"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