“Why?” asked James. “He was partly right. Physical courage is more or less accidental. In battle one takes one’s chance. One soon gets used to shells flying about; they’re not so dangerous as they look, and after a while one forgets all about them. Now and then one gets hit, and then it’s too late to be nervous.”
“But you went back — into the very jaws of death — to save that boy.”
“I’ve never been able to understand why. It didn’t occur to me that I might get killed; it seemed the natural thing to do. It wasn’t really brave, because I never realised that there was danger.”
In the afternoon James received a note from Mrs. Clibborn, asking him to call upon her. Mary and her father were out walking, she said, so there would be no one to disturb them, and they could have a pleasant little chat. The invitation was a climax to Jamie’s many vexations, and he laughed grimly at the prospect of that very foolish lady’s indignation. Still, he felt bound to go. It was, after a fashion, a point of honour with him to avoid none of the annoyances which his act had brought upon him. It was partly in order to face every infliction that he insisted on remaining at Little Primpton.
“Why haven’t you been to see me, James?” Mrs. Clibborn murmured, with a surprisingly tender smile.
“I thought you wouldn’t wish me to.”
“James!”
She sighed and cast up her eyes to heaven.
“I always liked you. I shall never feel differently towards you.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so,” replied James, somewhat relieved.
“You must come and see me often. It’ll comfort you.”
“I’m afraid you and Colonel Clibborn must be very angry with me?”
“I could never be angry with you, James.... Poor Reginald, he doesn’t understand! But you can’t deceive a woman.” Mrs. Clibborn put her hand on Jamie’s arm and gazed into his eyes. “I want you to tell me something. Do you love anyone else?”
James looked at her quickly and hesitated.
“If you had asked me the other day, I should have denied it with all my might. But now — I don’t know.”
Mrs. Clibborn smiled.
“I thought so,” she said. “You can tell me, you know.”
She was convinced that James adored her, but wanted to hear him say so. It is notorious that to a handsome woman even the admiration of a crossing-sweeper is welcome.
“Oh, it’s no good any longer trying to conceal it from myself!” cried James, forgetting almost to whom he was speaking. “I’m sorry about Mary; no one knows how much. But I do love someone else, and I love her with all my heart and soul; and I shall never get over it now.”
“I knew it,” sighed Mrs. Clibborn, complacently, “I knew it!” Then looking coyly at him: “Tell me about her.”
“I can’t. I know my love is idiotic and impossible; but I can’t help it. It’s fate.”
“You’re in love with a married woman, James.”
“How d’you know?”
“My poor boy, d’you think you can deceive me! And is it not the wife of an officer?”
“Yes.”
“A very old friend of yours?”
“It’s just that which makes it so terrible.”
“I knew it.”
“Oh, Mrs. Clibborn, I swear you’re the only woman here who’s got two ounces of gumption. If they’d only listened to you five years ago, we might all have been saved this awful wretchedness.”
He could not understand that Mrs. Clibborn, whose affectations were manifest, whose folly was notorious, should alone have guessed his secret. He was tired of perpetually concealing his thoughts.
“I wish I could tell you everything!” he cried.
“Don’t! You’d only regret it. And I know all you can tell me.”
“You can’t think how hard I’ve struggled. When I found I loved her, I nearly killed myself trying to kill my love. But it’s no good. It’s stronger than I am.”
“And nothing can ever come of it, you know,” said Mrs. Clibborn.
“Oh, I know! Of course, I know! I’m not a cad. The only thing is to live on and suffer.”
“I’m so sorry for you.”
Mrs. Clibborn thought that even poor Algy Turner, who had killed himself for love of her, had not been so desperately hit.
“It’s very kind of you to listen to me,” said James. “I have nobody to speak to, and sometimes I feel I shall go mad.”
“You’re such a nice boy, James. What a pity it is you didn’t go into the cavalry!”
James scarcely heard; he stared at the floor, brooding sorrowfully.
“Fate is against me,” he muttered.
“If things had only happened a little differently. Poor Reggie!”
Mrs. Clibborn was thinking that if she were a widow, she could never have resisted the unhappy young man’s pleading.
James got up to go.
“It’s no good,” he said; “talking makes it no better. I must go on trying to crush it. And the worst of it is, I don’t want to crush it; I love my love. Though it embitters my whole life, I would rather die than lose it. Good-bye, Mrs. Clibborn. Thank you for being so kind. You can’t imagine what good it does me to receive a little sympathy.”
“I know. You’re not the first who has told me that he is miserable. I think it’s fate, too.”
James looked at her, perplexed, not understanding what she meant. With her sharp, feminine intuition, Mrs. Clibborn read in his eyes the hopeless yearning of his heart, and for a moment her rigid virtue faltered.
“I can’t be hard on you, Jamie,” she said, with that effective, sad smile of hers. “I don’t want you to go away from here quite wretched.”
“What can you do to ease the bitter aching of my heart?”
Mrs. Clibborn, quickly looking at the window, noticed that she could not possibly be seen by anyone outside. She stretched out her hand.
“Jamie, if you like you may kiss me.”
She offered her powdered cheek, and James, rather astonished, pressed it with his lips.
“I will always be a mother to you. You can depend on me whatever happens.... Now go away, there’s a good boy.”
She watched him as he walked down the garden, and then sighed deeply, wiping away a tear from the corner of her eyes.
“Poor boy!” she murmured.
Mary was surprised, when she came home, to find her mother quite affectionate and tender. Mrs. Clibborn, indeed, intoxicated with her triumph, could afford to be gracious to a fallen rival.
XV
A Few days later Mary was surprised to receive a little note from Mr. Dryland:
“My Dear Miss Clibborn, — With some trepidation I take up my pen to address you on a matter which, to me at least, is of the very greatest importance. We have so many sympathies in common that my meaning will hardly escape you. I daresay you will find my diffidence ridiculous, but, under the circumstances, I think it is not unpardonable. It will be no news to you when I confess that I am an exceptionally shy man, and that must be my excuse in sending you this letter. In short, I wish to ask you to grant me a brief interview; we have so few opportunities of seeing one another in private that I can find no occasion of saying to you what I wish. Indeed, for a long period my duty has made it necessary for me to crush my inclination. Now, however, that things have taken a different turn, I venture, as I said, to ask you to give me a few minutes’ conversation. — I am, my dear Miss Clibborn, your very sincere,
Thomas Dryland.
“P.S. — I open this letter to say that I have just met your father on the Green, who tells me that he and Mrs. Clibborn are going into Tunbridge Wells this afternoon. Unless, therefore, I hear from you to the contrary, I shall (D.V.) present myself at your house at 3 p.m.”
“What can he want to see me about?” exclaimed Mary, the truth occurring to her only to be chased away as a piece of egregious vanity. It was more reasonable to suppose that Mr. Dryland had on hand some charitable scheme i
n which he desired her to take part.
“Anyhow,” she thought philosophically, “I suppose I shall know when he comes.”
At one and the same moment the church clock struck three, and Mr. Dryland rang the Clibborns’ bell.
He came into the dining-room in his best coat, his honest red face shining with soap, and with a consciousness that he was about to perform an heroic deed.
“This is kind of you, Miss Clibborn! Do you know, I feared the servant was going to say you were ‘not at home.’”
“Oh, I never let her say that when I’m in. Mamma doesn’t think it wrong, but one can’t deny that it’s an untruth.”
“What a beautiful character you have!” cried the curate, with enthusiasm.
“I’m afraid I haven’t really; but I like to be truthful.”
“Were you surprised to receive my letter?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t understand it.”
“I was under the impression that I expressed myself with considerable perspicacity,” remarked the curate, with a genial smile.
“I don’t pretend to be clever.”
“Oh, but you are, Miss Clibborn. There’s no denying it.”
“I wish I thought so.”
“You’re so modest. I have always thought that your mental powers were very considerable indeed. I can assure you it has been a great blessing to me to find someone here who was capable of taking an intelligent interest in Art and Literature. In these little country places one misses intellectual society so much.”
“I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve learnt a lot from you, Mr. Dryland.”
“No, that is impossible. All I lay claim to is that I was fortunate enough to be able to lend you the works of Ruskin and Marie Corelli.”
“That reminds me that I must return you the ‘Master Christian.’”
“Please don’t hurry over it. I think it’s a book worth pondering over; quite unlike the average trashy novel.”
“I haven’t had much time for reading lately.”
“Ah, Miss Clibborn, I understand! I’m afraid you’ve been very much upset. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was; but I felt it would be perhaps indelicate.”
“It is very kind of you to think of me.”
“Besides, I must confess that I cannot bring myself to be very sorry. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, Mr. Dryland.”
“Miss Clibborn, I have come here to-day to converse with you on a matter which I venture to think of some importance. At least, it is to me. I will not beat about the bush. In these matters it is always best, I believe, to come straight to the point.” The curate cleared his throat, and assumed his best clerical manner. “Miss Clibborn, I have the honour to solemnly ask you for your hand.”
“Oh!”
Mary blushed scarlet, and her heart went pit-a-pat in the most alarming fashion.
“I think I should tell you that I am thirty-three years of age. I have some private means, small, but sufficient, with my income and economy, to support a wife. My father was for over a quarter of a century vicar of Easterham.”
Mary by this time had recovered herself.
“I feel very much honoured by your proposal, Mr. Dryland. And no one can be more convinced than I of my unworthiness. But I’m afraid I must refuse.”
“I don’t press for an immediate answer, Miss Clibborn. I know at first blush it must surprise you that I should come forward with an offer so soon after the rupture of your engagement with Captain Parsons. But if you examine the matter closely, you will see that it is less surprising than it seems. While you were engaged to Captain Parsons it was my duty to stifle my feelings; but now I cannot. Indeed, I have not the right to conceal from you that for a long time they have been of the tenderest description.”
“I feel very much flattered.”
“Not at all,” reassuringly answered Mr. Dryland. “I can honestly say that you are deserving of the very highest — er — admiration and esteem. Miss Clibborn, I have loved you in secret almost ever since I came to the parish. The moment I saw you I felt an affinity between us. Our tastes are so similar; we both understand Art and Literature. When you played to me the divine melodies of Mendelssohn, when I read to you the melodious verses of Lord Tennyson, I felt that my happiness in life would be a union with you.”
“I’m afraid I can never be unfaithful to my old love.”
“Perhaps I’m a little previous?”
“No; time can make no possible difference. I’m very grateful to you.”
“You have no need to be. I have always tried to do my duty, and while you were engaged to another, I allowed not even a sigh to escape my lips. But now I venture to think that the circumstances are altered. I know I am not a gallant officer, I have done no doughty deeds, and the Victoria Cross does not adorn my bosom. I am comparatively poor; but I can offer an honest heart and a very sincere and respectful love. Oh, Miss Clibborn, cannot you give me hope that as time wears on you will be able to look upon my suit with favour?”
“I’m afraid my answer must be final.”
“I hope to be soon appointed to a living, and I looked forward ardently to the life of usefulness and of Christian fellowship which we might have lived together. You are an angel of mercy, Miss Clibborn. I cannot help thinking that you are eminently suitable for the position which I make so bold as to offer you.”
“I won’t deny that nothing could attract me more than to be the wife of a clergyman. One has such influence for good, such power of improving one’s fellow-men. But I love Captain Parsons. Even if he has ceased to care for me, I could never look upon him with other feelings.”
“Even though it touches me to the quick, Miss. Clibborn,” said the curate, earnestly, “I respect and admire you for your sentiments. You are wonderful. I wonder if you’d allow me to make a little confession?” The curate hesitated and reddened. “The fact is, I have written a few verses comparing you to Penelope, which, if you will allow me, I should very much like to send you.”
“I should like to see them very much,” said Mary, blushing a little and smiling.
“Of course, I’m not a poet, I’m too busy for that; but they are the outpouring of an honest, loving heart.”
“I’m sure,” said Mary, encouragingly, “that it’s better to be sincere and upright than to be the greatest poet in the world.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so. I should like to ask one question, Miss Clibborn. Have you any objection to me personally?”
“Oh, no!” cried Mary. “How can you suggest such a thing? I have the highest respect and esteem for you, Mr. Dryland. I can never forget the great compliment you have paid me. I shall always think of you as the best friend I have.”
“Can you say nothing more to me than that?” asked the curate, despondently.
Mary stretched out her hand. “I will be a sister to you.”
“Oh, Miss Clibborn, how sad it is to think that your affections should be unrequited. Why am I not Captain Parsons? Miss Clibborn, can you give me no hope?”
“I should not be acting rightly towards you if I did not tell you at once that so long as Captain Parsons lives, my love for him can never alter.”
“I wish I were a soldier!” murmured Mr. Dryland.
“Oh, it’s not that. I think there’s nothing so noble as a clergyman. If it is any consolation to you, I may confess that if I had never known Captain Parsons, things might have gone differently.”
“Well, I suppose I had better go away now. I must try to bear my disappointment.”
Mary gave him her hand, and, bending down with the utmost gallantry, the curate kissed it; then, taking up his low, clerical hat, hurriedly left her.
Mrs. Jackson was a woman of singular penetration, so that it was not strange if she quickly discovered what had happened. Mr. Dryland was taking tea at the Vicarage, whither, with characteristic manliness, he had gone to face his disappointment. Not for
him was the solitary moping, nor the privacy of a bedchamber; his robust courage sent him rather into the field of battle, or what was under the circumstances the only equivalent, Mrs. Jackson’s drawing-room.
But even he could not conceal the torments of unsuccessful love. He stirred his tea moodily, and his usual appetite for plum-cake had quite deserted him.
“What’s the matter with you, Mr. Dryland?” asked the Vicar’s wife, with those sharp eyes which could see into the best hidden family secret.
Mr. Dryland started at the question. “Nothing!”
“You’re very funny this afternoon.”
“I’ve had a great disappointment.”
“Oh!” replied Mrs. Jackson, in a tone which half-a-dozen marks of interrogation could inadequately express.
“It’s nothing. Life is not all beer and skittles. Ha! ha!”
“Did you say you’d been calling on Mary Clibborn this afternoon?”
Mr. Dryland blushed, and to cover his confusion filled his mouth with a large piece of cake.
“Yes,” he said, as soon as he could. “I paid her a little call.”
“Mr. Dryland, you can’t deceive me. You’ve proposed to Mary Clibborn.”
He swallowed his food with a gulp. “It’s quite true.”
“And she’s refused you?”
“Yes!”
“Mr. Dryland, it was a noble thing to do. I must tell Archibald.”
“Oh, please don’t, Mrs. Jackson! I don’t want it to get about.”
“Oh, but I shall. We can’t let you hide your light under a bushel. Fancy you proposing to that poor, dear girl! But it’s just what I should have expected of you. That’s what I always say. The clergy are constantly doing the most beautiful actions that no one hears anything about. You ought to receive a moral Victoria Cross. I’m sure you deserve it far more than that wicked and misguided young man.”
“I don’t think I ought to take any credit for what I’ve done,” modestly remonstrated the curate.
“It was a beautiful action. You don’t know how much it means to that poor, jilted girl.”
“It’s true my indignation was aroused at the heartless conduct of Captain Parsons; but I have long loved her, Mrs. Jackson.”
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 48