The French Lieutenant's Woman (58 page)

Charles flushed red. Mr.
Freeman's eyes bored into him. He could only lower his head; and
curse Sam. Montague spoke.

"My client did not
come here to defend his conduct."

"Then you would not
defend an action?"

"A person of your
eminence in our profession must know that I cannot answer that
question."

Serjeant Murphy
intervened again. "You would not defend an action if one were
brought?"

"With respect, sir,
I must reserve judgment on that matter."

A vulpine smile
distorted the serjeant-at-law's lips.

"The judgment is
not at issue, Mr. Montague."

"May we proceed,
Mr. Aubrey?"

Mr. Aubrey glanced at
the Serjeant, who nodded grim assent.

"This is not an
occasion, Mr. Montague, when I should advise too much standing upon
plea." He shuffled papers again. "I will be brief. My
advice to Mr. Freeman has been clear. In my long experience, my very
long experience, this is the vilest example of dishonorable behavior
I have ever had under my survey. Even did not your client merit the
harsh judgment he would inevitably receive, I believe firmly that
such vicious conduct should be exhibited as a warning to others."
He left a long silence, then, for the words to sink deep. Charles
wished he could control the blood in his cheeks. Mr. Freeman at least
was now looking down; but Serjeant Murphy knew very well how to use a
flushing witness. He put on what admiring junior counsel called his
basilisk quiz, in which irony and sadism were nicely prominent.

Mr. Aubrey, in a somber
new key, went on. "However, for reasons I shall not go into, Mr.
Freeman has elected to show a mercy the case in no way warrants. He
does not, upon conditions, immediately have it in mind to proceed."

Charles swallowed, and
glanced at Montague.

"I am sure my
client is grateful to yours."

"I have, with
esteemed advice . . ." Mr. Aubrey bowed briefly towards the
serjeant, who bobbed his head without taking his eyes off the
wretched Charles "... prepared an admission of guilt. I should
instruct you that Mr. Freeman's decision not to proceed immediately
is most strictly contingent upon your client's signing, on this
occasion and in our presence, and witnessed by all present, this
document."

And he handed it to
Montague, who glanced at it, then looked up.

"May I request five
minutes' discussion in private with my client?"

"I am most
surprised you should find discussion necessary." He puffed up a
little, but Montague stood firm. "Then very well, very well. If
you must."

So Harry Montague and
Charles found themselves back in the funereal waiting room. Montague
read the document, then handed it drily to Charles.

"Well, here's your
medicine. You've got to take it, dear boy."

And while Montague
stared out at the window, Charles read the admission of guilt.

I, Charles
Algernon Henry Smithson, do fully, freely and not upon any
consideration but my desire to
declare
the truth, admit that:
1.
I contracted to marry Miss Ernestina Freeman;
2.
I was given no cause whatsoever by the innocent party (the said Miss
Ernestina Freeman) to break my solemn contract with her;
3. I was fully and
exactly apprised of her rank in society, her character, her marriage
portion and future prospects before my engagement to her hand and
that nothing I learned subsequently of the aforesaid Miss Ernestina
Freeman in any way contradicted or denied what I had been told;
4. I did break that
contract without just cause or any justification whatsoever beyond my
own criminal selfishness and faithlessness;
5.
I entered upon a clandestine liaison with a person named Sarah Emily
Woodruff, resident at Lyme Regis and Exeter, and I did attempt to
conceal this liaison;
6.
My conduct throughout this matter has been dishonorable, and by it I
have forever forfeited the right to be considered a gentleman.
Furthermore, I
acknowledge the right of the injured party to proceed against me sine
die and without term or condition.
Furthermore,
I acknowledge that the injured party may make whatsoever use she
desires of this document.
Furthermore,
my signature hereto appended is given of my own free will, in full
understanding of the conditions herein, in full confession of my
conduct, and under no duress whatsoever, upon no prior or posterior
consideration whatsoever and no right of redress, rebuttal, demurral
or denial in any particular, now and henceforth under all the
abovementioned terms.

"Have you no
comment on it?"

"I fancy that there
must have been a dispute over the drafting. No lawyer would happily
put in that sixth clause. If it came to court, one might well argue
that no gentleman, however foolish he had been, would make such an
admission except under duress. A counsel could make quite a lot of
that. It is really in our favor. I'm surprised Aubrey and Murphy have
allowed it. My guess is that it is Papa's clause. He wants you to eat
humble pie."

"It is vile."

He looked for a moment
as if he would tear it to pieces.

Montague gently took it
from him. "The law is not concerned with truth, Charles. You
should know that by now."

"And that 'may make
whatsoever use she desires'--what in heaven's name does that mean?"

"It could mean that
the document is inserted in The Times. I seem to recall something
similar was done some years ago. But I have a feeling old Freeman
wants to keep this matter quiet. He would have had you in court if he
wanted to put you in the stocks."

"So I must sign."

"If you like I can
go back and argue for different phrases-- some form that would
reserve to you the right to plead extenuating circumstances if it
came to trial. But I strongly advise against. The very harshness of
this as it stands would argue far better for you. It pays us best to
pay their price. Then if needs be we can argue the bill was a deuced
sight too stiff."

Charles nodded, and they
stood.

"There's one thing,
Harry. I wish I knew how Ernestina is. I cannot ask him."

"I'll see if I can
have a word with old Aubrey afterwards.

He's not such a bad old
stick. He has to play it up for Papa."

So they returned; and
the admission was signed, first by Charles, then by each of the
others in turn. All remained standing. There was a moment's awkward
silence. Then at last Mr. Freeman spoke. "And now, you
blackguard, never darken my life again. I wish I were a younger man.
If--"

"My dear Mr.
Freeman!"

Old Aubrey's sharp voice
silenced his client. Charles hesitated, bowed to the two lawyers,
then left followed by Montague.

But outside Montague
said, "Wait in the carriage for me."

A minute or two later he
climbed in beside Charles.

"She is as well as
can be expected. Those are his words. He also gave me to understand
what Freeman intends to do if you go in for the marriage game again.
Charles, he will show what you have just signed to the next
father-in-law to be. He means you to remain a bachelor all your
life."

"I had guessed as
much."

"Old Aubrey also
told me, by the way, to whom you owe your release on parole."

"To her? That too I
had guessed."

"He would have had
his pound of flesh. But the young lady evidently rules that
household."

The carriage rolled on
for a hundred yards before Charles spoke.

"I am defiled to
the end of my life."

"My dear Charles,
if you play the Muslim in a world of Puritans, you can expect no
other treatment. I am as fond as the next man of a pretty ankle. I
don't blame you. But don't tell me that the price is not fairly
marked."

The carriage rolled on.
Charles stared gloomily out at the sunny street.

"I wish I were
dead."

"Then let us go to
Verrey's and demolish a lobster or two. And you shall tell me about
the mysterious Miss Woodruff before you die."

That humiliating
interview depressed Charles for days. He wanted desperately to go
abroad, never to see England again. His club, his acquaintances, he
could not face them; he gave strict instructions--he was at home to
no one. He threw himself into the search for Sarah. One day the
detective office turned up a Miss Woodbury, newly employed at a
girls' academy in Stoke Newington. She had auburn hair, she seemed to
fit the description he had supplied. He spent an agonizing hour one
afternoon outside the school. Miss Woodbury came out, at the head of
a crocodile of young ladies. She bore only the faintest resemblance
to Sarah.

June came, an
exceptionally fine one. Charles saw it out, but towards the end of it
he stopped searching. The detective office remained optimistic, but
they had their fees to consider. Exeter was searched as London had
been; a man was even sent to make discreet inquiries at Lyme and
Char-mouth; and all in vain. One evening Charles asked Montague to
have dinner with him at the Kensington house, and frankly, miserably,
placed himself in his hands. What should he do? Montague did not
hesitate to tell him. He should go abroad.

"But what can her
purpose have been? To give herself to me--and then to dismiss me as
if I were nothing to her."

"The strong
presumption--forgive me--is that that latter possibility is the
truth. Could not that doctor have been right? Are you sure her motive
was not one of vindictive destruction? To ruin your prospects ... to
reduce you to what you are, Charles?"

"I cannot believe
it."

"But
prima
facie
you
must believe it."

"Beneath all her
stories and deceptions she had a candor ... an honesty. Perhaps she
has died. She has no money. No family."

"Then let me send a
clerk to look at the Register of Death."

Charles took this
sensible advice almost as if it were an insult. But the next day he
followed it; and no Sarah Woodruff's death was recorded.

He dallied another week.
Then abruptly, one evening, he decided to go abroad.
 
 

57

Each for
himself is still the rule:
We
learn it when we go to school--
The
devil take the hindmost, O!
--
A.
H. Clough, Poem (1849)

And now let us jump
twenty months. It is a brisk early February day in the year 1869.
Gladstone has in the interval at last reached No. 10 Downing Street;
the last public execution in England has taken place; Mill's
Subjection of Women and Girton College are about to appear. The
Thames is its usual infamous mud-gray. But the sky above is
derisively blue; and looking up, one might be in Florence.

Looking down, along the
new embankment in Chelsea, there are traces of snow on the ground.
Yet there is also, if only in the sunlight, the first faint ghost of
spring. I am ver ... I am sure the young woman whom I should have
liked to show pushing a perambulator (but can't, since they do not
come into use for another decade) had never heard of Catullus, nor
would have thought much of all that going on about unhappy love even
if she had. But she knew the sentiment about spring. After all, she
had just left the result of an earlier spring at home (a mile away to
the west) and so blanketed and swaddled and swathed that it might
just as well have been a bulb beneath the ground. It is also clear,
trimly though she contrives to dress, that like all good gardeners
she prefers her bulbs planted
en
masse
.
There is something in that idle slow walk of expectant mothers; the
least offensive arrogance in the world, though still an arrogance.
This idle and subtly proud young woman leans for a moment over the
parapet and stares at the gray ebb. Pink cheeks, and superb
wheaten-lashed eyes, eyes that concede a little in blueness to the
sky over her, but nothing in brilliance; London could never have bred
a thing so pure. Yet when she turns and surveys the handsome row of
brick houses, some new, some old, that front the river across the
road it is very evident that she holds nothing against London. And it
is a face without envy, as it takes in the well-to-do houses; but
full of a naive happiness that such fine things exist.