§ 4

The next day Mary Pembroke came to Conster, and that same evening was confronted by her family. Sir John insisted on everyone being present, except Gervase—whom he still considered a mere boy—and the daughters-in-law. Vera was glad to be left out, for she had no wish to sit in judgment on a fellow woman, in whose guilt she believed and with whose lies she sympathised, but Rose was indignant, for she detected a slight in the omission.

“Besides,” she said to her husband, “I’m the only one who considers the problem chiefly from a moral point of view—the rest think only of the family, whether it will be good or bad for their reputation if she fights the case.”

“What about me?” asked her husband, perhaps justly aggrieved—“surely you can trust me not to forget the moral side of things.”

“Well, I hope so I’m sure. But you must speak out and not be afraid of your father.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“Indeed you are—you never can stand up to him. It’s he who manages this parish, not you.”

“How can you say that?”

“What else can I say when you still let him read the lessons after he created such a scandal by saying ‘damn’ when the pages stuck together.”

“Nobody heard him.”

“Indeed they did—all the three first rows, and the choir boys. It’s so bad for them. If I’d been in your place he shouldn’t have read another word.”

“My dear, I assure you it wasn’t such a scandal as you think—certainly not enough to justify a breach with my father.”

“That’s just it—you’re afraid of him, and I want you to stand your ground this time. It’s not right that we should be looked down upon the way we are, but we always will be if you won’t stick up for yourself—and I really fail to see why you should countenance immorality just to please your father.”

Perhaps it was owing to this conversation with his wife that during most of the conference George sat dumb. As a matter of fact, nobody talked much, except Sir John and Mary. Mary had a queer, desperate volubility about her—she who was so aloof had now become familiar, to defend her aloofness. Her whole nature shrank from the exposure of the divorce court.

“But what have you got to expose?” cried Sir John when she used this expression, “you tell me you’ve done nothing.”

“I’ve loved Julian, and he’s killed my love for him—I don’t want that shown up before everybody.”

“It won’t be—it doesn’t concern the case.”

“Oh, yes, it does—that sort of thing always comes out—‘the parties were married in 1912 and lived happily together till 1919, when the respondent left the petitioner without any explanation’—it’ll be all to Julian’s interest to show that he made me an excellent husband and that I loved him devotedly till Something—which means Somebody—came between us.”

“He’ll do that if you don’t defend the case.”

“But it won’t be dwelt on—pored over—it won’t provide copy for the newspapers. Oh, can’t anybody see that when a woman makes a mistake like mine she doesn’t want it read about at the breakfast tables of thousands of—of——”

“One would understand you much better,” said Doris, who for a few moments had been swallowing violently as a preliminary to speech—“one would understand you much better if what you objected to was thousands of people reading that you’d been unfaithful to the husband you once loved so much.”

“But it wouldn’t be true.”

“They’d believe it all the same—naturally, if the decree was given against you.”

“I don’t care about that—it’s what’s true that I mind people knowing.”

“Don’t be a fool,” interrupted Sir John—“you’re not going to disgrace your family for an idea like that.”

“I’ll disgrace it worse if I give the thing all the extra publicity of a defended suit.”

“But, Mary dear,” said Lady Alard—“think how dreadful it will be for us as well as for you if the decree is given against you. There’s Jenny, now—it’s sure to interfere with her prospects—What did you say, Jenny?”

“Nothing, Mother,” said Jenny, who had laughed.

“But you don’t seem to consider,” persisted Mary, “that even if I defend the case I may lose it—and then we’ll all be ever so much worse off than if I’d let it go quietly through.”

“And Julian have his revenge without even the trouble of fighting for it!” cried Sir John. “I tell you he’s got nothing of a case against you if you choose to defend it.”

“I’m not so sure of that. Appearances are pretty bad.”

“Egad, you’re cool, Ma’am!—But I forgot—you don’t care tuppence what people think as long as they don’t think what’s true. But, damn it all, there’s your family to be considered as well as yourself.”

“Is it that you want to marry Charles Smith?” asked Peter. “If she does, Sir, it’s hardly fair to make her risk....”

“Listen to me!” George had spoken at last—the voice of morality and religion was lifted from the chesterfield. “You must realise that if the decree is given against her, she will not be free in the eyes of the Church to marry again. Whereas if she gets a decree against her husband, she would find certain of the more moderate-minded clergy willing to perform the ceremony for the innocent partner.”

“I don’t see that,” said Peter rudely—“she’d be just as innocent if she lost the suit.”

“She wouldn’t be legally the innocent partner,” said George, “and no clergyman in the land would perform the ceremony for her.”

“Which means that the Church takes the argument from law and not from facts.”

“No—no. Not at all. In fact, the Church as a whole condemns, indeed—er—forbids the re-marriage of divorced persons. But the Church of England is noted for toleration, and there are certain clergy who would willingly perform the ceremony for the innocent partner. There are others—men like Luce, for instance—who are horrified at the idea of such a thing. But I’ve always prided myself on——”

“Hold your tongue, George,” broke in his father, “I won’t have you and Peter arguing about such rubbish.”

“I’m not arguing with him, Sir. I would scarcely argue with Peter on an ecclesiastical subject. In the eyes of the Church——”

“Damn the eyes of the Church! Mary is perfectly free to re-marry if she likes, innocent or guilty. If the Church won’t marry her, she can go to the registrar’s. You think nothing can be done without a clergyman, but I tell you any wretched little civil servant can do your job.”

“You all talk as if I wanted to marry again—” Mary’s voice shot up with a certain shrill despair in it. “I tell you it’s the last thing in the world I’d ever do—whatever you make me do I would never do that. Once is enough.”

“It would certainly look better if Mary didn’t re-marry,” said Doris, “then perhaps people would think she’d never cared for Commander Smith, and there was nothing in it.”

“But why did you go about with him, dear?” asked Lady Alard—“if you weren’t really fond of him?”

“I never said I wasn’t fond of him. I am fond of him—that’s one reason why I don’t want to marry him. He’s been a good friend to me—and I was alone ... and I thought I was free.... I saw other women going about with men, and nobody criticising. I didn’t know Julian was having me watched. I didn’t know I wasn’t free—and that now, thanks to you, I’ll never be free.”

She began to cry—not quietly and tragically, as one would have expected of her—but loudly, noisily, brokenly. She was broken.