In the morning Mrs. Parsons was in the hall, arranging flowers, when James passed through to get his hat.

"Are you going to see Mary now?"

"Yes, mother."

"That's a good boy."

She did not notice that her son's usual gravity was intensified, or that his very lips were pallid, and his eyes careworn and lustreless.

It was raining. The young fresh leaves, in the colourless day, had lost their verdure, and the massive shapes of the elm trees were obscured in the mist. The sky had so melancholy a tone that it seemed a work of man--a lifeless hue of infinite sorrow, dreary and cheerless.

James arrived at the Clibborns' house.

"Miss Mary is in the drawing-room," he was told by a servant, who smiled on him, the accepted lover, with obtrusive friendliness.

He went in and found her seated at the piano, industriously playing scales. She wore the weather-beaten straw hat without which she never seemed comfortable.

"Oh, I'm glad you've come," she said. "I'm alone in the house, and I was taking the opportunity to have a good practice." She turned round on the music-stool, and ran one hand chromatically up the piano, smiling the while with pleasure at Jamie's visit. "Would you like to go for a walk?" she asked. "I don't mind the rain a bit."

"I would rather stay here, if you don't mind."

James sat down and began playing with a paper-knife. Still he did not know how to express himself. He was torn asunder by rival emotions; he felt absolutely bound to speak, and yet could not bear the thought of the agony he must cause. He was very tender-hearted; he had never in his life consciously given pain to any living creature, and would far rather have inflicted hurt upon himself.

"I've been wanting to have a long talk with you alone ever since I came back."

"Have you? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because what I want to say is very difficult, Mary; and I'm afraid it must be very--distressing to both of us."

"What do you mean?"

Mary suddenly became grave, James glanced at her, and hesitated; but there was no room for hesitation now. Somehow he must get to the end of what he had to say, attempting only to be as gentle as possible. He stood up and leant against the mantelpiece, still toying with the paper-knife; Mary also changed her seat, and took a chair by the table.

"Do you know that we've been engaged for over five years now, Mary?"

"Yes."

She looked at him steadily, and he dropped his eyes.

"I want to thank you for all you've done for my sake, Mary. I know how good you have been to my people; it was very kind of you. I cannot think how they would have got along without you."

"I love them as I love my own father and mother, Jamie. I tried to act towards them as though I was indeed their daughter."

He was silent for a while.

"We were both very young when we became engaged," he said at last.

He looked up quickly, but she did not answer. She stared with frightened eyes, as if already she understood. It was harder even than he thought. James asked himself desperately whether he could not stop there, taking back what he had said. The cup was too bitter! But what was the alternative? He could not go on pretending one thing when he felt another; he could not live a constant, horrible lie. He felt there was only one course open to him. Like a man with an ill that must be fatal unless instantly treated, he was bound to undergo everything, however great the torture.

"And it's a very bad return I'm making you for all your kindness. You have done everything for me, Mary. You've waited for me patiently and lovingly; you've sacrificed yourself in every way; and I'm afraid I must make you very unhappy--Oh, don't think I'm not grateful to you; I can never thank you sufficiently."

He wished Mary would say something to help him, but she kept silent. She merely dropped her eyes, and now her face seemed quite expressionless.

"I have asked myself day and night what I ought to do, and I can see no way clear before me. I've tried to say this to you before, but I've funked it. You think I'm brave--I'm not; I'm a pitiful coward! Sometimes I can only loathe and despise myself. I want to do my duty, but I can't tell what my duty is. If I only knew for sure which way I ought to take, I should have strength to take it; but it is all so uncertain."

James gave Mary a look of supplication, but she did not see it; her glance was still riveted to the ground.

"I think it's better to tell you the whole truth, Mary; I'm afraid I'm speaking awfully priggishly. I feel I'm acting like a cad, and yet I don't know how else to act. God help me!"

"I've known almost from the beginning that you no longer cared for me," said Mary quietly, her face showing no expression, her voice hushed till it was only a whisper.

"Forgive me, Mary; I've tried to love you. Oh, how humiliating that must sound! I hardly know what I'm saying. Try to understand me. If my words are harsh and ugly, it's because I don't know how to express myself. But I must tell you the whole truth. The chief thing is that I should be honest with you. It's the only return I can make for all you've done for me."

Mary bent her head a little lower, and heavy tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Oh, Mary, don't cry!" said James, his voice breaking; and he stepped forward, with outstretched arms, as though to comfort her.

"I'm sorry," she said; "I didn't mean to."

She took out her handkerchief and dried her eyes, trying to smile. Her courageous self-command was like a stab in Jamie's heart.

"I am an absolute cad!" he said, hoarsely.

Mary made no gesture; she sat perfectly still, rigid, not seeking to hide her emotion, but merely to master it. One could see the effort she made.

"I'm awfully sorry, Mary! Please forgive me--I don't ask you to release me. All I want to do is to explain exactly what I feel, and then leave you to decide."

"Are you--are you in love with anyone else?"

"No!"

The smile of Mrs. Wallace flashed scornfully across his mind, but he set his teeth. He hated and despised her; he would not love her.

"Is there anything in me that you don't like which I might be able to correct?"

Her humility was more than he could bear.

"No, no, no!" he cried. "I can never make you understand. You must think me simply brutal. You have all that a man could wish for. I know how kind you are, and how good you are. I think you have every quality which a good woman should have. I respect you entirely; I can never help feeling for you the most intense gratitude and affection."

In his own ears the words he spoke rang hollow, awkward, even impertinent. He could say nothing which did not seem hideously supercilious; and yet he wanted to abase himself! He knew that Mary's humiliation must be very, very bitter.

"I'm afraid that I am distressing you frightfully, and I don't see how I can make things easier."

"Oh, I knew you didn't love me! I felt it. D'you think I could talk to you for five minutes without seeing the constraint in your manner? They told me I was foolish and fanciful, but I knew better."

"I must have caused you very great unhappiness?"

Mary did not answer, and James looked at her with pity and remorse. At last he broke out passionately:

"I can't command my love! It's not a thing I have at my beck and call. If it were, do you think I should give you this pain? Love is outside all calculation. You think love can be tamed, and led about on a chain like a dog. You think it's a gentle sentiment that one can subject to considerations of propriety and decorum, and God knows what. Oh, you don't know! Love is a madness that seizes one and shakes one like a leaf in the wind. I can't coun............