The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton

not entitled to a yard of territory more than we guaranteed her by the Treaty of London," says Julia Cavendish, society-woman. The camera continues its work. Third impression: the secretary of the Spanish embassy would look exactly like a bull-fighter if he wore the national costume instead of civilized evening-dress--General Fellowes has aged since the War Office inquiry--a fine type--the big woman he has taken in to dinner would look like a cantaloup melon if you cut her in two--the pretty girl flirting with the young soldier (Guards?) must be her daughter. "Aren't you rather hard on our allies, Mrs. Cavendish?" chips in Hector Brunton. "I have no patience with d'Annunzio." "But at least you will admit that he is a patriot," protests Sir Simeon. "No bombastic person is really patriotic. Patriotism is a dumb virtue." "But is patriotism a virtue?" asks the K.C. "Almost the greatest." Julia's mental camera snaps again. Impression of Hector Brunton: a would-be cave-man--not as strong as he imagines himself--putty in the hands of a sexful woman--rather a difficult problem for a fastidious wife--obstinate--capable of cruelty. At which precise moment, the mother ousted the craftswoman from Julia's brain. She began to wonder if Ronnie were enjoying himself. If only he weren't so shy with women! Women made men's careers. He had taken down that charming Mrs. Brunton. She looked down the table and caught his eyes across the scarlet flowers. He smiled at her. He must be enjoying himself. She had done right, then, to make him accept the invitation. "I gather you prefer patriotism to the League of Nations," remarked her host. "Your League of Nations," answered Julia, "is merely the sentimental impulse translated into terms of international diplomacy. Every one wants it to work--every one realizes it unworkable." Answering, she thought that she had rarely seen Ronnie look so happy. But not even the mother in Julia Cavendish knew the cause of Ronnie's happiness; she was as blind to her son's infatuation as Hector Brunton to his wife's. She could not divine that the pair of them had passed beyond mere happiness into a little illusive world of their own making. For the moment, Aliette and Ronnie dwelt in a rose-bubble of enchantment. A frail bubble! Yet it cut them off, as surely as though it had been opaque crystal, from their fellow-guests. Physical passion found no place in that rose-bubble. Their bodies, the bodies which made pretense of eating and drinking, which uttered the most absurdly conventional sentiments, dwelt outside of its magic; while within, their minds, their natures, their very souls, held secret commune--as two friends so set in friendship that words have become unnecessary. Yet actually, magic apart, they were merely a man and a woman, each lonely, each too healthy for that loneliness which is the prerogative of the sick and the abnormal. They had been lonely; now they were no longer lonely. They had been obsessed with visions of each other; now they no longer saw visions. They saw each other; and their souls were satisfied. But of all that their souls knew, their lips spoke no word. "I've often thought about that run we had," said the man. "One doesn't get a gallop like that every day of one's life. Did you have many other good days?" "I didn't go out again last season," said the woman. "Really? How was that?" "Oh, I went down to Devonshire with my sister." "You didn't take Miracle?" "No." It pleased her that he remembered Miracle's name. "By the way, I'm quite angry with you, Mr. Cavendish. Mr. Wilberforce told us on Sunday that you preferred golf to our society." "Jimmy's a mischief-maker. Why isn't your sister here to-night, Mrs. Brunton?" Man-like, he wondered--now--why he had refused to call on her. "Mollie's at a dance. I believe Mr. Wilberforce will be there too." "Jimmy's a great dancer." Did she know, he speculated, about Jimmy and her sister? Probably. Women--according to Ronnie--always told one another that sort of thing. "And you?" she asked. "Oh, I'm like the Tenth. I don't dance." Aliette dimpled to laughter at the old jest. It mattered so little what he said to her with his lips. His eyes gave her the answer to the one question; the only question she had ever asked herself in vain. His eyes said: "Yes. This is Love. This is the Real Thing." She wondered if his brain knew the message of his eyes. She marveled at herself for not having sooner known the message of her heart. "I'm in love with him," she thought. "I've been in love with him ever since that Sunday at Key Hatch." All the gray unease of the past months, of the past years, diffused to amber sunshine. The Spanish secretary, sitting on her right, chimed in to their conversation. "You do not dance, Cavendish. That is strange. I thought all English people danced." The rose-bubble of enchantment was broken. Talk grew general. Dinner drew to its end. 6 "You look a little tired, Mrs. Cavendish. Can't I get you some more coffee? A cigarette, perhaps?" "Thank you so much. I think I would like a cigarette." Aliette and Julia sat together in a palm-screened corner of the vast Louis Quinze drawing-room. The men were still downstairs. The younger woman rose; and fetched a silver cigarette-box, matches. Julia lit her cigarette. She felt very old, very weary, quite unlike herself. The pain nagged at her back. "I'm afraid I'm not a very gay companion for a beautiful young woman. You mustn't mind my paying you compliments." Aliette had raised a protesting hand at the word "beautiful." "When I was your age, compliments were in vogue. Nowadays they're out of fashion--like good manners." "Surely good manners are never out of fashion," said Aliette. "Only--like fashions--they change." Lady Simeon veered toward them, but diverted her course. They talked on, drawn to each other by a kindred obsession--Ronnie. "I'd love to ask her what she thought of him," mused Julia Cavendish. "I simply daren't mention her son," mused Aliette Brunton. Thus the man found them when he came upstairs. They made an exquisite picture, there, under the green--his mother, dignified, strong (not wishing to let him guess her weariness, she had pulled herself together at his approach), the halo of intellectual achievement setting her apart from every other woman in the room; and the vivid, exquisite, but equally dignified creature at his mother's side. "You don't often smoke, mater." He felt consoled that these two should be together. For the last twenty minutes the sight of Hector Brunton--holding forth, loud-voiced, over a cigar--had made him feel a little guilty. "Mrs. Brunton insisted. Come and sit down, Ronnie. Unless"--servants with card-tables made a belated appearance--"you want to play bridge." "I'd just as soon talk." They made place for him. He and his mother began to discuss their fellow-guests, critically, but without malice. Listening, Aliette felt like an interloper. Even if she had been unmarried, how could she interpose her love--for it was love, she knew that now, knew it irremediably--between these two? Her mind reacted from happiness to depression. He said to her, "You're looking very thoughtful." She answered absent-mindedly, "Am I?" He said: "Yes. Don't you want to play? They're making up tables." She said: "No. I'd rather sit here and watch." Sir Simeon drifted up to them, bringing the young Guardee and the pretty girl he had taken down to dinner. The pair were still flirting, butterfly-like. Their host had insisted on introducing them to Julia. They suffered the introduction, and flitted away. "Who _is_ Julia Cavendish?" asked the boy. "Silly! She writes poetry," answered the girl. "Oh, I say, ought I to have read it?" "Of course you ought. I wish we were going to dance, don't you?" "Rather." The cantaloup lady rolled up to Sir Simeon, and dragged him away to show her his pictures. Julia relapsed into mono-syllables. It must be nearly half-past ten. Thank goodness! She could just manage another thirty minutes. Meanwhile Ronnie could continue talking to this pretty woman. Perhaps he would stay on. That would be best. She wanted to go home alone. In the morning she could telephone Dot for the name of his doctor. And so, once again, the rose-bubble of enchantment formed itself about those two lovers. But now both were conscious of the bubble's frailty. And the man thought: "This cannot endure. I cannot endure this. To-night must be the last time we meet." He saw her husband, pompous, considering the call of a hand. He knew that he abhorred Brunton for the possession of this exquisite woman. He loathed himself for abhorring Brunton. The woman, too, saw her husband. But she could only feel sorrow for him. Poor Hector, who would have been satisfied with so little of her; who had never known how much she had to give. And now--now no man would ever know. Unless----Her fastidiousness revolted abruptly from introspection. She felt glad of Julia's: "I think the brougham should be here by now, Ronnie. Do you mind finding out? And don't worry to see me home. I'm sure Mrs. Brunton will never forgive me if I drag you away." "Don't be absurd, mater. Of course I sha'n't let you go home by yourself." Ronnie rose, and made his way across the room. "You'll persuade him to stop? I--I'd rather go home alone," said Julia. "Because you're tired. Because you don't want him to see it." The words escaped Aliette before she could control them. She covered herself quickly. "I'm sure that must be the reason. I'm sure, if I had a son, I should never want him to think that I was tired." "You have children then--girls? You couldn't have known otherwise." The novelist in Julia was asleep; she could see no other reason why this "charming creature" should have divined her mentality. "No. I have no children, worse luck!" Ronnie came back to say that the brougham waited. "You mustn't come with me, Ronnie." Julia got to her feet. "Mater, I insist." "Persuade him to stay, Mrs. Brunton." Subconsciously, Aliette knew the incident momentous. His blue eyes were looking down into hers. Behind them she read indecision. He wanted to see his mother home: he wanted to stay with her. She could keep him at her side. Only, if she did keep him--and it would take the littlest look, the littlest gesture,--then she would be interloper indeed. Consciously now, she made her first sacrifice. "I think a son's first duty is to his mother," smiled Aliette Brunton. CHAPTER V 1 Ten days went by. For Aliette, the trivial round of London continued. She attended a terrific _tamasha_ of a wedding--all frocks and roses--at St. George's, Hanover Square; she dined at the Carlton with Hector and a sumptuous client from the money-making North; she walked the park with Ponto, her harlequin Dane, who, as though he understood his mistress was troubled, kept close at heel while she footed it, and thrust a consolatory nose into her lap whenever she sat down; she played lawn-tennis at Queen's; she did her household duties at Lancaster Gate, fighting and defeating a miniature revolution among the female staff. But her emotions she could neither fight nor defeat. These emotions were all strange, sweet, disturbing. For the first time in her life a man obscured the entire mental horizon. Constantly she thought of Ronnie--imagining him her confidant, her friend, her lover. Her mind took a whole week to formulate that last definite word; and even then the word seemed inadequate. Except for Mary O'Riordan and Mollie, Aliette possessed no intimates of