The Parsons sat again in their dining-room, counting the minutes which must pass before Jamie’s arrival. The table was laid simply, for all their habits were simple; and the blanc-mange prepared for the morrow’s festivities stood, uncompromising and stiff as a dissenting minister, in the middle of the table. I wish someone would write an invective upon that most detestable of all the national dishes, pallid, chilly, glutinous, unpleasant to look upon, insipid in the mouth. It is a preparation which seems to mark a transition stage in culture; just as the South Sea Islanders, with the advance of civilisation, forsook putrid whale for roast missionary, the great English middle classes complained that tarts and plum-puddings were too substantial, more suited to the robust digestions of a past generation. In the blanc-mange, on the other hand, they found almost an appearance of distinction; its name, at least, suggested French cookery; it was possible to the plainest cook, and it required no mastication.

“I shall have to tell Betty to make a jelly for dinner to-morrow,” said Mrs. Parsons.

“Yes,” replied the Colonel; and after a pause: “Don’t you think we ought to let Mary know that Jamie has come back? She’d like to see him to-night.”

“I’ve sent over already.”

It was understood that James, having got his Company, would marry Mary Clibborn almost at once. His father and mother had been delighted when he announced the engagement. They had ever tried to shield him from all knowledge of evil-no easy matter when a boy has been to a public school and to Sandhurst-holding the approved opinion that ignorance is synonymous with virtue; and they could imagine no better safeguard for his innocence in the multi-coloured life of India than betrothal with a pure, sweet English girl. They looked upon Mary Clibborn already as a daughter, and she, in Jamie’s absence, had been their only solace. They loved her gentleness, her goodness, her simple piety, and congratulated themselves on the fact that with her their son could not fail to lead a happy and a godly life.

Mary, during those five years, had come to see them every day; her own mother and father were rather worldly people, and she felt less happy with them than with Colonel Parsons and his wife. The trio talked continually of the absent soldier, always reading to one another his letters. They laughed together over his jokes, mildly, as befitted persons for whom a sense of humour might conceivably be a Satanic snare, and trembled together at his dangers. Mary’s affection was free from anything so degrading as passion, and she felt no bashfulness in reading Jamie’s love-letters to his parents; she was too frank to suspect that there might be in them anything for her eyes alone, and too candid to feel any delicacy.

But a lumbering fly rolled in at the gate, and the good people, happy at last, sprang to the door.

“Jamie!”

Trembling with joy, they brought him in and sat him down; they knew no words to express their delight, and stood looking at him open-mouthed, smiling.

“Well, here you are! We were surprised to get your telegram. When did you land?”

When they found their tongues, it was only to say commonplace things such as they might have spoken to a casual friend who had come from London for the day. They were so used to controlling themselves, that when their emotion was overpowering they were at a loss to express it.

“Would you like to go upstairs and wash your hands?”

They both accompanied him.

“You see it’s all just as it was. We thought you’d like your old room. If you want anything you can ring the bell.”

They left him, and going downstairs, sat opposite one another by the fire. The dining-room was furnished with a saddle-bag suite; and Colonel Parsons sat in the “gentleman’s chair,” which had arms, while Mrs. Parsons sat in the “lady’s chair,” which had none; nor did either dream, under any circumstances, of using the other’s seat. They were a little overcome.

“How thin he is!” said Mrs. Parsons.

“We must feed him up,” answered the Colonel.

And then, till the soldier came, they remained in silence. Mrs. Parsons rang the bell for the chops as soon as he appeared, and they sat down; but James ate alone. His people were too happy to do anything but watch him.

“I have had tea made,” said Mrs. Parsons, “but you can have some claret, if you prefer it.”

Five years’ absence had not dulled Jamie’s memory of his father’s wine, and he chose the tea.

“I think a strong cup of tea will do you most good,” said his mother, and she poured it out for him as when he was a boy, with plenty of milk and sugar.

His tastes had never been much consulted; things had been done, in the kindest manner possible, solely for his good. James detested sweetness.

“No sugar, please, mother,” he said, as she dived into the sugar-basin.

“Nonsense, Jamie,” answered Mrs. Parsons, with her good-humoured, indulgent smile. “Sugar’s good for you.” And she put in two big lumps.

“You don’t ask after Mary,” said Colonel Parsons.

“How is she?” said James. “Where is she?”

“If you wait a little she’ll be here.”

Then Mrs. Parsons broke in.

“I don’t know what we should have done without her; she’s been so good and kind to us, and such a comfort. We’re simply devoted to her, aren’t we, Richmond?”

“She’s the nicest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“And she’s so good. She works among the poor like a professional nurse. We told you that she lived with us for six months while Colonel and Mrs. Clibborn went abroad. She was never put out at anything, but was always smiling and cheerful. She has the sweetest character.”

The good people thought they were delighting their son by these eulogies. He looked at them gravely.

“I’m glad you like her,” he said.

Supper was finished, and Mrs. Parsons went out of the room for a moment. James took out his case and offered a cigar to his father.

“I don’t smoke, Jamie,” replied the Colonel.

James lit up. The old man looked at him with a start, but said nothing; he withdrew his chair a little and tried to look unconcerned. When Mrs. Parsons returned, the room was full of smoke; she gave a cry of surprise.

“James!” she said, in a tone of reproach. “Your father objects to smoking.”

“It doesn’t matter just this once,” said the Colonel, good-humouredly.

But James threw his cigar into the fire, with a laugh.

“I quite forgot; I’m so sorry.”

“You never told us you’d started smoking,” observed Mrs. Parsons, almost with disapprobation, “Would you like the windows open to let the smell out, Richmond?”

There was a ring at the door, and Mary’s voice was heard.

“Has Captain Parsons arrived?”

“There she is, Jamie!” said the Colonel, “Rush out to her, my boy!”

But James contented himself with rising to his feet; he turned quite pale, and a singular expression came over his grave face.

Mary entered.

“I ran round as soon as I got your note,” she said. “Well, Jamie!”

She stopped, smiling, and a blush brightened her healthy cheeks. Her eyes glistened with happiness, and for a moment, strong as she was, Mary thought she must burst into tears.

“Aren’t you going to kiss her, Jamie?” said the father. “You needn’t be bashful before us.”

James went up to her, and taking her hands, kissed the cheek she offered.

The impression that Mary Clibborn gave was of absolute healthiness, moral and physical. Her appearance was not distinguished, but she was well set up, with strong hands and solid feet; you knew at once that a ten-mile walk invigorated rather than tired her; her arms were muscular and energetic. She was in no way striking; a typical, country-bred girl, with a fine digestion and an excellent conscience; if not very pretty, obviously good. Her face showed a happy mingling of strength and cheerfulness; her blue eyes were guileless and frank; her hair even was rather pretty, arranged in the simplest manner; her skin was tanned by wind and weather. The elements were friendly, and she enjoyed a long walk in a gale, with the rain beating against her cheeks. She was dressed simply and without adornment, as befitted her character.

“I am sorry I wasn’t at home when you arrived, Jamie,” she said; “but the Polsons asked me to go and play golf at Tunbridge Wells. I went round in bogy, Colonel Parsons.”

“Did you, my dear? That’s very good.”

The Colonel and his wife looked at her with affectionate satisfaction.

“I’m going to take off my hat.”

She gave James to put in the hall her sailor hat and her rough tweed cloak. She wore a bicycling skirt and heavy, square-toed boots.

“Say you’re glad to see us, Jamie!” she cried, laughing.

Her voice was rather loud, clear and strong, perhaps wanting variety of inflection. She sat by Jamie’s side, and broke into a cheerful, rather humorous, account of the day’s excursion.

“How silent you are, Jamie!” she cried at last.

“You haven’t given me a chance to get a word in yet,” he said, smiling gravely.

They all laughed, ready to be pleased at the smallest joke, and banter was the only form of humour they knew.

“Are you tired?” asked Mary, her cheerful eyes softening.

“A little.”

“Well, I won’t worry you to-night; but to-morrow you must be put through your paces.”

“Mary will stand no nonsense,” said the Colonel, laughing gently. “We all have to do as she tells us. She’ll turn you round her little finger.”

“Will she?” said James, glancing down at the solid boots, which the short bicycle skirt rather obtrusively exposed to view.

“Don’t frighten him the moment he comes home,” cried Mary. “As a matter of fact, I shan’t be able to come to-morrow morning; I’ve got my district-visiting to do, and I don’t think Jamie is strong enough to go with me yet. Does your wound hurt you still, Jamie?”

“No,” he said, “I can’t use my arm much, though. It’ll be all right soon.”

“You must tell us about the great event to-morrow,” said Mary, referring to the deed which had won him the decoration. “You’ve put us all out by coming sooner than you were expected.”

“Have I? I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t you notice anything when you drove in this evening?”

“No, it was quite dark.”

“Good heavens! Why, we’ve put up a triumphal arch, and there was going to be a great celebration. All the school children were coming to welcome you.”

“I’m very glad I missed it,” said James, laughing. “I should have hated it.”

“Oh, I don’t know that you have missed it yet. We must see.”

Then Mary rose to go.

“Well, at all events, we’re all coming to dinner to-morrow at one.”

They went to the door to let her out, and the elder couple smiled again with pleasure when James and Mary exchanged a brotherly and sisterly kiss.

At last James found himself alone in his room; he gave a sigh of relief-a sigh which was almost a groan of pain. He took out his pipe unconsciously and filled it; but then, remembering where he was, put it down. He knew his father’s sensitiveness of smell. If he began to smoke there would quickly be a knock at the door, and the inquiry: “There’s such a smell of burning in the house; there’s nothing on fire in your room, is there, Jamie?”

He began to walk up and down, and then in exhaustion sank on a chair. He opened the window and looked into the night. He could see nothing. The sky was dark with unmoving clouds, but the fresh air blew gratefully against his face, laden with the scent of the vernal country; a light rain was falling noiselessly, and the earth seemed languid and weary, accepting the moisture with little shuddering gasps of relief.

After an event which has been long expected, there is always something in the nature of reaction. James had looked forward to this meeting, partly with terror, partly with eagerness; and now that it was over, his brain, confused and weary, would not help him to order his thoughts. He clenched his hands, trying to force himself to think clearly; he knew he must decide upon some course at once, and a terrible indecision paralysed his ideas. He loved his people so tenderly, he was so anxious to make them happy, and yet-and yet! If he loved one better than the other it was perhaps his father, because of the pitiful weakness, because of the fragility which seemed to call for a protective gentleness. The old man had altered little in the five years. James could not remember him other than thin and bent and frail, with long wisps of silvery hair brushed over the crown to conceal his baldness, with the cheeks hollow and wrinkled, and a white moustache ineffectually concealing the weak, good-natured mouth. Ever since James could recollect his father had appeared old and worn as now; and there had always been that gentle look in the blue eyes, that manner which was almost painful in its diffidence. Colonel Parsons was a man who made people love him by a modesty which seemed to claim nothing. He was like a child compelling sympathy on account of its utter helplessness, so unsuited to the wear and tear of life that he aroused his fellows’ instincts of protection.

And James knew besides what a bitter humiliation it was to his father that he had been forced to leave the service. He remembered, like a deadly, incurable pain suffered by a friend, the occasion on which the old soldier had told him the cause of his disgrace, a sweat of agony standing on his brow. The scene had eaten into Jamie’s mind alongside of that other when he had first watched a man die, livid with pain, his eyes glazed and sightless. He had grown callous to such events since then.

Colonel Parsons had come to grief on account of the very kindness of heart, on account of the exquisite humanity which endeared him to the most casual acquaintance. James swore that he would do anything to save him from needless suffering. Nor did he forget his mother, for through the harder manner he saw her gentleness and tender love. He knew that he was all in the world to both of them, that in his hands lay their happiness and their misery. Their love made them feel every act of his with a force out of reason to the circumstance. He had seen in their letters, piercing through the assumed cheerfulness, a mortal anxiety when he was in danger, an anguish of mind that seemed hardly bearable. They had gone through so much for his sake; they deprived themselves of luxury, so that, in the various expenses of his regiment, he should not need to economise. All his life they had surrounded him with loving care. And what their hearts were set upon now was that he should marry Mary Clibborn quickly.

James turned from the window and put his head between his hands, swaying to and fro.

“Oh, I can’t,” he groaned; “I can’t!”