“I found him inalterably fixed,” he told his wife, “and perfectly complacent. His serenity confounded me, put me to shame. He sees his happiness as clearly before him as you see his misery. He loves the child for the very things which you dislike in her. You say that she is common, and I cannot contradict you. He says that simplicity can grace any station. Ignorant we call her—he says, It shall be my privilege to teach. You call her sly; he protests. But so is the hunted hare. He says that the thought of a young girl struggling single-handed with a world of satyrs from her sixteenth year freezes his blood. You class her with them: all satyrs together, you say. Constantia, I tell you that his folly is more noble than our wisdom. I boast myself a Christian, but what am I in truth if not a very Pharisee? ‘Lord, I thank Thee that I am not as one of these’! Is this Christian?”
“It seems to me common gratitude,” said his wife. “Pray, did you tell him that the girl was compromised?” The Rector frowned.
“Naturally, I did not, since I neither knew it, nor believed it. Compromised, Constantia! That is a dangerous word to use. That involves a good name.”
“It does indeed, James. It involves ours. I tell you that the girl is stale.” She might as well have shot him—she had never done herself more fatal mischief.
He seemed hardly able to look at her, nor did she know him when he did. “Do you dare speak so of any woman born? To the brother of this girl’s—do you dare? You have shocked me beyond expression.”
She was certainly frightened—but she had her duty to do. “I am sorry to have displeased you. I spoke advisedly. I hope that I always do that.”
His pride was stinging him. He spoke now as if he were her enemy—coldly, as if he hardly knew the woman.
“If, as I am bound to believe, you are speaking with knowledge which I do not possess, I must ask you to let me share it. This is a very serious matter both to John and to Mary. With whom do you say she is compromised?”
Two and two make four, of course—but two shadows and two cannot make four plump facts. Mrs. James knew that she had gone too far. She had little but suspicion behind her. “I think that Tristram has made love to her,” she said, and rehearsed the scene of the garden. As she put it now, the Rector made a wry face.
“This, at its worst, is discreditable to Tristram. I see your point now. Mary, you suggest, has had experiences. All girls have them, I suppose, and certainly are not always the worse for them. You must have something worse than this to excuse your strong words.”