Chapter VI

THERE is no manner of life which so teaches control of the features as that of a butler: in comparison with it that of an actor, a religious novice, a diplomat, or a Jesuit sinks into nothingness. Persons are born or die, the house is in flames, yet a butler is impassive; it seems that his small square whiskers hold his features gripped as in an iron frame.

Mr. Parkinson was relaying the table for his master's dinner at half-past nine; the mistress had dined as usual at eight. And although he himself had been present and watched her carefully throughout, no expression of any unusual kind had crossed his face, nor the faintest novel tone found its way into his voice. Neither had he said one word to anyone on the fact that she had refused soup and fish, eaten largely of mutton, and had radiated such ecstatic and excellent content that he thought her beside herself altogether. She had talked to him a little, since nobody else was present, and had said a number of rather odd things. Finally she had told him to bring coffee into the smoking-room, and had given careful directions as to the master's dinner. Mr. Parkinson was to wait upon him, was to say that the mistress was in the garden, but would be in again at ten. She had thrown herself with such passion into detail in itself unimportant that even to Mr. Parkin-son it was evident that there was emotion about; and as to the character of that emotion her face spoke eloquently.

All he permitted himself to say in the steward's room during his hasty supper a little before nine was that the mistress seemed very pleased to have the master home again. He said this just before the telephone bell from the lodge gate announced the passing through of the motor.

The master looked very different as his coat was taken off in the hall, and his hat and stick put away.

He had been off to the other side of the county on some agricultural affair, staying with the Lennoxes, and had been absent four days. And this was the first time he had slept away from home since his illness last summer. Apparently the visit had not been a success.

He asked shortly after the mistress.

" Yes, sir, the mistress is very well. She asked me to say, sir, that she was out in the garden and would be in at ten o'clock. The mistress told me to take your coffee to the smoking-room, sir."

Jack nodded and went to wash his hands. As he washed he glanced out through the open window into the solemn jewelled dusk and wondered where exactly Mary was.

This dinner was very different. Jack sat in silence throughout; he ate of everything; he drank three glasses of claret; he said not one word good or bad. He sat, between the courses, rather hunched up} twirling a glass in his hand and staring. It was a queer contrast.

When the dessert things were put on he leaned forward, took four strawberries, which he ate rapidly, obviously thinking of something else, and got up immediately.

" Coffee in the smoking-room, eh? '

" Yes, sir, immediately."

"Is it ten o'clock yet?"

" Close upon it, sir. Shall I tell the mistress? "

11 Er— no; don't bother."

Then he was off, crossed the hall, and vanished into the smoking-room. Mr. Parkinson heard the door shut rather loudly.

Jack threw himself instantly into a chair, stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. Certainly he did not look very well; there was a sort of heaviness about his good-humoured mouth and eyes that made him appear amost sullen.

So he remained, perfectly quiet, obviously not asleep nor even sleepy, for there was a certain tension about his features: once or twice his blue eyes opened, and the perfect intelligence and even fixity in them showed that he was very intent upon something. The coffee came in presently; and as soon as the door was closed again, he helped himself quickly to two cups one after the other, and drank them in hasty gulps. Then he lay back again.

As he lay there the anxiety on his face deepened again; once or twice his lips moved as if rehearsing some sentence; once or twice he changed his position with a jerk.

After two or three minutes he got up quite deliberately, took a pipe from the rack, blew through it once or twice, and examined it. Then he hunted about on a side-table, pulled out at last a tobacco-jar, and unscrewed the lid. There was a little tobacco there, left there by some guest — perhaps Algy Lennox himself — and he began, with an oddly nervous sort of air, to cram a little of this into his pipe. Yet when it was filled he hesitated, and so stood, the pipe in his hand, looking now at it, now at nothing: once he glanced quickly and guiltily at the door as if he heard some sound. Then he put out his hand to the matches, took one from the roughed-glass globe on the chimneypiece, and hesitated again.

It was a perfectly ordinary scene, yet minute as filigree, and obviously significant of some sort of indecision that was very nearly tragic. It seemed that something of enormous import depended on whether that pipe were lighted or not. It was obvious too that it was not its mere smoking that mattered; it was the occasion and the act: there was symbolism in the air. Then suddenly, as a footstep came close outside, he thrust the pipe quickly behind a framed photograph and sat down. You would have thought that he had not moved for half an hour, so perfect was his pose as the door opened.

Mary came in swiftly, closed the door behind her, and turned.

" Jack! " she said.

Her face was alight with excitement, radiant with happiness and a strange look of expectation. She was in white from head to foot, and there were flowers in her hair. She might be a bride on her wedding-evening. Her face was pale, but her eyes shone like stars. Jack looked at her and sat up. Then he stood up.

" Here I am," he said.

She seemed to recover herself; she came forward and kissed him.

" And you've had a nice time? " she said.

" Oh, yes; all right."

She sat down abruptly on the arm of the chair he had just left; he went and stood by the mantelpiece, wondering.

It was plain that something was in the air, he told himself; and for a moment or two he lost his own sense of misery. His own became merged in a greater emotion.

" What is it? " he said shortly.

She looked at him for an instant in silence. Then she too stood up, seeming to drive down by sheer will the passion that shook within her and escaped in silence from her eyes.

" It is this," she said. " Oh, I won't waste words. I've come to tell you that I consent."

" What?— I don't understand."

Her face broke into smiles and her eyes suddenly filled.

" Oh, yes you do, old boy. You know. Don't look like that. It's perfectly true. I've come to tell you that you've been right and I've been wrong."

He clasped his hands suddenly behind him.

" I don't understand. Tell me," he said in a quick, dry voice.

" Come and sit down. Yes; I mean it. And I'll sit here. I don't want you to see my face. I'm — I'm too happy for anything. Yes; I insist."

He came forward stupidly, still but half understanding all that she meant, and sat down. She once more arranged herself on the arm of the chair, supporting herself along the back. (As she began to talk, he was staring in front of him with relaxed hands; but presently he had shifted a little, and was shading his eyes, his face turned from her, motionless.)

" It is this," she said in a quick, low voice. " This is the sum of it. You remember what you asked of me after your illness — about the Religious Life? Well, I said I wouldn't. I was wrong. And I knew I was wrong. I've been fighting against it ever since; and

I see now

" Listen. You don't know what happened when you died. I haven't told a soul— except in confession — oh, and the Prioress this afternoon. Well, when the room was empty I knelt down and offered myself to God — if only you could live again. And you came back — you came back, Jack. Oh, Jack! He accepted it, you see. You were perfectly right. You did die; and God brought you back. And then I — I refused my part of the bargain. The minute you said it I knew that that was the thing — that I ought to be willing, at any rate — and I wasn't. I — I excused myself; I jumped at what the doctors said. I wrote to Sir James. I've got his letter upstairs saying that it was not death, but only suspended animation. I tried to make Dr. Basing say you were mad. I did everything. Oh, Jack! I've been so mean. Suspended animation!

" It was because I was a coward. I couldn't bear to give up all this. I didn't understand. But I d< now. Oh, Jack, I do now!

" And — and I want to ask your forgiveness. I've been a beast to you. I've hindered instead of helping. I've kept you back from your vocation.

" You haven't talked much lately about these things. And I must make a confession about that. I thought it was because you were — were giving in — going back again. But I understand that now too. It was because I couldn't share.... I've watched you, Jack. I've seen you making your meditation....

" Then the shooting the other day. That was all lies too. I don't mean I don't think it all right; but I mean as to what I said, about being a country gentleman being best. I knew that was lies. Oh, Jack! what a liar I've been — a liar and a cheat.

" Well, that's all over. (No, my dear, don't interrupt till I've done.) I went to see the Prioress to-day. I couldn't bear it any more. I told her everything; and oh, it was a relief! And — and she said such things to me, but not half bad enough. I've finished it, once and for all. It's done now, and I'm so happy I don't know what to do. Do you see, Jack? I've come to tell you at once. I couldn't bear to see you till I could tell you. Oh, Jack, kiss me — though I suppose you oughtn't to — not any more."

She turned her tearful, flushed face towards him for the first time, and saw how his head was turned from her, shaded by his hand. She thought she understood so perfectly, and her reward in that instant compensated for everything. He was overwhelmed with happiness. He could not take it in.

She put her hand gently on his head.

" Poor old Jack! " she said; " but it's all over now. Kiss me, Jack."

Still he did not move.

She slipped off the arm of the chair and kneeled half in front of him, taking his other hand in hers.

" Forgive me, Jack," she said; " give me absolution."

Then she kissed his hand gently.

And at the touch of her lips he tore it free and turned such a face on her that she shrank back.

" Why, Jack! " she said.

" You don't mean it! You don't mean it! " he cried.

" I do— I do."

" You don't! I don't believe you. You're — you're — playing a trick."

" Jack, what's the matter? "

He sprang up.

" I don't believe a word of it. You've been spying. You've been finding out things. Look here! " He banged aside the photograph- frame — it fell with a crash on to the fender; he tore out the pipe.

" Look here," he said. " Look at this. Do you understand now? I'm sick of it all. I've been a damned fool."

His hand shook, but he snatched up the match — a miserable little symbol that stood to him for so much — dashed it alight, and put it to his pipe. It was silly, theatrical, abominable, and trifling; yet his passion was so great as almost to ennoble it. She stared at him, white-faced, sank back on her heels.

" There," he said. " Do you understand now? "

He pulled furiously at his pipe, sending out wreaths of smoke.

" You had better understand it at once/' he said. " I'm sick of the whole damned thing. I've been playing the fool for months, footling along with things, and trying to be pious. It's all rot. Look here "

He snatched at his coat-pocket.

"There's a letter that came for me at the Lennoxes'. It's to play again in South Africa. I haven't answered it yet, but I'm going to. I'm going to say yes.... Packjof rubbish.... Just because I was ill...."

He tossed the letter towards her.

" Don't look like that, Mary. There! I'm sorry. I oughtn't to have said all that." (He stooped and picked up the letter, laying it on the mantelpiece.)

" But I've been a fool, and I'm furious with myself — a silly, posing fool. And all those asses at the Lennoxes' finished me. No, you're all right, old girl. You haven't done anything you shouldn't. It's I who've been the fool. And now I've gone and given the thing away by building that rotten convent. We must see what can be done. Perhaps we can get rid of them."

He paused again.

Mary rose to her feet in dead silence and stood there looking at him.

He turned away his face and affected to probe his pipe with a pen-knife that lay on a little tray.

"Mary, I'm sorry I was violent. I meant to tell you quietly. But what you said There—

I'm sorry. Are you going? All right; we'll talk later. That's best. Look here, I'm really sorry."

Ill

Half an hour later he was again sitting motionless in his chair.

He had had time to think and grow cool again, and the shame at his own violence had gently passed away. Of course he would apologise to her again presently. He must go in and see her before he went to bed.

So there had risen within him again that attitude of mind to which he had now been approximating for three or four months — that solid sensible mood which had always been his until the event of last summer.

He lit his pipe again, stretched out his feet, and began to review things.

First there was the shock of his apparent death and his recovery. It was remarkable, but, after all, such things had happened before. That odd sort of vision he had had of the doctor and Sarah walking on the grass; that yet more odd impression — all part of the same thing, of course — that he had become aware of a real world of spirit, and all the rest. Well, that was just the delirium of his illness, and had persevered in an unusual degree. It was all really the "subjective" self (he was pleased with the phrase; he had read a little article in a monthly review at the Lennoxes' on the point). Of course it was that; it was quite obvious. People who died did not recover. Therefore he had not died.

The coincidence of Mary's prayer! He saw through that in an instant, of course. Why, wherever had there been a death-bed of a husband at which a wife did not pray like that? And did the husband always recover? Very well, then.

How long had the impression lasted? Well, vividly, only for a few days. He remembered saying to Mary that he must act at once, that he must not lose the impression. That was pretty soon after. Then it must have been about then that the thing was fading — exactly as one would expect. With convalescence came sanity.

Why then had he gone on acting as if it was still real to him?

He pulled on his pipe thoughtfully, trying to analyse his own psychology. It was not very easy, but he began to see presently. (Somehow his little scene with Mary had cleared his mind wonderfully. He was able now to look back and criticise himself. Up to that point, in spite of his efforts, he had not been able to dissociate himself from his past. It had been like a man trying to look at his own back!)

What, then, was the reason? Yes, he saw. He had been still afraid that the thing might be true; his will, so to speak, had run on by impetus after the first emotional impulse had ceased. Even the process of convent-building had been sustained by this impetus. He had been acting rather superstitiously, remembering the emotion he no longer felt.

Certain little points began now to stand out clearly — their significances, unknown at the time, were obvious now.

There was the sucking at the empty pipe. That was on the evening after the nuns had arrived. That is to say, he had fixed his will up to that point, and relaxation immediately followed its consummation. How natural that was!

Then there was the arrival of the new horse, and the little scene as the hunt went past. That had been a fierce little struggle — really the first of all.

Of course he had beaten down the desire.... But it only showed how morbid he was when he could take so seriously the difference between riding alone and riding after a pack of hounds.

Then there was the shooting incident. That had stood for a lot to him — far more than he had thought at the time. It had meant a very real break.... He smiled, in his sanity, as he recalled the sense of guilt with which he had killed his first bird that day — his discomfort at Mary's presence. (How abominably he had shot too!)

And now, here was the final smash — that is to say, his final re-emergence into reasonable thought.

What had brought on this final smash, for which all those other incidents had been a series of preludes?

First there had been his days with the Lennoxes. It was the first time he had been away from home — away, that is to say, from the power of association — and it had been a curious revelation to him, or rather reminder, of what real human life was like. The Lennoxes were Catholics? Oh, yes; Algy had been at school with him. Algy and his wife nearly always went to their Easter duties. They had built a house for the priest too. (That reminded him. Father Banting must really be got down to the village again somehow. It would never do as it was.) Yet the Lennoxes were quite ordinary people. You might stay with them for weeks, and not dream that they were Catholics at all! That was the proper way. Religion ought to be well kept in the background. Of course it was all true in a sort of way, but...

Then there was the conversation at the Lennoxes'. Those "asses," as he had described them just now, had begun by ragging him rather, till they saw he didn't like it Then they had stopped. It had stung rather. And then Algy had talked to him so sensibly just after the arrival of the letter.

Then the letter itself had done a good deal. (He smoothed it out on his knee and glanced at it again.) How sensible and manly it was — just businesslike. It was from good old Dick. Dick said something perfectly courteous about certain rumours he had heard as to Jack's having given up cricket, but refused to believe it. Jack couldn't be such a fool, said the letter. Then came the offer.

What rot all that had been! Why the devil shouldn't a Catholic play cricket? Why the Church allowed recreation even of kinds that others thought dangerous, such as horse-racing. What a mad ass he had been! Why even Mary had laughed at him! And Father Banting, too, he had been very plain about fanaticism, and had even urged him to go on with his sports.

But the final thing had been Mary just now.

Jack crossed one leg over the other, beat out his pipe into an ash-tray, and resettled his position.

He hadn't answered that letter! Why not? Well, it had seemed more decent somehow to tell Mary first. Oh, yes, he had intended to tell Mary, of course. That was why he had the letter in his pocket. But then before he could get a word out had come this beastly scene. He had behaved like a brute. (Yes, he must look in at Mary and really apologise. But of course Mary would understand. She was so sensible, at least she had been.)

Of course she didn't mean what she said just now. It was just a bit of morbidity, the result of seeing him day after day going on with his prayers and his ridiculous meditation and all the rest of it. (Oh, that meditation! What a burden it had been!)

Yes, that was it. It was all his own fault for behaving like a fool. He must tell her that, and it would be all right again.

Well, it was her suddenly saying that about being willing that had caused all the row. It had been so unexpected, and when he was already in a devil of a temper.

The letter fell from his knee, and he picked it up. Yes, he must answer it before he went to bed. That would settle it.

To-morrow? Mass? No, he was too much done. Besides, it wasn't Sunday. Really, this nonsense about daily Mass was too much. No, he'd go on Sundays, of course. He must set an example. And perhaps on Thursdays. Well, he'd think about that. There was no hurry. To-day was Monday.

That letter. Oh, yes, he must answer it.

He got up, carrying the letter, and went across to the writing-table, near the window. But even then he hesitated. He put the letter carefully down, and stood looking at it. Why, what in the world was he hesitating about? Why the deuce shouldn't a Catholic play cricket in South Africa?

He looked up meditatively to the window. Yes, that was right; the windows were wide open. What a heavenly night!

He leaned on the sill and stared out.

The enormous night lay there before him, mysterious and infinite. The world seemed very quiet. Below spread the park in the dim darkness, blotted here and there by clumps of trees. No lights sparkled in the village. It must be getting late. And above him lay that gulf of stars, immeasurable, remote, and watching — a vast span, cut overhead by the parapet, arching down opposite to the tops of the hills across the valley. There came to his nostrils the smell of the sweet earth and the dreaming flowers, to his ears the silence of English country at night, as familiar and living as the sleep of a child. It seemed friendly indeed, but full of secrets, and extraordinarily solemn. A kind of memory, like a far-off echo, came to him of his dreams a year ago when he had thought himself dying, of the lawns of the old house, the gavotte, his parents, the river and the water-plants, and the rest. There was enough in common between the emotion of those things and of the solemn moonlight. But he thought of them with an almost entire contempt....

There he stood for a full minute, looking, smelling, listening, and hesitating.

Then with a jerk he turned away and sat down at the writing-table.