iiili 
 
 i 
 
 \ sity of California 
 thern Regional 
 )rary Facility
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED
 
 BY ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 Noveh 
 
 THE OLD WIVES' TALE 
 
 HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND 
 
 THE BOOK OF CARLOTTA 
 
 BURIED ALIVE 
 
 A GREAT MAN 
 
 LEONORA 
 
 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 A MAN FROM THE NORTH 
 
 ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS 
 
 Smaller Books 
 
 HOW TO LIVE ON 24 HOURS A 
 DAY 
 
 THE HUMAN MACHINE 
 
 LITERARY TASTE 
 
 MENTAL EFFICIENCY 
 
 Drama 
 
 CUPID AND COMMONSENSE 
 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 
 
 -«-'■''»''■■■ '^ ' 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK
 
 WHOM GOD 
 HATH JOINED 
 
 BY 
 
 ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WIVES* TALE,- 
 "BURIED ALIVE." ETC. 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 NEW YORK.
 
 3^J 
 
 TO 
 ROY DEVEREUX. 
 
 611584 
 
 ENQJSH
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP PAGE 
 
 I On the Hill 3 
 
 II Rogues' Alley 49 
 
 III Annunciata 106 
 
 IV Mother and Daughter - - - - 141 
 V Afternoon and Night ... - 161 
 
 VI Renee 192 
 
 VII Phyllis 239 
 
 VIII Death 265 
 
 IX Matrimonial Division . - - . 285 
 
 X On the Leas 339 
 
 XI A Public Appearance - . . . 363 
 
 XII The Solution 393
 
 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED
 
 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ON THE HILL 
 
 WHEN I was young the road leading out 
 of the heart of the Five Towns up to 
 Toft End was nothing to me save a steep 
 path toward fresh air and far horizons; but now that 
 I have lived a little it seems the very avenue to a 
 loving comprehension of human nature, and I 
 climb it with a strange, overpowering, mystical 
 sense of the wonder of existence. 
 
 Bleakridge, a suburb of Bursley, oldest of the Five 
 Towns, lies conspicuously on a hill between Bursley 
 and Hanbridge; but Toft End, which may be called 
 a suburb of Bleakridge, overtops Bleakridge itself 
 by hundreds of feet. Immediately you have crossed 
 the railway, the street, with its narrow brick pave- 
 ment and cottage-rows on one side, and smoke- 
 discoloured meadows on the other, begins to rise 
 abruptly, and you feel that you are leaving things 
 behind, quitting the world below, and gaining a 
 truer perspective. You feel, too, that you are en- 
 
 3
 
 4 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 tering a mountain village, where primitive manners 
 have survived. There are small potbanks in Toft 
 End into which machinery has never penetrated; 
 the shafts of the coal mines look as simple as wells; 
 and there even remain, in a condition of habitable 
 decay, a few of those Georgian mansions which 
 earthenware manufacturers built for themselves 
 a century ago and which in other parts of the Five 
 Towns have either disappeared or been transformed 
 into offices and warehouses. The women at the 
 doors of the serried narrow cottages, each one of 
 which is a little higher than its neighbour, stare 
 at you for a stranger and ask why you walk so slowly 
 and why you gaze so long at the glimpses of Bursley 
 on the north and Hanbridge on the south — those 
 cities of the murky plain mapping themselves out 
 beneath. And suddenly you come plump into a 
 new board school, planned with magnificent modern 
 disregard of space, and all red with terra cotta and 
 roof-tiles; plants bloom in its windows, for the powers 
 down at Bursley have decreed that the eyes of the 
 children shall rest on beauty; you reflect that once 
 the children were whipped from their beds at three 
 in the morning to work till eight at night, and you 
 would become sentimental over those flowers did 
 you not remember that all states of progress are 
 equally worthy, and that a terra cotta board school 
 is not a final expression of the eternal purpose,
 
 ON THE HILL 5 
 
 though at a distance It may resemble one. Close 
 by is a cramped and tiny building of aged brown 
 brick, with no asphalt yard and no system of 
 ventilation and no wide windows and no blossoms: 
 a deplorable erection, surely! Carved over its 
 modest stone portal, in old-fashioned lettering, is 
 the legend "Sunday School 1806." Oh wistful, 
 unhealthy little temple of a shaken creed, fruit of 
 heaven knows what tremendous effort up there in 
 that village, the terra cotta board school is not 
 greater than thou, and it shall not be more honoured! 
 And so you pass onward, higher and higher, by 
 cottages new and old, by an odd piece of a farmstead 
 with authentic ducks on its pond, by the ancient 
 highway from Hanbrldge to Moorthorne, by a new 
 terrace of small villas with a sticky grocer's shop 
 for the sale of soap and perhaps stamps, by Non- 
 conformist chapels but not by a church, until you 
 arrive at the Foaming Quart Inn, which is the 
 highest licensed house in the Five Towns. A couple 
 of hundred yards more, and you are at the summit, 
 in the centre of a triangular country which on 
 geological maps is coloured black to indicate coal. 
 Turn then and look. To the east is the wild gray- 
 green moorland dotted with mining villages whose 
 steeples are wreathed in smoke and fire. West 
 and north and south are the Five Towns — Bursley 
 and Turnhlll to the north — Hanbridge, Knype
 
 6 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 and distant Longshaw to the south — Hanbrldge 
 and Bursley uniting their arms in the west. Here 
 they have breathed for a thousand years; and here 
 to-day they pant in the fever of a quickened evolu- 
 tion, with all their vast apparatus of mayors and 
 aldermen and chains of office, their gas and their 
 electricity, their swift transport, their daily paper, 
 their religions, their fierce pleasures, their vices, 
 their passionate sports, and their secret ideals! 
 Bursley Town Hall is lighting its clock — the gold 
 angel over it is no longer visible — and the clock of 
 Hanbridge Old Church answers; far off the blue arc 
 lamps of Knype shunting-yard flicker into being; 
 all round the horizon, and in the deepest valley at 
 Cauldon, the yellow fires of furnaces grow brighter 
 in the first oncoming of the dusk. The immense 
 congeries of streets and squares, of little houses 
 and great halls and manufactories, of church spires 
 and proud smoking chimneys and chapel towers, 
 mingle together into one wondrous organism that 
 stretches and rolls unevenly away for miles in the 
 grimy mists of its own endless panting. Railway 
 stations, institutes, temples, colleges, grave-yards, 
 parks, baths, workshops, theatres, concerts, cafeSy 
 pawnshops, emporiums, private bars, unmentioned 
 haunts, courts of justice, banks, clubs, libraries, 
 thrift societies, auction-rooms, telephone exchanges 
 post-offices, marriage registries, municipal buildings
 
 ON THE HILL 7 
 
 — what are they, as they undulate below you in 
 their complex unity, but the natural, beautiful, 
 inevitable manifestation of the indestructible Force 
 that is within you? If this prospect is not beautiful 
 under the high and darkened sky, then flowers are 
 not beautiful, nor the ways of animals! If anything 
 that happens in this arena of activity seems to you 
 to need apologizing for, or slurring over, or conceal- 
 ment, then you have climbed to the top of Toft 
 End in vain! 
 
 In such a spirit I commence the history of certain 
 human beings, including a man named Lawrence 
 Ridware, at the point where Lawrence Ridware 
 was riding a bicycle, with infinite eflFort and very 
 little speed, up the steep slopes from Bleakridge 
 to the summit of the Five Towns. But in what 
 spirit I shall make an end of the history I cannot say. 
 
 Lawrence Ridware had reached the age of thirty- 
 eight; nowadays however, we have formed the habit 
 of looking younger than our years, and Lawrence 
 might have passed for thirty-two or so, except under 
 the scrutiny of an expert observer who had learnt 
 to judge age by the sure signs of the eyes' gaze and 
 the limbs' gestures. He was an "admitted" clerk 
 in a solicitors' office. That is to say, he had ac- 
 quired the right to practise for himself as a solicitor, 
 but he did not practise for himself. Having spent 
 five years of his life and some hundreds of pounds
 
 8 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 in an unrcmunerative apprenticeship, and having 
 gone successfully through the ordeal of three exam- 
 inations, he now, at nearly forty, earned three pounds 
 a week — a salary quite exceptionally high and due 
 to quite exceptional circumstances. Some years 
 before he had been earning only two pounds a week 
 for the same work from the same employer, Mr. 
 Charles Fearns, commonly called Charlie Fearns, 
 of Hanbridge. Fearns had taken a young partner, 
 and, having no further use for Ridware, had char- 
 acteristically found another and a better place for 
 him, in the office of his half-brother, a writer to the 
 signet in Glasgow, who wanted a sound general 
 knowledge of English law in his establishment. 
 Lawrence had thereupon definitely fixed himself 
 and his wife in Glasgow. Then the young partner 
 of Fearns had died with dramatic suddenness, and 
 Fearns, characteristically once more, had demanded 
 his old clerk from his half-brother by telegraph, 
 and had got him, at any rate for the time being, on 
 condition of a further increase in salary. Hence 
 the three pounds per week. As Ridware had a 
 private income of a hundred a year, he might con- 
 sider himself, in the ranks of provincial admitted 
 clerks, a rich man. But he held no ardent interest 
 in money, and he had allowed the half-brothers to 
 despatch him to and fro like a parcel. 
 
 He was a thin man, fairly tall, with very thin arms
 
 ON THE HILL 9 
 
 and legs, black hair and moustache, and rather large 
 black eyes. His pallid face was thin, but the 
 nostrils were remarkably broad, and so was the 
 forehead, a forehead bossy above the eyes. From 
 the forehead downward the face narrowed quickly 
 till it came to a geometrical point at the extremity 
 of the chin, which was sharp to an extraordinary 
 degree and which protruded. If any reliance could 
 be placed on chins and foreheads, Lawrence Rid- 
 ware was such a person as makes his way in the world 
 against incredible difficulties, and is induced after- 
 ward to write articles in magazines for young 
 men entitled "How I cleared my first hundred 
 pounds" or "How I hit on my first discovery." 
 Chins and foreheads, however, are sadly unreliable. 
 
 He had beautiful, melancholy, contemplative 
 eyes, whose lids seemed always a little anxious to 
 close. His lids were thin and not very red, while 
 his hands, strange to say, were of a full habit and 
 reddish. He was neatly dressed: a very dark gray 
 suit, black bowler hat, turned-down collar, and 
 small olive-coloured tie. Women as a sex liked 
 him, with a touch of disdain. 
 
 Such was Lawrence Ridware, a being wholly un- 
 suited, by temperament and habits, to the exercise 
 of riding a bicycle violently up Toft End "bank" 
 (hill), with empty stomach, on a warm evening in 
 May. He did it badly — he was working as much
 
 lo WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 with his mobile lips as with his legs — but he did 
 It. As he approached the Foaming Quart he saw 
 a man strolling upward In front of him, and he 
 shouted In an agonized voice: 
 
 "Mark!" 
 
 But the man did not hear, and Lawrence set his 
 lips tighter, and frowned more fearfully, and bent 
 lower over the handle-bars, and forced the pace of 
 the machine until he had lessened his distance from 
 the man, and then he called louder: 
 
 "I say, Mark!" 
 
 The man, who by this time was within a few yards 
 of Lawrence's temporary residence, a small old- 
 fashioned detached house nearly on the very 
 pinnacle of Toft End, heard and stopped. Law- 
 rence also stopped; indeed he fell off the bicycle. 
 
 ** Steady on!" the other admonished him. "I 
 expected you at Knype, " he added. 
 
 "Yes, of course," answered Lawrence, quite out 
 of breath. "But I couldn't get there. I was kept 
 at the office!" 
 
 And, Lawrence having righted the bicycle, the 
 brothers shook hands, each nervous. 
 
 Mark Ridware, though three years younger than 
 Lawrence, looked older. He was taller and stouter; 
 his face was larger and fuller, and he wore a closely 
 trimmed black beard. Mark had gone to London 
 at a susceptible age, the winner of a National Schol-
 
 ON THE HILL ii 
 
 arship at what is now called the Royal College of 
 Art, South Kensington. He had succeeded. His 
 bearing had the touch of good-humoured arrogance 
 which success so often gives. His arrivals in and his 
 departures from the Five Towns were recorded in 
 the Staffordshire Signal. His clothes were far 
 better cut than Lawrence's, and his collar was the 
 antithesis of Lawrence's collar. In brief, he was a 
 credit to the district, beamed on by the portly friends 
 of his late father when he met them in the street, 
 and a tremendous favourite with women, some of 
 whom would cut his portrait out of illustrated papers. 
 Yes, Mark had reached the illustrated papers: 
 no small achievement for a painter. At thirty 
 he had quarrelled with the Royal Academy, most 
 ingeniously quarrelled with the Royal Academy, 
 Only a mongoose who has persuaded an elephant 
 to a formal encounter could appreciate the ex- 
 treme difficulty of Mark's feat. He was a member 
 of the International Society of Painters and Sculp- 
 tors, and a pillar of the New English Art Club. 
 The Royal Academy, deprived forever of his pic- 
 tures, struggled on without them. He painted ex- 
 tremely well. The sole question, when his name 
 came up at the Chelsea Arts Club or the Six Bells 
 public-house near by, was whether he had genius 
 or merely talent. He made almost no money by 
 his pictures, though examples of them had been
 
 12 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 purchased by several European galleries. Forihis 
 well-known "Lamplight" in the Luxembourg, the 
 French Republic had paid its customary price of 
 twenty pounds. If Mark had depended upon his 
 brush alone, he might have succeeded in Europe 
 at large, but he would never have succeeded per- 
 sonally in the Five Towns; the older generation there 
 would never have showered upon him its best cigars 
 nor asked his opinion on its champagne, because he 
 could not have afforded to dress for the part, the 
 increasingly powerful race of local dandies would 
 have outshone him and rendered his visits ridiculous. 
 Fortunately Mark, in addition to his brush, had his 
 eyes — those eyes, appealing and provocative, which 
 no young woman of artistic aspirations could with- 
 stand. Mark lived on his painting classes, which 
 were crowded with the most earnest of the sex. In 
 particular his summer sketching-classes, at Barbi- 
 zon or in Brittany, were the rage of cultured Chelsea 
 and immensely remunerative. His income was 
 perhaps four times Lawrence's income, and at least 
 a fourth of that of many a first-class grocer. 
 
 The two brothers were deeply attached to each 
 other. Save once, when Lawrence aged ten had 
 kicked Mark aged seven out of bed in the middle of 
 the night, no slightest misunderstanding nor cold- 
 ness had ever sullied their relations. On matters of 
 literature, painting, and music they agreed; on most
 
 ON THE HILL 13 
 
 other subjects they held opposing ideas. But they 
 seldom argued. And they were certainly not inti- 
 mate. So little were they intimate that when they 
 met, as they did about twice a year, the conver- 
 sation invariably flagged if they were alone together, 
 unless some topic of urgency happened to present 
 itself. And in the first hour of meeting they were 
 positively self-conscious. Yet their mutual affec- 
 tion was probably the strongest human instinct 
 in both of them. 
 
 Lawrence had telegraphed that morning to Mark 
 to come down and see him without fail that evening, 
 and Mark had come, supposing a sudden crisis of 
 supreme importance. But as to the nature of the 
 assumed crisis he could form no guess. He did not, 
 however, explode upon Lawrence with questions, 
 nor did Lawrence pour out a tale. Each, while 
 Lawrence wiped his brows, waited diffidently for 
 the other to begin. 
 
 "So you biked up after me.?" said Mark. 
 
 "I had to. I borrowed this jigger from the office- 
 boy. I quite meant to " 
 
 Lawrence stopped. The front door of his house 
 had opened and a woman stood on the steps. *' Look 
 here," he went on breathlessly and very hurriedly, 
 " I've not telegraphed for you. " You^ve come down 
 to see me, on business of your own. Understand? 
 There's Phil at the door."
 
 14 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Mark nodded comprehension. Like all favourites 
 of women he readily sympathized with any policy 
 of keeping them In the dark. 
 
 "I'll talk to you afterward," muttered Law- 
 rence, in a conspirator's whisper. 
 
 "Right!" muttered Mark. 
 
 "Why, what Is the meaning of thls.^*" cried Phyllis 
 Ridware from the house gate. 
 
 Mark raised his hat, and stepped forward to greet 
 her, smiling. All under his eyes the skin wrinkled 
 up when he smiled, and the minute net-work of lines 
 caused by this continual wrinkling had become a 
 permanent feature of his face. The smile pro- 
 duced in every woman the Illusion that she and none 
 other could have made the bachelor Mark happy! 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to know.^"' he chaffed her. 
 
 Then, taking her hand over the gate, and growing 
 suddenly very grave, he glanced at her with an air 
 that said: "With you I must be absolutely candid 
 and sincere," and he murmured, "No. The fact 
 is I've been getting myself Into a legal mess, and 
 Lawrence has got to get me out of It." 
 
 Phyllis Ridware gazed at her brother-in-law 
 questlonlngly, piercingly. And she dropped his hand. 
 
 She was nearly as dark in colour as the brothers, 
 a woman of middle height, with the least possible 
 tendency to plumpness, dressed in black. Her years 
 were thirty, and she had been married at twenty-
 
 ON THE HILL 15 
 
 four. She had a very beautiful face, beautiful in its 
 contours and in its pale olive complexion, but with 
 the beauty that appeals to painters more than to 
 common persons. The vast majority of people in 
 Bursley would not have called her beautiful. And 
 Mark's enthusiasm for her face had always been 
 surprising even to Lawrence, who was compelled to 
 admit in the privacy of his soul that Mark had first 
 taught him to enjoy more perfectly the rare curves 
 of mouth and nostrils and the severe purity of that 
 classic oval. For the rest, she was one of those 
 women whose faces afford little information — and 
 that chiefly misleading — about their thoughts, one 
 of those women who seem to be always communing 
 with nature's Inmost secret and never to be giving 
 you quite the whole of their attention, one of those 
 women who have no true appreciation of facts and 
 yet appear to possess the very essence of all wisdom. 
 Perhaps they do; perhaps they do not. No man will 
 ever know. 
 
 "And your luggage?" she questioned, opening 
 the gate. 
 
 "Haven't got any, except a tooth-brush. Must 
 go back first train in the morning." 
 
 "Must you?" Lawrence demanded, evidently 
 disappointed, with emphasis. 
 
 "Yes," said Mark, tapping the nail of his thumb 
 against his teeth. "I must."
 
 i6 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Phyllis glanced at her husband. 
 
 "You're in a nice state," she observed. 
 
 "Yes," he said, after a little pause, "I meant 
 to meet Mark at Knype. " (Knype is the main-line 
 station for all the Five Towns, and the radiating 
 centre of the local lines.) "But I couldn't. So I 
 jumped on this thing and tried to meet him at 
 Bleakridge Station. I was too late for that too, and 
 so I bicycled up here after him as quick as I could." 
 
 "I see," said Phyllis mysteriously. 
 
 They entered the house. 
 
 Phyllis shut the door, called the servant to wheel 
 the bicycle out of the way, and told her briefly to 
 lay another cover for supper. She then went into 
 the drawing-room, humming an air, and Mark, 
 after he had taken off his hat and coat, followed her. 
 She sat down to the piano, perching herself sideways 
 on the stool. Mark approached the window. 
 
 "Ye gods!" he exclaimed. "These sunsets alone 
 are worth the rent you pay for this place." 
 
 Phyllis began to play. 
 
 "What's that you're playing.'"' he asked, going to 
 the piano. 
 
 "Aren't you coming up to wash.?" said Lawrence 
 awkwardly, putting his head into the room. 
 
 Mark looked up from Phyllls's fingers. 
 
 "Not I!" he said. "You know I always wash 
 in the express, between Sneyd and Knype. It saves
 
 ON THE HILL 17 
 
 time, and It's something to do. Isn't my hair 
 straight?" 
 
 "Perfectly," said Phyllis. "Play this duet with me." 
 
 Lawrence silently disappeared. Mark piled some 
 bound music on to a chair, dragged the chair to the 
 piano, and sat down by Phyllis's left side. 
 
 "Five sharps!" he complained, "I shall never be 
 able to read It. And Schumann at that!" 
 
 "Stuff!" said Phyllis. 
 
 His visits usually started abruptly in this way, 
 with music. 
 
 When they went Into the dining-room, which was 
 on the other side of the small hall, Lawrence was 
 already seated at table. The supper (for it was not 
 dinner, and was not termed dinner) had been agree- 
 ably and even enticingly spread, and a suspended 
 lamp, with an orange-tinted shade, hung low over 
 its white cloth and crystal and blue china. Phyllis 
 seemed never to interest herself for more than a 
 minute at a time in her household, but she could 
 apparently choose precisely the minutes when 
 guidance would be valuable. She despised the 
 domestic craft, while thoroughly understanding It. 
 The house had been taken furnished by Lawrence 
 from an acquaintance on very advantageous terms, 
 and she had transformed it with the minimum of 
 labour from a furnished house into a home. Never- 
 theless she was not one of those feminine creatures
 
 1 8 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 who with half a yard of cretonne, several photo- 
 graphs, and a right-about-face of the piano insist 
 on giving the "woman's touch" to a room previously 
 habitable. She cared not for frills. I doubt if 
 she had the "sentiment of the interior." When, 
 six months before, Lawrence had allowed himself to 
 be recalled to England after four years spent in 
 Glasgow, and Lawrence as usual had been unable to 
 decide exactly what to do, it was she who had without 
 a pang suggested the storing of their furniture in 
 Glasgow until such time as Lawrence should have 
 communed with his soul and learnt whether the 
 residence in the Five Towns was to be permanent 
 or merely temporary. 
 
 Lawrence sat with his back to the window, 
 Phyllis opposite to him with her back to the side- 
 board, and Mark between them, facing the fireplace. 
 The room was full. Lawrence, with an effort, 
 asked Mark if he had seen a certain new edition of 
 Robert Greene. Their common ground was mainly 
 literature, in which domain Lawrence was indeed 
 capable of taking the superior place proper to an 
 elder brother. Mark might cut a figure in the 
 great world; he might lay down the law to Lawrence 
 upon the graphic arts; he might flatter himself upon 
 being exceptionally well read, upon his genuine 
 passion for reading; but he could not pretend to be 
 Lawrence's equal in the realms of printed matter.
 
 ON THE HILL 19 
 
 Lawrence lived for books; he could only live among 
 books; the little house at Toft End bulged with 
 books, but there were also stored many cases of 
 them in Glasgow. Lawrence did not write, did not 
 attempt to write; he could not waste time in writ- 
 ing. He read. In a word, he was a bookman. 
 
 Mark had not seen the new edition of Robert 
 Greene, and said so, and a dismal, disquieting silence 
 followed the host's forlorn attempt to make con- 
 versation. Mark perceived, and not too soon, that 
 the atmosphere was disturbed. He saw suddenly 
 that he ought to have accepted Lawrence's invi- 
 tation to go upstairs in order to chat privately, if 
 only for a few moments. Why had he not gone 
 upstairs.'' He was of course exceedingly curious to 
 know what had led Lawrence to summon him from 
 London. It must have been the attraction of 
 Phyllis's personality, and of her face, which had 
 kept him in the drawing-room. He was fond of 
 examining himself, of prying scientifically into his 
 heart, and he told himself with judicial severity that 
 in Phyllis lay the explanation of his error of tactics. 
 
 Had Lawrence quarrelled with Phyllis.'' No! 
 Impossible! Had some financial trouble supervened 
 and was Lawrence hiding it and was Phyllis sus- 
 pecting him of hiding it.'' Did Lawrence, to put 
 it crudely, want money.'' Impossible! Then 
 
 At any rate, Mark could know nothing until the
 
 20 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 meal was over, and in his quality of man of the 
 larger world he thought that it was the duty of 
 every one to live through the meal with tranquil 
 pleasantness. He therefore remarked, in a tone 
 pleasantly tranquil: 
 
 "Well, have you folks decided yet whether you 
 mean to stay here or go back to Glasgow?" 
 
 There was no immediate answer, and he pro- 
 ceeded, obstinately cheerful: 
 
 "I suppose you won't keep living in a furnished 
 house forever?" 
 
 "No," said Lawrence. 
 
 "Fearns wants you to stick by him, I expect?" 
 
 " I don't know. He may have a chance of another 
 partner," said Lawrence. 
 
 Phyllis meanwhile had contributed nothing but 
 the enigma of her vague smile. 
 
 "Do you like Glasgow, Phil?" Mark demanded of 
 her. "I forget." 
 
 She paused with a lightly laden fork. "There's 
 more *go' there," she said, pointedly. 
 
 "Women are cautious!" thought Mark, the ex- 
 pert. "No one would guess it, but she's having a dig 
 at poor old Lawrence's general lack of enterprise." 
 
 Another pause ensued. 
 
 "I saw the great Charlie the other night," Mark 
 presently resumed. 
 
 "What, Fearns?" Lawrence asked.
 
 ON THE HILL 21 
 
 "Yes. In the promenade at the Empire. It's 
 all very well, you know, but Master Charlie does go 
 the pace. He'll be getting himself into the Divorce 
 Court one of these days. And then what a sen- 
 sation for the Five Towns!" 
 
 And Mark was astounded to observe that both 
 Lawrence and Phyllis were confused to the point of 
 blushing. He was astounded because for years he 
 had been accustomed to talk with very considerable 
 freedom in the presence of Phyllis. Phyllis was 
 afraid of neither ideas nor words. Indeed her 
 imperturbability under a fire of straight talking had 
 more than once surprised him. And what had he 
 said now.? . . . Well, he gave women up, and 
 decided that Lawrence must be yielding to the reac- 
 tionary influences of old age. What had he said.? 
 
 Surely the reputation of Charlie Fearns was suf- 
 ficiently notorious! Surely it wasn't sacred! . . . 
 Perhaps the mysterious secret was connected with 
 Fearns. But how 
 
 Phyllis had retreated to the mantelpiece, in order 
 to ring the bell. She returned with a face perfectly 
 recomposed. And then the servant came in with a 
 tray and coffee. As soon as the girl had gone, Mark, 
 ^.with characteristic pertinacity, made one more 
 opening in the pleasantly tranquil vein. 
 
 "I see you've got a new servant since Christmas," 
 he said. "What's become of Lottie .? "
 
 22 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Lawrence appeared to mumble something. 
 
 "What?" Mark demanded. 
 
 "Married," said Lawrence, in a hoarse and 
 trembling voice. 
 
 And again husband and wife were blushing! 
 Mark abandoned the affair. He owned himself 
 defeated, utterly at a loss. After all, he reflected, you 
 can only be a man of the world in the world. This 
 was not the first time that he had tried to be a man of 
 the world in the Five Towns and had not succeeded. 
 
 The meal was a failure. It ended by being a 
 torture and an agony. Lawrence's condition grew 
 more and more deplorable. Phyllis stared fixedly 
 at her coffee. The tension was such that Mark 
 dared not even produce his cigar-case and light 
 a cigar. He was on the very point of audaciously 
 snapping the cord by a curt appeal: "Look here, 
 you two — I wish you'd tell me what's the matter, 
 instead of going on like this," when Phyllis suddenly 
 jumped up and held out her hand to him with a 
 smile of the most absolute placidity. 
 
 "Good night!" she said, in the gentlest and 
 serenest accents, just as though her supper had 
 been a unique conversational triumph. 
 
 "You aren't going to bed.^" 
 
 "Yes, I've got a bad headache. I must look after 
 your bed for you, and I won't come down again. 
 Good night."
 
 ON THE HILL 23 
 
 "Well " He opened the door for her. 
 
 "Besides, you have to consult Lawrence," she 
 said airily, with a strange intonation, as she slipped 
 out of the room. 
 
 Giving women up anew, and this time with a 
 renunciation more complete than ever, Mark shut 
 the door and strode back to the table. 
 
 "Perhaps you'll tell me what's the rowP'' he 
 addressed Lawrence, violently flinging down his 
 serviette. 
 
 "My wife's the row," Lawrence replied, and he 
 went to the morsel of fire that was burning and 
 poked it, and continued to poke it, staring up the 
 chimney as if he expected to discover something 
 unusual there. His voice was tragically desolate; 
 surcharged with woe, with disgust, and with the 
 asperity of disillusion. And as Mark's eyes rested 
 upon the thin stooping figure with the nervous 
 heavy hands and the slightly soiled wristbands in 
 the confined stuffy little room full of other people's 
 furniture, a wave of terrible painful sympathy with 
 Lawrence flowed up from his heart to his throat; 
 and to control himself he made involuntarily the 
 motion of swallowing and was startled to find how 
 dry his mouth was. He knew not what was the 
 matter between Lawrence and Phyllis, but the 
 quality of his brother's voice warned him that dur- 
 ing the meal he had blundered among primary, ele-
 
 24 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 mental things without guessing it, and that now he 
 must make amends by rising to the supremacy 
 of the occasion. 
 
 He could not speak, this man of the world. 
 
 "Pass me a match," said Lawrence, who had 
 
 taken an arm-chair by the fire and was filling his 
 
 pipe. Mark leaned forward and put a box of 
 
 matches on the edge of the table nearest the fire. 
 
 ■ ; "Well?" he managed to say at length, gruffly. 
 
 Lawrence puffed at his pipe. 
 
 "She's been playing about with another man," 
 said Lawrence between two puff's. 
 
 "You don't mean to say she's " Mark could 
 
 not bring himself to finish the sentence. 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Lawrence, throwing the match 
 into the fire, and sticking his chin out. 
 
 Mark felt the blood colouring his cheeks. He was 
 extremely uncomfortable. In the common phrase, 
 he did not know where to look. It was as though 
 he had been suddenly made guilty of some crime. 
 He had collected in his career various comforting 
 theories on the sexual relation; he was strongly in 
 favour of recognizing the facts of nature and of 
 marking conventions down to their real value; in 
 other words, he was an enlightened and large- 
 minded person. But these handsome, bold theories 
 ran away like cowards before his brother's concrete 
 case. As for the supper, it seemed monstrous.
 
 ON THE HILL 25 
 
 nightmarish, incredible, that the supper should have 
 occurred at all. 
 
 "Who's the chap?" he asked. 
 
 "Greatbatch," said Lawrence, gazing hard into 
 Mark's eyes. 
 
 There are hundreds of Greatbatches in the Five 
 Towns, but Mark did not put any further question. 
 Phyllis had once been engaged to Emery Greatbatch, 
 an under-master of the Middle School at Oldcastle. 
 He and Lawrence and Mark had been boys together 
 at that same school. 
 
 "Well, of course you've simply staggered me, 
 that's all!" said Mark at length. 
 
 "Yes," said Lawrence, " it's pretty staggering." 
 
 "But " 
 
 The "but" was merely the expression of Mark's 
 inferiority to the situation, the embryo of a protest 
 against the manner in which the situation had 
 shaken his confidence in himself. Frankly, he had 
 not so much as suspected that Lawrence and Phyllis 
 were on other than terms of mutual confidence. 
 Frankly, he had envied Lawrence, and during the 
 supper he had not ceased to envy Lawrence, saying 
 to himself that domestic storms and even battles 
 added zest to existence, and that anything was 
 preferable to the eternal void of the bachelor's 
 life. Thus, as a philosopher and observer, had 
 he reflected, blind as a child to the fearful
 
 26 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 reality into which he had stepped. It was morti- 
 fying. 
 
 "But what.'"' Lawrence puffed. 
 
 "Nothing," said Mark. "Tell me about it." 
 
 "There isn't much to tell," Lawrence replied. 
 "I got that this morning." 
 
 He drew a folded letter from his pocket and 
 pitched it to Mark. The letter was inscribed in 
 characters to imitate print, and ran: "Dear Sir, 
 Why don't you look after your wife and Emery 
 Greatbatch.'' This is a hint from yours truly, 
 A friend." 
 
 ■'The classic anonymous letter," Mark commented. 
 
 "The classic anonymous letter," Lawrence agreed. 
 "Everybody is against anonymous letters in theory; 
 every one says they ought to be ignored and the 
 writers thrashed. But in actual practice — well, 
 it's different. The average conventional man would 
 say that I ought to have shown that letter to Phyllis, 
 or burnt it and forgotten it. I couldn't do either. 
 And the average conventional man wouldn't have 
 done either. I telegraphed for you. I thought 
 I'd just talk it over with you." 
 
 "Know who it's from.^" asked Mark, gradually 
 recovering himself, and determined to show Law- 
 rence that a younger brother might be relied on as a 
 fount of practical sagacity. "You've kept the 
 envelope.'' What was the postmark.?"
 
 ON THE HILL 27 
 
 "Wait a bit, wait a bit," said Lawrence testily. 
 "That's not all." 
 
 "No, I don't suppose it is," Mark put in quickly. 
 "You wouldn't hang a dog on that." 
 
 "The postmark is Hanbridge Central. So that's 
 no guide. However, I don't care twopence who 
 sent it! I want to tell you about something else. 
 Last August I saw Phyllis and that swine walking 
 together out of St. Enoch's Station." 
 
 "Glasgow?" 
 
 "Yes. They didn't see me. It was an accident. 
 When I got home in the evening Phyllis said nothing 
 about having met him. And I didn't tell her I'd 
 seen them. I wished I had done so, the next morn- 
 ing, but it was too late then." 
 
 "Why too late.?" 
 
 "Simply because I couldn't have done it naturally, 
 then. Don't you see.? Well, I thought it might 
 have been a chance meeting. I thought that 
 Phyllis hadn't cared to mention it to me out of a 
 certain shyness, you see, as she'd been engaged to 
 the fellow when she was a young girl. That would 
 be natural enough, wouldn't it? Then I thought 
 all sorts of other things. The damned thing stuck 
 in my mind. The fact is, one minute I suspected 
 the worst and another minute I said the mere 
 notion of anything being wrong was grotesque. I 
 used to get up earlier in the mornings to see the
 
 28 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 letters first, but I never came across anything 
 peculiar." 
 
 "But I always thought you and Phyllis got on 
 awfully well together!" cried Mark naively. 
 
 "Did you,^" snarled Lawrence, in a tone so dry, 
 sarcastic and acrid that not another word was needed 
 to indicate to Mark the disaster that his brother's 
 married life must have been. 
 
 "I certainly thought so," he repeated weakly. 
 
 "My wife has been nothing to me for four years," 
 Lawrence proceeded. "She hates me. I believe 
 that woman positively hates me, and I " 
 
 "But she's so " 
 
 <<■ 
 
 
 My dear fellow, you know nothing about women." 
 Mark smiled sheepishly. (But his soul said: 
 Oh! don't L?") 
 
 I meant to meet you at Knype this evening, and 
 I thought we'd go somewhere and talk it over. 
 That was why I telegraphed you to be sure to catch 
 the three ten express. And just as I was leaving 
 the blessed office who should walk in but Lottie!" 
 "Your old servant?" 
 
 "Yes. I told her I couldn't stop, but she said I 
 must. I never saw a girl more changed than she 
 has in four months. She's as sharp as a needle, and 
 neat, you wouldn't believe! She wouldn't let me 
 go till I'd taken her into my room — said she'd come 
 all the way over from Stafford on purpose and wasn't
 
 ON THE HILL 29 
 
 going back without talking to me. Well, she told 
 me that Phyllis had seen Greatbatch several times 
 at a house in Manifold where he had been lodging 
 during his Easter holidays. You know the school is 
 closed for a week, then. And again once at Whit- 
 suntide — beginningof last week!" Lawrence paused. 
 "Last week!" he repeated angrily. 
 
 "How did Lottie know, if she lives at 
 Stafford?" 
 
 "She knew because the house belongs to an aunt 
 of hers, who lets rooms, for the fishing, you know. 
 It's just one of those coincidences that do give the 
 show away. I expect Phyllis thought she was 
 perfectly safe. Walk down the other side of the 
 hill here to Stockley, take the train to Manifold, 
 come back in the afternoon, and there you are ! 
 Phyllis didn't know who the aunt was, and the aunt 
 didn't know who Phyllis was. But last week Lottie's 
 mother pays a visit to her sister and sees Phyllis 
 and Greatbatch leaving together. There you are! 
 The mother tells Lottie. Lottie says she shall tell 
 me. The mother says she mustn't and that no 
 good comes of interfering with other people's bus- 
 iness. But Lottie sticks to it she shall. And she 
 does. And there you are! There you are! Noth- 
 ing simpler!" 
 
 Lawrence was now standing up, very excited, and 
 he kept repeating under his breath : "There you are !"
 
 30 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 between puffs of his pipe; and at each pufF his thin 
 fine lips closed tightly on the pipe. 
 
 At that moment Lottie's successor came into 
 the room. 
 
 "What do you want.^" Lawrence frowned on her 
 savagely. 
 
 "I — I came to clear the things away, sir," she 
 stammered. 
 
 "Clear yourself away! Don't come worrying 
 here now!" cried Lawrence, apparently furious, 
 Mark scarcely recognized his brother, so changed 
 was his manner. The servant fled before the tempest, 
 another victim of human injustice. She left the 
 door ajar, and Mark shut it. 
 
 "Look here, my boy," said Mark. "You'd 
 better sit down." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I want you to, if you don't mind." 
 
 Lawrence obeyed. Enheartened by this proof of 
 his authority, Mark at last cut and lighted a cigar. 
 Then he too sat down. He spread out his knees, 
 fixed the cigar in the corner of his mouth, put 
 his hands in his pockets, and smoked himself into 
 a cloud. 
 
 "Why did Lottie leave here.^" he asked. 
 
 "She left to get married." 
 
 "But she was only eighteen." 
 
 "What's that got to do with it.'' It seemed to
 
 ON THE HILL 31 
 
 me this afternoon that she knew a lot more about 
 life than I did." 
 
 "She doesn't like Phyllis?" 
 
 "I don't know. She likes me — always did." 
 
 "Hm! And how did Phyllis explain her visits 
 to Manifold to you.'' Or didn't she explain them.^" 
 
 "She's gota wonderful dressmakerthere. Cheaper 
 and better than anything in the Five Towns, she 
 always says. And you may be sure that she's 
 never been to Manifold without calling at her 
 dressmaker's. You may be sure of that! Trust 
 her!" 
 
 Mark hesitated before he asked: 
 She never spent a night there .^" 
 'Yes, by God, she did! On Easter Sunday! 
 She gave the servant a holiday." 
 
 "But where were you?" 
 
 "Wasn't I in London with you, man?" 
 
 "Of course," said Mark. "I was forgetting. 
 I remember she wrote me she didn't feel equal 
 to London." 
 
 "I should say she didn't!" Lawrence muttered 
 and went on: "Oh! there's no doubt about it! Even 
 apart from Easter Sunday night, there's no doubt 
 about it. . . . If you'd heard Lottie, my dear 
 fellow! By the way, Lottie's aunt must be a regu- 
 lar landlady — misses nothing. And women have 
 no sense of decency. You don't know! The things 

 
 32 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Lottie told me without turning a hair made me 
 feel deuced awkward." 
 
 "Fancy Lottie!" murmured Mark. 
 
 Lawrence sighed. "I've brought you down from 
 London for nothing," he said in a calmer tone. 
 "I wanted to discuss with you what I ought to do 
 about that anonymous letter — give it me here! — 
 but that's of no importance now. Still I'm awfully 
 glad you came." 
 
 " So am I, " said Mark, handing the letter. " But 
 why in thunder didn't you tell me about all this 
 before supper? I hadn't a notion. " 
 
 "My dear chap," Lawrence protested crossly, 
 "how could I? I couldn't get to Knype, and I 
 couldn't get to Bleakbridge. I only caught you at 
 the house-door. I asked you to come upstairs but 
 you wouldn't." 
 
 "You ought to have insisted.'* 
 
 "Oh! that's all very well," Lawrence complained. 
 "You were with Phyllis." 
 
 "The situation was Impossible!" said Mark. 
 "Impossible! Imagine that supper!" 
 
 "I know," Lawrence concurred. "But what was 
 I to do.?" 
 
 Mark was silent. He said to himself that he had 
 never encountered a more glaring instance of 
 Lawrence's fatal lack of enterprise and initiative. 
 Because he could not decide upon any definite
 
 ON THE HILL 33 
 
 course of action, because he was incapable of 
 taking circumstances by the neck, Lawrence 
 had submitted to the appalling humiliation of the 
 supper! 
 
 "The question is, what you're going to do," said 
 Mark positively. "What are you going to do to- 
 night, for instance?" 
 
 "I don't know," answered Lawrence. "I only 
 know I'm not going to sleep here. You must tell 
 her I've been told everything. She's no idea." 
 
 "Oh, hasn't she!" Mark exclaimed. "I bet you 
 what you like she has! Didn't you notice her 
 face when I mentioned Lottie?" 
 
 "No!" said Lawrence, surprised. 
 
 "Why, she blushed like anything!" 
 
 "I never noticed it. I didn't see her," said 
 Lawrence feebly. 
 
 "In .some way or other she must have smelt 
 danger — that I'll stake my life on!" 
 
 "In any case she's got to be formally told," 
 Lawrence persisted. "And I shall be much obliged 
 to you if you'll go upstairs and tell her." 
 
 "All right!" said Mark, crossing his legs nervously. 
 "Now?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then you'll put 'em in the Divorce Court at once ? " 
 
 "I — I suppose so," said Lawrence. 
 V^dl — zvon't you?" 
 
 (('
 
 34 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "I suppose there's nothing else for it," said 
 Lawrence uneasily, tapping his pipe. 
 
 "I should think there was nothing else for it!" 
 Mark retorted, wrathful. *'It's the only decent 
 thing to do. I can't understand your hesitating. 
 What alternative is there .^" 
 
 "My dear chap, I'm not hesitating," Lawrence 
 defended himself hotly. "I shall tell Fearns about 
 it first thing in the morning and get the petition 
 out at once." And he stamped his foot. 
 
 "Oh, well, all serene, then!" Mark soothed him. 
 
 He was ashamed of having shown even the slightest 
 irritation. Lawrence was not responsible for the 
 limitations of his own character. Lawrence acted 
 as he could, as his individuality would allow him to 
 act, not as he would. Lawrence could not be ex- 
 pected to be a combination of Lawrence and of him, 
 Mark. The general fineness of Lawrence's percep- 
 tions, the almost invariable distinction of his atti- 
 tude toward life — these qualities in Lawrence 
 presented themselves for Mark's admiration and 
 seemed to atone for defects which perhaps necessarily 
 sprang from them. It was ineffably tragic to Mark 
 that Lawrence, spiritually so delicate in organization 
 should have been selected by destiny to suffer this 
 coarse disaster, this disaster which overthrew his 
 nicely poised balance and showed him at his worst. 
 
 "Yes," thought Mark, "it is a tragedy at which I
 
 ON THE HILL 35 
 
 am assisting. And I may never get nearer to the 
 heart of life than I am at this moment!" 
 
 His mind swept back to their school-days. Great- 
 batch and he were in the Lower Sixth and Lawrence 
 was head of the school, a Titan of exact learning. 
 And they all imagined themselves such big boys, 
 while in fact they were quite little! And the in- 
 nocence of those days, the immaculate purity of 
 those days, appeared to him marvellous, ideal, 
 infinitely beautiful! Greatbatch used to be a 
 delightful fellow, and now, what a change! Ah! 
 This repugnant, vile process of growing up, this 
 soilure of the most perfect physical purity the world 
 contained, this commerce with women, women 
 to whom nature had denied physical purity! It 
 was lamentable, hateful, nauseous. One moment 
 they were all innocent schoolboys together, and the 
 next, lo! the Divorce Court. A chance spying at a 
 railway station, two lines of a letter, a few words from 
 a girl who only the other day must have been a 
 child in a board school, and the full crisis was 
 achieved! And what secret shames had made the 
 crisis possible, what misunderstandings, what 
 lyings and deceptions, what miseries, what morti- 
 fications, what anguish, what debasement! 
 
 It was nothing! It was the most ordinary thing 
 on earth! Two people had cared for each other and 
 had ceased to care for each other, and a third person
 
 36 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 had come between them. Why not, since they had 
 ceased to care? What was love? A contact, of 
 souls or bodies or both. What was the Divorce 
 Court but an administrative machine of the State? 
 It was nothing. And yet it was everything! He 
 could not look at Lawrence without feeling pro- 
 foundly that it was everything. Poor tragic figure! 
 Aged thirty-eight! An unromantic age, an age not 
 calculated to attract sympathy from an unreflective 
 world. But how in need of sympathy! Youth 
 gone, innocence gone, enthusiasms gone, illusions 
 gone, bodily powers waning! Only the tail-end 
 of existence to look forward to! And Lawrence 
 had never succeeded. He had never, after leaving 
 school, sparkled in the sunlight, never emerged from 
 the shadow. His was the common gray career. 
 Mark's love for Lawrence, as he furtively watched 
 him smoking Navy Cut there by the fire, well nigh 
 burst the bonds of his heart. It was intolerable, 
 more than Mark could bear. If English brothers 
 kissed, he would have rushed to him and kissed his 
 brother. He would have enveloped him in an 
 atmosphere of tenderness. He would have consoled 
 him by caresses for all his pain. This being out of 
 the question, Mark pretended that the wick of the 
 lamp was too high and turned it down somewhat. 
 
 "Look here, my boy," said Lawrence with false 
 calm, " instead of fiddling with that lamp I wish you'd
 
 ON THE HILL 37 
 
 go upstairs and speak to Phyllis, at once. We must 
 get it over. I'll go out while you do it. You can 
 ask her to come into the drawing-room." 
 
 "Very well," said Mark, and rose. He flattered 
 himself on being pre-eminently a man of action. 
 Lawrence rose also. 
 
 But when Mark opened the door, his heart beating 
 with timorous excited anticipation of the ordeal that 
 lay before him, he saw Phyllis in the passage. She 
 was dressed for walking, and wore a black hat and 
 jacket, and her gloved hands were in the act of 
 drawing a veil down over her mouth. 
 
 She looked at him fixedly, and dropped her hands, 
 in one of which Mark noticed a small purse. Mark, 
 entirely at a loss what to do, shuffled under her calm 
 gaze, uneasily. 
 
 "Mayn't I come in, then?" she demanded, with 
 a low but intensely clear and precise articulation; 
 and, the phrase achieved, her lips closed resolutely 
 into a firm line. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed and drew 
 aside in nervous haste to let her pass. 
 
 She entered the room, bringing into it with the 
 soft murmur of her skirts a strange and troubling 
 effluence. And she glanced around. Neither of the 
 brothers spoke. Mark had placed himself against 
 the wall, next to the mahogany sideboard, and he 
 was close to her, seeing her face in profile. Lawrence
 
 38 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 stared, at first blankly and then angrily, putting his 
 hand to his pipe but not removing it from his mouth. 
 Mark, though he wished, could not break the dreadful 
 silence. He too was reduced to staring impotently 
 at the apparation that had captured their masculine 
 fortress. Her face was beautiful beneath the veil, 
 beautiful! He noted the gradations of that rare 
 complexion, flushed now, and the exquisite grace of 
 all contours. The dark eye — he could see but one 
 — was soft and humid. The breast heaved quickly 
 and scarce perceptibly. This was the immortal 
 soul with whom a few short hours previously he had 
 been playing the piano. She was then as she was 
 now! Nothing had since happened save comment 
 on a situation already existing. And yet all was 
 changed! At supper Lawrence could eat with her. 
 And now her mere presence affected him with a 
 paralysis, simply because in the meantime he had 
 put her offence into words. 
 
 "I've heard a good deal of what you've been 
 saying," said Phyllis, and her mellow tones de- 
 scended on the room and its occupants like an even 
 fall of snow. "You needn't trouble any further, 
 m gomg. 
 
 No shame for her eavesdropping! Rather a pride 
 in it! And no trace of feeling in her voice. She 
 might have been ordering cakes at a confectioner's. 
 Were her eyes afraid or defiant, innocent or guilty,
 
 ON THE HILL 39 
 
 cruel or compassionate? Mark could not tell. An 
 enigma! A woman absolutely enigmatic! And 
 yet, he reflected, perhaps not more so than any other 
 woman in her stead would have been! The wonder 
 of women was eternal, indestructible, universal. One 
 was not more wondrous than another. . . . She 
 hated Lawrence, this Phyllis! But who could have 
 guessed it? She was impure! Who could have 
 guessed it? Her beauty and her charm were un- 
 impaired! They were triumphant. The pity was 
 that they had been wasted on Lawrence, that they 
 had meant nothing to him. What an incomparable 
 mistress, thought Mark! What a minister of love! 
 What a jewel to light the leisure of a busy, 
 creative career! And then he thought of Great- 
 batch as a gay, fresh schoolboy. Life was really 
 too complex. 
 
 Lawrence at last turned deliberately to the fire, 
 and putting his elbows on the mantelpiece set his 
 eyes doggedly on a picture over the fireplace. 
 
 "Yes, you may turn," said Phyllis quietly and 
 gently, with that maddening clearness of articulation. 
 "You may turn. Supposing I were to ask you about 
 Annunciata Fearns!" 
 
 She retreated, deliberately. Lawrence did not 
 stir, but a faint distressing smile came over his 
 pallid features. Mark experienced again the same 
 excessive discomfort as he had felt when Lawrence
 
 40 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 began his recital. . . . Annunciata Fearns? 
 What did the introduction of that name import? 
 
 But Phyllis was leaving. On the doormat she 
 paused, and twisting her head she addressed Law- 
 rence for the third time, quite ignoring Mark. 
 
 "Why you can't let the servant do her work and 
 go to bed I can't imagine!" she said. "You've 
 already made the poor girl cry with your rough 
 words! However " 
 
 She spoke with a cold, measured censure, and she 
 departed. Mark saw her prepare to open the front 
 door, every movement full of an instinctive grace. 
 The effort which she made, with one free, slender 
 gloved hand, to pull aside the old-fashioned brass 
 knob was too much for him. He rushed to her. 
 But she had accomplished it. 
 
 "Where are you going to — at this hour of the 
 night?" he asked her solicitously. 
 
 Her nostrils twitched. 
 
 "Is that any business of yours?" she asked icily. 
 
 And they had always been great friends! He was 
 shocked. 
 
 The next thing was the banging of the door — not 
 a loud bang at all, as soft a bang as the mechanism 
 of the door permitted. 
 
 When Mark went into the dining-room, Lawrence 
 turned toward him from the mantelpiece and gave a
 
 ON THE HILL 41 
 
 short dry laugh, and Mark lowered the corner of his 
 lips to indicate to Lawrence his opinion that women 
 were a race apart. But both men had a shame- 
 faced look. In some incomprehensible, impossible 
 way, she had put them in the wrong. She had left 
 them as a schoolmaster might have left a couple of 
 young sinners. In vain they made faces behind 
 her back. It was mere bravado, and each knew 
 it. Each was intellectually aware of his absolute 
 innocence, and yet each felt guilty. Of what? Of 
 something that never has been and probably never 
 will be defined. 
 
 Lawrence scorned to tell Mark that her insinua- 
 tion concerning Fearns's daughter was a baseless 
 insult to Annunciata and to himself. He was sure 
 that Mark did not need to be told. Yet he could 
 not prevent his vocal organs from uttering the 
 words: 
 
 "What she was driving at about Annunciata 
 Fearns I'm dashed if I know!" 
 
 His brother's sole answer was to emit a sound 
 blowing all that away. 
 
 Mark then, in silence, crossed the hall to the 
 drawing-room and lit the lamp there. The man of 
 action in him was now thoroughly aroused, and very 
 brave in the absence of danger. 
 
 "What are you doing?" asked Lawrence, follow- 
 ing him.
 
 42 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "Lighting the lamp," said Mark. "Come in 
 here. Poke that fire up. " 
 
 And he proceeded to the kitchen door. 
 
 "What's-your-name," he said very kindly to the 
 little servant, who sprang up from a rush-bottomed 
 chair, "Mr. Ridware wants you to clear the things 
 away at once. You can then go to bed. Better 
 leave the washing-up till to-morrow. But we shall 
 want breakfast early." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Your mistress won't come back to-night." 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 He quitted the frightened girl. Lawrence, who 
 seemed able to do nothing but follow him to and fro, 
 had stood in the hall to listen to him. 
 
 "Then you mean to catch that early train .^" 
 Lawrence complained, in the drawing-room. 
 
 "I must," said Mark. "I'll come down 
 again in a day or two if you like, but I've got an 
 appointment at one o'clock to-morrow I simply 
 can't miss. What are you going to do about 
 living?" 
 
 "About living? How?" 
 
 "About living,'^ Mark Insisted. "Are you going 
 to stay here? Or what? As a matter of fact you 
 can't stay here alone with that servant." 
 
 "I can get Cousin Sarah to come, till something 
 else is fixed up. 
 
 >>
 
 ON THE HILL 43 
 
 "Yes. Well, you'd better go and see her to- 
 morrow morning," Mark advised. 
 
 "All right." 
 
 "Don't forget it." 
 
 "No, I sha'n't forget. Of course I sha'n't forget." 
 
 Suddenly they heard the rattling of plates in the 
 dining-room. Mark shut the door hastily, and then 
 they sat silent for a long while. 
 
 "Where will Phyllis have gone to.?" Mark asked. 
 
 Lawrence shook his head. ^ 
 
 "That's more than I know," he said. And 
 without warning or exclamation he walked quickly 
 out of the drawing-room, and Mark heard the front- 
 door open. Mark made an aimless perambulation 
 of the room, and picked up the newspaper from the 
 piano, and read through the money-article, which 
 had neither interest nor meaning for him. 
 
 There was a knock at the door, which Lawrence 
 had left open. 
 
 "I'm going to bed now, sir," said the servant. 
 
 "Very well," said Mark benevolently. "What 
 is your name.?" 
 
 "Maggie, sir." 
 
 "Well, Maggie, here." And he extended his 
 hand and gave her a shilling. "You'll re- 
 member to be up early in the morning, won't 
 you.? We must have breakfast at eight, not a 
 second later."
 
 44 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "Oh, thank you, sir. Yes, sir. Eight o'clock 
 sir. Good night, sir." 
 
 "Good night, Maggie." 
 
 As Lawrence did not return, Mark decided to go 
 outside to find him. A wild thought that Lawrence 
 might be seeking to commit suicide shot through his 
 brain and was gone. It would be ridiculous to com- 
 mit suicide for a woman who for years had been noth- 
 ing to you, and who hated you! Besides, they were 
 Ridwares! Nevertheless, the perception that they 
 had reached that evening the far-off emotional plane 
 on which suicide became conceivable startled him. 
 
 Outside, the night was mild and strangely tran- 
 quil. In the vast deep purple canopy of the sky, 
 stretching in one mighty unbroken sweep from hori- 
 zon to horizon, all the uncountable stars glittered 
 according to their magnitudes and their colours, 
 calm, cold, and subjugating. The distant hills 
 formed a circle whose uneven rim was plainly out- 
 lined against the borders of heaven. Here and 
 there, in the direction of Dun Cow, and over toward 
 Sneyd, the reddish furnace fires of earth put out the 
 lower stars. And, down below, the illuminated towers 
 and spires of town halls and churches kept their 
 nocturnal watch over the Five Towns silent and 
 reposeful in sleep. Not a sound disturbed the 
 immense stillness, save an occasional dull roar from 
 the inferno of Cauldon Bar Ironworks.
 
 ON THE HILL 45 
 
 And leaning against the field fence across the road 
 was the solitary figure of Lawrence, hatless. Down 
 that road Phyllis had lately vanished, to lose herself 
 amid the sleeping hosts of the valley. 
 
 ''Lawrence!" Mark called in a low voice. There 
 was no reply. "How terrible life is!" thought 
 Mark, shuddering, while the beauty that spread 
 before him made the tears start to his eyes. And 
 he called again: "Lawrence!" 
 
 "I'm coming," came his brother's voice gruffly 
 from the road. 
 
 And Lawrence sauntered into the house. 
 
 "Better go to bed, eh?" Mark suggested. 
 
 "What's the use of going to bed? I sha'n't sleep." 
 
 "Take a sedative." 
 
 "Haven't got a sedative." 
 
 "No. But I have." 
 
 "What are you doing with sedatives?" 
 
 "I went up to Edinburgh last week by the night 
 train, and I always take a sedative when I travel 
 at night. The tabloids have been in this pocket 
 ever since." He produced a small phial from his 
 waistcoat pocket. 
 
 "No, thanks," said Lawrence. "I don't deal 
 in sedatives." 
 
 Mark paused. 
 
 "Well, shut the door, anyway. ... Is there 
 any milk in the house?"
 
 46 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "I don't know. I'll have a look if you like." 
 
 They lighted a candle and blundered side by side 
 into the unfamiliar region of the kitchen. They 
 had the ground floor of the house to themselves; 
 there was no woman spying to laugh at their gro- 
 tesque efforts to find that milk in the shadowed and 
 mysterious kitchen. They looked high and low, 
 in cupboards and on dressers, and they found every- 
 thing from lamp oil to cold tea, but no milk. 
 Ultimately Mark was happily inspired to search the 
 larder, and in the whitewashed larder, on a deal 
 shelf, amid cold beef and pieces of bread and 
 eggs and butter and half a tart, they discovered 
 a jug containing milk. 
 
 "Now where are the saucepans.''" Mark 
 demanded. 
 
 And their eyes ranged over walls in quest of 
 saucepans. 
 
 "Enamelled," said Mark. 
 
 The enamelled saucepan was secured, and with a 
 tumbler, the milk-jug and the saucepan, the brothers 
 formed an absurd and forlorn procession through the 
 woman-deserted house to the drawing-room, where 
 Mark with various precautions put the milk on to boil. 
 
 "It'll boil over before you know where you are," 
 said Lawrence. 
 
 "It won't," said Mark. "Do you suppose I 
 can't boil milk.?"
 
 ON THE HILL 47 
 
 And it did not. Mark neatly caught it in the 
 very act of bubbling and lifted it off. 
 
 "These things are always better if you drink hot 
 milk after them," said Mark. 
 
 "What things?" 
 
 "These tabloids." He produced the tabloids. 
 
 "You're going to take some?" Lawrence ques- 
 tioned with a slightly sarcastic air. 
 
 "YeSj and so are you, my boy! Where on earth 
 is the sense of having a sleepless night if you can 
 avoid it? You're so confoundedly conventional 
 in your notions. You're like some people I know 
 who won't play cards at all for fear the habit should 
 grow on them. Here. Chew up these three quick, 
 and drink half the milk." 
 
 With a gesture of protest, Lawrence complied. 
 And standing in the drawing-room they solemnly 
 masticated the tabloids and drank what milk they 
 did not spill on the hearth. 
 
 Then they went upstairs, with one candle, having 
 extinguished the lights. In Lawrence's bedroom 
 was an extra bed, which Phyllis had prepared. The 
 clothes were turned down, and a night-shirt of Law- 
 rence's spread out. 
 
 "Want anything to read?" Lawrence asked, as 
 they were undressing. 
 What have you got?" 
 Oh, I don't know," said Lawrence. There were 
 
 (( '
 
 48 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 many books in the room. "Seen that?" He 
 picked up a volume from a chair, A Book for a Rainy 
 Day^ and handed it to Mark. 
 
 "What's this?" Mark glanced at the title-page. 
 
 "You don't know about it?" Lawrence seemed 
 loftily surprised. "Have a look at it. What 
 puzzles me is why it's only just been reprinted. It 
 ought to have been reprinted years ago. Dip into 
 it anywhere. It's a bed book." 
 
 At the head of each bed was a candle In a socket. 
 Both Lawrence and Mark had read in bed every 
 night of their lives for a quarter of a century, and 
 the candles were so devised that they could be 
 blown out without raising the head from the pillow. 
 
 And presently, after Mark had carefully folded 
 his trousers in their original creases and put them 
 under the mattress to press, these two men aged 
 thirty-eight and thirty-five, one rather gross and 
 the other with graying hair, lay side by side in 
 their beds each with a book and a candle, amor- 
 phous masses of humanity under the clothes. Not 
 perhaps a spectacle of ideal romantic loveliness! 
 But there is something about them that touches 
 me profoundly. And first Mark blew out his candle, 
 which burnt red an instant and expired, and then 
 Lawrence did the same. And there was a vague 
 shuffling, and then silence in the darkness.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 rogues' alley 
 
 THANKS to Mark's obstinacy, Lawrence had 
 six and a half hours' sleep that night, 
 and in the morning the relentless Mark 
 forced him to acknowledge that he had done well 
 to take the sedative. He found himself in the stern 
 managerial hands of Mark, whose instinct toward 
 being practical seemed only to have been sharpened 
 by the sedative. Mark arose early, and Mark 
 called the servant, and Mark superintended the 
 praeprandial labours of the servant, and Mark com- 
 posed the menu of the breakfast with one eye on 
 the larder and the other on the progress of the 
 kitchen fire. Unhappily, owing to the nocturnal 
 orgy of milk, the menu had to be composed without 
 milk, for the milkman did not arrive in those alti- 
 tudes until after eight o'clock. Mark told Law- 
 rence exactly when he must get up; his organizing 
 skill did not disdain to scheme the due cleaning of 
 boots; and when breakfast was over he took out his 
 watch and informed Lawrence that they must be 
 ready to start in five minutes. 
 
 49
 
 50 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 By such precautions there was no undignified 
 hurry, no unhealthy haste. They walked in com- 
 fort down the long hillside to Bleakridge Station. 
 And Lawrence perceived that a new day had dawned 
 over the Five Towns, and the calm indifference 
 of nature struck him like a revelation. It seemed 
 a year since the previous morning, but the sun had 
 counted only his usual twenty-four hours, and was 
 refusing, pleasantly yet firmly, to admit that any- 
 thing worthy of special notice had occurred. And 
 they got into the Loop Line train for Knype, Mark 
 having looked and found an empty compartment. 
 They scarcely talked at all; each appeared to be 
 meditative, and even shy; they were tongue-tied; 
 and moreover there was nothing really useful to 
 say. So they sat face to face, yawning occasionally 
 from the effects of the sedative. Then the train 
 threw them out on to Knype platform at nine 
 twenty. 
 
 Knype is no mean railway-station. It is the 
 head-quarters of a local railway company with a 
 capital of over ten millions of money, a gross income 
 of nearly a million, and a permanent way of two 
 hundred miles — a steady four per cent. line. Over 
 two hundred trains a day passed through Knype, 
 and between five and fifty thousand passengers; 
 not one train offers to the Five Town« the insult 
 of not stopping there. These facts speak. And
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 51 
 
 the Five Towns always observe with haughty satis- 
 faction that the local company takes its place natur- 
 ally among the "principal" companies of the United 
 Kingdom. Now the lordly up-platform of Knype 
 is at its best between nine-twenty and nine-forty in 
 the morning, for at the latter instant of time the 
 Manchester to London corridor express, having 
 paused five minutes alongside, steams out while 
 porters cry proudly: "Next stop Euston!" The 
 worlds of pleasure and of business meet on that 
 platform to await the great train with its two engines. 
 The spacious pavement is crowded with the correct- 
 ness of travelling suits and suit-cases; it is alive 
 with the spurious calm of those who are about to 
 travel and to whom travelling is an everyday trifle. 
 "Going up to the village?" the wits ask, and are 
 answered by nods in a fashion to indicate that 
 going up to the village Is a supreme bore. And yet 
 beneath all this weary satiety there lurks in each 
 demeanour a suppressed anticipatory eagerness, a 
 consciousness of vast enterprise, that would not be 
 unsuitable If the London train were a caravan 
 setting forth to Bagdad. You can see Bagdad 
 written on the foreheads of even those weary second- 
 class season-ticket holders who go first-class by 
 arrangement with the Grand Vizier of the train, 
 and, bridge-despisers, play solo whist for a hundred 
 and forty-six miles.
 
 52 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Into this crowd Lawrence descended with the 
 illusion that everybody was staring at him curiously. 
 He blushed when acquaintances addressed him, 
 and replied gruffly, almost fiercely. Mark had to 
 behave otherwise. Mark, though far from being 
 the richest, was the most distinguished person on 
 the platform. Mark felt it, and the broader-minded 
 people felt it. Consequently Mark had to practise 
 all his natural affability, as much to commercial 
 travellers who had been his schoolfellows as to 
 magnates who could have given him a thousand 
 guineas for a portrait without incommoding them- 
 selves in the least. At the same time, he had to 
 avoid making a companion for the journey, for he 
 was exceedingly fastidious in the choice of travel- 
 ling companions. His role demanded the nicest 
 tact, but he was equal to it. The brothers stuck 
 close together, full of Lawrence's woe and of their 
 unspoken affection, and after Mark had flung down 
 a penny for the Manchester Guardian, they began 
 to discuss the contents of Smith's book stall with 
 the enlightened severity of genuine bookmen and 
 impassioned readers, and in this pleasing exercise 
 of exact valuation they grew quite talkative and were 
 surprised when the express rolled grandiosely in. 
 
 "Well, you'll send me a line, eh?" said Mark, 
 as they struggled through the prosperous mob 
 assaulting the train.
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 53 
 
 "Yes," said Lawrence. 
 
 "Might send a line to-night — if anything hap- 
 pens. Let me hear, anyhow." 
 
 "All right," said Lawrence. 
 
 "And look here — I'll come down again at the 
 week-end." 
 
 "I wish to God you would!" Lawrence replied 
 earnestly, shaking hands. 
 
 "I will. Saturday afternoon. Ta, ta." 
 
 Mark climbed up into a carriage, and stood there, 
 slightly conscious of his distinction, with the Man- 
 chester Guardian and J Book for a Rainy Day 
 under his arm. And the train gradually swallowed 
 up the elite of the crowd. 
 
 "Going to lunch on board?" asked Lawrence. 
 
 "No. I'm lunching at the Continental at one,'* 
 Mark answered. 
 
 It was the first hint he had given to explain the 
 absolute necessity of his departure by that train. 
 After a moment he winked. Lawrence, however, 
 ignored the wink. Mark's tact had failed him. 
 
 " I'll give you that book if you like," said Lawrence 
 moved by a sudden impulse. 
 
 "I'm enchanted. "Well " He waved a 
 
 gloved hand. 
 
 They nodded to each other sternly, without a 
 smile, as the carriage began to slide away. 
 - At Knype the train leaves behind its tail, which
 
 54 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 grows a new head like the fabled snake, and rushes 
 off to Birmingham with a minor grandiosity of its 
 own. Just as Lawrence was slowly quitting the 
 station he saw a woman hurry out of the booking- 
 office and across the platform — a well-dressed 
 woman of forty or so, rather stout, obviously the 
 mother of a family, with a kind, melancholy, sen- 
 sible, maternal face. She got into the Birming- 
 ham train and sat down breathless, and then rose 
 again to arrange her skirts. Lawrence, after hesi- 
 tating, went to the carriage window. 
 
 "Good morning, Mrs. Fearns," he attracted her 
 attention, saluting. "Are you all right? Can I 
 do anything for you.'"' 
 
 She turned quickly, and the maternal face, beam- 
 ing, broke into a beautiful smile. 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Ridware!" she exclaimed. "It's very 
 good of you. I think I'm all right, thanks." 
 
 "Travelling alone.'"' 
 
 "Yes, and I do so hate it. I'm going to see my 
 sister in Birmingham. She's ill!" 
 
 "Nothing serious.^" 
 
 "I don't know," said Mrs. Fearns gravely. 
 "That's what I have to find out." 
 
 The guard whistled and waved. 
 
 "Let's hope not," said Lawrence. 
 
 "Yes. Good morning! And thanks so much 
 for looking after me."
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 55 
 
 She bowed twice, and he uncovered, with a depre- 
 cating gesture. In a few seconds the platform was 
 deserted. 
 
 It was astonishing how this banal dialogue 
 remained in his sick and tortured mind, like some- 
 thing gracious, healing, and divine. He admired 
 Mrs. Fearns very much. Her personality seemed 
 always to radiate kindliness, her face denied the 
 very existence of evil and transformed the world. 
 As what Midas touched was turned to gold, so what 
 her honest eyes dwelt on was turned to good. 
 Such women exist. Lawrence reflected for the 
 thousandth time that Fearns was unworthy of his 
 wife. Fearns's conduct, indeed, was inexplicable 
 — simply inexplicable — for Fearns was not a 
 fool, nor a brute. If he, Lawrence, could have had 
 such a wife, instead of Phyllis, how he would have 
 cherished and enfolded her and made her existence 
 heaven itself! An infinite regret surged over him. 
 
 And as he walked slowly up the broad Knype 
 road to Hanbridge, past the new park and the 
 cemetery, and past the houses of the comfortable 
 and the aristocratic earthenware manufactories 
 with names of world-wide celebrity across their 
 gates (In one of them his father had fulfilled an 
 honourable commercial destijiy), and while electric 
 cars shot to and fro, and carts cheerfully rattled
 
 S6 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 and heavy wagons groaned, and the populace went 
 its ways, his bitter thoughts began to range over the 
 years of his marriage like lost spirits over a field 
 of disaster. 
 
 He had heard of Phyllis for a year or two before 
 he met her by accident in London in the studio of 
 a friend of Mark's. She was the daughter of an 
 architect at Hanbridge, and when quite young had 
 acquired a vague reputation for being out of the 
 common. She had become a schoolmistress because 
 she had theories about education, not in order to 
 earn her living. Then, on the slightest resources, 
 she had gone to London to study education. In 
 the studio she had impressed Lawrence at once. 
 She was well dressed in a bluish-green colour and 
 she had a bluish-green parasol exactly to match. 
 She was very self-possessed; she had her strange 
 mysterious smile; she put Lawrence at his ease in 
 the difficult studio; she listened to him with atten- 
 tion. It seemed extraordinary to Lawrence that 
 she should be a product of the Five Towns. He 
 quitted the studio with regret. Then Mark raved 
 of her beauty and Mark said she was a remarkable 
 woman. Then Lawrence, thus encouraged, defined 
 to himself the feeling that lay in the depth of his 
 mind. He put it: "I've never met a girl like that 
 before." What he meant was: "There is some- 
 thing about that girl which makes her unique
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 57 
 
 among her sex." He honestly believed that he 
 had been regarding Phyllis with a clear, cold, unprej- 
 udiced eye, and that nature had indeed singled 
 her out to be the recipient of supreme feminine 
 qualities. He was convinced that the first celibate 
 great poet or musician who happened on Phyllis 
 would carry her off and marry her. Then he re- 
 turned to the Five Towns. He did not expect to 
 see her again, and he saw her again within a fort- 
 night, in Hanbridge. Her father had died; she had 
 come home to be a daughter to her mother. She 
 was in mourning, seriously cheerful, quiet, self- 
 possessed, equal to the occasion, with the mysterious 
 smile more wondrous than ever under her black hat. 
 She asked him to call and see her; she said she was 
 sure her mother would be delighted to see him. He 
 did not, perhaps, care for her quite so much at that 
 interview in the street; infinitesimal traces of the 
 Five Towns showed themselves in her; but he still 
 admired her enormously. 
 
 He called, with a peculiar mixture of reluct- 
 ance and eagerness. He liked Mrs. Capewell. 
 He liked Phyllis's way of serving the tea. The 
 scheme of marrying Phyllis appeared inconceiv- 
 able. She was destined for great poets. She would 
 
 never . . . no! 
 
 One day Mrs. Capewell, talking to him with de- 
 lightful intimacy, told him that Phyllis had once
 
 58 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 been engaged to Greatbatch, and that the breaking- 
 off of the match was one of poor Phyllis's reasons 
 for going to London. Lawrence, characteristically, 
 had contrived to live in the Five Towns during those 
 years without hearing a word of such an engagement. 
 It shocked him; Phyllis had kissed Greatbatch! 
 He recovered; she helped him. The scheme of 
 marrying her seemed now just wildly conceivable. 
 He spent a year in resolving to propose to her. 
 He was ill with excitement for two days before he 
 did it, and could neither sleep nor assimilate his 
 food. She asked him gently what was the matter 
 with him, and he informed her, nearly fainting. 
 He was that sort of man. He also informed her 
 of the secret history of his parents, as related to 
 him by his father long after his mother's death. 
 Mrs. Capewell and Mark were quite foolishly joyous 
 over the engagment, and the fact of its existence 
 put a strain on Lawrence's powers of belief. Why 
 should this astounding happiness have occurred 
 to him.'' There was only one Phyllis in the world, 
 and he had got her! Luck, undeserved luck! 
 In brief, Lawrence's case did not differ in any 
 material way from that of the lover in the average 
 English romantic engagement. 
 
 They were married. 
 
 Lawrence had no experience whatever of women, 
 and all the innumerable books he had read had
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 59 
 
 taught him nothing. He married as a child picks 
 up a razor. The first thing that startled him was 
 the tone in which Phyllis said that her mother should 
 not live with them. Though Lawrence himself 
 was quite prepared to admit Mrs. Capewell to their 
 household, and though he was somewhat surprised 
 at Phyllis's objection, he perfectly recognized her 
 right of veto; what startled him was the suddenly 
 hard, curt voice that exercised the veto. That 
 voice showed him another Phyllis in a single flash. 
 In three months he perceived with dismay that the 
 ecstasy of the honeymoon was dissipated — he 
 knew not how! He was capable of being bored by 
 Phyllis. Then they had a quarrel. It was about 
 nothing; its pettiness humiliated Lawrence; but the 
 thing happened one morning on waking up, when 
 Lawrence's nerves were in a delicate condition: 
 he was a bad sleeper; Phyllis slept like a log. He 
 went to the office and did no work at all, his mind 
 preoccupied by this terrible schism. Undoubtedly 
 right was on his side; he knew it; and he had a 
 passion for justice, also considerable self-respect. 
 By the time he returned home he had arranged all 
 the arguments by which he should convince Phyllis 
 that her conduct had not been entirely justifiable; 
 he had a persuasive answer to anything she could 
 possibly say. During supper he broke the silence 
 which had begun before breakfast. She flew at him.
 
 6o WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 •f 
 
 She strangled his sentences. Instead of artfully 
 indicating a compromise, she consolidated her po- 
 sition and made a reconciliation doubly difficult. 
 The way that woman ignored the common rules and 
 decencies of debate shocked Lawrence, and he 
 learned more concerning women in ten minutes 
 than all his previous life had taught him. She had 
 no sense of logic nor of justice; she misquoted him; 
 she misrepresented him; she dragged in a thousand 
 matters quite irrelevant to the subject in hand. 
 Lawrence recovered from his shock and became 
 really angry. When roused he was himself alarming. 
 He beat down her defences one by one; by dint of 
 repeating the same phrases fifty times he forced her 
 into a muteness which was at any rate not a denial 
 of the truth. Then, perceiving his advantage, 
 he grew magnificently calm; he adopted a firmer 
 attitude, and swore in his heart that she should 
 express to him some sort of regret; after all, he could 
 manage a woman. At length, with the most tactful 
 precautions, he let out the word "regret." And 
 in an instant he had lost everything, and was 
 obliged to start again. That he did start again was 
 a tribute to his chin. A second time he beat down 
 her defences, new and original defences; and a se- 
 cond time he was loosing the word **regret" when 
 suddenly in the very middle of one of her own bitter, 
 cruel, scowling responses, she stopped short, and,
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 6i 
 
 putting out her hand across the table, touched his. 
 "Great stupid!" she said in a voice utterly win- 
 ning and adorable, and with the pristine mysterious 
 charm of her old smile. It was not the same 
 woman! The quarrel was over. 
 
 The quarrel was over, but the question had not 
 been settled according to the rules of debate. 
 Justice had not triumphed; reason had not tri- 
 umphed. Lawrence felt that he had been taken by 
 surprise. He was much relieved to have peace, 
 and yet he was conscious of a moral cowardice 
 in not offering a final calm, kindly statement of 
 his case. The sense of humiliation did not leave 
 him, nor a certain resentment against Phyllis, even 
 in kissing her. As for Phyllis, in a quarter of 
 an hour she seemed to have completely forgotten 
 the quarrel. Gradually Lawrence resumed the 
 dominion of his soul. He too endeavoured to forget 
 the quarrel, and he did forget it. He became philo- 
 sophic and was thankful for the lessons it had taught 
 him. He knew now exactly how to treat Phyllis, 
 and how to avoid future quarrels. The secret lay 
 in one's tone, he said. Phyllis was decidedly an 
 inferior creature (though often delightful), and she 
 must be treated as such. Useless to appeal to 
 her reason, to her sense of justice! Useless even 
 to appeal to her good-nature! She was not 
 good-natured — this was the dreadful pill he had
 
 62 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 to swallow. She must be humoured. Yes, he 
 now thoroughly understood women. They were a 
 disappointment — but what would you have."* 
 Life is life. People are born as they are born. 
 Et cetera. 
 
 (And she had had theories on education, she! 
 Why, she possessed no exact knowledge about any- 
 thing! She had no sense of perspective! She could 
 not co-ordinate facts! Her taste was capricious and 
 unreliable. Sometimes she talked very cleverly. 
 But that could not justify her staggering audacity 
 in having dared to pose about education.) 
 
 One of the thousand extraneous matters which 
 Phyllis had imported into the quarrel was an accu- 
 sation against Lawrence of lack of enterprise. 
 Soon afterward she suggested to him, very deli- 
 cately, that he ought to employ his small fortune 
 in buying a partnership in some firm of solicitors. 
 She had previously mentioned the idea, as a possi- 
 bility, during their honeymoon. On the first oc- 
 casion he had merely heard it and forgotten; it 
 did not penetrate to the seat of his brain. On the 
 second occasion he had realized the advisability of 
 treating what Phyllis said with circumspection and 
 at least an outward deference. He therefore replied 
 that the idea struck him as one worth considering. 
 And it did. He would have considered it till dooms- 
 day. He had not guessed, then, that Phyllis's
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 63 
 
 accusation of lack of enterprise was perfectly well- 
 founded. He thought the charge absurd. He mis- 
 took vacillation for prudence, and an exaggerated 
 estimate of risks for business acumen. He was 
 incapable of initiative, a dreamer, a meditator, 
 with a soul too fine for ambition. Whereas the key 
 to Phyllis's character was ambition. She had 
 meant to perform miracles with Lawrence, once 
 she had got him, but she had counted without his 
 chin. She was a disappointed woman. Her scheme 
 for buying a partnership was an excellent one. 
 Lawrence ought certainly to have adopted it. 
 But his nature would not let him do so. Ten loco- 
 motives could not have forced him up the hill of 
 the undertaking. His wheels slipped round in 
 meditation and he did not move. 
 
 Several times, apropos of several subjects, he 
 had caught the sudden sinister change in Phyllis's 
 voice which heralded a quarrel, and by a lavish 
 use of tact based upon his complete knowledge of 
 women, he had avoided a quarrel. And then one 
 day, in response to something she said in that 
 changed voice, something inexcusable, he found 
 himself speaking in the very tone which he knew he 
 must not employ. In spite of himself he was defy- 
 ing his own maxims. The experience was most 
 curious and disagreeable, and as it were unreal. 
 If he was angry, it was with a cold anger; he was
 
 64 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 decidedly not carried away by temper. A pro- 
 found instinct rose up in him and deliberately 
 challenged Phyllis. In two seconds the quarrel 
 existed vigorously. It was never decently settled 
 and despatched. It died a natural death, and 
 became like diseased meat of which they had 
 both eaten and which was poisoning them. After 
 a time they spoke to each other as usual; they 
 had moments of placid gaiety. But in Lawrence 
 was the sick consciousness that things could never 
 be the same again, and that their mutual life 
 was a pretence. 
 
 He could not imagine what he had ever seen in 
 Phyllis to attract him. The faults of her character 
 were so glaring to him that he accused himself of 
 stupidity for not having perceived them at the 
 first glance at her. Where was the strange charm 
 which once had seduced him.'' Well, occasionally, 
 when he had a glimpse of her unexpectedly at a 
 distance in the street, he re-captured that strange 
 charm — in her gestures, her attitude — and in 
 an instant it was gone! 
 
 He made the best of his life. He had vast intel- 
 lectual and artistic resources. He drew on them, 
 and not in vain. Temperamentally cold, he accus- 
 tomed himself to the secret estrangement which 
 followed on a third quarrel caused by her tongue. 
 He was a man of the finest honour, and he honour-
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 65 
 
 ably did his best to render her existence tolerable. 
 He yielded in disputes far more often than his sense 
 of justice could approve. But he forgot that she, 
 the creature whom he could not treat as an equal, 
 had not his interior resources, and it did not occur 
 to him that she was not temperamentally cold. 
 He never so much as suspected that he had inno- 
 cently ruined her life. So they became superfluous 
 to each other. 
 
 Such, in brief outline, was the history of the 
 birth and death of the divine illusion called love in 
 their hearts. 
 
 f. The monstrous revelation of the last twenty-four 
 hours nauseated, wounded, and appalled Lawrence. 
 He was by no means a conventional person, and yet 
 he could not regard Phyllis's conduct in other 
 than a conventional light. He could not go behind 
 the words impure, disloyal, deceitful. He could 
 not attempt an impartial enquiry into her defection. 
 He could not seek an explanation of it in the noto- 
 rious weakness of human nature. Even to think of 
 it gave him ineffable torture. He was one great 
 bleeding resentment, that thrust instinctively away 
 the horrible cause of its injury. He hated .and 
 loathed Phyllis with an intensity surpassing tenfold 
 the intensity of any feeling he had ever before 
 experienced. His love for her had been nothing 
 to this hate, this loathing, this rancorous and
 
 66 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 ruthless contempt. He spat out a "Bah!" in a 
 voice that might have blasted her like lightning. 
 On Greatbatch his mind did not dwell. Great- 
 batch was a dog to kick soundly and to dis- 
 miss. But Phyllis, his wife, . . . ! He 
 wondered how her poor mother would survive the 
 daughter's infamy. 
 
 Long before he wished to be there he had arrived 
 in Holborn, the principal thoroughfare of Hanbridge, 
 that local metropolis which has amused itself by 
 imitating London in the nomenclature of its noisy 
 streets. At the corner of Holborn and Chancery 
 Lane where strangely enough are to be found legal 
 offices, money-lending offices, and insurance offices, 
 stands the shop of Brough the bookseller, stationer, 
 and artist's colourman. Brough called himself 
 principally a bookseller, but his business in literature 
 was almost negligible, the demand for books in the 
 Five Towns being inferior to any other demand 
 whatsoever. Lawrence generally had a volume 
 on order at Brough's, and Brough respected him 
 deeply, in that his regular custom, though barely 
 profitable, gave dignity to Brough and to the shop. 
 While Lawrence patronized Brough's, it could not 
 and should not be said that the Five Towns was 
 unliterary. A book was due for Lawrence that 
 morning. Should he enter and get Itf Like all 
 bookmen, he suffered keenly from unsatisfied desire
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 67 
 
 between the moment of ordering a book and the 
 moment of handling it. Nevertheless it seemed 
 uncanny to him that he should desire so trifling a 
 thing as a book that morning; it seemed sacrilegious. 
 He was still unaware that books had become his 
 life, his unique and overmastering passion; he was 
 still unaware of the tremendous formative influence 
 of habitual indulgence. He went into the shop, 
 which was fresh from its daily toilette, and which, 
 with its elaborate crowded display of sentimental 
 coloured prints in gilt frames, almanacs, pocket- 
 books, ladies' purses, picture postcards, fountain 
 pens, india-rubber rings, playing cards, writing 
 paper, drawing pins, and colour tubes, bore testi- 
 mony to the high state of luxurious civilization in 
 the Five Towns. Mr. Brough, a white-haired man 
 with a thin pale face, delicate trembling hands, 
 and a narrow black necktie, stood behind the counter 
 undoing a parcel which contained ten copies of 
 Meiklejohn's School Geography, a small Wages 
 Reckoner, and a two-shilling reprint of The Little 
 Flowers of Saint Francis. He pushed the last 
 across the counter to Lawrence with a proud smile, 
 as if to say: "There! you see how you may rely 
 on me to statisfy by return of post even your most 
 singular caprices!" 
 
 *'Good!" said Lawrence, with unconscious eager- 
 ness, examining the book.
 
 68 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 And Mr. Brough continued to disengage examples 
 of Mieklejohn from the parcel, staring the while 
 mildly and sadly through the glass door into the 
 street. He could have performed no matter what 
 feat while staring through the glass door. 
 
 Lawrence placed half a crown on the counter, 
 and Mr. Brough with his slow precise movements 
 offered the half-crown to the cash register, which 
 rang and yielded sixpence in change. 
 
 "Thanks," said Lawrence, taking up the sixpence. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Ridware," said Brough cour- 
 teously, and he emerged from behind the counter 
 as Lawrence was putting the book into his pocket. 
 How is your dear wife.'"' he added. 
 My wife!" stammered Lawrence. 
 
 "It is quite a long time since I had the pleasure 
 of seeing her," proceeded Mr. Brough, with even 
 blandness. "She used to call here now and then. 
 She is quite well, I hope.''" 
 
 "Yes, thanks," stammered Lawrence. "Quite 
 well." He was blushing. 
 
 "You must give her my kind regards," Mr. 
 Brough smiled, opening the glass door. "Her 
 father and I were old frends. Tell her I say she 
 has forsaken me. Will you.''" 
 
 "Yes," said Lawrence. "Certainly. I'll tell her." 
 
 He slipped out, pretending to be in a hurry. 
 Oh! The shame, the misery, the anguish of such 

 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 69 
 
 a trivial incident! To old Brough Phyllis was no 
 doubt an ideal figure, standing for youth, beauty, 
 distinction, goodness, and the unattainable. Old 
 Brough remembered her as a child. Old Brough 
 had perhaps nursed her on his knee. Why had 
 he not cried out to Brough the odious and fearful 
 truth, instead of lying? With a noise in his ears he 
 hastened up Chancery Lane to the office. 
 
 Chancery Lane, Hanbridge, the Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields of the Five Towns, and known locally as 
 Rogues' Alley, is a sinister little street. On one 
 side of it is the blank dark red wall of an old- 
 fashioned manufactory, and on the other, tightly 
 packed together, are mysterious little houses which 
 once were homes and which are now kennels where 
 lurks that last uncompromising descendant of the 
 Medes and Persians, the "legal mind." In the very 
 midst of its length are the County Court Office and 
 the local Registry of the High Court of Justice — 
 dread names, names of fear! The houses, since 
 they ceased to be homes, have not been structurally 
 altered, but in certain cases swing-doors have been 
 added within the old front doors, heaven knows why. 
 The front doors, from nine to six, are kept invitingly 
 open, and drab panels lettered in black, or black 
 panels lettered in white, afford dim clues to the 
 mysteries that may be seen within. You cross
 
 70 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 ragged mats, and climb sombre, narrow, naked, 
 soiled stairs, and push tremblingly against portals 
 of ground glass, and find yourself confronted by 
 one or two young men with short shiny sleeves, 
 who regard you suspiciously from behind a screen 
 and ink-stained desks, and demand your name, 
 and write your name in a book, and write It on a 
 piece of paper, and disappear with the piece of 
 paper, and reappear, and with a peculiar expression 
 ask you to sit down. You obey this behest on a 
 piece of wood, or on nothing encircled by ends of 
 cane; and when your eyes have become accustomed 
 to the obscurity you observe through the interstices 
 of the screen a fireplace that was once a hearth, and 
 probably a window that was once the object of a 
 housewife's pride. In due season you are told to 
 get up and walk, and you are led through passages 
 to another room, equally shabby, bare, dusty, and 
 forbidding, and there, at a vast desk, in an arm- 
 chair that revolves like the earth on its axis, sur- 
 rounded by all the evidences of poverty and decay, 
 sits a human being who probably owns a beautiful 
 house and beautiful children In some other street 
 and boasts of pretty taste In Chippendale. You 
 are in the presence of an incarnation of the "legal 
 mind." So it was — and so it is to-day. Step out 
 of Holburn (Hanbrldge) into Chancery Lane, (Han- 
 bridge), and you step Into the Middle Ages. There
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 71 
 
 are offices in Chancery Lane where the typewriter 
 clicks not nor rings its bell, because the type- 
 writer is "unprofessional." Above all things Chan- 
 cery Lane is "professional." Situated in the heart 
 of a district inhabited by a population of a quarter 
 of a million which gibes openly at the House of 
 Lords, it preserves with holy and rigorous zeal 
 the sanctity of tradition. 
 
 The establishment of Charles Fearns comprised 
 the first floor of a typical house in Chancery Lane, 
 three rooms in all, of which the largest was divided 
 into two by a wooden partition, one portion forming 
 the outer or inquiry office and the other the articled- 
 clerks' office; the next room was Lawrence's, and 
 the third belonged to the principal. Except for 
 its cleanliness, a somewhat damp cleanliness in the 
 early morning, it resembled a dozen other estab- 
 lishments in the street. Charles Fearns had a 
 passion for cleanliness. He in fact liked comfort, 
 and had he not been overawed by the toryism of 
 the street he would have followed a fashion recently 
 set up in the more modern solicitors' offices in the 
 Old Town Hall, and treated himself to a Turkey 
 carpet! As things were, he had stopped short at 
 speaking-tubes and a type-writer. The practice, 
 which had been started by his father in the late 
 fifties, was a sufficiently flourishing affair, miscel- 
 laneous in character. Charles, in common with
 
 72 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 most solicitors, imagined himself to be extremely 
 business-like, and in common with most solicitors 
 he was extremely unbusiness-like. He had immense 
 energy, good judgment, tact, a talent for diplo- 
 macy, and some forensic skill, but business-like he 
 was not. He frequently persuaded himself that his 
 office was run with the precision and exactitude of 
 a battleship; perhaps he thought that occasional 
 irate outbursts of the passion for efficiency consti- 
 tuted discipline. 
 
 Lawrence arrived at the office at ten minutes past 
 ten, twenty-five minutes late. The office-boy, 
 Gater, who was supposed to begin at nine-thirty, 
 was only just opening the letter-files to start his 
 preliminary duty of letter-filing.* The" shorthand 
 and engrossing clerk, a middle-aged fat man named 
 Clowes, was reading a creased and dirty copy of 
 the Athletic News. These two inhabited the outer 
 office. 
 
 "Mr. Fearns come?" demanded Lawrence. 
 
 "No, sir," said Gater. 
 
 And Clowes folded up the Athletic News with a 
 deliberation meant to indicate that if Lawrence 
 supposed that Clowes was afraid of him, Lawrence 
 was mistaken. 
 
 Lawrence passed through the outer room to the 
 articled-clerks' room, in order to reach his own.
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 73 
 
 There were two articled clerks, and they represented 
 the two great divisions of their caste, the division 
 which pays and the division which is paid. Mr. 
 Arthur Sillitoe, of the gilded youth, had paid a 
 premium of two hundred guineas in order to sit in 
 Fearns's office; he received no salary, and his view of 
 the seriousness of life and law varied with his dis- 
 tance from an examination. Mr. Paul Pennington 
 had paid no premium, and he received a salary of 
 a pound a week. Pennington came from Oldcastle, 
 which, though contiguous with, is not part of, the 
 Five Towns. He had won a series of scholarships 
 up to the age of seventeen, and afterward, in eight 
 years of assorted clerkships, had saved enough 
 money to pay the eighty-poundstamp on his articles, 
 his examination fees, and the cost of his law-books. 
 Fearns gave him his "articles" as the phrase is, 
 on the clear condition that he should work. And 
 he did work. He was one of those young men of 
 the people, all vigour and integrity and no humour, 
 who rise with the irrepressibleness of a tide to a 
 certain height and then gradually sink because they 
 are without imagination. In a year Paul Penning- 
 ton had terrorized the office; even Fearns went 
 morally in secret fear of him. For Pennington 
 was business-like. He discovered the crass ineffi- 
 ciency of the office. He coldly pointed out that the 
 indexing of the letter-book was always in arrear,
 
 74 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 that neither Fearns nor Lawrence wrote up his pro- 
 fessional diary fully and properly, that the bills 
 of costs were not delivered with regularity, and that 
 the system of book-keeping was simply a complete 
 lack of system. He was relentless, and the mighty 
 force of right was behind him. He meant to reform 
 the office. He engaged single-handed in a warfare 
 against the temperaments of Fearns, Lawrence, 
 and Sillitoe. He had far less brains than any of 
 them, but he fought and defeated them every day. 
 Out of sheer enthusiasm for order and efficiency, 
 he undertook, in addition to his ordinary work, 
 the whole of the book-keeping and the superintend- 
 ence of the costs. He put perhaps a couple of 
 hundred per annum into Fearns's pocket, and Fearns 
 resented it. He never arrived late, and he never 
 left early. He was terrific, a prodigy. He would 
 never earn more than a hundred and fifty a year. 
 
 "Good morning," he said drily to Lawrence, 
 looking up from a Kean ledger. He was alone; 
 Sillitoe's chair was empty. His black hair shone; 
 he was wearing his office coat. 
 
 "Good morning," said Lawrence, trying to slip 
 through the room. 
 
 "Will you let me have your attendances in 
 Wilcox V. Wilcox to-day.?" 
 
 "I'll try," said Lawrence, "I've got " 
 
 "You promised me them the day before yes-
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 75 
 
 terday," Pennington stated, as he bent to the 
 ledger. 
 
 "Well I can't do everything," snapped Lawrence. 
 Pennington's writing-master way of holding a pen 
 irritated him. 
 
 "As you please," said Pennington suavely. "I 
 merely mention the matter, Mr. Ridware." 
 
 He was always like that, invincible and calm. 
 He always left it to your conscience. Considering 
 his age, he was an unhuman exaggeration of right- 
 eousness. 
 
 Lawrence went to his own room and sat down 
 with his hat on. 
 
 It was quite a small room, furnished with an old 
 flat knee-hole desk, a large tall cabinet of newly 
 stained wood comprising closed pigeon-holes let- 
 tered in black from A to Z, two old chairs, a covered 
 washstand, and a legal almanac. The floor was 
 bare. Behind the door hung an old coat. A fire 
 was laid but not lighted in the tiny fireplace, and 
 on the mantelpiece were a few law-books and a 
 towel. The desk bore a Hudson and Kearns blot- 
 ting-pad, an enormously thick Legal Diary, with a 
 page for every day in the year (except Sundays), 
 and immense quantities of miscellaneous informa- 
 tion; also several shallow wicker-baskets containing 
 bundles of papers tied with pink tape (not red 
 tape) or buckled in a sort of worsted strap; some
 
 76 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 of these bundles were thick with dust; an Isobath 
 inkstand and two pens completed the treasures of 
 the desk. The geography of the room was such 
 that when Lawrence sat at the desk he had his 
 back to the window and his face to the door; nobody 
 had ever been clever enough to arrange the room 
 differently; but some daring and ingenious person 
 had carried an india-rubber pipe from the gas chan- 
 delier in the centre of the ceiling to a movable lamp 
 which could be placed on the desk when necessary, 
 mingling its tube with the speaking-tubes. In this 
 apartment Lawrence spent nearly a third of his life. 
 The unique and terrible Pennington had evidently 
 been before him in the room that morning, on a 
 mission of efficiency, for the bundle of papers in 
 Wilcox V. Wilcox was propped up in a prominent 
 position against one of the baskets so that his eyes 
 could not miss it. There were also on the blotting- 
 pad some letters for his attention. He stared at 
 these things with a fixed determination to ignore 
 them; he had no conscience whatever for his duties. 
 For as he had climbed the stairs he had suddenly 
 and tremendously resolved that he would plunge 
 into the matter of the divorce at once, that he 
 would not palter with it, nor hesitate. And this 
 resolution was like a new resolution. He had 
 definitely promised Mark last night that he would 
 commence proceedings instantly. But that promise
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY -j-j 
 
 seemed to be unreal, not authentic nor binding, 
 a mere form of words, one of those promises which 
 Lawrence too frequently made to himself or to other 
 people, and broke, having known always that he 
 would break them. The present resolution was 
 different. It was among the few genuine resolu- 
 tions of his life. It possessed, absorbed, and fright- 
 ened him, as his resolution to propose marriage 
 to Phyllis had once possessed, absorbed, and 
 frightened him. He would be capable of nothing 
 else until the vow had been fulfilled. 
 
 He had settled precisely the order of the steps 
 which he would take. Immediately on the arrival 
 of Mr. Fearns he would go into Fearns's office and 
 tell him, and ask his advice, and he would then go 
 to the articled-clerks' room and inform Pennington 
 and Sillitoe of the sensation that awaited them, 
 in a voice so loud that Clowes and Gater would 
 hear. Thus the entire staff would learn the news, 
 and he could draw breath, for something would 
 have been accomplished. 
 
 And now Fearns was late at the office! And 
 Lawrence was forced to undergo the ordeal of inac- 
 tion. He gazed at the covered washstand and at 
 the old coat . . . Astonishing, was it not, that 
 Mark had not seen through Phyllis.^ He suspected 
 thatMark still thought Phyllis a damned fine woman. 
 Well, let Mark live with her for a month and try her
 
 78 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 voice, her egotism, her grumbling, and especially 
 her nagging voice ! Let him try it ! It was infamous, 
 infamous, infamous, what she had done! No 
 excuse, no possible excuse! Why hadn't she told 
 him straight that — ? She must have spent the 
 night at her mother's! Of course she might have 
 run off direct to Greatbatch! No, she would not 
 do that. He reckoned he knew her well enough to 
 be sure that she would not do that. She was at 
 her mother's. She was therefore not very far away 
 from him at that moment. She existed at that 
 moment! She was doing something at that mo- 
 ment! They both lived and moved as they had lived 
 and moved yesterday, just as though nothing had 
 happened! It was the same Phyllis, the same 
 Lawrence! Strange and disconcerting thought! 
 Was it not like her, like her unscrupulousness, like 
 her unfairness, to drag in the name of Annunciata .'' 
 Why drag in the name of Annunciata.'* Never 
 before had she mentioned that name. Scarcely 
 even had he mentioned it to her. Certainly he 
 admired Annunciata, that image of the pure, fresh 
 young girl. He had not concealed the fact. Was 
 that it? Was that the explanation.^ Had he once 
 by chance spoken of Annunciata to Phyllis in a tone 
 that that vile woman, with a woman's capricious 
 stupidity, had misinterpreted.'' Annunciata was a 
 surprising daughter for such a man as Fearns to
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 79 
 
 have. But then he seemed to have heard that 
 such men as Fearns often had such daughters as 
 Annunciata. Yes, he did like Annunciata. He 
 recalled a walk with her from Hanbridge to Bursley 
 a year ago. In fact he had not forgotten that walk. 
 And certain Sunday afternoons in Mrs. Fearns's 
 drawing-room, Annunciata pouring out teal A pure 
 girl! Not beautiful, perhaps; but that quality 
 of purity! Her mother had it. He liked mother 
 and daughter equally. Astonishing that Phyllis 
 should go and hit Annunciata in that manner. 
 It was as if she had hit a nail full on the head 
 with a hammer by accident In the dark. But 
 that was just what women were always doing. 
 They were always being right and always wrong. 
 What would Mrs. Capewell say when she knew 
 of the aflFair.'' How shameful of Phyllis to shock 
 the old lady! 
 
 He heard Fearns's quick neat footsteps along the 
 passage! The moment had arrived, the second 
 great decisive, dramatic moment of his life, it 
 seemed to him! He rose, with a heart wildly beat- 
 ing. Fearns had gone into his own room and shut 
 the door hurriedly. He struggled into the articled- 
 clerks' room and escaped by the door into the 
 passage. Pennington did not look up. He Went 
 to Fearns's door, and stood there a few seconds. 
 No, no! Useless to postpone! The words must be
 
 8o WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 uttered at once! He had sworn; he had sworn; 
 the oath must be kept, the appalling step taken. 
 He pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose 
 violently, and then he knocked, and pushed him- 
 self into the room. 
 
 Fearns was already at his desk; a tall, well-made 
 man of forty-five, but looking decidedly younger, 
 with very dark brown hair, and a strong moustache 
 showing a first faint hint of gray; his nose was big, 
 like his white hands; his eyes bluish-black; at a dis- 
 tance he seemed to be in the perfection of physical 
 health, but on a nearer view one saw fatigue in the 
 eyes and the lips, and the skin, though rosy, would 
 not bear inspection; a powerful, handsome creature, 
 one would say, audacious, proud, rather gross, and 
 generally equal to the occasion; a man who would 
 refuse to grow old. He glanced at Lawrence, rais- 
 ing his eyes from a letter which he had just torn 
 from its envelope. 
 
 "Ah! Ridware! I want you," he said curtly. 
 
 "I came to speak to you, Mr. Fearns," Lawrence 
 said timidly, shutting the door. His emotion was 
 really grotesque in its intensity; even to himself 
 it appeared ridiculous. 
 
 "What about?" Fearns fired the words at him 
 like a bullet. 
 
 "About — about a matter of my own." His 
 voice was husky.
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 8i 
 
 "Well, that'll wait a bit, I reckon. Look here. 
 Here's the title deeds of Nevinshaw's manufactory. 
 I've been there this morning. The mortgage is 
 arranged, and it's got to go through as smart as 
 possible. I've promised Tommy Nevinshaw. I 
 want you to make the Abstract of Title at once, 
 and give the draft to Clowes to copy sheet by sheet 
 as you do it. I'll see Hollins Brothers some time 
 to-day. I shall tell them they will have the Abstract 
 to-morrow first post and ask 'em to examine deeds 
 on Monday. We can complete on Thursday, 
 perhaps." 
 
 He pushed a great parcel of deeds toward 
 Lawrence. 
 
 "Understand, don't you.? Title's clear enough. 
 But don't err on the side of brevity all the same. 
 It may save trouble in the end. You never 
 know. See?" 
 
 And Lawrence said meekly: "Yes." And he 
 left the room, taking the deeds. 
 
 When he reached his own room he cursed in 
 whispers. He could not sit down. Why had he 
 allowed Fearns to sweep him like that off his feet.'* 
 What was a mortgage, compared to his affair 
 He stood by the window, holding the deeds and 
 staring blankly into a small backyard. Now he 
 would have to begin again, nerve himself again, 
 suffer the torture again. And if he had only been
 
 82 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 obstinate and courageous, Fearns would at that 
 moment have already heard the facts, and the worst 
 would have been over. He cursed himself to hell, 
 and threw the parcel of deeds savagely to the floor. 
 
 He would return to Fearns instantly. He would 
 Insist. Yes, instantly! . . . Phyllis was the 
 cause of all this. . . . Thoughtfully he picked 
 up the parcel. Should he go to Fearns instantly, 
 or should he wait to recover himself.'' He heard 
 the whistle of a speaking-tube somewhere and then 
 the feet of Gater leading a client along the passage 
 to Fearns's room. He could not go now. He must 
 wait. 
 
 And then Fearns and the client went out together, 
 talking and laughing loudly. The client was the 
 Mayor of Hanbridge; he recognized the voice. 
 
 He sank into his chair. 
 
 He could not make that Abstract of Title. He 
 simply could not. And Fearns was relying on It. 
 
 Jumping up, he took the deeds in to Pennington. 
 Sillitoe had not yet come. 
 
 "I say, Pennington," he said hurriedly, "I wish 
 you'd oblige me by abstracting this Nevinshaw title 
 at once. The governor wants it done quick. He's 
 told me to do it, and I can't. The fact is, Pm 
 not well at all." 
 
 "Pm sorry to hear that," answered Pennington 
 kindly. "What's the matter.?' 
 
 i>>
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 83 
 
 <<T». 
 
 I'm upset." He wished to tell him the truth, 
 but he could not. 
 
 Pennington eyed Lawrence furtively, and began 
 to open the parcel. 
 
 "Certainly," said Pennington. "I'll do it as 
 quickly as I can." He was quite sympathetic. 
 
 "Give it to Clowes to copy sheet by sheet, so as 
 to save time, will you.^" 
 
 "Yes." He put a piece of blotting paper geo- 
 metrically in his ledger, shut it, and secured it in a 
 drawer; took out some blue draft paper from another 
 drawer, creased it longitudinally in several places 
 so as to give the different margins necessary for an 
 Abstract of Title; and then unfolded the topmost 
 deed. He was an invaluable machine. 
 
 Lawrence retired. After all Pennington was a 
 decent chap. 
 
 Once again in his room, the prospective petitioner 
 to the justice of England sat down and resumed 
 his bitter sullen stare at the washstand and the old 
 coat. He could recall, he could hear, the very 
 tones, hard, loud, and exasperating in which Phyllis 
 used to maintain her unscrupulous arguments 
 with him; he could remember precisely her words. 
 And his heart glowed with fierce, merciless resent- 
 ment. Such women as Phyllis. . . . Why, even 
 Pennington was decent. Phyllis was not decent; 
 in her composition there was no basis of kindliness.
 
 84 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 He went suddenly, with a new resolve, into Fearns's 
 room, and opened the glass doors of the bookcase. 
 Hung on the wall on either side of the bookcase were 
 framed photographs of a charming child dressed 
 up in a judge's wig and robes, and imitating with 
 delightful archness the ponderous didactic gestures 
 of some judge of the Supreme Court of Judicature. 
 Fearns had bought them from a touting commission 
 agent. They appealed to something in Fearns's 
 inmost soul, and certainly they were the only things 
 in the place that ministered to the human sense and 
 the sense of beauty. But Lawrence hated them in 
 that moment; they offended him as photographs 
 of a child imitating the gestures of a torturer or an 
 executioner might have offended him. They seemed 
 to him to be an outrage on good taste. He saw the 
 odious ordeal and climax of the divorce proceedings 
 in a vision, and the vague, vast thought of all the 
 distress and misery that lay between him and the 
 distant end of those proceedings settled on his mind 
 like a nightmare. 
 
 Presently he found the object of his search through 
 the shelves of the bookcase, Dixon's Law and Prac- 
 tice in Divorce and other Matrimonial Causes, a 
 shabby large volume bound in black. It was an 
 old edition, probably bought second-hand at a sale, 
 not for its immediate usefulness, but because it 
 might prove useful some day, because it was one
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 85 
 
 of those books without which no solicitor's library 
 is complete. The dust was thick on its top edge, 
 for no divorce case had ever been known in the annals 
 of the Fearns business. There are over sixteen 
 thousand solicitors in England and only a few hun- 
 dred divorce cases a year. Now at last the famous 
 Dixon was to be useful in the office; it would perhaps 
 even be necessary to buy the latest edition of the 
 famous Dixon! And for him, Lawrence, for just 
 him! Out of a quarter of a million people in the 
 Five Towns he had been chosen by destiny for this 
 disgraceful renown. Often he had caught sight of 
 Dixon on the shelves, and Dixon had been nothing 
 to him but a text book. Whereas to-day . . . 
 Life was incredible, incredible. 
 
 He carried the book away to his lair. He must 
 study it. He must get it up. In the seventeen 
 years which had passed (seventeen years ago he 
 was beginning his career — and what a career, he 
 reflected sardonically!) since his final examination 
 for admittance as a solicitor, he had almost completely 
 forgotten the law of divorce, and the details of 
 the practice he had forgotten utterly. He began 
 to read the book, to swallow its contents with the 
 facile rapidity of the expert reader and student. It 
 was a horrible book; it was decidedly the most 
 horrible book in the world. It was Chinese in its 
 laconic, impassive indifference to the possibilities of
 
 86 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 emotion. It went across the whole naked field of 
 human suffering like a steam-plough. On every page 
 were terse sentences that ripped the tissues of the 
 heart. "Bad language. Evidence of, is useful where 
 it leads up to personal violence. Dysart v. Z)., 
 3 N.C. 343." He thanked heaven that he had never 
 reached bad language — to a woman! Personal 
 violence! Good God! What vistas of abasement! 
 Or: "The husband's conduct. Inattention to his 
 wife's conduct is not connivance at her adultery. 
 He must have been privy to it, or have led her into 
 it. Rix V. R. 3 Hagg. E. R. 74." Connivance! 
 The unspeakable, ignominious, polluting word was 
 all over the page. It was even printed in capitals! 
 And Dixon was good enough to assure him, the 
 husband inattentive, that his inattention was not 
 connivance! Thanks, O Dixon I 
 
 When he had gulped down the whole book, he 
 turned back to the chapter entitled "The Petitioners 
 Case" and mechanically took up some memorandum 
 sheets in order to make rough notes. These mem- 
 orandum sheets consisted of discarded office note- 
 paper, bearing the legend, "Fearns & Thomas," 
 instead of "Charles Fearns." They were one of 
 the few traces of Fearns's brief partnership with the 
 dead Thomas. And Lawrence somehow saw that 
 partnership name in a new light, in a light so strange 
 and sad that the moisture glistened for a moment
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 87 
 
 in his eyes. He had occupied that room for years. 
 And then he had made way for young Thomas, and 
 Thomas had occupied it for a Httle space; and now 
 he had come back, and Thomas was dead and 
 buried, his memorial a quire or so of discarded note- 
 paper! The sea of existence rolled deep over young 
 Thomas! And he, Lawrence, had descended to 
 the Divorce Court! What a world was this 
 world! 
 
 There were footsteps outside the door. Like a 
 guilty lad he shut Dixon and covered him quickly 
 with paper, and leaned back in his chair. 
 
 "I'm going out to dinner," said Pennington, 
 standing gravely at the door. "I've done quite 
 half of that thing." 
 
 "Have you? I'm awfully obliged to you." 
 Lawrence blushed. 
 
 "Not at all. Are you all right.'' Can I get you 
 anything?" 
 
 "No thanks," said Lawrence. "I'm all right." 
 
 "Why don't you go home?" 
 
 "I'm just as well here." 
 
 "Very good!" Pennington agreed, coldly and 
 discreetly incurious. And left, closing the door. 
 
 Lawrence looked at his watch. It was past one. 
 Fearns would now surely not return before two 
 o'clock at the earliest. He was proud of his industry. 
 At any rate he was not wasting time; he was not
 
 88 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 hesitating in his distasteful, sickening enterprise. 
 He was on the contrary showing energy. And 
 he re-opened Dixon. At half-past one he felt 
 hungry. The morning had slipped away. The 
 activity of the ofhce had gone on as usual, Pen- 
 nington writing, Clowes doggedly copying, Gater 
 busy in nothings, Sillitoe no doubt bending indo- 
 lently to the law from the lofty platform of the 
 gilded youth! Usually Lawrence brought with him 
 a packet of sandwiches and a flask for his lunch, for 
 the distance to Toft End was nearly two miles; 
 but to-day he had never once thought of his lunch. 
 And now he was very hungry indeed. He went 
 to the outer office, where he knew Gater would be 
 sitting in solitary charge of the establishment, 
 and told the boy to go and buy a pork pie from the 
 Coffee House. 
 
 "By the way, Gater," he said. "I'll bring you 
 your bicycle to-morrow." 
 
 "Thank you, sir. I suppose you found the gear 
 high, sir. It's over ninety." 
 
 "Terrible," said Lawrence. 
 
 And Gater ran off, flattered by this tribute to 
 his high gear. 
 
 Lawrence took his place in the outer office as 
 guardian, and glanced idly at the Call Book. Eight 
 people had called during the morning. Pennington 
 must certainly have taken measures to prevent
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 89 
 
 Lawrence from being disturbed. Extraordinary, 
 how thoughtful Pennington was! 
 
 A dirty ragged old woman came tremblingly 
 in, after having knocked twice and been twice 
 summoned to enter. She curtsied. 
 
 "I've brought th' rent," she said in a hoarse 
 voice. She was a tenant of one of the hundred or 
 more cottages belonging to this or that mortgaged 
 estate administered by Fearns on behalf of mort- 
 gagees — his clients. 
 
 "Where's your book,'"' Lawrence asked. Rent- 
 collecting was a branch of the business with which 
 he had nothing to do. 
 
 The old, bent, bareheaded woman handed up a 
 filthy rent-book and with it a greasy half-crown 
 that was offensive even to the touch. The odour 
 of rum permeated the air. 
 
 "But look here," said Lawrence, examining the 
 book, and adopting the firm tone which he knew 
 to be necessary. "It's just three weeks since you 
 paid anything, and now you come with half-a-crown !'' 
 
 "Us canna' help it," the old woman whined, 
 rubbing her eyes with an apron made of sacking. " My 
 son's pleeing (playing — not working) three days a 
 wik — and four childer! And th' house Inna fit 
 for live in " 
 
 "That's all very well," said Lawrence. "But 
 we shall have to " He stopped.
 
 90 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "Bums?" exclaimed the old woman. "Nay, 
 nay, mester! Dunna' say that. I bin i' that house 
 thirty-four year." 
 
 He initialled the book, and gave it to her, trying 
 to look stern. And just as she was leaving, with 
 another curtsey, Fearns himself burst in. And 
 she curtsied lower to him. 
 
 "Mother Podmore!" he greeted her with gay 
 familiarity. 
 
 "Eh, Mester Charles!" she replied obsequiously. 
 
 "You've been drinking." 
 
 "Not a drop!" the old woman swore. 
 
 "Well," said Fearns. "Here's sixpence for you. 
 Be off. I won't inquire about your rent — not 
 this time." 
 
 She blessed him, and assured him that beyond 
 doubt he was a true gentleman, and then she de- 
 parted, mumbling her appreciation of this splendid 
 and generous male all the way down the stairs. 
 
 "Where's Gater.?" Fearns demanded of Law- 
 rence, suddenly dropping into a cold, almost savage 
 tone, and when Lawrence had informed him he said, 
 in the same tone, "You're getting on with that 
 Abstract, eh.?" 
 
 "It's more than half done," Lawrence replied 
 evasively. He could not begin his explanations 
 to Fearns in the middle. 
 
 Fearns, apparently preoccupied, hastened with-
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 91 
 
 out another word to his room. He had been pre- 
 occupied and curt for several days past. It was 
 remarkable, thought Lawrence, how he had softened 
 to the old woman Podmore, just for a few instants. 
 Fearns was one of those men who do not distinguish 
 between women. The mere presence of Woman, 
 even if she is worn out and wears a coal sack 
 and poisons the air, changes them, challenges 
 them to please. 
 
 "Put it on my desk," said Lawrence to Gater, 
 when Gater brought the pork pie. And without 
 giving himself a moment to think he went straight 
 to Fearns's room, knocked, and entered. 
 
 Fearns, with his hat on, was drumming against 
 the window pane. 
 
 "I want to speak to you, Mr. Fearns," Lawrence 
 began. 
 
 "I haven't had lunch yet," Fearns complained, 
 as he turned to face Lawrence. 
 
 "It's about a divorce case," said Lawrence, 
 ignoring the remark. And, having uttered the fatal 
 word, he felt calmer. "After all," he said to himself, 
 breathing like one who has just come through a 
 peril, "I'm only talking to him. There's nothing 
 to be afraid of or ashamed of." 
 
 "What divorce case.'*" 
 
 "My divorce case," said Lawrence, boldly. 
 
 "You've left the door ajar. Better close it,"
 
 92 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 said Fearns. Lawrence with a startled jump, 
 obeyed the suggestion. And then Fearns, looking 
 at him steadily, continued: "You don't mean that 
 yow've been making a fool of yourself, Ridware?" 
 
 "I propose to bring an action against my wife," 
 Lawrence told him with singular quietude. "And 
 the co-respondent will be Emery Greatbatch, B.A." 
 
 Fearns sat down in his revolving chair, and put 
 his hat with a bang on the desk. He had certainly 
 gone pale. 
 
 "Ridware," he murmured. "You shock me! 
 You shock me!" 
 
 Lawrence took the chair on the opposite side of 
 the great desk. 
 
 "Yes, I daresay," he said angrily. "But I've 
 been a great deal more shocked than you are." 
 He saw quite plainly that Fearns was aifected as 
 Mark had been affected. The first movement of 
 Fearns's heart was clearly one of sympathy for 
 Phyllis. Why.'' How was it that these men had 
 got into their heads the idea that Phyllis was the 
 pearl of her sex.'' Let them live with her! Let 
 them live with her! Fearns was gazing at him as 
 though he ought to be ashamed of having brought 
 such a charge against such a woman. 
 
 "Has your wife confessed.'"' Fearns asked. 
 
 "Confessed!" Lawrence sneered, and he was sur- 
 prised at his own freedom in handling the interview
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 93 
 
 which he had so much dreaded. He knew his 
 demeanour was rapidly losing its accustomed re- 
 straint, and he rejoiced. "I should think she 
 hadn't confessed!" 
 
 "Then how do you know — What proofs have 
 you .?" 
 
 "I'll tell you in two minutes what proofs I have," 
 Lawrence responded. "I expect you didn't see 
 that woman who called here last night.'"' 
 
 "No," said Fearns stiffly. "What woman?" 
 
 And Lawrence described to him in detail what 
 he had learnt from Lottie. 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "A discharged servant!" Fearns exclaimed at 
 length, and his voice was full of insinuation. 
 
 "Not in the least a discharged servant!" cried 
 Lawrence, growing angrier. 
 
 "My dear fellow, don't talk so loud," Fearns 
 expostulated. "You'll do yourself no good by 
 losing your temper, you know." 
 
 "I won't lose my temper," said Lawrence, in a 
 low tone. He leaned back in the chair and threw 
 out his legs. "All I say is, she isn't a discharged 
 servant. It's not that kind of thing at all. And 
 there can be no doubt whatever of the facts! More- 
 over my wife has already left me." 
 
 "When was that?" 
 
 "Last night." And he proceeded further with
 
 94 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 his recital, repeating more than once what he had 
 previously stated. 
 
 "And you are determined to bring an action?" 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "It's a pity you've no one to consult." 
 
 "But I'm consulting you!" 
 
 "I mean your own people — relatives." 
 
 "I've consulted my brother Mark. He came 
 down specially from London last night to see me." 
 
 "Oh ! . Mark ! " Fearns muttered the name queerly, 
 and hesitated. "And what does he say.?" 
 
 "Why, of course he agrees with me that I must 
 commence proceedings at once!" Lawrence felt 
 as though for the last twenty hours he had been 
 burning to bring an action and had been hindered 
 by his friends. "What else is there to do.?" 
 
 "Certainly, certainly," Fearns concurred. "Your 
 wife's not likely to let it go undefended, I suppose.? 
 Anyhow, Greatbatch isn't. It will ruin his career 
 — him, a schoolmaster!" 
 
 "A good thing, too!" said Lawrence, once more 
 startled and pleased by his own fierceness. 
 
 "You'll have to give security for your wife's 
 costs," said Fearns warningly. 
 
 "Yes, I know," Lawrence replied. "It's a scanda- 
 lous thing, that is." 
 
 "It isn't a scandalous thing at all," said Fearns 
 crossly. "It's perfectly just.' 
 
 )>
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 95 
 
 "My wife has a small private income." 
 
 "That's nothing to do with it. The law v/as 
 made to meet the average case." 
 
 "Well, I shall give security for my wife's costs," 
 Lawrence said, with acerbity. "There will be no 
 difficulty about that. I shall give security." 
 
 "And I take it you want me to act?" 
 
 Lawrence nodded. 
 
 "Very well," said Fearns, reluctantly, "if you 
 are decided. Begin when you like. You know 
 quite as much about the procedure as I do. You've 
 got to make sure of your witnesses. The lodging 
 house keeper at Manifold is the first person to see." 
 
 "I don't want to conduct the thing myself, sir," 
 Lawrence said sharply. "You'll appreciate that." 
 
 Fearns seemed puzzled, taken back. "Well, then," 
 he said, "give it to Sillitoe. It will be experience 
 for him." And he rose and picked up his hat. 
 
 "Sillitoe.^ Do you think he's equal " 
 
 Well, Pennington if you prefer. As you please." 
 I was hoping that you would keep an eye on 
 it yourself, sir," said Lawrence, suddenly and 
 inexplicably grown timid. 
 
 "I shall naturally do that," Fearns replied icily. 
 "I try to keep an eye on everything in this office. 
 I'm going out to lunch now." 
 
 And he departed, nervous, disturbed, irritated, 
 as it were with a grievance against a trusted employe 
 
 11
 
 96 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 with whom he was ordinarily on terms of amiable 
 if occasionally brusque familiarity. 
 
 Lawrence ate the pork-pie with appetite and 
 drank a glass of water. He was in a peculiarly 
 uplifted state. The misery, the disquiet, the hot 
 resentment still dominated his heart; the sense 
 of appalling and undeserved injury remained always 
 there. But he now somehow exulted in calamity. 
 He was conscious of a strange momentary energy, 
 and of a desire to talk about his affairs to all the 
 world. He actually had an impulse to go and tell 
 Gater; he did not, however, yield to it. He meant 
 to be philosophical, in a rather cynical way. He 
 was determined to be surprised at nothing; for 
 instance, he was determined not to be surprised at 
 Fearns's remarkable attitude in face of his disclosures. 
 Fearns had seemed to be upset by the mere idea of 
 divorce, of anybody's divorce; it had seemed to 
 trouble him. . . . Well, one must not be sur- 
 prised at anything, nowadays, from human nature, 
 said Lawrence to himself loftily. 
 
 He resumed his study of Dixon. At half past 
 three he boasted that he had mastered the law and 
 practice of divorce. The pepper in the pork-pie 
 had made him very thirsty. He put on his hat and 
 with a certain swagger went into the articled-clerks' 
 room. Sillitoe's chair remained consistently empty.
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 97 
 
 "I shall have done in half an hour," said Pen- 
 nington. 
 
 "Good!" said Lawrence. "When you are free I 
 want to have a private chat with you, old man. 
 I've something to tell you that will surprise you." 
 His hands were deep in his pockets, his hat at the 
 back of his head. And he had called Pennington 
 "old man!" Assuredly he was a changed Lawrence. 
 
 "Really!" murmured Pennington, unmoved. 
 
 "Yes. I'm just going out to get a drink. Back 
 directly. Hasn't young Sillitoe turned up at all 
 to-day.?" 
 
 "Oh yes," said Pennington. "But he went out 
 a minute since." 
 
 Lawrence strolled to the Turk's Head in Crown 
 Square. 
 
 The old Turk's Head was not the most magnifi- 
 cent hotel in Hanbridge; it was not magnificent at 
 all. Nevertheless its series of bars and parlours 
 and smoke rooms, with different levels of tiled floors, 
 and grimy ceilings, mazily confusing to the stranger 
 but simplicity itself to the habitue, were frequented 
 by the governing classes of Hanbridge, and history 
 was made in them. The Turk's Head, in a superla- 
 tive degree, was what is known among experts as 
 " a good house." Magnetized by the irresistible attrac- 
 tion of a reliable whiskey (young men with a ten- 
 dency to sweep said it was the only whiskey in the
 
 98 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Five Towns that could be differentiated from poison), 
 reassured by traditions of impeccable respecta- 
 bility, and by that air of being an institution which 
 the Turk's Head had, town councillors, justices of 
 the peace, officials, journalists, actors, and men of 
 mark professionally and commercially, would "drop 
 in" from morn to night for half an hour's relaxation 
 and fellowship. It was emphatically a resort of 
 persons "in the know." It was a spot where hypoc- 
 risy was abandoned and make-believes put aside, 
 where the gullibility of the public was deplored and 
 laughed at, where men talked sincerely about many 
 things — and especially about women. The most 
 dreadful truths were accepted as the commonplaces 
 of human nature at the Turk's Head. Less stiff 
 and stuffy than the Conservative Club, and infi- 
 nitely more solid and influential than the Liberal 
 Club, it united all parties except the Temperance 
 and the extreme religious. Decidedly there were 
 important men in Hanbridge who would never 
 have dreamed of entering the Turk's Head, but 
 they were not of the kind that is prepared to make 
 allowances for the excessive humanity of human 
 nature. In brief, the Turk's Head was a hotel 
 calculated to support the doctrine that the world 
 is not such a bad world after all, a large and lovable 
 inn. Such organisms can only flourish in the prov- 
 inces, and in a certain way they illustrate roughly
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 99 
 
 the most agreeable and satisfactory aspects of the 
 national character. 
 
 The licensee was a widow. She wore black alpaca 
 in the morning and black silk later in the day, 
 tightly stretched over her generous form. And 
 as her customers were experts on women, so was 
 she an expert on men; she knew; she could hold her 
 own on County Court day and market days; also 
 on Shrove Tuesday, when the entire clientele 
 called to eat her adorable pancakes. Her domains 
 had a grimy look, but what could one expect in 
 the middle of a town like Hanbridge.^ And the 
 fixtures were not in the first blush of a vigorous 
 youth. But everything had the comfortableness 
 or the accepted uncomfortableness of long, long 
 use, and each bit of brass was polished daily. There 
 were two barmaids. Emmie was a young thing, 
 and nothing more; while Miss Parrattwasthe peeress 
 of the widow, and knew the separate eccentricities 
 of some scores of customers. Better even than the 
 widow she knew where to draw the line. No one 
 under the rank of a magistrate was allowed to get 
 too mellow in the Turk's Head. With a magistrate, 
 where are you.^* 
 
 Lawrence was not a frequenter of the hotel. 
 And he went in with the defiant shyness of a stranger 
 lighting a cigarette to hide his embarrassment as 
 he passed to the smoke room by the narrow place
 
 loo WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 where the private bar was installed. The Mayor 
 and Bob Cyples were holding small glasses to each 
 other at the private bar, and Miss Parratt (Lawrence 
 did not even know her famous name) was doing 
 sums in a ledger. Cyples nodded affably to Lawrence 
 and the Mayor nodded. 
 
 Bob Cyples was one of Hanbridge's familiar 
 figures, and a member of the Town Council. He 
 was a tall and very stout man of fifty-five, with 
 gray hair and a short bushy beard. Although he 
 happened to be a sober individual and a regular liver, 
 time was measured at the Turk's Head by Bob 
 Cyple's drinks. This was the hour of his second 
 drink; his third would occur at a quarter to six, 
 his fourth at eight thirty, and his fifth at five minutes 
 to eleven. In theory Cyples was a clerk in the 
 legal firm of Bradwell, Breeze, Robinson & Willan, 
 a really large firm of solicitors, one of the most im- 
 portant in the Midlands, with an immense convey- 
 ancing and general practice; there were seven ad- 
 mitted solicitors in Bradwell's. Cyples was not 
 "admitted;" he had never been through an exam- 
 ination; he had no right to practise; he was just an 
 unadmitted clerk. Nevertheless, in fact, Cyples 
 was the head, the heart and the brain of the firm. 
 Old Bradwell openly treated him with the respect 
 due to an equal, and the other six admitted men, 
 including the junior partners, simply took Cyples's
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY loi 
 
 orders. He had property in various parts of the 
 town, and he lived the spacious life of a wealthy 
 bachelor. The situation was a genuine mystery. 
 Some said that, in order to keep within the statutes 
 of the Law Society, Bradwell's paid him a fixed 
 salary of fifteen hundred a year; others, that the 
 statutes of the Law Society were secretly traversed 
 and that Cyples was a partner in the firm. His 
 astounding knack of getting business, his wonderful 
 talent for conducting it when got, his surpassing 
 influence over his fellow men — these qualities 
 in Cyples were denied by none. Yet his knowledge 
 of law was quite elementary. 
 
 He was as great in pleasure as in business; a jolly 
 fat man, with a perfect stomach. Habitually he 
 drank little, but he could drink a lot with impu- 
 nity. He enjoyed life; he enjoyed his meals; he 
 enjoyed his cigars and his whiskey and his wine; 
 he probably enjoyed the gusts of temper with which 
 he occasionally gave variety to the course of exist- 
 ence inside Bradwell's. He was a very good 
 billiard-player, and a finished card-player. Solo 
 whist was his passion, and he frequently won 
 several sovereigns at it in an evening. But he would 
 not play at poker, which he called "gambling." 
 Bridge he scorned. He knew nearly all the good 
 stories on earth; only now and then could an actor 
 in a musical-comedy touring company or an excep-
 
 I02 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 tionally experienced commercial traveller add to 
 his stock. He told his tales — and he had tales 
 for every occasion — in a rich, vibrating, hearty 
 voice and with a deep though restrained apprecia- 
 tion of them. He spent all his waking hours in 
 offices, committee-rooms, hotels, and clubs; and 
 in his own world he had no superior. He was 
 inimical to fads and movements; his perceptions 
 were not very subtle; he had no feeling for art; 
 he could not possibly be called refined; his interests 
 stopped short in various directions in a most disap- 
 pointing manner. But his was a remarkable and 
 powerful individuality, and he knew it. He was 
 born to lead. He did lead. He would not have 
 changed places with a Prime Minister. 
 
 In the smoke room, Lawrence discovered Sillitoe 
 alone, and he was very glad to discover Sillitoe. 
 Sillitoe supervened as a friend in a foreign land, and 
 asked him what he would have, and generally did 
 the honours of the place. Sillitoe, aged twenty- 
 three, was an orphan with too much money, a fair, 
 stout, dandiacal youth whose boyish face was 
 already beginning to coarsen, a weak soul doomed 
 from the first to destruction, a person of no impor- 
 tance. Lawrence despised and pitied him. And 
 yet, over a glass of beer, he told Sillitoe in a few 
 words of the forthcoming divorce case, and Sillitoe 
 was much flattered to learn that no one save himself
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 103 
 
 and Mr. Fearns yet knew of the affair. He said 
 he should be delighted to do all he could in the 
 matter. Never before had Sillitoe been conscious 
 of a sincere interest in Mr. Fearns's business. Law- 
 rence suggested that he might search the office stock 
 for forms for petition, citation, praecipe, et cetera. 
 And Sillitoe, having insisted on paying for Lawrence's 
 beer, hurried back to the office full of the urgency 
 of his mission, and left Lawrence solitary in the 
 smoke room. He promised to tell Pennington. 
 It had been Lawrence's intention to speak first 
 to Pennington, but he altered his plan in obedience 
 to the hazard of this meeting. 
 
 Then he heard the voice of Cyples saying to the 
 Mayor, "One moment and I am with you," and 
 Cyples came into the smoke room with his easy 
 alert tread, carrying lightly that vast bulk. 
 
 "How do you do, Ridware .'"' he greeted Lawrence 
 with marked seriousness and deference, and drawing 
 forward a chair he sat down and put his expressive, 
 sagacious face close to Lawrence's. 
 
 "I needn't tell you how pained I am about — 
 you know what," said he in a confidential whisper. 
 And ere Lawrence could utter a word he added: 
 "Mrs. Ridware has instructed us." 
 
 Lawrence was taken absolutely by surprise. 
 "What.'' My wife.?" he stammered, blushing. 
 "She's been to see you already?"
 
 I04 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "Her mother brought her to see me this morning, " 
 said Cyples. 
 
 "Oh, very well! Very well!" Lawrence haugh- 
 tily responded. 
 
 "Of course we will accept service," Cyples said. 
 
 "You can't," said Lawrence shortly. 
 
 "Oh! Must it be personal? I forget," Cyples 
 urbanely murmured. 
 
 "And Grcatbatch? What about him.?" de- 
 manded Lawrence, nodding. 
 
 "I know nothing about Mr. Greatbatch," said 
 Cyples, still in a whisper. "Good day." 
 
 And with a smile almost genial, he left to rejoin 
 the Mayor. 
 
 The fact that the formidable Cyples was arrayed 
 against him frightened Lawrence. How rapidly 
 events matured! The action seemed already to 
 have begun! Well, he was in for it! It was like 
 Phyllis to go straight to Cyples! And with her 
 mother! He felt that he must see Mrs. Capewell. 
 
 Later, In the office, he talked much, and with a 
 freedom that continually astonished him, to Pen- 
 nington and Sillitoe. And except a fruitless search 
 in the form cupboard for divorce forms, nothing 
 in the way of office routine was accomplished until 
 Fearns telephoned some instructions about corre- 
 spondence, with a message that he should not return 
 that evening. And gradually the hour of closing
 
 ROGUES' ALLEY 105 
 
 approached. Lawrence dictated some miscellaneous 
 letters, and glanced at the Abstract of Title. Sillitoe 
 left at a quarter to six, Clowes and Pennington 
 at six precisely. Gater was busily copying letters 
 in the press, and addressing and stamping envelopes 
 and entering up the Postage Book. It was Gater's 
 hour of importance. At a quarter past six Gater 
 inquired whether he might go, and, having received 
 permission, deposited the keys with Lawrence and 
 went, his hands full of letters In virgin white envel- 
 opes of various sizes. Lawrence sat meditative 
 as the sun descended. Another day of his life 
 was gone. What a day! What changes! It 
 seemed to be years since the fact of his wife's de- 
 ception had reached him. He was a man marked 
 and labelled, a petitioner in the Divorce Court. 
 And Cyples was against him. All Hanbridge would 
 buzz to-morrow; the bars of the Turk's Head 
 would tinkle to the luscious gossip. He rose dully 
 and sardonically, and passed out of the offices. 
 At the end of the street an electric car flashed down 
 populous Holborn. 
 
 And his worries had scarcely begun ! The enquiries, 
 the collection of evidence, the innumerable annoy- 
 ances of a tedious and complex litigation . . . ! 
 Suddenly it struck him that he had entirely forgotten 
 to see Cousin Sarah about coming to stay with him 
 at Toft End — entirely forgotten!
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ANNUNCIATA 
 
 THE two little Fearns boys, Frank and Sep, 
 aged six and five, were playing at a game 
 invented by Frank and called "Sea-shore" 
 In a nondescript space of ground which extended 
 between the large garden at the front of the house 
 at Bleakridge and the paved yard at the back, and 
 which was overlooked by the kitchen and scullery 
 windows. It was about six o'clock In the afternoon 
 of the day on which Mrs. Fearns had suddenly gone 
 to Birmingham. Several loads of fine gravel, de- 
 posited that morning and Intended for the reparation 
 of the garden paths, were the basis of the game, con- 
 stituting a beach, while the great oval lawn, of which 
 the garden principally consisted, was the rolling 
 sea. The intrepid adventurers, with the sleeves of 
 their tiny blue jerseys rolled up, had their Llan- 
 duno spades and buckets, and were building a 
 castle in the sea, or rather on it. They did not go 
 into the sea, from a prudent fear of getting their 
 sandalled brown feet wet, but they stood bravely 
 at the very edge of the waves and flung spadefuls 
 
 1 06
 
 ANNUNCIATA 107 
 
 of gravel as far as they could, and a fine castle was 
 gradually rising from the deep. In the two essen- 
 tials of a maximum of innocent joy to the players 
 and a maximum of unintended exasperating incon- 
 venience to the adult world, it was a game not 
 easily to be surpassed. 
 
 Annunciata Fearns was in the kitchen, wearing a 
 pink pinafore apron over her white frock, and busy 
 in cake-making at the dresser under the open win- 
 dow. Annunciata's age was twenty. Like many 
 girls of twenty she had the seriousness of Methuselah. 
 Her mother being absent, she had voluntarily taken 
 upon her shoulders the crushing burden of the entire 
 establishment, including a wayward father, "the 
 children," a French nursery-governess, a cook, a 
 house parlour maid, a scullery maid, a gardener, two 
 cats, two reception rooms, a hall, seven bedrooms, 
 a greenhouse and a garden. In addition to her 
 piano practice, her French lesson, and her reading, 
 she had already during that industrious day accom- 
 plished long letters to a brother and sister away at 
 school, and she had met the telegraph-boy at the gate, 
 and opened a reassuring telegram from her mother 
 about her aunt, and composed a reply in twelve 
 words and paid sixpence for it from her own privy 
 purse, and she had said "Certainly" with dignity 
 when Mademoiselle had expressed a desire to go out 
 alone for two hours and leave the children to her
 
 io8 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 care; and now she was making cakes, and getting 
 fuller and fuller of the conviction that life was an 
 affair of heavy responsibilities. 
 
 When she had finished as much of the cake mak- 
 ing as she considered too delicate for the skill of 
 the cook, she looked at the kitchen clock, 
 
 "What are you doing out there?" she called 
 through the open window. She could see the 
 sandy beach but not the mighty ocean. 
 
 There was no answer. A first faint suspicion 
 had entered the heads of the castle builders that 
 perhaps after all their operations were not void of 
 offence. 
 
 'Do you hear what I say, Frank?" 
 
 'We're playing," cried Frank shrilly at length. 
 
 "Well, you must play off to bed," said Annun- 
 ciata, like doom. 
 
 "ButMamselle hasn'tcome home, "Frank argued. 
 
 "There's no one to give us our baf, " Sep supported 
 him. 
 
 They both waited anxiously, spade in hand, to 
 hear the result of these unanswerable objections to 
 the proposal of going to bed. 
 
 "I'll give you your bath myself," said Annun- 
 ciata, who saw a method at once of adding to 
 the responsibilities of life and of silently showing 
 to Mademoiselle that Mademoiselle had not 
 kept her word. 

 
 ANNUNCIATA 109 
 
 "That's not fair," Frank piped. "Muvver never 
 gives us our baf. " 
 
 It was a smart thrust on Frankie's part, this in- 
 sinuation that to be more motherly than mother 
 was cheating; but Annunciata pretended not to 
 feel it. 
 
 "I'm coming to catch you," she smiled persua- 
 sively. 
 
 She threw off the pinafore apron, and ran, re- 
 suming her childhood for a moment, through the 
 side passage and hall to the front door, meaning to 
 startle Frank and Sep from an ambush. At the 
 front door she paused, knowing not why, and began 
 to think about she knew not what. She had these 
 fits. She stood there looking vaguely at the lawn 
 with the croquet hoops, and at the row of small 
 houses that could be discerned through the hedge 
 in the street beyond. She was that exquisite, 
 unique, inscrutable thing, a young girl opening pure 
 eyes upon the world. Slim, even thin, with long 
 limbs, she had the delicious gawky gracefulness of 
 her years. Her pale face was not beautiful, the 
 nose being insignificant, but its complexion was 
 adorable, and the blood ran faintly beneath the 
 delicate skin in restless emotional tides. And she 
 had bright yellow hair, done up very tightly; and 
 on her finger was an opal ring which her father had 
 given to her, and round her slender neck an old gold
 
 y 
 
 iio WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 necklace that had been her grandmother's. And 
 she herself was the jewel of that red house which her 
 grandfather had built, and which her father had 
 enlarged despite the fact that it was being gradually 
 hemmed in by mean streets. She was its most 
 precious treasure, guarded passionately by her 
 parents, loved, worshipped, brooded over, dreamt 
 on. It was as if all the ancestors of the Fearns 
 family and of the Leigh family had descended one 
 from another in two converging lines solely in order 
 to meet at last in Annunciata their final expression 
 and justification. The house existed around An- 
 nunciata; it was her frame. And she was so touch- 
 ing in her naivete, her simplicity, her seriousness, 
 her sincerity, her wonder, her capriciousness, her 
 sensitiveness, her gawky grace, her enchanting 
 alternation between childishness and womanliness 
 — she was so touching that even to watch her or 
 to catch her in a characteristic attitude would some- 
 times bring tears into the eyes of one who had eyes 
 to see. Why.^ Heaven knows! She was not at 
 all extraordinary. There are thousands and thous- 
 ands like her, tens of thousands of these strange 
 disturbing mysterious vitalities. And yet, frequency 
 cannot cheapen them. Each is the supreme excuse 
 for the universe, a miraculous vase from which the 
 pure fluid of life itself seems to gush forth. 
 
 "You're walking on the sea! You're walking on
 
 ANNUNCIATA in 
 
 the sea!" Frank and Sep shoutingly protested 
 when they saw Annunciata creeping toward them 
 along the edge of the lawn. 
 
 "Am I?" She good-naturedly lifted up her skirts 
 and pretended to splash about in the foam. 
 
 "You'll get drownded!" they warned her. 
 
 "Oh! You naughty, naughty little things!" 
 Annunciata exploded when the castle caught her eye. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Martin will be back from his tea in a minute, 
 and then what will he say? I'm very cross with you 
 indeed. Come to bed now, or I shall be really angry." 
 
 "No, no, no! "the sinners protested. "Mamzelle 
 hasn't come, and muvver never gives us our baf!" 
 
 And they ran madly off across the sea, which had 
 suddenly changed into dry land, and Annunciata 
 after them. And always precariously balanced, 
 they fell over each other, and their clumsy little 
 limbs mingled and their ridiculous jerseys worked 
 up from the waist and disclosed their little shirts 
 and braces. And then Annunciata was bending 
 over them, sweet and yet formidable, and tickling 
 them in all their most ticklish places, and whimper- 
 ings became shrieks. This enormous sister of five 
 feet five picked them up, one under each Titanic arm, 
 wriggling and giggling, and marched them away. 
 Sep was upside down with his sandals in her eyes 
 and his head near the placket-hole of her frock, so
 
 112 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 that as he was being carried toward the house he 
 had a topsy turvy view of the garden-gates. 
 
 "Mamzelle!" he shouted frantically. "There's 
 Mamzelle!" 
 
 Whereupon Annunclata turned, allowed the boys 
 to slip to the ground, and composed herself to 
 be prim. 
 
 "She's got another of her beggars!" Frank re- 
 marked with loud contempt. 
 
 "Hush, Frankie!" Annunciata admonished him. 
 
 Mademoiselle Renee Souchon came quickly and 
 demurely to the house; a ragged, cringing old man 
 was standing near the gates. Renee smiled benevo- 
 lently, and with a certain preoccupation at the 
 youthful group on the doorstep. 
 
 "I will be ready in one moment," she said in her 
 precise, clear English, as she passed them. "One 
 little moment," she repeated hastening upstairs, 
 as if on a mysterious holy errand. In a little 
 moment she came neatly out again, and with no 
 further word of explanation tripped to the old man, 
 and the old man gratefully took something from 
 her gloved hand with its curved fingers, and made an 
 obeisance and departed while Renee meticulously 
 and gently shut the gates. 
 
 Annunciata did not approve of Renee Souchon. 
 Her disapproval was calm and restrained, and she 
 imparted it to nobody at all, but It was very genuine.
 
 ANNUNCIATA 113 
 
 You see Annunciata was such a serious girl. She 
 read what she could; and she thought tremendously. 
 The whole spectacle of life offered itself for her 
 criticism; and she criticized it with much freedom 
 and much seriousness, and no humour whatever. 
 She gazed at it as though it had never been gazed 
 at before and made the most singular discoveries. 
 Thus she had discovered that servants are exactly as 
 human as we are, and have the same right to wear 
 jewellery and pretty hats and to discuss men as we 
 have; to force servants into a uniform was immoral 
 because tyrannous; still she couldn't imagine her- 
 self waited on at table by a crimson blouse, and the 
 question of servants' clothing was one of the few 
 great human questions of which in the privacy of 
 her own mind she had no solution to offer. She 
 believed in herself intensely, and once she had 
 thoroughly pondered upon a subject, her conclusions 
 were sacred to her. The notion that they could be 
 wrong, and that she was not indeed fully equipped 
 for her role as constructive critic, did not even occur 
 to her. People who happened to engage her in 
 serious conversation were astonished at the range 
 and gravity of her thoughts. It is so with Innumer- 
 able girls. 
 
 The advent of Renee Souchon nearly a year ago 
 had raised mighty issues in the breast of Annun- 
 ciata, Renee was an outcome of the sad fact that
 
 114 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Charles Fearns junior had twice failed in French at 
 the Cambridge Local Examination. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Fearns had put their heads together and decided 
 that at any rate Frank and Sep should not fail in 
 French. The children had to have a nursery govern- 
 ess, and therefore they should have a French nursery 
 governess, who should also give lessons to Annun- 
 clata in that language so essential to modern English 
 culture. Really, in these days every one spoke 
 French. And like all British parents in a similar 
 predicament Mr. and Mrs. Fearns were very anxious 
 that when Frank and Sep spoke French in such a 
 manner as to be mistaken for Frenchmen, Frank 
 and Sep should be mistaken only for Parisians. They 
 insisted on the " good accent. '* The thought of Frank 
 and Sep being one day mistaken in France for natives 
 of Lyons or Bordeaux was painful to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Fearns. Hence Renee Souchon, a guaranteed Pa- 
 risienne with a guaranteed accent and truly ex- 
 cellent testimonials, had come into Bursley out of 
 the void, conjured there by a governess agency in 
 London. Renee was somewhat of an innovation 
 in Bursley. Bursley approved. The progress in 
 French was not quite so wonderful as had been 
 expected; Annunciata declined to attempt to talk 
 French outside her French lesson, and Frank and 
 Sep, despite their tender years, had sufficient per- 
 sonal force to stipulate that French should cease
 
 ANNUNCIATA 115 
 
 to be the sole medium of communication at one- 
 thirty p. m., when their dinner finished. Still, in 
 three months the children could understand what- 
 ever Renee said to them, and other children's 
 parents were not unimpressed. And neither Mr. 
 nor Mrs. Fearns suspected that Annunciata, guided 
 by lofty general principles, disapproved. For of 
 course she would not have ventured openly to criti- 
 cize her parents. 
 
 Annunciata was very English. It had been 
 vouchsafed to her that the English race was the 
 masterstroke of the eternal powers. The very 
 defects of the English were good qualities. All 
 other races were inferior: the thing was obvious. 
 And if there was one other race that Annunciata 
 in especial contemned, that race was the French. 
 The French were not serious; they were not moral; 
 they were frivolous. You could not rely on them. 
 Their women were dolls; their men were wicked, 
 besides being paltry and grotesque to the eye. 
 Germany had humiliated them — catch Germany 
 trying to humiliate England ! — and there they were 
 enjoying themselves and "going on" as though 
 nothing had happened. She had read that Parisian 
 theatres were often crowded during the siege of 
 Paris. That settled the French, so far as Annun- 
 ciata was concerned. 
 
 And her parents had summoned into her English
 
 ii6 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 home a living representative of the dangerous and 
 despicable French spirit! They had undertaken 
 this hazardous experiment for the trifling end of 
 teaching a language to two little boys! It seemed 
 to Annunciata unwise, and also unnecessary. She 
 knew why Charlie had failed in French — simply 
 because he hated French as she did. He could have 
 passed if he had tried. He decidedly had not 
 failed because he had no French governess in 
 infancy. Wherein was the reasonableness of this 
 craze for French.^ If one wanted to travel there 
 were always hotels with English-speaking waiters. 
 And the French had no Dickens, no Thackeray, 
 no Scott, no Tennyson, They had Racine and 
 Corneille, and Annunciata did not opine that it 
 was worth while to learn French in order to read 
 Racine and Corneille. 
 
 In short, while determined to be scrupulously 
 just, even to the point of generosity, in adding up 
 the French governess, Annunciata had had an In- 
 ward conviction that she should not like her. And 
 she did not. She did not like her corsets, which she 
 more than once by accident saw. Renee was 
 blonde and somewhat stout, and not very tall; 
 neither ugly nor pretty; and her age was quite 
 thirty. She used powder. Annunciata had never 
 anticipated that the day would come when she would 
 inhabit the same house with a woman who used
 
 ANNUNCIATA 117 
 
 powder. But It had come. Her dressing-table was 
 a sight! Now, could a woman who used powder 
 and wore those scandalous corsets be the prim and 
 religious woman that Renee pretended to he^ An- 
 nunclata, having lately been attracted toward the 
 creed of Christian Science, was all for religious 
 liberty. But Renee was a Roman Catholic. She 
 went to low mass, and high mass. And she posi- 
 tively went to confession. Annunclata did not 
 care to think of the private life of her home being 
 exposed to Father Hurley. Roman Catholicism 
 was not a sincere religion, like other religions. 
 
 Then there was the question of Renee's charities. 
 Annunclata was obliged to admit that the Fearns's 
 household did not expend much of its energy in 
 charity, perhaps rather neglected that duty, in 
 fact did neglect it. But she did not wish to be re- 
 minded of duty by Renee Souchon. Moreover 
 charity ought to be a pleasure, not a duty. Renee 
 made of charity a regular occupation. She had her 
 days for rummaging among the Catholic poor of 
 the town; she would recount her adventures sadly 
 at the dinner-table, and, without a single direct 
 word against England, or the country or the district, 
 she would tacitly formulate a terrible indictment 
 of our social organism. Apparently matters were 
 quite different in France; apparently France was 
 civilized, whereas England was just emerging from
 
 ii8 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 a sort of viking barbarism: such was the implication, 
 unexpressed of course. Annunciata's Saxon blood 
 raged impotently within her. Annunciata was sure 
 that the high pulpit from which Renee silently 
 preached did not cost the preacher in money more 
 than a shilling a week; and she detested Renee's 
 queenly condescending compassionate gesture in 
 giving a halfpenny to a mendicant. She was ab- 
 solutely convinced that Renee, with her impeccable 
 demeanour, her frigid and changeless propriety, and 
 her manifold Christian virtues, was a two-faced 
 creature. She dreamed occasionally of Jesuits! 
 And this woman was in their home, part of their 
 home, and influencing from morn to night the im- 
 pressionable characters of Frank and Sep! An- 
 nunciata's blind, bland parents were oblivious of 
 the evil that was being wrought! And Annunciata 
 could not interfere. 
 
 What annoyed Annunciata more than anything 
 else was the instinctive knowledge that Renee re- 
 garded her as a raw young girl whom a very little 
 diplomatic skill could manage. She hated to admit 
 to herself that Renee was a vastly cleverer and subt- 
 ler person than herself, but there were times when 
 she did admit it. 
 
 And with it all Annunciata in the secrecy of her 
 kind little heart felt ineffably sorry for the poor 
 French governess. Annunciata's pity was sometimes
 
 ANNUNCIATA 119 
 
 almost too painful to be borne, and she would turn 
 away from the contemplation of Renee's plight as 
 one turns away from the spectacle of a miserable 
 outcast in the street on a wintry night, when one 
 drives by enveloped in furs. For Renee was a 
 solitary. Renee had no kindred to love her, no home, 
 no ties, nothing to cling to. She was a wanderer. 
 She existed in the Fearns house essentially a stranger, 
 familiar but not intimate. She could not enter into 
 its joys and sorrows; she was not expected to do so. 
 They all tried to be good to her, and to give her the 
 illusion of being at home. But she merely camped 
 among them, as she might have camped in the desert 
 of Sahara. Often in the evenings she would retire 
 early, and her retirement was a relief! What irony, 
 then, was their goodness! Renee's lamp burned 
 very late. Once Annunciata had gone into her 
 room, and found her sitting up in bed, wrapped in a 
 dressing gown, with her pillows at her back, reading 
 The Heir of Redcliffe; it wa.s in January; she had 
 steadfastly refused a fire, but after that Annunciata 
 had insisted, passionately, that a gas stove should 
 be fixed in the room, and evening after evening had 
 lighted it herself until at length Renee promised with- 
 out fail to use it. The picture of the woman read- 
 ing there in thick folds of woolen, lonely, withdrawn, 
 proud, with the lamp rays falling on the bed and the 
 rest of the room in obscurity, had lacerated the
 
 I20 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 tender soul of Annunciata. . . . And Ranee's life 
 would always be like that, if not in their house then 
 in some other, perhaps in some house less kindly than 
 theirs! And she would grow old and gray. And 
 people would not want her. And then what.^ 
 Then what? Annunciata thanked her scientifically 
 conceived gods that she was not a governess. 
 
 She followed the procession of children and govern- 
 ess upstairs, and went to her own room to prepare 
 for dinner. There could be no doubt about the 
 fact that Mademoiselle was extremely skillful in her 
 profession. Annunciata was sure that Frank and 
 Sep did not adore Mademoiselle, but they obeyed 
 her without hating her. And she was never flurried, 
 never angry; she never even raised her voice. Mrs. 
 Fearns could control her tumultuous offspring pretty 
 well, yet even Annunciata would not have asserted 
 that the mother had nothing to learn from the 
 governess in this matter. A conspicuous instance 
 of Mademoiselle's extraordinary powers occurred 
 when the procession arrived in the bathroom. 
 She turned on the taps of the bath, and then told 
 Frank to begin undressing and put his clothes on 
 one chair and Sep to begin undressing and put his 
 clothes on another chair; and then she imperturb- 
 ably left them in order to remove her own hat and 
 jacket and don an apron. It was a feat of apparent 
 bravado, such as the lion-tamer accomplishes when
 
 ANNUNCIATA 121 
 
 he sticks his head between the lion's jaws. If 
 Annunciata had dared to attempt it the result v/ould 
 have been disastrous — waste-plug pulled out, the 
 bath probably full of clothes, and both lavatory taps 
 turned on to overflow the lavatory basin. But 
 Mademoiselle went unhasting back to the bathroom 
 in full confidence that the children would have 
 withstood the terrible temptations which she had 
 set before them; and the confidence was justified. 
 Presently Annunciata from the window saw her 
 father coming into the house. And she hurried her 
 toilette. In the absence of her mother she consid- 
 ered she had to be more than a daughter to her 
 father, that she had to be more grown-up, more 
 like her mother to him. She must watch over him, 
 hover round him, distract him, conduct herself so 
 that her mother was missed as little as possible. 
 She heard the front door bang loudly; her father 
 always banged the front door. He would be coming 
 upstairs directly. The door of her own room was 
 carelessly left wide open; the bathroom door also 
 was open, and there reached her from the bath- 
 room the splendid and miscellaneous splashing and 
 shouting which Mademoiselle permlted each night 
 to her charges. The children were now shouting 
 for father; they too had heard the thunderous bang- 
 ing of the front door. Mademoiselle was being 
 exhorted to go and fetch father to see a wonderful
 
 122 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 wound on Sep's knee. Annunciata pushed her door 
 nearly to, and from sheer girlishness peeped through 
 the inch-wide space which she had left. She meant 
 to call out to her father concerning the telegram as 
 he passed to his bedroom. She saw Mademoiselle's 
 aproned figure as it descended the three steps from 
 the bathroom to the level of the passage. At 
 the same moment her father appeared up the stairs. 
 The two encountered one another on the dusky 
 landing at the head of the stairs. 
 
 "The children would like to see you," said 
 Mademoiselle. 
 
 Then Annunciata saw her father glance round and 
 raise his hand and caressingly pat Mademoiselle's 
 cheek. The gesture was an affair of half a second. 
 Mademoiselle's face seemed to protest against the 
 imprudence of the act. But she smiled in a way 
 quite novel to the watcher behind the door. Annun- 
 ciata could not see her father's face at the instant of 
 the caress. 
 
 "Very well," said Mr. Fearns. 
 
 And they disappeared into the bathroom. 
 
 Annunciata, with crimson cheeks and neck, and 
 heart wildly thumping, moved from her door to the 
 window. In her gentle and rather self-satisfied 
 progress from birth toward death she had suddenly 
 received a staggering, dizzying blow — she who had 
 been used to nothing worse than glimpses of real
 
 ANNUNCIATA 123 
 
 pain — and some minutes elapsed before she could 
 resume her shaken faculties and think. She loved 
 and admired her father; she was proud of him. 
 She found him handsome, and she was delighted 
 when people said he looked young enough to be her 
 brother. He was dashing, gallant, generally gay, 
 and he spoiled her — there could not be two opinions 
 about that. He had a kind heart, like hers. But it 
 would have been too much to expect that even her 
 father should pass wholly unimpeached before the 
 ruthless tribunal of her young judgment: only her 
 mother could do that. She privately censured him 
 for a certain lightness, a lack of seriousness, also 
 for leaving her mother too frequently alone in the 
 evenings; and she objected to his playing cards for 
 money. His occasional short, sharp, unreasonable 
 outbursts of wrath she was ready to excuse as an 
 inevitable part of the unreasonable masculine tem- 
 perament, but she could not in her terrific honesty 
 excuse the other things. She forgave them con- 
 stantly; so that her attitude toward her father was 
 often a little maternal and angelically grieved. 
 
 And her father had done something really very 
 wrong indeed. She was sure that it was very wrong 
 and utterly inexcusable for the master of the house 
 to pat a governess on the cheek. She did not need 
 to be told that. Supposing a servant had seen them ! 
 And it was the last indiscretion of which she would
 
 124 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 have deemed her father capable, because he was 
 always so dignified and correct, especially with 
 women. He might neglect her mother, but his 
 mere behaviour to her was almost invariably what 
 it ought to be. He was in fact at his best with 
 women, so thoughtful, so courteous, so appreciative! 
 And here he was patting a governess on the cheek, 
 losing his own self-respect and robbing her of hers! 
 A pat on the cheek, said Annunciata, was nothing, 
 regarded as a pat. But such a thing ought not to 
 be. It was not a bit nice. It was odious. An 
 indiscretion yes, but there were indiscretions that 
 were worse than crimes! She would have infinitely 
 preferred to convict her father of getting drunk 
 and knocking a man down than to convict him of 
 that pat. 
 
 And her mother absent, too! That appeared, in 
 some way that was very mysterious to Annunciata, 
 to make the Indiscretion more Indiscreet. 
 
 As for Renee, Annunciata's intellect blamed her 
 less than it blamed the man, but Annunciata's 
 heart blamed her a great deal more. She was as- 
 tounded at Renee's conduct. Renee ought to have 
 — ought to have done what. ^ Screamed.? Walked 
 straight out of the house.? Told her employer that 
 his behaviour was Infamous.? . . . Annunciata 
 could not exactly decide what Renee ought to have 
 done. But she ought to have done anything rather
 
 ANNUNCIATA 125 
 
 than smile. Anyhow, Annunciata had always been 
 convinced that Renee was two-faced, and now she 
 had the proof. And yet the proof astounded her! 
 
 She knew nothing of her father's reputation in 
 the world where men talk. Though by no means 
 ignorant, she was as ignorant as a girl can be who 
 has been to school, and glanced occasionally at the 
 newspapers, and assisted distantly at the birth of 
 babies, and reached the age of twenty. And by 
 nature she was innocent. By nature it was ex- 
 cessively difficult for her to think impurely. If to 
 have a very weak sexual instinct is to be pure, 
 Annunciata was pure. Her purity was not shocked 
 by what she had seen, for the reason that she had 
 simply not seen it in a sexual aspect at all. It had 
 not occurred to her to regard that caressing pat as a 
 symptom, as one act in a series of acts. She re- 
 garded it by itself, as an unpleasant but isolated 
 indiscretion. 
 
 And what was she to do with the secret of which 
 she had unwillingly become possessed? Ought she 
 to tell her mother.'' Or rather, could she bring her- 
 self to tell her mother.'' Could she tell her father 
 that she had seen him, and express to him her re- 
 spectful but uncompromising disapproval? Or 
 could she give Renee a private hint that would 
 lead to the voluntary departure of Renee? In 
 the midst of all her pain, confusion, and outraged
 
 126 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 propriety, Annunclata was conscious of a strong 
 desire to act wisely, prudently, for the best. She 
 wanted to prove to herself that she was equal to the 
 situation, and that she was no ordinary girl. The 
 feeling, however, that she was quite unequal to the 
 situation unfortunately dominated her. She did 
 not know what to do. And her mother seemed so 
 far away. 
 
 She sat a long time on the bed, hot, quivering, 
 suffering, shamed. She wished she had never been 
 born. She thought she could never look any one in 
 the face again. The life of the house proceeded as 
 usual. Her father came out of the bathroom and 
 passed to his bedroom and then went downstairs. 
 The children padded from the bathroom to the 
 nursery, chattering. Doors closed and opened. 
 The light began to fail. She heard the explosion of 
 the gas as a servant lighted it in the hall. A gong 
 sounded. " Faites dodo,'' she heard Renee say, 
 shutting the door of the nursery. And then sud- 
 denly she sprang up, and bathed her eyes, and went 
 haughtily downstairs. She had taken refuge in an 
 immense pride. She summoned all her powers of 
 duplicity — and like most women of her tempera- 
 ment she was in this respect richly endowed — to 
 hoodwink her father and Renee. On entering the 
 dining-room, she first gave an order to Louisa the 
 parlour maid, in a rather curt, preoccupied voice,
 
 ANNUNCIATA 127 
 
 as though the cares of the household still weighed 
 heavily upon her. She meant to produce this 
 impression on her father, and she succeeded per- 
 fectly. He was standing on the hearthrug, waiting. 
 
 "Now, Tommy," he said, indicating that he 
 desired his dinner. 
 
 She looked him fairly in the face and smiled guard- 
 edly, as if to warn him that she was mistress of the 
 house to-day, and he must be careful how he used 
 his disrespectful pet-name for her. 
 
 "Any news from your mother?" he demanded. 
 
 "Yes, dad," she replied, and took the telegram 
 from her pocket and gave it to him. 
 
 "What's this writing on the back.^" he inquired. 
 
 "That's a copy of my reply to mother," she said. 
 
 Meanwhile she was moving her cover from its 
 ordinary position to the empty place which was her 
 mother's. 
 
 "Good!" murmured her father, putting the crum- 
 pled telegram on the mantelpiece. "What are 
 you doing. Tommy.'*" 
 
 "I'm going to sit opposite you," said Annunciata 
 calmly, sitting down and pushing the flower vases 
 into new latitudes. 
 
 Mademoiselle came into the room, and dinner 
 began. 
 
 How Mademoiselle could have the audacity to 
 come and take her seat as though nothing had
 
 128 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 happened, Annunciata could not imagine. The 
 governess's air was absolutely demure, as usual. 
 She looked down at her plate over the beetling preci- 
 pice of her corsage just as usual. She talked just as 
 usual; Mr. Fearns also; yes, and Annunciata also. 
 If these two could dissemble, so could she. If 
 these two were a man and a woman who had seen 
 the world, and she was a little thing who knew noth- 
 ing, nevertheless she could match them at their own 
 game. And she did. The pat grew unreal, im- 
 possible, the pat of a dream. Should she tell her 
 mother? Or should she try to forget it-f* Her gaze 
 wandered round the heavy oak solidity of the dining- 
 room, and she felt the thick Turkey carpet under 
 her feet. Everything was real, homely, unchanged; 
 and yet by moments, just as the memory of the pat 
 seemed a dream, so the very house seemed insub- 
 stantial and illusory. 
 
 Toward the end of the dinner there was a peculiar 
 noise outside the door. 
 
 "What's that.^"' Fearns exclaimed. 
 
 "I'm afraid it's Master Frank and Master Sep, 
 sir," answered the servant, smiling faintly. 
 
 And those two imps, in nothing but their night- 
 shirts, plunged into the room, crying that father had 
 promised them chocolates and had forgotten. As 
 a matter of fact, their father's visit to the bath- 
 room had unduly excited them, encouraged them
 
 ANNUNCIATA 129 
 
 to a deed which was rash even for them. But in 
 their father's presence they never had any fear of 
 Mademoiselle. 
 
 Both women sprang up together with exclamations 
 of horror. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said Fearns with awful solem- 
 nity, "is this the way you bring up my boys.''" 
 
 But the boys were not to be misled by mock- 
 heroics. They were already pulling at his knees, 
 inarticulate, joyous, triumphantly grinning. The 
 knees were sanctuary from Mademoiselle, who 
 glanced at them undecided what to do. 
 
 "This is what comes of your mother being away," 
 said Fearns. "But she shall be told. She shall be 
 told." And he reached forward to the silver dish 
 in the middle of the table containing chocolates. 
 
 "Mr. Fearns!" Mademoiselle protested. 
 
 "Well, I did promise them, you know," said 
 Fearns, as he put one chocolate into each mouth. 
 "Now hook it!" he shouted. "Hook it! Or by the 
 beard of the prophet I'll " 
 
 They ran off, delighted with themselves. Made- 
 moiselle made as if to follow. 
 
 " ril go, " said Annunciata. " I'll look after them." 
 
 "Oh, no," said the governess. "Not at 
 all " 
 
 "I'll go," Annunciata repeated firmly. 
 
 And she did go. And upstairs, because Sep did
 
 I30 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 not Instantly get into bed, she smacked him and he 
 cried, and she said it served him right. And gloom 
 descended upon the nursery. 
 
 She went downstairs very quietly and entered 
 the dining-room with suddenness, fearing what she 
 might see; her father sat there alone. 
 
 "Where's Mademoiselle?" she asked him. 
 
 "Don't know. Drawing-room, I expect. Chil- 
 dren all right?" 
 
 She nodded, and began to eat an apple. 
 
 The sound of the piano came from the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 "Have some fruit, dad?" She smiled at him. 
 
 "No, thanks," he said, and lit a cigar. 
 
 "What are you going to do to-night?" she asked. 
 
 "What do you want to know for?" 
 
 " I thought perhaps you might like to take me to 
 the theatre to see Patience. " 
 
 "No, thanks," he said drily. She was hurt. 
 "I'm going to the club in a minute," he added. 
 
 She was extremely hurt by his tone, but she would 
 not show it. She went into the drawing-room and 
 sat down. Mademoiselle continued to play the 
 piano, some waltzes by Waldteufel. The front- 
 door banged. Annunciata rang the bell. 
 
 "Is father gone out?" she demanded of Louisa 
 sharply. 
 
 "Yes, miss."
 
 ANNUNCIATA 131 
 
 Annunciata looked through The GirVs Realm 
 from the first page to the last, comprehending not a 
 word. The house was strangely and disturbingly- 
 empty without her mother. She felt it more than 
 ever now. 
 
 "Good night," said Renee abruptly, rising and 
 leaving. 
 
 Five minutes later Annunciata went to the kitchen 
 to give final orders for the night, and she too as- 
 cended to bed. It was scarcely nine o'clock. 
 
 Annunciata's bedroom was spacious; it occupied 
 a corner of the first story, and had two windows, 
 one overlooking the front garden. The bed also 
 was spacious, for during school vacations she was 
 obliged to share it with Emily, a chit of fifteen. 
 Emily referred to the bedroom as "ours," but 
 Annunciata obstinately regarded her as a guest in 
 that room. Annunciata had chosen the wall paper, 
 and the blue eiderdown on the bed, and the rug 
 by the side of the bed. And she had caused the 
 furniture, originally of a Regent Street green, to be 
 enamelled white. Most of Annunciata's books were 
 ranged in a small hanging bookcase, bought with 
 her own money, over a microscopic writing-bureau 
 given to her by her mother. The photogravures 
 on the walls were every one Annunciata's private 
 property; there were two Maude Goodmans, a
 
 132 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Virgin and Child wrongly attributed hy Annunciata 
 and the authorities of the Louvre to Botticelli, 
 Burne-Jones's "Golden Stairs," two Orchardsons, 
 and some minor items with interesting personal 
 associations. On the night table by the bed v/ere 
 about a dozen books and a silk-covered photograph 
 frame containing portraits of her father and mother. 
 Hung above the table was another and more im- 
 posing portrait of her mother, signed. Photographs 
 and knicknacks abounded everywhere in the cham- 
 ber; a few of the photographs had already begun to 
 fade, showing that even Annunciata was not as young 
 as she had been. The history of her life and opinions 
 was written at large in the bedroom. It was the 
 ■ expression of herself; and she was intensely proud of 
 it, and intensely jealous for its sanctity. The 
 servants were allowed only to make the bed and sweep 
 the carpet; the dusting was done by Annunciata. 
 She was not a very orderly girl, but in that apart- 
 ment she had a place for everything, to the tiniest 
 trifle, and if by accident a servant deranged a pin- 
 cushion or a china slipper, there was the very deuce 
 to pay. She entered the room as she might have 
 entered a fortress; when she shut the door she sighed 
 with satisfaction, shutting it on all the world. 
 
 That night she meant to find moral help in a book; 
 but she could not read. Then, having put on a 
 dressing gown, she thought she would write to her
 
 ANNUNCIATA 133 
 
 mother, on the chance of her mother not being able to 
 return on the morrow; but she could not write, 
 though she had had no intention of referring to the 
 pat in her letter. She could not control her mind. 
 At length she turned down the gas to a speck and 
 got into bed, and gave her mind free play. Should 
 she tell her mother? Or should she swear to herself 
 to forget what she had seen? All at once a method 
 of solving the question occurred to her. She must 
 put herself on one side, and act as her mother 
 would wish her to act. It seemed to her that her 
 mother would certainly not wish to be kept in 
 ignorance of the incident. Therefore she must tell, 
 at no matter what personal pain. And she suddenly 
 decided to tell. But she would begin by exacting 
 from her mother a promise of absolute secrecy. She 
 could not have borne that her father should know of 
 her knowledge. Yes, she would say to her mother: 
 "Mother, I've got something to tell you, but you 
 must promise me not to say anything to any one 
 about it." And then she would go to the window 
 or look at a picture while she told her mother. Her 
 one desire now was for her mother's speedy return, 
 so that she might finish with the affair. At this 
 point she went to sleep, lying on her back, whereas 
 she usually slept on her left side. 
 
 She woke up with a start. Rain was beating on 
 the window nearest the bed. Perhaps it was the
 
 134 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 rain that had wakened her. She was wide awake. 
 She rose out of bed, and as she did so the clock in 
 the hall struck twelve. She went to the front win- 
 dow, and lifted the blind an inch or so and looked 
 out. Through the low trees that screened the gar- 
 den from Lawton Street she could see a light here 
 and there in windows of the small houses opposite. 
 She could hear the thunder of the electric train in 
 Trafalgar Road. Then the garden gates clicked 
 and she descried a mysterious form crossing the 
 garden. It was her father, returned from the club. 
 He had no umbrella, and his head was bent and his 
 hands apparently in the pockets of his overcoat. 
 She heard the closing of the front door. . . . What 
 obscure Instinct made her creep to her own door and 
 listen? She listened a long time. Not a sound, 
 her father must have gone straight to the dining 
 room. At last he came upstairs, in his slippers, 
 deliberately, calmly; he paused an instant to lower 
 the gas on the landing, and went by her door to his 
 own room. Then, after an interval, a door closed 
 softly; then utter silence in the house. The clock 
 in the hall struck half past twelve. 
 
 The first-floor corridors formed a right angle at 
 Annunciata's door. When she stood at her open 
 door she looked down the corridor leading to the 
 head of the principal stairs, and the flight of stairs 
 from the first-floor to the second-floor ran parallel
 
 ANNUNCIATA 135 
 
 with this corridor, the stairs beginning just opposite 
 her door. On the left of the same corridor were two 
 doors, of a small spare bedroom and of the day- 
 nursery, and finally the recess leading to the bath- 
 room. The other corridor was broader and more 
 important; it cut through the main part of the house 
 and ended in a window. Starting from this corner, 
 there were, first, Annunciata's door, then the door 
 of her mother's bedroom, and then that of her 
 father's bedroom. Her parents' bedrooms com- 
 municated one with the other, and indeed the door 
 giving access to her mother's room from the cor- 
 ridor was always locked, her mother entering and 
 leaving by her father's room, which was a corner- 
 room corresponding to Annunciata's. On the op- 
 posite side of the corridor were two doors, of the 
 night nursery and of Renee's bedroom. These 
 two rooms also intercommunicated, and at night 
 the door between them was left open so that Renee 
 might have cognizance of anything unusual in the 
 nursery; the unusual often happened In that 
 nursery. The door between the corridor and Renee's 
 bedroom was exactly opposite Mr. Fearns's door. 
 
 The Idea of the proximity of those two doors 
 seized the pure girl and as It were, gripped her by 
 the throat. There in the night all was changed; 
 the simplest things became sinister; the most in- 
 nocent things became vile. She wanted her mother's
 
 136 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 presence more than she had ever wanted anything 
 in all her life. She could hear nothing whatever, 
 and yet the strange mysterious instinct to go out 
 into the corridor was very strong. The caressing 
 pat grew immense with a terrible significance; it 
 pointed to a past, now and it pointed to a future; 
 it no longer stood by itself. Why had her 
 father spoken to her so curtly after dinner .»* 
 Why had Renee left the dinner table with 
 such abruptness and gone to play the piano in the 
 drawing-room f Renee never played the piano in the 
 evening, and she nearly always lingered at the dinner 
 table eating nuts, of which she was very fond. 
 Annunciata had no clear conjectures; she could 
 formulate no definite surmise. But her soul was 
 filled with a vague and incomprehensible horror. 
 She loathed herself as she recalled Renee's smile, 
 Renee's rich curves. And the recollection of Renee 
 reclining against two pillows with the lamplight 
 on her blonde face and hair, a recollection once 
 pathetic enough to rouse her keen sympathy, now 
 shocked and repelled her. 
 
 She crept into bed and put her head under the 
 clothes, desolate, miserable, and agonized. Heavy 
 was the account she had then against her dashing, 
 chivalrous father! She felt that in a moment of 
 criminal indiscretion he had changed the whole of 
 her life for her. Her head gradually emerged from
 
 ANNUNCIATA 137 
 
 the clothes and she lay staring with burning, blink- 
 ing eyes at the blackness of the ceiling. And the 
 clock struck once or twice. 
 
 Then she sat up, as if stabbed. Had she or had 
 she not heard a sound.? Was it a door shutting, 
 or the creak of a floor under a footstep.'* Or had 
 she fancied it.'* She could not be sure. But now 
 some force, apparently external, took hold of her. 
 She slipped cautiously out of bed, groped for her 
 dressing gown, and put it on. She tiptoed to the 
 door, unlocked it with infinite careful slowness, 
 and Inch by inch opened It; and listened. There 
 was no sound of any kind except the ticking of the 
 clock in the hall. The gas jet on the wall between 
 the servants' staircase and the door of the night 
 nursery burnt low. It was never turned completely 
 out at night lest Renee might have need of it for the 
 children. Annunclata took courage and stood 
 boldly on her mat, and as her eyes grew accustomed 
 to the twilight she examined each door, leaning 
 forward. The door of the night nursery had been 
 left slightly open, as usual. Renee's door was also 
 ajar; her father's was shut. Annunclata was sure 
 that when she came to bed Renee's door had been 
 a little less ajar. 
 
 The awful force not herself (or was it the pro- 
 foundest part of herself?) impelled her across the 
 corridor to the door of the night nursery, which she
 
 138 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 pushed open. In that room too a gas jet was 
 burning blue. She hesitated a long time, listening, 
 and then she raised the gas. Side by side in their 
 cots Frank and Sep were sleeping the exquisite 
 soft sleep of infancy. Their little chubby hands 
 were clenched, and their little red pouting lips apart. 
 On Sep*s flushed cheeks were the marks of the tears 
 that his hard-hearted sister had made him shed. 
 And the repose of these two irrespressible organisms 
 was so perfect that it was almost impossible to de- 
 tect their breathing. The door between the nursery 
 and Renee's bedroom was wide open. Annunciata 
 coughed discreetly. Then she stole into the bed- 
 room. The gas from the nursery illuminated it 
 sufficiently for Annunciata to make sure that it 
 was empty. The bed had been occupied; Renee's 
 clothes, including the famous corset, were scattered 
 about. 
 
 The perspiration stood on Annunciata's forehead ; 
 currents of electricity seemed to course through 
 her flowing hair. Her heart beat like a hammer. 
 She tried to listen, and she could hear nothing but 
 her heart. She had not conceived the possibility of 
 such sufi"ering as she then endured. After a moment 
 she returned to the nursery, lowered the light, and 
 with a thousand precautions regained her own room. 
 And, arrived there, she fixed the door so as to leave 
 a crack of a quarter of an inch, and she placed her
 
 ANNUNCIATA 139 
 
 eye to that crack, thus commanding the whole 
 corridor. And with the tremendous, bitter, ruth- 
 less patience of a woman mortally Injured, she 
 waited. 
 
 And shortly after the clock had struck two, when 
 the first Inception of the dawn had already changed 
 the black opacity of the corridor window to a pale 
 gray, the door of her father's bedroom slowly 
 opened, and she saw Renee, a dishevelled and 
 obscene figure, pass swiftly across the corridor and 
 disappear. 
 
 Charles Fearns had lived one hour too long. 
 For twenty-five years. In obedience to the ever- 
 growing tyranny of concupiscence, he had carried 
 on a series of Intrigues of all kinds. Year by year 
 his power over women and his skill In chicane had 
 Increased. Year by year his sense of honour and of 
 shame had dwindled, until he was In a way to be- 
 come nothing but the embodiment of one over- 
 mastering and lawless Instinct. And as the drunkard 
 cannot measure the depths to which he has sunk, 
 so Charles Fearns could not measure his degra- 
 dation. He was capable of committing enormities 
 without realizing that they were enormities. He 
 had successfully survived several minor disasters. 
 He had come to believe utterly in his luck and his 
 adroitness. But now the supreme disaster had 
 happened. The bomb had burst. A moment's
 
 I40 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 indiscretion, a moment's folly at the top of a stair- 
 case, had nullified the amazing and elaborate in- 
 genuity in deceit of a quarter of a century. Charles 
 Fearns the tight-rope dancer had fallen, and crushed 
 the tender and delicate creature whom alone he 
 purely loved.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 
 
 THE actual disintegration of the fabric of 
 family existence was begun by Annunciata 
 herself, unconsciously, the next morning. 
 Acting under the sway of an urgent instinct whose 
 propriety seemed to her to be above argument, she 
 arose very early, and, with as many precautions as 
 she had used in the night, crept out of her room, 
 across the corridor, and into the nursery. The door 
 between the nursery and Mademoiselle's bedroom 
 was now shut. The little boys slept, their postures 
 unchanged. She did not hesitate a moment. Putting 
 her arms under Sep first, because he was the younger 
 and because of the tear-stains on his flushed soft 
 cheek, she picked him gently up and carried him, all 
 warm and limp, to her own chamber. Then it was 
 Frank's turn; and a third time she came for their gar- 
 ments, and for the sacred indispensable toys which 
 diverted their owners up to breakfast. She closed 
 her door, relieved, and breathless from nervous 
 excitement. The sleeping boys were side by side in 
 her great bed, unexpectant of the immense surprise 
 
 141
 
 142 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 that awaited them. Only once had the floor of 
 the corridor creaked. 
 
 She dressed noiselessly, with frequent glances at 
 the bed, and as she was fixing the final comb in her 
 tight-bound hair, Sep awoke. She sprang to him, 
 and stifled with a kiss his amazement at seeing her. 
 
 "Sh!" she whispered, smiling sadly into his lim- 
 pid eyes, which were close to hers. "You're in my 
 bed. I've brought you, and Frankie too. It's a 
 secret. Here's your gray horse." 
 
 He had exactly his father's eyes, naughty-twink- 
 ling, and irresistible; and he had his father's heavy 
 underlip. The possibilities, nay, the certainties 
 that peeped forth out of the innocence of that baby 
 afflicted Annunciata. She saw the whole generation 
 of babies, boys and girls, of Sep's age, and she 
 thought of what they must come to, and a gust of 
 angry protest against the very march of nature 
 swept through her. 
 
 Sep put his brown fists into his eyes, sleepily in- 
 spected the new environment, and then yawned. 
 
 "I don't want my gray horse," he said. "It's 
 my elephant morning." 
 
 This aroused Frank. As Annunciata leaned her 
 long body across them both, kissing them, cuddling 
 them, mumbling tender words with her lips on theirs 
 calming with her hand their tumultuous legs and 
 arms, she was like a cook who has to keep watch on
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 143 
 
 two saucepans at once lest either should boil over. 
 If one child cried, the other would cry, and the 
 whole household would instantly be acquainted 
 with the facts. 
 
 Their astonishment was short-lived. They ac- 
 cepted Annunciata's bed and Annunciata's room 
 with the philosophic fatalism of their years. 
 
 **Does Mamzelle know.'"' Frank cautiously 
 asked, pulling at the fine lace of a pillow. 
 
 *'Don't!" Annunciata entreated. "No. She 
 doesn't. You mustn't talk so loud. Haven't I told 
 you it's a secret.'* I'm going to take you for a 
 walk." 
 
 "Where to.'"' demanded Frank. 
 
 "Where would you like.'"' 
 
 "Pond," said Sep with firmness. 
 
 "He means the pond in the Park," Frank ex- 
 plained. 
 
 "Swan," said Sep. "And two teeny tiny baby 
 swans." 
 
 "Very well," Annunciata agreed. "We'll go to 
 the Park. But you must get up very quietly, both 
 of you, do you hear? Who will get up first.'"' 
 
 "It's my turn," Frank answered gloomily. He 
 would have preferred to get up last, so that he might 
 play with the combined toys for a few moments; 
 but he had a passion for truth which victimized 
 him as often as it defended his rights.
 
 144 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 He slipped out of bed, and Annunclata found his 
 shirt. 
 
 *'My socks," he corrected her, pained. Annun- 
 ciata's ignorance of the elementary fact that he put 
 on his socks before removing his night-attire as- 
 tounded him. He could not get over it. So the 
 dressing proceeded, with many false starts and set- 
 backs, Annunclata's spine being aways bent, and 
 her face red, and her thin fingers accommodating 
 themselves with a strange clumsiness to unaccus- 
 tomed tasks. And long ere Sep was clad and up- 
 right, it was as if the angel of confusion had passed 
 through the scrupulously kept room. A battle 
 might have raged in the space between the bed and 
 the washstand. She sighed at the sight of Frank 
 pretending that her embroidered night-dress case, 
 which had travelled under the bed, was a white 
 bear. And she did no more than sigh when Sep, 
 his feet entangled in a wet towel, subsided on his 
 stomach and broke a tortoise-shell comb. But at 
 length they were definitely dressed. 
 
 "Now you can sit on the sill and look out of the 
 window," she said, "while I write a note. Then 
 we'll go." 
 
 She went to the little writing desk, and wrote on 
 a letter card: 
 
 "Please leave the house as quickly as possible. I 
 am looking after the children. Annunciata Fearns."
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 145 
 
 The next minute she had put on her hat and 
 opened her door. The letter was between her 
 teeth, Frank under her right arm, and Sep under her 
 left. Frank clutched a pair of her gloves. She 
 reached the ground floor with her burdens safely, 
 despite an accident with the two cats, who were 
 reposing on the top step but one of the stairs. She 
 relinquished the children, who now, having taken 
 a fancy to be conspirators, were behaving precisely 
 according to her wishes. Sunshine v/as slanting 
 into the hall through the open door of the drawing 
 room, the beam crowded with large motes from a 
 disturbed mat. The clock ticked as if nothing had 
 happened. The morning newspaper had already 
 been pushed under the side door. She led her 
 babes through the kitchen, where the cook, new and 
 unsympathetic, was blackleading the range, to the 
 larder, where she fed them on bread and milk. 
 
 "Please take this note up to Mademoiselle's room 
 and give it to her," she said to the cook. 
 
 "What, now.? As I am. Miss?" the cook 
 questioned. 
 
 "Please." 
 
 "Well," said the cook's back, leaving the kitchen, 
 "I've been in some queer houses " 
 
 Outside, In Trafalgar Road, Annunciata breathed 
 largely and freely. She let the children run loose 
 while she put on her gloves, and then she took their
 
 146 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 hands. At Grange House, a little way down on the 
 right, there was a tap on a pane. Annunciata 
 looked up, startled and blushing. Her friend 
 Helen Pierpoint was at her bedroom window, half 
 hidden by a curtain. Helen's face expressed much 
 wonder and curiosity, but Annunciata only smiled, 
 shamefaced, and shook her head and went on. The 
 Hanbridge car, crammed with workmen and work- 
 women, rushed with a roar and a swish up the slope. 
 The pavements were dotted with hurrying, noisy- 
 footed, preoccupied people, who seemed to ignore 
 the singular and pretty sight of the white girl leading 
 two blue boys whose little legs took two steps to 
 their sister's one. Annunciata prayed that she 
 might meet nobody she knew. She could not 
 imagine herself once again speaking naturally to 
 a friend. 
 
 Up in the town the new terra cotta post-office had 
 not opened its absurd portal. The town-hall clock 
 showed half-past seven. She stopped. 
 
 "Pond," said Sep. 
 
 "Anny," Frank enquired, after a calm inspection 
 of her, "Why are your eyes black. ^" 
 
 She was examining the notice in the window of 
 the post-office. 
 
 "And you never made us say our prayers either," 
 he added. 
 
 "Pond," Sep repeated insistently.
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 147 
 
 She took them, protesting, for a walk in the direc- 
 tion of Turnhill, along a road from which the town 
 park was clearly visible, like a promised land, on the 
 right. And at eight o'clock, she led them back to 
 the post-office, which was just unbarred, and they 
 pushed valiantly- at the swing door for her and fell 
 over a broom that a woman was wielding in the 
 vestibule. Annunciata had never in her life sent a 
 telegram from a post-office. But a kind fate 
 guided her to the dark corner provided for the 
 public writing of telegrams, and with a stumpy 
 pencil, heavily fettered, she composed a tele- 
 gram to her mother: *'Come home at once, 
 Annunciata." 
 
 "What's this name please.^" demanded a girl be- 
 hind the broad, ink-stained counter. 
 
 And Annunciata had to spell her name letter by 
 letter. 
 
 "Sixpence, please." 
 
 A telegraph instrument was clicking the whole 
 time behind a screen, and the boys, overcome by 
 the height of the counter and the unprecedented 
 mysterious clicking, whispered solemnly to each 
 other. Annunciata affixed the stamps to the form 
 and summoned the boys, who pattered in her wake. 
 She felt that she had done all that could be done. 
 And suddenly she was very frightened, almost 
 dumfounded, by what she had dared to do. Con-
 
 148 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 sequences began to shape themselves vaguely and 
 horribly before her. 
 
 At half past ten she returned home with her 
 brothers. The boys were tired, tired of swans, of 
 little brown swans, of flowers, of gravel pies, and 
 even of chocolate from the slot machines in the 
 park shelters. And Annunciata was exhausted 
 utterly. She had tasted nothing but bits of choco- 
 late, which had nauseated her in the hot morning 
 sun. The scullery maid was cleaning the front 
 steps. It was quite wrong that the scullery maid 
 should have been cleaning the front steps at such an 
 hour, but Annunciata was glad to see her in the 
 porch, because Martha had been an inmate of the 
 house much longer than the other servants, and had 
 something of the faithful bondslave in her un- 
 gainly fat body. 
 
 "Eh, Miss," she observed. "You're that pale!" 
 And she kept the boys off her clean steps with smil- 
 ing protests and gestures of her red arms. 
 
 "Has father gone.'"' Annunciata asked. 
 
 "Yes, Miss. He come downstairs, and drank his 
 coffee and hasted off quicker nor ever like." 
 
 Mr. Fearns was of those incurable persons who 
 prefer bed to breakfast. To catch him of a morning 
 between his bedroom door and the front door needed
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 149 
 
 the eye of a lynx and the pounce of a cat; one mo- 
 ment he was, and the next he was not. 
 
 "Where is Mademoiselle?" Annunciata's heart 
 beat. 
 
 "She ain't stirred, Miss," replied Martha. And 
 Annunciata seemed to detect a peculiar intonation 
 in the girl's voice. 
 
 "Well, that's a nice thing!" Frankie remarked. 
 "Who's going to look after us.? Nobody can teach 
 us our lessons but Mamzelle." 
 
 Annunciata recovered herself. "You won't have 
 any lessons this morning. Martha shall play with 
 you in the nursery. Take them, will you, Martha. 
 Put on a white apron. Now you must be good, or 
 else I sha'n't take you out any more." 
 
 "Rum!" said Frank. "Come on, Sep." 
 
 Sep was smiling to himself. He was not an Im- 
 passioned talker. They carefully left four foot- 
 marks on the white steps. 
 
 "And ask cook to make me some tea," Annunciata 
 called out, "and to bring it to me in the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 She tried to convince herself that the domestic 
 organism showed no signs of the night's horror. 
 But the very aspect of the senseless chairs straddling 
 on the drawing-room carpet seemed to cry aloud that 
 all was changed; and that they were no longer the 
 same chairs. The cook brought In the tea with an
 
 ISO WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 expression to indicate that she was not a woman to 
 be easily deceived and that she had witnessed strange 
 matters aforetime and could hear a thunderstorm a 
 hundred miles off. And Annunicata's thoughts 
 ran: "I have done this. I have done all this, with- 
 out consulting anybody." And then she would ask: 
 "All what.?" So she drank her tea. 
 
 At twelve o'clock, as Mademoiselle had not 
 appeared, she formed the extraordinary resolution 
 to visit the governess in her bedroom and command 
 her to depart. The idea at the back of her mind was 
 that Renee must on no account meet her mother. 
 She ran with mad quivering courage upstairs, and 
 burst into Renee's room. And it was empty and 
 strange. Renee's two trunks were strapped and 
 labelled at the foot of the bed. Renee, then, had 
 gone, leaving her trunks to follow. Annunciata took 
 breath. 
 
 After all, the night had not been an awful dream. 
 Renee, fleeing secretly at the instance of that brief 
 note, penned while the boys played on the window 
 sill, had admitted her guilt. Annunciata went into 
 the garden and questioned the gardener. Yes, he 
 had seen Mademoiselle leave the house at a quarter 
 past ten. She was carrying a small bag, and ap- 
 peared to be in a hurry. 
 
 To avoid meeting her father at lunch, Annunciata 
 determined to be unwell. But, just as she re-
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 151 
 
 entered the house, the telephone rang its imperious 
 bell. By force of habit she answered the call. It 
 was her father's voice she heard, cold, grave, haughty. 
 
 "Who's there?" he demanded. 
 
 "Me," her lips trembled. 
 
 "What.? Annunciata?" 
 
 "Yes, father." Somehow she felt ashamed and 
 guilty, as though she, and not her father, had sinned. 
 
 "I have to go to Liverpool, on business. I sha'n't 
 be in for lunch. I don't know if I shall be back 
 to-night." 
 
 And he rang off, curtly, without another word. 
 
 She was stunned by the rush of events. In a 
 vision she seemed to see Renee creeping into her 
 her father's room, and to hear her say: "Look at 
 this note that your fine daughter has sent me!" 
 And then the feverish discussion of what the note 
 implied and how they should act. 
 
 Bradshaw always lay on the ledge under the tele- 
 phone next to the list of telephone subscribers. She 
 tried to discover the times of the trains from Bir- 
 mingham, but with no success. She could not 
 decipher the figures on the page, much less hit on 
 the right pages. With an admirable sense of her 
 needs at that moment she issued an ordinance 
 that Frank and Sep should lunch with her in the 
 dining-room. 
 
 It was toward the end of this perilous meal that
 
 152 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 the door of the dining-room opened swiftly, and her 
 mother stood there, a little dishevelled and heated 
 from the journey. 
 
 "My dear!" asked her mother abruptly, but in a 
 low, restrained tone, "what ever is the matter?" 
 
 Annunciata could not speak, though she tried to 
 form some words. And the boys stopped eating 
 and gazed at her with open mouths, not even greet- 
 ing their mother. Her mother's presence choked 
 her. The terribleness of what she had done, on her 
 own initiative, its irremediability, its audacity, 
 struck her now with overwhelming force. Had she 
 remained quiescent, the household would have been 
 revolving as usual. But her action had devastated 
 it like an internal fire, and what remained was the 
 shell, to deceive onlookers, and them only for a 
 little space. 
 
 "Dearest!" exclaimed her mother approaching 
 her with uplifted. Importunate hands. 
 
 No! She could not speak. She could not begin. 
 She could not control her muscles. And yet all the 
 morning she had fancied that she was so calm, per- 
 fectly mistress of herself. She turned away her 
 dizzy head with a supreme gesture of impotence, 
 and the last thing she saw was a patch of egg-yolk 
 on Sep's bib. 
 
 When she recovered her senses, she was lying on 
 her back on the couch in the drawing-room, her face
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 153 
 
 toward the door, and a faint smell of ammonia in 
 her nostrils. The three servants were grouped at 
 the door, with alarmed, foolish faces. Her mother 
 stood by her side, fanning her with a Japanese fan 
 taken from the mantelpiece. There came from the 
 hall a sudden shrill sound of Sep crying. 
 
 "Martha," said her mother, "take them into the 
 garden and keep them good. That will do, thank 
 you, she is better now." 
 
 Her mother waved away the servants, shut the 
 door on them and on Sep's weeping, and returned to 
 the couch. 
 
 Annunciata stared mournfully, and seized her 
 hand in a limp clasp. 
 
 "This is a nice home-coming!" murmured her 
 mother quietly, smiling. "What is it, dear.? It 
 seems that Mademoiselle has gone." 
 
 "Oh, mother," said Annunciata, in a languid, 
 imploring, invalid's voice. "I was obliged to tele- 
 graph for you." She spoke now without difficulty, 
 as if in a dream. 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Because of Mademoiselle— and father." The 
 last syllables melted into soft tears. 
 
 Her mother dropped her hand, and put the fan on 
 the mantelpiece. 
 
 "Your father.''" Mrs. Fearns questioned sharply, 
 moving from the sofa.
 
 154 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Annunciata had to say it, and she said it. She 
 had to look her mother in the face, and she looked her 
 in the face. And the face was drawn, pinched, 
 , pallid, like the face of a dead mother. 
 
 "They were together, last night," she said, ceas- 
 ing to cry. 
 
 "Together, Annunciata.'"' her mother repeated, 
 in a hissing voice. "Annunciata, what do you 
 mean.'"' The woman crossed the hearth-rug in 
 three rapid steps. 
 
 "Mother " 
 
 "I know what you mean, my poor child!" cried 
 Mrs. Fearns. "I know! I know!" she reiterated in 
 slow, expiring tones, and sank upon a chair, the 
 muscles of her spine rigid. "So that is why you 
 telegraphed! God forgive him! God forgive him!" 
 
 The make-believe was at an end. Unlike the 
 majority of girls, Annunciata had not had to wait 
 until she was married and expecting a baby, for her 
 mother's explicit recognition of the fact that she had 
 ceased to be a child and had looked on existence and 
 understood. Never till then had a word passed 
 between them to compromise, to breathe a stain 
 upon, the assumed purity of Annunciata's mind. 
 Never had the sacred doors of convention been 
 boldly unbarred that Annunciata might glance, were 
 it for an instant, on the central disquieting mystery 
 and secret cause of life's continuance. But now
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 155 
 
 fate had broken down the barriers, and mother and 
 daughter gazed eye to eye on the most shocking 
 sight that even the wife of Charles Fearns had ever 
 seen, and neither pretended that Annunciata was 
 blind or incapable of comprehension. Annunciata 
 was extremely surprised to find how simple and 
 natural in its profound grief was the avowal. And 
 she was astonished too that, without assistance, 
 without reflection, by mere instinct, she had under- 
 stood so much and so immediately. In a single day 
 the theoretical initiation had been begun and com- 
 pleted, and accepted by the last person in the world 
 likely to accept it. 
 
 "Tell me," said her mother. "Not here.? Not in 
 this house,'"' 
 
 Annunciata nodded, and with a weak hand 
 pointed to the ceiling. The bedrooms of her father 
 and mother were over the drawing-room. 
 
 "Surely not!" Mrs. Fearns whispered in accents 
 made solemn by the sense of outrage. She put 
 her chin in her plump hand, and rested her elbow 
 on the arm of the chair, staring at the carpet. 
 "Surely not!" 
 
 Annunciata did not insist. She pushed back her 
 hair with a fatigued, worried movement, and waited. 
 She felt herself to be in the midst of a unique crisis, 
 a crisis than which she could conceive nothing more 
 thrilling and dreadful. And mingled with her great
 
 156 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 distress was a strange, timorous pride — that she 
 stood for once on an equality with her mother. An- 
 nunciata knew herself to be inferior to her mother 
 both in intellect and in force of character; she knew 
 that this would always be so, that no development 
 on her part could ever change their relative positions. 
 She had loved and admired her father, but an im- 
 mense respect was the basis of her sentiments 
 toward her mother, whom in her secret soul she had 
 from her earliest years recognized, with the sure, 
 impartial judgment of infancy, as the strongest 
 individuality in the house. 
 
 "How came you to know anything of this, Annun- 
 ciata?" asked Mrs. Fearns after a silence. 
 
 The girl turned to lie on her left side, and looked 
 her mother candidly in the face, and Mrs. Fearns 
 raised her eyes and met the glance. 
 
 "Am I to tell you all about it, mamma.?" Here 
 spoke the mother's equal, the young woman of the 
 world. 
 
 Their mutual glance was prolonged. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 And Annunciata, in a tired, drawling voice, re- 
 lated the whole episode from the moment of the pat 
 on Renee's cheek. She spoke naturally, without 
 self-consciousness, without even a blush. She was 
 amazed at her own serenity, amazed that she could 
 relate the awful thing in a manner so cold-blooded.
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 157 
 
 It may appear incredible, but it is nevertheless a 
 fact, that, while she told it, her father's monstrous 
 obliquity seemed to her less a crime than a vagary. 
 She did not in truth know what she was talking about. 
 
 "You sent that note up by the cook,'"' 
 
 "Yes, mamma. Then I took the children out 
 instantly." 
 
 "And did your father see her before he went to 
 the office?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 Mrs. Fearns rose from her chair, and put up her 
 hands to take the pins from her hat. 
 
 "Did your father say anything else when he tele- 
 phoned.^" she demanded, a hat-pin between her 
 teeth. 
 
 "Oh no, mother — he spoke very crossly." 
 
 The notion gradually formed in Annunciata's 
 mind that her mother had exhibited rather less than 
 the utmost degree of surprise at the disastrous news. 
 The girl was not deceived by her mother's calm. 
 She had a little expected her to remain calm. But 
 there was something subtle and unseizable In her 
 mother's manner that Implied, if not a faint pre- 
 monition, at any rate a previous foreboding fear, 
 born of past experience. And Annunciata saw her 
 father's charming way with women in a new and 
 sinister light. Had he then always been one of 
 those wicked rakes that . . . ? And had her
 
 158 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 mother always known and suffered? And had her 
 parents lived always a double existence under her 
 unsuspecting eyes? 
 
 She was filled with a fierce and dangerous curiosity, 
 which almost compelled her to say to her mother: 
 "Mother, you do not seem very surprised." 
 
 But she dared not. Happily her awe of her 
 mother was stronger than the impulse. 
 
 There was a screeching yell from the garden, then 
 a silence, then a series of yells crescendo and dimin- 
 uendo: which phenomena could only mean that 
 Sep had fallen flat on some stony substance and 
 really hurt himself. 
 
 " If you're quite recovered, dear," said Mrs. Fearns 
 in a cold and even tone, "do go and look after those 
 boys, and send Martha in. By the way, your aunt 
 is better." 
 
 It was a singular close to the interview. 
 
 During the afternoon Mrs. Fearns disappeared 
 from view. Annunciata conscientiously occupied 
 herself with the boys. She played with them, she 
 gave them a lesson and their supper, and she put 
 them to bed, early. And then the desire to see her 
 mother again overcame her. She went quietly into 
 her father's bedroom, whose perfect orderliness 
 showed no trace of the night's history, and through 
 the open door leading to the inner room she saw a
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 159 
 
 form seated on the edge of the bed there. The pale 
 green blind was drawn and the chamber in the 
 shadow. She advanced on tiptoe, with beating 
 heart. 
 
 "Mother!" she cried aloud, and flung her arms 
 round that soft neck, and pressed her girlish bosom 
 against the rich breasts that once had fed her. 
 Her mother, with dry eyes, was sobbing painfully. 
 Annunciata kissed her eyes with a wild spiritual 
 abandonment, and they wept together in a close 
 and ecstatic embrace. 
 
 "Mother!" the girl whispered through her tears, 
 "You've been here all by yourself for hours and 
 hours!" 
 
 And Mrs Fearns nodded, drawing breath hyster- 
 ically through her nostrils. 
 
 "Mother dearest! I did right, didn't I.? I 
 couldn't possibly let her touch Frank and Sep again, 
 could I?" 
 
 " You did quite right, my darling." 
 
 There was a knock at the outer door. 
 
 " Go and see," said Mrs. Fearns. 
 
 A telegram had come from the master of the 
 house to the effect that he could not return that night. 
 Annunciata, having read it first, off"ered it to her 
 mother in silence. 
 
 " Mother," she said, "you need some one to talk 
 to, to consult."
 
 i6o WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 " Who is there I can talk to? " asked Mrs. Fearns, 
 with apparently a touch of cynicism. 
 
 "There is Mr. Ridware." 
 
 "Oh, no! I can't bother Mr. Ridware with my 
 troubles." 
 
 " You ought to have some one, mamma," Annun- 
 ciata persisted.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 
 
 THE same afternoon, Lawrence Ridware 
 returned from midday dinner to the office 
 on Gater's high-geared bicycle. He had 
 forgotten it in the morning. At the corner of Hol- 
 born and Chancery Lane he passed Paul Pennington, 
 carrying his indispensable little shiny black bag; 
 and there was a look of prim and temperate satis- 
 factionon Pennington's face which caused Lawrence's 
 heart to sink. It was the energy of Pennington, his 
 passion for doing things instantly which had to be 
 done, that disturbed Lawrence. An action for 
 divorce having been decided, Pennington took it in 
 hand at once. That very morning Pennington had 
 told him that there was no reason why the petition 
 should not be heard early in the Michaelmas Sittings. 
 Pennington had asked him for the address of the 
 landlady at Manifold, and also for a photograph of 
 his wife. Lawrence had replied with a certain 
 unreasonable relish that Pennington would have to 
 wait for a photograph till the afternoon. But Pcn- 
 
 i6i
 
 1 62 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 nington reminded him that a photograph of some 
 lady had been lying about Lawrence's room for 
 years — it had survived even the brief reign of the 
 late Thomas — and was now probably in one of the 
 drawers of his desk. Was not that the portrait of 
 Mrs. Ridware? It was. Pennington himself found 
 it in a lower drawer, together with a forgotton 
 volume of Retif de la Bretonne and a number of the 
 Bibliophile. Pennington dusted it, and put it in an 
 envelope and pocketed it. "I can just catch the 
 10.33 for Manifold," Pennington had said, hasten- 
 ing away. Why could not Pennington have waited 
 a few days.'* This despatch annoyed Lawrence; 
 but he could not protest; he could only thank Penn- 
 ington for being so assiduous. 
 
 And now Pennington was returned from his 
 mission. 
 
 Lawrence carried the bicycle upstairs with a rush, 
 so that he might be ready to receive Pennington 
 calmly in his own room. He felt himself to be very 
 nervous. He swore at himself for being thus nervous 
 on no pretext whatever. But his profanity worked no 
 cure. Fortunately, only Gater was in the ofhce, 
 and Gater was too interested in the reappearance 
 of his bicycle to notice the rider. With a word of 
 thanks for the loan Lawrence went straight to his 
 room and sat down. Through the half-open door 
 he saw Pennington come into the articled-clerks'
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 163 
 
 office, put down his bag, change his coat, and sheathe 
 his cuffs in note paper. Pennington then made an 
 entry in the petty cash book (which he kept), un- 
 locked a drawer, put some money into it, and locked 
 it. No doubt he was dealing with the expenses of 
 the journey to Manifold. Pennington's precise 
 manner of manipulating a bunch of keys was always 
 irritating to Lawrence. To see the young man 
 turn a key with a snap, withdraw the bunch, and 
 drop it into his pocket would sometimes make 
 Lawrence grind his teeth. It reminded him, in 
 some preposterous way, of the Scribes and Sadducees. 
 
 Pennington took a paper out of his bag and en- 
 tered Lawrence's room, shutting the door. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I've got everything." He did 
 not smile. He had the fitting gravity of an under- 
 taker. 
 
 "You have.?" Lawrence exclaimed, flushing. 
 
 "Yes. She wouldn't talk at first." 
 
 "Who wouldn't?" 
 
 "Mrs. Malkin, the landlady. Your wife — Mrs. 
 Ridware — had evidently made a most favourable 
 impression on her." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Lawrence. There it was again — 
 another instance of Phyllis's skill in imposing on 
 people. 
 
 "But I soon made her see reason. I told her that 
 anyway she would be subpoenaed and have to go to
 
 i64 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 London. And I also pointed out to her that if it 
 transpired at the trial that she was an unwilling 
 witness, that very fact would give her house a bad 
 reputation, because everyone would say that she had 
 connived. I told her that the only way for her to 
 save the reputation of her house, was to do every- 
 thing she could to help us to get at the truth." 
 
 Pennington paused for admiration of this di- 
 plomacy. 
 
 "Very good," said Lawrence, looking up at him 
 as he stood correct and virtuous behind the desk. 
 
 "She's a regular landlady. That knocked her. 
 I got everything out of her, and what's more, I made 
 her sign a note of her evidence." 
 
 "Did you? What does she say?" 
 
 "I'll read it to you." 
 
 Lawrence wanted to say: "No, let me read it 
 myself." But he could not bring himself to do so. 
 
 And Pennington read: 
 
 "My name is Mary Malkln. I keep a boarding 
 house at No. 3 Ham Terrace, Manifold. Mr. 
 Emery Greatbatch has frequently stayed in my 
 house at holiday times for several years past. He 
 has a large bed-sitting-room. On the Thursday 
 before last Good Friday he came in the morning, by 
 arrangement. He then told me that a lady would 
 come to take tea with him on Good Friday, and I 
 was to get something nice for tea. The lady came.
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 165 
 
 She was veiled. But I took the tea up myself and 
 saw her. The photograph shown to me this morn- 
 ing is her portrait. She left about nine o'clock. 
 They neither of them left the room during that 
 time. Mr. Greatbatch did not accompany her 
 when she went." 
 
 Pennington coughed, glancing up from the paper. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," he said, "I asked her if 
 there were any signs of disorder in the room when 
 she came up to clear the tea things away afterward. 
 But she said it was too dark to see. She stuck to 
 that for some time, and then she admitted that the 
 bed might have been unmade and remade. I saw 
 the room. It contains a large bed and a sofa and 
 many other things. However, that doesn't matter. 
 The inference is sufficiently strong, and besides 
 there's a lot more evidence. She goes on: 'The 
 lady came again for tea on Easter Sunday. Mr. 
 Greatbatch didn't ring afterward, and the servant 
 didn't go up to clear the things away. I asked the 
 servant at ten o'clock if the lady had gone and she 
 said she didn't know. I went upstairs quietly and 
 listened outside the door, and heard talking, but 
 there was no light in the room. It was a man and a 
 woman talking, very low. I then went to bed. I 
 had a made-up bed in the front parlour, it being 
 holiday time. I stayed awake till two o'clock, and 
 will swear that no one left the house before two
 
 1 66 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 o'clock, because the parlour opens onto the lobby 
 and the door was ajar. At four o'clock I was 
 wakened by the front door banging. The next 
 morning Mr. Greatbatch rang for his breakfast to 
 be brought up to him at eight o'clock, and there was 
 no one in the room but him. The servant had got 
 up at six. Therefore the lady in question must have 
 left the house beween two o'clock and six. I '" 
 
 "That's enough," Lawrence murmured, his sensi- 
 bilities utterly outraged. He was so ashamed and 
 distressed that he had no emotion left to be angry. 
 
 "Yes, isn't it?" said Pennington, with calm satis- 
 faction. "But there's more: 'I do not remember 
 exactly " 
 
 "Please don't read any more," Lawrence re- 
 quested in a trembling voice. 
 
 Pennington gazed at him over the edge of the 
 paper apparently astonished. But it did not take 
 Pennington more than five minutes to grasp a 
 situation. He flattered himself on his perspicacity. 
 
 Abruptly he folded up the paper. 
 
 "I'll write to agents by to-night's post," he said 
 in a low tone, "with this. They do everything, you 
 know, in matrimonial cases. We shall have the 
 petition down by return. As for the affidavit in 
 support — By the way, here's that photograph, shall 
 you keep it.^"' 
 
 He left the room, closing the door very gently, as
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 167 
 
 though he had been leaving a sick room. With all 
 his virtues he had his moments of humanity. 
 
 A few minutes later Lawrence, in a forlorn effort 
 to induce himself to work, rose and went into Mr. 
 Fearns's office in search of several bundles of papers 
 and Prideaux's Conveyancing. As he passed through 
 Pennington's room he had a glimpse of Pennington, 
 whose penholder slanted inwards from right to left 
 in a manner distressingly pedagogic, writing his 
 attendances for the morning. And he could read on 
 the blue draft paper: "P.D.A. Division, Ridware 
 V. R. and Greatbatch. Journey to Manifold and 
 attending Mrs. Malkin." It seemed to Lawrence, 
 so rapid was the apparent march of events, that he 
 was already In the midst of the Divorce Court, 
 already entangled in the undergrowth of procedure; 
 and yet the action had not even been commenced. 
 
 In his principal's room, instead of looking for papers 
 he dropped into his principal's pivoted armchair 
 and laid his arms on the desk. He was sick, weary, 
 disgusted. The evidence which Pennington had 
 collected revolted him. Phyllis defiling herself In 
 a lodging-house, with all the miserable accompani- 
 ment of secrecy, shame, deceit, and genteel squalour 1 
 
 Had Phyllis been some other man's wife, he would 
 have been more philosophical. He would have put 
 conventional morality In its proper place, neither 
 too low nor too high. He would probably have said
 
 1 68 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 that every one concerned was to be pitied, and that 
 to distribute blame was inept. He might gently 
 have asked what it mattered after all, since sorrow 
 was the very woof of life. For Lawrence was capable 
 of sitting on a throne with renowned poets and sages. 
 But because Phyllis happened to be his, he suffered 
 cruelly. His instincts rose up and inflicted on his 
 intellect the worst defeat his intellect had ever known. 
 And yet he had not loved Phyllis for years. Now he 
 hated her bitterly. 
 
 There was a rush along the passage, and Charles 
 Fearns's surprising, violent figure, took the room as 
 it were by assault. Fearns was supposed to have 
 gone to Liverpool two hours before on business of 
 which the staff knew nothing. 
 
 "Stopped at last moment!" he growled angrily. 
 "Missed train. Get out of my way, please. What 
 are you doing here, Ridware.'"' 
 
 "I'm looking for papers," said Lawrence, haugh- 
 tily, but quitting the chair in haste. 
 
 "Here ! Send Gater out to cash me this cheque, 
 will you?" 
 
 And Fearns pulled a cheque book from a drawer, 
 filled it in for twenty pounds, and gave it to Lawrence. 
 
 "You haven't endorsed it." 
 
 "Oh! Hell!" the principal exclaimed, savage. 
 "Tell him to run. I must catch the three train at 
 Knype."
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 169 
 
 Fearns fumed at the threshold of his room for five 
 minutes awaiting Gater's return, and at last went 
 out to meet the boy on the stairs, after which he was 
 no more seen. When Gater came in, breathless, 
 Gater winked at Clowes, and Clowes winked at 
 Gater. Of the entire staff Pennington alone did an 
 honest afternoon's work. 
 
 When Lawrence reached home in the evening, it 
 was Cousin Sarah RIdware who opened the door for 
 him, and the old woman had a peculiar expression of 
 triumph on her face. 
 
 Addressed as cousin by the brothers, Sarah RId- 
 ware was more correctly the cousin of their father. 
 She was one of those needy and undistinguished 
 relations of which a family indomitably ascending 
 In the social scale has almost the right to be ashamed. 
 She stood at the level of Lawrence's grandfather, a 
 potter's fireman of thrifty habits who died in 1862. 
 And, with the brothers, she was all that remained 
 of the blood. She had obstinately refused to rise 
 with Lawrence's father, who had become a traveller 
 and, just before his death, manager, for the historic 
 potting firm of Boones. To be even an errand boy 
 at Boones conferred respectability in the seventies. 
 And when RIdware senior passed away he had half 
 a column In the Signal. But Sarah, who never 
 married, was as unambitious as she was unsus-
 
 I70 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 ceptible to the spirit of change. She had a mind of 
 incredible narrowness, and her independence was 
 ferocious. At sixty she lived in two rooms of a 
 cottage between Hanbridge and Knype, and sup- 
 ported herself by a needle that was indefatigable. 
 She had conserved the simple customs of her uncle 
 the fireman. She was astoundingly proud, espec- 
 ially on the way to church In black silk. Shewould 
 not accept presents of money from her nephews. 
 She would not call on Lawrence. But she expected 
 Lawrence to call on her from time to time and praise 
 her tea, which somehow was invariably stewed. 
 Mark also dared not forget her during his sojourns 
 in the district. She sniflFed at the grandeur of the 
 brothers, yet her own importance by some ingenuity 
 fed itself therefrom. Her attitude said: "Look at 
 the splendour of what I scorn!" Phyllis had paid 
 her one visit, of state, and had absolutely declined 
 to renew the experience. Sarah's unique comment 
 was that she, Sarah, was not fine enough for some 
 folks — with their airs. 
 
 Lawrence had gone to her on the previous evening. 
 She had been shocked, desolated, and delighted by 
 his news, and enormously flattered by his request 
 that she should temporarily keep his house. She 
 had made her consent a great favour, but she 
 had gone with him nearly at once, he carrying a 
 tiny tin trunk of hers with a most uncomfortably
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 171 
 
 thin handle. As a fact, she loved Lawrence, though 
 her love was of a highly singular kind. In a mu- 
 seum of affections it would have agitated expert 
 amorists, as a specimen of a plant presumed to be 
 extinct will agitate botanists. 
 
 That night she had spoken no word to the servant 
 Maggie, but she had vouchsafed to Lawrence that 
 she could not abide wenches! The tin trunk con- 
 tained chiefly clean white aprons, one of which she 
 had donned immediately on arrival. Before re- 
 tiring to bed she had read a chapter of the Bible 
 aloud to Lawrence. She was tall and flat, with wiry 
 gray hair and blue eyes, and she did not wear 
 spectacles. 
 
 "Well," she began in her thin voice, having opened 
 the door to Lawrence on the second evening. " Here's 
 a nice how d'ye do! Her's sent a man with a cart 
 up for her things. I pretty soon packed him off 
 about his business, I can tell you." 
 
 "Who has sent.?" 
 
 "Her! I told him to come again when the master 
 was at home." 
 
 "When did the messenger come.?" 
 'He has but just gone." 
 'No note or anything.?" 
 
 "Yes. A note to the servant^ if you please, tellin' 
 what things her wanted — in the wardrobe, and in 
 th' chest o' drawers, and a fan, and a dress basket." 

 
 172 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "Is the man coming back?" 
 
 "He said as he should. He's no doubt at the 
 public down yonder, swilling." 
 
 "I'd better tell Maggie to put the things together 
 at once." 
 
 Cousin Sarah paused. 
 
 "Maggie's gone," she said, shortly and firmly. 
 
 "Gone.? What for.?" 
 
 "I told ye I was none for wenches, lad. Her's 
 gone home. I'd liefer do the wurk myself, big as 
 th' house is, than stand by and see a trollop dally- 
 ing round." 
 
 Lawrence made no answer. He shut the front 
 door, hung up his "hat, and stifled a sigh. 
 
 "Supper ready.?" he asked. 
 
 "It will be by the time you are," said Cousin 
 Sarah. "I'm toasting a bit of cheese." 
 
 The supper comprised toasted cheese, the fleshy 
 remains of dinner, thick bread and butter, part of 
 a fruit pie, and tea, which Cousin Sarah had 
 succeeded in stewing; all the courses were served 
 simultaneously. It was a repast of her father's 
 infancy, distributed by Sarah's bony and needle- 
 blackened hands with their bitten finger naih. 
 Lawrence ate parts of It without comment. Like 
 most narrow-minded people, Cousin Sarah dwelt 
 happily in the absolute conviction of being right 
 upon every subject on which she put herself to the
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 173 
 
 trouble of forming an opinion. The mere ex- 
 pression on her face was a proof of her certitude that 
 the meal was an ideal meal. She was never dis- 
 turbed by doubts, either concerning the ultimate 
 destiny of the universe or the best manner of making 
 tea. Lawrence therefore merely determined to 
 abandon the tenancy of the house and to find lodg- 
 ings as soon as possible. 
 
 "Eh, lad," she observed in the middle of a desert 
 of silence. "I never thought as a Ridware would 
 ha' come to this! I never thought it!" Which 
 remark was honestly meant to comfort him in his 
 marital misfortune. 
 
 The return of Phyllis's messenger diverted him 
 from the fruit pie. He went dully upstairs, and 
 began to put into the dress basket the various things 
 which his wife had demanded. Cousin Sarah 
 helped him, criticizing Mrs. Ridware's linen and 
 dresses by means of facial contortions. Then there 
 was a ring at the door, 
 
 "Bless us!" said Cousin Sarah. 
 
 "I'll go," said Lawrence. Phyllis's messenger 
 was waiting in the hall, a self-conscious young 
 man who twirled his cap in his hands under the 
 hall lamp. 
 
 Lawrence opened to Annunciata Fearns. She 
 stood there tall, slim, pale, distinguished, with 
 the aspect of a heavenly visitant, of some creature
 
 174 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 fragile and angelic, exquisitely and marvellously- 
 different from Cousin Sarah, and so young, so touch- 
 ing In her youth. She was a sight to startle Lawrence 
 at such an hour, and he jumped with apprehension. 
 He thought of what Phyllis had shamefully said, and 
 how strange were the hazards of life. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Ridware," she spoke quickly 
 and nervously, "I'm sorry to trouble you but 
 mother would be very glad if you would go and 
 see her." 
 
 "Why, of course! " he replied. "Do come in, Miss 
 Fearns." 
 
 "No, thank you," she murmured. "I won't 
 come in. I mustn't stay." 
 
 "Your mother wants to see me to-night.'"' 
 
 "If it isn't troubling you too much." 
 
 "Can you wait five minutes.'* I'll come with you 
 now," he said. 
 
 " I won't wait," she answered. " I'll go on, thank 
 you, and tell mother you're coming." 
 
 And she departed, with no more words, very 
 mysteriously. 
 
 "What's up.?" he thought, frightened. And he 
 ran upstairs. "Cousin Sarah," he said, "I've got 
 to go down to Fearns's immediately. You can 
 finish with those things. The man will carry the 
 basket downstairs. I'll be back soon." 
 
 He hurried after Annunciata, without listening
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 175 
 
 to Sarah's response. In a moment he saw the girl's 
 white figure before him in the dark road, hastening 
 downward toward the lights of Bleakridge and 
 Bursley. His first impulse was to overtake her. 
 But some shyness, some fear, held him back, and 
 at a distance of fifty yards he followed her under a 
 starry sky all the way to Bleakridge. At Fearns's 
 garden gate he hesitated, and then went forward. 
 Annunciata herself answered his ring, as he had 
 answered hers. 
 
 " You have been quick," she smiled faintly. *' It's 
 very kind of you. Mother's in the drawing-room — 
 this way." 
 
 He hung up his hat. 
 
 "Nothing wrong, I hope," he ventured. 
 
 She lifted her eyebrows, opened the door of the 
 drawing-room, and vanished. 
 
 Alma Fearns was leaning against the mantelpiece 
 when Lawrence went into the room. She wore a 
 cream-coloured dress, with a broad waistband of 
 creased silk curving to upper and lower points in 
 front. The lace-finished sleeves were rather short, 
 showing her plump forearms. She looked pre- 
 eminently a comfortable woman, with a certain 
 elegance in her embonpoint; and the graciousness 
 of her heart expressed itself in her face. The per- 
 manent cast of her features showed an attitude of
 
 176 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 mind which, while not unhappy, was calmly and 
 contentedly melancholy, with the melancholy that 
 comes less from expectation having been disappointed 
 than from expectation having been restrained by 
 the force of reason. She was mature; she knew 
 what human nature was; she had suffered; she had 
 had seven children. Her girlhood was behind the 
 mist of time. And yet now and then she would 
 make some gesture, or some naive glance would 
 flash in her brown eyes, that rolled away the years, 
 and left her for an instant as girlish as Annunciata. 
 She had in particular an unconscious habit of throw- 
 ing her head back after putting a question, a 
 habit that was most curiously agreeable. Strangers 
 thought her stiff and chilly, but if acquaintance 
 ripened they were soon amazed that they could ever 
 have thought so, for her illimitable sympathy was 
 really the most salient thing about her. 
 
 She welcomed Lawrence, and thanked him, with 
 all the generous warmth of her disposition. She 
 pulled a chair into position for him with her strong 
 arm, and gave him a cigarette, and struck a match 
 and held it with a jewelled hand. He felt as 
 though he was an invalid and she was spoiling him 
 as an invalid has a right to be spoilt. A morceau 
 de salon of Chaminade's stood on the open piano, 
 and lying on a small table was a reprint of Alexander 
 Smith's Dreamthorp. Not in Lawrence's house would
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 177 
 
 such examples of the brilliant second-rate have been 
 found conspicuous, and his highly sensitive taste 
 recoiled from them. Nevertheless he said to himself 
 that Mrs. Fearns's sheer goodness and the personal 
 distinction that she exhaled were worth more than 
 all the artistic taste in the world. He would, at that 
 instant, have sacrificed his whole intellectual and 
 aesthetic equipment in exchange for the assurance 
 of passing the rest of his life in the atmosphere that 
 he was breathing then. Mrs. Fearns had good 
 blood and a kind heart: the two things that Phyllis 
 lacked. And he, the grandson of a potter's fireman, 
 possessed emphatically the aristocratic temper. 
 When he was differentiating between a masterpiece 
 and an imitation of a masterpiece, you could see that 
 he had the nostrils of an aristocrat. 
 
 "I'm going to do something very unusual," said 
 Mrs. Fearns, sitting down in the middle of the sofa. 
 
 "Are you.?" he returned, full of apprehensions. 
 
 "Yes. I'm going to ask you to let me talk to you 
 about an extremely delicate matter." 
 
 "Either Fearns has spoken to her," he reflected, 
 "or Phyllis has been here and made an appeal 
 for interference." 
 
 All the way down from Toft End, he had fancied 
 something of the sort, and now he was sure. He 
 resigned himself. If he could tolerate interference 
 from anybody he could tolerate it from Mrs. Fearns.
 
 178 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 He was, moreover, convinced of his power to per- 
 suade her that divorce was the sole possible course. 
 He knew her common sense, her openness of mind. 
 Still, he regretted that her quick kindliness should 
 have misled her into a futile enterprise. It grieved 
 him to disappoint her. He wondered, as he had 
 often wondered, whether her mother, dead a dozen 
 years, had ever told her the strictly concealed history 
 of his birth — that strange contradictory passage in 
 his virtuous father's career — and if so, whether here- 
 in was the origin of Mrs. Fearns's special sympathetic 
 goodness to himself. For old Mrs. Leigh had been 
 the only individual in the Five Towns cognizant of 
 that affair. He rather hoped that Mrs. Leigh had 
 indeed confided in Alma Fearns. 
 
 As he said nothing, Mrs. Fearns proceeded: 
 
 "It was Annunciata who suggested sending for 
 you. I said no. But she insisted and I gave way. 
 And do you know, I wish I had not given way, now." 
 She smiled timidly. 
 
 "So do I!" thought Lawrence. "Annunciata 
 discussing my divorce!" He blushed with shame. 
 
 "To-morrow," said Mrs. Fearns, and then paused, 
 "I am leaving this house." 
 
 Her tone, and the faint tremor in her voice on the 
 first word, seemed to convict him suddenly of the 
 most stupid blindness. He stirred uneasily as his 
 mind groped about for new bearings.
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 179 
 
 "With my children," Mrs. Fearns added. 
 
 "You are leaving Mr. Fearns.'"' he asked, on a 
 note of the extremest astonishment. 
 
 She leaned forward to him, with her elbows on 
 her knees, the forearms horizontal and the hands 
 restlessly clasping each other. 
 
 "Surely you aren't so very surprised!" she said 
 quietly. 
 
 "Well " he temporized. 
 
 "Are you.^' she insisted. 
 
 "No," he bluntly answered. "At least, I am, 
 and I am not." 
 
 "You mean, I suppose," she remarked coldly, 
 sitting up straight, "that as I have lived here so 
 long, I might have stayed a little longer." 
 
 "That's not quite what I mean, but it's near 
 enough. I'm very sorry to hear this." 
 
 "Was Charlie's manner at all strange in the office 
 to-day .f"' she demanded. 
 
 "I thought he was excited," said Lawrence, "just 
 before he went to Liverpool. He's not coming 
 back then, to-night.'"' 
 
 Mrs. Fearns shook her head. "If he were, I 
 should not be here now." 
 
 "I'm very sorry," he repeated. He could think 
 of nothing else to say. He had a feeling of pro- 
 found and contemptuous anger against Fearns, but 
 he could not express that to Fearns's wife. For the
 
 i8o WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 rest, he was puzzling to discover what might have 
 been the last and worst of his employer's Iniquities. 
 
 "You see," said Mrs. Fearns, "I know Charlie. 
 Nobody knows him as I do. I expect many people 
 think I'm blind, and say 'Poor thing!' He has nearly 
 always been very nice to me, though he has often 
 made me suffer frightfully. I liked him. I was 
 comfortable with him. When I came into a room 
 and he was there, I had a feeling of pleasure. I 
 understand him. I know his faults, perhaps better 
 than I do my own. I knew he used to go after other 
 women. When I first realized that, it almost killed 
 me. But I got accustomed to it. You may think 
 I'm a very strange woman, and perhaps I am, but 
 yet I don't think I am. Yes, I got accustomed to 
 it. You see, I have had a comfortable feeling with 
 Charlie. I can't explain it. It's love, I suppose. 
 I was sure he admired me tremendously. You 
 know, Mr. Ridware" — her voice became exquisitely 
 soft — "one can't have everything in this world. 
 One has to make the best of it. So I got accustomed 
 to it. What could I have done? He couldn't be 
 cured, you know. He's incurable. I used to wait 
 for him to come back to me. He always did." 
 
 "But now.?" 
 
 She bit her lip, and looked at the fire-screen. 
 "Charlie has ceased to be a gentleman. I trusted 
 him absolutely. But I was wrong. I see now that
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT i8i 
 
 men like my poor Charles can't be expected to re- 
 main gentlemen for ever ... I went away from 
 the house to see my sister in Birmingham with 
 the most perfect confidence. And in my absence, 
 Mr. Ridware, my husband makes love to the gov- 
 erness, here, in the house, and he is so clumsy, 
 or careless, or callous — call it what you like — that 
 the person who has the task of telling me about it 
 when I come home is my own daughter. What 
 can one do.?" 
 
 She was tapping with her foot on the carpet. 
 
 ''It is terrible!" Lawrence exclaimed in a low 
 
 voice. "I had no idea " His face was working 
 
 and there was a slight haze before his eyes. The 
 world seemed to be full of odious and revolting sen- 
 suality and of its victims. Life stank. And here 
 was this soft and delicate, forgiving creature outraged 
 to such a point that she could forgive no more! 
 And upstairs, hidden away somewhere, there cowered 
 a young girl, who should surely be deemed as much 
 a martyr as her mother. He did not forget his own 
 woes. He added these others to them. 
 
 "I'm telling you all this," said Mrs. Fearns, gazing 
 at him again. "I don't know why I should. I 
 hope you don't mind. Of course you're In Charlie's 
 office, and It might make difficulties between you 
 and him. If he knew — I ought to have thought 
 of that."
 
 i82 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "Please don't think of that for a moment," Law- 
 rence urged fiercely. "Not for a moment! In the 
 firstplace Mr. Fearns isn't the sort of man to be mean, 
 and in the second place I shouldn't care a pin if it 
 did make difficulties." 
 
 "I really couldn't think of any one whom I could 
 talk to as well as you. I have some women friends 
 from whom I could be sure of sympathy, but I 
 wanted more than sympathy to-night. And besides, 
 I would sooner talk to a man. Now you think I 
 ought to leave, don't you ^ After what has occurred, 
 we could never live here again on the same terms. 
 Imagine Annunciata! Isn't it awful .f"' 
 
 "She — do you mean to say that, supposing you 
 brought an action against Mr. Fearns, she would 
 have to give evidence.'"' 
 
 Mrs. Fearns nodded. "I feel just as if it wasn't 
 real," she said, with a shiver. "But it is real. It 
 is real. And do you know, I ought to have foreseen 
 it. That's where I was wrong. I was a simpleton. 
 At the bottom of my soul, I'm not at all surprised 
 that it's occurred." 
 
 "Aren't you.'"' he said sympathetically. And 
 quite suddenly the interview seemed to shift to a 
 much more intimate plane, and his constraint 
 vanished. 
 
 "No," she asserted stoutly. "Not at all." 
 
 "Well," he said, "You are certainly quite right
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 183 
 
 to go, and to take your children. In fact, that is 
 the only thing you can do." 
 
 " I'm relieved you think so. But it's past arguing. 
 I would do almost anything for Charlie, and I can't 
 tell you how sorry I am there's no way out of it. 
 But after all, it isn't my fault. And I have my 
 children to think of, especially Annunciata. Suppose 
 I did pass this over, for the sake of — Oh, no! no! 
 no!" She made a wild gesture with her hands. 
 "The idea is ridiculous. Our married life is ended. 
 Poor Charlie has finished it. Now will you tell me 
 a good solicitor I can go to.^" 
 
 "For the divorce?" 
 
 "It won't be divorce, will it.^" she asked. "I 
 don't understand these things. But I thought it 
 would only be judicial separation. I was under the 
 impression that for a wife to get a divorce she has 
 to prove cruelty or desertion." 
 
 "That is so." 
 
 "What a shame!" She jumped up from the sofa 
 in the swift heat of her protest. 
 
 "Yes, it's a shame," Lawrence agreed. "But 
 there's 'legal' cruelty. And I think — I'm not 
 sure — that adultery in the household is legal 
 cruelty." 
 
 He stumbled over the phrase; he had the usual 
 masculine cowardice about crystallizing a shameful 
 thing in a definite form of words.
 
 1 84 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "It ought to be," said Mrs. Fearns. "I hope it 
 is. A judicial separation is neither one thing nor 
 the other. What I need for the sake of my children 
 is a real and final separation, a divorce. I did not 
 think I could get it, but if I can, so much the better. 
 Now what about a solicitor?" 
 
 "Oh!" Lawrence answered. "You must go to 
 Bradwells, and see Cyples." 
 
 "Cyples.? Yes, he's very good, isn't he.'"' 
 
 "He's the best in this district. But if you are 
 going away, perhaps you'd prefer a complete stranger. 
 Where do you mean to go to?" 
 
 "I thought of Folkestone or Sandgate. Emily 
 is at school at Folkestone. Annunciata suggested 
 Llandudno. But in another six or eight weeks half 
 Bursley will be at Llandudno. We must be by our- 
 selves for a long time." 
 
 "Exactly," he agreed. 
 
 "And I've lived in Trafalgar Road here all my 
 life!" she said. In silence he put the end of his 
 cigarette in an ash-tray by the side of a Dreamthorp. 
 
 "Then perhaps you'd like the name of a good 
 solicitor in Folkestone?" 
 
 "No," she said. "It would be the same as going 
 to a strange doctor. I think I should prefer Brad- 
 wells. Indeed I believe old Mr. Bradwell used to 
 act for my father up to the time when I married 
 Charlie. Then what business there was went to
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 185 
 
 Charlie. We can meet somewhere, no doubt, they 
 and I." 
 
 "Anyhow Folkestone will be handy for London. 
 Their London agents will attend to things, you know." 
 
 There was a silence. Mrs. Fearns stood on the 
 hearth-rug, leaning slightly forward. Lawrence 
 tried to think of some way of helping her, of ex- 
 pressing his sympathy by more than words. But 
 he could not. She appeared so equal to the emer- 
 gency, so conversant with her own mind, so capable, 
 and so fearless, that to offer aid would have had the 
 air of an impertinence. 
 
 I suppose the governess has gone," he said. 
 'Yes," replied Mrs. Fearns absently, "she had 
 the grace to leave us." And in this sentence he 
 fancied he could detect a faint but bitter touch of 
 scorn. She dropped her arms heavily. "Oh," she 
 burst out, "It's the trial! It's the trial that I 
 dread. I don't feel this. No, really, I don't seem 
 to feel it yet. I only feel tired. But when I think 
 of the trial, I feel sick. Still, we are in for it, and 
 it has to be gone through. It will be just as bad for 
 Charlie. Worse indeed!" 
 
 "The wisest thing," observed Lawrence, "is not 
 to think in advance. To-morrow you are going 
 away. Think only of that. Don't look further 
 than Folkestone. What train are you taking? 
 Have you considered the trains?" 

 
 1 86 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 IC 
 
 'Yes," she said calmly. "I shall take the noon 
 train to London, and we shall just catch the 4.23 
 at Charing Cross. You see I've done it several 
 times with Emily." 
 
 "And when would you like to see Mr. Cyples.' 
 Because I think I know where he can be found to- 
 night, and I could hunt him up and arrange an 
 
 interview." 
 
 "That's very nice of you," she said. "I wish 
 you would. Would he come here?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "Ask him to be here by ten o'clock to-morrow 
 morning. Annunciata and I will do all the packing 
 to-night. We shall leave the house at eleven. I 
 want to leave as soon as possible — in case Charlie 
 might be coming back. But he won't be back 
 before lunch." 
 
 "He will go to the office first," said Lawrence. 
 
 "Yes," she concurred, "He's sure to go to the 
 office first. And I want you to tell him. Will you .?" 
 
 Lawrence started, diffident as ever in front of any 
 enterprise. 
 
 "That you have gone."* You aren't writing to 
 him, then?" 
 
 "No," she cried, with sudden emphasis. "I 
 can't write, and I won't. I am just going — that's 
 all — with my children, and Martha, the youngest 
 maid. I shall leave him his house, and the other
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 187 
 
 servants, and he will do as he pleases. He will find 
 everything in order. But I can't bring myself to 
 write to him. There are some things one can't do." 
 
 She resumed her seat on the sofa. 
 
 "Yes, I will tell him, certainly." 
 
 "Thank you," she said. 
 
 "He knows you know.^"' 
 
 "I should be very much surprised if he didn't. 
 Oh, he must know. They must have seen each 
 other, after she knew that Annunciata had seen. 
 Oh, she went like a lamb, so it appears. She didn't 
 come to the office.^" 
 
 "The governess.'' No." 
 
 "Then probably they made their plans before 
 either of them left the house. Was this journey 
 to Liverpool arranged beforehand .f"' 
 
 ' No. No one in the office knew anything about it.'* 
 But there is business in Liverpool.^'* 
 'Yes. There are one or two things that he might 
 have gone to Liverpool for." 
 
 "I thought so," said Mrs. Fearns. "Trust 
 Charlie to have a good excuse! He went to Liver- 
 pool to be out of the way when I returned, and he's 
 sent her to London." 
 
 "Why do you say London .f"' 
 
 "Because of the labels on the trunks she has left 
 to be forwarded. I wonder what they mean to do ? " 
 He will get rid of her," said Lawrence with 
 
 ti- 
 lt 
 
 II-
 
 i88 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 savage curtness. He could not prevent himself 
 from saying it, nor could he control his tone. The 
 explosion gave him relief. For the instant he 
 didn't care whether he shocked Mrs. Fearns or not. 
 
 She mused. 
 
 "Tell him," she said, In a tender and dissolving 
 voice, "that I said there was nothing else to be done. 
 And so I'm doing it. I shall never see him again." 
 Then her accent changed. "Except at the trial. 
 And yet yesterday we were happy enough, all of us, 
 in this house." 
 
 Lawrence rose. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said. "It's awful, awful!" 
 
 "Oh!" she protested, with sweet mildness. "One 
 has to accept what comes." 
 
 With a shake of his head he In his turn protested 
 against her philosophy. "I'll go and see Cyples 
 at once," he said. They stood close together. 
 
 "Thank you," she murmured, taking his hand 
 and looking into his face. "You know, Mr. Rid- 
 ware, you have considerable influence over Charlie." 
 
 "I!" He was astounded. 
 
 "Yes, he's afraid of your bad opinion." 
 
 "Well, I never guessed it," said Lawrence, 
 flattered. 
 
 "Oh, but he Is. So if he talks to you, don't 
 hesitate to talk back." 
 
 "I won't. Good-bye."
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 189 
 
 She came out with him into the tiled hall, where 
 the gas burnt steady and solitary in an atmosphere 
 quite different from that of the drawing room, an 
 atmosphere of suspense and mystery. The clock 
 drawled its eternal tick-tick. Mats lay brooding 
 before the closed solemnity of empty rooms. Shad- 
 ows clad the angle where the side passage led to the 
 kitchen — apparently far off. The stairs slanted 
 strangely upward into black gloom. And there 
 was the disturbing sense of human life, hiding out 
 of sight behind the veils. 
 
 They trod softly. 
 
 "Good night, Mrs. Fearns," he whispered. He 
 could scarcely speak. 
 
 She pulled the stiff latch of the heavy front door 
 and swung it open. 
 
 "Why," she said kindly, *'you take it harder than 
 I do." 
 
 "No I don't," he answered hastily. "But all the 
 same I'm just going into the divorce court myself. 
 My wife has left me no alternative. I'm fixed like 
 you are. So I understand." 
 
 He escaped like a criminal through the door- 
 way, and hurried down the dark garden, ignor- 
 ing her exclamation. Outside the gate he stayed 
 for a moment in the shade of the gate post. 
 Then he heard the low clang of the front door 
 shutting.
 
 190 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Striking the blue sparks at regular intervals on 
 its aerial wire, the Hanbridge car came noisily up 
 out of Bursley along Trafalgar Road, that thorough- 
 fare which under one alias or another traverses the 
 Five Towns from end to end. It staggered across 
 the rough points opposite the King's Head Hotel 
 and waited on the loop for the Bursley car to pass. 
 Lawrence boarded it, nodding to the conductor and 
 taking the seat on the rear platform. In the in- 
 terior, ornamented with advertisements of soap 
 and of boots, and exhortations to respect the floor, 
 were two shawled, bare-headed women, half asleep, 
 the only passengers. Lawrence lit his pipe and 
 smoked stolidly as the vast vehicle, so typical of the 
 Five Towns, resumed its jerky and deafening pil- 
 grimage to Hanbridge, past the hoardings, the 
 churches and chapels, the little manufactories, the 
 little shops, and the little Indian-red houses. This 
 was the inmost heart of the Five Towns, and noth- 
 ing was altered in it. And yet Lawrence had a 
 foolish feeling of astonishment that everything was 
 not altered. Although he had heard many and 
 many a startling lascivious story of the district, 
 although he knew that in Hanbridge alone five 
 hundred frail ones served the Goddess by night, he 
 had never till now realized that human nature was 
 the same within as without the Five Towns, and it 
 was as if some change had occurred therein, and as
 
 AFTERNOON AND NIGHT 191 
 
 if the dark frontages of the very street itself ought 
 to speak of it. He too, in his time, had Hved in 
 Trafalgar Road. He could hear Mrs. Fearns's voice, 
 rich with sorrow and resignation, saying: "And 
 I've lived in Trafalgar Road all my life!" And in 
 the sad and passionate enthusiasm of the moment 
 he told himself that a pure, intelligent and coura- 
 geous woman, who has kept warm the fires of a kind 
 heart, was the superior of all other created beings. 
 His soul melted with sympathy for those two hapless 
 creatures trailing on the morrow with a couple of 
 children and a servant and luggage from Bursley to 
 a vague destination in Folkestone, driven out with 
 shame and lashes from all that was theirs. 
 
 The car breasted the hill into Hanbridge, screeched 
 round sharp curves, and drew up with a spasm 
 beneath the electric globes of Crown Square. 
 Other cars were absorbing crowds of revellers 
 from the theatre and the music-hall; and the public- 
 houses had just dismissed their jolly customers full 
 of the pride of life, and their taciturn customers 
 full of philosophy which they never imparted to the 
 world. Lawrence got off the car and directed his 
 steps to the Conservative Club, where he knew that 
 Cyples generally finished the evening.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 RENEE 
 
 ON THE beautiful morning when Annunciata 
 took her young brothers out for an early 
 walk, Annunciata's father left his house 
 hurriedly, and rather late, to go to the office. He 
 had had, as usual, very little breakfast, but on the 
 other hand he had foregone no detail of that sacred 
 rite, his bath, and he looked and felt himself to be in 
 splendid physical health. As he passed with firm 
 rapid gait up Trafalgar Road in the direction of 
 Hanbridge, he could not, even in smiling, avoid a 
 sigh of relief. Certainly he had committed indis- 
 cretions in the house before, but many years ago, 
 and quite minor indiscretions compared to the 
 supreme indiscretion of the previous night. He was 
 bound to admit that he had been uncommonly fool- 
 ish. He almost shivered when he thought of the 
 risks he had run. And his smile had the inane 
 braggart quality of one who has just crossed with 
 false leisureliness in front of an oncoming train and 
 is beginning to realize the danger escaped. From 
 
 192
 
 RENEE 193 
 
 the first every Instinct of prudence had counselled 
 him to leave Renee alone. But circumstances and 
 Renee had been too much for prudence. He recalled 
 the morning after breakfast when she had happened 
 to come into the hall while he was brushing his hat, 
 and had spoken to him with a curious languor, and 
 how the idea that she was desirable and not im- 
 pregnable had pierced his brain suddenly like a 
 little dart of a revelation. Similar ideas concerning 
 women invariably struck him in that way. It was 
 as if he were inoculated with a minute drop of virus 
 which spread through his system, despite all his 
 efforts, until there was only one cure. He had 
 never, unaided, fought successfully against the 
 poison of the virus. But in the special case of Renee 
 he had most decidedly not meant to yield. Indeed 
 he had pretended that the little dart had not pierced 
 him, that the wound was only imaginary. Renee 
 must be respected. Even he must draw a line some- 
 where. And it seemed as if he actually had arrested 
 the progress of the poison, when one trifling thing 
 after another occurred to weaken his resolution. 
 He had accidentally touched her. Chance had 
 left them alone together more than once. 
 And then Alma had gone away! Alma had 
 gone away ! And Renee, with her sleeves turned 
 up, had met him at the head of the stairs, 
 and he had patted her on the cheek, and she had not
 
 194 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 protested. A tremendous force had lifted his hand 
 and compelled him to pat her on the cheek; a force, 
 however, which he thought he could have resisted 
 if her sleeves had not been turned up. And then, 
 at the end of dinner, owing to the naughtiness of 
 the children, matters had so fallen out that he and 
 Renee were again alone together. He had struggled 
 terribly not to lean over the corner of the table and 
 kiss her. But the tremendous force had conquered 
 him and he had kissed her. She had looked down, 
 smiled vaguely, and left the room. . . . Why- 
 had he not accepted Annunciata's suggestion to go to 
 the theatre? That might have saved him. But no, 
 he could not. And throughout the whole evening 
 at the club he had suffered as he did suffer from time 
 to time: an ignominious agony. And he had come 
 home in the rain, and the night air had calmed him. 
 And already, going to bed, he was despising his 
 enemy, when lo! he had noticed that Renee's door 
 was not quite shut. The tremendous force had in- 
 sisted that he should push it open and glance within. 
 He had fought, he had struggled (and half a second 
 was like hours), but in vain. He had pushed the 
 door open and glanced within, and she was sitting up 
 in bed, reading! A violent and exquisite shudder 
 had shaken him from head to foot. Instantaneously 
 he had perceived that she must come to his room, and 
 with a habitual gesture, he had invited her. . . .
 
 RENEE 195 
 
 Madness! Yes, he agreed that it had been mad- 
 ness, the madness of a boy, not of a man of Immense 
 experience! He must take himself in hand. How- 
 ever, the danger, though terrific, was safely past, 
 and it must not be allowed to recur. The affair was 
 finished. He could manage Renee. He knew 
 exactly how to manage her. When the descent 
 became advisable, he had reconducted dozens of 
 women from the pinnacle of emotion down to the 
 everyday level. Still, Renee was not a mere nu- 
 meral in the catalogue of dozens. How many times, 
 driven by relentless prurience, had he not besieged 
 women who did not attract him, simply because they 
 seemed vulnerable! How many times had he not 
 loathed that which he possessed, and spent days in 
 self-disgust until his invincible passions had re- 
 covered from the blow and seized him again! Renee 
 could not be classed in that section of the catalogue. 
 Renee was an astounding creature, a creature apart. 
 He said the affair was finished. He said he must 
 take himself in hand. Yet already before he got to 
 Hanbridge he was dreaming of Renee, no longer 
 governess in his household, but discreetly established 
 in some not too distant spot where he could visit her 
 and pass idyllic hours. A wild, impossible dream, 
 but it brought a luscious smile to his coarse, hand- 
 some face. There was no hope for Charles Fearns. 
 
 At the office he read his letters, and while he was
 
 196 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 reading them the magnitude of the risk he had run 
 and the danger he had escaped impressed him more 
 and more, so preoccupying him that he was obliged 
 to read some of the letters twice through in order to 
 grasp their meaning. "Well, anyhow it's safely 
 over!" he murmured, impatient with himself. Still, 
 he had a slight misgiving as to whether, if his wife 
 returned home that day, he could be capable of 
 behaving at dinner in a manner absolutely natural. 
 He rang the bell. Clowes came in, shorthand note- 
 book in hand. 
 
 "Tell Mr. Pennington I want him." 
 
 "He's gone out, sir." 
 
 "Gone out.? Where.?" 
 
 "To Manifold, sir." 
 
 "What for.? Do you know?" 
 
 "I think it's in that matter of Mr. Ridware's, 
 sir," said the thick-set Clowes with a significant 
 intonation and a self-conscious look. 
 
 Fearns was angry. He objected to Rid ware 
 introducing a divorce case, and his own divorce case, 
 into the office at that juncture. The objection was 
 infantile, indefensible, but he held it. The very 
 word "divorce" made him feel queer, as the sight of 
 a bad street accident might have made him feel 
 queer. It touched him too nearly. It gave him 
 to think most unpleasantly. He was in such a state 
 that even the greatest master of diplomacy could not
 
 RENEE 197 
 
 have handled the case of Ridware v. Ridware In a 
 style to satisfy him. Certainly he had said that 
 Pennington should, under his supervision, assume 
 charge of the case, but Pennington had no right to 
 go running off to Manifold without notice and with- 
 out permission. Pennington took too much upon 
 himself. Was the entire business of the office to be 
 dislocated because Ridware, who was an unpractical 
 fool, chose to rush Into the divorce court.'' He strove 
 to master his resentment. 
 
 "Take down these letters," he commanded 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Clowes with servile alacrity, sitting 
 down, and taking a pencil from behind his ear. The 
 telephone bell rang outside. 
 
 "Gentlemen. Mayor and Corporation of Han- 
 bridge V. Clarke. I am In receipt of your letter of 
 yesterday and observe. Yours truly." 
 
 There were mornings when he snapped out his 
 letters curt and brief, like that, without a dispensable 
 word. He was just giving the name of the address 
 when Gater entered. 
 
 "You're wanted on the telephone, sir," said 
 Gater, with the casualness of an ofhce boy who 
 knows that the supply of office boys is unequal to 
 the demand. 
 
 "Who is it wants me.''" 
 
 "I don't know, sir."
 
 198 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 *'Well, go and see, you stupid fellow!" Fearns 
 grumbled with increasing irritation, and continued 
 to dictate. 
 
 "They say it's a lady, sir," said Gater coming 
 back. "No name, sir." 
 
 And Fearns felt a sudden and dreadful sinking of 
 the heart. Some intuition warned him then of the 
 calamity that was overtaking him; and he rose and 
 went to the telephone in silence, with a physical 
 sense of nausea. The telephone was in a corner of 
 the corridor. 
 
 "Who's there?" he asked, trying to find jauntiness 
 in the hope that it was his wife in Birmingham, or 
 Annunciata bent on the satisfaction of some girlish 
 caprice. 
 
 " Cest moi! " came the reply. 
 
 He recognized the voice, and he understood a 
 little French. What had happened .'' What did 
 she want.^" She had him at her mercy at the end of 
 the wire: so he apprehended. 
 
 "Where are you.'*" he asked. 
 
 "At the post-office." 
 
 "What post-office.?" He stared blankly at the 
 soiled card hung by the side of the little desk of the 
 telephone. 
 
 "Hanbridge. I must see you." Her tones, 
 rendered metallic and unearthly in transmission, 
 assailed his ears, against which the long-handled
 
 RENEE 199 
 
 twin discs were pressed, like a hurried menace. Siie 
 was within a couple of hundred yards of him! 
 
 " I'll come to you," he replied, low: and still lower; 
 "Be on the pavement." He dared not argue. 
 
 And he rang off. 
 
 **I shall be back in a few minutes," he said gruffly 
 to Clowes, seizing his hat from behind the door of 
 his room, and walked slowly downstairs, his hands 
 in his pockets. He really had not thought that 
 Renee would play feminine tricks on him, would 
 attempt to take a silly advantage of their intimacy. 
 He had supposed her a woman of extraordinary good 
 sense, capable of conducting herself with a sagacity 
 perfectly adapted to the situation created by the 
 event of the night, and of estimating that event at 
 its proper value. Her behaviour under his caresses 
 had seemed to him little less than a miracle of fitness. 
 It had enchanted him. It had differentiated her 
 from all the other women who had ever sinned with 
 him. And here she was within twelve hours amply 
 proving that she was after all no less fatuously 
 incalculable than the rest. He savagely cursed 
 her. 
 
 In two minutes he had passed the Town Hall and 
 was approaching the post-office. He saw her com- 
 ing rather quickly towards him. She was very 
 plainly dressed in gray, and she carried an umbrella 
 and a hand-bag. As they met and stopped, he
 
 200 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 raised his hat, against his will. Her face was grave 
 but composed. 
 
 "What Is it.^" he questioned her, with a swift, 
 shamed glance. "Walk along with me this 
 way." And he led her down Spode Street, which 
 is a fairly quiet residential thoroughfare, marred 
 only by the branch tram line that runs to Sneyd 
 Vale. 
 
 She opened her gloved hand »and disclosed a 
 letter folded up very small. 
 
 "Read that, my friend," she said. "The cook 
 brought it to my bedroom." 
 
 And he read Annunciata's note. 
 
 "My God!" he exclaimed. There was the true 
 tragic ring in his voice then. For a moment he 
 felt as though he had been through a fearful surgical 
 operation and had lost his stomach. He perspired. 
 He trembled. Nemesis had leapt upon him. The 
 worst, the unthinkable had occurred. 
 
 She looked up at him through her veil. 
 What can that mean?" he asked feebly. 
 It means that she knows," said Renee. 
 
 "But she can't know!" he protested. "How can 
 she know.^" 
 
 "She knows." Renee repeated coldly. "Per- 
 haps she heard you kiss me after dinner, and had 
 suspicions and watched at night." She shrugged 
 her shoulders. "I do not say. But she knows. 
 
 (C
 
 RENEE 20I 
 
 The proof? When I got up, the little boys were not 
 in bed. She had taken them away." 
 
 "We can't talk here," he muttered, gazing about 
 in alarm. "What have you done.^" 
 
 "I have left, my friend, tout simplement. I have 
 packed my trunks and left." 
 
 "You ought not to have done that," he cried. 
 "That puts us in the wrong at once. That gives 
 the damned show away. Why did you do that.^" 
 
 "I had no intention to have a scene with your 
 daughter," said Renee. "She knows. That is 
 enough." 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me before I left the house .^" 
 he asked, exasperated by her calmness. 
 
 "I tried to tell you. It was dangerous. I came 
 into your bedroom. You were in the bathroom. 
 Martha came up to clean the corridor. I had scarcely 
 time to fly back. And she was always there clean- 
 ing. I could not come out. You saw her.? Then, 
 when she had gone, you had gone also." 
 
 "Ofcourse you could have come out!" he protested. 
 "You could have waited for me in the dining room. 
 You could have done fifty things." 
 
 "Do not blame me," she urged, tranquilly. "It 
 is shameful." 
 
 In his heart he told himself he must behave like 
 an Englishman to this French woman. He must 
 not be a cad. And he searched frantically for a
 
 202 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 plan. They could not hold passionate discussions 
 in Spode Street, under the scrutiny of a hundred bow- 
 windows. He must demonstrate to her his mas- 
 culinity. The Sneyd Vale car appeared. 
 
 "Take this tram," he said. "Get off at the canal 
 bridge, and walk by the canal side. I'll follow you 
 in a minute or so. Go along, please." 
 
 She obeyed, hailing the driver, and Fearns raised 
 his hat with a painful smile, and turned back toward 
 the centre of the town, so as to avoid suspicion. 
 
 He passed by the front of the Town Hall again, 
 nodding to one or two acquaintances with exagger- 
 ated cordiality, for he had to maintain to himself 
 his reputation for sang-froid in a crisis; this was by 
 no means his first crisis. And he kept exhorting 
 himself to be steady, not to be flurried. The device 
 of sending Renee in advance down to Sneyd Vale 
 seemed to him pretty good for a man called upon 
 to invent something on the very instant. They 
 could talk by the canal side; it was one of the few 
 spots in the Five Towns where they could talk. 
 The difficulties in the path of a famous rake in a 
 district such as the Five Towns are prodigious and 
 demand prodigious qualities. He was content with the 
 Sneyd Vale Idea; he nourished his self-respect on the 
 Sneyd Vale idea, until suddenly he thought of an 
 infinitely better one, the obvious solution. He 
 ought to have walked boldly with Renee to the
 
 RENEE 203 
 
 cab stand in Crov/n Square and there taken a cab to 
 Longshaw. They would have had more than half 
 an hour of absolute privacy in the cab; they could 
 have called at some shop In Longshaw and then 
 driven back, and the keenest noses in Hanbridge 
 would have missed the scent. The Sneyd Vale 
 idea was now utterly discredited; its clumsiness and 
 the peril of it became apparent. 
 
 For a moment he dreamed of suicide. The spirit 
 was beaten out of him. How he loathed himself! 
 How black was his terrible desperation! It was 
 incredible that he should have been such a fool last 
 night! And for what.^ What was it worth, this 
 brief commerce with women.? Nothing? Less than 
 nothing! He shuddered with disgust at the mere 
 thought of sexual pleasure. Could a sane man risk 
 an hour's peace of mind in order to obtain it? He 
 remembered the Arab proverb that fireworks last 
 seven minutes, love seven seconds, and sorrow the 
 rest of life. What was the strange intoxication 
 that came over him at sight of a woman? It was 
 a delusion. He could conquer it. He would con- 
 quer it. Once out of this mess — and he would get 
 out of it, he would assuredly get out of it — he would 
 never again leave the domestic hearth. He had 
 learnt his lesson, he said. 
 
 He went through the empty cattle market, and 
 down by a narrow road running parallel with Spode
 
 204 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Street. Yes, he must send Renee away: that was 
 the preliminary. And then he must deal with his 
 wife and Annunclata. Boldly he said that he could 
 persuade them of his Innocence. But Annunclata, 
 whom he had kept In the background of his mind 
 by force, sprang forward now. No, the thought 
 of Annunclata being concerned In the affair was 
 awful! It was so awful that he could scarcely con- 
 ceive It. Like all rakes he was extremely senti- 
 mental, especially In seasons of remorse, and he had 
 the prettiest Ideals of womanly purity. And even 
 If he had not been sentimental, even If he had not 
 been Annunclata's father, even If In a mood of 
 romantic expansion he had not chosen from a book 
 Annunclata's name at her birth, the thought of her 
 knowledge of his crime might justifiably have cowed 
 him Into despair. In a moment he had lost all hope, 
 energy, and Initiative. So his temper alternated 
 as he descended the hill toward the vale. 
 
 He turned Into Spode Street at the bottom, after 
 the houses have come to an end and where the sooty 
 market gardens begin. A quarter of a mile further 
 on, the tram car, having been to Sneyd Vale, was 
 crossing the canal bridge on Its homeward journey. 
 He went slackly forward, and the car, empty save 
 for driver and conductor, passed him. He stood on 
 the canal bridge and glanced guiltily from right to 
 left along the black towing path of the canal. There
 
 RENEE 205 
 
 was not a sign of Renee. Then he went down the 
 steep steps cut in the embankment of the road, and 
 reached the level of the canal, which for all its foul- 
 ness glinted in the sunshine. She was there, in the 
 deep shadow under the bridge. The towing path 
 was hard and dry except under thebridge,where mud 
 abounded, and she was holding her skirts nattily 
 out of the mud. She had raised her veil. She gazed 
 at him sadly, and, so it seemed to him, humbly, as 
 he came near. 
 
 ' "What have you decided.^ "she asked in a stricken, 
 appealing voice. 
 
 He felt at once the peculiar voluptuous charm of 
 the voice. It was the same voice, full of languor, 
 which had fallen on his ear that morning in the hall 
 of his house while he was brushing his hat. Renee 
 was very much shorter than he. And he looked 
 down on her form, looked down on those rounded 
 curves, that trim waist, those folds of the skirt that 
 her hands clutched. And if his situation had not 
 been so desperate, the magic would have enslaved 
 his senses yet again. He could have almost run 
 away with her, and counted the world well lost for 
 the sake of a few lustful months. But the vision 
 of an outraged Annunciata checked the poison 
 in his veins. Moreover, Renee herself wore an 
 expression which he had not seen before on her 
 piquant face.
 
 2o6 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 •" "Nothing," he said, with a gesture of defeat. 
 "What is there to decide? You've left the house. 
 That's the difficulty." 
 
 "Ah!'* she murmured rapidly. "How I was 
 wrong! Why did I go into your room last 
 night .^ You were wrong. But men! ... I 
 was more wrong. We were both mad. I must 
 leave you. That is all I can do. When I am gone 
 your wife will forgive you. She will help you to 
 persuade Annunciata that there was nothing." 
 "Do you think so.?" he replied gloomily. 
 But the gloominess was deliberate deceit on his 
 part. Renee had suggested an idea which appeared 
 to him really practical. He saw in it his salvation, 
 unhoped for, miraculous, wondrously beneficent. 
 Yesjhe must enlist his wife's aid against Annunciata; 
 that was the plan. Alma was extremely clever, and 
 had tremendous influence over her daughter. Alma 
 was also an angel, capable of forgiveness to an 
 Indefinite extent. He would appeal to her, he could 
 not appeal in vain, for the future of the children wa<= 
 at stake. He would confess to Alma, and then 
 persuade her of the necessity of convincing Annun- 
 ciata that, whatever the girl had seen or had not 
 seen, her conclusions were wrong. The matter 
 would require the nicest delicacy, coupled with 
 firmness, but Alma would succeed. Of course his 
 relations with his wife, while remaining normal on
 
 RENEE 207 
 
 the surface, would for a long time be secretly pain- 
 ful. But he could win her back. He was sure that 
 he could prove to her that at last he had learnt 
 his lesson. 
 
 And it was Rence who had hit on this scheme! 
 Women certainly did know how to deal with women. 
 Men were children compared to them. But he did 
 not mean to let her see that she had saved him, that 
 he was drowning when she had stretched out a 
 hand. That would have impaired his masculine 
 dignity. Hence he had replied to her with false 
 gloom. Nevertheless he appreciated her. 
 
 And he excused himself to himself by the help of 
 the basic axiom of the rake's philosophy — that 
 women exist for men and fulfil themselves only in 
 serving men. Renee was an agreeable little thing; 
 she was much more than an agreeable little thing; 
 but she had no rights as against him. 
 
 "I will go now," she said. "Then you will be 
 free to act." 
 
 "But where shall you go.^" he demanded, striving 
 to show an interest in her fate, and to hide his 
 relief. 
 
 "That is not your affair," said she. "Only let 
 me leave you. Do not make it difficult for mc. I 
 have been wicked to your wife. And as for that 
 poor Annunciata !" 
 
 "Where shall you go.''" he repeated. He could
 
 2o8 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 do no less than be firm. Her femininity was a 
 challenge to his chivalry. 
 
 "To London. Perhaps to Paris. There are 
 many English families in Paris. I can place my- 
 self." Her tone was sweetly and resignedly cheerful. 
 
 "Not without testimonials, you can't," he said. 
 " I will give you a testimonial. I will write you 
 the best character you can possibly want, and then 
 perhaps you will be all right." 
 
 She thanked him with a modest, grateful glance, 
 as though he had offered something beyond her 
 hopes or deserts. It was wonderful to him how she 
 had been changed by calamity. This was not the 
 same woman that he had held in his arms and 
 fondled and kissed, and who had repaid his caresses 
 with her own. This was a serious, good little woman. 
 Her nature evidently had two sides. He felt a 
 brute. Still, women are amazing. There was no 
 other word. 
 
 She gave him the address of a home for French 
 governesses In Kensington, and he wrote it down. 
 Then she sighed. 
 
 "You will do what I say.^*" she breathed. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Ask your wife to forgive you, and me. And to 
 help you with poor Annunciata." 
 
 "I can't imagine how Annunciata suspected ?" 
 
 he burst out, reflective. "What did she V*
 
 RENEE 209 
 
 ((- 
 
 'Never mind that. You will do what I say?" 
 
 She was solemnly staring up at him, her lips 
 parted. 
 
 "I'll try It," he said, permitting his voice to show 
 a faint hope. "I'll try It. I had a note from my 
 wife this morning to say that she would come home 
 to-morrow by the half-past twelve train. I'll meet 
 her at Knype, before Annunciata sees her." 
 
 "But if Annunciata writes to her?" 
 
 "What does that matter?" he said with an accent 
 of superior wisdom. "My wife must know, any- 
 how. The only important thing is that I should 
 see her before any one else does." 
 
 She nodded meekly. "How I pity you, my 
 friend!" 
 
 "Oh!" he said curtly: "What is done is done. 
 We must make the best of it. All I can say is, I'm 
 awfully sorry I've got you into this hole." 
 
 She shook her head. "It Is myself I blame. For 
 me there Is no excuse." And she whispered: "I 
 am not sorry for myself. For myself I am glad. I 
 do not regret for myself. It is for you and your 
 wife and poor Annunciata that I regret." She 
 gazed up at him tragically. He was touched, and 
 at the same time he suddenly felt very self-conscious. 
 
 "Well " he stammered, not knowing what 
 
 to say. 
 
 She broke In, evidently preoccupied by the dangers
 
 210 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 that beset him: "But to-night? Your wife will 
 not be in the house. And you will be obliged to 
 meet Annunciata! How shall you ?" 
 
 "I sha'n't do any such thing," he replied. "I've 
 thought of all that. I shall have business in Liver- 
 pool this afternoon, and I sha'n't return till to- 
 morrow evening." 
 
 "What time shall you go to Liverpool.^" she 
 demanded. 
 
 He drew from his pocket the local time-table which 
 is carried by every business man in the Five Towns. 
 "Twelve thirty eight atKnype" he said, and nodded. 
 "By the way, you know there's an express to Lon- 
 don at twelve eleven.? You might catch it." 
 
 "Yes," she agreed softly. 
 
 She was acquiescence itself. 
 
 "Take my bag a little second, will you?" she 
 asked him. He took the bag, and also the umbrella, 
 which she held out to him, letting her skirts fall. 
 He wondered what she was about to do. She 
 glanced downward with a charming coquettish 
 instinct, to be sure that her skirt had escaped the 
 puddle, and then she raised her small gloved hands 
 and arranged his necktie. " T^es ficele comme quat* 
 sous^" she murmured. He did not comprehend the 
 phrase. Then she picked a bit of fluff off his breast. 
 He said to himself that such was the nature of 
 women, and that these attentions must be borne sto-
 
 RENEE 211 
 
 ically. His spirits were mounting now. Hope shone 
 like a star before him. He saw the time when he 
 could look Annunciata in the face. Lastly Renee 
 lowered her veil. 
 
 At the same moment there was a wild stertorous 
 snorting and tramp of hoofs, and round the bend of 
 the canal a horse suddenly entered the tunnel of the 
 bridge, straining at a taut rope. The rope wrenched 
 his forequarters in the direction of the water, so that 
 he walked always a little askew. Fearns dragged 
 his mistress to the wall, and the animal struggled 
 on, his legs raking forward like the masts of a ship. 
 Each time he lifted a hoof out of the viscid mud 
 there was a sound like a smothered Titanic kiss. 
 
 "Oh! The brute!" Renee exclaimed. "I was 
 frightened." 
 
 And Fearns smiled with indulgence. Presently 
 the long narrow boat appeared. A man was steer- 
 ing, and the water rippled oflF the rudder, which he 
 held firmly to port. Smoke ascended from the 
 cabin. A woman was nursing a baby at the cabin 
 door. The inhabitants of the boat did not give a 
 second glance at Fearns and Renee. They spent 
 their lives in surprising couples under bridges. The 
 cortege passed from view. 
 
 Then a car rumbled overhead, shaking the earth. 
 
 "What time is it?" Renee asked. 
 
 "Twenty five past eleven. That is the car going
 
 212 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 to Sneyd Vale. The other will be along in five 
 minutes. If you take it and then get a cab, you 
 will just have time." 
 
 "I will do that," she said. 
 
 "Have you enough money?" he questioned hen 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " Let me give you some." 
 
 She shook her head. And he saw two tears in 
 her eyes. He had wounded her. "No, no," she 
 muttered, with a kind of horror. He regretted that 
 he had mentioned money. And yet he could not 
 have let her go without mentioning it. 
 
 ^^ Adieu! ^^ she said, resuming her bag and um- 
 brella. 
 
 "Good-bye," he responded, and in giving her the 
 bag, he tried to squeeze her hand; it was the least 
 he could do. However, her hand was occupied with 
 the umbrella, and he only succeeded in squeezing 
 her thumb. He felt foolish. 
 
 "You go first," she entreated him. "We cannot 
 leave together." 
 
 " No," he said, " I will stay till you are safely off." 
 
 "I wish to be the last in this place," she begged. 
 
 "Don't be silly," he spoke with kind firmness. 
 "You'll miss your car." 
 
 She yielded submissively, and went from under 
 the bridge. Then she stopped, and hesitated, and 
 came back to him. And as she did so, she lifted her
 
 RENEE 213 
 
 veil with one hand. She raised her sad, set face to 
 his with a mute appeal. He blushed, bent down 
 and kissed her cheek, and she kissed his cheek. 
 
 "Good-bye, little girl," he said, and his voice 
 broke. It was the facile emotion of the Lovelace 
 that had overtaken him unawares. 
 
 She said nothing; but put her lips together, 
 lowered her veil, seized her skirt and shook it, and 
 hastened from his sight. Immediately afterward 
 the bridge vibrated to the passage of the Han- 
 bridge car. 
 
 The words that he uttered as the echoes of the 
 car died away, had they been heard, would perhaps 
 have deprived him of the last shred of human sym- 
 pathy. But they were not to be construed in a too 
 literal sense. They were in part the mere bravado 
 of one who, having been well frightened, is getting 
 over his alarm and scorning the man he was a mo- 
 ment before. And in any case they expressed only 
 a small fraction of his feelings. He exclaimed: 
 "Good riddance!" 
 
 He tapped nervously with his stick against the 
 brick wall, frowning at it. She was a mysterious 
 creature. After all he wondered if she had not been 
 performing a comedy with masterly skill. His 
 opinion of women was now very high, now very low. 
 She was gone, the chapter closed, the leaf turned. 
 
 She was gone. Never would he see her again.
 
 214 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 And the final interview had occurred more smoothly 
 than he could have dared to hope. He had now to 
 face the situation with his wife and Annunciata. 
 It dismayed him horribly. But, thanks to Renee, 
 he had emerged somewhat from the sick despair 
 of half an hour ago. 
 
 Inextricably mixed up with the tumult of his 
 thoughts concerning that situation was a thread of 
 regret for certain qualities in Renee. He could not 
 dismiss from his mind the haunting conviction that 
 she was the finest mistress he had ever had. 
 
 He hastened back to the office, this time walking 
 boldly up Spode Street. There could be no further 
 danger now, no matter who saw him. The notion 
 of departing instantly to Liverpool appealed to him 
 very strongly. He felt the need of movement, the 
 need to get away out of the atmosphere of the Five 
 Towns, which seemed to choke him. At Liverpool 
 he would be capable of continuous thought, and 
 could carefully consider how he should approach 
 his wife. For the moment he had the idea of 
 going to Birmingham, instead of to Liverpool, and 
 meeting his wife at once. But when he remembered 
 the sort of house in which his wife's sister lived, and 
 the fact that it would be completely upset by sickness, 
 he saw that a private and lengthy interview in the 
 house would be impossible. And certainly he could
 
 RENEE 215 
 
 not take his wife for a walk and explain to her his 
 sin and his remorse in the streets. Moreover he 
 had the coward's preference for to-morrow. It 
 seemed to him that Annunciata might write to her 
 mother and tell her. . . . No! Impossible! 
 The child would never do that. She would never 
 dare even to hint on paper. . . . There would 
 be something about such an action that would 
 appall a modest girl. Still, he was dimly aware 
 that Annunciata had in her character a streak of the 
 fanatic, of the martyr. He had glimpsed that streak 
 more than once. After all, she might write to her 
 mother: it was just conceivable. Then the brilliant ^ 
 scheme of writing to I.Irs. Fearns himself came into 
 his mind, and he was enchanted with it. He would 
 go to Liverpool and he would write to her in his 
 best style — and he could write a letter to a woman, 
 he said, if any man could! — and smooth the path- 
 way for the interview. 
 
 In his office, a client who had an appointment, 
 and whom he had entirely forgotten, was waiting 
 to see him. He apologized to the client, gave him 
 a cigar, and told him he could spare him exactly 
 five minutes. He said that during the last day or 
 two he had not been able to call his soul his own. 
 Unexpected interruptions had followed one another 
 in a series, and now he was absolutely compelled to 
 rush off to Liverpool at a moment's notice. ("A
 
 2i6 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 quarter of an hour ago I was kissing her," his thoughts 
 persistently ran, "A quarter of an hour ago I was 
 kissing her." And in memory the scene under the 
 bridge seemed fantastic.) He talked seriously 
 with the client for a minute or two, and then rang 
 for Ridware, to whom he specially commended the 
 client's affairs. And to show the client that he 
 regarded him as no ordinary client, he spoke briefly 
 to Ridware in his presence of other business, and 
 informed Ridware that he was off to Liverpool. 
 
 "I'm coming out," he said, as the client rose, and 
 they left his room together, each smoking. Fearns 
 saw the telephone. 
 
 "Half a second," he demanded of the client, the 
 cigar between his teeth. "I'll just telephone to my 
 daughter. The wife's away." 
 
 And he rang, and gave the number to the 
 exchange. 
 
 When Annunciata answered his call, he put his 
 cigar on the desk, but so clumsily that it fell to 
 the ground. Her "Yes, father," frightened him. 
 He knew he was afraid of her. And as a crim- 
 inal endeavours to anticipate his fate from the 
 judge's preliminary tones, so he endeavoured to read 
 the future in Annunciata's voice. But he could 
 not succeed in the divination. He delivered his mes- 
 sage in the sharp, curt tone of a busy and pre- 
 occupied man.
 
 RENEE 217 
 
 "There! That's done!" he exclaimed, picking up 
 the cigar and dusting it. 
 
 "Soon done!" the client observed. 
 
 "Well, good morning. I must hurry," he said 
 outside. "What time do you make it, exactly? 
 I know you've always got Greenwich." 
 
 They compared watches, shook hands, and parted. 
 Fearns had the good fortune to catch a Knype car 
 at the end of the street. 
 
 Bob Cyples was on the rear platform of the car, 
 smoking. He and Fearns were somewhat less than 
 cronies and somewhat more than business friends; 
 though neither ever enjoyed the other's hospitality, 
 except in bars, restaurants, and clubs, a sort of 
 fellowship, which had never been put to any test, 
 existed between them. They were familiar rather 
 than intimate, but there was liking and a certain 
 amount of respect at the bottom of their relation- 
 ship. Fearns did not wish to talk to anybody 
 just then. However, as he hesitated to throw away 
 his newly lit cigar immediately, he was obliged to 
 accept the situation and remain on the platform. 
 Such sacrifices must be made at once if they are to 
 be made at all, 
 
 Cyples was very cordial, as usual, and the 
 exchanges were of the lightest nature until the 
 conductor went inside the car to collect fares. Then 
 Cyples altered his tone.
 
 2i8 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 (C 
 
 You're going on with that matter, I suppose?" 
 he said cautiously. 
 
 "What matter?" 
 
 "R. V. R.," said Cyples. 
 
 "R. V. R.?" Fearns repeated, at a loss. 
 
 "Ridware." Cyples breathed the word very 
 low. If he had called it out aloud no one but Fearns 
 could possibly have heard it above the rattle of the 
 car, but in business Cyples's name was prudence. 
 
 "Oh! Ridware!" Fearns exlaimed. "Why? You 
 aren't against us, are you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Cyples. "I told R. Didn't he tell 
 you? The lady came to us immediately after the 
 rupture." And Cyples seemed to convey that not 
 every lady would have been so wise as not to wait 
 for the actual commencement of proceedings before 
 consulting her lawyers. 
 
 "The devil she did!" responded Fearns. "No, 
 Ridware didn't tell me. Fact is, I haven't had a 
 chance to speak to him about it to-day. Why do 
 you ask if we're going on. Of course we're going 
 on. You simply won't have a look in, my boy." 
 
 Cyples smiled in a manner to indicate that on 
 that point he had his own opinion. Between friends 
 who were professionally enemies, unofficial con- 
 versation as to the casus belli could not with due 
 regard to etiquette be carried much further. More- 
 over, the conductor returned to the platform.
 
 RENEE 219 
 
 "I only mentioned It because I've just heard that 
 G. is seriously ill," said Cyples. 
 
 "G.?" 
 
 "Yes, you know." 
 
 Fearns nodded "Ah! What's up with him?" 
 
 "Don't know." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "Where are you off to?" Cyples resumed in a 
 normal tone. 
 
 "Liverpool." 
 
 "Long?" 
 
 "No. Come back to-night or to-morrow morning." 
 
 Shortly afterward Cyples dropped off the car 
 opposite to Boone's manufactory. Fearns was 
 glad to be alone. It was astonishing how the mere 
 mention of a divorce case distressed him. But he 
 assured himself that he had shown no sign of per- 
 turbation to Cyples. 
 
 Just as there is a right and a wrong pavement of 
 Piccadilly, so at large railway stations there is always 
 one platform which Is modish beyond the others, 
 and this platform Is usually the main up-platform. 
 Such was the case at Knype. The main down- 
 platform, though It pointed to Manchester, Liver- 
 pool and Scotland, and though the greatest expresses 
 halted their magnificence before it, could never — no, 
 not on the morning of the Grand National! —
 
 220 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 compete in social distinction with its rival. That 
 day happened to be Thursday, the half-holiday of 
 the shop keepers, and the down-platform was 
 crowded with a miscellaneous assortment of trippers 
 — good, modest people, capable of asking for an 
 excursion ticket without shame, and of sitting 
 five-a-side and laying open their souls to fellow- 
 mortals without an introduction. The down- 
 platform was therefore even less fashionable than 
 usual. Charles Fearns found himself delayed at 
 every corner. There were a score of persons in front 
 of him at the booking office; the approaches to the 
 subway were encumbered, and by the time he 
 arrived on the platform the train was overdue. He 
 had the scorn for Thursday people which Invariably 
 animates the breasts of those who take holiday on 
 Saturday, for it Is accepted that to be Idle on Sat- 
 urday is more correct than to be Idle on Thursday. 
 He was out of breath, and hot and very thirsty, 
 and his thirst reminded him that he had omitted 
 lunch from his programme of arrangements. He 
 cared, however, nothing for lunch, but his parched 
 throat was rather peremptory In Its demand, and 
 It depressed and angered him to think that he could 
 not drink earHer than Crewe. He discovered from 
 a porter that an economical railway company had, 
 by merely taking thought and by no other process, 
 transformed the twelve thirty-eight ordinary to
 
 RENEE 221 
 
 Crewe and Liverpool into an excursion train, and 
 that first-class passengers would accordingly suffer. 
 Taller than most of the crowd, and not recognizing 
 a single individual in it, he regarded the simple faces 
 with resentful disdain, refusing to yield to excited 
 plebeian elbows and shoulders, and swallowing his 
 thirst as best he could. 
 
 "Stand back, please! Crewe and Liverpool train," 
 cried several porters. 
 
 The train slowly entered the reverberating station, 
 and carriage doors opened like fins along the length 
 of its smooth flank. By chance a first-class com- 
 partment came to a stop precisely in front of Fearns. 
 In a mechanical manner he read on a board at the 
 top of the coach — "Birmingham and Liverpool. 
 Through carriage." His fingers were on the handle 
 of the door when he perceived a woman inside. She 
 stooped over a bag, and her face was hidden from 
 him. His heart gave a jump. It was his wife that 
 he had seen. And already, having apparently 
 fastened the bag, she was turning to alight. 
 Instinctively, without reflection, he pushed violently 
 backward into the crowd and forced a passage to 
 the open space between the edge of the crowd and 
 the wall of a waiting-room. What should he do.^* 
 With cruel suddenness he was called upon to decide 
 on a course of action and he dared not decide. 
 
 His wife descended, and for the moment was lost
 
 222 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 to view. Annunciata, then, must have telegraphed 
 to her mother. What had Annunciata telegraphed? 
 And the monstrous question of what Annunciata 
 knew, what Annunciata had seen, presented itself 
 to him with desolating effect. He had caught a 
 glimpse of his wife's face, and he thought it displayed 
 extreme pain and anxiety. SurelyAnnunciatahadnot 
 telegraphed the naked fact! No! Even the clumsy 
 inexperience of a girl whose feelings had been utterly 
 outraged would not have committed the folly of 
 telegraphing the naked fact! The idea could not be 
 conceived. There was, then, yet time. By the 
 merest chance he was yet in a position, by the 
 exercise of all his vaunted tact and persuasive skill, 
 to save the situation. He must go up to his wife 
 instantly and begin upon the dreadful business. 
 He must grasp the nettle without pusillanimity and 
 without shrinking. Perhaps Annunciata had not 
 telegraphed. Perhaps the recovery of Alma's 
 sister had progressed so rapidly that his wife had 
 resolved to come home a day earlier. There was 
 hope. Already the multitude on the platform was 
 thinning. And, behind the Crew train the loop- 
 line train, which would take his wife to Bleakridge, 
 had crept up. He could see her now moving 
 toward* it. He must not hesitate. There was not 
 a second to lose. 
 
 He counted himself a man, but as the alternative
 
 RENEE 223 
 
 courses dictated by courageous prudence and by 
 imbecile cowardice offered themselves to him, the 
 manhood left him. It was not for nothing that for 
 twenty years he had devoted his life to carnal 
 indulgence. The fibre of his character had been 
 eaten away, and now for the first time he realized 
 with horror that this was so. He did not doubt 
 that his fate and the fate of his family depended on 
 his action during the next minute. He could not 
 think of a single argument in favour of delaying 
 the encounter with his wife. Nevertheless he could 
 not approach her. His legs would not carry him 
 in her direction. He had no longer to deal with 
 logic, but with instinct. And the instinct which 
 had forced him away from the carriage door for- 
 bade him to follow Alma to the loop-line train. He 
 was powerless. He was conscious of an abject fear 
 of his wife. He knew that he could not meet her 
 eyes. 
 
 And so he slipped again like a thief toward the 
 Liverpool train. "It will be better to write," he 
 murmured in his heart, and knew well the while 
 that it would not be better to write. "Annunciata 
 has not compromised me, and she will not com- 
 promise me," he said, and sought to find an illusory 
 solace in the obvious lie. Then he felt a touch on 
 his shoulder. He ignored it, and the touch was 
 repeated. He turned. Renee was at his side.
 
 224 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 He was so taken aback that he could not utter 
 a sound. 
 
 " I must speak to you," she said, and she seemed to 
 lean her body toward him. Her veil was raised. 
 Her face, with its melting eyes, invited and im- 
 plored him to accept her. 
 
 "What?" he muttered in a strange voice. 
 
 "I must speak to you." 
 
 He could have struck her and killed her without 
 a qualm. 
 
 "But you can't," he said. "My wife's on the 
 platform. She'll see us." 
 
 And he gazed fearfully around, lest any one should 
 have overheard their colloquy. 
 
 "I must speak to you," she reiterated. "Come 
 to the waiting room. Come." She appeared to 
 ignore the news of his wife's presence, or not to 
 have heard it. 
 
 He was trapped and helpless. At once it seemed 
 to him that if she had not sprung herself upon him, 
 he would after all have had the courage to go to his 
 wife. And now Renee was audacious enough to 
 seize his coat. She was bent on his ruin: he could 
 see that, and he anathematized her with the savage 
 sincerity of desperation. But he followed her; he 
 might not do otherwise. She led him, blindly and 
 swiftly, to the ladies' first class waiting room. 
 There was no other person in the waiting room, a
 
 RENEE 225 
 
 large, lofty, and obscure apartment, with an empty 
 fireplace, cushioned benches running round the walls 
 and a massive table in the centre; in the table lay 
 Renee's bag and umbrella. He placed himself 
 against the wall between the window and the door. 
 The lower panes of the window were of ground glass, 
 but he could look over them and survey the plat- 
 form. Dividing his frightened glances between the 
 platform and the women he gasped: 
 
 **What do you want?" 
 
 "I missed the train," she stammered, boldly 
 clutching at the lapels of his coat. And then, 
 abandoning herself to emotion, she cried aloud. 
 "No, no! I did not miss it, I could not leave you, 
 cheri! Forgive me! I could not leave you. I 
 have waited for you." And she sobbed as freely as 
 if they had been locked up in some secret chamber, 
 secure from any possible interruption. 
 
 He was furious with anger at her deceit, at the 
 calculated comedy she had played under the canal 
 bridge. He was sure it was comedy that she had 
 played. And this too, though real tears rolled 
 from her eyes — this too was a comedy. She did not 
 mean to lose him. She had got him, and no scruples 
 would prevent her from keeping him, "Ah!" he 
 thought wildly, "Will you.'* Will you.^ Damn 
 you! We will see if I am the man to be caught 
 like this! You hoodwinked me under the canal
 
 226 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 bridge, but not twice, my girl!" Her charm, her 
 intention, were as voluptuous as ever, but she had 
 ceased to enchant him. They stared at each other. 
 
 ''Oh! Mon Charles!'' she murmured. "Have 
 pity on me!" 
 
 "You must be mad!" he replied, repulsing her, 
 "To go on in this way, here!" 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I am mad. I thought I could 
 leave you, but I cannot." 
 
 He looked at the platform. It was nearly empty. 
 The train had gradually absorbed the excursionists, 
 and there was a banging of doors, a waving of a 
 green flag, and two whistles. He could see his 
 wife approaching the waiting room. 
 
 "My wife's coming in here," he cried, at his wits' 
 end. "Let me go!" 
 
 ''Charles?'' 
 
 "Good God!" he muttered, and then ferociously: 
 "If you don't let me go, you devil " 
 
 The Liverpool train passed out of view, and imme- 
 diately the loop-line train came up and took its place, 
 waiting the appointed minute of departure. He 
 saw his wife get into a first-class compartment, and 
 shut the door, and then lean from the window, idly 
 scanning the platform. And as he drew his head 
 into the shelter of the wall, the sense of his gigantic 
 folly, the sense of all that he had risked and all that 
 he was forfeiting, swept through him and over-
 
 RENEE 227 
 
 whelmed him. If only he could have rushed to the 
 calm and heavenly creature outside and cast him- 
 self at her feet, and humbled himself, and entreated 
 her to listen to none but him — if only he could have 
 done that! But Renee had him. Renee and he 
 were one in that moment! And the seconds ticked 
 away on the clock above the vast fireplace, and 
 then there was another whistle, and the loop-line 
 train slid from the station, and, except for port- 
 ers and the bookstall clerk, the platform was 
 quite empty. Alma had irretrievably gone to 
 Annunciata. 
 
 Renee poured out broken words. 
 
 "Look here, my girl," he addressed her bitterly, 
 forcing her hands anew off his coat. "You can't 
 come these games over me. So don't think it. I 
 don't suppose I'm the first that you've hooked, not 
 by a long sight. You've got to go and you may as 
 well understand it. Do you hear.^ You've got 
 to go. Do your worst. If it's blackmail, do your 
 worst. You must take me for a confounded fool. 
 But I'm not, I'm not! I may be ruined, but I'm 
 not an absolute mug. Do you hear.?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, stifling her sobs. 
 
 "That's good. Did you get your ticket for 
 London.?" 
 
 "No, I had no money." 
 'Then why in God's name did you tell me you 
 
 (('
 
 228 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 had money?" he demanded with uncontrolled 
 passion. She shrank away. "I was too proud," 
 she said. 
 
 "That be damned! That be damned!" he 
 shouted. He did not care who heard him. He 
 made one step to the table, pounced on her bag, 
 opened it, and put a lot of gold and silver into it, all 
 the money he had, save one sovereign which he 
 kept in his hand. 
 
 "Here! Take it!" he ordered her. And she 
 submissively took the bag. "And this too!" And 
 she took the umbrella. "Now come along with me ! " 
 
 He hurried her out of the waiting room, and 
 through the subway to the booking hall on the 
 up-platform. 
 
 "Second single to Euston," he said laconically 
 to the booking clerk, depositing the sovereign. 
 "There's a train to Stafford atone three, isn't there.?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the clerk. 
 
 He handed the ticket to Renee, and made her sit 
 down in the booking hall, while he planted himself 
 under the archway leading to the platform. It was 
 already one o'clock. 
 
 "You change at Stafford" he said, as he put her 
 into the train. "You won't have long to wait. 
 The Euston train comes In from Crewe. I'll send 
 you the testimonial." 
 
 He did not say good-bye, and since leaving the
 
 RENEE 229 
 
 waiting room she had been silent. The train 
 departed. 
 
 He almost ran into the refreshment room. 
 
 "Bottle of Bass, miss." He drank the Bass in 
 three gulps, and smacked his lips. 
 
 "Curse her!" he thought. "Curse her! But 
 I took the blasted Frenchiness out of her. A nice 
 thing!" And deep in his paternal mind was an 
 indignant protest that French governesses, with 
 their Catholic ways, could thus worm themselves 
 into decent families and play hell with domestic 
 peace. He knew he had been disgracefully brutal. 
 He did not attempt to disguise from himself that he 
 had behaved to her infamously, even granting to 
 the full her unscrupulous duplicity. But he did not 
 care. He said he would do the same again under 
 the same circumstances. Yes, a hundred times! 
 
 He returned to his office to obtain some more 
 money. 
 
 The next morning Charles Fearns, back again in 
 the Five Towns, jumped off the car at Lawton 
 Street, Bleakridge, and turned with hurried steps to 
 resume possession of his house and his family. Su- 
 perficially he had the same air of the conquering, 
 jaunty, powerful male that always distinguished 
 him. It seemed as if nothing could destroy the 
 elasticity of that stride, nor dull the fire of that eye.
 
 230 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 nor blanch that cheek, nor derange the hat's cavalier 
 poise. Moreover, he had desperate reason to wear 
 the mask of victory if by so doing he could en- 
 hearten himself to win. But he was nevertheless 
 really in a state approaching collapse, nearer even 
 than he feared to the end of his forces. He had 
 spent a pitiable evening and night at Liverpool. No 
 sooner had he arrived there than he began, with 
 reason, to ask why he had gone thither. What 
 purpose was he serving.^ What conceivable excuse 
 had the journey.'* For four hours he divided his 
 time between the streets and the smoking room of 
 the Adelphi Hotel. Twice he essayed a letter to 
 his wife, and found the task beyond him. But he 
 telegraphed to say that he would not return that 
 night. At length, just before the post left, he did 
 scribble a note to her; it was a ridiculously inade- 
 quate example of his skill, vague and perhaps 
 scarcely comprehensible: it did nothing but request 
 her to suspend her judgment; it incriminated him, 
 and he felt that it Incriminated him. But he sent 
 it. Having sent it, he conceived the scheme of 
 returning to Bursley that night and preceeding the 
 letter. However, this project demanded more 
 resolution and courage than he could furnish for it. 
 He drank a couple of whiskies and retired to bed 
 about ten o'clock. During most of the night he 
 remained awake, reviling himself In the most abject
 
 RENEE 231 
 
 and violent manner, and ceaselessly tormented by 
 the gnawing question : What did Annunciata know, 
 what had she seen? He was wide awake at six o'clock. 
 But at eight, to his extreme surprise, he woke up 
 out of a heavy sleep. He was calmer then, if not 
 less stricken; his faculties were a little restored. 
 He rang for Bradshaw and tea; sent a messenger to 
 buy a clean collar, he had a cold bath, making an in- 
 ordinate splash; he visited the barber, and then he 
 drove to Lime Street and took the first available 
 train home. He had at last come to a decision. 
 He would see Alma face to face at the earliest 
 possible instant, and he would accept the risk of 
 having to see Annunciata. Instead of going on to 
 Knype, and, having changed there for Hanbridge, 
 calling at the ofhce to attend to pressing business, he 
 left the train at Shawport and caught a car up to 
 Bleakridge; he thus saved over an hour. He was 
 mad to go through the interview with his wife, so 
 eager, and withal so afraid and tremulous — with 
 his assertive stride — that he would not, or dared not, 
 cogitate upon the interview in advance. He for- 
 mulated no plan of campaign. He did not prepare 
 for possible dangers. He hastened on, as one who 
 can neither fence nor shoot hastens to a duel, ir- 
 rationally and spasmodically hoping for the best. 
 
 As he approached his garden gate, he saw Martin 
 coming up Lawton Street in the opposite direction.
 
 232 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Martin was wearing his green apron and wheeling 
 a large flat empty barrow. And Martin's master 
 flinched, at the moment scarcely appreciating why 
 he flinched. The principal use of that large flat 
 barrow was to transport heavy baggage to Bleak- 
 ridge Station when the family, or sections of the 
 family went away for a holiday. And Lawton 
 Street led to Bleakridge Station, Surely his wife 
 had not gone already? No! She could not have 
 acted with such precipitation! No, she had not 
 gone! He had written that he should return not 
 later than lunch, and she was awaiting him. It 
 must be so. 
 
 He ignored Martin, who was still several score 
 yards off, and passed Into the garden. The front 
 of the house looked exactly as usual. Annunciata's 
 front window was open and one of the white curtains 
 bellied outwards in the breeze, a common phenom- 
 enon. The lily was magnificently blooming in 
 the drawing-room window. Smoke ascended from 
 the kitchen chimney to the left. He had a glimpse 
 of clothes drying on a line in the yard behind. A 
 hoop that he remembered buying for Sep lay on the 
 damp grass. And yet he thought the house seemed 
 lifeless. It appeared merely to simulate life. The 
 front door was open. On the hall table was a small 
 pile of letters; the topmost bore no stamp and was 
 addressed to him in his wife's hand. He dropped
 
 RENEE 233 
 
 his stick with a rattle into the umbrella stand, and 
 pushed his hat to the back of his head. Then he 
 picked up the envelope, and nervously ripped it 
 open with fingers that visibly trembled. The ink 
 was pale, had only just been blotted. The note 
 bore no date, and began with no form of address. 
 It ran: "Your letter came by the second delivery. 
 We are just leaving. I shall take the children to 
 Folkestone. You cannot expect me to stay. I 
 have consulted a solicitor (Mr. Cyples). He will 
 attend to things. Of course the servants know noth- 
 ing. I take Martha with me. A. F." 
 ' As his eyes absorbed the letter he heard the wheel 
 of Martin's barrow crunching the gravel, and with 
 astonishing bravado he came out to the porch and 
 spoke to Martin. 
 
 "They caught the train all right."*" 
 
 "Oh yes, sir. Missis was that nervous of missing 
 it, us got there twenty minutes afore time." Martin 
 smiled as one man may to another in discussing a 
 woman. 
 
 "Good, so long as you caught it." Fearns's de- 
 meanour was unsuspicious and unenquiring. 
 
 He was unconsciously crushing the letter in 
 his hand. Of course she had left the house 
 early in order to minimize the chance of meeting 
 him. 
 
 He glanced into the drawing room — It was empty;
 
 234 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Into the dining room — It was empty. The house was 
 like an echoing, deserted place, where history crouches 
 in the corners. Then his ear distinguished the 
 distant sound of a servant singing in a rude and 
 vulgar voice, fragments of a music hall song. He 
 surmised that it must be the new cook, whom he had 
 scarcely seen. The household machine, under his 
 wife's control, never creaked in his hearing; he never 
 had any curiosity as to the works, and his wife never 
 displayed them to him. 
 
 So she was gone! Of all the husbands in the Five 
 Towns, this indignity had happened to him! In- 
 credible! Insupportable! She must come back! 
 The children must come back! It was all a mistake. 
 He would see Cyples. Consulted Cyples, had she.^* 
 Well, Cyples or no Cyples, she must come back! 
 And all the time he knew with certainty that not he, 
 nor forty thousand such as he could persuade Alma 
 to abandon a course of action, once she had decided 
 that It was her duty to follow it. She would yield 
 to him in everything until her conscience was 
 aroused, and then she would be adamant. Always 
 he had more or less mildly tyrannized over her, 
 Imposed his will upon her, taken advantage of her 
 sweet acquiescence, and yet he was profoundly 
 aware that hers was the stronger spirit. He felt 
 that if she had gone she had Irrevocably gone. 
 
 Sick and shamed, he went upstairs and wandered
 
 RENEE 23s 
 
 about. He could hear the singing more plainly 
 now. It proceeded from the second floor, where the 
 servants' bedrooms were. In his own bedroom 
 nothing was abnormal. Nor was there any sign of 
 untidiness in his wife's room. He hastened fever- 
 ishly to her wardrobe. It was empty. He stared 
 blankly Into Its emptiness. And in the corner 
 to the right of the wardrobe, where her boots 
 and shoes were wont to be arranged in a row, 
 there was nothing. 
 
 "Well, of course she's gone!" he muttered sav- 
 agely, as he saw himself, with his hat at the back of 
 his head, reflected in the pier glass. "What the 
 hell do you expect.^ Did you expect her to send for 
 the governess and kiss her.'' They're all gone. So 
 there you are!" 
 
 He wandered Into Annunclata's room, which was 
 littered with newspapers and empty cardboard boxes. 
 He was not very well acquainted with Annunclata's 
 room, and he examined It with inquisitive misery. 
 This, then, was the retreat of the mysterious creat- 
 ure, his daughter. He thought that he had never 
 known his daughter. How disturbing it was that 
 children should grow up under the gaze of their 
 parents, and yet be utter strangers to their parents! 
 Imagine it: Annunciata had ruined him. It seemed 
 only yesterday that Annunciata was small enough 
 to be put in the corner, and now she had come be-
 
 236 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 tween him and Alma and pushed them into the 
 Divorce Court. The little Annunciata! 
 
 Was it the Divorce Court? He wondered. Yes, 
 Alma would be capable of suing for divorce. The 
 perception of his wife's moral courage chilled him 
 in the region of the spine. Unless he could alter 
 her notion of her duty he was done for. All the 
 Five Towns would laugh at him, revile him, say that 
 he had got what he deserved, and sympathize with 
 her. He scanned the letter. "Mr. Cyples — he will 
 attend to things!" What could that mean, if not 
 divorce? It might mean that Cyples had merely 
 been asked to look after her private income; she 
 had four hundred and fifty a year. Perhaps It was 
 that. He tried to believe that she did not intend 
 divorce, but he scarcely succeeded. 
 
 He kicked a newspaper lying on the floor, as he 
 moved about the room; an odd glove was concealed 
 under It. That was like Annunclata's untidiness. 
 She had probably gone to the station with only one 
 glove. His eye roved. There was dust on the 
 night table, showing clearly where books had been. 
 And above the table he noticed an oblong patch of 
 the wall paper that was lighter in tone than the 
 rest. A picture had hung over that patch. He 
 puzzled his brain to think what the picture could be, 
 for none of the other pictures had been moved. 
 And at length he remembered. It was her mother's
 
 RENEE 237 
 
 portrait that Annunclata had taken away with her. 
 He put his hands in his pockets, and sat down 
 heavily on the unmade bed, amid the litter. He 
 heard the faint rubbing of the curtain against the 
 window sash, and the coarse singing of the servant; 
 and he stared at the oblong patch on the wall and 
 wept. He had not sufficient volition left to keep 
 the tears from spilling. 
 
 There was a scampering tread up the servants' 
 staircase. 
 
 "Martin says master's come." He heard the 
 rapid whisper. 
 
 "Well, what be that?" It was assuredly the new 
 cook who had replied. 
 
 One or other of the girls might at any moment 
 surprise him sitting there like a fool on the bed. He 
 wiped his eyes with his hand and went downstairs 
 into the dining-room with a step of exaggerated 
 firmness, leaving his hat in the hall. The clock 
 showed half-past twelve. He was astounded to dis- 
 cover that he had been in the house nearly an 
 hour. 
 
 Two minutes later the parlour maid entered with 
 a white table cloth. 
 
 "Good morning, sir," she said, flouncing her skirt. 
 
 "Good morning," he answered, and looked 
 steadily out of the window, 
 
 "Missis said I was to say there was cold beef and
 
 238 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 a rabbit pie, and would you like scrambled eggs 
 first, sir?" Her tone was decidedly peculiar. 
 
 He coughed. "No eggs," he murmured, and 
 tried hard to make his voice easy and natural. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 And when the lunch was served he stood and be- 
 held it, a little archipelago of dishes in the middle 
 of the great table. His loneliness overcame him. 
 For more than twenty years he had been the petted 
 and pampered god of the household. His wife or 
 daughter, or both, were continually thinking of his 
 convenience and satisfaction. Never did he eat 
 alone. "Some one must be in to keep father com- 
 pany." It was all father, father. They lived for 
 him. As the state of the tide is always at the back 
 of a mariner's mind, so were his moods at the back 
 of their minds. And now they had gone. They had 
 fled. Their pure and delicious influence, which 
 used to spread through the house like a universal 
 ether, had vanished. He had the place to himself, and 
 it was no longer a home; it was a strange and inhos- 
 pitable tenement, a furnished lodging. "Yes," he 
 growled gazing at the embroidered napkin ring 
 which Annunciata had stitched for his birthday 
 years ago, "and it's my damned lechery that's 
 brought me to this!" He thought of all the scandal 
 and the gossip; a few hours, and the condition of 
 his domestic affairs would be common knowledge.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 PHYLLIS 
 
 ONE afternoon a telegraph boy brought a 
 telegram for Phyllis Ridware to her 
 mother's little house in Sproston Street, 
 behind the Mechanics' Institution. She opened it 
 and read a message from Emery Greatbatch asking 
 her to go and see him at once. Since the day when 
 she parted from her husband she had had no com- 
 munication of any kind from Emery, though she had 
 written to him three letters which imperatively de- 
 manded replies. The request In the telegram sur- 
 prised her, for the strictest prudence having been 
 enjoined by Mr. Cyples, and old Mrs. Capewell 
 having implored her in the same sense, with tears, 
 she had, in her letters to Emery, emphasized the 
 necessity for extreme discretion. And yet now, 
 after an incomprehensible silence, he was asking 
 her to visit him at his rooms in Oldcastlel 
 
 She went upstairs, and somewhat elaborately made 
 ready to depart; and as she moved about the small 
 bedroom which her mother had placed at her dis- 
 posal, her lips were firmly pressed together and her 
 
 239
 
 240 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 eyes scintillating. She stuck the pins into her hat, 
 and tied her veil behind, with cold and leisurely 
 exactitude, but as she put on a pair of nearly new 
 gloves, her gestures began to be less calm. She 
 picked up a tiny satchel and her parasol almost 
 feverishly, and she ran downstairs. At that in- 
 stant there was a rat-tat at the door. 
 
 "I'll attend to the door, mother," she cried, "I'm 
 just going out." The old lady was resting. 
 
 Paul Pennington was at the door. He was dressed 
 in his usual neat modest dark gray suit, with the 
 bowler hat, and he carried his usual little black bag. 
 And he stood very upright and stiff. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mrs. Ridware," said he, quietly 
 saluting. "May I speak to you.'*" 
 
 "Certainly, Mr. Pennington," she answered icily. 
 
 "May I step inside a moment.'"' he suggested, 
 as she gave no sign of letting him in. 
 
 She stood away from the door, and he entered 
 the narrow lobby. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Pennington.?" 
 
 He unfastened his black bag, having deposited 
 his hat carefully on a chair, and handed her two 
 papers. 
 
 "I have to serve you with these," he said. 
 
 She took them. "Is that all.?" she replied with a 
 scornful smile. 
 
 "Yes, thank you," said Pennington, and hurried
 
 PHYLLIS 241 
 
 away, forgetting even to say "good afternoon." 
 Beneath that Impassive exterior he had been ex- 
 cessively nervous. 
 
 Phyllis glanced at the papers. One was marked 
 "Citation" and the other "Petition," and both of 
 them commenced with the formidable phrase, 
 "In the High Court of Justice." She saw her own 
 name, and her husband's name, and the name of 
 Emery Greatbatch, and in several places the word 
 "adultery." Then without trying to comprehend 
 them, she stuffed the documents into her satchel. 
 
 "What is it.''" old Mrs. Capewell asked, appearing 
 at the sitting room door. 
 
 "Nothing, mother," Phyllis shouted; her mother 
 had latterly grown deaf. 
 
 Mrs. Capewell's face was anxious. She obvi- 
 ously did not credit her daughter with speaking the 
 truth. The next moment Phyllis was gone without 
 another word. 
 
 She took the Oldcastle car, and in less than half 
 an hour she was in the prim red market place of 
 the exalted borough which draws its skirts away 
 from the grimy contact of the Five Towns, and 
 employs its vast leisure in brooding upon an ancient 
 and exciting past. Oldcastle has the best schools, 
 bookshops, and pastrycooks in the northern half of 
 the county. It is not industrial; it never will be. 
 It stands for history, and carefully conserves its
 
 242 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Georgian mansions and that air of distinguished 
 respectability which makes it the secret envy of the 
 Five Towns. Phyllis was so little familiar with 
 Oldcastle that she was compelled to ask her way to 
 the street at the lower end of the town where 
 Emery Greatbatch resided. But on the rare oc- 
 casions when she went into it, the aspect of Old- 
 castle always particularly appealed to her. She 
 would have liked to live there. Even a divorce 
 case in Oldcastle would carry with it a certain 
 decent refinement. 
 
 Greatbatch lived in lodgings — two medium 
 sized rooms on the ground floor, separated by fold- 
 ing doors. But by means of personally acquired 
 furniture he had given to his abode some semblance 
 of a hom.e, and he was very well cared for by a good- 
 natured landlady. There are some men who have 
 the gift of inspiring devotion in landladies, and 
 Emery was one of them. It was not, however, the 
 landlady who answered Phyllis's ring. It was 
 Emery himself. At the first glance at her lover, 
 Phyllis gave a little gasp of amazement, and her 
 cheek paled. Then, realizing that her demeanour 
 was affecting him, she summoned her extraordinary 
 faculty of courageous self-possession and pretended 
 that she noticed nothing strange. Less than three 
 weeks before she had left him a florid, powerful 
 and somewhat obese man, with huge unwieldy
 
 PHYLLIS 243 
 
 shoulders to match his height, and a general ap- 
 pearance which indicated dogged force. She now 
 saw him wasted, if not absolutely emaciated, with 
 a wrinkled and dried skin of peculiar tint, and a 
 fatigued apprehensive look in his eyes; and she 
 thought, in despair, "Can our misfortune have 
 brought him to this?" He was no longer the same 
 man. His clothes hung loose on him. 
 
 She tripped lightly up the two stone steps leading 
 to the house, and, closing her sunshade, entered in 
 silence. Emery shut the door and with febrile 
 abruptness folded her in his arms; and as he took her, 
 and as she abandoned herself, brief though the 
 caress was, there stole over them both the profound 
 and noble satisfaction which only genuine passion 
 can induce, and which no disasters can entirely mar. 
 The whole of Phyllis's bearing was changed in his 
 presence. Her beauty grew softer, and lost its 
 enigmatic quality. Her mouth and eyes ceased 
 their disturbing and challenging mockery. She 
 seemed to submit gladly, humbly, unreservedly, with 
 a sort of splendid and complete honesty. Emery 
 might indeed boast that Phyllis was one woman to 
 him and a different woman to the rest of the world. 
 
 "You're ill, my poor boy," she murmured, "why 
 didn't you write to me at my mother's as I told you.'"' 
 
 "I only got your letters this morning," he replied. 
 "Yes, I've been ill."
 
 244 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "Then didn't you know till this morning that 
 Lawrence had " 
 
 "No," he smiled sadly. He put a hand on her 
 shoulder to steady himself, and she clutched it 
 warmly. 
 
 "You aren't so weak as all that.^*" she demanded. 
 
 He nodded. "Come and sit down," he said. 
 "The old woman's out, won't be back for a couple 
 of hours. I've sent her out." 
 
 They passed into the sitting-room. A large sofa 
 occupied the space between the curtained window 
 and the door, opposite the chimney-piece, and the 
 arrangement of cushions showed that Emery had 
 been lying there. He allowed her to persuade him 
 gently to resume his place; he scarce protested when 
 she lifted his legs on to the sofa. Then he made 
 space for her to sit by him, and, gazing at him, she 
 removed her gloves and hat. 
 
 "Well, child," he said, "I've got you into a nice 
 
 mess." 
 
 " Don't talk about that yet, " she answered gravely. 
 'Tell me about your illness, what is it?" 
 
 Before answering, he glanced long into the humid 
 eyes of the creature who had ruined his life, and whose 
 life he had ruined. When these two had first loved, 
 they were young enough and proud enough to 
 quarrel. The altercation had sprung from his strong 
 sense of justice and from her perfect lack of that
 
 PHYLLIS 245 
 
 sense. She had been in the wrong; she had scarcely 
 denied it. But she would not yield. She sincerely 
 imagined that it was his place to yield, and he would 
 have yielded, had not the yielding presented itself 
 to him as a violation of the elementary principles 
 of justice. Her attitude had shocked him, as, later, 
 her attitude had shocked her husband; but while 
 Emery was capable of a mighty and terrible passion, 
 Lawrence was not. From the date of their quarrel 
 to the hour when, Phyllis being a married woman 
 they had met by mere accident in Glasgow, Emery 
 had never spoken to her, had not even seen her more 
 than once or twice. The love which was to destroy 
 them had slept like a damped fire, and then ten 
 words of greeting had shown them their hearts, 
 and in an instant of time they were lapped from head 
 to foot in the living flame. There were no expla- 
 nations, no apologies, no reluctances, no shames. 
 The past was consumed. They both realized what 
 lay in front of them, of misery in bliss, and they 
 went forward. In a week the irremediable had 
 happened, and, accepting each other candidly, 
 embracing with gladness each other's imperfections, 
 they launched without regret into an existence of 
 deceit and dishonour. They had no alternative. 
 And what an existence! To what subterfuges were 
 they reduced! Why, for his letters to her, they 
 created a post-office in the bricked-up mouth of an
 
 246 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 old pitshaft on the Toft End slope, and he would 
 deposit his missives therein at dusk, walking the 
 four miles to Oldcastle afterward! 
 
 "You remember," he began weakly, "I told you 
 I was going to Manchester as usual this year with 
 the entries for the sports to get the handicapping 
 done. I always come back the same night, because 
 old Markyate can generally finish his job in about 
 three or four hours. But he was unwell, and there 
 were fifty per cent, more entries than usual, and he 
 said he couldn't guarantee to finish 'em that day. 
 It was a Saturday and the Carl Rosa were doing 
 Tristan at Prince's, so I thought I'd stay over 
 night, and see that and come back Sunday after- 
 noon. When I woke up the next morning in the 
 hotel, I couldn't make out what was the matter 
 with me. Something with my left eye — I couldn't 
 see out of it, and I was so feeble. I just managed 
 to get as far as a doctor's. The doctor said I'd 
 had a hemorrhage into my retina while I was 
 asleep." 
 
 "A hemorrhage!" she replied. "But how came 
 you to have a hemorrhage like that.'"' 
 
 "How can I tell?" Emery said, after a pause. 
 "The doctor looked after me a bit. I fancied I 
 was good enough to go to the handicapper's, and I 
 did go. I got into the house, but I couldn't leave 
 vt, and those people have been looking after me till
 
 PHYLLIS 247 
 
 this blessed day. You wouldn't believe how kind 
 they were!" 
 
 "His wife?" 
 
 "No, he's a widower — his two daughters. I 
 had to have an oculist at last. I couldn't sleep, 
 and he enucleated the eye, as the term is. Then I 
 was easier." 
 
 "And now it's quite better.?" 
 
 "You don't notice anything, do you.''" 
 
 She examined the eye. "No," she said, "but 
 how it's pulled you to pieces, my poor boy!" 
 
 "Well, you know, a hemorrhage! What can you 
 expect.""' 
 
 "It's horribly strange," she muttered. 
 
 "It is strange," he agreed. "However, it's all 
 over now." 
 
 "And I never knew! Emery, why didn't you " 
 
 "How could I.?" he protested. "Mallows, the 
 classical master, came over to see me. But how 
 could I let you know, child.? I found your letters 
 here this morning when I arrived. The old woman 
 was In a pretty state, you may guess. I had the 
 greatest trouble in the world to get her out of the 
 house. She thought I was dying, whereas the fact 
 Is I'm lots better." 
 
 "Really better.?" 
 
 "My God! If you'd seen me last week!" 
 
 She bent her face to his, and put her arms
 
 248 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 round his neck, and kissed him with slow, deliberate 
 kisses. 
 
 "Emery!" she said. "I'm not satisfied. I shall 
 fetch a doctor here. " 
 
 "Much better fetch a lawyer," he replied curtly 
 and feebly, and then sighed. "Phil, what the devil 
 are we to do? How did he find out?" 
 
 "What's 'enucleated?'" she asked, putting a 
 hand on his forehead. 
 
 "Oh!" he said. "Just cleaning out, straighten- 
 ing up." 
 
 "Did it hurt you?" 
 
 "No, very little. You say you've gone to Brad- 
 well's, eh?" 
 
 Leaving the topic of his illness, she began to tell him 
 in minute detail all that had happened during his ab- 
 sence. She related her impressions of the evening 
 when Mark Ridware fell into the house at Toft End 
 like a bolt from the blue; and how she had left the 
 brothers and gone to her mother, calling on the way 
 at the pit's mouth to see if by chance there was a let- 
 ter for her; and how she had denied her guilt to her 
 mother while admitting a perfectly innocent, desul- 
 tory friendship with Emery for the sake of old times; 
 and how her mother eagerly and passionately believed 
 her, asserting that she had never really liked Ridware; 
 and how they had paid a visit to Cyples together, 
 because Cyples had been a friend of her father's.
 
 PHYLLIS 249 
 
 "I don't think Mr. Cyples quite believed me," 
 said Phyllis calmly. "But he pretended to, and he 
 talked to mother in exactly the right tone. Wasn't 
 it fortunate I overheard what Lawrence told 
 Mark.'' That gave me my line. I explained that 
 night at Easter, and I've carefully remembered 
 exactly what I said. I said you were ill, and you 
 were^ you know, a little. And now your being ill 
 again like this! It fits in, doesn't it.^ . .. 
 What's the matter.?" 
 
 "Nothing," said he. 
 
 "You look so queer." She sighed. "I did the 
 best I could. I couldn't see you, and so I did the 
 best I could without you. Emery, if it hadn't been 
 for your prospects and all that, I would have told 
 them straight out that it was every bit true and 
 they could get as many divorces as they chose, 
 for all we cared. Dearest, what are we to do?" 
 
 "There isn't much to do, " he replied. "We'll 
 fight, of course, but it's all up." 
 
 "If it's all up," she said stifl^^y, "why fight? 
 Why not go away at once? Go to Canada or some- 
 where? I don't mind. Anywhere. It can be 
 done. It's been done lots of times." A dark flush 
 overspread her cheeks. 
 
 He gave an inarticulate murmur. 
 
 "Why, my darling boy, you're crying!" she 
 exclaimed, an immense astonishment in her voice.
 
 250 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 He could not speak. The tears flowed slowly from 
 his eyes, and she gazed at him, alarmed by this extra- 
 ordinary symptom of his physical condition. 
 
 Just then there was a sharp ring at the door. 
 Phyllis rose. 
 
 "I'll go," Emery managed to say, lifting his 
 head, and grimacing to control himself. 
 
 "You will stay where you are," she slowly 
 ordered him. 
 
 "But you can't possibly be seen here, answering 
 my door!" he argued. 
 
 "Can't I!" said she, indignantly. "And you ill 
 like that! If it's all up, I'm here to nurse you, and 
 I won't leave you." 
 
 The ring was repeated. 
 
 "Really," she murmured. "They're in a hurry!'' 
 Her nostrils were dilated, and she left the room with 
 a gesture of impetuous enterprise. 
 
 In vain he called after her: "Look through the 
 window and see who it is, first." 
 
 She opened the front door. And Paul Pennington 
 confronted her for the second time that afternoon. 
 Of the two, Paul was far the more disconcerted. 
 His face gradually reddened, and he could scarcely 
 look at her. She waited haughtily for him to 
 speak. "Mrs. Ridware!" he began lamely; "I 
 came ... is this Mr. Grcatbatch's?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 PHYLLIS 251 
 
 "Is he in? Can I see him?" He unconsciously- 
 brought his black bag into prominence. 
 
 "Mr. Greatbatch can't be seen," said Phyllis, 
 staring out into the street. 
 
 "I'm sorry. If he's at home . . one moment . . 
 I . . . " 
 
 " Perhaps you had better come in, " Phyllis changed 
 her mind, speaking in a resigned tone. "Please 
 walk this way. Mr. Greatbatch is lying down." 
 She boldly preceded him into the sitting-room, 
 and, pointing to the form on the sofa: "That is 
 Mr. Greatbatch." And she added in a different 
 tone to Emery: "Here is some one wants to see 
 you. No, do not move, please." 
 
 "Are you Mr. Emery Greatbatch.^" Pennington 
 enquired. 
 
 "Yes," said Emery, entirely bewildered, but with 
 a defiant expression. 
 
 Pennington deposited his baton a chair, opened his 
 bag, and produced two documents. "I have to 
 serve you with these," he said, handing the long 
 narrow papers to Emery, who accepted them limply. 
 "Thank you. That is all. I'm sorry to trouble 
 you." 
 
 Paul Pennington hastened off, like a criminal 
 seen in the act. 
 
 "What else could I have done, my poor boy?" 
 cried Phyllis, sitting down on the sofa when they
 
 252 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 were alone again. "He saw me at the door. I've 
 had those papers, too. It's the — the case." 
 
 "When did you have them.?" 
 
 "This afternoon. Just before I came. What do 
 they say.''" 
 
 She craned her neck to look at one of the docu- 
 ments as he read, with a forced note of amusement 
 in his voice : " 'In the High Court of Justice, Probate 
 Divorce and Admiralty Division (Divorce). Edward 
 by the Grace of God . . . hum . . . hum . . . 
 hum . . , To Emery Greatbatch of Oldcastle in the 
 County of Staffordshire. Whereas Lawrence Rid- 
 ware of Bursley in the said County, claiming to be 
 lawfully married to Phyllis Ridware, had filed his 
 petition against her In the Divorce Registry of our 
 said Court, praying for a dissolution of marriage, 
 wherein he alleges that you have been guilty of 
 adultery with her. Now this is to command you that 
 within eight days after service hereof on you . . . 
 hum . . . hum . . . hum . . . you do appear In 
 our said Court then and there to make answer 
 to the said petition, a copy whereof, sealed with the 
 seal of our said Court, is herewith served upon you. 
 And take notice that in default of your so doing, 
 our said Court will proceed to hear the said charge 
 proved in due course of law, and to pronounce sen- 
 tence therein, your absence notwithstanding. And 
 take further notice that for the purpose aforesaid you
 
 PHYLLIS 253 
 
 are to attend in person, or by your solicitor. . . 
 hum . . . hum . . . hum . . . enter an appearance 
 in a book provided for that purpose, without which 
 you will not be allowed to address the Court . . . 
 hum . . . hum . . . hum . . . Dated at London. 
 . . . hum . . . hum . . . and in the second year 
 of our reign.' My stars, what a thumping seal!" 
 The sight and fingering of these papers, hers and 
 his, which were, however, nothing but common 
 glazed foolscap forms, filled in by shabby copying- 
 clerks and perfunctorily sealed in stuffy official 
 bureaus, seemed to startle the lovers. In spite 
 of themselves, their very voices were altered. They 
 strove to affect that these papers left them unmoved, 
 but they did not succeed. And as for Emery Great- 
 batch, he could feel his mistress's heart beating 
 against his breast. The first rays of the terrifying 
 lamp which justice holds aloft had suddenly touched 
 them, displaying their deeds in a new and eerie 
 light. And when they read together in the sealed 
 copy of Lawrence's petition the precise details of 
 their adultery, with the day of the month, and the 
 names of the town and the street and the number of 
 the house in the street, the black-and-white of the 
 recital in some curious way communicated to them 
 a sense of guilt and of shame such as they had not 
 before experienced. Phyllis began to talk, repeat- 
 ing her previous explanations in almost the same
 
 254 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 words; and he, in order to be more sure than sure, 
 repeated previous questions, well knowing the an- 
 swers he would receive. And they were soon in the 
 midst of one of those immense and formless conver- 
 sations in which a complex subject is discussed with- 
 out order interminably, and without apparent result, 
 until there comes a moment when the speakers per- 
 ceive that all the ground has been many times cov- 
 ered and that it is no longer possible to say anything 
 that has not already been said; and pauses occur, 
 and the unavoidable conclusion emerges and shapes 
 itself and imperiously demands acceptance. And 
 while Emery's mind had room for a shameful 
 sympathy with his old friend Lawrence, while 
 Phyllis could only think of Lawrence with an almost 
 virulent hate, the conclusion here was that this 
 Lawrence, that distant and threatening figure, 
 once so mild, once so Ignored and flouted, would 
 inevitably crush them in the battle that was to 
 ensue. They saw that they must either flee, or 
 fall with an indomitable but futile lie on their lips. 
 
 There was a silence in the room. 
 
 Phyllis broke it. ' 'What are you thinking about?" 
 she murmured, and gently took the papers from his 
 hand and put them on the table. 
 
 "I was wondering what I could do for you.^" 
 he answered, turning a little on his side in order to 
 follow her movements with his eyes.
 
 ({ 
 
 PHYLLIS 255 
 
 My poor boy," she said, "As soon as you are 
 better we must collect what money we can, and leave, 
 mustn't we? It isn't for me, it's because you won't 
 possibly be able to stay on at the school." 
 
 "But you've denied everything to your mother 
 and Mr. Cyples. Our going would " 
 
 "Does that matter?" she exclaimed impatiently. 
 "That was only a precaution. What do I care?" 
 She was standing over him now, and her hand ca- 
 ressed his shoulder. Could Lawrence have seen the 
 persuasive smile on her face, it would have recalled 
 to him the sweet forgotten marvels of their early 
 acquaintance, whose memory had been washed out 
 of his heart by the bitterness of later years. 
 
 Emery glanced up at her, with a sickly and self- 
 conscious grin — which he meant to be a smile — on 
 his shrunken features. 
 
 "Ah!" he muttered shortly, and closed his lips, 
 and then looked meditatively at the wall. 
 
 "Emery!" she cried in renewed alarm. "I'm 
 sure you aren't telling me everything. I've felt 
 it all along. What is there that you haven't told 
 me?" 
 
 "Child!" he said and drew her to him with his 
 arms. "It's nearly finished so far as I'm concerned. 
 Do you understand? It's nearly finished so far as 
 I'm concerned." 
 
 "So far as you're concerned? Why — 
 
 5>
 
 256 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "That's why I telegraphed you to come here. 
 I knew just as well as you that it was indiscreet. 
 I wouldn't have done it if the thing hadn't been 
 serious. You understand, don't you.'*" 
 
 They gazed at each other, and Phyllis moved away 
 from him. 
 
 "No!" she said faintly, and in her soul she asked 
 bitterly of fate: "Can I be more unfortunate than I 
 have been.?" 
 
 "Yes," he insisted. "You do — this hem- 
 orrhage " 
 
 Her face became the colour of milk, and her eyes 
 blazed darkly in the pallor of that oval. 
 
 " It Isn't— serious .f"' she demanded. That was the 
 strongest word she could induce herself to employ. 
 
 He nodded. "It's the first symptom of acute 
 diabetes," he said, sitting up, but averting his gaze. 
 "I'm unfortunately too young to have diabetes in a 
 mild form. I've had the first seizure. The second 
 will finish me. It may be next month, or it may be 
 delayed for six months, but it isn't likely to be much 
 later than that. And in the meantime I shall get a 
 little better. That's the way of it, my dear girl." 
 
 She made as if to come near him again, and then 
 hesjtated. 
 
 "Oh, but Emery! Surely " she whispered. 
 
 "Now, my dear girl," he protested gently, picking 
 at one of the cushions. "You musn't try to pre-
 
 PHYLLIS 257 
 
 tend it isn't so. It is so. You've got lots of pluck, 
 or I wouldn't have told you — like that. And by 
 God, you'll need all the pluck you have! It's 
 you that will suffer. It isn't me. I shall have done 
 with it all long before you have. It isn't sure even 
 that I shall have the extreme pleasure of hearing 
 the trial of our case." He shot a timid momen- 
 tary look at her. 
 
 "Was it the doctor told you all this.'"' she asked. 
 
 "The doctor told me in five minutes that I'd 
 got diabetes. It was partly from what he carefully 
 didn't say, and partly from what I've read up since, 
 that I discovered where I stood. And yet only two 
 months ago I never suspected that there was any- 
 thing the matter with me at all ! It's just how things 
 happen, that is." 
 
 From her knowledge of him she could not but 
 believe him. 
 
 "And you knew all this!" she said, awed. "And 
 you travelled here by yourself from Manchester — 
 and then found my letters! Oh Emery, why didn't 
 I know? I could have spared you a little!" 
 
 "That's how things happen," he repeated me- 
 chanically. 
 
 "It's no use you saying it is so, it is so," she said. 
 "You! So ill as that! I can't credit it." And 
 after surveying him with a long glance, she threw 
 herself on the sofa, sobbing. 
 
 "I simply can't," she wailed. And now it was he
 
 258 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 who soothed her, as an hour before she had 
 soothed him. 
 
 Her sobs gradually ceased. "Why didn't you 
 tell me when I came.'"' she complained pitifully. 
 "What was the use of us talking about the case.'"' 
 
 "I couldn't," he said, "I couldn't begin to tell 
 you. " 
 
 "But I knew something was wrong. Oh! I 
 was certain something was wrong." 
 
 "Kiss me," he entreated her. 
 
 She put her lips to his. And with their faces to- 
 gether she murmured: "Emery, listen. When I 
 wrote to you time after time, and you didn't reply, 
 do you know what I thought.'*" 
 
 "No," he replied, scarcely audibly, "what did 
 you think .^" 
 
 "I'm bound to tell you. I thought — I began to 
 think — that you meant to end it." 
 
 "End what.?" 
 
 "Our relationship. I did not think that for long 
 together. But I suspected you sometimes. And 
 now I know that you were ill there in Manchester 
 — It makes me — Emery!" She burst out Into wild 
 sobbing. "You forgive me.'"' 
 
 He kissed her again, and smiled. "Nonsense!" 
 he cajoled her, "there's nothing to forgive." 
 
 "You must say you forgive me," she persisted 
 hysterically. "Say it!"
 
 PHYLLIS 259 
 
 "If it will please you," he agreed, and putting 
 his mouth to her ear, he breathed into it some words. 
 "What a child it is!" he added, louder. "With its 
 fancies!" 
 
 She lay calm on the sofa, clasping him tightly 
 with both her hands. And as she lay there, all the 
 prospect of suffering which had appalled her before 
 Emery explained his condition suddenly became 
 beautiful and desirable. To desolate her mother, to 
 quit the Five Towns stealthily amid circumstances of 
 utter disgrace, to be known for a liar and an adul- 
 teress, to creep under a false name into some new 
 and infinitely remote town in another land and to 
 settle there in continual fear lest the rumour of shame 
 should follow and overtake, to know poverty and to 
 endure hardship, to struggle, to try to forget and 
 never to be able to forget, to have nothing worth 
 having but the constant companionship of Emery, 
 and to grow old — all that seemed the most ex- 
 quisite future that the fates could have offered to 
 her. There was not one detail of it that she would 
 have wished to alter. She saw vague visions formed 
 from conventional notions about far colonies, of 
 herself and Emery together on rich autumn evenings 
 outside a bare house with wide verandahs, gazing 
 in ecstasy at a horizon of magnificent mountains; 
 and the oncoming of darkness, and the patting of 
 dogs, and the withdrawal into closed rooms, and the
 
 26o WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 lighting of lamps, and the long, long, changeless 
 intimacy of two persons who possessed only each 
 other. The beauty of melancholy and renunciation 
 took hold of her as she clung to Emery, and intoxi- 
 cated her. She had an illusion that by gripping him 
 tight with her frail and convulsive fingers she could 
 keep him alive forever, that he could not die while 
 she cleaved to him. 
 
 Death was the sole terror; and it was terrible to 
 such a point that her mind could not conceive it. 
 The coat that he was wearing, whose texture was 
 so thrillingly masculine to her touch — was it possi- 
 ble that in a few weeks or months it would be folded 
 away because there was no one to wear it.^ That 
 seemed the saddest, cruellest thing in all the universe. 
 She remembered once, years ago, watching him at 
 the breaking-up day of the Middle School, in the 
 cricket field, surrounded by a mob of boys. And 
 she recalled every slow, easy, muscular movement 
 of his burly frame, and how he swung a cricket bat 
 as though it had been a cane, and how as he moved 
 to and fro the boys followed him, admiring, noisy 
 pigmies encircling a giant. And in that recollected 
 scene there was so much of youth and strength, 
 so much of the very essence of pure physical life, 
 that the idea of death grew monstrous, wanton, 
 and obscure. Was he to lie under the ground while 
 boys still played and shouted in the cricket field .^
 
 PHYLLIS 261 
 
 Was he never again to go out among them and talk 
 to them and teach them and understand them as 
 only he could? . . . And she saw a funeral, and she 
 could not Imagine anyone but herself at that funeral. 
 She had never met a relative of Emery's. And, 
 more poignant still, she saw herself returning soli- 
 tary from the funeral, having left it behind in its 
 everlasting repose. And then she saw herself, 
 dressed in widow's weeds — yes, widow's weeds — 
 standing up in the witness box in the High Court of 
 Justice and answering questions. She could not 
 hear what she said, but she was very positive, queenly 
 and sorrowful. And her tremendous and impassive 
 grief weighed on the whole court like a pall. And all 
 the time that she was answering questions in the 
 witness box, she could see it lying forlorn and lonely 
 in the cemetery. 
 
 "And so I missed the Oldcastle sports," she 
 heard him say. "Never been known to happen be- 
 fore. In fact they very nearly didn't get the 
 handicaps." 
 
 The sound of his voice, so natural and familiar, 
 with Its faint trace of humour, awoke her out of 
 what might have been a trance. Her powers of 
 clear thought and cool enterprise seemed to return 
 to her like spirits that had wandered awhile. And 
 she reflected, "How foolish and weak I am to dream 
 that he Is already dead! He lives. There Is no
 
 262 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 reason why he should die. He's an invalid and he 
 has fancies, and here I am listening to them as 
 though they were facts. He needs to be looked 
 after: that is all. And I will look after him." 
 
 She slid from the sofa and stood up, smoothing her 
 ruffled hair. She felt herself equal to no matter 
 what situation. 
 
 "What is diabetes?" she inquired, "I never 
 knew that it was really dangerous." 
 
 "Diabetes," he answered, "is a disease in which 
 grape sugar is secreted in the fluids of the body. 
 The pancreas doesn't work properly." 
 
 "Who is your doctor in Oldcastle?" 
 
 "Haven't got one. Never wanted one." 
 
 "But surely you are going to send for one at 
 once.'"' 
 
 "I expect I ought to have one," was the languid 
 reply. "But it'll be no use." 
 
 "How tiresome you are, Emery!" she chided him. 
 " I shall fetch one myself, instantly. I'm perfectly 
 certain that all you need is proper treatment. If 
 diabetes was as bad as you think, I should have 
 known about it; I'm sure I should." 
 
 He said nothing for a moment! Then, without 
 meeting her eye: "Which doctor shall you fetch.?" 
 
 The honoured name of the foremost physician 
 in the district, an old man who was an authority 
 throughout England on diseases connected with the
 
 PHYLLIS 263 
 
 local manufacture, and who resided In Oldcastle 
 itself, flashed across her mind. In walking down 
 the market place, she had even that afternoon 
 chanced to see his worn but glittering brass plate 
 on the door of a large house. 
 
 "I shall fetch Dr. Thatcher," she said. ''At 
 least I shall ask him to come some time before night." 
 
 Emery remained silent. She put on her hat and 
 gloves, and then, bending her head, she offered her 
 mouth, very quietly and primly. He kissed her. 
 
 "It will seem rather queer you going to old 
 Thatcher's," he murmured, "and asking him to 
 come to me. He'll wonder what the dickens you 
 have to do with it." 
 
 She protested against such notions with a gesture. 
 "Nothing seems queer when it's a case of illness," 
 she said. "Besides . . ." 
 
 And with a tranquil smile she left him, enjoining 
 him to rest until she came back. 
 
 As she emerged into the street her features had 
 resumed their old enigmatic quality. It was on 
 the steps of the house that she encountered a thin 
 middle-aged woman with a key in her bony hand. 
 
 "Why!" she said to the woman with an extraor- 
 dinary warmth of geniality. "You must be Mrs. 
 Oliver, aren't you?" 
 
 "Yes, mum. Was you . . ." 
 
 "Mr. Grcatbatch has often mentioned you. He
 
 264 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 says you are very, very kind to him. I'm an old 
 friend of his. So is my mother." She lowered 
 her voice. "You've noticed how unwell he is.'"' 
 
 "Eh, miss!" said Mrs. Oliver. "Never in all my 
 life have I seed . . ." 
 
 " I'm just going to Dr. Thatcher's, to ask him to 
 come as soon as possible. I'm so glad Mr. Great- 
 batch is with you. Because he'll need looking after, 
 and he won't look after himself, you know. " 
 
 "Not he, miss ! Eh, when he come in this morning 
 I stared at him like a stuck pig, I was that took 
 aback!" 
 
 "Well, as soon as Dr. Thatcher has been, we shall 
 know what we ought to do. I sha'n't be away 
 long, Mrs. Oliver. He is lying down on the 
 sofa now." 
 
 Phyllis nodded and went. 
 
 "So he's got a young woman after all!" the 
 sagacious Mrs. Oliver decided. "That's why 
 he would have me out of the house. Her's a hand- 
 some wench, too! Eh, poor things! Poor things!"
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 DEATH 
 
 ON THE day after the August Bank Holiday 
 the ofRces of Charles Fearns opened for a 
 few hours in the morning; and the whole 
 staff, with the exception of Sillitoe, who had gone 
 to Llandudno, was formally present, though only 
 Pennington behaved as if the morning was quite 
 an ordinary morning. Shortly after noon Penning- 
 ton stepped gently into Lawrence Ridware's room 
 with a bundle of papers most neatly tied up in pink 
 tape, a number of loose sheets of blue draft on which 
 the ink was scarcely dry, and between his teeth an 
 ivory penholder. The weather was very warm, 
 and through the open window came the strident 
 sounds of steam whistles and steam orchestras in 
 Crown Square, where the great annual Wakes, that 
 prodigious revelry, wassail, and debauch of a rude 
 and vigorous people, was beginning its third day 
 with little sign of fatigue. 
 
 "It will perhaps be as well if you glance through 
 these things," said Pennington, putting the bundle 
 in front of Lawrence. The latter was engaged in 
 
 265
 
 266 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 preparing a codicil to the will of an aged client who 
 amused his final years by varying his testamentary 
 dispositions every few months and by speculating 
 in public house property. 
 
 "Oh!" murmured Lawrence stiffly, when he saw 
 the bundle, which was entitled "Ridware v. Ridware 
 and Greatbatch." Pennington, having perceived 
 long since that Lawrence wished to stand aloof 
 from the proceedings, had conducted them with 
 that air of a responsible autocrat which he always 
 assumed when a matter had been left definitely in 
 his hands. 
 
 "I'm just drawing the brief," said Pennington, 
 holding out the blue sheets. 
 
 "Drawing the brief.''" Lawrence repeated, appar- 
 ently surprised. 
 
 "Yes. I didn't see why agents should draw it." 
 In the technical vocabulary of the provincial solic- 
 itor "agents" means the firm of London solicitors 
 who represent him and act for him in affairs demand- 
 ing the frequentation of courts and offices in Lon- 
 don. London solicitors refer to their professional 
 clients in the provinces still more vaguely as "the 
 country." 
 
 "Certainly not," Lawrence agreed, "but it's 
 going along awfully quickly, isn't it.^ I scarcely 
 thought " 
 
 "N — no," answered Pennington, judicially.
 
 DEATH 267 
 
 "About the average time. You see, It's so simple. 
 I had a letter from agents this morning to say that 
 they had the registrar's certificate that the case 
 was In order for trial, and would be set down 
 
 at once." 
 
 "So much the better," said Lawrence. 
 
 He untied the bundle with leisurely fingers. 
 That bundle, which was less than an inch in thick- 
 ness, displayed at once to the expert the extreme 
 ordinariness of the Five Towns cause celebre — after- 
 ward to become famous in legal circles in the same 
 manner as a strange variation of a malady becomes 
 famous in medical circles. At the top of the bundle 
 was a minor and shorter bundle of letters from agents 
 and from Bradwells, Phyllis's solicitors; and as 
 Lawrence lifted this It disclosed a whitish oblong 
 on the gray surface of the topmost large paper, as 
 a picture removed from a wall leaves its trace be- 
 hind. The black dust of the Five Towns had al- 
 ready begun to settle on the early stages of Ridware 
 V. Ridware. Lawrence idly turned over one by one 
 the citation, the petition, the answer of Phyllis 
 denying the allegations and her affidavit In support; 
 the answer of Emery Greatbatch also in denial, 
 and his affidavit; Phyllis's petition for alimony 
 pendente lite; his own answer to that petition with 
 an affidavit; the order commanding Lawrence to 
 pay her a pound a week during the continuance of
 
 268 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 the proceedings; Phyllis's authority to Bradwells to 
 receive this money on her behalf; an opinion of 
 counsel on the whole case, with a marked fee of one 
 pound three and sixpence; a note of the evidence 
 of the landlady and of her servant; a note of his own 
 evidence; a copy of his marriage certificate; and a 
 few other papers. There were no summonses to 
 amend, or for further particulars — none of those 
 indications of carelessness or of perversity on the 
 one side or the other which too frequently disfigure 
 the records of such cases. The essential excellence 
 of the principles which govern contentious pro- 
 cedure In English law stood plainly revealed. To 
 Lawrence's trained eye the simplicity and the 
 despatch which distinguished the affair were almost 
 startling. Hitherto unfamiliar with the working 
 of the matrimonial courts, he too, in common with 
 the laity, had vaguely imagined that a divorce could 
 not be obtained without an exaggerated expenditure 
 of time, patience, and money. But Pennington had 
 informed him, with the welghtlness of authority 
 which was Pennington's, that the decree nisi would 
 follow within six months of the petition, and that 
 the total costs would probably not exceed fifty 
 pounds. 
 
 He could have wished the period longer ; the mere 
 thought of the trial Itself made his heart beat. 
 
 "Here's the draft brief," said Pennington, de-
 
 DEATH 269 
 
 positing the blue sheets, and recapturing the con- 
 tents of the bundle, which he carefully tied up in 
 their original order. "You might just see if I've 
 missed a point." 
 
 That Pennington should have missed a point was 
 a wild, mad supposition: but he was not the man to 
 leave the least loophole for inimical chance. More- 
 over the fear of Cyples was before him, despite the 
 manifest impossibility of even Cyples himself doing 
 anything with such a case. So Lawrence perused 
 anew the curt and artless annals of his domestic 
 misfortune. 
 
 "That's all right, I think," he observed. 
 
 Pennington smiled confidently. 
 
 "I can't imagine why they should waste their 
 money in fighting," said Pennington. "Unless 
 of course Greatbatch hopes somehow to save his 
 face at the school. But anyhow he's bound to lose 
 his situation." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I wonder he hasn't been asked to resign already, 
 Pennington continued. "By the way I shall tell 
 agents not to mark the brief more than three guineas 
 and a guinea for conference. A case like this con- 
 ducts itself, don't you think?" 
 
 "Certainly," Lawrence concurred absently. He 
 was conceiving all the odiousness of the trial, and 
 the remarks which would be made to him in the
 
 270 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Five Towns upon his return from it. So far, by ex- 
 traordinary good fortune, not a single acquaintance 
 had so much as referred even in the most casual 
 and distant way to his calamity. But then the 
 case was still obscure. When the Press Association 
 had telegraphed down a verbatim report of the 
 hearing, to be published in the extra-special of the 
 enterprising Signal and read by the entire popu- 
 lation of the Five Towns, he might expect to be a 
 man doomed to hear personal comments. 
 
 In the outer office Gater, who had surreptitiously 
 visited the street to buy a copy of the early edition 
 of the Signal, was searching the newspaper for 
 an item which peculiarly interested him. Gater, 
 stricken down in the first flush of youth by the fever 
 of photography had decided to sell his high-geared 
 bicycle in order that he might become the possessor 
 of a Brownie camera before his holiday commenced 
 in the following week; and he had accordingly sent 
 an advertisement of the bicycle to the Signal. 
 He examined in vain the serried columns of private 
 advertisements on page two of the only daily organ 
 published in the Five Towns. His renowned 
 bicycle was decidedly not among the articles for 
 sale or exchange. Then at last he traced it in the 
 unclassified "late" advertisements on the news page, 
 side by side with the "stop-press" blank space. He
 
 DEATH 271 
 
 passed the paper to Clowes and demanded the opinion 
 of Clowes as to the comparative efficacy of the news 
 page and the regular advertisement page in the sell- 
 ing of second-hand bicycles. Clowes, the day being 
 the slack morrow of Bank Holiday, took the oppor- 
 tunity to read all the news in detail. 
 
 "What ho!" Clowes dramatically murmured, 
 after a time, and his eye rested on a particular 
 spot. 
 
 "Well.^" demanded Gater, perceiving that Clowes 
 had encountered something of uncommon piquancy. 
 
 "What'st think of this?" said Clowes, pointing 
 with a thick and Inky finger. "No. Not that. 
 The next paragraph." 
 
 And, Gater, having read, whistled cautiously. 
 
 Clowes fidgetted for a few seconds. Lawrence 
 and Pennington could be heard talking through 
 half open doors. 
 
 "Should you go and tell them?" Clowes ven- 
 tured. It 111 becomes a man of forty-five to ask 
 advice of a boy, and Clowes did not often ask advice 
 of Gater. That he should have done so now showed 
 that he was agitated out of his usual self. 
 
 "Aye!" said Gater. 
 
 And Clowes, swollen with the importance of that 
 which he had discovered, and absolutely unable to 
 postpone for another moment the pleasure of com- 
 municating it to his superiors, marched with false
 
 272 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 nonchalance to Lawrence's room, tapped at the 
 door, and entered. The solicitor and the articled 
 clerk ceased talking as Clowes glanced from one 
 to the other. 
 
 "Perhaps you haven't seen this," he said gruffly, 
 handing the paper to Pennington and indicating 
 the item. Pennington read. 
 
 "Well, well!" Pennington coughed and gave the 
 paper to Lawrence. 
 
 Lawrence read: "We regret to hear of the sudden 
 decease of Mr. Emery Greatbatch, science master 
 at the Oldcastle Middle School. Mr. Greatbatch, 
 who we understand had been in indifferent health 
 for some time, succumbed to a hemorrhage in the 
 base of the brain on Sunday last." 
 
 Clowes, his effect duly made, left the room again, 
 abandoning the newspaper. Lawrence remained 
 silent. 
 
 "Why!" said Pennington. "I scarcely knew he 
 was 111." 
 
 Lawrence swung round on his chair, and, resting 
 his chin on one hand, stared out of the window. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said he quietly. "I knew he was ill. 
 At least I'd heard so." 
 
 "Well," Pennington added. "It makes no differ- 
 ence to us." He hurried away and in an instant 
 returned with the indispensable Dixon. 
 
 "Yes," he said in his cold, calm, assured voice,
 
 DEATH 273 
 
 when he had consulted the index. "Here it is. 
 Page one hundred and ten. We've simply got to 
 apply to have his name struck out; that's all." 
 
 And he shut the book with a snap, as though he 
 was shutting the lid on Emery Greatbatch's coffin, 
 and blotting him out forever from the recollection 
 of men. When Pennington had a case in hand, a 
 death or so was not to be allowed to interfere with 
 its normal course. 
 
 "I'll write to agents at once," said Pennington, 
 and he did write to agents at once. 
 
 Lawrence stared a long time through the dusty 
 window at the brown wall of the manufactory oppo- 
 site and the sound of the Wakes increased in his 
 unheeding ears. Clowes departed for the day, and 
 then Pennington — with a shutting of drawers and 
 rattling of keys. And then Lawrence heard a voice 
 saying sharply to Gater: 
 
 "Is Mr. Ridware still here?" 
 
 It was the voice of Charles Fearns. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Gater. 
 
 "Well, if you've copied your letters and done 
 everything, you can go. I'll lock up, or Mr. Rid- 
 ware will." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," in astonished tones from Gater, 
 who did not delay two seconds. 
 
 Charles Fearns came into Lawrence's room, carry- 
 ing a bundle of papers. The two men glanced
 
 274 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 at each other, not with hostility, but yet sus- 
 piciously. 
 
 "Oh! You're here, Ridware. I want to have a 
 chat with you." 
 
 Fearns shut the door, and stood where Pennington 
 had stood, at the back of the desk, ignoring the chair 
 upon which sat such clients as Lawrence had to 
 interview. He had not much changed during the 
 mysterious weeks that had elapsed since the flight 
 of his family. It is rarely that suffering other than 
 physical alters the appearance, especially in a man; 
 and Fearns bore himself well. His health was always 
 excellent. But his eye and his demeanour were not 
 as they once were. He had become both defiant 
 and sullen at the same time. Everybody noticed 
 it, and everybody drew conclusions Exactly what 
 had happened no one knew, and particularly no one 
 in Fearns's own office. The sole authorized infor- 
 mation was that Mrs. Fearns and the children were 
 spending the summer at Sandgate, and that Fearns 
 was living at home with one servant and the gar- 
 dener. Rumour stated that an action for divorce 
 was in progress against him but Fearns's clerks had 
 no knowledge of such an action. And Bradwell's 
 clerks — Cyples was understood to be acting for 
 Mrs. Fearns — did not satisfactorily respond to 
 curious catechlsts. The towns of Hanbridge and Bur- 
 sley were greatly perplexed and pleasantly excited
 
 DEATH 275 
 
 by the prospect of disclosures. Meanwhile Fea rns at- 
 tended to his practice with unprecedented diligence. 
 Occasionally he went to the Turk's Head or to his club 
 and played cards, or talked with a new, reserved air. 
 He and Cyples seemed to be as friendly as usual. 
 
 "Yes?" said Lawrence. 
 
 "Yes," Fearns said, "I want to have a talk with 
 you. Look at that." 
 
 He violently pitched the bundle of papers onto 
 Lawrence's desk. Lawrence, without moving, read 
 the endorsement: " Fearns v. Fearns. Copy petition 
 for divorce. " The facts were that an action had been 
 commenced by Mrs, Fearns immediately after her 
 departure, that the correspondence between Fearns 
 and his London agents had been entirely written 
 from, and addressed to, his private house, and that 
 Fearns had arranged with Cyples to maintain an 
 absolute secrecy. 
 
 "I see," said Lawrence, nodding his head and 
 lowering the corners of his mouth to express a proud 
 scorn of his employer. Never had the matter been 
 mentioned between them. He had heard nothing 
 whatever from Mrs. Fearns, and though he had by 
 no means forgotten her entreaty to him to talk 
 sense to Fearns, he had not even attempted to broach 
 the subject; latterly, preoccupied by his own affairs, 
 he had ceased to think about other people's troubles 
 and interests.
 
 276 \^^0M GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 *' Read the petition, will you ? " Fearns requested, 
 moving his feet nervously on the bare floor, but 
 otherwise showing no sign of confusion. 
 
 Lawrence obeyed, glancing also at other docu- 
 ments and for the first time knew precisely what had 
 occurred in the Fearns household on the night before 
 Mrs. Fearns sent for him. He had vaguely guessed 
 the truth, but nevertheless the detailed revelation 
 of it shocked, offended, and disgusted him. After 
 the perusal he could not persuade himself to look 
 Fearns in the face, and he kept his eyes on the desk, 
 blushing. 
 
 "You grasp the situation.'"' Fearns demanded. 
 
 "Yes," said Lawrence gruffly. 
 
 "Now, you went and saw my wife before she left.'*" 
 
 "Who told you that.'"' Lawrence challenged his 
 employer in a voice suddenly angry and menacing. 
 He did not care a fig for Fearns, and Fearns might 
 be as furious as he chose. Fearns, however, replied 
 with easy, diplomatic self-control. 
 
 "Cyples told me. I only mention it because my 
 wife likes you. She has a great belief in your 
 opinion, and the proof of it is that she sent for you 
 that night." 
 
 "I don't agree with you, Mr. Fearns," said 
 Lawrence coldly. "But supposing she has.'* What 
 then.?" 
 
 "Ridware, this action can't go on!" Fearns
 
 DEATH 277 
 
 cried. "It can't go on. It has got to be stopped. 
 I'll do anything — anything. But it's got to be 
 stopped." He spoke passionately, and Lawrence 
 startled into gazing up at him, saw that his mouth 
 was twisted out of Its usual shape, and that there was 
 a white patch, from which the blood had been forced, 
 across the bridge of his nose. 
 
 "It's bound to go on," Lawrence answered. 
 
 "Don't say that, man! I know all you can tell 
 me. I don't mean to offer any excuses of any sort. 
 Nobody on this earth can explain to me anything 
 that I don't feel. I'm speaking to you now with 
 perfect freedom, remember. I respect you. You're 
 a decent fellow. I meant to come to you a long 
 time ago, but I couldn't make up my mind. For 
 one thing I couldn't believe that my wife would 
 persist in the action." 
 
 But what else " Lawrence began. 
 
 I know — I know," Fearns stopped him Im- 
 periously. "You're going to ask me what else 
 can she do. Well, she can do something else. She 
 can stop It, and come back to me." 
 
 "That's not argument." 
 
 "To hell with argument!" Fearns shouted, and 
 then he continued in a low, controlled voice: "Just 
 think of the trial, man! I needn't put the dots on 
 the i's. Think of the scandal. Think of what our 
 lives will be afterward." 

 
 278 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Lawrence, while hating himself for it, could not 
 resist the obvious: "You ought to have thought of 
 that before, Mr. Fearns." 
 
 "Yes, I know," snapped Fearns. There was a 
 pause. 
 
 "Why don't you go and see your wife.?" Lawrence 
 enquired. 
 
 Fearns approached closer to the desk, and looked 
 down at Lawrence, who met his gaze with a chill 
 stare. "Because I daren't," he whispered. "Be- 
 cause I daren't. I haven't got the pluck. And 
 Cyples won't do anything. Now look here, Rid- 
 ware. My wife likes you very much. So do L 
 She'll listen to you if she'll listen to anybody. I 
 want you to go down and see her, and explain things 
 to her. Make her understand that the action really 
 can't go on. I know you can succeed if you try. 
 And listen! I want a partner in this business. 
 If you'll go down and see Alma, I'll give you a 
 partnership." 
 
 Lawrence was momentarily frightened by his 
 terrible earnestness, and he pushed back his chair 
 so as to be a little farther from Fearns's face. Fearns 
 also drew away. 
 
 "You are mad," Lawrence muttered in a melan- 
 choly, hopeless tone. 
 
 "Then you won't.?" 
 
 "Do you want my opinion.?"
 
 DEATH 279 
 
 "That's just what I do want." 
 
 "Well, I think your wife is quite right and that 
 you are quite wrong. Why shouldn't the action 
 go on.'' It will be awful, of course. But it will not 
 be so awful as your wife's return to you would be. 
 As to the scandal, that is nothing. Anyhow, it 
 won't touch your wife. Your wife's return is im- 
 possible. I thoroughly agree with everything she 
 said to me. I'm sorry for you, in a way — that 
 I must say — but not very much. And the trial 
 after all is a very little thing. It won't last more 
 than half an hour or an hour. Of course it isn't 
 certain that your wife will get a divorce, but it's 
 certain that she'll get at least a judicial separation. 
 Then everything will be over and done with. You'll 
 each of you know where you stand, and the scandal 
 will soon die down." 
 
 "I'm thinking of my daughter," said Fearns 
 solemnly. 
 
 "I know you are," said Lawrence, "and do you 
 suppose that your wife hasn't also thought of your 
 daughter.'' Do you suppose you are the only person 
 who thinks of your daughter? Bad as the trial 
 will be, it will better than anything else, even for 
 your daughter." 
 
 "Then you won't go.'"' 
 
 "I will not." 
 
 A long silence followed. Then Fearns gathered up
 
 28o WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 his papers and disappeared. Soon afterwards Law- 
 rence, who had resumed his gaze at the window, 
 heard him leave the building. 
 
 Lawrence sat still for many minutes, and then, 
 having shut the window and covered his desk with 
 its dust sheet, he made a circuit of the deserted rooms, 
 found the outer keys on their hook, and departed, 
 and soon found himself in the multitudinous turmoil 
 of the Wakes. The fair made no impression on him 
 whatever, beyond a vague assault on his ears. He 
 moved through the crowds without noticing them, 
 a heavy and preoccupying weight on his heart, and 
 presently he turned into the Coffee House for 
 lunch. He had given up his house and his singular 
 cousin at Toft End, discovering them both to be 
 intolerable, and had taken rooms at Cauldon, a suburb 
 of Hanbridge between Hanbrldge and Knype. 
 Thither he had transported his books, which lay 
 unshelved in forlorn mountain ranges on the floors. 
 While he consumed a tasteless meal off a marble- 
 topped table in the Coffee House, served by a bounc- 
 ing, red-skinned, and fluffy creature with heavy 
 gestures, there moved over the deeps of his mind 
 trifling cloudlets of thought concerning his passage 
 with Fearns. If he had been In Fearns's room, in- 
 stead of Fearns in his, the interview might have been 
 less summary; he was much more at home in his own 
 room, entrenched in his own chair behind his own
 
 DEATH 281 
 
 desk. Fearns was a fool: Fearns had proved that. 
 He must have been at his wits' end. Fancy his 
 offering a partnership! Fancy his hoping that 
 Lawrence could be tempted by such an offer to 
 perform any social act which he would not otherwise 
 have performed. The idea was comic to Lawrence. 
 Fearns had been immensely excited: he could under- 
 stand that. And yet, despite the circumstances, 
 to see Fearns an excited and pathetic suppliant was 
 sufficiently astounding. 
 
 He flattered himself that he had duly appreciated 
 the conversation with Fearns, and Fearns's bearing; 
 but he had not. He had merely assisted at the 
 episode in a kind of dream, all his essential faculties 
 of emotion being monopolized by the news of the 
 death of Emery Greatbatch. It was in the far- 
 reaching sentimental consequences of that death 
 that his mind was, half unconsciously, absorbed. 
 A tremendous and irrational pity, a pity that was 
 at once splendid and futile, rolled into his heart 
 like a flood and took possession of it. For the first 
 time during months he did not feel bitter. Under 
 the urgent guidance of an instinct which he could 
 not explain and which intellectually he resented, 
 he left the Coffee House pretending that he was going 
 home to his rooms, but fully aware that he should go 
 to quite a different house. The awful music of the 
 Wakes crashed down upon him from a dozen round-
 
 282 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 abouts; two feathered girls squirted water Into his 
 ear to prove that carnival reigned; the odour of all 
 things that would be eaten last hy men dying on a 
 raft arrived at his nostrils from the stalls that lined 
 the packed pavements. He went along Holborn 
 unnotlcing, colliding with people, giving bumps and 
 receiving them. And, having reached a certain 
 corner, he escaped out of the turmoil Into a street 
 which led to Sproston Street. And Sproston Street, 
 with Its little neat house, and Its view of the dignified, 
 sombre back of the Mechanics' Institution, was prim 
 and silent as a cathedral close. 
 
 He assured himself that he was a fool, as big a 
 fool as Fearns; but the pity In his heart, awakened 
 by the power of his Imagination drove him forward. 
 At length he knocked on a grained front door 
 numbered i6 in old-fashioned green letters. 
 
 A very young, blithe, unfinished servant maid 
 answered his faint summons. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Ridware in.'"' he asked in a murmur. 
 
 "Oh yes, sir," said the maid cordially. "Will 
 you step in.'"' 
 
 He stepped Into the narrow hall, with its empty 
 hat stand of varnished pitchplne and its reproduc- 
 tions of Sir Edwin Landseer. 
 
 "In the sitting room, sir," the maid said. She 
 was fresh from a neighbouring colliery village, and 
 her sole object was to be agreeable In her new ex-
 
 DEATH 283 
 
 alted sphere. Her ignorance of her calling was mag- 
 nificent. She roughly pushed open the door of the 
 sitting room and, with a hospitable smile to Law- 
 rence announced loudly: "A gentleman, mum." 
 
 Lawrence entered the room, which, with its 
 horsehair, convex mahogany, wax flowers, and win- 
 dow vases, had not apparently altered since he 
 entered it years and years ago to woo Phyllis. 
 Phyllis and her mother were seated near together at 
 a table, sewing at something black. At any rate 
 Phyllis was sewing; he saw the thimble on her finger; 
 Mrs. Capewell held a large pair of scissors. 
 
 Both women looked at him, and he looked at 
 them, and not a word was said. Phyllis appeared 
 to be in good health, and her face had that mys- 
 terious expression which once he had understood 
 but understood no more. She was like a strange 
 woman to him. 
 
 "I was very sorry," he began. But he did not 
 know what he had meant to say. As a fact, he had 
 never defined his intention. 
 
 Mrs. Capewell's winking eyes dropped tears be- 
 hind her gold-rimmed spectacles. "I'd better leave 
 you," the old lady muttered, rising. 
 
 "Stay where you are, mother. Do, please!" 
 Phyllis commanded her sharply. "What do you 
 want, Lawrence.'' What have you come for.''" 
 Her voice was frigid, scornful, acrimonious: a voice
 
 284 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 he knew well, out of several voices which she pos- 
 sessed. He cursed himself. 
 
 "I read about the death," he recommenced, crest- 
 fallen, striving to conceal his anger. 
 
 *'Do you think I want your sympathy?" Phyllis 
 asked, and her tones were clear and terrible against 
 the background of her mother's smothered sobbing. 
 "Do you think I want your sympathy, now.f* 
 You've slandered me. And you've slandered Emery 
 Greatbatch. And now he's dead you think you'll 
 get me back, do you ? What if it was you that really 
 killed him.f" Why didn't you ask me plainly if I 
 was guilty before you sent for Mark.? Go on with 
 your precious divorce case, and you'll see. But 
 I don't want your sympathy." 
 
 "Then there's nothing more to be said," he replied 
 with forced bravado. He was blushing. 
 
 "I should think there wasn't. Mother, do stop 
 crying, please." 
 
 He retreated. It had been an enterprise utterly 
 disastrous. Why had he undertaken it.'' Had he 
 not reason to know that always she would be in- 
 calculable and inhuman.? She could not be other- 
 wise. When he emerged again into the street, there 
 was nothing in his heart but hot shame and 
 bitterness.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 
 
 LAWRENCE did not greatly love London. 
 It appealed to his imagination, but in a 
 sinister way. To him it was the city of 
 vast and restless melancholy. And though there 
 was nothing of the sentimental in his composition, 
 he despised the facile trick of fancy which attributes 
 to cities, heroically, the joys and griefs of the un- 
 heroic individuals composing them; London did 
 nevertheless impress him painfully as an environ- 
 ment peculiarly favourable to the intensification 
 of sorrow. Whenever he went to London it seemed 
 to him to be the home of a race sad, hurried, and 
 preoccupied; the streets were filled with people 
 who had not a moment to spare, and whose thoughts 
 were turned inward upon their own anxious solici- 
 tudes, people who must inevitably die before they 
 had begun to live, and to whom the possession of 
 their souls in contemplation would always be an 
 impossibility. The unique and poetic grandeur 
 of the theatre which the character of this race had 
 created for the scene of its woes only added to the 
 
 28s
 
 286 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 situation the poignancy of visual beauty. Instead 
 of lightening, it increased the burden. 
 
 On a Tuesday in November Lawrence was walk- 
 ing down Chancery Lane at about a quarter to ten. 
 The arctic dusk which broods continually over 
 London days from October to March was neither 
 brighter nor darker than it usually is on such a damp, 
 muddy morning. In response to a telegram re- 
 ceived on the previous evening, Lawrence had 
 arrived at Euston at five a.m. by a mail train, 
 convoying the landlady from Manifold with her 
 indispensable testimony, and the landlady's servant. 
 These he had desposited in a bedroom at Anderton's 
 Hotel in Fleet Street, classic resort of witnesses under 
 subpoena; and, relieved of them, he had spent the 
 miserable hours before dawn in dozing, reading, 
 and drinking tea. He had been in Holywell 
 Street when the bookshops opened, and had there 
 lost for a few minutes the spleen which had pre- 
 vented him from rushing directly to Mark's studio 
 in Chelsea for breakfast. He had walked several 
 miles, but he felt no fatigue, nor was he sleepy. 
 His brain whirled in the growing activity of appre- 
 hension and suspense. At the huge antique gate- 
 way which leads westward out of Chancery Lane 
 Into the warrens of the law, he hesitated, partly 
 from a provincial's geographical uncertainty, but 
 more from his instinctive reluctance to take a
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 287 
 
 decisive step. He looked again at Chancery Lane, 
 and suddenly perceived that London, which he had 
 but just seen dead, was fully awake; he had 
 watched the first omnibus of all the omnibuses 
 pass swingingly along the twilight of the Strand? 
 a strangely moving spectacle, and lo! now the 
 streets were full of omnibuses. Then he went into 
 the gateway. 
 
 Instantly he was In a different world, a world 
 like nothing else. Here, hidden away in ten thou- 
 sand lairs behind a chaotic jumble of fagades In all 
 styles from venerable Tudor to the ludicrous terra 
 cotta of late nineteenth century, the least produc- 
 tive and yet the most necessary of professions prac- 
 tised Its mysteries, flourishing on the Imperfections 
 of humanity, taking and never giving, destroying 
 and never creating, concerned with neither beauty 
 nor Intellect, eternally busy with nothing but the 
 altercations of dishonesty and avarice, the appor- 
 tionment of gain, the division of amassed property, 
 the pilgrimages of money, and the neat conclusion 
 of disasters In proper form. Round about lawns 
 and fountained gardens, trim alleys, spacious squares, 
 and obscure courtyards, this singular profession, 
 which mankind has united to curse, to revile, and 
 to honour, laboured amid dirt and old usuages, often 
 in bizarre and foolish raiment, at operations some- 
 times useful, sometimes of an Inconceivable fatuity,
 
 288 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 but Invariably attended by rite and ceremony. 
 From Chancery Lane to Sardinia Street, from Hol- 
 born to the Embankment, justice, a commodity 
 unknown to nature, was retailed with astonishing 
 results. Precedent reigned; and the whole popu- 
 lation was engaged in a desperate battle for the 
 sacred legal principle that that which has been 
 must continue to be, no matter what the cost. 
 
 But Lawrence, who saw law like a lawyer, ex- 
 perienced merely the sensations of a country solic- 
 itor who is on the border of Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 
 Before No. 2, of a terrace of houses newly built 
 in stone he stopped and examined the medley of 
 names which were painted on either side of the main 
 doorway. A score of separate but similar activities 
 performed their functions in the house; and there 
 were nearly a score of houses in the terrace, and 
 many scores of such terraces, courts and squares 
 in that mysterious and formidable quarter of Lon- 
 don. At last his eye encountered the words: 
 "Basement. Messrs. Apreece & Co: Solicitors. 
 Commissioners for oaths." And he descended 
 by means of a dark flight of steps under the porch 
 to the cellarage. At the end of a long passage 
 an electric light was burning at an open door, 
 and he read: "Messrs. Apreece & Co. Enquiries." 
 He went forward, feeling as he had known he should 
 feel when the moment arrived, extremely self-con-
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 280 
 
 scious. He was the traditional figure of ridicule, 
 the deceived husband, and he could not for his life 
 behave as if nothing had happened to him. He 
 entered the enquiry office; it was untenanted; but 
 Lawrence perceived at once, from its size, from the 
 number of desks, and the countless rows of letter- 
 files and copy-letter-books on the walls, that the 
 business of Messrs. Apreece & Company, though 
 transacted in a cellar, was on a scale quite diilerent 
 from that of Charles Fearns. Apreeces had only 
 recently become agents to Fearns; they happened 
 to be connections of his deceased partner, and little 
 was known of them in the office at Hanbridge, except 
 that they were sharp and reliable people, who de- 
 livered their annual bill of costs with disconcerting 
 promptitude. 
 
 Two sallow-faced youths strolled simultaneously 
 into the enquiry office through another door. One 
 of them was sheathing his wristbands in cream-laid 
 note paper; and they both seemed to regard 
 Lawrence with a certain frigidity of indifference. 
 
 "My name is Ridware," said Lawrence aggres- 
 sively, "I'm from Mr. Fearns. Will you please 
 tell whoever is looking after Ridware v. Ridware 
 that I'm here." 
 
 The two clerks looked at each other vaguely. 
 
 "Ridware v. Ridware," one of them repeated 
 dreamily, and turned to obey. At that moment
 
 290 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 a tall, full-bodied, youngish man, wearing a frock 
 coat and a blue Melton overcoat, with a silk hat 
 far at the back of his head, rushed into the room 
 like an incarnation of energy. 
 
 "Look here, Collins!" he addressed the clerk 
 who was leaving. *' You've done a nice useful 
 sort of thing. You've arranged two conferences 
 for me at ten o'clock. How the devil can I be at 
 both of them.?" 
 
 "This is Mr. Ridware, sir," replied Collins, 
 unmoved. 
 
 "Ah! Very glad to meet you, Mr. Ridware, 
 will you come into my room.'"' 
 
 And the man shook hands with Lawrence in 
 high, honest, good-humour, smiling and benevolent. 
 His age was apparently about thirty. He was 
 clearly one of those persons who, having a good 
 digestion, simple tastes, and no idle curiosity con- 
 cerning the secret nature of things, are never 
 afflicted by inexplicable melancholy. 
 
 "Run round and get the conference with Gardener 
 altered to ten-thirty If you can, there's a good 
 fellow," said he to the younger clerk. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Bowes." 
 
 Lawrence passed In the wake of Mr. Bowes along 
 another electric-lit corridor full of doors open or 
 closed, with glimpses now and then of solid, rather 
 shabby interiors. Mr. Bowes's room was large, and
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 291 
 
 seemed to contain more furniture than the whole 
 of Charles Fearns's establishment. No less than 
 twelve leather-covered chairs were ranged round 
 its walls. There were three bookcases, two desks, 
 and a toilette stand half hidden by a screen, some 
 dozens of lettered tin boxes, and a cabinet with 
 pigeon holes for documents. The carpet was In 
 holes under the principal desk, and the fire irons 
 could not have cost more than half a crown; the 
 black and brass coal box was also of the cheapest 
 description, and very old; but the best coal fizzed 
 generously in the grate, and a new Turkey hearth- 
 rug flanked the steel fender. All the lights were 
 lit. Outside, a smooth lawn sloped gently up from 
 two French windows, and an aged keeper of the 
 gardens, dressed in an eighteenth century uniform, 
 was pacing to and fro with the solemnity of a 
 peacock. 
 
 "Sit down," said Bowes. "Make yourself com- 
 fortable. Have a cigarette? It's pleasant enough 
 here in summer, but in winter It's a bit off, I must 
 admit." He had taken his seat at a desk, and was 
 fingering bundles of documents. And in a moment 
 the two were smoking, and Bowes was directing 
 attention to two legal caricatures from Vanity 
 Fair which hung over the mantel-piece; he said 
 he had subscribed to Vanity Fair ever since he 
 was married, seven years ago, and that he had
 
 292 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 all the cartoons in a portfolio which he had made 
 himself, but that these two were the gems of the 
 collection. 
 
 "Everything's in order, I think," he went on, 
 in the same tone, untying a bundle of papers. 
 "You've got your witnesses here, of course?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," Lawrence replied. 
 
 "Well, I've briefed Wray. I told you I should. 
 He's about the best junior there is. I've marked 
 him five guineas. Couldn't mark him less." 
 
 "That's all right," said Lawrence hastily. 
 
 "It's ten to ten now." Bowes closed a silver 
 hunter with a snap. "Suppose we toddle along to 
 his chambers. They're in New Square. I've got 
 a conference for you at ten." He spoke with a 
 certain amiable casualness, as though there was 
 nothing in the least unusual in Lawrence's position; 
 nevertheless Lawrence thought he could detect be- 
 neath his amiability a faintly condescending com- 
 miseration, and this hurt him. But he considered 
 himself fortunate in Mr. Bowes. 
 
 They climbed up out of the earth, Bowes throwing 
 a word loudly into the enquiry ofHce as they passed, 
 and then bore southward through a maze of alleys 
 and courts. Bowes stopped under a Tudor arch- 
 way, where the cause lists of the day were exposed 
 beneath glass. 
 
 "You see we're third," said he, pointing.
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 293 
 
 And Lawrence read: 
 
 Probate Divorce and Admiralty Division (Divorce) 
 
 Before the President (without a jury) 
 
 Carr v. Carr, Isaacsohn, and Dove (part heard) 
 
 Simpson v. Simpson 
 
 Ridware v. Ridware 
 
 Smalls V. Smalls and Jackson. 
 
 "I see," said Lawrence. 
 
 The sight of his name, printed there and hung 
 under the archway for the world to peruse, made 
 him blush. And Bowes, noticing this, avoided his 
 eyes, and said in gay accents : "This way to Wray," 
 and hurried on. 
 
 "Have many divorce cases.?" Lawrence asked. 
 
 "No," said Bowes. "Not many. I think I've 
 had two, not counting yours, since I've been at 
 Apreece's. I'm their chancery clerk, you know. 
 At this present time I've got fifty-seven chancery 
 actions all a-blowing and a-growing." 
 
 "The dickens you have!" Lawrence exclaimed, 
 impressed. 
 
 "Yes. Not bad, is it.? The fact is, you men in 
 the country don't know what work is." He laughed 
 easily, and remarked, beaming, that he seldom got 
 to his wife and children in Fulham Park Gardens 
 before seven-thirty of a night. 
 
 They ascended a corkscrew staircase, and dis- 
 covered Mr. Wray adjusting his wig before a cracked 
 shaving glass in a small shabby room overlooking 
 the ancient square which has been called New for a
 
 294 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 couple of centuries or more. The barrister did not 
 turn round; he recognized Bowes through the 
 glass. 
 
 "Bowes," he said In a high-pitched voice with 
 a slight cockney accent. "You're always three 
 minutes too early. What in the name of God do 
 you mean by It?" 
 
 He was a small, thin, middle-aged man, with 
 a sand-coloured moustache and graying, scanty 
 hair. He had a big nose and large eyes, and had 
 he been sufficiently famous he would have made 
 an excellent subject for the caricaturist of Vanity 
 Fair. But Mr. Wray was not famous outside the 
 law courts. He had never "taken silk," and he 
 never would take It, for the reason that he dared 
 not accept the risk which would be involved in 
 abandoning his existing humble practice and be- 
 ginning anew on the loftier and more perilous 
 plane of a king's counsel. At fifty he remained 
 a junior; he worked hard, and was well liked by 
 solicitors; but many cases at five guineas apiece are 
 required in order to arrive at a respectable Income. 
 And Mr. Wray's face bore the mark of decades of 
 financial worry. 
 
 "Sorry, sir," said Bowes, and introduced 
 Lawrence. 
 
 Mr. Wray nodded and, leaving the glass, picked 
 up his brief, which was lying open on a desk. It
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 295 
 
 was heavily scored in blue pencil. He neither sat 
 down himself nor asked the others to sit down. 
 
 "Let me see, Mr. Ridware," he remarked, adjust- 
 ing his eyeglasses. "You're a lawyer, aren't you.^" 
 
 "I am," said Lawrence. 
 
 "Well, that's something," he laughed. "You're 
 sure of your witnesses. This landlady, now.-*" 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Lawrence. 
 
 "Because she seems to have been pretty friendly 
 with what's-his-name — Greatbatch." 
 
 He stared hard at Lawrence. 
 
 "She was," Lawrence admitted. "But her evi- 
 dence is perfectly clear." 
 
 "Her evidence looks clear. The question is, 
 
 is she a willing witness.'' All landladies are " 
 
 he used an inconvenient word. "That's my exper- 
 ience. I know the race. Is she a willing 
 witness .f"' 
 
 "I believe so," said Lawrence. 
 
 "She's your case, this landlady," proceeded Mr. 
 Wray. "Who's against us, Bowes.'"' 
 
 "Knight," said Bowes. 
 
 "It might have been worse," was Mr. Wray's 
 comment. "He was drunk last evening. He'll 
 be waspish, but I can deal with him. Still, if he 
 shakes the landlady " 
 
 " I don't see how he can," Lawrence ventured. 
 
 "Suppose she wants to be shaken.'"'
 
 296 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "But there can't possibly be any doubtj^ said 
 Lawrence simply. 
 
 "In the Divorce Court," Mr. Wray replied, 
 "there is always a doubt. Beside, Greatbatch's 
 death may have affected the landlady." 
 
 The idea that he was not absolutely sure to win 
 entered Lawrence's mind for the first time. 
 
 "It's a devilish odd case," said Mr. Wray. 
 
 Lawrence began to be afraid. Surely it was 
 impossible that he should fail! He had had many 
 apprehensions, but the apprehension of failure was 
 not one of them. 
 
 "They're all devilish odd," said Mr. Wray. 
 "I never had a divorce case that wasn't. Has your 
 wife ever come near confessing to you, Mr. Rid- 
 ware.?" He put this question in such a matter-of- 
 fact tone that the last remnant of Lawrence's self- 
 consciousness momentarily disappeared as he gave 
 a negative. 
 
 Mr. Wray seized his gown from a chair and put 
 it on. 
 
 "How long is it since you were on good terms 
 with her.?" he demanded suddenly, struggling with 
 the gown. 
 
 "Good terms?" 
 
 "Yes. Damn it! When did you last sleep 
 together.'"' He spoke with impatience, gathering 
 together his papers. "Now, my dear good sir,
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 297 
 
 don't get startled. That's nothing to what Knight 
 may ask you." 
 
 "It's some years ago," Lawrence replied. It 
 was as if he was at the dentist's merely to have his 
 teeth scaled, and the dentist had Informed him that 
 a molar must be extracted. He abandoned himself 
 to the prospect of utter humiliation. 
 
 "You never refused intercourse.'"' 
 
 "No." 
 
 "There's no allegation of conduct conducing to 
 adultery in the respondent's answer," Bowes put In. 
 
 "I am aware of that," said the barrister coldly. 
 "But the court won't rule it out If It comes up, you 
 may bet your life. You have to remember, my 
 young friends, that In the matrimonial courts the 
 odds are always on the respondent. Divorces 
 aren't given away In this country. They're dragged 
 out of an unwilling court by main force. And 
 when you've got your bone, there's no knowing 
 if the King's Proctor won't stroll up and take it off 
 you. Now Mr. Ridware, when you're in the box, 
 keep calm. Leave yourself In my hands. And 
 don't let Knight get your dander up. We'll see 
 what we can do. Sanders!" He yelled for his 
 clerk. "I must be off. I'm In Carr v. Carr. You 
 may possibly come on after lunch. If I have time 
 for a chat with your precious landlady I'll take a 
 look at her. Good morning for the present. 
 
 >5
 
 298 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "He's always like that," said Bowes, outside on 
 the pavement. "The thing's all right." 
 
 "Of course," Lawrence murmured. Neverthe- 
 less he was perturbed by Wray's remark, "We'll 
 see what we can do!" An hour ago he had been 
 so sure of success that the trial had presented itself 
 to him as a mere unpleasant formality. But now 
 the solid ground seemed to be slipping from under 
 his feet. 
 
 At the corner of Carey Street he parted from 
 Bowes, who had several other appointments. Bowes 
 appeared to juggle with conferences, hearings, and 
 proceedings in chambers, as a juggler with balls. 
 It was arranged where Lawrence might find him in 
 case of necessity. 
 
 "You'd better round up your witnesses first," 
 said Bowes, "and then go Into Court and stick there. 
 One never knows when a case won't fall to pieces 
 and the next be called. Anyhow I'll look you out 
 before lunch." 
 
 And Bowes hurried smiling away, papers under 
 his arm and his hat far at the back of his head. 
 
 Lawrence went down to Anderton's and learned 
 that his witnesses, doubtless urged by the eagerness 
 of a pardonable excitement, had already gone to 
 the field of encounter. 
 
 He entered the Royal Courts of Justice by the 
 Carey Street portal, which is the professional en-
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 299 
 
 trance. He had never before examined the immense 
 gray building which in its shapeless plan, its ill- 
 balanced frontages, its unpretentious situation, 
 and its curious fine distinction, illustrates so per- 
 fectly the English character. There is an elaborate 
 and yet unaffected honesty about the aspect of the 
 law courts which could not fail to inspire confi- 
 dence. Lawrence felt it. With his exaggerated 
 sensibility to influences that escape definition, he 
 thought vaguely as he walked up the steps: "After 
 all it is impossible that I should be wronged here." 
 And he was accordingly reassured. The official 
 in sober blue who sits forever in the gate, for no 
 other reason than that he has always sat there, 
 glanced at Lawrence as he passed inward, and his 
 glance was so dignified and benignly stern that he 
 seemed to represent in his own person the spirit 
 of English justice. In spite of the rush of multitudes 
 to and fro in the wide corridors — barristers, solici- 
 tors, clerks, suitors, witnesses, quidnuncs, and unem- 
 ployed — the vast interior had somehow the hush 
 and solemnity of a cathedral; and not the sight of 
 a restaurant in the obscure distance, with white 
 tables gleaming under Gothic shadows, could de- 
 stroy this impression of a temple. The architect, 
 an imperfect genuis, had certainly conceived a 
 temple, and had put into it the religion of his life. 
 Every detail of the austere decoration was ecclesias-
 
 300 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 tical in origin, and showed in its simple, passionate 
 sincerity a horror of the theatrical and the mere- 
 tricious. As Lawrence, ignorant of the position 
 of the various courts, wandered at hazard through 
 the interminable passages, knowing that he must 
 ultimately arrive at his goal, the calm self-respect 
 of the place produced in him an emotion which was 
 almost awe. He went by court after court, each 
 labelled in Gothic lettering, each protected from the 
 noises of the corridor by double swing-doors, 
 and though no sound whatever reached him from 
 these mysterious retreats, he nevertheless felt in 
 his most secret soul that justice was being adminis- 
 tered therein with scales ineffably even. Stone 
 walls and heavily leaded glass could not prevent 
 the effluence of those magnificent qualities which 
 have earned for English justice the homage of the 
 world. Here, he thought, is something pure; perhaps 
 there is naught else so pure. 
 
 He had traversed three sides of a rectangle, and 
 looked down from a gallery on the huge nave-like 
 hall of waiting, when, after traversing another 
 corner, he suddenly saw Cyples and a portly barris- 
 ter In conversation with Phyllis. They were stand- 
 ing in an embrasure, and he was intensely glad that 
 they did not observe him as he slipped past. The 
 blood had flowed to his cheeks. His wife was 
 dressed in mourning, and wore a black picture-hat
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 301 
 
 and a black boa. She had smiled up at Cyples 
 precisely at the moment when he caught sight of 
 her. How well he knew that smile! His wife was 
 an adulteress; but adultery seemed to make no 
 difference to her; she was unchangeable. The two 
 middle-aged stout men, Cyples and the barrister, 
 were most evidently pleased to be talking to her. 
 If they knew! 
 
 A little further on was Mrs. Capewell, sitting by 
 herself with folded hands, gazing at the stone floor. 
 Her too he passed successfully, and then he was in 
 the midst of a miscellaneous crowd of persons who 
 were talking in louder tones than he had yet heard. 
 There were elegantly dressed women, sluts, even 
 young girls in gray costumes, and various kinds of 
 men, including a Catholic priest. They had some 
 topic of extreme interest, and all appeared to be 
 chattering at once. A couple of barristers and 
 several solicitors' clerks surveyed them with affable 
 and amused disdain. On the wall was painted 
 the legend, "Divorce Court No. 2." He searched 
 for the sister court, and, having achieved it, remem- 
 bered that he must impound his witnesses; but he 
 could not see them in any of the corridors. He came 
 back to Divorce Court No. i, and fronted the 
 guardian of the swing-doors. 
 
 "What case, sir.'*" the doorkeeper asked politely. 
 
 "Eh.'"' said Lawrence.
 
 302 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "What case, sir? What name? If you aren't a 
 witness or a party, the entrance for the public is 
 upstairs." 
 
 Lawrence could not persuade himself to designate 
 to the Impassive dark-blue doorkeeper the name 
 of his case. 
 
 "I'm a solicitor from the country," he said 
 gruffly. 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir." The doorkeeper saluted 
 with due respect and opened the door, and Lawrence 
 entered. Before he had opened the second door a 
 hand touched him on the shoulder. It was Mark's. 
 
 "Here I am!" said Mark. 
 
 They shook hands In silence. 
 
 "You aren't dressed for the part, my boy," 
 Mark whispered. 
 
 Mark wore strict afternoon dress, with a black 
 and white necktie and new gloves, whereas Law- 
 rence was in brown travelling costume, with a 
 bowler hat. 
 
 "Oh, rot!" said Lawrence, somewhat loudly, 
 as he pulled at the second door. He had not once 
 thought of his dress. 
 
 "Hsh!" cried an ofhclal voice within the court. 
 
 Lawrence espied Mr. Wray, who was addressing 
 the judge in his cockney treble. There was room 
 on the bench immediately behind him, and Lawrence 
 slid into the longitudinal aperture of the bench,
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 303 
 
 Mark following. Then he extracted his papers 
 from, the inner pocket of his overcoat and put them 
 on the narrow desk. Wray, without pausing in 
 his speech, moved his head a little in order to see who 
 had so closely approached him. 
 
 The petitioner in Ridware v. Ridware gazed about 
 him nervously. He was at last in the Divorce Court. 
 There, in front of him, high up, and entrenched 
 behind an apparatus of carved oak and shaded elec- 
 tric lamps and calf-bound volumes and huge ink- 
 stands, was the celebrated President of the Division, 
 dominating the lofty and prelatlcal chamber. 
 He was large and heavy; his face, though puffed, 
 had the pallor which comes with long hours spent 
 in foetid atmospheres, and the austere glacial refine- 
 ment of feature which comes perhaps from con- 
 stantly dealing with niceties. He had the air of a 
 distinguished man; he sat sideways in his chair 
 like a distinguished man, and he even raised himself 
 up from time to time in his chair, which was too 
 high for him, like a distinguished man. He alone 
 of all the people present seemed to be completely 
 detached from the matter in hand; it was as if he 
 were rapt in contemplation, and as if Mr. Wray's 
 words glanced off his reverie as arrows might glance 
 off armour. But once, not shifting his gaze from a 
 spot in the gigantic bookcase to his right, he ejacu- 
 lated in that renowned aristocratic voice of his,
 
 304 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 masculine and yet delicate, with its amazing clear- 
 ness of beautiful enunciation: f 
 
 "You mean Philip Carr, not Andrew, do you not?" 
 
 "I beg your lordship's pardon. I should have 
 said Philip," Mr. Wray corrected himself hastily. 
 
 The President was of a piece with his court — 
 with its purple -portieres, its rich woodwork, its 
 Gothic windows near the roof, its massive and stately 
 furniture. He imparted his judicial majesty to 
 the whole interior and the entire personnel. Below 
 him were ranged in a row the clerk of papers, the 
 judge's clerk, the official shorthand writer, and the 
 clerk of lists; and in the centre of these, differentiated 
 from them by his wig and gown, was the aged 
 Associate. And all the men showed in all their 
 gestures that they were accustomed to exist in dig- 
 nified silence under the shadow of the great and 
 trained intellect above them. The inane face of 
 the black usher was magisterial in its inanity. 
 In a corner to the judge's left, near the empty jury 
 box, was a many-armed hat stand of a design incon- 
 ceivably banal; and even this importation from 
 Tottenham Court Road could not impair the tre- 
 mendous dignity of the court, and one felt that, were 
 it loaded with the hats and coats of a jury gathered 
 from all the suburbs of the town, even then it could 
 have had no ill effect on its proud environment. 
 
 In the well of the court, facing the Associate
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 305 
 
 and his companions, sat a lady and a few solicitors. 
 Behind these, rather higher, came the wrinkled 
 faces of the King's Counsel, sprawling in their silk 
 gowns in various attitudes before piles of papers. 
 Some of them were conversing together in soundless 
 whispers. Then came the juniors, of all ages. 
 And behind these two irregular rows of wigs were 
 more solicitors and clerks, and then the rabble of 
 suitors, witnesses, and persons interested. The 
 gallery above was crowded and the gangways were 
 crowded, and the audience listened intently to the 
 utterly tedious remarks of Mr. Wray concerning 
 the admissibility of certain evidence, for in the 
 Divorce Court you must miss nothing lest you miss 
 something extremely piquant. 
 
 And presently, Mr. Wray having concluded his 
 argument, the judge said: 
 
 "I do not agree with you, Mr. Wray, and I shall 
 admit the evidence." 
 
 Mr. Wray bowed blandly; he did not seem to 
 care one tittle. 
 
 And a very old man was called into the witness- 
 box, and began to give evidence as to what had 
 occurred in a hotel. "I get up at six o'clock in the 
 morning, always did," said the old man. "And 
 three times I saw him coming out of Mrs. Carr's 
 room." And he continued with details as to cos- 
 tume, displaying a kindly and yet cynical humour.
 
 3o6 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 <( 
 
 'And did you make any observation to him on 
 these occasions?" asked the examining King's 
 Counsel. 
 
 "He made an observation to me." 
 
 "What did he say.?" 
 
 "He said, 'Good morning.'' " The old man's 
 eyes disappeared in a smile. 
 
 "And did you offer any reply.'"' 
 
 "I said, 'GooJ morning, Mr. Isaacsohn.'" 
 
 "Nothing else.?" 
 
 And the witness reproduced these two greetings 
 with such an appreciation of the comedy in them, 
 he forced them to carry so much of that naughtiness 
 which passes between man and man when a woman 
 is in question, that everybody, except the judge and 
 Lawrence, laughed with delight. The whole court 
 hugged itself in its joy at receiving this tit bit. 
 
 And gradually the secret imperious attraction 
 of the Divorce Court grew clearer to the disgusted 
 and frightened Lawrence than it had ever been 
 before. Here there was no pretence that the sole 
 genuine interest in life for the average person is 
 not that which it is. Here it was frankly admitted 
 that a man is always "after" some woman, and that 
 the woman is always running away while looking 
 behind her, until she stumbles and is caught. Here 
 the moves of the great, universal, splendid, odious 
 game had to be described without reservation.
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 307 
 
 Nothing could be left out. There was no Mrs. 
 Grundy. All the hidden shames were exposed to 
 view, a feast for avid eyes. The animal in every 
 individual could lick its chops and thrill with pleas- 
 ure. All the animals could exchange candid glances 
 and concede that they were animals. And the 
 supreme satisfaction for the males was that the 
 females were present, the females who had tempted 
 and who had yielded and who had rolled voluptuously 
 in the very mud. And they were obliged to listen, 
 in their prim tight frocks, to the things which they 
 had done dishevelled, and they were obliged to 
 answer and to confess and to blush, and to utter 
 dreadful things with a simper. The alluring quality 
 of this wholesale debauch of exciting suggestiveness 
 could never fail until desire failed. As an enter- 
 tainment it was unique, appealing to the most vital 
 instinct of the widest possible public. It had no 
 troublesome beauty to tease the mind or disturb 
 the sleeping soul. In short, it was faultless. And 
 only the superhuman and commanding mien of 
 the judge, who was capable of discussing the foulest 
 embroidery of fornication as though it were the 
 integral calculus, saved the scene from developing 
 into something indescribable. 
 
 If Lawrence watched them, the hands of the clock 
 would not move, but whenever he took his eyes off 
 them they leapt. And so the time passed, and the
 
 3o8 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 case of Carr v. Carr grew Into clearness under the 
 eternal patience of the judge. Interest might vary 
 in degree, but it was never less than lively, and the 
 court became more and more crowded, for the ca- 
 prices of Mrs. Carr had been anything but common- 
 place; and yet no one could be quite sure whether 
 after all Mr. Carr had a genuine grievance. Law- 
 rence gazed round the court at intervals; and he 
 descried his landlady behind him; she was in irre- 
 proachable black silk. She recognized him with a 
 smile, and by a gesture made him understand that 
 the servant was waiting outside, the Divorce Court 
 doubtless being in her opinion no place for the 
 servant. He also saw Cyples, who nodded cordially, 
 but Phyllis had not entered the Court. He wondered 
 whether Knight, the barrister who would oppose 
 his petition, was present, and his eyes ran along the 
 row of juniors to find Knight and sum him up in 
 advance. Mark made sketches in a little book; 
 he drew a delicious caricature of Mrs. Carr, and was 
 amusing himself pretty well until the black usher, 
 having nothing better to do, crept round to him and 
 whispered in a whisper of the deepest and most 
 respectful consideration: 
 
 "Excuse me, sir. Perhaps you don't know that 
 sketching is forbidden in Court; also reading news- 
 
 papers." 
 
 "I'll stop," said Mark.
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 309 
 
 ((' 
 
 'Thank you, sir," said the usher, as though Mark 
 was doing him a favour. Mark made a few more 
 strokes, just to prove that he was an Englishman 
 not to be intimidated, and then shut his book. 
 And the stimulating and agreeable evidence contin- 
 ued, the name of God being invoked by the usher 
 on behalf of each witness. And then suddenly the 
 judge lifted himself out of his chair and disappeared 
 like magic behind a curtain. It was the hour for 
 luncheon. The court emptied as a theatre empties 
 at the end of an act; only the official shorthand 
 writer and the reporter of the Press Association 
 remained behind to compare notes in the seats 
 vacated by the august. 
 
 At the door Bowes was waiting. 
 \ "Not your turn yet," said he to Lawrence. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Tasty little bit of stuff, Mrs. Carr, eh.?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, I'll toddle round again after lunch, though 
 I doubt if we shall be called to-day." 
 
 "Who's that ass.'"' demanded Mark, who had 
 been staring hard at Bowes. The brothers were 
 in the corridor, which was crowded. 
 
 "He is rather a johnny, isn't he?" Lawrence 
 agreed. "But I like him. He's Apreece's clerk." 
 ."Well, don't let me deprive you of him." 
 
 Mark suggested lunch at a chop house in Fleet
 
 3 TO WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Street which was living on its reputation, and they 
 walked down together. They had seen each other 
 only once since the unforgettable night when Phyllis 
 left the house at Toft End, Mark having spent the 
 next following week-end with Lawrence, according 
 to his promise. But now, as usual, they had noth- 
 ing to say to each other. They went to the chop 
 house in a silence which was unbroken save by a few 
 remarks about the contents bills of newspapers that 
 they encountered. Lawrence was inclined to be 
 cheerful because there was a chance that his case 
 would not be heard that day. He fervently 
 desired that Carr v. Carr and the next petition after 
 it might endure for weeks. And though he knew 
 this desire to be absurdly infantile, he could not 
 get rid of It. Mark's mute companionship soothed 
 him, and In spite of his hatred of sentimentality, 
 he found comfort in the secret assurance which he 
 had that Mark, at no matter what personal loss 
 and Inconvenience, would not leave his side until 
 the trial was over. 
 
 And In the expensive chop house they seated 
 themselves on hard benches, and kicked up real 
 sand with their feet, and watched fat, perspiring 
 men, dressed In white, handle lumps of raw flesh, 
 with their great greasy hands. And they listened 
 to the frizzling of the raw flesh over an open fire, 
 and saw it flung onto plates. And when the plates
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 311 
 
 were brought to them they began to eat the flesh 
 with gusto. And Mark, who knew, If any one 
 knew, said that a better steak could not be obtained 
 within the four-mile radius. Then three men with 
 whom Mark was acquainted strolled into the chop 
 house. Two were black-and-white draughtsmen 
 and the third was a journalist. But they belonged 
 to the higher ranks of their crafts. They were like 
 Mark himself, bachelors who just contrived to make 
 both ends meet on a thousand or fifteen hundred a 
 year. Mark introduced Lawrence and invited 
 them to sit at his table. When they asked him what 
 he had been doing with himself that morning he 
 replied that his brother was on a visit to London 
 and they were spending the day together. Mark 
 was now quite talkative, quite the man-of-the-world. 
 One of the draughtsmen said that he had heard a 
 good story, and he related the good story, and many 
 other good stories followed, including several from 
 Mark. They were all excellent, for the standard 
 of good stories in such circles is very high. But 
 they were monotonous; there was not one that did 
 not touch a petticoat. Yet neither Mark nor his 
 friends seemed to tire of them. Their interest in 
 the subject was ingenuous and inexhaustible. 
 At the stage of coffee it was just as fresh as it had 
 been at the commencement of the repast. Lawrence 
 too was a considerable amateur of such good stories,
 
 312 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 and his taste In them, if fastidious, was extremely 
 catholic. But he could not savour them that day. 
 It appeared to him that the whole silly world was 
 obsessed by the petticoat — that symbol! As for 
 him, he hated it. His ideas had come to be vio- 
 lently monastic. 
 
 The journalist mentioned a passage in Ld-Bas. 
 
 "By the way," said Mark, who wished to show 
 his brother off. "You were asking me about Huys- 
 mans's early novels the other day. Lawrence can 
 tell you all about them." 
 
 The journalist became deferential at once. 
 
 "Do you like Huysmans.'*" he demanded. 
 
 "Huysmans," said Lawrence, "is a test of literary 
 taste. Of course I like him. Have you read Les 
 Sceurs Vdtard?^^ 
 
 The journalist humbly admitted that he had not. 
 The draughtsmen were soon struggling in water too 
 deep for them, and they and Mark listened to Law- 
 rence and the journalist. Mark was proud of Law- 
 rence. For a few minutes Lawrence almost forgot 
 that he had a wife. 
 
 The Court was sitting when Lawrence and Mark 
 returned, and just as in the morning it had seemed 
 that the judiciary spectacle, as Lawrence's gaze 
 first caught it, had existed since everlasting, so now 
 it seemed that there had been no break in its activ-
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 313 
 
 ity and that It would continue thus forever. The 
 judge lifted himself tranquilly from time to time 
 in his chair; the officials beneath him maintained 
 the old dignified and motionless silence; a witness 
 exactly like all other witnesses was squirming in 
 the witness box; one gray wig stood aloft above the 
 other wigs, nodding and offering conversational 
 remarks to the judge and to the witness; the pencils 
 of the shorthand writers flitted from line to line 
 of their note books; and the eager, spell-bound public 
 listened with pristine intentness, despite the nar- 
 cotic impurity of the exhausted afternoon air. But 
 the downfall of Mrs. Carr and the end of the agree- 
 able case of Carr v. Carr, Isaacsohn and Dove was 
 at hand. Mr. Dove, the second co-respondent, 
 proved to be not quite clever enough In the witness 
 box. With a few clumsy admissions he ruined the 
 edifice of innocence which Mrs. Carr and the other 
 co-respondent had so ingeniously erected. The 
 junior bar, all those acute, clean-shaven, sharp- 
 featured faces, looked at each other with pained and 
 chivalrous contempt of the cad. Dove. Dove had 
 given a woman away. Dove had not lied with 
 sufficient conviction. Dove was unworthy of the 
 name of man, and. If such an outburst had been 
 permissible, the junior bar would have expressed 
 its disgust by hissing the wretch's performance. 
 Within a few minutes the judge had granted a decree
 
 314 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 nisi, and the very next instant the black usher 
 called loudly, Simpson v. Simpson. The case of 
 Carr v. Carr, Isaacsohn, and Dove was finished, 
 done with, and forgotten by judge, counsel, solici- 
 tors and public. It was like an old wife's tale. 
 
 Simpson v. Simpson was quite a different kind 
 of base. The petitioner was praying for a declara- 
 tion of nullity of marrige, and the arguments were 
 purely legal and technical, having no connection 
 whatever with nature. The stimulus of sex was 
 curiously absent from Simpson v. Simpson. The 
 issues raised had a higher and palpitating interest 
 for the judicial mind, and the judge was obviously 
 roused by them out of his inhuman calm; but 
 the general audience melted away like snow under 
 the forensic heat engendered. After two hours, 
 when a couple of King's Counsel and a couple of 
 juniors had ended their altercations, a hush fell 
 upon the court. The bar thought the judge would 
 reserve his decision. But no! He remained in 
 brooding silence for a few minutes, which seemed 
 like hours, and then he proceeded to deliver one of 
 those judgments, clear, stylistic, penetrating, per- 
 fectly balanced, and unanswerable, which were the 
 dazzling delight of lawyers and also of himself. 
 The hour for the rising of the court was already 
 past, and Lawrence knew that his own action would 
 be first on the list the next day.
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 315 
 
 He spent the evening with Mark in Mark's small 
 private studio, which opened out of the large studio 
 where he held his classes in London. This studio 
 was richly furnished, and maintained in the meticu- 
 lous perfection of orderliness which only a bachelor 
 may achieve. There was a grand piano in it. They 
 were interrupted in the performance of the C Minor 
 Symphony, arranged for four hands, by a ring at the 
 door of the large studio. Mark answered the sum- 
 mons, and Lawrence heard in the distance the mur- 
 mur of a girl's voice, and caught, through the gloom, 
 the momentary sheen of yellow hair under a lamp. 
 Then a door banged, and Mark returned to him, 
 a little self-consciously. And to cover his self- 
 consciousness Mark suddenly began to talk about 
 the divorce. 
 
 "I can see you're awfully nervous, my boy," 
 said Mark. " But really you oughtn't to be. There 
 is simply nothing in it, you know, if you look at 
 it in the right way. What is it, after all.?" 
 
 Lawrence agreed that there was nothing in the 
 ordeal, after all, and swore that he was not a bit 
 nervous. And they talked late, discussing Law- 
 rence's case from every possible point of view. 
 
 "Now all you've got to do is to treat it as the 
 most ordinary thing in the world," Mark insisted 
 again, just as they were going into court the next
 
 3i6 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 morning. "It will be over in no time," he added, 
 "and you'll see — if you get that idea firmly into 
 your head — you'll see there'll be simply nothing 
 
 in it." 
 
 Lawrence made no reply. 
 
 "But isn't it so.^" said Mark, who was determined, 
 as a man of the world, to do his duty by Lawrence. 
 
 "Oh, yes," Lawrence agreed. 
 
 The court was not full, but it was quickly filling. 
 All the officials were in their places, except the 
 judge's clerk. One of the shorthand writers was 
 sharpening a pencil. Then the judge's clerk, a portly 
 man in a blue reefer suit, appeared in front of the 
 -portiere behind the President's great chair and 
 drew the portiere aside, and the President, holding 
 his robe in a fold with one hand, entered. The 
 usher sprang up. Everybody rose and remained 
 standing until the President, having acknowledged 
 the existence of the rest of the world by a stately 
 bow, assumed his seat. 
 
 "Ridware versus Ridware." 
 
 The cry fell on Lawrence's ears like a knell. 
 Nevertheless he was determined to treat the expe- 
 rience as the most ordinary thing in the world, and 
 he winked at Mark. He was stationed immediately 
 behind Mr. Wray, as on the previous morning, and 
 he had Mark on his left and Mr. Bowes on his right. 
 Farther along, on the same bench, was Cyples.
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 317 
 
 Lawrence was so little his usual self that he had for- 
 gotten to look among the crowd for his wife. 
 
 "Isn't she here?" he whispered to Mark, suddenly 
 thinking of her. 
 
 Mark silently pointed with his finger. Phyllis 
 was seated in the well of the court, almost precisely 
 where Mrs. Carr had been the previous day. He 
 could not see her face, but he could see her hat, 
 and the back of her head, and they were purity 
 itself. Mrs. Capewell was with her. 
 
 Mr. Wray got on his legs. "My lord," he began, 
 and opened the case in a casual conversational 
 tone of his cockney voice. And while Lawrence 
 studied the whiteness of his collar and the crimson 
 of the nape of his neck, and torn seam in his stuff 
 gown, and thought what a ridiculous person he was, 
 Mr. Wray explained to his lordship that the case 
 was of the utmost simplicity, and that he should 
 not long detain his lordship; and in a moment he 
 was launched on a smooth recital of the facts, 
 hesitating sometimes for a word, but steering a 
 straight course. And in another moment, so it 
 seemed to Lawrence, the usher was calling out 
 Lawrence's name, and Mr. Bowes, with an encour- 
 aging smile, was making room for him to pass. 
 
 And then he was in the witness-box, and his 
 large, reddish hands, presenting a strange contrast 
 to his thin pallid face, were playing nervously with
 
 3i8 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 the rail. '* There's nothing in it," he said to himself 
 boldly. "All I have to do is to keep calm and an- 
 swer questions." And when the usher, a busy, 
 officious individual, administered the oath to him> 
 calling his name very loudly and clearly in the 
 judge's direction, but mumbling the formula with 
 slovenly haste, he stared coldly at the usher, and 
 waited a second before kissing the book. From the 
 witness box the court had quite a different aspect. 
 In the first place he could see the general public 
 in the gallery; they were simply rows of dull foolish 
 faces, faces without features. The double rows of 
 bewigged barristers appeared to ignore him. Some 
 of them were whispering to each other. Only 
 Mr. Wray, raised above the rest, had an eye upon 
 him expectant and anxious. Phyllis had averted 
 her face; he saw it in profile. The eternal faint 
 enigmatic smile exasperated him. He was some- 
 what lonely, up there in the witness box. But he 
 was very close to the judge. In a furtive glance 
 he could detect the lines on the judge's face. 
 
 Mr. Wray opened his mouth, and then interrupt- 
 ing himself, turned to Bowes, and asked something 
 of Bowes, and Bowes, putting on a serious expres- 
 sion, answered. Lawrence, on the rack of suspense, 
 thought, as all litigants do, that Counsel was being 
 rather perfunctory. 
 
 "Your name is Lawrence Ridware.'*"
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 319 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you are a solicitor?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You are the husband of Phyllis Ridware.?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 And he had to give the date of his marriage, and 
 some other details. 
 
 "When did you first suspect that your wife had 
 secret relations with the late Emery Greatbatch.''" 
 
 "In August of last year, at Glasgow." And he 
 described the episode at St. Enoch's station. 
 
 "You were then living in Glasgow.?" 
 
 "Yes, I had my house there, at that time." 
 
 The judge turned to look at him, somewhat 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Are you a Scotchman.?" the judge asked. 
 
 "No, my lord. My father was English, but my 
 mother was Scotch. I was born in England." 
 
 Lawrence was perfectly calm, and he felt quite 
 thankful to Mark for having insisted to him that 
 the trial, regarded dispassionately in the light of 
 detached common sense, would be the most ordinary 
 affair in the world, and therefore supportable. 
 His fears had been groundless. The one thing that 
 mattered was his dignity, and he felt now that he 
 should keep his dignity with ease. He knew that 
 the judge was a gentleman; and as for Knight, 
 Phyllis's counsel, he did not care twopence for
 
 320 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Knight. It was extremely fortunate that his 
 own evidence did not bear closely on his wife's 
 conduct. 
 
 Under Wray's guidance, he informed the court 
 about the anonymous letter, the visit of Lottie, and 
 Phyllis's sudden departure from his house, and 
 Emery Greatbatch's death. And after a few more 
 questions Wray said: "Thank you," and sat 
 down. There was indeed nothing for Knight to 
 cross-examine him upon. 
 
 Then Knight rose, a stout, genial person, distantly 
 resembling Cyples, with a very leisurely quiet voice. 
 
 "Now Mr. Ridware," said the barrister amiably, 
 consulting his 'brief, "when you saw your wife 
 with the late Mr. Greatbatch at St. Enoch's sta- 
 tion at Glasgow, why did you not go up and speak 
 to them?" 
 
 Lawrence could not think of an answer. "I 
 did not care to," he said lamely. 
 
 "You did not care to? But surely that would 
 have been the most natural thing to do! Great- 
 batch had been an old school friend of yours, had 
 he not?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you had never quarreled? You had noth- 
 ing against him, except the fact that there had been 
 a boy-and-girl attachment between him and your 
 wife?"
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 321 
 
 "An engagement," corrected Lawrence. 
 
 *' Well, call It an engagement." 
 
 "It was an engagement," said Lawrence stiffly. 
 And then he thought he saw Bowes making a dis- 
 creet sign to him not to be bellicose, and he restrained 
 himself. 
 
 "So that you considered that you had a grievance 
 against Greatbatch because he had once been en- 
 gaged to your wife.?" 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "But still you saw him with your wife in the street, 
 and you ignored him.?" 
 
 "I was taken by surprise. I didn't know exactly 
 what to do, and I did nothing." 
 
 "Did you tell your wife afterwards that you had 
 seen them.?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why not? You had had time to recover from 
 your surprise." 
 
 "My wife said nothing to me." 
 
 " I'm not asking you what your wife did or did not 
 do. I'm asking you why you said nothing to her." 
 
 "I do not know. I simply did not care to." 
 
 "Do you consider that you acted wisely.?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Assuming that there had been something wrong 
 between your wife and Greatbatch, do you consider 
 that you were wise in pretending to her that you
 
 322 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED "^ 
 
 knew nothing of it? Would it not have been better 
 as a prudent husband, jealous for his honour, to 
 have spoken to her plainly, and — er — nipped 
 things in the bud? Would not that have been 
 fairer?" 
 
 "Perhaps," said Lawrence. 
 
 "I really don't quite see what my friend is driving 
 at," protested Wray, half rising. 
 
 "You will see directly," Knight replied coldly. 
 And he proceeded, to Lawrence: "Then soon 
 . afterward you gave up your Glasgow house, and 
 came to live in the Five Towns?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Greatbatch lived In the Five Towns?" 
 
 "He lived at Oldcastle, just close to." 
 
 "Just close to. Now at that time did you or 
 did you not suspect your wife?" 
 
 " I don't know. It is difficult to say. 
 
 "Difficult to say? Let me put It differently. 
 Were you absolutely convinced of your wife's 
 innocence?" 
 
 "I was not." 
 
 "And yet in spite of the fact that you were 
 not convinced of her innocence, you brought her 
 back to live In the Five Towns, 'just close to' 
 Greatbatch? Was that the action of a prud- 
 ent husband, careful for his wife's^ honour and his 
 own?"
 
 MATRIMONIAL DP/ISION 323 
 
 Lawrence blushed. What were Phyllis and 
 Cyples and the abominable Knight attempting to 
 prove? The Insinuation was obvious. 
 
 "I had the offer of a better situation in England," 
 he stammered. "With my old employer." 
 
 "How much better?" 
 
 "A pound a week better." 
 
 "So for the sake of a pound a week you were 
 willing to risk the peril of — er — relations between 
 your wife and Greatbatch?" 
 
 "Such an idea of course never entered my head." 
 said Lawrence hotly. No one could help him. He 
 was there alone in the witness-box and obliged to 
 ward off the attacks as best he could. "I may 
 tell you," he added proudly, "that I did not mean 
 to stay in the Five Towns. I only came back to 
 oblige my old employer for a period. And the proof 
 is that I stored my furniture In Glasgow and took a 
 furnished house in the Five Towns. And my fur- 
 niture is still in Glasgow. I came back simply to 
 oblige Mr. Fearns, my employer." 
 
 "Ah!" commented Knight. "You used to quar- 
 rel with your wife a good deal?" 
 
 "We have had several quarrels." 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 "Trifles. I can't remember." 
 
 "They began soon after your marriage?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 324 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "You ceased to love her?" 
 
 A mad desire came over him to explain what 
 sort of a creature Phyllis veritably was. But he 
 merely said: "Yes." 
 
 "Since when have you ceased to live together 
 as man and wife?" 
 
 "It is more than three years ago." 
 
 "Did she ever refuse intercourse?" 
 
 "N — no. It was by mutual consent." 
 
 "You spoke to her about it?" 
 
 "No. Nothing was said." 
 
 "You will agree, I suppose, that when intercourse 
 ceases and nothing is said, the responsibility rests 
 with the husband, not with the wife?" 
 
 " Certainly," Lawrence answered resentfully. 
 
 "Ah! Now during your quarrels, did you not 
 once say to your wife that you would give all you 
 had, and more, to be free of her?" 
 
 And Lawrence remembered that one night in 
 Glasgow, after they had been to the Pavilion Music 
 Hall together to see some Japanese jugglers, Phyllis 
 had quarrelled with him about nothing — about a 
 preposterous question of car tickets — and he had 
 used some such phrase. 
 
 "I may have said that, when I was angry," he 
 admitted honestly, in a murmur. 
 
 "Then you did want to be rid of your wife?" 
 
 "I often wished that I had never married her,"
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 325 
 
 Lawrence said haughtily. "But that is not the 
 same thing." 
 
 "Would you say that you did everything you 
 could to keep her out of the hands of Greatbatch.'"' 
 
 "I will only say that I acted for the best." 
 
 "Thank you," Mr. Knight sat down smiling, 
 and Mr. Wray jumped up. 
 
 "Did your wife ever mention to you that she had 
 met Greatbatch in Glasgow?" Wray asked. 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Is there any foundation whatever for the sug- 
 gestion that you wished her to fall into the hands of 
 Greatbatch?" 
 
 "None. None! The suggestion is infamous, 
 absolutely infamous." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Ridware." 
 
 Lawrence left the box, full of shame and anger, 
 and slowly made his way back to the seat behind 
 Wray. What astonished him was that no one 
 seemed to be in the least indignant on his behalf 
 at the scandalous treatment he had received under 
 cross-examination. The judge stared blandly about, 
 rubbing the side of his nose occasionally, and lifting 
 himself in his chair; but apparently the judge saw 
 nothing improper in what had occurred. 
 
 "You're all right," Bowes whispered kindly. 
 
 And Mark gave a gesture which in some way in- 
 dicated to Lawrence that at any rate there was one
 
 326 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 thing to be satisfied about — the ordeal was over. 
 And then Wray turned to him, and smilingly re- 
 marked in a benevolent style: "Our friend evi- 
 dently wasn't drunk last night. Pity we weren't 
 heard yesterday morning. However — " And he 
 waved his eyeglasses philosophically. During this 
 interlude the judge manifested no impatience, but 
 continued to stare blandly about, as though absorbed 
 in some agreeable and not too deep meditation. 
 
 Then Mrs. Mary Malkin, widow, who kept the 
 lodging-house at No. 3, Ham Terrace, Manifold, 
 was called, and she waddled, in her rustling black 
 silk and gold chains, from the back of the court to 
 the witness box. She refused the usher's Bible and 
 produced her own. But the usher scored against 
 her in the matter of her right-hand glove, which 
 she had forgotten to take off. She lifted her veil 
 as far as her upper lip and then put herself into 
 an attitude to defy all comers. 
 
 She was a very strong witness, and an impressive. 
 And she did much for Lawrence's case by breaking 
 into sobs when Mr. Wray first mentioned the 
 name of the dead Greatbatch, "I ask your lordship 
 to excuse me," she said, wiping her eyes, and the 
 judge nodded compassionately. This conduct 
 proved that she was not hostile to the respondent's 
 case, and lent value to what she said in support of 
 Lawrence's.
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 327 
 
 "Mr. Greatbatch always had that room," she 
 replied to a question, and added; "it was a nice 
 large bed-sitting-room with a large bed." 
 
 "And one day Greatbatch received a lady.^"" 
 
 "Yes, he warned me that he should." 
 
 "What date was that.''" the judged demanded. 
 
 "Holy Thursday in the present year, my lord," 
 said Mrs. Malkin. "He received her on Good 
 Friday." 
 
 "What time?" 
 
 "For tea. She was veiled. I got them a nice 
 tea." 
 
 "Did you see the lady unveiled.^" 
 
 "Oh yes. I took the tea up myself and saw her." 
 
 "Do you see her in court now.?" 
 
 "Yes — she's there," and Mrs. Malkin pointed 
 to Phyllis. 
 
 "How long did she stay?" 
 
 "About five hours. Till nine o'clock." 
 
 "During that time Greatbatch and Mrs. Rid- 
 ware were alone together in the bed-sitting-room." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did you go into the room afterwards?" 
 
 "Yes. I didn't like to disturb them while she 
 was there. But I went up myself the moment the 
 lady had gone, to clear the things away." 
 
 "Did you notice anything peculiar?" 
 
 "Well — I noticed when I turned the bed down
 
 
 328 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 for the night that the top sheet wasn't under the 
 bolster as I put it." 
 
 "You inferred from that that the bed had been 
 disturbed and remade?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did the lady come again .^" 
 Yes. The next day but one. Easter Sunday." 
 'Tell his lordship about that." 
 
 And Mrs. Malkin told. 
 
 "Will you swear that Mrs. Ridware came at 
 about four o'clock on Easter Sunday, that you over- 
 heard a man and a woman talking at ten o'clock, 
 and that at two o'clock in the morning Mrs. Ridware 
 had not left Greatbatch's bed-sitting-room.?" 
 
 "I will. I had not gone to sleep at two o'clock, 
 but at four I was awakened by hearing the front 
 door bang." Mrs. Malkin glared round the court 
 and her gold chains rose and fell on her heaving 
 bosom. 
 
 "Were your other lodgers all in the house the next 
 morning?" 
 
 <(' 
 
 'They were. But the lady was gone." 
 When Knight began to attack her, she proved 
 herself invulnerable. Knight accused her of eaves- 
 dropping; she said that as a landlady she was in 
 duty bound to eavesdrop. He suggested that the 
 talking she had heard was Greatbatch talking to 
 himself: she smiled. He suggested that she had gone
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 329 
 
 to sleep and that Phyllis might have left the house 
 at an early hour unnoticed by her: she replied that 
 she was in that witness box to tell the truth and 
 that she had told it. And when Knight demanded 
 why she had not gone or sent up to clear the tea 
 things away on the Sunday as she had done on the 
 Friday, she burst into tears again and referred to 
 poor Mr. Greatbatch and said that she had gone 
 into that witness box against her will, and that it 
 was most painful to her to be forced to soil his 
 memory, but that the reason why she had caused 
 the tea things to be left alone was that she did not 
 wish to be mixed up in anything wrong, and that 
 she was afraid to go into the room or even to knock 
 at the door lest she should have the proof of some- 
 thing being wrong thrust upon her unwilling eyes 
 or the eyes of the servant. 
 
 She more than satisfied the expectations of Law- 
 rence and his friends. And when she descended 
 from the box everyone felt that Phyllis was a lost 
 woman. 
 
 The servant gave evidence, chiefly to show that 
 Phyllis could only have left the house by the front 
 door. 
 
 "That is my case, my lord," said Mr. Wray 
 sharply. 
 
 Soon afterwards Phyllis was called to give 
 evidence.
 
 330 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 And Immediately she entered the box, the emo- 
 tional atmosphere of the court grew electric. Phyllis 
 was immensely effective in black; it suited her pale 
 olive complexion as no colour could have suited it. 
 She was beautiful, grave, and distinguished, and the 
 accident of Greatbatch's death had invested her 
 figure with an undeniable tragic dignity. She 
 no longer smiled. Her mien was that of sweet and 
 proud resignation. Everybody was Impressed as 
 she slowly removed her glove and kissed the book. 
 She let her glove hang over the rail of the box. 
 
 "Until I saw him by pure chance at St. Enoch's 
 Station," she said in a clear and soft voice, In answer 
 to Knight's question, "I had not seen Emery Great- 
 batch since long before my marriage." 
 
 "What passed between you.^*" 
 
 "Nothing except friendly talk. He told me 
 that he was afflicted with an Incurable disease 
 and that the doctors said he had scarcely a 
 year to live, and that there was no one to look 
 after him." 
 
 "That aroused your sympathy.''" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why did you say nothing to your husband about 
 the meeting?" 
 
 "Because I knew my husband to be of an exceed- 
 ingly jealous and violent disposition, and I wished 
 to keep the peace as much as possible."
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 331 
 
 Lawrence jealous and violent! He raged with 
 hate of her. 
 
 "And when did you see him next?" 
 
 "I did not see him again until just before Easter 
 this year. I met him again by accident at Mani- 
 fold, where I have a dressmaker. It was the Thurs- 
 day before Good Friday. He told me his disease 
 was gaining on him, and that he could not live much 
 more than three months. He lived rather less than 
 three months. He asked me to go and have tea 
 with him the next day. I consented. I was 
 wrong, I know. But I did consent. And I went. 
 I arrived at four and left about nine." 
 
 "And then afterwards?" 
 
 "My husband was away in London. He had left 
 me in Bursley. I went again on the Sunday and 
 nursed Mr. Greatbatch. At least I tried to cheer 
 him up." 
 
 "How late did you stay?" 
 
 "I left about nine o'clock, as on the Friday. 
 I came downstairs, and seeing no one I opened the 
 front door and went out of the house. I was in a 
 very nervous state and I walked all the way home 
 from Manifold to our house at Toft End. Our house 
 was empty. I had given the servant a holiday." 
 
 "Is the landlady, Mrs. Malkin, mistaken in 
 saying that she heard you and Mr. Greatbatch 
 talking at ten o'clock at night?"
 
 332 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "Absolutely. She could not have done so, be- 
 cause I was not there." 
 
 "Did you commit adultery with Emery Great- 
 batch.?" 
 
 "I did not. He was very ill and lonely, and once 
 or twice I tried to be a friend to him, for the sake 
 of old times. That was all." 
 
 She wept softly, and then forced back her tears. 
 The audience was moved. 
 
 "Thank you," said Knight. 
 
 Wray was obviously somewhat timid in com- 
 mencing his cross-examination. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Ridware," he piped. "Do you 
 mean to state seriously that you have never given 
 your husband just cause for suspicion.? Is it not a 
 curious thing that these visits to the late Emery 
 Greatbatch, which you wish us to believe were 
 perfectly innocent, took place exactly at the time 
 when your husband was away in London.?" 
 . She made no reply. 
 
 Lawrence leaned forward and pulled Wray's 
 arm. "She said I left her alone in the house," he 
 whispered fiercely. "The fact is she was asked to 
 go to London and refused. My brother here can 
 prove that. Get that out of her." 
 
 Wray nodded, with a touch of impatience, and 
 then put the question to Phyllis. 
 
 "Yes," said Phyllis cautiously. "He did leave
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 333 
 
 me alone in the house. It is true that I was asked 
 to go to London with him, but I did not feel well 
 enough. I begged him not to go, but he went." 
 
 "What an awful lie!" Lawrence muttered. "She 
 wasn't well enough to go to London, and yet she 
 could walk ten miles home from Manifold." 
 
 "As to just cause for suspicion," Phyllis went 
 on, not in response to a further question, "in the 
 relations between the sexes my husband was always 
 extremely suspicious. You see he himself Is an 
 illegitimate child." She spoke deliberately, in her 
 low, clear voice, playing the while with the glove 
 that hung on the rail. And she faintly smiled. 
 
 There was a rustle throughout the court, and 
 everybody Involuntarily stared to look at the 
 illegitimate child. Lawrence was staggered. It 
 seemed to him impossible that even Phyllis should 
 have taken so mean and wanton a revenge on him, 
 a revenge so futile and so cruel. Honestly, In the 
 early stages of their acquaintance, he had disclosed 
 to her that guarded secret, which probably only 
 Mark knew besides himself. He had trusted her 
 implicitly. The blood surged to his head. He suf- 
 fered perhaps the supreme agony of his life. 
 
 "Never mind," Mark whispered. "What does 
 it matter, after all.^" 
 
 Lawrence nodded; but there were tears of fury 
 in his red eyes. He did not hear the remainder of
 
 
 334 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 the cross-examination. Presently Phyllis stepped 
 down from the box, half ran to her mother, kissed 
 her impulsively, and burst into tears. She had 
 magnificently lied, from a pious and hysteric desire 
 to shield the memory of her lover, and from a vin- 
 dictive desire to thwart her husband. She had 
 profoundly impressed a number of people in court; 
 but not the experts. 
 
 She's done herself no good," Bowes whispered. 
 
 She won't weigh against the landlady." He ob- 
 viously tried to speak to Lawrence in a perfectly 
 natural tone, as if to convince him that he had 
 ignored Phyllis's revelation about his illegitimacy 
 as it deserved to be ignored. But he did not entirely 
 succeed. 
 
 "Now or later," said Wray to the judge, "I will 
 recall Mrs. Malkin, with your lordship's permission." 
 
 "Before going further," the judge replied, looking 
 not at Wray but at Knight. "I will put a few 
 questions to the petitioner." 
 
 "Petitioner!" cried the usher. 
 
 All the lawyers were now suddenly and deeply 
 interested. Wray glanced anxiously at Bowes. 
 
 "Have I got to go back to the box?" Lawrence 
 asked with foolish blankness. 
 
 "Yes, yes. Quick! His lordship is waiting." 
 
 And he stumbled back to the witness box, half 
 dead with shamed confusion, and utterly mystified.
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 335 
 
 "Is it true," the judge demanded in a suave 
 and courteous tone, "that you were not born in 
 wedlock?" 
 
 "Yes," murmured Lawrence, and then in a louder, 
 angry voice: "The fact was naturally kept secret 
 as much as possible. My parents were married 
 immediately afterwards, and I cannot understand 
 why my wife should have " 
 
 "Yes, yes," the judge stopped him. "I quite 
 comprehend your feelings. Your mother was Scotch 
 you have said, and your father English.^" 
 
 "Yes, my lord." A horrible fear came over the 
 lawyer in Lawrence. 
 
 "Your mother had not, I presume, acquired an 
 English domicile before your birth .'* She could 
 only have done that by marriage." 
 
 "She came to England a few weeks before my 
 birth, and then went back to Glasgow." 
 
 "You did not, last year, leave Glasgow with the 
 definite intention of not returning?" 
 
 "No, my lord." 
 
 "Your furniture indeed is still there?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 "Thank you. That will do." 
 
 Lawrence retired, with a feeling of acute nausea. 
 Instead of going to his seat he remained standing 
 near the usher, spellbound. 
 'My lord," Knight resumed. 
 
 (('
 
 336 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "I fear that I shall not have to trouble you 
 further," said the judge In measured accents. "It 
 appears to me that a question of jurisdiction has 
 arisen. This court has direct instructions from the 
 Lord Chancellor to watch carefully and see that 
 no divorces are granted except in cases where an 
 English domicile is clearly established. The Scotch 
 courts are, rightly, very jealous for their jurisdic- 
 tion, and, as was decided in the leading case of Le 
 Mesurier v. Le Mesurier, jurisdiction is given by 
 domicile and not by residence. Now the domicile 
 of origin of a legitimate child is that of his father, 
 but the domicile of origin of an illegitimate child 
 is that of his mother. The petitioner's domicile 
 of origin was therefore Scotch. He certainly, by 
 long residence in England, acquired an English 
 domicile, but when he went to live in Glasgow his 
 domicile of origin reverted. The domicile of ori- 
 gin Is always the stronger, and easily reverts. 
 Since then, has he definitely re-acquired an English 
 domicile ? Obviously not. To acquire a new dom- 
 icile either long residence or the clearest possible 
 indication of a settled purpose is necessary. And 
 the petitioner has not yet even removed his furni- 
 ture from Scotland. He has himself stated that 
 he had not decided not to return. Hence his domicile 
 is Scotch, and this court has no jurisdiction. The 
 petition must be dismissed and costs will follow the
 
 MATRIMONIAL DIVISION 337 
 
 event." There was a pause. "In using the phrase 
 'instructions from the Lord Chancellor,' a few mo- 
 ments ago, I expressed myself inexactly. The Lord 
 Chancellor does not 'instruct' judges of the High 
 Court. But he has placed facts before me which 
 carried their own result, facts which were stronger 
 than ' instructions' and I took them as ' instruc- 
 tions' although not in the sense in which I used 
 the word." 
 
 His lordship sank back in his chair. He had 
 delivered an interesting and ingenious and irrefu- 
 table judgment. He had impressed the bar. He 
 had behaved honourably to his Scottish brethren 
 of the bench. And he was not ill pleased with 
 himself. 
 
 "Smalls V. Smalls and Jackson," a voice an- 
 nounced. 
 
 He directed his intellect to the next case. 
 
 For Lawrence the issue was not merely a disaster; 
 it was a disgrace. He could not meet the eyes of 
 Wray or of Bowes. He had concealed an essential 
 fact from his advisers! And he was a lawyer! He 
 ought to have foreseen all consequences, provided 
 against all risks. Yet it had never even occurred to 
 him that his domicile was not English. He had 
 left everything to Pennington, and of course Pen- 
 nington was not aware of the circumstances of his
 
 338 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 birth. He, a lawyer, acquainted with the dangers 
 of the vast judicial machine, had allowed himself 
 to be caught and crushed in the machine. In vain 
 he cursed the barbaric rule which visits the irregu- 
 larities of parents upon absolutely innocent chil- 
 dren! In vain he cursed the antique jealousies 
 existing between English and Scottish courts. 
 In vain he cursed all that was mediaeval, illogical, 
 clumsy, and cruel in the fabric of legal systems. 
 He was a lawyer, and he ought to have known. 
 He lived on the law; he saw the law from within, 
 and he ought to have known. 
 
 Neither Wray nor Bowes nor Mark could say 
 anything to him. But the expression of Wray's 
 face was not benevolent. 
 
 Lawrence had only to leave the court. He left 
 it, in company with Mark, and stood hesitating in 
 the corridor, full of his shame and his anger and his 
 self-condemnation. Then Phyllis emerged on the 
 arm of a chivalrous Cyples, her mother behind. 
 She had won; she was triumphant; and the tragedy 
 of her lover's death, bathing her form in poetic 
 grief, seemed to sanctify her revenge. 
 
 "I'll begin again in the Scottish courts," Lawrence 
 cried passionately. "If it costs me every cent I 
 have I'll be free of that d d woman." 
 
 "Let's get out of this, my boy," said Mark 
 quietly.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ON THE LEAS 
 
 TOWARD the end of the month of August, 
 long before the trial of Ridware v. Rid- 
 ware, Charles Fearns knocked one even- 
 ing at the door of No. 'j'j Sea View, Sandgate. It was 
 the bravest, or the most desperate, act of his life. 
 The progress of his own divorce baffled and mad- 
 dened him. It went on, like some inevitable scheme 
 of evolution, and he could not arrest it, do what he 
 would. He had appealed to Cyples and failed; 
 he had appealed to Lawrence and failed. He had 
 written to his wife; he had even written to Annun- 
 ciata, having the address typewritten so that she 
 might open the envelope unsuspectingly. These 
 letters had elicited no answer whatever. At the 
 same time, on the legal side, he had fought his 
 wife's action step by step, except the petition for 
 alimony, leaving nothing undone that might aid 
 his ultimate victory. As to alimony, he had at 
 once agreed to the sum demanded by Cyples on be- 
 half of Alma. He had contrived to remain friendly 
 with Cyples. In short he had conducted himself 
 
 339
 
 340 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 unexceptlonably. But he had not succeeded in 
 stopping the case. The case indeed was set down 
 for trial, and would be reached during the Michael- 
 mas sittings. Soon it would be necessary to draw 
 the brief for Counsel, and decide in detail the lines 
 of defence. The final calamity was to him almost 
 inconceivable. 
 
 So on a certain afternoon he suddenly jumped into 
 a train at Knype and went to Sandgate. He would 
 see his wife. He would insist on seeing her. Either he 
 would see her or he would do something terrible. He 
 would certainly convince her that he was in earnest. 
 And after all she was still his wife, the same woman 
 who had lived in subjection to him for over 
 twenty years. 
 
 As he walked down the exposed sea-road from 
 Sandgate Railway Station, with the sea restlessly 
 lapping at his right, and vague yellow walls and es- 
 carpments to his left, in the hot and feverish evening, 
 he knew and realized that he had never in his life 
 felt as he felt then. It was exactly as though the 
 top of his head must blow off like the lid of a boiler. 
 What relief that would have been! The feverish 
 summer night nourished and exasperated his fever. 
 He was damp with perspiration, and yet sometimes 
 a shiver chilled him. And he kept muttering: 
 "My God! My God! This is awful! This is awful!" 
 and sighing, and pushing his straw hat back and then
 
 ON THE LEAS 341 
 
 forward, and wildly rotating his cane. His con- 
 dition was extremely pitiable. He pitied himself 
 acutely. He sincerely thought that he was suffering 
 far beyond his deserts, and that if women were not 
 beings too often incapable of genuine compassion, 
 his wife could not but yield after a single glance at 
 him. Decidedly his wife had surprised him. He 
 imagined that he had known her to the marrow of 
 her bones, but she, in common with all the other 
 women, she, the sacred exception, had proved in- 
 calculable, femininely incalculable. 
 
 He approached a terrace of houses; the gas lamps 
 increased. His pace slackened. He pretended that 
 he was walking more slowly in order to decipher the 
 numbers on the house doors ; but it was sheer coward- 
 ice that had got hold of his legs. At length he 
 discovered the number, made doubly sure that it 
 was the right number, passed on a few paces, re- 
 turned, and, sick with apprehension, rang a very 
 loud and startling bell. The house was between the 
 road and the sea. Cyplcs, who had been down there, 
 had once told him, with a kind of wonder, that at 
 high tide the sea washed the wall of the garden at 
 the back of the house. 
 
 He heard quick footsteps within the house. "By 
 God!" he murmured in a passion of fear. 
 
 Martha opened the door; not the unkempt 
 Martha that he had known, but a finished and rather
 
 342 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 natty Martha. In a few months Martha had grown 
 up. The change In her was quite remarkable, and, 
 distracted as he was, he observed the style of her 
 black frock and the white cap and apron. A feeble 
 jet of gas burned behind her in the narrow hall. 
 
 She peered at him. 
 
 "Mr. Fearns!" she said in her broad Five Towns 
 voice. She showed no emotion at seeing him. She 
 just continued to stand at the door, occupying the 
 whole width of the narrow hall. Her primness and 
 her obtuseness robbed him instantly of his heroic 
 desperation, and forced him to behave in a manner 
 which was even an exaggeration of the casual and the 
 everyday. 
 
 "Mistress In.^" he demanded, wondering whether 
 he ought not to step boldly forward and assume 
 possession of the house. 
 
 "No, sir," said Martha. 
 
 "Where is she?" he asked, and he was aware of an 
 instinctive relief on learning that Alma was not In. 
 But why did not Martha make way for him to enter.'' 
 What instructions had she received.'' 
 
 "Missis Is gone to the Folkestone Leas, sir, to 
 hear the band play, with Miss Annunclata and Miss 
 Emily and Master Charles. Master Frank and 
 Master Sep are in bed." 
 
 "Oh!" said Fearns. "Well, perhaps I'll go up 
 there and meet them."
 
 (( 
 
 UT'I 
 
 ON THE LEAS 343 
 
 "Yes, sir. They haven't been gone long." 
 I say, Martha." 
 ^ Yes, sir.?" 
 
 Have you any brandy in the house.?" 
 I'll see, sir. Will you come in, sir.?" She 
 softened. She, Martha, the least of his servants, 
 was actually according him permission to come into 
 his wife's house! She introduced him to a small 
 sitting room and raised the gas. It was the or- 
 dinary furnished sitting room of summer commerce; 
 but his wife's books, and some toys, and a hat of 
 Annunciata's were lying about. The experience was 
 like that of a dream. He gazed at himself in the 
 looking glass. Save that his hair was damp and 
 disarranged, he could not perceive in his appearance 
 any trace of the unusual. He looked as strong and 
 well as ever. And yet he was almost fainting, 
 and he felt very sick and absolutely empty at the 
 same time. 
 
 Martha came with a travelling flask and a glass, 
 and he drank some brandy. 
 
 "Now give me a crust of bread, will you, and I 
 shall be all right." 
 
 "A crust of bread, sir.?" 
 
 "Yes, It's all I can eat." 
 
 And Martha brought him a crust of his wife's 
 bread on a small plate, and he ate it, breaking it 
 first into small pieces. And then, violently stimu-
 
 344 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 lated by the brandy, and his digestive organs busy 
 with the bits of hard crust, he left. 
 
 "If I miss them, I shall come back, Martha," 
 he said. 
 
 "Yes, sir," she agreed impassively. 
 
 She mystified him. She even awed him slightly. 
 He would have liked to see Sep and Frank in their 
 bed, but he dared not suggest to Martha this pro- 
 ject of taking a glimpse at his own children. 
 ; And he continued eastward, through the silent 
 main street of Sandgate in the direction of Folke- 
 stone. There were little fancy shops in Sandgate, 
 where such foolish agreeable things as postcards 
 were bought and sold; and there was a milliner's, 
 with the window full of women's hats, and there were 
 grocers' and butchers' and other establishments that 
 spoke of domesticity and family appetites and order- 
 liness and weekly bills. It happened to be the 
 quiet hour which precedes closing, when the shop- 
 keepers sit idle and languorous behind their counters, 
 glad to see customers but not expecting them, and 
 waiting only for the clock to strike. The High 
 ■ Street dozed decently in Its blue electricity, and the 
 passage of the Folkestone motor-bus ; scarcely dis- 
 . turbed it from its doze. And Fearns traversed all 
 this quiet, regularized respectability with the idea 
 that he was a dark and obscure and tortured thing 
 utterly foreign to it and to all that it represented.
 
 ON THE LEAS 345 
 
 Yet once, he too had been just such a pillar of 
 society as upholds Sandgate and hundreds of places 
 like it round the coast of England. He grew 
 excessively sentimental. 
 
 Then he penetrated into the gloom of the lower 
 Folkestone Road, and he had passed the funicular 
 railway that climbs to the level of the Leas, and was 
 amid larger houses that stood unassailable in gardens 
 throwing the radiance of their peaceful inner life 
 through yellow blinds across the roadway. And 
 now and then he caught the wide sheen of the sea, 
 and the flush of the Gris Nez light. And then at a 
 particular point — for he knew the route well — 
 he struck a winding path going zigzag up the steep 
 bushy face of the high cliff on which newer Folkestone 
 is raised. The path was very dark and mysterious, 
 and at every corner, hidden In low trees, was a bench, 
 and seated on every bench was a couple, murmuring, 
 or more often silent, in ecstasy under the August 
 night — a couple that hated him for intruding and 
 desired the whole rapt beautiful world to themselves. 
 And he savagely hated all the couples, with their 
 stupid Illusion, their obstinate continuance in self- 
 deception, their bland, Idiotic regard. He would 
 have liked to shout fiercely in their silly ears: *'Do 
 you know what it is — this damnable sex.'' Do 
 you know what it leads to?" And thus he went 
 upward, and the immense expanse of the Channel
 
 346 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 was unrolled before him, and it was so still and so 
 lovely, and so suggestive of the tranquillity of pure 
 souls, that he loathed it; he could see no beauty in it, 
 as he stared at it in disgust, watching steamers and 
 fishing boats crawling imperceptibly across it. " Why 
 have I come up here?" he growled viciously. "I 
 shall never find them in the crowd. I shall only 
 have to go back again and hang about till the 
 children are gone to bed and then knock at the door, 
 and begin the whole infernal thing afresh. And 
 supposing I do meet them! We can't have a scene 
 on the Leas. It would be as awkward as the devil; 
 Alma or Annunciata might do something absolutely 
 monstrous. There is no counting on them — and 
 then where should I be.^"' And the sense of delay, 
 of uncertainty, of suspense, angered him profoundly. 
 He wished he had not left the Five Towns. And 
 the temptation to plunge into debauch openly, 
 and let her get her cursed decree nisi and her 
 cursed decree absolute, wandered into his mind and 
 wandered out again. 
 
 Suddenly he reached the summit, and out of 
 darkness and mystery he emerged onto the large 
 tableland of the Leas, stretching under the crude 
 effulgence of electric globes east and west in ap- 
 parently endless vistas. This emergence had the 
 disconcerting swiftness and surprise of something 
 dreamed; the enormous well-dressed crowds seemed
 
 ON THE LEAS 347 
 
 to be walking silently to and fro in a dream over 
 dreamy grass; and the huge crimson hotel and the 
 great boarding-houses with their bellying windows 
 and floor above floor of exposed interiors were like 
 the architecture of some impossible theatre. From 
 a raised bandstand an orchestra exhaled into the 
 night wafts of music, which gently stirred the vague 
 sentimentality of ten thousand breasts, appealing 
 irresistibly to the secret romanticism of the race. 
 Jews and Gentiles were gathered together in a 
 formidable array of wealth and self-importance at 
 the famous resort. The women were elaborate in 
 white or pale toilettes of surpassing fragility, the 
 men either in evening dress or in the lesser correct- 
 ness of flannels and of Panama hats. They walked 
 sedately to and fro, or they sat sedately on the in- 
 numerable chairs, and they might have beencreatures 
 dreaming in the dream of Charles Fearns, whom 
 agony had made a poet. No sound was heard but 
 the melody that spread over the Leas from the 
 bandstand hidden among many rings of chairs, a 
 melody banal and yet sincere in its expression of 
 some fragment of the universal longing. Feet 
 trod noiselessly on the withered grass. In the heat 
 of the night the supine pleasure-seekers found scarcely 
 energy to speak, allowing themselves to be lulled by 
 the faint music into reveries that were sad and de- 
 licious. It is perhaps in such moments of torpor
 
 348 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 that the soul is most intensely and truly alive, most 
 free within the bonds in which the exigences of 
 society have swathed it. 
 
 And Charles Fearns surveyed this multitudinous 
 throng with a cold and heavy stare, loathing it yet 
 comprehending it. He too had experienced the 
 power of the drawing-room ballad rendered by a 
 few fiddlers in the warm obscurity of an August 
 evening. He too had felt the magic of a glimpse of 
 a woman's face lit up for an instant by the red glow 
 of a cigar, and the strange significance of a murmured 
 word or a half achieved gesture. He too had known 
 the savour of those exquisite moments when, by the 
 sea, overlooking the sea, it is impossible to distin- 
 guish between joy and sorrow, and all feeling is 
 simplified into a unique emotion that defies analysis. 
 But now, in the extremity of his woe and of his 
 punishment, he could have wished that Venus had 
 never risen from the wave. He would have refused 
 all that he had ever accepted in order to possess 
 the apathetic calm which refusal alone can give. 
 And as he looked bitterly at the scene, and at the 
 glittering rosy interior of the boarding-houses, and 
 at the broad steps of the hotel which men and elegant 
 women were continually ascending and descending, 
 and at little lighted windows shining here and there 
 high up in the dark facade of the hotel, there was 
 but one thought in his heart. "Fools! Fools!" he
 
 ON THE LEAS 349 
 
 ejaculated angrily in his heart. He imagined that 
 his was the wisest mind in that assemblage. 
 
 He strolled along eastward by the side of the cliff. 
 The sounds of steamers came up from the harbour; 
 beneath him, on the cliff's face, warm airs meandered 
 in the branches of trees; and by listening intently he 
 could hear the regular fall of the sea on the shore 
 hundreds of feet below. Then, with a wrench, he 
 tore himself from the asphalt path and immersed 
 and lost himself in the crowd. His wife and children 
 were somewhere in the crowd. It seemed curious! 
 He could not expect to find them. He did not wish 
 to find them. He feared to find them. His energy 
 and his initiative had deserted him. He approached 
 the bandstand, could not tolerate its music, 
 and made his way doggedly out of the crowd 
 again meaning to return at once to the quietude of 
 Sandgate and there reflect upon exactly what he 
 should do. 
 
 And then he saw Charlie and Emily, his two school 
 children, whom he had not seen since Easter. They 
 were chasing one another with laughter, and he 
 could detect a hoarse note in Charlie's voice. The 
 lad was actually growing up. And Emily's long 
 legs were longer; she was nearly as tall asAnnunciata. 
 Yes, Annunciata stood close by, leaning against the 
 rail of the cliff and gazing out to sea. She was in 
 white like Emily, and astoundingly graceful, he
 
 350 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 thought, with her fair face and the enchanting curve 
 of her cheek, which he could just see. And this was 
 the girl that had spied on his iniquity and ruined 
 him! This was the girl who would denounce him 
 before the law! And there were persons who would 
 persuade him that he could not stop it! Of course 
 he could stop it. She was his daughter. What 
 good-looking, healthy, well brought up children 
 he had! They would hold their own on the Leas 
 with other people's children. And he was their 
 father. It was not to be forgotten that he was their 
 father. He speculated, as often he had speculated 
 before, as to how their mother had explained to the 
 younger children the changed circumstances of the 
 family life. Had she told them bluntly that their 
 parents had separated, or had she merely temporized. 
 At any rate Charlie and Emily did not seem in the 
 least sad; they did not seem to miss him; their days 
 went on as if he had been nothing to them. Yet he 
 was their father. He was the author of the family, 
 the responsible founder of it! And he stood apart, 
 a sort of an outcast, a mere visitor to Folkestone, 
 one among the crowds of pleasure-seekers on the 
 Leas, an undistinguished item. His children did not 
 even glance in his direction. He was not more than 
 fifty feet off them, but they had no suspicion of his 
 arrival, and he might as well have been fifty miles off. 
 There was a large hooded chair on the grass quite
 
 ON THE LEAS 351 
 
 near him, but presenting to him its left side and part 
 of its back. Alma was concealed in that chair. He 
 knew she was in that chair. He could see her white 
 skirt, and one of her feet extended in front of the 
 other. If he had called out she would have recog- 
 nized his voice. She was watching over his chil- 
 dren, and dreaming perhaps. What should he do.'* 
 Should he fly.^ Should he have the courage of his 
 cowardice and fly. ^ Or should he join his family 
 and let happen what might happen .f* 
 
 Charlie and Emily ran away along the path, 
 Charlie pursuing Emily. They appeared to be 
 very fond of each other. This mutual fondness hurt 
 him. It somehow wounded his vanity. With a 
 swift resolve he walked boldly up to Annunciata 
 and stood by her against the rail. She instinctively 
 drew back from this affronting stranger, and then 
 she recognized him. He looked at her, at his daugh- 
 ter, quietly, and it was as if they were meeting 
 for the first time in their lives, after having known 
 each other always by reputation. He noticed the 
 fear in her face. 
 
 "Ann!" he said. 
 
 "Father?" she whispered tentatively. He thought 
 her voice hard and cold. 
 
 "Go and take Charlie and Emily home," he said, 
 "I want to talk quietly to your mother, and I can't 
 if they're about. Go along," he repeated in a
 
 352 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 commanding tone. "Tell them I say they are to 
 be off home. " 
 
 "Yes, father," she acquiesced, still in that voice 
 hard and cold, and without meeting his eyes. And 
 she went, slowly, hesitatingly. He breathed a sigh, 
 and turned towards the hooded chair. His wife, who 
 had seen him in colloquy with Annunciata, was ap- 
 proaching him with quick nervous steps. 
 
 "Charles!" she murmured. She was excessively 
 agitated, but he could not be sure whether by resent- 
 ment or by mere surprise. She stopped about a 
 yard from him, with lips twitching. And he looked 
 at her and she at him, and each strove to read the 
 other and neither succeeded. They had been pro- 
 foundly intimate for over twenty years. At certain 
 seasons, in the far past, they had been as intimate 
 as a man and a woman can be. And now the his- 
 toric fact of this intimacy to rise up between them 
 and utterly confound them. They had parted with 
 a kiss. They met, and in the tumult of their feeling 
 they could not decide on what plane they stood. 
 Habit worked its powerful spell and forced them at 
 last to speak in the tones which they had always 
 used when misunderstandings occurred — a tone 
 not tragic nor heroic. 
 
 " What were you saying to Annunciata.^" Alma 
 asked in troubled apprehension. 
 
 "Surely I can speak to my own daughter!" he
 
 ON THE LEAS 353 
 
 said, not angrily but rather with a dull bitterness. 
 He was relieved that he had encountered her, and 
 that the first words of the interview had passed: it 
 was a beginning. He was decidedly less oppressed 
 by the sense of his own wrongdoing than he had 
 expected. Indeed he almost had the astonishing 
 illusion that his was the grievance. 
 
 "I suppose you can," she agreed gently. He 
 could sec that she was mastering herself. He too 
 must master himself. He must do nothing clumsily. 
 All depended on his skill in managing her. And 
 he thought that he could manage her; he thought 
 that if any human being could manage Alma he was 
 that being. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," he said, "I was just asking 
 Annunciata to take the children so that you and I 
 could have a chat. Alma. I've come down specially 
 to talk to you. I went to the house and saw Martha. 
 She gave me some brandy. I've had no dinner. 
 She told me you were up here, and I came up on the 
 chance of meeting you. Walk along with mr this 
 way, will you?" 
 
 He indicated the direction of Folkestone. 
 
 Would she obey? A group of people moved close 
 by them, and he waited for her response. Her face 
 had a pained, a tormented expression, and she looked 
 at the grass and then at the sea. And then the dis- 
 tant orchestra softly breathed a new melody.
 
 354 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 '*I suppose I had better, " she said, "as you 
 are here." 
 
 And they walked along together by the cliff's 
 edge, close together. She had yielded, and without 
 any fuss. He had got her. She was an instrument 
 on which he had to play. Often, during recent weeks 
 he had desired intensely such an opportunity, and 
 now he had won it. Nevertheless her tone disturbed 
 him; it even frightened him. It was too amicable, 
 too philosophical. It was the tone of a woman who 
 was convinced that she knew precisely where she 
 was and whither she was going. 
 
 "There's something I must say to you," he mut- 
 tered awkwardly. Certainly the situation was in- 
 finitely more delicate than he had anticipated. He 
 simply could not use the phrases which his brain 
 had formed in advance. 
 
 "What.?" 
 
 "Look here, Alma, this action must stop. It 
 really must. You are bound to regret it afterwards." 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "But surely anything is better than the scandal.'"' 
 he argued. 
 
 "No," she said. "I don't think anything is 
 better than the scandal. That's just the point 
 that I really have settled in my own mind." 
 
 "You've never given me any opportunity of '* 
 
 he hesitated. He wanted to conduct the conver-
 
 ON THE LEAS 355 
 
 sation In a proper manner, moving logically from 
 point to point, and leaving no point until it had been 
 definitely argued out. But he could not. His 
 brain was already in disorder. 
 
 "Opportunity of what?" she asked. 
 
 "Of letting you hear my side of this affair." 
 
 "Well," she said. "What is your side of the 
 affair?" ' 
 
 "Of course " he commenced lamely. He 
 
 perceived that by requesting him to state his side 
 of the affair she had compelled him at once to expose 
 his weakness. He could not state his side of the 
 affair; it was not to be stated. 
 
 "You don't mean that the whole thing's an error 
 and due to a misconception?" she said, with a touch 
 of grimness. "You aren't going to ask me to credit 
 that?" And she continued to walk regularly by 
 his side, gazing in front of her with a fixed stare. 
 There was a pause in the talk. 
 
 "You're terrible," he murmured. "Terrible! 
 I wouldn't have thought you could have been so — 
 well, let's assume I've made a fool of myself. Let's 
 assume that. Think the worst of me you can — 
 though it's not so bad as you imagine, Alma. It 
 isn't really. But assume it Is — assume It is. What 
 then? By God, Alma, there's many and many a 
 husband worse than me, if you only knew! I could 
 tell you things. You know I'm frightfully fond
 
 356 WTIOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 of you. You know I think the world of you. 
 Don't you?" 
 
 "Yes," she admitted, "I believe you do." 
 
 He was pleased. He had scored a little advantage. 
 And he continued with a slight access of confidence: 
 
 "And then there are the children. I'm just as 
 attached to them as you are, every bit. I never 
 get as much pleasure as I get in my own home." 
 
 "Evidently!" she ejaculated. And he detected 
 in her voice a note of callous bitterness — that was 
 startlingly new in his experience of her. He had 
 said something stupid, something that left him 
 exposed to an obvious and extremely cruel retort. 
 And she had not hesitated to fling the dart. He was 
 wounded. Alma was not sportsmanlike, after all; 
 she was like other women. She was destroying his 
 ideal of her. Yes, he had said something incredibly 
 stupid, but that Alma should have seized on it and 
 used it against him, pained him even more than the 
 wound she had dealt. He was dashed, shaken. He 
 staggered, and rallied his forces. 
 
 "You must think of the children," he insisted, 
 with a pathetic air of wisdom and authority. 
 
 I've been thinking of nothing else," she replied. 
 It was because of the children that I left your 
 house, and it is because of the children that I am 
 bringing the action. Don't fancy that I have any 
 other motive, please." 

 
 ON THE LEAS 357 
 
 "But it will cling to them all their liveg," said 
 
 he. 
 
 "What will cling to them all their lives?" 
 
 "The scandal of the action — if you let it go 
 on. 
 
 "Not it!" said Alma. "People like you are apt 
 to give too much importance to scandal." (Peo- 
 ple like him! What did she mean? How bitter 
 she was, in spite of the gentleness of her voice! 
 He had told her that he had had no dinner, and that 
 Martha had given him brandy; but she did not seem 
 to care. How well and calm she looked!) "The 
 scandal won't attach to your children and it won't 
 attach to me. And in any case it will soon be for- 
 gotten. One doesn't discuss a divorce case forever, 
 even in Bursley. Do you suppose the scandal will 
 keep the boys from getting on in life, or the girls 
 from marrying? Pvc thought a good deal about 
 the scandal, and it seems to me that it will only be 
 like an illness. It will cure itself. It will be ab- 
 solutely forgotten long before the children are old 
 enough to understand it." 
 
 "Not Annunciata," he put in. 
 
 "No. I wasn't thinking of Annunciata. Annun- 
 ciata isn't a child. She was. But she isn't now." 
 
 It was extraordinary how nearly everything his 
 wife said hurt him acutely. 
 
 "You know me, Alma," he said in a low voice.
 
 358 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 " You know the sort of man I am. If you go on with 
 the action, I shall fight it — tooth and nail. Have 
 you realized what the trial will be to Annunciata .J* 
 For that poor girl?" He almost wept. "She'll 
 never get over it. It will be too shameful." 
 
 " I don't agree with you, " Alma replied. " Natur- 
 ally it will be very painful. But as she says to me, 
 nothing else can possibly be anything like as pain- 
 ful as what she has already been through. She will 
 feel that she is doing her duty to me. " 
 
 "Then you talk about it.^" He was shocked. 
 
 "We have talked about it." 
 
 "What does she say about me.^"' 
 
 "Nothing. You don't suppose I should discuss 
 you with Annunciata, do you?" 
 
 This pleased him. Here was a ray of light. 
 
 "Alma," he cried. "You'll never let that girl 
 give evidence at the trial. You'll never do it. It 
 will be too monstrous." 
 
 They were approaching the eastern end of the 
 Leas; no one was near. Alma stopped suddenly 
 and clutched the rail with both hands. 
 
 "And If I don't," she said. "What then? Are 
 we all to come back to you, and live together 
 again? You and I and Annunciata? Are we to see 
 each other every day, and talk just as if nothing 
 had happened? 
 
 She threw her head back, defiant.
 
 ON THE LEAS 359 
 
 "No, no!" he said hurriedly. "I don't mean 
 that. I didn't meant that for a moment. Only 
 drop the action. Live where you like for a year 
 or two. I won't worry you. I'll leave you ab- 
 solutely alone. We can easily keep up appearances. 
 Perhaps Annunciata will marry, or go out into the 
 world and do something. She's the kind of girl 
 that often does. Then you could come back. 
 Alma, I'm cured. I'm certain I'm cured. You 
 can trust me In the future. I'll do anything you 
 like. You can't suggest anything I won't do to 
 satisfy you. I shall never — treat you badly again. 
 But to see Annunciata in the witness box will 
 simply kill me. " 
 
 "Yes," said Alma coldly but always gently. 
 "It's yourself you're thinking of. My dear man, 
 I can't trust you. I know you too well. We shall 
 never talk like this again, and so I may as well say 
 what I have to say. I can't trust you. What you 
 tell me now is perfectly genuine, no doubt. But 
 you're incurable. A man who has done what 
 you've done must be incurable. Suppose I were to 
 say that I forgave you — I might have even worse 
 to go through later on. You've gone too far. 
 Oh, yes!" She shuddered. "You've gone too far. 
 I'm sorry. But there it is. You say that anything 
 will be better than the scandal. I say that anything 
 will be better than not being absolutely free of a man
 
 36o WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 like you. No! You must try not to mind me talk- 
 ing in this way. You came to me, and I'm bound 
 to tell you. Mind, I don't blame you. You can't 
 help it, I know you can't help it. I'm sorry, 
 that's all. I'm dreadfully sorry. I wish I could 
 do something for you. But I can't. We all have to 
 go through with the thing. And please don't 
 forget that / suffer," she added proudly. "All the 
 humiliation Is mine. Oh! Charles, I don't believe 
 you will ever guess what the humiliation was! And 
 here you come and ask me to forgive you! Well, I 
 do forgive you. But I must have my freedom. I 
 will have it. It's my right. No woman ever 
 suffered more than I've suffered. I'm the mother 
 of your children, but I'm just a woman too!" 
 
 She hid her face a moment in her hands, and 
 sobbed. 
 
 Despair settled on him. "The court will never 
 grant you a divorce," he muttered feebly. 
 
 "It will be infamous if It doesn't!" she exclaimed, 
 revolted. "But if I can't get a divorce I shall take 
 a judicial separation. And I shall have the children. 
 Good-bye!" 
 
 She turned abruptly in the direction of Sandgate 
 and hurried off. For a moment he was at a loss. 
 Then he followed her, like a pertinacious beggar 
 following a person of wealth. 
 
 "But Alma "
 
 ON THE LEAS 361 
 
 "Good-bye!" she repeated. 
 
 "What about me?" he demanded poignantly. 
 
 She shook her head. "Ah!" she breathed. 
 
 The orchestra had ceased playing and the Leas 
 were nearly deserted. All the concentric rings of 
 chairs were empty; the bandstand rose up in the 
 middle of them like a mushroom. The electric 
 globes were extinguished, but the boarding-houses 
 and the hotel maintained their illuminated brilliance. 
 
 "What do you say to the children .f" "he questioned, 
 sticking to her side. 
 
 "I tell them not to ask questions," said Alma. 
 
 "I must ask you to leave me now, Charles," 
 she announced, after a long period of silence, 
 when they had reached the Sandgate end of the 
 Leas. 
 
 Obeying a sudden savage impulse, he wheeled 
 round and turned to the Leas again. When he 
 looked for her she was out of sight. He gazed 
 at the sea, and he considered himself the most ill 
 used creature on this earth. Quite apart from its 
 result, the interview had not passed at all as he 
 intended. He had meant to meet her arguments 
 with arguments; he had meant to appeal to her 
 heart as well as to her mind. But she had baffled 
 him. There was no doubt that Alma had completely 
 changed; she was a different woman. And he, 
 Charles Fearns, had ended by running after his
 
 362 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 wife like a beggar hysterically bent on getting a 
 halfpenny! 
 
 If any one had told him that he admired and 
 respected her more than ever, he would have denied 
 it furiously; but he did.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 
 
 SHALL you see faver?" Sep cried shrilly, 
 at the open front-door of No. 'j'j^ Sea View, 
 Sandgate, one cold, dark morning, early 
 in December. 
 
 Mrs. Fearns and Annunciata were getting into a 
 cab, which was to take them to Folkestone to catch 
 the 8:30 express for London. Sep and Frank stood 
 on the white step; behind these infants were Charles 
 and Emily, conscious of superior age and gravity; 
 and in the background was Martha. The two 
 elder children were now day scholars at their 
 respective schools. 
 
 "Perhaps," said Mrs. Fearns, calmly; and she 
 smiled on Sep and Frank with benignity, and told 
 them to go in at once lest they should take cold, and 
 enjoined Martha to the same end, and nodded to 
 Charles and Emily. And Emily, who had been 
 pouting because she had failed to obtain any in- 
 formation whatever from either Annunciata or her 
 mother as to the object of this mysterious visit to 
 London, at last deigned to smile in reply. Mrs.
 
 364 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 Fearns pulled up the windows of the cab, and 
 the vehicle drove off with a rattle unjustified 
 by its speed. 
 
 The two veiled women addressed no word to 
 each other. Each sat with her muff on her lap, and 
 furs round the shoulders, and by the muff a small 
 satchel; and leaning in the corner of the cab were two 
 umbrellas. At Folkestone Central they were a 
 quarter of an hour too soon for the train. "Why, 
 mother!" exclaimed Annunciata, "we've got a 
 quarter of an hour to wait!" "Yes," said Mrs. 
 Fearns, after she had paid the cabman. "But I 
 have the tickets to see to." "Give me the money, 
 dearest," said Annunciata, "I'll see to the tickets." 
 And Annunciata, with a couple of sovereigns in her 
 hand, tripped to the ticket-office and through her 
 veil demanded in her thin girlish voice two first 
 returns to Charing Cross, and received them, and 
 meticulously counted the change. And the habitues 
 of the morning express, who went to town every day 
 and were always on the lookout for interesting and 
 agreeable phenomena to diversify their tedious 
 routine, glanced at Annunciata and then at her 
 mother, and thought how pleasurable it would be to 
 have charge of such nice creatures during the jour- 
 ney; their masculine susceptibilities were outraged 
 to see a young and attractive woman buying her own 
 tickets and teasing her pretty head over the change.
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 365 
 
 A solicltious porter came along and enquired about 
 luggage, and when told that there was no luggage 
 he seemed disappointed, as though Fate had robbed 
 him of a legitimate opportunity to show his devotion 
 to the sex. The guard himself put the two women 
 into the train. Three heavily coated men in the 
 same compartment examined them furtively over 
 the tops of newspapers, and then gradually lost 
 curiosity as they settled to the perusal of "Special 
 law reports," or other matters equally absorbing. 
 The wife and daughter of Charles Fearns sitting 
 in opposite corners of the compartment, maintained 
 an absolute silence. They did not even read news- 
 papers or magazines. From time to time they 
 gazed idly out of the window at the naked brown 
 December landscape; and that was all. They had, 
 as a fact, scarcely discussed the affair which had been 
 uppermost in their minds since the flight from the 
 Five Towns. Between two intimate and pro- 
 foundly affectionate souls there exists often a shy- 
 ness, an unconquerable modesty, which prevents 
 freedom* of converse on certain subjects. Had 
 Annunciata and her mother been separated by dis- 
 tance they would most probably have written freely 
 aboutthe divorce; but to speak freely was impossible. 
 After Annunciata's candid recital to her mother on 
 the day of the governess's departure, hardly a word 
 had passed. Nevertheless, without words, the
 
 366 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 situation was clearly understood by both. A letter 
 from Cyples occasionally shown In silence to An- 
 nunciata kept the girl abreast of the proceedings. 
 Though she did not grasp the exact nature of all 
 the legal steps, she perfectly comprehended that the 
 issue of the trial would depend on herself, that she 
 would be the principal witness against her father, 
 and that consequently her role would be an ex- 
 ceedingly painful one. 
 
 She could scarcely be said to shrink from it. She 
 shrank from it even less than her mother imagined. 
 Her love and admiration for her mother were bound- 
 less, and this testimony which she was to give in 
 Court, this ordeal which she was to suffer, presented 
 themselves to her young mind as it were in the light 
 of religious acts, and sacrifices. She, who was by 
 nature decidedly sentimental, strangely enough 
 did not at all regard her share of the matter in a 
 sentimental way. Her heart was extraordinarily 
 hard about It. She had taken her mother's part 
 with passionate enthusiasm. Her mother had be- 
 come an angel and her father had become a devil. 
 She had deliberately encouraged In herself a right- 
 eous and relentless animosity against her father. 
 Whenever she thought of him she thought of him 
 with bitterness; she forced herself to think of him 
 with bitterness. She had developed a holy fanat- 
 icism. She would have been capable of condemning
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 367 
 
 him, for his infamy towards her mother, to ever- 
 lasting punishment and shame. She deemed her 
 mother entirely right and wise in bringing the action, 
 and in calling upon her, Annunciata, to end her 
 father's career as a married man. She saw no other 
 course open to her mother. In her soul she said 
 that her mother would have been guilty of cowardice 
 and worse if she had refrained from bringing the 
 action. She had no doubts, no uncertainties. 
 With the fierce absoluteness of her years and of her 
 ignorance of the world and human nature, she judged 
 him. And the justice of one's children is terrible. 
 On the night in August when her father had spoken 
 to her on the Leas, her attitude had been, after 
 recovering from the first shock of seeing him: 
 *'He dares to speak to me!" And she had fostered 
 this attitude in herself, she had insisted on it to 
 herself, in order to nullify certain instincts which 
 the sight of him had awakened in her — instincts 
 which she had thought to be dead and buried. And 
 she had hurried the children away, not (so she ex- 
 plained to herself) in obedience to his command, 
 but because she could not tolerate that they should 
 breathe the same air as that monster of wicked- 
 ness, that torturer of her angelic mother. She 
 had been very cross with Charlie and Emily for 
 venturing to demur at her orders, and there had been 
 a little revolt; but Annunciata had triumphed; she 
 
 y
 
 368 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 was the elder sister, and, however they might seek 
 to disguise it, the rest of the family went in awe of 
 her. She had seen Charlie and Emily to bed, and 
 waited alone for her mother's return. And even 
 on that poignant occasion, Alma and Annunciata 
 had not mentioned the adulterer. Annunciata 
 had merely questioned her mother with her liquid 
 eyes and Alma had replied with a grave kiss. And 
 Annunciata knew from the silence that her father's 
 visit had changed nothing of her mother's intentions; 
 and she was glad. 
 
 So it occurred that Annunciata journeyed that 
 December morning to London with a proud and 
 composed mien, the mien of one who is conscious 
 of duty, of righteousness, of a full knowledge of 
 affairs, and who is capable of looking at life in a 
 purely practical manner. 
 
 Cyples met them at Charing Cross. At the first 
 glance Mrs. Fearns almost failed to recognize 
 him, for he was wearing a silk hat and a frock coat, 
 ceremonious attire in which the Five Towns never 
 had the opportunity of seeing him. He appeared 
 to be just a little nervous and shy, and this diffident 
 demeanour commended the big, stout man at once 
 to Annunciata, who, though she might have caught 
 sight of him once or twice in the streets of Hanbridge, 
 had not met him before and knew nothing of his 
 immense reputation in his own circles. He as-
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 369 
 
 sisted the ladies to alight, and put them into a 
 cab which he had previously secured, and drove 
 with them to the law courts. During the passage 
 down the Strand he made none but the briefest 
 remarks, of a general nature; he was unrecognizable 
 as the easy and ebullient Cyples; he might have 
 been going to a wedding or a funeral. He led 
 them into the courts by the principal entrance 
 from the Strand, and had the strange caprice, as 
 Mrs. Fearns thought it, of showing them over the 
 great pile as if it had been a museum and he the 
 guide. He was unhurried, and conversational 
 now in a style gravely cheerful. He told them 
 the dimensions of the great hall, and the total 
 number of rooms in the entire building; he related 
 to them the tragic history of the architect. Then he 
 preceded them upstairs and made the round of the 
 courts, and outside the portals of one court he said 
 in impressive accents: 
 
 "The Lord Chief Justice is sitting there." 
 There were pomps that could move even 
 Cyples. 
 
 The mother and daughter, bewildered by the corri- 
 dors and the crowds, followed him meekly from 
 point to point, wondering when he would broach 
 the fearful business of their visit, and not daring 
 to broach it themselves. At length, in a wider 
 corridor, where groups of men were staring at printed
 
 
 370 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 lists exposed on stands, they met a young man whom 
 Cyples stopped. The young man, who was carry- 
 ing a bag, raised his hat, as much to Cyples 
 as to the ladies. 
 
 "Give me my bag," said Cyples, In the curt 
 tone of one used to authority. 
 
 "Here it is, sir," said the young man, hastily 
 yielding the bag. 
 
 "Court sitting.^" Cyples questioned In a low voice. 
 'Yes, sir. Just started." 
 
 Well, be about. And let me know Instantly 
 the defence Is closed In the case before ours. 
 That'll do." 
 
 "Yes, sir." The young man vanished down a 
 side corridor. 
 
 "Now, will you come this way, ladies.''" said 
 Cyples, resuming suddenly his deferential air. And 
 he conducted them to an empty consulting room 
 with which he was evidently familiar, and, begging 
 them to sit down, asked whether they were in need 
 of anything. Being assured that they were not, 
 he placed his hat carefully on the table, sat down 
 himself, and opened his bag. 
 
 "Everything Is In order," he said, looking at 
 Mrs. Fearns. "I had quite a long conference with 
 our leader this morning, and he Is very hopeful 
 that we shall get the — er — full decree; very 
 hopeful. Anyhow he'll make a good fight for it,
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 371 
 
 and at the worst a decree of judicial separation is a 
 certainty. You see, as I have explained to you 
 before, we're trying for the full decree, but the 
 judge has power, if he refuses us that, to grant us a 
 judicial separation, which we really aren't asking 
 for. You understand, don't you.?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said Mrs. Fearns. "Then you really 
 think I shall succeed in getting a divorce? You 
 think the judge will regard it as sufficient cruelty.'*" 
 
 Cyples was astounded at the freedom with which 
 even the nicest women will employ unpleasant 
 words to say what they mean. His own delicacy 
 had prevented him from uttering the word "divorce" 
 in Annunciata's presence, and as for the word 
 "cruelty," it sounded shocking and monstrous from 
 Mrs. Fearns's lips. Yet she had spoken with ap- 
 parently the blandest unconcern. And Annunciata 
 was looking her mother straight in the face, 
 unashamed. Really, women were an ever fresh 
 source of surprise to even the most experienced 
 and inured males. 
 
 "I think so," said he, unfolding a large white 
 paper. "If you ask me my opinion, I should say 
 that the chances are distinctly favourable, distinctly 
 sol But the point Is a new one — at least in certain 
 aspects." He half turned to Annunciata. "Now 
 if I might suggest, it would be well for both of you
 
 372 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 to stay here quietly until you are actually needed. 
 There is no necessity for you to be in court except 
 while you are actually giving your evidence — es- 
 pecially Miss Fearns," he added. 
 
 "Quite so," Mrs. Fearns concurred. "We should 
 much prefer that." 
 
 "Yes, much," said Annunciata, behaving herself 
 most deceivingly like a woman of the world. 
 
 "Here is a note of your evidence, Miss Fearns," 
 said Cyples in a low, solemn voice. "Perhaps you 
 will look carefully through it to see that it is all 
 right." And he handed her the large white paper, 
 with the legend in large caligraphy at the top. 
 " Proof of Annunciata Fearns." 
 
 Annunciata, in the primness of her dark gray 
 coat and skirt, seated there so calmly in that bare 
 formidable chamber, did not realize how nervous 
 and distracted she was. She imagined that this 
 new, strange, mysterious, hard, masculine universe 
 in which she suddenly found herself had produced 
 on her nothing but the most superficial impression, 
 and that her calm was unimpaired. And even when 
 she attempted to decipher and make sense of the 
 contents of the paper, and failed, she would not 
 admit to herself the sway of any unusual emotion. 
 She forced her eyes to run along the lines, in a 
 semblance of reading, and after due delay she re- 
 marked to Cyples:
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 373 
 
 "Yes. This is perfectly correct." And let the 
 paper fall on her knee. 
 
 It puzzled her how Cyples had obtained and 
 caused to be reduced to writing the particulars of 
 all that she knew concerning her father's conduct 
 and the conduct of Renee on the catastrophic night 
 and the next morning. Certainly she had told her 
 mother everything, and Cyples had seen her mother 
 immediately afterwards, and, at a later date, during 
 a professional visit of Cyples to Sandgate, a few 
 questions had been put to her. But that was all. 
 And lo! the precise details of her evidence filled a 
 large sheet of paper. She noticed with a start that 
 her mother was perusing a similar paper. She 
 picked up her own paper again, and now succeeded 
 in reading it. The facts were recorded perfectly 
 correctly. But the sight of them set down in crude 
 direct language, in black and white, disconcerted 
 her excessively. Qualms of terror visited her. 
 
 Cyples left the room. 
 
 "Are you all right, Ann.'"' her mother asked, 
 anxiously scrutinizing her. 
 
 "Yes, mother, of course I am," she replied in a 
 cold voice. 
 
 And she resumed her courage, picturing to herself 
 the aspect of the court and the demeanour of the 
 persons present therein. She had never seen a 
 tribunal; but she had seen pictures of tribunals,
 
 374 W'HOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 and portraits of judges and barristers, and the look 
 of the barristers whom she had encountered that 
 morning in the corridors confirmed a fanciful, 
 child-like conception which she had of the unhuman 
 quality of justice. With her characteristic lack of 
 imagination, she failed to appreciate the fact that 
 human nature could no more be kept out of a divorce 
 court than air could be kept out of it. In her mind 
 she foreshadowed something arid, formal, awe- 
 inspiring, almost supernatural, and perhaps ter- 
 rifying; but not emotional with simple human feel- 
 ing. If she could have analyzed her vague ideas 
 she would have perceived that she expected herself, 
 and perhaps her mother, alone to be human in the 
 court, and that she was relying on the austere 
 majesty of legal procedure to lend to her weakness the 
 strength which it needed, or to shame her into 
 frigidity. In a word she envisaged the ordeal that 
 lay before her in a manner which was not merely 
 inadequate but false. 
 
 The public gallery of the court was neither more 
 nor less full than usual, but the ground floor cer- 
 tainly showed signs of a special animation and in- 
 terest when the case of Fearns v. Fearns was called, 
 about three quarters of an hour before luncheon. It 
 had become known, through the agency of either 
 solicitors' clerks or barristers' clerks, that the case 
 of Fearns v. Fearns would be delectable, from both
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 375 
 
 a scandalous and a legal point of view. The junior 
 bar was richly represented, and the floating clerical 
 population of the courts, which devotes its ample 
 spare time to the tasting of tit-bits of all kinds, 
 crowded the gangways and the witnesses' benches. 
 The Press Association's shorthand writer prepared 
 himself to produce a report which had been specially 
 ordered by the Staffordshire Signal, and which 
 would appear piece by piece in successive editions 
 of the daily organ of the Five Towns, under some 
 such heading as "Local Divorce Case. Astonishing 
 Revelations." Several Five Town faces, quite 
 unconnected with the action, were to be seen In 
 court. Business, by a happy chance, had summoned 
 these faces to London at the very time when Fearns 
 v. Fearns appeared In the Cause List. The court 
 was filled with a pleasant anticipation, an antici- 
 pation which was without misgivings, for there 
 could be no fear that the judge would spoil every- 
 body's pleasure by deciding to hear the evidence 
 in camera. According to rumour — and rumour 
 was correct — there could be nothing in the case 
 that might not be listened to by all the world and 
 read without abridgment in evening trains or at 
 morning tables. There would be nothing to shock 
 the most easily shocked nation in Europe, no 
 disgusting physical details, no perverse eccentrici- 
 ties, no history of disease; merely the spectacle of a
 
 376 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 young virgin compelled to relate, in the presence of 
 public and press, exactly how she had caught her 
 father in adultery. It was an affair not by any 
 means to be missed, an affair which it would have 
 been wrong to keep from a race at large accustomed 
 to such things. It was neither a bull fight nor an 
 indecency, and no one could take exception to it. 
 
 The initiated looked around for the heroine and 
 the outraged wife, and, the sight being for the 
 moment denied to them, they comforted themselves 
 with the thought of the dramatic entry which these 
 women must ultimately make. And in the mean- 
 time they could see Charles Fearns, who sat in the 
 well of the court, with Apreece on one side of him 
 and young Bowes on the other, and Lawrence Rid- 
 ware next to Bowes. Fearns v. Fearns was a truly 
 important case; its importance could be judged by 
 the mere fact that the venerable and astute Apreece, 
 the guiding brain of Apreece and Company, Fearns*s 
 London agents, had thought well to be present in 
 person. Fearns wanted support, and all the support 
 he could get, and he had asked Apreece to attend 
 to the matter himself; he had not had to ask twice. 
 It was apparently for the sake of support too, that 
 Fearns, in defiance of Lawrence's wish, had insisted 
 on Lawrence accompanying him to London. Law- 
 rence had suggested Pennington, but Fearns would 
 not hear of Pennington. Fearns had never even
 
 A PUBLIC APPEAR.A.NCE 377 
 
 mentioned his divorce to Pennington. Moreover 
 he required some one to whom he could talk as an 
 equal, some one who had a brain beyond documents 
 and ledgers. He had talked incessantly about the 
 case for several days, and Lawrence, on his part, 
 had spoken with a bitter freedom that had angered 
 his employer. But Lawrence did not care. Since 
 the failure of his own action for divorce, Lawrence 
 had become morose and defiant: it was his way of 
 restoring his dignity: and he was pushing forward 
 the preliminaries of a fresh action in the Scottish 
 Courts with a feeling that might be fairly described 
 as virulence. He bore malice against Fearns for 
 having forced him to breathe again the atmosphere 
 of the matrimonial court, which poisoned him by its 
 humiliating memories, and he scarcely concealed 
 this malice. Yet Fearns did not seem to care. All 
 that Fearns seemed to demand was companionship. 
 Behind the Fearns group was one of the two King's 
 Counsel engaged; the other was close by, with Cyples 
 at hand. Expense had not been spared by either of 
 the parties, and these aged forensic ornaments of 
 the Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division were 
 of the costly kind, the kind that lends lustre to a 
 trial and that, beneath a mark of exaggerated defer- 
 ence, does not fear to try to intimidate the judge 
 himself. The chosen of Cyples, with his junior at 
 his back, and Cyples and Cyples's agent in front of
 
 378 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 him, opened Mrs. Fearns's case with cautious elabo- 
 rateness. The experts instantly perceived the di- 
 rection of the line upon which he was moving. If 
 the President of the Division had a slight weakness, 
 it was his tendency to read new meanings into old 
 precedents, while professing, and sincerely feeling, 
 a deep respect for those precedents. In order that 
 Mrs. Fearns might win her action, the legal signifi- 
 cance of the word "cruelty" would have to be 
 somewhat broadened, and already, even at that 
 early stage, the eminent pleader was subtly prepar- 
 ing the judge's mind. And the judge at intervals 
 raised himself up In his chair according to his habit, 
 and said to himself: "This man imagines he is 
 influencing me." And nevertheless the judge was 
 indeed being Influenced. 
 
 And when the King's Counsel, in his mild, conver- 
 sational tone, had laid down the foundations of his 
 argument, there was some whispering in each of 
 the opposing groups, and then the name of Alma 
 Fearns resounded in the court and in the corridor, 
 first loud and then faint, and Mrs. Fearns was led 
 in by a clerk deputed to that office by Cyples. She 
 was absolutely self-possessed. She gave her un- 
 important evidence, and produced the letters 
 which she had received from her husband, without 
 an external trace of emotion. She caught her 
 husband's glance, and did not flinch. She breathed
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 379 
 
 the name of Annunciata, and her voice did not 
 tremble. And after the barristers had done with 
 her, she did not forget to bow to the judge in leav- 
 ing the box. She impressed everybody. Cyples's 
 eye shone with appreciation of her fine, stern quali- 
 ties as an ideal petitioner. Her ordeal finished, she 
 walked straight out of court, passing as quickly as 
 she could, and with averted gaze, along the peopled 
 gangways. Between the inner and the outer swing- 
 doors Annunciata was standing, the clerk by her side. 
 The inner door closed with a faint bang. And at the 
 same moment there came the voice of the usher: 
 
 "Annunciata Fearns." 
 
 "Go, dear," said Mrs. Fearns. The clerk held 
 the door open, and Annunciata went into the court. 
 Her mother followed her a few steps, and then 
 halted near the door. 
 
 The girl blushed deeply as she moved forward, 
 obeying the pompous gesture of the black usher, 
 the only being whom at first she clearly distinguished 
 in what was to her a confused mass of faces. He 
 directed her up the steps to the witness box; and, 
 having once stumbled to her appointed position, 
 she turned and fronted the assemblage with tight 
 lips and frightened eyes. The court-room did not 
 at all coincide with her vision of it. Every gaze was 
 fixed on her. And what rude, bold, hard, human 
 glances! She looked at the public gallery and saw
 
 38o WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 what might have been the audience of a theatre 
 gallery, examining her with intent and leering curi- 
 osity. The thing about this audience which most 
 annoyed her was that it was ill dressed, shabby, an 
 audience of loafers. Her modesty was outraged 
 by the implacable, ignoble, prying stares that beset 
 her from the gallery. And, below, it was not much 
 better. The barristers had a terrible air; they seemed 
 to be banded together for her undoing. And be- 
 hind the barristers was another public, among which 
 she recognized several acquaintances. There was, 
 for Instance, Mark Ridware. Had he come simply 
 to gape at her.'' Was it possible that people had 
 come all the way to the court to appease a disgrace- 
 ful inquisitiveness concerning her family's private 
 affairs? She saw also a notorious middle-aged 
 spinster from Bursley, whose indefatigable tongue 
 was famous in the Five Towns. The idea that the 
 idle and wealthy spinster had journeyed to London 
 in order to assist at the shaming of the Fearns pierced 
 Annunciata like an arrow, changing on a sudden her 
 whole estimate of human nature. 
 
 She thought the usher was a horrid man. She 
 did not like his untidy beard, and when he gave her 
 the black Bible, and threw a form of words at her In 
 a thick, unpleasant voice, the aspect of his hands 
 offended her. She took the volume and kissed it 
 through her veil and the usher forced her to kiss it
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 381 
 
 again. She had to raise her veil in the presence of 
 the entire audience, and humbly obey the usher, 
 whom she could plainly perceive to be a most 
 commonplace creature in a torn and dirty gown; the 
 usher was not nearly so distinguished as Martin, 
 the gardener at Bleakridge, and here he was issuing 
 his instructions to her, while the audience waited in 
 shuffling silence. As she was kissing the Bible she 
 caught the eye of the judge, and even the judge 
 appeared to be regarding her with a masculine and 
 impious interest. There was not the grave and god- 
 like ceremonial of justice which she had expected. 
 All that met her gaze hurt her susceptibilities. She 
 sought her mother's form where she had left it near 
 the door, and it was no longer there. Mrs. Fearns, 
 unable to bear the sight of Annunciata solitary in the 
 witness-box, under the fire of that coarse curiosity, 
 had retreated to the corridor. Then Annunciata 
 saw her father, sitting below her in front of the old, 
 clean-shaven barristers. His eyes were fixed on 
 the floor, his legs stretched out, his hands in his 
 pockets. The expression on his features was one 
 of intense pain and grief. 
 
 And suddenly she was aware of a desire, at once 
 powerful and irrational, to rush down to him and 
 fold him in her arms and let his arms enfold her. 
 She remembered how sometimes at meals she used 
 to clasp his great hairy fist, out of sheer affection,
 
 382 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 and then caress the back of his hand as it lay im- 
 movable on the table. And as she stood in the 
 witness-box he seemed to her strangely and surpris- 
 ingly the most lovable man in the world, and she 
 forgot his misdeeds; his misdeeds lost importance. 
 She choked with an emotion which she could 
 not comprehend. 
 
 One of the aged barristers was waving a finger at 
 her. 
 
 "Your name is Annunciata Fearns.'"' 
 
 "Yes," she whispered. 
 
 "And you are the daughter of the petitioner and 
 the respondent in this case.^"' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Every pair of eyes in the court was glaring at 
 her. 
 
 She saw her father rise from his seat and walk 
 out. He pushed violently and as it were angrily 
 through the people obstructing the gangway. Her 
 glance followed him. Then she gathered that the 
 aged barrister was addressing her again, and she 
 recognized, in a confused series of phrases meaning- 
 less to her brain, the sole word "governess." She 
 gazed blankly and stupidly around her, with smart- 
 ing eyes and a lump in her throat. The aged 
 barrister addressed her a second time. Her lips 
 did not move. 
 
 The judge coughed slightly, and turned a little
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 383 
 
 sideways on his chair so as to look at her; and she 
 looked at him, expectantly. 
 
 *'You must answer," said the judge, in a kind, 
 firm, avuncular voice. He did not resemble a 
 judge to her in the least. He was scarcely six feet 
 away from her, and merely a mysteriously and dis- 
 concertingly shrewd old man in a rather ridiculous 
 headgear. Her eyes continued their appeal to him. 
 
 "You must answer," he repeated. 
 
 Something broke within her. 
 
 "What?" she asked him in a simple, very quiet, 
 colloquial tone. "Here.? Before all these people.?" 
 
 "Yes," said the judge. 
 
 "Oh, no!" she cried. "I can't! I didn't know!" 
 And in the unreflecting madness of her torment she 
 sprang down the steps from the witness-box, like 
 a wild deer that terror has made desperate and 
 dangerous. At the lowest step she stumbled, and 
 Lawrence, jumping to his feet, caught her. Law- 
 rence was the last person fitted by nature to carry a 
 fainting girl out of a crowded hall, but he did it, 
 knowing not how he did it. And there ensued that 
 rare and thrilling phenomenon, beloved of all pub- 
 lics, a genuine "scene in court." Within an hour or 
 so it was on the contents bill of every evening paper 
 in the three kingdoms, including, of course, that of 
 the Staffordshire Signal. 
 
 Annunciata did not actually swoon. In the cor-
 
 384 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 ridor she fell into her mother's arms. Her father had 
 gone to the bar to find strength in a brandy and soda. 
 
 "What is it, my darling?" asked Mrs. Fearns in 
 desolate accents. "Mr. Ridware!" 
 
 "Oh, mother, " Annunciata moaned. " I've ruined 
 you. Let me go back. " And she burst into sobs. 
 
 The corridor was blocked in a few seconds with 
 a crowd eager to see anything that was to be seen. 
 Charles Fearns, oblivious, gulped down his brandy 
 and soda in the bar with the Gothic arches. And 
 the imperturbable judge, the hour being within 
 ten minutes of lunch, adjourned the sitting after a 
 word or two with the two King's Counsel. Cyples 
 and Lawrence, aided by sundry liege clerks and some 
 officials, got the women away to a private room, 
 where Annunciata seemed quickly to resume all 
 her self-possession. 
 
 "If you will leave me alone with her for a few 
 minutes," Mrs. Fearns murmured to Cyples. And 
 Cyples and Lawrence withdrew. 
 
 Mrs. Fearns smiled gently on her daughter. 
 
 "Mother!" Annunciata asked grievously. "What 
 are we to do? If I go back now, I shall be all right. 
 It was — I don't know what it was. But I am better 
 
 now. " 
 
 The mother shook her head. 
 
 "No, dear," she said very quietly. "I have been 
 wrong; that's all. I've been quite wrong. I
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 385 
 
 ought not to have put you to such a test. I didn't 
 realize it would be quite so bad as it was." 
 
 "But what shall we do?" 
 
 "We will go home," said Mrs. Fearns. "There's 
 nothing else to do. We'll just go home to the 
 children." 
 
 She opened the door. Only Lawrence was out- 
 side. Cyples had vanished to confer with his counsel 
 and to assure them that the crisis was over and 
 that the hearing could be proceeded with after lunch. 
 
 "Mr. Ridware," said Alma, "can you get us a 
 cab?" 
 
 Lawrence hesitated. "Certainly," he replied. 
 "Where do you want to go to?" 
 
 "Charing Cross," said Alma. "We are returning 
 home at once." 
 
 "But Mr. Cyples doesn't " 
 
 "Perhaps you will kindly tell Mr. Cyples, will 
 you? Tell him I dared not stop here another 
 moment, and that I give up the case. Pll write to 
 him to-night." 
 
 Lawrence noticed that she was breathing hard. 
 
 "Very well," he said. "If I may, I'll see you to 
 the station. You'll be needing something to eat." 
 
 In the restaurant of the Law Courts, Mark Rid- 
 ware was eating a mutton chop at a table by him- 
 self when Cyples came up to him with a worried and 
 preoccupied air. They knew each other slightly.
 
 386 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 "Good-day, Mr. Ridware," Cyples began, "I 
 suppose you haven't seen Mrs. Fearns, have you?'' 
 
 "No," replied Mark. "I've been looking all 
 over the place for my brother, without finding him, 
 and I've seen nothing of her." 
 
 "Curious!" Cyples muttered reflectively. 
 
 "Miss Fearns isn't ill, I hope?" 
 
 "No. She recovered immediately. A very brave 
 girl." 
 
 "Then they're probably gone out somewhere to 
 have lunch, and they'll be coming back soon." 
 
 "I expect so," said Cyples. 
 
 "Better eat something yourself, Mr. Cyples," 
 Mark suggested in a friendly manner. 
 
 And Cyples sat down, and ordered cold meat 
 to be brought instantly, together with half a pint 
 of bitter, and tucked the corner of a serviette be- 
 tween his chin and his ample collar. 
 
 "Very unfortunate, that little scene!" Mark 
 hazarded, determined to talk. 
 
 "Yes, " said Cyples. "Yet I think we took every 
 precaution." 
 
 "It's a pity that divorce cases can't be heard in 
 private." 
 
 "In private!" Cyples exclaimed, somewhat 
 shocked. "Justice must be public, Mr. Ridware. 
 All sorts of abuses might creep in, otherwise. " 
 
 "What abuses?" Mark blandly asked, and as
 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 387 
 
 Cyples made no response he continued In his best con- 
 versational, persuasive style: "You see a divorce case 
 is different from ordinary cases. Why shouldn't a 
 divorce case be heard in private if all parties consent ?" 
 
 "Well," said Cyples "it wouldn't do. As a 
 matter of fact, they do keep the divorce court as 
 private as they can." 
 
 "They might succeed a little better, I think," 
 said Mark. "That court this morning was like a 
 blessed theatre. It's a regular spectacle, that's 
 what it is — one of the stock sights of London. 
 Why wasn't I stopped from going in.'' I just 
 walked straight in, and no one said a word." 
 
 "Hm!" Cyples muttered. 
 
 "It would have upset a man, to say nothing of a 
 young girl," said Mark, further. "It's a most 
 singular thing that some sorts of divorce cases can 
 be heard in private, and others can't. If the case 
 is likely to upset the susceptibilities of the public, 
 then the judge will clear the court like anything. 
 But if the public is only likely to upset the suscepti- 
 bilities of the parties principally concerned, the 
 judge is powerless. How do you justify that.? 
 And then there's the newspapers. They ought not 
 to be allowed to print reports of divorce cases. As 
 things are, some of the most respectable papers in 
 London, papers that are like people who wouldn't 
 miss going to church on Sundays for untold gold,
 
 388 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 make a specialty of divorce cases; live on them, 
 indeed, except in the silly season, when they have to 
 find other food." 
 
 "This is a free country," said Cyples. "One 
 can't muzzle " 
 
 "It isn't a free country at all," Mark interrupted 
 him, with a certain heat which was characteristic 
 of him when in the midst of an argument. "Let 
 a newspaper try to report a divorce case that had 
 been heard in camera, and you'd soon see if it was 
 a free country. Now I lived in Paris once for a 
 year or two. You'll see pretty nearly everything 
 in a French newspaper, but you'll never see a report 
 of a divorce case." 
 ^ Why not?" 
 
 Because it's forbidden. And a jolly good thing 
 too! In England, what with the sickening curiosity 
 of idlers — Oh yes! I know I'm in a glass house! — 
 and what with the newspapers waiting to give names 
 and addresses and everything that's really tasty, 
 a witness in a divorce case is likely to be frightened 
 out of his life. And that doesn't help justice, does 
 it.? The truth is that justice is sacrificed to the las- 
 civious tastes of the great enlightened British 
 public. If that girl had been put in a room 
 with the judge and the lawyers and nobody 
 else, especially no reporters and no loafers, she 
 wouldn't have had to go through what she did." 

 
 A PUBLIC APPEARANCE 389 
 
 "Pooh!" said Cyples, with his mouth full of meat. 
 "She only had a fit of nerves. She'll be right 
 enough this afternoon." 
 
 "That's not the point. Hallo ! Here's Lawrence. " 
 
 Lawrence approached nervously. 
 
 "I've been looking for you, Mr. Cyples," said 
 he. "Mrs. Fearns and Miss Fearns have gone back 
 to Folkestone. Mrs. Fearns asked me to tell you. 
 She'll write you to-night. She says she'll withdraw 
 from the case, give it up." 
 
 Cyples lowered his half-raised glass. 
 
 "Gone back to !" he exclaimed, aghast. 
 
 "Well, I'm damned! Well, I am damned! She 
 asked you to tell me? . . . Damn mc if lever 
 act for a woman again!" 
 
 Mark signalled a private grimace to his brother, 
 and he thought: "It's not your day out to-day, 
 Cyples, my boy!" 
 
 After lunch a formal verdict for the respondent 
 was entered in Fearns v. Fearns. The venerable 
 judge and the venerable counsel mused for a few 
 moments upon the strangeness of women, and then 
 they completely forgot the case. The public con- 
 sidered itself robbed. And Cyples went back to 
 the Five Towns a beaten man, with a grudge against 
 the universe. In the same train was Charles Fearns, 
 in whose breast hope blossomed once more.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE SOLUTION 
 
 NEARLY three years later, in the dusk of a 
 Saturday evening in autumn, Lawrence 
 Ridware sat alone in the parlour of a 
 house in Knype Road, Hanbridge, near the new 
 Hanbridge Park. His history in the meantime had 
 been simple and characteristic. After the failure 
 of his divorce action in the English courts, the idea 
 had possessed him of leaving the Five Towns for- 
 ever and settling in Glasgow. But his native 
 lethargy in front of an uncommenced enterprise, 
 his instinctive unwillingness to begin, had kept him 
 in Staifordshire. And rather than give notice to 
 Charles Fearns and seek new employment in the 
 city of his mother, where his furniture and books 
 lay, and where he was known, he had doggedly lived 
 through and lived down the unpleasant notoriety 
 which Phyllis's disclosure in the witness box had 
 brought about. It was simpler to do that than to 
 move. Nevertheless, stung to an active and in- 
 curable hatred of his wife, he had instituted a new 
 action against her In Scotland. Enlightened by her 
 
 390
 
 THE SOLUTION 391 
 
 evidence as to the line of her defence, he had pro- 
 cured further evidence of his own to rebut it, and he 
 had triumphantly won the action. Phyllis's rancour, 
 coupled with the singular jealousies between the 
 English and the Scottish courts, and the mediaeval 
 state of the law concerning illegitimate children, 
 had cost him after all nothing but a few hundreds 
 of pounds and his reputation as an entirely respecta- 
 ble man in the Five Towns. He had achieved his 
 object, freedom. Soon afterwards, Phyllis's mother 
 died, and Phyllis departed to London, an injured 
 woman to the last. She was no more seen in the 
 Five Towns. She disappeared as completely as 
 Renee Souchon had disappeared. 
 
 Then Lawrence's ageing cousin Sarah fell ill. 
 Her heart was wrong — angina pectoris — and she 
 had an inclination to dropsy. She could no longer 
 live by herself. The sole persons upon whom she 
 had any claim were Lawrence and Mark, and Law- 
 rence accepted her. He did not hesitate for an 
 instant. Sending at length for his furniture and 
 books from Glasgow, he took the small house in 
 Knype Road and established himself and her. Her 
 condition varied. Sometimes she was well enough 
 to render the house almost uninhabitable for both 
 Lawrence and the servant. Sometimes she was 
 ill enough to occupy all their combined energies 
 as nurses. Irritability was one symptom of her
 
 392 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 disease. Occasionally her nights were awful. Still, 
 Lawrence was not altogether unhappy. He had 
 probed life. He had attained calm. He was per- 
 forming what he conceived to be his duty. He 
 was intellectually and morally free. He had his 
 books. He saw Mark now and then. He had 
 deliberately discarded the most disturbing element 
 in existence. Then Cousin Sarah grew steadily 
 worse. There had recently come a moment when 
 he had been forced to decide whether he should send 
 his cousin to the hospital or engage a nurse from 
 the Nurses' Home attached to the County Hospital 
 at Pirehill. He engaged the nurse. She had arrived 
 that Saturday afternoon. She was upstairs with 
 her patient, and he was expecting her to come 
 down to him and report. 
 
 He had to wait considerable time, and putting 
 a book which he had been reading on a pile of other 
 books on the table, he stepped to the window 
 and gazed out, drumming on the pane. Exactly 
 opposite lived the doctor, who called in when he 
 could, at odd hours, to see this conveniently 
 situated patient. 
 
 Then Lawrence heard the door of the sitting 
 room open, and a step. And he turned to meet the 
 nurse. 
 
 "Well.'"' he demanded, with an equable, friendly 
 smile.
 
 THE SOLUTION 393 
 
 " She seems a little better this evening," said 
 the nurse brightly. 
 
 "How long do you think she'll last?" Lawrence 
 murmured. 
 
 The nurse, who was young and inexperienced, 
 put on a grave meditative expression. "Perhaps 
 about two months," said she. The doctor had 
 intimated as much. 
 
 "Won't you sit down for a few minutes.?" Law- 
 rence suggested. "The servant is up with her, 
 isn't she?" 
 
 The nurse nodded, and sat. 
 
 They were old acquaintances, she and Lawrence. 
 Her name was Annunciata Fearns. The history of 
 the Fearns family had been as simple as Lawrence's 
 own. And Annunciata had made that history. 
 She it was who had stood between the parents, and 
 she stepped away so that they might meet face to 
 face. Charles Fearns had realized his wish. A few 
 weeks after the celebrated scene in court, articles 
 of peace were signed between him and Alma. Alma 
 surrendered. Alma forgave; she forgave uncon- 
 ditionally, but she forgave with proud dignity, and 
 Fearns poured out humiliation on himself. It be- 
 came known in the Five Towns that the Fearns's 
 house at Bleakridge was to be sold. After the sale 
 the news that Fearns had bought a house at Sneyd, 
 the fashionable residential village which lies three
 
 394 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 miles south of the Five Towns. And then people 
 whispered that Alma was in the new house, with 
 all the children except Annunciata. And slowly 
 the violent episode of the abortive divorce trial 
 lost its salience in the general mind and passed into 
 the social history of the district, and was discussed 
 quite quietly at tea tables as an affair not more 
 astounding and scandalous than sundry other affairs. 
 And old ties of friendship and acquaintance were 
 resumed. And everybody tried to behave as if 
 nothing had happened. And nearly everybody 
 ultimately succeeded in behaving as though nothing 
 had happened. Charles Fearns certainly succeeded. 
 Rumour had his name again between her scandalous 
 teeth ere a year had elapsed. But he was very 
 discreet, and very attentive to his wife; and he 
 never began to vary from the path of rectitude till 
 he had reached London, where all things are hid. 
 
 Annunciata was obviously born to be a nurse. 
 She had the intense seriousness, and the strictness, 
 and the inward fire, that mark a woman for a voca- 
 tion. The solution of her particular problem leapt to 
 the eye. She accepted it gladly, earnestly. She never 
 saw her father again. She would not. Nor did her 
 mother urge her to do so. It was part of the family 
 pact that she and her father should not meet. She 
 frequently enquired about him from her mother; but 
 Charles Fearns never mentioned her name.
 
 THE SOLUTION 395 
 
 When Lawrence Ridware had telephoned to Pire- 
 hill for a nurse, he had been informed that he could 
 have one and that Nurse Fearns would be sent. 
 
 And now they sat together in his parlour in the 
 blackening dusk of a Five Towns autumn. With 
 her pale, tight-bound hair, and her clear blue costume 
 and spotless cap, and large apron with the chatelaine 
 jingling against its whiteness, she looked a comely 
 and desirable creature, wistful, fragile, and yet very 
 stern. Something stirred in Lawrence, an impulse 
 that had not stirred in him for years. His mind 
 went back — to what should it go back but to the 
 sudden interruption of the trial and to the feel of 
 her thin body in his arms.^ He had held her in his 
 arms. And he could recall the sensation precisely. 
 Yes, something stirred in him. He remembered 
 his divorced wife's vicious: "Supposing I were to ask 
 you about Annunciata Fearns.'"' How amazing 
 was the penetration of women! He was nearly 
 twenty years older than Annunciata. And time 
 was marking him. He did not belie his age as he 
 sat there, nervously stroking his fine chin with his 
 heavy reddish hand. But he recognized candidly 
 that for years past Annunciata had had a strange 
 attraction for him. And his wife, with devilish 
 insight, had discovered that! He saw Annunciata 
 in the roseate glow of an unmistakable sentiment. 
 He vaguely wanted her. And for a moment a
 
 396 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 notion visited him of trying to win her, thus round- 
 ing off his life and hers, despite the difference in their 
 ages. But the notion vanished whence it came, 
 even as he gazed at her placid features. Why 
 trouble her career, why trouble what was left of 
 his, letting loose again that force, terrific and rav- 
 aging, which through the agency of others had al- 
 ready embittered and poisoned their existence? 
 Why awaken desire, which destroys calm — the 
 most precious thing on earth, as it seemed to him? 
 Why not be content with the fact that Annunciata 
 lived, a beautiful activity on which all that was most 
 pure in his soul might dwell? 
 
 He was sick of love. And she, he reflected, might 
 have the good fortune never to know it. And so 
 he allowed the notion of wooing her to vanish whence 
 it came. And for him and for her it was best. 
 
 "You prefer Pirehill to a hospital in London?" 
 he questioned. 
 
 "Yes, much," she replied. "You see mother can 
 come to see me, and it's so easy for me to go and see 
 her." Annunciata's eyes shone at the thought of 
 her mother. "Not to mention the children," she 
 said. Naturally she did not add that her visits 
 to the house at Knype were carefully timed in order 
 that she might avoid her father.
 
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