The death of Jem’s twin siblings sets off a paradox in his heart in Chapter 7. The novel delivers one of its many emotional moments in which the grieving brother “[shakes] with agony.” But as Mary consoles him for his loss, thrill runs over him:
Jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the power she had of comforting him…Yes! it might be very wrong; he could almost hate himself for it; with death and woe so surrounding him, it yet was happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken to by Mary.
Jem’s strange mix of feelings is almost so paradoxical as to be perverse. There is “death and woe[’s]” devastating weight, the heavy knowledge that two young children—brothers, no less—have died too early. But there is also the pleasure of receiving Mary’s condolences, comforting words that would not have been uttered if not for the death of his younger brothers. Tragedy breaks Jem down and makes him the unexpected center of her attentions. The strange result is that grief gets mixed with a sense of sexual bliss.
This paradox sets a precedent for the many other instances of muddled feelings. Mary professes her love for Jem in the courtroom, an “interval of solemnity” when the fate of his life hangs in the balance. Emotional contradictions show up even after his acquittal. Jem cannot keep away his thoughts of Mary’s love as Alice dies. “Well! the dead are soon forgotten,” Margaret chides him. As pain comes with pleasure and hope piggybacks off grief, Jem’s emotional paradoxes are mingled and messy, like life.
Love and hate can be unexpectedly close twins. This is the paradox that Mary confronts in Chapter 19: when the news of Harry Carson’s death hits her at Miss Simmonds’, she struggles to process the loss. The narrator pulls apart Mary’s thoughts as she wavers between grief and relief:
Oh, it is terrible, that sudden information, that one you have known has met with a bloody death! You seem to shrink from the world where such deeds can be committed, and to grow sick with the idea of the violent and wicked men of earth. Much as Mary had learned to dread him lately, now he was dead (and dead in such a manner) her feeling was that of oppressive sorrow for him.
In a relationship as fraught as her romance with Harry, this paradox brings Mary's dueling emotions to light. Harry’s murder—a tragedy by any account—unleashes a cascade of terrifying images in Mary’s mind. The man who had wooed her now lies cold and motionless, and her “oppressive sorrow” registers this element of shock. These emotions would not be so complicated if a sense of comfort hadn’t also followed. Later on, Mary feels a twinge of pleasure in “thinking that he whom she dreaded could never more beset her path.” If Harry’s death is tragic, it is unexpectedly convenient as well. The possibility of rape that had hung over her previous encounter now vanishes. For the first time, Mary can breathe. Harry has died—his dashing charm and unnerving, predatory behavior both gone forever.