Chapter II

I THINK Jack must have gone perfectly mad," said Mary, almost hysterically, to her friend Lady Sarah.

"Tell me all over again, clearly and distinctly," said the girl.

The two were sitting together in the morning-room on the evening of the third day. It had just gone six; and Lady Sarah had been contemplating a move homewards to her house a mile beyond the village. But after a long silence, broken only by obvious attempts to be conversational, Mary had suddenly burst out into such a torrent of incoherent information that a departure was impossible. (Jack, by the way, was doing excellently: that fact had emerged at an earlier point. He was even in his dressing-gown upstairs before a small fire, as the evening was chilly.)

Mary sat down again abruptly on the low, wide window-seat, snatched a blind-tassel, and staring desolately out over the box-lined beds in front to where the upper lawns rose to the fringe of the park, began her story.

" Well, the first kind of things I didn't mind. I mean things like asking Father Banting to come and live here. I think it's a bore, but — but there it is. Some Catholics do do it, and it's Jack's house after all. Besides, he'll be safely tucked away in the chapel-wing, anyhow. And I didn't much mind that— that ridiculous notice that was given out in church. (My dear! It was awful. You could have heard the tenants shiver. I thought I couldn't ever look Parkinson in the face again.) But I suppose he can do all that if he wants. But it's the other thing — the thing he asked me this morning — that's finished me."

" Tell me again," said Lady Sarah patiently. (She was thinking that husbands had their disadvantages after all.)

"Well, it was this. (Don't laugh, please.) Jack has been hunting up things in books. I never knew him do that before, by the way, except in Badminton, and so on. But he has. And he's discovered that the highest life in the world is to be a monk. And he wants to be one. And "

" And what about "

"Yes, just so. Well, it appears that I've got to be a nun. (No, really, don't laugh.) But that's his cheerful idea. It seems that he can't be one unless I'm the other. So he wants to sell this house, or give it away to some Order; and just go off — he to one monastery and I to another. And there we're

" But I've never heard such "

" I know. Nor have I. But he's quite serious, and — and not a bit melancholy or that. On the contrary, he's quite cheerful, and couldn't imagine why I bounced out of the room. And how in the world I'm to face him again! "

Mary broke off desperately, tossed the blind-tassel away, and sat regarding her friend.

"Oh, Sarah! don't look like that! It's I who ought to have the hysterics."

"But, my dear!"

" Yes, indeed. And the worst of it is that he's perfectly right in the head. At least the doctor says so; and — and" (she fumbled in her pocket a moment) "here's Sir James's letter. It came yesterday." (She tossed it over to her friend.) " Just read that. You see what he says."

There was silence for a minute while Lady Sarah, her face a picture of consternation, turned the page. Then she laid down the paper. It is to be doubted whether she understood one word of what she read. (Hers was a mind which could contemplate only one fact at a time: she had no power of correlation.)

" And what are you going to say? " she asked.

" Say! What is there to say except No, No, No? I'd — I'd sooner die. If I wanted to be a nun, I wouldn't have married Jack — naturally. But that doesn't seem to have occurred to him."

" But what's put it into his head? "

" Why, all that I told you about. That nonsense about dying. Of course he didn't die. Why, he's alive. But he's got it into his head that the Catholic religion is — well — is true in a kind of way he hadn't guessed. He's — he's frightfully in earnest. It's awful."

" And he isn't depressed? "

" Not a scrap. He seems quite reasonable in anything else. Of course Jack and I have always been Catholics and all that; we've ' got the Faith,' as we say: I mean, we couldn't possibly be anything else; and we'd always go to our duties, and the Last Sacraments, and all that. But — but this sort of thing! Oh! I'm certain religion wasn't meant to upset people like this! " she ended passionately.

Lady Sarah meditated. She entirely agreed with the latter remark; and religion had certainly never upset her for even one passing instant. In fact her rector would have agreed with her that it would be a most improper thing for it to do. But you never quite knew where you were with Catholics, she reflected. She had known more than one case However, that was neither here nor there.

It was her duty to say something to poor Mary.

" I don't see what else you can do," she said rather feebly at last. "You must just tell Jack how the matter lies; and that you can't possibly be a nun. And that'll be the end of it. How fortunate "

" Yes, indeed, there's some sense in theology after all. And at any rate he can't do it if I won't. And I won't. So he can't."

Mary got up. She felt rather better after formulating her conclusions. She came a step or two nearer and threw herself down on the sofa.

Certainly, reflected Lady Sarah after all, there were some sensible Catholics. She looked at Mary, at that small, very determined face, her low eyebrows and her set lips. She looked perfectly charming, thought the girl; entirely fitted for her position, and entirely unfitted for any other. What a pity there were no children! That would have settled things.

" Well, there's not much to say. I expect it'll pass off in a week or two," she said. " And the other things "

" Oh, the other things don't matter. I can stand them."

« Well, then "

" Yes; I know. But it's such a relief just to have said out loud, * I won't, I won't, I won't.' And when I say that I mean it. Oh, by the way, he's given a thousand pounds to Father Banting. The poor man was dreadfully upset. He came and asked whether he should cash it."

"And did he?"

"Well, he's put it into the bank, with a note he made me sign about my approving of it provisionally. (That's just like a priest!) I'm afraid we have been rather brutes to him. Oh! I don't grudge that. Jack's frightfully rich, you know."

Lady Sarah sniffed slightly. It appeared to her a cruel waste of money. Such a lot might have been done with it. However, that wasn't her affair.

She stood up.

" My dear, I must be going. Come with me to the front door."

" Then you think I'm right? " asked Mary defiantly.

" Right r Why I should think so! What else did you expect me to say? "

"Yes, I suppose so. At any rate, I haven't got the faintest vocation. And Father Banting "

11 Oh, my dear, I don't understand about all that. You're absolutely, perfectly right. That's the end of it."

Mary got up.

" Oh, Sarah! what a comfort you are! I wish you were my confessor. Yes; I'll come to the front door.''

As they passed together through the hall, Mary noticed a door left ajar, and remembering what room it was, went a step out of her way to shut it. She didn't want the smoking-room to be disturbed until Jack came to disturb it again himself. So she peeped in (as one does), and recoiled with an exclamation.

" What's the matter? " asked the girl.

But Mary paid no attention. She vanished straight through the door; and as Lady Sarah hurried in after her she was confronted by Jack himself, in a dressing-gown, cheerfully seated by a very large wood fire, and Mary staring at him.

"Yes, I know," the young man was saying with apologetic geniality; "it's strictly forbidden. But

I had to come down Good evening, Lady Sarah.

You must forgive this."

"Jack," cried Mary suddenly, "what are you burning?"

" That? Oh, that's nothing. I found a little job waiting for me. That's all."

" But— but "

Mary darted to the fire and dragged out from among the logs a large piece of smouldering wood. She held it in a kind of dumb consternation, by a curiously finished sort of handle.

" Don't. You'll be all over sparks," said Jack.

"But— but it's your bat. The— the South African "

" I know. I thought it had better go in here, once and for all. I meant to do it some time, anyhow."

Mary stared at him, white-faced, still holding the smoking wood.

" My dear girl; don't be so dramatic! Here; give it me."

Jack took it from her, and thrust it down again into the heart of the fire, with an odd sort of smile.

" But — but " began Mary.

" Oh, don't let me have to explain. I should have thought you'd have known. I say, Lady Sarah, do sit down, won't you? if you don't mind "

"But, Jack " cried his wife again, as the girl sat down deliberately.

Then the young man's face changed a little. It is impossible to describe that change as the two saw it, but it had a curiously sobering effect upon them both. For the first time in her life to the elder girl it appeared that Mr. Jack Weston was not simply a jolly schoolboy. But as to exactly what he was at this moment she could not judge. His lips closed and his brows came down, and a new spirit looked out from his eyes for one instant.

" My dear," he said quietly to his wife, " I thought you understood. You didn't really think I was going to go on with — with all this sort of footle? "

Mary looked at him for one moment longer. Then she suddenly burst into tears.

Mary got up next morning feeling just a little ashamed of herself. Yet she could not have said why. Every particle of reason that was in the situation at all lay on her side, and all the fanaticism on Jack's. " Fanaticism " — that was the word she wanted. It was kind, yet firm, like the pedagogues of childhood: it was charitable, yet just. Neither did it even hint at actual brain-trouble; and it was loyal therefore to medical advice.

She looked in at Jack before going down to breakfast, exchanged a few pleasingly irrelevant remarks, and was just going out of the room, when he uttered one sentence that spoiled for her the next two hours.

" I say; I wish you'd just look in about eleven. I want to talk about something."

She spent those two hours deliberately screwing up her will, wandering vaguely with a newspaper and a pair of garden scissors up through the terraces that led to the upper lawns. And here she sat down on a white bench.

It was this part of the garden that was her particular joy; and it was looking simply heavenly this morning.

From where she sat there spread before her a great stretch of perfectly level velvet lawn, spread, so to speak, exactly on the top of the rounded hill behind the house, forming a large semicircle surrounded throughout its curve by a yew hedge. In this hedge were cut windows, commanding immensely long vistas of woodland, radiating out like the spokes of a wheel, showing the green gloom of trees and undergrowth for at least a quarter of a mile ahead. Immediately behind the hedge rose giant elms and beeches, shadowing, when the sun stood at noon, and through most of the afternoon, the whole lawn on which she looked. This was, so to speak, the sacred place of the gardens. It was the place where those who wished to be more or less alone retired: flaming beds, and fountains, and terraced walks, and so forth, were necessary for visitors, and these were profusely supplied down below. Down below, too, were croquet hoops, and bowls, and the rest, with their proper lawns. But here was peace. One could walk right up to the yew-windows, and, leaning there, be, so far as sight was concerned, in the heart of the woodland. Rabbits, even at midday, would sit up in the rides beyond and regard, with doubtful ears, the face looking at them — yet without panic.

It was, then, with this part in particular that Mary had fallen in love when Jack had first taken her over her new home. It seemed to her still a sort of solemn, yet friendly sanctuary, that made no demands on piety: she disliked, so far as it was proper to do so, with her whole heart the Georgian interior of the house-chapel, with St. Peter and St. Paul, giant figures of plaster, regarding the worshipper from either side of the mahogany altar. This lawn was the place where she felt good.

It soothed her even this morning a little. She stared out at lawn and yews and elms, with a faint sense that they sympathised. Surely it was trying to be met by such an atmosphere as that which awaited her in the house! One thing only was certain: she must be perfectly resolute; she must give in, even genially, to minor discomforts, such as the perpetual presence of a priest, and impulsive gifts to him of heavy cheques — even to the burning of cricket-bats. But she must act as if she were entirely selfish in all matters directly connected with herself: she mustn't be swayed by Jack's moods. Of course all would come right in a few months at the latest; and a little resolution on her part would make that return more easy. Monk and nun, indeed! She smiled a little disconsolately.

This, then, was her programme. She must judge swiftly, by intuition, whether or not any new bombshell ignited by Jack would be likely to wreck her own comfort; if so, it must be firmly and kindly quenched. If it was only his own happiness in danger, she must acquiesce instantly.... She wondered what it was that he wished to say to her at eleven o'clock. Surely it was not the cricket-business. She had made her peace in that matter, more or less, after Sarah's departure. Yes, she had treated him like an invalid. An " invalid " — that was another useful word — almost as good as fanatic. Even his mind seemed to be like an invalid. He wasn't himself. He wasn't real.

She was interrupted by a sudden vision of Parkin-son with a salver, appearing abruptly round the corner of the bushes that shielded her seat fro.Ti the house.

" Please, 'm, master says, would you kindly answer this? Master says he can't go himself."

She took up the note, wondering.

It was directed to Jack; it was an invitation to either or both of them, written by a friend of Jack's, asking them to dine and sleep a fortnight hence in a house the other side of the county.

She hesitated.

" Is there any hurry? "

" Chauffeur's waiting, 'm."

She waited an instant longer, foreseeing, yet dreading to foresee, the reason of Jack's refusal. It was the kind of thing he usually jumped at. He was particularly sociable.

" I can't answer now," she said deliberately. " Tell the man I'll write."

So this was the kind of thing she had to expect now — for months to come, at any rate; until Jack's — Jack's fanaticism had worn out. Oh, it was intolerable!

Then she fell once more to considering the whole business: the illness; the apparent death; the recovery. And yet she saw no light. The thing was a dream — just a very vivid dream, of the kind that haunts one sometimes for a few hours. Only in this case it had been more vivid than usual; and was acting upon a state particularly ill-fitted to resist its suggestion. That was the whole thing. It was utterly and hopelessly impossible that what Jack had described had been really experienced. People did not die and come back again. If they died, they did not come back. Therefore there was no means of knowing — knowing for certain — that religion was — well, of course it was true; all Catholics knew that; but true in the kind of way that Jack thought it. Why, if religion was " true " like that, if it was possible to verify by actual experience the realities of faith, life would become impossible. No one could ever think of anything else. The whole world would go about in silence; everything would stop; nobody would marry anybody; nobody would dream of doing wrong ever; money and motors and horses — well — all these would be valueless; everybody would become a saint

Then she broke off her meditations. But she could see a little better what Jack meant. Poor Jack — an "invalid" — a "fanatic"; just for a month or two. Then he'd become reasonable again, and buy another bat or two; and everybody would live happily for ever after.

Well, well: that was eleven striking. She must be getting back. " Resolute "; that was the word; she must be resolute and reasonable. She must just have common sense enough for two.

in

The doctor met her in the hall.

"Well? "she said.

"An extraordinary recovery, Mrs. Weston. I've given him leave to come down to lunch. It'll do him good. But please see that he eats well; he'll want all the strength he can get. I'll write to Sir James Martin. He's very deeply interested."

She said a word or two, and turned upstairs.

" Well, Jack," she said. " Here I am."

He was sitting in a deep chair by the fire-place, looking very nearly himself again. A little table stood beside him, deep in books, and three or four torn-open letters lay on the top. He nodded at her pleasantly, laying aside the book in his hands; and she sat down opposite on the couch that stood with its back to the window. The summer light fell full on his face.

" I saw the doctor just now," she said. " He gives an excellent account."

He said nothing for an instant. Then he turned to her full.

" Mary." he said, " I want to ask you a question. Will you promise to answer it truthfully?"

"Why, yes; if I know the answer," she smiled. (But she felt a little tremulous for all that)

" Well, then— do you think I'm mad? "

For a moment she was taken aback.

" Mad! " she said. " Why "

" Yes; but do you? "

"Jack, of course I don't. I swear I don't. I think you're a little shaken by your illness, you know. People often are. I don't think you're quite reasonable always. But "

" I see," he said. " Then that thing I asked you yesterday. Have you thought about it?" (Here was a fine opportunity to show resolution and naturalness.)

" Yes, my dear boy; of course I have. But only because you asked me. And I feel exactly the same, and I always shall."

" You're quite sure? "

" Absolutely. Why I haven't the faintest sign of a vocation. Jack dear, do you think I'd have married you if I had? You don't really wish "

"That's final?"

Mary grew a little sore at his perfectly confident tone.

" Jack dear, I don't want to be beastly; but — but don't you think you had better consider my point of view just a little? I am your wife, you know. And "

"But, my darling, what are you complaining of? I just made a suggestion. You don't like it? Very well. That's the end of it."

Mary sat silent. She had not expected such a swift capitulation. Plainly she was on the right road as regards treatment, however.

" Then I must just consider the next best thing to do," continued Jack tranquilly. " I perfectly recognise your rights as my wife. I've had a good talk to Father Banting about that. So we won't ever speak of that any more, unless you open the subject. That's all right, isn't it? "

" Er — yes," said Mary.

" Well, then; the next best thing. That's my point now. Do you like this place very much? "

"Why— I don't understand."

" Of course, if you're quite clear you want to go on living here, well, I suppose we must. But has it ever occurred to you that we should do better in a rather smaller house? "

Mary looked at him. This was worse than anything she had dreamed of. His persistence was horrible. Yet he looked practically himself.

" I don't understand," she said again faintly.

He smiled.

"It seems rather big for two people, doesn't it? Now I had thought perhaps we might get rid of this, and move — let's say — to one of the gamekeepers' cottages. Would you mind that very much?"

It seemed to Mary as if she were in some kind of appalling dream. Mentally she shook herself.

Then she remembered the blessed words " invalid " and " fanatic," and took courage.

" Yes, dear," she said gently. " I should mind very much indeed. I couldn't dream of it."

" You mean that? " he said quickly.

" Certainly. Dear Jack, you must remember I've got the same ideas that both you and I had a week ago. If you haven't got them, I have. And, you know, they aren't morally wrong."

He considered this with his head a little on one side.

" No," he said, " that's fair enough. I'm not going to be selfish, you know; or, at least, I'm going to try not to be."

" But "

" One instant. I want to say that I recognise entirely your rights as my wife; and, indeed, your wishes as well: so long as they don't actually interfere "... (He broke off.) " Then I understand you wish to live on here just as before — motors, horses, servants — everything — just the same?"

"Yes, please," she said quietly, though her heart almost shook her dress with its beating. Fortunately he was not looking at her. He sat, just as before, in his easy attitude, looking steadily at the fire.

Then a sudden spasm shook him.

" Mary! " he cried. " Mary darling! "

For an instant his face was changed, and an extraordinary appeal looked from his eyes.

" Don't— don't— Jack."

" My darling, I must — just one word. Oh! don't you understand? The thing's real, real. God, heaven, hell, sin."

" Jack, I shall scream."

She was up, crouching back from him as if to ward off a blow. It was appalling that Jack should be like this.

His face relaxed first into a deep disappointment; then once more it cleared into that steady, slightly unfamiliar look that it had borne since his illness.

" I'm sorry," he said; " I know it's no good. I won't do it again. Look here; let's begin again where we left off. You really mean what you said? "

She nodded, and sat down again, trembling a little.

" Very good. Then that's clear. Then we'll both remember that. If I do anything, or propose anything that really interferes with your views, you'll let me know, won't you? You mustn't let me do anything, and then complain afterwards, will you? "

The reasonableness of this pierced her like a knife. Yet she knew she must not show it. She assented quietly.

" Then you must leave me too my individual freedom— my individual freedom," he repeated; " so long as it does not interfere with yours. That's all right, isn't it?'

She assented again. (What else could she do?) But it was hard to realise that this was Jack — Jack with his charming selfishness and occasional petulance. She began to see how much more pleasant it was to be ruled than to be deferred to. Yet anything was better than the hysteria of a minute ago.

" Very well."

He reached a letter from the little pile and handed it to her.

" Just read that," he said. " It seems to me to fall just pat."

She took it nervously.

It was in French. It was an appeal from a convent near Tours. It seemed that the nuns were to be driven out. They had no money and no friends. Mr. Weston's name appeared among the Catholic gentry of England. Was it possible that he could give them any assistance?

Mary sighed internally as she laid it down again. She foresaw, as in a flash, the interminable begging letters that would come now, so soon as Jack's new mood became known.

" I see," she said; " you want to keep them? That seems all right. You'll get references, I suppose? "

He smiled a little.

" Yes; I have been thinking it over. That letter came by the first post. I thought probably you wouldn't like my other suggestions, from what you said yesterday. So I've thought out a plan."

"Yes?"

" It seems to me that that lawn on the top of the hill would be just the place for them. There's a spring there, you know. And they're enclosed nuns, you know; so they wouldn't bother you much."

" I don't understand," said Mary faintly.

" Why, surely. Up there on the top seems to me just the place. It's an extraordinarily healthy situation; and I could build a really fine convent, and endow it."

" Jack! You don't mean that, really? "

"Yes, I think so. I've had a talk to Father Banting. He thinks it most suitable. You see, we should keep all the other gardens. And there's that road through the park by which the tradesmen could come, and so on. And then the people, too. I had thought of a really fine church, with a transept for the public. Don't you think it's rather a brilliant idea? '

She sat in silence, looking at him.