‘And Jim?’ replied Gundred, taken at a disadvantage, and stripped in an instant of the lovely calm that usually clothed her like a Paquin frock—‘my Jim? Am I to see my only child, Kingston, handed over to the company of a man against whom I have the very strongest feelings of fear and horror? Kingston, I tell you I look on that young man with positive fear and horror. Have I ever said anything like this before about anyone else? Do you think I am mad enough and unchristian enough to take prejudices like this without a reason? But it is stronger than I am, this feeling. It is so strong that I feel it would be wicked to disregard it. It is Heaven’s warning to us all. I know that it speaks the truth, Kingston; don’t be so obstinate.’
Knowing in his secret heart what secret tie it was that bound him to the occupant of Ivor Restormel’s personality, Kingston could not but feel it strange and impressive that Gundred should have conceived so violent and instinctive animosity against the young fellow. Could it be a blind feeling of jealousy, recrudescent from the past? Anyhow, it was the very devil and all of an inconvenience. And, as no sort of wrong was meditated to Gundred, as no sort of wrong was possible, Kingston saw clearly that her unreasonableness not only allowed him, but enjoined him, in her own interests, to take a firm way of dealing with these hysterical passions. Had she been cool and staid as usual, he would have found the situation much more difficult to cope with; as it was, her dishevelled zeal gave him the advantage, and enabled him to assume the high position of one who has right and reason on his side.
‘Hang it all, Gundred,’ he protested. ‘What a piece of work to make about nothing! One would have thought you would have been only too glad to help an old neighbour’s son. You are generally so keen to do what you can for people. Do try and get over these absurd fancies. Do you suppose I am not just as anxious as you are that Jim shall be kept out of undesirable hands? Come, you don’t think me a fool, I hope? You don’t imagine that I should pick out a scoundrel for a whim? I tell you, I like this young fellow; I like him more than I can say. He attracts me strongly; I am sure we shall find him a great addition.’
Gundred looked up at him with righteous wrath in her eyes. ‘He must have bewitched you,’ she said, devoutly and sincerely. ‘The Forces of Evil sometimes have the most awful power. Oh, Kingston, listen to me. Be wise, and repent in time. Oh, I never thought it would come to this. Why, why did we ever dine with those dreadful people?’
‘Gundred, you are either hysterical or medieval. And in either case, really one cannot argue with you. I have never seen you like this before. Poor boy! can you soberly think him an emissary of the devil?’ Kingston laughed.
But Gundred, among many other antiquated notions in which she took pride, retained a most steadfast belief in the bodily existence of Satan. To be old-fashioned in manners, mind, morals—in everything but clothes—was her especial glory. In London she claimed to be conspicuous by her old-world excellencies. When she met, or heard—for they did not frequent her set—of other Dukes’ wives and daughters who were frivolous and freethinking and modern, Gundred took pride in asserting the obvious fact that she was not as they, that she continued to give a rare and beautiful example of pristine decorum to her order. Her friends might find the spectacle dull, but they could never deny that it was edifying. And among the old-fashioned adornments with which she persisted in decking her habit of mind, her belief in the Powers of evil, of witchcraft and possession, were given not the least important place. She described herself complacently as an old-fashioned Christian, and never passed a palmist’s placard in Bond Street without feeling that the law ought to have more scruples about allowing a witch to live. Now, accordingly, she primmed her lips fiercely at Kingston’s scepticism.
‘All I know is,’ she answered, ‘that these warnings are sent us for our good, and that the Powers of Evil are for ever round us, seeking whom they may devour. Kingston, will you, or will you not, pay attention to what I say?’
By this time her truculent attitude had dissipated her husband’s last lingering scruples. Looked at very minutely, very casuistically, perhaps it was not perfectly fair to force upon Gundred someone she disliked, simply because he himself desired to keep watch and communion with the precious personality that dwelt within the object of her hostility, and probably was the unknown cause of it. But nothing of all this could Gundred possibly know, for one thing; and, for another, her attitude had become so grotesquely exaggerated and defiant that no husband of any sense or spirit could be justified in giving way to it. Why, the situation was preposterous and transpontine to an intolerable degree. His own sudden fantastic instinct had been strange and grotesque enough, in all conscience; but Gundred’s fury of opposition lent yet a further touch of grotesqueness which removed the whole episode into the domain of mystical melodrama. Why, they might be living in a novel of Lytton or Mortimer Collins, instead of in a very comfortable and orderly present into which had suddenly flashed a gleam of romance out of an equally comfortable and orderly past. Kingston would not recognise his own instinct as anything abnormal, and was bent on keeping all suggestion of the abnormal out of his human relations. The prenatal memory, he knew, was not only a fact, but a fact—at any rate, in the East, where memory and its training are better understood than over here—of no uncommon occurrence. There was nothing strange in the fact that in this boy of twenty, there should still be lurking some fragmentary elements of the woman whose martyrdom and courage he reincarnated. Kingston would not decorate the situation with any romantic glamour; it was a plain, indisputable occurrence, and his whole life should insist on treating it as a matter of course. In his violent resolve to keep the young fellow close at hand there was no sentiment, no idiotic feeling of attachment for the young man himself, or any objectionable nonsense of that kind. The young fellow was of no account at all. Kingston’s wish to secure his continued presence must be put down simply prosaically, solely, to his recognition of the fact that in the boy’s personality the lost Isabel sometimes spoke again, and therefore his company was doubly and trebly desirable; but only for what it conveyed, not in the least for what it was. And, all this being so, Kingston was the more irritated by the instinctive knowledge of the truth that Gundred’s absurd behaviour seemed to hint at, the more bent on resenting it, ignoring it, and, by determination in his own way, crushing out the signs of resistance that she was so vehemently showing.
‘Oh, let’s have no more of this, Gundred,’ he exclaimed. ‘You do not know what you are saying. I am exceedingly sorry to annoy you, but you know you would despise yourself and me if I gave way to such ridiculous nightmares. You will see things quite differently to-morrow. Do try and look at the matter more sensibly.’
‘Man sends sense,’ cried Gundred, ‘and God sends instincts. Listen to God, Kingston, or you will be sorry for it.’