1

"aliette dear: you asked me not to hurry you. i've tried to be patient; but life without you has become impossible. i can't see what duty either of us owes to anybody except each other. it isn't as though you had children. it isn't as though you were really married. at worst, we only risk a little scandal. i wouldn't ask you even to risk that, unless i felt confident that i could make you happy. i can make you happy. won't you come to me? we needn't do anything mean. we can play the game. ronald."

it was nearly one o'clock on sunday morning. the torn sheets of at least twenty letters in ronnie's tiny legal handwriting littered his sitting-room grate. he reread the last of them; and thinking how utterly it failed to express his yearning, added as postscript, "i love you." then he addressed his envelope; folded the single sheet; thrust it in; and gummed down the flap. the fragments in the fireplace he gathered up very carefully, and kindled to ashes.

as yet no sorrow for his quarrel with julia had entered into her son's heart. he could see her only as an obstacle between himself and happiness. of her last word, he could not bring himself to think sanely. that she, his own mother, the one person on whose help he ought to have been able to rely, should be the first to cast a stone at the woman he loved, seemed to him--in his bitterness--to make her his chiefest enemy; no longer "the mater," no longer "the lonely old lady," but "julia cavendish," publicly and in private the upholder of an effete religion, the champion of fust-ridden prudery.

no longer could he sympathize with that religious prudery. passion, not the physical desires of a brunton, but the grand passion, the passion of the poets, blinded him--for the nonce--to every point of view except his own. he and aliette loved each other. to the torture, then, with whosoever loved other gods!

passing, on his way downstairs, the door of the bachelor-flat beneath him, ronnie heard, very low but quite distinct, a woman's laughter. "and that sort of thing," he thought angrily, "is what one is allowed to do. moses moffatt winks at it. the world winks at it. meanwhile the women who won't stoop to concealment foot the world's social bill."

but the woman's laughter still echoed in his ears as he slid his letter into the mouth of the pillar-box.

2

caroline staley brought ronnie's letter, the only one of monday's post, on aliette's breakfast-tray. the handwriting of the envelope was strange; but instinct warned her from whom it came. her heart fluttered--breathlessly--under the satin bath-robe as she said, "i'll ring when i'm ready to dress, caroline."

but once alone, aliette did not dare touch the envelope. casting thought back, she knew that she had loved ronnie from first sight. suppose--suppose he had written to make an end?

the breakfast on the tabled tray cooled and cooled. through the curtained alcove came sound of a housemaid emptying her bath, polishing at the taps. aliette heard nothing, saw nothing. the cheerful yellow-and-white of her bedchamber had gone dark about her, as though a cloud obscured the sun outside.

at last she took the envelope in her hands. but her hands trembled. and suddenly she saw her own face.

her face, seen in the triptych mirror of the dressing-table, looked old, haggard. "i am old." she thought. "nearly thirty. too old for ronnie. he ought to have some girl, some quite young girl, for bride."

then, still trembling, her hands slit the envelope; and hungrily, she began to read.

reading, joy flooded her face. he wanted her to come to him. he needed her! the mazed loneliness of the last week was a vanished nightmare. she would never be lonely any more. love had come into her life, into their lives, making them one life. at his postscript, the scarlet of her lips crinkled to a smile.

no longer was the room dark about her. sunlight flashed back into it, flashed square shafts of gold on the rugs at her feet. a warmth, a rare warmth compound of blood and sunshine, pervaded her body. she saw herself, in the mirror, young again, fit to be his mate.

"i love you." she repeated the words under her breath. "i love you." rereading the letter, her eyes sparkled. life was good--good.

but gradually the sparkle in her eyes dimmed; joy went out of her face. "julia cavendish," she thought, "julia cavendish!" and again, "but life's hard--hard."

nevertheless life had to be faced.

she faced it, there and then, sitting tense and quiet in the sunlit room. ronnie was a man. to him, love once confessed must seem a bond, an irrevocable troth. ought she to take him at his word? ought she not to strive once again--as they had both so long and so uselessly striven--to forget? yet could she ever forget? forgetting, would she not be false to the best in her? to the best in both of them?

suppose--suppose she ran away with ronnie? what would be the consequences? a divorce! she could face that, as mary o'riordan had faced it. mary, other friends, would stand by her. if only ronnie's mother were less the puritan.

"i must go to ronnie," she thought. "i must ask him if he has spoken with his mother."

yes! she must go to ronnie. no other's counsel could avail her now. no third party could help. they, and they alone, would bear the burden if--if she decided to run away with him. and yet--and yet other people would be affected by their action--his mother, her own family, mollie.

impulsively she decided to send for mollie, to sound her. she rang the bell for caroline, but caroline told her that "miss mollie" had gone out.

"will i dress you now, madam?" asked the maid. "the master's been gone nearly an hour." it seemed impossible to find any excuse for remaining longer alone.

dressing, the unsolved problem still haunted her mind. but already one aspect of the problem had solved itself--the aspect of ronnie. ronnie's word was not to be doubted. he loved her, he needed her--as she him. for themselves, they must no more funk the issue of hector divorcing her than they had funked parson's brook. "parson's brook," thought aliette. "was it an omen?"

and at that, ominously, her imagination concentrated on the other aspect of the problem, on the public aspect; till it seemed as though a whole host of people, his mother, her own parents, mollie, james wilberforce, and her husband among them, were actually visible in the bedchamber; till it seemed as though aliette could actually feel the eyes of the host on her, appraising the curves of her figure, the vivid masses of her hair.

fastidiously she tried to avoid the eyes; but the eyes would not be gainsaid; they turned to her breast, seeking out ronnie's letter, his 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 who, admitting her love for him, could yet sit aloof--a goddess with a time-table.

"i shall take caroline," she said. "you don't mind?"

he only wanted to take aliette, there and then; to kiss those rounded wrists, those arms bare to the elbow, that scarlet mouth, those cheeks ivory as curds, the smooth forehead under its loops of shining hair.

"kiss me!" he whispered. "kiss me!"

"ronnie!" she put down the time-table. "don't let's do anything we might--might regret. remember that to-night, and perhaps for many nights, i must sleep under his roof."

he yielded again; and a few minutes later she prepared to leave him. the plans they had meant to make were still chaotic--chaotic as her mind.

she realized, as she pinned on her hat, as she let him help her into her coat, that the sweet hour had been full of danger, that--had ronnie been less chivalrous, more the man and less the boy--she might have given way to him. the realization made her very humble; and in her humility she began to doubt herself.

"you--you've been very good to me," she said; and then, the vivid lashes veiling her vivid eyes, her low voice trembling into shyness: "that's why there's just one--one favor i must ask you."

"favors! between us!" he took her ungloved hands, and pressed them to his lips.

"yes, dear. it's about--about your mother."

"julia!" his tone hardened. "but we discussed all that last time."

"we mustn't hurt her more than we can help. we must tell her the truth, before--before we do anything. she's a woman, and perhaps--perhaps she'll understand----"

"aliette----" he hesitated; and her intuition leaped to the cause.

"you--you haven't quarreled with her?"

her intuition startled him into reply: "yes. we have quarreled. but i can't tell you anything about it."

she drew away from him, and her eyes grew sorrowful. "did you quarrel because of anything she said to you about me?"

again he hesitated; again her intuition leaped to the truth. "i've been afraid you might. something told me, that morning in the park, that she must have guessed. i can't come between you and your mother. you mustn't quarrel with her on my account. whatever she may have said, you must go to her, tell her everything, and ask her--if she can--to forgive----"

"never!" the very humility angered him. "never! it's not for her to forgive, but for me----"

"then it was because of me that you quarreled?"

"yes."

"foolish man!" it hurt her desperately to think that his mother should have understood so little; but she knew that she must conceal the hurt. "as if i'd let you quarrel with any one, least of all your mother, on my account. you'll go to her, won't you? you'll tell her that i--that i don't ask for any recognition----"

rudely, obstinately, he interrupted her: "of course she must recognize you. either she's on our side or she's against us."

"ronnie"--her eyes suffused with tears--"ronnie, i told you we'd got to be happy with one another. you make me unhappy--when you speak like that. you make me feel like a thief. you do want me to be happy, don't you?"

"yes. always." his anger vanished. bending down, he tried to kiss the tears from her eyes. "always, darling."

"then won't you"--she was in his arms now; the warmth, the perfume, the very unhappiness of her a fresh thrill--"won't you grant me this one favor? it's the only favor i'll ever ask."

"how can i?"

"so easily. just go to her. she's your mother. she loves you, she understands you. but she may not understand--about me. she may think that i'm just--just a dissolute woman. that doesn't matter. tell her that it doesn't matter. tell her that i don't want to keep you from her; that until--until we're properly married, you'll be as free to go to her as if"--he could hardly hear the last words--"as if you'd taken any--any ordinary mistress."

"don't, don't!" he strained her to him, fiercely protective. "you're not to speak of yourself like that."

"why not?" she lifted a face brave despite her tears. "it's true. don't let's funk things. from the day i come to you till the day hector sets me free i shall be your mistress. you mustn't expect your mother or any one else to take a different view. but i'll be so happy, man; so much happier than i've ever been in my life before--if only you'll make it up with your mother. you will, won't you? promise me."

"tell me," he whispered, and his lips trembled, "is this thing so vital to your happiness?"

"yes," she whispered back.

"then--it shall be as you wish." his arms were still round her; and she felt herself weakening--weakening. she felt herself all exhausted--all a limpness in his arms.

"sweetheart," his voice was hoarse in her ears, "don't go. i want you so much. every day, every night without you is misery."

"ronnie--ronnie! don't tempt me----"

feverishly her ungloved hands fondled him; feverishly her arms looped his neck, drawing his face down to hers. she could see, under the gray-gold of his hair, the great vein throbbing on his forehead, the dart and pulse of passion in his eyes. his lips, trembling still, fastened on her mouth. the kiss was torment. feverishly her mouth clung to his; feverishly, blent in ecstasy, fire feeding flame, they clung to one another--till, at last, half fainting, she tore herself away.

"don't!" she stammered. "don't torture me, don't tempt me any more. don't let me think--either now or ever--that this love of ours is only--only physical. because, if i thought that, i'd kill myself."

and a moment afterwards, she was gone.