1
Before, and even during the war, Christmas day at Bruton Street used to
be rather a function. On that day, Julia, still the feudalist in her
domestic policy, was wont to rise earlier than usual, to distribute
gifts among her servants, to proceed to church, lunch in some state, and
during the afternoon receive such of her friends as had not left town.
This Christmas, Brunton's continued obduracy made functions impossible.
Waking late to the subdued glimmer of the bed-lamp, to the presence of
her maid and the tea-tray, Julia was conscious of depression. Her night
had been restless, haunted by the specter of defeat. The "flaunting
policy" had failed! Depression grew. The idea of distributing presents,
of her servants' formal thanks, fretted her. Fretted her, too, the
thought that this would be the first Nativity on which she had ever
missed going to church.
But gradually, as she bathed, as her maid swathed her in a long purple
velvet tea-gown, Julia's vitality began to revive. A little of the
Christmas spirit entered into her. She recognized for how much she had
to be thankful; for ample means, for well-trained servants, for a
well-tended house, for a mind still confident of its powers, for a
conscience assured in its right-doing, for a son who adored her and whom
she adored, and, lastly but not least, for work still to be
accomplished.
This certainty of work to come, of a creative task dim-visualized as
yet, but already quickening in the womb of her mentality, had been
newly-vivid during the restless night; so that she was now assured--with
that assurance which only the craftswoman possesses--of another book
shortly to be born from her pen. "My last book, perhaps!" she thought;
and dreaded, in anticipation, the labor of that book-bearing.
The distribution of the presents tired her. Depression returned with the
physical fatigue of being gracious. But, once the little ceremony was
over and she sat waiting for Ronnie and Aliette in the square box of a
work-room, the old lady grew almost fey with the prescience of coming
triumph. She, Julia Cavendish, might die, but even in her dying she
would not be defeated. By her own unaided strength, by the very steel of
her spirit, she would beat down all obstacles--the labors of
book-bearing, the obduracy of Aliette's husband, the defections of their
friends.
And--in that moment of feyness--Julia knew that the unwritten book, her
own death, and her son's future were mysteriously intertwined; that the
only sword which could sever the Gordian knot of Hector Brunton's
obduracy was the sword of the written word. But as yet her knowledge was
all nebulous, the merest protoplasm of a plan.
2
Aliette, that Christmas morning, had not even the semblance of a plan.
Ever since her visit to Hermione she had been growingly aware of strain,
of a strange morbidity. Increasingly she felt resentful of her position.
Increasingly she reproached herself for the _impasse_ in Ronnie's
career.
The lack of a real home affected her almost to breaking-point. In her
hyper-sensitive mind, Powolney Mansions had become symbolical of their
joint lives. They were "boarding-house people"; and even that only under
false pretenses.
So far, she had managed to conceal her mental state from Ronnie. Yet she
was aware, dimly, of occasional unkindnesses to him, of a tiny
retrogression from the standard of happiness which she had laid down for
them both. "I'm failing him," she used to think; "I'm failing
him--dragging him down."
London in holiday-time accentuated this feeling of failure. Caroline
Staley had departed to Devonshire for a week; and a slatternly maid
brought them their tea, their lukewarm "hot water." Ronnie, kept waiting
half an hour for his bath, gashed his chin with his razor, and soothed
the resultant ill-temper with one of the cheap cigarettes to which he
had lately taken. Breakfast, in the stuffy communal dining-room, was as
cold as the perfunctory Christmas wishes of their fellow-boarders.
Ponto, developing a cough, had been sent to the vet's. Ronnie, kindling
his pipe, suggested that they should "look up the hound." Aliette
refused and he went off by himself.
Aliette returned to their room, and surveyed its untidiness with a
shudder.
"I'm the wrong sort of woman for Ronnie," she said to herself. "I'm not
a bit domesticated." And from that, thought switched automatically to
the other side of domesticity. Imagination pictured some old-fashioned
Christmas in some old-fashioned country cottage; herself mistress of a
real home; Ronnie a father; he and she and "they" church-going along
snow-powdered roads; their return to a board loaded with goodies.
Almost, in that moment, imagination heard the laughter of unborn
children.
But the moment passed, and she knew herself still childless. "Better
childless," she thought bitterly; and tried, for a whole wretched hour,
to bring order into the chaos of their unfriendly room; dusting and
redusting the melancholy furniture; hanging and rehanging hats and
dresses; finally, in sheer desperate need of distraction, plying
Caroline Staley's little wire brush on a pair of white suède shoes she
found hidden away in a corner of the wardrobe.
There was dust on the shoes; and, here and there under the dust, a speck
of mud. A wire brush--thought Aliette--could cleanse dust and mud from
shoes. But no brush could cleanse the mud and the dust from one's mind.
Mind--what was mind? Her very soul felt itself besmirched. A Hermione's
curiosity, a Mary O'Riordan's ingratitude, the snubs of a Lady Siegfried
Moss--all these were flecks, undeserved yet ineradicable, upon the white
surface of one's purity.
She finished cleaning the shoes, and put them aside. Yet the symbolism
of them remained with her. It seemed a bitter and a cruel thing that she
must drag her feet through so much mire, that the wheels of all the
world's traffic must bespatter her because--because she had gone to her
mate openly and not in secret.
"Not for our sin," she thought, "the penalty; but for the candor of our
sinning"; and so fell to resenting the hypocrisy of a country which
winks tolerant eyes at "dancing-partners," "tame cats," "best boys,"
"fancy-men," and all the ragtag and bobtail of clandestine lovers whom
England excuses, tolerates, and even finds romantic. "Only for women
such as I am," thought Aliette, "for those of us who go openly to our
one lover, can England find neither excuse nor toleration."
"Nothing much wrong with the hound," pronounced a returning Ronnie; and
then, noticing the unhappiness in his lady's eyes, "Anything the matter,
darling?"
"No. Nothing in particular."
Silently Aliette changed her gown, pinned on her hat, and let him help
her with her furs. Silently they made their way downstairs. Outside it
was foggy. From the hideous hall-lamp, still illuminated, hung a sprig
of grimy mistletoe. Aliette looked up at the thing. "I hate Christmas in
London," she said.
As they waited for their train in the chill West Kensington station,
Ronnie, too, grew unhappy.
"Poor darling! I wish I could afford taxis," he said; and throughout the
journey to Bruton Street--thinking of their long-ago taxi-ride from
"Queen's"--a depression almost physical constrained both to silence.
The arrival at Bruton Street minimized a little of the morning's
depression. Julia was in her old form, jovially dictatorial. They had
brought presents for her: from Ronnie, a plain gold penholder, such as
she always used; from Aliette, a trifle of embroidery. _Her_ present,
newly-written, lay in an envelope on her writing-desk. She gave it to
Aliette with the command, "Don't open it till we've had lunch," just as
Kate came in to ask if she should bring in the meal.
3
The "lunch," laid--Aliette noticed--for five, consisted of grilled
soles, turkey with cranberry sauce, plum-pudding with cream and brandy,
mince-pies, and the whole old-fashioned indigestible paraphernalia.
Holly decked the Venetian wall-lights; mistletoe hung from the
chandelier. But there were ghosts at the feast. Try as they three might
to be cheerful, each felt conscious of awkwardness.
After the servants had left the room, Julia, breaking the rules of her
"medicine-man," took a glass of brandy and a cigarette.
"You haven't even looked at my Christmas present," she said to Aliette;
and she would have liked to add, if the words had not seemed so
ill-omened, "I sha'n't give you one at all next year, if you don't take
more interest in it."
Aliette reached for her hand-bag (which she had hung, a habit of hers,
on the back of her chair) and took out the envelope Julia had given her
before luncheon. Throughout the meal she had been dreading this moment,
because, obviously, the envelope contained a check--and she hated the
idea of accepting a check from Ronnie's mother. Slitting the flap with
her fruit-knife, picking out the stamped paper, she saw at a glance that
the check was for five hundred pounds. Her heart leaped. Five hundred
pounds meant freedom from Powolney Mansions, the possibility of taking
some little abode where she and Ronnie could be happy. Then reluctance
overwhelmed her.
"It's too good of you," she protested. "But I can't, really I can't take
all this money."
"Rubbish!" snapped Julia in her bruskest manner. "Why shouldn't you take
money from me? All my money really belongs to Ronnie. If his father had
had any sense he'd have left it to him. Besides, you need it. You can't
go on staying at that appalling boarding-house for ever."
"But we can't take it! Can we, man?" Aliette's eyes appealed to Ronnie;
who said, trying to be gay: "You mustn't rob yourself for us, mater."
"I'm not robbing myself. Sir Peter sold three of the Little Overdine
properties a fortnight ago."
"Did he, though? Whom to?"
"The tenants."
"Really!"
Ensued an awkward silence, during which Ronnie stared at the check,
Julia at her "daughter-in-law," and Aliette at the pair of them.
"You need it more than I do," reiterated Julia at last.
"But don't you see," Aliette's voice was very gentle, "It's just because
we do need this money that we oughtn't to take it?"
"You're two very stubborn young people," said Julia, half in anger and
half good-humoredly. "But as it's Christmas day, and as I'm nearly old
enough to be Aliette's grand-mother, you'll have to humor me." She took
the check in her own hands, and returned it to Aliette's bag, which she
closed with a little snap of decision--at the precise moment when Kate
announced "Mr. Paul Flower."
The distinguished litterateur entered languidly; extended both flabby
hands to his hostess; and allowed himself to be persuaded into drinking
a glass of port.
"My dear Paul," remonstrated Julia, glad of the interruption, "you were
invited for luncheon, and it's now nearly half-past three."
"My dear Julia,"--the new-comer raised his glass to the light, and
inspected the ruby glow of the wine with some care--"after all these
years you ought to know that I never take luncheon."
"Not even on Christmas day?" put in Aliette.
"No, dear lady, not even on Christmas day." Paul began to be
epigrammatic; striving to convince them that Christmas was an
essentially pagan function, and that paganism was the fount of all true
art. "More especially of my own art," he went on, pulverizing an
imaginary object between thumb and forefinger; and immediately became so
Rabelaisian that it needed all Julia's tact to prevent him from
narrating his pet story of the American lady who had visited him in
Mount Street, "because Texas, Mr. Flower, has no literature."
"These literary people," thought Aliette, listening to him, "are all
peculiar." Yet undoubtedly Paul Flower's harmless egotism had relieved
an awkward situation.
It was nearly a quarter past four by the time that the party eventually
moved upstairs to the drawing-room; nearly five before Julia Cavendish,
whose brain had been singularly active since Paul's arrival, succeeded
in leaving him alone with Aliette while she and Ronnie "went off to the
library for a little chat."
"Ronnie," she said to him as soon as they were alone, "you won't let her
send back that check, will you?"
"Not if you're bent on our keeping it. But I say," his eyes were
troubled, "are you sure it's the right time to sell out the Rutland
farms?"
"I'm positive. And Ronnie," she rose from her desk and laid a hand on
his arm, "you'll let me make that allowance eight hundred now, won't
you?"
"I'd rather not, somehow."
"Why not?"
"Oh, I don't know. Alie wouldn't like it."
"You needn't tell her."
"We haven't got any secrets from each other."
"H'm." Julia spoke slowly. "That may make things rather difficult." She
sat down again, and began to fidget with the gold pen he had given her.
"Young Wilberforce came to see me yesterday," she said abruptly.
"Jimmy? What did he have to say?"
"A great deal." Julia laughed nervously. "It appears that he's sounded
Brunton."
"The dickens he has!" Ronnie's brain leaped to the inevitable
conclusion. "I suppose that's the result of Mollie's arrival in London."
"Probably." The mother eyed her son. "'_Cherchez la femme_' is not a bad
rule when one sits in judgment on the Jimmy Wilberforces of this world.
However, we can't afford to leave any stone unturned."
"No, I suppose not. Still, I hate people going behind my back. Alie
would be furious if she knew."
"Then don't tell her. Not that there's anything to tell. Brunton refused
to discuss the matter. But"--again Julia fell to playing with the
penholder--"Wilberforce made the suggestion--mind you, it's only a
suggestion--that _I_ should try to get into touch with the admiral."
"I don't see how that could do any good." Ronnie's forehead wrinkled
with thought. "Besides, Aliette would never consent. She'd think it
undignified."
"Need we consult her?" Now Julia trod very gingerly. "Need we tell her
anything about it until I've either failed or succeeded?"
Her son rose from his chair, and took two strides up and down the little
room. "Aliette wouldn't like it," he repeated stubbornly.
"But it's for her good."
"I don't see that the admiral could do anything."
"He might have some influence with his son."
Ronald sat down again. All the literary Wixton in him urged acceptance
of the plan. All the schoolmaster Cavendish urged refusal. "It would be
going behind her back," he said at last. "It wouldn't be fair. She ought
to be consulted first."
"And suppose she refuses?" A little of the old dominance crept into
Julia's voice. "Suppose she refuses? What are we to do then? Ronnie,"
the tone rose, "don't you see that it's our duty, our absolute duty? I
don't want to be unkind, but the social position gets more impossible
every day. Unless something is done, and done quickly, it'll take the
pair of you all your lives to live down the scandal."
"I know." His blue eyes saddened. "But there are worse things than
scandal. There's," he seemed to be searching in his mind for a word,
"there's disloyalty."
"Don't be obstinate." She summoned up all her strength to beat down his
opposition. "Do trust me. Do let me write to the admiral. I used to know
him years ago. That might help."
"Yes. But suppose it doesn't! Suppose you fail? Suppose Alie finds out?"
"If I fail, we shall be no worse off than when I started. As for Aliette
finding out, you can tell her if you like. Only don't tell her till
afterwards."
"You're sure it can't do any harm?"
"Quite sure. You won't tell her?"
"All right, mater. But don't ask me to take the extra allowance."
"Very well. That shall be as _you_ wish."
They came back, a little guilty, to the drawing-room. Aliette was
laughing. Hearing her laugh, it seemed to Ronnie as though the tension
of the morning had relaxed.
4
But the tension between them did not relax; rather, in those few days
which followed Christmas, they came nearer to quarreling than ever
before. The paying in of Julia's check raised the money question again.
Ronnie wanted Aliette to use it immediately, to buy herself some
clothes, to take a holiday. Aliette demurred.
"We can't stay here forever," she protested, eying the scratched
wall-paper of their bedroom.
"I know, darling. But a boarding-house has its advantages. If we were to
take a flat, who'd do the housework?"
"Caroline and I could manage that easily between us."
"I'd hate to see you doing housework."
"I might be some use scrubbing floors. I'm none at the moment."
"You are."
"I'm not. I'm only a drag on you."
So the game went on--the fact of their not being legally married and the
sense of isolated responsibility which each felt for the other's
happiness, making mountains out of every molehill.