“ ‘Implore father’s influence.’ ” These words caused his father to drop The Morning Post in which he was reading a terrific indictment of Sinn Fein with a sense of fierce enjoyment.
“I wouldn’t use a hairsbreadth of influence to save my own son from the hangman’s rope, if he were a Sinn Fein murderer.”
“He’s your own daughter’s husband,” said Bertram. “The relationship is fairly close.”
“Too close,” said Michael Pollard. “Susan dishonoured her name by that secret and shameful marriage. I’ll never forgive her. I’ve already given orders that her name will not be mentioned in my presence.”
He picked up the paper again, and pretended to read, very calmly. But his hands trembled, so that the paper rustled.
“My dear!” said Mrs. Pollard; “for our dear Susan’s sake, I implore you, as she implores you. I’ve been a faithful wife to you. I beg you now to use any power you have in a plea of mercy for that misguided boy.”
She had risen from her chair, and Bertram saw that she was more excited than he had ever seen her. She had a tragic look, and age had crept into her face suddenly, so that she seemed an old, old lady, very frail and broken.
His father lowered his paper again, and he too was startled, it seemed to Bertram, by his wife’s look and speech.
“My darling,” he said, “trouble falls heavily upon your poor soul, because of our children’s folly. But I can do nothing in this matter, even if I would. If the fellow has been condemned by court-martial, it’s clear that he’s guilty of murder. He must suffer the punishment of murderers. No power of mine can save him.”
“You can have an enquiry made. At least postpone this dreadful sentence! Michael, if you have any love for me, in my old age, and my weakness—”