“Then you need expect nothing more from your family.”
“I won’t.”
“Father,” said Peter—“if she isn’t fond of the chap....”
Mary interrupted him.
“Don’t—it isn’t quite that. I am fond of him. I’m not in love with him or anything romantic, but I’m fond of him, and for that very reason I won’t take this way out. He’s twenty years older than I am, and set in his bachelor ways—and I firmly believe that only chivalry has made him stand by me as he has done. He doesn’t in his heart want to marry a woman who’s ruined and spoiled ... and I won’t let him throw himself away. If I leave him alone, he can live things down—men always can; but if I marry him, he’ll sink with me. And I’ve nothing to give him that will make up to him for what he will suffer. I won’t let him pay such a price for ... for being ... kind to me.”
Nobody spoke a word. Perhaps the introduction of Charles Smith’s future as a motive for refusing to use him to patch up the situation struck the Alards as slightly indecent. And Mary suddenly knew that if the argument were resumed she would yield—that she was at the end of her resources and could stand out no longer. Her only chance of saving Charles’s happiness and her own soul now lay in the humiliation of flight. There is only one salvation for the weak and that is to realise their weakness. She rose unsteadily to her feet. A dozen miles seemed to yawn between her and the door....
“Where are you going, Mary?” asked Sir John—“we haven’t nearly finished talking yet.”
Would anybody help her?—yes—here was Jenny unexpectedly opening the door for her and pushing her out. And in the hall was Gervase, his Ford lorry throbbing outside in the drive.
“Gervase!” cried Mary faintly—“if I pack in ten minutes, will you take me to the station?”