In the heart of Julia Cavendish--those earliest days--was neither hatred1 nor cruelty; only a terrible numbness2 as from a blow.
Ronnie, her own son, had struck her! At first she could not bring herself to believe the happening real. His letter, read and reread, conveyed nothing.
But soon the letter grew real enough--so real that Julia's imagination, peering between the lines, could actually see him with the woman who had inspired it; with the woman who had ruined her boy's career.
Her first impulse was to go to them, to go swiftly; to say to the woman, "It's not too late--even now. Return to your husband--give my son back to me."
Yet every traditional instinct in Julia fought against that solution. All her life she had schooled herself to the belief that adultery--in a woman--was the unforgivable sin. Men, of course, were never guilty of "adultery," only of "lapses3." Modern society, so pitifully lax, so given over to the sentimental4 impulse, might forgive both parties. Julia Cavendish could not. She, in her eugenic5 wisdom, knew that individual sin--in a woman--must earn individual punishment. Mrs. Brunton, therefore, could not return to her husband. But if Mrs. Brunton did not return, how could Mrs. Brunton give back Ronnie?
Mrs. Brunton probably took the ordinary tolerant view about divorce; the view that she, Julia, had spent a lifetime in combating. Not that her own public position on the divorce question counted! At any moment since Ronnie's birth she would have sacrificed more than public position for him. But this, this was a question of beliefs. Love might urge forgiveness but how could love countenance6 sin--a deadly sin?
For a week that stubborn old doctrine7 of deadly sin, which Julia had imbibed8 with a bookish Christianity--the same bookish "Christianity" which still tolerates the ghastly word "heretic," continued to harden her heart as it blinded her intellect; for a week she held on, with a tenacity9 almost Hebraic, to the fixed10 idea of the woman taken in adultery.
Then, as the numbness of the blow warmed into pain, her heart softened11, and her intellect--momentarily freed by sorrow from the blindness of all formal faiths--saw a ray of light.
Admit, just for argument's sake, that a husband was entitled to put away his guilty wife; and suppose that the guilty man were willing to marry her. What then? Could one doom12 the guilty parties to a perpetual living in sin?
But the ray of light petered out, leaving her in even blacker darkness, because--by the beam of it--she had seen herself already drifted so far away from her old beliefs as to countenance not only divorce but the remarriage of divorced parties.
All the same, mother-love still urged her to forgive: so that, for a full week, she went about her house (a lonely house, it seemed now; all the charm of the years gone out of it) in a positive stupor13 of intellectual and religious bewilderment. She asked herself: "Does anything matter except my boy's happiness, my boy's career? Does anything really count except love? Isn't love--and love alone--the true teaching of Christianity!" But she found no answer to her questions. Honesty said: "It's a matter of principle; judge the case as though it were a stranger's, not the case of your own son."
Nevertheless the argument of the individual case persisted. Memory recalled her son's statement about Aliette's relationship to her husband. If those two--the woman to whom she had taken such an instinctive14 liking15 and the man she had deemed, at first sight, capable of cruelty--were husband and wife only in name, didn't the case alter? "No!" said formal religion. "Yes!" said the mother in Julia Cavendish.
She remembered a phrase of Aliette's: "I have no children, worse luck." That was hardly the phrase of a loose woman, of a harpy. Suppose this woman really loved Ronnie?
But that brought back the old jealousy16. How could Aliette really love Ronnie? She, his mother, would have held her right hand in the flames rather than jeopardize17 her son's career--as Aliette had jeopardized18 it.
Whereupon the novelist's imagination in Julia started to activity. She pictured--knowing little of the law--a crowd of clients besieging19 Ronnie's chambers20, only to be told that "the eminent21 Mr. Cavendish" could not take their cases; and--thoroughly frightened at the heroic version of Benjamin Bunce and those few dusty briefs which Ronald had abandoned--sent for her secretary, the blank-faced Mrs. Sanderson, whom she told to ring up Sir Peter Wilberforce.
But Sir Peter was in Paris; and James deputized in his stead.
"Do you know what she wants to see him about?" asked James's secretary on the telephone.
"It's about her will, I think," answered Julia's.
2
Jimmy Wilberforce, who had not seen Mollie since his talk with Bunce and spent four sleepless22 nights in consequence, set out for that interview with the uncomfortable foreboding that the "old lady's will" was only a pretext23 for discussing the old lady's son. And the foreboding justified24 itself before he had been with her ten minutes.
"I suppose," said Julia, eying him across the Empire desk of her work-room, "that you, as Ronnie's best friend, are very much in his confidence?"
"How do you mean?" prevaricated25 the big red lawyer. "About his financial affairs?" He laughed, tapping the document between them. "Ronald isn't the sort of chap who'd borrow on his--er--expectations."
"I was not referring to his financial affairs," retorted Julia stiffly. "If you, as my son's best friend, and as the son of my own legal adviser26, do not understand the matter to which I allude27, the conversation need go no further."
Jimmy looked at his client, and noticed--for the first time since entering the little box of a room--how she had aged28, how ill, how ill at ease, how unhappy she appeared. Jimmy, the man rather than the solicitor29, was feeling very far from happy himself; and unhappiness, being a completely new experience, keyed him to unusual sympathy.
"We're in the same boat," he thought. "Poor old lady! I wonder how much she knows. Ronnie had no right to run away with H. B.'s wife. The harm it's done already! His mother looks quite broken up about it. And I--I can't marry Mollie."
"Mrs. Cavendish," he said, "I don't pretend to be as fond of your son as you are. I'm rather a selfish chap, I'm afraid. But if there's anything, any affair in which I can be of assistance to you--you've only to ask me."
She asked him, pointblank: "Do you know my son's where-abouts?"
He answered, "No. I didn't even know that he'd gone away, till his clerk told me."
Julia hesitated. "I'm speaking to you in absolute confidence?"
"Of course."
Jimmy chewed the cud for ten full seconds before replying: "You mean--about a certain lady?"
"So far, none." Now it was Jimmy's turn to hesitate. "But, speaking entirely34 in confidence, there are bound to be rumors--if he stays away much longer."
"You know nothing for certain then?"
"Officially--nothing." The solicitor inspected his finger nails. "But I'm afraid that, unofficially, I know a good deal."
"Including the name of the lady?"
"Including the name of the lady!"
Julia's heart sank. Wilberforce could not be alone in his knowledge of the truth. And that meant--publicity! "Tell me, Mr. Wilberforce," she went on, "before we go any further: Is a barrister who has been co-respondent in a divorce case disbarred from further practice?"
"So she knows everything," thought Jimmy, and discarded finesse35. "On that point I can reassure36 you. Even if the petitioner37 were himself a barrister, it would make no difference."
"Yes."
"May I ask why?" Julia's manner stiffened39 again. The conversation was unutterably distasteful: but she had been alone with her thoughts so long that even the most distasteful of conversations seemed preferable to further silence.
"Because"--the man, moved by a similar impulse, laid all his cards, faced, on the table--"because the sister of the certain lady is a--a very great friend of mine."
"And if"--remembering the meeting in Hyde Park, the novelist's mind jumped instanter to its conclusion--"if the divorce we mentioned were to take place, it would make a difference to the outcome of that friendship?"
"I"--Jimmy stammered--"I'm afraid so."
Remembering Ronnie's letter, Julia Cavendish felt aware of a new pride in her son. Ronnie might have been guilty of a "lapse": but at least he had not been weak. For it was weak, pitifully weak, almost caddishly weak of a man even to contemplate40 ending his friendship with a girl because of a scandal in her family.
"I'm sorry to tell you then," she said, "officially, that your unofficial knowledge is perfectly41 correct. I have incontrovertible proof--a letter from him--that my son has run away with Hector Brunton's wife, and that they are now waiting for him to serve them with divorce-papers."
Jimmy Wilberforce's brown eyes darkened with pain. It had been bad enough to know the truth himself; but to hear it from some one else seemed for the moment unbearable42.
"That," went on his client, "is why I wanted to see your father. Perhaps I'd better wait till he returns from Paris. You, obviously, will be a little--shall we say prejudiced?"
There are certain instants in a man's life when he comprehends his own character with revolting clarity. Such an instant those last words brought to the solicitor. In the light of them he saw himself as poor friend, as worse lover. He felt he could never again look Ronald or Mollie in the face.
"I hope your father will be back soon." continued Julia. "Naturally I'm rather anxious for his advice."
"Mrs. Cavendish"--Jimmy, contrary to her expectation, made no effort to go--"if I gave you the impression of prejudice by what I said just now, I'm sorry. My father will be away for at least another week. Meanwhile, I beg you to forget my own--er--personal interest in this matter; and to look upon me as--as a friend. You and Ronnie are in trouble; let me help you both to the best of my ability. Do you, by any chance, know Ronnie's address? If so, won't you, in strict confidence, let me have it?"
"I don't think I ought to do that without his permission," said Julia. "But I shall be very grateful for your advice. Tell me--I'm afraid I'm rather ignorant, wilfully43 ignorant perhaps, about these matters--how are divorces"--she stumbled over the word--"arranged?"
And James Wilberforce told her, in exact legal parlance44, the whole nauseating45 procedure of the English courts. He spoke46 of orders for restitution47, of "hotel evidence," of letters written at the dictation of solicitors48, of damages and alimony, and of the king's proctor. Finally--and at this the whole soul of Julia Cavendish sickened--to illustrate49 a point, he told her the inside history of the Carrington case; how Carrington, in order to blacken his wife's name, had committed perjury50 in an undefended divorce-case, and how--for fear lest she should forfeit51 her freedom to marry the man she loved--Carrington's wife had been forced to endure the slander52.
"So you mean," she said at last, "that in this country any husband and wife who--'know the ropes,' I think, was your phrase--and possess sufficient money to fee a firm like your own, can secure a divorce with almost as little trouble as they can secure a marriage-license."
"I mean precisely that," replied Jimmy Wilberforce. "Given the mutual54 desire to undo55 their marriage, the law--properly worked--puts no obstacle in the way."
"But if, as in this Carrington business, the desire is not mutual. What then?"
"Then, of course, there are difficulties. Especially if it is the woman who wants her freedom. In our courts, you see, a husband is still his wife's legal owner; a woman merely her husband's chattel56. A wife, against a husband unwilling57 to be divorced, must prove not only infidelity but cruelty--in the legal sense. And it has been held, over and over again, that infidelities--on the husband's part--are not cruelties. Cruelties--legally speaking--imply a damage to the wife's health." Jimmy reverted58, once more, to the inside history of the Carrington case.
Julia Cavendish, too, thought of Carrington when she said:
"Mr. Wilberforce, let us be open with each other. My son's letter is quite frank. He says that he and Mrs. Brunton have run away together; that her husband knows all about it; that they are waiting for him to 'file his petition.' What happens if he refuses?"
"That," protested Wilberforce, "is hardly on the cards. A man of Hector Brunton's social status would never behave like Carrington."
"I agree." Julia, who had been feeling for an idea, broached59 it very tentatively. "All the same, Mr. Wilberforce, I flatter myself that my knowledge of human nature is not often at fault. I met Hector Brunton once; and I summed him up. Believe me, he's not quite--not quite normal where the sex is concerned. And with abnormals, the normal course of action can never be absolutely relied upon. You realize, of course, my--shall we say difficulties?--in making up my mind. It would help me considerably60 if I were certain of the course this man Brunton intended to adopt. Could you--do you think--ascertain it for me?"
"I'm afraid"--all the legal caution in Wilberforce's nature repelled61 the suggestion--"that with the best will in the world I couldn't do that. Brunton is a K.C.--a very important K.C. If, by any chance, he decides to wait a month or two----But really, Mrs. Cavendish, with all due deference62 to your knowledge of human nature, I don't think we need anticipate any trouble from Brunton. All we have to do--you and I--is to await events; to minimize the scandal as far as we can; and to watch over your son's interests until such time as he returns to London."
The solicitor excused himself, rose, and shook hands. "You can rely upon me, you know," he smiled.
But, once more solitary63, Julia Cavendish felt that neither on James Wilberforce nor on any other lawyer could she place reliance. To lawyers, matrimony was a contract; to her it was a holy sacrament. Scandal, unpopularity, she could face; but not her own conscience. And conscience already made her accessory to the sin of adultery!
All her prejudices against divorce returned fourfold, submerging her intellect as in slime. After Wilberforce's revelations, the holy institution of matrimony seemed the unholiest of legal farces64.
She rang for Kate and ordered her to bring tea. "I'm at home to nobody," said Julia; and all afternoon she sat brooding, love and beliefs at war in her mind. All afternoon, her mind pictured Ronnie; the happy babydom, the fine youth, the clean manhood of him. All afternoon her love strove to acquit65 him before the tribunal of her beliefs.
And as day waned66 the romantic in her began to see something splendid in him, some courage akin30 to her own.
But in the woman she could, as yet, see no courage. The woman had sinned, sinned the deadly sin. Her, one could never forgive!
And yet--and yet--how could a mother abandon her son?
Suppose her son married this sinner? Stubbornly her mind tried to picture Aliette married to Ronnie. Stubbornly conscience repelled the picture. "She is Aliette Brunton," said Julia's beliefs. "She can never be Aliette Cavendish."
Then imagination put back the clock of her own years so that she saw herself thirty again. At thirty one had illusions; one had one's fastidiousnesses. And Brunton was no husband for a fastidious woman. Brunton might easily be a man such as Wilberforce had hinted of; an unfaithful husband against whom his wife possessed67 no legal remedy. What then?
"Even then," said Julia's beliefs, "she should have endured--as you, too, must endure."
"Yet how can you endure?" asked love. "How can you side with a stranger against your own boy?"
"Soon," answered beliefs, "you must face your God. How splendid if, on that day, you can declare to Him: 'I, like You, sacrificed my only son.'"
But love said: "God and Love are one."
And in that one instant of thought Julia Cavendish crossed her mental Rubicon. Formal religion went by the board. Be he saint or sinner, sordid68 or splendid, she, Julia Cavendish, would stick by her boy.
3
Now Julia was all impatience69. Let the divorce-papers be served without delay! Let Brunton do his worst!
But Wilberforce, summoned next morning, begged her not to be precipitate70. "Let us wait," said Wilberforce, "till Brunton shows his hand. At least let us wait till public rumor31 confirms private information."
Reluctantly Julia took his advice; and the slow days went by. Inaction chafed71 her. She did not weaken, but she suffered. Love needed the spur of service. Moreover, the old beliefs, scotched72, were not yet slain73. Conscience whispered to her in the long wakeful nights: "This is intellectual dishonesty. If it were any other than Ronnie, would you be willing to forgive?"
Her son's letter she did not answer. Time and again she took pen in hand; but always instinct, the instinct of parental74 dominance, restrained her. She had held the reins75 of her son's life so long that she still lusted76 to teach him a lesson. Since he had been a fool; since he had allowed the sentimental impulse to unbalance him in his duty toward her, let him write again. Besides, what could she say to him? It was not in her to slobber. When she wrote, it must be with some definite offer of help. To Julia, love without service always implied a certain hypocrisy77: and that one concept, though every other seemed to have disintegrated78 under the stress of circumstance, her set mentality79 refused to change.
So she waited--ailing, fearful, lonely in her crowded life; thinking always of her son; blaming herself for their quarrel; blaming herself for inaction; her heart humble80; her head high among the herd81 of men.
For as yet rumor knew nothing certain. The herd still patronized Bruton Street: you still met there, on a Saturday afternoon, the literary folk, the financial folk, the clergy82, the politicians, and the soldiers. To the outward eye, no tiniest detail of social life in that exquisitely83 tended house had altered. Friends, acquaintances, casual visitors--so far, one hardly missed a face. Even the ambassadorial Bruntons came, in semi-state, trailing with them the ugly unmarried daughter of Sir Simeon's first marriage and the two blithe84 flappers of his second.
Nevertheless, Julia was conscious of a growing tension.
Already--or so it seemed to her watchful85 imagination--the herd sniffed86 a taint87. Dot Fancourt's eyes were an unspoken question. Lady Simeon exaggerated, ever so slightly, her smile of greeting. Paul Flower's inquiries after Ronnie--no one who knew Julia Cavendish ever forgot to make that inquiry--held the semblance88 of a leer. Others of her circle, saying: "And how's the son?" appeared as though they were anxious not to be answered.
Here and there, too, a clergyman or a politician excused his spouse89 with a strained, "My wife sends a thousand apologies. She wanted so much to come with me; but her health has been rather troublesome this week. Oh, no, dear lady! Nothing serious. Nothing serious, I assure you."
4
On the first of July, Sir John and Lady Bentham (of the Bank of England) gave a rather solemn family lunch-party, at which--rarest of occasions!--the four sisters Wixton met under one roof.
Looking at her three juniors--at Clementina, ample of breast and bustle90, her chin duplicated and triplicated by age, her eyes piercing under their polished crystal lenses; at May Robinson, whose scrawny widowhood was alternately devoted91 to good works and the cultivation92 of her St. John's Wood garden; at Alice Edwards, typically the Anglo-Indian woman, her complexion93 faded but her joviality94 unimpaired, her blue-eyed golden-haired Lucy in attendance, but her livery husband abandoned in Cheltenham--it came to Julia, seated beside her gray-haired host at the head of the table, that families were a curse. Never a united tribe, to-day the Wixtons seemed more at variance95 than ever. Julia resented May's pseudo-intimate chatter96 and the tactless pryings of Alice. Clementina she had always abhorred97. And when Lucy tried to question her about Ronnie, her resentment98 reached fever-point.
For, of course--said Julia's imagination--when the family knew about Ronnie, they would gloat. Clementina, always envious99 of her treasure, would be in the seventh heaven at his downfall. May would weep a "Poor Julia! I always told her that she spoiled that boy." And Alice would chuckle100: "It's just like Simla. Married women are always the worst."
How soon would the family know? Ronnie's secret had been well kept; but it couldn't be kept a secret much longer. Had Sir John, perhaps, heard something already?
Julia's mind wandered away from the family to Chilworth Cove101. She had never seen the place, but intuition told her that it must be beautiful; and she found herself craving102, suddenly, furiously, in that stuffy103 Cromwell Road mansion104, for beauty, for the sea and the sunlight.
Perhaps, though, it was Sir John's confidences about his son which impelled105 the homing mother to stop her electric brougham at the Cromwell Road post-office; and write, with unsteady fingers, those six words: "Would my presence be unwelcome? Mater."
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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eugenic
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| adj.优生的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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doctrine
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imbibed
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tenacity
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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softened
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doom
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stupor
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instinctive
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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jealousy
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jeopardize
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jeopardized
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| 危及，损害( jeopardize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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besieging
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chambers
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eminent
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sleepless
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pretext
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justified
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prevaricated
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adviser
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allude
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aged
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solicitor
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akin
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rumor
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rumors
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precisely
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entirely
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finesse
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reassure
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petitioner
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inquiries
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stiffened
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contemplate
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perfectly
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unbearable
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wilfully
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parlance
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nauseating
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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48
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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chattel
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| n.动产；奴隶 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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59
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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farces
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| n.笑剧( farce的名词复数 )；闹剧；笑剧剧目；作假的可笑场面 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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scotched
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| v.阻止( scotch的过去式和过去分词 )；制止（车轮）转动；弄伤；镇压 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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lusted
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| 贪求（lust的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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disintegrated
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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81
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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82
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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85
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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86
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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96
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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98
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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99
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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100
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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101
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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102
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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103
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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104
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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105
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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