The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton

mind depends more on"--the paper-knife tapped slow Morse--"the lady in the case than any one else. And even then----" The paper-knife hung suspended. Although the founder of Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright was celebrated for his handling of delicate situations, he had never, in half a century of practice, encountered a social situation as delicate as this one. "Does my co-executor know of this visit?" he proceeded after a pause which dropped Aliette's heart into the tips of her shoes. "No. I--I wanted to consult you privately." "And would you be bound to--er--tell him of any suggestion I might make?" "Well----" Again Aliette managed a smile. "That would rather depend on the suggestion, wouldn't it?" The baronet smiled confidentially in reply. "You see, the main point, as I view it, is whether we have any means at our disposal by which we can induce your--er--former husband to bring an action for divorce. My co-executor, I gathered, was--shall we say--a trifle biased on the subject. Now, in the first place, it appears to me that if your--er--former husband knew about this codicil, he would do--er--almost anything to avoid its publication. If, therefore, he were told that by bringing his action immediately----" "That"--Aliette leaned forward in her chair--"that wouldn't be fair." "My dear lady," Sir Peter's paper-knife emphasized his disapproval of the interruption, "this is a solicitor's office, not a court of morals." "But"--a diffident tremor twitched the pallid features--"it would be blackmail." "Let us call it justifiable blackmail, performed with kid gloves for the victim's benefit. The victim himself, remember, has hardly behaved chivalrously." "That's no reason why we should behave"--the pallid features flamed--"caddishly." A little taken aback--female clients with moral scruples being somewhat rare at Norfolk Street--the baronet changed his tactics. "If I follow you," he said quietly, "your objection is not so much to the partial solution of our problem as to the method of attaining it. Very well. Let us presume--mind you, it's only the merest presumption--that the divorce question is arranged without even justifiable--er--blackmail, and that the codicil to Mrs. Cavendish's will had--shall we say?--never been penned. That would still leave us faced with the question of the novel. My co-executor, I gather, still insists on its being published? He wouldn't approve, for instance, if I advised its total destruction?" "Neither of us could bear that." Aliette's voice was unflinching. "Ronnie's mother sacrificed six months of her life to finish that book. To destroy it would be worse than blackmail, it would be----" "Murder. Quite so." Once more, the purposeful eyes wandered from their client's face to the deed-boxes against the wall. "MRS. JULIA CAVENDISH," read the eyes among the deed-boxes; and, thereunder, "MR. PAUL FLOWER." "Of course the novel must be published. But need it be published _exactly_ in its present form? Now presuming--recollect this is still only the merest presumption--that the--er--divorce were arranged, and the--er--codicil off our minds, don't you think we might--shall we say, alter the novel?" "Alter it?" Aliette started. Here, at last, was a gleam of hope. "You see," the purr grew pronounced, "this is not the first time, nor do I expect it will be the last, that the work of a talented author has required legal revision. As a matter of cold fact, most modern novels _are_ more or less libelous. Publishers are constantly asking my advice on the point. In the case of Mrs. Cavendish's work, curiously enough, it was asked once before. I think I may say, without breaking confidence, that I suggested to Sir Frederick then, as I am suggesting to you now, that certain alterations should be made." "And were they?" The gleam of hope brightened. "After a great deal of protest, yes." "But then"--the gleam flickered out--"Mrs. Cavendish was alive. She made the alterations herself." "Your pardon." Sir Peter almost permitted himself a wink. "She did nothing of the sort. She told Sir Frederick and myself that we were vandals; and went off to Italy vowing she'd never set pen to paper again. However, she left the manuscript behind; and we--er--did what was necessary." "You mean to say that Ronnie's mother let some one else tamper with her work?" "Tamper!" This time the baronet actually did wink. "I wonder how my friend and client, Mr. Paul Flower, who--to tell you the truth--made the alterations on which I insisted, would like to hear himself described as a tamperer." "And you think that Mr. Flower would----" The house-telephone buzzed, interrupting them. Sir Peter answered it: "I told you I wasn't to be disturbed.... Oh, is that you James? Very important, eh?... Well, let's hear what it is." Aliette, her distraught mind clutching at the baronet's suggestions as a drowning woman clutches her rescuer, hardly listened to the conversation. Yet she was aware, dimly, that a mask had come over Sir Peter's face; that his concentration had switched, as only the legal brain can switch its concentration, without effort from her to the instrument. Woman-like, the switch irritated her. "Yes," she heard. "Yes. I'd better see him myself.... No, I don't think a meeting would be advisable.... Tell him that at present there are certain difficulties, certain very serious difficulties, in the way.... No. He'd better stop with you. I shall be able to see him in about ten minutes--a quarter of an hour at the outside." Sir Peter hung up the house-telephone, and turned to Aliette. The legal mask still covered his face. Behind it, he thought, "Poor little woman. This _will_ cheer her up. I wonder if I ought to let that particular cat out of the bag yet awhile? Better not. Much better not. It might upset the whole apple-cart." "Let me see," the mask changed, "what were we talking about? Oh, yes, the book, of course. Now, what have you got to say to my suggestion?" "I think it splendid." Aliette's irritation subsided. "But--even if Mr. Flower consents to alter the book--there's always the will. We couldn't"--hopefully--"we couldn't alter that, too, could we?" "Hardly." Now, feeling himself at the very crux of their interview, Sir Peter took up his paper-knife again. "Hardly. Quite apart from its being a felony, it would be robbing you of twenty thousand pounds." "But that wouldn't matter a bit." "Seriously?" "Quite seriously, Sir Peter." Strange that she had never even considered that point! "Even then"--still more taken aback, for female clients who disdained fortunes were even rarer than moralists in Norfolk Street, the senior partner in Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright tapped a frantic SOS on the desk-top--"even then, I'm afraid, we couldn't _alter_ the will." "Couldn't we keep it out of the newspapers?" "I'm afraid not. Mrs. Cavendish, you see, was a very important personage. The public will be interested, not only in the extent of her fortune, but in how she has disposed of it." "But surely, with your influence----" Once more Aliette felt hopeless. "Even my influence"--Sir Peter leaned forward, pointing the paper-knife at her--"even my influence cannot keep 'news' back. Therefore, I'm afraid that" ("this is the moment," he thought, "the absolute and only psychological moment") "unless some _accident_ were to happen--unless the will were, shall we say, burnt--neither my first idea, which you will remember was that we should approach your--er--former husband with a view to his taking immediate action, nor my second suggestion, that we should alter the book, could be of the slightest assistance." There intervened a long and peculiar silence; during which, as poker-players across a poker-table, the old man and the young woman tried to fathom one another's minds. At last the woman asked: "Tell me, suppose this--this accident of which you have spoken were to happen, what would be the consequences?" "The consequences to whom?" "To"--Aliette, her thoughts racing, fumbled at the phrase--"to the person who might burn--who might be responsible for the accident." "That would depend." Sir Peter's words started pat from under his mustache. "If the person responsible for the accident were to benefit by the destruction of the will, the consequences to that person, if discovered, would be very serious. But if that person, instead of benefiting, stood to lose twenty thousand pounds----" He broke off; adding, rather gruffly, "You'll understand that if Mrs. Cavendish had died without making a will, her son, as next of kin, would inherit the entire estate?" Ensued another momentous pause. Then quietly, Aliette said: "Sir Peter, tell me one thing more. How soon--after a divorce-case--can a woman re-marry?" Startled--sensing, in one vivid flash, the reason of her question--the baronet rose from his chair; and Aliette--her mind, for all the quietness of her voice, in utter turmoil--rose with him. "How soon?" she repeated. "Not for six months," Sir Peter hesitated; "and we can't rely on less than three between the filing of the petition and the decree nisi." At that, his client's face went dead white, so that, for a moment, Sir Peter thought she must faint. But she controlled herself. "And is there no--no exception to that rule?" "It has been varied--once." "Is that"--desperately, despairingly, Aliette flung all her cards on the table--"is that all the hope you can give me if--if I agree to every suggestion you have made this afternoon?" "Dear lady,"--the man rather than the lawyer spoke--"I daren't say more than this: If _my_ influence counts for anything, every ounce of it is on your side." "Thank you, Sir Peter." For a moment they faced one another in silence. Then, without another word, Aliette proffered her hand. * * * * * Hardly had the door closed behind her when Sir Peter rushed to the house-telephone. "James!" called Sir Peter. "James! Bring the admiral in here at once." CHAPTER XXXVII 1 Dazed, hopeless, almost beaten, Aliette passed out of the offices of Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright. The sun had already set. The Embankment showed steel-gray and violet; fantastic under a fantastic sky. Trams clanged by her. Taxis. Cars. She did not see them. She did not see London. She saw the country, the country under a March sunset. It seemed to her that she was riding; riding alone; riding for defeat in a desperate race. Automatically her feet turned away from the sunset--eastward from Norfolk Street toward the Temple. Above her, the sky darkled. Lamps gleamed along the Embankment. But no lamp of hope gleamed in her mind. There was no way out of the cage. The book could be altered, the will destroyed. Hector, blackmailed, might bring his action. What did that matter? Freedom, even won, must come too late. Ronnie's child, the child soon to stir in her womb, would be a bastard. A bastard! She must go to Ronnie. She must tell him the truth. The awful truth. And suddenly, her brain clearing a little, she knew that she was standing at the gates of the Temple. Ronnie was in there--in there--barely a hundred yards away--behind those railings--across that misty lawn--among the lights and the pinnacles. Ronnie would help her. The law would help. Surely, surely man's law was not so cruel to man's women? The gate of the Temple stood open. Slowly, she went toward the gate. Behind her she heard the vague ripple of the river, of London's river. The river called to her. "Come to me," rippled London's river, "I am the way out--the one way out of the cage."