There’s an absurd little chit of a fellow … oh, Macmaster … and his mother whom he persists in a silly, mystical way in calling a saint … a Protestant saint! And his old nurse, who looks after the child … and the child itself… . I tell you I’ve only got to raise an eyelid … yes, cock an eyelid up a little when any one of them is mentioned, and it hurts him dreadfully. His eyes roll in a sort of mute anguish… . Of course he doesn’t say anything. He’s an English country gentleman.’
Father Consett said:
‘This immorality you talk about in your husband… . I’ve never noticed it. I saw a good deal of him when I stayed with you for the week before your child was born. I talked with him a great deal. Except in matters of the two communions – and even in these I don’t know that we differed so much – I found him perfectly sound.’
‘Sound!’ Mrs. Satterthwaite said with sudden emphasis; ‘of course he’s sound. It isn’t even the word. He’s the best ever. There was your father, for a good man … and him. That’s an end of it.’
‘Ah,’ Sylvia said, ‘you don’t know. Look here. Try and be just. Suppose I’m looking at
The Times
at breakfast and say, not having spoken to him for a week: “It’s wonderful what the doctors are doing. Have you seen the latest?” And at once he’ll be on his high-horse – he knows everything! – and he’ll prove,
prove
that all unhealthy children must be lethal-chambered or the world will go to pieces. And it’s like being hypnotised; you can’t think of what to answer him. Or he’ll reduce you to speechless rage by proving that murderers ought not to be executed. And then I’ll ask, casually, if children ought to be lethal-chambered for being constipated. Because Marchant – that’s the nurse – is always whining that the child’s bowels aren’t regular and the dreadful diseases that leads to. Of course
that
hurts him. For he’s perfectly soppy about that child, though he half knows it isn’t his own… . But that’s what I mean by immorality. He’ll profess that murderers ought to be preserved in order to breed from because they’re bold fellows, and innocent little children executed because they’re sick. And he’ll almost make you believe it, though you’re on the point of retching at the ideas.’
‘You wouldn’t now,’ Father Consett began, and almost coaxingly, ‘think of going into retreat for a month or two.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Sylvia said. ‘How could I?’
‘There’s a convent of female Premonstratensians near Birkenhead, many ladies go there,’ the Father went on. ‘They cook very well, and you can have your own furniture and your own maid if ye don’t like nuns to wait on you.’
‘It can’t be done,’ Sylvia said, ‘you can see for yourself. It would make people smell a rat at once. Christopher wouldn’t hear of it… .’
‘No, I’m afraid it can’t be done, Father,’ Mrs. Satterthwaite interrupted finally. ‘I’ve hidden here for four months to cover Sylvia’s tracks. I’ve got Wateman’s to look after. My new land steward’s coming in next week.’
‘Still,’ the Father urged, with a sort of tremulous eagerness, ‘if only for a month… . If only for a fortnight… . So many Catholic ladies do it… . Ye might think of it.’
‘I see what you’re aiming at,’ Sylvia said with sudden anger; ‘you’re revolted at the idea of my going straight from one man’s arms to another.’
‘I’d be better pleased if there could be an interval,’ the Father said. ‘It’s what’s called bad form.’
Sylvia became electrically rigid on her sofa.
‘Bad form!’ she exclaimed. ‘You accuse me of bad form.’
The Father slightly bowed his head like a man facing a wind.
‘I do,’ he said. ‘It’s disgraceful. It’s unnatural. I’d travel a bit at least.’
She placed her hand on her long throat.
‘I know what you mean,’ she said, ‘you want to spare Christopher …
Father Consett said:
‘This immorality you talk about in your husband… . I’ve never noticed it. I saw a good deal of him when I stayed with you for the week before your child was born. I talked with him a great deal. Except in matters of the two communions – and even in these I don’t know that we differed so much – I found him perfectly sound.’
‘Sound!’ Mrs. Satterthwaite said with sudden emphasis; ‘of course he’s sound. It isn’t even the word. He’s the best ever. There was your father, for a good man … and him. That’s an end of it.’
‘Ah,’ Sylvia said, ‘you don’t know. Look here. Try and be just. Suppose I’m looking at
The Times
at breakfast and say, not having spoken to him for a week: “It’s wonderful what the doctors are doing. Have you seen the latest?” And at once he’ll be on his high-horse – he knows everything! – and he’ll prove,
prove
that all unhealthy children must be lethal-chambered or the world will go to pieces. And it’s like being hypnotised; you can’t think of what to answer him. Or he’ll reduce you to speechless rage by proving that murderers ought not to be executed. And then I’ll ask, casually, if children ought to be lethal-chambered for being constipated. Because Marchant – that’s the nurse – is always whining that the child’s bowels aren’t regular and the dreadful diseases that leads to. Of course
that
hurts him. For he’s perfectly soppy about that child, though he half knows it isn’t his own… . But that’s what I mean by immorality. He’ll profess that murderers ought to be preserved in order to breed from because they’re bold fellows, and innocent little children executed because they’re sick. And he’ll almost make you believe it, though you’re on the point of retching at the ideas.’
‘You wouldn’t now,’ Father Consett began, and almost coaxingly, ‘think of going into retreat for a month or two.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Sylvia said. ‘How could I?’
‘There’s a convent of female Premonstratensians near Birkenhead, many ladies go there,’ the Father went on. ‘They cook very well, and you can have your own furniture and your own maid if ye don’t like nuns to wait on you.’
‘It can’t be done,’ Sylvia said, ‘you can see for yourself. It would make people smell a rat at once. Christopher wouldn’t hear of it… .’
‘No, I’m afraid it can’t be done, Father,’ Mrs. Satterthwaite interrupted finally. ‘I’ve hidden here for four months to cover Sylvia’s tracks. I’ve got Wateman’s to look after. My new land steward’s coming in next week.’
‘Still,’ the Father urged, with a sort of tremulous eagerness, ‘if only for a month… . If only for a fortnight… . So many Catholic ladies do it… . Ye might think of it.’
‘I see what you’re aiming at,’ Sylvia said with sudden anger; ‘you’re revolted at the idea of my going straight from one man’s arms to another.’
‘I’d be better pleased if there could be an interval,’ the Father said. ‘It’s what’s called bad form.’
Sylvia became electrically rigid on her sofa.
‘Bad form!’ she exclaimed. ‘You accuse me of bad form.’
The Father slightly bowed his head like a man facing a wind.
‘I do,’ he said. ‘It’s disgraceful. It’s unnatural. I’d travel a bit at least.’
She placed her hand on her long throat.
‘I know what you mean,’ she said, ‘you want to spare Christopher …
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