but now I'm beginning to want little grandsons to rock upon my knees.'
Jamie's face grew dark.
'We should never be able to afford children.'
'But they come if one wants them or not, and I shall be able to increase your allowance a little, you know. I don't want you to go short of anything.'
James said nothing, but he thought: 'If I had children by her, I should hate them.' And then with sudden dismay, losing all the artificial indifference of the last week, he rebelled passionately against his fate. 'Oh, I hate and loathe her!'
He felt he could no longer continue the pretence he had been making--for it was all pretence. The effort to be loving and affectionate was torture, so that all his nerves seemed to vibrate with exasperation. Sometimes he had to clench his hands in order to keep himself under restraint. He was acting all the time. James asked himself what madness blinded Mary that she did not see? He remembered how easily speech had come in the old days when they were boy and girl together; they could pass hours side by side, without a thought of time, talking of little insignificant things, silent often, and always happy. But now he racked his brain for topics of conversation, and the slightest pause seemed irksome and unnatural. He was sometimes bored to death, savagely, cruelly; so that he was obliged to leave Mary for fear that he would say bitter and horrible things. Without his books he would have gone mad. She must be blind not to see. Then he thought of their married life. How long would it last? The years stretched themselves out endlessly, passing one after another in dreary monotony. Could they possibly be happy? Sooner or later Mary would learn how little he cared for her, and what agony must she suffer then! But it was inevitable. Now, whatever happened, he could not draw back; it was too late for explanations. Would love come? He felt it impossible; he felt, rather, that the physical repulsion which vainly he tried to crush would increase till he abhorred the very sight of his wife.
Passionately he cried out against Fate because he had escaped death so often. The gods played with him as a cat plays with a mouse. He had been through dangers innumerable; twice he had lain on the very threshold of eternal night, and twice he had been snatched back. Far rather would he have died the soldier's death, gallantly, than live on to this humiliation and despair. A friendly bullet could have saved him many difficulties and much unhappiness. And why had he recovered from the fever? What an irony it was that Mary should claim gratitude for doing him the greatest possible disservice!
'I can't help it,' he cried; 'I loathe her!'
The strain upon him was becoming intolerable. James felt that he could not much longer conceal the anguish which was destroying him. But what was to be done? Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
James held his head in his hands, cursing his pitiful weakness. Why did he not realise, in his convalescence, that it was but a passing emotion which endeared Mary to him? He had been so anxious to love her, so eager to give happiness to all concerned, that he had welcomed the least sign of affection; but he knew what love was, and there could be no excuse. He should have had the courage to resist his gratitude.
'Why should I sacrifice myself?' he cried. 'My life is as valuable as theirs. Why should it be always I from whom sacrifice is demanded?'
But it was no use rebelling. Mary's claims were too strong, and if he lived he must satisfy them. Yet some respite he could not do without; away from Primpton he might regain his calm. James hated London, but even that would be better than the horrible oppression, the constraint he was forced to put upon himself.
He walked up and down the garden for a few minutes to calm down, and went in to his mother. He spoke as naturally as he could.
'Father tells me that Mary's wedding-dress is nearly ready.'
'Yes; it's a little early. But it's well to be on the safe side.'
'It's just occurred to me that I can hardly be married in rags. I think I had better go up to town for a few days to get some things.'
'Must you do that?'
'I think so. And there's a lot I want to do.'
'Oh, well, I daresay Mary won't mind, if you don't stay too long. But you must take care not to tire yourself.'
XX
On his second visit to London, James was more fortunate, for immediately he got inside his club he found an old friend, a man named Barker, late adjutant of his regiment. Barker had a great deal to tell James of mutual acquaintance, and the pair dined together, going afterwards to a music-hall. James felt in better spirits than for some time past, and his good humour carried him well into the following day. In the afternoon, while he was reading a paper, Barker came up to him.
'I say, old chap,' he said, 'I quite forgot to tell you yesterday. You remember Mrs. Wallace, don't you--Pritchard, of that ilk? She's in town, and in a passion with you. She says she's written to you twice, and you've taken no notice.'
'Really? I thought nobody was in town now.'
'She is; I forget why. She told me a long story, but I didn't listen, as I knew it would be mostly fibs. She's probably up to some mischief. Let's go round to her place and have tea, shall we?'
'I hardly think I can,' replied James, reddening. 'I've got an engagement at four.'
'Rot--come on! She's just as stunning as ever. By Gad, you should have seen her in her weeds!'
'In her weeds! What the devil do you mean?'
'Didn't you know? P. W. was bowled over at the beginning of the war--after Colenso, I think.'
'By God!--I didn't know. I never saw!'
'Oh, well, I didn't know till I came home.... Let's stroll along, shall we? She's looking out for number two; but she wants money, so there's no danger for us!'
James rose mechanically, and putting on his hat, accompanied Barker, all unwitting of the thunder-blow that his words had been.... Mrs. Wallace was at home. James went upstairs, forgetting everything but that the woman he
