4. I did break that contract without just cause or any justification whatsoever beyond my own criminal selfishness and faithlessness;

5. I entered upon a clandestine liaison with a person named Sarah Emily Woodruff, resident at Lyme Regis and Exeter, and I did attempt to conceal this liaison;

6. My conduct throughout this matter has been dishonorable, and by it I have forever forfeited the right to be considered a gentleman.

Furthermore, I acknowledge the right of the injured party to proceed against me sine die and without term or condition.

Furthermore, I acknowledge that the injured party may make whatsoever use she desires of this document.

Furthermore, my signature hereto appended is given of my own free will, in full understanding of the conditions herein, in full confession of my conduct, and under no duress whatsoever, upon no prior or posterior consideration whatsoever and no right of redress, rebuttal, demurral or denial in any particular, now and henceforth under all the abovementioned terms.

“Have you no comment on it?”

“I fancy that there must have been a dispute over the drafting. No lawyer would happily put in that sixth clause. If it came to court, one might well argue that no gentleman, however foolish he had been, would make such an admission except under duress. A counsel could make quite a lot of that. It is really in our favor. I’m surprised Aubrey and Murphy have allowed it. My guess is that it is Papa’s clause. He wants you to eat humble pie.”

“It is vile.”

He looked for a moment as if he would tear it to pieces.

Montague gently took it from him. “The law is not concerned with truth, Charles. You should know that by now.”

“And that ‘may make whatsoever use she desires’—what in heaven’s name does that mean?”

“It could mean that the document is inserted in The Times. I seem to recall something similar was done some years ago. But I have a feeling old Freeman wants to keep this matter quiet. He would have had you in court if he wanted to put you in the stocks.”

“So I must sign.”

“If you like I can go back and argue for different phrases—some form that would reserve to you the right to plead extenuating circumstances if it came to trial. But I strongly advise against. The very harshness of this as it stands would argue far better for you. It pays us best to pay their price. Then if needs be we can argue the bill was a deuced sight too stiff.”

Charles nodded, and they stood.

“There’s one thing, Harry. I wish I knew how Ernestina is. I cannot ask him.”

“I’ll see if I can have a word with old Aubrey afterwards.

He’s not such a bad old stick. He has to play it up for Papa.”

So they returned; and the admission was signed, first by Charles, then by each of the others in turn. All remained standing. There was a moment’s awkward silence. Then at last Mr. Freeman spoke.

“And now, you blackguard, never darken my life again. I wish I were a younger man. If—”

“My dear Mr. Freeman!”

Old Aubrey’s sharp voice silenced his client. Charles hesitated, bowed to the two lawyers, then left followed by Montague.

But outside Montague said, “Wait in the carriage for me.”

A minute or two later he climbed in beside Charles.

“She is as well as can be expected. Those are his words. He also gave me to understand what Freeman intends to do if you go in for the marriage game again. Charles, he will show what you have just signed to the next father-in-law to be. He means you to remain a bachelor all your life.”

“I had guessed as much.”

“Old Aubrey also told me, by the way, to whom you owe your release on parole.”

“To her? That too I had guessed.”

“He would have had his pound of flesh. But the young lady evidently rules that household.”

The carriage rolled on for a hundred yards before Charles spoke.

“I am defiled to the end of my life.”

“My dear Charles, if you play the Muslim in a world of Puritans, you can expect no other treatment. I am as fond as the next man of a pretty ankle. I don’t blame you. But don’t tell me that the price is not fairly marked.”

The carriage rolled on. Charles stared gloomily out at the sunny street.

“I wish I were dead.”

“Then let us go to Verrey’s and demolish a lobster or two. And you shall tell me about the mysterious Miss Woodruff before you die.”

That humiliating interview depressed Charles for days. He wanted desperately to go abroad, never to see England again. His club, his acquaintances, he could not face them; he gave strict instructions—he was at home to no one. He threw himself into the search for Sarah. One day the detective office turned up a Miss Woodbury, newly employed at a girls’ academy in Stoke Newington. She had auburn hair, she seemed to fit the description he had supplied. He spent an agonizing hour one afternoon outside the school. Miss Woodbury came out, at the head of a crocodile of young ladies. She bore only the faintest resemblance to Sarah.

June came, an exceptionally fine one. Charles saw it out, but towards the end of it he stopped searching. The detective office remained optimistic, but they had their fees to consider. Exeter was searched as London had been; a man was even sent to make discreet inquiries at Lyme and Char-mouth; and all in vain. One evening Charles asked Montague to have dinner with him at the Kensington house, and frankly, miserably, placed himself in his hands. What should he do? Montague did not hesitate to tell him. He should go abroad.

“But what can her purpose have been? To give herself to me—and then to dismiss me as if I were nothing to her.”

“The strong presumption—forgive me—is that that latter possibility is the truth. Could not that doctor have been right? Are you sure her motive was not one of vindictive destruction? To ruin your prospects… to reduce you to what you are, Charles?”

“I cannot believe it.”

“But prima facie you must believe it.”

“Beneath all her stories and deceptions she had a candor… an honesty. Perhaps she has died. She has no money. No family.”

“Then let me send a clerk to look at the Register of Death.”

Charles took this sensible advice almost as if it were an insult. But the next day he followed it; and no Sarah Woodruff’s death was recorded.

He dallied another week. Then abruptly, one evening, he decided to go abroad.

And now let us jump twenty months. It is a brisk early February day in the year 1869. Gladstone has in the interval at last reached No. 10 Downing Street; the last public execution in England has taken place; Mill’s Subjection of Women and Girton College are about to appear. The Thames is its usual infamous mud-gray. But the sky above is derisively blue; and looking up, one might be in Florence.

Looking down, along the new embankment in Chelsea, there are traces of snow on the ground. Yet there is also, if only in the sunlight, the first faint ghost of spring. I am ver… I am sure the young woman whom I should have liked to show pushing a perambulator (but can’t, since they do not come into use for another decade) had never heard of Catullus, nor would have thought much of all that going on about unhappy love even if she had. But she knew the sentiment about spring. After all, she had just left the result of an earlier spring at home (a mile away to the west) and so blanketed and swaddled and swathed that it might just as well have been a bulb beneath the ground. It is also clear, trimly though she contrives to dress, that like all good gardeners she prefers her bulbs planted en masse. There is something in that idle slow walk of expectant mothers; the least offensive arrogance in the world, though still an arrogance.