Chapter 17

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!

EPILOGUE

A letter from Mrs. Clibborn to General Sir Charles Clow, K.C.B., 8 Gladhorn Terrace, Bath:

"DEAR CHARLES,--I am so glad to hear you are settled in your new house in Bath, and it is _most_ kind to ask us down. I am devoted to Bath; one meets such _nice_ people there, and all one's friends whom one knew centuries ago. It is such a comfort to see how fearfully old they're looking! I don't know whether we can manage to accept your kind invitation, but I must say I should be glad of a change after the truly _awful_ things that have happened here. I have been dreadfully upset all the winter, and have had several touches of rheumatism, which is a thing I never suffered from before.

"I wrote and told you of the sudden and _mysterious_ death of poor James Parsons, a fortnight before he was going to marry my dear Mary. He shot himself accidentally while cleaning a gun--that is to say, every one _thinks_ it was an accident. But I am certain it was nothing of the kind. Ever since the dreadful thing happened--six months ago--it has been on my conscience, and I assure you that the whole time I have not slept a wink. My sufferings have been _horrible_! You will be surprised at the change in me; I am beginning to look like an _old_ woman. I tell you this in strict confidence. _I believe he committed suicide._ He confessed that he loved me, Charles. Of course, I told him I was old enough to be his mother; but love is blind. When I think of the tragic end of poor Algy Turner, who poisoned himself in India for my sake, I don't know how I shall ever forgive myself. I never gave James the least encouragement, and when he said that he loved me, I was so taken aback that I _nearly fainted_. I am convinced that he shot himself rather than marry a woman he did not love, and what is more, _my_ daughter. You can imagine my feelings! I have taken care not to breathe a word of this to Reginald, whose gout is making him more irritable every day, or to anyone else. So no one suspects the truth.

"But I shall never get over it. I could not bear to think of poor Algy Turner, and now I have on my head as well the blood of James Parsons. They were dear boys, both of them. I think I am the only one who is really sorry for him. If it had been my son who was killed I should either have gone _raving mad_ or had hysterics for a week; but Mrs. Parsons merely said: 'The Lord has given, and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.' I cannot help thinking it was rather profane, and _most_ unfeeling. _I_ was dreadfully upset, and Mary had to sit up with me for several nights. I don't believe Mary really loved him. I hate to say anything against my own daughter, but I feel bound to tell the truth, and my private opinion is that she loved _herself_ better. She loved her constancy and the good opinion of Little Primpton; the fuss the Parsons have made of her I'm sure is very bad for anyone. It can't be good for a girl to be given way to so much; and I never really liked the Parsons. They're very good people, of course; but only infantry!

"I am happy to say that poor Jamie's death was almost instantaneous. When they found him he said: 'It was an accident; I didn't know the gun was loaded.' (_Most improbable_, I think. It's wonderful how they've all been taken in; but then they didn't know his secret!) A few minutes later, just before he died, he said: 'Tell Mary she's to marry the curate.'

"If my betrothed had died, _nothing_ would have induced me to marry anybody else. I would have remained an _old maid_. But so few people have any really _nice_ feeling! Mr. Dryland, the curate, had already proposed to Mary, and she had refused him. He is a pleasant-spoken young man, with a rather fine presence--not _my_ ideal at all; but that, of course, doesn't matter! Well, a month after the funeral, Mary told me that he had asked her again, and she had declined. I think it was very bad taste on his part, but Mary said she thought it _most noble_.

"It appears that Colonel and Mrs. Parsons both pressed her very much to accept the curate. They said it was Jamie's dying wish, and that his last thought had been for her happiness. There is no doubt that Mr. Dryland is an excellent young man, but if the Parsons had _really_ loved their son, they would never have advised Mary to get married. I think it was most _heartless_.

"Well, a few days ago, Mr. Dryland came and told us that he had been appointed vicar of Stone Fairley, in Kent. I went to see Mrs. Jackson, the wife of our Vicar, and she looked it out in the clergy list. The stipend is L300 a year, and I am told that there is a good house. Of course, it's not very much, but better than nothing. This morning Mr. Dryland called and asked for a private interview with Mary. He said he must, of course, leave Little Primpton, and his vicarage would sadly want a mistress; and finally, for the third time, _begged_ her on his _bended knees_ to marry her. He had previously been to the Parsons, and the Colonel sent for Mary, and told her that he hoped she would not refuse Mr. Dryland for their sake, and that they thought it was her duty to marry. The result is that Mary accepted him, and is to be married very quietly by special license in a month. The widow of the late incumbent of Stone Fairley moves out in six weeks, so this will give them time for a fortnight's honeymoon before settling down. They think of spending it in Paris.

"I think, on the whole, it is as good a match as poor Mary could _expect to make_. The stipend is paid by the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, which, of course, is much safer than glebe. She is no longer a young girl, and I think it was her last chance. Although she is my own daughter, I cannot help confessing that she is not the sort of girl that wears well; she has always been _plain_--(no one would think she was my daughter)--and as time goes on, she will grow _plainer_. When I was eighteen my mother's maid used to say: 'Why, miss, there's many a married woman of thirty who would be proud to have your bust.' But our poor, _dear_ Mary has _no figure_. She will do excellently for the wife of a country vicar. She's so fond of giving people advice, and of looking after the poor, and it won't matter that she's dowdy. She has no idea of dressing herself, although I've always done my best for her.

"Mr. Dryland is, of course, in the seventh heaven of delight. He has gone into Tunbridge Wells to get a ring, and as an engagement present has just sent round a complete edition of the works of Mr. Hall Caine. He is evidently _generous_. I think they will suit one another very well, and I am glad to get my only daughter married. She was always rather a tie on Reginald and me. We are so devoted to one another that a third person has often seemed a little in the way. Although you would not believe it, and we have been married for nearly thirty years, nothing gives us more happiness than to sit holding one another's hands. I have always been sentimental, and I am not ashamed to own it. Reggie is sometimes afraid that I shall get an attack of my rheumatism when we sit out together at night; but I always take care to wrap myself up well, and I invariably make him put a muffler on.

"Give my kindest regards to your wife, and tell her I hope to see her soon.--Yours very sincerely,

"CLARA DE TULLEVILLE CLIBBORN."

THE END

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