“I’m thankful they don’t want us to see them off at Paddington,” said Frank, when he walked with Miss Ley towards the park.
“Why are you in such an abominable temper?” she asked, smiling. “During luncheon I was twice on the point of reminding you that marriage is an event at which a certain degree of hilarity is not indecorous.”
Frank did not answer, and now they turned in at one of the Park gates. In that gay June weather the place was crowded; though the hour was early still, motors tore along with hurried panting, carriages passed tranquil and dignified; the well-dressed London throng sat about idly on chairs, or lounged up and down looking at their neighbours, talking light-heartedly of the topics of the hour. Frank’s eyes travelled over them slowly, and shuddering a little, his brow grew strangely dark.
“During that ceremony and afterwards I could think of nothing but Jenny. It’s only eighteen months since I signed my name for Basil’s first marriage in a dingy registry office. You don’t know how beautiful the girl was on that day, full of love and gratitude and happiness. She looked forward to the future with such eager longing! And now she’s rotting underground, and the woman she hated and the man she adored are married, and they haven’t a thought for all her misery. I hated Basil in his new frock-coat, and Hilda Murray, and you. I can’t imagine why a sensible woman like you should overdress ridiculously for such a function.”
Miss Ley, conscious of the entire success of her costume, could afford to smile at this.
“I have observed that, whenever you’re out of humour with yourself, you insult me,” she murmured.
Frank went on, his face hard and set, his dark eyes glowering fiercely.
“It all seemed so useless. It seemed that the wretched girl had to undergo such frightful torture merely to bring these two commonplace creatures together. They must have no imagination, or no shame—how could they marry with that unhappy death between them? For, after all, it was they who killed her. And d’you think Basil is grateful because Jenny gave him her youth and her love, her wonderful beauty and at last her life? He doesn’t think of her. And you, too, because she was a barmaid are convinced that it’s a very good thing she’s out of the way. The only excuse I can see for them is that they’re blind instruments of fate: Nature was working through them, obscurely, working to join them together for her own purposes, and because Jenny came between she crushed her ruthlessly.”
“I can find a better excuse for them than that,” answered Miss Ley, looking gravely at Frank. “I forgive them because they’re human and weak. The longer I live, the more I am overwhelmed by the utter, utter weakness of men; they do try to do their duty, they do their best honestly, they seek straight ways, but they’re dreadfully weak. And so I think one ought to be sorry for them and make all possible allowances. I’m afraid it sounds rather idiotic, but I find the words now most frequently on my lips are: ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’”
They walked silently, and after a while Frank stopped on a sudden and faced Miss Ley. He pulled out his watch.