§ 11

In spite of the non-committal attitude of his solicitors, Sir John Alard had been sure that to defend the suit would be to vindicate Mary and her family against the outrageous Julian. He would not believe that judgment could go against his daughter except by default, and now that this incredible thing had happened, and Mary had been publicly and argumentatively stripped of her own and Alard’s good name, while Julian, with innocence and virtue proclaimed by law, was set free to marry his new choice, he felt uncertain whether to blame most his daughter’s counsel or his daughter herself.

Counsel had failed to make what he might out of Julian’s cross-examination ... what a fruitful field was there! If only Sir John could have cross-examined Julian himself! There would have been an end of that mirage of the Deceived and Deserted Husband which had so impressed the court.... But Mary was to blame as well as counsel. She really had been appallingly indiscreet ... her cross-examination—Lord! what an affair! What a damn fool she had made of herself!—Hang it all, he’d really have thought better of her if she’d gone the whole hog ... the fellow wasn’t much good in the witness-box either ... but he’d behaved like a gentleman afterwards. He had made Mary a formal proposal of marriage the morning after the decree was given. The only thing to do now was for her to marry him.

Lady Alard marked her daughter’s disgrace by sending for Dr. Mount in the middle of the night, and “nearly dying on his hands” as she reproachfully told Mary when she returned to Conster the next afternoon. Mary looked a great deal more ill than her mother—dazed and blank she sat by Lady Alard’s sofa, listening to the tale of her sorrows and symptoms, only a slow occasional trembling of her lip showing that her heart was alive and in torment under the dead weight of her body’s stupefaction. All her mind and being was withdrawn into herself, and during the afternoon was in retreat, seeking strength for the last desperate stand that she must make.

After tea, Peter arrived, looking awkward and unhappy—then George, looking scared and pompous. Mary knew that a family conclave had been summoned, and her heart sank. What a farce and a sham these parliaments were, seeing that Alard was ruled by the absolute monarchy of Sir John. No one would take her part, unless perhaps it was Gervase—Uranus in the Alard system—but he would not be there today; she must stand alone. She gripped her hands together under the little bag on her lap, and in her dry heart there was a prayer at last—“Oh, God, I have never been able to be quite true to myself—now don’t let me be quite untrue.”

As soon as the servants had cleared away the last of the tea things—there had been a pretence of offering tea to Peter and George, as if they had casually dropped in—Sir John cast aside all convention of accident, and opened the attack.

“Well,” he said to his assembled family—“it’s been a dreadful business—unexpectedly dreadful. Shows what the Divorce Court is under all this talk about justice. There’s been only one saving clause to the whole business, and that’s Smith’s behaviour. He might have done better in the witness-box, but he’s stuck by Mary all through, and made her a formal offer of marriage directly the decree was given.”

“That was the least he could do,” said Peter.

“Of course; you needn’t tell me that. But I’ve seen such shocking examples of bad faith during the last three days.... It’s a comfort to find one man behaving decently. I’m convinced that the only thing Mary can do is to marry him as soon as the decree is made absolute.”

George gave a choking sound, and his father’s eye turned fiercely upon him.

“Well, sir—what have you to say?”

“I—I—er—only that Mary can’t marry again now—er—under these new circumstances ... only the innocent partner....”

“You dare, Sir! Damn it all—I’ll believe in my own daughter’s innocence in spite of all the courts in the country.”

“I don’t mean that she isn’t innocent—er—in fact—but the decree has been given against her.”

“What difference does that make?—if she was innocent before the decree she’s innocent after it, no matter which way it goes. Damn you and your humbug, Sir. But it doesn’t matter in the least—she can marry again, whatever you say; the law allows it, so you can’t stop it. She shall be married in Leasan church.”

“She shall not, Sir.”

A deep bluish flush was on George’s cheek-bones as he rose to his feet. Sir John was for a moment taken aback by defiance from such an unexpected quarter, but he soon recovered himself.

“I tell you she shall. Leasan belongs to me.”

“The living is in your gift, Sir, but at present I hold it, and as priest of this parish, I refuse to lend my church for the marriage of the guil—er—in fact, for—the marriage.”

“Bunkum! ‘Priest of this parish’—you’ll be calling yourself Pope next. If you can’t talk sense you can clear out.”

George was already at the door, and the hand he laid upon it trembled violently.

“Don’t go!”—it was Mary who cried after him—“there’s no need for you to upset yourself about my marriage. I haven’t the slightest thought of getting married.”

But George had gone out.