'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 in 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.'
