1
They were burying that flesh which had been Julia Cavendish among the
cypresses of the South London cemetery whither she brought back the
flesh which had been Ronnie's father when Ronnie was still a lad.
To all save three of the mourners it appeared as though death had
conquered scandal, as though their every personal enmity were being laid
to rest. But to James Wilberforce, standing at the brink of the grave,
it appeared that he stood on the brink of a scandal so tremendous that
nothing except the combined brains of Wilberforce, Wilberforce &
Cartwright could prevent a social catastrophe, a regular holocaust of
public reputations; his own, possibly, and Mollie's of a certainty,
included.
Covertly, James Wilberforce looked at the semicircle of facts gathered
round the white-surpliced clergyman. All Julia's family--Benthams,
Edwardses, Robinsons; all her literary friends--Paul Flower, Dot
Fancourt, Jack Coole, Robert Backwell, the Binneys; most of her many
acquaintances among the various circles with which she had been
intimate, were there to do her the last honor.
A little aloof stood the reporters; and at them James Wilberforce
looked, too. "God knows what the newspapers won't say if this thing
isn't hushed up," thought Jimmy.
The letter of the dead, those four handwritten sheets in their bulky
envelope which Mrs. Sanderson had handed to him immediately on his
arrival at Daffadillies, burned the solicitor's pocket. He thought how
cleverly, yet how unwisely "the old lady's" plans had been laid; how, by
adding a certain codicil to her will, she had made it virtually
impossible for her executors to save the situation.
The clergyman was reading. "Man that is born of woman," read the
clergyman, "hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery." "O
holy and most merciful Savior, deliver us not into the bitter pains of
eternal death."
Jimmy's thoughts wandered. "I wonder if I ought to tell Mollie," he
thought. "I wonder if we ought to get married at once. I wonder how the
devil we're going to break things to Mollie's sister. I wonder Mollie's
sister didn't come to the funeral. Better not, I suppose."
The coffin on its canvas slings sank from sight into the moss-lined
grave. It touched the bottom of the grave; and the slings relaxed.
"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy," read the
clergyman, as Ronnie sprinkled a handful of earth on the coffin-lid.
"From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord; even so
saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labors."
James Wilberforce's mind came back to the ceremony. He looked at his
friend. "Poor Ronnie," he mused, "his labors are only just begun." And
so musing, Jimmy's gaze fell on a bearded man with an old-fashioned
top-hat in his hand, who held himself very erect and a little apart from
the remainder of the mourners.
"Rather sporting of Rear-Admiral Billy B. to turn up," thought James
Wilberforce.
2
The funeral service was over. The clergyman, his surplice crinkling in
the October wind, had returned to the chapel. By twos and threes the
mourners were deserting the graveside. Ahead of them, unrecognized
except by Wilberforce, went Rear-Admiral Billy, his head high, his heart
troubled. Soon--felt the admiral--a parson and mourners would gather for
him, for an old man who would have to face his God with a promise
unfulfilled, with a duty unaccomplished.
The last of the mourners disappeared through the cemetery fates to their
conveyances, leaving only Ronnie, Sir Peter, James Wilberforce and the
sexton by the grave.
"We'd better take him back to Bruton Street with us," whispered Sir
Peter to his son. "The less we delay things, at the present
juncture----"
"Ronald, old chap"--Jimmy put a hand on his friend's shoulder,--"pater
says he'll drive you home in our car. We've got to get this matter
settled, and the sooner we come to some decision----"
"Very well." Ronnie, his face a purposeful mask, turned away from the
scarred earth. "The mater's dead," he thought. "Dead. It's my duty to do
as she would have done had she lived."
And while the three of them made their way slowly to Sir Peter's
Daimler, he fell to resenting that Aliette had effaced herself from
Julia's funeral. His mother had wished that he and Aliette should face
the world together. His mother's wishes must be carried out, carried out
faithfully.
3
Arrived at Bruton Street, Ronnie led his self-invited guests into the
little box of a work-room; and, facing the pair of them from across his
mother's Empire desk, said provocatively: "Sir Peter, it's no use. I've
made up my mind. As I told Jimmy when he showed me the will, my mother's
wishes must be carried out."
"But what were your mother's wishes?" The white-haired, white-mustached
old gentleman who had steered so many social ships clear of the rocks,
smiled benignly. "What were your mother's real wishes? Naturally, both
my son and I recognize her _object_. But, much as we appreciate the
filial devotion which prompts you to carry out her exact wishes, we have
to consider the spirit of those wishes. Now suppose, mind you I'm only
supposing, that we publish this book. The publication, as you yourself
must be the first to admit, may defeat the very object your mother had
in mind when she wrote it. Moreover, quite apart from the expense to the
estate----"
"But the expense is provided for, pater," interrupted Jimmy. "And in
view of the testator's letter to me----"
"That letter leaves the ultimate decision with us." Sir Peter, who
loathed interruptions, shot an irritated glance at his son. "If we
decide that this book should not see the light of day----"
"I'll never consent to that." Ronnie's voice was the voice of a fanatic.
"And besides, even if the book were not published, there's always the
codicil."
"Admitted." Sir Peter frowned. "The codicil is the difficulty. I wonder
if you'd mind reading it to me again, Jimmy."
Jimmy got up, fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat, drew out a bulky
document, unfolded it, and began to read, very slowly, the paragraph
appended in Julia Cavendish's own handwriting to the last page:
I empower and charge my executors, Ronald Cavendish and Sir
Peter Wilberforce, to devote any sum they may think fit, up to
ten thousand pounds, for the purpose of having published my book
entitled, "Man's Law," and more particularly for indemnifying
the publishers of the same against any libel action which may be
brought against them by Hector Brunton, K.C. And I further
instruct my executors to invest the sum of twenty thousand
pounds for the benefit of Aliette, née Fullerford, at present
the wife of Hector Brunton, K.C. The said sum to become the
absolute property of Aliette Brunton so soon as her legal
husband, either by his death or by the process of divorce, sets
her free to marry my son, Ronald Cavendish.
"Rather vague," commented Sir Peter. "Is it properly witnessed?"
"Yes." James Wilberforce laid the will on the desk, and stared
ruminatively at his father. His father stared back at Jimmy. Both knew
how impossible it would be to contest that codicil without the publicity
of the courts. Both knew how fatal _any_ publicity would be to their
client.
But their client only laughed. "You see, Sir Peter, there's no way out.
Even if I consented not to publish the book, this will has to be
proved."
"But that means _immediate_ publicity."
"Exactly." Ronald's mouth shut like the teeth of a pike. His eyes, in
their resolution, were his mother's own. "Exactly."
Sir Peter, hitherto blandness itself, grew irritable. "You don't appear
to realize, Cavendish, that the proving of this will means a terrific
scandal."
"I realize that perfectly, Sir Peter. But scandal--as I see it--is the
only way to effect my mother's object."
"All the same, I should not be doing my duty, either as your mother's
friend or as your co-trustee, if I did not ask you before we come to any
decision, to consider, first, the effect such a scandal would have on
your career, and secondly, the effect it would have"--purposely the
baronet paused--"on the reputation of the lady in the case."
"As far as the lady in the case is concerned," Ronnie's fingers rapped
the desk-top, "her freedom is the paramount consideration."
"Is that the lady's view, or your own?" Sir Peter, seeing an ivory
paper-knife near at hand, drew it quietly toward him.
"My own."
At that, Jimmy, who had been watching his friend carefully, rose and
began to stride slowly up and down the little room. Quite apart from the
personal issue (if the worst came to the worst, he and Mollie would have
to be married by special license before the crash came!), it seemed to
Jimmy that his friend must be saved, somehow or other, from the
consequences of his own obstinacy. But how--how in the name of the
law--could that saving be accomplished?
"And if the lady disapproves?" said Sir Peter.
"She will _not_ disapprove," countered Ronnie.
In the pause which followed, Jimmy drew out Julia Cavendish's letter,
and read it for the tenth time.
If I have brought any happiness into your life by bringing you
and the woman you are going to marry together, help me to bring
happiness into my son's life and into the life of the woman whom
he _is not able to marry_. I feel that I have taken the best,
the only way to put things right for Ronnie; but if there is any
other method by which my main object, the object of forcing
Hector Brunton to set his wife free, is possible of achievement,
by all means explore it.
"Don't you think"--James Wilberforce put the letter back in his pocket
and turned to Ronnie, who was eying his father in positive
hostility--"that it might be advisable to discuss this matter
with--Hector Brunton?"
"I won't have that. I'll be damned if I'll have that."
Ronnie's answer was openly provocative; but Sir Peter apparently had
recovered his temper. "We mustn't be hasty," purred Sir Peter. "We
mustn't be overhasty. As Julia Cavendish's executors, we have to regard
the spirit rather than the letter of her instructions. Believe me, the
immediate publication of that codicil would be fatal to the plans which
your dear mother obviously had in mind. Fatal!"
And the baronet, lighting himself a cigarette, relapsed into thought.
Privately he considered that his old friend must have been mentally
deranged some time before her death. Yet he dared not say so to her son;
and, moreover, to prove mental derangement would entail more publicity
than to prove the will itself.
Various plans for the avoidance of publicity began to pass through Sir
Peter's mind. Brunton, faced with the alternative of the book's being
published, might consent to file his petition for divorce. Then, Julia's
main object accomplished, the book might be--accidentally destroyed.
Other methods, too--gentler methods--might be adopted with the book. But
what in Hades was one to do about the will? Unfortunately, tampering
with wills constituted a felony. Therefore, unless some one ("And whom
could I get to do it!" mused Sir Peter) risked going to jail, that will,
that deadly, damning, white-faced, blue-written testament on the desk
would have to be filed _in toto_ at Somerset House. Filed, every
pressman in England would seize upon it for a column.
A knock, followed by a voice asking, "May I come in, Ronnie?" brought
the three men to their feet; and, before any of them could answer, the
door opened, revealing "the lady in the case."
Aliette, her face pale above the high black mourning frock, stood
irresolute in the doorway.
"I'm so sorry if I'm interrupting," she said. "I thought you'd gone, Sir
Peter. I'll go away if you're talking business."
"We _are_ talking business, dear lady," purred the baronet, playing with
his acquired paper-knife. "Business which affects you more than
anybody." And he looked at Ronnie as though to say, "Surely you'll
consent to my consulting the person most concerned."
Ronnie signaled acquiescence; Jimmy closed the door; Aliette sat down;
and Sir Peter began to speak.
At first Aliette could not grasp what the baronet was talking about. For
three days now, her mind, still numb from the shock of Julia's sudden
passing, had been obsessed by its own problems. Ronnie, she knew, was
keeping some secret from her--as she from him. _His_ secret, she guessed
vaguely, must be in connection with his mother's book. Hers----
Gradually Sir Peter's words became comprehensible. He was reading Julia
Cavendish's will. In so far as Aliette could understand the peculiar
legal phraseology, Julia Cavendish had left everything to Ronnie. It
struck her as curious that Sir Peter should go to all that trouble.
Curious, too, that both Ronnie and his friend should look so worried!
Ronnie would be even more worried if he knew that----
"That is the will," Sir Peter's voice interrupted the disturbing
thought, "as my firm drafted it some years ago. But that will has been
altered. Perhaps, before I read the alteration, I'd better explain to
you about the book."
Now Aliette grew conscious of a question in her lover's eyes. The eyes
never left her face. James Wilberforce, too, was eying her in a way that
she could not understand. And suddenly Ronnie laid a hand upon her
shoulder.
Sir Peter went on; "As you probably know, Mrs. Cavendish finished a
novel just before she died. I have not yet read the manuscript of that
novel, but it appears, from what my son and your--er--husband, who have
read it, tell me, that the book is a _roman à clef_. A _roman à clef_,
as I need hardly explain to you, dealing, as it does, with living
people, sometimes results in a libel action. It is, among other things,
to provide against the possibility of such a libel action that Mrs.
Cavendish, without my firm's knowledge, altered her will."
"A libel action, Sir Peter?" Aliette's question was automatic.
"Yes. A libel action." The baronet picked his every word with care. "A
libel action which might be brought against Mrs. Cavendish's estate and
against the publishers of her book by your--er--former husband."
"Brought by Hector!" The exclamation, low and immediately suppressed,
barely escaped Aliette's lips. But her shoulder trembled under Ronnie's
hand; for now, in one inspired moment, she had grasped the secret of the
book. Memory, casting back, recalled and understood every personal
question put to her by the dead.
Sir Peter had stopped speaking. His eyes under the gold-rimmed glasses
were perturbed, yet kindly. Obviously he found the situation difficult.
She waited for Ronnie or James to intervene; but they, too, remained
dumb.
And, "Do I understand," asked Aliette, summoning up all her courage,
"that this novel is a personal story--the story of my"--her whole body
quivered--"matrimonial difficulties?"
Ronnie removed his hand from her shoulder. James nodded assent.
Admiration and gratitude mingled in Sir Peter's: "You've defined the
matter exactly. One of the questions on which I should like _your_ views
is," the careful words paused, "whether or no this book should be
published."
Fleetingly, Aliette thought, "Shall I tell them ... about myself? Does
it make any difference?" Her intuition, suddenly active, remembered two
hints dropped--purposefully perhaps--by Ronnie's mother. "Public
judgment is usually inaccurate because the public is not told the whole
truth"; "My dear, if only the whole world realized, as I realize, your
story, they would not misjudge you."
"My views----" she parried aloud, playing for time.
"Publicity," she thought. "The flaunting policy once more. Dear God,
that too." And, revisualizing the ordeal at Patrick O'Riordan's first
night, her nerve frayed. Why couldn't these three men leave her in
peace--in peace? Looking at Ronnie, she saw his eyes very resolute. He
said:
"My decision is that the book _must_ be published."
"Please let _me_ finish, Cavendish," broke in Sir Peter; and to Aliette:
"There are other points besides the publication of this book to be
decided." Then he read to her, always in the same soft purr, the
codicil; and explained, in tense, reasoned sentences, the consequences
of its publication in the press, ending: "It means, to use a rather
old-fashioned phrase, social ruin."
For a long while Aliette sat silent, her eyes wide, her pale hands
clutching the black folds of her dress. Womanlike, she tried to put
herself into the mind of the dead. Why had Julia Cavendish done this
thing? Why? Could Julia have guessed that---- Womanlike, Aliette looked
into the future, and her cheeks grew hot.
Ronnie said: "He can't bring an action for libel without bringing one
for divorce"; Sir Peter, "Let's stick to our point; the publication of
this codicil means disaster--for all three of you." "It means Aliette's
freedom," retorted Ronnie.
The words of the codicil stood out in fire on the screen of Aliette's
mind. She saw those words published, saw the book published, saw scandal
follow scandal. Sir Peter was right. This thing meant ruin, social ruin
for herself, for Ronnie, for Hector. And yet, and yet--it meant freedom.
But would freedom come in time?
She glanced at the three men: at Ronnie and James, on their feet,
motionless; at Sir Peter, seated at the desk, his hand fidgeting the
ivory paper-knife. Swiftly, as a shuttle through the warp, her mind
threaded the skeins of the future. The future would hold more than
Ronnie.
"Before you take any decision," Jimmy spoke, "read this." He laid a
letter before her. She read the letter through twice, her mind fighting
for self-control, before asking:
"And is there no other method by which Mrs. Cavendish's 'main object'
can be achieved, Sir Peter?"
Sir Peter's hand ceased fidgeting at the knife. "There may be a way," he
said doubtfully. "But whether we can take it or not depends on
your--er--former husband."
Blazing, Ronnie intervened. "Once and for all, I'll have no favors from
that--that blackguard. He's made his own bed. Let him lie in it. Who the
devil cares about scandal nowadays? I don't. And if Brunton does, so
much the worse for him."
But the baronet's next remark shattered heroics. "I think," said the
baronet sarcastically, "that as my co-executor is getting so very
excited, we had better adjourn our conference. Perhaps you'll let me
know what you both decide."
4
Late that same evening, Aliette and her lover sat alone in the familiar
drawing-room among the familiar things--the jade idols, the Toby mugs,
the Spanish velvets, and the Venetian brocades which Julia Cavendish had
collected for her delight. Ever since their hasty dinner--most of the
staff were still at Daffadillies--Ronnie had been urging her decision.
Ever since dinner, haggard, she had been playing for time.
"It was my mother's wish," he said. "Let's prove the will; publish the
book; take the consequences. Anything's worth while--if only he'll
divorce you."
"Is it?" Dully, the woman's mind was looking for a loophole. "Is it
worth while to ruin three lives?"
"Three?"
"Yes, dear. Yours--and mine ... and--and Hector's,"
"Hector!" The rage in Ronnie's voice terrified her, as it had been
terrifying her all the evening. "We needn't consider him. He hasn't
considered us. There would have been no need for all this if he'd been
reasonable; if he'd brought his action for divorce when I asked him to."
"There are others we ought to consider, too." Aliette's hand, as she
fondled her lover's rigid arm, was tremulous. "Mollie, James, my
parents. They'll all suffer if you--if we carry this thing through."
"They must look after themselves. They've done nothing to help us. Don't
let's discuss the matter further. Believe me, it's the only way to get
what we want."
"But Sir Peter said----"
"Sir Peter's only a solicitor. Even if that blackguard did file his
petition, the will and the book would have to be published."
"Why are you so bitter, man?" Aliette's eyes suffused.
"I'm not bitter. Only just. He had no mercy on Lucy Towers. I'll have
none on him."
Aliette's hands ceased their fondling. For a little while she sat
silent, unmoving among the deep cushions. Her mind, busied so long,
could function no longer. She felt her womanliness naked--flesh
quivering under the lash. She wanted to say to him: 'Ronnie, there's
something--something you don't know.' But suddenly her courage--the
courage which had carried her, carried them both, through the hard-run
months--broke. She began to sob. Like a broken soul she sobbed--sobbed
to herself, faintly, feebly; careless--as Lucy Towers had been
careless--of the man who strove to comfort her. Words came, feebly,
through the sobs:
"Man, I meant to make you so happy. I meant to make everybody happy. But
I've failed--failed. I'm not blaming you. I'm not blaming your mother.
You and your mother have done everything. Everything. It's only I who
have been useless--useless. And I meant, heaven only knows how much I
meant, to be of use. Before I ran away with you I reasoned it all out. I
thought that I was doing right. There didn't seem to be any one else to
consider except you and me." She broke off. Then, almost fiercely, she
asked him: "Tell me I've been a little bit of use? Tell me I've made you
happy--just sometimes----"
"Of course you've made me happy." He tried to take her hands; but her
hands shrank from him.
"I don't believe it You're only saying that to comfort me."
"I'm not."
"You are." Hysteria took her by the throat. "You hate me. If you don't
hate me--you ought to. I killed your mother." She broke off again,
sobbing.
"Alie"--the tone told her that he thought her crazy--"what's the matter
with you? Nothing could have saved Julia. Sir Heron told me."
"Sir Heron wouldn't tell _you_. Nobody would tell you anything. You're
only a man. All men are the same. You're only thinking about yourself.
You're not thinking about me. You only want your revenge on--on Hector.
Why shouldn't you have your revenge?"
Suddenly, her sobbing ceased; and she faced him--this Aliette he could
not understand--dry-eyed and venomous.
"Have your revenge on him if you want to. But don't pretend you're being
just. Don't pretend you're being heroic. Don't pretend you're any better
than he is. You're not. He's a man, just the same as you are. You talk
about my freedom. You say scandal doesn't matter. Perhaps it doesn't--to
a man. Perhaps it oughtn't to matter to me, I've belonged to two----"
At that, for the first and last time in their lives, Aliette was
physically afraid of her lover. His arms, which had been seeking to
comfort, abandoned her. He sprang to his feet. Jealousy, a red and angry
aura of jealousy, exuded from him.
"Christ!" he burst out, "Christ! You needn't remind me of that."
Speech died at his lips. Furiously he strode from her--strode up and
down the familiar room, the room in which, months since, she had given
her unspoken promise to Julia Cavendish. The scene came back to her now.
She thought, "What have I been saying? Dear God, what have I been
saying?" Hysteria went out of her, as fever goes out, leaving her weak,
nerveless.
"Damn it!" he was muttering, "damn it! Do you think I ever forget that
once--once----"
She wanted to cry out to him, "I didn't mean to hurt you. You're hurting
me now, hurting me beyond all bearing." But she knew that, hurt, she
dared not cry out; knew that this was the hardest of the path, the full
price, the full torment exacted.
Sitting there, rigid, uncomplaining, teeth bit to the under lip lest the
mouth should cry out its torture, she remembered the long years with
Hector, the mornings and the evenings when, facing him over the
breakfast-table or the dinner-table, listening after dinner to his voice
in the library, tolerating--for the sake of the dream which this other
man had made true--the ungentle fury of his caresses, she had learned to
wear the mask which so many married women wear, the mask of compliance.
Must she, for Ronnie's sake, still wear the mask? Daren't she tell
him--the truth? Wouldn't he--knowing the truth--flinch from his purpose?
Wasn't it worth while, more than worth while, to keep silence till the
die was cast? Couldn't she still play for time? Time! There might be
some way--some other way to freedom. If only she weren't so afraid--so
strangely and newly afraid! If only Ronnie were not so angry!
And suddenly she knew that Ronnie's anger had left him. His feet stopped
in mid-stride. Slowly he came across the room toward her; and she could
see a little of the old understanding tenderness in his blue eyes.
"Alie," he said, "forgive me."
"What is there to forgive?" Her voice sounded listless, broken. "It was
my fault. I oughtn't to have spoken as I did. I called up the past. I
had no right to call up the past. The past's dead. There's only the
future----"
"Our future." He was on his knees to her now; and dumbly she put out her
hands to him; dumbly she fondled his temples. Once more she wanted to
cry; but no tears came. Her tongue felt parched, as though by some
bitter fruit. "It wasn't your fault, Alie. You're tired. And perhaps I'm
not being just. Perhaps I do want my revenge. But it's only for your
sake"--his hands sought her shoulders--"only for your sake that I hate
him. I think, I know, that if he'd made you happy, if he'd been kind to
you, I could bear the thought of him. But he made you miserable. He hurt
you. He's hurting you now. When I think of that, I go mad; mad with
hatred."
She leaned forward; and words came to her. "You mustn't hate him. We
mustn't either of us hate him. We're as much to blame as he is. At
least, I am. I'm a rotten woman. Rotten."
"You're not. You 're the best woman in the world." Still on his knees to
her by the sofa, he pressed her to him--gently, with that gentleness
which had first won her heart. And desperately her heart wanted to tell
him everything. But tears, tears of sheer weakness, choked her once
more.
"Don't cry, darling. Please don't cry." Conscience-wrung, Ronnie could
find no other words. The sense of his responsibility, of that awful
responsibility for another's happiness, which only illegal lovers know,
coiled--tighter than her arms; tighter than any hempen rope--round his
neck. Her tears on his cheeks were as warm rain conjuring up the
seedlings of remembrance. He recollected all the miracle of their early
love for one another, all their resistances and their yieldings, all the
weeks and all the months through which they had faced the herd's
hostility in mutual loyalty, setting love above the law, trusting in one
another--he in her as she in him--for faith. Always they had kept faith
with one another. Yet always she, the woman, had borne the heavier
burden. And in his ignorance he thought: "That's why I must
insist--insist on this thing going through."
Then a voice, as it were his mother's, whispered to the mind of Ronald
Cavendish: "Comfort her, Ronnie, comfort her. Before you ask this last
sacrifice, tell her that the past has not been in vain"; and then,
leaning on her lover, her eyes tear-blinded, her hands slack, her limbs
relaxed in misery, Aliette heard him whisper:
"Darling woman. Darling girl. You're not to think that I don't
understand. I do understand--everything." Like waves, the deeps of his
fondness poured from him, poured over her, healing her wounds; and for a
moment she thought that he had guessed the truth.
But his next words dispelled illusion. "I know all that you've given up
for my sake; all that I've made you give. The blame, if blame there be,
is mine. You've sacrificed yourself for me."
"It's no sacrifice." Hardly, she stirred in his arms. "I've never
regretted----"
"Nor I, dear. Nor I. I've never regretted for one single instant. I
never shall regret. Ever since that first day I saw you, you've been all
the world to me. All the world. That's why I want you to be strong, not
to be afraid of scandal, to let me do as my mother wished."
"Ronnie"--her eyes, wet with tears, sought his,--"have you counted the
cost?"
"Yes." He released her; and she saw, as he rose up, that he was still
resolute. "I've counted the cost. And it'll be heavy--heavier than
anything we've had to bear yet. But it'll be worth while, Alie.
Anything's worth while--if only I can win you your freedom."
"But your career----"
"My career doesn't matter any more. I've had success. I know how little
it's worth. Nothing matters to me now except your happiness."
"My happiness?" Wistfully she looked down at her pale hands.
"Yes, your happiness. Oh, my dear, don't think I haven't realized, all
these months, that you'll never be happy--really and truly happy--while
you belong, legally, to that man."
"Ronnie"--she was trying, trying to tell him--"I _have_ been happy.
Always. It isn't that----"
"Yes, it is." He was afraid lest, pleading again, she should weaken his
decision. "It's only that. Once you're my wife, you'll forget all the
unhappy times."
"Shall I?" she thought. "Will that little ceremony make me forget that
once, once I was Hector's?"
"That's why I want you to make up your mind," went on Ronnie. "Now.
To-night. That's why I didn't want you to listen to Sir Peter. Alie, it
isn't for my revenge I'm asking you to let me do this. It's for your own
sake. If you were a different sort of woman, a rotten woman, perhaps it
wouldn't matter so much--our not being married. But you--you can't go on
forever like this. Just think, darling, just think what it would mean if
we were to have children."
"Children," she repeated dully, "children." And then, his very vehemence
terrifying her again, "Oh, Ronnie, Ronnie--don't ask me to decide
to-night."