The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton

Speech died at his lips; he stood before her, tense, tongue-tied--her hand held, like a shield against her beauty, before his eyes. She knew passion kindling in her, kindling them both to madness; knew the flames of desire a-leap between them; knew the overpowering impulse to immolate herself in the flames of desire. "My dear," he whispered, "my dear." Then, as in a dream, she divined that the flames leaped no more, that he had mastered passion, that he had fallen to his knees, that he was covering her hand with kisses. "Forgive me," she heard, "forgive me. I'm not that sort of cad. I didn't think, just because you came to my rooms----" "Don't, don't." Her free hand fondled his hair. "You mustn't kneel to me. Please, please----" He rose, her hand still in his; and she drew him down beside her. "Ronnie----" She would have looked into his eyes, but his eyes avoided her. "Ronnie, I don't want you to think, either now or ever, that it's caddish of you to--to love me. I--I need your love. I need your love more than I can ever tell you." His hand trembled at her words. "I'm very lonely, and I'm afraid--I'm afraid that I'm very weak. You're the only person in the world who can help----" "Then----" His eyes turned to hers, and she saw hope light in them. "Then, you _do_ love me." "Yes. I love you." She laughed--a little strained laugh that was almost a caress. "I oughtn't to say that, I suppose." "Oh, my dear"--now he had prisoned both her hands--"why shouldn't you say it? No--no harm shall ever come to you from me." "I know that." Her voice grew almost inaudible. "Otherwise--I shouldn't be here." "No harm shall ever come to you from me," he repeated--and fell silent. They sat for a while, hand in hand, taking quiet comfort from one another, each knowing what must next be said, each fearful of being first to speak. At last, releasing her hands, Aliette braced herself to the ordeal. "About"--fastidiousness almost overwhelmed her--"about my--my husband. You understand, don't you, that he--that he isn't my husband any more--that otherwise I would never have come to you--that, that it's been all over between him and me--for, for ever so long." "Yes, dear. I--I understand." Very slowly, he drew her toward him. His eyes no longer blinded her; looking deep into the blue of them, she saw only a great comprehension, a great reverence. "I should have understood--even without your telling me." Very slowly, she yielded to the pull of his hands; yielded him her lips. Very clearly she knew herself--as they swayed to one another in that first kiss--his woman. Again, it was a while before either spoke. Then Ronnie said, speaking as simply as any boy: "I wish I knew what was the right thing to be done. I can't give you up. Not now! Tell me, if you were free--would you marry me?" "You know that I would." She, too, spoke simply of the things in her heart. "But I'm not free. We're neither of us free." "You mean that--that I'll have to give you up?" Again she braced herself. "I--I'm afraid so." "Why?" "Because of----" She could not yet bring herself to mention his mother. "Because of your career." "My career!" He laughed, holding her in his arms. "As if my career had anything to do with it. I'm only a poor devil of a barrister, living on the charitable briefs of Jimmy Wilberforce. It's you, your reputation that counts, not mine." "I can't let my love bring you harm." She withdrew from him--her eyes still suffused with happiness; her lips still quivering from his caress. "Never mind me. It's you we have to consider. In law you're--you're still your husband's. Unless he lets you divorce him." "He'd never do that." "Why not? It's lawful. It's done every day." "Even if he would--I couldn't. It wouldn't be playing the game." "Aliette"--stubbornly, Ronnie rose to his feet,--"I--I want you so much that nothing else seems to matter. But I can't--I won't ask you to--to do the other thing. You talk about playing the game. What's the alternative? If you divorce your--your husband, he won't suffer. Nobody cares what a man does. But the other thing--the other thing's all wrong----" His words chilled her to fear. But she knew that she must master fear--even as he had mastered passion. "Are you--are you so sure?" said Aliette. "Can love, real love, ever be wrong?" He turned on her bluntly, almost rudely. "Yes, the whole thing's wrong. It's wrong of me to let you come here. Wrong of me to love you." Then, his reserve breaking down: "I've tried to reason this thing out till I've grown nearly mad with it. I've always loved my profession; always thought that a lawyer's first duty was to obey the law. But now, loving you, the law doesn't seem to count. Only you count. You and your happiness. It's only you I'm thinking of, not my--my rotten career." Once again he fell on his knees to her, protesting, incoherent; once again he took her in his arms; and kissed her, very tenderly, on her eyes, on her half-closed lips. His kisses weakened her. "Ronnie," she whispered. "My Ronnie, I love you so." Her whisper kindled him again to passion. "Aliette," he said hoarsely, "Aliette, I can't give you up. I can't live without you." For a moment she yielded herself; for a moment her lips, her hands, her whole body clung to their happiness; for a moment all her fears, all her self-torturings were stifled. Then she broke from him; and her eyes grew resolute. "Ronnie, there's some one whom neither of us has considered--your mother." "The old cannot stand between the young and their happiness." His eyes, too, were resolute. "We're still young, you and I. We've all our lives to live. And besides"--he weakened,--"the mater likes you." "She'd hate me if I didn't make you give me up." "You don't know her, dear." "I do." It seemed to Aliette as though her lover were indeed only a boy. "I know her a thousand times better than you ever will. Mostly because I'm a woman; and a little, perhaps, because I love her son. She _would_ hate me. And--and she'd be right." "Nobody could hate you," he broke in. "Nobody who knew the fineness of you." "I'm not fine." She put away the joy of his words. "I'm just a very ordinary person. There's nothing fine in me--except perhaps my love for you. And, for your sake, I mustn't let that love blind me to the truth. Can't you see what my freedom--however I won it--would mean to your mother?" She waited for him to answer; but he sat obstinately silent--his hands clasped about his knees, his eyes on her face. She went on: "Your mother doesn't believe in divorce. It's against her principles, her religion." "But surely, if he lets you divorce him----" "I could never do that. Not now. It would be just--just hypocrisy. And we can't hurt your mother. We mustn't. I don't care about myself. If I thought it were for your happiness, I'd run away with you to-night. But I'm afraid for your career. And I do care, terribly, about making _her_ suffer. Think of the fight she's put up, all her life, against this very thing; and then, try to think what it will mean to her, to both of you, if _you_, her son, her only son----" He interrupted violently. "She would have no right, no earthly right to interfere." "Oh, don't, don't speak like that about her." There were tears, tears of real sorrow, in Aliette's eyes. "I can't bear it. I--I can't bear to think of coming between you. It isn't fair. She's loved you all her life. You're everything in the world to her. And then--then--oh! can't you understand----" He strove to kiss away the tears; but her hands covered her face from his kisses. He knew himself all one weakness at thought of this hurt in Aliette. And weakening, it seemed to him as though Julia Cavendish were here in the room with them; as though he said to her: "Mater, this is my one chance of happiness. I can't let even you take it from me." The vision passed; and he knew himself strong again. His hands parted Aliette's fingers; he kissed her on the closed eyelids, on the wet cheeks. She clung to him, tearful still. Her lips murmured: "Life is so difficult--so terribly difficult." He said to her: "We mustn't make it more difficult. We love each other. We must be true to love. Nothing else matters. As long as you are mine----" "I _am_ yours. Only yours. You don't doubt me?" At that the last of Ronnie's scruples vanished. Fiercely, crudely, he strained her to him. "Aliette, Aliette, my own darling, don't ask me to give you up. I can't give you up! I couldn't endure life without you. Come to me! We needn't do anything mean, anything underhand. It's for your happiness--for my happiness----" "Ronnie--Ronnie----" Her lips were fire on his cheeks. The perfume of her was a fire in his mind. Her arms were chains, chains of fire about his body. He crushed her to him; crushed her mouth under his lips. Her whole body ached for him, ached to surrender itself. A sharp pang as of hatred went through her body: she hated him for the thing he would not do; hated herself for the longings in her body. "You hurt me, you hurt me." With a sharp cry she broke herself loose from him. "I thought I was so strong. And I'm weak--clay in your hands." She stood up, trembling; feeling herself all disheveled, abased. The flame under the kettle had gone out. The tea had gone cold in their half-empty cups. The street below still hooted and droned with traffic. The clock still ticked from the mantelpiece. "I ought to be going," she said, eying the clock. "Yes." He, too, had risen: he, too, was trembling. "You ought to be going. It's nearly half-past six. But you'll come to me again. You'll come again--Aliette." He found her gloves, her bag and parasol. Taking them, she knew that her hands had lost their coolness; little pearls of emotion moistened either palm. Her face, seen in the mirror over the mantelpiece, looked strangely flushed--different. For the flash of a second, her fastidiousness was in revulsion. "You'll come again--soon?" he repeated. "I don't know." Revulsion passed; but her hands, straightening her hat, shook as though in self-disdain. "Somehow, it doesn't seem fair--on either of us." "But you must." His voice thrilled. "You must. We can't leave things like this--undecided." Self-possessed once more, she faced him. "Don't try to hurry me, Ronnie. We've talked too much this afternoon. My brain's weary. I can't decide anything. I thought that, being with you, things would be easier. They're not. They're more difficult. You must give me time----" "Then"--his voice saddened--"I haven't been any help to you?" A laugh rose in her throat, dimpling it. "I'm afraid we're neither of us very wise; but"--she offered him her ungloved hand--"it's been very sweet, being with you. That's why--you haven't helped me very much." Silently, hating that she must go, he released her fingers. She was all a wonder to his eyes, all a riddle to his brain. He wanted to say: "But you mustn't go. You're mine, mine. I don't care a damn for your husband, for my career, for my mother, for the law. Stay with me. Stay with me to-night." Actually, he forebore even to kiss her good-by! 3 Aliette had been gone an hour. . . . Moses Moffatt came in. Moses Moffatt cleared away the tea-things. Moses Moffatt asked: "Will you be dining at home, sir?" Some one answered, "No!" Moses Moffatt went out. Aliette had been gone two whole hours. The some one became Ronald Cavendish. He found that he must have been smoking cigarettes--one cigarette after the other. Ash and paper smoldered on the silver tray at his side. The room stank of tobacco. But tobacco could not drive away that other