The Alteration

       'I've not yet had time to consider the issues fully.'

       'But what is there to consider?'

       'The... interests of the child, your own feelings...'

       'You know what they are, the interests and the feelings and everything else. What could induce you to change your mind and sign? What made you refuse at the outset?'

       The answer to the first of her questions was easy to formulate but hard to deliver. The true answer to the second was in the same case, but false answers could at least be attempted. With the best show of firmness he could put on, Lyall said, 'The first concern of us all, as ever, is our duty to God. We speak of that as of a simple and obvious thing, and sometimes indeed it is so. But at other times we have to walk with caution and seek for guidance. That guidance may come—'

       'Oh, is that all?'

       He did not need to look at her to feel the weight of her disappointment.

       'You must allow me to know more of these matters than you, my child.'

       'Yes, I suppose I must. One last question, Father. If at the end of this period you were to remain steadfast in your refusal, what then?'

       'Then,' he said, with real firmness this time, 'I should soon be removed from the office which gives import to my refusal, and a more pliant person would be substituted.'

       'My husband would be compelled to dismiss you and to appoint...?'

       'No compulsion would be necessary. Master Anvil is an exceedingly devout Christian, and is known to be one. A word from the right quarter acquainting him with the divine will in this business, and that would be an end of it.'

       She nodded without speaking. After a moment she said in a lifeless tone, 'There must be some right of appeal, to the Archbishop or Convocation.'

       'Right of appeal, well and good, but no surety that an appeal will not be dismissed without even being heard. No substantial grounds for appeal that I can discern in this case. And unsuccessful appellants are not well regarded in our polity.'

       'In other words, you'll do nothing.'

       'If I thought I could be of the least-'

       'Enough.'

       There were tears on Dame Anvil's face as she left the chair and made slowly for the door. Father Lyall barred her way, taking her gently by the upper arms. She lowered her forehead on to his chest.

       'My child,' he said several times. To begin with he said it like a priest, but only to begin with. When she lifted her face in one of her brief timid glances, he kissed her. Her lips shook, then steadied, then responded, then withdrew.

       'But you're... '

       'A sinner,' he said, smoothing her tears away with his fingertips. 'That's nothing so terrible, I promise you. There are plenty of us in this world.'

       Some time later, a voice rose in what sounded like, but was not, a theatrical prelude to a sneeze, followed by what sounded like, but was not, a long cry of grief. 'Blessed Lord Jesus,' said Margaret Anvil without much clarity. 'What happened to me then?'

       Holding her in his arms on the bed, Lyall made an instant deduction, one that called for no great cleverness or insight, merely for some experience of married women of the higher social condition. 'It was love,' he said.

       'Love? But love is what we...'

       He put his mouth on hers. They lay there a few more minutes in the dim light from the lowered gas-lamp. The tower clock struck eleven.

       'Father, something troubles me.'

       'I see no bar to your calling me Matthew now.'

       'Yes, Matthew. Something troubles me.'

       'Don't begin to repent just yet. Have your sin out. It will have lasted such a short time.'

       'It isn't the sin,' she said urgently, pulling away from him. 'God will take care of that. What you think of me is important too.'

       'Of course it is. I think you're beautiful.'

       'Oh, Matthew, do you? But you distract me. What I must say to you is this.'

       For the moment, however, Margaret did not say what she must say, presumably because, in one quick movement, Lyall had thrown the bed-covers aside, altogether exposing her naked form. Her right hand flew to cover her crotch; her left forearm went across her breasts. Without touching her, without stirring, Lyall looked her in the eyes. Her head jerked away, then slowly came back till she could glance down at her own body. Another jerk, another return, this time to Lyall's face and away again. After a minute of this, she was looking straight back at him, eye to eye, and her arms were at her sides.

       'I must make sure you are beautiful, all of you,' said Lyall. 'I may have spoken too lightly, out of nothing more than instinct... Well, if so, it was sound enough. You are entirely beautiful. But your most beautiful part... is here.'

       He reached out and stroked her temple and cheek. She caught his hand, kissed it, and said in a shaky voice, 'Nobody has ever looked at me like that before.'

       'You haven't allowed it?'

       'No, just—nobody has ever looked at me.'

       'I'm glad I was the first.'

       'So am I.'

       After putting back the covers and waiting for a moment, he said, 'Well?'

       'Forgive me?'

       'There was something you must say to me, I thought.'

       'Oh. Oh yes. But it seems of less import now.'

       'Since you were distracted from whatever it is by my telling you you were beautiful, you may forget it for ever and not ruffle me.'

       'No. No, I must say. Here it is. Matthew, it may seem to you that all my talk of Hubert and the document was a pretext, and I called on you only to come to your bed.'

       'That is not so.'

       'No, it's not so, but do you believe it's not so?'

       'I believe it.'

       'Swear that you do. Swear by Almighty God.'

       'I so swear,' said the priest, making the Sign of the Cross as he lay naked on his back. Nor was this a false oath: it was a quarter of an hour or more since he had discarded the view he had just denied. 'Now, is that better?'

       'Half better. Only half better, because I must talk to you again of Hubert and the document; I must try again to persuade you to help me. And this may make you believe something different, but still bad. Matthew, I didn't come to your bed to make it harder for you not to be persuaded.'

       Both manners and policy dictated his answer to that. 'No, Margaret, I'm sure you didn't.'

       'Are you? Your voice isn't the same. This time you're thinking. You spoke without thought before. Now, you consider whether you've heard the truth or not. Isn't that so, Matthew?'

       'Yes.' Lyall had indeed been thinking, to the effect that only a bold and devious woman would have ventured to raise openly the point about persuasion, let alone press it, and that Margaret Anvil was not bold and very likely was not devious either.

       'Say, then.'

       'I swear by Almighty God that I truly believe that you came to my bed out of no ulterior motive.'

       She sighed but said nothing.

       'Where's your persuasion?' he asked after a time.

       'Here it is, now that you ask—to begin it at once would have been too vulgar. As Hubert's mother I have a duty to protect him, a duty laid on me by God and nature. But, in this world, what can a woman do? I must have a man by me who will-'

       'You have a man. I'll help you, so far as I'm able. That may not be far, but there's something in the wording of that document which gives room for debate, and two years ago a friend of mine was in the Archbishop's directorate. I must discover if he's still there.'