Colonel Parsons was required to send in his papers, and left India a broken man.... He came back to England, and settled in his father’s house at Little Primpton. His agony continued, and looking into the future, he saw only hideous despair, unavailing regret. For months he could bear to see no one, imagining always that he was pointed out as the man whose folly had cost so many lives. When he heard people laugh he thought it was in scorn of him; when he saw compassion in their eyes he could scarcely restrain his tears. He was indeed utterly broken. He walked in his garden, away from the eyes of his fellows, up and down, continually turning over in his mind the events of that terrible week. And he could not console himself by thinking that any other course would have led to just as bad results. His error was too plain; he could put his finger exactly on the point of his failure and say, “O God! why did I do it?” And as he walked restlessly, unmindful of heat and cold, the tears ran down his thin cheeks, painful and scalding. He would not take his wife’s comfort.
“You acted for the best, Richmond,” she said.
“Yes, dear; I acted for the best. When I got those fellows hemmed in I could have killed them all. But I’m not a butcher; I couldn’t have them shot down in cold blood. That’s not war; that’s murder. What should I have said to my Maker when He asked me to account for those many souls? I spared them; I imagined they’d understand; but they thought it was weakness. I couldn’t know they were preparing a trap for me. And now my name is shameful. I shall never hold up my head again.”
“You acted rightly in the sight of God, Richmond.”
“I think and trust I acted as a Christian, Frances.”
“If you have pleased God, you need not mind the opinion of man.”
“Oh, it’s not that they called me a fool and a coward — I could have borne that. I did what I thought was right. I thought it my duty to save the lives of my men and to spare the enemy; and the result was that ten times more lives have been lost than if I had struck boldly and mercilessly. There are widows and orphans in England who must curse me because I am the cause that their husbands are dead, and that their fathers are rotting on the hills of India. If I had acted like a savage, like a brute-beast, like a butcher, all those men would have been alive to-day. I was merciful, and I was met with treachery; I was long-suffering, and they thought me weak; I was forgiving, and they laughed at me.”
Mrs. Parsons put her hand on her husband’s shoulder.
“You must try to forget it, Richmond,” she said. “It’s over, and it can’t be helped now. You acted like a God-fearing man; your conscience is clear of evil intent. What is the judgment of man beside the judgment of God? If you have received insult and humiliation at the hands of man, God will repay you an hundredfold, for you acted as his servant. And I believe in you, Richmond; and I’m proud of what you did.”
“I have always tried to act like a Christian and a gentleman, Frances.”
At night he would continually dream of those days of confusion and mortal anxiety. He would imagine he was again making that horrible retreat, cheering his men, doing all he could to retrieve the disaster; but aware that ruin only awaited him, conscious that the most ignorant sepoy in his command thought him incapable and mad. He saw the look in the eyes of the officers under him, their bitter contempt, their anger because he forced them to retire before the enemy; and because, instead of honour and glory, they had earned only ridicule. His limbs shook and he sweated with agony as he recalled the interview with his chief: “You’re only fit to be a damned missionary,” and the last contemptuous words, “I shan’t want you any more. You can send in your papers.”
But human sorrow is like water in an earthen pot. Little by little Colonel Parsons forgot his misery; he had turned it over in his mind so often that at last he grew confused. It became then only a deep wound partly healed, scarring over; and he began to take an interest in the affairs of the life surrounding him. He could read his paper without every word stabbing him by some chance association; and there is nothing like the daily and thorough perusal of a newspaper for dulling a man’s brain. He pottered about his garden gossiping with the gardener; made little alterations in the house — bricks and mortar are like an anodyne; he collected stamps; played bezique with his wife; and finally, in his mild, gentle way, found peace of mind.
But when James passed brilliantly out of Sandhurst, the thought seized him that the good name which he valued so highly might be retrieved. Colonel Parsons had shrunk from telling the youth anything of the catastrophe which had driven him from the service; but now he forced himself to give an exact account thereof. His wife sat by, listening with pain in her eyes, for she knew what torture it was to revive that half-forgotten story.
“I thought you had better hear it from me than from a stranger,” the Colonel said when he had finished. “I entered the army with the reputation of my father behind me; my reputation can only harm you. Men will nudge one another and say, ‘There’s the son of old Parsons, who bungled the affair against the Madda Khels.’ You must show them that you’re of good stuff. I acted for the best, and my conscience is at ease. I think I did my duty; but if you can distinguish yourself — if you can make them forget — I think I shall die a little happier.”
The commanding officer of Jamie’s regiment was an old friend of the Colonel’s, and wrote to him after a while to say that he thought well of the boy. He had already distinguished himself in a frontier skirmish, and presently, for gallantry in some other little expedition, his name was mentioned in despatches. Colonel Parsons regained entirely his old cheerfulness; Jamie’s courage and manifest knowledge of his business made him feel that at last he could again look the world frankly in the face. Then came the Boer War; for the parents at Little Primpton and for Mary Clibborn days of fearful anxiety, of gnawing pain — all the greater because each, for the other’s sake, tried to conceal it; and at last the announcement in the paper that James Parsons had been severely wounded while attempting to save the life of a brother officer, and was recommended for the Victoria Cross.
II
The Parsons sat again in their dining-room, counting the minutes which must pass before Jamie’s arrival. The table was laid simply, for all their habits were simple; and the blanc-mange prepared for the morrow’s festivities stood, uncompromising and stiff as a dissenting minister, in the middle of the table. I wish someone would write an invective upon that most detestable of all the national dishes, pallid, chilly, glutinous, unpleasant to look upon, insipid in the mouth. It is a preparation which seems to mark a transition stage in culture; just as the South Sea Islanders, with the advance of civilisation, forsook putrid whale for roast missionary, the great English middle classes complained that tarts and plum-puddings were too substantial, more suited to the robust digestions of a past generation. In the blanc-mange, on the other hand, they found almost an appearance of distinction; its name, at least, suggested French cookery; it was possible to the plainest cook, and it required no mastication.
“I shall have to tell Betty to make a jelly for dinner to-morrow,” said Mrs. Parsons.
“Yes,” replied the Colonel; and after a pause: “Don’t you think we ought to let Mary know that Jamie has come back? She’d like to see him to-night.”
“I’ve sent over already.”
It was understood that James, having got his Company, would marry Mary Clibborn almost at once. His father and mother had been delighted when he announced the engagement. They had ever tried to shield him from all knowledge of evil — no easy matter when a boy has been to a public school and to Sandhurst — holding the approved opinion that ignorance is synonymous with virtue; and they could imagine no better safeguard for his innocence in the multi-coloured life of India than betrothal with a pure, sweet English girl. They looked upon Mary Clibborn already as a daughter, and she, in Jamie’s absence, had been their only solace. They loved her gentleness, her goodness, her simple piety, and congratulated themselves on the fact that with her their son could not fail
to lead a happy and a godly life.
Mary, during those five years, had come to see them every day; her own mother and father were rather worldly people, and she felt less happy with them than with Colonel Parsons and his wife. The trio talked continually of the absent soldier, always reading to one another his letters. They laughed together over his jokes, mildly, as befitted persons for whom a sense of humour might conceivably be a Satanic snare, and trembled together at his dangers. Mary’s affection was free from anything so degrading as passion, and she felt no bashfulness in reading Jamie’s love-letters to his parents; she was too frank to suspect that there might be in them anything for her eyes alone, and too candid to feel any delicacy.
But a lumbering fly rolled in at the gate, and the good people, happy at last, sprang to the door.
“Jamie!”
Trembling with joy, they brought him in and sat him down; they knew no words to express their delight, and stood looking at him open-mouthed, smiling.
“Well, here you are! We were surprised to get your telegram. When did you land?”
When they found their tongues, it was only to say commonplace things such as they might have spoken to a casual friend who had come from London for the day. They were so used to controlling themselves, that when their emotion was overpowering they were at a loss to express it.
“Would you like to go upstairs and wash your hands?”
They both accompanied him.
“You see it’s all just as it was. We thought you’d like your old room. If you want anything you can ring the bell.”
They left him, and going downstairs, sat opposite one another by the fire. The dining-room was furnished with a saddle-bag suite; and Colonel Parsons sat in the “gentleman’s chair,” which had arms, while Mrs. Parsons sat in the “lady’s chair,” which had none; nor did either dream, under any circumstances, of using the other’s seat. They were a little overcome.
“How thin he is!” said Mrs. Parsons.
“We must feed him up,” answered the Colonel.
And then, till the soldier came, they remained in silence. Mrs. Parsons rang the bell for the chops as soon as he appeared, and they sat down; but James ate alone. His people were too happy to do anything but watch him.
“I have had tea made,” said Mrs. Parsons, “but you can have some claret, if you prefer it.”
Five years’ absence had not dulled Jamie’s memory of his father’s wine, and he chose the tea.
“I think a strong cup of tea will do you most good,” said his mother, and she poured it out for him as when he was a boy, with plenty of milk and sugar.
His tastes had never been much consulted; things had been done, in the kindest manner possible, solely for his good. James detested sweetness.
“No sugar, please, mother,” he said, as she dived into the sugar-basin.
“Nonsense, Jamie,” answered Mrs. Parsons, with her good-humoured, indulgent smile. “Sugar’s good for you.” And she put in two big lumps.
“You don’t ask after Mary,” said Colonel Parsons.
“How is she?” said James. “Where is she?”
“If you wait a little she’ll be here.”
Then Mrs. Parsons broke in.
“I don’t know what we should have done without her; she’s been so good and kind to us, and such a comfort. We’re simply devoted to her, aren’t we, Richmond?”
“She’s the nicest girl I’ve ever seen.”
“And she’s so good. She works among the poor like a professional nurse. We told you that she lived with us for six months while Colonel and Mrs. Clibborn went abroad. She was never put out at anything, but was always smiling and cheerful. She has the sweetest character.”
The good people thought they were delighting their son by these eulogies. He looked at them gravely.
“I’m glad you like her,” he said.
Supper was finished, and Mrs. Parsons went out of the room for a moment. James took out his case and offered a cigar to his father.
“I don’t smoke, Jamie,” replied the Colonel.
James lit up. The old man looked at him with a start, but said nothing; he withdrew his chair a little and tried to look unconcerned. When Mrs. Parsons returned, the room was full of smoke; she gave a cry of surprise.
“James!” she said, in a tone of reproach. “Your father objects to smoking.”
“It doesn’t matter just this once,” said the Colonel, good-humouredly.
But James threw his cigar into the fire, with a laugh.
“I quite forgot; I’m so sorry.”
“You never told us you’d started smoking,” observed Mrs. Parsons, almost with disapprobation, “Would you like the windows open to let the smell out, Richmond?”
There was a ring at the door, and Mary’s voice was heard.
“Has Captain Parsons arrived?”
“There she is, Jamie!” said the Colonel, “Rush out to her, my boy!”
But James contented himself with rising to his feet; he turned quite pale, and a singular expression came over his grave face.
Mary entered.
“I ran round as soon as I got your note,” she said. “Well, Jamie!”
She stopped, smiling, and a blush brightened her healthy cheeks. Her eyes glistened with happiness, and for a moment, strong as she was, Mary thought she must burst into tears.
“Aren’t you going to kiss her, Jamie?” said the father. “You needn’t be bashful before us.”
James went up to her, and taking her hands, kissed the cheek she offered.
The impression that Mary Clibborn gave was of absolute healthiness, moral and physical. Her appearance was not distinguished, but she was well set up, with strong hands and solid feet; you knew at once that a ten-mile walk invigorated rather than tired her; her arms were muscular and energetic. She was in no way striking; a typical, country-bred girl, with a fine digestion and an excellent conscience; if not very pretty, obviously good. Her face showed a happy mingling of strength and cheerfulness; her blue eyes were guileless and frank; her hair even was rather pretty, arranged in the simplest manner; her skin was tanned by wind and weather. The elements were friendly, and she enjoyed a long walk in a gale, with the rain beating against her cheeks. She was dressed simply and without adornment, as befitted her character.
“I am sorry I wasn’t at home when you arrived, Jamie,” she said; “but the Polsons asked me to go and play golf at Tunbridge Wells. I went round in bogy, Colonel Parsons.”
“Did you, my dear? That’s very good.”
The Colonel and his wife looked at her with affectionate satisfaction.
“I’m going to take off my hat.”
She gave James to put in the hall her sailor hat and her rough tweed cloak. She wore a bicycling skirt and heavy, square-toed boots.
“Say you’re glad to see us, Jamie!” she cried, laughing.
Her voice was rather loud, clear and strong, perhaps wanting variety of inflection. She sat by Jamie’s side, and broke into a cheerful, rather humorous, account of the day’s excursion.
“How silent you are, Jamie!” she cried at last.
“You haven’t given me a chance to get a word in yet,” he said, smiling gravely.
They all laughed, ready to be pleased at the smallest joke, and banter was the only form of humour they knew.
“Are you tired?” asked Mary, her cheerful eyes softening.
“A little.”
“Well, I won’t worry you to-night; but to-morrow you must be put through your paces.”
“Mary will stand no nonsense,” said the Colonel, laughing gently. “We all have to do as she tells us. She’ll turn you round her little finger.”
“Will she?” said James, glancing down at the solid boots, which the short bicycle skirt rather obtrusively exposed to view.
“Don’t frighten him the moment he comes home,” cried Mary. “As a matter of fact, I shan’t be able to come to-morrow morning; I’ve got my district-visiting to do, and I don’t
think Jamie is strong enough to go with me yet. Does your wound hurt you still, Jamie?”
“No,” he said, “I can’t use my arm much, though. It’ll be all right soon.”
“You must tell us about the great event to-morrow,” said Mary, referring to the deed which had won him the decoration. “You’ve put us all out by coming sooner than you were expected.”
“Have I? I’m sorry.”
“Didn’t you notice anything when you drove in this evening?”
“No, it was quite dark.”
“Good heavens! Why, we’ve put up a triumphal arch, and there was going to be a great celebration. All the school children were coming to welcome you.”
“I’m very glad I missed it,” said James, laughing. “I should have hated it.”
“Oh, I don’t know that you have missed it yet. We must see.”
Then Mary rose to go.
“Well, at all events, we’re all coming to dinner to-morrow at one.”
They went to the door to let her out, and the elder couple smiled again with pleasure when James and Mary exchanged a brotherly and sisterly kiss.
At last James found himself alone in his room; he gave a sigh of relief — a sigh which was almost a groan of pain. He took out his pipe unconsciously and filled it; but then, remembering where he was, put it down. He knew his father’s sensitiveness of smell. If he began to smoke there would quickly be a knock at the door, and the inquiry: “There’s such a smell of burning in the house; there’s nothing on fire in your room, is there, Jamie?”
He began to walk up and down, and then in exhaustion sank on a chair. He opened the window and looked into the night. He could see nothing. The sky was dark with unmoving clouds, but the fresh air blew gratefully against his face, laden with the scent of the vernal country; a light rain was falling noiselessly, and the earth seemed languid and weary, accepting the moisture with little shuddering gasps of relief.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 35