"You can't have him up for breach of promise, Reggie," cooed Mrs. Clibborn.
"A gentleman takes the law in his own hands in these matters. Ah, it's a pity the good old days have gone when they settled such things with cold steel!"
And the Colonel, to emphasise his words, flung himself into the appropriate attitude, throwing his left hand up behind his head, and lunging fiercely with the right.
"Go and look for my pince-nez, my dear," said Mrs. Clibborn, turning to Mary. "I think they're in my work-basket or in your father's study."
Mary was glad to leave the room, about which the Colonel stamped in an ever-increasing rage, pausing now and then to take a mouthful of bread and cheese. The request for the glasses was Mrs. Clibborn's usual way of getting rid of Mary, a typical subterfuge of a woman who never, except by chance, put anything straightforwardly.... When the door was closed, the buxom lady clasped her hands, and cried:
"Reginald! Reginald! I have a confession to make."
"What's the matter with you?" said the Colonel, stopping short.
"I am to blame for this, Reginald." Mrs. Clibborn threw her head on one side, and looked at the ceiling as the only substitute for heaven. "James Parsons has jilted Mary—on my account."
"What the devil have you been doing now?"
"Oh, forgive me, Reginald!" she cried, sliding off the chair and falling heavily on her knees. "It's not my fault: he loves me."
"Fiddlesticks!" said her husband angrily, walking on again.
"It isn't, Reginald. How unjust you are to me!"
The facile tears began to flow down Mrs. Clibborn's well-powdered cheeks.
"I know he loves me. You can't deceive a woman and a mother."
"You're double his age!"
"These boys always fall in love with women older than themselves; I've noticed it so often. And he's almost told me in so many words, though I'm sure I've given him no encouragement."
"Fiddlesticks, Clara!"
"You wouldn't believe me when I told you that poor Algy Turner loved me, and he killed himself."
"Nothing of the kind; he died of cholera."
"Reginald," retorted Mrs. Clibborn, with asperity, "his death was most mysterious. None of the doctors understood it. If he didn't poison himself, he died of a broken heart. And I think you're very unkind to me."
With some difficulty, being a heavy woman, she lifted herself from the floor; and by the time she was safely on her feet, Mrs. Clibborn was blowing and puffing like a grampus.
The Colonel, whose mind had wandered to other things, suddenly bethought himself that he had a duty to perform.
"Where's my horsewhip, Clara? I command you to give it me."
"Reginald, if you have the smallest remnant of affection for me, you will not hurt this unfortunate young man. Remember that Algy Turner killed himself. You can't blame him for not wanting to marry poor Mary. My dear, she has absolutely no figure. And men are so susceptible to those things."
The Colonel stalked out of the room, and Mrs. Clibborn sat down to meditate.
"I thought my day for such things was past," she murmured. "I knew it all along. The way he looked at me was enough—we women have such quick perceptions! Poor boy, how he must suffer!"
She promised herself that no harsh word of hers should drive James into the early grave where lay the love-lorn Algy Turner. And she sighed, thinking what a curse it was to possess that fatal gift of beauty!
When Little Primpton heard the news, Little Primpton was agitated. Certainly it was distressed, and even virtuously indignant, but at the same time completely unable to divest itself of that little flutter of excitement which was so rare, yet so enchanting, a variation from the monotony of its daily course. The well-informed walked with a lighter step, and held their heads more jauntily, for life had suddenly acquired a novel interest. With something new to talk about, something fresh to think over, with a legitimate object of sympathy and resentment, the torpid blood raced through their veins as might that of statesmen during some crisis in national affairs. Let us thank God, who has made our neighbours frail, and in His infinite mercy caused husband and wife to quarrel; Tom, Dick, and Harry to fall more or less discreditably in love; this dear friend of ours to lose his money, and that her reputation. In all humility, let us be grateful for the scandal which falls at our feet like ripe fruit, for the Divorce Court and for the newspapers that, with a witty semblance of horror, report for us the spicy details. If at certain intervals propriety obliges us to confess that we are miserable sinners, has not the Lord sought to comfort us in the recollection that we are not half so bad as most people?
Mr. Dryland went to the Vicarage to enter certificates in the parish books. The Vicar was in his study, and gave his curate the keys of the iron safe.
"Sophie Bunch came last night to put up her banns," he said.
"She's going to marry out of the parish, isn't she?"
"Yes, a Tunbridge Wells man."
The curate carefully blotted the entries he had made, and returned the heavy books to their place.
"Will you come into the dining-room, Dryland?" said the Vicar, with a certain solemnity. "Mrs Jackson would like to speak to you."
"Certainly."
Mrs. Jackson was reading the Church Times. Her thin, sharp face wore an expression of strong disapproval; her tightly-closed mouth, her sharp nose, even the angular lines of her body, signified clearly that her moral sense was outraged. She put her hand quickly to her massive fringe to see that it was straight, and rose to shake hands with Mr. Dryland. His heavy red face assumed at once a grave look; his moral sense was outraged, too.
"Isn't this dreadful news, Mr. Dryland?"
"Oh, very sad! Very sad!"
In both their voices, hidden below an intense sobriety, there was discernible a slight ring of exultation.
"The moment I saw him I felt he would give trouble," said Mrs. Jackson, shaking her head. "I told you, Archibald, that I didn't like the look of him."
"I'm bound to say you did," admitted her lord and master.
"Mary Clibborn is much too good for him," added Mrs. Jackson, decisively. "She's a saint."
"The fact is, that he's suffering from a swollen head," remarked the curate, who used slang as a proof of manliness.
"There, Archibald!" cried the lady, triumphantly. "What did I tell you?"
"Mrs. Jackson thought he was conceited."
"I don't think it; I'm sure of it. He's odiously conceited. All the time I was talking to him I felt he considered himself superior to me. No nice-minded man would have refused our offer to say a short prayer on his behalf during morning service."
"Those army men always have a very good opinion of themselves," said Mr. Dryland, taking advantage of his seat opposite a looking-glass to arrange his hair.
He spoke in such a round, full voice that his shortest words carried a sort of polysyllabic weight.
"I can't see what he has done to be so proud of," said Mrs. Jackson. "Anyone would have done the same in his position. I'm sure it's no more heroic than what clergymen do every day of their lives, without making the least fuss about it."
"They say that true courage is always modest," answered Mr. Dryland.
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