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,
