1

before, and even during the war, christmas day at bruton street used to be rather a function. on that day, julia, still the feudalist in her domestic policy, was wont to rise earlier than usual, to distribute gifts among her servants, to proceed to church, lunch in some state, and during the afternoon receive such of her friends as had not left town.

this christmas, brunton's continued obduracy made functions impossible. waking late to the subdued glimmer of the bed-lamp, to the presence of her maid and the tea-tray, julia was conscious of depression. her night had been restless, haunted by the specter of defeat. the "flaunting policy" had failed! depression grew. the idea of distributing presents, of her servants' formal thanks, fretted her. fretted her, too, the thought that this would be the first nativity on which she had ever missed going to church.

but gradually, as she bathed, as her maid swathed her in a long purple velvet tea-gown, julia's vitality began to revive. a little of the christmas spirit entered into her. she recognized for how much she had to be thankful; for ample means, for well-trained servants, for a well-tended house, for a mind still confident of its powers, for a conscience assured in its right-doing, for a son who adored her and whom she adored, and, lastly but not least, for work still to be accomplished.

this certainty of work to come, of a creative task dim-visualized as yet, but already quickening in the womb of her mentality, had been newly-vivid during the restless night; so that she was now assured--with that assurance which only the craftswoman possesses--of another book shortly to be born from her pen. "my last book, perhaps!" she thought; and dreaded, in anticipation, the labor of that book-bearing.

the distribution of the presents tired her. depression returned with the physical fatigue of being gracious. but, once the little ceremony was over and she sat waiting for ronnie and aliette in the square box of a work-room, the old lady grew almost fey with the prescience of coming triumph. she, julia cavendish, might die, but even in her dying she would not be defeated. by her own unaided strength, by the very steel of her spirit, she would beat down all obstacles--the labors of book-bearing, the obduracy of aliette's husband, the defections of their friends.

and--in that moment of feyness--julia knew that the unwritten book, her own death, and her son's future were mysteriously intertwined; that the only sword which could sever the gordian knot of hector brunton's obduracy was the sword of the written word. but as yet her knowledge was all nebulous, the merest protoplasm of a plan.

2

aliette, that christmas morning, had not even the semblance of a plan. ever since her visit to hermione she had been growingly aware of strain, of a strange morbidity. increasingly she felt resentful of her position. increasingly she reproached herself for the impasse in ronnie's career.

the lack of a real home affected her almost to breaking-point. in her hyper-sensitive mind, powolney mansions had become symbolical of their joint lives. they were "boarding-house people"; and even that only under false pretenses.

so far, she had managed to conceal her mental state from ronnie. yet she was aware, dimly, of occasional unkindnesses to him, of a tiny retrogression from the standard of happiness which she had laid down for them both. "i'm failing him," she used to think; "i'm failing him--dragging him down."

london in holiday-time accentuated this feeling of failure. caroline staley had departed to devonshire for a week; and a slatternly maid brought them their tea, their lukewarm "hot water." ronnie, kept waiting half an hour for his bath, gashed his chin with his razor, and soothed the resultant ill-temper with one of the cheap cigarettes to which he had lately taken. breakfast, in the stuffy communal dining-room, was as cold as the perfunctory christmas wishes of their fellow-boarders.

ponto, developing a cough, had been sent to the vet's. ronnie, kindling his pipe, suggested that they should "look up the hound." aliette refused and he went off by himself.

aliette returned to their room, and surveyed its untidiness with a shudder.

"i'm the wrong sort of woman for ronnie," she said to herself. "i'm not a bit domesticated." and from that, thought switched automatically to the other side of domesticity. imagination pictured some old-fashioned christmas in some old-fashioned country cottage; herself mistress of a real home; ronnie a father; he and she and "they" church-going along snow-powdered roads; their return to a board loaded with goodies. almost, in that moment, imagination heard the laughter of unborn children.

but the moment passed, and she knew herself still childless. "better childless," she thought bitterly; and tried, for a whole wretched hour, to bring order into the chaos of their unfriendly room; dusting and redusting the melancholy furniture; hanging and rehanging hats and dresses; finally, in sheer desperate need of distraction, plying caroline staley's little wire brush on a pair of white suède shoes she found hidden away in a corner of the wardrobe.

there was dust on the shoes; and, here and there under the dust, a speck of mud. a wire brush--thought aliette--could cleanse dust and mud from shoes. but no brush could cleanse the mud and the dust from one's mind. mind--what was mind? her very soul felt itself besmirched. a hermione's curiosity, a mary o'riordan's ingratitude, the snubs of a lady siegfried moss--all these were flecks, undeserved yet ineradicable, upon the white surface of one's purity.

she finished cleaning the shoes, and put them aside. yet the symbolism of them remained with her. it seemed a bitter and a cruel thing that she must drag her feet through so much mire, that the wheels of all the world's traffic must bespatter her because--because she had gone to her mate openly and not in secret.

"not for our sin," she thought, "the penalty; but for the candor of our sinning"; and so fell to resenting the hypocrisy of a country which winks tolerant eyes at "dancing-partners," "tame cats," "best boys," "fancy-men," and all the ragtag and bobtail of clandestine lovers whom england excuses, tolerates, and even finds romantic. "only for women such as i am," thought aliette, "for those of us who go openly to our one lover, can england find neither excuse nor toleration."

"nothing much wrong with the hound," pronounced a returning ronnie; and then, noticing the unhappiness in his lady's eyes, "anything the matter, darling?"

"no. nothing in particular."

silently aliette changed her gown, pinned on her hat, and let him help her with her furs. silently they made their way downstairs. outside it was foggy. from the hideous hall-lamp, still illuminated, hung a sprig of grimy mistletoe. aliette looked up at the thing. "i hate christmas in london," she said.

as they waited for their train in the chill west kensington station, ronnie, too, grew unhappy.

"poor darling! i wish i could afford taxis," he said; and throughout the journey to bruton street--thinking of their long-ago taxi-ride from "queen's"--a depression almost physical constrained both to silence.

the arrival at bruton street minimized a little of the morning's depression. julia was in her old form, jovially dictatorial. they had brought presents for her: from ronnie, a plain gold penholder, such as she always used; from aliette, a trifle of embroidery. her present, newly-written, lay in an envelope on her writing-desk. she gave it to aliette with the command, "don't open it till we've had lunch," just as kate came in to ask if she should bring in the meal.

3

the "lunch," laid--aliette noticed--for five, consisted of grilled soles, turkey with cranberry sauce, plum-pudding with cream and brandy, mince-pies, and the whole old-fashioned indigestible paraphernalia. holly decked the venetian wall-lights; mistletoe hung from the chandelier. but there were ghosts at the feast. try as they three might to be cheerful, each felt conscious of awkwardness.

after the servants had left the room, julia, breaking the rules of her "medicine-man," took a glass of brandy and a cigarette.

"you haven't even looked at my christmas present," she said to aliette; and she would have liked to add, if the words had not seemed so ill-omened, "i sha'n't give you one at all next year, if you don't take more interest in it."

aliette reached for her hand-bag (which she had hung, a habit of hers, on the back of her chair) and took out the envelope julia had given her before luncheon. throughout the meal she had been dreading this moment, because, obviously, the envelope contained a check--and she hated the idea of accepting a check from ronnie's mother. slitting the flap with her fruit-knife, picking out the stamped paper, she saw at a glance that the check was for five hundred pounds. her heart leaped. five hundred pounds meant freedom from powolney mansions, the possibility of taking some little abode where she and ronnie could be happy. then reluctance overwhelmed her.

"it's too good of you," she protested. "but i can't, really i can't take all this money."

"rubbish!" snapped julia in her bruskest manner. "why shouldn't you take money from me? all my money really belongs to ronnie. if his father had had any sense he'd have left it to him. besides, you need it. you can't go on staying at that appalling boarding-house for ever."

"but we can't take it! can we, man?" aliette's eyes appealed to ronnie; who said, trying to be gay: "you mustn't rob yourself for us, mater."

"i'm not robbing myself. sir peter sold three of the little overdine properties a fortnight ago."

"did he, though? whom to?"

"the tenants."

"really!"

ensued an awkward silence, during which ronnie stared at the check, julia at her "daughter-in-law," and aliette at the pair of them.

"you need it more than i do," reiterated julia at last.

"but don't you see," aliette's voice was very gentle, "it's just because we do need this money that we oughtn't to take it?"

"you're two very stubborn young people," said julia, half in anger and half good-humoredly. "but as it's christmas day, and as i'm nearly old enough to be aliette's grand-mother, you'll have to humor me." she took the check in her own hands, and returned it to aliette's bag, which she closed with a little snap of decision--at the precise moment when kate announced "mr. paul flower."

the distinguished litterateur entered languidly; extended both flabby hands to his hostess; and allowed himself to be persuaded into drinking a glass of port.

"my dear paul," remonstrated julia, glad of the interruption, "you were invited for luncheon, and it's now nearly half-past three."

"my dear julia,"--the new-comer raised his glass to the light, and inspected the ruby glow of the wine with some care--"after all these years you ought to know that i never take luncheon."

"not even on christmas day?" put in aliette.

"no, dear lady, not even on christmas day." paul began to be epigrammatic; striving to convince them that christmas was an essentially pagan function, and that paganism was the fount of all true art. "more especially of my own art," he went on, pulverizing an imaginary object between thumb and forefinger; and immediately became so rabelaisian that it needed all julia's tact to prevent him from narrating his pet story of the american lady who had visited him in mount street, "because texas, mr. flower, has no literature."

"these literary people," thought aliette, listening to him, "are all peculiar." yet undoubtedly paul flower's harmless egotism had relieved an awkward situation.

it was nearly a quarter past four by the time that the party eventually moved upstairs to the drawing-room; nearly five before julia cavendish, whose brain had been singularly active since paul's arrival, succeeded in leaving him alone with aliette while she and ronnie "went off to the library for a little chat."

"ronnie," she said to him as soon as they were alone, "you won't let her send back that check, will you?"

"not if you're bent on our keeping it. but i say," his eyes were troubled, "are you sure it's the right time to sell out the rutland farms?"

"i'm positive. and ronnie," she rose from her desk and laid a hand on his arm, "you'll let me make that allowance eight hundred now, won't you?"

"i'd rather not, somehow."

"why not?"

"oh, i don't know. alie wouldn't like it."

"you needn't tell her."

"we haven't got any secrets from each other."

"h'm." julia spoke slowly. "that may make things rather difficult." she sat down again, and began to fidget with the gold pen he had given her. "young wilberforce came to see me yesterday," she said abruptly.

"jimmy? what did he have to say?"

"a great deal." julia laughed nervously. "it appears that he's sounded brunton."

"the dickens he has!" ronnie's brain leaped to the inevitable conclusion. "i suppose that's the result of mollie's arrival in london."

"probably." the mother eyed her son. "'cherchez la femme' is not a bad rule when one sits in judgment on the jimmy wilberforces of this world. however, we can't afford to leave any stone unturned."

"no, i suppose not. still, i hate people going behind my back. alie would be furious if she knew."

"then don't tell her. not that there's anything to tell. brunton refused to discuss the matter. but"--again julia fell to playing with the penholder--"wilberforce made the suggestion--mind you, it's only a suggestion--that i should try to get into touch with the admiral."

"i don't see how that could do any good." ronnie's forehead wrinkled with thought. "besides, aliette would never consent. she'd think it undignified."

"need we consult her?" now julia trod very gingerly. "need we tell her anything about it until i've either failed or succeeded?"

her son rose from his chair, and took two strides up and down the little room. "aliette wouldn't like it," he repeated stubbornly.

"but it's for her good."

"i don't see that the admiral could do anything."

"he might have some influence with his son."

ronald sat down again. all the literary wixton in him urged acceptance of the plan. all the schoolmaster cavendish urged refusal. "it would be going behind her back," he said at last. "it wouldn't be fair. she ought to be consulted first."

"and suppose she refuses?" a little of the old dominance crept into julia's voice. "suppose she refuses? what are we to do then? ronnie," the tone rose, "don't you see that it's our duty, our absolute duty? i don't want to be unkind, but the social position gets more impossible every day. unless something is done, and done quickly, it'll take the pair of you all your lives to live down the scandal."

"i know." his blue eyes saddened. "but there are worse things than scandal. there's," he seemed to be searching in his mind for a word, "there's disloyalty."

"don't be obstinate." she summoned up all her strength to beat down his opposition. "do trust me. do let me write to the admiral. i used to know him years ago. that might help."

"yes. but suppose it doesn't! suppose you fail? suppose alie finds out?"

"if i fail, we shall be no worse off than when i started. as for aliette finding out, you can tell her if you like. only don't tell her till afterwards."

"you're sure it can't do any harm?"

"quite sure. you won't tell her?"

"all right, mater. but don't ask me to take the extra allowance."

"very well. that shall be as you wish."

they came back, a little guilty, to the drawing-room. aliette was laughing. hearing her laugh, it seemed to ronnie as though the tension of the morning had relaxed.

4

but the tension between them did not relax; rather, in those few days which followed christmas, they came nearer to quarreling than ever before. the paying in of julia's check raised the money question again. ronnie wanted aliette to use it immediately, to buy herself some clothes, to take a holiday. aliette demurred.

"we can't stay here forever," she protested, eying the scratched wall-paper of their bedroom.

"i know, darling. but a boarding-house has its advantages. if we were to take a flat, who'd do the housework?"

"caroline and i could manage that easily between us."

"i'd hate to see you doing housework."

"i might be some use scrubbing floors. i'm none at the moment."

"you are."

"i'm not. i'm only a drag on you."

so the game went on--the fact of their not being legally married and the sense of isolated responsibility which each felt for the other's happiness, making mountains out of every molehill.