Mary felt no great alarm at her father's horrid threats, for she knew him well, but still was doubtful about her mother.
'You will treat James as you did before, won't you, mamma?'
Mrs. Clibborn smiled, a portly seraph.
'My dear, I trust I am a gentlewoman.'
'He shall never darken my doors again!' cried the Colonel. 'I tell you, Clara, keep him out of my way. If I meet him I won't be responsible for my actions; I shall knock him down.'
'Reggie dear, you'll have such dreadful indigestion if you don't calm down. You know it always upsets you to get excited immediately after meals.'
'It's disgraceful! I suppose he forgets all those half-crowns I gave him when he was a boy, and the cigars, and the port wine he's had since. I opened a special bottle for him only the night before last. I'll never sit down to dinner with him again--don't ask me to, Clara.... It's the confounded impertinence of it which gets over me. But he shall marry you, my dear; or I'll know the reason why.'
'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
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
