* * *
They walked home silently, Colonel Parsons and his wife with downcast eyes, feeling that everyone was looking at them. Their hearts were too full for them to speak to one another, and they dared say nothing to James. But Major Forsyth had no scruples of delicacy; he attacked his nephew the moment they sat down to dinner.
'Well, James, what did you think of the sermon? Feel a bit sore?'
'Why should I?'
'I fancy it was addressed pretty directly to you.'
'So I imagine,' replied James, good-humouredly smiling. 'I thought it singularly impertinent, but otherwise uninteresting.'
'Mr. Jackson doesn't think much of you,' said Uncle William, with a laugh, ignoring his sister's look, which implored him to be silent.
'I can bear that with equanimity. I never set up for a very wonderful person.'
'He was wrong to make little of your attempt to save young Larcher,' said Mrs. Parsons, gently.
'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.
