"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