His courtship was rapid and their engagement short, but its permanence was threatened, for when she learnt that he was idly living on the small income left him by a father who had refused to give him a trade or a profession, she said she would not marry him until he found one.
"But you can't pick one up by the roadside," he explained with justice.
"But how, oh how, did you ever consent to such wickedness?"
"Ah, you never saw my father," he said.
"I'd like to see him now," she answered angrily, but she wasted no energy on regrets. She realized that the acquiring of a profession would entail a loss of time to which neither was willing to submit, and then one night, as she sat over the fire after the old ladies had gone to bed, she remembered an incident which had impressed her girlhood. Driving through a little village once, she had seen, standing back from the road and fronted by a cobbled courtyard, a white-washed inn. There were bay-trees in tubs before the door, and at the side of the house a garden with clipped yews, but, better than all, just beyond the doorway there had stood a man and a woman with a child on her arm. Something in their attitude, something simple and content and elemental, had made the picture unforgettable. Why should not she and Jim have a little inn like that? He had capital, and they both had strength, and theirs should be a model public-house, with good entertainment for man and beast, and a welcome for every traveller. Rutherford met the proposal doubtfully. "Well, I don't know," he said. "I don't know that it's wise." But he went no further, and indeed her enthusiasm must have silenced him. Their inn was to be in some beautiful part of the country where people would like to stay, and it was not to be primarily a place for the sale of liquor, and people should not be encouraged to spend their evenings in hanging over the bar.
"It seems to me," he said drily, "that you'd better sell ginger beer."
"We shall, of course. But it's the visitors I'm counting on, Jim. We'll show that England can produce a good, cheap inn."
They found the place they wanted among the hills and trout streams, and they had not long been there when Clara learnt that her husband drank, not violently, but with incipient ruin.
"I shouldn't do it," he protested, "if I wasn't so near the stuff."
"Why didn't you tell me?" she cried.
"I tried, but I daren't. You wouldn't have married me."
"Yes I should; but I'd never have bought the inn. It must be put up for sale. Write to the agents to-night and swear, if you love me, you'll never touch anything again. We'll get a man to attend to the bar and you'd better see to the garden; it wants digging all over."
This was how she had met her tragedy, but at that time she had good hope of frustrating it. Her husband was rarely out of her sight, and she kept him at hard manual labour without any attempt at concealing her design. And they were both happy. He learnt to trust her, and when desire came heavily upon him he went to her and asked, without shame, for help. That was their safeguard; but it was removed on the night when Alexander was born. In a pitiable state of anxiety Rutherford found his way into the bar and began to drink. His fear fell from him after a glass or two, and, to encourage its departure, he drank on. The barman, who had been drawn to Clara's service from the plough, and was himself a father, tried to persuade him to go away.
"The mistress will be wanting you soon; you'd better be within call."
"You mind your own business, Potts. Potts! Were you always called Potts or did we change your name to match the bar? Potts! Good name that! I'll have some whisky, Potts."
"No, now, really I shouldn't." But for themselves, the place was empty and the good man remonstrated. "Think of the mistress up there, now. You know she wouldn't like it. 'Potts,' she said, 'look after the master for me. Now I trust you,' she said."
"Get out of my way, you fool! I'll help myself."
"For God's sake, hush, man! She'll hear you. Just you go out quietly and sit down in the parlour and cool yourself. Come along, now. We don't want to have trouble to-night."
"Who's having trouble? All quite happy an' lively. Never felt better; and if you don't get out of my way and let me have that drink, I'll—I'll fell you, Potts."
Nothing of this he remembered afterwards, and it seemed to him that he only began to live when he heard the thud of the man's body as it dropped to the floor, the tinkle of a broken glass and the gentle dripping of the liquor that had been in it. He thought it was the blood of Potts that he had spilt, and then from upstairs he heard the voice of Clara crying out from the midst of her pain, "Jim, Jim, what are you doing? Come up here, I want you."
And before he could remember anything but his own distress he had obeyed her and fallen to his knees beside the bed, telling her that Potts was lying on the floor, he believed he had killed Potts.
The nurse, who was both blunt and burly, seized him by the shoulders. "Get out of it this minute," she said, "or you'll be killing someone else."
"No, let him stay," said Clara faintly. "Go and see what's the matter. He'll be quiet."
Rutherford saw with amazement and then with the dreadful beginnings of understanding and remembrance, that there was a new crease in her forehead and her lips were white and thin.
"Clara—Clara," he began.
But she said: "Hush! Don't talk. Just let me hold your hand."
It was strange and terribly revealing to hear her ask for help, and he was more than sobered by the time the nurse returned from bawling over the banisters, "Potts, are you all right?" and getting answer, "Ay, I'm that," in a tone of menace.
"Now, out you go!" she said, and locked the door upon him.
He went, staggering, to the bar, and stared at Potts, who was wiping down the counter. He put a hand to his forehead, for thought was growing dim again.
"I'm not sure," he said, "what happened. Did I—did I——"
"Yes, you did," said Potts, "and if it wasn't for the mistress I'd give you another. You're not fit to live."
"That's true," said Rutherford; "that's perfectly true. I'll go out and think about it."
When he returned, after long wanderings in the dark, he was told he had a son, but he would not look at what he considered the cause of that night's work, and later, when reason had more force with him, he still refused to concern himself with the child, for, at the sight of his small, solemn face and thick, black hair there always arose a mist through which there moved pictures of Potts lying on the floor amidst the broken glass and Clara with that changed, white face. He suffered from an unspeakable shame which was the greater that Clara never reproached him; but, as time wore on, and, following her wishes as well as his, they left the place for this little house among the lonelier hills, his shame became absorbed into a sense of grievance against the child.
"You see," he would say to Clara, almost in triumph, when, in answer to a scowl, Alexander set up a cry, "he hates me!"
"He'd hate me if I looked like you," she replied, with rare sharpness. "If you'd only learn to be honest with yourself, my man, things would be better for us all."
Instead of honesty, he developed a fractious gloom which seldom changed to anything but despair, and if Clara did not lose her courage at this time, it may be that her buoyancy drooped a little. Yet she made him work. There was waste ground behind the house, and, after constant urging and encouragement from Clara, who also found time to ask Heaven to mete adequate punishment on his father, he made it into a garden of which he was proud, and when she saw him working there, with a cleared brow, she felt that, after all, they had not made such a bad thing of their