Chapter VI

Percy sat alone in his room at Marston that same night, thinking, thinking.

He had got through that evening, as a man gets through a nightmare. His mother had looked at him half a dozen times during dinner; and had told him afterwards he had better go to bed early; and he had jumped at the release. He had said he felt stupid and tired, and perhaps a little feverish. No; he'd sooner not take any quinine; he didn't think it was influenza: but if he felt no better in the morning he would stop in bed for breakfast. Then he had wished good-night to everybody; gone upstairs to his room and locked his door, got out a couple of books that Father Hilary had lent him and studied them again. Then he had put the books carefully away, blown out the candles, and sat down before the fire.

The horrible thing was that, far down in his soul, he knew that there was a deep spring of relief that by and by would flood him. But he would not recognize that he knew it. He was aware, on the contrary, that he ought to be entirely overwhelmed and heart-broken; and in order to fulfil this duty he repeated to himself little sentences.

"Ah! my poor Gladys.... It's too much... it's too hard..."

He did this fitfully. There came moments when he writhed himself backwards, his face against the cushioned

Digitized by Google back of the chair, his hands twisted together — moments when his conventions told him fiercely that he ought to be miserable, and when even his emotions — his memories of Gladys this afternoon at certain instants — came to help his conventions. In one such spasm he practically believed that it was all infinitely pathetic; when, reviewing exactly what Gladys had proposed — that she should support him — he caught some glimmer of the fact that she really cared for him; when he viewed again, imaginatively, the amazing prospect she had held out to him, of a secret marriage; and then, against all this he saw himself pale but determined, clinging to his cold faith, in preference to warm love, obedient to principle rather than passion. At this point his eyes filled with real tears; and moaning softly that " God was cruel " he saw himself magnificent, pitiless and patient.

It was not altogether surprising that he had not been aware before of this little flaw in his plans. He had known nothing of Catholicism whatever, except so far as his instructions had gone; and it had been a complete and overwhelming surprise when he had first read, this afternoon, and then verified, the impossibility of his marriage with Gladys. He knew that English Church people contracted such marriages, and that the law of the State permitted them to do so — (for instance there were the Matthieson-Howleys). And he had thought vaguely that, although perhaps such a marriage would not be considered ideal by the Catholic authorities, there would be no insuperable objection: and that anyhow it could be set right afterwards, somehow.

It had been really paralysing at first. He saw simply, in the parlour in Kensington, that he could not do both — could not fulfil both his engagements; and it had not

Digitized by Google been until, settled down in a comfortable first-class carriage, he had begun to shift back again into the Marston atmosphere and prospects, he had perceived what an exceedingly graceful and, indeed, almost heroic retreat this dilemma offered him.

" The poor girl! " he had murmured, even then.

And the pose had grown on him. He stepped into the brougham at his journey's end with a world-weary air; he had stepped out of it, viewing himself as a sort of martyr; his deliberate repressed dignity at dinner had been mistaken for incipient influenza; and now, in the wavering fire-light, he gave himself up to a superb series of sentiments....

He leant forward presently, sighing; drew out his cigarettes, and, with the help of the tongs and a small coal, lit one and leaned back again, with the air of one who takes a little necessary refreshment, even though a world is shattered about him. As he did so, he remembered the need of a telegram to her next day: and sat still, suddenly.

He must be very business-like and practical, he told himself, presently. He must not consider himself at all — her, only. It was no time for indulging in regrets: he must be practical and think only of her — of her highest good, that is, of course.

At first there appeared objections to every course that presented itself. If he told her to decline the contract she would lose, so to speak, both worlds. If he told her to accept it, it would be to give her the impression that he consented to her plan. If he guarded, explicitly, against this false impression, she would decline to take his advice. In any case but one (and that was impossible),

Digitized by Google she would remain in England. And if one thing was absolutely clear to him it was that Gladys Farham must get away to America — for her sake, of course — for the sake of her highest good. Perhaps... perhaps... he said, it would help her to forget.

And then at last the fine solution suggested itself of sending her a wire telling her to go, and of following it up later, when the contract was finally signed — say in three or four days — explaining his heroic decision, and bidding her a long farewell. Of course he would not suggest seeing her; in fact he must decline to, in any case. It would be fairer, so, to the poor girl.

Then one more thought suggested itself; and it is impossible to say that the contemplation of his own heroism (with the desire that others should contemplate it too) was wholly absent from the thought. It was that he would write to Father Hilary at once, tell him the circumstances, and... and ask his prayers, of course. He would urge Gladys, too, to go and see the friar herself. That would prove, if any proof were needed, his own entire sincerity.

It cannot be denied that Percy had begun to enjoy himself considerably by now. It is not often that a young man has an opportunity of sacrificing this world to the next in so heroic and yet, simultaneously, in so comparatively painless a way. There was some pain, of course, and there were instants when this pain really hurt — instants, for example, when, both lulled and stimulated by his cigarette and the warm-lit darkness, he perceived suddenly and very nearly visually, the look on Gladys* face as she had kneeled before him in her semi-mock entreaties this afternoon, and compared with it the look he could imagine there when the facts were made plain.

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But he saw that it was his duty to put such unmanning visions away. He must be strong — strong, he told himself with emphasis. He must think of his Duty, and his Religion.... He must distract himself, in the weary days that must follow the Great Renunciation, with little country-duties, and friends — Mabel, for example.. • •

He went to the writing-table at last, with a firm and unfaltering step. •.. He would put it once and for all out of his own power to recede from his duty. He could write a telegram to Gladys, terse and unmistakable; and a letter, also terse and unshrinking, to the friar •. • Father Hilary would understand, at least....

Then he would put these outside his door for James to find at eight o'clock — in time for the postman to take them both; with a direction not to awaken him till half-past eight; and thus, when he was awakened — always supposing, of course, that he did manage to fall into a troubled sleep about the dawn — all would be over, and the die cast. (Beautiful language and phrases of this kind did, actually, pass through his mind and even his lips; for he was struggling furiously to keep on the high-water mark, and not to face himself in the depths.)

The telegram was soon written.

** Accept immediately. Writing presently.'*

He looked at it with a sorrowful resolve.... No; he would not sign his name. It was better so. She would understand.

Then there was the letter to Father Hilary.

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This was more considerable. He took a large sheet of foolscap to give himself room to turn, so to speak; and bit the top of his pen.

" My dear Father," he wrote. Then he paused.

The stable-clock was striking twelve before he read the fair copy over for the last time: and his eyes filled with tears. It was beautiful, he thought — dignified, reserved, virile, and yet through it rang the wail of a broken heart that would not yield.

Let it be understood plainly that this boy really did not know that he was deceiving himself. Truly, as he read the letter for the last time, he believed it expressed his deepest self; that he loved Gladys as he said, and that it was the demand of Faith, and no other motive, that had prevailed at last. He even believed, now, that he had passed through a terrible struggle of indecision.

The letter ran as follows: —

"My dear Father,

" I do not know whether you understood this afternoon the significance of the questions I put to you. In any case, let me tell you now that it was of myself that I spoke.

" Until this afternoon I have been engaged, secretly, to a girl who herself had hoped to become a Catholic later on — a wonderful girl. You would know her name if I mentioned it. She is well-known.

"Well; that is all over now. I am writing to tell her of the blinding shock of the discovery I have made; and that her marriage is impossible, at least so far as any good Catholic is concerned; since she has a husband living

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— a man whom she divorced a few months, I think, after marriage. •..

" Father! I cannot tell yon what this means to me. Nor can you ever know. I am a broken man. Nor can I dare to say what it will mean to her.... I shall do my utmost to urge her to go abroad immediately, for of course we must not even meet again. I understand that, Father! Do not fear for me.

"Father! I ask your prayers.... I cannot come again next week. You must give me a little time.... I will write again when I can.

" Your broken-hearted child in Xt.,

" P. B.-S.

"P.S. — Destroy this, if you please, at once. My parents know nothing of the affair."

No wonder Percy was moved. He sat again in the firelight, and his tears became broken flashing mirrors before his eyes.. •.

Then, again with a firm and unfaltering step, he put the telegram, the letter and the directions to James, all outside the door; shut the door, locked it, and flung himself on his knees before his crucifix.

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