1
To a certain type of mind, the woman who goes to a man's rooms is
already labeled. It seems therefore necessary to explain that
Aliette--when she suggested going to Ronnie's--acted on no passionate
impulse, but as the result of a whole afternoon's deliberation. It was,
she felt, vital that they should have speech together; and equally vital
that their speech should not be disturbed. Wherefore--fastidiousness
revolting alike from a clandestine appointment in Hyde Park or at her
husband's house--she chose the courageous alternative.
Now, however, as she strolled quietly down Bond Street at half-past four
of a sunlit Monday afternoon, Aliette did not altogether succeed in
bridling the fears with which both sex and training strove to stampede
her mentality.
She had to say to herself: "How absurd I am! These are the
nineteen-twenties; not the eighteen-sixties. Even discovered, I run no
risk of scandal." Yet scandal, she knew subconsciously, was the least of
the risks she ran in going to Ronnie.
Nevertheless, go she must: even if--worst risk of all--he had
misunderstood her motive. The issue between them could not be shirked
any longer. Rather a desperate issue it seemed as, at the corner of
Conduit Street, Aliette ran into Hector's father!
Rear-Admiral Billy, having arrived at his club two hours since, was
taking his first "cruise round." The old man looked the complete
Victorian in his white spats, his "Ascot" tie, his braided morning-coat
and weekday topper. But his "sponge-bag" trousers were Georgian enough.
"Well met, my dear." he greeted her. "Your old father-in-law's dying for
a pretty woman to pour out his tea."
She let him rumble on; accepted his compliments about her hat, her lace
frock, her parasol; but refused his offer of a taxi to Ranelagh.
"I'm so sorry, Billy. But I'm going--I'm going to tea with some one
else."
"That be blowed for a tale," laughed the admiral. "You're coming with
me. If Ranelagh's too far, we'll make it Rumpelmayer's."
He took her arm; and she began to panic. Billy, in his "on the spree"
mood, could be very persistent. A few yards on, however, they met
Hermione Ellerson. She too, declared the sailor, "must have a dish of
tea with an old man."
Aliette seized on the opportunity with a quick:
"Be a dear, Hermione. Take Billy to Rumpelmayer's for me."
"You'll give me strawberries and cream--whatever they cost?" pouted the
ex-plaintiff in Ellerson v. Ellerson.
"Give you anything you want," rumbled Rear-Admiral Billy. "Alie's going
to meet her best boy; so we'll leave her out of the party."
Aliette, on the pretext of shopping, managed an immediate riddance of
the pair. Watching them walk off together, she felt rather guilty. Yet
the guilt held a certain spice of pleasure, of pride. She was on a
dangerous errand, taking risks. She was going--in risk's despite--to
Ronnie.
Her heart began to throb in anticipation of Ronnie. Passing a mirrored
window, she glanced at her reflection, and saw herself well turned-out,
_en beauté_. The sight gave her keenest satisfaction. She walked on, no
longer fearful but excited--violently, tremulously excited--till she
came to Piccadilly; and turned right-handed toward St. James's Street.
But the clock of St. James's Palace told her that it still lacked more
than a quarter of an hour to their rendezvous.
She turned back again; stood a full minute in admiration of Rowland
Ward's trophies; debated with herself whether she should drop into
Fortnum & Mason's or dawdle at the book-counter in Hatchard's; decided
against both schemes; lingered to examine the Harrison Fisher drawings
in the display-window of "Nash's Magazine"; examined the diamond watch
at her wrist; and nearly bolted down the Little Arcade into the narrow
Londonishness of Jermyn Street.
Here again she felt the need for courage; felt as though the whole
place--the church under the tree, and the public-house at the corner,
the shops and the restaurants--held spies. The street, after broad
Piccadilly, seemed furtive, sunless, a street of danger. She wanted to
avert her head from the passers-by.
2
By the time Hector Brunton's self-possessed wife reached the dark-green
Adams door of 127b Jermyn Street, she was as nervous as any other woman
in the same equivocal position.
But Ronnie's name-plate, the sedateness of the house, and above all the
trim gentleman--obviously a retired butler--who answered her tremulous
ringing, did more than a little to restore her confidence.
"Mr. Cavendish? Mr. Cavendish is at home, madam. He is expecting
guests." (Aliette could have blessed Moses Moffatt for that final "s.")
"Allow me to show you the way up, madam."
She followed the restorer of confidence up two dark flights of
well-carpeted stairs; and found herself on a half-landing. The white
door on the half-landing was just ajar.
"Whom shall I announce, madam?" asked the trim gentleman.
Aliette hesitated the fraction of a second before replying: "Mrs.
Brunton, Mrs. Hector Brunton."
Moses Moffatt opened the white door, and they passed into the hall of
Ronnie's flat. Automatically Aliette noticed--and admired--the black
grandfather's clock, the one engraving, the beige wall-paper. Then her
cicerone knocked on polished mahogany; and a voice, Ronnie's voice,
called, "Come in."
Moses Moffatt opened the second door; announced the visitor in his best
style; and withdrew. They heard the click of his final exit as they
faced one another--she still in the doorway, he at the tea-table by the
fireplace.
For a moment, social poise deserted them both; for a moment they could
only stare--brown eyes into blue, blue eyes into brown. Then, her sense
of humor conquering shyness, Aliette said: "You _were_ expecting me,
weren't you?"
"It seems too good to be true." Ronnie moved across the room towards
her; took the hand she proffered; and raised it to his lips. At that,
she felt shy again. Confidence deserted her. If he failed in this first
test; if, by one word, he betrayed misunderstanding; then, indeed, she
would have irretrievably demeaned herself. But Ronnie released her hand
after that one kiss; and said, very simply: "I oughtn't to have let you
come."
Relieved, and a little touched at his words, Aliette let him take her
bag and parasol.
"I didn't mean you to have tea for me," she said, pulling off her
gloves. "Shall I pour out?"
"I'll have to boil the kettle first," he stammered, fumbling in his
pocket for matches. "You'll sit here, won't you! I--I've so often
imagined you sitting here and pouring out tea for me--Aliette."
"Have you--Ronnie?" Laughter dimpled her cheeks. She let him lead her to
the settee by the tea-table; and sat watching his struggle with the
refractory wick. "Why don't you have an electric one? They're so much
easier."
"Are they?" How shy he seemed!
"Rather!" She imagined herself infinitely the more at ease. "I like this
room."
"I'm so glad. It isn't my taste, you know."
"Really?" As if she hadn't guessed whose taste had chosen that beige
paper, those _écru_ velvet curtains with their flimsy lace _brise-bise_,
the Aubusson carpet, and the plain silver tea-service on the Chippendale
tray!
He did not pursue the subject; and for that reticence her heart went out
in thankfulness to him. Yet, at best, his reticence could only be a
temporary respite: before she left this room which his mother had
furnished for him, the whole issue must be discussed. And the issue--as
Aliette well knew--depended, more than on any one else, on Julia
Cavendish.
Yes! The whole issue, not only as it affected themselves, but as it
might affect others, must be threshed out before she left him.
Only--only--this respite was very sweet. Why couldn't life be just one
long tea-time! She felt so unutterably happy. A sense, almost a
sensuousness, of well-being pervaded her. She wanted no more than this:
to be with Ronnie; to hear his voice; to watch his lips, his eyes, his
hands as they poured from silver kettle to silver pot; to answer,
quietly, impersonally, his quiet impersonal questions.
She thought how boyish he looked; how unlike Hector he was in his
courtesy, his delicacy. Till suddenly, watching him across the table,
she grew conscious of tension in him, of passion. And on that, this
business of pouring out his tea, of accepting his cakes, turned to
sorriest of farces. She wanted him beside her, close to her; she wanted
to hear him whisper, "Aliette, I love you"; she wanted to whisper back,
"And I love you, Ronnie. I've loved you ever since that first day."
All else she had meant to say seemed positively futile.
Meanwhile, to Ronnie, it seemed incredible that he should find the
courage to tell her his thoughts; incredible that this vivid, radiant
creature, alone with him in the intimacy of his own dwelling-place,
should be willing to listen to them. Then, without warning, thought
broke to words.
"All the same, I oughtn't to have let you come."
"Why not? I--I wanted to."
"Because----" The fire in his eyes blinded her. She heard, as through
the maze of sleep, steady tick-tick-tick of the clock on the
mantelpiece, sizzle of the kettle-flame, the hoot and drone of traffic
from the street below. She heard, as a sleeper awakened, the throb of
her own heart. She felt tears, tears of sheer joy, close to her eyes.
"Because?" she whispered back.
"Because I love you. Because I can't trust myself with you. Because
you're"--he was on his feet now--"because you're not mine. And I want
you to be mine."
"Ronnie! Ronnie!" Still mazed, she stretched out a hand to him. He
seized her hand; and pressed it to his lips, to his eyes.
"Aliette--my dearest--sweetest--I'm behaving like a cad to you. I----"
Speech died at his lips; he stood before her, tense, tongue-tied--her
hand held, like a shield against her beauty, before his eyes. She knew
passion kindling in her, kindling them both to madness; knew the flames
of desire a-leap between them; knew the overpowering impulse to immolate
herself in the flames of desire.
"My dear," he whispered, "my dear."
Then, as in a dream, she divined that the flames leaped no more, that he
had mastered passion, that he had fallen to his knees, that he was
covering her hand with kisses. "Forgive me," she heard, "forgive me. I'm
not that sort of cad. I didn't think, just because you came to my
rooms----"
"Don't, don't." Her free hand fondled his hair. "You mustn't kneel to
me. Please, please----"
He rose, her hand still in his; and she drew him down beside her.
"Ronnie----" She would have looked into his eyes, but his eyes avoided
her. "Ronnie, I don't want you to think, either now or ever, that it's
caddish of you to--to love me. I--I need your love. I need your love
more than I can ever tell you." His hand trembled at her words. "I'm
very lonely, and I'm afraid--I'm afraid that I'm very weak. You're the
only person in the world who can help----"
"Then----" His eyes turned to hers, and she saw hope light in them.
"Then, you _do_ love me."
"Yes. I love you." She laughed--a little strained laugh that was almost
a caress. "I oughtn't to say that, I suppose."
"Oh, my dear"--now he had prisoned both her hands--"why shouldn't you
say it? No--no harm shall ever come to you from me."
"I know that." Her voice grew almost inaudible. "Otherwise--I shouldn't
be here."
"No harm shall ever come to you from me," he repeated--and fell silent.
They sat for a while, hand in hand, taking quiet comfort from one
another, each knowing what must next be said, each fearful of being
first to speak. At last, releasing her hands, Aliette braced herself to
the ordeal.
"About"--fastidiousness almost overwhelmed her--"about my--my husband.
You understand, don't you, that he--that he isn't my husband any
more--that otherwise I would never have come to you--that, that it's
been all over between him and me--for, for ever so long."
"Yes, dear. I--I understand." Very slowly, he drew her toward him. His
eyes no longer blinded her; looking deep into the blue of them, she saw
only a great comprehension, a great reverence. "I should have
understood--even without your telling me." Very slowly, she yielded to
the pull of his hands; yielded him her lips. Very clearly she knew
herself--as they swayed to one another in that first kiss--his woman.
Again, it was a while before either spoke. Then Ronnie said, speaking as
simply as any boy:
"I wish I knew what was the right thing to be done. I can't give you up.
Not now! Tell me, if you were free--would you marry me?"
"You know that I would." She, too, spoke simply of the things in her
heart. "But I'm not free. We're neither of us free."
"You mean that--that I'll have to give you up?"
Again she braced herself. "I--I'm afraid so."
"Why?"
"Because of----" She could not yet bring herself to mention his mother.
"Because of your career."
"My career!" He laughed, holding her in his arms. "As if my career had
anything to do with it. I'm only a poor devil of a barrister, living on
the charitable briefs of Jimmy Wilberforce. It's you, your reputation
that counts, not mine."
"I can't let my love bring you harm." She withdrew from him--her eyes
still suffused with happiness; her lips still quivering from his caress.
"Never mind me. It's you we have to consider. In law you're--you're
still your husband's. Unless he lets you divorce him."
"He'd never do that."
"Why not? It's lawful. It's done every day."
"Even if he would--I couldn't. It wouldn't be playing the game."
"Aliette"--stubbornly, Ronnie rose to his feet,--"I--I want you so much
that nothing else seems to matter. But I can't--I won't ask you to--to
do the other thing. You talk about playing the game. What's the
alternative? If you divorce your--your husband, he won't suffer. Nobody
cares what a man does. But the other thing--the other thing's all
wrong----"
His words chilled her to fear. But she knew that she must master
fear--even as he had mastered passion.
"Are you--are you so sure?" said Aliette. "Can love, real love, ever be
wrong?"
He turned on her bluntly, almost rudely. "Yes, the whole thing's wrong.
It's wrong of me to let you come here. Wrong of me to love you." Then,
his reserve breaking down: "I've tried to reason this thing out till
I've grown nearly mad with it. I've always loved my profession; always
thought that a lawyer's first duty was to obey the law. But now, loving
you, the law doesn't seem to count. Only you count. You and your
happiness. It's only you I'm thinking of, not my--my rotten career."
Once again he fell on his knees to her, protesting, incoherent; once
again he took her in his arms; and kissed her, very tenderly, on her
eyes, on her half-closed lips. His kisses weakened her.
"Ronnie," she whispered. "My Ronnie, I love you so."
Her whisper kindled him again to passion.
"Aliette," he said hoarsely, "Aliette, I can't give you up. I can't live
without you."
For a moment she yielded herself; for a moment her lips, her hands, her
whole body clung to their happiness; for a moment all her fears, all her
self-torturings were stifled. Then she broke from him; and her eyes grew
resolute.
"Ronnie, there's some one whom neither of us has considered--your
mother."
"The old cannot stand between the young and their happiness." His eyes,
too, were resolute. "We're still young, you and I. We've all our lives
to live. And besides"--he weakened,--"the mater likes you."
"She'd hate me if I didn't make you give me up."
"You don't know her, dear."
"I do." It seemed to Aliette as though her lover were indeed only a boy.
"I know her a thousand times better than you ever will. Mostly because
I'm a woman; and a little, perhaps, because I love her son. She _would_
hate me. And--and she'd be right."
"Nobody could hate you," he broke in. "Nobody who knew the fineness of
you."
"I'm not fine." She put away the joy of his words. "I'm just a very
ordinary person. There's nothing fine in me--except perhaps my love for
you. And, for your sake, I mustn't let that love blind me to the truth.
Can't you see what my freedom--however I won it--would mean to your
mother?"
She waited for him to answer; but he sat obstinately silent--his hands
clasped about his knees, his eyes on her face. She went on:
"Your mother doesn't believe in divorce. It's against her principles,
her religion."
"But surely, if he lets you divorce him----"
"I could never do that. Not now. It would be just--just hypocrisy. And
we can't hurt your mother. We mustn't. I don't care about myself. If I
thought it were for your happiness, I'd run away with you to-night. But
I'm afraid for your career. And I do care, terribly, about making _her_
suffer. Think of the fight she's put up, all her life, against this very
thing; and then, try to think what it will mean to her, to both of you,
if _you_, her son, her only son----"
He interrupted violently.
"She would have no right, no earthly right to interfere."
"Oh, don't, don't speak like that about her." There were tears, tears of
real sorrow, in Aliette's eyes. "I can't bear it. I--I can't bear to
think of coming between you. It isn't fair. She's loved you all her
life. You're everything in the world to her. And then--then--oh! can't
you understand----"
He strove to kiss away the tears; but her hands covered her face from
his kisses. He knew himself all one weakness at thought of this hurt in
Aliette. And weakening, it seemed to him as though Julia Cavendish were
here in the room with them; as though he said to her: "Mater, this is my
one chance of happiness. I can't let even you take it from me."
The vision passed; and he knew himself strong again. His hands parted
Aliette's fingers; he kissed her on the closed eyelids, on the wet
cheeks. She clung to him, tearful still. Her lips murmured:
"Life is so difficult--so terribly difficult."
He said to her: "We mustn't make it more difficult. We love each other.
We must be true to love. Nothing else matters. As long as you are
mine----"
"I _am_ yours. Only yours. You don't doubt me?"
At that the last of Ronnie's scruples vanished. Fiercely, crudely, he
strained her to him. "Aliette, Aliette, my own darling, don't ask me to
give you up. I can't give you up! I couldn't endure life without you.
Come to me! We needn't do anything mean, anything underhand. It's for
your happiness--for my happiness----"
"Ronnie--Ronnie----"
Her lips were fire on his cheeks. The perfume of her was a fire in his
mind. Her arms were chains, chains of fire about his body. He crushed
her to him; crushed her mouth under his lips. Her whole body ached for
him, ached to surrender itself. A sharp pang as of hatred went through
her body: she hated him for the thing he would not do; hated herself for
the longings in her body.
"You hurt me, you hurt me." With a sharp cry she broke herself loose
from him. "I thought I was so strong. And I'm weak--clay in your hands."
She stood up, trembling; feeling herself all disheveled, abased.
The flame under the kettle had gone out. The tea had gone cold in their
half-empty cups. The street below still hooted and droned with traffic.
The clock still ticked from the mantelpiece.
"I ought to be going," she said, eying the clock.
"Yes." He, too, had risen: he, too, was trembling. "You ought to be
going. It's nearly half-past six. But you'll come to me again. You'll
come again--Aliette."
He found her gloves, her bag and parasol. Taking them, she knew that her
hands had lost their coolness; little pearls of emotion moistened either
palm. Her face, seen in the mirror over the mantelpiece, looked
strangely flushed--different. For the flash of a second, her
fastidiousness was in revulsion.
"You'll come again--soon?" he repeated.
"I don't know." Revulsion passed; but her hands, straightening her hat,
shook as though in self-disdain. "Somehow, it doesn't seem fair--on
either of us."
"But you must." His voice thrilled. "You must. We can't leave things
like this--undecided."
Self-possessed once more, she faced him. "Don't try to hurry me, Ronnie.
We've talked too much this afternoon. My brain's weary. I can't decide
anything. I thought that, being with you, things would be easier.
They're not. They're more difficult. You must give me time----"
"Then"--his voice saddened--"I haven't been any help to you?"
A laugh rose in her throat, dimpling it. "I'm afraid we're neither of us
very wise; but"--she offered him her ungloved hand--"it's been very
sweet, being with you. That's why--you haven't helped me very much."
Silently, hating that she must go, he released her fingers. She was all
a wonder to his eyes, all a riddle to his brain. He wanted to say: "But
you mustn't go. You're mine, mine. I don't care a damn for your husband,
for my career, for my mother, for the law. Stay with me. Stay with me
to-night."
Actually, he forebore even to kiss her good-by!
3
Aliette had been gone an hour. . . .
Moses Moffatt came in. Moses Moffatt cleared away the tea-things. Moses
Moffatt asked: "Will you be dining at home, sir?" Some one answered,
"No!" Moses Moffatt went out.
Aliette had been gone two whole hours. The some one became Ronald
Cavendish.
He found that he must have been smoking cigarettes--one cigarette after
the other. Ash and paper smoldered on the silver tray at his side. The
room stank of tobacco. But tobacco could not drive away that other
perfume--the perfume of Aliette's womanhood.
She had been in this very room! The essence of her still pervaded every
nook of it. His imagination conjured up the image of her: Aliette
dimpling to laughter: Aliette's brown eyes, now bright with joy, now
dimmed with tears: the vivid of Aliette's hair: the little gestures of
Aliette's hands. All these he saw, and possessed again in memory.
Again she lay in his arms. Again she let him kiss the tears from her
eyes. Again she yielded him her hands, her hair. But she had yielded him
more than these; she had yielded him her very thoughts: she had said,
"I'm very weak; you're the only person who can help me."
Remembering those words, he grew ashamed. He must not think for himself:
he must think for her. She had said that she would marry him if she were
free. But there was only one way to freedom--unless Brunton let her
divorce him. And that alternative she had refused to contemplate.
No! There was only one path to her freedom, to their happiness--the path
of scandal. Dared he demand that sacrifice from her?
After all, why not? The scandal would be short-lived--the happiness
enduring. She was Brunton's merely in name. She had no children.
Legally, they might have to put themselves in the wrong; but morally
they would be justified. Between them and happiness stood only the
shibboleths.
Nevertheless, the shibboleths mattered. Shibboleths were the basis of
all society.
Certain people, too--people like his mother,--hated divorce, believed it
wicked. His mother still clung to the old faith. His mother would say:
"God joined Aliette and Hector in holy matrimony. You have no right to
sunder God's joining."
As though humanity were any deity's stud-farm!