They were bound for Italy; so Alan had decided. Turning over in his
mind the pros and cons of the situation, he had wisely determined that
Herminia’s confinement had better take place somewhere else than in
England. The difficulties and inconveniences which block the way in
English lodgings would have been well-nigh insufferable; in Italy,
people would only know that an English signora and her husband had
taken apartments for a month or two in some solemn old palazzo. To
Herminia, indeed, this expatriation at such a moment was in many ways
to the last degree distasteful; for her own part, she hated the merest
appearance of concealment, and would rather have flaunted the open
expression of her supreme moral faith before the eyes of all London.
But Alan pointed out to her the many practical difficulties, amounting
almost to impossibilities, which beset such a course; and Herminia,
though it was hateful to her thus to yield to the immoral prejudices of
a false social system, gave way at last to Alan’s repeated expression
of the necessity for prudent and practical action. She would go with
him to Italy, she said, as a proof of her affection and her confidence
in his judgment, though she still thought the right thing was to stand
by her guns fearlessly, and fight it out to the bitter end undismayed
in England.
On the morning of their departure, Alan called to see his father, and
explain the situation. He felt some explanation was by this time
necessary. As yet no one in London knew anything officially as to his
relations with Herminia; and for Herminia’s sake, Alan had hitherto
kept them perfectly private. But now, further reticence was both
useless and undesirable; he determined to make a clean breast of the
whole story to his father. It was early for a barrister to be leaving
town for the Easter vacation; and though Alan had chambers of his own
in Lincoln’s Inn, where he lived by himself, he was so often in and out
of the house in Harley Street that his absence from London would at
once have attracted the parental attention.
Dr Merrick was a model of the close-shaven clear-cut London consultant.
His shirt-front was as impeccable as his moral character was
spotless—in the way that Belgravia and Harley Street still understood
spotlessness. He was tall and straight, and unbent by age; the
professional poker which he had swallowed in early life seemed to stand
him in good stead after sixty years, though his hair had whitened fast,
and his brow was furrowed with most deliberative wrinkles. So
unapproachable he looked, that not even his own sons dared speak
frankly before him. His very smile was restrained; he hardly permitted
himself for a moment that weak human relaxation.
Alan called at Harley Street immediately after breakfast, just a
quarter of an hour before the time allotted to his father’s first
patient. Dr Merrick received him in the consulting-room with an
interrogative raising of those straight, thin eyebrows. The mere look
on his face disconcerted Alan. With an effort the son began and
explained his errand. His father settled himself down into his ample
and dignified professional chair—old oak round-backed—and with head
half turned, and hands folded in front of him, seemed to diagnose with
rapt attention this singular form of psychological malady. When Alan
paused for a second between his halting sentences and floundered about
in search of a more delicate way of gliding over the thin ice, his
father eyed him closely with those keen, grey orbs, and after a
moment’s hesitation put in a “Well, continue,” without the faintest
sign of any human emotion. Alan, thus driven to it, admitted awkwardly
bit by bit that he was leaving London before the end of term because he
had managed to get himself into delicate relations with a lady.
Dr Merrick twirled his thumbs, and in a colourless voice enquired,
without relaxing a muscle of his set face,
“What sort of lady, please? A lady of the ballet?”
“Oh, no!” Alan cried, giving a little start of horror. “Quite different
from that. A real lady.”
“They always _are_ real ladies—for the most part brought down by
untoward circumstances,” his father responded coldly. “As a rule,
indeed, I observe, they’re clergyman’s daughters.”
“This one is,” Alan answered, growing hot. “In point of fact, to
prevent your saying anything you might afterwards regret, I think I’d
better mention the lady’s name. It’s Miss Herminia Barton, the Dean of
Dunwich’s daughter.”
His father drew a long breath. The corners of the clear-cut mouth
dropped down for a second, and the straight, thin eyebrows were
momentarily elevated. But he gave no other overt sign of dismay or
astonishment.
“That makes a great difference, of course,” he answered, after a long
pause. “She _is_ a lady, I admit. And she’s been to Girton.”
“She has,” the son replied, scarcely knowing how to continue.
Dr Merrick twirled his thumbs once more, with outward calm, for a
minute or two. This was most inconvenient in a professional family.
“And I understand you to say,” he went on in a pitiless voice, “Miss
Barton’s state of health is such that you think it advisable to remove
her at once—for her confinement, to Italy?”
“Exactly so,” Alan answered, gulping down his discomfort.
The father gazed at him long and steadily.
“Well, I always knew you were a fool,” he said at last with paternal
candour; “but I never yet knew you were quite such a fool as this
business shows you. You’ll have to marry the girl now in the end. Why
the devil couldn’t you marry her outright at first, instead of seducing
her?”
“I did not seduce her,” Alan answered stoutly. “No man on earth could
ever succeed in seducing that stainless woman.”
Dr Merrick stared hard at him without changing his attitude on his old
oak chair. Was the boy going mad, or what the dickens did he mean by
it?
“You _have_ seduced her,” he said slowly. “And she is _not_ stainless
if she has allowed you to do so.”
“It is the innocence which survives experience that I value, not the
innocence which dies with it,” Alan answered gravely.
“I don’t understand these delicate distinctions,” Dr Merrick interposed
with a polite sneer. “I gather from what you said just now that the
lady is shortly expecting her confinement; and as she isn’t married,
you tell me, I naturally infer that _somebody_ must have seduced
her—either you, or some other man.”
It was Alan’s turn now to draw himself up very stiffly.
“I beg your pardon,” he answered; “you have no right to speak in such a
tone about a lady in Miss Barton’s position. Miss Barton has
conscientious scruples about the marriage-tie, which in theory I share
with her; she was unwilling to enter into any relations with me except
in terms of perfect freedom.”
“I see,” the old man went on with provoking calmness. “She preferred,
in fact, to be, not your wife, but your mistress.”
Alan rose indignantly. “Father,” he said, with just wrath, “if you
insist upon discussing this matter with me in such a spirit, I must
refuse to stay here. I came to tell you the difficulty in which I find
myself, and to explain to you my position. If you won’t let me tell you
in my own way, I must leave the house without having laid the facts
before you.”
The father spread his two palms in front of him with demonstrative
openness. “As you will,” he answered. “My time is much engaged. I
expect a patient at a quarter past ten. You must be brief, please.”
Alan made one more effort. In a very earnest voice, he began to expound
to his father Herminia’s point of view. Dr Merrick listened for a
second or two in calm impatience. Then he consulted his watch. “Excuse
me,” he said. “I have just three minutes. Let us get at once to the
practical part—the therapeutics of the case, omitting its aetiology.
You’re going to take the young lady to Italy. When she gets there, will
she marry you? And do you expect me to help in providing for you both
after this insane adventure?”
Alan’s face was red as fire. “She will _not_ marry me when she gets to
Italy,” he answered decisively. “And I don’t want you to do anything to
provide for either of us.”
The father looked at him with the face he was wont to assume in
scanning the appearance of a confirmed monomaniac. “She will not marry
you,” he answered slowly; “and you intend to go on living with her in
open concubinage! A lady of birth and position! Is that your meaning?”
“Father,” Alan cried despairingly, “Herminia would not consent to live
with me on any other terms. To her it would be disgraceful, shameful, a
sin, a reproach, a dereliction of principle. She _couldn’t_ go back
upon her whole past life. She lives for nothing else but the
emancipation of women.”
“And you will aid and abet her in her folly?” the father asked, looking
up sharply at him. “You will persist in this evil course? You will face
the world and openly defy morality?”
“I will not counsel the woman I most love and admire to purchase her
own ease by proving false to her convictions,” Alan answered stoutly.
Dr Merrick gazed at the watch on his table once more. Then he rose and
rang the bell. “Patient here?” he asked curtly. “Show him in then at
once. And, Napper, if Mr Alan Merrick ever calls again, will you tell
him I’m out?—and your mistress as well, and all the young ladies.” He
turned coldly to Alan. “I must guard your mother and sisters at least,”
he said in a chilly voice, “from the contamination of this woman’s
opinions.”
Alan bowed without a word, and left the room. He never again saw the
face of his father.