The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton
her own sex. Common gossip, however, credited various women of her
acquaintance with "lovers": some permanent, accepted as institutions by
every one except the husband; some transitory of the season; most merest
"tame-cats," fetch-and-carry men. Hector's wife wanted none of these.
She wanted Ronnie--not an occasional Ronnie, not a clandestine Ronnie,
neither a merely physical nor a merely platonic Ronnie: but Ronnie
himself--all of Ronnie--Ronnie for her very own.
Comprehension of this fact--it came to her with peculiar clarity one
late afternoon at a crowded tea-fight in Mary O'Riordan's house off Park
Lane--brought the woman up short by the head.
She realized herself wholly in love--dangerously, perilously,
passionately in love. And the realization frightened her. It meant the
abandoning of her own fixed point of view. It meant, actually, if not by
intention, sin. At least it ought to mean "sin"--only somehow she could
no longer regard it in that light. If she had not thought of Mary as
sinful, why should she apply a different standard to her own case?
If this immense new tenderness in her, this accentuation of all her
femininity, was "sin"--then nature's self must be sinful. If, by
religion, she belonged body and soul to Hector, forever and ever amen;
if, in the sight of God, his infidelities counted for nothing; if his
occasional desire to possess her (only the night before she had been
subtly aware of that desire's recrudescence) constituted a lifelong
claim--then religion, as she had so far understood religion, must be a
mere code designed in the interest of husbands, and God Himself a mere
male.
2
Meanwhile, to Ronnie's mind, the problem presented itself differently.
Having no formal religion, the aspect of "sin" did not trouble him. He
came, as he imagined in those ten days, to regard the entire question
from a legal point of view. He wanted a woman who belonged to somebody
else; by no manner of means could he possess that woman unless the law
set her free. Her freedom being outside the sphere of practical
politics, one's duty was self-control, forgetfulness.
On the question of self-control there could be no compromise; but to
forget Aliette was a tough job. Mere passion--since their last
meeting--represented only the tiniest fraction of his feelings. Already
she had given him an entirely new outlook--the lover's outlook: so that
he caught himself regarding the faces of his fellows, faces in his club,
at the courts, in the streets, on tubes and in omnibuses, solely from
his own obsessed point of view. What secret, what _emotional_ secret,
concealed itself behind those unemotional English faces? What
sentimental impulse goaded them about town?
"The sentimental impulse" was his mother's favorite phrase. She had used
it no less than five times in her article for the "Contemplatory"--which
article, astutely boomed by Fancourt, had very nearly created a
first-class "stunt."
One paragraph of his mother's seemed peculiarly applicable to the
barrister's problem.
"If," wrote Julia Cavendish, "the Sentimental Impulse--for I will never
consent to regard the unlawful attraction between a married woman and a
man other than her husband as love, the very essence of which is
obedience and self-denial--once comes to be considered a palliation for
adultery, then the entire foundations of family life will be in
jeopardy."
Six months ago Ronnie would have been the first to uphold such a
doctrine. Now he could only find the flaw in it. The gospel according to
Julia Cavendish--argued her son's mind--amounted to this: If a married
woman loves her husband, she merely does her duty. If she doesn't love
him, she must do her duty just the same. Obedience, to a man; and
denial, of one's own inclinations, constitute the whole duty of woman.
In other words: A husband can do no wrong.
And at that precise point in his meditations Ronald Cavendish remembered
certain rumors--heard and forgotten three years since, on his one leave
from the East--about Hector Brunton and a certain red-headed lady of the
stage.
All the same, even admitting certain modifications--a wife's right to
fidelity, for instance,--did not his mother's code form the only
possible basis of society? What reasoning human could substitute the
sentimental impulse for the existing marriage laws? "Free love" would
only mean free license for the unbalanced, the over-sexed, the abnormal,
the womanizer, and the nymphomaniac. Matrimonial bolshevism, in fact!
"Matrimonial Bolshevism," he remembered, was to have been the title of
his mother's next article; but for the moment she had been forced to
give up work. Sir Heron Baynet, the specialist called in by Dot
Fancourt's puzzled doctor, had implored her--so she told Ronnie--to
rest.
"I've got to take care of myself," she said. "Sir Heron says I'm not
exactly ill, but that I'm disposed to illness."
Actually, Sir Heron's words had been far more disturbing; but Julia, who
had never consulted a medicine-man in her life, resented the little
man's seriousness, and pooh-poohed most of his advice.
"Don't worry about me," she went on. "Except for being a little tired, I
feel like a two-year-old."
Ronnie, obsessed with his own troubles, accepted her version of the
interview; and went off to play tennis. Despite all the hair-splitting
and all the self-analysis, despite all the resolves never to see Aliette
again, and all the attempts to bluff himself lawyer against himself man,
the sentimental impulse persisted. And hard physical exercise, he
thought, might help to cure that impulse!
CHAPTER VI
1
"If Aliette hadn't given up the game to do war-work, and if I hadn't got
cut over by that bomb, we might have done some good together in the club
doubles," said Mollie Fullerford.
"Well, you're both of you too hot for me," protested Wilberforce.
He balanced a cup of tea on his white-flanneled leg, and surveyed his
companion admiringly. They were sitting in the sloped veranda of the
clubhouse at Queen's. Below them, on the oval of green turf between the
red West Kensington houses, a dozen marked courts hummed with the ping
of ball against racket-face, with the swish of running skirts and the
voices of the players scoring--"love fifteen," "fifteen all," "fifteen
thirty."
"Oh, well played!" ejaculated the girl. Aliette, practising with Mrs.
Needham on No. 2 court, had just banged a forehand drive down the
side-line. "She's getting it back. Don't you think so, Jimmy?"
Mollie spoke the last word with some hesitation; they had only just got
to the point of calling each other by their Christian names.
"Rather," agreed her companion, whose interest in Brunton's wife was of
the vaguest, but who knew that he must at least simulate it--because, to
Mollie, Aliette represented a good deal more than the average sister.
James Wilberforce did not possess a very emotional personality. He was
not at all the sort of person to be swept off his feet by any woman.
Marriage being "indicated," alike by parental desires, personal tastes,
and a growing income, he had cast about for a possible mate; found her
by accident; and was now "making the running" in the approved manner.
So far, the "running" had been rapid enough. Nevertheless, Sir Peter
Wilberforce's son and heir already understood that this calm young
creature of the broad forehead and the violet eyes would not yield
herself without a struggle. "Takes life rather seriously, does Mollie,"
he thought; and liked her none the less for that.
"Does Mr. Cavendish play?" she asked casually. "If so, you ought to
bring him one afternoon."
"He used to. But since he took to golf, 'patters' has lost its
attraction."
"Rotten game, golf," said Mollie. "Takes too long. I believe in getting
one's exercise over quickly."
They discussed the point for a second or two; and then veered, like most
people in their position, to the personal. Aliette, looking up at them
as she changed courts, knew a quick flash of envy. For those two, love
would run its legitimate course; whereas for her---- She put thought
away, and concentrated on the game.
"Two five, I lead," announced Mrs. Needham--a hard-featured,
soft-hearted woman with a mop of unruly black hair, an eye like a hawk,
and the hands of a mechanic. "Why don't you give up that overhand
service?"
"It'll come back in time."
Aliette went to her own base-line, and took two balls from the boy. Mrs.
Needham crouched in her favorite position on the other side of the net.
Aliette tossed up a ball, swung up her racket, served.
The service, railroading down the center-chalk, defeated Mrs. Needham.
The server crossed to the left-hand court; stood to serve--and saw
Ronnie.
For a fraction of a second they looked at each other through the high
side-netting. He plucked off his soft hat, and stood watching. Aliette
served; faulted; faulted again.
"Fifteen all," announced Mrs. Needham.
And suddenly, Aliette's game came back to her. Once more her first
service struck chalk from the center-line. But this time Mrs. Needham
got back a swingeing shot. Aliette ran--back-handed--flew to the net,
killed the return.
"Thirty fifteen," she announced.
She knew, as she crossed, that Ronnie was still watching; that she must
not look at him; that if she looked at him she would double-fault again;
that she mustn't double-fault; that she must win.
But now Mrs. Needham was all out for the set. Aliette's service came
back like white lightning down the side-line. She struck--ran for the
net--guessed Mrs. Needham's lob-stroke--got back to it--slammed it
across the court--got to the net again--won her point after a tremendous
rally.
"Forty fifteen," announced Aliette; and abruptly, preparing to serve,
she knew that Ronnie was no longer watching. Concentration failed her:
the game didn't seem to matter: the sooner she lost the game, the sooner
she would be able to talk with him.
2
"Why, there _is_ Mr. Cavendish," said Mollie Fullerford. "And that's
Hugh Spillcroft with him. I haven't seen Hugh for years."
She ran down the steps; and Wilberforce followed--a little jealously.
The four stood chatting.
"Yes," said Ronnie. "Spillcroft had insisted on his playing 'patters.'
Spillcroft had promised to lend him a racket."
"Cavendish used to play a pretty fair game at the House," interjected
Hugh--a clean-shaven monocled young man, who looked, once divested of
wig and gown, a bit of a blood.
To Ronald the ensuing conversation was almost meaningless. He took part
in it automatically. He didn't want to talk with these people; he wanted
to watch that white embodiment of graceful strength, Aliette. He could
hear her voice, "Forty thirty," followed by the swish of two balls along
netting, and Mrs. Needham's "Deuce." She had lost two points since he
turned away.
The unexpected sight of her had paralyzed his self-control. He forgot
all the resolutions, all the ratiocinations of the last ten days. He
clean forgot Hector Brunton. His inward vision reveled in memories of
her beauty. How glorious she looked--on horseback, a-walking, in evening
dress, even on a tennis-court. Curious, that last! "Patters" women
nearly always looked disheveled--those of them who could play.
Aliette--her set thrown away--and Mrs. Needham joined the four of them.
"How do you do, Mr. Cavendish?"
"How do you do, Mrs. Brunton?"
They clasped hands.
"I had to go all out that last game," said Mrs. Needham.
Neither she nor Ronnie realized that Aliette had lost deliberately.
Aliette seemed so calm, so radiantly self-possessed. The vivid coils of