Chapter II

FATHER FRANKIJN, S.J., was just coming upstairs from a cup of tea in the low long refectory of the Jesuit house in Mount Street, when a lay-brother met him jwith a card.

" I've put her in room number three, Father," he said. " She said she had an appointment."

The priest nodded, looking at the card.

" That's all right, brother," he said, and turned back through the swing doors that led to the passage where the half-dozen little parlours were ranged in a row.

Father Franklin was a great ladies' confessor, which means that he could be harder than it is possible to imagine. Tears, even, made no difference to him at all: he simply waited until they were over, and then repeated his last remark with any necessary additions that had occurred to him. He was a small man, very black about the chin, with very blue eyes, and was going rather bald on the temples. He wore, of course, the usual Jesuit's gown, rubbed shiny on the shoulders, and he walked with a limp, caused by a very bad accident in a trek-cart at the time he was stationed in Johannesburg. He was as certain — when he was certain — and as persistent and logical, and, in a sense, as compelling too, as a fugue by Bach.

The little parlours at Farm Street, approachable 159 through the sacristy, are familiar to many tens of thousands of people. They are small rooms, looking on the east end of the church and the garden. Each has a door with glass panels, a small table, a couple of chairs, a little carpet, a picture, a prie-Dieu with a chair beside it, and a violet stole lying over it, in case a man wishes to make his confession, and two or three devotional books for the entertainment and benefit of any visitor who may be kept waiting.

Father Franklin did not know Miss Tenterden at all, though he thought he knew that she was a singer in Grand Opera and a Catholic. He had been rung up on the telephone by her that morning, however, and she had asked for an appointment at five. She had not said on what business she wished to see him.

She rose as he came in, with her back to the light; and he could only make out a figure all in white, with a big white hat, and under it a small face with very steady eyes set some way apart.

" Good afternoon, Father," she said very clearly. 66 It is so kind of you to see me."

" Not at all. Please sit down again," said the priest.

He pulled forward the chair by the prie-Dieu, thereby compelling her to turn rather more towards the light. But there was not much else to remark beyond what he had already noticed.

" It's about an extremely delicate matter," she said: " and I am afraid you will think me a terribly obstinate person before I have done. However "

She stopped.

"Yes?" said the priest. (He liked her voice: it was very frank and clear.)

" Well: the first thing is that I'm engaged to marry a Protestant. I myself have been a Catholic always. At present the engagement is known to no one except to ourselves. There are considerable difficulties in the way of marriage. I am an opera-singer, Father. Perhaps you may have heard my name? I am singing at Covent Garden this season."

The priest bowed a little.

" I have often heard you spoken of, Miss Tenterden."

"Yes: well" — (she shifted her position a little, so that rather less light fell on her face) — " I am not a very good Catholic, I am afraid. I don't mean that I don't go to mass, because I do; and I go to the sacraments fairly often, too. I live with a friend who is very devout. Perhaps I shouldn't be as good a Catholic as I am, even, if it wasn't for that: religion doesn't mean much to me personally, I am afraid."

" I don't think that matters much," said the priest.

" How do you mean, Father? "

" Well: feelings are not always under our control. Therefore they cannot matter very much. Obedience is what matters. We can always obey."

" I know. That's just it," said Marion, moving again.

" Yes? " said the priest.

"Father: it's true, isn't it, that since this last Decree — I can't remember what it's called "

" You mean the Ne temere decree, perhaps? "

" I daresay. It's got regulations about marriage, hasn't it? "

" Yes."

" I mean about marriage in a Catholic church; and then there are promises to be made by the Non-Catholic party, aren't there, with regard to the bringing up of the children? "

" Yes."

" And, unless these regulations are complied with, there's no dispensation possible, is there? "

" Not only that," said the priest, " but the Church does not recognise the marriage as valid."

" I thought it was that," said the girl quietly. " But I wasn't quite sure. Well, that's one point I wanted to be certain of."

" Yes? " said the priest. He began to see that there was what is called Character in this young lady.

" The main point is this," said Marion; " that I don't mean my future husband even to be asked to make those promises. There are enough difficulties without that. Of course I should like my children to be brought up Catholics, because I was; but if you knew the circumstances you would understand why I feel as I do about demanding those promises. I simply couldn't. My future husband is a very moral man — at least, I suppose he is: he's the son of a very good family, and lives the ordinary sort of life, you know. But he hasn't anything much you could call a religion; though he goes to church, I think, when he's in Scot-land or in the country. His father is what is called Low Church, I believe; and is very strong against Catholics. Well, I've thought over all this very carefully, and I've quite decided — quite decided, Father — you understand — that I am not going to ask him to make these promises. I wouldn't mind, of course, asking him to be married quietly in a Catholic church, before or after the ceremony in the Protestant church

— if that made any difference. Would it, Father?"

" Not the slightest," said the priest. " No priest could perform the ceremony."

Marion glanced at him. His tone seemed a little menacing.

" Well: if that won't do — (it was the only thing I could think of) — can you tell me whether there's anything else that will do? I don't in the least want to make a scandal; and, above ah1, I don't want to distress the friend I live with. She's very pious, as I said; and she's been very good to me. I may say that at present she hasn't any idea I'm engaged."

The priest paused to see if she had finished. He knew the feminine way of waiting till the other began to speak, and then beginning again.

" That is all you have to say? " he said.

" Yes, Father."

He leaned back in his chair. He had been listening intently, with his hands on his knees; and he perceived that here was a case which must be dealt with quite strongly. He had detected no sign at all of hesitation in the girl's announcement of her decision.

" Well," he said. " I had better tell you straight out that there is no way at all of evading the Church's regulations."

" I don't want to evade them, Father."

" Please let me finish.... The regulations are clear. You have named the principal ones. The marriage must be celebrated in a Catholic church, and a Catholic church only; and the Non-Catholic party must sign a paper containing the promises. There are others as well as that which you mentioned, by the way. Unless these regulations are complied with, no dispensation can be given; and the marriage is not valid."

" You mean the Church does not recognise it. Other people do."

There was a hard ring in her voice. He met it strongly.

"My child: you told me you were a Catholic, just now. Well, as a Catholic you surely know that what the Church does not recognise, God does not."

" I don't know ahout that," snapped Marion.

He made a little gesture with his hands.

" Then you are not a Catholic in your faith," he said. " Catholics believe that the Church has power to bind and loose; and that what she binds or looses on earth is bound or loosed in heaven. If you persist in this marriage "

" Wait a minute, Father, please. These are new regulations, aren't they? When my mother was married, my father wasn't a Catholic, though he became so afterwards. Well, my father only had to promise that the girls should be brought up Catholics. And I know there was a ceremony in the Protestant church, as well as in the Catholic."

" That was before this decree was promulgated in England. Since that date these other regulations have come into force."

" You mean that a marriage that was valid twenty years ago wouldn't be valid now? "

" Certainly."

" But I thought the Church didn't change! "

" She changes her disciplinary laws as she thinks fit. This is one of them."

Marion was silent.

" My child," said the priest more gently. " I only wish you to know what you are doing. If you persist in this — this so-called marriage " — (her eyes blazed at him; but he went on steadily) — " it will be no marriage at all. This man will not be your husband in the sight of God, nor in the sight of Catholics. You will be living in sin "

The girl's head rose defiantly.

" Father; if you please "

" Listen," said the priest. " You have come to me to ask me questions about this affair. Then you must listen to the answers."

" They are brutal and false."

He smiled.

" My child, you won't hurt any one but yourself by talking like that. These are not private opinions I have formed for myself: they are statements of elementary Catholic doctrine. It is right that before you sever yourself from Christ's Church you should know what you are doing. I tell you it will not be a marriage at all; that you will be no more married to this man than to the policeman you meet as you go out into the street again. You will be unable to approach the sacraments "

" Can I go to the sacraments up to the time of my marriage?" she interjected sh.arply.

" Certainly not, if you have really formed the intention you speak of. You have already severed yourself from grace. But if it is only a temptation — and, my child, I quite see what an awful temptation it must be. You are very young, and you are no doubt very deeply in love with him. I quite understand that it is very hard; though I daresay that if you would just be a little courageous and would go to him and tell him the truth, he would consent to everything. However, if it is only a temptation, and you will try to strive against it — then, I say to you, go to the sacraments frequently — daily, if you will — and get grace to fight. You will find that nothing is too hard, with the help of God's grace."

She had dropped her head again a little, and appeared to be meditating. The shadow of her big hat was on her face again, and he could not make out her expression. But he hoped that perhaps she was reconsidering the matter.

"Think of it, my child," he said!? "Don't you think that with a little courage "

She stood up abruptly; and he could see. that her face was set, though it smiled a little.

" Oh! no, Father: I wasn't thinking of that. I was just thinking how I could tell my friend who lives with me."

The little motor-brougham that waited for her outside the west door of the church was, ironically enough, a gift from Marion to Maggie — ironically, since Marion used it ten times to Maggie's once: and Maggie never used it at all without Marion. But the fiction w«s kept up punctiliously, and every morning at breakfast, either Marion asked Maggie whether she might have the brougham at such and such an hour, or Maggie asked Marion when she wanted it. It was a charming brougham, and had cost four hundred and fifty pounds without extras.

When Marion came out five minutes later she paused at the step.

" Covent Garden," she said.

She really was furiously angry, and with her anger was mingled a very strong strain of contempt. It seemed to her intolerable, and not only intolerable, but ridiculous that any man could talk to her in the manner of Father Franklin. Who else but a Catholic priest would dare to say such things? And, could there be anything more ridiculous than that a limping little man in a shiny gown, with a blue chin, should speak to her so, when every other man she met, so far as she could see, from Mr. Harrison downwards — Max, von Giinther, the charming old gentleman with the Garter who had kissed her hand, publicly, last week, and the countless others with whom she had talked, would do their best to agree with her if she said that black was white, and if they could not quite agree would at any rate pretend to, or compromise on a dark grey. But this little man in the shiny gown had not only contradicted and snubbed her repeatedly, but had actually used expressions with regard to her marriage with Max that really were most unusual. It was all the tyranny of the priesthood, of which she had heard men speak — the absurd intolerant arrogance of persons who had had things far too much their own way, and did not know the world. Besides, who were these Catholics, after all? Surely it was too late in the day to pretend that there were no other Christians!

She cooled a little on her way to the theatre, and she began to contrast her present independence of mind with her attitude of, say, a year ago, even.

A year ago, even though then her religion was not what it had been, she would not have dreamt of formulating such thoughts as these which now presented themselves as if ready-made. A year ago a priest's word certainly did go a very long way, at any rate when he spoke of matters in his own province; and though she might have criticised and disliked the views he put forward, she would no more have disputed his right to do so than that of a judge to pass sentence in court. Ah! but a year ago she had not known the world. Munich was not the world, and she had only just come from it. Since then a number of things had happened. Since then she had mixed with ordinary people — people who were not under the shadow of the Church, or hypnotised by her strange atmosphere: and she had found these people at least as charitable and reasonable and moral as any Catholics she had known — and far more broad-minded. There was Lord Merival for instance. She was afraid of him, and did not like him: but no one could deny his acuteness or his power. Well, Lord Merival was not only not a Catholic, but, she understood from Max, strongly opposed to Catholicism. There was the old gentleman in the Garter — Sir Robert Mainwaring, lately elevated, after his campaign in Afghanistan: there was a soldier, and a gallant one, for he wore the little brown cross for Valour as well as the Blue Ribbon for splendour. Well, Sir Robert was a Plymouth Brother, she believed, or at any rate had been. Anyhow he read a chapter from the Bible every night: Max had told her so. There was the clergyman down at Standing: a liberal, well-educated man — far better educated than poor little Father Denny, with his ridiculous choir-practices. These were all good sound people: as good as any

Catholics she knew: and not a single one of them would do anything but treat with contempt Father Franklin's absurd assertions about marriage. What did the man take her for.? A fool?

She was a little flushed, but quieter again, as the motor drew up at the door of the Opera House.

The door was closed; but she sent the chauffeur up the steps to ring up the box-office: and a minute later a man ran down bareheaded and bowed to her.

" Oh! Mr. Parker," she said, " I want you to tell me how I can get a copy of that big photograph of myself that hangs in the entrance. I knew you'd be busy this evening; and I want to get one as soon as I can."

"As Elsa, madam, or as Isolde? They were taken by different firms."

" As Elsa."

" That was taken by Nauheim, madam. Cannot I save you trouble, madam, and order one for you? "

" Well; that's very kind of you," said Marion. " I wish you would. I want it sent straight to Miss Brent, at my private address."

" Yes, madam. Certainly. And you would wish it framed in the same way? "

" Please."

" Very good, madam. By the way, madam, a number of bouquets arrived only half an hour ago. Sir Robert Mainwaring has sent one; I can get you the list if you like, madam."

" No: let me have it this evening."

" Very good, madam. And they will be handed up as usual, I suppose, at the end of the Third Act."

"Please."

" And the Princess Margaret has telephoned again for the Royal Box for to-night, madam."

" Ah: it's her fourth time, isn't it? "

(She turned to bow to a man who was taking off his hat to her.)

" Yes, madam. About that."

" Ah: well. I must go and dine. Would you mind telling the chauffeur, Home? "

She was again a little flushed as she spun homewards through the park: but with a different emotion. It really was extremely agreeable to have a bare-headed man, notoriously haughty with his subordinates, run down the steps and take her orders with avidity; extremely agreeable to have another man whom she did not know from Adam, stop suddenly when he saw her, take off his hat, and remain with it in his hand until she drove away: agreeable again to hear that the Princess had ordered the Royal Box for the fourth time this season; and that Sir Robert Mainwaring, K.G., V.C., had sent a bouquet.

Certainly it was indeed all very different from a year ago; and once more, when she thought of the Jesuit Father, his figure seemed to have shrunk to even smaller dimensions. After all, what did the poor little man's opinions matter? They were only his opinions after all, and of a few more like him. She was of too large a mind to resent them long. Of course if he really thought all that, he was bound to say so. But how unhappy to think them. Meantime, she was to sing Elsa again to-night.

Her serenity, however, was ever so slightly disturbed as she remembered that sometime or another Maggie must be informed of the facts. That was not a pleasing prospect. These converts always took things so hardly.

Anyhow she need not tell her yet: and she could go on giving her little presents like that photograph she had just ordered for her.

As for the sacraments, she had already thought of a plan by which Maggie need not know that she was no longer going to Holy Communion. Maggie had often urged her to go to the Sunday nine o'clock mass, in spite of the fact that she herself, according to her Rule of Life, always went at eight. Well: she would take her advice at last, and go to the nine o'clock mass. Then Maggie would not know.