The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton

Aliette, whom Mollie visited next day, was even more shocked than Betty Masterman at the change in her sister's appearance. The girl seemed utterly altered, utterly different from the fancy-free maiden of Moor Park. She came into the connubial room nervously; almost forgot to kiss; entirely forgot to inquire after Ronnie; refused to take off her hat, and sat down on the edge of the hard sofa gingerly as though it had been an omnibus seat. "Rather awful, isn't it?" Aliette, with a comprehensive glance at her surroundings, broke the social ice. "You mustn't mind." "I don't mind. But it is rather awful." A pause. "I suppose you had to do it, Alie?" "Do what? Come and live here?" "No. The whole thing." Aliette did not answer, and her sister went on. "I wish you hadn't had to. It's been simply rotten at home. Mother and dad----" She broke off, biting her lip. "_They_ aren't so bad really; it's Eva who's putrid." "Eva never did like either of us." For the first time in their lives, the sisters felt shy with one another. Caroline Staley, entering, broad-hipped, a smile on her full lips and a tea-tray in her large hands, noticed the tension. "My, Miss Mollie!" ejaculated the tactful Caroline, "but you aren't looking yourself at all. You ought to take that hat off and lie down awhile." Tea relaxed the tension; but made intimate conversation no easier. Between them and their old intimacy rose--as it seemed--insurmountable barriers. It was Mollie who, involuntarily, pulled those barriers down. "I say," she asked abruptly, "isn't Hector going to do anything?" "I'm afraid not." "Doesn't it make you frightfully unhappy?" "Only for Ronnie's sake." Mollie did her best to restrain indignation. Woman-like, she could not help blaming Ronnie for the whole occurrence. Girl-like, she could not quite divine the immensity of passion behind her sister's steady eyes; till, somehow infected by that passion, her thoughts veered to James. Suppose James had been married. Married to a lunatic, say, or a drunkard? Tied to some rotten wife, for instance, a wife who made him unhappy? Suppose that James had said to her, "Mollie, let's cut the painter"? And suddenly Mollie's indignation passed, leaving her contrite. "Alie," she said, "I ought to have come up to town before. I oughtn't to have left you alone all this time. I'm afraid I've been"--she faltered--"rather a beast about the whole thing." "You haven't." Aliette came across to the sofa, and took her sister's hand. "It's been simply wonderful of you to forgive our thoughtlessness, our lack of consideration----" "Oh, that!" interrupted Mollie. "I wasn't thinking about that." She fell silent; and again, to her contrite mind, the romance of Aliette and Ronnie assumed a personal significance. So this was love--thought the girl--the real thing! Love without orange-blossom, without wedding-presents. Love so gloriously reckless of material considerations that it could exist in and defy the most sordid surroundings, the completest ostracism from one's kind. "It's you who are wonderful," said Mollie. And all that afternoon, as conversation grew easier between them, as she learned from a hesitant Aliette of the real Hector and the real Ronnie, of the snubs one had to put up with, and of the sympathy which was even harder than the snubs to bear, of the petty, almost indecent economies to be anticipated now that Ronnie's professional income looked like failing (soon it might be necessary to sacrifice Ponto, whose board and lodging at a near-by stable cost fifteen shillings a week), the girl, continually testing her own affection for James on the touchstone of Aliette's love for Ronnie, could not but find it a little lacking in that spirit of service which is truest comradeship. "But where _is_ Ronnie?" she asked, as they kissed au revoir. "With his mother, I expect," smiled Aliette. "He said, when you phoned last night, that we'd probably like to be alone." 3 "Rather decent of Cavendish, leaving us alone like that," thought Mollie, waiting--befurred to the eyes--on the drafty platform at Baron's Court station. Strangely affected by her sister's revelations, she found herself as the train got under way--comparing Ronnie with James; not, she had to admit, entirely to James's advantage. It was all very well--went on thought--being in love with James, but why _should_ one be in love with James? One ought to be jolly angry with the man. Taking it all round, he had behaved disgracefully. James had "shied off" because he couldn't face a little scandal; had written the coldest, unfriendliest letters. "James, in fact," decided the girl, "doesn't care a button for me, and I'm a little fool to let myself care for him." But when, arrived at the flat, Betty Masterman, with a malicious pout of her red lips, imparted the news that "the Wilberforce man" had rung up to suggest himself for tea on the following afternoon, Mollie Fullerford's mental dignity gave way to an ardor of anticipation which made her feel--as she expressed it to herself just before falling asleep--"a perfect little idiot"; and when, next afternoon--to all outward appearances his undisturbed self--Jimmy was heralded into the sitting-room, the girl felt extraordinarily grateful to the "man in Sloane Street" under whose ministrations she had spent the morning. All the same, she felt uncommonly nervous. Watching her James as he arranged his long bulk in the most comfortable of the three chairs, handing him his tea, listening to the easy flow of small talk between him and Betty, Mollie found it impossible to realize that this could be the creature about whose physical and mental qualities her imagination had woven its tissue of dreams. That he and she were participators in a tragic romance; that if he asked her to marry him (and she knew subconsciously, even though consciously denying the possibility, that he _would_ ask her) she would have to refuse--seemed possibilities connected rather with the heroine of some magazine story than with her own demure self. Tea finished, Betty made the telephone in her bedroom an excuse to leave the pair alone; clicked the door on them; and pattered away in her high-heeled shoes. "You're not looking as well as you were when I saw you last," managed Wilberforce, after a minute's self-conscious silence. "Aren't I?" Mollie would have given a good deal to run away from him, to run after Betty. "No. You haven't been ill or anything, have you?" "Ill!" She forced a smile to her lips. "Rather not. I've been quite all right." They gazed at each other. Then, abruptly, Jimmy said: "Mollie, what's happened to us?" "To _us_?" she queried shyly. "Yes; to you and me." The man paused, plunged in. "We were such frightfully good pals last summer, and now it seems as though"--another pause--"we don't hit things off a bit." "Is that my fault or yours?" There was scarcely a hint of their old camaraderie in the girl's sulky voice. "Mine, I suppose," he sulked back. "Well, isn't it?" she shot at him; and at that all the self-realizations, all the heart-searchings and heart-burnings in James Wilberforce blew to one bright point of clear flame, melting his reserve as the blow-pipe melts cast iron. "Mollie," he blurted out, "you know how I hate beating about the bush. Let's be open with one another. Let's admit that something _has_ happened." He leaned forward in his chair, both hands on his knees. "But you aren't going to let that something make any difference, are you?" His method irritated her to abruptness. "You _are_ beating about the bush, Jimmy. Why not be straight?" "I'm trying to be straight." His hands clenched. "But it's jolly difficult. You see, there are some things that--well, that one doesn't discuss with girls." "Isn't that rather rot nowadays?" retorted Mollie, hating herself for the slang. "I don't think it's rot. I think there are a good many subjects a man doesn't want to discuss with--with a girl he--er--cares about." "Then he does care," thought Mollie; and felt her heart leap to the thought. Outwardly she made pretense of considering his sentence; her brows crinkled. Inwardly she pretended herself still vexed with him. She said to herself, "He mustn't see that I care. He must be taught his lesson." "You're a bit old-fashioned, aren't you, Jimmy?" she prevaricated at last. "Perhaps I am." Affection made him suddenly the schoolboy. "But it's devilish awkward, isn't it; this--this business about your sister?" "Awkward!" Mollie's loyalty stiffened her to discard prevarication. "I don't think it's awkward. _I_ think it's jolly rough luck on Aliette and Mr. Cavendish. Hector knows perfectly well they'd get married if he'd only set her free. I think Hector's a cad. Alie told him everything before she went. He knows jolly well she'll never go back to him. Why should she? A man doesn't own a woman for ever and ever just because he happens to marry her." The speech roused Jimmy to an unwonted height of imagination. He saw himself marrying Mollie, quarreling with Mollie; saw Mollie running away from him, as Aliette had run away from Hector. "So if _you_ married a man, you wouldn't consider yourself tied to him for life?" "Certainly not. Not if he didn't behave decently." The girl's eyes were brave enough, but a shiver of apprehension ran through her body. She thought: "He couldn't care for anybody who said that sort of thing to him." Jimmy seemed to be considering her statement, weighing it up. It came to her instinctively that they were at the crisis of their lives. "And if he behaved well to you?" The words seemed fraught with meaning. "Why, then"--she could feel herself shivering, shivering from the soles of her feet to the roots of her bobbed hair--"then--there wouldn't be any need for me to run away from him." Their eyes met; brown eyes searching violet. Their eyes lit with mutual understanding. Self-consciousness deserted her; deserted them both. She was conscious of him--close to her--seizing her hands--speaking rapidly, unrestrainedly: "I've been a rotter--an absolute rotter, darling. I ought to have warned you the moment I found out. I ought to have told you that it didn't make any difference. It hasn't, it can't make any difference, not the slightest difference. Nothing that your sister may have done, may do, can affect us one way or the other. It's you I want to marry, not your sister." "Jimmy!" He was conscious of his arms round her--of his lips on hers--of her yielding to his kisses--returning them. The gush of Jimmy's passion, of her own, frightened the girl. Somehow she freed herself from his kisses; and stood upright, tremulous, blushing a little, stammering a little, altogether incoherent. "Jimmy, you mustn't, you oughtn't to. It isn't fair to me. It's not fair to Alie." "What's she got to do with it?" Mollie could see the big vein on her lover's forehead throb to each syllable. "What's she got to do with us?" "Everything." For a moment the girl felt herself the stronger. "Everything. It isn't fair. Can't you see why it isn't fair? How can I marry you?" Her voice broke. "How can I take my happiness while Alie's an outcast? She _is_ an outcast. You wouldn't, you couldn't let her come to our wedding." "Then you care for your sister more than you care for me?" interrupted Wilberforce, shirking the issue. "I don't! I don't!" Strength had gone out of Mollie; she felt herself weak, incapable. "It isn't that. It isn't that a bit. Only I can't take my happiness while Alie's miserable. She is miserable, though she won't admit it. Don't you see how rotten it would be of me if I married you--with things as they are?"