1

ponto the dane, a piebald hummock of utter contentment, slapped his vast stern on the sands; woke; and rose to his haunches.

at gaze into the sun-dazzle, ponto's slitty eyes could just discern the twin rock buttresses of chilworth cove, the sea-water eddying translucent between them, and, forging through the sea-water, a man's head. white birds, which ponto after one or two dignified experiments had decided uncatchable, strutted the beach or circled lazily round the buttresses. his mistress slept, sun-bonneted in her long deck-chair, a smile on her lips.

"this," mused the great dog, "is a very pleasant place."

"this," dreamed the great dog's mistress, "is paradise."

chilworth cove lies far from the track of motor char-à-bancs in the unspoiled west country. inshore from its tongue of hot gold sands, the wild flowers riot; and back along the fritillary-haunted pathway through the wild flowers, chilworth ghyll leads to chilworth port--a handful of thatch-roofed, pink-washed cottages whereon the clematis spreads its purple stars and the honeysuckle droops coral clusters for the loudly-questing bee.

once the sea filled the ghyll; once, from the ancient well-head midway of the streetless "port," men drew water for their ships; once seafarers in hose and doublet with strange oaths and stranger tales on their lips would sit drinking in the parlor of the ancient alehouse. but to-day never a ship and hardly a "foreigner" comes where chill down upswells warm-breasted as a woman to the blue and chill common sweeps wave on wave of heathered ridges to a houseless horizon.

this summer, indeed, only three "foreigners"--the man forging overarm to seaward, the drowsy dog, and the dreaming lady--had visited the port: for the square-faced, square-hipped devonian woman, busied at the moment with the setting-out of curdled cream and other homely fare in their pink-washed cottage, was no "foreigner"--but a port woman by birth, as the alehouse well knew.

and if the alehouse sometimes speculated why "martha staley's daughter, her who had the good place in lunnon, should have brought her 'folk' to the port"--who cared? not ronnie! not aliette! for them, london with all its harassing memories had faded into that remote past before they possessed one another, before flaming june and flaming love alike combined to teach them a delight so exquisite that it seemed to both as though paradise itself could hold no rarer in its offering.

they had been in paradise a full month; and never for a moment had either of them regretted their hurried flight, their abandoned schemes. the past was dead, the future still unborn; they lived only for the all-sufficing present, two human beings fulfilling one another in isolation from their kind.

"ronnie is happy," dreamed aliette. "happy as i am."

yet even dreaming, she knew her own happiness the greater. she, risking most, gained the most from her risking; she--once that first inevitable fear of revulsion which is the portion of every woman who, disappointed in one man, seeks consolation with another, proved phantom--had been content to surrender herself, body, brain, and soul, to the call of matehood; to pour out all that was best hers, of beauty, of selflessness, of tender thought and reckless caring, at ronnie's feet; knowing each gift a thousand times recompensed by the slightest touch of his hand on her hair, the lightest brushing of his lips against her cheeks--knowing herself no longer a woman, but very womanhood, eternal essence distilled eternally from the fruit of eden-tree for manhood's completion.

and, "poor ronnie," she dreamed, "he can never be happy as i am. he thinks i am the same aliette--he does not realize the miracle."

for, of a surety, if ever love wrought a miracle, it was on this woman. she who, in her mateless fastidiousness, had schooled herself to the poise of a virgin artemis, became, mated, the very venus anadyomene, venus of foam and of sun-glints, rose-flushed for adoration between the roses and the sea. and in the hush of moon-pale midnights, when the clematis-blossoms showed as black butterflies against their diamonded window-panes, when the ripples beyond the ghyll murmured like tired children asleep, she--to whom, mateless, the nights had been emptier even than the days--became night's own goddess-girl, subduing man's passion to merest instrument of her love.

the dreaming lady stirred, murmuring through dreams; and the smile faded from her lips.

sometimes, even to paradise--as black ships seen through a golden haze to seaward--came dark visions of the past. of julia cavendish, her son's unanswered letter crumpled in unrelenting fingers; of mollie and her james; of the mullioned house at clyst fullerford; of the stiff bow-fronted library at lancaster gate; and of the man in that library, the man whose thin lips muttered: "so it was that briefless fool cavendish you would have married, had i given you your freedom. very good! go to him now, if you dare. you're not my property. i can't force you to stop here. but if you leave this house, remember that you're still mrs. hector brunton, not mrs. ronald cavendish. remember that you're taking a risk, a biggish risk."

that risk, all in a sweet madness, the dreaming lady and the man forging back to her through the translucent water, had taken within twelve hours; hurriedly; almost planlessly; instinctively as ponto, who, let loose by a mischievous boy from his kennel in westbourne street, nosed his way to the door of brunton's house just as aliette and caroline staley stepped into the loaded taxi, and, spying the portmanteau, set up such a howl that in sheer self-defense they let him clamber in between them.

"and that," thought aliette, waking from dreams to find a huge wet nose nuzzling her hand, "was the maddest thing i did in all that one mad day."

then she, too, sat at gaze into the sun-dazzle; till her lover's head rounded the translucent pool below the buttresses; till he came up the hot sands toward her--the sea-light in his hair, his browned shoulders dripping from the sea.

2

meanwhile, five hours away along the shining track beyond chill common, seven million exiles from paradise plied their harassed harassing earth-days in london city.

of all those seven millions only three people knew exactly what had happened; and only two--julia cavendish and benjamin bunce--the fugitives' address. even mollie, who had been overnighting with friends at richmond during those few hours when her sister decided on flight, had been told--officially--nothing.

but mollie, from the first moment when she glanced at the incoherent scrawl lennard handed her on her return, had suspected the worst. with her, hector's reassurances, given over the telephone from his chambers, that "alie had suddenly made up her mind to take a holiday," went for nothing.

"rather unexpected, wasn't it?" she said; and then, remembering the scene in the drawing-room: "on the whole, hector, i think i'd better take a holiday, too."

hector, with a terse, "of course, you must do what you think best," rang off; and the girl, now thoroughly perturbed, telephoned to betty masterman, her oldest school-friend, demanding hospitality.

"nothing wrong, i hope?" said betty.

"no, dear. nothing. only alie's had to go away, and i can't very well stop here without a chaperon."

betty masterman was a comforting creature who neither asked nor demanded confidences; but the interview with james wilberforce hurt. it took mollie three days to summon up enough courage to notify him of her new address; and when, throwing up his afternoon's work in norfolk street, he came to call at the little conventionally-furnished flat, it seemed to the girl as though they could never again be frank with one another; as though her very greeting, "hello, james! rotten of alie to take a holiday, right in the middle of the season, isn't it?" were a deliberate lie.

and his answer, "oh, well, it's rather stuffy in town, these days," made any discussion of the topic nearest her heart impossible. "for, of course," thought the girl, "jimmy knows that aliette's run away from hector."

as a matter of fact, jimmy had not previously suspected any connection between aliette brunton's sudden departure from lancaster gate and the news, previously imparted to him by benjamin bunce, that "mr. cavendish had been called out of town and might not be back for some days." it was, jimmy said to himself, rather weird of old ronnie to buzz off in the middle of the sessions; but then old ronnie always had been rather weird, a peculiar kind of chap, pretty reticent about his private affairs.

but subconsciously, the moment mollie spoke of her sister, the solicitor's mind connected the two disappearances. at first blush, the connection seemed incredible. "old ronnie" was "as straight as they make 'em"; and "h. b.'s wife a regular puritan."

all the same, james wilberforce--just to reassure himself--would have liked to ask a question or two, to take mollie's summary of evidence. he wanted, for instance, to ask her if she knew her sister's address.

something restrained him from asking the question; but while he was taking tea his brain suddenly remembered a little twist of ronnie's mouth when julia cavendish had mentioned aliette's name during his lunch at bruton street. scarcely noticed at the time, that remembered twist of the clean-shaven lips called up other memories; ronald and aliette at key hatch, playing patters at queen's, shaking hands in hyde park.

"but it's absurd," thought the big red solicitor, "absurd! i'd lay twenty to one against it. a hundred to one!" and, looking at mollie across the tea-table, he forgot her sister.

that afternoon the girl seemed more than ever desirable, just the sort of wife he was looking for. he liked the way she bobbed her dark hair, the cotton frock she was wearing, her strong white hands and arms; he liked being alone with her in this little room with its fumed oak furniture, its red wall-paper, its general air of coziness. he would have liked, very much, to kiss that full red mouth. but more than anything else, he liked this new shyness, this very hopeful shyness, which had replaced her old self-confidence.

"what's the matter with you this afternoon, mollie?" he chaffed her. "got the hump about anything?"

"no. i'm a bit tired; that's all."

"nothing worrying you?"

"nothing much."

and again--vaguely--the solicitor in wilberforce grew nervous.

"damn it all," he thought, "supposing my suspicions are right. suppose those two have gone off together. it's fifty to one against, but still----"

the instinct to gamble on that fifty-to-one chance (it had been a hundred to one half an hour since), to propose and have done with it, came to him. but his caution subdued the instinct. the world, his world, was a pretty censorious place; and if one's father were almost a cert. for his baronetcy, if one were junior partner in a firm so entirely sans reproche with the king's proctor as wilberforce, wilberforce & cartwright--well, one just couldn't afford to take even thousand-to-one gambles on one's future wife's social position.

the entrance of betty, a thin golden-haired grass-widow, very much à la mode from her trim feet to her modulated voice, tided over the awkward interview.

that night, however, mollie fullerford--least sentimental of the modern young--cried herself to sleep.

3

tears are not fashionable in pump court; but that melancholy individual, benjamin bunce, very nearly followed mollie fullerford's example, when "young mr. wilberforce"--anxious only to allay his suspicions--called at ronnie's chambers next morning.

"i'm sure i don't know what to do, sir," wailed benjamin. "here's a couple of good briefs come in; and my instructions is not to send anything on to him. no, sir, i'm afraid i can't give you his address. i'm not allowed to give any one his address--except mr. david patterson. and that only if mr. david patterson asks me for it."

"david patterson!" exclaimed the solicitor.

"yes, sir. mr. brunton's--mr. hector brunton's--clerk."

"good god!" said a young man whose ruddy complexion had gone suddenly white. "good god!" and he walked out of the door, as benjamin subsequently described it, "as though he'd been lifting the elbow ever since breakfast."

4

james wilberforce did not gossip; nevertheless, within a week of the flight for paradise, rumor--the amazing omniscient rumor of london--began to weave, spider-like, her intangible filaments. as yet, rumor was unconfirmed: only a vague web of talk, spun from boudoir to drawing-room, from drawing-room to club, from club to fleet street, from fleet street to the griffin.

and in the center of the web, watching it a-weave, sat aliette's husband.

more than once, friends, those maddeningly tactful friends of the successful, touched on rumor; but none of them, not even hector's father, succeeded in extracting a syllable. "my wife," said hector brunton, k.c, to his friends, "has not been feeling very well lately. i've sent her out of town for a bit of a holiday."

at first the mere mention of aliette's name enraged him; aroused in him a cruelty so melodramatic, so virulent that, for a full three days, he went in fear of becoming a murderer. he knew that he could find "the guilty pair" easily enough: cavendish's clerk--aliette's brief note told him--would give his solicitors their address. but even without cavendish's clerk it would be simple to trace them. you couldn't lug a twelve-stone dog round the london railway termini without attracting the attention of at least half a hundred involuntary private detectives!

somehow (comedy and tragedy blend strangely in the heart of a man!) the idea of ponto's accompanying his wife's elopement seemed in brunton's eyes the culminating insult, a last intolerable outrage on the domestic decencies. he, hector, had given aliette that dog; and, though he hated the beast himself, he grudged it to cavendish. to his enraged mind, the dog turned symbol of his betrayal. he had been betrayed by a dishonest woman. if aliette had possessed any sense of honesty, she would have left ponto behind: as she had left all his other gifts--the pearl necklace, the jeweled wrist-watch, the gray ostrich-feather fan.

then, hot on the heels of rage, came remorse--remorse, not for his cruelty, not for his infidelities, but only for the crass stupidity with which he believed himself to have handled the situation. he might have known the woman better than to attempt bluff. he ought to have pleaded with her. or locked her in her bedroom. on no account ought he to have gone down to the courts next morning. why hadn't he telephoned mollie to return that very night? why hadn't he wired to clyst fullerford for aliette's mother?

self-pity succeeded. he pictured himself the injured husband; and, his heart softening towards aliette, vowed "that seducer cavendish should suffer."

but cavendish's sufferings did not suffice his imagination. why should cavendish alone suffer? why should either the woman or the man get off scotfree? why shouldn't both of them be made to suffer--damnably--as damnably as he himself was suffering?

for, surely as love made paradise of chilworth cove, so surely did lust fashion hell at lancaster gate.

from this hell in which--as brunton imagined--the loss of a woman, and not the loss of his own self-esteem furnished the flame, brunton's only escape was work; and into work he flung himself, as a scalded child into cold water, only to find the agony redoubled on emergence. for though his work--eight, ten, and sometimes sixteen hours a day of the tensest mental concentration--did momentarily banish introspection; always, his work concluded, came the furies.

in the night, they came--like evil old women--lashing him, sleepless, from room to room of that huge silent house, mocking him, mocking him. "only wait," mocked the furies. "she'll come back. perhaps she's on her way home at this very moment. she'll soon tire of cavendish--of cavendish."

brunton tried to scream back at them (he knew, even before they showed him his face in the mirror of his dressing-room, that the scream could not pass his lips), "i wouldn't have her back. i wouldn't, i tell you--i wouldn't. she's a loose woman. an adulteress."

"oh, yes, you would," answered the furies. "oh, yes, you would. if she came into this house now--if she rang the front door-bell--listen! listen hard! didn't you hear a bell, brunton?--if she offered herself to you, you'd take her. it's three years, brunton. three years since you went into that room. think of her, brunton. think of her--her hair unbound--her arms open to receive--cavendish!"

and by day, when the evil old women slept, men mocked at him--voicelessly. all men--so it seemed to him--knew his shame. all men! lennard and the chauffeur, so smooth-faced, so efficient, grinning behind smug hands: the acquaintances at his clubs: his co-barristers, lunching either side of him at middle temple hall: his subservient clerk: his respectful clients--all these knew him for the deserted bull, for the male incapable of authority, for the public cuckold. even the impassive pseudo-friendly judges who gave him his verdicts were wise to his cuckoldry.

curiously enough, in all that month of june, brunton never lost a case. possible defeats, probable compromises, doubtful prosecution, or still more doubtful defense--every legal battle he fought ended in sweeping victory. treasury briefs, consultations, and demands for his "opinion" avalanched on his chambers in king's bench walk. fleet street echoed and re?choed his name; till it appeared as though the herd, the damned hypocritical herd who fawned openly on his public success so that they might gloat the more on his secret failure, twitted him in very malice with the prospects of a knighthood, of a judgeship, of a safe seat at the next election.

more and more, as the days went by, he saw himself as the deserted bull; and, so seeing, swore that he would teach the whole herd a lesson. the herd had its rules, its shibboleths; but he was above all rules, above all shibboleths. let the herd murmur if it dared. his wife and her lover could rot in the mire they had pashed for themselves. the lone bull would not even deign to horn their flanks.

so, arrogance and cruelty in his secret heart; lash-marks of the furies red across his secret loins; feigning himself unhurt, uncaring; feigning himself ignorant; feigning even solicitude for the health of his absent wife, hector brunton went his conquering conquered way.