of nonsense that he had thought about the immaculacy of the flesh? The world in general found his theories ridiculous or obscene. The world might be right. After all, the majority is not necessarily wrong. Jamie's illness interfered like a blank space between his present self and the old one, with its strenuous ideals of a purity of body which vulgar persons knew nothing of. Weak and ill, dependent upon the strength of others, his former opinions seemed singularly uncertain. How much more easy and comfortable was it to fall back upon the ideas of all and sundry? One cannot help being a little conscience-stricken sometimes when one thinks differently from others. That is why society holds together; conscience is its most efficient policeman. But when one shares common opinions, the whole authority of civilisation backs one up, and the reward is an ineffable self-complacency. It is the easiest thing possible to wallow in the prejudices of all the world, and the most eminently satisfactory. For nineteen hundred years we have learnt that the body is shameful, a pitfall and a snare to the soul. It is to be hoped we have one, for our bodies, since we began worrying about our souls, leave much to be desired. The common idea is that the flesh is beastly, the spirit divine; and it sounds reasonable enough. If it means little, one need not care, for the world has turned eternally to one senseless formula after another. All one can be sure about is that in the things of this world there is no absolute certainty.

James, in his prostration, felt only indifference; and his old strenuousness, with its tragic despair, seemed not a little ridiculous. His eagerness to keep clean from what he thought prostitution was melodramatic and silly, his idea of purity mere foolishness. If the body was excrement, as from his youth he had been taught, what could it matter how one used it! Did anything matter, when a few years would see the flesh he had thought divine corrupt and worm-eaten? James was willing now to float along the stream, sociably, with his fellows, and had no doubt that he would soon find a set of high-sounding phrases to justify his degradation. What importance could his actions have, who was an obscure unit in an ephemeral race? It was much better to cease troubling, and let things come as they would. People were obviously right when they said that Mary must be an excellent helpmate. How often had he not told himself that she would be all that a wife should--kind, helpful, trustworthy. Was it not enough?

And his marriage would give such pleasure to his father and mother, such happiness to Mary. If he could make a little return for all her goodness, was he not bound to do so? He smiled with bitter scorn at his dead, lofty ideals. The workaday world was not fit for them; it was much safer and easier to conform oneself to its terrestrial standard. And the amusing part of it was that these new opinions which seemed to him a falling away, to others meant precisely the reverse. They thought it purer and more ethereal that a man should marry because a woman would be a housekeeper of good character than because the divine instincts of Nature irresistibly propelled him.

James shrugged his shoulders, and turned to look at Mary, who was coming towards him with letters in her hand.

"Three letters for you, Jamie!"

"Whom are they from?"

"Look." She handed him one.

"That's a bill, I bet," he said. "Open it and see."

She opened and read out an account for boots.

"Throw it away."

Mary opened her eyes.

"It must be paid, Jamie."

"Of course it must; but not for a long time yet. Let him send it in a few times more. Now the next one."

He looked at the envelope, and did not recognise the handwriting.

"You can open that, too."

It was from the Larchers, repeating their invitation to go and see them.

"I wonder if they're still worrying about the death of their boy?"

"Oh, well, it's six months ago, isn't it?" replied Mary.

"I suppose in that time one gets over most griefs. I must go over some day. Now the third."

He reddened slightly, recognising again the handwriting of Mrs. Wallace. But this time it affected him very little; he was too weak to care, and he felt almost indifferent.

"Shall I open it?" said Mary.

James hesitated.

"No," he said; "tear it up." And then in reply to her astonishment, he added, smiling: "It's all right, I'm not off my head. Tear it up, and don't ask questions, there's a dear!"

"Of course, I'll tear it up if you want me to," said Mary, looking rather perplexed.

"Now, go to the hedge and throw the pieces in the field."

She did so, and sat down again.

"Shall I read to you?"

"No, I'm sick of the 'Antiquary.' Why the goodness they can't talk English like rational human beings, Heaven only knows!"

"Well, we must finish it now we've begun."

"D'you think something dreadful will happen to us if we don't?"

"If one begins a book I think one should finish it, however dull it is. One is sure to get some good out of it."

"My dear, you're a perfect monster of conscientiousness."

"Well, if you don't want me to read, I shall go on with my knitting."

"I don't want you to knit either. I want you to talk to me."

Mary looked almost charming in the subdued light of the sun as it broke through the leaves, giving a softness of expression and a richness of colour that James had never seen in her before. And the summer frock she wore made her more girlish and irresponsible than usual.

"You've been very, very good to me all this time, Mary," said James, suddenly.

Mary flushed. "I?"

"I can never thank you enough."

"Nonsense! Your father has been telling you a lot of rubbish, and he promised he wouldn't."

"No, he's said nothing. Did you make him promise? That was very nice, and just like you."

"I was afraid he'd say more than he ought."

"D'you think I haven't been able to see for myself? I owe my life to you."

"You owe it to God, Jamie."

He smiled, and took her hand.

"I'm very, very grateful!"

"It's been a pleasure to nurse you, Jamie. I never knew you'd make such a good patient."

"And for all you've done, I've made you wretched and miserable. Can you ever forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive, dear. You know I always think of you as a brother."

"Ah, that's what you told the curate!" cried James, laughing.

Mary reddened.

"How d'you know?"

"He told Mrs. Jackson, and she told father."

"You're not angry with me?"

"I think you might have made it second cousin," said James, with a smile.

Mary did not answer, but tried to withdraw her hand. He held it fast.

"Mary, I've treated you vilely. If you don't hate me, it's only because you're a perfect angel."

Mary looked down, blushing deep red.

"I can never hate you," she whispered.

"Oh, Mary, can you forgive me? Can you forget? It sounds almost impertinent to ask you again--Will you marry me, Mary?"

She withdrew her hand.

"It's very kind of you, Jamie. You're only asking me out of gratitude, because I've helped a little to look after you. But I want no gratitude; it was all pleasure. And I'm only too glad that you're getting well."

"I'm perfectly in earnest, Mary. I wouldn't ask you merely from gratitude. I know I have humiliated you dreadfully, and I have done my best to kill the love you had for me. But I really honestly love you now--with all my heart. If you still care for me a little, I beseech you not to dismiss me."

"If I still care for you!" cried Mary, hoarsely. "Oh, my God!"

"Mary, forgive me! I want you to marry me."

She looked at him distractedly, the fire burning through her heart. He took both her hands and drew her towards him.

"Mary, say yes."

She sank helplessly to her knees beside him.

"It would make me very happy," she murmured, with touching humility.

Then he bent forward and kissed her tenderly.

"Let's go and tell them," he said. "They'll be so pleased."

Mary, smiling and joyful, helped him to his feet, and supporting him as best she could, they went towards the house.

Colonel Parsons was sitting in the dining-room, twirling his old Panama in a great state of excitement; he had interrupted his wife at her accounts, and she was looking at him good-humouredly over her spectacles.

"I'm sure something's happening," he said. "I went out to take Jamie his beef-tea, and he was holding Mary's hand. I coughed as loud as I could, but they took no notice at all. So I thought I'd better not disturb them."

"Here they come," said Mrs. Parsons.

"Mother," said James, "Mary has something to tell you."

"I haven't anything of the sort!" cried Mary, blushing and laughing. "Jamie has something to tell you."

"Well, the fact is, I've asked Mary to marry me and she's said she would."

XIX

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.