The French Lieutenant's Woman - John Fowles (58 page)

"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.
 
 

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)

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.

A hansom approaches, from
the direction of central London. The blue-gray eyes watch it, in a way
that suggests the watcher still finds such banal elements of the London
scene fascinating and strange. It draws to a stop outside a large house
opposite. A woman emerges, steps down to the pavement, takes a coin from
her purse.

The mouth of the girl on
the embankment falls open. A moment's pallor attacks the pink, and then
she flushes. The cabby touches the brim of his hat with two fingers. His
fare walks quickly towards the front door of the house behind her. The
girl moves forward to the curb, half hiding behind a tree trunk. The woman
opens the front door, disappears inside.