The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton

question put to her by the dead. Sir Peter had stopped speaking. His eyes under the gold-rimmed glasses were perturbed, yet kindly. Obviously he found the situation difficult. She waited for Ronnie or James to intervene; but they, too, remained dumb. And, "Do I understand," asked Aliette, summoning up all her courage, "that this novel is a personal story--the story of my"--her whole body quivered--"matrimonial difficulties?" Ronnie removed his hand from her shoulder. James nodded assent. Admiration and gratitude mingled in Sir Peter's: "You've defined the matter exactly. One of the questions on which I should like _your_ views is," the careful words paused, "whether or no this book should be published." Fleetingly, Aliette thought, "Shall I tell them ... about myself? Does it make any difference?" Her intuition, suddenly active, remembered two hints dropped--purposefully perhaps--by Ronnie's mother. "Public judgment is usually inaccurate because the public is not told the whole truth"; "My dear, if only the whole world realized, as I realize, your story, they would not misjudge you." "My views----" she parried aloud, playing for time. "Publicity," she thought. "The flaunting policy once more. Dear God, that too." And, revisualizing the ordeal at Patrick O'Riordan's first night, her nerve frayed. Why couldn't these three men leave her in peace--in peace? Looking at Ronnie, she saw his eyes very resolute. He said: "My decision is that the book _must_ be published." "Please let _me_ finish, Cavendish," broke in Sir Peter; and to Aliette: "There are other points besides the publication of this book to be decided." Then he read to her, always in the same soft purr, the codicil; and explained, in tense, reasoned sentences, the consequences of its publication in the press, ending: "It means, to use a rather old-fashioned phrase, social ruin." For a long while Aliette sat silent, her eyes wide, her pale hands clutching the black folds of her dress. Womanlike, she tried to put herself into the mind of the dead. Why had Julia Cavendish done this thing? Why? Could Julia have guessed that---- Womanlike, Aliette looked into the future, and her cheeks grew hot. Ronnie said: "He can't bring an action for libel without bringing one for divorce"; Sir Peter, "Let's stick to our point; the publication of this codicil means disaster--for all three of you." "It means Aliette's freedom," retorted Ronnie. The words of the codicil stood out in fire on the screen of Aliette's mind. She saw those words published, saw the book published, saw scandal follow scandal. Sir Peter was right. This thing meant ruin, social ruin for herself, for Ronnie, for Hector. And yet, and yet--it meant freedom. But would freedom come in time? She glanced at the three men: at Ronnie and James, on their feet, motionless; at Sir Peter, seated at the desk, his hand fidgeting the ivory paper-knife. Swiftly, as a shuttle through the warp, her mind threaded the skeins of the future. The future would hold more than Ronnie. "Before you take any decision," Jimmy spoke, "read this." He laid a letter before her. She read the letter through twice, her mind fighting for self-control, before asking: "And is there no other method by which Mrs. Cavendish's 'main object' can be achieved, Sir Peter?" Sir Peter's hand ceased fidgeting at the knife. "There may be a way," he said doubtfully. "But whether we can take it or not depends on your--er--former husband." Blazing, Ronnie intervened. "Once and for all, I'll have no favors from that--that blackguard. He's made his own bed. Let him lie in it. Who the devil cares about scandal nowadays? I don't. And if Brunton does, so much the worse for him." But the baronet's next remark shattered heroics. "I think," said the baronet sarcastically, "that as my co-executor is getting so very excited, we had better adjourn our conference. Perhaps you'll let me know what you both decide." 4 Late that same evening, Aliette and her lover sat alone in the familiar drawing-room among the familiar things--the jade idols, the Toby mugs, the Spanish velvets, and the Venetian brocades which Julia Cavendish had collected for her delight. Ever since their hasty dinner--most of the staff were still at Daffadillies--Ronnie had been urging her decision. Ever since dinner, haggard, she had been playing for time. "It was my mother's wish," he said. "Let's prove the will; publish the book; take the consequences. Anything's worth while--if only he'll divorce you." "Is it?" Dully, the woman's mind was looking for a loophole. "Is it worth while to ruin three lives?" "Three?" "Yes, dear. Yours--and mine ... and--and Hector's," "Hector!" The rage in Ronnie's voice terrified her, as it had been terrifying her all the evening. "We needn't consider him. He hasn't considered us. There would have been no need for all this if he'd been reasonable; if he'd brought his action for divorce when I asked him to." "There are others we ought to consider, too." Aliette's hand, as she fondled her lover's rigid arm, was tremulous. "Mollie, James, my parents. They'll all suffer if you--if we carry this thing through." "They must look after themselves. They've done nothing to help us. Don't let's discuss the matter further. Believe me, it's the only way to get what we want." "But Sir Peter said----" "Sir Peter's only a solicitor. Even if that blackguard did file his petition, the will and the book would have to be published." "Why are you so bitter, man?" Aliette's eyes suffused. "I'm not bitter. Only just. He had no mercy on Lucy Towers. I'll have none on him." Aliette's hands ceased their fondling. For a little while she sat silent, unmoving among the deep cushions. Her mind, busied so long, could function no longer. She felt her womanliness naked--flesh quivering under the lash. She wanted to say to him: 'Ronnie, there's something--something you don't know.' But suddenly her courage--the courage which had carried her, carried them both, through the hard-run months--broke. She began to sob. Like a broken soul she sobbed--sobbed to herself, faintly, feebly; careless--as Lucy Towers had been careless--of the man who strove to comfort her. Words came, feebly, through the sobs: "Man, I meant to make you so happy. I meant to make everybody happy. But I've failed--failed. I'm not blaming you. I'm not blaming your mother. You and your mother have done everything. Everything. It's only I who have been useless--useless. And I meant, heaven only knows how much I meant, to be of use. Before I ran away with you I reasoned it all out. I thought that I was doing right. There didn't seem to be any one else to consider except you and me." She broke off. Then, almost fiercely, she asked him: "Tell me I've been a little bit of use? Tell me I've made you happy--just sometimes----" "Of course you've made me happy." He tried to take her hands; but her hands shrank from him. "I don't believe it You're only saying that to comfort me." "I'm not." "You are." Hysteria took her by the throat. "You hate me. If you don't hate me--you ought to. I killed your mother." She broke off again, sobbing. "Alie"--the tone told her that he thought her crazy--"what's the matter with you? Nothing could have saved Julia. Sir Heron told me." "Sir Heron wouldn't tell _you_. Nobody would tell you anything. You're only a man. All men are the same. You're only thinking about yourself. You're not thinking about me. You only want your revenge on--on Hector. Why shouldn't you have your revenge?" Suddenly, her sobbing ceased; and she faced him--this Aliette he could not understand--dry-eyed and venomous. "Have your revenge on him if you want to. But don't pretend you're being just. Don't pretend you're being heroic. Don't pretend you're any better than he is. You're not. He's a man, just the same as you are. You talk about my freedom. You say scandal doesn't matter. Perhaps it doesn't--to a man. Perhaps it oughtn't to matter to me, I've belonged to two----" At that, for the first and last time in their lives, Aliette was physically afraid of her lover. His arms, which had been seeking to comfort, abandoned her. He sprang to his feet. Jealousy, a red and angry aura of jealousy, exuded from him. "Christ!" he burst out, "Christ! You needn't remind me of that." Speech died at his lips. Furiously he strode from her--strode up and down the familiar room, the room in which, months since, she had given her unspoken promise to Julia Cavendish. The scene came back to her now. She thought, "What have I been saying? Dear God, what have I been saying?" Hysteria went out of her, as fever goes out, leaving her weak, nerveless. "Damn it!" he was muttering, "damn it! Do you think I ever forget that once--once----" She wanted to cry out to him, "I didn't mean to hurt you. You're hurting me now, hurting me beyond all bearing." But she knew that, hurt, she dared not cry out; knew that this was the hardest of the path, the full price, the full torment exacted. Sitting there, rigid, uncomplaining, teeth bit to the under lip lest the mouth should cry out its torture, she remembered the long years with Hector, the mornings and the evenings when, facing him over the breakfast-table or the dinner-table, listening after dinner to his voice in the library, tolerating--for the sake of the dream which this other man had made true--the ungentle fury of his caresses, she had learned to wear the mask which so many married women wear, the mask of compliance. Must she, for Ronnie's sake, still wear the mask? Daren't she tell him--the truth? Wouldn't he--knowing the truth--flinch from his purpose? Wasn't it worth while, more than worth while, to keep silence till the die was cast? Couldn't she still play for time? Time! There might be some way--some other way to freedom. If only she weren't so afraid--so strangely and newly afraid! If only Ronnie were not so angry! And suddenly she knew that Ronnie's anger had left him. His feet stopped in mid-stride. Slowly he came across the room toward her; and she could see a little of the old understanding tenderness in his blue eyes. "Alie," he said, "forgive me." "What is there to forgive?" Her voice sounded listless, broken. "It was my fault. I oughtn't to have spoken as I did. I called up the past. I had no right to call up the past. The past's dead. There's only the future----" "Our future." He was on his knees to her now; and dumbly she put out her hands to him; dumbly she fondled his temples. Once more she wanted to cry; but no tears came. Her tongue felt parched, as though by some bitter fruit. "It wasn't your fault, Alie. You're tired. And perhaps I'm not being just. Perhaps I do want my revenge. But it's only for your sake"--his hands sought her shoulders--"only for your sake that I hate him. I think, I know, that if he'd made you happy, if he'd been kind to you, I could bear the thought of him. But he made you miserable. He hurt you. He's hurting you now. When I think of that, I go mad; mad with hatred." She leaned forward; and words came to her. "You mustn't hate him. We mustn't either of us hate him. We're as much to blame as he is. At least, I am. I'm a rotten woman. Rotten." "You're not. You 're the best woman in the world." Still on his knees to her by the sofa, he pressed her to him--gently, with that gentleness which had first won her heart. And desperately her heart wanted to tell him everything. But tears, tears of sheer weakness, choked her once more. "Don't cry, darling. Please don't cry." Conscience-wrung, Ronnie could find no other words. The sense of his responsibility, of that awful