“I wouldn’t be the man I am without my Flora,” Mr. Thompson said. “We were together for sixty years, and when I reread the books I wrote, I see her influence in every line.”
“You must miss her very much,” Paul said.
“I do, but she’s been gone ten years now, and the pain has lessened while the joy has increased—not only the joy of remembering her, but also the knowledge that my own death is coming. I’ll see her again soon.”
Paul hoped, selfishly, that Mr. Thompson wouldn’t die soon. Despite his eighty-odd years, his mind was sharper and more active than that of most fortyyear-olds, and Paul didn’t want to be deprived of his company or his wisdom.
“I hope you’ll have many happy years with your wife also, Mr. Harris. How is she?”
Paul had been asked this simple question countless times during the past two weeks, but he couldn’t give Mr. Thompson the polite, evasive answer he had given everyone else.
He bowed his head and said quietly, “She left me.”
There was a pause. Then Mr. Thompson said, “I’m sorry to hear that. Why did she leave?”
Paul had been keeping the secret long enough that now, in the presence of someone he hadn’t known very long but whom he trusted instinctively, the story poured out of him in a torrent of words. He told the old man everything, from how the marriage had come about to what had happened the day Lilia left.
When Paul had finished, the old man sat with him in silence for a while. Paul began to worry that he had said too much, not about himself, but about Lilia. Surely her beliefs and behavior would be shocking to a man as old as Mr. Thompson, and Paul hadn’t spared her any more than he had spared himself in telling his story.
“Well, you’ve certainly found yourself a very unusual wife,” Mr.Thompson said finally, sounding bemused rather than critical.
“Found her and lost her,” Paul said.
“Why are you so quick to lose heart? You say you love her. Then you must fight for her and for your marriage. Yes, it has begun badly, but you needn’t despair. Why, if I had given up hope when Flora and I had difficulties—and believe me, we had many—we would never have had all those happy years together.”
Paul thought what had happened between him and Lilia was beyond anything that could be termed mere “difficulties,” but he only said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to see her and tell her I’m sorry for the way I acted … and I want to ask her to come back.”
“What prevents you from doing so?”
“I don’t understand why I behaved as I did,” Paul said slowly, “and I can’t promise her it won’t happen again.”
“Well, there’s hope if you’re willing to change.”
“I am willing.”
“May I say a prayer for you?”
None of his parishioners had ever offered to pray for him before, and he was deeply touched. “Yes, of course.”
Paul bowed his head, and the old man said a prayer: “Our Father, we ask Your blessing upon Mr. Harris. Bring light into his darkness, and lead him into Your truth. Amen.”
Something profound happened during that simple, brief prayer, something Paul could never fully understand or explain. He felt himself go back to the moment Lilia left him and enter deeply into the pain of it.
There was only one other time he had felt that kind of anguish: when his mother had left him and Philip to live with James. That ache of abandonment he had felt as a fifteen-year-old boy came back to him—it was sharp, too raw for tears, too searing for words, and it enveloped him now as if it was happening all over again.
He had been alone in his room, reading Thomas à Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ. He remembered Philip knocking on his bedroom door, announcing that Bianca was leaving, and then abruptly walking away. Paul had left the book open on his desk and gone to the window to watch his mother get into a hansom cab. She had left a note, which he hadn’t found until much later, but she hadn’t said good-bye that day.
Now, something told Paul it was safe to enter fully into that pain in a way that he couldn’t have done as a boy. He was led by an invisible hand through this agonizing darkness, and just when he thought it might crush him, he was aware of the darkness lifting and a sense of comfort and peace.
Paul looked up. He was alone. Mr. Thompson had left the room, but muffled sounds in the next room indicated he was nearby. For a while longer, Paul remained where he was, in a state of acute awareness. He wasn’t praying, but he felt what he recognized as the presence of God in a far more intense way than he ever had before. His physical senses were suspended, giving way to a spiritual sense that was far more real. When Mr. Thompson returned to the room, he sat down across from Paul again, looking at him kindly but saying nothing.
“Thank you,” Paul said, knowing his words were inadequate, but finding no better ones.
It was enough.
The sense of peace stayed with Paul for the rest of the week. Even when he boarded the train for London on his first day free from work, that peace buoyed him, despite his concerns about the difficult conversations awaiting him.
He went to see Bishop Chisholm first. When he sat down in the bishop’s receiving room at the palace, he hardly knew how to begin. He would have to admit that he not only had ignored the bishop’s advice to end his association with the women’s suffrage movement, but also had married the WSPU deputy leader.
The bishop, apparently tired of waiting for Paul to begin, said, “I heard rumors that you married a militant suffragette, but I didn’t realize until recently that the woman you married is the notorious Miss Brooke.” His tone was measured, but not severe.
“I apologize for not telling you sooner,” Paul said.
“You know my opinion of the militant suffragettes, so I won’t pain you by repeating it,” the bishop said. “I will say I was shocked by the Lewisham church fire. I assume you knew nothing about it, but I wonder at your wife allowing such a thing to happen under her leadership.”
“She knew about the plan but refused to approve it. The people involved went ahead without her knowledge.”
“I have no quarrel with the women who want the vote. As far as I am concerned, they may have it, but I can make no public statements of support. You must understand that.”
Paul did understand, because it was his own position, too. But he also knew that private support wouldn’t help women get the vote. He had married Lilia, hoping, like a coward, that he could agree with her views in theory but avoid acting on them.
“You must know your marriage makes it difficult for me to recommend you for a permanent living,” Bishop Chisholm said.
“Yes.” Paul was caught between wanting to defend Lilia and working to avoid further damage to his career.
“Is there any chance your wife would be willing to take a less public role, or transfer her allegiance to one of the non-militant Christian suffrage societies?”
“No, I don’t think she would.” Then Paul surprised himself by adding, “And I wouldn’t want her to compromise her beliefs.”
The bishop shook his head and said, “That makes things very difficult indeed.”
He had no idea how difficult, given that Paul was hurting his own chances of preferment because of a wife who had already left him.
“Do not mistake me,” Bishop Chisholm continued. “I am pleased with the work you have done in Ingleford. Your perseverance with a difficult parish is a credit to you. Whatever my doubts about your marriage, I haven’t forgotten what you are capable of.”
“I appreciate that very much.”
It was good to hear the bishop’s affirmation of his work, and Paul felt cautiously hopeful about his future prospects of a better living, but it saddened him to realize that in the eyes of the bishop, his wife was a detriment to him. Lilia had to be aware that many people would think the same, which made it all the more important to tell her how he felt about her.
As soon
as he left the bishop’s palace, he went to the WSPU office at Clement’s Inn to see Lilia. He had never been inside. For a moment, he stood looking up at the five-story brick building and screwing up his courage while office workers and newsboys rushed past him.
There was a reception desk just inside the building, but nobody was behind it, so he went up the first flight of stairs and into a large, open room filled with people and activity. Women hurried past him with bundles of papers. One woman at a nearby desk was typing furiously. Another was talking on the telephone and taking notes at the same time. There were WSPU posters and notice boards bearing newspaper clippings on the walls. Announcements and banners were piled on a table. At the other end of the long room, a cluster of women sat around a large table and Lilia stood before them, gesturing energetically as she spoke. He was too far away to hear what she was saying, but he knew those gestures went with her most persuasive speeches.
A bespectacled woman stopped in front of him, glancing at his clerical collar. “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes. I’d like to speak to … er, Miss Brooke.”
“Do you mean Mrs. Harris?”
“Yes.” He was absurdly gratified to hear that Lilia was using his name.
“Whom shall I say is asking for her?”
“Paul Harris. Her husband.”
“Oh!” She peered at him more closely over the top of her glasses. “Yes, of course. I’ll fetch her.”
The bespectacled woman went to Lilia, whispered something, and pointed across the room to where Paul stood. Lilia turned and met his eyes, only a momentary stillness indicating she had seen him. She turned to speak to the women at the table, then began to walk towards him.
She was interrupted a few times by others who clearly needed advice or answers to questions. They buzzed to and fro around her like worker bees around their queen, and Paul was struck by both how much they depended on her and how completely in command she was.
When she finally stood before him, she kept a careful three feet between them.
“What do you want?” she said. She looked weary, with dark circles under her eyes, but she was still far and away the most beautiful woman he knew.
The typist’s fingers went still as she watched Paul and Lilia with curious eyes. Two other women at a nearby desk smiled knowingly and whispered to each other.
“Can we speak somewhere privately?” he asked.
She glanced across the room. “I’m very busy.”
“It won’t take long.” When she hesitated, he added, “Please.”
She looked at him warily. Then, as if deciding that talking to him was the quickest way to get rid of him, she nodded and led the way back downstairs to the reception desk, which was still unmanned. There were two chairs at the desk, but it was clear she had no intention of sitting.
An office vestibule wasn’t the ideal setting for the conversation Paul wanted to have, but at least for the moment it was private.
“I want to apologize,” he said. “I behaved badly the last time you came to Ingleford.”
She waved her hand wearily. “There’s no need for that.”
“Yes, there is. I don’t blame you for thinking I was trying to drive you away, nor do I blame you for not wanting to come back. I was wrong in everything I did that weekend—treating you coldly, refusing to communicate with you, acting as if you were a criminal. The sermon, too—”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“It does matter,” he insisted, taking a step towards her. “I didn’t see it before, but I understand now what that sermon must have done to you, what it must have made you think. I’m so sorry.”
“Paul, we both said things we shouldn’t have. I don’t want to revisit our last conversation.” She sighed. “Don’t you see this marriage is bringing out the worst in both of us? We want different things, and I can’t fulfill my obligations as your wife without doing violence to myself. We should never have married, and it’s best that we stay away from each other.”
“I can’t accept that,” he said firmly. “What you think I expect of you is not true—not anymore. You need never attend another church service if you don’t want to. I don’t expect regular visits from you, either, but I hope you’ll want to see me sometimes. I’ve started to understand myself better in the past little while, and though I can’t promise never to hurt you again, I will do better.”
She made no reply, her face averted and eyes downcast. Paul took another step towards her. They were close enough that he could easily take her in his arms, but he knew that if he tried, she would likely resist.
“One more word,” he said, “and I’ll go. Will you please look at me?”
She slowly raised her eyes to his. Her eyes glittered with what could be anger or unshed tears—he couldn’t tell which.
Paul went on, his voice trembling with intensity, “I love you, Lilia. Don’t forget what good friends we once were … or how it felt when we kissed. I don’t care how other people think a wife or husband ought to behave. And if you don’t want me as your husband, let me be your lover. I’m sorry I wouldn’t discuss … certain things with you before, but I’m willing now. I’ll wait for whatever you can give me, whenever you can give it.”
Their eyes remained locked during a motionless, fragile silence.
“I’ll think about it,” she whispered. Then she turned and went quickly up the stairs.
27
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.
—The Song of Solomon 1:2
DECEMBER 1908
Idon’t like it,” Lilia said.
“You needn’t like it,” Harriet replied. “You knew when you became Mrs. Pankhurst’s deputy that you couldn’t act as freely as you did before.”
“Yes, but I didn’t realize I’d be protected to such an extent. You know me, Harriet. I don’t like being coddled.”
“If you call this coddling, you may be in the wrong position.”
Lilia sighed and stared across the desk at her friend. It was early evening and they were alone in the WSPU office. Everyone else had gone home for the day, but they had stayed to work out the details of their deputation to the prime minister. The plans had been delayed after the Lewisham church fire, and now that there was a general election, it would be delayed even longer.
“You refuse bodyguards and insist on accompanying the deputation,” Harriet went on. “I don’t know what else you want. Mrs. Pankhurst has bodyguards; she understands the need for them.”
“I’m not as well known as she is. I don’t need bodyguards.”
Harriet said, “You can’t do everything as our leader that you did when you were only a member.”
“I just want to help implement the plans I make. It’s only fair.”
“You need a break. Why don’t you go to Ingleford for a while? It’s the perfect time. We can’t do much when the government isn’t in.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Lilia said. She had told Harriet about her disastrous trip to Ingleford and Paul’s subsequent apology, but her friend hadn’t advised her one way or the other. It had been two weeks since Paul had come to see her in London.
“What can it hurt?” Harriet replied. “If Mr. Harris is true to his word, things will be better. If not, you won’t have lost anything.”
“I suppose I ought to have expected his coldness to me, given the church fire.” Lilia smoothed the papers on the desk in front of her.
“It seemed to me he was more upset about your broken promise to see him that weekend than about the church fire.”
“He’s a priest. Naturally he’d be upset about anyone in my organization setting fire to a church.”
“I’m not so sure. He’d probably set fire to his own church if it made you pay attention to him.”
“Harriet, don’t ever let him hear you say such a thing! You’re hopelessly sacrilegious.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t offend your reverend husband
. I can’t believe I ever thought it necessary to try to convince him—” Harriet broke off, looking mortified.
“Convince him of what?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just running off at the mouth.”
“No,” Lilia said firmly, “you were about to say something and I want to know what it was.”
Harriet sighed. “It doesn’t matter now. When you asked Mr. Harris to marry you and he refused, and then you started writing that letter to Mr. Reed … well, I was worried you were about to make a terrible mistake. Everything was happening quickly and I didn’t want you to legally bind yourself to that … adventurer.” Harriet uttered the word as if it were a curse.
Lilia stared at her friend in silence.
“I went to Ingleford the next day,” Harriet went on. “I thought it was only fair to tell Mr. Harris what you were contemplating. I asked him to reconsider your proposal.”
“Oh, Harriet. How could you?” Lilia felt a mixture of conflicting emotions: humiliation at the thought of her friend having to convince Paul to marry her, anxiety about his needing to be convinced, and gratitude that Harriet cared so much about her.
“I knew if you were going to marry anyone, it must be him.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, he put up a bit of a fight, but it was merely to save face. The man is mad with love for you, you know.” Harriet looked uncharacteristically anxious. “You will forgive me, won’t you?”
“Of course I forgive you.” Lilia bit her lip. “I never could have married Will.”
“No. And I wondered if all of your talk about fixing the damage to your reputation was protesting a little too much. Do you know what I mean? I think deep down you really wanted to marry Mr. Harris. You just didn’t want to admit it.”
Lilia smiled at her friend. “You’re a wise woman, Harriet.”
Impossible Saints Page 28
