by Alec Waugh
That was too much for Merrick.
“My dear Father, that’s not blackmail,” he exclaimed. “It’s merely a method of persuading a cad to tell the truth.”
“By threatening to divulge some discreditable secret that we shall first have to find out in the grubbiest of manners. That’s as near blackmailing as ever I hope to go.”
“But surely, Father, he must be made to tell the truth?”
“If that’s the only way he can be got to tell it, we’ld be better off without it. Besides, how far would it be the truth? Shouldn’t we be holding a pistol at his head and telling him what answers to give to a set of prepared questions?”
“What else does cross-examination by your own counsel amount to ever?”
“That’s quibbling, and you know it. It’s a dirty case; there’s no sense in pretending it isn’t. It isn’t even as though the matter ended there. There’s Mrs. Eagar’s evidence. That’s got to be supplemented and worked up. She’s told her story once; but since it isn’t sufficient, we must embellish it. How near the truth will it be, do you imagine, before the end? Dirt and lies: that’s what the case will be, whichever way the verdict goes. We’ld be better out of it.”
It was the decision James Merrick had been waiting for and he tried his hardest to restrain himself. “Father,” he said, “I’m sorry: I did not know I was letting you in for a case like this. How could I know that it was going to develop this way? It was a straightforward case when it came first. And it would be a straightforward case now if the other side hadn’t started mud-slinging. It’s not Mrs. Eagar’s fault. And we’re in the thing now, any way.”
“There’s no need for us to stay in it.”
“We can’t let a client down.”
“We aren’t letting a client down. We’re merely telling her that the case has developed in such a way that we feel ourselves no longer competent to deal with it, and that we are handing it over to the care of a highly trustworthy firm that often works with us on such occasions. Marshall is a most admirable man, in his own line. He will do as well as we could for her, better probably, for he’s more familiar with this kind of work. There can be no question of letting a client down.”
Merrick’s hands were behind his back and he clenched them tightly upon one another in a fierce attempt at restraint. The picture of Marian, so young and helpless in this maze of litigation, being handed over to indifferent strangers, to be treated as a pawn in a game, was beyond speech pathetic. At all costs that must be prevented. It was only with an effort, however, that he managed to control his voice.
“Not let her down?” he said. “My dear Father, how can you pretend it won’t! What impression but one can it make on the other side? They’ll imagine that we’re beaten and have flung in our hand.”
Mr. Merrick shook his head. “Ephraim is not a fool. He knows the traditions of this firm. He will realize at once why we have decided to pass on the management of the case to Marshall.”
“But Mrs. Eagar won’t. She’s a kid. She’ll just think we’ve flung over her case the moment it grew difficult.”
“That is a point, my boy, that I cannot discuss with you, for I cannot know, since I have not met Mrs. Eagar. This, however, I can assure you. Never could I allow the feelings of a private person to hinder me from doing what I believed to be my duty to the honour and tradition of the firm.”
It was more than James Merrick could stand. The successive interviews with Rutterthorpe and Bradshaw and now with his father had placed a heavy strain on him, and he was desperate at the thought that Marian’s case might be taken out of his control, and given into the hands of strangers. If that were to happen, he would never dare look her in the face again. She had trusted him and he would have failed her. He was desperate. And it was desperately that he spoke in anger.
“The honour and tradition of the firm,” he cried. “And because of them a young and helpless woman is to be sacrificed! And what are they, this honour, this tradition? Other people’s opinions: what other people are going to say about us. It’s all on a par: everything to be sacrificed to our vanity. No regard for truth or decency or loyalty. Nobody asking what’s right, what’s true, what’s decent. Just what are others going to think of me? How shall I appear? First of all there’s Rutterthorpe refusing to tell the truth, because he’s afraid that a lot of servant girls won’t think him so marvellous as he had duped them into believing him. And now you’re afraid that a few stuffy old solicitors will shake their heads in their stuffy clubs. And for that a decent woman’s to be sacrificed! Heavens, it sickens me.”
He spoke wildly, hysterically. But his father made no retort. He sat calm and dignified and silent in his chair: his eyes fixed solemnly upon his son. Even when Merrick paused, his father remained silent. And it was this silence that recalled James Merrick to an appreciation of what had passed. And as he appreciated, he gasped in the same way that a drunken man does when cold water has been soused over him. Had it been really he who had said these things—and to his own father?
“I’m s-sorry,” he stammered. “I lost my head. I did-didn’t know what I was saying. I’m sorry.”
His father did not relax his attitude of dignity.
“I quite understand,” he said. “I did not know you felt as strongly about the matter. You are a partner in this firm and you have a right to your opinion. There is no need to discuss the matter further. We will continue with the case.”
There was not the slightest accent of reproach in his tone, and as so often happens after one has gained one’s point at the cost of friction, James Merrick felt ashamed and regretful. His father would not listen, however, to the explanation of apology he began to stammer out.
“That is all right, my boy,” he said, “I understand.” And he turned back towards the letter on which he had been engaged when his son had burst impetuously into the room.
In an oddly compounded mood James Merrick walked back to his own room. He did not quite know how he felt. To have spoken to his own father like that, to a father who had been so good a friend to him! Such a thing had never happened in his life before, never would happen again, he trusted; it had been disgraceful and undignified and unworthy. But at the same time unless he had made that scene would he have been able to prevent Marian’s case from being handed over to the management of a stranger? Of two evils had he chosen the lesser or the greater? Of two loyalties could he have saved one without treachery to the other?
§
It was this aspect of the situation that he held most clearly before his mind as in the solitude of his own room he faced the problem that was now before him. One couldn’t make omelettes without smashing eggs. And he was launched upon a course that could lead apparently to nothing else. The fight had started, and life was not like a football match. There were no fixed rules. You might fight clean, but you had to fight unless you were going under. And the longer the fight lasted, the tenser the bitterness of it became. As a lawyer he had watched the process often. People had come into his office quite friendlily disposed towards those from whom they sought redress. They did not want to fight, they wanted things settled amicably without bad blood, but always it came to the same thing. Evil instincts were roused. Men grew vindictive and acrimonious. It became a fight. Something in the process of the law, something intrinsic in its nature, in its very definition of the other party as opponents, insisted that it should be a fight. It was a process that he had watched many times before, but from the outside and with detachment. This was the first time that his own emotions had been involved, and he viewed with horror the prospect of such a bitter fight as this case gave every prospect of becoming. He loathed the idea of seeing Marian involved in such a business. Was it too late, he wondered, to prevent it? When one looked back at a case one was usually forced to recognize that there had been a point before the rival parties had become too fatally involved when diplomatic intervention had been possible. The point once passed, the thing grew out of hand. Had, though, that poi
nt been passed? Might there not still be a chance of averting the catastrophe of this contention?
If only, he thought, there were some go-between; some mediator who could put the matter to Eagar quietly. Eagar was a decentish sort of fellow really. He could be made to see, surely, the criminal folly of contesting such a case. There was nothing to be gained, everything to be lost. If only a mediator could have explained, as he himself could have explained had he been a detached and unimplicated spectator the inevitable consequences of this counter charge. He was certain that the right mediator could woo Eagar back to reason.
Where, though, was that mediator to be found? He knew scarcely any of Eagar’s friends. No one, anyhow, in whom he could place the slightest trust. He was in the dark, utterly in the dark. If only he could go himself!
The idea was, of course, preposterous. To call upon an opponent’s client. It was as bad as a barrister visiting a solicitor. It was the sort of thing for which one might be reported to the law society. It was not merely a breach of professional etiquette. It was the violation of every tradition of legal practice. He could imagine the letter of protest that Ephraim would delight in writing to his father; could imagine his father’s stupefied indignation, his refusal to believe that his son could be capable of such conduct: realized, too, the immense damage that such an act would do his firm, could hear the gossip of other solicitors. “Oh, Merrick, John and Merrick, they’re the people who send salaried partners to call on other people’s clients”; could hear the contemptuous titter round the table. It was unthinkable, of course: utterly, unthinkable. One just couldn’t do a thing like that. One couldn’t.
And yet, and yet…
If only the facts could be presented reasonably to Eagar, he was so sure, so very sure, that this calamity might be avoided. And who was to present those facts if not himself?
With an impatient jerk he pushed his chair back from the desk, rose to his feet and began to walk with long swinging strides backwards and forwards across the room. Suppose, after all, that he were to go, suppose that he were to outrage every tradition of his calling, how did the balance stand? On the one hand there was the damage he would do himself: if Ephraim got to know, as in all likelihood he would, it would be scarcely possible for his father to keep him in the office. In no other way could the firm retain its reputation and position. In self-defence and self-justification they would have to make an example of him. That was the one side of balance; and on the other there was the possibility of success: the possibility of Eagar listening to reason, of refusing to defend the suit, of letting the petition through; which would mean no scandal, no disgrace for him, and for Marian a clean passage through the muddied waters of the courts. That, with the chances of success and failure evenly matched, was how the balance stood. His future or Marian’s good name. One of them had to be risked.
And as he paced backwards and forwards up and down his room, all that was practical and calculating in his nature counselled him against his recklessness. “Think twice,” murmured the voice of worldly wisdom. “For heaven’s sake think twice, consider everything that you’ll be risking. Your work, your future, your position: all that your position as a personable and well-situated, well-connected bachelor in London means. Think of all that that position brings you: the friendships, the sport, the hospitality, the chance of meeting amusing people in the most congenial of settings. You’ve valued that, haven’t you? You’ve had moods when London’s wearied you, when you’ve said that you’ld give anything to be out of it; but they’ve only been moods now, haven’t they? You’ve liked seeing your diary black with engagements, and your mantelpiece littered with invitation cards. You’ld miss it, wouldn’t you, if it all went? And it would go, the moment you left your father’s firm, the moment you found your background gone. You’re risking a good deal; and for what? For a woman you’ve known six weeks, of whom you know nothing, with whom you’re not in love even. Come now, be sensible, is it worth it? Is she worth it? You remember what your father said the first time you spoke to him about the case: ‘One of those modern women with no sense of their responsibilities, who give nothing and expect everything.’ You were very indignant when he called her that. But how can you be sure he wasn’t right? Look what a wife she’s been to Eagar. Selfish, mischievous, exacting. You don’t want to get mixed up with that sort of woman. She’ld be a fearful nuisance. Keep clear of her while you’ve got the chance. There’s nothing but strain and worry to be got from her. She’s exciting: let’s admit that. But it isn’t worth it, those few moments at such a cost.”
Very softly, very persuasively the voice of worldly wisdom pleaded. But in the other side of the scale was Marian, with her red-brown hair and laughing eyes and husky voice. Marian’s freshness and Marian’s wilfulness, and the picture of Marian in the witness box undergoing the ignominious ordeal of cross-examination. His future or Marian’s good name. There was no doubt which side of the scale was weighed the heavier.
“I’m doing a mad thing,” he thought, “very nearly a criminal thing. A thing that two months ago I should have thought it impossible for any decent solicitor to do.” Nor could he persuade himself that the chance of success justified the risk. He remembered the spirit of that last interview of his with Eagar. And several weeks had passed since then, several weeks during which the acid of aggression had bitten deep into Eagar’s spirit. It was a forlorn enterprise. But he had to make it. He would never forgive himself afterwards if he was left with the knowledge that he might at one point have saved the situation but had been too cowardly to run the risk of an experiment.
It was an insane attempt, no doubt, but the hour for desperate remedies had come.
§
He did not ring up first for an appointment. He was afraid that it might be refused him, or that Eagar would insist on his saying what he had to say across the telephone; and as he sent up his card he was uncertain whether he would be received. Technically he should not be. But he hoped that the same spirit of curiosity that had led him two months earlier to receive Eagar, would make Eagar now anxious to hear what he had to say.
It did apparently.
But as he walked into the bleak, sparsely furnished office room, and saw Eagar, his face stern and unreceptive, standing beside his chair, one hand at his side, the other tapping a penholder, he felt to the full the hopelessness of his mission. And as he sat down in the stiff chair that Eagar had pointed out to him, he was acutely conscious of the disadvantage that one is at when one is interviewing a man in his own office.
As he had expected, Eagar waited for him to begin.
“You know what I’ve come about,” he said. “This is a bad business.”
Eagar made no comment. He had not invited the conference. It was for the other man to justify it. For that Merrick had come prepared.
“It’s a bad business,” he said. “And it can only get worse as it goes on. I don’t know what your experience of litigation is; mine isn’t big but it’s enough for me to guess into what kind of a mess this case must grow. There’ll be charges and counter-charges. The thing’s only starting now. It’ll grow and grow. It’ll be the sort of case that’ll fill the columns of the Sunday papers. It’ll be something that’ll take years of living down. Nobody’ll be any the better off for it.” He paused. But Eagar showed no readiness to argue.
“Are you offering to withdraw the suit?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then what is it that you’re suggesting?”
Merrick delayed his reply a second. He had talked so much that day. He was weary of discussion. He was uncertain how best to approach this man, so different in ideas and upbringing from himself. He decided finally on the kind of man-to-man appeal that housemasters are supposed to make to their head prefects.
“Look here, Eagar, what’s the point of stirring up all this mud?” he said. “Why damage both yourself and her? Why not let the thing go through quietly?”
It did not take. Eagar simply laughed.
&n
bsp; “Let it go through quietly,” he said. “I like that! You file a petition against me. You draw up a lot of charges, and then when I defend myself, you get frightened and ask me to be chivalrous and back out.”
“It isn’t that.”
“What is it, then?”
“Simply that you and your wife are on the verge of making about the biggest mistake that two people can. You don’t know what you’re letting yourselves in for. I do. If you’d known what it was going to be like at the beginning, you’ld never have started it. And now because you are once in, you feel that you must carry on. And you’ll let yourselves be carried on. It’s like an avalanche going downhill. Nothing can stop it after a certain point. And in a few months’ time the papers will be full of the kind of case which makes other folk wonder how people with any self-respect can drag their private lives in that way before the public. And that day you’ll be wondering yourselves how it can have happened.”
He spoke so quietly, so sincerely, that Eagar, in spite of himself, was impressed.
“I daresay, I daresay,” he said, and Merrick could see that he was wavering. “But what it amounts to, after all, is this: that I’m to let myself be shot at and Marian’s to get off scot-free.”
“If it’s to be undefended you won’t be shot at, it’ll go through very quietly, and very quickly. As likely as not it won’t be reported. At the most there’ll be no more than a paragraph.”
“Perhaps; but every one I know—and that’s all that counts, isn’t it, the people that one knows—will believe that I’m an unfaithful husband and a bully. That’s not very pretty, is it? And you come here and ask me to take it lying down; to let it go through quietly, so that Marian’s name shan’t be damaged. For that’s what it amounts to: my name’s got to be damaged anyhow. And hers needn’t be. So I’m to be sacrificed. That’s what it’s been all through. That’s what her idea of being a wife is. A woman who’s given way to in everything. And she had her way, too, in most things. So she thought she would in this. She imagined, like all these women of her class seem to nowadays, that the mere fact of being a woman entitles them to all the pleasures and privileges of life without placing them under any obligations to give anything in return. That’s how she’s behaved, all the way. It’ll do her good to learn that there’s a limit to that game.”