John Galsworthy - Over the River

“Sprang up in it, I suppose, quite naturally?”

“My Lord, I ask to be protected from these sarcasms.”

Dinny heard a tittering, and heard the Judge’s voice addressing nobody:

“What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, Mr. Brough.”

The tittering deepened. Dinny could not resist stealing a glance. The handsome face was inimitably wine-coloured. Beside her, ‘very young’ Roger wore an expression of enjoyment tinctured by anxiety.

“How came the co-respondent to be on this country road fifty miles from London?”

“He had come to see me.”

“You admit that?”

“He said so.”

“Perhaps you could tell us the exact words he used.”

“I could not, but I remember that he asked if he might kiss me.”

“And you let him?”

“Yes. I put my cheek out of the car, and he kissed it, and went back to his car and drove away.”

“And yet you say you were not lovers before you left the ship?”

“Not in your sense. I did not say that he was not in love with me. He was; at least he told me so.”

“Do you suggest that you were not in love with him?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“But you let him kiss you?”

“I was sorry for him.”

“You think that is proper conduct for a married woman?”

“Perhaps not. But after I left my husband I did not regard myself as a married woman.”

“Oh!”

Dinny had a feeling as if the whole Court had said that word. ‘Very young’ Roger’s hand emerged from his side pocket; he looked at what it contained intently, and put it back. A rueful frown had come on the pleasant broad face of the jurywoman who resembled a housekeeper.

“And what did you do after you had been kissed?”

“Went home to tea.”

“Feeling none the worse?”

“No; better if anything.”

Again the titter rose. The Judge’s face went round towards the box.

“Are you speaking seriously?”

“Yes, my Lord. I wish to be absolutely truthful. Even when they are not in love, women are grateful for being loved.”

The Judge’s face came round again to gaze at the unseen above Dinny’s head.

“Go on, Mr. Brough.”

“When was the next occasion on which you saw the co-respondent?”

“At my aunt’s house in London where I was staying.”

“Did he come to see your aunt?”

“No, to see my uncle.”

“Did he kiss you on that occasion?”

“No. I told him that if we were to meet, it must be platonically.”

“A very convenient word.”

“What other should I have used?”

“You are not standing there to ask me questions, madam. What did he say to that?”

“That he would do anything I wished.”

“Did he see your uncle?”

“No.”

“Was that the occasion on which your husband said he saw him leaving the house?”

“I imagine so.”

“Your husband came directly he had gone?”

“Yes.”

“He saw you, and asked who that young man was?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Yes.”

“I think you called the co-respondent Tony?”

“Yes.”

“Was that his name?”

“No.”

“It was your pet name for him?”

“Not at all. Everybody calls him that.”

“And he called you Clare, or darling, I suppose?”

“One or the other.”

Dinny saw the Judge’s eyes lifted to the unseen.

“Young people nowadays call each other darling on very little provocation, Mr. Brough.”

“I am aware of that, my Lord… Did you call HIM darling?”

“I may have, but I don’t think so.”

“You saw your husband alone on that occasion?”

“Yes.”

“How did you receive him?”

“Coldly.”

“Having just parted from the co-respondent?”

“That had nothing to do with it.”

“Did your husband ask you to go back to him?”

“Yes.”

“And you refused?”

“Yes.”

“And that had nothing to do with the co-respondent?”

“No.”

“Do you seriously tell the jury, Lady Corven, that your relations with the co-respondent, or if you like it better, your feelings for the co-respondent, played no part in your refusal to go back to your husband?”

“None.”

“I’ll put it at your own valuation: You had spent three weeks in the close company of this young man. You had allowed him to kiss you, and felt better for it. You had just parted from him. You knew of his feelings for you. And you tell the jury that he counted for nothing in the equation?”

Clare bowed her head.

“Answer, please.”

“I don’t think he did.”

“Not very human, was it?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“I mean, Lady Corven, that it’s going to be a little difficult for the jury to believe you.”

“I can’t help what they believe, I can only speak the truth.”

“Very well! When did you next see the co-respondent?”

“On the following evening, and the evening after that he came to the unfurnished rooms I was going into and helped me to distemper the walls.”

“Oh! A little unusual, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps. I had no money to spare, and he had done his own bungalow in Ceylon.”

“I see. Just a friendly office on his part. And during the hours he spent with you there no passages took place between you?”

“No passages have ever taken place between us.”

“At what time did he leave?”

“We left together both evenings about nine o’clock and went and had some food.”

“And after that?”

“I went back to my aunt’s house.”

“Nowhere in between?”

“Nowhere.”

“Very well! You saw your husband again before he was compelled to go back to Ceylon?”

“Yes, twice.”

“Where was the first time?”

“At my rooms. I had got into them by then.”

“Did you tell him that the co-respondent had helped you distemper the walls?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I? I told my husband nothing, except that I wasn’t going back to him. I regarded my life with him as finished.”

“Did he on that occasion again ask you to go back to him?”

“Yes.”

“And you refused?”

“Yes.”

“With contumely?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Insultingly?”

“No. Simply.”

“Had your husband given you any reason to suppose that he wished to divorce you?”

“No. But I don’t know what was in his mind.”

“And, apparently, you gave him no chance to know what was in yours?”

“As little as possible.”

“A stormy meeting?”

Dinny held her breath. The flush had died out of Clare’s cheeks; her face looked pale and peaked.

“No; disturbed and unhappy. I did not want to see him.”

“You heard your counsel say that from the time of your leaving him in Ceylon, your husband in his wounded pride had conceived the idea of divorcing you the moment he got the chance? Was that your impression?”

“I had and have no impression. It is possible. I don’t pretend to know the workings of his mind.”

“Though you lived with him for nearly eighteen months?”

“Yes.”

“But, anyway, you again refused definitely to go back to him?”

“I have said so.”

“Did you believe he meant it when he asked you to go back?”

“At the moment, yes.”

“Did you see him again before he went?”

“Yes, for a minute or two, but not alone.”

“Who was present?”

“My father.”

“Did he ask you again to go back to him on that occasion?”

“Yes.”

“And you refused?”

“Yes.”

“And after that you had a message from your husband before he left London, asking you once more to change your mind and accompany him?”