1
Two more days, terrible days for them both, went by. To Aliette it
seemed as though all her courage, all her clear-visioning mentality, had
ebbed away. Everything terrified her; but most of all the thought of
precipitating crisis by telling Ronnie the truth.
Vainly he argued with her, pleaded with her. Vainly he assured her that
it was their duty to risk this last maddest hazard of the gamble; that
to jeopardize his newly-won success mattered not at all; that "social
ruin" existed only in Sir Peter's imagination; that not even "social
ruin" should deter them from achieving his mother's main object; that
there was only the one way of achieving that object; and that, matrimony
once achieved, they would be free to enjoy the riches Julia Cavendish
had left them--in some other country if scandal drove them from their
own. To all his arguments, Aliette had but one reply: the same reply she
had made to him long and long ago in his chambers in Jermyn Street:
"Don't try to hurry me, Ronnie. You must give me time----"
She hardly knew why she was playing for time. She hardly knew which she
could face best; suspense or certainty. She wanted, more than anything,
to run away. Her terrors, vague at first, grew definite. She saw
Ronnie's career smashed, Ronnie's child born out of wedlock. She saw
them both hounded from England. She asked herself, terror-stricken, if
it were better that the child should be born out of wedlock than born in
scandal. She told herself that wedlock, won as her lover pleaded with
her to win it, at the price of notoriety and exile, would be the blacker
stigma.
"We can go abroad," he said. How would that help the unborn? Hide
themselves wheresoever they might, their world would not forget. If she
gave way to Ronnie, then--for at least a generation--men and women of
their own class would remember, when they spoke of Julia Cavendish's
grandchild, how Julia Cavendish's son had ruined his career for the sake
of Hector Brunton's wife.
And yet, what else was there to do but yield to Ronnie's wishes? And
yet, even yielding, what would be gained? The divorce, if divorce came,
would come too late. Or would it be just in time? She didn't know. She
couldn't think. She could only reproach herself bitterly for the pride
which had so long prevented her from seeking out Hector.
But Julia, Aliette could not reproach. Even though Julia had carried her
vendetta beyond the grave, it was--Aliette knew--no selfish vendetta.
All that Ronnie's mother had tried to achieve had been planned
selflessly, out of love for them, and not out of hate for Hector.
If only Julia were alive! If only _her_ mother had been such as Julia!
If only she could have taken train to Clyst Fullerford! If only she
could lay the legal issue before the legal wisdom of Andrew! For there
must be (did not intuition warn her?), there was (had not Sir Peter
almost said so?) some way, legal or illegal, out of this coil, some
method by which all four of them--she, Ronnie, Ronnie's child,
Hector--could be saved.
Always, her distraught mind grew more lenient toward Hector. Ronnie, her
love and loyalty could console even for his lost career. The child (that
fear also she knew) might never be born. But Hector her love could not
console. He (had not Sir Peter said so?) would suffer as much as they.
He might have to leave the bar. Was that fair? Was anything fair?
2
Those two days, Bruton Street seemed to run on oiled wheels. The
"ridiculous flat" was locked up. Once more, as she had maided her
through that other period of indecision at Hector's house in Lancaster
Gate, Caroline Staley maided her mistress. Now, as then, the routine of
life went on. Yet routine's self--Aliette felt--demanded decision.
Ronnie's mother had been a woman of possessions, of responsibilities.
The proving of her will pressed. She had been a woman of genius, too.
The publishing of her book was a duty one owed to the world.
The will and the book haunted Aliette. Ronnie had locked them both away
in a drawer of Julia's desk; but it seemed to her that their presence
pervaded all the house. She felt conscious of them, stalking her from
room to room. It was as though both demanded something of her; as though
her mind alone could decide their destiny. The will and the book were
children! Julia's brain-children! To destroy them would be murder. To
jeopardize her own chances of motherhood (that impulse, also, she knew)
would be murder.
What could one do? What could one do? Ronnie was adamant. Palpably the
mantle of his mother's resolution had fallen on Ronnie's shoulders.
Ronnie was no longer the boyish lover she remembered. Ronnie was a man;
a man bent on self-destruction, willing, for her sake, to sacrifice his
whole career.
What could one do? What could one do? If Ronnie knew about the child,
Ronnie might kill Hector. Ronnie hated Hector. Ronnie wouldn't mind the
consequences, so long as Hector suffered them equally.
What could one do? Only play for time! Time.
A third day went by. She must decide--decide! Ronnie said so: Sir Peter
had said so.
She must act--act. Better certain ruin than this suspense! She would run
away, renounce Ronnie forever, renounce her legacy. She would efface
herself from London, take that little cottage of her dreams; live there,
year in, year out, unknown and unknowing of the world, satisfied with a
clandestine Ronnie. There she would bring up Ronnie's child, his
manchild, her Dennis; bring him up in ignorance of the smirch on his
name, until such time as he grew old enough to judge for himself whether
she had done right or wrong. She would go to Hector for the last time,
implore him--for Ronnie's sake--to take pity on her. She would go to
Ronnie, implore him--for her own sake--to take pity on Hector.
Like a squirrel-cage, the future whirled under the crazed feet of
Aliette's thoughts. Like a squirrel, her crazed thoughts spun the cage
of the future. Was there no way, no way out of the cage? She _must_ find
the way, the way out.
3
"It was very kind of you to make an appointment so quickly, Sir Peter."
"Not at all, dear lady, not at all."
Inspecting his client benignantly across the leather-topped desk by the
big window of his Norfolk Street office, Sir Peter Wilberforce could see
that Aliette's mental tether was stretched to its tautest. In the low
light of a waning autumn sun, the face under the black Russian hat
showed pale as thinnest ivory. The vivid eyes were pools of fear. Lines
of indecision penciled the temples. But the little black-gloved hand she
gave him had not trembled; nor had there been any fear, any indecision
in the shy, ladylike voice. And the baronet had thought, "Now, I wonder,
I wonder if _she'd_ have the nerve."
His eyes ceased their benignant inspection, and wandered--apparently
aimless--from the sunlight outside to the closed door, round the
pictureless walls, till finally they rested among the racks of black
deed-boxes. There were many titled names gold-lettered on those japanned
deed-boxes; but the two names which interested Sir Peter's eye bore no
titles. "And how is my co-executor," prompted his voice; "still heroic?"
"Worse than that." Aliette managed a smile.
"And you?"
"I'm afraid I'm not a bit heroic. Sir Peter, tell me; were you serious
when you said that the proving of this will, the publication of this
book, would mean--social ruin for--all three of us?"
"Perfectly serious, dear lady."
"And is there"--her heart sank----"no other method by which
we--Ronnie--can carry out his mother's wishes?"
"That"--Sir Peter's eyes left the deed-boxes, and resumed an inspection
suddenly more purposeful than benignant--"is precisely what I have been
considering for the last three days."
"You said there might be a way----"
"Did I?" The old gentleman took up his ivory paper-knife. "Did I,
though?"
"Yes. You said it depended on my--my former husband."
"Then I made a mistake." The Wilberforce purr, was sheerest
self-accusation. "It doesn't. As a matter of fact, the plan I had in
mind depends more on"--the paper-knife tapped slow Morse--"the lady in
the case than any one else. And even then----"
The paper-knife hung suspended. Although the founder of Wilberforce,
Wilberforce & Cartwright was celebrated for his handling of delicate
situations, he had never, in half a century of practice, encountered a
social situation as delicate as this one.
"Does my co-executor know of this visit?" he proceeded after a pause
which dropped Aliette's heart into the tips of her shoes.
"No. I--I wanted to consult you privately."
"And would you be bound to--er--tell him of any suggestion I might
make?"
"Well----" Again Aliette managed a smile. "That would rather depend on
the suggestion, wouldn't it?"
The baronet smiled confidentially in reply. "You see, the main point, as
I view it, is whether we have any means at our disposal by which we can
induce your--er--former husband to bring an action for divorce. My
co-executor, I gathered, was--shall we say--a trifle biased on the
subject. Now, in the first place, it appears to me that if
your--er--former husband knew about this codicil, he would
do--er--almost anything to avoid its publication. If, therefore, he were
told that by bringing his action immediately----"
"That"--Aliette leaned forward in her chair--"that wouldn't be fair."
"My dear lady," Sir Peter's paper-knife emphasized his disapproval of
the interruption, "this is a solicitor's office, not a court of morals."
"But"--a diffident tremor twitched the pallid features--"it would be
blackmail."
"Let us call it justifiable blackmail, performed with kid gloves for the
victim's benefit. The victim himself, remember, has hardly behaved
chivalrously."
"That's no reason why we should behave"--the pallid features
flamed--"caddishly."
A little taken aback--female clients with moral scruples being somewhat
rare at Norfolk Street--the baronet changed his tactics.
"If I follow you," he said quietly, "your objection is not so much to
the partial solution of our problem as to the method of attaining it.
Very well. Let us presume--mind you, it's only the merest
presumption--that the divorce question is arranged without even
justifiable--er--blackmail, and that the codicil to Mrs. Cavendish's
will had--shall we say?--never been penned. That would still leave us
faced with the question of the novel. My co-executor, I gather, still
insists on its being published? He wouldn't approve, for instance, if I
advised its total destruction?"
"Neither of us could bear that." Aliette's voice was unflinching.
"Ronnie's mother sacrificed six months of her life to finish that book.
To destroy it would be worse than blackmail, it would be----"
"Murder. Quite so." Once more, the purposeful eyes wandered from their
client's face to the deed-boxes against the wall. "MRS. JULIA
CAVENDISH," read the eyes among the deed-boxes; and, thereunder, "MR.
PAUL FLOWER." "Of course the novel must be published. But need it be
published _exactly_ in its present form? Now presuming--recollect this
is still only the merest presumption--that the--er--divorce were
arranged, and the--er--codicil off our minds, don't you think we
might--shall we say, alter the novel?"
"Alter it?" Aliette started. Here, at last, was a gleam of hope.
"You see," the purr grew pronounced, "this is not the first time, nor do
I expect it will be the last, that the work of a talented author has
required legal revision. As a matter of cold fact, most modern novels
_are_ more or less libelous. Publishers are constantly asking my advice
on the point. In the case of Mrs. Cavendish's work, curiously enough, it
was asked once before. I think I may say, without breaking confidence,
that I suggested to Sir Frederick then, as I am suggesting to you now,
that certain alterations should be made."
"And were they?" The gleam of hope brightened.
"After a great deal of protest, yes."
"But then"--the gleam flickered out--"Mrs. Cavendish was alive. She made
the alterations herself."
"Your pardon." Sir Peter almost permitted himself a wink. "She did
nothing of the sort. She told Sir Frederick and myself that we were
vandals; and went off to Italy vowing she'd never set pen to paper
again. However, she left the manuscript behind; and we--er--did what was
necessary."
"You mean to say that Ronnie's mother let some one else tamper with her
work?"
"Tamper!" This time the baronet actually did wink. "I wonder how my
friend and client, Mr. Paul Flower, who--to tell you the truth--made the
alterations on which I insisted, would like to hear himself described as
a tamperer."
"And you think that Mr. Flower would----"
The house-telephone buzzed, interrupting them. Sir Peter answered it: "I
told you I wasn't to be disturbed.... Oh, is that you James? Very
important, eh?... Well, let's hear what it is."
Aliette, her distraught mind clutching at the baronet's suggestions as a
drowning woman clutches her rescuer, hardly listened to the
conversation. Yet she was aware, dimly, that a mask had come over Sir
Peter's face; that his concentration had switched, as only the legal
brain can switch its concentration, without effort from her to the
instrument.
Woman-like, the switch irritated her. "Yes," she heard. "Yes. I'd better
see him myself.... No, I don't think a meeting would be advisable....
Tell him that at present there are certain difficulties, certain very
serious difficulties, in the way.... No. He'd better stop with you. I
shall be able to see him in about ten minutes--a quarter of an hour at
the outside."
Sir Peter hung up the house-telephone, and turned to Aliette. The legal
mask still covered his face. Behind it, he thought, "Poor little woman.
This _will_ cheer her up. I wonder if I ought to let that particular cat
out of the bag yet awhile? Better not. Much better not. It might upset
the whole apple-cart."
"Let me see," the mask changed, "what were we talking about? Oh, yes,
the book, of course. Now, what have you got to say to my suggestion?"
"I think it splendid." Aliette's irritation subsided. "But--even if Mr.
Flower consents to alter the book--there's always the will. We
couldn't"--hopefully--"we couldn't alter that, too, could we?"
"Hardly." Now, feeling himself at the very crux of their interview, Sir
Peter took up his paper-knife again. "Hardly. Quite apart from its being
a felony, it would be robbing you of twenty thousand pounds."
"But that wouldn't matter a bit."
"Seriously?"
"Quite seriously, Sir Peter." Strange that she had never even considered
that point!
"Even then"--still more taken aback, for female clients who disdained
fortunes were even rarer than moralists in Norfolk Street, the senior
partner in Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright tapped a frantic SOS on
the desk-top--"even then, I'm afraid, we couldn't _alter_ the will."
"Couldn't we keep it out of the newspapers?"
"I'm afraid not. Mrs. Cavendish, you see, was a very important
personage. The public will be interested, not only in the extent of her
fortune, but in how she has disposed of it."
"But surely, with your influence----" Once more Aliette felt hopeless.
"Even my influence"--Sir Peter leaned forward, pointing the paper-knife
at her--"even my influence cannot keep 'news' back. Therefore, I'm
afraid that" ("this is the moment," he thought, "the absolute and only
psychological moment") "unless some _accident_ were to happen--unless
the will were, shall we say, burnt--neither my first idea, which you
will remember was that we should approach your--er--former husband with
a view to his taking immediate action, nor my second suggestion, that we
should alter the book, could be of the slightest assistance."
There intervened a long and peculiar silence; during which, as
poker-players across a poker-table, the old man and the young woman
tried to fathom one another's minds.
At last the woman asked:
"Tell me, suppose this--this accident of which you have spoken were to
happen, what would be the consequences?"
"The consequences to whom?"
"To"--Aliette, her thoughts racing, fumbled at the phrase--"to the
person who might burn--who might be responsible for the accident."
"That would depend." Sir Peter's words started pat from under his
mustache. "If the person responsible for the accident were to benefit by
the destruction of the will, the consequences to that person, if
discovered, would be very serious. But if that person, instead of
benefiting, stood to lose twenty thousand pounds----" He broke off;
adding, rather gruffly, "You'll understand that if Mrs. Cavendish had
died without making a will, her son, as next of kin, would inherit the
entire estate?"
Ensued another momentous pause. Then quietly, Aliette said: "Sir Peter,
tell me one thing more. How soon--after a divorce-case--can a woman
re-marry?"
Startled--sensing, in one vivid flash, the reason of her question--the
baronet rose from his chair; and Aliette--her mind, for all the
quietness of her voice, in utter turmoil--rose with him.
"How soon?" she repeated.
"Not for six months," Sir Peter hesitated; "and we can't rely on less
than three between the filing of the petition and the decree nisi."
At that, his client's face went dead white, so that, for a moment, Sir
Peter thought she must faint. But she controlled herself. "And is there
no--no exception to that rule?"
"It has been varied--once."
"Is that"--desperately, despairingly, Aliette flung all her cards on the
table--"is that all the hope you can give me if--if I agree to every
suggestion you have made this afternoon?"
"Dear lady,"--the man rather than the lawyer spoke--"I daren't say more
than this: If _my_ influence counts for anything, every ounce of it is
on your side."
"Thank you, Sir Peter."
For a moment they faced one another in silence. Then, without another
word, Aliette proffered her hand.
* * * * *
Hardly had the door closed behind her when Sir Peter rushed to the
house-telephone. "James!" called Sir Peter. "James! Bring the admiral in
here at once."