The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton
nerveless fingers, leaving her soul prey to that utter despondency which
only the prophetically imaginative suffer.
Meanwhile, the imaginative powers of another woman--powers so infinitely
better trained than Aliette's that their least effort could formulate
the written word--were concentrating on Hector Brunton. To Julia
Cavendish, ever since the Bournemouth Tragedy, the mere name had become
an obsession. Despite her growing prescience of death, despite the
lethargy which every day made more potent over her limbs, the old lady's
mind throbbed with activity. That tiniest protoplasm of a plan which she
had conceived on Christmas day spored under her thoughts as
coral-blossoms spore under the sea; till her brain, mistress of the
written word, saw itself join issue with the brain of Hector Brunton,
master of the word spoken--and defeat it.
"There is one weapon," thought Julia Cavendish, "one sure weapon with
which I can pierce his armor." Yet somehow her hand tarried in the
forging of that weapon, as though the moment were not yet come.
5
The "ridiculous flat" held one supreme joy--the finest view which a
Londoner may have of London. From its parlor window, of a day, one could
survey all the city--from Putney Church to St. Paul's, from Chiswick
Mall where once red-heeled gallants tripped it with the ladies of St.
James's, to Keats's Hampstead and the dim blue of Highgate.
At that window, on an April evening, Aliette and her lover stood to
contemplate the pageant which Thames and town proffered nightly for
their delight. Dusk had fallen, masking the river-pageant with a cloak
of indigo and silver. Northward, a saffron shimmer under murky skies,
lay London. Westward, the river dwindled out between its fringing lamps
to darkness and the misty fields.
"Time for bed," said Ronnie practically. He made to close the curtains,
but Aliette restrained him.
"Not yet, man."
"Why? Aren't you sleepy?"
Aliette made no answer. She seemed to have forgotten his presence. Her
eyes were all for the pageant below; her ears all for the faint hum of
the city which mounted, drowsily murmurous, to their high apartment. And
after a little while, knowing the need for solitude upon her, Ronnie
tiptoed away.
Aliette was hardly conscious of his going. It seemed to her as
though--in that moment--she were aloof from him, from all men; as though
her soul, wandering free, mingled with myriads of other souls whom night
had liberated from their earthly bodies to hover above the city.
The little French clock on the mantelpiece ticked and ticked. Hardly she
heard it ticking. The earthly minutes passed and passed, flowing under
her, flowing away into the ocean of time as the river-flood flows away
into the oceans of the sea. From below came sound of London's clocks
chiming the quarters.
Thought died in her brain. Only the imaginative power was alive.
Imagination's self died. Only her soul was alive. And, with her soul,
she dreamed a dream.
She dreamed that her letter to Hector had been written, that Hector had
answered it. She saw herself setting out to meet him. He had sent his
car to fetch her from Embankment House. She saw herself stepping into
the car. It was their old car; but the man whose back she could see
through the plate-glass of the cabriolet was not their old chauffeur. "I
wonder what his name is," she thought.
The car set out, noiseless. It left Embankment House behind; it crossed
Putney Bridge. It came, between miles and miles of utterly empty
streets, into London. A peculiar grayness, neither of the night nor of
the day, a peculiar silence, almost a silence of death, brooded over
London. No lights gleamed from its ghostly houses; no feet, no wheels
echoed on its ghostly paving.
The car spun on, noiseless--beyond the ghostly gray into ghostly
green--and now it seemed to Aliette as though the time were
twilight-time; as though she were in Hyde Park; as though in a few
minutes she would make the remembered door in Lancaster Gate.
"Hector's house," she thought. And the thought frightened her. She
wanted not to go to Hector. She wanted Ronnie--her Ronnie. But the car
spun on.
Now, faltering and afraid, she stood before the door of her husband's
house. Now the door opened; and Lennard, subservient as ever, led her
into the recollected hall.
Lennard vanished; and suddenly Aliette's soul knew its dream for dream.
Then the dream grew real again. Fearful and alone she stood in the chill
vastness of that shadowy hall among the recollected furniture. She felt
her breasts throbbing under the thin frock, felt her knees tremble as
she grasped the door-handle of Hector's study.
No lights burned in the study. It was all gray, gray as the streets
without. Hector was not there--only a face--a huge, cruel, unrelenting
face.
"So you've come back," it said.
She moved toward the face, across the gray carpet that gave back no
sound to her feet. But she could not speak with the face. Between her
and the face--as a great sheet of glass--slid silence, the interminable
unbearable silence of dreams. Through the glass, Aliette could see every
pore in the great face, every hair of its head; but she might not speak
with it, nor it with her. Then a voice, a voice as of very conscience,
cried out in her: "Your strength against its strength. Your will against
its will."
She felt her will beat out from her as wings beat, beat and batter at
the glass between them. The glass of silence slid away; and she knew the
face for Hector's. She said to it:
"Hector, I haven't come back. I'm never coming back."
"You shall," said the face, Hector's face; and now, under the face, she
knew feet, her husband's feet.
At that, terror, the hopeless panic of dreams, gripped her soul by the
throat, choking down speech. It seemed to her that she stood naked in
that gray and silent room.
But now, as a momentary beam through the grayness, another face--the
face of her lover--was added to their silent company. And again, "Your
will against its will," said the voice.
Terror's fingers unclutched from her throat, so that her will spoke, "I
shall never come back, Hector."
The face writhed at the words as a face in pain; and suddenly, knowing
herself its master, she knew pity for the face, pity for the thing she
had done. Till once more she heard the inner voice whisper: "No pity.
Your strength against its strength. Your will against its will."
"But _I_ love you," pleaded Hector. "I need you."
She said to him, "My children need me, Hector. Set me free."
And once more the glass of the silences slid between them; once more the
interminable, unbearable silence of dreams held her speechless.
* * * * *
Tap, tap, tap. Who was that knocking on Hector's door? It must be
Ronnie. Tap, tap, tap. Ronnie mustn't come in. Ronnie mustn't find her
and Hector alone together.
The glass darkled. Behind the glass Aliette could see Hector's face blur
and blur. The face vanished. She was alone, alone in Hector's study. She
was cold, desperately cold through all her limbs.
Tap, tap, tap. She heard a voice, a human voice: "Mr. Cavendish, Mr.
Cavendish. Are you there, Mr. Cavendish? You're wanted on the 'phone,
Mr. Cavendish."
CHAPTER XXIV
1
Abruptly, as the strung ball snaps back to its wooden cup, Aliette's
soul returned to its body.
Waking, she knew that she had fallen asleep by the open window; that
somebody was knocking on the outer door of the flat, somebody who called
insistently, "Mr. Cavendish, Mr. Cavendish. I've a message for you, Mr.
Cavendish."
Her heart thumping, her head still muzzy with dreams, Aliette ran across
the sitting-room, out into the hall; unchained, unlatched the door. The
night-porter stood before her. His shirt was open at the neck; she could
see the veins in his throat throb to his words: "Is your husband awake,
madam? He's wanted on the telephone. His mother's house. It's very
urgent."
"Mr. Cavendish is asleep." Aliette's heart still thumped, but she spoke
quietly enough. "I'll go and wake him. Wait here, please."
She darted back to the door of their bedroom; knocked; opened. The light
by the bed still burned, showing her lover's face just roused from the
pillow.
"Am I wanted?" he asked.
"Yes, dear." Aliette controlled her nerves. "Bruton Street's asking for
you on the telephone. I'm afraid your mother's been taken ill."
"I'll be down in a second." He was out of bed and into his dressing-gown
before she could stop him. She thought, "If it's bad news, he'll have to
go to Bruton Street. He'll have to get dressed." She said, "You'd better
get some clothes on. I'll go down and find out exactly what's the
matter."
After a second's hesitation, he decided, "You're right"; and made for
his dressing-room. Aliette went back to the outer door. The night-porter
still waited. She asked him, "Who telephoned?"
"A servant, I think."
"Did she say why she wanted to speak to my husband?"
"No. Only that it was very urgent."
"Is the lift still working?"
"Yes, madam."
"Then I'll come down immediately."
Aliette's mind, as she followed the slippered man along the cold stone
corridor to the lift-shaft, worked rapidly. If Julia Cavendish had been
taken ill--and obviously Julia Cavendish must have been taken ill--the
sooner she and Ronnie got to Bruton Street the better.
She asked the porter, "What's the time?"
He told her, "Three o'clock."
"Can you get me a taxi?"
"I'll do my best, madam."
The lift was working badly. The slowness fretted her imagination.
Suppose Julia Cavendish were--more than ill; suppose she were--dead?
At last they reached the ground-floor. The night porter, flinging back
the iron gates, let her out and made for the street. Aliette, running to
the telephone-box, picked up the receiver.
"I want to speak to Mr. Cavendish, Mr. Ronald Cavendish. Is that Mr.
Cavendish?" Kate's voice sounded stupid, excitable, over the wire.
"No, it's Mrs. Cavendish. Is that Kate?"
"Yes, Mrs. Ronnie."
"Mr. Cavendish will be down in a minute. What's the matter?"
"Mrs. Cavendish has been taken ill. She's very bad indeed. She told us
to telephone for Mr. Ronnie."
"You telephoned for a doctor?"
"Oh yes, Mrs. Ronnie. We did that first thing. But Sir Heron's out of
town."
"Then you should have telephoned to another doctor."
"We never thought of that." Obviously the maid had lost her head. "We
thought we'd better telephone Mr. Ronnie first. That's what she said we
was to do."
"Wait." Aliette thought swiftly. "Isn't there a doctor in Bruton
Street?"
"Oh yes, Mrs. Ronnie. Dr. Redbank."
"You'd better send for him immediately. Don't waste time telephoning. Go
yourself. . . . And, Kate, you can tell Mrs. Cavendish that Mr. Ronald
and myself will be round in less than half an hour. Can you give me any
idea what's the matter with Mrs. Cavendish?"
"I don't know, Mrs. Ronnie, but Smithers says she's very bad indeed.
Smithers says she woke up with her mouth full of blood. Smithers says
she doesn't know how she managed to ring her bell----"
The parlor-maid would have gone on talking, but Aliette cut her short
with a curt: "You're to go and fetch the doctor, Kate. You're to go and
fetch him at once. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mrs. Ronnie."
Aliette hung up the receiver; turned to find Ronnie, apparently full
dressed, at her side; explained things to him in three terse sentences;
saw his face blanch; ran for the lift; swung-to the lift-gate; pressed
the automatic button; reached her own floor, her own flat; twitched a
fur coat from its peg; remembered something Mollie had once told her