Chapter V

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However dramatic may be a woman's temperament, until the age of thirty at any rate, there is always a place of complete reality somewhere underneath. Until after that age, there simply has not been time to dramatize the whole, or to get rid of the underlying character.

Miss Gladys Farham's character had been reached at last; at any rate she thought so, and that comes to the same thing. And it appeared to her now as if she had arrived at a reality which she had only guessed at before. Her first marriage seemed to her a dream: she had been an ignorant girl whose ignorance had been rapidly disillusioned; and she had taken refuge, after her divorce, in a sham kind of cynicism. And this cynicism had showed itself for the fraud that it was; and she had become, a girl again, with a strange kind of motherliness woven into it, as gold into fine silk.

Her conversion was as real as anything of which she was capable. A photograph or two disappeared from her walls; her dress showed modifications which I am not competent to describe; the tones of her voice lost a particular kind of ring that they had, up to now, occasionally manifested.

It may seem remarkable that all this had been effected by Percy; and it would be safer to say that it had been effected by her conception of Percy. She had taken at once to this ardent slim boy who had such an assurance and such an engaging innocence; and she had viewed him,

Digitized by Google with the aid of her dramatic nature, as a kind of Parsifal who knows nothing, and can therefore accomplish anything. She did not now trouble to inquire how far his sudden access of wealth had illuminated him in her eyes; for even an illumination cannot reveal what is not there to be revealed. But, from the moment in which he had told her of his good fortune, he had taken on a significance that she had scarcely been aware of before; he had become, so to speak, adequate and possible. And when he had, in a sudden fit of manhood, spoken to her as man to woman, she had answered him genuinely and sincerely. Her friends remarked on it.

" What's happened to you, my dear? " asked the very young-looking girl whom Percy had once met in the little room behind the stage.

"Happened? What d'you mean?" asked Gladys, who had had a letter from Percy an hour before.

" You're different," the girl had said vaguely, looking at her questioningly. " You look as if you'd "

"Well?"

" I don't know."

These things, then, had borne fruit in her. There was no pose whatever in her acts of simplification; no consciousness at all of effort. She moved more gently; she spoke more quietly; she wrote little notes now and again to her lover, and posted them all together once a week; she opened his letters, with a distinct shock of pleasure, and kept them carefully, with his photograph, in a locked drawer of her writing-table. Out of the same drawer she had previously taken two photographs of another man, and these she had burned honestly. She was in love with Percy's youth, if not with his soul — with his temporal aspects, if not with his eternal being. She had found, she believed, reality at last. And if all this seems impos-

Digitized by Google sible, let it be remembered that a dramatic temperament is not only exceedingly susceptive, bat creative also.

It was half-way through February that she wrote an insistent little note to Percy demanding to see him at once. She had great news to tell him, she said: and whether it was good or bad depended on his view of it. When could he come up? But it was not till a week later that he came.

She thought he looked a little run-down; and said so. "And why couldn't you come before?" she asked lightly.

He said that there were a hundred things to prevent. He told her that she had no idea of the extraordinary rush of tiny duties and engagements that could not be put aside. She saw that he was still a little preoccupied.

"Well/' she said; when he was on her sofa with a cup of tea. " This is the news. What would you think of it if I went to America for not less than three months? "

• Eh? "

44 To America/' she said. " I've had a tremendous offer. They want a company for A Gentleman of Fortune to tour the States; and they've offered me really big terms. You see "

" To America! " said Percy thoughtfully. " Yes, my dear, let it soak in before you say anything more. Because I've got something else to say too." " For three months?"

" For not less than three months," she corrected. " It may be six. It may even be a year. But *'

Oddly enough there was not that sudden fall of countenance she had expected. She had thought that he would

Digitized by Google protest instantly, and that she) would have to icxplain all the advantages of the' offer* But he seemed' to' take it merely thought f ullyi i Was it conceivable that he i was thinking the. same thing as herself,? • ' ' 1

" It might even be a year/' - he eohoedi Then he drank his tea. u,.... J..u..*«! \i? J i. ->>.y

" You see/' she said, "it might mean a lot.! If a play does happen: tor catch ^oj&> iit< leads bn> to other -tilings.... Percy.",.,, u. -i * - - •

"Yes?"

"I want to gay i two imore -things — father difficult. - At least I want to say one, first, and then perhaps the other; Will you promise not to be angry With either? " ^ ' ■■

"Why, of course."- J,, n i,...».

"The first is this." (She^got upJ and sai down again at the other end of i the sofa on which he sat. " She looked wonder f ully young and f resho in • her -bright gown, With her feet crossed before her;: and i her eyes sparkled.) "The* first is this. Is it utterly and entirely Out of the question that I shoulcf go i on being on the stage after our mar^ 1 riage?". >t -i — '» • ■■'

"What?" ■ r: ■ <»'■ ir ' ' •

She was astonished at the Arehemenee i of the* single Word. 1 But there was.something delightful W ber too ih the implication that it must be he and he alone twho must always 1 provide for » her. i •.»:■■*■■ - - '■'•! • >■ m..i

"Yes: you're a dea* to say it like that/- she 1 saidl: "But I want you: judt to *ink." J pi •

" I have thought. It's absolutely impossible. Look 1 here, Gladys-r-r-W,; • >..■■»-»: ■».

" One minute^ I see I must say the second: thing. 1 But first — Have you given any hint whatever to your - peo^ pie?" - " ■ li... < - " ' -i- f

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He shook his head. He looked drawn and anxious.... But she thought she knew why.

" There, you see: you know it would be hopeless. Well, I want to know what prospect there is of our ever being able to be married. We're no nearer it, than 99

" But we agreed to wait,'* he cried nervously. " Don't you remember "

" Yes; yes: I remember everything. But the point is 99 — (she moved a shade nearer to him) — " the point is, Why should we wait? 9 *

Again that spasm, as of a sudden shock, passed across his face. But she went on before he could speak, leaning towards him as she spoke.

"Percy, dear; I've thought of an idea. We must be sensible, you know — too sensible to have any conventions.... Do you remember how you said that once, and what it was that you said at the same time?... Well; I say it now. And you mustn't be offended. I've thought it all out: and I really think we can manage, if only you'll let me go to America. Percy, dear: I happen to love you very much indeed, you know. And... and I can't see why a wife shouldn't help her husband. Oh! don't be high-minded and ridiculous, please!'*

She had slipped down on to her knees, half serious, half laughing. It had cost her a lot to summon up her resolution: she knew he would hate what she had to say — hate it, that is, with one part of him; but... but perhaps he might love it with another. She took his hand in both of hers.

" My dear; listen to me quietly. Say I go to America. I get fifteen pounds a week and all expenses. I come back, say in a year, with... with how much — say five hundred pounds. Well, that's something, isn't it? We're married quietly — oh! ever so quietly, by one of your little secretive

Digitized by Google priests. No one knows — not a soul. And then I go on living here, just as before; and you're down at Marston or wherever it is. And I go on acting; and they've practically promised me twenty pounds a week. And not a soul knows; and... and I go on saving as hard as I can; and so do you.... And then in time — Oh! Percy, isn't it better than waiting for ever?"

His face was as white as paper.

" They'd find out," he said hoarsely.

She flung herself back on her heels.

"Well; and if they did! They wouldn't... But if they did! Aren't we independent?"

He sprang up and went past her. He began to walk up and down the room.

Ill

He was in a torment of indecision.

So long as he was away from her, down at Marston; so long as he moved about in that solemn inexpressibly comfortable life, or talked with Mabel; or assimilated little by little the warm atmosphere of County Tradition and all the rest; it was possible for him to regard his engagement at least detachedly, to admit other considerations and to contemplate other alternatives. But here, in her presence, in the very room in which he had undergone the fiercest emotion he had ever known, where, drunk with that emotion, he had driven his will to do his purpose — here, with the girl herself kneeling before him, and the touch of her hands on his, and the strange look in her eyes — the passion came back in a wave....

He fought it, as if with teeth set. He told himself he must be cool and sensible. He must not allow the allurement of this secretiveness, and the infinitely more attractive allurement of the secretiveness which she pro-

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AN AVEBAGE MAN posed, to blind him to commonsense. For it was this last suggestion of hers that had completed what the sight and touch of her had begun. When he had had her in his arms, first, half an hour ago, and kissed her, he had by no means lost control of himself. He felt " sensible " without feeling the need of telling himself to be so. Yet now, to think that he might come here as her husband; to think that this room of hers might also be his; and that yet there might be no need for him to leave his home-life — this tossed his poor heart to and fro in a storm of longing.

And then, again, cold reason asserted itself. It told him that the thing was a dream; that it could not be kept a secret; that all would come out; and that then indeed his ruin would be complete.

And then again Desire seized him; and he cried out interiorly, as certain kinds of souls will, at the intolerable injustice that he should have to bear such complications, and be so torn this way and that between his desire and that which he was already beginning to call his " Duty."

But all that Gladys saw was a high-minded young man and lover striving between his love for her and his pride aroused by her offer.

It was a quarter-past five before he arrived at last at the Franciscan Friary where he had made an appointment for another instruction from Father Hilary at five precisely.

His interview with Gladys had ended just as any psychologist who knew them both would have predicted. He had been pale and manly; she feminine and full of entreaty. He had said that the whole thing was so new and startling that he must have time... he must have

Digitized by Google time; and that they must both be very sensible and considerate. And she had gone so far as to wave a telegraph-form before him, and beg that she might wjre, Accepted, to her manager. That had brought him up sharp. He had forgotten America.

Then he had said that that was an entirely separate question, anyhow; and had demanded whether it might not be better that she should accept that in any case?

And she, in a flare of feminine unreason, had declared that that was not so, at all; and that she flatly refused to go to America unless he gave his consent to the whole affair. It must be all or none.

Once more he had entreated her to be reasonable: and she had replied that she would be nothing of the kind.

Then the clock had struck five; and in sudden boisterous despair he had declared that Father Hilary would never forgive him if he missed him this time again. Well, Gladys had demanded, But what about America? She must answer by noon next day. Then he had seized and kissed her, suddenly and uncontrollably... •

He would send a wire, by latest, to-morrow morning. He promised so much.

Already the mood was ebbing, ever so slightly, as he found himself in the parlour; and cold common sense was coming back. The bleak walls of the little room; the bare table, with a single book explanatory of the Catechism, lying upon it, the associations of the place — all these things helped to steady him on his swaying pedestal. The lay-brother who opened the door to him, said that Father Hilary had been here at Ave, but had been called away to church. Would Mr. Brandreth-Smith wait a few minutes? He did not think his Reverence would be long.

Certainly Percy's first ardours of religion had waned; yet, somewhere, far down in him there was a very well-

Digitized by Google fixed determination to persevere. The instructions he had received had shifted the weight of conviction from the emotion to the intellect; and, much as he might resent certain disadvantages that might follow, it must be said in justice to him, that he intended, quite coolly and deliberately, to continue, and, in due time, to be received into the Church. (It had only become just a shade more difficult after Mabel's remarks.)

This at least was an unmistakable duty — so he said to himself. And the very fact that, with regard to the Gladys-complication, he had, at least interiorly, swerved a little, drove him with the more vehemence to be faithful to this. His marriage with Gladys might or might not be his " Duty." But there was no question about this.

This, then, is what he said to himself. And he said it once or twice as he took a turn or two up and down the room. Then he sat down; took up the book and began to turn its pages.

Father Hilary was detained longer than he had expected; and ten minutes later came swiftly along the corridor and through the swing-door into the extra-claustral part of the house, with his habit swinging and his sandals clapping. He did not, however, propose to apologize, since he had waited ten minutes himself beyond the time that Percy had appointed.

He came straight in, smiling, and stopped. For a very tremulous-looking person was there to greet him.

Percy was standing sideways to the fireplace, with his hands hanging down and a very curiously agitated look on his face. A book was open on the mantelpiece.

" Father " he began instantly; and then remembered

Digitized by Google himself. " I... I'm afraid I was a little late. I'm so sorry."

"Why — what's the matter?" asked the friar kindly.

" Nothing... nothing, father. I... I've got to catch the six-ten, you know."

"Well, we've got nearly half an hour, if you'll take a taxi."

Percy sat down instantly, like a mechanical figure.

Ten minutes later the priest stopped. He saw that something was wrong; but also saw that he was supposed not to see it. Percy had been obviously unconscious of practically everything that the priest had been saying. So Father Hilary tried an ancient device.

" There," he said. " And now you ask me some questions. Anything you like. We often get at difficulties better that way."

Percy instantly awoke from his stupor.

" May I?... Well, there are one or two things.. (He indicated the book on the mantelpiece.) "I... I was looking at that before you came in. I... I saw one or two things I didn't know before."

"Yes?"

" I... I was looking at the instruction on Matrimony." (He smiled, in a ghastly attempt to seem at ease.) " And I'm not sure that I quite understand "

The friar stopped himself just in time from saying that that had better wait till they got there.

" Yes? " he said again.

" You'll think me fearfully stupid, I expect. But... but the book seemed to say that Matrimony was indissoluble — that... that it lasts till death, whatever happens."

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He was managing his voice quite well; but his face betrayed him. Father Hilary looked carefully into the fire. He could not conceive what the matter was.

" Yes. Our Lord said that, you know. ' What God hath joined together ' — you know."

"But... but didn't Our Lord say something about, except for fornication. I... I always supposed that meant that in a... a real divorce — I mean where one of the married people has... has been unfaithful, and a proper divorce has been made, that both were free."

" No," said Father Hilary dispassionately. " Certainly the Church allows divorce " (he corrected his phrase).

" I'd better say Judicial Separation, for that sin, under certain circumstances; but that never means that either of the two can marry again in the lifetime of the other. They remain husband and wife in God's sight."

" But the laws allow "

" The Laws of the State, yes. And, apparently the laws of the Church of England too.... At least clergymen can and do remarry divorced people. But the Catholic Church says No, always."

There was a pause. Again Father Hilary refrained from even glancing at the boy.

" But... but isn't that fearfully hard, sometimes, on the... the innocent party? " asked a voice that was beginning to quaver. "Suppose a good girl has been married to a beast of a man, and has divorced him "

"Oh! yes," said the priest gently. "God's laws are very hard sometimes. So it is very hard if the man is a convict or a lunatic. But even the laws of England don't at present allow divorce for that. You see "

Percy interrupted, without apparently being conscious that he did so.

" Then... then a Catholic can't under any circum-

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SIS stances marry a divorced person — I mean, an innocent divorced person."

" Not so long as the husband is alive."

"And... and suppose someone who had already done so, wanted to become a Catholic, could he... or she " (he added with a jerk)... " I... I want to get it all clear."

" Not unless he, or she, separated from the other."

There was a dead silence. The little clock on the mantelpiece ticked gently and ruthlessly. A cab rumbled by outside. The fire fell in with a little crash.

Then Percy stood up....

" Er... Thanks very much, father.... I... I think I shall have to go. It's rather late."

The friar too rose and held out his hand.

"Well: good-bye," he said. "When will you come again?

" Next week.... Ill... Ill write."

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