The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton
you alone?" Ronnie hated himself for that question: it sounded almost
furtive. But Aliette's answer was the very spirit of frankness.
"Yes. I'm quite alone. In the library. Mollie's gone to bed. Why do you
ask?"
"Because--there's something I want to say to you--Aliette." He paused a
second, mastered by emotion; then again he said: "Aliette?"
"Yes--Ronnie."
"You're not angry with me--about Thursday?"
"No." It seemed to him that he could almost see her lips move. "No. I'm
not angry--with you: only with myself."
"You know----" He hesitated. "You know that I love you."
"Yes, I know that." A little laugh. "It doesn't make things any easier
for me, does it?"
"I want to see you again. Soon. May I?"
For a long time, the wire gave no answer. At last, very faintly, as
though she were thinking rather than speaking, Aliette whispered: "This
isn't playing the game."
"I know that. I've tried----" He could not bring himself to finish the
sentence.
"Oughtn't we to go on--trying?"
"No." Now the man could actually vision her. It was as though she were
in the room. Passion--banishing hesitancy--had its way with him.
"Aliette! I can't go on living if I don't see you again. I've got to see
you. Soon. To-morrow. You will meet me, to-morrow, won't you! I can't
bear the thought of another three days without you."
Hesitancy returned, banishing passion. "I've offended her," he thought.
"She's rung off." But after an interminable silence, Aliette answered:
"Where do you want me to meet you?" Then, faint again, and very shy:
"I've got--we've got--such a lot of things to say to one another. Hadn't
we--hadn't I--hadn't it better be in your rooms? I could come to you
to-morrow afternoon. At about five o'clock. Would that do?"
"Aliette--dear----"
Before Ronnie could collect his wits for a further reply, he heard a
whispered "Good night," and the click of a replaced receiver.
CHAPTER VIII
1
To a certain type of mind, the woman who goes to a man's rooms is
already labeled. It seems therefore necessary to explain that
Aliette--when she suggested going to Ronnie's--acted on no passionate
impulse, but as the result of a whole afternoon's deliberation. It was,
she felt, vital that they should have speech together; and equally vital
that their speech should not be disturbed. Wherefore--fastidiousness
revolting alike from a clandestine appointment in Hyde Park or at her
husband's house--she chose the courageous alternative.
Now, however, as she strolled quietly down Bond Street at half-past four
of a sunlit Monday afternoon, Aliette did not altogether succeed in
bridling the fears with which both sex and training strove to stampede
her mentality.
She had to say to herself: "How absurd I am! These are the
nineteen-twenties; not the eighteen-sixties. Even discovered, I run no
risk of scandal." Yet scandal, she knew subconsciously, was the least of
the risks she ran in going to Ronnie.
Nevertheless, go she must: even if--worst risk of all--he had
misunderstood her motive. The issue between them could not be shirked
any longer. Rather a desperate issue it seemed as, at the corner of
Conduit Street, Aliette ran into Hector's father!
Rear-Admiral Billy, having arrived at his club two hours since, was
taking his first "cruise round." The old man looked the complete
Victorian in his white spats, his "Ascot" tie, his braided morning-coat
and weekday topper. But his "sponge-bag" trousers were Georgian enough.
"Well met, my dear." he greeted her. "Your old father-in-law's dying for
a pretty woman to pour out his tea."
She let him rumble on; accepted his compliments about her hat, her lace
frock, her parasol; but refused his offer of a taxi to Ranelagh.
"I'm so sorry, Billy. But I'm going--I'm going to tea with some one
else."
"That be blowed for a tale," laughed the admiral. "You're coming with
me. If Ranelagh's too far, we'll make it Rumpelmayer's."
He took her arm; and she began to panic. Billy, in his "on the spree"
mood, could be very persistent. A few yards on, however, they met
Hermione Ellerson. She too, declared the sailor, "must have a dish of
tea with an old man."
Aliette seized on the opportunity with a quick:
"Be a dear, Hermione. Take Billy to Rumpelmayer's for me."
"You'll give me strawberries and cream--whatever they cost?" pouted the
ex-plaintiff in Ellerson v. Ellerson.
"Give you anything you want," rumbled Rear-Admiral Billy. "Alie's going
to meet her best boy; so we'll leave her out of the party."
Aliette, on the pretext of shopping, managed an immediate riddance of
the pair. Watching them walk off together, she felt rather guilty. Yet
the guilt held a certain spice of pleasure, of pride. She was on a
dangerous errand, taking risks. She was going--in risk's despite--to
Ronnie.
Her heart began to throb in anticipation of Ronnie. Passing a mirrored
window, she glanced at her reflection, and saw herself well turned-out,
_en beauté_. The sight gave her keenest satisfaction. She walked on, no
longer fearful but excited--violently, tremulously excited--till she
came to Piccadilly; and turned right-handed toward St. James's Street.
But the clock of St. James's Palace told her that it still lacked more
than a quarter of an hour to their rendezvous.
She turned back again; stood a full minute in admiration of Rowland
Ward's trophies; debated with herself whether she should drop into
Fortnum & Mason's or dawdle at the book-counter in Hatchard's; decided
against both schemes; lingered to examine the Harrison Fisher drawings
in the display-window of "Nash's Magazine"; examined the diamond watch
at her wrist; and nearly bolted down the Little Arcade into the narrow
Londonishness of Jermyn Street.
Here again she felt the need for courage; felt as though the whole
place--the church under the tree, and the public-house at the corner,
the shops and the restaurants--held spies. The street, after broad
Piccadilly, seemed furtive, sunless, a street of danger. She wanted to
avert her head from the passers-by.
2
By the time Hector Brunton's self-possessed wife reached the dark-green
Adams door of 127b Jermyn Street, she was as nervous as any other woman
in the same equivocal position.
But Ronnie's name-plate, the sedateness of the house, and above all the
trim gentleman--obviously a retired butler--who answered her tremulous
ringing, did more than a little to restore her confidence.
"Mr. Cavendish? Mr. Cavendish is at home, madam. He is expecting
guests." (Aliette could have blessed Moses Moffatt for that final "s.")
"Allow me to show you the way up, madam."
She followed the restorer of confidence up two dark flights of
well-carpeted stairs; and found herself on a half-landing. The white
door on the half-landing was just ajar.
"Whom shall I announce, madam?" asked the trim gentleman.
Aliette hesitated the fraction of a second before replying: "Mrs.
Brunton, Mrs. Hector Brunton."
Moses Moffatt opened the white door, and they passed into the hall of
Ronnie's flat. Automatically Aliette noticed--and admired--the black
grandfather's clock, the one engraving, the beige wall-paper. Then her
cicerone knocked on polished mahogany; and a voice, Ronnie's voice,
called, "Come in."
Moses Moffatt opened the second door; announced the visitor in his best
style; and withdrew. They heard the click of his final exit as they
faced one another--she still in the doorway, he at the tea-table by the
fireplace.
For a moment, social poise deserted them both; for a moment they could
only stare--brown eyes into blue, blue eyes into brown. Then, her sense
of humor conquering shyness, Aliette said: "You _were_ expecting me,
weren't you?"
"It seems too good to be true." Ronnie moved across the room towards
her; took the hand she proffered; and raised it to his lips. At that,
she felt shy again. Confidence deserted her. If he failed in this first
test; if, by one word, he betrayed misunderstanding; then, indeed, she
would have irretrievably demeaned herself. But Ronnie released her hand
after that one kiss; and said, very simply: "I oughtn't to have let you
come."
Relieved, and a little touched at his words, Aliette let him take her
bag and parasol.
"I didn't mean you to have tea for me," she said, pulling off her
gloves. "Shall I pour out?"
"I'll have to boil the kettle first," he stammered, fumbling in his
pocket for matches. "You'll sit here, won't you! I--I've so often
imagined you sitting here and pouring out tea for me--Aliette."
"Have you--Ronnie?" Laughter dimpled her cheeks. She let him lead her to
the settee by the tea-table; and sat watching his struggle with the
refractory wick. "Why don't you have an electric one? They're so much
easier."
"Are they?" How shy he seemed!
"Rather!" She imagined herself infinitely the more at ease. "I like this
room."
"I'm so glad. It isn't my taste, you know."
"Really?" As if she hadn't guessed whose taste had chosen that beige
paper, those _écru_ velvet curtains with their flimsy lace _brise-bise_,
the Aubusson carpet, and the plain silver tea-service on the Chippendale
tray!
He did not pursue the subject; and for that reticence her heart went out
in thankfulness to him. Yet, at best, his reticence could only be a
temporary respite: before she left this room which his mother had
furnished for him, the whole issue must be discussed. And the issue--as
Aliette well knew--depended, more than on any one else, on Julia
Cavendish.
Yes! The whole issue, not only as it affected themselves, but as it
might affect others, must be threshed out before she left him.
Only--only--this respite was very sweet. Why couldn't life be just one
long tea-time! She felt so unutterably happy. A sense, almost a
sensuousness, of well-being pervaded her. She wanted no more than this:
to be with Ronnie; to hear his voice; to watch his lips, his eyes, his
hands as they poured from silver kettle to silver pot; to answer,
quietly, impersonally, his quiet impersonal questions.
She thought how boyish he looked; how unlike Hector he was in his
courtesy, his delicacy. Till suddenly, watching him across the table,
she grew conscious of tension in him, of passion. And on that, this
business of pouring out his tea, of accepting his cakes, turned to
sorriest of farces. She wanted him beside her, close to her; she wanted
to hear him whisper, "Aliette, I love you"; she wanted to whisper back,
"And I love you, Ronnie. I've loved you ever since that first day."
All else she had meant to say seemed positively futile.
Meanwhile, to Ronnie, it seemed incredible that he should find the
courage to tell her his thoughts; incredible that this vivid, radiant
creature, alone with him in the intimacy of his own dwelling-place,
should be willing to listen to them. Then, without warning, thought
broke to words.
"All the same, I oughtn't to have let you come."
"Why not? I--I wanted to."
"Because----" The fire in his eyes blinded her. She heard, as through
the maze of sleep, steady tick-tick-tick of the clock on the
mantelpiece, sizzle of the kettle-flame, the hoot and drone of traffic
from the street below. She heard, as a sleeper awakened, the throb of
her own heart. She felt tears, tears of sheer joy, close to her eyes.
"Because?" she whispered back.
"Because I love you. Because I can't trust myself with you. Because
you're"--he was on his feet now--"because you're not mine. And I want
you to be mine."
"Ronnie! Ronnie!" Still mazed, she stretched out a hand to him. He
seized her hand; and pressed it to his lips, to his eyes.
"Aliette--my dearest--sweetest--I'm behaving like a cad to you. I----"