"I see no way out of it, Mary," he said, hoarsely. "I wish to God I did! It's frightfully cruel to you."
"I can bear it. I don't blame you. It's not your fault. God will give me strength." Mary thought of her mother's cruel sympathy. Her parents would have to be told that James had cast her aside like a plaything he was tired of. "God will give me strength."
"I'm so sorry, Mary," cried James, kneeling by her side. "You'll have to suffer dreadfully; and I can't think how to make it any better for you."
"There is no way. We must tell them the whole truth, and let them say what they will."
"Would you like me to go away from Primpton?"
"Why?"
"It might make it easier for you."
"Nothing can make it easier. I can face it out. And I don't want you to run away and hide yourself as if you had done something to be ashamed of. And your people want you. Oh, Jamie, you will be as gentle with them as you can, won't you? I'm afraid it will—disappoint them very much."
"They had set their hearts upon our marriage."
"I'm afraid they'll feel it a good deal. But it can't be helped. Anything is better than a loveless marriage."
James was profoundly touched that at the time of her own bitter grief, Mary could think of the pain of others.
"I wish I had your courage, Mary. I've never seen such strength."
"It's well that I have some qualities. I haven't the power to make you love me, and I deserve something to make up."
"Oh, Mary, don't speak like that! I do love you! There's no one for whom I have a purer, more sincere affection. Why won't you take me with what I can offer? I promise that you will never regret it. You know exactly what I am now—weak, but anxious to do right. Why shouldn't we be married? Perhaps things may change. Who can tell what time may bring about?"
"It's impossible. You ask me to do more than I can. And I know very well that you only make the offer out of charity. Even from you I cannot accept charity."
"My earnest wish is to make you happy."
"And I know you would sacrifice yourself willingly for that; but I can sacrifice myself, too. You think that if we got married love might arise; but it wouldn't. You would feel perpetually that I was a reproach to you; you would hate me."
"I should never do that."
"How can you tell? We are the same age now, but each year I should seem older. At forty I should be an old woman, and you would still be a young man. Only the deepest love can make that difference endurable; but the love would be all on my side—if I had any then. I should probably have grown bitter and ill-humoured. Ah, no, Jamie, you know it is utterly impracticable. You know it as well as I do. Let us part altogether. I give you back your word. It is not your fault that you do not love me. I don't blame you. One gets over everything in this world eventually. All I ask you is not to trouble too much about me; I shan't die of it."
She stretched out her hand, and he took it, his eyes all blurred, unable to speak.
"And I thank you," she continued, "for having come to me frankly and openly, and told me everything. It is still something that you have confidence in me. You need never fear that I shall feel bitter towards you. I can see that you have suffered—perhaps more than you have made me suffer. Good-bye!"
"Is there nothing I can do, Mary?"
"Nothing," she said, trying to smile, "except not to worry."
"Good-bye," he said. "And don't think too ill of me."
She could not trust herself to answer. She stood perfectly quiet till he had gone out of the room; then with a moan sank to the floor and hid her face, bursting into tears. She had restrained herself too long; the composure became intolerable. She could have screamed, as though suffering some physical pain that destroyed all self-control. The heavy sobs rent her chest, and she did not attempt to stop them. She was heart-broken.
"Oh, how could he!" she groaned. "How could he!"
Her vision of happiness was utterly gone. In James she had placed the joy of her life; in him had found strength to bear every displeasure. Mary had no thought in which he did not take part; her whole future was inextricably mingled with his. But now the years to come, which had seemed so bright and sunny, turned suddenly grey as the melancholy sky without. She saw her life at Little Primpton, continuing as in the past years, monotonous and dull—a dreary round of little duties, of little vexations, of little pleasures.
"Oh, God help me!" she cried.
And lifting herself painfully to her knees, she prayed for strength to bear the woeful burden, for courage to endure it steadfastly, for resignation to believe that it was God's will.
X
James felt no relief. He had looked forward to a sensation of freedom such as a man might feel when he had escaped from some tyrannous servitude, and was at liberty again to breathe the buoyant air of heaven. He imagined that his depression would vanish like an evil spirit exorcised so soon as ever he got from Mary his release; but instead it sat more heavily upon him. Unconvinced even yet that he had acted rightly, he went over the conversation word for word. It seemed singularly ineffectual. Wishing to show Mary that he did not break with her from caprice or frivolous reason, but with sorrowful reluctance, and full knowledge of her suffering, he had succeeded only in being futile and commonplace.
He walked slowly towards Primpton House. He had before him the announcement to his mother and father; and he tried to order his thoughts.
Mrs. Parsons, her household work finished, was knitting the inevitable socks; while the Colonel sat at the table, putting new stamps into his album. He chattered delightedly over his treasures, getting up now and then gravely to ask his wife some question or to point out a surcharge; she, good woman, showed interest by appropriate rejoinders.
"There's no one in Tunbridge Wells who has such a fine collection as I have."
"General Newsmith showed me his the other day, but it's not nearly so good as yours, Richmond."
"I'm glad of that. I suppose his Mauritius are fine?" replied the Colonel, with some envy, for the general had lived several years on the island.
"They're fair," said Mrs. Parsons, reassuringly; "but not so good as one would expect."
"It takes a clever man to get together a good collection of stamps, although I shouldn't say it."
They looked up when James entered.
"I've just been putting in those Free States you brought me, Jamie. They look very well."
The Colonel leant back to view them, with the satisfied look with which he might have examined an old master.
"It was very thoughtful of Jamie to bring them," said Mrs. Parsons.
"Ah, I knew he wouldn't forget his old father. Don't you remember, Frances, I said to you, 'I'll be bound the boy will bring some stamps with him.' They'll be valuable in a year or two. That's what I always say with regard to postage stamps; you can't waste your money. Now jewellery, for instance, gets old-fashioned, and china breaks; but you run no risk with stamps. When I buy stamps, I really feel that I'm as good as investing my money in consols."
"Well, how's Mary this morning?"
"I've been having a long talk with her."
"Settled the day yet?" asked the Colonel, with a knowing little laugh.
"No!"
"Upon my word, Frances, I think we shall have to settle