1
"You can't possibly want to brush it any more, Caroline." Aliette's
maid, a square-hipped, square-shouldered, square-faced woman who had
been in service with the Fullerford family ever since Judge Fullerford
came back from Trinidad, laid the ivory-backed hair-brushes on the
dressing-table, and began to twine the vivid coils round the small head.
There is neither gas nor electric light at Moor Park. In the slanted
oval of the old-fashioned mirror, Aliette could only see, either side of
her rather serious face, two primrose points of candle-flame. The long
low bedroom behind her--furnished in mid-Victorian mahogany,
Morris-papered with tiny roses on an exiguous trellis--was almost in
darkness, darkness against which the primrose candle-glow showed
Aliette's full beauty.
You saw her now--bathed after hunting, peacock-blue kimono round her
dimpled shoulders--as a creature of supreme health. Her arms were
smooth, lustrous; her wrists rounded; her hands small, a little broad in
the palm--resolute strong hands for all their smallness. Her neck was
smooth, full, lustrous as her arms; her bosoms low and firm; her feet
fine; her legs, under their black silk stockings, slim-ankled and
smooth-muscled--almost classic in their perfection.
Caroline Staley's mistress hardly moved while Caroline Staley completed
the simple hair-dressing. Her deliberate mind was busy with the past
day. She relived it--moment by moment,--loving it. The primeval instinct
which had momentarily and subconsciously troubled her was asleep again,
lulled to civilized quiescence by the air and the exercise. She
remembered her pursuer in the field only as a pleasant companionable
figure against the background of March sunlight and English countryside.
Nevertheless, she found herself wishing, vaguely, that he were coming to
dinner that night.
It would be a dullish dinner. Her husband had arrived by the afternoon
train, bringing the usual bagful of legal papers to assimilate over the
week-end, and her sister Mollie. Mollie and Hector always got on well
with each other. She had found them taking tea together when she arrived
home; and left them alone after a brief greeting. The Rev. Adrian was to
be there, with his bishop's daughter. "Billy" would want to know all
about the day's run. "Dear Billy!"
Hector Brunton's wife inspected her maid's handiwork, and rose to be
frocked. Mollie came in without knocking; lit another candle or so, and
helped with a hook or two.
"Nice frock," decided Mollie Fullerford, surveying Aliette's black lace
and silver tissue. Her voice resembled Aliette's; but there resemblance
ended. The girl stood half a head taller than the woman. She had violet
eyes, a broadish brow, and dark, almost black hair, bobbed during
convalescence. Her coloring was white in comparison with Aliette's
cream; but two patches of natural bloom glowed in her cheeks. She wore a
panniered dress of blue and mauve shot taffeta, wide over the hips,
tight round the ankles, short-sleeved, neck cut high to conceal one of
her wound-scars. Her arms, hands, and feet, well-shaped as her sister's,
looked more powerful. Altogether rather a hefty, healthy, happy young
creature--the sort of creature a decent hefty young man would single out
at a dance.
"No nicer than yours," retorted Aliette, slipping her rings on her
fingers, and adjusting the short single string of pearls round her
throat.
A knuckle rapped the door-panels; a loudish voice asked: "May I come in,
dear?"
"Yes. I'm just ready."
Hector entered--a big, over-big man, the glazed shirt-front already
bulging out of his black waistcoat. The K.C., shorn of legal wig and
trappings, did not look very dignified; nevertheless, he gave an
impression of force. The sandy hair was scant on his wide mottled
forehead; his eyes were a cold gray; his nose tended to the bulbous. The
clean-shaven lips appeared thin and a trifle cruel; his jowl was
heavy--almost the jowl of a mastiff. He had the hands of a gentleman,
the feet of a clodhopper.
"Is it time for dinner?" asked the wife. The husband drew from his
waistcoat pocket a heavy gold watch; consulted the hands of it; and
admitted the accuracy of her suggestion.
"Then we'd better be going down," decided Aliette.
2
The dining-room at Moor Park possesses, or is possessed by, the largest
suite of mid-Victorian mahogany ever fashioned. The sideboard, gleaming
always with massive silver, occupies the entire east end of the
apartment, barely leaving room for a white-paneled Adams door. Either
side of the marble mantelpiece stand two colossal serving-tables.
Gigantic horsehair-seated armchairs, ranged between the long
red-curtained windows, spill a brood of slightly less gigantic offspring
round the mastodontic board.
The mulligatawny and the cod with oyster-sauce had already been served
by the two cap-and-aproned wenches, whom the rear-admiral declared to be
"a damned sight better than any heavy-handed son of a gun who smoked a
fellow's cigars, drank his port, and did as little work as the old
bumboat-woman of Portsmouth."
Rear-Admiral Billy was enjoying himself. His jovial eyes, a little
red-rimmed with age under the heavy brown thatch of his hair, kept
glancing round at "his two colts and their fillies" (one is, alas!
forced to modify a good many of the admiral's pet expressions) and at
that "jolly little piece in the No. 5 rig," Aliette's sister. His trim
beard, grayed only at the extremities, kept wagging accompaniment to
Aliette's account of the run; the course of which his hairy-backed hands
were trying to trace, in bread and salt, on the table-cloth.
"'Spose you funked as usual, Adrian," rumbled the old man across the
enormous table. "God knows what I've ever done to deserve a son in the
church."
The Rev. Adrian, in clerical evening dress, only laughed at his father's
criticism; but the Rev. Adrian's Margery fired up in defense of her
spouse.
"Adrian's seen more active service than most men of his cloth," began
the little aquiline, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned, and darkly
determined woman, who dressed (when natural circumstances permitted
her--as they did not at the moment) with the severe precision of
unadorned royalty.
Aliette continued her low-voiced description of the day's run; Hector
tried explaining to an attentive Mollie the exact difference between a
disbarred barrister and a solicitor who has been struck off the rolls;
the cap-and-aproned wenches set an enormous joint of mutton before the
host, who always insisted on carving with his own hands; and dinner
proceeded.
To Hector Brunton's wife the dullish meal was less unpleasant than her
anticipation of it. She liked her father-in-law--though his occasional
coarseness always jarred her sensitive mind. She appreciated her
sister's week-end visit; and anticipated with some pleasure the family
talk which would precede their going to bed. But above all, she liked
being away from the constraining intimacy of her home with Hector.
Recently Hector had been growing more and more difficult to deny. She
caught him looking at her now, sideways across the vast white of the
table-cloth. Vaguely she felt sorry for him. His cold eyes almost held
an appeal. "Look round," they seemed to be saying, "it isn't so bad;
really it isn't so bad, this little family party. Can't we make it up,
you and I?"
"Poor Hector!" she thought. "He's a very simple person. He doesn't
understand"; and checked thought, not abruptly, but with the same quiet
firmness she had applied to Miracle that morning.
For Aliette never posed, even to herself. She was the very antithesis of
the usual misunderstood married woman; so far, the mere thought of a
compensating lover had never entered her head. All that happened
afterward--and sometimes, looking back, it seems to her as though it all
began from that chance remark of Adrian's--happened of its own volition.
At the moment Adrian spoke she was just an ordinary woman, who had
married an ordinary man in the expectation of a home and children, found
him out in various infidelities, and decided--after due thought--that
she could no longer pay his physical price for the dwindling possibility
of motherhood.
"We had young Cavendish out with us to-day," said the parson. "Julia
Cavendish's son. You know him, I suppose, Hector?"
"Yes. Clever fellow. No orator, but very sound on his law. He's doing
junior to me in the Ellerson case. Rather an interesting case----"
"He and Aliette gave us all a lead."
"Rides well, does he?"
"Rather. A fine horseman. Handsome looking chap, too." The parson
glanced at his sister-in-law, not maliciously, yet with a certain
puzzlement. Listening with half an ear to her description of the run, he
had wondered why she made no mention of the stranger. "Didn't you think
so, Aliette?" he went on.
"I can't say I noticed his looks. He certainly rides well." The
wallflower-brown eyes betrayed no startle, the pale, cream-tinged cheeks
did not blush. Nevertheless, deep down in the inmost recesses of her
nature, Aliette felt herself startle, not guiltily, but in wonderment at
her inexplicable omission. What possible reason could there be for not
mentioning the man?
Adrian continued to discuss Ronnie, and Ronnie's mother, and Maurice
Cavendish, whom he had encountered years since at Oxford.
"His son's rather like him; but of course he's got the Wixton chin,"
said Adrian.
All the time Adrian talked, Aliette was asking herself questions. Why
hadn't she even mentioned the man's name? Why? Why? Why? Harking back to
her conversation, she seemed to have made the omission deliberately.
She tried to laugh herself out of the absurd mood; to join in the
conversation. Deliberate? Ridiculous! She just hadn't thought about him.
And yet, subconsciously, the man's face rose up before her, serious and
strangely vivid against the glow of the table-candles. She could almost
hear his voice, "I'll give you a lead over, Mrs. Brunton."
3
"Do you know, Alie, I've sometimes thought that you and Hector don't get
on very well together."
Mollie, in dressing-gown and bedroom slippers, sat on the edge of her
sister's bed. Margery Brunton, inclining to the aggressive about her
forthcoming infant, departed early; and the two Fullerfords had been
talking for nearly an hour, quite unsentimentally, about frocks,
parents, books, a theater or so.
"What makes you say that?" Aliette, shoulder-deep in bedclothes, looked
up from her pillow.
"Oh, I don't know." The girl blushed; and there fell a moment's awkward
silence, during which it flashed through Aliette's sleepy mind that
perhaps Hector had been confiding their matrimonial differences to his
sister-in-law. But she dismissed the thought: Hector's reticence, even
about small matters, was proverbial in the family. Besides, the reason
for Mollie's question was sufficiently obvious.
"We get on as well as most married people, I expect," protested Hector
Brunton's wife.
"I'm afraid I'm a terrible sentimentalist," went on Mollie. "Sometimes,"
she blushed again, "I think I'm even worse than that. I've never met a
man I liked well enough to marry. Though, of course, I've let two or
three men make love to me. It's rather nice to feel that a man's fond of
you." She hesitated, and broke off--Aliette being hardly the kind of
sister to whom one confided one's love-affairs.
"Most women are awful rotters," said the girl, after a long pause.
Aliette restrained the retort at her lips; and Mollie's naïve
revelations continued. "Most men aren't. They've got a higher sense of
honor than we have. I found that out while I was nursing. Reading the
women's letters to fellows who'd been gas-blinded. There was one, I
remember, who wanted a divorce. She wrote: 'I'm afraid I haven't been
playing the game while you've been away.' And she didn't seem a bit
ashamed of herself."
"Did you read him the letter?" interrupted Aliette.
"No. But I wrote to the woman; and she wrote back, thanking me.
_Thanking me!_" Mollie's voice rose. "She'd decided that 'after all, and
especially as he was so bad, it would be better not to tell him. Would I
burn her silly letter?' I think that's _beastly_." Her violet eyes
kindled. "I'm not a prig. I don't believe divorce is wrong. But I do
consider it dirty, when a woman or a man do--that sort of thing."
Aliette's face, smooth on its pillows between braided coils, gave no
hint of the thoughts in her mind. Vaguely she resented an unmarried
girl, or, in fact, any woman discussing "that sort of thing"; but her
resentment, she knew, would only make the younger generation laugh. The
younger generation of girls, as represented by Mollie, did not believe
in squeamishness. Perhaps--Aliette seemed to remember that Julia
Cavendish had touched on the subject in her last novel--the younger
generation were no less virtuous because they faced facts instead of
hiding their heads, ostrich-like, in the sands of innocence.
"I don't see," Mollie's decided voice closed the conversation, "why
being in love should prevent one from playing the game."
She rose, gathered her dressing-gown round her, asked if she should blow
out the candle, did so, and made for the door.
"By the way," said the figure silhouetted against the glow of the
corridor-lamp, "I suppose there's a service at Key Hatch to-morrow
afternoon. If there is, let's go. It's such a ripping little church; and
I can't bear being preached to by Adrian."
"If you like, dear," replied an unguarded Aliette. But when the door
closed and she lay alone in darkness, her mind reverted to its problem,
to that peculiar omission of Ronald Cavendish's name.
4
Morning broke to gusts of rain. Hector locked himself in the library;
the admiral inspected his greenhouses; Mollie refused to get up; and
Aliette wrote letters.
Somehow, the letters took a long while to write. She found herself, pen
in raised hand, dreaming. In her day-dreams happiness and
dissatisfaction mingled incoherently, as the voices of two people heard
through a wall. She could not catch the words of the voices, only the
tones of them: one low-laughing, the other querulous. For the first time
since girlhood--and even in girlhood she had been deliberate--deliberate
thought abandoned her. She felt content that her mind should drift idly
through an idle day. Only when Mollie--appearing brogued and tweeded for
luncheon--reminded her of the agreed church-going, did her brain resume
its normal function.
"In all probability I shall see Ronald Cavendish"--the thought came
startlingly as Aliette watched Hector at work on the inevitable roast
beef and Yorkshire pudding of the admiral's Sabbath. "I hope I shall see
Ronald Cavendish"--so distinct were the words that they might have been
actually spoken.
"It's clearing up," announced her father-in-law. "You'll have a jolly
walk. Ought to start about half-past three. Better have some tea at the
Bull. Service is at half-past five."
"I don't think I'll go," said Aliette. "I've got rather a headache."
"Do your headache good," rumbled the admiral.
She pulled herself together. Why shouldn't she go to Key Hatch; why
shouldn't she meet Ronald Cavendish? Not, of course, that she really
_wanted_ to meet Ronald Cavendish. . . .
5
"I wonder why on earth I invented that headache," thought Aliette, as
she and Mollie tramped down the drive. Hector had returned to work in
the library; he waved them au revoir from the desk by the window.
A fantasy came to her: "I shall never see Hector again." She said to
herself: "I hope _he_ hasn't gone back to town." She said to herself:
"Aliette, don't be an absolute idiot."
For, after all, could anything be more idiotic than that a woman of
nearly thirty--and that woman Mrs. Brunton, Mrs. Hector Brunton, wife of
Hector Brunton, K.C.--should feel like--like a schoolgirl going to meet
her first choir-boy?
And yet, instinctively, Aliette knew herself somehow caught, somehow
entangled. No escape from that knowledge! Ridiculous or not, this
stranger she was going to meet--of course they _would_ meet him; he
couldn't have gone back to town--interested her. Interested her
enormously. She saw him again in the eyes of her mind, his serious face,
his blue eyes, his hair--such curious hair, goldy-gray as though
bleached by the tropics,--all the while she swung, listening to Mollie's
chatter, along the familiar lanes.
A low sun, emerging from between gold-edged clouds, shone on them
walking. The hedges dripped cool sparkles. Cow-parsley pushed its
feathery green through the tangled grass of the ditches. They topped the
rise by Moor Farm, and saw Key Hatch below them. It lay in a cup of the
valley, gray and brown and slate-blue through leafless branches against
the concave jade of pasture-land. Half a mile on, midway between them
and the village, two figures strolled up-hill.
Social sense, banishing idiotic fantasies, reasserted itself in Hector
Brunton's wife; and, five minutes later, the four figures met.
"How do you do, Mrs. Brunton?"
"How do you do, Mr. Cavendish?"
Ronnie introduced his friend; Aliette introduced them both to Mollie.
The friend, James Wilberforce, carried his five feet eleven well. He had
broad shoulders and a rather clever face, aquiline of nose, brown-eyed,
high cheek-boned, full-lipped under a "toothbrushed" mustache. His
mustache and his hair only just escaped being carroty. His voice carried
a faint suggestion of superciliousness.
"An overworked solicitor," he told them with a humorous twinkle of his
brown eyes, "taking a day off in the country." He was "charmed" to meet
Mrs. Brunton. He had had the pleasure of knowing her husband for some
years. "A great man."
Mollie liked the way he spoke. She thought him much more agreeable than
Mr. Cavendish, who appeared to her rather a sobersides--almost ill at
ease, in fact.
"We were just having a stroll before tea," announced Wilberforce, after
about five minutes of uninspired conversation.
"And we are going to have tea at the Bull before church," retorted the
girl. "So we'd better all have tea together." She marched Wilberforce
off down the hill.
Her sister and Cavendish followed slowly. Now that they had actually
met, Aliette felt thoroughly ashamed of the mental fuss she had made
about him. He was a perfectly ordinary man, who happened to have given
her a lead over Parson's Brook. Rather a nice man, of course. She liked
the way he wore his clothes, his assumption that she did not require him
to chatter. He walked--she noticed in the gathering twilight--almost as
well as he rode, easily from the hips.
"You've let your pipe out," she told him.
He stopped to rekindle it; and she saw that his hand trembled ever so
slightly in the glow of the match. "Nervy," she thought. She did not
divine that the long scholarly fingers trembled because the man had
scarcely slept for overmuch thinking of the woman at his side; that he
had been saying to himself, ever since he espied her on the brow of the
hill, "Don't be a fool. Don't be a _damn_ fool. She's Hector Brunton's
wife."
That afternoon her sheer physical beauty thrilled him like fine poetry.
He had no idea how she was dressed. Her clothes seemed part of her--deep
wallflower brown, the color of her eyes. He wanted to acknowledge her
beauty, to say: "You're wonderful; too wonderful for any man's sight."
Actually, he opined that they had had a jolly run, and hoped he'd get
another day with the Mid-Oxfordshire some time or other.
On horseback he could thrust with the best of them, this long,
loose-limbed young man with the serious face above the Wixton chin; but
he was no thruster after women. Too much the poet for that--one of those
many dumb poets who have no desire to flaunt their emotions in cold
print.
The four came down the hill, Mollie and Wilberforce still leading, round
a whitewashed farmhouse, along a strip of wet road whereon a few
bowler-hatted chawbacons strolled arm-in-arm with their red-cheeked,
silent Dollies, under leafless elm branches, into the main--and
only--street of Key Hatch.
England's Sabbath brooded obviously over stone cottages, picturesquely
inefficient, flower-pots blocking their tiny windows, doors closed.
Already, here and there behind the flower-pots, an extravagant light
twinkled. Half-way down the street, its bow-windows inhospitably
blinded, stood the Bull, relic of posting-days, whose rusty signboard
had so far failed to attract the motorist. At street-end, dark against
the cold cloud-banks of declining day, loomed the square tower of Key
Hatch Church.
Mollie and Wilberforce waited at the side door of the inn till the
others joined them.
"You won't mind having tea in my sitting-room. I'm afraid there isn't a
fire anywhere else," said Cavendish; and led his three guests down a
narrow corridor--rigid fish in glass cases and an iron hatstand its only
decorations--into a parlor where firelight danced invitingly.
Wilberforce lit the lamp, revealing a five-legged tea-table set for two,
a hard sofa, three antimacassared chairs, a stuffed barn-owl between
Britannia-ware candlesticks on the mantelpiece, and the usual litter of
photographs in sea-shell frames without which no English inn considers
itself furnished.
Cavendish jerked the bell-tassel; Mrs. Wiggins, a pleasant-featured
young woman already attired for church-going, bustled in with the brown
teapot; nearly courtesied to Aliette; bustled out again, and reappeared
with the extra utensils.
"You'll pour out for us, won't you, Mrs. Brunton?" asked the host.
"If you like." Aliette spoke in her usual deliberate way. But now, for
the first time, she felt self-conscious. Was her hat on straight? Had
she remembered to powder her nose before starting?
Pouring tea, handing cups, busied with the most ordinary social duties,
there swept over her mind the most extraordinary fantasies. And quite
suddenly she wanted to take off her hat!
"But this is ridiculous," she said to herself. "I _can't_ take off my
hat." Nevertheless she wanted to. She must! This was _his_ room. His cap
lay on the sofa, his pipe on the mantelpiece. Therefore . . . She
realized with amazement that her hands were already raised to her head.
"Alie, you haven't given me any sugar." Her sister's irritated voice
dispelled the moment's illusion. One hand dropped to her lap, the other
to the sugar-tongs.
"Sorry, dear." She recognized the shyness in her own words, and covered
shyness with a conventional laugh, "I'm getting forgetful in my old
age."
Discussing ages with their bread and butter, they made the original
discovery that a woman is as old as she looks, et cetera. Over hunks of
Mrs. Wiggins's home-made cake, Ronald admitted to thirty-six,
Wilberforce to forty.
"You don't look forty," decided Mollie: and at that moment, just as she
was thinking she had never listened to a more artificial conversation,
Aliette trapped her host's blue eyes in a glance no woman could possibly
mistake.
In a way the glance, so momentary, so quickly veiled that only her heart
assured her that she had actually seen it, resembled the glance she had
trapped in her husband's eyes over dinner. And yet it was utterly
different. It held reverence, a resigned hopelessness, a devotional
quality of which Hector's cold gray pupils could never be capable.
Now, with amazement, she knew herself panicked. Panicked, not because of
the look in his eyes, but because she realized that, in another second,
her own would have responded to them. She was not "shocked" at his
daring; her inaccessible beauty had not passed through seven years of
married life in London without various similar experiences. But she was
"shocked" at her own impulse. Heretofore such glances, even the words
which on occasion accompanied them, had left her completely indifferent,
utterly uncaring, positively contemptuous. This--did not leave her
indifferent. This--this mattered. . . .
Subconsciously, she who never swore began swearing at herself. "You're a
fool, Aliette. A damn fool." Doubt nagged her. "You made a mistake. You
only imagined that glance." The code nagged her. "Even if you didn't
imagine it, he had no right----"
And all the time her outward self, the socially-trained Aliette, was
behaving as though nothing unusual had occurred, filling teacups,
nibbling cake, talking this or that triviality. No, she was not an
ardent church-goer. Yes, her brother-in-law preached splendidly. But she
objected to seeing him in the pulpit. Why? She didn't quite know why; it
seemed too intimate, somehow or other. Like being introduced to the
Deity as a relation by marriage.
Mollie and Wilberforce laughed at that. Their laughter disturbed
Aliette. She and Cavendish sat stupidly silent till church-bells began.
"You'd better come with us. It will do you both good," said Mollie to
the solicitor.
"I haven't been inside a church since I left the army," declared
Wilberforce.
"All the more reason to come with us," smiled Mollie, who liked this big
auburn man, had liked him more and more ever since he was first
introduced.
And to church, casually, those four went.
6
As she knelt by the stone pillar on the thin hard hassock, it seemed to
Hector Brunton's wife that she had forgotten how to pray, that her eyes
were being drawn sideways through her fingers. Only by concentrating
could she achieve a moment's devotion. Settling herself back in the pew,
she was vividly aware of Cavendish's proximity.
By no means a fanatic, Aliette nevertheless accepted her father's
Protestantism. Religion formed part of the code, of those indubitable
laws on which one based existence. But on this particular evening
Protestantism seemed a farce. She could not imagine any god taking
pleasure in the gas-lit ceremonial, in the vacuous-eyed congregation, in
the artificial intonations of the parson or the hymn-numbers on the
board. All these seemed hugely distant from any concept of worship.
Somehow, she caught herself yearning for a richer ceremonial, for a
warmer faith. Somehow, she seemed to remember--dimly out of
childhood--her grandmother's voice:
"My dear, we've decided to forgive. But, O Marie! aren't you lonely?
Don't you feel as though God had gone out of your life?"
And her mother's voice seemed to answer: "Mother, can't you understand?
It's the same God. He hasn't gone out of my life just because I worship
Him differently. He couldn't abandon any woman who sacrificed herself
for love's sake."
The two voices faded into the past.
But now Aliette realized struggle in her soul. It was as though her soul
stood at bay, at bay with some terrible decision; as though her soul
were being swept toward some contest whose ending, whether victory or
defeat, only God could foresee. Once again she felt panic. Yet how
should there be panic here in Key Hatch Church?
Already they were singing the last hymn. This man, this man beside her
was called Cavendish. Ronald Cavendish! She could see his eyes, now
dropped to the hymn-book, now raised again. She could see his ungloved
hands on the pew-rail. She could hear his voice.
And abruptly, panic passed; abruptly, she felt the very spirit of her
a-thrill, a-thrill as though to fine music.
7
Hector Brunton's wife and Julia Cavendish's son said good-by to each
other in the cottage-twinkling darkness at the foot of Key Hatch hill,
shaking hands coolly, impersonally--merest acquaintances. Indeed,
Aliette's "Good night, Mr. Cavendish" sounded a hundred times less
cordial than Mollie's "I hope we shall meet again, Mr. Wilberforce."
And yet forty-eight hours later Aliette bolted.
She bolted, neither with Cavendish nor from Cavendish. She merely bolted
to Devonshire.
To herself she succeeded in pretending that she was running away from
Hector, from the inevitable recurrence of his amorousness; to Hector,
that--hunting being almost over--Mollie's return to Clyst Fullerford
furnished an excellent opportunity for her to pay the annual visit to
her home.
Hector grumbled, but gave in; and the two sisters traveled back
together, Mollie chattering all the way down, Aliette silently
speculating whether "home" would cure the mental and spiritual unease of
which she now felt acutely conscious.
But the unease persisted. Either "home" had changed its attitude toward
her, or else she had changed her attitude toward "home." The little
wayside station with its one porter and its six milk-cans, the up-hill
drive in the twilight, the first sight of the pilastered lodge, meant
less than ever before. Her heart did not warm to anticipation at thought
of the lit drawing-room, of her mother's hair white in the lamp-glow.
Even when her father welcomed her in the antlered hall, she felt like a
visitor.
They seemed to her so old, so settled, so remote from the actuality of
life, these two: Andrew (Aliette was of that age when children think of
parents by their Christian names) with his veined hands, his tired eyes
and patient mouth, his slow voice and stooping shoulders; Marie, thin,
pleasantly querulous, all traces of beauty save the eyes,
wallflower-brown as her daughter's own, dead in the lined face.
The very house, long and low, browned by time, its mullioned windows dim
with staring down the vale, seemed uncaring of her presence. Even her
own room, the room always kept for Aliette, the white furniture bought
for Aliette when she came back from boarding-school in France, could not
give her the peace she sought. These things, and the things in the
gardens, the pink-hearted primulas and the sheathed daffodils, seemed
insentient of trouble, of the trouble in her mind.
It had not been thus when she returned after marriage. Then the place
had smiled its wanderer welcome. Now it was the wanderer who smiled;
wanly; conscious of chill response; conscious--daily and hourly more
conscious--of an issue she must face unaided.
People, people she had known since cradle-days, came and went, busied as
ever with the same pleasant trivial country round, keeping much to
themselves, a little resentful of the war-rich who were creeping into
Devonshire, ousting war-poor county-folk, transforming old places,
building themselves new.
"Dear Aliette," said the people she had known since cradle-days, "you're
looking younger than ever."
"Dear people," she used to answer, "how nice of you to say so." For
outwardly she remained the same calm Fullerford who had married a
Brunton. Nobody, not even Mollie, guessed the emotions that obsessed
her. To them she was Hector Brunton's wife; not a girl of twenty-seven,
dreaming herself in love, in love for the first time.
Outwardly, she remained so calm. Her eyes were unruffled pools; her
voice a mannered suavity. Even the Martins failed to irritate her.
And Eva Martin would have irritated most sisters. The dignity of
"colonel's lady" sat heavily on Eva's narrow shoulders. She resembled
Mollie in vivacity, Aliette in complexion; but her eyes were their own
cold blue, her hair its own fading gold, and her lips, which smiled
often, but never in affection, two thin lines of anemic red across her
undimpled cheeks.
Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Martin's husband--a tall, gaunt soldier-man,
uncompromising in speech, direct of dark eye, whom Aliette and Mollie
would have liked well enough had he not been Eva's--spent a full ten
days. They brought their children with them; and left them behind when
they departed: two well-drilled little girls, who gave no trouble to
anybody--and no enjoyment.
* * * * *
So, for Aliette, Devon March warmed toward Devon April, bringing neither
peace of mind nor solution of the issue; only the certainty that she who
thought herself invulnerable had succumbed within thirty-six hours of
making his acquaintance to the temporary attractions of a man.
"For, of course," she used to muse, "it was only temporary; a moment's
infatuation; the sort of thing I've always heard about and never
believed in. Curious, that I should still think so much about it! Am I
still thinking about _it_--or about _him_? I _am_ being funny. What's
the matter with me? Love at first sight? The _coup de foudre_? But
that's ludicrous; simply ludicrous. The sooner I get back to London and
leave off brooding, the better."
Nevertheless, as she ordered Caroline Staley to pack, Hector Brunton's
wife realized herself desperately grateful that her husband--as
announced by telegram--had been "called out of town."
Such wires, coinciding with vacation-times, usually signified that he
had grown weary of entreating her fastidiousness!