The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton
love-letter, which she had hidden there. The eyes were not yet hostile,
only appraising; but behind them--imagination knew--lurked souls ready
to kindle into hostility. "They're waiting," thought Aliette, "waiting
to know my decision. Yet the decision is mine--mine only." Imagination
petered out, leaving her mind a blank.
Caroline asked a question; and she answered it automatically, "Yes; the
green hat, please."
Her maid brought the hat--and, in a second as it seemed, she was
standing before the long cheval-glass, completely dressed, completely
ready to--leave Hector's house.
Looking back, Aliette now realizes that moment to have been the
definitive crossing of her Rubicon. Subconsciously, in that one
particular instant of time, her decision crystallized. She, who had
always hated "funking things," would not funk love. Love was either
worth the leap, or worth nothing. If nothing, then life's self was not
worth while. And the risk was the leaper's, only the leaper's.
Considering others, she had forgotten to consider herself.
She looked at that self in the long mirror.
Surely those brown eyes, burning deep into their own semblance, were
never fashioned for long perplexity; surely, they had been given her so
that she might visualize truth. Surely, those scarlet lips were not made
for lying; nor those slim feet for running away.
And suddenly, subconsciously, Aliette knew that all her life hitherto
she had been lying to her own soul, running away from truth. Life,
woman's life at its highest, meant mating. Without matehood,
motherhood's self must be a failure. And she, she was neither mate nor
mother. Remaining with Hector, her very bodily beauty would
wither--wither unmated, sterile. For, to Hector--even if she yielded to
Hector--and how, loving Ronnie, could she yield herself to Hector?--she
would never be more than legal concubine. No matehood there, only
degradation. Better to kill one's self, better to smash the sacred
vessel in pieces, than allow it to be profaned--as profaned it must
be--by any man's touch save Ronnie's.
"And surely," said some dim voice in that soul which was Aliette,
"surely this is nature's verity: To each one of us, unhindered, our
mate- and mother-hood! Surely, in nature's eyes, our parents are but dry
and empty vessels, milkless gourds rattling on a dead tree."
* * * * *
_Her_ letter, sent "express" to Jermyn Street, read: "If you are quite,
quite sure of your own feelings, I will come to you to-morrow afternoon.
Whatever we decide best to do, must be done openly. I love you--perhaps
that is why I have been so afraid. I am not afraid any more. ALIETTE."
3
This time, ringing the bell at 127b Jermyn Street, Hector Brunton's wife
was no more nervous than on the day she put Miracle at Parson's Brook.
In that last flash of understanding, it seemed as though even the Mollie
aspect of the problem were solved. Let Mollie, too, learn nature's
verity; learn that if Wilberforce's love-flame blew out at a breath of
scandal, she would do better to warm herself at some healthier fire.
The twenty-four hours which followed her decision had gone by like a
single minute, marked only by Ronnie's second letter, by those eight
sheets of tenderness, of passion, of high resolve and deep desire, which
Aliette held close to her heart as she followed Moses Moffatt up the
quiet stairs.
Ronnie met them in the tiny hall. The conventional smile assumed for
Moffatt's benefit was still on his lips as he relieved her of bag and
parasol, as he led her into the sitting-room. But so soon as the
sitting-room door closed, his arms went round her; and their lips met in
a long kiss. There was no passion in that kiss, only an overwhelming
tenderness; yet, yielding to it, letting herself sink into his arms,
Aliette knew that the die was cast, that she belonged to him, he to her,
so long as life lasted. And freeing herself, quaintly, irresistibly, the
impulse to laughter overwhelmed her mind.
"I'm going to take my hat off," laughed Aliette. "You won't object, will
you? Do you know, I wanted to take my hat off, that first afternoon--at
the Bull?"
He watched, dumb, while she ungloved her pale hands, while she lifted
them to her hat-pins. The curve of her raised arms fascinated his eyes.
Still laughing, she removed the hat; and stretched it out to him.
"You don't recognize this, I suppose?"
"No."
"Nor the dress? It's rather a funny dress for town--don't you think,
man? Do you like being called 'man'? I decided that should be my name
for you on my way here."
But he could not remember either the hat or the dress. "I like them
both," he said, "they're wallflower-brown--the same color as your eyes."
"It's a winter dress--a country dress," she prompted. "So hot--that I'll
have to take my coat off."
Recollection stirred in him. His mind went back to the winter. He saw
two figures, his and hers, strolling down-hill in the low March
sunlight.
"It's the dress you wore at Key Hatch."
"Man, you're getting quite clever. Now tell me why I put it on this
afternoon."
Standing before him, her coat over one arm, the vivid of her hair
uncovered, the brown silk of her blouse revealing the full throat, she
seemed like a young girl; more an affianced bride than a woman who
intended running away from her husband.
He took the coat from her, and their hands met. He raised her fingers to
his lips; and again she dimpled to laughter.
"Tell me," said Aliette, "or I sha'n't give you any tea, why I put on
this dress. Women, even when they're in love, don't wear their winter
tweeds in the middle of the season."
Instead, he kissed her--still tenderly.
"How should I know, Aliette? This afternoon you're all a mystery to me.
Tell me, why you are so different."
"Light the kettle; and I'll try to tell you." She balanced herself on
the edge of the settee. "You say I'm different this afternoon. I'm only
different because I'm happy. And I'm happy because of you, because of
us, because of everything. You, too?"
"Yes." Her spirits infected him: he, too, laughed.
"Happiness, you see, is our only justification," said the woman who
intended running away from her husband. "I've got to make you happy.
Otherwise, from the very outset, I fail. And if"--the tiniest note of
seriousness crept into her voice--"if I can't make you happy, not just
this afternoon, but always----"
"You will," he interrupted. "And I you."
Tea was rather a silent meal. They were content to sit through it, hand
touching hand occasionally, their eyes on each other. To each of them it
seemed as though, after long wandering, they had come home. For the
moment, passion hardly existed. Almost they might have been boy and
girl.
"Did you fall in love with me that day with the Mid-Oxfordshire?" she
asked.
"I've often wondered."
"It all seems so strange, Ronnie. Not like--like doing wrong."
"We're not going to do anything wrong."
"We are. That's the strangest part of it."
To the man, too, it was all strange, strange and fantastic beyond
belief. He could not imagine himself the same Cavendish who had so long
wrestled against the inculcated traditions of his upbringing, of his
profession; he could not visualize himself potential sinner against
society. Sin was a bodily thing; and he wanted no more of this radiant,
dimpling creature than to hear the happy laughter in her voice.
So, for a little while, those two remade their rose-bubble of
enchantment, forgetful alike of the problems put behind them and the
greater problems yet to be faced.
But at last Aliette said, "Let's be sensible."
"Not this afternoon." He tried to take both her hands, but her hands
eluded him.
"Don't!" Her eyes darkled. "We mustn't play any more." And after a
pause, she asked him: "I wonder exactly how much you really need me?"
"More than any man ever needed any woman."
"You're quite, quite sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Then," she laughed, a little low laugh deep in the throat; for she knew
that her elusion had thrilled him to passion, and the knowledge was very
sweet, "will you please tell me, man, what you're going to do about me?"
"Do about you?" His meditative drawl stimulated a newborn impishness in
her.
"Yes--do about me."
"Why--run away with you, if you'll let me."
"Where to?"
"Anywhere."
"Shall I be allowed to take any luggage?"
"Of course."
"Then we can't very well run away this afternoon."
"No. I suppose we can't," he muttered; and the impishness in her
chuckled to see the puzzled thoughts chase themselves across his
forehead.
How boyish he was--she thought--how utterly unlike the conventional
unconventional lover. The maternal instinct awakened in her heart, and
went out to the boy in him. She wanted to pat his head, to say: "Never
mind, Ronnie. I'll arrange everything. You sha'n't be worried." Then she
remembered that he wasn't a boy; that he was a man, her man.
The man in him burst out: "I wish to God that you needn't go back----"
"Go back?" His outburst frightened her.
"To his house----"
"But I must go back--for a day or two."
"Why should you?" His eyes were flame. "I hate it. I hate the idea of
your being under his roof."
"Jealous?" she soothed, still afraid.
"Yes. I suppose I am jealous."
"Is that fair? There isn't anything to be jealous about."
"Forgive me!" His hand gripped her knee. "But I can't bear his being
your husband even in name. Aliette, kiss me."
"No." She knew that she must not yield to him. "No. We've got to be
sensible. We've got to make plans."
"We can make plans to-morrow."
"We can't. Don't you see that when I go back to--to his house this
evening, I'll have to tell him? It wouldn't be straight if I didn't.
We've got to be straight, haven't we?"
"Yes." The flame went out of his eyes, leaving them cold and hard as
agate. "We've got to be straight. But--telling him isn't your job. It's
mine." He heaved himself up from the settee; and she had her first
glimpse of a different Ronnie--a fighting Ronnie, chin protruded, lips
set. "My job," he repeated.
"I'm not Andromeda. I don't want a Perseus to free me from the dragon."
She tried chaff; but chaff left him unmoved. She tried argument; but
argument only strengthened the resolve in him. Finally she said:
"There's no need to say much. Hector knows everything--except your
name."
"You told him?" There was no anger in the phrase.
"Everything except your name. We had a quarrel. After I got home last
Monday. He offered to let me divorce him if--if I'd promise there was no
one else." She, too, rose--her face, for all its fineness, obstinate as
her lover's. "Of course, I couldn't promise that. So to-night, I shall
just tell him--the rest."
The tall man and the little woman faced each other in silence: each
equally determined to carry, right from the beginning, the other's
burden.
"It doesn't seem right, somehow or other," Ronnie said at last. "He
might--might hurt you."
"Hurt me!" laughed Aliette. "Nothing, nobody in the world can hurt me
now. Except you. And you will hurt me if you insist. Don't insist,
Ronnie."
"Very well." His hands, thrilling to passion once again, clasped her
waist. He kissed her; and this time she did not seek to elude him. For
now she knew her power, the power which all women exercise over
imaginative lovers; knew that, at her least word, he would loose
her--fearful lest, by not loosing, he forfeit the greater gift.
And all through the half-hour which followed, that power, that fear was
on Ronnie. He was afraid of forfeiting this Aliette who had let him hold
her in his arms; who had let him press his lips to hers in passion; but