1
"Aliette dear: You asked me not to hurry you. I've tried to be patient;
but life without you has become impossible. I can't see what duty either
of us owes to anybody except each other. It isn't as though you had
children. It isn't as though you were really married. At worst, we only
risk a little scandal. I wouldn't ask you even to risk that, unless I
felt confident that I could make you happy. I _can_ make you happy.
Won't you come to me? We needn't do anything mean. We can play the game.
RONALD."
* * * * *
It was nearly one o'clock on Sunday morning. The torn sheets of at least
twenty letters in Ronnie's tiny legal handwriting littered his
sitting-room grate. He reread the last of them; and thinking how utterly
it failed to express his yearning, added as postscript, "I love you."
Then he addressed his envelope; folded the single sheet; thrust it in;
and gummed down the flap. The fragments in the fireplace he gathered up
very carefully, and kindled to ashes.
As yet no sorrow for his quarrel with Julia had entered into her son's
heart. He could see her only as an obstacle between himself and
happiness. Of her last word, he could not bring himself to think sanely.
That she, his own mother, the one person on whose help he ought to have
been able to rely, should be the first to cast a stone at the woman he
loved, seemed to him--in his bitterness--to make her his chiefest enemy;
no longer "the mater," no longer "the lonely old lady," but "Julia
Cavendish," publicly and in private the upholder of an effete religion,
the champion of fust-ridden prudery.
No longer could he sympathize with that religious prudery. Passion, not
the physical desires of a Brunton, but the grand passion, the passion of
the poets, blinded him--for the nonce--to every point of view except his
own. He and Aliette loved each other. To the torture, then, with
whosoever loved other gods!
Passing, on his way downstairs, the door of the bachelor-flat beneath
him, Ronnie heard, very low but quite distinct, a woman's laughter. "And
that sort of thing," he thought angrily, "is what one is allowed to do.
Moses Moffatt winks at it. The world winks at it. Meanwhile the women
who won't stoop to concealment foot the world's social bill."
But the woman's laughter still echoed in his ears as he slid his letter
into the mouth of the pillar-box.
2
Caroline Staley brought Ronnie's letter, the only one of Monday's post,
on Aliette's breakfast-tray. The handwriting of the envelope was
strange; but instinct warned her from whom it came. Her heart
fluttered--breathlessly--under the satin bath-robe as she said, "I'll
ring when I'm ready to dress, Caroline."
But once alone, Aliette did not dare touch the envelope. Casting thought
back, she knew that she had loved Ronnie from first sight.
Suppose--suppose he had written to make an end?
The breakfast on the tabled tray cooled and cooled. Through the
curtained alcove came sound of a housemaid emptying her bath, polishing
at the taps. Aliette heard nothing, saw nothing. The cheerful
yellow-and-white of her bedchamber had gone dark about her, as though a
cloud obscured the sun outside.
At last she took the envelope in her hands. But her hands trembled. And
suddenly she saw her own face.
Her face, seen in the triptych mirror of the dressing-table, looked old,
haggard. "I _am_ old." she thought. "Nearly thirty. Too old for Ronnie.
He ought to have some girl, some quite young girl, for bride."
Then, still trembling, her hands slit the envelope; and hungrily, she
began to read.
Reading, joy flooded her face. He wanted her to come to him. He needed
her! The mazed loneliness of the last week was a vanished nightmare. She
would never be lonely any more. Love had come into her life, into their
lives, making them one life. At his postscript, the scarlet of her lips
crinkled to a smile.
No longer was the room dark about her. Sunlight flashed back into it,
flashed square shafts of gold on the rugs at her feet. A warmth, a rare
warmth compound of blood and sunshine, pervaded her body. She saw
herself, in the mirror, young again, fit to be his mate.
"I love you." She repeated the words under her breath. "I love you."
Rereading the letter, her eyes sparkled. Life was good--good.
But gradually the sparkle in her eyes dimmed; joy went out of her face.
"Julia Cavendish," she thought, "Julia Cavendish!" And again, "But
life's hard--hard."
Nevertheless life had to be faced.
She faced it, there and then, sitting tense and quiet in the sunlit
room. Ronnie was a man. To him, love once confessed must seem a bond, an
irrevocable troth. Ought she to take him at his word? Ought she not to
strive once again--as they had both so long and so uselessly striven--to
forget? Yet could she ever forget? Forgetting, would she not be false to
the best in her? To the best in both of them?
Suppose--suppose she ran away with Ronnie? What would be the
consequences? A divorce! She could face that, as Mary O'Riordan had
faced it. Mary, other friends, would stand by her. If only Ronnie's
mother were less the Puritan.
"I must go to Ronnie," she thought. "I must ask him if he has spoken
with his mother."
Yes! She must go to Ronnie. No other's counsel could avail her now. No
third party could help. They, and they alone, would bear the burden
if--if she decided to run away with him. And yet--and yet other people
would be affected by their action--his mother, her own family, Mollie.
Impulsively she decided to send for Mollie, to sound her. She rang the
bell for Caroline, but Caroline told her that "Miss Mollie" had gone
out.
"Will I dress you now, madam?" asked the maid. "The master's been gone
nearly an hour." It seemed impossible to find any excuse for remaining
longer alone.
Dressing, the unsolved problem still haunted her mind. But already one
aspect of the problem had solved itself--the aspect of Ronnie. Ronnie's
word was not to be doubted. He loved her, he needed her--as she him. For
themselves, they must no more funk the issue of Hector divorcing her
than they had funked Parson's Brook. "Parson's Brook," thought Aliette.
"Was it an omen?"
And at that, ominously, her imagination concentrated on the other aspect
of the problem, on the public aspect; till it seemed as though a whole
host of people, his mother, her own parents, Mollie, James Wilberforce,
and her husband among them, were actually visible in the bedchamber;
till it seemed as though Aliette could actually feel the eyes of the
host on her, appraising the curves of her figure, the vivid masses of
her hair.
Fastidiously she tried to avoid the eyes; but the eyes would not be
gainsaid; they turned to her breast, seeking out Ronnie's letter, his
love-letter, which she had hidden there. The eyes were not yet hostile,
only appraising; but behind them--imagination knew--lurked souls ready
to kindle into hostility. "They're waiting," thought Aliette, "waiting
to know my decision. Yet the decision is mine--mine only." Imagination
petered out, leaving her mind a blank.
Caroline asked a question; and she answered it automatically, "Yes; the
green hat, please."
Her maid brought the hat--and, in a second as it seemed, she was
standing before the long cheval-glass, completely dressed, completely
ready to--leave Hector's house.
Looking back, Aliette now realizes that moment to have been the
definitive crossing of her Rubicon. Subconsciously, in that one
particular instant of time, her decision crystallized. She, who had
always hated "funking things," would not funk love. Love was either
worth the leap, or worth nothing. If nothing, then life's self was not
worth while. And the risk was the leaper's, only the leaper's.
Considering others, she had forgotten to consider herself.
She looked at that self in the long mirror.
Surely those brown eyes, burning deep into their own semblance, were
never fashioned for long perplexity; surely, they had been given her so
that she might visualize truth. Surely, those scarlet lips were not made
for lying; nor those slim feet for running away.
And suddenly, subconsciously, Aliette knew that all her life hitherto
she had been lying to her own soul, running away from truth. Life,
woman's life at its highest, meant mating. Without matehood,
motherhood's self must be a failure. And she, she was neither mate nor
mother. Remaining with Hector, her very bodily beauty would
wither--wither unmated, sterile. For, to Hector--even if she yielded to
Hector--and how, loving Ronnie, could she yield herself to Hector?--she
would never be more than legal concubine. No matehood there, only
degradation. Better to kill one's self, better to smash the sacred
vessel in pieces, than allow it to be profaned--as profaned it must
be--by any man's touch save Ronnie's.
"And surely," said some dim voice in that soul which was Aliette,
"surely this is nature's verity: To each one of us, unhindered, our
mate- and mother-hood! Surely, in nature's eyes, our parents are but dry
and empty vessels, milkless gourds rattling on a dead tree."
* * * * *
_Her_ letter, sent "express" to Jermyn Street, read: "If you are quite,
quite sure of your own feelings, I will come to you to-morrow afternoon.
Whatever we decide best to do, must be done openly. I love you--perhaps
that is why I have been so afraid. I am not afraid any more. ALIETTE."
3
This time, ringing the bell at 127b Jermyn Street, Hector Brunton's wife
was no more nervous than on the day she put Miracle at Parson's Brook.
In that last flash of understanding, it seemed as though even the Mollie
aspect of the problem were solved. Let Mollie, too, learn nature's
verity; learn that if Wilberforce's love-flame blew out at a breath of
scandal, she would do better to warm herself at some healthier fire.
The twenty-four hours which followed her decision had gone by like a
single minute, marked only by Ronnie's second letter, by those eight
sheets of tenderness, of passion, of high resolve and deep desire, which
Aliette held close to her heart as she followed Moses Moffatt up the
quiet stairs.
Ronnie met them in the tiny hall. The conventional smile assumed for
Moffatt's benefit was still on his lips as he relieved her of bag and
parasol, as he led her into the sitting-room. But so soon as the
sitting-room door closed, his arms went round her; and their lips met in
a long kiss. There was no passion in that kiss, only an overwhelming
tenderness; yet, yielding to it, letting herself sink into his arms,
Aliette knew that the die was cast, that she belonged to him, he to her,
so long as life lasted. And freeing herself, quaintly, irresistibly, the
impulse to laughter overwhelmed her mind.
"I'm going to take my hat off," laughed Aliette. "You won't object, will
you? Do you know, I wanted to take my hat off, that first afternoon--at
the Bull?"
He watched, dumb, while she ungloved her pale hands, while she lifted
them to her hat-pins. The curve of her raised arms fascinated his eyes.
Still laughing, she removed the hat; and stretched it out to him.
"You don't recognize this, I suppose?"
"No."
"Nor the dress? It's rather a funny dress for town--don't you think,
man? Do you like being called 'man'? I decided that should be my name
for you on my way here."
But he could not remember either the hat or the dress. "I like them
both," he said, "they're wallflower-brown--the same color as your eyes."
"It's a winter dress--a country dress," she prompted. "So hot--that I'll
have to take my coat off."
Recollection stirred in him. His mind went back to the winter. He saw
two figures, his and hers, strolling down-hill in the low March
sunlight.
"It's the dress you wore at Key Hatch."
"Man, you're getting quite clever. Now tell me why I put it on this
afternoon."
Standing before him, her coat over one arm, the vivid of her hair
uncovered, the brown silk of her blouse revealing the full throat, she
seemed like a young girl; more an affianced bride than a woman who
intended running away from her husband.
He took the coat from her, and their hands met. He raised her fingers to
his lips; and again she dimpled to laughter.
"Tell me," said Aliette, "or I sha'n't give you any tea, why I put on
this dress. Women, even when they're in love, don't wear their winter
tweeds in the middle of the season."
Instead, he kissed her--still tenderly.
"How should I know, Aliette? This afternoon you're all a mystery to me.
Tell me, why you are so different."
"Light the kettle; and I'll try to tell you." She balanced herself on
the edge of the settee. "You say I'm different this afternoon. I'm only
different because I'm happy. And I'm happy because of you, because of
us, because of everything. You, too?"
"Yes." Her spirits infected him: he, too, laughed.
"Happiness, you see, is our only justification," said the woman who
intended running away from her husband. "I've got to make you happy.
Otherwise, from the very outset, I fail. And if"--the tiniest note of
seriousness crept into her voice--"if I can't make you happy, not just
this afternoon, but always----"
"You will," he interrupted. "And I you."
Tea was rather a silent meal. They were content to sit through it, hand
touching hand occasionally, their eyes on each other. To each of them it
seemed as though, after long wandering, they had come home. For the
moment, passion hardly existed. Almost they might have been boy and
girl.
"Did you fall in love with me that day with the Mid-Oxfordshire?" she
asked.
"I've often wondered."
"It all seems so strange, Ronnie. Not like--like doing wrong."
"We're not going to do anything wrong."
"We are. That's the strangest part of it."
To the man, too, it was all strange, strange and fantastic beyond
belief. He could not imagine himself the same Cavendish who had so long
wrestled against the inculcated traditions of his upbringing, of his
profession; he could not visualize himself potential sinner against
society. Sin was a bodily thing; and he wanted no more of this radiant,
dimpling creature than to hear the happy laughter in her voice.
So, for a little while, those two remade their rose-bubble of
enchantment, forgetful alike of the problems put behind them and the
greater problems yet to be faced.
But at last Aliette said, "Let's be sensible."
"Not this afternoon." He tried to take both her hands, but her hands
eluded him.
"Don't!" Her eyes darkled. "We mustn't play any more." And after a
pause, she asked him: "I wonder exactly how much you really need me?"
"More than any man ever needed any woman."
"You're quite, quite sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Then," she laughed, a little low laugh deep in the throat; for she knew
that her elusion had thrilled him to passion, and the knowledge was very
sweet, "will you please tell me, man, what you're going to do about me?"
"Do about you?" His meditative drawl stimulated a newborn impishness in
her.
"Yes--do about me."
"Why--run away with you, if you'll let me."
"Where to?"
"Anywhere."
"Shall I be allowed to take any luggage?"
"Of course."
"Then we can't very well run away this afternoon."
"No. I suppose we can't," he muttered; and the impishness in her
chuckled to see the puzzled thoughts chase themselves across his
forehead.
How boyish he was--she thought--how utterly unlike the conventional
unconventional lover. The maternal instinct awakened in her heart, and
went out to the boy in him. She wanted to pat his head, to say: "Never
mind, Ronnie. I'll arrange everything. You sha'n't be worried." Then she
remembered that he wasn't a boy; that he was a man, her man.
The man in him burst out: "I wish to God that you needn't go back----"
"Go back?" His outburst frightened her.
"To his house----"
"But I must go back--for a day or two."
"Why should you?" His eyes were flame. "I hate it. I hate the idea of
your being under his roof."
"Jealous?" she soothed, still afraid.
"Yes. I suppose I am jealous."
"Is that fair? There isn't anything to be jealous about."
"Forgive me!" His hand gripped her knee. "But I can't bear his being
your husband even in name. Aliette, kiss me."
"No." She knew that she must not yield to him. "No. We've got to be
sensible. We've got to make plans."
"We can make plans to-morrow."
"We can't. Don't you see that when I go back to--to his house this
evening, I'll have to tell him? It wouldn't be straight if I didn't.
We've got to be straight, haven't we?"
"Yes." The flame went out of his eyes, leaving them cold and hard as
agate. "We've got to be straight. But--telling him isn't your job. It's
mine." He heaved himself up from the settee; and she had her first
glimpse of a different Ronnie--a fighting Ronnie, chin protruded, lips
set. "My job," he repeated.
"I'm not Andromeda. I don't want a Perseus to free me from the dragon."
She tried chaff; but chaff left him unmoved. She tried argument; but
argument only strengthened the resolve in him. Finally she said:
"There's no need to say much. Hector knows everything--except your
name."
"You told him?" There was no anger in the phrase.
"Everything except your name. We had a quarrel. After I got home last
Monday. He offered to let me divorce him if--if I'd promise there was no
one else." She, too, rose--her face, for all its fineness, obstinate as
her lover's. "Of course, I couldn't promise that. So to-night, I shall
just tell him--the rest."
The tall man and the little woman faced each other in silence: each
equally determined to carry, right from the beginning, the other's
burden.
"It doesn't seem right, somehow or other," Ronnie said at last. "He
might--might hurt you."
"Hurt me!" laughed Aliette. "Nothing, nobody in the world can hurt me
now. Except you. And you will hurt me if you insist. Don't insist,
Ronnie."
"Very well." His hands, thrilling to passion once again, clasped her
waist. He kissed her; and this time she did not seek to elude him. For
now she knew her power, the power which all women exercise over
imaginative lovers; knew that, at her least word, he would loose
her--fearful lest, by not loosing, he forfeit the greater gift.
And all through the half-hour which followed, that power, that fear was
on Ronnie. He was afraid of forfeiting this Aliette who had let him hold
her in his arms; who had let him press his lips to hers in passion; but
who, admitting her love for him, could yet sit aloof--a goddess with a
time-table.
"I shall take Caroline," she said. "You don't mind?"
He only wanted to take Aliette, there and then; to kiss those rounded
wrists, those arms bare to the elbow, that scarlet mouth, those cheeks
ivory as curds, the smooth forehead under its loops of shining hair.
"Kiss me!" he whispered. "Kiss me!"
"Ronnie!" She put down the time-table. "Don't let's do anything we
might--might regret. Remember that to-night, and perhaps for many
nights, I must sleep under his roof."
He yielded again; and a few minutes later she prepared to leave him. The
plans they had meant to make were still chaotic--chaotic as her mind.
She realized, as she pinned on her hat, as she let him help her into her
coat, that the sweet hour had been full of danger, that--had Ronnie been
less chivalrous, more the man and less the boy--she might have given way
to him. The realization made her very humble; and in her humility she
began to doubt herself.
"You--you've been very good to me," she said; and then, the vivid lashes
veiling her vivid eyes, her low voice trembling into shyness: "That's
why there's just one--one favor I must ask you."
"Favors! Between us!" He took her ungloved hands, and pressed them to
his lips.
"Yes, dear. It's about--about your mother."
"Julia!" His tone hardened. "But we discussed all that last time."
"We mustn't hurt her more than we can help. We must tell her the truth,
before--before we do anything. She's a woman, and perhaps--perhaps
she'll understand----"
"Aliette----" He hesitated; and her intuition leaped to the cause.
"You--you haven't quarreled with her?"
Her intuition startled him into reply: "Yes. We have quarreled. But I
can't tell you anything about it."
She drew away from him, and her eyes grew sorrowful. "Did you quarrel
because of anything she said to you about me?"
Again he hesitated; again her intuition leaped to the truth. "I've been
afraid you might. Something told me, that morning in the park, that she
must have guessed. I can't come between you and your mother. You mustn't
quarrel with her on my account. Whatever she may have said, you must go
to her, tell her everything, and ask her--if she can--to forgive----"
"Never!" The very humility angered him. "Never! It's not for her to
forgive, but for me----"
"Then it _was_ because of me that you quarreled?"
"Yes."
"Foolish man!" It hurt her desperately to think that his mother should
have understood so little; but she knew that she must conceal the hurt.
"As if I'd let you quarrel with any one, least of all your mother, on my
account. You'll go to her, won't you? You'll tell her that I--that I
don't ask for any recognition----"
Rudely, obstinately, he interrupted her: "Of course she must recognize
you. Either she's on our side or she's against us."
"Ronnie"--her eyes suffused with tears--"Ronnie, I told you we'd got to
be happy with one another. You make me unhappy--when you speak like
that. You make me feel like a thief. You do want me to be happy, don't
you?"
"Yes. Always." His anger vanished. Bending down, he tried to kiss the
tears from her eyes. "Always, darling."
"Then won't you"--she was in his arms now; the warmth, the perfume, the
very unhappiness of her a fresh thrill--"won't you grant me this one
favor? It's the only favor I'll ever ask."
"How can I?"
"So easily. Just go to her. She's your mother. She loves you, she
understands you. But she may not understand--about me. She may think
that I'm just--just a dissolute woman. That doesn't matter. Tell her
that it doesn't matter. Tell her that I don't want to keep you from her;
that until--until we're properly married, you'll be as free to go to her
as if"--he could hardly hear the last words--"as if you'd taken any--any
ordinary mistress."
"Don't, don't!" He strained her to him, fiercely protective. "You're not
to speak of yourself like that."
"Why not?" She lifted a face brave despite her tears. "It's true. Don't
let's funk things. From the day I come to you till the day Hector sets
me free I _shall_ be your mistress. You mustn't expect your mother or
any one else to take a different view. But I'll be so happy, man; so
much happier than I've ever been in my life before--if only you'll make
it up with your mother. You will, won't you? Promise me."
"Tell me," he whispered, and his lips trembled, "is this thing so vital
to your happiness?"
"Yes," she whispered back.
"Then--it shall be as you wish." His arms were still round her; and she
felt herself weakening--weakening. She felt herself all exhausted--all a
limpness in his arms.
"Sweetheart," his voice was hoarse in her ears, "don't go. I want you so
much. Every day, every night without you is misery."
"Ronnie--Ronnie! Don't tempt me----"
Feverishly her ungloved hands fondled him; feverishly her arms looped
his neck, drawing his face down to hers. She could see, under the
gray-gold of his hair, the great vein throbbing on his forehead, the
dart and pulse of passion in his eyes. His lips, trembling still,
fastened on her mouth. The kiss was torment. Feverishly her mouth clung
to his; feverishly, blent in ecstasy, fire feeding flame, they clung to
one another--till, at last, half fainting, she tore herself away.
"Don't!" she stammered. "Don't torture me, don't tempt me any more.
Don't let me think--either now or ever--that this love of ours is
only--only physical. Because, if I thought that, I'd kill myself."
And a moment afterwards, she was gone.