The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton, by Gilbert Frankau (2024)



--From "The Judgment of Valhalla."

The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton

1

In our heart of hearts--which we in England take almostas much pains to hide from ourselves as from our fellow-creatures--mostof us realize that life without love is aweariness, a conflict bereft of hope, a struggle for no victory.Yet Love, the Real Thing--whether it be love of a god or loveof our fellow-creatures, the love of a man for his mate, of amother for her son, of a friend for his friend or a girl forher chosen--is not the law of the majority. Because Love,the Real Thing--as all real things--demands infinite self-sacrifice:and infinite self-sacrifice is too divine a code forthe average imperfect human being, who must needs makehimself other codes or perish.

This, therefore, Aliette's love-story, deals of necessity withthe self-sacrifices endured not only by Aliette but by many ofthose who came within the orbit of her personality.

Rightly to understand the people of this tale and themotives which swayed them, it is vital that you should comprehend,at the very outset, how essentially English they allwere; how essentially old-fashioned, in the best sense of thatmuch misused word; and how difficult it was, even for Aliette,to learn that Love, the Real Thing, had come into their lives,making blind havoc of every unwritten rule and every writtenlaw to which they owed allegiance.

For all these people, Bruntons, Fullerfords, Wilberforces,and Cavendishes, were ordinary orderly English folk; trainedin that school of thought which prizes sheer character abovemere intellect, which teaches self-restraint and self-respect andself-reliance, and believes--as an ultimate issue--in "playingthe game."

It is no bad code, this old-fashioned English code of "playingthe game." Humanity owes it much, will owe it evenmore. But, like all forms of discipline, it is apt to weighheavily on individuals; and heaviest on those who, believingin the code, must needs make choice between playing the gameaccording to the rules of love or playing the game accordingto the rules of average imperfect human beings.

That Aliette Brunton and Ronald Cavendish played theirgame according to the dictates of love and their own consciences,remains the sole excuse--if excuse be needed--forthe happiness to which, at long last, they both won.

2

Of the various English families here concerned, the Fullerfordsof Clyst Fullerford are at once the oldest and the leastdistinguished--according to modern standards of "distinction."Yeomen by original birth, yeomen at heart they haveremained; content, in an age of ostentation, to serve theircountry quietly, and retire--at the end of service--into thelush obscurity of the Devon countryside, there maintainingmodest state and modest revenues until such time as a Churchof England God is pleased to summon them elsewhere.

Aliette's father, Andrew, born in the very early sixties,followed the Fullerford tradition of service, and becamepuisne judge of an obscure colonial law-court before retiring.His marriage, at the age of twenty-four, to Marie Sheldon,caused--owing to Marie's abandonment of the rigid SheldonCatholicism for the scarcely less rigid Protestantism of theFullerfords--no small sensation.

This marriage, founded on a self-sacrifice of which onlyAliette's mother knew the full burden, yielded two sons, bothof whom give their lives for their country early in 1915,and three daughters: Eva, eldest of the family, who marriedCaptain Harold Martin of the Devonshire Regiment in 1910,and became "colonel's lady"--a position she filled mostadmirably; Aliette; and Mollie, youngest of the five.

It was not until her second daughter's birth in 1892 that theSheldons fully pardoned Marie Fullerford's infidelity totheir religion--Aliette, named after a remote French ancestress,becoming as it were the symbol of family reunion, andinheriting, on the death of Grandmama Sheldon, a little blockof consolidated stock in further token of forgiveness. Shortlyafter which inheritance, in December, 1912, she married--forreasons which will be apparent in our story--HectorBrunton, barrister of the Middle Temple, and no small gunin the legal world; while Mollie, then a long-legged flapperof tomboy proclivities, reluctantly returned from WycombeAbbey School to "assist mother in looking after things."

Mollie "looked after things" until the boys were killed.Then she joined the nursing service. To that service herbody still bears witness in the shape of three white scars--souvenirsof a bombed hospital.

3

Although, socially speaking, there is little if any differencebetween the Fullerfords and the Bruntons, the latter familyshine considerably the more effulgent in the public eye. Onefinds them in newspaper paragraphs; one sees them at court,at the opera, at the Ritz. In fact, wheresoever the ostentatiousworld of the nineteen-twenties foregathers, the Bruntons forgatherwith it; not because they themselves are ostentatious,but because, being of their period, they must needs follow thetide--as Rear-Admiral Billy, in that bluff manner whichfifteen years' absence from the sea-service has scarcely impaired,is the first to admit.

"Damn vulgar commercial age, but we can't put the clockback, worse luck," says Rear-Admiral Billy Brunton to hisbrother, Sir Simeon Brunton, K.C.V.O., recently retired withambassadorial rank from the diplomatic service. To whichSir Simeon, after three glasses of port, has been known toretort with a suave: "It hasn't done us so badly."

And this is a fact! For the Bruntons, originally sea-folk,and as poor as most of the senior service, have developed anuncanny instinct for marrying money.

Rear-Admiral Billy, head of the clan and now risingseventy-five, yielded to the instinct before the age of thirty;bringing home as bride, from his first cruise to Australia,a distinguished daughter of the Melbourne squatocracy, bywhom he had two sons, Hector and Adrian; and from whom,on her death in 1906, he received sufficient money to makehis declining years perfectly comfortable--though in a verymodest fashion when compared with his younger brotherSimeon, whose first wife was a Sturgis, of Sturgis, Campion& Sturgis, the high-speed steel manufacturers, and whosesecond, an Anglo-Indian, still very much alive at the timeour story opens, inherited a largish slice of shares in herfather's main enterprise, "The Raneegunge Jute and CottonMills, Ltd."

"Still"--once again employing the language of Rear-AdmiralBilly--"Simeon's feeding a pretty long string ofunmated fillies in his stables; and I've only got a brace ofcolts who seem tolerably capable of foraging for themselvesin mine."

The "colts," Hector, born in '77, and Adrian two yearslater, certainly foraged for themselves with considerable assiduity.Adrian entered the church; and developed theBrunton instinct to such purpose that he endowed himselfwith a bishop's daughter and a Mayfair congregation at theearly age of thirty-five--though it must be put to his creditthat he abandoned his Hill Street surplice for a chaplain'skhaki tunic in the Holy Land, and did not return to hisbishop's daughter until early in 1919, by which time she hadmanœuvered for him the comfortable vicarage at High Moor,a prosperous Oxfordshire living, whose exact center is AdmiralBilly's Moor Park.

Meanwhile Aliette's husband--having persuaded himselfthat he was indispensable to his country--became a king'scounselor, dividing his days between the common law courts,where emoluments were fat if advertisement lean, and thecriminal courts, wherein, as prosecuting counsel for the crown,he on occasions glittered exceedingly.

A large and a successful family--they look--these Bruntons,when you make their massed acquaintance in three pagesof "Who's Who." But Julia Cavendish, néeWixton, usedto have a page to herself!

4

You will find mention of the "four sisters Wixton," oftheir "charming" mother and their "distinguished" fatherin most mid-Victorian memoirs. Tennyson wrote a poemto the baby Clementina. Robert Browning is rumored to havestopped May's perambulator on more than one occasion inKensington Gardens. Alice had an affair, very nebulous andof her period, with one of the less celebrated Preraphaelitepainters.

But on the demise of Josiah Wixton (his wife and book-publishingbusiness survived him a bare three years), all butone of his daughters disappear from artistic history. Maymarried a tea-broker named Robinson, and was left a childlessbut affluent widow in 1908. Alice vanished with JohnEdwards of the Indian civil service into the Punjab--finallyreturning with a livery husband and one daughter, Lucy,to settle down among the retired Anglo-Indians of Cheltenham.Clementina allied herself--no less pompous phrase isadequate--with Sir John Bentham of the Bank of England.

Remained, therefore, to carry on the literary tradition, onlythe eldest of the Wixtons, who married Maurice Cavendish,the Oxford don, presented him with a son, Ronald, and became"Julia Cavendish, the novelist."

It is a curious commentary on the ingratitude of our educatedclasses that the Rutland Cavendishes, who are at leastas distinguished scholastically as the Bruntons in the socialworld, have to rely for their public fame almost entirely onJulia.

"Because in Julia Cavendish," as wrote her one-timefriend, "Dot" Fancourt, "we have a really great Victorian.She stands for everything that is best of that bygone school:for a technique, now, alas! despised. Her novels are notperfect; they lack, perhaps, that warm touch of humanitywhich one finds in Charles Dickens, in William MakepeaceThackeray. But at least they are the novels of a true educatedEnglishwoman, reflections of a fine, faithful spirit. Evenapart from her skill as a story-teller, Julia Cavendish, withher great belief in the traditional decencies, with her reverencefor the teachings of the Protestant Church, for discipline andthe subjugation of self to the common weal, towers like arock above the wish-wash flood of cheap sex and cheaperpsychoanalysis which obsess most young writers of this self-consciousGeorgian epoch."

And with that, to our story!

1

Miracle, by St. Peter out of Three-to-a-Flush, a thoroughbredchestnut not quite good enough for steeple-chasingbut considerably too good for that very quiet hunt,the Mid-Oxfordshire, was just out of his box, and pretty fresh.Looking over the flint wall which separated the well-keptgardens from the newly-swilled tiling of the stable-courtyardat Moor Park, the horse's questing eyes could just see, betweenclipped yew-trees, the red-brick façade of the modestGeorgian house, its windows glinting in the March sunlight.Miracle knew that a footpath led straight across the gardensfrom the front door of the house to the white gate in the wallof his stable-courtyard; and suddenly, hearing a footfall onthe path, he whinnied.

"All right, you," soothed Miracle's groom, a little lameman with tattooed forearms and a wry smile. The white gateclicked open, revealing Aliette.

Hector Brunton's wife had never accustomed herself toriding astride. Her small figure, in its short black habitand loose-fitting coat, looked modern enough. She wore theconventional bowler hat, white stock, and patent-leather riding-boots.Yet there was something old-fashioned about her,despite the fashionable get-up; something, to use an old-fashionedword, distinguished.

She closed the gate, and came slowly across the courtyard.Her yellow-gloved hands carried a thonged hunting-crop anda leather sandwich-case.

"You might fasten this on for me, Jenkins," said Aliette.The voice, low yet with each tone perfectly clear, held a hintof diffident shyness, alluring in so poised a creature.

While Jenkins busied himself with the sandwich-case andgirthed up, Aliette held Miracle's head, gentling his nose withdeft fingers, and explaining--half to herself and half to thehorse--why she had brought no sugar for him.

"No sugar for gee-gees these days, Miracle. Not at theadmiral's. Billy's mean about his sugar. Pity you don'tdrink port, Miracle dear. There's plenty of port."

She laughed at that; and it was as though you saw a womantransformed. Her face, smooth in repose, almost colorlesssave for the scarlet lips and the big wallflower-brown eyesunder the dark lashes, broke into a hundred dimples. Therewere dimples at the corners of her mouth, in the cream ofher oval cheeks, on the crinkled upper-lip under the smallfine nose; even--if you looked carefully enough--behind theclose-set ears.

Miracle began fidgeting; and laughter went out of the face,leaving it smooth, purposeful.

"Those girths are too tight, Jenkins."

"I don't think so, mum."

"Loosen them one hole, please. They can be tightened atthe meet." Now Aliette spoke with the quiet certainty ofone who understands both serving-men and horses; and withthat same certainty--her orders obeyed--bent down to inserta finger between clipped skin and taut webbing. As thehead under the hat-rim stooped to its task, her coiled hairshowed vividest brown, almost the color of flames in sunlight,against the cream of her neck.

Miracle stood quietly enough while his mistress gathered upthe reins; put her unspurred left into Jenkins's hand;mounted; arranged her apron; and thrust foot home into thestirrup. Then, for the sheer love of hunting that was in him,he tossed at the snaffle, hogged his back, and whisked roundtoward the big arched gateway which gave on to the highroad.

"Steady, old chap," soothed Aliette. She looked too lighta rider for that raking horse; but her little hands settled himdown easily enough. "I'm in plenty of time, aren't I,Jenkins?"

"Yes, mum." The groom pulled a silver watch from hismoleskin waistcoat. "It hasn't gone nine yet, mum."

As she rode quietly on to the highroad Aliette saw, eitherside of her under the archway, Rear-Admiral Billy's stables--emptysave for the admiral's black cob, a luggage pony,and a huge charger-like animal which, on rare occasions,carried her husband. Horses are even more expensive tokeep than children nowadays!

2

The little woman and the big thoroughbred danced left-handeddown the highroad; passed Admiral Billy's unpretentiouslodge, half-hidden by yew-hedges, clipped with nauticalprecision to turrets of dark-green velvet; skirted Moor Pond;and took the bridle-path for Upper Moorsby.

It was a great morning of earliest March. The groundunder hoof still sparkled here and there with surface frost;but there was no "bone" in it. Warmth softened the tangof the air. Above the bare tops of the trees between whichthey trotted, Aliette saw a thin cloudless sky. In the clearings,crisscrossed with uncarted larch-poles, primrosessparkled softly. Almost it seemed as though a purple bloomalready showed on the young birches.

She pulled to a walk, thinking as she rode. Her thoughtscame slowly, precisely: Aliette was not the type of womanwho liked rushing her fences, either mentally or on horseback.

"Spring," she mused; "another spring! And huntingnearly over. Then there'll be nothing but tennis till nextwinter. Except 'the season.' How I dislike 'the season'!It wouldn't be so bad if one had children. One could watchthem riding in the park."

A little ripple of dissatisfaction submerged her mind. Sheleaned forward and patted Miracle's arched neck. Theclipped skin quivered in response.

"What's the use of making one's self unhappy?" thoughtAliette. "All that's done with. Best forget."

She trotted on, rising squarely from the Mayhew saddle,hands like velvet on Miracle's bridle-reins. The path rosethrough fragrant woodlands; met the roadway. Now, at walkbetween leafless chestnuts, thought troubled her once more.

This must be the third springtime since her discovery ofHector's infidelity. She re-lived the scene: he, big andblustering, in the paneled dining-room at Lancaster Gate:herself quiet, controlled, but furious to the core. She heardherself saying to him: "You misunderstand me, Hector. Itisn't a question of jealousy. It's a question of loyalty, and--cleanliness."That last word hurt the man. She had meantit to hurt.

Three years! It seemed a long time. Since then--despiteoccasional entreaty--she had withdrawn herself. She wastoo fastidious, perhaps. Suddenly, she wished herself lessfastidious. Her childlessness cried out in her, "Condone!"But she knew she could never condone. The time for thathad gone by. Other infidelities, she knew, had followedthe first. Hector was not the man to restrain his naturalimpulses. His very entreaties proved him more libertine thanhusband.

And Aliette rode on, through Upper Moorsby, red-cottagedbehind tumble-down palings, disused cycle-shop at one end,shut church at the other; past Moorsby Place, ring-fenced andinhospitable; across the common toward High Moor.

There was love of the countryside in her heart as she rode,love of horse and love of hound, love for the quick scurry ofhoofs on turf, for the white scuttle of rabbits to bramble.But there was no love for any man. That love she had neverknown. Marriage--as she still imagined marriage--meantaffection: mutual regard, mutual interests, children. Especiallychildren! If only she could have had children!

Putting thought away from her, Aliette let Miracle havehis head, and cantered on between the gorse and the brambles.

Cantering, her heart sang to her. "Fox-hunting! Fox-hunting!Fox-hunting!" Padded Miracle's hoofs. Shewatched their shadow lolloping the brambles; watched thetrack ahead. And suddenly, at the bend of the track, shegrew aware of a horse coming fast behind her. Miraclegathered himself for a gallop. Checking him, she heard aman's voice:

"I say, I'm most awfully sorry; but can you tell me if I'mright for the kennels?"

Man and beast, a great raw-boned, rat-tailed gray with ahuge fiddle head and enormous withers, which she knew belongedto Ross Titterton, the horse-breaker at Key Hatch, hovefighting alongside. As though by mutual consent, they easedto a bumpy walk.

"Yes. This is quite right," said Aliette.

Examining the man, she saw a serious, clean-shaven face,eyes of pale clear blue, a broad forehead, a lean jowl, fulllips, the nose prominent and almost pure Greek in shape,the chin determined, and the hair a curious goldy-gray asthough bleached by the tropics.

"Thanks so much."

She judged him just over six feet and just under forty.He looked a horseman in his high black boots, dark cordbreeches, pepper-and-salt cutaway coat, and buckskin gloves.

"I hope I didn't startle your horse. This brute of Ross'spulls like a steam-engine," he apologized with an almostimperceptible drawl.

"I know." Aliette smiled. "Mr. Titterton tried to sellhim to us last year."

"Oh, I can't afford to keep horses," confessed the man."This is only a loan. Ross was sergeant-major of our yeomanrycrowd in Palestine. He offered me a ride once--andI've taken him at his word. You don't mind my joggingalong with you like this, do you?"

"Of course not. We turn off to the right here."

They rode down, chatting with the easy camaraderie of fox-huntingfolk, into sight of a village. It lay just below them,on a spur of the common--pointed church-spire, gray vicaragecrouching at foot, among a blob of slate-roofed smoke-plumedcottages. Beyond it, the ground unrolled to a brown andgreen checker-board of square hedged fields, lozenged hereand there with pale woodlands.

"That's High Moor Church," announced Aliette, pointingher whip at the spire.

"High Moor!" The man cogitated. "Isn't a fellow namedBrunton the rector?"

"Yes. You speak as if you knew him."

"Only slightly. I see a good deal of his brother. TheK.C., you know. I'm at the bar."

"Oh!" Aliette hesitated a moment. "I'm his wife."

"Whose! The parson's?"

"No. The K.C.'s."

Both laughed, feeling the conventional ice broken.

"My name's Cavendish, Mrs. Brunton. Ronald Cavendish.You probably know my mother--most people do."

"Julia Cavendish, the novelist. Of course I know of her;but we've never met. What a wonderful woman she mustbe!"

"She is." Ronnie's serious face lit. Usually shy withwomen, he felt quaintly at ease with this one. She seemedso sure of herself. And how she rode! That horse must takesome steering. He wanted, suddenly, to see her across country;to send his gray pelting after her chestnut. Of herpeculiar beauty, except as a horsewoman, he was not yetconscious.

But Aliette, even in those first moments of their meeting,knew herself stirred, ever so subtly, to interest. Julia Cavendish'sson! Didn't she remember something, somethingrather decent about Julia Cavendish's son?

It flashed into her memory just as they made the lich-gateof High Moor Church. "Conspicuous gallantry ... ralliedhis squadron under fire ... great personal risk."

3

The sight of the Rev. Adrian disturbed further musing.He tittuped out of the rectory drive as they came by--a littleclean-shaven creature, jovially wrinkled, his short legs intheir canvas gaiters gripping the flanks of a cock-throppledbay mare with a bobbed tail and a roving eye. The Rev.Adrian on Thumbs Up contrived, somehow, to look far morelike a keeper than the proverbial hunting parson.

"Morning, Aliette," he greeted. Then, before she couldintroduce Ronnie, "I say, didn't you and I meet at Jaffa?"

"We did." Ronnie laughed. "Delightful spot."

Explanations over, they rode three abreast past the slate-roofedcottages, the Rev. Adrian acknowledging with perfunctorybridle-hand the salutes of his parishioners; andveered left along a metaled road between high telegraph-poles.

"Are you stopping at Titterton's?" asked the parson, eyingRonnie's gray.

"No. He couldn't manage me a room. I'm putting upat the pub in Key Hatch just for the week-end."

"Do they do you well at the Bull?"

"Not badly."

They jogged on, Adrian and Ronnie chatting. Alietterather silent. An open car, whose occupant waved greeting,purred past. Miracle shied, bumping the gray.

"Dash that fellow Moss! Why can't he ride to the meetlike a Christian?" muttered the parson.

Ahead of them, on the straight white of the road, they couldsee various other horsemen and horsewomen, a slow-movingdogcart, and two or three figures a-wheel. They overhauledand passed a flaxen-haired young farmer, very red of faceand waistcoat, on an unclipped four-year-old; they addedto their cavalcade a surly-eyed woman with weatherbeatenfeatures who straddled a ewe-necked black, and answered tothe inappropriate name of "Lady Helen." They came uponthe dogcart, and Aliette reined alongside for a chat. Theparson and Lady Helen jogged on.

"Mr. Cavendish--Mrs. O'Riordan," introduced Aliette.

The lady in the dogcart appeared to fill it, dwarfing theman at her side. She was a vast, voluptuous blond, full-nosedand full-lipped, slightly too well tweeded for thecountry. Her blue eyes, as they surveyed Aliette and Ronnie,held that peculiar twinkle common to all over-sexed women;they seemed to be pondering the problem, "Has Aliette atlast found a lover?"

Mrs. O'Riordan herself, after a hectic but--with one exception--camouflagedcareer, had recently settled down to hersecond (and, she believed, final) adventure in matrimony.The "exception," a semi-literary, semi-theatrical Irish land-ownerwho drove the dogcart, had caused her considerabletrouble to capture; trouble which involved an elopement, ayear of uncertainty, a brace of arranged divorces, variouscolumns of undesirable publicity in the Sunday papers, andthe loss of several influential acquaintances. During thesetroubles Aliette, an old school-friend, had championed MaryO'Riordan's cause; and earned, by so doing, if not gratitudeat least a very tolerable counterfeit thereof.

Ronnie's horse, bucking violently at a passing cyclist, interruptedconversation. The riders trotted on.

"Nice man," commented Mary O'Riordan.

"Good-looking woman, Aliette," remarked her husband.

Mary O'Riordan eyed her new male possession jealously.He was very attractive to the sex, this dark-haired, lantern-jowledIrishman she had captured from his first wife. Itdispleased her to hear him admire other women--especiallywomen like Aliette, whose poised slimness set her own hoydenishbulk at such disadvantage.

4

It is a fifty-year-old custom of the Mid-Oxfordshire Hunt--thepack, started by old Squire Petersfield of Great Petersfieldjust before Waterloo, has changed hands many timesbut never failed its subscribers of their two days a week,with one "bye" monthly--that the first meet in March shouldbe at the Kennels, an unpretentious building of sandstoneand concrete which shelters under the black slope of PetersfieldWoods.

Already, half a mile away, Ronnie could see two blobsof pink, and hounds--a runnel of moving white--pouringout of the gate their kennelman held open. Hounds and pinkdisappeared from view as Aliette led off the road up asandy track between high blackthorns, and kicked Miracleinto a canter.

Following, Ronnie's pulses tingled. He hunted so rarely;but always, hunting, this zest got into his blood. Only to-day,somehow, the zest seemed heightened. It was as though thecantering figure ahead typified the game. He felt drawn toher, drawn after her round the bends of the track, drawninstinctively, drawn irresistibly.

All the last four miles of highroad they had been meetingpeople. Now, just for a moment, they seemed utterly alone.And he knew, abruptly, that he wanted to be alone with thiswoman; that he desired her companionship.

They came to a locked gate. He dismounted, put his backagainst it, and lifted it off the hinges for her. She smileddown at him, "Thank you, Mr. Cavendish." He noticed, forthe first time, how laughter dimpled the cream of her cheeks.They could hear other people coming up the track.

The gray waltzed to Ronnie's remounting. Aliette watchedhim swing to saddle, appraising--as she imagined--only hishorsemanship. But now, in her too, zest stirred, a strangenew zest not entirely attributable to the chase.

Three other riders trotted through the gateway, dispellingillusion. "This way," said the wife of Hector Brunton, K.C.

They ambled, side by side, diagonally across rabbit-bittenpasture; ambled, single-file, through a gap in the hedge-rows;struck an uphill bridle-path; and arrived, almost last,at the meet.

On the flat strip of grass behind the kennels--the directroad to them zigzags steeply down through Petersfield Woods--WillOakley, the huntsman, his crab-apple face a trifle lesssaturnine than usual under its cap-peak, was just gettingready to throw off. Fifteen couple of fairly level houndsdesisted from their rolling and watched him eagerly.

Colonel Sanders, the M.F.H., a heavy old-fashioned soldier,white-mustached, in a heavy old-fashioned hunting-kit (hisspecial low-crowned bell-toppers were the despair of a certainaristocratic hatter in St. James's Street) had just finishedhis inevitable pow-wow with the kennelman. Ross Titterton(the whippety ex-sergeant-major came early, bent on a littleprofitable horse-copery) stood, bridle over arm, by Sir SiegfriedMoss, an immaculate scarlet-coated, black-mustachedyoung politician who rode, by horse-show standards, magnificently.

The Rev. Adrian, no thruster, was finishing an early cigarto be followed by an early nip from his silver flask. LadyHelen had engaged the whipper-in in a reluctant monosyllabicconversation--Jock Herbert was a shy, moon-faced youngman from the North--on the eternal question of scent. Theremainder of the field, about sixty in all, stood in equinegroups of threes and fours a little away from hounds.

Mrs. O'Riordan's dogcart, Sir Siegfried's car and secondhorseman ("Must hunt in one's own constituency occasionally,even if it is a provincial pack," pronounced that very astuteyoung politician), three flappers and a brace of young men onpush-bikes, Mrs. Colonel Sanders and a trio of hard-bittendaughters afoot, a farm hand or two, and the socialist doctorof Key Hatch (who was on a walking-tour with his knapsackedwife and had come quite by accident on this "parasitic sport-crazygathering of the capitalist class") completes the picture.

The M.F.H. greeted Mrs. Brunton, whom he secretlythought an adjectival nice little woman, adjectivally toopretty for that dimmed husband of hers, and gave orders tothrow off.

Low ripple of black, white, and tan between high bobs ofblack and scarlet, pack, whip, and huntsman circled the darkof Petersfield Woods and headed down-hill in the March sunlight.Bay, black, and brown against green turf, followed thefield. Very last, fighting-mad for a gallop, boring sidewaysalong the slope, came the fiddle-headed gray. And "Confoundthe brute!" muttered Ronald Cavendish, seeing, over oneshoulder, a slim black figure on a big chestnut; a slimblack figure which seemed suddenly more important thanthe business of the chase.

But Aliette, watching hounds ahead, had utterly forgottenthat one strange flash of premonition.

5

"Not much luck so far, Mrs. Brunton."

They had been at it nearly two blank hours; trotting fromcovert to tenantless covert; waiting vainly at covert-side forthe "welcome whimper" of hound to scent, for the full musicwhich follows the whimper, for the twang of the huntsman'shorn and the "view-halloo" of fox's departure.

"We ought to find here," said Aliette.

Ronnie's gray, at last mastered to good manners, stoodquietly beside her chestnut at the west corner of Parson'sCopse. To the left of them a ditch and an elder-hedgescreened the wood. All along the ditch and the elder-hedgeother horsemen and horsewomen were waiting. Through thehedge they caught glimpses of browned bracken, of duntree-boles, of a green ride here and a clump of dead bramblethere. In front, the mole-heaved turf crested in shadow toa clouding sky. To the right and below them Parson's Hillsloped to an open valley country: first a strip of ill-fencedwaste-land, a white road; then hedged grass-fields, youngwheat, brown plows, a gleam of water; beyond, a church-tower,squat among poplars; further still, rising turf andtwin hills dark with gorse.

Now, from the other side of the wood, they heard WillOakley's voice: "Leu in, Ranger! Leu in." A whip cracked.They caught the soft twang of a horn.

Life stirred in the wood: a wary pigeon rose blue throughbranches; bracken rustled as a bunny sprinted to hole; ablackbird popped out of the hedge, popped in again. Theywere wise to hounds moving in covert; saw white sterns wavingthrough brown bracken; heard a whimper, another whimper,the horn again. Dubiously, a hound gave tongue; thena second hound. The horses under them twitched excitement.Something red and furtive whisked across the ride. Theyheard Oakley's echoing voice: "Yooi push him up, push himup"; heard a touch of his horn; caught the flicker of hisscarlet among tree-boles.

And suddenly, the pack crashed to deep-toned melody.The copse rang to it. The horses under them began todance. The whole copse was a crash of hound-music, nowdrawing away, now nearing them.

"Fox all right this time," said Ronald Cavendish; andeven as he spoke, Aliette, watching the rise in front, saw alow shadow streak across the shadows and disappear.

Then, simultaneously, Jock Herbert bellowed from thesouth corner of the wood: "Tally-ho! Gone away, gone away,gone away"; a hound or two in full cry leaped down out ofcovert fifty yards ahead; the colonel's voice roared, "Keepback, gentlemen, keep back," behind them; fourteen coupleof crazy hounds streamed down after one; and Will Oakley'sroan came thundering up the ride, crashed through thehedge, over the ditch, and up the crest after a pack youcould have covered under the "pocket-handkerchief," withoutwhich no reporter considers his account of a run complete.

The rest was a mad scurry of eight hoofs to skyline, glimpseof a low fence, flown without thought, of the hounds pouringdown-hill, of Will Oakley, horn still in hand, tally-hoing themon.

"Now where, in the name of all that's holy," mused theRev. Adrian, "will that fox make for?" Most of the fieldwere already away: he could see them galloping alongsidethe wood, topping the fence at crest-line. To the Rev.Adrian's eyes it looked as though they were leaping intoeternity.

Himself and a few wise ones, Ross Titterton included, hadwaited; and so waiting, they saw that the fox must havecircled for the valley.

Hounds, going far faster than the parson approved, crossedthe white road below him. He put his cock-throppled nag toa cautious canter, and bumped downwards across the wasteland.Ross Titterton passed him at a furious gallop; LadyHelen gave him a lead through a gap in the dilapidated fencing.He could see hounds beyond the road: the master andWill Oakley were well up; close behind him rode his brother'swife, Jock Herbert, and that "young Cavendish" whom heremembered at Jaffa.

So far, Aliette and Ronnie had scarcely spoken. Thedog-fox had gone away too suddenly, the ground beyond thatfirst flown fence had been too full of rabbit-holes, for anythingexcept concentration on the immediate job. But even inthat first moment they had been aware of comradeship. Theirthoughts, if either could have uttered them, would havebeen: "I'm glad we were together--just in that place, justat that moment."

Now, as they swept side by side across the twenty-acregrass--gray pulling like mad; chestnut scarcely extended;wind of their going in their faces; field behind and hounds infull cry ahead--the man spoke:

"We got away well."

"Rather." Aliette, drawing in front, smiled at him overher left shoulder. He let the gray have his head. Houndstopped their hedge, flashed on. They saw Will Oakley'sroan fly over; saw the master's scarlet back and bell-topperlift disappear; and cleared the stake-and-bound side by side.

More grass. They grew aware of other riders behind them:Sir Siegfried, very pleased with himself; Ross Titterton,riding jealous to be up; Lady Helen.

The next fence was blackthorn, thick as night, not a gapin it. The hounds, spreading out, scrambled through. WillOakley's horse balanced himself like a good hunter; jumped;and took it clean. Jock Herbert followed him over. Thecolonel, hat crammed to pate, galloped at it; blundered throughsomehow.

Sir Siegfried, on his bay, shot past Ronnie. Aliette, easingMiracle for his leap, saw the self-satisfied smile wiped fromthe politician's face as he took off; felt Miracle rise underher; landed safe on plow; turned her head to glimpse a biggray horse in mid-air; and, turning, heard the thud of afall as Sir Siegfried's four-hundred-guinea bay pecked, slid,and rolled over sideways, wrenched to disaster by clumsyhands.

"Good toss, that," laughed Ronald Cavendish as they canteredslow over the heavy plow. "Who is he?"

"The member for Mid-Oxfordshire." Aliette, too, laughed:it had been a great little burst from covert, and the heart inher--the heart that loved hounds and horses--still beat to it.

"Good fox," said Ronnie.

"Isn't he!" said Aliette.

He was! By now four good fields separated its brushedquarry from the loud pack that labored--sterns and headslevel--across sliced loam.

"Devil take the stuff!" muttered Colonel Sanders, watchinghounds draw away from him. And "Thank God for agate!" muttered Colonel Sanders as he made for it.

Huntsman and whip, too, were making for that gate.Aliette and Ronnie followed their lead, the gray plungingacross the holding furrows like a ship in a storm. Lookingback, they saw the pink politician struggling with his horse,half a dozen black-coats safely landed, Lady Helen bargingin their wake.

A bumpkin in corduroys at the open gate shouted the masterto "mind they wheatfields." The colonel damned his impertinence,and rode on after Will Oakley. Aliette andRonnie shot single file down the trodden path between prickingcorn, and flew the stile at end of it.

The pack, overrunning scent, had thrown up half-wayacross the next wheatfield. Casting themselves to pick up theline, hounds--noses to ground, sterns high--hunted on theirown. Huntsman, whip and master, motionless on theirhorses, glad of the breather, sat watching. Suddenly Rangerfeathered with eager stem, whimpered, and gave tongue.They were off again--Ranger in front, Audacious at Ranger'sflank, a quiet smile on Will Oakley's face as he cantered afterthem.

"Pretty work," said Ronald Cavendish. He and Aliettestill led the field; but the moment's check had given RossTitterton and half a dozen others their chance. They camenow, full split after gray and chestnut, across the youngwheat. Among them, though the wheat was his own, gallopedthe red-faced, red-waistcoated farmer--and the Rev. Adrian,whose eye for country had compensated for his dislike ofjumping.

Something inside Aliette, some curious instinct, vague andincomprehensible, seemed to resent those crowding horsemen.She was aware, dimly, that she would rather be alone, alonewith the man who rode at her side. She wanted hounds tomend their pace, to run mute on a breast-high scent, cleanaway from the field. She wanted to feel Miracle extendedunder her, to hear the gray thudding after.

But now the hounds hunted slowly, puzzling out theirline across a sheep-fouled pasture. As Miracle sailed a lowfence, Aliette saw Key Hatch Church, squatting among poplarsa mile to their right; a plowman, hat off by halted team,pointing the line; some foot-followers in a lane on the left;and in front, six fields away, the sudden gleam of water.

Then the pace mended. The pack raced in full cry toParson's Brook; plunged in, plunged through; and checkeddead on the far side. Will Oakley, putting spurs to his horse,got over. Jock Herbert just managed it. Pulling up thisside the brook, Aliette and the rest of the first flighterswatched the huntsman as he cast hounds forward.

"There's a ford half a mile down," spluttered the Rev.Adrian; and made for it, followed by Lady Helen, Sir Siegfried,his hat dented, his pink plow-plastered, who had at lastmanaged to catch up, the red-waistcoated farmer, and half adozen others.

Ronnie glanced at Aliette. He had no idea if his horsewould face water or not. The brook, broadish under rottingbanks, looked formidable; and it was almost like taking it incold blood--this waiting for hounds to pick up the scentagain. All the same, he knew that if Miracle went over hewould get the gray across if he had to swim for it.

"Better make for the ford, Mrs. Brunton," called thecolonel. He and Ross Titterton galloped off.

They were alone again: two ordinary orderly English people,a little dumb in each other's presence, both moved byvery extraordinary thoughts, thoughts to which they werequite incapable of giving exact expression.

Aliette's red lips had pursed to stubborn determination. "Ihate funking things," thought Aliette. To her, subconsciously,it was as though the water typified something more than amere obstacle encountered in the day's hunting. She knewMiracle could jump it. Neither she nor Miracle would "funkthings." Then why the thought? "Because," some voicein her gave clear answer, "he might."

"It isn't as bad as it looks," said the voice of the man ather side. "I'll give you a lead over."

And at that the voice in her began laughing. She feltunaccountably comforted. "Why should I mind?" shethought.

Beyond the brook, at the big bullfinch on the far side ofthe meadow, a hound feathered. "Yoi-doit, then. Yoi-doit,"came Will Oakley's voice. The hound gave tongue, owningto the line; Aliette saw Ronnie take his gray short by thehead, ram his spurs home, and ride straight at the water.

Miracle raced after the gray, catching up with every stride.Side by side, they galloped the fifty yards to the brook, roseat it, glimpsed it deep under them, flew it, landed.

Landing, she knew him safely over. Racing on, she heardthe thud of his horse-hoofs behind. Her heart thrilled tothe horse-hoofs; it seemed, suddenly, as though some stringhad snapped in her heart. The pack in front was utterlymad: she heard a burst of hound-music from beyond the bullfinch,knew that they were running a breast-high scent, runningclean away from her. She gave Miracle his head, shieldedher eyes with her crop-arm, crashed through the hedge, heardthe gray crash through behind her.

Now she saw the hounds again, a close ripple of black,white, and tan, eight hundred yards away across post-and-railedcommon land. Miracle went after them, drawing upstride by stride, steeplechasing his fences. But the man onthe gray would not be denied. A rail smashed behind her.He was following, following. He mustn't catch up with her--mustnever catch up with her.

The ground rose. Not very far ahead she saw a dark-reddot making for the gorse-clad hills. She heard Will Oakley's"Halloo! Halloo!" as he capped hounds on. They ran nearlymute now, sterns straight, hackles up. The fox vanishedfrom view as they raced up-hill; reappeared again.

But Aliette was no longer aware of the chase. She couldbarely realize that hounds were running into their fox, thatthe two pink coats twenty yards ahead of her were whip andhuntsman. All her conscious mind was at her left shoulder,listening, listening to the horse-hoofs behind. Could it bethat she herself was the quarry of those thudding hoofs,quarry of the man who drove those thudding hoof-beats onward?He mustn't catch up with her! He must nevercatch up with her! And yet could it be that some instinctin her, some instinct earth-old and primeval, wanted to becaught?

That same instinct had been at work in the man on thefiddle-headed horse, the man who rode with his hands low andhis teeth clenched, sitting down to his job as though hewould go through Oxfordshire and out the other side inpursuit of Aliette. He had been aware of it, dimly, as theywaited by the brook; aware of it, furiously, as he jumped.But now, instinct was blurred by the actual chase. Hehad come out for a "good gallop"; he was having his gallop.His feet were jammed home to the hunting-heel, his hatrammed to his head. His eye took in and loved the wholescene: the sky clouding blue-gray above them, the shadowsskimming green turf below, the speeding pink of the hunt-coatsbehind the speeding black, white, and tan of the pack,the flame of gorse on the crest-line ahead.

Yet always, as he galloped, the man knew an urge strongerthan the mere urge of the chase; knew that there was somedim reason why he had waited at Parson's Brook on a strangehorse instead of going full split for the ford; why he mustride on--on and on--ride as he had never ridden before--ridethe gray's shoes off, rather than lose touch with that black-habitedfigure in front. God! How well she went! Howmagnificently she went!

Will Oakley was not worrying about either of them. Foronce in their lives the Mid-Oxfordshire hounds were goinglike the Belvoir or the Cottesmore. Their fox was sinkingbefore them. Will Oakley knew, as his roan topped the greenbank which runs like an earthwork round the foot of GorseHill, that he would view "the varmint" close; viewed him.

No need, now, to lift hounds from scent: they, too, sawthat draggled down-brushed shape, making its last effort;and crashed to fiercest music. Will Oakley hallooed themon, and Jock Herbert. "Yooi to him, Ranger," they hallooed,"Yooi to him, Audacious." Reynard swerved snarling fromRanger's teeth; Audacious snapped, missed; Victory rolledhim over; massed pack were on him, mad for blood, as WillOakley flung himself to ground.

Aliette, pulling up by instinct, saw the huntsman's scarletringed with leaping hounds; heard his joyful "Tear him andeat him, tear him and eat him"; and came back to sanity asthe gray galloped up, halted, and stood with steaming flanksand steaming nostrils while his rider slid from saddle.

6

"By Jove, Mrs. Brunton, that was perfectly great!"

"Thanks to your lead over Parson's Brook."

They stood by their sweating horses, two perfectly normalpeople, rather pleased with their prowess, quite childishlydelighted with the brush which Will Oakley held out to her.

"'T isn't often we gives you a run like that, ma'm," saidthe huntsman; and his saturnine face might have been a boy's,as he produced a piece of whipcord from his breeches pocketand began fastening the brush to Aliette's saddle-ring.

Various belated riders, the wily parson, the panting colonel,and the chagrined politician among them, came up and begancongratulating. Sandwich-boxes were produced, flasks, cigarettes.Sir Siegfried looked at his watch; and started in toconsider what degree of exaggeration might be warranted insubsequent reports of their day. It was nearly half-past twoo'clock--call it three. They had begun to draw Parson'sWood at about one--make it half-past twelve. It is to befeared that the hour's run, by the time it was reported toSir Siegfried's connubial fireside, had suffered considerableextension.

But neither Aliette nor Ronnie, as they walked their horsesside by side into Key Hatch village (Gorse Hill is twelvemiles from kennels, and the colonel, well satisfied with hiskill, had ordered the pack home), spoke of the run.

Indeed, they hardly spoke at all. And when she saidgood-by to him at the open posting-doorways of the Bull,neither remembered to ask the other where or whether theyshould meet again. Which forgetfulness, thought Aliette asshe turned Miracle's head for home, was the strangest part ofa strangely joyous day.

But Ronald Cavendish, watching her mounted figure disappeardown the village street, thought only of their ridetogether.

1

"You can't possibly want to brush it any more, Caroline."Aliette's maid, a square-hipped, square-shouldered,square-faced woman who had been in service with the Fullerfordfamily ever since Judge Fullerford came back fromTrinidad, laid the ivory-backed hair-brushes on the dressing-table,and began to twine the vivid coils round the smallhead.

There is neither gas nor electric light at Moor Park. Inthe slanted oval of the old-fashioned mirror, Aliette couldonly see, either side of her rather serious face, two primrosepoints of candle-flame. The long low bedroom behind her--furnishedin mid-Victorian mahogany, Morris-papered withtiny roses on an exiguous trellis--was almost in darkness,darkness against which the primrose candle-glow showedAliette's full beauty.

You saw her now--bathed after hunting, peacock-bluekimono round her dimpled shoulders--as a creature of supremehealth. Her arms were smooth, lustrous; her wristsrounded; her hands small, a little broad in the palm--resolutestrong hands for all their smallness. Her neck was smooth,full, lustrous as her arms; her bosoms low and firm; her feetfine; her legs, under their black silk stockings, slim-ankledand smooth-muscled--almost classic in their perfection.

Caroline Staley's mistress hardly moved while CarolineStaley completed the simple hair-dressing. Her deliberatemind was busy with the past day. She relived it--momentby moment,--loving it. The primeval instinct which hadmomentarily and subconsciously troubled her was asleep again,lulled to civilized quiescence by the air and the exercise. Sheremembered her pursuer in the field only as a pleasant companionablefigure against the background of March sunlightand English countryside. Nevertheless, she found herselfwishing, vaguely, that he were coming to dinner that night.

It would be a dullish dinner. Her husband had arrived bythe afternoon train, bringing the usual bagful of legal papersto assimilate over the week-end, and her sister Mollie. Mollieand Hector always got on well with each other. She hadfound them taking tea together when she arrived home; andleft them alone after a brief greeting. The Rev. Adrian wasto be there, with his bishop's daughter. "Billy" would wantto know all about the day's run. "Dear Billy!"

Hector Brunton's wife inspected her maid's handiwork, androse to be frocked. Mollie came in without knocking; lit anothercandle or so, and helped with a hook or two.

"Nice frock," decided Mollie Fullerford, surveyingAliette's black lace and silver tissue. Her voice resembledAliette's; but there resemblance ended. The girl stood halfa head taller than the woman. She had violet eyes, a broadishbrow, and dark, almost black hair, bobbed during convalescence.Her coloring was white in comparison with Aliette'scream; but two patches of natural bloom glowed in her cheeks.She wore a panniered dress of blue and mauve shot taffeta,wide over the hips, tight round the ankles, short-sleeved, neckcut high to conceal one of her wound-scars. Her arms, hands,and feet, well-shaped as her sister's, looked more powerful.Altogether rather a hefty, healthy, happy young creature--thesort of creature a decent hefty young man would singleout at a dance.

"No nicer than yours," retorted Aliette, slipping her ringson her fingers, and adjusting the short single string of pearlsround her throat.

A knuckle rapped the door-panels; a loudish voice asked:"May I come in, dear?"

"Yes. I'm just ready."

Hector entered--a big, over-big man, the glazed shirt-frontalready bulging out of his black waistcoat. The K.C., shornof legal wig and trappings, did not look very dignified; nevertheless,he gave an impression of force. The sandy hair wasscant on his wide mottled forehead; his eyes were a cold gray;his nose tended to the bulbous. The clean-shaven lips appearedthin and a trifle cruel; his jowl was heavy--almost thejowl of a mastiff. He had the hands of a gentleman, thefeet of a clodhopper.

"Is it time for dinner?" asked the wife. The husbanddrew from his waistcoat pocket a heavy gold watch; consultedthe hands of it; and admitted the accuracy of her suggestion.

"Then we'd better be going down," decided Aliette.

2

The dining-room at Moor Park possesses, or is possessedby, the largest suite of mid-Victorian mahogany everfashioned. The sideboard, gleaming always with massive silver,occupies the entire east end of the apartment, barelyleaving room for a white-paneled Adams door. Either sideof the marble mantelpiece stand two colossal serving-tables.Gigantic horsehair-seated armchairs, ranged between the longred-curtained windows, spill a brood of slightly less giganticoffspring round the mastodontic board.

The mulligatawny and the cod with oyster-sauce had alreadybeen served by the two cap-and-aproned wenches, whomthe rear-admiral declared to be "a damned sight better thanany heavy-handed son of a gun who smoked a fellow's cigars,drank his port, and did as little work as the old bumboat-womanof Portsmouth."

Rear-Admiral Billy was enjoying himself. His jovial eyes,a little red-rimmed with age under the heavy brown thatchof his hair, kept glancing round at "his two colts and theirfillies" (one is, alas! forced to modify a good many of theadmiral's pet expressions) and at that "jolly little piece inthe No. 5 rig," Aliette's sister. His trim beard, grayed onlyat the extremities, kept wagging accompaniment to Aliette'saccount of the run; the course of which his hairy-backed handswere trying to trace, in bread and salt, on the table-cloth.

"'Spose you funked as usual, Adrian," rumbled the oldman across the enormous table. "God knows what I've everdone to deserve a son in the church."

The Rev. Adrian, in clerical evening dress, only laughedat his father's criticism; but the Rev. Adrian's Margery firedup in defense of her spouse.

"Adrian's seen more active service than most men of hiscloth," began the little aquiline, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned,and darkly determined woman, who dressed (whennatural circumstances permitted her--as they did not at themoment) with the severe precision of unadorned royalty.

Aliette continued her low-voiced description of the day'srun; Hector tried explaining to an attentive Mollie the exactdifference between a disbarred barrister and a solicitor whohas been struck off the rolls; the cap-and-aproned wenchesset an enormous joint of mutton before the host, who alwaysinsisted on carving with his own hands; and dinner proceeded.

To Hector Brunton's wife the dullish meal was less unpleasantthan her anticipation of it. She liked her father-in-law--thoughhis occasional coarseness always jarred her sensitivemind. She appreciated her sister's week-end visit;and anticipated with some pleasure the family talk whichwould precede their going to bed. But above all, she likedbeing away from the constraining intimacy of her home withHector.

Recently Hector had been growing more and more difficultto deny. She caught him looking at her now, sideways acrossthe vast white of the table-cloth. Vaguely she felt sorry forhim. His cold eyes almost held an appeal. "Look round,"they seemed to be saying, "it isn't so bad; really it isn't sobad, this little family party. Can't we make it up, you andI?"

"Poor Hector!" she thought. "He's a very simple person.He doesn't understand"; and checked thought, not abruptly,but with the same quiet firmness she had applied to Miraclethat morning.

For Aliette never posed, even to herself. She was the veryantithesis of the usual misunderstood married woman; so far,the mere thought of a compensating lover had never enteredher head. All that happened afterward--and sometimes, lookingback, it seems to her as though it all began from thatchance remark of Adrian's--happened of its own volition.At the moment Adrian spoke she was just an ordinary woman,who had married an ordinary man in the expectation of ahome and children, found him out in various infidelities, anddecided--after due thought--that she could no longer payhis physical price for the dwindling possibility of motherhood.

"We had young Cavendish out with us to-day," said theparson. "Julia Cavendish's son. You know him, I suppose,Hector?"

"Yes. Clever fellow. No orator, but very sound on hislaw. He's doing junior to me in the Ellerson case. Ratheran interesting case----"

"He and Aliette gave us all a lead."

"Rides well, does he?"

"Rather. A fine horseman. Handsome looking chap, too."The parson glanced at his sister-in-law, not maliciously, yetwith a certain puzzlement. Listening with half an ear to herdescription of the run, he had wondered why she made nomention of the stranger. "Didn't you think so, Aliette?" hewent on.

"I can't say I noticed his looks. He certainly rides well."The wallflower-brown eyes betrayed no startle, the pale,cream-tinged cheeks did not blush. Nevertheless, deep downin the inmost recesses of her nature, Aliette felt herself startle,not guiltily, but in wonderment at her inexplicable omission.What possible reason could there be for not mentioning theman?

Adrian continued to discuss Ronnie, and Ronnie's mother,and Maurice Cavendish, whom he had encountered years sinceat Oxford.

"His son's rather like him; but of course he's got theWixton chin," said Adrian.

All the time Adrian talked, Aliette was asking herself questions.Why hadn't she even mentioned the man's name?Why? Why? Why? Harking back to her conversation, sheseemed to have made the omission deliberately.

She tried to laugh herself out of the absurd mood; to joinin the conversation. Deliberate? Ridiculous! She justhadn't thought about him. And yet, subconsciously, theman's face rose up before her, serious and strangely vividagainst the glow of the table-candles. She could almost hearhis voice, "I'll give you a lead over, Mrs. Brunton."

3

"Do you know, Alie, I've sometimes thought that you andHector don't get on very well together."

Mollie, in dressing-gown and bedroom slippers, sat on theedge of her sister's bed. Margery Brunton, inclining to theaggressive about her forthcoming infant, departed early; andthe two Fullerfords had been talking for nearly an hour,quite unsentimentally, about frocks, parents, books, a theateror so.

"What makes you say that?" Aliette, shoulder-deep inbedclothes, looked up from her pillow.

"Oh, I don't know." The girl blushed; and there fell amoment's awkward silence, during which it flashed throughAliette's sleepy mind that perhaps Hector had been confidingtheir matrimonial differences to his sister-in-law. But shedismissed the thought: Hector's reticence, even about smallmatters, was proverbial in the family. Besides, the reasonfor Mollie's question was sufficiently obvious.

"We get on as well as most married people, I expect,"protested Hector Brunton's wife.

"I'm afraid I'm a terrible sentimentalist," went on Mollie."Sometimes," she blushed again, "I think I'm even worsethan that. I've never met a man I liked well enough tomarry. Though, of course, I've let two or three men makelove to me. It's rather nice to feel that a man's fond ofyou." She hesitated, and broke off--Aliette being hardly thekind of sister to whom one confided one's love-affairs.

"Most women are awful rotters," said the girl, after along pause. Aliette restrained the retort at her lips; andMollie's naïve revelations continued. "Most men aren't.They've got a higher sense of honor than we have. I foundthat out while I was nursing. Reading the women's lettersto fellows who'd been gas-blinded. There was one, I remember,who wanted a divorce. She wrote: 'I'm afraid I haven'tbeen playing the game while you've been away.' And shedidn't seem a bit ashamed of herself."

"Did you read him the letter?" interrupted Aliette.

"No. But I wrote to the woman; and she wrote back,thanking me. Thanking me!" Mollie's voice rose. "She'ddecided that 'after all, and especially as he was so bad, it wouldbe better not to tell him. Would I burn her silly letter?'I think that's beastly." Her violet eyes kindled. "I'm nota prig. I don't believe divorce is wrong. But I do considerit dirty, when a woman or a man do--that sort of thing."

Aliette's face, smooth on its pillows between braided coils,gave no hint of the thoughts in her mind. Vaguely she resentedan unmarried girl, or, in fact, any woman discussing"that sort of thing"; but her resentment, she knew, wouldonly make the younger generation laugh. The younger generationof girls, as represented by Mollie, did not believe insqueamishness. Perhaps--Aliette seemed to remember thatJulia Cavendish had touched on the subject in her last novel--theyounger generation were no less virtuous because theyfaced facts instead of hiding their heads, ostrich-like, in thesands of innocence.

"I don't see," Mollie's decided voice closed the conversation,"why being in love should prevent one from playing thegame."

She rose, gathered her dressing-gown round her, asked if sheshould blow out the candle, did so, and made for the door.

"By the way," said the figure silhouetted against the glowof the corridor-lamp, "I suppose there's a service at KeyHatch to-morrow afternoon. If there is, let's go. It's sucha ripping little church; and I can't bear being preached to byAdrian."

"If you like, dear," replied an unguarded Aliette. Butwhen the door closed and she lay alone in darkness, her mindreverted to its problem, to that peculiar omission of RonaldCavendish's name.

4

Morning broke to gusts of rain. Hector locked himself inthe library; the admiral inspected his greenhouses; Mollierefused to get up; and Aliette wrote letters.

Somehow, the letters took a long while to write. She foundherself, pen in raised hand, dreaming. In her day-dreamshappiness and dissatisfaction mingled incoherently, as thevoices of two people heard through a wall. She could notcatch the words of the voices, only the tones of them: one low-laughing,the other querulous. For the first time since girlhood--andeven in girlhood she had been deliberate--deliberatethought abandoned her. She felt content that her mindshould drift idly through an idle day. Only when Mollie--appearingbrogued and tweeded for luncheon--reminded herof the agreed church-going, did her brain resume its normalfunction.

"In all probability I shall see Ronald Cavendish"--thethought came startlingly as Aliette watched Hector at workon the inevitable roast beef and Yorkshire pudding of theadmiral's Sabbath. "I hope I shall see Ronald Cavendish"--sodistinct were the words that they might have been actuallyspoken.

"It's clearing up," announced her father-in-law. "You'llhave a jolly walk. Ought to start about half-past three. Betterhave some tea at the Bull. Service is at half-past five."

"I don't think I'll go," said Aliette. "I've got rather aheadache."

"Do your headache good," rumbled the admiral.

She pulled herself together. Why shouldn't she go to KeyHatch; why shouldn't she meet Ronald Cavendish? Not,of course, that she really wanted to meet Ronald Cavendish....

5

"I wonder why on earth I invented that headache," thoughtAliette, as she and Mollie tramped down the drive. Hectorhad returned to work in the library; he waved them au revoirfrom the desk by the window.

A fantasy came to her: "I shall never see Hector again."She said to herself: "I hope he hasn't gone back to town."She said to herself: "Aliette, don't be an absolute idiot."

For, after all, could anything be more idiotic than that awoman of nearly thirty--and that woman Mrs. Brunton, Mrs.Hector Brunton, wife of Hector Brunton, K.C.--should feellike--like a schoolgirl going to meet her first choir-boy?

And yet, instinctively, Aliette knew herself somehowcaught, somehow entangled. No escape from that knowledge!Ridiculous or not, this stranger she was going to meet--ofcourse they would meet him; he couldn't have gone back totown--interested her. Interested her enormously. She sawhim again in the eyes of her mind, his serious face, his blueeyes, his hair--such curious hair, goldy-gray as thoughbleached by the tropics,--all the while she swung, listeningto Mollie's chatter, along the familiar lanes.

A low sun, emerging from between gold-edged clouds, shoneon them walking. The hedges dripped cool sparkles. Cow-parsleypushed its feathery green through the tangled grassof the ditches. They topped the rise by Moor Farm, and sawKey Hatch below them. It lay in a cup of the valley, grayand brown and slate-blue through leafless branches againstthe concave jade of pasture-land. Half a mile on, midwaybetween them and the village, two figures strolled up-hill.

Social sense, banishing idiotic fantasies, reasserted itself inHector Brunton's wife; and, five minutes later, the fourfigures met.

"How do you do, Mrs. Brunton?"

"How do you do, Mr. Cavendish?"

Ronnie introduced his friend; Aliette introduced them bothto Mollie.

The friend, James Wilberforce, carried his five feet elevenwell. He had broad shoulders and a rather clever face, aquilineof nose, brown-eyed, high cheek-boned, full-lipped undera "toothbrushed" mustache. His mustache and his hair onlyjust escaped being carroty. His voice carried a faint suggestionof superciliousness.

"An overworked solicitor," he told them with a humoroustwinkle of his brown eyes, "taking a day off in the country."He was "charmed" to meet Mrs. Brunton. He had had thepleasure of knowing her husband for some years. "A greatman."

Mollie liked the way he spoke. She thought him much moreagreeable than Mr. Cavendish, who appeared to her rather asobersides--almost ill at ease, in fact.

"We were just having a stroll before tea," announced Wilberforce,after about five minutes of uninspired conversation.

"And we are going to have tea at the Bull before church,"retorted the girl. "So we'd better all have tea together."She marched Wilberforce off down the hill.

Her sister and Cavendish followed slowly. Now that theyhad actually met, Aliette felt thoroughly ashamed of themental fuss she had made about him. He was a perfectlyordinary man, who happened to have given her a lead overParson's Brook. Rather a nice man, of course. She liked theway he wore his clothes, his assumption that she did notrequire him to chatter. He walked--she noticed in the gatheringtwilight--almost as well as he rode, easily from the hips.

"You've let your pipe out," she told him.

He stopped to rekindle it; and she saw that his handtrembled ever so slightly in the glow of the match. "Nervy,"she thought. She did not divine that the long scholarly fingerstrembled because the man had scarcely slept for overmuchthinking of the woman at his side; that he had been sayingto himself, ever since he espied her on the brow of the hill,"Don't be a fool. Don't be a damn fool. She's HectorBrunton's wife."

That afternoon her sheer physical beauty thrilled him likefine poetry. He had no idea how she was dressed. Her clothesseemed part of her--deep wallflower brown, the color of hereyes. He wanted to acknowledge her beauty, to say:"You're wonderful; too wonderful for any man's sight."Actually, he opined that they had had a jolly run, and hopedhe'd get another day with the Mid-Oxfordshire some time orother.

On horseback he could thrust with the best of them, thislong, loose-limbed young man with the serious face above theWixton chin; but he was no thruster after women. Too muchthe poet for that--one of those many dumb poets who have nodesire to flaunt their emotions in cold print.

The four came down the hill, Mollie and Wilberforce stillleading, round a whitewashed farmhouse, along a strip of wetroad whereon a few bowler-hatted chawbacons strolled arm-in-armwith their red-cheeked, silent Dollies, under leaflesselm branches, into the main--and only--street of Key Hatch.

England's Sabbath brooded obviously over stone cottages,picturesquely inefficient, flower-pots blocking their tiny windows,doors closed. Already, here and there behind theflower-pots, an extravagant light twinkled. Half-way downthe street, its bow-windows inhospitably blinded, stood theBull, relic of posting-days, whose rusty signboard had so farfailed to attract the motorist. At street-end, dark against thecold cloud-banks of declining day, loomed the square towerof Key Hatch Church.

Mollie and Wilberforce waited at the side door of the inntill the others joined them.

"You won't mind having tea in my sitting-room. I'mafraid there isn't a fire anywhere else," said Cavendish; andled his three guests down a narrow corridor--rigid fish inglass cases and an iron hatstand its only decorations--into aparlor where firelight danced invitingly.

Wilberforce lit the lamp, revealing a five-legged tea-table setfor two, a hard sofa, three antimacassared chairs, a stuffedbarn-owl between Britannia-ware candlesticks on the mantelpiece,and the usual litter of photographs in sea-shell frameswithout which no English inn considers itself furnished.

Cavendish jerked the bell-tassel; Mrs. Wiggins, a pleasant-featuredyoung woman already attired for church-going,bustled in with the brown teapot; nearly courtesied toAliette; bustled out again, and reappeared with the extrautensils.

"You'll pour out for us, won't you, Mrs. Brunton?" askedthe host.

"If you like." Aliette spoke in her usual deliberate way.But now, for the first time, she felt self-conscious. Was herhat on straight? Had she remembered to powder her nosebefore starting?

Pouring tea, handing cups, busied with the most ordinarysocial duties, there swept over her mind the most extraordinaryfantasies. And quite suddenly she wanted to take offher hat!

"But this is ridiculous," she said to herself. "I can't takeoff my hat." Nevertheless she wanted to. She must! Thiswas his room. His cap lay on the sofa, his pipe on the mantelpiece.Therefore ... She realized with amazement that herhands were already raised to her head.

"Alie, you haven't given me any sugar." Her sister'sirritated voice dispelled the moment's illusion. One handdropped to her lap, the other to the sugar-tongs.

"Sorry, dear." She recognized the shyness in her ownwords, and covered shyness with a conventional laugh, "I'mgetting forgetful in my old age."

Discussing ages with their bread and butter, they made theoriginal discovery that a woman is as old as she looks, et cetera.Over hunks of Mrs. Wiggins's home-made cake, Ronaldadmitted to thirty-six, Wilberforce to forty.

"You don't look forty," decided Mollie: and at thatmoment, just as she was thinking she had never listened to amore artificial conversation, Aliette trapped her host's blueeyes in a glance no woman could possibly mistake.

In a way the glance, so momentary, so quickly veiled thatonly her heart assured her that she had actually seen it, resembledthe glance she had trapped in her husband's eyesover dinner. And yet it was utterly different. It held reverence,a resigned hopelessness, a devotional quality of whichHector's cold gray pupils could never be capable.

Now, with amazement, she knew herself panicked. Panicked,not because of the look in his eyes, but because sherealized that, in another second, her own would have respondedto them. She was not "shocked" at his daring; herinaccessible beauty had not passed through seven years ofmarried life in London without various similar experiences.But she was "shocked" at her own impulse. Heretoforesuch glances, even the words which on occasion accompaniedthem, had left her completely indifferent, utterly uncaring,positively contemptuous. This--did not leave her indifferent.This--this mattered....

Subconsciously, she who never swore began swearing atherself. "You're a fool, Aliette. A damn fool." Doubtnagged her. "You made a mistake. You only imagined thatglance." The code nagged her. "Even if you didn't imagineit, he had no right----"

And all the time her outward self, the socially-trainedAliette, was behaving as though nothing unusual had occurred,filling teacups, nibbling cake, talking this or thattriviality. No, she was not an ardent church-goer. Yes, herbrother-in-law preached splendidly. But she objected to seeinghim in the pulpit. Why? She didn't quite know why;it seemed too intimate, somehow or other. Like being introducedto the Deity as a relation by marriage.

Mollie and Wilberforce laughed at that. Their laughterdisturbed Aliette. She and Cavendish sat stupidly silent tillchurch-bells began.

"You'd better come with us. It will do you both good,"said Mollie to the solicitor.

"I haven't been inside a church since I left the army,"declared Wilberforce.

"All the more reason to come with us," smiled Mollie, wholiked this big auburn man, had liked him more and more eversince he was first introduced.

And to church, casually, those four went.

6

As she knelt by the stone pillar on the thin hard hassock, itseemed to Hector Brunton's wife that she had forgotten howto pray, that her eyes were being drawn sideways through herfingers. Only by concentrating could she achieve a moment'sdevotion. Settling herself back in the pew, she was vividlyaware of Cavendish's proximity.

By no means a fanatic, Aliette nevertheless accepted herfather's Protestantism. Religion formed part of the code, ofthose indubitable laws on which one based existence. But onthis particular evening Protestantism seemed a farce. Shecould not imagine any god taking pleasure in the gas-lit ceremonial,in the vacuous-eyed congregation, in the artificialintonations of the parson or the hymn-numbers on the board.All these seemed hugely distant from any concept of worship.Somehow, she caught herself yearning for a richer ceremonial,for a warmer faith. Somehow, she seemed to remember--dimlyout of childhood--her grandmother's voice:

"My dear, we've decided to forgive. But, O Marie! aren'tyou lonely? Don't you feel as though God had gone out ofyour life?"

And her mother's voice seemed to answer: "Mother, can'tyou understand? It's the same God. He hasn't gone out ofmy life just because I worship Him differently. He couldn'tabandon any woman who sacrificed herself for love's sake."

The two voices faded into the past.

But now Aliette realized struggle in her soul. It was asthough her soul stood at bay, at bay with some terrible decision;as though her soul were being swept toward somecontest whose ending, whether victory or defeat, only Godcould foresee. Once again she felt panic. Yet how shouldthere be panic here in Key Hatch Church?

Already they were singing the last hymn. This man, thisman beside her was called Cavendish. Ronald Cavendish!She could see his eyes, now dropped to the hymn-book, nowraised again. She could see his ungloved hands on the pew-rail.She could hear his voice.

And abruptly, panic passed; abruptly, she felt the veryspirit of her a-thrill, a-thrill as though to fine music.

7

Hector Brunton's wife and Julia Cavendish's son saidgood-by to each other in the cottage-twinkling darkness at thefoot of Key Hatch hill, shaking hands coolly, impersonally--merestacquaintances. Indeed, Aliette's "Good night, Mr.Cavendish" sounded a hundred times less cordial thanMollie's "I hope we shall meet again, Mr. Wilberforce."

And yet forty-eight hours later Aliette bolted.

She bolted, neither with Cavendish nor from Cavendish.She merely bolted to Devonshire.

To herself she succeeded in pretending that she was runningaway from Hector, from the inevitable recurrence ofhis amorousness; to Hector, that--hunting being almost over--Mollie'sreturn to Clyst Fullerford furnished an excellentopportunity for her to pay the annual visit to her home.

Hector grumbled, but gave in; and the two sisters traveledback together, Mollie chattering all the way down, Aliettesilently speculating whether "home" would cure the mentaland spiritual unease of which she now felt acutely conscious.

But the unease persisted. Either "home" had changedits attitude toward her, or else she had changed her attitudetoward "home." The little wayside station with its oneporter and its six milk-cans, the up-hill drive in the twilight,the first sight of the pilastered lodge, meant less than everbefore. Her heart did not warm to anticipation at thoughtof the lit drawing-room, of her mother's hair white in thelamp-glow. Even when her father welcomed her in theantlered hall, she felt like a visitor.

They seemed to her so old, so settled, so remote from theactuality of life, these two: Andrew (Aliette was of that agewhen children think of parents by their Christian names) withhis veined hands, his tired eyes and patient mouth, his slowvoice and stooping shoulders; Marie, thin, pleasantly querulous,all traces of beauty save the eyes, wallflower-brown asher daughter's own, dead in the lined face.

The very house, long and low, browned by time, its mullionedwindows dim with staring down the vale, seemeduncaring of her presence. Even her own room, the roomalways kept for Aliette, the white furniture bought for Aliettewhen she came back from boarding-school in France, could notgive her the peace she sought. These things, and the thingsin the gardens, the pink-hearted primulas and the sheatheddaffodils, seemed insentient of trouble, of the trouble in hermind.

It had not been thus when she returned after marriage.Then the place had smiled its wanderer welcome. Now it wasthe wanderer who smiled; wanly; conscious of chill response;conscious--daily and hourly more conscious--of an issue shemust face unaided.

People, people she had known since cradle-days, came andwent, busied as ever with the same pleasant trivial countryround, keeping much to themselves, a little resentful of thewar-rich who were creeping into Devonshire, ousting war-poorcounty-folk, transforming old places, building themselves new.

"Dear Aliette," said the people she had known sincecradle-days, "you're looking younger than ever."

"Dear people," she used to answer, "how nice of you tosay so." For outwardly she remained the same calm Fullerfordwho had married a Brunton. Nobody, not even Mollie,guessed the emotions that obsessed her. To them she wasHector Brunton's wife; not a girl of twenty-seven, dreamingherself in love, in love for the first time.

Outwardly, she remained so calm. Her eyes were unruffledpools; her voice a mannered suavity. Even the Martins failedto irritate her.

And Eva Martin would have irritated most sisters. Thedignity of "colonel's lady" sat heavily on Eva's narrowshoulders. She resembled Mollie in vivacity, Aliette in complexion;but her eyes were their own cold blue, her hair itsown fading gold, and her lips, which smiled often, but neverin affection, two thin lines of anemic red across her undimpledcheeks.

Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Martin's husband--a tall, gauntsoldier-man, uncompromising in speech, direct of dark eye,whom Aliette and Mollie would have liked well enough hadhe not been Eva's--spent a full ten days. They brought theirchildren with them; and left them behind when they departed:two well-drilled little girls, who gave no trouble toanybody--and no enjoyment.

So, for Aliette, Devon March warmed toward Devon April,bringing neither peace of mind nor solution of the issue; onlythe certainty that she who thought herself invulnerable hadsuccumbed within thirty-six hours of making his acquaintanceto the temporary attractions of a man.

"For, of course," she used to muse, "it was only temporary;a moment's infatuation; the sort of thing I've alwaysheard about and never believed in. Curious, that I should stillthink so much about it! Am I still thinking about it--orabout him? I am being funny. What's the matter withme? Love at first sight? The coup de foudre? But that'sludicrous; simply ludicrous. The sooner I get back to Londonand leave off brooding, the better."

Nevertheless, as she ordered Caroline Staley to pack, HectorBrunton's wife realized herself desperately grateful that herhusband--as announced by telegram--had been "called out oftown."

Such wires, coinciding with vacation-times, usually signifiedthat he had grown weary of entreating her fastidiousness!

1

If you, being a stranger to this London of ours, inquire afterTemple Bar, your inquiry will be fruitless.

Temple Bar was removed about forty years since; but ifyou traverse the Strand, and, leaving the jostle of the Strandbehind you, venture on--past Mr. Gladstone's statue and thetwo churches which part the streaming traffic as rocks partthe waters of a river--you will become suddenly aware of twopointed wings and a grotesque dragon-shaped head showingblack between high buildings against a narrow slip of sky.

This is the "Griffin." He stands where Temple Bar stood.Above him tower the clock and gray pinnacles of the lawcourts. Westward, he looks toward the seethe of near Aldwych,and far Trafalgar Square. Behind him clang the news-pressesof Fleet Street. At his right wing and his left youwill find the advocates of our law; "barristers," as we callthem.

They are not quite of the every-day world, these barristers.Their minds, even their bodies, seem to move more precisely.The past influences them rather than the present. Sentimentalityinfluences them hardly at all. At home--even now veryfew of them live at the wings of the Griffin--these men maybe lovers, husbands, friends. Here they are advocates of acode, a selected body, inheritors of a six-hundred-year-oldtradition. Very pleasant fellows on the whole: not at allinhuman; only--as befits their calling--a little aloof.

It may perhaps help our stranger to understand this aloofnessif, turning southward from the Griffin down the cleftsof Inner or Middle Temple Lane, he will explore some ofthe "courts" where these barristers of ours have their"chambers"--Hare Court, Pump Court, Fountain Court,Miter Court, and the rest.

Here, not a newsboy's shout from Fleet Street, our exploringstranger will find a veritable sanctum of time-defyingquiet--red-brick and gray-stone houses, paved or graveledwalks, fountains, courtyards, trees, gardens, cloisters, colonnades,and quadrangles; the whole set, as though it were asymbol of tradition controlling progress, midway between themoneyed "City" and the governing "West End."

But the quiet of the Temple--Gray's Inn and Clifford's Innlie north of the Griffin and beyond our story--is an illusivequiet; the quiet of good manners concealing busyness. If youwatch the faces of the men who walk those graveled courtyards,you will see them as obsessed by thought as the facesof any merchant in the moneyed City. If you climb theuncarpeted stairs of those Georgian houses, and read thenames painted in block letters on the doors, you will findmany whom the clanging presses of Fleet Street have madefamiliar--and many, many more to whom even the fame ofFleet Street has never come.

So far, Ronald Cavendish, who shared his chambers inPump Court with three other barristers and Benjamin Bunce,their communal clerk--a little melancholy individual with aface like parchment, the clothes of a waiter off duty, andwatery blue eyes which perpetually craved recognition--belongedto the latter category. "But the Ellerson case,"thought Benjamin, "might easily bring 'us' into prominence."

It meant a good deal that "we," who had lost five years atthe bar through "our" going to the war, should be briefed byWilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright, that very solid firmof Society solicitors, as junior to the great Brunton. "We,"backed by our friendship with young Mr. Wilberforce, "our"mother's name, and an undoubted grip of common law problems,were certainly going to get on--an excellent circumstancefor Bunce.

"Ellerson v. Ellerson to-day, sir. King's Bench Seven.Mr. Justice Mallory's court. I have put the papers on yourdesk." The little man spoke as though "we" were so busyas to need reminding; and withdrew into the anteroom.

Ronald Cavendish threw an amused "Thanks, Bunce,"after the retreating figure; and applied himself to study.Ellerson (Lady Hermione) v. Ellerson (Lord Arthur) presentedfeatures of intense legal interest. Could a wife, actuallybut not yet judicially separated from her husband, suehim for libel? If successful, could she obtain damages?There were precedents, of course--Hill v. Hill and another,Rowland v. Rowland. To say nothing of the celebratedClitheroe decision!

Long ago the junior, acting on Brunton's instructions, hadlooked up those precedents. Now another possible one crossedhis mind. He rose from the ink-stained table; searchedamong the bookshelves; found a volume; and stood thumbingit. The precedent was useless: Brunton, as usual, had drawnthe covert like a pack of beagles--leaving not even a rabbitunscented.

Brunton! Thinking of his "leader," professional instinctsblurted in the barrister's brain. The low, dingy, paneledroom, the shaft of sunlight on the worn carpet, the green oftrees at his window, seemed to vanish from view. He was onhorseback again--fox-hunting--with Brunton's wife.

"March," he thought. "And now it's May. Why can't Iforget?"

But he couldn't forget. The woman's face, flawless, almostcolorless, the vivid wallflower-brown of her eyes and hair,had haunted him for nearly three months. He was "in love"with her. At least, he supposed he must be "in love."

He had been "in love" before; with a girl in Hampshire(long ago, that--he could scarcely remember her name--Prudence);with the usual undesirable; with his cousin, LucyEdwards, when he went to the front. Remembering suchmilk-and-water affairs, it seemed impossible that this newemotion could be love.

Was it perhaps passion! He began, standing there in thesunlight, to consider passion--as dispassionately as Alietteherself might have tried to consider it. (In deliberation ofthought, they resembled each other, these two.) Although byno means an ascetic, he hated the abstract idea of passion,finding it rather indecent--like the letters not meant forpublic eyes which, defying the vigilance of solicitors, occasionallyfound their way into that stereotyped farce, thedivorce court.

And yet this emotion could hardly be other than passion.

The blue eyes under the broad brow grew very serious.Inwardly Ronald Cavendish, despite his outward poise--theresult of training--had remained extraordinarily young."Passion," he thought; "how beastly." And for anotherman's wife! That made it impossible. That was why theemotion must be fought.

He had been fighting it ever since they parted. But theemotion would not be conquered. At times it became an ache,a sheer physical ache.

At such times--and one of them, he knew, was on him now--Ronnieconceived an amazing distrust of his own self-control;an amazing gladness that they had not met inLondon: although he had seen her, at a distance, more thanonce, walking across Hyde Park, a Great Dane dog at herheels. They looked, to his imagination, the tiniest mite forlorn--alittle lonely woman (he always thought of her aslittle) with a big lonely hound. Invariably, the sight of herdispelled mere passion, melting it to a strange tenderness,akin to the tenderness he felt toward his mother.

"Mr. James Wilberforce on the telephone, sir," announcedBenjamin Bunce; and shattered introspection. Ronnie wentoutside to the communal telephone.

"Hello, Ronnie." The solicitor's voice sounded irascibleover the wire.

"Hello, Jimmy; what's the trouble?"

"The Ellerson case. Lady H. has got the wind up. She'swith the pater now; wants to go and sit in court till the casecomes on; wants a conference with Brunton; wants anythingand everything. Of course we can't get hold of H. B. Canwe bring her over to you?"

"Bring her along, by all means," said the barrister.

2

The offices of Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright, whichoccupy three floors of a modern red-brick building at the footof Norfolk Street, fifty yards from the Thames Embankmentand the Temple station of the Underground, are rabbit-warrenedby white-wood partitions and frosted glass doorsinto a maze of conflicting passages.

On the top floor are the bookkeeping rooms, whence issue--stillin stately clerical handwritings--those red-tapedfolioed bills ("To long and special interview when we informedyou that we had taken counsel's opinion and he wasof the opinion that ...") which are never disputed thoughoften delayed in payment by an aristocratic clientèle.

Below these, the Cartwrights--an old-fashioned firm ofCity solicitors and commissioners for oaths, with a practiceone third commercial (Mr. Jacob Cartwright), one thirdadmiralty (Mr. Hezekiah Cartwright), and one third criminal(Mr. John Cartwright), who amalgamated with theWilberforces in 1918--hold undisputed sway.

On the ground floor, guarded by a bemedaled commissionaire,sit Sir Peter Wilberforce and his son, surroundedby their secretaries, their telephone-exchange, their notice-boards,and their waiting-rooms.

Jimmy Wilberforce finished his conversation on the privatetelephone; left the box; gave a casual glance at two obviouslyseafaring gentlemen who were importuning Sergeant Murphyto "hurry up Mr. Hezekiah"; and went back to his father'soffice--a scrupulously tidy apartment, black gold-lettereddeed-boxes lining one of its walls, the rest pictureless andpainted palest écru in contrast with the mahogany furnitureand the tobacco-brown carpet on which Lady Hermione Ellerson'sermine muff now sprawled like a huge white cat.

Jimmy's father--a white-haired, white-mustached oldgentleman, gold-eye-glassed, black-coated, a little bald of foreheadbut still ruddy of cheek--sat in his favorite attitude, onefine hand on the chair-arm, the other grasping an ivory paper-knife,at the leather-topped desk by the big bright window.By his side drooped his client.

"Well?" queried Sir Peter Wilberforce.

Jimmy turned to Lady Hermione. "I am afraid I can't gethold of Brunton for you. But Cavendish can see us if we goover at once."

"Oh, that is kind of Mr. Cavendish!" purred LadyHermione.

3

"Lady Hermione Ellerson, Sir Peter Wilberforce, Mr.James Wilberforce," announced Benjamin Bunce.

Ronald, rising to receive his client, was met with an outstretchedhand and a torrent of words.

"Oh, Mr. Cavendish, you will help us, won't you? It'slike this, you see. Last night while I was playing bridge atthe club, Mr. Vereker--he's a barrister, you know--told methat I ought to settle. Of course, as Sir Peter says, he is in akind of way a friend of my husband's----"

The tall willowy creature--she had dark hair, dark eyes,long nervous hands, and a long pearl necklace which bobbednervously on her flat young bosom--rattled away till Wilberforcesenior stopped her. Then she drooped to the offeredchair, and sat interjecting staccato comments while the threemen did their best to reassure her.

"And still I think I'd rather settle," she ejaculated, afterhalf an hour's conference.

"My dear Lady Ellerson"--old Peter Wilberforce employedhis softest purr--"of course I'll settle if you want meto. But I do ask you to consider the effect on your reputation.And besides, we have an excellent case. A really excellentcase. Your husband's own admission, in the interrogatories,that he had discussed the question of divorcing you with otherpeople besides his father. The fact that he never did instituteproceedings for a divorce, that he never had the slightestgrounds for instituting such proceedings----"

"Still, Mr. Vereker said----"

"Can't we forget Mr. Vereker? Mr. Cavendish has assuredyou that legally----"

"Oh, I hate the law!" burst out Lady Hermione. "I wishthat Arthur----" She began to cry, in a ladylike lace-handkerchiefway that made her extraordinarily alluring;and Ronnie, who had only been giving his sober opinion on theprofessional subtleties involved, without considering thehuman aspect, felt suddenly sorry for her. Women, in matrimonialcases, nearly always got the worst of it.

Besides, he knew the Ellersons socially, knew a little of theirhistory--war-marriage, quarrels about money, separation, andnow this curious case in which she was suing her husband forlibel and slander. It seemed a pity that they did not arrangea divorce and have done with it.

The telephone rang. Benjamin Bunce came in to say thatSir Peter's office wanted him, that Mr. Justice Mallory wasalready summing up the preceding case, and that Ellerson v.Ellerson would come on immediately after the adjournment.The conference broke up.

4

"I'm afraid she won't fight it out," pronounced Wilberforce,snatching a hasty meal, at Ronnie's invitation, in thesomber paneled splendor of Inner Temple Hall.

All up and down the long monastic tables, under thestained-glass windows and dignified pictures, other barristersand their guests were lunching, their low talk hardly reachingtheir neighbors' ears.

"Unless Brunton makes her," went on the solicitor.

They discussed their client with some frankness for anotherten minutes, consulted watches, and moved themselves to asecond monastic apartment for coffee and cigarettes.

"Talking of H. B.," said Wilberforce, "reminds me that Ihad a letter from his wife's sister the other day. She'sstaying with the Bruntons at Lancaster Gate, and wants meto call on her."

"Really?"

"You'd better come too. There's nothing like a bit ofsocial work for getting briefs. Besides, little Mrs. Brunton'scharming. We'll go next Sunday afternoon."

"Sorry, I'm going to play golf." Ronnie spoke calmly, hisserious face giving no hint of the emotions which his friend'ssuggestion had set stirring. "What made Miss Fullerfordwrite to you?"

"Oh, we've been corresponding for some time. I promisedto help her about--a legal matter." Wilberforce nearlyblushed. "She's a nice girl, isn't she?

"I'm getting on for forty, you know," he went on, gettingno reply. "And they'll make the pater a baronet one ofthese days. About time I got married, don't you think, oldman!" Then he consulted his watch again; and hurried offto Norfolk Street.

Ronnie, having paid for their coffee, sauntered out throughthe colonnades to his chambers, and back through InnerTemple Lane toward the law courts. Sauntering, brief underarm, he thought of his friend.

So Jimmy intended proposing to Mollie Fullerford. Shewould accept him, of course. Jimmy was a splendid match.Reticent devil--he hadn't even mentioned the girl since theirreturn from Key Hatch. Jimmy would be Aliette's brother-in-law.Aliette! He had no right to think of her as"Aliette." Jimmy to marry Aliette's sister--that wouldmean the end of their friendship. How women complicatedone's life! Why should he end his friendship with Jimmy,his best pal, just because ...

"Because of what?" asked the schoolmaster Cavendish inRonnie's mind.

"Because you're in love with his future sister-in-law,"answered the imaginative Wixton.

5

Passing up the broad steps into the law courts, Ronnie wasaware of unusual commotion. Society, mainly represented bythe "Ritz crowd," had decided to patronize the Ellerson case.Lady Cynthia Barberus and her friend Miss Elizabeth Cattistockwere posing to massed batteries of press cameras. Anaristocratic poetess with bobbed hair had draped herself bythe railings. Two actresses, so fashionable that they onlyneeded to act when off the stage, drove up with Lord Letchingbury,the latest patron of the unpaying drama, in aRolls-Royce limousine, causing mild excitement among acrowd of collected loafers. The constable, saluting Ronnie,positively beamed approval.

Ronnie, returning the salute a trifle grimly (like many ofhis kind, the publicity side of the law always irritated him),entered the archway and turned left-handed into the robing-rooms.

Here all was quiet again. Hugh Spillcroft, a rising youngspecialist in commercial cases, spoke to him as he arrangedthe white bands round his collar, tucked in the tapes and drewon his black "stuff" robe before adjusting the light gray,horsehair wig.

"Going to win?"

"Settled out of court, I should say."

"Not if H. B. can help it," snapped Henry Smith-Assher,am enormous Pickwickian fellow with a bull-neck and a bull-face."That chap never misses a chance of self-advertisement."

Two or three other men chimed in. Brunton, it appeared,was paying the usual penalty of the successful--unpopularity.Ronnie put on his wig, and passed out, a dignified legal figure,into the great hall of the courts.

This place, so vast and bare that the largest cloud of witnesseswould leave it uncrowded, so high and dim that evenat noon its vaulted roof seems lost in a brown haze, exerciseda peculiar fascination over Julia Cavendish's only son. TheWixton in him saw it as the gigantic anteroom of traditionaljustice, a symbol whose hugeness hushed even scoffers to anawed silence.

For he loved his profession, this diffident, difficult youngman; and, loving it, held its code, despite all the imperfectionshe was first to acknowledge, very high.

But this afternoon, somehow or other, the inhumanity ofthe place depressed him. Outside, there was sunshine, traffic,life, even love; here, only gloom and rules. As he strodediagonally across the flagstones up the tortuous staircase to"king's bench division," he met Thurston, the divorcespecialist.

"Hello, Cavendish," greeted Thurston; "you've got thespicy case to-day."

Lady Hermione was standing by the embrasure of thecorridor-window, talking to Sir Peter. Already a little crowdhad foregathered round the glass-paneled oak doors of thecourt-room. She smiled at Ronnie over their heads. Hesmiled back at her reassuringly; caught Sir Peter's conference-forbiddingeye; and pushed his way through the swing-doorsand the red curtain into court.

The square, high apartment, paneled in dark oak as achurch--judge's daïs, jury-box, clerk's table, and pulpit-likewitness-box dominating its raked pews (above which thespectators' and judge's galleries already rustled anticipatorysilks and feathers),--was still half-empty. Ronnie insinuatedhis long body into the junior's pew, which is behind that reservedfor king's counsel, and began turning over his brief.Turning it, he could not help thinking of his "leader"--ofBrunton--Brunton whose "war service" had not cost himfive years' loss of briefs--Brunton, who had fame, and fatfees, and a house in Lancaster Gate ... and Aliette for wife.The court began to fill. Twelve "special" jurymen, equallyfed up with a bad lunch and the disappointment at not havingbeen dismissed after the last case, clattered into their box.The clerk and the reporters took their places. Barristers,some with applications to present before the opening ofEllerson v. Ellerson, some mere spectators, pushed their wayalong the front pews. In the back pews crowded various witnesses,solicitors' clerks, and a favored few among the publicwho had bluffed or bribed their way in.

Lord Arthur arrived with his solicitor. They stood talkingfor some moments, and finally sat down. Ronnie, looking upfrom his brief, could see their two heads, still conferring, belowhim to his left. The opposing K.C., Sir Martin Duckworth,a smooth-faced, smooth-voiced politician, arrived in avery new silk gown, and asked audibly of his junior if he'dseen the plaintiff. The plaintiff and Sir Peter sidled to theirplaces in front of the clerk's table, turning courteous backson the defendant. Last of all, five seconds before the opening,Brunton rushed in.

Aliette's husband, looking dignified enough in full legaltrappings, nodded at Ronnie; and leaned over to greet hisclient just as the bewigged clerk announced "Silence"; andMr. Justice Mallory, a benevolent-looking old image--scarletbaldrick across his wide-sleeved gown, winking spectaclesacross his creased forehead--appeared through the curtainat the back of his daïs; was risen to by the court; and tookhis seat.

Various barristers rose up; presented various applications;and sat down again to hear "Ellerson v. Ellerson" or withdrew--accordingto the degree of busyness they had attained.

For Ellerson v. Ellerson, as "opened" a moment later byHector Brunton, was more than a cause célèbre: it might, iffought to a decision, go down to legal history as a "test"case, a precedent established for all time. Wherefore thebarristers--such as could--stayed.

But the twelve men in the jury-box were not barristers."His lordship," Brunton told them, "will direct you on thelegal questions involved. All I ask you to consider is this.If I prove, as I shall prove to you by the mouths of competentwitnesses, that this unhappy, this innocent lady, my client, hasbeen slandered, and vilely slandered--for, mark my words,there is no slander so vile as a slander on a woman's virtue--bythe man at whose hands she has the right most to expectprotection--by her husband: if I prove to you that, throughthis slander, she has suffered damage, intellectual damage,social damage, damage to her health and to her reputation:then, gentlemen, I hope you will demonstrate by your verdictthat, in England at any rate, a wife is not her husband'sproperty, his chattel to do with as he will, but a free citizeness,as much entitled to be protected from the slanders of her husbandas from those of any other man or woman in this country."

Brunton boomed on--his appeal all to sentiment. Thejudge drowsed. Ronnie, nonchalant behind his leader, couldnot help envying the even flow of his oratory. "If only Icould speak like that," thought Ronnie vaguely.

But suddenly, as the K.C. neared his peroration, Ronnie'snonchalance vanished. "Marriage," boomed Brunton, "is notslavery. A man, just because he happens to marry a woman,does not own her."

"But he does," thought the junior; "in law he does ownher. In law this man owns Aliette."

And suddenly the broad black-silked back, the bulging neckunder the horsehair curls, the loud confident voice, and everygesture of the gentlemanly hands grew hateful. He, RonaldCavendish, the man and not the lawyer in him, resented allthese; and resented them all the more furiously because hehated himself for the resentment.

At last Brunton sat down.

"Opened high enough, didn't he?" whispered JimmyWilberforce, who had insinuated himself to the side ofRonnie's pew. "Wonder what he'll make of her in the witness-box."

But now, before Brunton could call his witnesses, SirMartin Duckworth rose to address his lordship.

No case, submitted Sir Martin, had been made out for thejury. A husband--in law--could not slander his wife; nor awife her husband. In law they were both one. Therefore,even if his learned friend succeeded in obtaining a verdict,he could not succeed on the question of damages. That hadbeen laid down in ... The politician produced authorities,calf-bound volumes book-marked with strips of paper. Hebegan quoting them in his singsong sleepy voice. Lady Cynthiayawned audibly.

Brunton turned to Cavendish, as a sportsman to his loader;and, as a well-trained loader, Cavendish supplied the legalweapons--books. The flash of hatred against Brunton wasforgotten in his eagerness to win.

The judge began arguing with the politician. "He, thejudge, understood that the parties in this case were notactually living together. Did not that, in Sir Martin's opinion,make any difference?" In Sir Martin's opinion, it didnot. Brunton chipped in. The lawyers in court stiffened tointerest. Miss Elizabeth Cattistock blew an irritated nose.

The wrangle between bench and bar persisted: only Ronnie,who took no part in it, saw Lady Hermione's black hat turnslowly from right to left. It seemed to Ronnie's imaginationthat the invisible eyes under the hat-brim were making somecall to Lord Arthur. Then he saw Lord Arthur's head turn,almost imperceptibly, from left to right; saw Lord Arthur'seyes light with understanding, soften to that invisible appeal."She'll never go into the box," thought Ronnie. "She'll goback to her husband." And despite his eagerness to win, hefelt glad--glad that humanity should triumph over the law.

But Brunton was not bothering about the humanities,Brunton protested that Sir Martin had not made good hisargument. Brunton pressed his lordship to allow the case togo to the jury.

His lordship thought it quite possible there might be a caseto go to the jury. Nevertheless, his lordship felt it his dutyto impress on both parties the painfulness, the unnecessarypainfulness, of such a case as this. Would not the distinguishedcounsel on both sides consult with their clients?Surely there must be some way by which--Mr. Justice Mallorycoughed judicially--a compromise, if necessary a financialcompromise, could be effected.

"Interfering old fool," whispered Brunton to his junior.

Ensued a further orgy of whispering: Lord Arthur, hissolicitor and Sir Martin on one side: Brunton, Lady Hermioneand Sir Peter on the other. Behind him, Ronnie heard LadyCynthia's muffled staccato, "I say, she isn't going to settle,is she?" and Miss Elizabeth Cattistock's "If she does, I winmy bet."

Now the K.C.'s withdrew from their clients; drew together,still whispering; drew away from each other; whispered withtheir clients again; and returned to conference.

"I'm afraid it's a wash-out, Cavendish," the leader managedto convey behind his hand as Sir Martin Duckworthrose to address the court.

His lordship and the jury, announced Sir Martin, wouldnot--he was delighted to say--be further troubled with this--er--verypainful case. His client had agreed to terms, thefinancial aspect of which--with his lordship's permission--SirMartin did not think it necessary to disclose.

Did he understand, interrupted Mr. Justice Malory, thatthe action would be withdrawn?

Brunton took up the cue. "My client," boomed Brunton,"has consented to withdraw her action; not that she feels hercase in any way weakened, but because--acting on your Lordship'sadvice, and, if I may be allowed to say so, on my own--shehas, at the very earnest solicitation of her husband, decided,"the K.C.'s voice dropped to its point, "to return tohim."

Lady Cynthia's audible "Well, I'm damned!" a littlerustle of mannerly applause, and a beam from Mr. JusticeMallory marked the ending of Ellerson v. Ellerson--a happyending, as it seemed to Lady Hermione's junior counsel.

6

But Hector Brunton thought otherwise. Recently it hadseemed to him as though Aliette might relent. Ever since herreturn from Devonshire he had been conscious of some subtle,incomprehensible change in her. Therefore it piqued hispride to find her, on his return from court, not even vaguelyinterested in the newspaper reports of his speech--more especiallyas that speech was quoted almost verbatim under theheading: "K.C. says woman is not man's property."

"We ought to have fought the thing out," he told her."That's what I said to Cavendish."

Aliette's face did not betray her, but her heart--the heartwhich had almost persuaded itself of cure--dropped twotelltale beats.

"Clever chap, young Cavendish," went on the K.C. "I'dlike to have him to dinner one evening."

With a thoughtful "Why not take him to the club, Hector?"the K.C.'s wife went upstairs to dress.

1

Julia Cavendish was always at home on Saturdayafternoons. You used to meet nearly all social sorts andconditions of men and women in that exquisitely tendedBruton Street house: literary folk, financial folk, embassyfolk, Anglican priests, politicians, schoolmasters with theirwives, young soldiers with their fiancées, old soldiers withtheir grievances, the "Ritz crowd" (which thinks itselfSociety), and real Society (which does not need to thinkabout itself at all), intellectual aristocrats and democraticintellectuals--the whole curious "London" which an eclecticwoman of means can, if she be so minded, gather about herselfby the time she reaches sixty.

But the house itself betrayed, to a trained observer, thefact that Ronnie's mother really preferred things to people.Not necessarily expensive things--only occasionally couldshe afford a real "piece": but pleasant things; beautifulthings that became, as it were, part of one's life; things onecould feel about the house as though they were people, butpeople without too many claims on one.

Despite which, No. 67a was neither over-large nor over-crowdedwith possessions. Old prints had space on its panels,old furniture on its floors. Jade idols, Toby mugs, Dresden,Chelsea, and Japanese figures did not jostle one another onits mantelpieces or in its cabinets. Spanish velvets and Venetianbrocades forbore to pose as "specimens," but were curtains,cushions, or chair-covers as use demanded. Georgiansilver employed itself in a hospitable capacity; Satsuma vasesheld flowers; Bokhara rugs covered the parquet, not thewalls.

"I'm a practical old woman," said Julia; and she lookedit now, as she lay reading on the sofa in the square bow-windoweddrawing-room.

A rather stern face was Julia Cavendish's: the Wixtonchin dimpled but very determined; the eyes, under their tortoise-shellspectacles, bluer, harder than the eyes of her son.The wrinkles in the scarcely powdered cheeks and at the hightemples, as well as the graying of the light brown hair, notall her own, betrayed her age. But the hands which held thenovel still appeared the hands of a young woman; nor hadthe years robbed her of her figure. Her dress--a black tea-gown,real lace at bosom and wrist--was so unfashionable asto be almost smart. Black silk stockings and black satin shoes--shehad elegant feet--complete the picture.

A bell rang below. Julia laid her novel on a little lacqueredstand by the sofa; took off her spectacles; and sat up to themaid's announcement of "Mr. Fancourt."

Dot Fancourt, a sentimental, unhappy old man with over-redcheeks, sunken eyes and beetling gray brows, his weakmouth hidden by a walrus mustache, extended both dry handsin effusive salutation.

"My dear, how are you?"

"In the best of health, as usual." Julia Cavendish releasedher fingers from the dry hands. "Tell me what Fleet Streetthinks about the Ellerson case."

The editor of "The Contemplatory Magazine" began togossip; and she listened to him. The pair had been friendsfor thirty years, the man's weakness of character findingcomfort in the woman's strength. "Poor Dot!" thoughtJulia. His last illness, and the inevitable last sentimentalcomplication, had aged him. Probably he would go next ofthe Victorians. That would leave only Harrison, Gosse,Hardy, and ...

"Mr. Paul Flower, madam," announced the maid.

There entered a pale, hairless sexagenarian who resemblednothing so much as a very large white slug. He greeted themboth sluggishly; and began to discuss, with an almost Biblicalfrankness, the psychology of Lady Hermione Ellerson--whomhe had never met.

"A passionate limpet," he pronounced her, pulverizing thatimaginary mollusc between thumb and forefinger. "Theclinging type. I remember when I was a young man inParis----"

Paul Flower's conversation, unfortunately, will no morebear the ordeal of cold print than Rear-Admiral Billy's. Hecontinued holding forth on the subject of his Parisian youthtill interrupted by tea, and Lucien Olphert--a bald-headed,under-sized creature whose real life was as mild as his historicalnovels were heroic. Various other novelists--JackCoole, Robert Backwell, and John Binney with Mrs. Binney--droppedin. Literary "shop," inanest of all "shops" toan outsider, was in full blast when the maid ushered in LadySimeon Brunton.

The ex-ambassadress swept across Julia's drawing-room likea well-bred monsoon. Her Paquin confection--frailest gossamerblack with gold underskirt--rustled condescension.The ospreys in her Lewis hat waved approving patronage toart and letters.

"You see that I took you at your word, Mrs. Cavendish."

The hostess, who had been introduced to Lady Simeon (andpromptly forgotten her) at a Foreign Office reception someweeks previously, said the appropriate word and made theappropriate presentations.

"But this isn't a mere social call." explained the new-comer."This is a call with a purpose."

She accepted some tea; and subsided on to the sofa. PaulFlower judged her a Philistine (i.e., a woman who did notregard Paul Flower as the last living exponent of Englishliterature), but decided her attractive. He approved herage, about forty-five; her eyes, which were darkly vivacious;her figure, which was inclined to the abundant; her hair andcomplexion, which were both soigné, the one matching hereyes and the other her pearls.

Jack Coole, the two Binneys, and Robert Backwell, hisprominent teeth parted in a valedictory grin, departed.Flower, Fancourt, and Olphert continued to talk shop.

"A call with a purpose sounds very serious," promptedJulia.

Sir Simeon's wife smiled diplomatically. "The fact is, dearMrs. Cavendish, that I want you to dine with us. Next Thursday.You will, won't you? Although it is such a shortinvitation. We shall be quite a small party--not more thantwenty at the outside. And will you bring your son?"

"My son----" Julia, whose inclination was to decline--forsome time now, late nights had wearied her--became visiblymore gracious.

"Yes. My cousin Hermione--poor dear, what a time she'sbeen going through--and all this publicity--so distressing foreverybody--says he was simply charming to her during thecase. So wise! So calm! So helpful! You must be veryproud of your son, Mrs. Cavendish."

Not for nothing had the heiress of The Raneegunge Jute andCotton Mills married an ambassador!

"Ronnie's coming to dinner this evening," said Ronnie'smother. "If he's free on Thursday we shall both be delighted.May I telephone you?"

2

Ronnie, who had been watching the polo at Ranelagh,arrived ten minutes late for dinner.

He came unannounced into the drawing-room; kissed hismother; complimented her on her clothes (she had changedinto a dinner-gown in his honor); and inquired about theafternoon.

"Dullish," pronounced Julia--and broached the Bruntoninvitation.

"The Bruntons!" He seemed a little taken aback at thename. "I don't think I care to go."

"Nonsense. Of course you must go. A barrister's careeris mainly social."

She prolonged the argument over dinner; she mentionedthe Brunton "influence," the Ellerson case: till eventually--somewhatagainst his better judgment--she persuaded himto go.

A very different Julia this from the hostess of the afternoon!Always a little constrained, a little too dignified incompany; with her son, she hid affection under a mask ofbrusquerie almost dictatorial. In boyhood Ronnie had beenfrightened by the mask; even at thirty-six he was only justbeginning to realize the affection it concealed.

Only since his return from the war had full knowledge ofthis affection come to him. He saw her now--sipping hercoffee in the print-hung, walnut-furnished dining-room--asa lonely old woman dependent on his love. And the sighthurt, because his heart was already aware of the possibilitythat one day there might be another woman, a younger woman,in his life.

"I wish you'd let me make you a decent allowance," shesaid abruptly. "You ought to be about everywhere. Youought to stand for Parliament. Even if you don't get in, it'san advertisement."

"I thought you hated publicity, mater."

"So I do--for myself." She cogitated. "I could manageanother eight hundred a year."

"And deprive yourself of----"

"Of nothing. I don't want any money. I'm too old toknow how to spend it. You'll have it all when I'm dead,"she added.

"Mater!"--he was the softer in many ways--"I wish youwouldn't talk like that."

"Why not? Death's a fact. I've no patience with peoplewho won't face facts. Life isn't a kinema show."

Coffee finished, they removed themselves to Julia's work-room--asquare box of an apartment, book-lined, an Empiredesk in its exact center under the illuminated top-light.Julia sat down at the desk; opened a drawer; and took outher check-book.

"Eight hundred a year," she said, writing. "That's twohundred a quarter. I'd better cross the check."

"Don't be absurd, mater." Ronnie frowned.

"But I want you to have it."

"What for?"

"Oh, clothes. You ought to dress better. Club subscriptions.Entertaining. Cigars. I don't know what men spendtheir money on. Women, mostly, I suppose."

Blotting the check, she would have given anything in theworld to say: "Ronnie, darling, do take it. I can't slobberlike other women. But I love you--you're everything Ihave in the world. Please, please Ronnie, don't refuse this.It's not money--it's just a token--a token of my love foryou."

Actually, she said: "If your father hadn't been such a foolabout money matters, he'd have left you his estate. Heknew that I could always make all I wanted."

Ronnie frowned again. "You know perfectly well that Iwon't take it."

"Not even to oblige me? I--I want you to take it. Itmay cheer you up. You've been looking depressed lately."

"Have I?"

They had played this comedy of the allowance more thanonce since his father's death; but never before had he seenher so insistent.

"Yes." She stretched out the check to him, knowing heroffer already rebuffed. In a way, she was proud of his independence.All the same, it hurt. One ought to be able todo more for one's child.

"I'm not depressed. And I'm not hard up. Really."

He smiled at her across the desk--one of those rare smileswhich reminded her of the boy she had tried to tip at Winchester.She seemed to hear his boyish voice, "The pater gaveme a fiver when he was down last. I don't need any more.Honestly, mater."

"You're quite sure?"

"Quite." He watched her tear up the check; noticed asheaf of proofs on her desk; and questioned her about them."Another short story!"

"No. It's an article on 'Easy Divorce' for next month's'Contemplatory.' These are the duplicate proofs."

"You're opposing it?"

"Of course."

"On moral grounds?"

"Not entirely. Listen!" She put on her spectacles, andread him the opening paragraphs. "The woman of to-day isasking that divorce and remarriage should be made easier.Why? Because the woman of to-day refuses to face thesimple fact that primarily she is her husband's helpmate.Personally I am a Churchwoman; and therefore find it impossibleto believe the remarriage of divorced people justified.I am willing to admit that, in a limited number of cases,divorce itself may be expedient. But I feel that to makedivorce easier would be a direct encouragement of immorality.We have to face facts. Woman is not, never has been, andnever will be capable of resisting the sentimental impulse."

"You're a real Puritan at heart, aren't you, mater?" heinterrupted.

She put down the proofs, vaguely distressed that he shouldprefer her conversation to her written word. For work, toJulia Cavendish, counted more than anything in life--exceptthis lean, clean, sober-minded son of hers.

"It isn't a very good article, I'm afraid. Dot was in toomuch of a hurry for it. I never could write quickly."

These last months she had discovered herself writing evenless quickly than usual. Once or twice, even, she had beenforced to break off in the middle of the morning by a strangefatigue--a pain in her back. She had meant to consult adoctor; meant to ask Ronnie's advice. But she hated fussingabout herself, hated fussing Ronnie. And besides, Ronniewas depressed--in some trouble or other. She could feel thattrouble instinctively.

"You're sure nothing's worrying you?" she asked him asthey said good night.

"Quite sure. Sleep well, mater."

He kissed her, and went.

"No," he thought, striding home to the rooms in JermynStreet which she had insisted on furnishing for him. "No!Nothing's wording me. In point of sheer fact, I've neverbeen so bucked in my life."

And he was "bucked," ludicrously so; "bucked" becausehe had yielded to his mother's persuasions; ludicrously sobecause, just for the moment, he had altogether forgottenHector Brunton's existence.

Only when he awoke next morning did Ronald Cavendishremember that Aliette was a married woman--and the possibilitythat, after all, she might not be one of the guests at heruncle-in-law's dinner-party.

3

The ambassadorial branch of the Brunton family occupies apalace of a house in that palatial avenue, Kensington PalaceGardens.

Driving thither with his mother in the electric broughamwith which she compromised between the horseflesh of theVictorian past and the petrol of the democratic present,Ronnie knew himself feverishly excited. All the suppressedemotions of three months leaped to new anticipation as theyrolled away from Bruton Street, through Berkeley Squareinto the park.

It was still daylight. Happy lower-middle-class folkcrowded the seats under the trees, the grass beyond. Hereand there, lovers, splendidly indifferent to the public eye,embraced one another with the frankness of post-wartime.Subconsciously, the sight of these couples affected the seriousyoung man in the silk hat and stiff shirt of formal party-going.Almost he envied them.

"The season has been the fiasco one expected," commentedhis mother. "Decent people have no money to spend--theother sort don't know how to spend it. I wish you'd orderyourself a new dress-suit, Ronnie. And those waistcoat buttonsare very old-fashioned. I must get you some new ones."

"Rather a contradictory sentence," he commented.

"Nothing of the kind. It's a man's duty to be well-groomed."She sighed--it had been a tiring day, and shehated dinner-parties. "I often wish you'd stayed on in thearmy."

"Why?"

"I think you were happier; and the army, in peace-time,is so healthy."

"You do worry about me, don't you?"

"Of course. That's what mothers are for."

The remark, coming from her, sounded curiously pathetic.For the moment, Ronnie forgot his anticipations. He put ashy hand on his mother's arm.

"Cheer up, mater," he said, seeing her, once again, as alonely old woman--the intellect, the public fame of her,merest surface-stuff.

By now, they were through Hyde Park, and into KensingtonGardens. She removed her arm; made her usualacrid comment on the Albert Memorial; and the pair of themsubsided into contemplation.

Contemplating, Ronald Cavendish realized for the firsttime exactly how far he had already drifted toward violationof his mother's code. He imagined himself saying to Julia,"Mater, I'm in love with Aliette Brunton."

But he could not imagine Julia's reply. The old fear of hercame back, chilling him.

And yet, code or no code, mother or no mother, he had toadmit himself in love, passionately in love with Aliette Brunton.Even the possibility of meeting her thrilled his wholebeing. Looking back now, he saw that not for one hour sincetheir ride together had she been entirely out of his thoughts.

Their electric circled out of the gardens, climbed PalaceGreen, and swung left between high lights, on to gravel, underan awning. A footman opened the brougham-door. Ronnie,jumping out, helped his mother to alight. "Thanks, dear.Tell him to be back by eleven," she said.

Obeying, Ronnie was conscious that he stood in the glareof impatient headlights. Behind and above the glare, throughthe plate-glass front of the approaching cabriolet, he sawtwo faces: one heavy-jowled above its starched collar, theother--Aliette's.

4

"That looked like young Cavendish. If it was, and you getan opportunity, don't forget about asking him to dine withus," said Hector Brunton.

Aliette did not answer; but her gloved hands, as she alightedfrom her husband's car, trembled ever so slightly. She hadseen him. He had seen her. And the wound, the wound inher heart, was not cured. She could feel it throbbing, throbbingwith sheer joy. "I'm glad I wore this dress," shethought.

Her chinchilla cloak, ermine at neck and wrists, covered agown of soft grays and softer mauves, silver-girdled. Pearlsgleamed at her lustrous throat, in the tiny ears under hervivid hair. Crossing the black-and-white tessellated hall tothe ambassadorial cloak-room, she looked a very picture ofdignified composure.

But the composure was mainly superficial. Her heartthrobbed and throbbed. She forgot Hector, remembered onlyRonnie. This stately old lady, just being divested of hermandarin opera-cloak, must be his mother. She resembledhim, about the chin, about the eyes.

"What a charming woman!" thought Julia Cavendish. "Iwonder if she's Hector Brunton's wife. I wish I could finda wife like that for Ronnie."

"I'm afraid we're the last," smiled the elder woman, eyingthe formidable collection of furs.

"I'm afraid so too," smiled back the younger. She tookoff her own cloak; gave one swift glance at the mirror, andwas ready.

"Practical, too. Makes no fuss about herself," thoughtJulia Cavendish, as they reëntered the hall together.

Aliette could not think. The meeting, unanticipated, hadtaken her off her guard. Delight, apprehension, sheer eagerness,and sheer diffidence made her utterly the girl. It seemedas though, at the instant, something tremendous must occur.

But nothing tremendous occurred! Or if it did, their socialsense saw them through it. Ronnie was talking to Hector inthe hall. He shook hands with Aliette. He introduced herto his mother. He introduced Hector to his mother. Thefour of them went up the wide stairs together. Aliette heardthem announced, "Mr. and Mrs. Hector Brunton. Mrs. JuliaCavendish. Mr. Ronald Cavendish."

How silly she had been about him. How calm he was!How calm they both were! Naturally! He hardly knew her.They hardly knew one another.

Hector Brunton's wife realized suddenly that her left glovehad split in the clenched palm, that she had forgotten to takeoff her gloves before entering the drawing-room.

"My dear child, how are you? En beauté, as always. Acredit to the family." She found herself, among a mob ofpeople, shaking hands with Simeon.

5

The craftswoman in Julia Cavendish, the literary memoryand sense of "copy" which make her books such exact socialpictures, functioned quite independently from the rest of herpersonality. No one, watching her as she talked internationalpolitics with her host, would have guessed that, behind thecalm, dignified face, the novelist's brain was busy. Kodak-like,that brain registered its impressions, rolling them away fordevelopment at leisure.

First impression: an oblong room--paneled--Venetianbracket-lights--brocaded French windows either end--lowscarlet flowers on a long gold-decked table, narrowing as youlooked down it--many faces either side, two faces at each end--humof subdued conversation--servants' white-gloved handsand dark-coated arms proffering bottles, plates, dishes.

The camera in the brain clicks, rolls away the picture.

Second impression: Sir Simeon, sixty-eight, a little man,white-haired, blue-eyed, mustache floppy, charming, not veryefficient, presumably the weaker matrimonial vessel--his wifeought never to wear pink--Sir Simeon's three daughters, obviouslyby his first marriage, two with wedding-rings, thirty-eight,thirty-six, nonentities--their partners ditto--an uglyone, younger, rather interesting.

"My sympathies are entirely with the Jugo-Slavs, SirSimeon. Italy is not entitled to a yard of territory more thanwe guaranteed her by the Treaty of London," says JuliaCavendish, society-woman.

The camera continues its work.

Third impression: the secretary of the Spanish embassywould look exactly like a bull-fighter if he wore the nationalcostume instead of civilized evening-dress--General Felloweshas aged since the War Office inquiry--a fine type--the bigwoman he has taken in to dinner would look like a cantaloupmelon if you cut her in two--the pretty girl flirting with theyoung soldier (Guards?) must be her daughter.

"Aren't you rather hard on our allies, Mrs. Cavendish?"chips in Hector Brunton.

"I have no patience with d'Annunzio."

"But at least you will admit that he is a patriot," protestsSir Simeon.

"No bombastic person is really patriotic. Patriotism is adumb virtue."

"But is patriotism a virtue?" asks the K.C.

"Almost the greatest."

Julia's mental camera snaps again.

Impression of Hector Brunton: a would-be cave-man--notas strong as he imagines himself--putty in the hands of asexful woman--rather a difficult problem for a fastidious wife--obstinate--capableof cruelty.

At which precise moment, the mother ousted the craftswomanfrom Julia's brain. She began to wonder if Ronniewere enjoying himself. If only he weren't so shy withwomen! Women made men's careers. He had taken downthat charming Mrs. Brunton. She looked down the table andcaught his eyes across the scarlet flowers. He smiled at her.He must be enjoying himself. She had done right, then, tomake him accept the invitation.

"I gather you prefer patriotism to the League of Nations,"remarked her host.

"Your League of Nations," answered Julia, "is merely thesentimental impulse translated into terms of internationaldiplomacy. Every one wants it to work--every one realizesit unworkable."

Answering, she thought that she had rarely seen Ronnielook so happy.

But not even the mother in Julia Cavendish knew thecause of Ronnie's happiness; she was as blind to her son'sinfatuation as Hector Brunton to his wife's. She could notdivine that the pair of them had passed beyond mere happinessinto a little illusive world of their own making.

For the moment, Aliette and Ronnie dwelt in a rose-bubbleof enchantment. A frail bubble! Yet it cut them off, assurely as though it had been opaque crystal, from their fellow-guests.Physical passion found no place in that rose-bubble.Their bodies, the bodies which made pretense of eating anddrinking, which uttered the most absurdly conventional sentiments,dwelt outside of its magic; while within, their minds,their natures, their very souls, held secret commune--as twofriends so set in friendship that words have become unnecessary.Yet actually, magic apart, they were merely a manand a woman, each lonely, each too healthy for that lonelinesswhich is the prerogative of the sick and the abnormal.

They had been lonely; now they were no longer lonely.They had been obsessed with visions of each other; now theyno longer saw visions. They saw each other; and their soulswere satisfied.

But of all that their souls knew, their lips spoke no word.

"I've often thought about that run we had," said the man."One doesn't get a gallop like that every day of one's life.Did you have many other good days?"

"I didn't go out again last season," said the woman.

"Really? How was that?"

"Oh, I went down to Devonshire with my sister."

"You didn't take Miracle?"

"No." It pleased her that he remembered Miracle's name."By the way, I'm quite angry with you, Mr. Cavendish. Mr.Wilberforce told us on Sunday that you preferred golf toour society."

"Jimmy's a mischief-maker. Why isn't your sister hereto-night, Mrs. Brunton?" Man-like, he wondered--now--whyhe had refused to call on her.

"Mollie's at a dance. I believe Mr. Wilberforce will bethere too."

"Jimmy's a great dancer." Did she know, he speculated,about Jimmy and her sister? Probably. Women--accordingto Ronnie--always told one another that sort of thing.

"And you?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm like the Tenth. I don't dance."

Aliette dimpled to laughter at the old jest. It matteredso little what he said to her with his lips. His eyes gave herthe answer to the one question; the only question she hadever asked herself in vain. His eyes said: "Yes. This isLove. This is the Real Thing." She wondered if his brainknew the message of his eyes. She marveled at herself fornot having sooner known the message of her heart. "I'm inlove with him," she thought. "I've been in love with himever since that Sunday at Key Hatch." All the gray uneaseof the past months, of the past years, diffused to amber sunshine.

The Spanish secretary, sitting on her right, chimed in totheir conversation. "You do not dance, Cavendish. That isstrange. I thought all English people danced."

The rose-bubble of enchantment was broken. Talk grewgeneral. Dinner drew to its end.

6

"You look a little tired, Mrs. Cavendish. Can't I get yousome more coffee? A cigarette, perhaps?"

"Thank you so much. I think I would like a cigarette."

Aliette and Julia sat together in a palm-screened cornerof the vast Louis Quinze drawing-room. The men were stilldownstairs. The younger woman rose; and fetched a silvercigarette-box, matches.

Julia lit her cigarette. She felt very old, very weary, quiteunlike herself. The pain nagged at her back.

"I'm afraid I'm not a very gay companion for a beautifulyoung woman. You mustn't mind my paying you compliments."Aliette had raised a protesting hand at the word"beautiful." "When I was your age, compliments were invogue. Nowadays they're out of fashion--like good manners."

"Surely good manners are never out of fashion," saidAliette. "Only--like fashions--they change."

Lady Simeon veered toward them, but diverted her course.They talked on, drawn to each other by a kindred obsession--Ronnie.

"I'd love to ask her what she thought of him," musedJulia Cavendish. "I simply daren't mention her son,"mused Aliette Brunton.

Thus the man found them when he came upstairs. Theymade an exquisite picture, there, under the green--his mother,dignified, strong (not wishing to let him guess her weariness,she had pulled herself together at his approach), the halo ofintellectual achievement setting her apart from every otherwoman in the room; and the vivid, exquisite, but equally dignifiedcreature at his mother's side.

"You don't often smoke, mater." He felt consoled thatthese two should be together. For the last twenty minutesthe sight of Hector Brunton--holding forth, loud-voiced, overa cigar--had made him feel a little guilty.

"Mrs. Brunton insisted. Come and sit down, Ronnie.Unless"--servants with card-tables made a belated appearance--"youwant to play bridge."

"I'd just as soon talk."

They made place for him. He and his mother began todiscuss their fellow-guests, critically, but without malice.Listening, Aliette felt like an interloper. Even if she hadbeen unmarried, how could she interpose her love--for it waslove, she knew that now, knew it irremediably--between thesetwo? Her mind reacted from happiness to depression.

He said to her, "You're looking very thoughtful."

She answered absent-mindedly, "Am I?"

He said: "Yes. Don't you want to play? They're makingup tables."

She said: "No. I'd rather sit here and watch."

Sir Simeon drifted up to them, bringing the young Guardeeand the pretty girl he had taken down to dinner. The pairwere still flirting, butterfly-like. Their host had insisted onintroducing them to Julia. They suffered the introduction,and flitted away. "Who is Julia Cavendish?" asked the boy."Silly! She writes poetry," answered the girl. "Oh, I say,ought I to have read it?" "Of course you ought. I wishwe were going to dance, don't you?" "Rather."

The cantaloup lady rolled up to Sir Simeon, and draggedhim away to show her his pictures. Julia relapsed into mono-syllables.It must be nearly half-past ten. Thank goodness!She could just manage another thirty minutes. MeanwhileRonnie could continue talking to this pretty woman. Perhapshe would stay on. That would be best. She wanted to gohome alone. In the morning she could telephone Dot for thename of his doctor.

And so, once again, the rose-bubble of enchantment formeditself about those two lovers. But now both were consciousof the bubble's frailty.

And the man thought: "This cannot endure. I cannotendure this. To-night must be the last time we meet." Hesaw her husband, pompous, considering the call of a hand.He knew that he abhorred Brunton for the possession of thisexquisite woman. He loathed himself for abhorring Brunton.

The woman, too, saw her husband. But she could only feelsorrow for him. Poor Hector, who would have been satisfiedwith so little of her; who had never known how much shehad to give. And now--now no man would ever know. Unless----Herfastidiousness revolted abruptly from introspection.She felt glad of Julia's:

"I think the brougham should be here by now, Ronnie. Doyou mind finding out? And don't worry to see me home.I'm sure Mrs. Brunton will never forgive me if I drag youaway."

"Don't be absurd, mater. Of course I sha'n't let you gohome by yourself." Ronnie rose, and made his way acrossthe room.

"You'll persuade him to stop? I--I'd rather go homealone," said Julia.

"Because you're tired. Because you don't want him tosee it." The words escaped Aliette before she could controlthem. She covered herself quickly. "I'm sure that mustbe the reason. I'm sure, if I had a son, I should never wanthim to think that I was tired."

"You have children then--girls? You couldn't haveknown otherwise." The novelist in Julia was asleep; shecould see no other reason why this "charming creature"should have divined her mentality.

"No. I have no children, worse luck!"

Ronnie came back to say that the brougham waited.

"You mustn't come with me, Ronnie." Julia got to herfeet.

"Mater, I insist."

"Persuade him to stay, Mrs. Brunton."

Subconsciously, Aliette knew the incident momentous. Hisblue eyes were looking down into hers. Behind them she readindecision. He wanted to see his mother home: he wanted tostay with her. She could keep him at her side. Only, if shedid keep him--and it would take the littlest look, the littlestgesture,--then she would be interloper indeed.

Consciously now, she made her first sacrifice.

"I think a son's first duty is to his mother," smiled AlietteBrunton.

1

Ten days went by.

For Aliette, the trivial round of London continued.

She attended a terrific tamasha of a wedding--all frocksand roses--at St. George's, Hanover Square; she dined at theCarlton with Hector and a sumptuous client from the money-makingNorth; she walked the park with Ponto, her harlequinDane, who, as though he understood his mistress was troubled,kept close at heel while she footed it, and thrust a consolatorynose into her lap whenever she sat down; she played lawn-tennisat Queen's; she did her household duties at LancasterGate, fighting and defeating a miniature revolution amongthe female staff. But her emotions she could neither fightnor defeat.

These emotions were all strange, sweet, disturbing. Forthe first time in her life a man obscured the entire mentalhorizon. Constantly she thought of Ronnie--imagining himher confidant, her friend, her lover.

Her mind took a whole week to formulate that last definiteword; and even then the word seemed inadequate.

Except for Mary O'Riordan and Mollie, Aliette possessedno intimates of her own sex. Common gossip, however,credited various women of her acquaintance with "lovers":some permanent, accepted as institutions by every one exceptthe husband; some transitory of the season; most merest"tame-cats," fetch-and-carry men. Hector's wife wantednone of these. She wanted Ronnie--not an occasional Ronnie,not a clandestine Ronnie, neither a merely physical nor amerely platonic Ronnie: but Ronnie himself--all of Ronnie--Ronniefor her very own.

Comprehension of this fact--it came to her with peculiarclarity one late afternoon at a crowded tea-fight in MaryO'Riordan's house off Park Lane--brought the woman upshort by the head.

She realized herself wholly in love--dangerously, perilously,passionately in love. And the realization frightened her. Itmeant the abandoning of her own fixed point of view. Itmeant, actually, if not by intention, sin. At least it oughtto mean "sin"--only somehow she could no longer regard itin that light. If she had not thought of Mary as sinful, whyshould she apply a different standard to her own case?

If this immense new tenderness in her, this accentuationof all her femininity, was "sin"--then nature's self mustbe sinful. If, by religion, she belonged body and soul toHector, forever and ever amen; if, in the sight of God, hisinfidelities counted for nothing; if his occasional desire topossess her (only the night before she had been subtly awareof that desire's recrudescence) constituted a lifelong claim--thenreligion, as she had so far understood religion, must bea mere code designed in the interest of husbands, and GodHimself a mere male.

2

Meanwhile, to Ronnie's mind, the problem presented itselfdifferently.

Having no formal religion, the aspect of "sin" did nottrouble him. He came, as he imagined in those ten days, toregard the entire question from a legal point of view. Hewanted a woman who belonged to somebody else; by no mannerof means could he possess that woman unless the law sether free. Her freedom being outside the sphere of practicalpolitics, one's duty was self-control, forgetfulness.

On the question of self-control there could be no compromise;but to forget Aliette was a tough job. Mere passion--sincetheir last meeting--represented only the tiniest fractionof his feelings. Already she had given him an entirely newoutlook--the lover's outlook: so that he caught himself regardingthe faces of his fellows, faces in his club, at the courts,in the streets, on tubes and in omnibuses, solely from his ownobsessed point of view. What secret, what emotional secret,concealed itself behind those unemotional English faces?What sentimental impulse goaded them about town?

"The sentimental impulse" was his mother's favoritephrase. She had used it no less than five times in her articlefor the "Contemplatory"--which article, astutely boomed byFancourt, had very nearly created a first-class "stunt."

One paragraph of his mother's seemed peculiarly applicableto the barrister's problem.

"If," wrote Julia Cavendish, "the Sentimental Impulse--forI will never consent to regard the unlawful attraction betweena married woman and a man other than her husbandas love, the very essence of which is obedience and self-denial--oncecomes to be considered a palliation for adultery, thenthe entire foundations of family life will be in jeopardy."

Six months ago Ronnie would have been the first to upholdsuch a doctrine. Now he could only find the flaw in it. Thegospel according to Julia Cavendish--argued her son's mind--amountedto this: If a married woman loves her husband,she merely does her duty. If she doesn't love him, she mustdo her duty just the same. Obedience, to a man; and denial,of one's own inclinations, constitute the whole duty of woman.In other words: A husband can do no wrong.

And at that precise point in his meditations Ronald Cavendishremembered certain rumors--heard and forgotten threeyears since, on his one leave from the East--about HectorBrunton and a certain red-headed lady of the stage.

All the same, even admitting certain modifications--a wife'sright to fidelity, for instance,--did not his mother's code formthe only possible basis of society? What reasoning humancould substitute the sentimental impulse for the existing marriagelaws? "Free love" would only mean free license forthe unbalanced, the over-sexed, the abnormal, the womanizer,and the nymphomaniac. Matrimonial bolshevism, in fact!

"Matrimonial Bolshevism," he remembered, was to havebeen the title of his mother's next article; but for the momentshe had been forced to give up work. Sir Heron Baynet, thespecialist called in by Dot Fancourt's puzzled doctor, hadimplored her--so she told Ronnie--to rest.

"I've got to take care of myself," she said. "Sir Heronsays I'm not exactly ill, but that I'm disposed to illness."

Actually, Sir Heron's words had been far more disturbing;but Julia, who had never consulted a medicine-man in herlife, resented the little man's seriousness, and pooh-poohedmost of his advice.

"Don't worry about me," she went on. "Except for beinga little tired, I feel like a two-year-old."

Ronnie, obsessed with his own troubles, accepted her versionof the interview; and went off to play tennis. Despiteall the hair-splitting and all the self-analysis, despite all theresolves never to see Aliette again, and all the attempts to bluffhimself lawyer against himself man, the sentimental impulsepersisted. And hard physical exercise, he thought, mighthelp to cure that impulse!

1

"If Aliette hadn't given up the game to do war-work, andif I hadn't got cut over by that bomb, we might have donesome good together in the club doubles," said Mollie Fullerford.

"Well, you're both of you too hot for me," protested Wilberforce.

He balanced a cup of tea on his white-flanneled leg, andsurveyed his companion admiringly. They were sitting inthe sloped veranda of the clubhouse at Queen's. Below them,on the oval of green turf between the red West Kensingtonhouses, a dozen marked courts hummed with the ping of ballagainst racket-face, with the swish of running skirts and thevoices of the players scoring--"love fifteen," "fifteen all,""fifteen thirty."

"Oh, well played!" ejaculated the girl. Aliette, practisingwith Mrs. Needham on No. 2 court, had just banged a forehanddrive down the side-line. "She's getting it back. Don'tyou think so, Jimmy?"

Mollie spoke the last word with some hesitation; they hadonly just got to the point of calling each other by their Christiannames.

"Rather," agreed her companion, whose interest in Brunton'swife was of the vaguest, but who knew that he must atleast simulate it--because, to Mollie, Aliette represented agood deal more than the average sister.

James Wilberforce did not possess a very emotional personality.He was not at all the sort of person to be swept offhis feet by any woman. Marriage being "indicated," alikeby parental desires, personal tastes, and a growing income, hehad cast about for a possible mate; found her by accident;and was now "making the running" in the approved manner.

So far, the "running" had been rapid enough. Nevertheless,Sir Peter Wilberforce's son and heir already understoodthat this calm young creature of the broad forehead and theviolet eyes would not yield herself without a struggle. "Takeslife rather seriously, does Mollie," he thought; and liked hernone the less for that.

"Does Mr. Cavendish play?" she asked casually. "If so,you ought to bring him one afternoon."

"He used to. But since he took to golf, 'patters' has lostits attraction."

"Rotten game, golf," said Mollie. "Takes too long. Ibelieve in getting one's exercise over quickly."

They discussed the point for a second or two; and thenveered, like most people in their position, to the personal.Aliette, looking up at them as she changed courts, knew aquick flash of envy. For those two, love would run its legitimatecourse; whereas for her---- She put thought away, andconcentrated on the game.

"Two five, I lead," announced Mrs. Needham--a hard-featured,soft-hearted woman with a mop of unruly blackhair, an eye like a hawk, and the hands of a mechanic. "Whydon't you give up that overhand service?"

"It'll come back in time."

Aliette went to her own base-line, and took two balls fromthe boy. Mrs. Needham crouched in her favorite position onthe other side of the net. Aliette tossed up a ball, swung upher racket, served.

The service, railroading down the center-chalk, defeatedMrs. Needham. The server crossed to the left-hand court;stood to serve--and saw Ronnie.

For a fraction of a second they looked at each other throughthe high side-netting. He plucked off his soft hat, and stoodwatching. Aliette served; faulted; faulted again.

"Fifteen all," announced Mrs. Needham.

And suddenly, Aliette's game came back to her. Once moreher first service struck chalk from the center-line. But thistime Mrs. Needham got back a swingeing shot. Aliette ran--back-handed--flewto the net, killed the return.

"Thirty fifteen," she announced.

She knew, as she crossed, that Ronnie was still watching;that she must not look at him; that if she looked at him shewould double-fault again; that she mustn't double-fault; thatshe must win.

But now Mrs. Needham was all out for the set. Aliette'sservice came back like white lightning down the side-line.She struck--ran for the net--guessed Mrs. Needham's lob-stroke--gotback to it--slammed it across the court--got to thenet again--won her point after a tremendous rally.

"Forty fifteen," announced Aliette; and abruptly, preparingto serve, she knew that Ronnie was no longer watching.Concentration failed her: the game didn't seem to matter: thesooner she lost the game, the sooner she would be able to talkwith him.

2

"Why, there is Mr. Cavendish," said Mollie Fullerford."And that's Hugh Spillcroft with him. I haven't seen Hughfor years."

She ran down the steps; and Wilberforce followed--a littlejealously. The four stood chatting.

"Yes," said Ronnie. "Spillcroft had insisted on his playing'patters.' Spillcroft had promised to lend him a racket."

"Cavendish used to play a pretty fair game at the House,"interjected Hugh--a clean-shaven monocled young man, wholooked, once divested of wig and gown, a bit of a blood.

To Ronald the ensuing conversation was almost meaningless.He took part in it automatically. He didn't want totalk with these people; he wanted to watch that white embodimentof graceful strength, Aliette. He could hear hervoice, "Forty thirty," followed by the swish of two ballsalong netting, and Mrs. Needham's "Deuce." She had losttwo points since he turned away.

The unexpected sight of her had paralyzed his self-control.He forgot all the resolutions, all the ratiocinations of the lastten days. He clean forgot Hector Brunton. His inwardvision reveled in memories of her beauty. How glorious shelooked--on horseback, a-walking, in evening dress, even on atennis-court. Curious, that last! "Patters" women nearlyalways looked disheveled--those of them who could play.

Aliette--her set thrown away--and Mrs. Needham joinedthe four of them.

"How do you do, Mr. Cavendish?"

"How do you do, Mrs. Brunton?"

They clasped hands.

"I had to go all out that last game," said Mrs. Needham.

Neither she nor Ronnie realized that Aliette had lost deliberately.Aliette seemed so calm, so radiantly self-possessed.The vivid coils of her hair shone smooth in the sunlight; hereyes, as they looked into Ronnie's, were unruffled pools ofdignity.

Yet inwardly Hector's wife shook like a ship in storm.The tempest of feeling--released, as it were, by the touch ofhis fingers--swept her through and through. To stand there,talking rubbish, undiluted "tennis" rubbish, became sheertorment. Her heart ached for his to recognize it.

"Oh, but I'm a fool all right," said the new voice in herheart; the voice she had been trying to stifle ever since March."I've lost my head for good this time. I wish I could runaway from him. I wish he'd go and change. What's the useof meeting him? Like this--with all these people. Whyaren't we ever alone? I wish he'd go."

But Ronald Cavendish could not tear himself away. He,too, stood there, "like a perfect idiot," as he phrased it to hismind, saying anything that came into his head; anything thatwould keep him for another minute, and yet another minute,within the charmed circle of her society.

"Mixed doubles seem distinctly indicated," broke in Spillcroft'svoice. "Come along, Cavendish, you and I had betterchange."

"But I shall be absolutely rotten," protested Ronnie, as heallowed himself to be led off.

Mrs. Needham found another opponent, leaving the twosisters alone with Wilberforce, who offered Aliette some tea.She accepted, and accompanied them back to their table;where, after a few minutes, Cavendish and Spillcroft joinedthem.

Sipping her tea, listening with half an ear to the conversationsall round her, Aliette Brunton was, for the first time,aware of social danger. She felt a furious desire to talk withRonnie, to look at him. But to-day no frailest rose-bubbleof enchantment isolated them from their kind. To-day allthe other instincts warned that she must avert her eyes, averther voice. Nobody--not even Mollie--must guess their secret.Somehow she no longer doubted it their secret. Her very fearsgave her the certainty of him. She stole a look, sidewaysunder long lashes, into his blue eyes; and knew--knew that heloved her.

Yes, he loved her. Not as Hector imagined love, solely inthe possessive. But in all ways; with passion, with tendernesswith as much regard for her as for himself.

Fleetingly, she marveled that this thing should have happenedto her; to both of them. How had it happened? Why?What did the why or the how of the thing matter? Sufficed--forthe ecstatic moment--the knowledge that they loved oneanother.

But the man did not know. Certain of himself, he heldno certainty of her. Even his self-certainty seemed evanescentin her presence. Surely he had not dared to let himselfadore this radiant, perfect creature! Surely, even daringto adore, he would never dare tell her of his adoration! Shewas like the goddesses, utterly removed from the touch ofa man, utterly aloof from him. Then, fleetingly, he knewher no goddess, but a wife--Hector Brunton's wife. Andall the scruples of his code made the knowledge bitter in hismouth.

"Cavendish hasn't got a word to say for himself," thoughtMollie. "Jimmy's ever so much better-looking--thoughJimmy's tennis is rotten. I sha'n't let Jimmy play in thisset." And she insisted, following the high-handed method ofthe modern young, on playing with Spillcroft against Cavendishand her sister.

Ronnie's patters proved somewhat less out of practice thanhe had imagined.

"Thank you, partner," smiled Aliette, after the last strokeof the third, and decisive, set. "Your volleying saved, theday."

"Oh, I didn't have much to do with it," he smiled back.

Since the beginning of the match, except for the necessitiesof the strokes, they had hardly spoken to one another. But,for each, the forty minutes of partnership, the mutual willto win, the clean struggle on clean grass, the open air and theexercise had been one long delight.

Scruples, uncertainties, consciousness of danger, consciousnessof fear--these and all the inevitable soul-searchings of alove such as theirs took wings and departed from them. Surrenderingtheir bodies and their minds to one another forthe winning of a game; concentrating on the vagaries of awhite ball, a net, and a few square feet of turf; they forgottheir immediate selves, forgot that they were "Mr. Cavendish"and "Mrs. Brunton"--two poor human beings poisedat the edge of emotional disaster, separated by law, by thechurch, by "honor," united only by the "sentimental impulse,"and became, for the forgetful moment, one mind andone body.

But now, once more, they were twain. Now forgetfulnesswas over. Now emotion poured back full-tide, submergingboth their minds and their bodies.

James Wilberforce lounged down from the clubhouse; drewMollie away from her partner, and began whispering. Molliecalled across the court:

"I say, Alie, Mr. Wilberforce wants to drive me back inhis car. You won't mind coming home by yourself, will you?I don't think I ought to play any more."

"No, dear, I sha'n't mind," called back Aliette; and hereyes as she watched the two figures making towards the waitingcars; as she heard the chug of Wilberforce's engine, andsaw his two-seater swing through the gates up the roadtoward Baron's Court, betrayed the truth of the remark. Butwhen she turned once more to the flanneled man at her side,those eyes had regained their composure.

"Can't we find a fourth?" remarked Aliette.

"We'll get Mrs. Needham to make up," said Spillcroft."She and I'll take you two on."

And so, for one last crowded hour, those two played together--brainsand bodies attuned to the delight of workingin unison.

The very cleanness of the game took all sense of guilt andall guilt of sense from them. They might have been boy andgirl, young husband and younger wife, lovers whose love wassanctioned of the law--he and she, sinews taut, eyes keen,all the health and all the youth of them concentrated onrhythmic pastime.

3

"You'e got your car, I suppose?"

"No. My--my husband's taken it out of town."

The rhythmic pastime was over. Nervously now they facedone another on the empty court. Spillcroft had rushed awayto change, Mrs. Needham to the tube. From their kind, theycould expect neither help nor hindrance.

Already the shadows of the red houses lengthened towardthem across green turf; already the bustle of the tennis-groundwas hushed. Sparrow twittered on the silence. Inthe radiance of that summer evening the brown hair, thebrown eyes of Aliette kindled to wallflower color against therose-flushed cream of her skin. The sight of her beauty, sovirginal in its white simplicity of attire, so alone with himin that emptiness of green, struck Ronnie speechless. Hestood enthralled--the magic of her harping sheer musicagainst the hush in his brain.

"I--I think I ought to be going home," said Aliette.

She, too, heard that sheer music which is love. Once more,tempest-wise, emotion swept her through and through: sweepingaway inhibition; sweeping away all false fastidiousness;cleansing her soul of all instincts save the instinct for loving,for being loved. In that one magical, self-revealing moment,she was conscious solely of joy.

"I--mayn't I drive you----" stammered Ronnie. Hehardly knew what he said. All the suppressed vehemences,all the pent-up longings of the past months craved utteranceat his lips. Fear and love keyed him to any daring. He hadhad such happiness of her that afternoon. It made him fearfullest happiness should utterly escape.

"Thank you very much----" Once more she was awareof danger. Yet she could not bring herself to say him "No."

He left her without another word. Her own heart, thevery world, seemed to have ceased pulsing as she awaited hisreturn. She stood alone, woman eternal, hearing very faintlyacross hushed spaces the beat of music, the birth-cry ofchildren.

Ten minutes later--looking, to other eyes, the most ordinary,most orderly of citizens--Ronnie came back. Butthat sense of utter solitude was still on Aliette. She couldonly smile her thanks as he led her to the waiting taxi, handedher in, and closed the door.

She did not wish that he should speak with her. She wasafraid lest even his voice should irrupt upon this exquisitesolitude wherein her soul hung poised. And yet how goodto know him beside her as London spun past them in thetwilight.

Was this London, the London she had so hated, this wonder-townthrough which they sped together? Was this Aliette?This, Ronnie?

And suddenly, vividly, she desired to hear his voice. Solitudeno longer sufficed her. She had been so long solitary--solitaryin unhappiness. Now, in her new happiness, shecraved companionship, the sound of a voice, the touch of ahand. Why did he not dare speak with her?

Descending as from great heights, her soul knew him afraidlest, speaking, he should destroy that rose-bubble of enchantmentin which they had their being; afraid, too, because hestill thought of her as another's. Yet she was no other's:she was his, his only. And he--hers.

How fast they sped through this miracle of London. Already,the trees of its park were fleeting by.

Oh, why wouldn't Ronnie speak with her? Had he noword to say? In a moment, in such a little moment, it wouldbe too late.

Yet it was fine of him not to speak, fine that he should sosteel himself against her. His eyes were like sharp steel; hislips one tense line above the determination of his chin. Hehad clenched his hand--his right hand. Aliette could see it--close--soclose to her own hand.

Then the car swerved, almost throwing them together; andRonnie's self-control snapped, as a violin-string snaps, to thetouch of her.

Their hands met. She knew that he was raising her handto his lips; she felt the brush of his lips warm against herfingers; she heard his lips whisper: "Aliette--Aliette--don'thate me for loving you."

4

Hector Brunton's wife entered her husband's house like agirl in a dream.

1

When Aliette looks back on the three days that followedher lover's first avowal, she can only see herself movingin a strange, rapt exhilaration from room to room ofHector's great house in Lancaster Gate.

Hector, she realized thankfully, would be away till Mondayevening: the other inmates of the house--Mollie, CarolineStaley, Lennard the butler, and his female satellites--seemedas though they had been screen-folk, flat phantoms, alive onlyto the eye.

Vaguely, among those phantoms, she can remember JimmyWilberforce, very correct in his evening-clothes, sitting betweenher and Mollie in the big cream-paneled dining-room.

Dinner over--Aliette remembers--she invented some pretextto leave the pair unchaperoned, and withdrew to thebalcony.

It was good to be alone, alone with one's dreams--dreamsthat made even Bayswater Road beautiful. The road seemeda pathway of radiance. High silver edged it either side; between,the hasting car lights streamed their fans of luminouscrystal. Here and there among the trees beyond, her eyescaught the orange flicker of matches, the red of kindledcigarettes.

"Under those trees," she thought, "Ronnie whispered,'Aliette, don't hate me for loving you.'"

As though she could ever hate him!

A little breeze, blowing cool across London, ruffled her hair.Patting a scarcely displaced curl, she thought: "He kissedthese fingers of mine. Another time he will kiss me on thelips. My lips shall answer his kisses."

And all those three days and nights, thought went nofurther. For the moment it sufficed to know one's self adoredand adoring, to dream the impossible, to vision oneself untrammeledas Mollie, a virgin in bridal white standing meek-eyedbefore one's chosen.

2

But Hyde Park, of a crowded Sunday morning, is no placefor dreams: rather is it an epitome of actual London. Here,all along with brown men, yellow men, black men, swathedArabs, Poles, Czecho-Slovakians, Turks, Spaniards, 5 per cent.Americans, and even (such is the bland insouciance of London)a Bolshevik or so, foregather representatives of all thethousand castes between peer and proletarian which peopleDemocropolis.

Not that these castes commingle! Each, as though disciplined,has its assembly-place. Aliette and Mollie, for instance,taking the diagonal path from Victoria Gate, wouldno more have let themselves intrude upon the communisticsanctum near Marble Arch, than the fulminating prophetsof social equality and unlimited class-warfare would havedared invade the stretch of turf and gravel by the Achillesstatue which custom reserves for "church-parade."

"We really ought to have gone to church first," said Mollie.

"Ought we?" answered an absent-minded sister.

Aliette's thoughts were very far from church. That morning,alone in the bow-windowed library among the heavypictures and the heavier books, she had tried to be her oldself again, to reason out the whole issue involved by Ronnie'sdeclaration. But her reasoning had been all confused, baffled,and confounded of the emotions.

One fact only, as she now saw, had emerged star-clear fromher hour of introspection: the fact that she loved Ronnie.And she had no right to love Ronnie! She was a marriedwoman. Socially, and in the eyes of the law, she belongedto Hector.

Walking, she tried to delude herself. Perhaps the love wasall on her side; perhaps her dreams would endure, bringing noreality.

But even the momentary delusion did not endure. Peremptorilyher heart assured her of Ronnie's devotion, of its permanence.Irrevocably she knew that, sooner or later, thewhole issue would have to be faced.

The two sisters walked on, silent in the sunshine, till theycame to the assembly-place of their caste. There, still silent,they sat them down under the trees.

All about them, some seated, some strolling, were other well-groomedpeople. Beyond the low-railed turf, a compact,orderly crowd sauntered four deep along the sidewalk. Beyondthem, occasional cars, occasional carriages drew up todisgorge fresh arrivals.

"Morning!" said a man's voice. Aliette, who had beenentertaining a stranger's Pekingese with the tip of her unfurledparasol, looked up; and saw James Wilberforce.

James Wilberforce asked if he might sit with them, andtook the answer for granted. "Fine day for cutting church,"he grinned, as he arranged his hefty bulk, his striped trousers,his top-hat (which shone with a positive mating splendor),his "partridge" cane, and his buckskin gloves in the appropriateposes. "Been here long?"

"No," Mollie answered. "We've only just come."

"Seen anything of Cavendish?"

"Not so far, Jimmy."

"Expect he and his mater'll be along pretty soon. I'mlunching with them at Bruton Street."

"Are you?"

And suddenly Aliette panicked. "I wish I could bolt,"thought Aliette. "I ought to bolt. He mustn't catch mehere, in public, undecided. I wish I hadn't come. I mighthave known he'd be here. Oh, why didn't I reason thingsout to a finish this morning?"

Nor was Aliette Brunton the only one to panic! RonaldCavendish, walking with his mother from Down Street toHyde Park Corner, felt equally unsure of himself. He, too,after three days of rapt exhilaration, after three nights duringwhich the one predominant thought had been, "Sheyielded her hand, she loves me," had tried to face the issuedeliberately.

But deliberation seemed utterly to have deserted him.Consecutive thought was impossible. Between him andthought shimmered the radiant face of Aliette, the wide, unstartled,tender eyes of Aliette, the yielding fingers of Alietteas he raised them to his lips.

They turned out of Piccadilly into the park.

"A weak sermon," said his mother.

"I'm afraid I didn't listen very carefully."

"So I perceived." Julia, covertly examining her son, sawthat he looked pale, agitated. His dress, stereotyped enoughin conception, betrayed a certain carelessness: the tie had beenhastily knotted, a button was missing from one of the gloves.She felt, rather than knew, that he resented her company.

Mother intuition alone made Julia conscious of that resentment.But psychology, the long training of an astute mind,led her instinctively to the root of it. "Some woman orother," she decided. "Nothing else could make him resentme." And she remembered, with an acute pang of jealousy,his affair with her sister's child, Lucy Edwards. Had it notbeen for her, Ronnie would have married Lucy. She could notregret having prevented the match--marriages between firstcousins, whatever the church might say about them, oughtnot to be encouraged. Nevertheless, if Ronnie had marriedLucy, he would at least have married a known quantity.Whereas now, for all Julia knew, he might have fallen in lovewith a divorcée.

For undoubtedly love must be the cause of his mentaltrouble. No other emotion had ever made him resentful of hercompany. Moreover, why should he be troubled if the girlwere eligible?

"I think we'll cross now," she said, trying not to feel hurt."It may be cooler under the trees."

He gave her his arm across the road; and as they threadedtheir way, still arm in arm, through the saunterers, JuliaCavendish, bowing to various acquaintances, forgot her hurtin sheer maternal pride--a pride which had not diminishedby the time that James Wilberforce came over to detain themfrom strolling.

Watching those three make their way through the sunlitcrowd, Hector Brunton's wife felt the social sense deserther.

This creature, dressed so like its fellows that its fellowsscarcely turned to regard it, was her man, her Ronnie. He,and he alone among the crowd, could move her to emotion.She could feel the limbs under her silk frock trembling to hisapproach. And suddenly, desperately, she hated the crowd;seeing it a living barrier between them. If only Ronnie couldtake her up, there and then, in his arms; if only he couldcarry her away, away from all these futile people. All thepeople about her grew blurred, unreal. She could see clearlyonly one face, the serious blue-eyed face of her man.

"How do you do?" said the voice of Julia Cavendish. Anda moment afterwards, as she and Ronnie shook hands, realityand social sense alike came back to the mind of AlietteBrunton.

She found herself sitting pleasantly in the park, surroundedby pleasant people. She knew a great many of these people:but best of all she knew the man beside her. "Poor Ronnie!"she thought. "He doesn't know what to say for himself. Hefeels awkward. It is rather an awkward moment. I'd bettermake conversation." And she began to make conversation inher calmest, most charming social manner, with Ronnie'smother, inquiring about her health.

"Oh, but I'm really quite well," protested Julia. "A littleoverworked, perhaps. At least, so the doctors say. PersonallyI haven't much faith in doctors. But I'm taking their advice,and knocking off for a month or so."

"Does that mean that we aren't to expect a novel thisautumn?"

"I'm afraid so." The authoress laughed to herself. It wasso like "the public" to imagine that novels were written in afew months, between May and July, for publication in theautumn.

But abruptly, even while she was still laughing to herself,Ronnie's mother grew aware of trouble. Her mind senseddrama: a drama actually in progress; here; close beside her.This "charming woman," this Mrs. Brunton, radiated, despiteher charm, an aura of tension, of the acutest mental tension.Meanwhile Ronnie had hardly opened his mouth since they satdown. For the next ten minutes Julia Cavendish also "madeconversation."

"Almost time we were getting a move on; it's past oneo'clock," interrupted James Wilberforce--and precipitatedcrisis.

For that this was crisis, a definite thought-crisis, each of theparticipants in it--Julia, Aliette, Ronnie--recognized as theyrose to their feet. Behind their conventionally smiling facesseethed minds so violently perturbed that to each it seemedimpossible for thought to remain unbetrayed.

"This is the woman," thought Julia Cavendish. "This isthe woman whom Ronnie loves. Somehow I must save himfrom her. Somehow I must save them both. Otherwise itmeans ruin, absolute ruin. Disgrace!"

But no thought of ruin troubled the lovers.

"I can't let him go like this," thought the woman. "Ican't lose him. I must speak. I must say, 'Ronnie, Ronnie,I don't hate you for loving me.'"

And the man thought: "I wonder if she is hating me. Iwonder why she's so reserved, so aloof. I must find out. Imust have a word with her. Just one word--alone."

And he had his word, the barest whisper as their handsclasped: "May I telephone you to-night?"

Only the tiniest pressure of Aliette's gloved fingers gaveconsent.

3

"It was the mater who insisted on my having a telephone,"thought Ronnie. "The mater who furnished this room forme."

He looked round the room--at the Chippendale settee, thebookcases, the eighteenth-century engravings on the beigewall-paper. Looking, his heart misgave him.

The mater! He owed her so much in life. And now--nowhe was contemplating, more than contemplating, making definite,absolutely definite, a decision of which she could neverapprove, which might even cost him her love.

The mater! Ever since that moment of crisis in Hyde Park--throughluncheon, through the rainy afternoon which followedluncheon, over the dinner she had insisted on his sharing--Ronniehad been watching her face, speculating about her,wondering what she would say if she knew. Now suddenly itseemed to him that she did know.

He tried to put the idea out of mind. But fragments oftheir conversation--fragments which memory could onlyimagine to have been hints--kept recurring to him. She hadspoken--and this was rare with her--about his father; abouta recent matrimonial shipwreck; about her article in the"Contemplatory." And not once, after Wilberforce leftthem, had she mentioned--Aliette!

The Chippendale clock on the mantelpiece gave a preliminarywheeze, and began chiming ten o'clock. At the sound,misgivings vanished. She--not his mother, but Aliette,Aliette, the very thought of whose name made the pulseshammer in his head--must no longer be kept waiting.

For a moment the shining black of the telephone fascinatedRonnie's eyes; for a moment, as one meditating a great decision,he stood stock-still. Then impulsively he lifted thereceiver from its hook.

To his imaginative mind, the telephone became instrumentof their fate. Waiting for the call, he saw, as one mesmerized,all their past, all the possibilities of their future; forgetting,in that mesmeric instant, his mother, the law, Brunton, everythingin the world except the vivid of Aliette's hair, her deepbrown eyes, the poised exquisite slenderness of her.

And an instant later he heard her voice. It came to him,very clear, very deliberate, across the wires:

"Is that you?"

"Yes."

"You're very late."

"I'm sorry. I didn't get away from Bruton Street tillnearly ten. Are you alone?" Ronnie hated himself for thatquestion: it sounded almost furtive. But Aliette's answerwas the very spirit of frankness.

"Yes. I'm quite alone. In the library. Mollie's gone tobed. Why do you ask?"

"Because--there's something I want to say to you--Aliette."He paused a second, mastered by emotion; thenagain he said: "Aliette?"

"Yes--Ronnie."

"You're not angry with me--about Thursday?"

"No." It seemed to him that he could almost see her lipsmove. "No. I'm not angry--with you: only with myself."

"You know----" He hesitated. "You know that I loveyou."

"Yes, I know that." A little laugh. "It doesn't makethings any easier for me, does it?"

"I want to see you again. Soon. May I?"

For a long time, the wire gave no answer. At last, veryfaintly, as though she were thinking rather than speaking,Aliette whispered: "This isn't playing the game."

"I know that. I've tried----" He could not bring himselfto finish the sentence.

"Oughtn't we to go on--trying?"

"No." Now the man could actually vision her. It was asthough she were in the room. Passion--banishing hesitancy--hadits way with him. "Aliette! I can't go on living if Idon't see you again. I've got to see you. Soon. To-morrow.You will meet me, to-morrow, won't you! I can't bear thethought of another three days without you."

Hesitancy returned, banishing passion. "I've offendedher," he thought. "She's rung off." But after an interminablesilence, Aliette answered:

"Where do you want me to meet you?" Then, faint again,and very shy: "I've got--we've got--such a lot of thingsto say to one another. Hadn't we--hadn't I--hadn't itbetter be in your rooms? I could come to you to-morrow afternoon.At about five o'clock. Would that do?"

"Aliette--dear----"

Before Ronnie could collect his wits for a further reply, heheard a whispered "Good night," and the click of a replacedreceiver.

1

To a certain type of mind, the woman who goes to a man'srooms is already labeled. It seems therefore necessaryto explain that Aliette--when she suggested going to Ronnie's--actedon no passionate impulse, but as the result of a wholeafternoon's deliberation. It was, she felt, vital that theyshould have speech together; and equally vital that theirspeech should not be disturbed. Wherefore--fastidiousnessrevolting alike from a clandestine appointment in Hyde Parkor at her husband's house--she chose the courageous alternative.

Now, however, as she strolled quietly down Bond Streetat half-past four of a sunlit Monday afternoon, Aliette didnot altogether succeed in bridling the fears with which bothsex and training strove to stampede her mentality.

She had to say to herself: "How absurd I am! These arethe nineteen-twenties; not the eighteen-sixties. Even discovered,I run no risk of scandal." Yet scandal, she knewsubconsciously, was the least of the risks she ran in going toRonnie.

Nevertheless, go she must: even if--worst risk of all--hehad misunderstood her motive. The issue between them couldnot be shirked any longer. Rather a desperate issue it seemedas, at the corner of Conduit Street, Aliette ran into Hector'sfather!

Rear-Admiral Billy, having arrived at his club two hourssince, was taking his first "cruise round." The old manlooked the complete Victorian in his white spats, his "Ascot"tie, his braided morning-coat and weekday topper. But his"sponge-bag" trousers were Georgian enough.

"Well met, my dear." he greeted her. "Your old father-in-law'sdying for a pretty woman to pour out his tea."

She let him rumble on; accepted his compliments about herhat, her lace frock, her parasol; but refused his offer of ataxi to Ranelagh.

"I'm so sorry, Billy. But I'm going--I'm going to teawith some one else."

"That be blowed for a tale," laughed the admiral."You're coming with me. If Ranelagh's too far, we'll makeit Rumpelmayer's."

He took her arm; and she began to panic. Billy, in his "onthe spree" mood, could be very persistent. A few yards on,however, they met Hermione Ellerson. She too, declared thesailor, "must have a dish of tea with an old man."

Aliette seized on the opportunity with a quick:

"Be a dear, Hermione. Take Billy to Rumpelmayer's forme."

"You'll give me strawberries and cream--whatever theycost?" pouted the ex-plaintiff in Ellerson v. Ellerson.

"Give you anything you want," rumbled Rear-AdmiralBilly. "Alie's going to meet her best boy; so we'll leave herout of the party."

Aliette, on the pretext of shopping, managed an immediateriddance of the pair. Watching them walk off together, shefelt rather guilty. Yet the guilt held a certain spice of pleasure,of pride. She was on a dangerous errand, taking risks.She was going--in risk's despite--to Ronnie.

Her heart began to throb in anticipation of Ronnie. Passinga mirrored window, she glanced at her reflection, and sawherself well turned-out, en beauté. The sight gave her keenestsatisfaction. She walked on, no longer fearful but excited--violently,tremulously excited--till she came to Piccadilly;and turned right-handed toward St. James's Street. But theclock of St. James's Palace told her that it still lacked morethan a quarter of an hour to their rendezvous.

She turned back again; stood a full minute in admirationof Rowland Ward's trophies; debated with herself whethershe should drop into Fortnum & Mason's or dawdle at thebook-counter in Hatchard's; decided against both schemes;lingered to examine the Harrison Fisher drawings in thedisplay-window of "Nash's Magazine"; examined the diamondwatch at her wrist; and nearly bolted down the LittleArcade into the narrow Londonishness of Jermyn Street.

Here again she felt the need for courage; felt as thoughthe whole place--the church under the tree, and the public-houseat the corner, the shops and the restaurants--heldspies. The street, after broad Piccadilly, seemed furtive, sunless,a street of danger. She wanted to avert her head fromthe passers-by.

2

By the time Hector Brunton's self-possessed wife reachedthe dark-green Adams door of 127b Jermyn Street, she was asnervous as any other woman in the same equivocal position.

But Ronnie's name-plate, the sedateness of the house, andabove all the trim gentleman--obviously a retired butler--whoanswered her tremulous ringing, did more than a little torestore her confidence.

"Mr. Cavendish? Mr. Cavendish is at home, madam. Heis expecting guests." (Aliette could have blessed MosesMoffatt for that final "s.") "Allow me to show you the wayup, madam."

She followed the restorer of confidence up two dark flightsof well-carpeted stairs; and found herself on a half-landing.The white door on the half-landing was just ajar.

"Whom shall I announce, madam?" asked the trim gentleman.

Aliette hesitated the fraction of a second before replying:"Mrs. Brunton, Mrs. Hector Brunton."

Moses Moffatt opened the white door, and they passed intothe hall of Ronnie's flat. Automatically Aliette noticed--andadmired--the black grandfather's clock, the one engraving,the beige wall-paper. Then her cicerone knocked on polishedmahogany; and a voice, Ronnie's voice, called, "Come in."

Moses Moffatt opened the second door; announced thevisitor in his best style; and withdrew. They heard the clickof his final exit as they faced one another--she still in thedoorway, he at the tea-table by the fireplace.

For a moment, social poise deserted them both; for amoment they could only stare--brown eyes into blue, blueeyes into brown. Then, her sense of humor conquering shyness,Aliette said: "You were expecting me, weren't you?"

"It seems too good to be true." Ronnie moved across theroom towards her; took the hand she proffered; and raised itto his lips. At that, she felt shy again. Confidence desertedher. If he failed in this first test; if, by one word, he betrayedmisunderstanding; then, indeed, she would have irretrievablydemeaned herself. But Ronnie released her hand after thatone kiss; and said, very simply: "I oughtn't to have let youcome."

Relieved, and a little touched at his words, Aliette let himtake her bag and parasol.

"I didn't mean you to have tea for me," she said, pullingoff her gloves. "Shall I pour out?"

"I'll have to boil the kettle first," he stammered, fumblingin his pocket for matches. "You'll sit here, won't you! I--I'veso often imagined you sitting here and pouring out teafor me--Aliette."

"Have you--Ronnie?" Laughter dimpled her cheeks. Shelet him lead her to the settee by the tea-table; and sat watchinghis struggle with the refractory wick. "Why don't youhave an electric one? They're so much easier."

"Are they?" How shy he seemed!

"Rather!" She imagined herself infinitely the more atease. "I like this room."

"I'm so glad. It isn't my taste, you know."

"Really?" As if she hadn't guessed whose taste hadchosen that beige paper, those écru velvet curtains with theirflimsy lace brise-bise, the Aubusson carpet, and the plain silvertea-service on the Chippendale tray!

He did not pursue the subject; and for that reticence herheart went out in thankfulness to him. Yet, at best, his reticencecould only be a temporary respite: before she left thisroom which his mother had furnished for him, the whole issuemust be discussed. And the issue--as Aliette well knew--depended,more than on any one else, on Julia Cavendish.

Yes! The whole issue, not only as it affected themselves,but as it might affect others, must be threshed out beforeshe left him. Only--only--this respite was very sweet. Whycouldn't life be just one long tea-time! She felt so unutterablyhappy. A sense, almost a sensuousness, of well-beingpervaded her. She wanted no more than this: to be withRonnie; to hear his voice; to watch his lips, his eyes, hishands as they poured from silver kettle to silver pot; toanswer, quietly, impersonally, his quiet impersonal questions.

She thought how boyish he looked; how unlike Hector hewas in his courtesy, his delicacy. Till suddenly, watching himacross the table, she grew conscious of tension in him, of passion.And on that, this business of pouring out his tea, ofaccepting his cakes, turned to sorriest of farces. She wantedhim beside her, close to her; she wanted to hear him whisper,"Aliette, I love you"; she wanted to whisper back, "And Ilove you, Ronnie. I've loved you ever since that first day."

All else she had meant to say seemed positively futile.

Meanwhile, to Ronnie, it seemed incredible that he shouldfind the courage to tell her his thoughts; incredible that thisvivid, radiant creature, alone with him in the intimacy of hisown dwelling-place, should be willing to listen to them. Then,without warning, thought broke to words.

"All the same, I oughtn't to have let you come."

"Why not? I--I wanted to."

"Because----" The fire in his eyes blinded her. Sheheard, as through the maze of sleep, steady tick-tick-tick ofthe clock on the mantelpiece, sizzle of the kettle-flame, the hootand drone of traffic from the street below. She heard, as asleeper awakened, the throb of her own heart. She felt tears,tears of sheer joy, close to her eyes.

"Because?" she whispered back.

"Because I love you. Because I can't trust myself withyou. Because you're"--he was on his feet now--"becauseyou're not mine. And I want you to be mine."

"Ronnie! Ronnie!" Still mazed, she stretched out a handto him. He seized her hand; and pressed it to his lips, to hiseyes.

"Aliette--my dearest--sweetest--I'm behaving like a cadto you. I----"

Speech died at his lips; he stood before her, tense, tongue-tied--herhand held, like a shield against her beauty, beforehis eyes. She knew passion kindling in her, kindling themboth to madness; knew the flames of desire a-leap betweenthem; knew the overpowering impulse to immolate herself inthe flames of desire.

"My dear," he whispered, "my dear."

Then, as in a dream, she divined that the flames leaped nomore, that he had mastered passion, that he had fallen to hisknees, that he was covering her hand with kisses. "Forgiveme," she heard, "forgive me. I'm not that sort of cad. Ididn't think, just because you came to my rooms----"

"Don't, don't." Her free hand fondled his hair. "Youmustn't kneel to me. Please, please----"

He rose, her hand still in his; and she drew him down besideher.

"Ronnie----" She would have looked into his eyes, buthis eyes avoided her. "Ronnie, I don't want you to think,either now or ever, that it's caddish of you to--to love me. I--Ineed your love. I need your love more than I can ever tellyou." His hand trembled at her words. "I'm very lonely,and I'm afraid--I'm afraid that I'm very weak. You'rethe only person in the world who can help----"

"Then----" His eyes turned to hers, and she saw hopelight in them. "Then, you do love me."

"Yes. I love you." She laughed--a little strained laughthat was almost a caress. "I oughtn't to say that, I suppose."

"Oh, my dear"--now he had prisoned both her hands--"whyshouldn't you say it? No--no harm shall ever come toyou from me."

"I know that." Her voice grew almost inaudible. "Otherwise--Ishouldn't be here."

"No harm shall ever come to you from me," he repeated--andfell silent.

They sat for a while, hand in hand, taking quiet comfortfrom one another, each knowing what must next be said, eachfearful of being first to speak. At last, releasing her hands,Aliette braced herself to the ordeal.

"About"--fastidiousness almost overwhelmed her--"aboutmy--my husband. You understand, don't you, that he--thathe isn't my husband any more--that otherwise I would neverhave come to you--that, that it's been all over between himand me--for, for ever so long."

"Yes, dear. I--I understand." Very slowly, he drew hertoward him. His eyes no longer blinded her; looking deepinto the blue of them, she saw only a great comprehension, agreat reverence. "I should have understood--even withoutyour telling me." Very slowly, she yielded to the pull of hishands; yielded him her lips. Very clearly she knew herself--asthey swayed to one another in that first kiss--his woman.

Again, it was a while before either spoke. Then Ronniesaid, speaking as simply as any boy:

"I wish I knew what was the right thing to be done. Ican't give you up. Not now! Tell me, if you were free--wouldyou marry me?"

"You know that I would." She, too, spoke simply of thethings in her heart. "But I'm not free. We're neither ofus free."

"You mean that--that I'll have to give you up?"

Again she braced herself. "I--I'm afraid so."

"Why?"

"Because of----" She could not yet bring herself to mentionhis mother. "Because of your career."

"My career!" He laughed, holding her in his arms. "Asif my career had anything to do with it. I'm only a poordevil of a barrister, living on the charitable briefs of JimmyWilberforce. It's you, your reputation that counts, notmine."

"I can't let my love bring you harm." She withdrew fromhim--her eyes still suffused with happiness; her lips stillquivering from his caress.

"Never mind me. It's you we have to consider. In lawyou're--you're still your husband's. Unless he lets youdivorce him."

"He'd never do that."

"Why not? It's lawful. It's done every day."

"Even if he would--I couldn't. It wouldn't be playingthe game."

"Aliette"--stubbornly, Ronnie rose to his feet,--"I--Iwant you so much that nothing else seems to matter. But Ican't--I won't ask you to--to do the other thing. You talkabout playing the game. What's the alternative? If youdivorce your--your husband, he won't suffer. Nobody careswhat a man does. But the other thing--the other thing'sall wrong----"

His words chilled her to fear. But she knew that she mustmaster fear--even as he had mastered passion.

"Are you--are you so sure?" said Aliette. "Can love,real love, ever be wrong?"

He turned on her bluntly, almost rudely. "Yes, the wholething's wrong. It's wrong of me to let you come here.Wrong of me to love you." Then, his reserve breaking down:"I've tried to reason this thing out till I've grown nearlymad with it. I've always loved my profession; alwaysthought that a lawyer's first duty was to obey the law. Butnow, loving you, the law doesn't seem to count. Only youcount. You and your happiness. It's only you I'm thinkingof, not my--my rotten career."

Once again he fell on his knees to her, protesting, incoherent;once again he took her in his arms; and kissed her,very tenderly, on her eyes, on her half-closed lips. His kissesweakened her.

"Ronnie," she whispered. "My Ronnie, I love you so."

Her whisper kindled him again to passion.

"Aliette," he said hoarsely, "Aliette, I can't give you up.I can't live without you."

For a moment she yielded herself; for a moment her lips,her hands, her whole body clung to their happiness; for amoment all her fears, all her self-torturings were stifled. Thenshe broke from him; and her eyes grew resolute.

"Ronnie, there's some one whom neither of us has considered--yourmother."

"The old cannot stand between the young and their happiness."His eyes, too, were resolute. "We're still young, youand I. We've all our lives to live. And besides"--he weakened,--"themater likes you."

"She'd hate me if I didn't make you give me up."

"You don't know her, dear."

"I do." It seemed to Aliette as though her lover were indeedonly a boy. "I know her a thousand times better thanyou ever will. Mostly because I'm a woman; and a little,perhaps, because I love her son. She would hate me. And--andshe'd be right."

"Nobody could hate you," he broke in. "Nobody whoknew the fineness of you."

"I'm not fine." She put away the joy of his words. "I'mjust a very ordinary person. There's nothing fine in me--exceptperhaps my love for you. And, for your sake, Imustn't let that love blind me to the truth. Can't you seewhat my freedom--however I won it--would mean to yourmother?"

She waited for him to answer; but he sat obstinately silent--hishands clasped about his knees, his eyes on her face. Shewent on:

"Your mother doesn't believe in divorce. It's against herprinciples, her religion."

"But surely, if he lets you divorce him----"

"I could never do that. Not now. It would be just--justhypocrisy. And we can't hurt your mother. We mustn't.I don't care about myself. If I thought it were for yourhappiness, I'd run away with you to-night. But I'm afraidfor your career. And I do care, terribly, about making hersuffer. Think of the fight she's put up, all her life, againstthis very thing; and then, try to think what it will mean toher, to both of you, if you, her son, her only son----"

He interrupted violently.

"She would have no right, no earthly right to interfere."

"Oh, don't, don't speak like that about her." There weretears, tears of real sorrow, in Aliette's eyes. "I can't bear it.I--I can't bear to think of coming between you. It isn't fair.She's loved you all her life. You're everything in the worldto her. And then--then--oh! can't you understand----"

He strove to kiss away the tears; but her hands covered herface from his kisses. He knew himself all one weakness atthought of this hurt in Aliette. And weakening, it seemed tohim as though Julia Cavendish were here in the room withthem; as though he said to her: "Mater, this is my one chanceof happiness. I can't let even you take it from me."

The vision passed; and he knew himself strong again. Hishands parted Aliette's fingers; he kissed her on the closedeyelids, on the wet cheeks. She clung to him, tearful still.Her lips murmured:

"Life is so difficult--so terribly difficult."

He said to her: "We mustn't make it more difficult. Welove each other. We must be true to love. Nothing elsematters. As long as you are mine----"

"I am yours. Only yours. You don't doubt me?"

At that the last of Ronnie's scruples vanished. Fiercely,crudely, he strained her to him. "Aliette, Aliette, my owndarling, don't ask me to give you up. I can't give you up! Icouldn't endure life without you. Come to me! We needn'tdo anything mean, anything underhand. It's for your happiness--formy happiness----"

"Ronnie--Ronnie----"

Her lips were fire on his cheeks. The perfume of her wasa fire in his mind. Her arms were chains, chains of fire abouthis body. He crushed her to him; crushed her mouth underhis lips. Her whole body ached for him, ached to surrenderitself. A sharp pang as of hatred went through her body:she hated him for the thing he would not do; hated herselffor the longings in her body.

"You hurt me, you hurt me." With a sharp cry she brokeherself loose from him. "I thought I was so strong. AndI'm weak--clay in your hands."

She stood up, trembling; feeling herself all disheveled,abased.

The flame under the kettle had gone out. The tea had gonecold in their half-empty cups. The street below still hootedand droned with traffic. The clock still ticked from themantelpiece.

"I ought to be going," she said, eying the clock.

"Yes." He, too, had risen: he, too, was trembling. "Youought to be going. It's nearly half-past six. But you'llcome to me again. You'll come again--Aliette."

He found her gloves, her bag and parasol. Taking them,she knew that her hands had lost their coolness; little pearlsof emotion moistened either palm. Her face, seen in themirror over the mantelpiece, looked strangely flushed--different.For the flash of a second, her fastidiousness was inrevulsion.

"You'll come again--soon?" he repeated.

"I don't know." Revulsion passed; but her hands,straightening her hat, shook as though in self-disdain."Somehow, it doesn't seem fair--on either of us."

"But you must." His voice thrilled. "You must. Wecan't leave things like this--undecided."

Self-possessed once more, she faced him. "Don't try tohurry me, Ronnie. We've talked too much this afternoon.My brain's weary. I can't decide anything. I thought that,being with you, things would be easier. They're not.They're more difficult. You must give me time----"

"Then"--his voice saddened--"I haven't been any help toyou?"

A laugh rose in her throat, dimpling it. "I'm afraid we'reneither of us very wise; but"--she offered him her unglovedhand--"it's been very sweet, being with you. That's why--youhaven't helped me very much."

Silently, hating that she must go, he released her fingers.She was all a wonder to his eyes, all a riddle to his brain. Hewanted to say: "But you mustn't go. You're mine, mine.I don't care a damn for your husband, for my career, for mymother, for the law. Stay with me. Stay with me to-night."

Actually, he forebore even to kiss her good-by!

3

Aliette had been gone an hour....

Moses Moffatt came in. Moses Moffatt cleared away the tea-things.Moses Moffatt asked: "Will you be dining at home,sir?" Some one answered, "No!" Moses Moffatt went out.

Aliette had been gone two whole hours. The some onebecame Ronald Cavendish.

He found that he must have been smoking cigarettes--onecigarette after the other. Ash and paper smoldered on thesilver tray at his side. The room stank of tobacco. Buttobacco could not drive away that other perfume--the perfumeof Aliette's womanhood.

She had been in this very room! The essence of her stillpervaded every nook of it. His imagination conjured up theimage of her: Aliette dimpling to laughter: Aliette's browneyes, now bright with joy, now dimmed with tears: the vividof Aliette's hair: the little gestures of Aliette's hands. Allthese he saw, and possessed again in memory.

Again she lay in his arms. Again she let him kiss the tearsfrom her eyes. Again she yielded him her hands, her hair.But she had yielded him more than these; she had yielded himher very thoughts: she had said, "I'm very weak; you're theonly person who can help me."

Remembering those words, he grew ashamed. He must notthink for himself: he must think for her. She had said thatshe would marry him if she were free. But there was onlyone way to freedom--unless Brunton let her divorce him.And that alternative she had refused to contemplate.

No! There was only one path to her freedom, to their happiness--thepath of scandal. Dared he demand that sacrificefrom her?

After all, why not? The scandal would be short-lived--thehappiness enduring. She was Brunton's merely in name.She had no children. Legally, they might have to put themselvesin the wrong; but morally they would be justified.Between them and happiness stood only the shibboleths.

Nevertheless, the shibboleths mattered. Shibboleths werethe basis of all society.

Certain people, too--people like his mother,--hated divorce,believed it wicked. His mother still clung to the old faith.His mother would say: "God joined Aliette and Hector inholy matrimony. You have no right to sunder God's joining."

As though humanity were any deity's stud-farm!

1

By that strange perversity which is peculiar to lovingwomanhood, Aliette's first thoughts--as the taxi rattledher away from Jermyn Street--were for her husband.

For the second time in three years her mood relented."Poor Hector!" she thought. "He'll be home when I getback. It isn't much of a home for him--ours."

Yet, even relenting, she knew that she could never forgive.The physical Hector was dead, killed by her knowledge of hisinfidelities--as dead to her as the physical Ronnie was alive.

Then she forgot Hector, remembered only Ronnie. Hermemory thrilled to his caresses. She began to yearn for himwith a bodily yearning so acute that--had he been beside herin the taxi--she would have thrown her arms round his neck.

Her mind whirled. This way. That way. She, AlietteBrunton, who had always thought "that sort of thing" theprerogative of shop-girls and chorus-ladies, was yearning,physically, for a man. It was all wrong. She should neverhave gone to his rooms. They must part. She would never beparted from him. He ought never to have made love to her.She would have died if he had not made love to her!

She tried to blame herself for her weakness; she tried tothink: "I made no struggle. I yielded everything. I virtuallythrew myself at his head. I should have been strong. Ishould have denied him my hands, my lips." But her heartrefused to be blamed; her heart said: "He loves you. Youlove him. Nothing else matters."

The taxi swung into Bayswater Road; and instinctivelyAliette opened her vanity-bag. Glancing at her face in themirrored lid, she remembered Hector again. Hector mustn'tsee her as Ronnie had seen her. Hector mustn't find out!

Once more, she felt abased. Once more her fastidiousnessrevolted--this time from concealment. The commonplace impulse--toconfess--appeared, disappeared. What was thereto confess? Nothing!

Nevertheless, paying her driver, mounting the pillareddoor-step, ringing as she let herself into the square tessellatedhall, Aliette felt guilty. In thought, if not in act, she waslittle better than the husband whom Lennard, appearing fromhis lower regions, announced to be in the library.

Caroline Staley joined Lennard in the hall. Aliette handedher gloves, her bag and parasol to the maid; asked Lennardthe time; heard it was a quarter past seven; hesitated thefraction of a second; and pushed open the library door.

Hector sat in his big leather armchair by the bow-window--the"Evening Standard" on his knees, and a glass of whiskyand water at his elbow. His gray eyes lit pleasurably at sightof her. As he came across the room with a smiled "My dear,how well you're looking," Aliette realized with the shock ofa sudden revelation the cruelty latent in those thin lips.

(She was looking well, thought Hector; her very best. Thisevening, that subtle incomprehensible process, process alikemental and physical, which he had divined at work in her forso long, seemed to have attained its completion. Her verycomplexion showed it.)

"Am I?" she answered.

He gave her the cheek-kiss of connubial compromise; andshe schooled herself not to shudder. "This is the price I mustpay," she thought, "for those other kisses."

The front-door bell rang; and, a minute afterwards, Mollierustled in.

"Hello, Hector," said Mollie. "So you've got back."

The girl's eyes were all luminous, subtly afire with happiness.Kissing Aliette, she whispered, "I must talk to you."

To Brunton, watching the sisters go arm in arm throughthe door, came a sharp pang of sex-consciousness. As Aliette,so Mollie: from each there radiated that same incomprehensibleaura of physical and mental completion. The auraexcited Brunton, stimulated him, roused his imaginationalmost to mania. All the way home in the car--and usuallythe car distracted him--he had been thinking of his wife,goading his mind with the mirage of the past. Now the prongsof the goad penetrated through the mind to the very flesh.

He poured himself another drink, and stood for a long whilein contemplation of a photograph on his desk; a photographof Aliette, taken just before they became engaged. He rememberedhow then, as always, her fastidiousness had luredhim; how then, as now, he had ached to conquer her fastidiousness,to make her desires one with his own. And always, fromthe very outset to this very day, he had failed. Against therefinement in her, even when she yielded, his will to sex-masterybeat in vain; till finally there came the break.

The break, as Hector saw it, had been of her making. Thethings he most desired of her, the unfastidious intimacies,she either could not or would not endure. Those intimaciesshe had driven him elsewhere to seek. And he had soughtthem for three years; sought them, he now realized, withoutassuaging his desire.

Dressing for dinner, he heard--from the room she hadbarred against him--his wife's voice. His wife and her sisterwere talking, talking. The incomprehensible talk maddenedHector, even as the incomprehensible physical aura of themhad maddened him. Surely--surely it was high time to put anend to this--this nonsensical chastity.

2

Her sister's dressing-hour confidences seemed to Aliette thefinal complication. Mollie had met James Wilberforce, byaccident, in Bond Street. Although too late for tea, he hadinsisted on her eating an ice at Rumpelmayer's. At Rumpelmayer'sthey ran into the admiral and Hermione. Theadmiral had spoken of his meeting with Alie.

"Where did you have tea?" asked the girl.

"Never mind about my tea," retorted her sister. "Tell meyour news."

Whereupon Mollie, not in the least hesitantly, told it.Jimmy had asked her to marry him! That is to say, he hadspoken about marriage in such a way as to leave no doubtabout his intention to propose. That was one of the admirablethings about Jimmy. He never beat around the bush. She,of course, had "choked him off." Jimmy must be taught thatthese things couldn't be fixed up over an ice in a tea-shop.

"Still," concluded the modern young, "I'm very fond ofJames. The chances are that I shall marry him in theautumn."

"And James Wilberforce," thought Aliette, as she wentdown to dinner, "is just the person whose wife's family mustbe sans reproche!"

Dinner completed her mental bouleversement. Hector--shedivined even before they sat down--was in a difficult mood.Hector insisted on champagne, insisted on their sharing it.He grew boisterous on the first glass. "They would have acheery evening," said Hector. "They would get the carround after dinner, and drive to Roehampton." But onAliette's suggesting that he and Mollie should go alone, hedropped both the scheme and his pose of boisterousness.Catching the look in his eyes, she began to be frightened.

Only twice before--once after her first discovery of hisinfidelities, and once a year later--had Aliette seen that particularlook in Hector's eyes. It betokened contest. Not thecasual entreaties of recent months, but contest--contest almostphysical! Formerly, though resenting the indignity of such acontest, she had never dreaded it. But to-night--to-night wasdifferent.

When Lennard brought in the port, Hector refused to beleft alone. They stayed with him while he drank two glasses;and again, watching him, Aliette's mood relented. The lookin his eyes had grown soft, almost pleading. "Poor oldHector," she thought; "so many women could have given himall that he requires from a wife. Only I--I can't. I'mRonnie's--Ronnie's."

Once more her mind whirled. This way. That way. Guilt,fear, love, uncertainty drove the wheels of her mind.

Yet both mind and body possessed one certainty: that thephysical Hector had died three years since.

3

It was late, nearly midnight; but Mollie still sat strummingon the piano in the big balconied drawing-room.

Ever since dinner began the girl had been conscious ofdomestic tension. She could see, over the shining instrument,that neither husband nor wife listened to the music. They sat,either side the fireplace, avoiding speech, avoiding each other'seyes.

Occasionally, when he thought himself unobserved, Hectorwould glance at Alie. Mollie knew, of course, that Alie didn'tget on very well with Hector. On more than one of her visitsto them there had been such periods of tension. But this--tothe girl's intuition--seemed far more serious, far nearer definitecrisis than anything before. Somehow the situationfrightened her; somehow she felt averse to leaving Alie alonewith Hector. All the same, one couldn't go on playing ragtimestill dawn.

Mollie fired a final rafale on the bass keys, and closed thepiano.

"I'm going to bed," she announced. "You too, Alie?"

"Not just yet." Aliette kissed her sister good night.During the last two hours her relenting mood had almostevaporated under the fire of Hector's covert glances. Hermind no longer whirled. She knew now--definitely--that contestbetween them was unavoidable; and, though she stilldreaded it, her courage refused to postpone the ordeal.

The door closed behind Mollie; and, after a moment's hesitancy,Hector leaned forward from his chair. Aliette sawthat there were pearls of sweat on his forehead. His handsgripped the blue grapes of the cretonne chair-cover as thoughhe would squeeze them dry.

"I'm glad she's gone to bed," he said hoarsely.

"Are you? Why?"

"Because it's time that you and I had things out with oneanother."

"What things?" Her voice sounded a little shy, but sheno longer averted her eyes. They met his--brown cold andresolute, against gray kindling to passion.

"Everything. Aliette," he began to plead with her, "wecan't go on like this for ever."

"Why not?"

"Because the whole position's intolerable. Either you'remy wife, or you're not. I--I can't stand this sort of life."

"What sort of life?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean. Aliette," hepleaded again, "can't we make a fresh start--to-night?"

She felt her whole heart turning icy to him as she answered:"We threshed that matter out a very long time ago. I cansee no use in referring to it again."

"Possibly you can't." Hector rose. Her very aloofnessurged him, despite better judgment, to immediate mastery."But you're not the only one to be considered. As your husband,I have certain rights."

"If you have, I shouldn't advise you to try and enforcethem."

The words sounded calm enough; but there was no calm inAliette's heart. Suddenly she grew conscious that the senseof rectitude which had sustained her for three years sustainedher no longer. In thought she had descended to her husband'slevel. Her cheeks flushed.

"Why shouldn't I enforce them?" The flush did notescape his eye. Perhaps, after all, she was no different fromother women, from the women who liked one to be forceful.He made a movement towards her. "Why shouldn't I enforcethem?" he repeated.

"Because you have no rights." Even his blurred judgmentknew better than to touch her. "Because you forfeited them--threeyears ago."

"That old affair," he muttered sullenly; and drew awayfrom where she sat. Then, excusing himself, "Renée's inAustralia. She's been in Australia two years. I paid herpassage----"

Proudly, coldly, Aliette answered him back: "I hope youdo not discuss your wife with your mistresses in the same waythat you discuss your mistresses with your wife."

The cold pride weakened him. "You're very harsh. Imade a mistake--three years ago. I admitted it at the time.I admit it once more. I've made--other mistakes. Butthat's all over. You're a woman, a well-bred woman. Youcan't understand these things."

Three days since she would not have understood; now,understanding a little, she relented again.

"Hector--I'm very sorry. But it's--it's impossible."

He came toward her again; bent down, and tried to takeher hand. She drew it away from him. The overwhelmingphysical hunger of his eyes worried her. His feet, on thewhite rug, showed suddenly enormous, grotesque--grotesqueas his affection.

"Why is it impossible?"

She thought how often she had asked herself that samequestion; knew that--in Ronnie's arms--she had at last foundthe answer; knew that she must lie. And she hated lying.Yet more than lying she hated the knowledge that her body,which had lain in Ronnie's arms, should be cause of thatoverwhelming hunger in Hector's eyes.

She said quietly, "Must we go over all this old groundagain?" And since he did not answer: "It does no good.I don't want to hurt you more than I can help. Won't youjust leave things as they are? Won't you believe me when Itell you that it's just--impossible?"

His legal mind, suddenly active, caught at the pleading notein her voice; fastened on it. "You're very solicitous, apparently,about my feelings?"

For a second, wondering if he could suspect, she grew fearful.Then, putting away fear, she rose and faced him. Theflush had gone from her cheeks; her eyes--aloof, impersonal--toldhim the utter hopelessness of his cause. And with thatknowledge came suspicion--a suspicion formless as the firstshadow-haze of storm in a brazen sky.

"I don't wish to hurt you," she reiterated. "But thething you ask is out of the question; and will always be out ofthe question. Even the discussion of it offends me."

He took a step towards her; but she did not recoil.

"Aliette--do you realize the meaning of what you've justsaid?"

"Perfectly." Her eyes met his, beat them down.

"And what do you expect me to do under the circumstances?"Again suspicion came to him; and with suspicion,anger at his own impotence. "You're not a child. You knowperfectly well what happens to a man whose wife refuses tolive with him. I've never pretended to be a saint: I've leftthat to you."

"Hector!" Temper clenched her fingers. Her whole fastidiousnessrevolted against the man, against the topic hewould not relinquish.

"I'm sorry if you're shocked"--all his cruelty wanted toshock her, to see her fastidiousness in degradation--"but I'mtrying to tell you the truth--just for a change. If you persistin your saintliness, there's only one course open to me.Another Renée! A man can't live without a woman. It isn'tfair to his nature. It isn't healthy."

"Healthy!" she burst out.

"Yes. Healthy. Does that upset you?"

Her eyes blazed as she answered: "How dare you talk tome like that? How dare you? Healthy! I suppose thatwas your idea when you married me. You took me--medicinally."

"Aliette!" Her fury cowed the cruelty in him. "I marriedyou because I loved you. I love you still."

"Love!" Her cheeks kindled. Caution was ripped loosefrom her as a sail is ripped loose by the wind. The shreds ofit flapped against her mind, infuriating her. That this manwho might have been father of her children should cloak hislusts with that divine word, seemed the ultimate defilement."Love!" Her breasts heaved. "Don't talk to me of love.Talk of your rights, of your health, if you like; but spare methe degradation of what it pleases you to call your love."

At that, definitely, the lawyer in Brunton suspected. Blackthoughts drove and drove, thunder-cloud-like, across the skyof his mind; and through the rifts in those thunder-clouds hismind saw two visions--his wife, infernally desirable, infernallydistant from the reach of his desires, and a woman to beprobed, a hostile witness for cross-examination.

"You speak as though you were an authority on the subject,"he sneered; and, as she deigned no answer, "a saintlyauthority."

"You're insolent." The last shred of her caution parted."Insolent."

"Perhaps"--his voice dropped two full tones--"I have theright to be insolent."

"Explain yourself, please."

He came so close to her that she could see every pore inthe skin of his face. "I should hardly have thought an explanationnecessary. I said, 'Perhaps I have the right to beinsolent.' It is for you to explain why"--his lips worked--"youregard 'what I am pleased to call my love for you' as adegradation."

"And if I refuse to explain?"

"There is only one conclusion to be drawn."

"And that is?" she dared him.

Abruptly, Brunton the lawyer became Brunton the husband.He no longer wanted to cross-examine; he wanted topossess--to possess this woman. Why should he not possessher? She was as much his as the furniture in his home, thebooks in his chambers. By law and by religion, she owed himher body. He had always been chivalrous to her; he hadalways tried to fall in with her whimsies, to be kind. She hadnever been kind. All she had tried to do was to hurt him.

"And that conclusion is?" she flung at him.

God! How much she could hurt him. God! How hewished to spare himself. He wanted her so; his whole bodyached for her little hands, for her lips, for the touch of herhair. Why should she thus goad him? Even if--even if shehad cared--virtuous women did care sometimes, platonicallyof course--for somebody else, he could forgive her.

He did not want, even, to forgive. He only wanted toknow nothing. He only wanted her to be kind to him, to lethim love her--in his own way. Without all this--all thisfuss.

But her eyes refused him kindness; her lips demanded theiranswer. She maddened him with her rigid lips, with herblank unfriendly scrutiny.

"Your conclusion, please, Hector?"

"Since you insist," the words seemed torn from the man'sthroat, "the conclusion I draw is that--you're in love withsomebody else."

He had expected indignation, furious abuse, furious denial;anything but the deadly calmness with which she answered:"And supposing there were somebody else? What right wouldyou have to object?"

Aliette saw Hector recoil as though she had struck him;saw rage, incredulity, fear, apprehension, chase in scarletchaos across his face. His thin lips writhed--as though in torment.But she could feel no pity for his torment. In hereyes, he was the beast, the defiling beast: defeated, he yetstood, shifty on those great feet of his, between her and happiness,between her and her chance of motherhood, between herand--Ronnie.

"Well," she shot at him, "what right would you have toobject?"

"I should have the right," he stammered, "the right thatany husband possesses. But you're not serious. For God'ssake, tell me you're not serious. I haven't been such a badhusband to you. I haven't deserved this----"

Suddenly she remembered Ronnie's words: "Unless helets you divorce him. Why not? It's done every day."Suddenly she remembered Hector's own words, the speech hehad insisted she should read after the Ellerson case.

"You're not serious," he challenged.

"I'm perfectly serious. Please answer my question. Andbefore you answer it, let me remind you of something yousaid in public not more than a fortnight ago. You said: 'Awoman on marriage does not become her husband's property.'I want to know if you still abide by that question."

"And I"--rage mastered the apprehension in him--"Iwant to know, definitely, if there is anybody else."

Her lips pursed to silence. She could almost see Ronnie--andher silence was all for him. For herself she had no fear,only the violent instinct to be free, to be free at any cost, fromHector Brunton.

"Answer me!" He almost shouted at her.

Quietly, she answered, "There is nobody else--in the wayyou mean."

"Will you swear?"

"You have my word. If that's not enough for you----"

The unfinished sentence tortured him. He saw himselfalive, tormented; her as a statue of fate, unmoving, cold byhis cold fireside. If only she would make some movement--notstand there like a statue: her lips rigid, her hands taut,every line of her body tense under the frozen draperies.

"I don't doubt your word," he said sullenly.

"Then answer my question. Do you regard me as yourproperty or not? If I asked you for my freedom, would yougive it to me?"

"You mean--let you divorce me?"

For a moment, aware of hypocrisy, Aliette hesitated. Thenshe said, "Yes."

"On what grounds?"

"Your infidelities."

"My infidelities!" He laughed, his legal mind seeing thewhole strength of his position. "You have no proof of them.And even if you had, infidelity by itself is no ground fordivorce. Besides"--his cruelty could not forbear the blow--"you'vecondoned them."

"Condoned them! I?"

"Yes. You. By not leaving my house. By continuing tolive with me."

"That's untrue. I've never lived with you, since--since Ifound out."

"You'll never make the world believe that."

"What do I care about the world?"

"Aliette"--for the last time he forced himself to pleadwith her,--"think of my position, our position. Even if itwere legally possible, you wouldn't ask me----"

He continued to plead till he felt utterly worn out, utterlybeaten; till it seemed to him that he had been arguing withher--arguing uselessly--for hours. And all the time heargued, one thought nagged at him: "There is somebodyelse. There must be somebody else. I must find out whohe is."

"Then you refuse," she was saying. "You refuse me myfreedom. You go back on your own words."

She, too, felt worn out. She could not even hate the man,because she had no right to hate him. At least--Mollie'swords about James Wilberforce came into her weary mind--Hectorhad not beaten around the bush. He had been straight-forwardenough; whereas she--she was not being straight-forward,was not playing the game. But the instinct to befree did not abate its violence.

"Very well"--the cross-examiner in Brunton urged him tothe playing of his last card,--"I won't go back on my words.I'll admit the justice of everything you've said. You shallhave your freedom." Her eyes lit; and his suspicion becamecertainty. "I'll arrange everything. There need be verylittle scandal; only the usual fake--a suit for restitution ofyour conjugal rights. You'll get an order of the court, anorder for me to return to you. You needn't worry, I sha'n'tcomply with it. After that----"

He broke off, watching her. Her face had softened, renewedits coloring. Yet she was nervous. She fidgeted ever soslightly, first on one white-shod foot, than on the other.

"But before I consent, there's one condition I must make;one question I must ask you." His voice grew stern, becamethe voice of the K.C. "Before I take any steps in this matter,I must have your assurance, your definite assurance, that youare not asking for your freedom with a view--with a view"--hehesitated--"to marrying any one else."

The blood ebbed from Aliette's cheeks: it seemed to herthat her heart had stopped beating. This was the test! Onedownright lie--and she might win to freedom. That issue shesaw clearly. But she saw another issue--the issue betweenherself and Ronnie. Even though Ronnie himself had suggestedthat she should divorce Hector, his suggestion--sheknew--had implied telling Hector the truth. Surely Ronniewould be the first to reject freedom won at such a price.

And, "I've got to play the game," cried the soul of Aliette;"otherwise, even my love for Ronnie becomes a degradation."Yet, still, instinct cried in her for freedom.

The decisive seconds lengthened; lengthened; stretched,taut as piano-wire, into the eternities. The scene imprinteditself, sharper than sharpest snapshot, on unfading memory.Always, burnt into memory, would remain Hector, his sandyhair awry, his thin lips parted under the bulbous nose, hisjowl set; would remain herself, torture-pale on the rack ofindetermination; would remain the light white room, blazingwith electrics, the stripes of its wall-paper upright as prisonbars. No freedom from that prison--save at the price oftruth!

But at last, truth spoke.

"I cannot give you that assurance, Hector," said Hector'swife.

About her, the snapshotted scene trembled, shivered andbroke to whirling fragments. She was conscious of Hector'shands, itching to take her by the throat, of Hector's feet, ofthe red fury in Hector's eyes. His hands itched to strike her.If he struck, she would strike back--madly, through thosewhirling fragments.

But Brunton could not strike; he could not even speak.The insanity of balked desire dumbed his mouth as it numbedhis limbs. Nature, fighting like a wild beast, wrenched at thecage of his self-control. He could hear nature wrenchingape-like at his ribs, howling to him: "Kill! Kill both! Killboth the man and the woman!" The blood-lust and the sex-lustwere knives in his loins.

"You!" he stammered. "You, you----" Then his handsceased their itching, and the red in his eyes flickered out,smoldering to gray.

She heard his great feet go creaking across the room, creakingthrough the doorway, creaking up the staircase. Sheheard the slam of an upstairs door. She heard herself whisperto the wide-eyed distraught woman who peered out from themirror over the mantelpiece: "That leaves only one way--onlyone way to freedom."

1

The "grand passion" (it is unfortunate that no singleword in the English language exactly pictures thatemotional process) was a little beyond Caroline Staley'sphilosophy.

Yet within twelve hours of Aliette's interview with Hector,even Caroline Staley realized that "Miss Aliette was aboutthrough with that husband of hers." Lennard and the rest ofthe staff--though Caroline refused to gossip--were also aware,basement-wise, of the connubial position. In fact, at LancasterGate, only Mollie remained in ignorance.

For, at the moment, Mollie Fullerford was far too absorbedto bother herself overlong about either sister or brother-in-law;a sublime selfishness held her aloof from both.

The girl's mind was concentrated on Jimmy. It had becomea point of honor with her not to think of anybody exceptJimmy. Jimmy--for his own sake--must be neither "fascinated"nor "put off." He must be given his exact measureof attraction as of repulsion, his exact chance of finding outher faults as well as her virtues. Then, when he had definitelyfallen in or out of love with the real her--she would decideexactly how much she could love the real him. "Marriage,"the girl said to herself, "is a pretty serious business. Jimmyand I mustn't make any mistake about it."

Mollie Fullerford, you see, was of the modern young, whoare trying, vainly, to avoid the troubles of their romanticand unreasoning elders--such troubles, for instance, asHector's.

Hector, reticent always, confided his troubles to nobody.He spent the first twelve hours after the quarrel in kickinghimself for a fool and a savage who had nearly thrashed hiswife; the next twelve in cursing himself for a fool and asofty who ought to have thrashed his wife--and the rest ofthe week fighting against the impulse to apologize.

Meanwhile he was a stranger in his own house; excluded,as surely as though he had been a servant under notice, fromdomestic conversation. His wife had taken to breakfasting inbed (the rattle of the tray infuriated him every morning),and refused to get up till he had left the house: he, retortingin the only way open to him, dined at his clubs. On the oneoccasion when they did meet, her manners were beyond criticism--andher unattainable beauty a positive bar to any plansfor sex-consolation.

As a matter of psychological fact, both husband and wifewere in a momentary state of complete sex-revulsion. Hector,thwarted of his one desire, seeing Aliette unobtainable as theonly woman in the world; and Aliette--love's dream obscuredby thought of love's material consequences--regarding herself,for the nonce, as the mere quarry of two males, a quarryanxious only to escape both pursuers.

Twice, at least, Aliette's thoughts renounced womanhoodcompletely. The physical Hector, the Hector of the writhinglips, she hated; but when her yearning for the physical Ronniegrew so desperately acute that she had to rush out of thelibrary lest she should telephone to him; when every postwhich brought no letter seemed the last bodily hurt she couldendure: then, looking back on her lost virginity of temperament,she could be amazingly sorry for, amazingly gratefulto the abstemious Hector of the last three years.

Yet all the time, she knew subconsciously that she lovedRonnie; that, without him, life was one mazed loneliness.

Aliette, like Hector, kept her own counsel. Mary O'Riordan,to whom--as in duty bound--she confided a hint of her distress,pumped her for full confession, but pumped in vain.Only Ponto, the huge harlequin Dane with the magpie coatand the princely manners, shared her mazed loneliness. Sheused to fetch the dog, every after-lunch-time, from the garagein Westbourne Street where he had his abode; and wanderwith him by the hour together through Hyde Park and KensingtonGardens. Ponto, unlike her other pursuers, desirednothing but an occasional caress. He would pad and padafter her, close to heel, disdainful of all distractions, his eyeson the hem of her skirt, his stern slapping only the mildestdisapproval of an occasional fly. And when she sat her downto meditate, the beast--as though conscious of the fret in hismistress--would content affection with the rare up-thrust ofan enormous consolatory paw.

Vaguely during that week Ponto's mistress conceived thescheme of sending to Moor Park for Miracle, of condescendingto ride in the Row. Dumb animals, of a sudden, seemed somuch wiser, so much kinder than men. But to ride in theRow would make one conspicuous, and instinct warned herthat the less conspicuous she made herself during the season,the easier things might be--in the event of a social crash.

2

One other woman in London--during the days which followedAliette's definite break with Hector--was meditatingthe probabilities of a social crash.

"Julia," said Dot Fancourt, dropping in to lunch on Friday,"you're not looking so well. You ought to see Baynetagain. You've nothing on your mind, have you?"

"My dear Dot," retorted the novelist, smiling, "I'm quitewell, and I have nothing on what you are pleased to call mymind--except the vulgarity of your methods in booming mydivorce article."

But after Dot had gone back to his office, Julia Cavendish'sface lost its smile.

Surveyed in cool retrospect, her momentary thought-panicin Hyde Park appeared a mere firework of the literaryimagination. Nevertheless, ever since Sunday, when she hadtried, over dinner, to let him inkle her knowledge, to warnhim, she had been reproaching herself about Ronnie. Othermothers--her own sister Clementina among them--did notapparently find it at all difficult to discuss sex matters withtheir sons. Yet she, the celebrated psychologist, had foundit impossible.

"If only I could have been open with him," she thought,"if only I could have said: 'I'm afraid that you've fallenin love with that charming Mrs. Brunton. You won't let it gotoo far--will you? Women's heads are so easily turned.'"

She would not, of course, have said more than that. Ronniewas so sensible, so straight and clean, that he would haveneeded no further warning. Ronnie--her Ronnie--did notin the least resemble the heroes of her novels, the passionatemen with cleft chins who occasionally counted the world welllost for love. Ronnie was the very spit of his father, theOxford don.

Still even dons were human. And Ronnie, unwarned,might have lost his head.

As for the woman--women, according to Julia Cavendish,could always fall prey to the sentimental impulse. If only aman were sufficiently ardent the entire sex yielded to him.Why should this Mrs. Brunton be the exception? Ronnie--herRonnie--must be terribly attractive. Therefore----

And quite suddenly, Julia panicked again. Her literaryimagination saw the worst; Aliette in Ronnie's arms, Ronniein the divorce court. Her heart went cold at the imaginaryprospect. The mother, the religious woman, and the Victorianin her were alike appalled.

Jealousy spread a yellow jaundice film over her intellect.Seen through that film, the "charming Mrs. Brunton" becamea harpy, an over-dressed, over-scented, over-manicured harpy,her unguented claws sharp for an innocent boy.

Whereupon Julia Cavendish--turning, as most literarypeople in a crisis, to her pen--began the composition of aletter which should convey, tactfully, of course, the pictureof the harpy to the mind of the boy. But the letter, completed,read so much more like a piece of fiction than a statementof fact, that she tore it up; and contented herself withthe usual note ordering him to dinner on Saturday.

3

The note itself contained nothing to alarm Ronnie; and yet,dressing to obey its commands in his severe mannish bedroom,he felt nervous about the coming interview. For five daysnow he had been on edge; sleepless, unable to concentratethought.

Every night he had expected that Aliette would telephone;every morning, every evening, he had expected a letter fromher. It never dawned on his mind that she should be equallyon edge, equally expectant. Since she had admitted her love,asking only that he should not hurry her, chivalry forbadethe obvious course which his impatient manhood dictated--attack.Chivalry, too, urged him not to make any final movebefore weighing the uttermost consequences.

For himself, he had already weighed them; and theyweighed light enough. But for her, even though a man anda woman decided their love justified before God and the law,remained always their justification before their fellow-creatures.Under any circumstances, the consequences wouldinclude a divorce. And even the farcical divorce of the periodcarried--for a woman in Aliette's position--its stigma.Ronnie remembered the Carrington case. Suppose Bruntoncut up rough; perjured himself in court as Carrington haddone--purely for spite. In an undefended divorce case, theman and woman cited could not defend themselves against aperjurer without risking their freedom.

And then, then--there was Julia to consider.

The mind of the clean-shaven man who let himself out ofthe dark-green door of 127b Jermyn Street, and stroderapidly across Piccadilly, may be compared to the hair-triggerof a cocked pistol.

4

"Your mother is already in the dining-room, Mr. Ronald,"said the uniformed parlormaid, who had valeted him while hewas still at Winchester.

"Thank you, Kate." Ronnie handed the woman his hatand strode in.

Julia stood by the be-ferned fireplace, inspecting a newly-acquiredprint, only that afternoon hung. Kissing him, shecalled his attention to the treasure.

"It's 'The Match-Seller'--a proof before letters. Onlytwo more to find, and my collection of 'The Cries of London'will be complete."

They talked prints, engravings and china throughoutdinner. Julia, acting on Sir Heron Baynet's advice, atesparingly, and drank nothing stronger than Evian water; butfor her son she had ordered a miniature feast--all the particularfoods of his particular boyhood--and the last bottleof his father's Chambertin.

Usually, when she prepared such a feast, Ronnie wouldcompliment her on her memory, her forethought; but to-nighthe seemed scarcely aware of what he ate. She had to coaxhim: "Turbot, dear, your favorite fish," or, "I rememberedthe sauce Béarnaise, you see."

Coaxed, he complimented her; but without enthusiasm--sothat, hurt, she said to herself: "He's giving me only halfhis mind. He's thinking of that woman. I'm certain he'drather be dining her at Claridge's"--(Julia's heroes often"dined" their discreetly illicit passions at the more expensivecaravanserais)--"than sitting here with his old mother."

Meanwhile he said to himself, "She's taken so much troubleover this little dinner. I ought to be more grateful. Dash it,I am grateful! Good Lord, it's nearly nine o'clock! Thelast post will be in soon. Perhaps there'll be a letter. PerhapsAliette will telephone to-night. I must get away byten."

Resultantly, by the time Kate brought coffee and cigarettes,the moment for confidences was as unpropitious as any JuliaCavendish could possibly have chosen.

"Ronnie," she, began, as soon as they were alone, "I hopeyou won't be angry at what I'm going to say."

The opening, so entirely foreign to her usual abruptness,made Ronnie--on the instant--suspicious. The Wixton imaginationin him said: "Danger! She's found out. Sheknows something about Aliette. She may know about Aliette'shaving been to your rooms." And immediately the magisterialCavendish in him decided: "I shall refuse to be drawn.It's not her business. Even if she does know, she ought tohave waited till I thought fit to broach the subject."

Nevertheless, the ghost of the schoolboy who had likedsauce Béarnaise and been vaguely frightened of his motherwas in a funk. The ghost of the schoolboy, looking at hismother's determined chin, did not see the unhappiness behindhis mother's blue eyes.

After a second's hesitation, the magisterial Cavendishlaughed.

"It depends on what you are going to say, mater."

"It isn't much." Julia braced herself to the unpleasanttask. "Perhaps it isn't anything at all. But I feel thatyou're keeping something from me. Something rather--important.Something that's making you unhappy. Can'tyou confide in me? I might be able to help. We've never hadany secrets from each other, you and I."

Kate, coming in to clear the table, was shooed away with acalm "We haven't quite finished our coffee. I'll ring whenI want you."

"We oughtn't to have secrets from one another," went onJulia diffidently.

Her son, stiff-lipped, uncompromising, made no answer;and she continued, a little afraid:

"You told me about Lucy. Can't you tell me about this--loveaffair?"

The tone irritated him.

"My dear mater, what love affair?"

"Flirtation, then?" Fleetingly, her suspicions lulled byhis presence, she thought how ridiculous it was of him to beso stubborn. Dot Fancourt, Paul Flower, and many otherof the literary among her acquaintances rather liked talkingabout their flirtations. Then his very stubbornness perturbedher.

"Ronnie," she said, "be open with me. You are in love?"

"What if I am?" He had never lied to her, and had nointention of doing so now. Apparently she did not know aboutAliette's having been to Jermyn Street; otherwise--reticencewith him not being one of her characteristics--she would havesaid so. Obviously, though, she suspected quite enough!

"What if I am?" he repeated.

"You mean--it's not my business?" she faltered.

"Yes. I do mean that. I don't want to be unkind, orunfair. But you must see that I can't discuss--that sort ofthing with you."

"Why not?" Thoroughly alarmed now, she tried to hidealarm with a smile. "Lots of people do confide in me. I--youknow I wouldn't betray your confidence."

"Is that quite the point?"

Julia Cavendish deigned to plead: "I've been so worried,Ronnie. I feel, somehow, that you're in trouble. I feel Iunderstand why. And I only want you to let me help you."

His mood softened. "Poor old mater," he thought. Buther next words dispelled softness; irritated him again.

"You see," she said, "you're still so young. Only a boyreally. You don't know the world as I know it. You mustn'treject my advice."

"I'm thirty-six," he parried.

"And I'm over sixty."

"You don't look it, mater."

She felt herself being edged away from her topic. She sawa vision of Aliette Brunton--standing palpably between herselfand her son. Vague jealousy clouded her love, her kindness.

"You don't deny the correctness of my statement," sheshot at him. "You admit that you are in love?"

"Suppose I admit that much----" His lean face flushed.

"Then the least you can do is to tell me with whom. Yousay you don't want to be unkind or unfair. Is it fair, or kind,to let me"--Julia hesitated over the word--"suspect things?"

He said bluntly, "There is nothing to suspect."

She said with equal bluntness, "Then why am I not to betold?"

Ronnie's temper rose. He, too, saw a vision of Aliette,palpably demanding his protection.

"Because there's nothing to tell."

"Ronnie, that's not the truth." The words burst from her."You've never lied to me before. Why can't you tell me thetruth now? Ever since Sunday, I've known----"

"Known what?"

Her heart dropped a beat at his obvious anger. It was asthough she already knew the worst. Love and jealousy,strangely commingling in her ego, ousted--for one flash of asecond--all other emotions. So that it might have been anadoring wife rather than a religious mother who answered.

"That you and Mrs. Brunton were in love with each other."

"So she knew all the time," thought Ronnie. His firstfeeling was relief. At least the mater knew nothing of whathad happened since Sunday. Only her uncanny intuition hadled her to the truth. Then fear--no longer fear for himself,but fear for Aliette--keyed his legal brain to defense.

"You have no right to make that statement. Where'syour proof, your evidence?"

She looked him full in the face; noted the blood at histemples, the working nostrils, the angry sparks in his lightblue eyes. The effort to stand up against his obstinacywrenched her in pieces. Her knees, her very stomachtrembled. The known room, the beloved things, seemed suddenlyworthless. She felt self-reproachfully that she hadloved things too much, her son too little. She could have cried,then and there--she who had never let the tears to her eyes.

"Ronnie," she pleaded, "why must you be so hard, sohostile? Mothers don't need 'evidence.' At least, I don't.Not where you are concerned. You said just now that this--thisaffair was none of my business. Isn't it a mother's businessto protect her child, to save him? Would it have beenfair for me not to have spoken? It isn't as if you couldn'ttrust me----"

She broke off; and fear faded from the mind of her son.He was no longer even angry. Once again he saw in Julia the"lonely old woman," dependent solely on his affection; sawher--very radiant down the years--fetching him, still a child,from his "Dame's School" in Welbeck Street; saw her visitinghim at Winchester, at the Varsity. Always, she had beenthe confidante, the rather stern confidante, of his troubles.Surely, surely when she knew the fineness of Aliette, when sheknew how Aliette had refused to let him hurt her, she wouldhelp him, help both of them?

"Of course I trust you. It isn't that. And if--if we'ddecided anything definitely, I'd tell you about it. But, asthings are, I can't tell you anything. You see that, don'tyou?"

"No. I don't," said Julia sternly--the mother, the religiouswoman and the traditionalist in her alike roused tobay by the sudden frankness. "It seems to me that, havingadmitted so much, you owe me the rest."

"But it wouldn't be fair----"

"I can't see why. Unless--unless there's something you--you'reboth afraid of my knowing."

"Mater!" All the chivalry in him, revolting at the slur onAliette, urged full confession. "You've spoken with her.You can't possibly imagine that she's the sort of womanwho----"

Indignation dumbed him; and in his moment of dumbnessthe mother realized her mistake, realized him in that hair-triggerstate of emotion when the slightest touch will loosethe explosion; realized that he and Aliette were on the vergeof disaster, that Aliette was the wife of a king's counselor,that she, Julia, must cut out her tongue rather than say theword which would decide her son to wreck his career. Butrealization came too late.

"You don't imagine that she--that we would do anythingunderhand," burst out the boy in Ronnie.

"Of course not, dear." Almost Julia had it in her to hatethe woman's virtue. To love in secret was certainly a sinbefore God; but to commit open adultery was a sin before bothGod and what remained of English Society.

"And, mater," he bent forward boyishly, across the table,"I love her; we love each other."

"Another man's wife?"

"Only in name." His teeth clenched. "Only in law."

She wanted to say, "You believe that?"; but instinct restrainedher. She grew frightened at the passion in Ronnie'seyes. He talked on--vehemently. "I can't live withouther. I won't. Why should I? What's a divorce nowadays?Who cares? Except a few snuffy old priests. And half ofthem don't know their own minds."

"Ronnie!" She conjured up every atom of force in her towrestle with his vehemence. "What's happened to you?divorce means scandal. It means sin. But I won't talk aboutthe religious part. One either believes or one doesn't. I onlybeg of you, I implore you, to think of your career----"

"Who cares about my career----"

"I do."

"My career won't suffer----"

"It will. You'll be disbarred. Brunton's a power.You'll have him for enemy instead of for friend. You'llmake a thousand enemies. The snuffy old priests, as you callthem, aren't the only ones who care about divorce. Half thehouses I visit will be closed to you."

"For six months."

"No. For good. And you'll never be able to go intopolitics."

"Politics!" scornfully.

"People will cut you."

"Let them." Opposition, clarifying his mind, keyed himto fight. "Let them! What do I care? We sha'n't have doneanything wrong."

"It's always wrong to set ourselves up against the world."

"That's sheer cowardice. And it isn't true, either. Whatabout Jesus Christ?"

"That's sheer blasphemy."

One of the dinner-table candles guttered and went out. ToJulia, it seemed like an omen. She saw her son's career gutterout in that curling smoke; saw him entrapped by the powersof darkness, prey to the personal devil. Now no one exceptGod, her own particular secular god, could help. She prayedvoicelessly to that particular secular god for words to savethe entrapped soul of her boy.

"Ronnie! You've always been so good, the best of sons.You've never given me a moment's anxiety--never--since theday you were born. Until now! And you've always trustedme. Won't you trust me in this? Won't you believe me whenI tell you that the thing you contemplate is a sin?"

Quietly, he answered, "If God is love, how can love be asin?"

The phrase shot a tiny sliver of doubt through the armorof Julia Cavendish's belief, pricking her unwisdom to retort:

"Love! Love isn't passion. Love is service. If you lovedher, really and truly loved her, you'd save this woman fromherself. And if she loved you, really and truly loved you,she'd be the last person in the world----"

He wanted to argue: "You don't understand. You're tooprejudiced to understand." Instead, comprehending abruptlyhow far his confidences had outrun actuality, he blustered:

"We won't discuss her motives, please. Or mine. Neitherof us is a child--as you seem to think. We're quite capable ofdeciding things for ourselves. When we do----"

"She hasn't consented then?" Julia grasped at the life-buoy.

"No."

Another doubt entered like a dart into the mother's mind.Suppose Sir Heron's warnings came true? Then soon theremight be nobody to care for Ronnie. Suppose, suppose thiswoman really did care--as she, Julia, cared? A woman inMrs. Brunton's position would hardly risk divorce for abéguin.

Nervously she played with her favorite ring--a diamond-setminiature of her son in earliest boyhood. Nervously shesaid: "You won't do things in a hurry. Promise me that."

"I can't promise anything," He blustered again, feelingthat she was trying to fetter his independence. "I'd rathernot discuss the subject any more."

The bluster, so foreign to him, irritated her dignity.

"Very well. It shall be as you wish. We'll say no moreabout this matter. It's been very painful to me, and I canonly hope it won't be still more painful--to both of us--beforeit's over."

His irritated dignity answered hers. "Why to both of us?It's entirely my affair."

"Not entirely. I've tried to keep myself out of this question;but, as your mother, I have certain claims. And youknow, or at least you ought to know, my feelings on thesubject of divorce. I ask you to believe that I'm trying tosympathize with you, to see your point of view. But I can't.To me, any union, however legalized, between you and HectorBrunton's wife, means deadly sin. You call this passion ofyours love. I don't. I call it by an uglier name." His eyeskindled. "That angers you. I'm sorry. But I'm speakingthe truth, as I see it. If you and she decide to commit thisdeadly sin, don't come to me for forgiveness."

Julia rose, weary with words, to her feet. "Shall we goupstairs to the drawing-room? Kate will be waiting to clearthe table."

"Not for a moment." Ronnie, too, rose. "What do youmean, exactly, when you say, 'Don't come to me for forgiveness'?"

"What do I mean?" Sheer physical fatigue unnervedJulia's mind. Jealousy, the mad mother jealousy for the matewhich her brain had been holding in leash all evening, brokeits bonds; so that she saw her only son, the baby she hadcherished from his cradle, lost to her in another woman'sarms. White arms--young and smooth and sinful! "Whatdo I mean? Only this--that you must choose between yourmother and your--mistress."

Even as that last word escaped the barrier of her teeth,Julia Cavendish knew the mistake irretrievable. Her dignityflickered out like a match in a storm. She wanted to throwherself on his mercy, to beg his pardon with bended knees.But the word, the unpardonable insult of a word, was out.Slowly, she saw his mind grip its full significance. Then hisface paled to harsh granite; and his eyes, for once in theirlives, grew sterner than her own.

"I have chosen," said Ronald Cavendish.

1

"Aliette dear: You asked me not to hurry you. I'vetried to be patient; but life without you has become impossible.I can't see what duty either of us owes to anybodyexcept each other. It isn't as though you had children. Itisn't as though you were really married. At worst, we onlyrisk a little scandal. I wouldn't ask you even to risk that,unless I felt confident that I could make you happy. I canmake you happy. Won't you come to me? We needn't doanything mean. We can play the game. Ronald."

It was nearly one o'clock on Sunday morning. The tornsheets of at least twenty letters in Ronnie's tiny legal handwritinglittered his sitting-room grate. He reread the lastof them; and thinking how utterly it failed to express hisyearning, added as postscript, "I love you." Then headdressed his envelope; folded the single sheet; thrust it in;and gummed down the flap. The fragments in the fireplacehe gathered up very carefully, and kindled to ashes.

As yet no sorrow for his quarrel with Julia had entered intoher son's heart. He could see her only as an obstacle betweenhimself and happiness. Of her last word, he could not bringhimself to think sanely. That she, his own mother, the oneperson 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 chiefestenemy; no longer "the mater," no longer "the lonely oldlady," but "Julia Cavendish," publicly and in private theupholder of an effete religion, the champion of fust-riddenprudery.

No longer could he sympathize with that religious prudery.Passion, not the physical desires of a Brunton, but the grandpassion, the passion of the poets, blinded him--for the nonce--toevery point of view except his own. He and Aliette lovedeach other. To the torture, then, with whosoever loved othergods!

Passing, on his way downstairs, the door of the bachelor-flatbeneath him, Ronnie heard, very low but quite distinct, awoman's laughter. "And that sort of thing," he thoughtangrily, "is what one is allowed to do. Moses Moffatt winks atit. The world winks at it. Meanwhile the women who won'tstoop to concealment foot the world's social bill."

But the woman's laughter still echoed in his ears as heslid his letter into the mouth of the pillar-box.

2

Caroline Staley brought Ronnie's letter, the only one ofMonday's post, on Aliette's breakfast-tray. The handwritingof the envelope was strange; but instinct warned her fromwhom it came. Her heart fluttered--breathlessly--under thesatin bath-robe as she said, "I'll ring when I'm ready todress, Caroline."

But once alone, Aliette did not dare touch the envelope.Casting thought back, she knew that she had loved Ronniefrom first sight. Suppose--suppose he had written to makean end?

The breakfast on the tabled tray cooled and cooled.Through the curtained alcove came sound of a housemaidemptying her bath, polishing at the taps. Aliette heard nothing,saw nothing. The cheerful yellow-and-white of her bedchamberhad gone dark about her, as though a cloud obscuredthe sun outside.

At last she took the envelope in her hands. But her handstrembled. 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. "Nearlythirty. Too old for Ronnie. He ought to have some girl, somequite young girl, for bride."

Then, still trembling, her hands slit the envelope; andhungrily, she began to read.

Reading, joy flooded her face. He wanted her to come tohim. He needed her! The mazed loneliness of the last weekwas a vanished nightmare. She would never be lonely anymore. Love had come into her life, into their lives, makingthem one life. At his postscript, the scarlet of her lipscrinkled to a smile.

No longer was the room dark about her. Sunlight flashedback into it, flashed square shafts of gold on the rugs at herfeet. 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. Lifewas good--good.

But gradually the sparkle in her eyes dimmed; joy went outof 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 thesunlit room. Ronnie was a man. To him, love once confessedmust seem a bond, an irrevocable troth. Ought she to takehim at his word? Ought she not to strive once again--as theyhad both so long and so uselessly striven--to forget? Yetcould she ever forget? Forgetting, would she not be false tothe best in her? To the best in both of them?

Suppose--suppose she ran away with Ronnie? Whatwould be the consequences? A divorce! She could face that,as Mary O'Riordan had faced it. Mary, other friends, wouldstand by her. If only Ronnie's mother were less the Puritan.

"I must go to Ronnie," she thought. "I must ask him ifhe has spoken with his mother."

Yes! She must go to Ronnie. No other's counsel couldavail her now. No third party could help. They, and theyalone, would bear the burden if--if she decided to run awaywith him. And yet--and yet other people would be affectedby 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. "Themaster's been gone nearly an hour." It seemed impossibleto find any excuse for remaining longer alone.

Dressing, the unsolved problem still haunted her mind. Butalready one aspect of the problem had solved itself--the aspectof Ronnie. Ronnie's word was not to be doubted. He lovedher, he needed her--as she him. For themselves, they mustno more funk the issue of Hector divorcing her than theyhad funked Parson's Brook. "Parson's Brook," thoughtAliette. "Was it an omen?"

And at that, ominously, her imagination concentrated onthe other aspect of the problem, on the public aspect; till itseemed as though a whole host of people, his mother, her ownparents, Mollie, James Wilberforce, and her husband amongthem, were actually visible in the bedchamber; till it seemedas though Aliette could actually feel the eyes of the host onher, appraising the curves of her figure, the vivid masses ofher hair.

Fastidiously she tried to avoid the eyes; but the eyes wouldnot be gainsaid; they turned to her breast, seeking outRonnie's letter, his love-letter, which she had hidden there.The eyes were not yet hostile, only appraising; but behindthem--imagination knew--lurked souls ready to kindle intohostility. "They're waiting," thought Aliette, "waiting toknow 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, completelydressed, completely ready to--leave Hector's house.

Looking back, Aliette now realizes that moment to have beenthe definitive crossing of her Rubicon. Subconsciously, in thatone particular instant of time, her decision crystallized. She,who had always hated "funking things," would not funklove. Love was either worth the leap, or worth nothing. Ifnothing, then life's self was not worth while. And the riskwas the leaper's, only the leaper's. Considering others, shehad forgotten to consider herself.

She looked at that self in the long mirror.

Surely those brown eyes, burning deep into their ownsemblance, 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 thoseslim feet for running away.

And suddenly, subconsciously, Aliette knew that all herlife hitherto she had been lying to her own soul, runningaway from truth. Life, woman's life at its highest, meantmating. Without matehood, motherhood's self must be afailure. And she, she was neither mate nor mother. Remainingwith Hector, her very bodily beauty would wither--witherunmated, sterile. For, to Hector--even if she yieldedto Hector--and how, loving Ronnie, could she yield herselfto 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 beprofaned--as profaned it must be--by any man's touch saveRonnie's.

"And surely," said some dim voice in that soul which wasAliette, "surely this is nature's verity: To each one of us,unhindered, our mate- and mother-hood! Surely, in nature'seyes, our parents are but dry and empty vessels, milklessgourds rattling on a dead tree."

Her letter, sent "express" to Jermyn Street, read: "Ifyou are quite, quite sure of your own feelings, I will cometo you to-morrow afternoon. Whatever we decide best to do,must be done openly. I love you--perhaps that is why I havebeen so afraid. I am not afraid any more. Aliette."

3

This time, ringing the bell at 127b Jermyn Street, HectorBrunton's wife was no more nervous than on the day she putMiracle at Parson's Brook. In that last flash of understanding,it seemed as though even the Mollie aspect of the problemwere solved. Let Mollie, too, learn nature's verity; learnthat if Wilberforce's love-flame blew out at a breath ofscandal, she would do better to warm herself at some healthierfire.

The twenty-four hours which followed her decision hadgone by like a single minute, marked only by Ronnie's secondletter, by those eight sheets of tenderness, of passion, of highresolve and deep desire, which Aliette held close to her heartas she followed Moses Moffatt up the quiet stairs.

Ronnie met them in the tiny hall. The conventional smileassumed for Moffatt's benefit was still on his lips as he relievedher of bag and parasol, as he led her into the sitting-room.But so soon as the sitting-room door closed, his arms wentround her; and their lips met in a long kiss. There was nopassion in that kiss, only an overwhelming tenderness; yet,yielding to it, letting herself sink into his arms, Aliette knewthat the die was cast, that she belonged to him, he to her, solong 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. "Youwon't object, will you? Do you know, I wanted to take myhat off, that first afternoon--at the Bull?"

He watched, dumb, while she ungloved her pale hands, whileshe lifted them to her hat-pins. The curve of her raised armsfascinated his eyes. Still laughing, she removed the hat; andstretched it out to him.

"You don't recognize this, I suppose?"

"No."

"Nor the dress? It's rather a funny dress for town--don'tyou think, man? Do you like being called 'man'? I decidedthat should be my name for you on my way here."

But he could not remember either the hat or the dress. "Ilike them both," he said, "they're wallflower-brown--thesame 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 thewinter. He saw two figures, his and hers, strolling down-hillin the low March sunlight.

"It's the dress you wore at Key Hatch."

"Man, you're getting quite clever. Now tell me why I putit on this afternoon."

Standing before him, her coat over one arm, the vivid ofher hair uncovered, the brown silk of her blouse revealingthe full throat, she seemed like a young girl; more an affiancedbride than a woman who intended running away from herhusband.

He took the coat from her, and their hands met. He raisedher fingers to his lips; and again she dimpled to laughter.

"Tell me," said Aliette, "or I sha'n't give you any tea, whyI put on this dress. Women, even when they're in love, don'twear 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 amystery to me. Tell me, why you are so different."

"Light the kettle; and I'll try to tell you." She balancedherself on the edge of the settee. "You say I'm different thisafternoon. I'm only different because I'm happy. And I'mhappy 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 thewoman who intended running away from her husband. "I'vegot to make you happy. Otherwise, from the very outset, Ifail. And if"--the tiniest note of seriousness crept into hervoice--"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 sitthrough it, hand touching hand occasionally, their eyes oneach other. To each of them it seemed as though, after longwandering, they had come home. For the moment, passionhardly 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 doingwrong."

"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 fantasticbeyond belief. He could not imagine himself the same Cavendishwho had so long wrestled against the inculcated traditionsof his upbringing, of his profession; he could not visualizehimself potential sinner against society. Sin was a bodilything; and he wanted no more of this radiant, dimpling creaturethan to hear the happy laughter in her voice.

So, for a little while, those two remade their rose-bubble ofenchantment, forgetful alike of the problems put behind themand 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, buther hands eluded him.

"Don't!" Her eyes darkled. "We mustn't play anymore." And after a pause, she asked him: "I wonderexactly 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, andthe 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 newbornimpishness 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 impishnessin her chuckled to see the puzzled thoughts chase themselvesacross his forehead.

How boyish he was--she thought--how utterly unlike theconventional unconventional lover. The maternal instinctawakened in her heart, and went out to the boy in him. Shewanted to pat his head, to say: "Never mind, Ronnie. I'llarrange everything. You sha'n't be worried." Then sheremembered that he wasn't a boy; that he was a man, herman.

The man in him burst out: "I wish to God that youneedn'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'tbear 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 hishouse this evening, I'll have to tell him? It wouldn't bestraight if I didn't. We've got to be straight, haven't we?"

"Yes." The flame went out of his eyes, leaving them coldand hard as agate. "We've got to be straight. But--tellinghim isn't your job. It's mine." He heaved himself up fromthe settee; and she had her first glimpse of a different Ronnie--afighting Ronnie, chin protruded, lips set. "My job," herepeated.

"I'm not Andromeda. I don't want a Perseus to free mefrom the dragon." She tried chaff; but chaff left him unmoved.She tried argument; but argument only strengthenedthe resolve in him. Finally she said:

"There's no need to say much. Hector knows everything--exceptyour name."

"You told him?" There was no anger in the phrase.

"Everything except your name. We had a quarrel. AfterI got home last Monday. He offered to let me divorce him if--ifI'd promise there was no one else." She, too, rose--herface, for all its fineness, obstinate as her lover's. "Of course,I couldn't promise that. So to-night, I shall just tell him--therest."

The tall man and the little woman faced each other insilence: each equally determined to carry, right from the beginning,the other's burden.

"It doesn't seem right, somehow or other," Ronnie said atlast. "He might--might hurt you."

"Hurt me!" laughed Aliette. "Nothing, nobody in theworld can hurt me now. Except you. And you will hurt meif 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 notseek to elude him. For now she knew her power, the powerwhich all women exercise over imaginative lovers; knew that,at her least word, he would loose her--fearful lest, by notloosing, 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 thisAliette who had let him hold her in his arms; who had let himpress his lips to hers in passion; but who, admitting her lovefor 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 kissthose rounded wrists, those arms bare to the elbow, that scarletmouth, those cheeks ivory as curds, the smooth forehead underits loops of shining hair.

"Kiss me!" he whispered. "Kiss me!"

"Ronnie!" She put down the time-table. "Don't let'sdo anything we might--might regret. Remember that to-night,and perhaps for many nights, I must sleep under hisroof."

He yielded again; and a few minutes later she preparedto leave him. The plans they had meant to make were stillchaotic--chaotic as her mind.

She realized, as she pinned on her hat, as she let him helpher into her coat, that the sweet hour had been full of danger,that--had Ronnie been less chivalrous, more the man and lessthe boy--she might have given way to him. The realizationmade her very humble; and in her humility she began to doubtherself.

"You--you've been very good to me," she said; and then,the vivid lashes veiling her vivid eyes, her low voice tremblinginto shyness: "That's why there's just one--one favor Imust 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 thatlast time."

"We mustn't hurt her more than we can help. We musttell her the truth, before--before we do anything. She's awoman, and perhaps--perhaps she'll understand----"

"Aliette----" He hesitated; and her intuition leaped tothe cause.

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

Her intuition startled him into reply: "Yes. We havequarreled. 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 aboutme?"

Again he hesitated; again her intuition leaped to the truth."I've been afraid you might. Something told me, that morningin the park, that she must have guessed. I can't comebetween you and your mother. You mustn't quarrel withher on my account. Whatever she may have said, you mustgo to her, tell her everything, and ask her--if she can--toforgive----"

"Never!" The very humility angered him. "Never! It'snot 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 hismother should have understood so little; but she knew thatshe must conceal the hurt. "As if I'd let you quarrel withany one, least of all your mother, on my account. You'll goto her, won't you? You'll tell her that I--that I don't askfor any recognition----"

Rudely, obstinately, he interrupted her: "Of course shemust recognize you. Either she's on our side or she's againstus."

"Ronnie"--her eyes suffused with tears--"Ronnie, I toldyou we'd got to be happy with one another. You make meunhappy--when you speak like that. You make me feel like athief. You do want me to be happy, don't you?"

"Yes. Always." His anger vanished. Bending down, hetried 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'tyou grant me this one favor? It's the only favorI'll ever ask."

"How can I?"

"So easily. Just go to her. She's your mother. She lovesyou, she understands you. But she may not understand--aboutme. She may think that I'm just--just a dissolutewoman. That doesn't matter. Tell her that it doesn'tmatter. Tell her that I don't want to keep you from her; thatuntil--until we're properly married, you'll be as free to goto her as if"--he could hardly hear the last words--"as ifyou'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 cometo 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 differentview. But I'll be so happy, man; so much happierthan I've ever been in my life before--if only you'll make itup with your mother. You will, won't you? Promise me."

"Tell me," he whispered, and his lips trembled, "is thisthing so vital to your happiness?"

"Yes," she whispered back.

"Then--it shall be as you wish." His arms were stillround her; and she felt herself weakening--weakening. Shefelt 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 ismisery."

"Ronnie--Ronnie! Don't tempt me----"

Feverishly her ungloved hands fondled him; feverishly herarms looped his neck, drawing his face down to hers. Shecould see, under the gray-gold of his hair, the great vein throbbingon his forehead, the dart and pulse of passion in his eyes.His lips, trembling still, fastened on her mouth. The kiss wastorment. Feverishly her mouth clung to his; feverishly, blentin 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 temptme any more. Don't let me think--either now or ever--thatthis love of ours is only--only physical. Because, if I thoughtthat, I'd kill myself."

And a moment afterwards, she was gone.

1

Ponto the Dane, a piebald hummock of utter contentment,slapped his vast stern on the sands; woke; and rose tohis haunches.

At gaze into the sun-dazzle, Ponto's slitty eyes could justdiscern the twin rock buttresses of Chilworth Cove, the sea-watereddying translucent between them, and, forging throughthe sea-water, a man's head. White birds, which Ponto afterone or two dignified experiments had decided uncatchable,strutted the beach or circled lazily round the buttresses. Hismistress slept, sun-bonneted in her long deck-chair, a smile onher 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-bancsin the unspoiled West Country. Inshore from its tongue ofhot gold sands, the wild flowers riot; and back along the fritillary-hauntedpathway through the wild flowers, ChilworthGhyll leads to Chilworth Port--a handful of thatch-roofed,pink-washed cottages whereon the clematis spreads its purplestars and the honeysuckle droops coral clusters for the loudly-questingbee.

Once the sea filled the Ghyll; once, from the ancient well-headmidway of the streetless "port," men drew water fortheir ships; once seafarers in hose and doublet with strangeoaths and stranger tales on their lips would sit drinking in theparlor of the ancient alehouse. But to-day never a ship andhardly a "foreigner" comes where Chill Down upswells warm-breastedas a woman to the blue and Chill Common sweepswave on wave of heathered ridges to a houseless horizon.

This summer, indeed, only three "foreigners"--the manforging overarm to seaward, the drowsy dog, and the dreaminglady--had visited the port: for the square-faced, square-hippedDevonian woman, busied at the moment with the setting-outof curdled cream and other homely fare in their pink-washedcottage, was no "foreigner"--but a port woman bybirth, as the alehouse well knew.

And if the alehouse sometimes speculated why "MarthaStaley's daughter, her who had the good place in Lunnon,should have brought her 'folk' to the port"--who cared? NotRonnie! Not Aliette! For them, London with all its harassingmemories had faded into that remote past before theypossessed one another, before flaming June and flaming lovealike combined to teach them a delight so exquisite that itseemed to both as though paradise itself could hold no rarerin its offering.

They had been in paradise a full month; and never for amoment had either of them regretted their hurried flight, theirabandoned schemes. The past was dead, the future still unborn;they lived only for the all-sufficing present, two humanbeings 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--oncethat first inevitable fear of revulsion which is the portion ofevery woman who, disappointed in one man, seeks consolationwith another, proved phantom--had been content to surrenderherself, body, brain, and soul, to the call of matehood; to pourout all that was best hers, of beauty, of selflessness, of tenderthought and reckless caring, at Ronnie's feet; knowing eachgift a thousand times recompensed by the slightest touch of hishand on her hair, the lightest brushing of his lips against hercheeks--knowing herself no longer a woman, but very womanhood,eternal essence distilled eternally from the fruit of Eden-treefor manhood's completion.

And, "Poor Ronnie," she dreamed, "he can never be happyas I am. He thinks I am the same Aliette--he does not realizethe miracle."

For, of a surety, if ever love wrought a miracle, it was onthis woman. She who, in her mateless fastidiousness, hadschooled herself to the poise of a virgin Artemis, became,mated, the very Venus Anadyomene, Venus of foam and ofsun-glints, rose-flushed for adoration between the roses and thesea. And in the hush of moon-pale midnights, when the clematis-blossomsshowed as black butterflies against their diamondedwindow-panes, when the ripples beyond the Ghyllmurmured like tired children asleep, she--to whom, mateless,the nights had been emptier even than the days--becamenight's own goddess-girl, subduing man's passion to merestinstrument of her love.

The dreaming lady stirred, murmuring through dreams; andthe smile faded from her lips.

Sometimes, even to paradise--as black ships seen through agolden haze to seaward--came dark visions of the past. OfJulia Cavendish, her son's unanswered letter crumpled in unrelentingfingers; of Mollie and her James; of the mullionedhouse at Clyst Fullerford; of the stiff bow-fronted library atLancaster Gate; and of the man in that library, the man whosethin lips muttered: "So it was that briefless fool Cavendishyou would have married, had I given you your freedom. Verygood! 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, rememberthat you're still Mrs. Hector Brunton, not Mrs. RonaldCavendish. Remember that you're taking a risk, a biggishrisk."

That risk, all in a sweet madness, the dreaming lady and theman forging back to her through the translucent water, hadtaken within twelve hours; hurriedly; almost planlessly; instinctivelyas Ponto, who, let loose by a mischievous boy fromhis kennel in Westbourne Street, nosed his way to the doorof Brunton's house just as Aliette and Caroline Staley steppedinto the loaded taxi, and, spying the portmanteau, set up sucha howl that in sheer self-defense they let him clamber in betweenthem.

"And that," thought Aliette, waking from dreams to finda huge wet nose nuzzling her hand, "was the maddest thingI did in all that one mad day."

Then she, too, sat at gaze into the sun-dazzle; till her lover'shead rounded the translucent pool below the buttresses; till hecame 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 beyondChill Common, seven million exiles from paradise plied theirharassed harassing earth-days in London City.

Of all those seven millions only three people knew exactlywhat had happened; and only two--Julia Cavendish and BenjaminBunce--the fugitives' address. Even Mollie, who hadbeen overnighting with friends at Richmond during those fewhours when her sister decided on flight, had been told--officially--nothing.

But Mollie, from the first moment when she glanced at theincoherent scrawl Lennard handed her on her return, had suspectedthe worst. With her, Hector's reassurances, given overthe telephone from his chambers, that "Alie had suddenlymade up her mind to take a holiday," went for nothing.

"Rather unexpected, wasn't it?" she said; and then, rememberingthe 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 youthink best," rang off; and the girl, now thoroughly perturbed,telephoned to Betty Masterman, her oldest school-friend, demandinghospitality.

"Nothing wrong, I hope?" said Betty.

"No, dear. Nothing. Only Alie's had to go away, and Ican't very well stop here without a chaperon."

Betty Masterman was a comforting creature who neitherasked nor demanded confidences; but the interview with JamesWilberforce hurt. It took Mollie three days to summon upenough courage to notify him of her new address; and when,throwing up his afternoon's work in Norfolk Street, he cameto call at the little conventionally-furnished flat, it seemed tothe girl as though they could never again be frank with oneanother; as though her very greeting, "Hello, James! Rottenof 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, thesedays," made any discussion of the topic nearest her heartimpossible. "For, of course," thought the girl, "Jimmyknows that Aliette's run away from Hector."

As a matter of fact, Jimmy had not previously suspectedany connection between Aliette Brunton's sudden departurefrom Lancaster Gate and the news, previously imparted tohim by Benjamin Bunce, that "Mr. Cavendish had been calledout of town and might not be back for some days." It was,Jimmy said to himself, rather weird of old Ronnie to buzz offin the middle of the sessions; but then old Ronnie always hadbeen rather weird, a peculiar kind of chap, pretty reticentabout his private affairs.

But subconsciously, the moment Mollie spoke of her sister,the solicitor's mind connected the two disappearances. At firstblush, the connection seemed incredible. "Old Ronnie" was"as straight as they make 'em"; and "H. B.'s wife a regularPuritan."

All the same, James Wilberforce--just to reassure himself--wouldhave liked to ask a question or two, to take Mollie's summaryof evidence. He wanted, for instance, to ask her if sheknew her sister's address.

Something restrained him from asking the question; butwhile he was taking tea his brain suddenly remembered alittle twist of Ronnie's mouth when Julia Cavendish had mentionedAliette's name during his lunch at Bruton Street.Scarcely noticed at the time, that remembered twist of theclean-shaven lips called up other memories; Ronald and Alietteat Key Hatch, playing patters at Queen's, shaking handsin 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 shebobbed her dark hair, the cotton frock she was wearing, herstrong white hands and arms; he liked being alone with her inthis little room with its fumed oak furniture, its red wall-paper,its general air of coziness. He would have liked, verymuch, to kiss that full red mouth. But more than anythingelse, 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?" hechaffed 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 grewnervous.

"Damn it all," he thought, "supposing my suspicions areright. Suppose those two have gone off together. It's fiftyto one against, but still----"

The instinct to gamble on that fifty-to-one chance (it hadbeen a hundred to one half an hour since), to propose andhave done with it, came to him. But his caution subdued theinstinct. The world, his world, was a pretty censorious place;and if one's father were almost a cert. for his baronetcy, if onewere junior partner in a firm so entirely sans reproche withthe king's proctor as Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright--well,one just couldn't afford to take even thousand-to-onegambles 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 modulatedvoice, tided over the awkward interview.

That night, however, Mollie Fullerford--least sentimentalof the modern young--cried herself to sleep.

3

Tears are not fashionable in Pump Court; but that melancholyindividual, Benjamin Bunce, very nearly followed MollieFullerford's example, when "young Mr. Wilberforce"--anxiousonly to allay his suspicions--called at Ronnie's chambersnext 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 instructionsis not to send anything on to him. No, sir, I'm afraid I can'tgive you his address. I'm not allowed to give any one his address--exceptMr. 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 complexionhad gone suddenly white. "Good God!" And he walked outof the door, as Benjamin subsequently described it, "asthough he'd been lifting the elbow ever since breakfast."

4

James Wilberforce did not gossip; nevertheless, within aweek of the flight for paradise, rumor--the amazing omniscientrumor of London--began to weave, spider-like, her intangiblefilaments. As yet, rumor was unconfirmed: only a vague webof talk, spun from boudoir to drawing-room, from drawing-roomto club, from club to Fleet Street, from Fleet Street tothe Griffin.

And in the center of the web, watching it a-weave, satAliette's husband.

More than once, friends, those maddeningly tactful friendsof the successful, touched on rumor; but none of them, not evenHector's father, succeeded in extracting a syllable. "Mywife," said Hector Brunton, K.C, to his friends, "has notbeen feeling very well lately. I've sent her out of town for abit of a holiday."

At first the mere mention of Aliette's name enraged him;aroused in him a cruelty so melodramatic, so virulent that, fora full three days, he went in fear of becoming a murderer. Heknew that he could find "the guilty pair" easily enough:Cavendish's clerk--Aliette's brief note told him--would givehis solicitors their address. But even without Cavendish'sclerk it would be simple to trace them. You couldn't lug atwelve-stone dog round the London railway termini withoutattracting the attention of at least half a hundred involuntaryprivate detectives!

Somehow (comedy and tragedy blend strangely in the heartof a man!) the idea of Ponto's accompanying his wife's elopementseemed in Brunton's eyes the culminating insult, a lastintolerable outrage on the domestic decencies. He, Hector,had given Aliette that dog; and, though he hated the beasthimself, he grudged it to Cavendish. To his enraged mind, thedog turned symbol of his betrayal. He had been betrayed bya dishonest woman. If Aliette had possessed any sense of honesty,she would have left Ponto behind: as she had left all hisother gifts--the pearl necklace, the jeweled wrist-watch, thegray ostrich-feather fan.

Then, hot on the heels of rage, came remorse--remorse, notfor his cruelty, not for his infidelities, but only for the crassstupidity with which he believed himself to have handled thesituation. He might have known the woman better than toattempt bluff. He ought to have pleaded with her. Or lockedher in her bedroom. On no account ought he to have gonedown to the courts next morning. Why hadn't he telephonedMollie to return that very night? Why hadn't he wired toClyst Fullerford for Aliette's mother?

Self-pity succeeded. He pictured himself the injured husband;and, his heart softening towards Aliette, vowed "thatseducer Cavendish should suffer."

But Cavendish's sufferings did not suffice his imagination.Why should Cavendish alone suffer? Why should either thewoman or the man get off scotfree? Why shouldn't both ofthem be made to suffer--damnably--as damnably as he himselfwas suffering?

For, surely as love made paradise of Chilworth Cove, sosurely did lust fashion hell at Lancaster Gate.

From this hell in which--as Brunton imagined--the loss ofa woman, and not the loss of his own self-esteem furnished theflame, Brunton's only escape was work; and into work he flunghimself, as a scalded child into cold water, only to find theagony redoubled on emergence. For though his work--eight,ten, and sometimes sixteen hours a day of the tensest mentalconcentration--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, mockinghim, mocking him. "Only wait," mocked the Furies. "She'llcome back. Perhaps she's on her way home at this verymoment. She'll soon tire of Cavendish--of Cavendish."

Brunton tried to scream back at them (he knew, even beforethey showed him his face in the mirror of his dressing-room,that the scream could not pass his lips), "I wouldn'thave her back. I wouldn't, I tell you--I wouldn't. She'sa loose woman. An adulteress."

"Oh, yes, you would," answered the Furies. "Oh, yes, youwould. If she came into this house now--if she rang the frontdoor-bell--listen! listen hard! didn't you hear a bell, Brunton?--ifshe offered herself to you, you'd take her. It's threeyears, Brunton. Three years since you went into that room.Think of her, Brunton. Think of her--her hair unbound--herarms open to receive--Cavendish!"

And by day, when the evil old women slept, men mocked athim--voicelessly. All men--so it seemed to him--knew hisshame. All men! Lennard and the chauffeur, so smooth-faced,so efficient, grinning behind smug hands: the acquaintancesat his clubs: his co-barristers, lunching either side ofhim at Middle Temple Hall: his subservient clerk: his respectfulclients--all these knew him for the deserted bull, for themale incapable of authority, for the public cuckold. Even theimpassive pseudo-friendly judges who gave him his verdictswere wise to his cuckoldry.

Curiously enough, in all that month of June, Brunton neverlost a case. Possible defeats, probable compromises, doubtfulprosecution, or still more doubtful defense--every legal battlehe fought ended in sweeping victory. Treasury briefs, consultations,and demands for his "opinion" avalanched on hischambers in King's Bench Walk. Fleet Street echoed andreëchoed his name; till it appeared as though the herd, thedamned hypocritical herd who fawned openly on his publicsuccess 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 thedeserted bull; and, so seeing, swore that he would teach thewhole herd a lesson. The herd had its rules, its shibboleths;but he was above all rules, above all shibboleths. Let the herdmurmur if it dared. His wife and her lover could rot in themire they had pashed for themselves. The lone bull wouldnot even deign to horn their flanks.

So, arrogance and cruelty in his secret heart; lash-marks ofthe Furies red across his secret loins; feigning himself unhurt,uncaring; feigning himself ignorant; feigning even solicitudefor the health of his absent wife, Hector Brunton went hisconquering conquered way.

1

In the heart of Julia Cavendish--those earliest days--wasneither hatred nor cruelty; only a terrible numbness asfrom a blow.

Ronnie, her own son, had struck her! At first she could notbring herself to believe the happening real. His letter, readand reread, conveyed nothing.

But soon the letter grew real enough--so real that Julia'simagination, peering between the lines, could actually see himwith the woman who had inspired it; with the woman who hadruined her boy's career.

Her first impulse was to go to them, to go swiftly; to say tothe woman, "It's not too late--even now. Return to yourhusband--give my son back to me."

Yet every traditional instinct in Julia fought against thatsolution. All her life she had schooled herself to the beliefthat adultery--in a woman--was the unforgivable sin. Men,of course, were never guilty of "adultery," only of "lapses."Modern society, so pitifully lax, so given over to the sentimentalimpulse, might forgive both parties. Julia Cavendishcould not. She, in her eugenic wisdom, knew that individualsin--in a woman--must earn individual punishment. Mrs.Brunton, therefore, could not return to her husband. But ifMrs. Brunton did not return, how could Mrs. Brunton giveback Ronnie?

Mrs. Brunton probably took the ordinary tolerant viewabout divorce; the view that she, Julia, had spent a lifetimein combating. Not that her own public position on the divorcequestion counted! At any moment since Ronnie's birth shewould have sacrificed more than public position for him. Butthis, this was a question of beliefs. Love might urge forgivenessbut how could love countenance sin--a deadly sin?

For a week that stubborn old doctrine of deadly sin, whichJulia had imbibed with a bookish Christianity--the samebookish "Christianity" which still tolerates the ghastly word"heretic," continued to harden her heart as it blinded herintellect; for a week she held on, with a tenacity almost Hebraic,to the fixed idea of the woman taken in adultery.

Then, as the numbness of the blow warmed into pain, herheart softened, and her intellect--momentarily freed by sorrowfrom the blindness of all formal faiths--saw a ray of light.

Admit, just for argument's sake, that a husband was entitledto put away his guilty wife; and suppose that the guiltyman were willing to marry her. What then? Could one doomthe guilty parties to a perpetual living in sin?

But the ray of light petered out, leaving her in even blackerdarkness, because--by the beam of it--she had seen herselfalready drifted so far away from her old beliefs as to countenancenot only divorce but the remarriage of divorced parties.

All the same, mother-love still urged her to forgive: so that,for a full week, she went about her house (a lonely house, itseemed now; all the charm of the years gone out of it) in apositive stupor of intellectual and religious bewilderment. Sheasked herself: "Does anything matter except my boy's happiness,my boy's career? Does anything really count exceptlove? Isn't love--and love alone--the true teaching of Christianity!"But she found no answer to her questions. Honestysaid: "It's a matter of principle; judge the case asthough it were a stranger's, not the case of your own son."

Nevertheless the argument of the individual case persisted.Memory recalled her son's statement about Aliette's relationshipto her husband. If those two--the woman to whom shehad taken such an instinctive liking and the man she haddeemed, at first sight, capable of cruelty--were husband andwife only in name, didn't the case alter? "No!" said formalreligion. "Yes!" said the mother in Julia Cavendish.

She remembered a phrase of Aliette's: "I have no children,worse luck." That was hardly the phrase of a loose woman,of a harpy. Suppose this woman really loved Ronnie?

But that brought back the old jealousy. How could Aliettereally love Ronnie? She, his mother, would have held herright hand in the flames rather than jeopardize her son's career--asAliette had jeopardized it.

Whereupon the novelist's imagination in Julia started toactivity. She pictured--knowing little of the law--a crowd ofclients besieging Ronnie's chambers, only to be told that "theeminent Mr. Cavendish" could not take their cases; and--thoroughlyfrightened at the heroic version of Benjamin Bunceand those few dusty briefs which Ronald had abandoned--sentfor her secretary, the blank-faced Mrs. Sanderson, whom shetold to ring up Sir Peter Wilberforce.

But Sir Peter was in Paris; and James deputized in hisstead.

"Do you know what she wants to see him about?" askedJames's secretary on the telephone.

"It's about her will, I think," answered Julia's.

2

Jimmy Wilberforce, who had not seen Mollie since his talkwith Bunce and spent four sleepless nights in consequence, setout for that interview with the uncomfortable foreboding thatthe "old lady's will" was only a pretext for discussing the oldlady's son. And the foreboding justified itself before he hadbeen with her ten minutes.

"I suppose," said Julia, eying him across the Empire deskof her work-room, "that you, as Ronnie's best friend, are verymuch in his confidence?"

"How do you mean?" prevaricated the big red lawyer."About his financial affairs?" He laughed, tapping the documentbetween them. "Ronald isn't the sort of chap who'dborrow on his--er--expectations."

"I was not referring to his financial affairs," retorted Juliastiffly. "If you, as my son's best friend, and as the son ofmy own legal adviser, do not understand the matter to whichI allude, the conversation need go no further."

Jimmy looked at his client, and noticed--for the first timesince entering the little box of a room--how she had aged, howill, how ill at ease, how unhappy she appeared. Jimmy, theman rather than the solicitor, was feeling very far from happyhimself; and unhappiness, being a completely new experience,keyed him to unusual sympathy.

"We're in the same boat," he thought. "Poor old lady!I wonder how much she knows. Ronnie had no right to runaway with H. B.'s wife. The harm it's done already! Hismother looks quite broken up about it. And I--I can't marryMollie."

"Mrs. Cavendish," he said, "I don't pretend to be as fondof your son as you are. I'm rather a selfish chap, I'm afraid.But if there's anything, any affair in which I can be of assistanceto you--you've only to ask me."

She asked him, pointblank: "Do you know my son's where-abouts?"

He answered, "No. I didn't even know that he'd goneaway, till his clerk told me."

Julia hesitated. "I'm speaking to you in absolute confidence?"

"Of course."

"Then please tell me: Have you heard any--any rumors?"

Jimmy chewed the cud for ten full seconds before replying:"You mean--about a certain lady?"

"I mean precisely that."

"So far, none." Now it was Jimmy's turn to hesitate."But, speaking entirely in confidence, there are bound to berumors--if he stays away much longer."

"You know nothing for certain then?"

"Officially--nothing." The solicitor inspected his fingernails. "But I'm afraid that, unofficially, I know a good deal."

"Including the name of the lady?"

"Including the name of the lady!"

Julia's heart sank. Wilberforce could not be alone in hisknowledge of the truth. And that meant--publicity! "Tellme, Mr. Wilberforce," she went on, "before we go any further:Is a barrister who has been co-respondent in a divorce case disbarredfrom further practice?"

"So she knows everything," thought Jimmy, and discardedfinesse. "On that point I can reassure you. Even ifthe petitioner were himself a barrister, it would make no difference."

"You made inquiries then?"

"Yes."

"May I ask why?" Julia's manner stiffened again. Theconversation was unutterably distasteful: but she had beenalone with her thoughts so long that even the most distastefulof conversations seemed preferable to further silence.

"Because"--the man, moved by a similar impulse, laid allhis cards, faced, on the table--"because the sister of the certainlady is a--a very great friend of mine."

"And if"--remembering the meeting in Hyde Park, thenovelist's mind jumped instanter to its conclusion--"if thedivorce we mentioned were to take place, it would make a differenceto the outcome of that friendship?"

"I"--Jimmy stammered--"I'm afraid so."

Remembering Ronnie's letter, Julia Cavendish felt awareof a new pride in her son. Ronnie might have been guilty ofa "lapse": but at least he had not been weak. For it wasweak, pitifully weak, almost caddishly weak of a man even tocontemplate ending his friendship with a girl because of ascandal in her family.

"I'm sorry to tell you then," she said, "officially, that yourunofficial knowledge is perfectly correct. I have incontrovertibleproof--a letter from him--that my son has run awaywith Hector Brunton's wife, and that they are now waitingfor him to serve them with divorce-papers."

Jimmy Wilberforce's brown eyes darkened with pain. Ithad been bad enough to know the truth himself; but to hearit from some one else seemed for the moment unbearable.

"That," went on his client, "is why I wanted to see yourfather. Perhaps I'd better wait till he returns from Paris.You, obviously, will be a little--shall we say prejudiced?"

There are certain instants in a man's life when he comprehendshis own character with revolting clarity. Such an instantthose last words brought to the solicitor. In the light ofthem he saw himself as poor friend, as worse lover. He felthe could never again look Ronald or Mollie in the face.

"I hope your father will be back soon." continued Julia."Naturally I'm rather anxious for his advice."

"Mrs. Cavendish"--Jimmy, contrary to her expectation,made no effort to go--"if I gave you the impression of prejudiceby what I said just now, I'm sorry. My father will beaway for at least another week. Meanwhile, I beg you toforget my own--er--personal interest in this matter; and tolook upon me as--as a friend. You and Ronnie are in trouble;let me help you both to the best of my ability. Do you, by anychance, know Ronnie's address? If so, won't you, in strictconfidence, let me have it?"

"I don't think I ought to do that without his permission,"said Julia. "But I shall be very grateful for your advice. Tellme--I'm afraid I'm rather ignorant, wilfully ignorant perhaps,about these matters--how are divorces"--she stumbledover the word--"arranged?"

And James Wilberforce told her, in exact legal parlance,the whole nauseating procedure of the English courts. Hespoke of orders for restitution, of "hotel evidence," of letterswritten at the dictation of solicitors, of damages and alimony,and of the king's proctor. Finally--and at this the whole soulof Julia Cavendish sickened--to illustrate a point, he told herthe inside history of the Carrington case; how Carrington, inorder to blacken his wife's name, had committed perjury inan undefended divorce-case, and how--for fear lest she shouldforfeit her freedom to marry the man she loved--Carrington'swife had been forced to endure the slander.

Jimmy's client sifted the whole information for some time.

"So you mean," she said at last, "that in this country anyhusband and wife who--'know the ropes,' I think, was yourphrase--and possess sufficient money to fee a firm like yourown, can secure a divorce with almost as little trouble as theycan secure a marriage-license."

"I mean precisely that," replied Jimmy Wilberforce."Given the mutual desire to undo their marriage, the law--properlyworked--puts no obstacle in the way."

"But if, as in this Carrington business, the desire is notmutual. What then?"

"Then, of course, there are difficulties. Especially if it isthe woman who wants her freedom. In our courts, you see, ahusband is still his wife's legal owner; a woman merely herhusband's chattel. A wife, against a husband unwilling to bedivorced, must prove not only infidelity but cruelty--in thelegal sense. And it has been held, over and over again, thatinfidelities--on the husband's part--are not cruelties. Cruelties--legallyspeaking--imply a damage to the wife's health."Jimmy reverted, once more, to the inside history of the Carringtoncase.

Julia Cavendish, too, thought of Carrington when she said:

"Mr. Wilberforce, let us be open with each other. My son'sletter is quite frank. He says that he and Mrs. Brunton haverun away together; that her husband knows all about it; thatthey are waiting for him to 'file his petition.' What happensif he refuses?"

"That," protested Wilberforce, "is hardly on the cards. Aman of Hector Brunton's social status would never behave likeCarrington."

"I agree." Julia, who had been feeling for an idea,broached it very tentatively. "All the same, Mr. Wilberforce,I flatter myself that my knowledge of human nature is notoften at fault. I met Hector Brunton once; and I summedhim up. Believe me, he's not quite--not quite normal wherethe sex is concerned. And with abnormals, the normal courseof action can never be absolutely relied upon. You realize,of course, my--shall we say difficulties?--in making up mymind. It would help me considerably if I were certain of thecourse this man Brunton intended to adopt. Could you--doyou think--ascertain it for me?"

"I'm afraid"--all the legal caution in Wilberforce's naturerepelled the suggestion--"that with the best will in the worldI couldn't do that. Brunton is a K.C.--a very importantK.C. If, by any chance, he decides to wait a month ortwo----But really, Mrs. Cavendish, with all due deferenceto your knowledge of human nature, I don't think we needanticipate any trouble from Brunton. All we have to do--youand I--is to await events; to minimize the scandal as faras we can; and to watch over your son's interests until suchtime as he returns to London."

The solicitor excused himself, rose, and shook hands. "Youcan rely upon me, you know," he smiled.

But, once more solitary, Julia Cavendish felt that neitheron James Wilberforce nor on any other lawyer could sheplace reliance. To lawyers, matrimony was a contract; to herit was a holy sacrament. Scandal, unpopularity, she couldface; but not her own conscience. And conscience alreadymade her accessory to the sin of adultery!

All her prejudices against divorce returned fourfold, submergingher intellect as in slime. After Wilberforce's revelations,the holy institution of matrimony seemed the unholiestof legal farces.

She rang for Kate and ordered her to bring tea. "I'm athome to nobody," said Julia; and all afternoon she sat brooding,love and beliefs at war in her mind. All afternoon, hermind pictured Ronnie; the happy babydom, the fine youth, theclean manhood of him. All afternoon her love strove to acquithim before the tribunal of her beliefs.

And as day waned the romantic in her began to see somethingsplendid in him, some courage akin to her own.

But in the woman she could, as yet, see no courage. Thewoman had sinned, sinned the deadly sin. Her, one couldnever forgive!

And yet--and yet--how could a mother abandon her son?

Suppose her son married this sinner? Stubbornly hermind tried to picture Aliette married to Ronnie. Stubbornlyconscience repelled the picture. "She is Aliette Brunton,"said Julia's beliefs. "She can never be Aliette Cavendish."

Then imagination put back the clock of her own years sothat she saw herself thirty again. At thirty one had illusions;one had one's fastidiousnesses. And Brunton was no husbandfor a fastidious woman. Brunton might easily be a man suchas Wilberforce had hinted of; an unfaithful husband againstwhom his wife possessed no legal remedy. What then?

"Even then," said Julia's beliefs, "she should have endured--asyou, too, must endure."

"Yet how can you endure?" asked love. "How can youside with a stranger against your own boy?"

"Soon," answered beliefs, "you must face your God. Howsplendid if, on that day, you can declare to Him: 'I, like You,sacrificed my only son.'"

But love said: "God and Love are one."

And in that one instant of thought Julia Cavendish crossedher mental Rubicon. Formal religion went by the board. Behe saint or sinner, sordid or splendid, she, Julia Cavendish,would stick by her boy.

3

Now Julia was all impatience. Let the divorce-papers beserved without delay! Let Brunton do his worst!

But Wilberforce, summoned next morning, begged her notto be precipitate. "Let us wait," said Wilberforce, "tillBrunton shows his hand. At least let us wait till public rumorconfirms private information."

Reluctantly Julia took his advice; and the slow days wentby. Inaction chafed her. She did not weaken, but she suffered.Love needed the spur of service. Moreover, the old beliefs,scotched, were not yet slain. Conscience whispered toher in the long wakeful nights: "This is intellectual dishonesty.If it were any other than Ronnie, would you bewilling to forgive?"

Her son's letter she did not answer. Time and again shetook pen in hand; but always instinct, the instinct of parentaldominance, restrained her. She had held the reins of her son'slife so long that she still lusted to teach him a lesson. Since hehad been a fool; since he had allowed the sentimental impulseto unbalance him in his duty toward her, let him write again.Besides, what could she say to him? It was not in her toslobber. When she wrote, it must be with some definite offerof help. To Julia, love without service always implied a certainhypocrisy: and that one concept, though every otherseemed to have disintegrated under the stress of circumstance,her set mentality refused to change.

So she waited--ailing, fearful, lonely in her crowded life;thinking always of her son; blaming herself for their quarrel;blaming herself for inaction; her heart humble; her head highamong the herd of men.

For as yet rumor knew nothing certain. The herd stillpatronized Bruton Street: you still met there, on a Saturdayafternoon, the literary folk, the financial folk, the clergy, thepoliticians, and the soldiers. To the outward eye, no tiniestdetail of social life in that exquisitely tended house had altered.Friends, acquaintances, casual visitors--so far, one hardlymissed a face. Even the ambassadorial Bruntons came, insemi-state, trailing with them the ugly unmarried daughter ofSir Simeon's first marriage and the two blithe flappers of hissecond.

Nevertheless, Julia was conscious of a growing tension.

Already--or so it seemed to her watchful imagination--theherd sniffed a taint. Dot Fancourt's eyes were an unspokenquestion. Lady Simeon exaggerated, ever so slightly, hersmile of greeting. Paul Flower's inquiries after Ronnie--noone who knew Julia Cavendish ever forgot to make thatinquiry--held the semblance of a leer. Others of her circle,saying: "And how's the son?" appeared as though they wereanxious not to be answered.

Here and there, too, a clergyman or a politician excused hisspouse with a strained, "My wife sends a thousand apologies.She wanted so much to come with me; but her health has beenrather troublesome this week. Oh, no, dear lady! Nothingserious. Nothing serious, I assure you."

4

On the first of July, Sir John and Lady Bentham (of theBank of England) gave a rather solemn family lunch-party, atwhich--rarest of occasions!--the four sisters Wixton metunder one roof.

Looking at her three juniors--at Clementina, ample of breastand bustle, her chin duplicated and triplicated by age, her eyespiercing under their polished crystal lenses; at May Robinson,whose scrawny widowhood was alternately devoted to goodworks and the cultivation of her St. John's Wood garden; atAlice Edwards, typically the Anglo-Indian woman, her complexionfaded but her joviality unimpaired, her blue-eyedgolden-haired Lucy in attendance, but her livery husbandabandoned in Cheltenham--it came to Julia, seated beside hergray-haired host at the head of the table, that familieswere a curse. Never a united tribe, to-day the Wixtons seemedmore at variance than ever. Julia resented May's pseudo-intimatechatter and the tactless pryings of Alice. Clementinashe had always abhorred. And when Lucy tried to questionher about Ronnie, her resentment reached fever-point.

For, of course--said Julia's imagination--when the familyknew about Ronnie, they would gloat. Clementina, alwaysenvious of her treasure, would be in the seventh heaven at hisdownfall. May would weep a "Poor Julia! I always told herthat she spoiled that boy." And Alice would chuckle: "It'sjust like Simla. Married women are always the worst."

How soon would the family know? Ronnie's secret hadbeen well kept; but it couldn't be kept a secret much longer.Had Sir John, perhaps, heard something already?

Julia's mind wandered away from the family to ChilworthCove. She had never seen the place, but intuition told herthat it must be beautiful; and she found herself craving, suddenly,furiously, in that stuffy Cromwell Road mansion, forbeauty, for the sea and the sunlight.

Perhaps, though, it was Sir John's confidences about his sonwhich impelled the homing mother to stop her electricbrougham at the Cromwell Road post-office; and write, withunsteady fingers, those six words: "Would my presence beunwelcome? Mater."

1

"Man--you're glad she's coming?"

"If her coming means that she is on our side; yes."

It was ten o'clock of a great July day. From outside,through the low foliaged casement of Honeysuckle Cottage,sounded the drone of a bee, the whine and splash of the well-bucket,and Caroline Staley's loud-voiced chaffering with afisherman. Within, the lovers faced each other across thedebris of a Gargantuan breakfast.

Seen, white-frocked, in the sun-moted coolth of that lowwhitewashed room, Aliette looked utterly the girl. Happinesshad wiped clean the slate of her desolate years. Her cheeks,her eyes, her whole personality glowed with the sheer joy ofmatehood. Sunlight and sea-light had goldened--ever sofaintly--the luster of her bared arms, the bared nape underher vivid hair.

Ronnie, too, had youthened. Gone, or almost gone fromhis face, was the semi-monastic seriousness. Constantly, now,smiles played about his full lips; constantly, his light-blue eyesheld the semblance of a twinkle. One hardly noticed the grayin his hair for the tawn of it. Lean still, to-day his leannesswas that of an athlete in training. Under his browned skin,when they bathed together, the muscles rippled like a panther's.As he rose, flanneled, from the table, it seemed almostas though happiness had added the proverbial cubit to hisstature.

He came over to her and kissed the palm of her outstretchedhand, her wrist, the curls at her temple.

"This afternoon," he said, "our honeymoon ends."

She laughed--but there was something of sadness in thelaughter. "Man, don't be immoral. Honeymoons are legal.This hasn't been legal. It's been----"

"Heaven," he suggested.

"Yes." She took his hand. "All that--and more. Butall the same, we're outcasts. We've got to realize that theworld, our world, won't forgive us for having been in heaven."

Sotto voce, he consigned the world to perdition. Aloud, heanswered, "They'll forgive us all right. As soon as H. B.makes up his mind to do the right thing. I expect that'swhat's at the bottom of the mater's wire."

"Do you?" Intimacy had made this great difference intheir relationship: that they could talk of Hector dispassionatelyenough. "Do you? I wish I were sure. He's a peculiarman. Very obstinate and rather cruel. He may make--difficulties."

"He'll make no difficulties."

Aliette changed the topic. For a week past, the vaguepossibility of Hector's abiding by his threat had been frighteningher. Once, even, she had precisely perceived the socialostracism such a course might entail. But in the sunshine andsea-shine of Chilworth Cove, social ostracism seemed a verytiny price to pay for happiness so great as theirs.

The first fine madness, the glamor of the grand passion wasstill on her, still on them both. Julia's telegram, which--cycle-forwardedacross eight miles of common-land from ChiltonJunction--threw the tiny port into a state of seethingcuriosity, excited its recipients hardly at all. Selfish with thesublime selfishness of mating-time, they regarded the threatenedirruption of a mundane personality into paradise as themerest episode.

Nevertheless, as she watched the innkeeper's pony-cart,Ronnie at its reins, rattle away between the pink-washed cottages,slow to a walk up the white road, and disappear amongthe heathery ridges at sky-line, Aliette grew conscious of adeep abiding joy that--whatever else of harm she mightbring into her lover's life--at least she had not separated himfrom his mother.

And all morning, all afternoon, busied with Caroline Staleyin preparation for their guest, that joy warded every apprehensionfrom her mind.

2

But in the heart of Ronald Cavendish, setting out alone onhis eight-mile journey for the station, was no joy. To him, itseemed as though he were definitely abandoning happiness,definitely leaving it behind. Mentally and physically obsessedwith Aliette, he could anticipate no pleasure in again seeinghis mother. Indeed, he could hardly visualize his mother at all.

Gradually, though, as the brown pony ambled its uneagerway along the white and empty track among the heather, theimage of Julia's face, the sound of Julia's voice came back tohim; and he, too, knew joy at the prospect of reconciliation.

Looking back on their quarrel, it appeared to him that hehad been rather brutal. "After all," he thought, "one couldhardly have expected her to understand. I'm glad Alie insistedon my writing that letter. I wonder if the mater'llbe looking well. I hope she'll like Alie. She's sure to likeAlie."

Then, from thinking of his mother and the woman he loved,he glided into thought of the world in which they must allthree live till Brunton's decree had been obtained and madeabsolute. It would be--he mused--a bit difficult, rather arough time.

Aliette's "funny idea" that Brunton might try "the dog-in-the-mangertrick," Aliette's lover dismissed--much in theway that Jimmy Wilberforce had dismissed it--as "not on thecards." All the same, the lawyer in him did begin to find itcurious that Brunton's solicitors should have dilly-dallied solong in communicating through Benjamin Bunce that the citationswere ready for service.

"The mater's sure to have some news," he thought; andby the time his pony topped the ridge from which one sees,three miles away at the foot of the slope, the red roofs andshining rails of Chilton Junction, he felt quite excited abouther arrival.

Always strong in the every-day relationship of man to man,but never--until now--decisive in his dealings with woman,Ronnie knew himself rather anxious for Julia's advice. Socially,the period between divorce and remarriage must havemany drawbacks. "The mater's" guidance, at such a time,might be most useful.

Of the heart-searchings, of the contest between her love andher beliefs, which even now (as the slow train jolted her, maidless,uncomfortable, in her crowded first-class compartment,out of Andover) still nagged at the intellect of Julia Cavendish,her son had never an inkling. From his point of view,their quarrel--for his share in which he had already apologizedby letter--appeared infinitely more important than"the mater's silly prejudice about divorce." Most important,of course, would be "how the mater would hit it off withAliette."

Ronnie drove on till he made the Chilton Arms; and there,stabling his pony, ordered himself an early luncheon.

The luncheon--solitary cold beef and lukewarm beer--madehim realize that it was more than six weeks since he hadmealed alone; and from that realization thought traveled--almostautomatically--to his rooms in Jermyn Street, toPump Court, to the past which had been London and thefuture which must still be London. Smoking, he began to considerthe various problems of return.

Where, how, and on what were he and Aliette to live?

Of Aliette's finances, beyond one confided fact that "shehad never taken an allowance from "H.," her lover knewnothing whatever. She might, for all he cared, possess fivehundred a year or ten thousand. But his own professionalincome, excluding the four hundred a year from his mother,barely touched the former figure; and since he was by nomeans the kind of creature who could consent to live on awoman's money, however desperately he might be in love withher, the housing problem alone--Moses Moffatt, officially, shelteredonly bachelors--would need more than a little solving.

Consideration of this, and other mundane factors in theirsomewhat bizarre situation, fretted Ronnie's mind. He couldnot help feeling, as he drove slowly to the station, how muchwiser it would have been if he and Alie had talked thesethings over before he started. His mother, who liked practicalwomen, might not understand that Alie and he had beentoo madly happy to bother about every-day affairs. "But byJove!" he said to himself; "by Jove, we have been happy."

He hitched the brown pony to the railings and strodethrough the waiting-room. That afternoon Chilton Junctionseemed less of a junction than ever. A few rustics, a fewmilk-cans, two porters, and the miniature of a bookstall occupiedits "down" platform; its "up" showed as a stretchof deserted gravel, from either end of which the hot rails ranstraight into pasture.

Looking Londonward along those narrowing rails, rememberinghow, six weeks since, they had carried him intoparadise, Ronald Cavendish understood--for the merest fractionof a second--his mother's sacrifice.

"Damn decent of the old lady to come down," he thought,seeing, still far away across the pastures, the leisured smoke-plumeof her train.

3

Julia Cavendish--having ascertained from her latest vis-à-vis,a burly cattle-dealer in brown leggings and a blackbowler hat, that her journey at last neared its destination--closedthe novel she had been pretending to read, straightenedher hat, and prepared to meet both culprits with stern Victoriancondescension.

That Aliette would not accompany Ronnie to the stationdid not cross his mother's mind. All the way down fromWaterloo she had been apprehensive, doubtful of her ownrectitude, conscious of a growing antagonism toward "thatwoman." "That woman," of course, would be furious at theinterruption of her amour.

Even the prospect of seeing Ronnie once more could notlighten the cloud of jealousy and self-distrust which Julia felthovering--like evil birds--about her head. Viewed in retrospect,the five hours of journeying were a nightmare. Viewedprospectively, arrival would be the ugliest of awakenings.She felt ill; ill and old and out-of-date.

But the first glimpse of her son sent all Julia's evil birdsflying. As the train steamed in, she saw him craning his eyesat its windows; saw that he was alone, that he was sun-bronzed,flanneled like a schoolboy. Her heart thumped--painfully,joyfully--at the knowledge that he had espied her,that he was loping along after her carriage, just as she rememberedhim loping along the platform at Winchester, in hiscricket-flannels, twenty years ago. Then the train stopped;and he swung the carriage door open, handed her out.

"My luggage----" began Julia; but got no further with thesentence; because Ronnie, her Ronnie, who had never, even asa boy, caressed his mother in public, just put an arm roundher shoulders and, kissing her, whispered: "By jingo, mater,it is ripping to see you."

A porter got her trunk and her handbag out of the train.Another porter put them into the pony-cart. Julia, for oncein her life, forgot to thank them. Tears, tears she dared notshed, twitched her wrinkled eyelids; her mouth had dried up;her thin knees tottered. She could only cling, cling with allthe strength of one weak arm, to Ronnie. He was her son,her only son--and she, in her stupid pride, had thought to letprejudice come between them. Her jealousy of "that woman"disappeared. The happiness, the health, the rejuvenation ofRonnie were sufficient justification, in her eyes, for Aliette.No worthless woman could have put those sunny words intoher boy's mouth, that sun-bronze on his cheeks!

Ronnie, too, was moved almost to tears. The first sightof his mother, reacting on the emotions of the past weeks,struck him to consciousness of his love for her. She neededhis protection more than ever before. She looked so frail,so suffering. She had suffered--because of him, because ofAliette. His heart went out to both women--in pity, in self-condemnation.

He helped her into the trap (it no longer surprised her tofind they were alone) and said: "I'm afraid it's not verycomfortable. That cushion's for your back. We'll havesome tea at the Arms before we start."

She managed to answer: "Yes, dear. I think I would likesome tea." To herself she said: "I wonder which of themthought about giving me tea, about bringing this cushion."

Ronnie clambered up; took the reins; and tipped the porters.In silence, they drove to the inn.

There the hot tea and the hot buttered toast, which hecoaxed her to eat, brought back a little of Julia's courage;but the waitress, popping--eager-faced at sight of strangers--inand out of the coffee-room, made free speech impossible.Perforce they confined conversation to generalities. He, shesaid, "looked extraordinarily well." She, he said, "lookedthe least bit tired." The lunch on the train, she told him, hadbeen "execrable." The drive to the Cove, he told her, was a"good eight miles" and they would have to "take thingseasy" because of the luggage. Ought they, he asked, to haveordered her a car? Oh, no--she smiled, she preferred thetrap: it would give them more time to talk.

"I rather expected you'd bring Smithers," mentionedRonnie.

"I didn't think a maid--advisable," declared Julia.

He paid for her tea, and they set off again--each silentlyuncertain of the other, each silently and socially constrained.But at last, as they drew clear of the town, Julia conqueredconstraint.

"And how is Aliette?" she asked quietly.

All the way down in the train she had intended to speakboth to and of "that woman" as "Mrs. Brunton"; but sinceseeing Ronnie she knew that she could never even think interms of "Mrs. Brunton" or of "that woman" again. Sinnerin the eyes of the world, in the eyes of the mother whose boyshe had made so happy, Hector Brunton's guilty wife was alreadya saint.

"Quite well." His quietness matched her own.

"I'm glad."

And suddenly, impetuously, he burst out:

"Mater, she's so wonderful."

Now mother and son were alone in a world of sky andheather; and the brown pony, as though aware of impendingconfidences, slowed to a walk. She put a tremulous hand onhis driving arm.

"Tell me--the whole story," said Julia.

His fingers loosed the reins; and that afternoon, as thebrown pony ambled toward the sea, he told her the full taleof his love for Aliette, of his love for both of them: till, listening,it seemed to Julia Cavendish as though never beforehad she understood the heart of her son.

And that afternoon, for the first time in all her sixty years,she--whose lifelong struggle had been to cramp life in thebonds of formal religion--saw that formal religion at its veryhighest could only be a code for slaves, for the weak and theignorant. For the soul of a free individual, for the strongand the wise of the earth, no formalities--whether of religion,of law, or of social observances--could exist.

The individual souls of the wise and the strong brooked noearthly master. Lonely arbiters of heaven and of hell, theirown gods, their own priests and lawgivers, only love couldcontrol them, only conscience guide.

Ignorantly, blindly, she, Julia Cavendish, had sought tofetter the free souls, the wise and the strong. And behold!in the very person of her own son they had broken loose fromher fetters. Ronnie, her own dearly-beloved son, was of thefree! All that her formal religion had preached him wrong,love had shown him to be right; and with love had come bothstrength and wisdom, so that he had followed his conscienceinto the freedom which her ignorance would have denied him.

For that Ronnie's conscience was as clear, as limpid-clearof sin as it had been in boyhood, Julia--listening to him--couldnot doubt. Nor, hugging that certainty, could shedoubt Aliette. Love was justified of both by the sheer test ofhappiness. As well accuse the birds of deadly sin as thesetwo who, moved by an impulse so overwhelming that to denyit would have been a denial of their very natures, had--mated.

4

Aliette, shading her eyes from the sun, watched the pony-carttop sky-line, and crawl leisurely down-hill. At sight ofit, her heart misgave her. Every tradition in which she hadbeen reared, all her social sense and all her love for Ronniewarned her that the meeting with Ronnie's mother would be,at its best, awkward--and its worst, disastrous.

In Chilworth Cove, with only Caroline Staley for confidanteof their secret (and Caroline, from the first, had beendefinitely partizan, loyalty itself), she had grown so accustomedto thinking of herself as Ronnie's wife, that it wasquite a shock to perceive, with the approach of a being fromher own world (a woman who, however much she might pretendsympathy, must be, in her heart, hostile), their exactrelationship.

"I'm her son's mistress," thought Aliette; and suddenlyseeing herself and her lover through the eyes of the ordinaryworld, realized the tragedy of those who, knowing themselvesnot guilty at the bar of their own consciences, can neverthelesssympathize with the many who condemn them. Which isperhaps the heaviest cross that any woman can be forced tocarry!

Ponto, darting hot-foot out of Honeysuckle Cottage at thesound of wheels, banished further introspection. Aliette justhad time to grab the great hound by the collar as the brownpony, eager for his evening hay, came trotting up; and wasstill holding him, her bared forearm tense with the effort, whenthe trap drew to the door. So that--as it happened--the exactgreeting of the "harpy" to the mother whose boy she hadstolen was, "I do hope you're not frightened of dogs, Mrs.Cavendish," and the mother's to the harpy, "Not in the veryleast. That's Ponto, I presume. Ronnie's told me abouthim."

There is, after all, something to be said for a social codewhich enables people to carry off difficult situations with anair of complete insouciance! Julia Cavendish stepped downfrom the dilapidated conveyance; shook hands; admittedthat she would like to get tidy; and followed her hostess'slithe figure down a whitewashed passage, up one flight ofrather crazy staircase, into a low-ceiled bedroom, obviouslyscrubbed out that day. The room was very plainly furnished,yet it had about it the particular atmosphere which indicates,as between one woman and another: "We expected you. Wemade preparations for you."

"I'm afraid it isn't up to much," said Aliette shyly. "Butwe've put a writing-table under the window--just in case."

Julia Cavendish looked at the table, at the pens and theink-pot and the jar of flowers on the table; Julia Cavendishlooked at the little shy woman, so gorgeous in her matingbeauty, so socially correct in her shyness; and the "Mrs. Brunton,this is a very serious position" with which--ten hourssince--she had firmly made up her mind to open their conversation,vanished into the limbo of unuttered sentences.

"I'm afraid," said Julia Cavendish, "that this visit israther--an intrusion."

"It is I who am the intruder," answered Aliette simply;and then, seeing that Julia, who had seated herself on theside of the bed, was fumbling at the unaccustomed task ofremoving her own hat: "Can't I help?"

"Thank you, my dear," said Julia.

Caroline Staley, bringing hot water, knocked; deposited hercopper jug by the washhand-stand; and departed with theunspoken thought, "Better leave they two alone for a while."

And, for a while, "they two" scrutinized one another insilence--the elder woman still seated; the younger, diffident,very uncertain of what next to say, upright beside her.

At last the younger woman said, "You must be tired afteryour journey. You'd like to change into a tea-gown, wouldn'tyou? Caroline is quite a good maid. I'll send her and yourbox up." She made a movement to go, but the elder womanrestrained her.

"I think I'd rather talk first. We've got a good manythings to talk about, haven't we? Won't you sit down?"Julia patted the clean counterpane in further invitation.

"You're very kind, Mrs. Cavendish." Aliette, still standing,shook her head ever so slightly, as one refusing a gift."Too kind. And I'm glad you've forgiven Ronnie. Butyou needn't, really you needn't forgive me. You came to seeyour son, not your son's"--she hesitated--"lady-love. I'mquite willing to--to efface myself as long as you're here."She smiled proudly. "Though, as it's rather a tiny cottage,you mustn't mind seeing me occasionally."

Her favorite word "Rubbish!" rose to Julia's lips; but wasinstantly repressed. Proud herself, she could both respectand sympathize with the pride in the other.

"I'm wondering," she said after a pause, "just how muchmy son's lady-love loves my son."

At that, Aliette's eyes suffused. But she could make noreply, and Julia went on:

"My dear, do you think I don't know how much you carefor him? Do you think I don't realize that you have madehim happy? Happier than I ever did. Won't you make mehappy too? Won't you try and care, just a little, for me--forRonnie's mother?"

"Don't, please don't." The proud lips trembled. "Ithurts me that you--that you----" And suddenly, impulsively,Aliette was on her knees--her head bowed, her shouldersshaking to the sobs that had broken pride.

"I love him"--the words, tear-choked, were scarcelyaudible--"I adore him. I'd kill myself to-morrow if Ithought it would be for Ronnie's good. I never meant, Inever meant to come between you and him. I never intendedthat you"--the brown head lifted, the brown eyes gazed upinto Julia's blue--"that you should have to know me until--untilthings were put right. You needn't--after this. I'llbe quite content--if you'll let him come to me--sometimes--totake a little house--to wait for him. I don't want you tobe--mixed up in things you hate. I don't want to--to flauntmyself with your son."

Said Julia Cavendish, speaking stiffly lest the tears blindher: "You haven't answered my question, Aliette. I maycall you Aliette, mayn't I? You haven't yet told me whetheryou could care for--Ronnie's mother?"

For answer, Aliette took one of the old hands between hertwo youthful ones; and, bowing her head again, kissed it.

"You oughtn't to forgive me. You oughtn't to call meAliette," whispered "that woman."

"Ronnie will be so furious with me if he thinks I've madeyou cry," whispered back Ronnie's mother; and leaning forward,took "that woman" in her arms.

What those two said to one another, in the hushed half-hourwhile Ronnie waited for them in the tiny garden and CarolineStaley busied herself over the kitchen fire, only the bees,droning ceaselessly round the clematis, overheard.

5

It was very late for Chilworth Cove: past ten o'clock of adull heavy night: the stars veiled: the purr of a torpid seacoming faint down the Ghyll. One by one the lights in thevillage windows had been extinguished. But light still pouredfrom the windows of Honeysuckle Cottage; and through thelight-motes, the smoke of a man's cigar outcurled in blueseashell whorls that hung long-time--meditative as the man--inthe windless quiet.

Ronald Cavendish threw the butt of his cigar after thesmoke-whorls, and turned to the two women in the room.

"The mater's right," he said. "We must make some move.But it's no earthly use writing to Jimmy. Jimmy can't helpus. The only thing to be done is for me to go up to townand see H. B. myself."

Ever since Caroline had cleared away dinner, they had beendiscussing the problem of Brunton's inactivity. To Aliette,pride-bound, feeling herself--despite the new alliance withJulia Cavendish--still guilty, still the interloper, it seemedbest that they should wait. Silently resenting, yet chidingherself all the while for her resentment, the whole discussion,she had held herself, whenever possible, aloof from it.

But now she could hold aloof no longer. No coward in herown love; willing, for herself, to take any and all risks; thesuggested meeting filled her with apprehension for Ronnie.

"I beg you not to do that," she said.

"Why not?" Ronnie laughed. "He can't eat me."

"I'd so much rather you didn't. Perhaps he's only waitingbecause of some difficulty, some legal difficulty. Wouldn'tit be better if I wrote to him again, if we both wrote to him?After all, we mustn't forget that"--she stumbled over thephrase--"we're in the wrong."

"Writing won't do any good," pronounced Julia. "Ninety-nineletters out of every hundred are perfectly futile. Thehundredth--is usually an irrevocable mistake."

The novelist, rather pleased with the epigram, sat back inher basketwork chair. For the first time since her quarrelwith Ronnie, she had regained that peculiar power of mentaldetachment--of seeing real personalities, her own included,as characters in a book--which is the exclusive property ofthe literary temperament.

"All the same," she went on, "I can't help feeling that apersonal interview would be risky. It might only exacerbatethe position."

"Risky or not," said a determined Ronnie, "it's the onlypossible thing to be done. Unless H. B. files his petition atonce, we shall have to wait the best part of a year before wecan get married. And remember, we haven't only ourselvesto consider--there's Aliette's family. They'll have to betold sooner or later. Think how much easier it would be ifwe could tell them that everything was properly arranged."

Julia's newly-regained detachment deserted her. Turningto Aliette, she asked nervously:

"But don't your parents know? Haven't you written tothem?"

"Not yet." Beyond the lamplight, the younger woman'sface showed scarcely an emotion. "It seemed so useless. Yousee, I'm not an only child. There'll be no forgiveness--ontheir side. Mollie may stand by me. But Eva won't. Motherand Andrew will take Eva's advice. They only cared for mybrothers. When my brothers were killed, it was just as ifeverything had gone out of their lives." And she added--pathetically,thought Julia Cavendish, who, loving her ownson more than anything in the world, always found difficultyin realizing how frail is the average tie between parents andgrown-up daughters: "Mother's rather fond of Eva's children."

"Still, we have to consider them," interrupted Aliette's,lover. "We don't want them to hear the news from--theother side. I think you should write to them, Alie. MollieI'll go and see myself. Jimmy's sure to know her address. Iwonder if she and Jimmy are engaged----"

"Your friend Wilberforce," interrupted Julia, "may be anexcellent solicitor; but he's an extremely selfish young man."

"What makes you say that?" asked Aliette; and as Juliadid not reply, "Has he spoken to you--about my sister?"

"He has." Julia's voice was rather grim.

"And is--what we've done--going to make any difference?"

"I think not. But if it does," the suspicion of a twinklegleamed in the blue eyes, "if it does, my dear, your sister willowe you a great debt of gratitude for--running away withmy son. That kind of man," definitely, "is no use."

"I've been rather worried about Mollie," began Aliette,whose decision not to await her sister's return had been themost difficult of all the decisions she took in those few hoursbefore she bolted from Lancaster Gate. "That letter ofmine----"

She broke off the sentence, divining nevertheless that herletter--meant as a precise document--must have been incoherentto the last degree; divining how impossible a situationher selfishness must have created for Mollie. "I am selfish,"she said to herself. "Utterly selfish! I deserve no consideration.And yet these two consider only me."

"Never mind about Mollie." Stubbornly--for now that hismother had joined forces with them it seemed more than evernecessary that they should bring Brunton swiftly to reason--RonaldCavendish returned to his point. "The question is:When do I go up to town? In my opinion, the sooner thebetter. Once I have seen H. B., we shall at least know wherewe stand."

"And suppose," faltered Aliette, "suppose he refuses tosee you?"

"He won't."

"Suppose he refuses to do anything?"

"You needn't be afraid of that. A man in his position isbound to take action. If he doesn't----"

"If he doesn't," broke in Julia, "we must fight him. Wethree." She rose from the creaky chair; and Aliette, seeingthe determination, the courage in those old eyes, felt suddenlyashamed of her own weakness. "Meanwhile, I think I'll go tobed. Your maid promised to wait up for me."

Kissing "that woman" good night, Ronnie's mother whispered:"Don't try to overpersuade him. If he feels it isright--he must be allowed to go."

6

Very early next morning, before dawn lightened to palestrose behind the clematis blossoms, the woman who had lefther husband, waking with her lover's arms about her, prayedvoicelessly to that God whose priests would henceforth bar herfrom His communion, that Ronnie's love might endure tothe end.

For now, Aliette was afraid.

1

Two days subsequent to his mother's arrival at ChilworthCove, Ronald Cavendish set out for London.

Aliette, masking her anxiety, drove him to the station; andfor nearly an hour after the slow train left Chilton Junctionhe visualized nothing except her pale, exquisite face and thewistful smile in her brown eyes. Looking back, it seemed tohim that those eyes had been very close to tears. Thinking ofher, imagination roused all the tenderness, all the fightinginstinct in him.

But gradually, as the lush countryside slid by, Ronnie'smind recovered a little of its legal function; and he began tomap out, as carefully as he could, his plan of campaign.

The fear lest Brunton should refuse to take any action stillhardly troubled him. To one of his public school training, itappeared utterly incredible that a man in Brunton's position,childless and without religious scruples, should refuse to setfree a wife who obviously did not care for him, and for whom(equally obviously, as it seemed) he did not himself care.Sheer caddishness of that description was the prerogative ofrank outsiders like Carrington.

Nevertheless, Ronnie's instinct dictated caution. It wouldhe best, he thought, to see Jimmy immediately on his arrivalin London; and to ascertain from Jimmy how far his flightwith Aliette had become public knowledge. Possibly, if therehad been no open scandal, Brunton might hold his hand tillafter the long vacation. Scandal, whether at the bar or elsewhere,never did any one any good.

And at that, Ronald Cavendish knew apprehension. Hisbrain, hitherto blinded by the grand passion, began to seethe ordinary point of view, the point of view he himself mighthave adopted towards their case a twelvemonth since. "Rathersordid," he would have considered the whole business, "ratherhard luck on the husband." And so thinking, he imaginedthe bare legal tale as it might one day appear in the press.Commonplace enough! Mrs. Smith had left Mr. Smith, andwas living in open adultery with Mr. Jones. Mr. Smith askedfor a divorce; produced the usual evidence; secured the usualdecree.

He tried to put apprehension away from him. He said tohimself, "As if a little publicity mattered; as if anything matteredexcept her freedom." All the same, he knew that publicitywould matter, that publicity would hurt Aliette andhurt his mother. "Damnable," he thought; "damnable thatthe law should take so little cognizance of the personal equation!"

And London, seen in the hot sunlight of a July afternoon ashis taxi crawled over Waterloo Bridge, only intensified theunimportance of the individual. The isolation of Chilworth,the paradise of enchantment which love and Aliette had madefor him at Chilworth, seemed a million miles removed fromthis peopled city. He recognized himself one of the herdagain, forced to think as the herd, to act as the herd dictated.Moses Moffatt's face, smiling most confidential of welcomes atthe green door in Jermyn Street, typified the herd point ofview--the basement point of view--the feeling that, potentially,one was a mere co-respondent.

While the man was unpacking for him in the bare asceticbedroom, Ronnie rang up Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright;and got through to Jimmy. Jimmy on the telephonesounded cold, serious, dignified. Only after some persuasionwould he consent to dine at the club.

"And by the way," asked Ronnie, "do you happen to knowif Mollie Fullerford's in town?"

"Why?"

"I've got a letter for her."

"From her sister?"

"Yes."

"I'll give you her address this evening," said James Wilberforce,and replaced his receiver.

2

The Lustrum is one of those semi-social, semi-political clubswhich combine sound cookery, a cellar beyond reproach, anda chairman of the utmost distinction, with the architecturalstyle of a Turkish bath and the gloom of a family mausoleum.A tape-machine ticks by the glass-doored porter's box in thehall; an enormous gold-framed oil of Mr. Asquith stares downthe red marble staircase; English waiters--last of their breed--movein unhurried dignity through the vast dining-room;while "members bringing guests" are subject to rules so complicatedthat even the honorary secretary--who takes most ofthe credit for the paid secretary's work when he appearsbefore a somnolent committee--has been known to infringethem.

The constraint of this atmosphere weighed so heavily onthe friends as to make immediate conversation impossible.Only after a bottle of the Lustrum's pre-war Pommard, aglass apiece of the Lustrum's '68 port, and the third of acigar consumed over coffee in the stuffy guest-room, didJimmy Wilberforce manage:

"Old chap, I'm afraid this is a devil of a mess. You'veseen your mater, I suppose!"

"Seen her!" Ronnie smiled--and then, cautiously:"Didn't you know that she was staying with us?"

"Us?" Wilberforce repeated the word. "You mean----"

"With myself and Aliette."

Wilberforce's eyes narrowed. He took the tawny cigarfrom under his auburn mustache, and scrutinized it a longishwhile before saying:

"Tell me, then: why are you in town?"

"Primarily to see H. B. We've waited quite long enoughfor him to make a move."

The matter-of-fact tone annoyed Wilberforce. Despite hisresolves not to let the personal issue between himself andAliette's sister cloud impersonal judgment, that issue hadbeen recurring to his mind all through the dreary bachelordinner. For six weeks Mollie had been on the defensive withhim, unseizable if not unapproachable; for six weeks he hadbeen wavering between the strong desire to "go gently tillthis damn mess was cleared up," and the fear of what"Society" would think about the match. Therefore, it irritatedhim that Ronnie should speak about the whole affairas though running away with another man's wife were anevery-day occurrence, as though he, Ronnie, were the injuredparty.

"Rather an unwise move, don't you think?" he said.

"Unwise! One can't let him go on shilly-shallying likethis."

"If you've got it into your head that you're going tobully Hector Brunton into giving Mrs. Brunton her freedom,"retorted Jimmy, "I should give up the idea"; and he added:"I should have thought your best plan would be to lie doggo.After all, you must remember that he's the aggrieved party."

"If you feel that way about it," Ronnie's eyes kindled toanger, "we won't discuss the matter further."

At that Wilberforce became the solicitor.

"My dear fellow," he began, assuming his father's blandness,"do be reasonable. Don't think I fail to understandyour feelings. I know you well enough to realize that youwouldn't have acted as you have acted without imaginingyourself justified. Very possibly you are justified. Very possiblythere are circumstances--I hold no brief for H. B. AllI want to do is to help you and your mother. And so if youcome to me for advice, I am bound to tell you exactly what Ithink. It's for Brunton to move, not you."

"He's had plenty of time. And I'm sick of waiting."

"Then why don't you get some mutual friend to see him?That's the usual thing."

Ronnie rose from the deep saddle-bag chair. His instinctwas all for a row. Unreasonably, with the divine unreasonof a lover, he had expected sympathy; instead he had met awall, a wall of misunderstanding between himself and hisbest friend. "Damn Jimmy," he thought. "Jimmy's commonsense ought to tell him that this isn't the usual thing."

And suddenly Aliette's lover realized that Jimmy's commonsense had told him nothing, that Jimmy's very commonsense prevented him from understanding the peculiar relationshipbetween Aliette and her legal owner. He wanted to tellJimmy the truth about that relationship; but his training,the code of decent reticence, every tradition of public schooldomrestrained him. Decency suggested that neither then toJames Wilberforce, nor eventually in court, could he makepublic the matrimonial position between Aliette and Hector."Tongue-tied!" he thought. "Even if I were an orator, inher defense I should always be tongue-tied."

Nevertheless, his anger relented.

"Except yourself, Jimmy," he went on, "there's nomutual friend who could act for us; and I can't ask you toact because of your firm's relations with him. Therefore, I'mgoing to do the job myself."

There was almost admiration in the other's "You alwayswere a plucky devil."

"Plucky! I don't see anything plucky in it."

"Supposing H. B. cuts up rough?"

"Why should he? He's in the wrong, and he knows it."

"All the more reason." Wilberforce, too, rose. Watchinghis friend carefully, he saw that their conversation hadaroused him to fighting-pitch; and Ronnie at fighting-pitch--asJimmy remembered from their Oxford days--was capableof being a rather desperate person.

"Don't you cut up rough, old man," he continued."There'll be quite enough trouble without a police-court caseinto the bargain."

"You needn't be afraid, Jimmy." Ronnie controlled himself."I'll manage to keep my temper with the fellow. Bythe way, you don't feel there's any chance of his refusing tofile his petition, do you?"

"Hardly. H. B. isn't a religious chap, or anything of thatsort. He might go for damages, of course."

"We could settle that before we went into court."

They simmered down; sat down; relit cigars; and began todiscuss the legal aspect of the case which each felt sure thatBrunton must eventually bring; finally deciding that Wilberforce,Wilberforce & Cartwright could not, under the specialcircumstances, act for either party.

"J. J. W. would be your best man," said James.

So interested did they become in the professional issue thatit was nearly midnight before Ronnie said, "By the way, I'dalmost forgotten to ask you for Mollie Fullerford's address";and Wilberforce, "Do you really think it's advisable for youto go and see her?"

"Advisable! How do you mean?"

The two friends faced one another in silence, each constrainedby the peculiar diffidence of their class, the diffidencewhich makes the discussion of women, and especially of theirown women, so terribly difficult to decent Englishmen.

At last Wilberforce said: "You see, old chap, if this casecomes on, I'm afraid it will be a big shock to her. H. B. mightcall her as a witness. Pretty rough on a girl, being draggedinto"--he hesitated--"this sort of thing."

"Yes, rotten. We'll have to keep her name out." Ronnie,too, hesitated. "She hasn't said anything to you, I suppose?"

"No, but I feel she knows." The red man nearly blushed."I say, you'll be decent about breaking things, won't you?You'll let her down lightly. Mollie's jolly fond of her sister,and--er--you mustn't mind my saying it--her sister hasn'tbehaved over-well in this business--leaving her all by herselfat Brunton's."

"My fault, Jimmy. It was I who persuaded Aliette not towait. But I promise you, I'll see that Brunton keeps MollieFullerford's name out of the affair.

"By the way," added Ronnie casually, "you remembersomething you said to me just before we went into courtin the Ellerson case?" A pause. "Does that still hold good?What I mean is this. I should never forgive myself if Ithought that this--this trouble of mine----"

"I'm not that sort of cad," retorted James Wilberforcehotly. But all the same, walking home through the night, herealized once more--with revolting clarity--himself. Whichself-knowledge is no bad discipline for the James Wilberforcesof this world!

3

Ronnie, too, walked home from the Lustrum. The interviewwith Wilberforce had clarified his mind; he foresaw nowexactly how his world would regard the case. The foreknowledgehardened his determination to see Brunton. He must seeBrunton. Brunton must be brought to immediate action.Otherwise----

Resolutely the man strove to put that "otherwise" awayfrom him. But the "otherwise" kept on intruding. SupposeAliette's legal owner refused to take any action at all? Carringtonhad waited five years.

And that night, his first bereft of her, alone and sleeplessat Jermyn Street, Aliette's lover began to conceive a hatredof Aliette's legal owner. The Wixton imagination, alwaysmost active in darkness, showed him pictures of Brunton, ofthe sandy hair, the cold gray eyes, the feet in their big boots.Tossing sleepless on his tumbled pillows, imagination badehim remember that once--long ago though it must have been--Bruntonhad actually----

Horrors, physical horrors, capered and sarabanded beforehis eyes, rousing the blood-lust in him--the old blood-lust experiencedfour years since. He remembered, just as sleepovertook him, the face of a Turk he had killed. His squadronwas charging. Behind him, he heard the galloping stamp ofshod hoofs on desert, the creak of saddlery, the jingle ofaccoutrements, the curses of his men; in front of him rose aface, the face of the Turk, bearded above dirty linen. Theface was afraid; he could see the face twitch as he fired. Onlyas he fired, the face changed--became the face of HectorBrunton.

4

"I'm afraid you didn't sleep very well last night, sir,"said Moses Moffatt, serving the usual faultless rashers inRonnie's beige-papered sitting-room.

"What makes you say that?" Ronnie, clear-eyed after hismorning tub, looked across the breakfast-table.

"Well, sir," Moses Moffatt smiled deprecatingly, "if youdon't mind my mentioning it, the missus and me heard youcalling out in your sleep."

"Is that so? I'm sorry if I disturbed you."

Ronnie, remembering his dream only very vaguely, ate hisbreakfast; skimmed through the "Morning Post"; took histop-hat, and sauntered downstairs into Jermyn Street.

It had not yet struck ten. Fishmongers were still swillingdown their marbles. The usual early morning crowd hademerged into sunshine from the Piccadilly Tube. Ronnieswung past them down the Haymarket.

The asphalt of London, the cars, the buses, and the taxicabsseemed more than ever alien after the sea and the solitudeof Chilworth Cove. He felt like a stranger in a strange, hostilecity. Only as he emerged through Northumberland Avenueupon the Embankment did London seem home again; only ashe turned leftward from the river into the Temple did therecome over him the full realization of the issue at stake.

In his chambers at Pump Court nothing had altered. Thoother three barristers were, as usual, away; Benjamin Bunce,as usual, pottering among the foolscaps. The little clerk'swatery eyes lit with curiosity at sight of the returningwanderer.

"There were papers," hinted Benjamin, "there was correspondence."

Benjamin's employer glanced at the taped documents onthe table, at the unopened letters. "They can wait," he said."Has Mr. Brunton's clerk inquired for my address?"

"No, sir."

"You're sure?"

"Quite sure, sir."

"Very good. I'll ring when I want you."

The clerk--a thousand unanswered questions seething in hissoul--withdrew.

Ronnie hung his hat behind the door, and began striding upand down the book-shelved room. Here, he remembered, hehad first tried to reason out his feelings for Aliette. Here, justbefore the Ellerson case, he had almost decided it his dutyto give her up. And now, now--in fact if not in law--Aliettewas actually his.

For a little while he dreamed of her, but soon the professionalatmosphere of Pump Court infected him; and hebegan to see their case impersonally--as a "case." In law,unless Brunton acted, they had no remedy. His whole career,Aliette's whole happiness, their whole future lives dependedon the clemency of Aliette's legal owner. Neither the olddivorce-laws nor the proposed divorce-reforms could helpthem. Whatever wrongs Aliette might have suffered at herhusband's hands in the past, she had forfeited those rightsby running away; and only her husband could set her free.Would Brunton set her free? That was the whole issue. Bestface it out of hand!

Ronnie pressed the bell on his desk, and the clerk poppedthrough the door.

"Bunce, I want you to go over to Mr. Brunton's chambers.Ask Mr. Brunton's clerk if he can see me before he goes intocourt. You can say that it is on a private matter, and ratherimportant."

Bunce--Ms curiosity satisfied--sidled out.

Waiting for Brunton's decision, Cavendish knew bothcuriosity and fear. Suppose Brunton refused even to discussthe matter?

And Brunton did refuse. The message Benjamin broughtback was perfectly definite, perfectly courteous. He, Benjamin,had seen Mr. Brunton's clerk, David Patterson, and Mr.Brunton had sent word by Mr. Patterson to say that he wasvery sorry not to be able to see Mr. Cavendish, but that hewas extremely busy and would be busy all day.

"Funk!" thought Ronnie; and remembered suddenly howBrunton had avoided the war. Brunton's refusal to see himwas sheer cowardice. Rage kindled in his mind. For theflash of a second, he saw red. He would see Brunton. Damnit all, he would see him. How dared Brunton shelter behinda clerk! But it would be no use trying to force his way intoBrunton's chambers. Brunton would be in court. Very well,then, he would wait for him; wait till the court adjourned;wait, if necessary, all day.

"Won't you look through your letters, sir?" remindedBunce.

Ronnie tried to look through his letters; tried to examinethe few briefs which had come in during his absence. But hislegal mind refused to concentrate. Between his mind and hiscorrespondence, between his mind and his briefs, rage hung ascarlet and impenetrable curtain.

5

That morning, yet another legal brain refused to concentrateon its immediate business.

All through the long hours in the stuffy court-room, HectorBrunton, K.C., was conscious of the Furies. "Cavendish,"whispered the Furies, "Cavendish has come back." He triedto dismiss the fellow from his mind, to attack the case in hand.But again and again the witnesses under cross-examinationeluded him. Instead of the faces in the witness-box, he sawCavendish's face--the face of his wife. And when--his cross-examinationsconcluded--the court adjourned for luncheon,those two faces were still before his eyes, mocking him, mockinghim.

"God's curse on them," he thought. "God's curse on bothof them. I'll not see Cavendish. Let them lie in the bed theymade for themselves. Let the adulterer and the adulteress rottogether."

Angrily Brunton disrobed; angrily he left the law courtsand made across Fleet Street toward King's Bench Walk.Even David Patterson, dour, heavy-jowled as the K.C. himself;who followed, brief-bag slung over his shoulder, at arespectful distance; was awed at his employer's obvious fury.

The K.C. strode rapidly, his hands behind his back, hishead lowered, down Middle Temple Lane, through Elm Court,through Fig Tree Court, into the big graveled square of theWalk, and diagonally across the Walk to his chambers.

Suddenly his head lifted. There, at the steps of his chambers,waiting for him, obviously waiting for him, stood Cavendish.For the fraction of a second Brunton, K.C., hesitatedin his stride.

Ronnie, watching, saw that hesitation; saw his man comeon again, head low, eyes on the pavement; and knew instinctivelythat Brunton would pretend not to recognize him,would try to push past him up the stone stairway. Resolutely,he planted himself across the stairway; and in that one secondof time before they met face to face, the vision he had seenin the darkness of overnight flashed through his mind. Thenhe had his enemy in front of him, and was saying quietly:

"I'd like a word with you, Brunton."

The K.C. tried to pass; but Ronnie stood his ground.

"I'm afraid I'm too busy to see you to-day, Cavendish."The voice sounded courteous enough; but a glance, a glance ofinsane rage, darted snake-like from behind the gray pupils.Brunton's great jowl twitched; the veins on his forehead weresteel cords.

"The matter is rather urgent." Ronnie, watching theapproach of David Patterson, lowered his tone. "I sha'n'tkeep you a minute. Unless, of course," the tone rose, "youprefer that our discussion should take place in public."

The fire in his blue eyes beat down the snake in Brunton'sgray; and, without another word, Ronnie accompanied hisman up the stairway, along the corridor into his chambers.

David Patterson made as if to follow, but Brunton barkedover one shoulder, "I sha'n't need you," and the two of themwere alone.

"And now," began the K.C., standing foursquare in frontof his empty fireplace, "I shall be glad to know the reason ofthis unwarrantable intrusion."

"You know the reason as well as I do." The red mist stillhung before Ronnie's eyes. He had forgotten the "legalposition": he wanted to strike Brunton; to strike him acrossthe sneering face. Only the code, the public school code ofrestraint, held him back.

"I haven't the slightest idea why you should force yourway into my chambers. Perhaps you will condescend to explain."Brunton, too, felt the code on him--heavy, like a nethampering his limbs. He wanted to free himself from thenet; wanted to lash out at the man who had stolen Aliette,to destroy him.

"I came to ask you," Ronnie's lips hardly moved, "howmuch longer you intend to delay."

"Delay what?"

"Your petition."

"What petition?"

"Your petition for divorce."

"That's my business." Brunton laughed--a harsh, bitterlaugh, low in the throat.

"And mine."

"I fail to see the connection."

Ronnie's fists clenched. "Apparently you take me for afool."

Brunton laughed again. "No. Only for a thief."

With an effort, Ronnie thrust his hands into his pockets."I didn't come here to bandy words with you. All I wantto know is how soon you intend filing your petition."

"When I choose." Rage mastered Aliette's husband."And if I don't choose--never."

Now Ronnie laughed--contemptuously. "You may be ableto browbeat a woman in the box, but you can't browbeat me.I want an answer to my question. How soon do you intendto file your petition? This isn't only your business. It'smine--mine and----"

"Kindly keep my wife out of this discussion," snarledBrunton. "Your question is a damned insult, and your presencehere an infernal outrage. Neither you nor God Almightycan make me file the petition you refer to."

For a full minute the pair faced each other, tense, wordless,self-control fighting against instincts, instincts fightingagainst self-control. Then Brunton's nerve snapped.

"I hate the very sight of you," he shouted. "Will you getout? Or have I got to throw you out?"

"Don't make a fool of yourself," said Ronnie; and hisvoice was ice. "If it comes to violence I sha'n't be the onewho'll get the worst of it."

He took a step forward, and the K.C. recoiled before him.

"Answer my question, Brunton."

"I'll see you to hell first, Cavendish."

And suddenly the red mist thickened to blood-color beforeRonnie's eyes. He wanted to kill Brunton. Killingwould be the easiest way to deal with Brunton--farthe easiest way. His hands clenched in his trouser-pockets;he itched to take his hands out of his pockets, to dash them inthose cold gray eyes, to seize that heavy jowl, to tear the lifeout of it.

And then, in a flash, his legal mind saw the consequencesof that killing. The blood-red mist vanished. Swiftly hismood changed. He began to plead, to plead desperately, notfor his own sake, but for Aliette's. He said:

"We're being selfish. It isn't of ourselves we have tothink. Think of her position if you don't take action."

"She should have thought of my position before she ranaway with you," retorted the other. "I tell you, I'm notgoing to be hustled; and I'm not going to be bullied. I'lltake action when I choose; and not a minute before. Nothingthat you, nothing that she, nothing that anybody else can dowill persuade me to say one word further on this subject.Now, will you go?"

And Ronnie went, realizing himself powerless. As hepassed through the doorway he gave one glance at his adversary.His adversary still stood, like a bull at bay, againstthe empty grate; but the look in his adversary's eyes--a lookwhich Ronnie could not fathom--was not the brave look ofthe bull; rather was it compound of fear and obstinacy, ofinjured pride and of determination for revenge; the look ofthe weak man who knows himself in the wrong, yet means topersist in his wrongdoing.

Surely as night follows day in the firmament, so surely doesreaction follow action in imaginative man. Ronald Cavendish'smind, as he crossed King's Bench Walk after his interviewwith Hector Brunton, was almost a blank. Reactionwiped out every detail of that interview. He rememberedonly Brunton's words, "I'll take action when I choose."

Twice--the mad purpose of killing Brunton mastering himonce more--he tried to turn back. But his feet carried himon, carried him away from Brunton, across the Walk to hisown chambers. There, at least, was sanctuary--sanctuaryfrom crime against the herd.

For the herd, even his dazed mind knew, would not countenancehis killing Brunton. Brunton was within his herd-rights,within the law; while they, he and Aliette, havingbroken the herd-rights, were outlaws. Still weak from reaction,he visioned the consequences of that outlawry; visionedBrunton relentless, Aliette without a friend.

Till gradually, thinking of Aliette, his manhood came backto him. Let Brunton do his damnedest. Let them be outlaws.Even in their outlawry they would possess one another. Soon,Brunton would be brought to reason. Meanwhile, even ifhe were not soon brought to reason, they, the outlaws, wouldfind people to stand by them; people like his mother. And atthat, abruptly, Ronnie remembered the letter Aliette hadwritten to her sister, the promise he had made to Jimmy.

Somehow it needed more courage than he had required infacing Aliette's husband to lift the telephone and make hisappointment with Mollie!

6

Over a snack of luncheon--snatched late and hastily at alittle uncomfortable coffee-shop near the Griffin--Ronnie'susual calm returned. He realized that he had made a fool ofhimself in going to see Brunton; that Jimmy, after all, hadbeen right. Confound Brunton! Brunton's "dog-in-the-manger"attitude would not endure, could not endure. EvenCarrington had given way in the long run. It was only aquestion of patience. Still, he would have to break thingsvery gently to Aliette's sister.

Betty Masterman was out; and Mollie received her sister'slover alone in the little red-papered sitting-room which seemedso cozy to the Philistine mind of James Wilberforce.

"It's nice of you to call," she said perfunctorily. Thevoice might have been that of Aliette, of the socially poisedAliette as Ronnie first remembered her: but the girl's violeteyes were stern with suspicion; her red lips showed unsmiling,uncompromising.

"Won't you sit down?" she went on.

"Thanks. I sha'n't keep you very long." Always impossiblyshy with women, the man did not know how to begin.

"You've got some message for me," the girl prompted"Some message from----"

"From your sister."

She seated herself, avoiding his eyes.

"Your sister and I," he began bruskly----

And in those four words--even without the halting explanationwhich followed--it seemed to Mollie Fullerford that sheknew the whole story. But she was not going to help himout. Why should she? The story--carefully though he toldit--revolted her. She felt hot; hot and dirty and ashamed.Hurt, too, as though the healed scars of her bodily woundswere opening afresh. All the suspicions of the past weeks,all her still-smoldering resentment that Aliette should have lether return unwarned to Hector's house, all her balked lovefor James Wilberforce, harshened Mollie's judgment. Shesaw Cavendish no longer a "sober-sides" but a hypocrite; andso seeing, hated him for his imagined hypocrisy.

"You see," he concluded, "it wasn't Aliette's fault. Imean the running away in a hurry. You mustn't condemnher. I was to blame for that. I was to blame, from beginningto end."

"Of course," said that Mollie who had once thought "mostwomen rotters." "It's always the man who's to blame."

Nevertheless her judgment softened. "After all," shethought, "he isn't beating about the bush. He's being perfectlystraight with me." And she discovered to her greatsurprise that it was not their having run away together whichhad been hurting her, but their omission to take her into theirconfidence.

Ronnie, trying to guess the verdict behind those avertedeyes, drew Aliette's letter from his pocket; and handed it overwithout another word. Watching her open the envelope,watching her as she read, he saw her fingers tremble, her violeteyes suffuse.

"And have you seen Hector?" she asked at last.

"Yes. I saw him this morning."

"What did he say?"

Ronnie hesitated to tell the brutal truth; and the girl repeatedher question, adding:

"Of course he's going to divorce her."

"I'm afraid, Miss Fullerford, that it's not going to bequite so easy as that."

"You don't mean to say that he isn't going to----?"

"He says he hasn't made up his mind----"

"But"--the girl was stammering now--"that's absolutelycaddish. Hector's a gentleman. Alie's been perfectlystraight with him. Besides, even if he had been badly treated,he couldn't, couldn't possibly----"

And suddenly the full possibilities of Hector's persisting ina refusal to take action grew visible to the girl's mind. Shebraced herself to meet those possibilities; the personal consequencesof them. She forced herself to ask:

"Have you seen Mr. Wilberforce?"

"Yes. Last night."

"Did you ask his advice?"

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"To do nothing. To wait."

At that, thought of her own love affair obsessed the girl'smind. She visualized James, there, in the very chair whichCavendish occupied. Remembering a thousand unspoken hesitanciesof James, she saw only too clearly the reason of thosehesitancies.

"How long has Mr. Wilberforce known about--about youand my sister?"

"Some weeks, I believe."

"You're sure?" The wounds hurt again, hurt desperately.James ought to have told her. "He never said a word--tome." She could have borne it better from James than fromCavendish.

"Of course he couldn't tell you anything about it, MissFullerford. It was a secret, a professional secret. My mothertold him----"

"Your mother?"

"Yes, my mother. She's with Aliette now." His voicesoftened. "She's on our side. You'll be on our side, too?Won't you? You won't let this--this contretemps come betweenyou and your sister? I'm not asking anything for myself--butit's pretty rough luck on Alie."

Mollie's decision crystallized. "I can't go back on Alie,"she thought. "Whatever happens I mustn't go back on Alie."She remembered their conversation at Moor Park; rememberedherself saying, "I don't believe divorce is wrong."

"Yes," she said, and held out her hand. "I shall standby Alie whatever happens. Will you tell her that? And sayI'll write in a day or two. I don't feel like--like writing toher at the moment."

Ronnie clasped her hand, and rose to go. He would haveliked to thank her; he would have liked to say something moreabout Jimmy. But instinct restrained him. Perhaps, afterall, she didn't care for Jimmy; perhaps the pallor of hercheeks, the drooped corners of her full red mouth were allfor Alie.

7

And next day Ronald Cavendish went back to ChilworthCove. All the long train journey he was aware, growinglyaware, of Aliette. Brunton and the herd, Wilberforce andMollie receded into the background of his thoughts. He saidto himself:

"Let Brunton do his worst. Aliette and I have our love,each other."

Love, all said and done, was the only issue. As for Brunton,they would face him together, face him with courage high andhearts unflinching. Courage! Courage and love! Weaponedwith those two defenses, he and his mate, his mother at theirside, could battle down the onslaught of any disaster.

1

On a gray afternoon of October, Julia Cavendish sat alonein her drawing-room at Bruton Street.

She was often alone now. That curious "London" whichan eclectic woman of means can gather about herself by thetime she reaches sixty had begun to desert. Brunton had donenothing; but already scandal, "the scandal of Julia Cavendish'sson and Hector Brunton's wife," was spreading: andalthough people were "very sorry for Mrs. Cavendish," still,"one had to be careful where one went," "one couldn'texactly countenance that sort of thing." So the clergymenand the politicians, the schoolmasters with their wives andthe young soldiers with their fiancées came but sparingly, theembassy folk not at all. Only the "Ritz crowd," who thoughtthe whole affair rather amusing; real Society, which couldafford to ignore what it did not actually know; and, of course,the literary folk still visited.

Julia Cavendish treated the disaffections of her circle--scantyas yet, for the holidays scattered the scandalmongers--withcontempt. In the months since her visit to Chilworth,much of her outlook on life had altered. The Victorian andthe traditionalist in her were dead, the formally religiouswoman convert to a kindlier creed. Even literature slumbered.Literature, the sort of literature she had hithertowritten, the stereotyped social romances of her earlier books,seemed so puny in comparison with the great tragedy of herson!

Seated there in the old familiar drawing-room, her embroidery-frameat her elbow, a clean fire at her feet, the lightfrom the standard-lamp glowing on her worn features, Juliatried, as she was always trying now, to find some happy endingto the tragedy--peace for her son, reward for Aliette'scourage.

For Aliette had been courageous--divinely courageous asit appeared to Julia--that afternoon at Chilworth Cove whenRonnie broke his bad news. Her own heart had failed alittle; but not Aliette's. Aliette said--Julia could still rememberthe look in her eyes when she spoke: "You're notto worry for my sake, either of you. I shall be perfectlyhappy so long as you and Ronnie don't fret. If only Ronnie'scareer doesn't suffer----"

She, Ronnie's mother, had wanted to fight; had wanted thelovers to return to Bruton Street with her, to defy Bruntonopenly. After that one little failure of courage, her wholetemperament cried out for combat. Fighting, she felt, wasnow the only course. But Aliette had counseled delay.Aliette had persuaded her to leave them at Chilworth, to goback alone to Bruton Street. And at Bruton Street she hadstayed all summer.

It had been foolish to stay all summer at Bruton Street;she perceived that now. She ought to have taken her usualholiday. She ought to have listened to the advice of her"medicine-man," who, still maintaining the need for rest,was vague, unsatisfactory, disturbing.

The parlormaid, entering to make up the fire, startled hermistress.

"I wish you'd come in more quietly, Kate," said Juliairritably.

"I'm sorry, madam. Shall I bring your tea?"

"No, not yet."

Julia resumed her reverie. Was there no way by which theman whose obstinacy stood between her son and his happinessmight be brought to bay? Apparently none. Sir Peter Wilberforcecould only suggest that "the lady might pledge herhusband's credit to such an extent that he had to take action"--andthat Aliette refused to do.

Dot Fancourt, whom she had also consulted, finding himincredibly stupid, incredibly weak, was all for "letting sleepingdogs lie." He seemed to have no spirit; and she wouldhave been grateful to him for spirit. She felt old; terriblyold and weak; prescient, every now and then, of death.

This occasional prescience frightened her. The formalreligion to which she had so long clung provided only a personaland a selfish consolation for death. She wanted an impersonal,an unselfish consolation; realizing that she wouldnever be happy to leave this world unless she could leaveRonnie happy in it. Materially, of course, she had alreadyprovided for him: all her fortune would be his. But that didnot suffice. Before death claimed her she must find somesword to sever his Gordian knot.

So Julia, alone in her quiet house; Julia, the literature allgone out of her, her mind busied with the actual happeningsof life; while Brunton, lost in the holiday mists of the longvacation, gave never a sign; and rumor, spider-like, wove itsintangible filaments to close and closer mesh.

2

That very afternoon--October 11 it was, the day beforethe autumn session of the law courts began--Aliette andher lover walked in Kensington Gardens. Even as Julia's,much of their attitude toward life had altered in the pastmonths. The first grandly onrushing wave of the grand passion,the wave which swept them both from safe moorings intooutlawry, had spent itself. They were still lovers; but now,with love, comradeship mingled. A comradeship of mutualsuffering--knit closer as the days went by.

For, in love's despite, since training and inherited traditionsalike unfitted them for the rôle they played, both suffered.

To Aliette, lonely no longer, Ronnie's comradeship compensatedfor so much that, as yet, the social disadvantages oftheir position hardly mattered. Only every now and then, inlonely-waking night-hours when full perception of the thingshe had done shimmered black for a moment through the rosyveils of affection, did her heart grow faint at the thought ofperpetual ostracism from her kind. At other times, her sufferings,her self-torturings were all for Ronnie.

Ronnie, she knew, chafed at his defeat. Ronnie had grownto hate Brunton. Ronnie--for her sake--wanted social position,success. Ronnie loathed the illegal fact that they hadhad to register as "Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish and maid" at thequiet Kensington hotel, whither Moses Moffatt's shibboleth of"bachelor chambers" drove them on their return from Chilworth.

But Ronnie had other frets--money-frets--on that Octoberafternoon when they strolled under the browning trees.

They strolled lover-like, arm in arm; and Ponto the Dane,incongruous appanage of their elopement, followed leisurely.Aliette was all in furs, soft furs that cloaked her from thecream of her chin to the slimness of her ankles. Above thefurs her face showed happy, glowing with a new youth, a newsoftness.

"Man," she said suddenly, "do you realize that we are twothoroughly unpractical people?"

"Are we?" He pressed her arm. "Does it matter verymuch?"

"Of course it matters." She paused, and went on shyly:"Don't you understand that I've been living with you forthree months, and that so far I haven't contributed a singlepenny to the--to the establishment?"

"How absurd you are!" He tried to brush the matteraside; but that she refused to allow.

"I ought to contribute something, you know. I'm not quitepenniless."

"You're not going to pay my hotel bill," he parried: alittle stubbornly, she thought.

"Why not? What's mine is yours."

They walked on in silence for a minute or two. Then Ronniesaid:

"I'm afraid I can't quite see things that way, Alie. I supposeI'm a bit old-fashioned in my ideas. But it does seemto me that the man's responsible----" He bit off the sentence.

"I hate you to talk like that." There was a little of the oldtemper in Aliette's voice. "We must be sensible aboutmoney."

"Oh, don't let's bother this afternoon," he coaxed.

"But we must bother. Ronnie, be frank with me. Whatare we living on?"

"Oh, all sorts of things. The Jermyn Street rent; myearnings, such as they are; a bit of money I'd got saved up."

"And," she added, "the allowance your mother makes you.I wonder if we ought to take that."

"I don't see why we shouldn't. She always has made mean allowance. But of course I shouldn't like to ask her formore."

"Naturally." Aliette's brow creased. "Let's think. I'vegot about three hundred and fifty a year of my own. Yourallowance is four. That makes seven hundred and fifty.How much is that a week?"

"Fifteen pounds," laughed Ronnie, remembering a phraseof his mother's, "No woman's financial mind covers morethan seven days."

"And our hotel bill last week was twenty."

At that, the man began to feel thoroughly uncomfortable.His mind shied away from the topic. But the woman pursuedit resolutely.

"We'll have to find a cheaper hotel."

"It seems rotten luck on you; the present one is uncomfortableenough. Besides," he brightened visibly, "thereought to be briefs coming in now."

"Man, you're a great optimist." There was an undercurrentof criticism in Aliette's voice, of a criticism whichRonnie felt he could not fairly resent; because already he hadbegun to divine the professional consequences of Brunton'senmity. Only the day before, James Wilberforce had droppeda hint--the barest hint, but sufficient to indicate which waythe financial wind might blow.

"I suppose I am rather an optimist," he admitted; and forthe moment they dropped the subject, reverting, as theynearly always did in their walks together, to the main problem.

"H. B. ought to be back any day now," said Ronnie, "andwhen he does come back, he'll simply have to file his petition."

But to-day she would have none of the problem.

"Don't let us discuss that. After all, nothing that H. doesor doesn't do can really hurt us." She looked up into hiseyes. "We've got each other."

"I don't mind for myself, Alie. It's you I'm thinking of.Of course we won't talk about him if you don't want to."

By now they were through Kensington Gardens, and passingthe herbaceous border at Victoria Gate. They stopped toinspect the flowers. Two gardeners were at work, clearingaway the wreckage of summer. The climbing roses and theclematis had withered, but dahlias still flaunted scarlet andcrimson against the high dark of the shrubbery.

They walked on, silent, the dog pottering at heel; andinclined half-right across Hyde Park.

"Do you remember----" began Aliette.

"What, dear?" he prompted.

"Oh, nothing. Only I was just thinking. Mollie and Icame this way, that morning we met at church parade. Itseems such a long time ago."

"Am I as dull as all that?" he chaffed her. "Are you gettingbored with me?"

"Bored with you!" Her voice thrilled. "Oh, man, man,you don't understand a bit. You're everything in the worldto me. The only thing that ever makes me really frightenedis the thought of forfeiting your love. That's because I'mhappy--happy. You don't know, no man ever does know,what happiness means to a woman; how utterly miserable shecan be. I was miserable with H.--miserable. Luxuries don'thelp--when one's unhappy. When I look back on my lifebefore I met you, I wonder I didn't"--she hesitated--"Ididn't do something desperate. I suppose I didn't know howmiserable I really was. I don't suppose any woman in myposition ever does know, till some man teaches her----"

"And now?" he broke in.

"Now, I'm absolutely happy. Honestly, I don't care a bitabout the legal position--as you call it. What does it matterwhether we're legally married or not? What does it matterwhether people want to know us or whether they don't? Idon't care," she ended almost defiantly; "I don't care a bitso long as I've got you; so long as we're right with our ownconsciences."

And really, when Aliette looks back on those unsettled days,it astonishes her how little she did care for the rest of theworld. Even her parents' attitude seemed of no importance.

3

For outwardly the Fullerfords had taken up a very determinedattitude.

At Clyst Fullerford Aliette's name was scarcely mentioned.The people who had known Aliette since cradle-days, thepleasant Devonshire people busied with their pleasant trivialcountry round, still called neighborly as of yore; but they nolonger inquired of Andrew Fullerford, nor of Andrew's wife,after the health of Mrs. Brunton. Somehow rumor, unconfirmedyet accurate in the main, had penetrated to everycorner of the county; and though the pleasant people pretendedto ignore rumor, at least until such time as rumor'sstory should be substantiated by the London papers, still theythought it "safer" not to mention Aliette when they visitedthe long, low house of the mullioned windows.

Ever since the death of the Fullerford boys in France, thehouse with the mullioned windows had been sad. But now itseemed more than sad--a home of utter tragedy, despite itstended gardens and its deft servants. The stags' heads andthe foxes' masks on its walls only enhanced its gloom. Itsempty stables typified empty hearts; hearts of a man and awoman whose sons might not inherit.

Mollie, in that long August and longer September, foundthe place unbearable. Yet she was afraid to leave it; afraidto leave Andrew and Marie alone. Her father aged hourly;his gray-lashed mouth used to quiver with pain whenever helooked across the dinner-table at his wife. To the girl, whodid not understand that Aliette's abandonment of her husbandhad evoked between these two the old specter of religiousdifferences, both parents appeared incredibly unforgiving,incredibly out of their century.

Yet, had it not been for that specter, it is more than possiblethat the puisne judge would have relented toward his "erringdaughter." Under certain circumstances he might even havehelped her to secure her freedom. For although Aliette hadoutraged both his legal sense and his sense of propriety; althoughshe had admittedly broken the oath sworn at a Protestantaltar; yet the lapse of the years had so softenedAndrew's Protestantism, left it so broadly tolerant, so muchmore of an ideal than a religion, that he considered, as manylatter-day Protestants do consider, almost every tenet of hischurch open to the argument of the individual case.

The judge, moreover, was instinctively aware that Aliette'srelations to Hector might furnish exactly that individual casenecessary for her justification. But in view of his wife'sobvious misery, Andrew felt himself incapable of forgiveness.

To Marie Fullerford--and this her husband realized--fromthat very first moment when she opened Aliette's letter ofconfession, it had seemed as though the Roman CatholicChurch, the church from whose rigid discipline she had revoltedto marry Andrew, were taking its revenge for the long-agoapostasy.

After one heartbroken conversation with her husband, shewithdrew into contemplation. Hour after hour she used tosit in her own little room, remembering and regretting thefaith of her childhood. Marie could no more go back to thatfaith! The Church, the surely-disciplined authoritativeChurch of Rome, would have none of her. And she wouldhave given so much in her present distress for the comfort ofRome!

The spiritual uncertainty of Protestantism frightened herwith its easy-going tolerance. She saw the doctrine of theEnglish Church as a broad-pathed quagmire, through whichone trod with individual and uncertain steps toward an individualand uncertain heaven; while Roman Catholicism,knowing neither tolerance nor uncertainty, indicated the onlyroad, the safe and the narrow road to constitutional bliss.

Constantly Marie Fullerford tried to recall her old courage,the individual fortitude which had broken her loose fromRoman Catholicism. But the old fortitude would not return.She yearned in her weakness for the guidance of the priest,for the infallible laws, for the infallible dogmas of an infalliblehierarchy.

Her spiritual knees ached, and the hard hassock of Protestantismcould not rest them. Stumbling, she desired to castthe heavy pack of her doubts at the feet of a father-confessor--ofa father-confessor who would give one orders, definitecommands: "Let your daughter sin no more. Let her returnto her husband, expiate her offenses." No doubting there!No leaving of the individual case to individual judgment!

And yet--and yet Aliette's mother could not bring herselfto answer Aliette's confession in the spirit of Rome. Sheherself had been so long free, so long undisciplined, that shewanted, desperately, to find the solution of this problem bythe aid of that very love in which she had given herself toAndrew.

At last, in her uncertainty, she consulted with her eldestdaughter.

Eva, without the slightest hesitation, forbade any answerat all. The colonel's lady, always adverse to her juniors,sided from the first definitely with Hector. Aliette, opinedEva, had brought disgrace upon the entire family. No factthat Mollie, no argument that her husband could adduce inthe culprit's favor, availed to bend Mrs. Harold Martin'sdomestic rigidity; a rigidity socketed home on the two unshiftingrocks of personal dislike and personal rectitude.

4

Meanwhile Moor Park, though spiritually less troubled thanClyst Fullerford, failed egregiously in presenting a unitedfront to its domestic troubles. Hector, returning thither froma lonely holiday in Scotland, found Rear-Admiral Billy inquarter-deck mood, and the Rev. Adrian--invited for obviousreasons to dine without his Margery--uncomfortably silentthrough an interminable meal.

Purposely the admiral had staved off discussion of thematter at heart until the mastodontic dining-table should becleared of its food. Now--the port decanter being in its thirdcirculation--he drew back his chair from the board, screweda cigar firmly between his bearded lips, and began:

"Well, Hector, you've had a couple of months to make upyour mind. What are you going to do about Alie?"

The K.C. looked straight into his father's unjovial eyes andretorted:

"As I told you before I left, sir"--"sir" between theadmiral and his sons always betokened trouble,--"I'm notgoing to do anything."

"Dog-in-the-manger, eh?" rumbled the old man to hisbeard.

"You can take it that way if you like, sir."

"Pretty rough on your wife, ain't it? Adrian thinks----"

"Adrian is not his brother's keeper."

There intervened a considerable silence, during which theparson scrutinized the lawyer. "Hector's nature," ponderedthe Rev. Adrian, "has not altered much since he was a boy.He's a reticent fellow, is Hector. Sullen, too. Resents anyone interfering in his affairs--even if it's for his owngood."

But the parson could see that, in outward appearance,Hector had altered. He looked less corpulent, less certain ofhimself, more inclined to bluster. His sandy hair had thinnednearly to baldness.

"I haven't the slightest wish to interfere"--Adrian, exceptin his episcopalian wife's presence, was a very humanbeing,--"but really it does seem to me that your duty iseither to use every means in your power to get your wifeback, or else to set her free. You can't play the matrimonialMicawber."

"I tell you," the K.C. fidgeted in his chair, "I don't wantyour advice. This is my own affair and nobody else's."

"That be sugared for a tale." The admiral unscrewed hiscigar from his mouth, and waved it fiercely before his eldestson's eyes. "That be sugared for a tale, Hector. A man'smarriage concerns his whole family. I was talking to Simeononly the other day, and he said it was perfectly impossible forany one in your position----"

"I've heard that argument before," said Aliette's legalowner, "and I can't say that it appeals to me. I fail to seewhy Uncle Simeon or his wife should presume to pass judgmenton what I choose or don't choose to do." He made amovement to break off the discussion, refrained, and continued."Since you have reopened the subject, sir, I think itwould be as well if I explained my views once and for all.My views are that I fail to see any reason why I should takemy wife back, or any obligation to set her free to marry herlover. What he and she did, they did with their eyes open.Let them abide by the consequences."

"But, blast it all!" broke in the admiral, "a fellow mustbehave like a gentleman."

"I refuse to admit that a man must behave like a gentlemanto a wife who forgets to behave herself like a lady."The lawyer reached for the cigar-box, and kindled a weed.

"Come, come, Hector." The parson, who had seen life, puthis professional prejudices on one side. "It really isn't asbad as that. Mind you, I'm not making any excuses forAliette. But, even admitting that she's behaved badly to you,does that furnish you with any justification for behavingbadly to her?"

"And mind you, my boy," the father elaborated hisyounger son's argument, "people aren't like they used to beabout this sort of thing. There's deuced little prejudiceagainst divorce these days. We must go with the times. Wemust go with the times. God knows I'm an intolerant olddevil; but, thank God, I can still take a broad-minded viewwhere the sex is concerned."

"It's easy enough for you to be broad-minded, sir," interpolatedthe K.C.; "she's not your wife."

"Fond of her still, eh?" rambled the old man shrewdly.Hector Brunton kept silence, but his eyes showed that the shothad gone home.

"You've asked her to return to you, I suppose?" said theRev. Adrian, pouncing on this new hare like a religiousbeagle.

"Certainly not." The coincidence of the two ideas exasperatedHector. For two months he had been hardeninghimself to meet this very ordeal; and already, curse it! hefelt himself growing soft. Dimly the voice of conscience toldhim that his father and brother were in the right. Sociallyhe recognized that he was taking up an impossible position.Nevertheless, as an individual, he intended sticking to thatposition. All the obstinacy, all the weakness in him combinedto reject the obvious solution. Why the devil should hedivorce Aliette? He still wanted Aliette--wanted her physically--cravedfor her with a desire so overpowering that, attimes, it drove him almost mad.

"Quite apart from your wife's reputation, you know," theadmiral returned to his oratorial quarter-deck, "you've gotto consider your own. People don't look too kindly on a manwho allows his missus to live openly with some one else. Andthen, both you and he being in the same profession! Take itfrom me, my boy, it won't do you any good."

"It won't do him any good," said Hector viciously. "IfI've any influence with the benchers, I'll get the fellow disbarredbefore the year's out; and if I can't get him disbarredat least I'll take"--he snarled--"other steps."

At the snarl, Adrian lost his temper.

"I've been trying to talk to you like a brother, Hector,"he rapped out, "not like a parson. If you came to me as aparson, I should be bound to tell you that your attitude isn'tChristian at all. It's--damn it!--it's Hebraic. An eye foran eye, and a tooth for a tooth."

The elder brother turned on his junior.

"Christianity," he sneered. "Is that your Christianity?Free love!"

The junior fidgeted with his white collar.

"We'll leave my Christianity out of the discussion, if youplease."

The admiral, also a little hot under the shirt, intervenedagain.

"Christianity or no Christianity, I maintain that you'reputting yourself in the wrong. Alie's a decent enough littlewoman. She's always played the game with you. Evenwhen she ran away with this fellow, she told you about itbefore she went. She did tell you, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I told her she could go if she wanted to."

"You didn't try to restrain her?"

"No. I didn't."

"Why not? If you felt so strongly about her going off asyou pretend to now, why didn't you lock her up in her bedroom?Why didn't you go and see this man Cavendish--knockhis head off?"

Infuriated, Hector rose to his feet.

"I have no wish to be disrespectful, sir," he said to hisfather, "but my decision is final. I refuse to discuss thismatter a minute longer." And to his brother, "As for you,Adrian, I'll thank you not to interfere." Then he movedfrom the table, swung open the door, and clumped heavily upstairsto his bedroom.

Left alone, the rear-admiral turned to his younger son.

"How's the new baby, Adrian?"

"Getting on splendidly, father."

"Good." The bearded lips chewed at their cigar for a fullminute. "A pity Hector's wife didn't have any kids."

"A great pity, father."

1

Another month of outlawry went by.

The dahlias in Hyde Park died, cut down by thefrost; and with the death of them there came over Aliettethat keen longing for the countryside in winter-time whichonly English hunting people know. She used to dream abouthunting; about Miracle, striding full gallop across hedgedfields, steadying himself for his leap, flying his fence, landing,galloping on.

But Miracle--Hector's gift--was lost to her, as huntingwas lost, and nearly every social amenity which made upexistence before she met Ronnie. Between a hunting-seasonand a hunting-season, she had "dropped out of things"; hadbecome one of those illegally-mated women whom our churchneglects, our law despises, and our press dares only ignore.

The Aliettes of England! The women whose sole excuse forillegal matehood is love! There are half a million such inGreat Britain to-day: women whose only crime is that, cravinghappiness, they have taken their happiness in defiance ofsome male.

They are of all classes, our Aliettes. You will find themalike in our West End and in our slums, in little lost cottagesbeneath whose windows the sea moans all day long, and inprim suburban villas where the milk-cart clatters on asphaltroads and cap-and-aproned servants gossip of a morningunder the peeky laburnum. You will find them--and alwayswith them, the one man, the mate they have chosen--in Chelseastudios, on Cornish farms and Yorkshire moorlands, inGlasgow and in Ramsgate, in a thousand stuffy apartmentsof Inner London, and in a hundred unsuspicious boarding-housesof that middle fringe which is neither Inner Londonnor Suburbia.

These women--who crave neither "free love" nor the"right to motherhood" but only the right to married happiness--arethe bond-slaves of our national hypocrisy. Sometimestheir own strength, sometimes death, sometimes money,sometimes the clemency of their legal owners sets them free.But, for the most part, they live, year after year, in outlawry;live uncomplaining, faithful to that mate they have taken,bringing up with loving care and a wise tenderness thosechildren whom--even should their parents ultimately marry--ourlaw stamps "bastard" from birth to death.

Meanwhile our priests, our politicians, our lawgivers, andall the self-righteous Pharisees who have never known thehells of unhappy marriage, harden their smug hearts; andneither man nor woman in England may claim release from adrunkard, from a lunatic, from a criminal, or from any ofthose thousand and one miseries which wreck the human soul.

2

Powolney Mansions--four impossible Victorian dwelling-places,converted into one impossible Georgian boarding-houseof that middle fringe which is neither Inner London norOuter Suburbia--front a quiet road half-way between theBaron's Court and West Kensington Stations.

"Queen's" being the limit of Aliette's London, it wasnatural enough that her deliberate mind, casting about forsome less expensive abode than their hotel near the park,should remember the neighborhood, and search it for a hiding-place.

Natural enough, too, was that instinct for a hiding-place, ina woman who had no desire to parade her unmated self beforethe herd, and no craving for unnecessary martyrdom.

At the Mansions, six guineas a week (and three extra forCaroline Staley) provided a bed-sitting-room, complete witha double-bedstead of squeaking brass, a hard sofa, two harderchairs, a so-called armchair, a writing-table, three steel engravingsof the eighteen-eighties, and a shilling-in-the-slotgas-stove. The six guineas also provided meals, served bydingily uniformed waitresses in a crowded communal dining-room--and"congenial society."

This "congenial society" did not--as the society to whichAliette had been accustomed--shift its habitat with the seasons;except for an occasional fortnight in Margate or Clacton,it clung limpet-like to the Mansions.

Moreover, as the pair discovered within three days, it waseclectic as well as cliquey--containing gentlefolk and ungentle-folk;workers and idlers; bounders and the unbounding.Of the first were two pathetic spinsters who knitted allday before the untended fire in the vast untended drawing-room,remembering, as lost souls might remember paradise, thebygone millennium of cheap eggs and cheap income-tax. Ofthe last were an Anglo-Indian family, looking for, and neverfinding, "a nice easily-run flat." Item, were three foreigners,vague creatures from vague places, who never seemed tohave anything to do, and never seemed to go to bed; oneprosperous commercial traveler who "liked the sociability";one ruined squire who had furnished his own room andhoarded the remnants of a pre-war cellar in its undustedcupboard; and three mothers of no known social position,whose daughters, dingy at breakfast, grew demure by lunch-time,and--communal tea included--sallied forth with mysterious"dancing-partners" to return mouse-footed in theearly dawn. An understrapper from the Belgian consulate,and a plantation overseer on leave from the Federated MalayStates completed the tally of "Monsieur Mayer's guests.

"A fine gossipy lot, Miss Aliette," judged Caroline Staley,her loyalty a little strained by, though proof against, hersurroundings. "While as for they maids----"

But the "congenial society" of Powolney Mansions gossiped--thealoof Aliette knew--neither more nor less than thesociety she had abandoned. For--try as one would to hideone's self--awkward meetings were inevitable.

Never a woman of easy friendships, Hector Brunton's wifebefore her elopement had possessed three distinct sets ofcordial acquaintances--the "Moor Park lot," the "Londonlot," and the "Clyst Fullerford lot," as she phrased them.Of these, the "Clyst Fullerford lot" and the "Moor Parklot" (barring Colonel Sanders, the M.F.H., who, apparentlyuntouched by gossip, greeted her, at walk with Ronnie downSt. James's Street, in his cheeriest voice as "dear Mrs. Brunton")might, except for an occasional letter forwarded fromLancaster Gate via Mollie, have inhabited the moon.

And with the "London lot" one never quite knew how onestood. Bachelor barristers inevitably lifted the hat andsmiled. Hugh Spillcroft, meeting one alone at Harrods,invited one to tea with him and proffered a tentative sympathywhich one gently but firmly rebuffed. Mrs. Needham,also encountered on a shopping expedition, pretended themost tactful ignorance, but forbore to inquire after one'shusband. Sir Siegfried and Lady Moss, passing in theirRolls-Royce, looked politically the other way. Hector's particularfriends one, of course, avoided; and, since she made nooverture, one also avoided--a little hurt, perhaps, at theingratitude--Mary O'Riordan.

Taking it all round--as Julia Cavendish put it on one ofthose frequent afternoons when, always preannounced by telephone,the lovers came to tea with her--the situation held"little hope and less comfort."

"And it'll get worse," said that indomitable old woman;"it's bound to get worse if you persist in hiding yourselves,if you go on refusing to meet anybody. Don't you see, mydear," she turned on Aliette with a little of her formerbrusquerie, "that you're playing right into your husband'shands? Don't make any mistake about him. He knowsexactly where you are; and, so long as there's no openscandal, so long as you remain tucked away in that abominableboarding-house, he'll leave you there. Whereas, ifyou'll only make the scandal an open one, public opinion willforce him to act. Take it from me, the only thing to be doneis to flaunt yourselves."

"Flaunt?" said Aliette.

"Yes! Flaunt yourselves!" repeated Ronnie's mother,rather pleased with the literary expression.

"I rather agree," said Ronnie. "That's the way Belfieldbroke Carrington. Dash it, we can't go on lying doggo forever.It isn't fair to Alie."

Since their move to Powolney Mansions, Ronnie had begunto realize the exact difference in the world's treatment of aman's "lapse" and a woman's "adultery"; to perceive thathe apparently was to be allowed to go on with his avocation,scanty though the emoluments of that avocation were becoming,as though nothing had happened; that his clubs andalmost every house he had visited while a bachelor were stillopen to him as an unmarried husband, so long as the world,officially, knew nothing of his "unmarried wife."

"Never mind me, I'm quite"--Aliette glanced round thecomfortable drawing-room, so unlike the spinster-hauntedwilderness of the Mansions--"resigned to my temporaryfate."

"Rubbish!" retorted Julia; and went on to elaborate theplan that they should move from Baron's Court as soon asever they could find some residence, the more expensive thebetter, in Inner London.

"You must be seen everywhere," she went on. "You mustentertain and be entertained. In a word, Aliette--like Mrs.Carrington--must afficher herself as Mrs. Cavendish. Nevermind what it costs. I'll finance you."

But Aliette's whole nature recoiled from Julia's scheme.

She, had it not been for Ronnie's career, would have beenmore than content to wait a year, two years, a whole lifetimefor freedom. Her idea--she told them--was to take somelittle cottage, not too far removed from London; so that"Ronnie could come down every week-end."

Nevertheless, since any hope of freedom was tantalizing,because now, always and always stronger, there mounted inher the conviction that one day she would have a child byRonnie, Aliette so far weakened from her resolution against"the flaunting policy" as to accept Julia's invitation, telephonednext day, to share her box for the first night of PatrickO'Riordan's "Khorassan."

3

Ronnie's "wife," though too proud to make the first move,often wondered why Mary O'Riordan, eager enough to accepther championing in a similar situation, should have taken solittle trouble to reciprocate, now that reciprocation was soobviously indicated: but, dressing for the theater in the unkindlybedroom whose harsh lights made her needlessly afraidof the mirror, she decided that sheer delicacy alone had restrainedher old school-friend from getting into touch; andanticipated their inevitable meeting without a qualm. Itwould be nervous work, displaying one's self in Julia Cavendish'sbox before a "first-night" audience (unwise work,thought Aliette, unwise of Ronnie and his mother to have beenso persistent); but Mary's presence would at least furnish aguarantee against complete ostracism. Whatever other peoplemight do, she could rely on Mary's visiting their box in theentr'acte, on Mary's going out of her way to demonstratesympathy.

"Looking forward to it, darling?" interrupted Ronnie,entering with the usual perfunctory knock from the bathroom,where he had been doing his best to shave, for the secondtime that day, in lukewarm water.

"Not exactly." Aliette dismissed her maid.

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know. It seems all wrong, somehow or other.And suppose"--she hesitated--"suppose people are nasty?"

"They won't be," assured Ronnie, through the shirt intowhich he was struggling. "You're too sensitive about thewhole thing. One or two people may snub us. But what's asnub or so, if only we can force H. B. to move?"

"But"--she hesitated again--"snubs hurt, man." Thinkingof various slights already endured, her eyes suffused, andshe had difficulty in keeping back the tears.

"Nobody shall hurt you." He came quickly across theroom; put his arms round her; and kissed, very tenderly, thesmooth skin behind her ears, her bared shoulders.

"Oh, yes, they will. Not even you can prevent that.Women in my position are bound to get hurt. All the time!But it doesn't hurt much"--she looked up into his eyes, andsmiled away the tears from her own;--"it doesn't really hurtat all so long as I've got you."

Nevertheless, as they raced through their execrable mealin the empty dining-room, Aliette knew herself face to facewith an ordeal. And the ordeal waxed more and more terriblein anticipation as the electric brougham, which Juliahad insisted on sending to Baron's Court for them, rolledtoward Bruton Street.

She sat wordlessly, her hand clasped in Ronnie's, staringwide-eyed at the buses, the taxicabs, and the private carswhich passed or overtook them. It was as though every soulin London, all the people in those buses, those taxicabs, andthose private cars, were hostile to her; as though she were awoman apart from all other women, outcast indeed. Shewanted to say to her man: "Must we do this unwise thing?Must we? Can't we turn back? Can't we go on hiding ourselves?"But she said nothing, only clung the closer to hisresponsive hand.

4

Literary folk can be peculiarly childish; which is perhapsthe reason why great authors are usually little men.

One part of Julia's mind--as she waited for Ronnie andAliette to fetch her--positively grinned with mischief inanticipation of the new adventure, "defying Society." Thatpart of her felt very much the heroine, a female knight-errantabout to do lusty tilt against the dragon "Convention."But, in the main, her mood was retrospective.

"Curious," she thought, looking back at her dead self;"curious how entirely my views have changed." And sheremembered the reactionary stubbornness of her anti-divorcearticle for "The Contemplatory," her delight at the stirwhich that article had created, her delusions that it might"help to stem the flood of post-war immorality."

Now even the closing sentence, "Until humanity learns todiscipline the sentimental impulse, there can be no hope ofmatrimonial reconstruction," rang false in the auditoriumof experience. She yearned suddenly to rewrite that sentence,to substitute "the lustful impulse" for "the sentimentalimpulse." But the written word, alas, could not berevoked.

Then, vaguely she visioned herself writing a new article--perhapsa new book--some pronouncement, anyway, whichshould contradict and counteract her old doctrine. And fromthat, her creative mind--as though linking story to moral--startedin to examine the individual case of her son andAliette.

The front door-bell rang; and Julia heard Ronnie's voice inthe hall.

"Where's Aliette?" she asked, as he entered.

"Waiting in the brougham. By Jove, mater, you look likea stage duchess."

"Do I?" She blushed a little at his chaff, knowing itmerited by the super-splendor of her attire; by the sable-and-brocadeopera-cloak and the black velvet thereunder, by thecoronal of diamond wheat-ears which banded her graying hair,and the Louis Seize buckles on her elegant shoes. Once morethe heroine of an adventure, she picked her long white glovesand her bejeweled hand-bag from the dining-room table; andfollowed her son, through the front door which Kate heldopen for them, into the brougham.

Aliette, she greeted with a rare pressure of the hand andthe still rarer compliment, "You're looking radiant to-night,my dear."

Kate closed the door on the three of them; and the electricbrougham rolled off through Bruton Street into Bond Street;through Bond Street into Piccadilly. Julia did not appear inthe least nervous. She began to talk of Patrick O'Riordan--alittle contemptuously, as was her wont when dealing withstage-folk, against whom she cherished a prejudice almostpuritanical.

"Patrick O'Riordan," opined Julia, "was a poorish play-wright;but of course he had money to play with. Not hisown money. Naturally. People in the theater never didspeculate with their own money. Lord Letchingbury wasbehind the show. Dot said Letchingbury had put up tenthousand." Followed a Rabelaisian reference to Letchingbury'spenchant for Mary O'Riordan, which horrified Aliette,who had always imagined Mary, except for her one lapse,virtuous; and landed them in the queue of vehicles makingfor the illuminated portico of the Capitol Theater.

As the brougham crawled near and nearer to the lightswhich blazed their one word "Khorassan," it seemed toAliette that she was about to plunge into a stream of icywater. Her heart contracted at mere sight of the furredopera-cloaks, of the smoothly-coiffured heads and the shinytop-hats under the portico. For a moment, fear had its waywith her; the impulse to flight overwhelmed her courage.Then she looked at Ronnie; and saw that his face was set,that his chin protruded ever so slightly for sign of determination.Julia Cavendish, the wheat-ears glimmering like acrown in her hair, sat bolt upright, unflinching.

All said and done--thought Aliette--the risk, the big socialrisk, was Julia's. If, for her sake, Julia Cavendish coulddare to jeopardize her entire circle, she, Aliette, must notprove unworthy of the offering. Her red lips pursed--evenas they had pursed long ago when she and Ronnie waited forhounds to give tongue beyond Parson's Brook; and, headequally high, she followed the diamond wheat-ears out of thebrougham, through the crowd under the portico, and into thetheater.

Passing the box-office, she saw Julia smile at an old manwith drooping gray mustaches and a reddish face, blue-linedabove a bulging shirt-front.

Dot Fancourt shambled hesitantly across the few feet ofcarpet; shook hands; whispered "Surely this is very unwise";and vanished downstairs toward the stalls.

"Old coward!" thought Julia; and her thirty-year-oldfriendship for the editor of "The Contemplatory" explodedin a red puff of rage.

Ronnie, noticing Dot's evasion, felt his color heighten. Hehanded their ticket to an attendant, and took Aliette's armprotectively as the three of them passed round the circularcorridor into their box.

"You sit there, dear." Julia indicated the most conspicuousseat. "And I'll sit beside you."

Aliette, throwing the opera-cloak back from her shoulders,looked down across the house. To her imagination, the wholeauditorium was a blur of eyes; hostile eyes, thousands uponthousands of them, some furtively upturned, some staringunabashed, some taking cover behind the gleam of opera-glasses.

Julia, too, looked downward; but her eyes saw every face,every dress, every gesture of every personage in the crowdedstalls and in the opposite boxes, clear-cut and sharp as aphotograph. Obviously the appearance of her party hadcreated a sensation. Lady Cynthia Barberus and Miss ElizabethCattistock, making a conspicuous and loud-voicedentrance down the center gangway, stopped in mid-careerblocking the Ellersons, Paul Flower, and Sir Siegfried withhis fat Lady Moss. Lady Cynthia did not smile; ElizabethCattistock did--maliciously. Paul Flower gave an astoundedgrin; and nudged Dot Fancourt, who was already seated nextto that inveterate first-nighter, Sir Peter Wilberforce. Dotwhispered something to Sir Peter, who kept his attentionrigidly on the curtain.

Various other people whom Julia knew more or less intimately,after one swift glance at the box, also kept their attentionon that curtain; talking together, low-voiced.

And suddenly Julia grew aware that the white-glovedfingers of the woman beside her were gripping the ledge oftheir box as though it had been the arm of a dentist's chair,that the eyes of the woman beside her were focused as theeyes of a sleep-walker on the third row of the stalls. Instinctively,her own glance followed the line; and following, envisagedAliette's husband.

To Julia, the female knight-errant a-tilt against the dragon"Convention," the presence of the Brunton family--for theywere all there, Sir Simeon with his ambassadress, Rear-AdmiralBilly, two of Sir Simeon's daughters by his firstwife, and Hector--should have been the crown of her adventure;but to Julia Cavendish, society-woman, the happeningwas rather a shock. For the society-woman in her could notquite prevent herself from sympathizing with the peculiarposition of Sir Simeon and Lady Brunton. Sympathy, however,turned to rage when they deliberately looked up at thebox, and, with equal deliberation, looked away.

The two daughters did not look up; and the admiral gaveno sign either of recognition or of partizanship. But Hector,at a word from his uncle, stared and continued to stare acrossthe house.

Ronnie, perceiving the stare, deliberately drew his chaircloser to Aliette's; and the momentary panic stilled in hermind. Her fingers loosened their grip on the velvet ledge;her eyes were no longer the vacant eyes of a sleep-walker.Coolly now she faced her husband's ill-mannered stare; coollyshe forced a smile to her lips, and, pretending to examine herprogram, managed an aimless remark.

The pretense of nonchalance deceived even Hector. Hectorturned to his cousin Moira and tried to talk with her. Buthardly a word came to his lips. His heart thudded under thestiff of his shirt-front. He felt himself surrounded, pent in acage, pent to sitting-posture. He wanted to heave himselfupright, to smash the cage, to scatter the people surroundinghim.

"Confound them!" he thought, "they all know. All thesefirst-nighters know. Of set purpose, she has done me thisshame."

Once again he saw himself as the lone bull, the lone bullbefore the scornful herd. He wanted to gore with his horns,to lash out with his hoofs; for his eyes--averted from the box--stillheld their picture: the two disdainful women, the talldisdainful man between them.

"Pretty bad form, I think," said Moira sympathetically.

"Curse her sympathy!" thought Hector.

5

The preliminary music neared its ending; and the first partof Aliette's ordeal, even more terrible than she had anticipated,was almost over by the time that Mary O'Riordan billowedher imposing way to the front of the stage-box. Otherpeople followed, but Mary's hoydenish bulk, draped in thegold and scarlet of some super-Wagnerian goddess, dwarfedthem to the insignificance of pygmies.

Aliette's heart, still numb from its effort at self-control,gave one pleasurable beat at sight of her friend. She smiledacross the house at Mary. Their eyes met, clashed. And inthat moment, the house darkled.

The curtain had been up a full three minutes before Alietterealized that those blue eyes of Mary's intended the cutdirect. Realizing, every nerve in her tense body throbbedwith resentment at the ingratitude. Mary to cut her! Maryof all people! Mary, by whose side she had stood stanchthrough a year of trouble! Mary, whose affair with Letchingburyprovided the very money which sent up the curtain,which bought the scenery and paid the actors of "Khorassan"!

Gradually, the first throbs of Aliette's resentment subsided,leaving her every nerve a living pain. Mary's ingratitudehurt, hurt. "Most women are awful rotters"; Mollie's words,uttered long ago at Moor Park, came back to her.

She tried to distract her mind with the play; but O'Riordan'splay--poor, thinly-poetic stuff, indifferently mouthedby mummers whose sole claim to their salary was their supping-acquaintancewith the fringe of Society--failed to holdher thoughts. Her thoughts hovered between the enemyaudience, blur of heads below, and the two friends, her onlyfriends in a hostile world, on either side.

Thinking of their loyalty, Aliette no longer shrank fromher ordeal. Her heart swelled, resolute against all hostility.It became two hearts: the one, warm and throbbing withpartizanship for the stark old lady beside her, the old ladywho had never turned a hair since they entered the theater,and for the "old lady's" son, for the man whose love was arock: the other, icy-cold, almost beatless, frozen to contempt.

What a farce was this social game! As if the world's hostilitymattered! One played one's little part on the stage oflife, played it as best one might to the prompting of conscience,till the curtain fell, as it was falling now to a subduedrattle of perfunctory applause and the usual "snatched"calls.

Aliette felt Ronnie's fingers tighten on her own, relax.The house lights went up.

"Letchingbury will lose his money," remarked Juliacalmly. "O'Riordan's poetic drama is merely an excuse forbad poetry and no drama. By the way, that is Letchingbury,isn't it?" She looked across at the stage-box; and Ronnie,looking with her, saw a young man, blond, with a recedingchin and a receding forehead.

"Yes. That's Letchingbury all right," he said. "And,by the way, Alie, isn't that your friend, Mrs. O'Riordan?"

"I should hardly call her my friend," answered Aliette, alittle bitterly; and steeled herself to look down at the stalls.Hector's was already empty. The remainder of the Bruntonparty sat perfectly rigid. Sir Peter Wilberforce, rememberinghimself one of Julia Cavendish's executors, managed asurreptitious nod. Dot Fancourt, like Hector, had escaped.Various dramatic critics, sidling their way out of the stallstoward the bar, bowed to Julia as though nothing out of theordinary had occurred. Mary O'Riordan retired ostentatiouslyto the back of her box.

Aliette panicked again. Suppose Ronnie left her? SupposeRonnie and Hector met--in public? But Ronnie, for allhis obtuser mind, divined that his women-folk were under fire;and that duty forbade him to desert. He whispered to her:

"Not so bad as you anticipated, eh? Of course one can'texpect the Bruntons to be exactly cordial."

"I wish they hadn't been here," whispered back Aliette."It makes things so much worse."

"Rubbish!" interrupted Julia. "It's the best thing thatcould possibly have happened. He'll have to bring his actionafter this, or be the laughing-stock of Mayfair."

While the auditorium emptied and filled again, Julia, herhead erect, her hands quiet, talked on--as though the lack ofDot's usual visit to her box were of no moment. Ronnie,every fiber in him furious, played up to her. But Aliettecould not speak. In her, social instincts were at war withconscience. Feeling herself definitely in the wrong towardsociety, yet definitely in the right toward her own soul, feelingterribly afraid, yet terribly courageous, striving desperatelyto wrench out the iron of resentment from her mind,striving piteously to forget the hurt of the wound whichMary O'Riordan had dealt her, she played her game in dumbshow. And furtively, fearfully, as the music for the secondact began, she watched for Hector's return.

But Hector did not return. Even when the house lightswent out and the curtain rose again, Aliette could see that hisstall remained empty. Subconsciously she knew that he hadfled the theater.

The second act of "Khorassan" dragged to its undramaticclimax. Once again those three faced the eyes of the audience.Now, more than ever, it seemed to Aliette, still sittingrigid in the forefront of Julia's box, as though all eyes werehostile, as though the entire house, and with it her entiresocial world, had decided to ostracize them.

All through that overlong entr'acte, she sat speechless; herbrown pupils hard and bright; her white shoulders squaredabove the black sequined dress; her pale face, her red lips setto an almost sullen determination. And, as the entr'acteended, those hard brown pupils fell to devisaging MaryO'Riordan. Till, visibly ill at ease, the cow-eyes under Mary'smop of gold hair turned away.

But it gave Aliette no pleasure to realize that, hurt, she hadretaliated.

6

Everybody in front of the curtain and everybody behindthe curtain knew--as it fell--that Patrick O'Riordan's poeticdrama, "Khorassan," was a proved failure. Nevertheless,the audience, as is the polite custom of first-night audiences,applauded; and called on the author, white-faced in the glareof the footlights, for a speech.

"And in the morning," thought Julia Cavendish satirically,"we shall read of the great service rendered by PatrickO'Riordan via Letchingbury's bank-account, to art; and ofthe pressing need for more revivals of the poetic drama."

Julia could not help being a little pleased at the play'sfailure; in a way it mitigated her own. For that she hadfailed, lamentably, in her adventure, Ronnie's mother realizedeven better than Aliette. Hold her head high as she might,this consciousness of disaster persisted all through O'Riordan'soverlong speech. The literary childishness went out ofher, leaving the woman of the world conscious that she haddone the foolish thing, that she had flaunted her son and herson's mistress before that little section of society which is aLondon first-night. Society, of course, had averted its face!Remained, therefore, only the assurance that Aliette's husbandhad seen the flaunting, and so must surely be forcedinto action.

"Poor Aliette," thought Julia. "Poor Ronnie." Hermind was all a weakness toward them, all a strength againstthe world. For herself, she needed no comforting; but themshe wanted to take in her arms, to mother.

O'Riordan's speech ended. The house clapped, and emptied.The three left their box; and Ronnie--reluctantly leavingJulia and Aliette in the foyer--went off in search of theelectric brougham.

Waiting in the crowd, both women knew themselves onshow, the dual cynosure of a hundred furtive glances. Peopleseemed anxious to escape without the need for recognizingthem. The few smiles were frigid, standoffish--all for Julia,none for her companion. Hector's aunt, jostling by, cut thepair dead.

Aliette tried to think, "It doesn't matter; it doesn'tmatter a bit"; she tried to hold herself upright, to cut ratherthan be cut, to preserve--outwardly at least--the semblanceof a dignity. But inwardly she knew herself all one trembleof undignified panic. If only one person, just one person inthat jostling mob, would be really decent! If only Ronniewould be quicker with their carriage!

Then simultaneously both women grew aware that a face,one kindly face, was smiling at them, was making its waytoward them through the crowd. Simultaneously they recognizedthe face--Hermione Ellerson's.

"My dear, I've been trying to catch your eye all theevening," called Hermione to Aliette. "But you wouldn'tlook at me. Why don't you come and see us? I want you tosee our new house. Curzon Street, 24. In the telephone-book."

Hermione was swept away before Aliette could collect herwits for reply: and a moment afterward they saw, beyond thecrowd, Ronnie signaling the arrival of their brougham.

7

"It was decent of Hermione, frightfully decent, especiallyas she's a kind of relation of Hector's. All the same, I don'tthink I'll go and see her."

Aliette, disrobed, sat staring into the gas-fire of their PowolneyMansions bedroom.

"Why not?" asked a shirt-sleeved Ronnie.

She turned to him, and her face showed very pale.

"Man, it's all so hopeless."

"It isn't. It isn't a bit hopeless. The mater's right.H. B. must act now."

"He won't, and even if he does--Oh, don't you see thatI've--that I've ruined you! I've ruined your career. I'veruined you both."

"Rubbish!" There was something of his mother's brusqueriein the man's tone.

"It isn't rubbish." The woman was deadly in her calm."It's the absolute truth. Don't let us deceive ourselves."

He tried to take her in his arms; but she rose, eluding him."Don't, Ronnie! Let's be sensible; it's high time. We--youand I and your mother--have made a mistake. A mistakethat's almost irretrievable. There's only one thing tobe done now----"

"And that is?" He had never known her in this mood.She seemed utterly different from the sensitive Aliette of afew hours since; almost unloving, hard, purposeful, resolute.

"And that is?" he repeated.

"I must leave you."

At her words Ronnie's heart stopped beating as thoughsome giant had put a finger on it. For one fraction of a second,love vanished utterly; almost, he hated her.

"Yes," went on Aliette, "I must leave you. It's the onlyway, I'll take a little cottage. Somewhere not too far fromLondon. And you--you must go and live with your mother."

His heart began beating again, faintly.

"But why?" he managed. "Why?"

"Because that's the only way to stop people from talking.If they know that you're at Bruton Street, that I'm not atBruton Street, then," she was faltering now, faltering in herfirm purpose, and she knew that she must not falter; "thenthey'll think that your mother didn't know anything whenshe invited us to-night."

He came toward her: and she felt her momentary determinationweaken; felt herself powerless to do the right. He puthis hands on her shoulders, and looked her deep in the eyes.Then he smiled, the quaint, whimsical smile she loved best.

"You're not serious, Alie?"

"I am," she faltered, "desperately serious. You'll let mehave my cottage, won't you?"

"You know I won't." He had her in his arms now. "Youknow that I won't consent to anything so absurd." He bentto kiss her. "Darling, don't let's lose our pluck. It's beena rotten evening for you. Rotten! I know that."

"It's not of myself that I'm thinking."

"I know that, too. I'm not thinking for myself, either.I'm trying to think for both of us, for all three of us.We've got to see this thing through. Together."

"Together!" The word weakened her still further.

"Yes, together." He followed up his advantage. "Life'sa fight. A hard fight. You mustn't desert."

"And you"--her voice, as she lay motionless in his arms,was almost inaudible--"you think I'm worth fighting for?"

"More than anything in the world. But I wish"--a littlehe, too, faltered, his fears for her sake making him afraid--"Iwish that people didn't hurt you so."

She stirred in his arms; and her face upturned to his.

"Man," she said, her eyes shining, "I'm not afraid ofanything people can do to me. Nobody except you could everreally hurt me. I--I didn't mean to desert; only just toefface myself. Won't you let me efface myself? Until--untilHector divorces me. It's the right thing--the best thing.Really it is."

"Right or wrong," said Ronnie, "we'll see this businessthrough--see it through together--even if it lasts all ourlives."

Aliette, seeing the fighting-fire in those blue eyes, seeing thestubborn set of that protruded jaw, knew her momentarydetermination beaten to the ground.

1

Within one week of its first launching, "Khorassan"sank, leaving hardly a ripple, into the deep pool oftheatrical failures. But for weeks and weeks thereafter, thatshallow pool which is West End society rippled furiously tothe stone which Julia Cavendish had thrown into it when sheattended Patrick O'Riordan's first-night accompanied by herson and Aliette.

Some of the consequences of that stone-throwing wereexplained to Ronnie's "wife" when--overpersuaded fromher decision not to visit Hermione--she called at the littleblack-carpeted, Chinese-papered, orange-curtained box of ahouse in Curzon Street.

Hermione, her willowy figure supine on an enormous sofa,her dark eyes glinting with a sympathetic curiosity not entirelybereft of humor, extended one ringless hand with alaughed "Well, my dear, you really have put your foot intoit this time. Your in-laws are perfectly furious."

Aliette laughed in reply (no one ever took Hermione quiteseriously); possessed herself of a luxurious chair before theluxurious fire, and admitted:

"It was rather a faux pas, wasn't it?"

"I'm not so sure of that." Hermione's smooth browscrinkled in thought. "I'm not at all so sure of that. It'squite on the cards, I think, that it'll lead to something. SirSimeon told me, only last night, how perfectly impossible itwas for such a state of affairs to go on."

She rose from the sofa; and, coming over to the fire, tookthe vast pouffe in front of it. "Poor darling! It's rotten foryou."

Aliette stiffened at the suggestion of sympathy. "I'mquite happy, thank you."

"Are you? I'm so glad." Hermione edged the pouffecloser. "My dear, you have surprised the clan. None of usimagined you capable of a really-truly love-affair. Why,you're the last person in the world----"

"Please, Hermione, don't let's discuss me."

"But I want to discuss you. I think you're perfectly marvelous.How on earth you ever had the nerve. And from ahusband like Hector!" Ellerson's wife paused to warm herexpressive hands at the fire. "I never did like Hector.Strong, silent men always bore me to distraction. But RonnieCavendish is a perfect dear."

It was the first time that any one except his mother hadbeen personal about Ronnie, and Aliette felt herself blushingat the mere mention of his name. She wanted to shoo Hermioneaway from the topic; but Hermione, like some obstinatebutterfly, returned always to the forbidden flower. Hermionewanted "to know everything." Hermione hinted herself morethan ready to be profuse in sympathy--if only the otherwould be profuse in confidences. Even the presence of anexiguous Belgian butler, carrying exiguous French tea-cupson an exiguous Russian silver tray, failed to distract Hermionefrom her purpose.

Ellerson's wife had been discussing l'affaire Aliette withLady Cynthia Barberus, with Miss Elizabeth Cattistock, withmany another mannequin of the "Ritz crowd"; and they hadjointly come to the conclusion that it was abominable, "perfectlyabominable," "a return to feminine slavery" for anyman to behave as Hector Brunton was behaving. If only"dear Alie" would tell them how they could help her!

Aliette, however--who, in her safety, had always ratherdespised Lady Cynthia and Lady Cynthia's associates,--couldnot bring herself to seek alliance with them in her danger.Her fastidiousness resented the "Ritz crowd's" partizanship.Trying her best to be grateful, she could not stifle the instinctthat Hermione's "sympathy" was the sympathy of an idle,over-sexed woman, inspired rather by sensational and illicitnovelty than by reasoned understanding.

But even oversensitive Aliette could not misjudge the realunderstanding, the real sympathy of Hermione's husband.

That tall, casually-groomed, blond-haired youth came injust as the guest was perpending departure; offered her alarge hand; and said nothing whatever to complicate a difficultsituation. My Lord Arthur merely opined that he wassorry to be late for tea, that he hoped Aliette would comeand see them again, that she must dine and do a show withthem as soon as ever they got back from the Riviera, and thatshe must bring--he said this with extraordinary tact--anybodyshe liked to make a fourth at the party. Lord Arthur,in fact, without mentioning Ronnie's name, made it quiteclear on which side of the social fence both he and his wifepurposed to sit.

For by now the various sections of that complicated communitywhich is social London had grown conscious of theCavendish-Brunton fence. People had begun to comprehendthat l'affaire Aliette was serious, and that one would have tosit either on Aliette's side, on Hector's side, or on the fenceitself. So that if Aliette had been less old-fashioned, in thebest sense of that much-abused word; if Aliette's lover hadbeen less shy, less reticent, less aloof from his kind; and ifJulia Cavendish had only been a little less certain, that victorywas already won--there is little doubt that other houses besides24 Curzon Street would have opened their doors.

Social London, you see, was in a state of moral flux. CadoganSquare, Belgravia, and Knightsbridge still clung rigidlyto the tenets of the Victorian past. But for Mayfair, parts ofKensington, and the more artistic suburbs, matrimonial issueshad assumed a new aspect since the war. Actually, a tide offreer thinking on the sex question had begun to sweep overthe whole of England. Happiness had not yet come to beacknowledged the only possible basis of monogamy, butdivorce reform was no longer only in the air--it was more orless on the table of the House.

And to divorce reformers Hector Brunton's attitude appearedalmost as indefensible as it did to those who, not yet inrevolt against the old tenets of indissoluble matrimony, foundit hard to stomach a man's permitting his wife to live unsuedin open adultery.

2

Julia Cavendish tried to explain these post-war matrimonialissues to Dot Fancourt, when he called at BrutonStreet to remonstrate with her about "the very serious blunder"she had committed. But Dot, willing enough to openhis columns in "The Contemplatory" for an intellectualthreshing out of such issues, could not face them in real life.A social cowardliness, essentially editorial, obsessed his failingmentality.

"My dear," he argued, "it isn't as if you were a nobody.Nobodies can afford experiments. You can't. You're aCavendish. You have a position, an eminent position in thescholastic world, in the world of society, and in the world ofletters. Therefore you, of all people, have least right, especiallyin times like the present, to countenance matrimonialbolshevism."

Julia Cavendish put down her embroidery-frame, and facedher quondam friend squarely. Ever since their meeting inthe foyer of the Capitol Theater, she had been seeing him withnew eyes, seeing only his weakness, the insufficiency and theinefficiency of him. That he meant his advice kindly and forthe best, she knew. Nevertheless, he had wrecked their friendship;failed her when she most needed him. The disloyaltystung her to bitterness.

"The fact that I married a Cavendish," she said, "isneither here nor there. My position, such as it is, is onewhich I attained for myself. If, by siding with my own son,I jeopardize it----"

"But, my dear, why jeopardize it at all? You're being sounwise. You won't do your son any good by quarreling withyour friends."

"Apparently I have no friends." The Biblical phraseabout the broken reed crossed Julia's mind. "If I hadfriends, they would stand by me and mine; not try to avoidus in public."

"You're very unfair." Dot rose irritably, and beganshambling up and down the room. "Terribly unfair. Can'tyou understand how I hated seeing you--messed up in thissort of thing?"

She fired up at that. "One defends one's own, Dot."

And for an hour after Dot had gone, the words rang inJulia's mind. "One defends one's own--at all costs--howeverhard the battle."

For her, battle grew harder as the days went by. One byone she argued out the issue with her protesting friends, convincingfew, antagonizing many. Her family, however--alwaysa little jealous of "the immaculate Ronald"--Julia metnot with argument but with shock tactics.

Clementina, calling, breasted and bustled for fray, accompaniedby Sir John, in his best Bank of England blacks, whoadmitted that "they had heard things" and pressed to knowif there was any truth in "the things they had heard," receiveda direct "My dear Clementina, if your husband meansthat you've been informed of my son's running away withHector Brunton's wife, and that Hector Brunton is going todivorce her, you've been informed correctly"; while Alice,writing a dutiful letter from Cheltenham, received a typescriptreply--to the same effect--which cut her Anglo-Indiansense of etiquette to the quick.

As for May who, relinquishing the expensive good worksand still more expensive garden of her house in Abbey Road,called unattended and found Julia alone; she returned toSt. John's Wood with the firm conviction that her "poor dearsister" must have been "got at by some of those dreadfulwriting people," and bombarded her, for nearly a week, withpamphlets on "The Sin of Divorce."

Meanwhile, regular callers at Bruton Street grew rarer andrarer; until Paul Flower, busy rewriting some of his earlierbooks for American admirers and utterly unable to discussanything else, almost monopolized the once-crowded drawing-room.Paul, engrossed with pre-war literature, became inthose days Julia's best refuge from post-war life. He succeeded--sometimesfor hours together--in stimulating hercreative imagination.

And since, to a literary craftswoman, the creative imaginationis only as the first nip to a confirmed toper, Paul Flowersoon succeeded in more than this--in arousing the actualcreative instinct: so that the creative instinct awoke anddemanded work.

Gradually Julia grew hungry for the pen, for the longand lonely hours when the creative mind is as God, fashioningpuppets for His pleasure. But always, when PaulFlower had left her, her imagination switched back fromliterature to life.

"The man Brunton," said imagination, "is not beaten.He'll bring no action. He is working, working secretly, toruin your boy's career."

3

And indeed, during those few days which preceded theclose of the autumn sessions, it did not require his mother'simagination to perceive that some curious and sinister influencemust be at work against Ronald Cavendish in the quietquadrangles and the gray-pinnacled courts either side theGriffin.

From the unwigged Mr. Justice Mallory, sipping the portof midday adjournment in his private room behind King'sBench Seven, to melancholious Benjamin Bunce, perusing his"Law Times" at Groom's coffee-shop in Fleet Street, thewhole "legal world" was aware that "H. B. meant to maketrouble." Alike in Middle and in Inner Temple halls, inrobing-rooms, in chambers, in corridors, and in offices, wheresoeverand whensoever barristers or solicitors foregathered totalk "shop," one heard the buzz of dignified curiosity, rumorsof instant citation, of citation delayed.

Meanwhile Ronnie, growing less and less inclined to intimacywith his fellow-lawyers as he grew more and more consciousof their interest in him, visited Pump Court with aregularity which held more of bravado than of necessity.The flow of his briefs, never broad, had dwindled to thetiniest trickle. Barring the work he still did for Wilberforce,Wilberforce & Cartwright, he foresaw almost complete idlenessat the Hilary sessions.

The foresight, financially, frightened him. Never a spendthrift,his own needs, small though they were, had to be met.His savings and the Jermyn Street rent, paid six months inadvance, were almost exhausted. The idea of borrowing fromhis mother did not appeal; and to let Aliette bear her part inthe "family" expenses was unthinkable.

But even Ronnie failed to realize the full extent of hisfinancial shipwreck until that afternoon just before Christmaswhen James Wilberforce, preannounced by telephone,strode into the duck's-egg-green paneled chambers, and, havingmade certain that they could not be overheard, plumpedhis long bulk into the dilapidated armchair with a diffident,"Old chap, I've come on a devilish unpleasant mission."

The barrister did not answer; and after a constrainedpause the solicitor went on, picking each word as thoughfearful of its giving offense: "Pater would have come andseen you himself. But he thought, you and me being pals,that perhaps I'd better be the one. You see, being yourmother's executor, and, so to speak, a friend of the family,pater's always tried to do everything he could for you----"

"You needn't say any more," interrupted Ronnie. "Iquite understand. You've come to tell me I'm not to expectany further briefs from Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright."

"Hardly that," prevaricated Jimmy. "But the fact is--youknow how I hate beating about the bush--pater's afraidof offending Brunton. We've got the big Furlmere divorcecase coming on fairly soon. 'Bout the end of January, Iexpect. We're pretty high up on the list. Furlmere insistedon H. B. leading for us. We sent round the brief to him inthe usual way, and of course he had to accept it. But whenhe took our retainer, his clerk, that fellow Patterson, hinted--mindyou, he only hinted--that if there were any questionof 'a certain gentleman' acting as junior to him, 'Mr. Brunton'would not appear in court when the case came on."

"But surely you had no idea----"

"Of briefing you as junior? Of course not. I shouldn't besuch an incredible ass. Still, straws show which way thewind blows. And we simply can't afford to quarrel withH. B. Not till the Furlmere case is over, anyway."

The friends looked at each other for one silent minute.Outside, a thin rain had begun to patter on the flagstones.Within the room darkled. Ronnie clicked on the table-lamp,and began to scrawl with vagrant pencil on the blotting-paper.

"I'm not quarreling with your position, Jimmy," he saidat last. "Tell your pater I'd do the same if I were he."

Jimmy's voice softened. "Old man, I don't want to interfere.But I do wish you'd arrange for some mutual friend tosee Brunton. Take it from me, he's going on playing dog-in-the-manger.And he can do you a hell of a lot of harm."

"Let him!" Ronnie's jaw set. "If this is going to be afight between us, it may as well be a fight to a finish. I don'tpropose asking favors, even by proxy. If he thinks he'sgoing to succeed in driving me out of the bar----"

"No one's suggested your leaving the bar. In fact"--Jimmybegan to stammer, as a man making offer of a giftwhich is almost certain to be refused--"another thing I cameround to see you about was----"

The sentence refused to complete itself: and Jimmy starteda new one. "As you know, our partners, the Cartwrights, doquite a lot of work that never comes into the High Court atall; criminal stuff, county courts, and all that sort of thing.If you'd care to accept their briefs----"

Again the sentence refused to complete itself; again thetwo friends looked at one another in silence. Then the barristersaid:

"A bit of a come-down, isn't it? Almost as bad as 'takingsoup.'"

This allusion to the practice of young and briefless barristers,who sit all day long in the criminal courts waitingtheir chance to defend any prisoners that may be allotted tothem, made Ronnie's friend squirm.

"Hang it all, it isn't as bad as that. John Cartwright'squite a good sort. And a big criminal case brings other work.Anyway, think it over, and let me know." Jimmy rose to go."And by the way, will you give my regards to the little lady?Tell her how sorry I am about the whole thing and that I'msure it'll all come out right in the long run."

At the door, James Wilberforce turned; and, coming back,extended a hand. "Buck up, old boy," he mumbled rathershamefacedly.

Left alone, Ronnie sat for a long while, scrawling on theblotting-pad.

"After all," he thought, "it was pretty decent of Jimmyto send Alie that message. I wonder why he did it. I wonderwhether he's still keen on Mollie. Jolly rough luck on him ifhe is. Curse that fellow Brunton! He's stirred up a prettykettle of fish."

And from that he fell to evil-tempered rumination--inwhich his newly-aroused ambition for legal success played nosmall rôle--finally deciding, faute de mieux, to accept thework offered.

1

Every year, toward the end of November, Betty Mastermanhad been accustomed to receive an invitation tospend Christmas at Clyst Fullerford. This year, to her surprise,she received a long, carefully-worded letter in Mollie'schildish handwriting: a letter which contained the unusualsuggestion that Mollie should spend Christmas with her. "Mydear," wrote the girl, "I simply daren't ask you down here.It's too utterly dull for words."

Betty, nothing if not extravagant, wired back an immediateanswer; and met her friend, two days before Christmas eve,in the holiday bustle at Waterloo station.

"Mollie," greeted the grass-widow, "you look like a ghost.What on earth's happened to you since the summer?"

But it was not until Betty's "daily woman" had completedher hasty washing up of the dinner things, and they sat alonein front of the gas-fire in the little red-papered sitting-room,that Mollie answered the question.

"Betty dear," she said, puffing a vague cigarette. "I'mfeeling too rotten for words. Nothing seems to go right withme these days."

Betty's experienced eyes sparkled with laughter. "Givesorrow words," she quoted chaffingly; and then, a note ofseriousness in her voice, "What's the trouble? The sister orthe Wilberforce man?"

"You've heard something then?"

"Only gossip." The other trod carefully. "But of courseI'm not quite a fool. I thought when you came rushinground here from Lancaster Gate that something must havegone pretty wrong."

"Everything's gone wrong." Mollie repeated the inevitableslogan, of post-war youth, "Everything. Youremember Ronald Cavendish----"

"I've met him once or twice."

"Well, Alie's run away from Hector----"

"And run away to Cavendish."

"You did know then?"

"My dear, everybody knows." Betty considered the position."Still, that's their affair, isn't it? Why should youworry about it? There'll be a divorce, I suppose, and afterthat they'll get married."

"That's just the trouble."

"How do you mean?"

"Apparently, Hector's refused to divorce Alie."

"Oh!"

The pair inspected one another across the mellow firelight.After a long pause, the elder said:

"You're not much of a pal, Mollie. You've only told mehalf the story."

Mollie Fullerford blushed. Her reticent virginity revoltedfrom the idea of confessing herself, to Betty, in love withJames Wilberforce. Yet that she was in love with the man,most uncomfortably in love with him, Mollie knew. Despiteall her efforts to maintain the pose of the modern young, thepose of cold-blooded mate-selection, she had failed as lamentablyas most others of her kind to control nature. Natureand the modern creed refused to be reconciled. She realizednow that she wanted--exclusively--James. She wanted tobelong to him; she wanted him to belong to her; she wantedhim--and no other--to father her children.

That last thought rekindled Mollie's blushes. Succeed asshe might in curbing her tongue, she could not curb her feelings.She fell to wondering if Jimmy would ask her to marryhim, to speculating whether, even if their friendship soabruptly broken off should be renewed (as she had subconsciouslyhoped it would be renewed when she invited herselfto London), whether, even if Jimmy did ask her to marry him,she would be capable of sacrificing Aliette. Would she not beforced to make conditions--conditions that no man in Jimmy'sposition could possibly accept? Would she not be forced tosay: "If I marry you, you'll have to let me receive my sisterand my sister's lover"?

"How about the Wilberforce man?" Betty's words interruptedreverie. "Does he know you're in town?"

"Yes," admitted Mollie.

"You still write to each other then?"

"Only occasionally."

"My dear, how exciting! When did you hear from himlast?"

But at that Aliette's sister broke off the conversation witha wry "Betty, I simply won't be cross-examined."

"You needn't get ratty, dear thing," retorted the grass-widow."I don't want to pry into your secrets. But"--sherustled up from her chair, and made a movement to beginundressing--"if he should write that he's coming to see you,for goodness' sake try and make yourself look a little less ofa 'patient Griselda.' What about face-massage? I know aman in Sloane Street who's simply wonderful!"

2

Aliette, whom Mollie visited next day, was even moreshocked than Betty Masterman at the change in her sister'sappearance. The girl seemed utterly altered, utterly differentfrom the fancy-free maiden of Moor Park. She came into theconnubial room nervously; almost forgot to kiss; entirely forgotto inquire after Ronnie; refused to take off her hat, andsat down on the edge of the hard sofa gingerly as though ithad been an omnibus seat.

"Rather awful, isn't it?" Aliette, with a comprehensiveglance at her surroundings, broke the social ice. "Youmustn't mind."

"I don't mind. But it is rather awful." A pause. "Isuppose you had to do it, Alie?"

"Do what? Come and live here?"

"No. The whole thing." Aliette did not answer, and hersister went on. "I wish you hadn't had to. It's been simplyrotten at home. Mother and dad----" She broke off, bitingher lip. "They aren't so bad really; it's Eva who's putrid."

"Eva never did like either of us."

For the first time in their lives, the sisters felt shy with oneanother. Caroline Staley, entering, broad-hipped, a smile onher full lips and a tea-tray in her large hands, noticed thetension.

"My, Miss Mollie!" ejaculated the tactful Caroline, "butyou aren't looking yourself at all. You ought to take that hatoff and lie down awhile."

Tea relaxed the tension; but made intimate conversationno easier. Between them and their old intimacy rose--as itseemed--insurmountable barriers. It was Mollie who, involuntarily,pulled those barriers down.

"I say," she asked abruptly, "isn't Hector going to doanything?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Doesn't it make you frightfully unhappy?"

"Only for Ronnie's sake."

Mollie did her best to restrain indignation. Woman-like,she could not help blaming Ronnie for the whole occurrence.Girl-like, she could not quite divine the immensity of passionbehind her sister's steady eyes; till, somehow infected by thatpassion, her thoughts veered to James. Suppose James hadbeen married. Married to a lunatic, say, or a drunkard?Tied to some rotten wife, for instance, a wife who made himunhappy? Suppose that James had said to her, "Mollie, let'scut the painter"?

And suddenly Mollie's indignation passed, leaving hercontrite.

"Alie," she said, "I ought to have come up to town before.I oughtn't to have left you alone all this time. I'm afraidI've been"--she faltered--"rather a beast about the wholething."

"You haven't." Aliette came across to the sofa, and tookher sister's hand. "It's been simply wonderful of you toforgive our thoughtlessness, our lack of consideration----"

"Oh, that!" interrupted Mollie. "I wasn't thinking aboutthat." She fell silent; and again, to her contrite mind, theromance of Aliette and Ronnie assumed a personal significance.

So this was love--thought the girl--the real thing! Lovewithout orange-blossom, without wedding-presents. Love sogloriously reckless of material considerations that it couldexist in and defy the most sordid surroundings, the completestostracism from one's kind.

"It's you who are wonderful," said Mollie.

And all that afternoon, as conversation grew easier betweenthem, as she learned from a hesitant Aliette of the real Hectorand the real Ronnie, of the snubs one had to put up with, andof the sympathy which was even harder than the snubs tobear, of the petty, almost indecent economies to be anticipatednow that Ronnie's professional income looked like failing(soon it might be necessary to sacrifice Ponto, whose boardand lodging at a near-by stable cost fifteen shillings a week),the girl, continually testing her own affection for James onthe touchstone of Aliette's love for Ronnie, could not but findit a little lacking in that spirit of service which is truest comradeship.

"But where is Ronnie?" she asked, as they kissed au revoir.

"With his mother, I expect," smiled Aliette. "He said,when you phoned last night, that we'd probably like to bealone."

3

"Rather decent of Cavendish, leaving us alone like that,"thought Mollie, waiting--befurred to the eyes--on the draftyplatform at Baron's Court station.

Strangely affected by her sister's revelations, she found herselfas the train got under way--comparing Ronnie withJames; not, she had to admit, entirely to James's advantage.

It was all very well--went on thought--being in love withJames, but why should one be in love with James? Oneought to be jolly angry with the man. Taking it all round,he had behaved disgracefully. James had "shied off" becausehe couldn't face a little scandal; had written the coldest,unfriendliest letters.

"James, in fact," decided the girl, "doesn't care a buttonfor me, and I'm a little fool to let myself care for him."

But when, arrived at the flat, Betty Masterman, with amalicious pout of her red lips, imparted the news that "theWilberforce man" had rung up to suggest himself for tea onthe following afternoon, Mollie Fullerford's mental dignitygave way to an ardor of anticipation which made her feel--asshe expressed it to herself just before falling asleep--"aperfect little idiot"; and when, next afternoon--to all outwardappearances his undisturbed self--Jimmy was heraldedinto the sitting-room, the girl felt extraordinarily grateful tothe "man in Sloane Street" under whose ministrations shehad spent the morning.

All the same, she felt uncommonly nervous. Watching herJames as he arranged his long bulk in the most comfortableof the three chairs, handing him his tea, listening to the easyflow of small talk between him and Betty, Mollie found it impossibleto realize that this could be the creature about whosephysical and mental qualities her imagination had woven itstissue of dreams. That he and she were participators in atragic romance; that if he asked her to marry him (and sheknew subconsciously, even though consciously denying thepossibility, that he would ask her) she would have to refuse--seemedpossibilities connected rather with the heroine ofsome magazine story than with her own demure self.

Tea finished, Betty made the telephone in her bedroom anexcuse to leave the pair alone; clicked the door on them; andpattered away in her high-heeled shoes.

"You're not looking as well as you were when I saw youlast," managed Wilberforce, after a minute's self-conscioussilence.

"Aren't I?" Mollie would have given a good deal to runaway from him, to run after Betty.

"No. You haven't been ill or anything, have you?"

"Ill!" She forced a smile to her lips. "Rather not. I'vebeen quite all right."

They gazed at each other. Then, abruptly, Jimmy said:

"Mollie, what's happened to us?"

"To us?" she queried shyly.

"Yes; to you and me." The man paused, plunged in."We were such frightfully good pals last summer, and now itseems as though"--another pause--"we don't hit things offa bit."

"Is that my fault or yours?" There was scarcely a hint oftheir old camaraderie in the girl's sulky voice.

"Mine, I suppose," he sulked back.

"Well, isn't it?" she shot at him; and at that all the self-realizations,all the heart-searchings and heart-burnings inJames Wilberforce blew to one bright point of clear flame,melting his reserve as the blow-pipe melts cast iron.

"Mollie," he blurted out, "you know how I hate beatingabout the bush. Let's be open with one another. Let's admitthat something has happened." He leaned forward in hischair, both hands on his knees. "But you aren't going to letthat something make any difference, are you?"

His method irritated her to abruptness.

"You are beating about the bush, Jimmy. Why not bestraight?"

"I'm trying to be straight." His hands clenched. "Butit's jolly difficult. You see, there are some things that--well,that one doesn't discuss with girls."

"Isn't that rather rot nowadays?" retorted Mollie, hatingherself for the slang.

"I don't think it's rot. I think there are a good manysubjects a man doesn't want to discuss with--with a girl he--er--caresabout."

"Then he does care," thought Mollie; and felt her heartleap to the thought. Outwardly she made pretense of consideringhis sentence; her brows crinkled. Inwardly she pretendedherself still vexed with him. She said to herself, "Hemustn't see that I care. He must be taught his lesson."

"You're a bit old-fashioned, aren't you, Jimmy?" sheprevaricated at last.

"Perhaps I am." Affection made him suddenly the schoolboy."But it's devilish awkward, isn't it; this--this businessabout your sister?"

"Awkward!" Mollie's loyalty stiffened her to discardprevarication. "I don't think it's awkward. I think it'sjolly rough luck on Aliette and Mr. Cavendish. Hector knowsperfectly well they'd get married if he'd only set her free. Ithink Hector's a cad. Alie told him everything before shewent. He knows jolly well she'll never go back to him. Whyshould she? A man doesn't own a woman for ever and everjust because he happens to marry her."

The speech roused Jimmy to an unwonted height of imagination.He saw himself marrying Mollie, quarreling withMollie; saw Mollie running away from him, as Aliette hadrun away from Hector.

"So if you married a man, you wouldn't consider yourselftied to him for life?"

"Certainly not. Not if he didn't behave decently."

The girl's eyes were brave enough, but a shiver of apprehensionran through her body. She thought: "He couldn'tcare for anybody who said that sort of thing to him." Jimmyseemed to be considering her statement, weighing it up. Itcame to her instinctively that they were at the crisis of theirlives.

"And if he behaved well to you?" The words seemedfraught with meaning.

"Why, then"--she could feel herself shivering, shiveringfrom the soles of her feet to the roots of her bobbed hair--"then--therewouldn't be any need for me to run away fromhim."

Their eyes met; brown eyes searching violet. Their eyeslit with mutual understanding. Self-consciousness desertedher; deserted them both. She was conscious of him--close toher--seizing her hands--speaking rapidly, unrestrainedly:

"I've been a rotter--an absolute rotter, darling. I oughtto have warned you the moment I found out. I ought to havetold you that it didn't make any difference. It hasn't, itcan't make any difference, not the slightest difference. Nothingthat your sister may have done, may do, can affect us oneway or the other. It's you I want to marry, not your sister."

"Jimmy!"

He was conscious of his arms round her--of his lips on hers--ofher yielding to his kisses--returning them.

The gush of Jimmy's passion, of her own, frightened thegirl. Somehow she freed herself from his kisses; and stoodupright, tremulous, blushing a little, stammering a little, altogetherincoherent.

"Jimmy, you mustn't, you oughtn't to. It isn't fair tome. It's not fair to Alie."

"What's she got to do with it?" Mollie could see the bigvein on her lover's forehead throb to each syllable. "What'sshe got to do with us?"

"Everything." For a moment the girl felt herself thestronger. "Everything. It isn't fair. Can't you see why itisn't fair? How can I marry you?" Her voice broke."How can I take my happiness while Alie's an outcast? Sheis an outcast. You wouldn't, you couldn't let her come toour wedding."

"Then you care for your sister more than you care forme?" interrupted Wilberforce, shirking the issue.

"I don't! I don't!" Strength had gone out of Mollie;she felt herself weak, incapable. "It isn't that. It isn't thata bit. Only I can't take my happiness while Alie's miserable.She is miserable, though she won't admit it. Don't you seehow rotten it would be of me if I married you--with thingsas they are?"

"No, I don't." Her recalcitrance angered him.

"You must. Jimmy," softly, "you do want me to be happywith you, don't you?"

"Of course I want you to be happy with me." His angerrelented. "I'd do anything in the world to make youhappy."

"Would you, dear?"

"Rather. Only tell me what it is."

"It's only Alie." Loyalty strung her to the sacrifice."Only Alie. Can't you do something for her? You're alawyer; you know how these things are managed. Oh, do,please do something to help her, to help"--the young voicedwindled to a whisper--"to help both of us. Jimmy, I dowant to marry you. I want to marry you most awfully. ButI simply can't even promise to marry you with things as theyare. It wouldn't be decent of me. Honestly it wouldn't.It wouldn't be decent of either of us. It wouldn't be playingthe game."

They faced each other, half in love and half in hostility.

"You really mean that, Mollie?"

"Yes, I really mean it."

"And if I could manage to do anything?"

"If you only could"--she smiled into his eyes--"therewouldn't be a thing in the world to keep us apart."

Jimmy took the girl in his arms; and again she let herselfanswer his kisses. "I'll move heaven and earth and the lordchancellor," vowed James Wilberforce to that sleek bobbedhead.

4

Betty Masterman, returning, dressed for some mysteriousdinner, on the stroke of seven, found a Mollie who could notdecide herself happy or unhappy; a Mollie whose lips stilltingled from her lover's kisses--but whose eyes still shone withthe tears shed in loyalty to her sister.

1

Before, and even during the war, Christmas day atBruton Street used to be rather a function. On that day,Julia, still the feudalist in her domestic policy, was wont torise earlier than usual, to distribute gifts among her servants,to proceed to church, lunch in some state, and during theafternoon receive such of her friends as had not left town.

This Christmas, Brunton's continued obduracy made functionsimpossible. Waking late to the subdued glimmer of thebed-lamp, to the presence of her maid and the tea-tray, Juliawas 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 whichshe had ever missed going to church.

But gradually, as she bathed, as her maid swathed her in along purple velvet tea-gown, Julia's vitality began to revive.A little of the Christmas spirit entered into her. She recognizedfor how much she had to be thankful; for ample means,for well-trained servants, for a well-tended house, for a mindstill confident of its powers, for a conscience assured in itsright-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-visualizedas yet, but already quickening in the womb of hermentality, had been newly-vivid during the restless night; sothat she was now assured--with that assurance which only thecraftswoman possesses--of another book shortly to be bornfrom her pen. "My last book, perhaps!" she thought; anddreaded, in anticipation, the labor of that book-bearing.

The distribution of the presents tired her. Depression returnedwith the physical fatigue of being gracious. But, oncethe little ceremony was over and she sat waiting for Ronnieand Aliette in the square box of a work-room, the old ladygrew almost fey with the prescience of coming triumph. She,Julia Cavendish, might die, but even in her dying she wouldnot be defeated. By her own unaided strength, by the verysteel of her spirit, she would beat down all obstacles--thelabors of book-bearing, the obduracy of Aliette's husband, thedefections of their friends.

And--in that moment of feyness--Julia knew that the unwrittenbook, her own death, and her son's future were mysteriouslyintertwined; that the only sword which could severthe Gordian knot of Hector Brunton's obduracy was the swordof 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 semblanceof a plan. Ever since her visit to Hermione she had beengrowingly aware of strain, of a strange morbidity. Increasinglyshe felt resentful of her position. Increasingly she reproachedherself 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 hadbecome symbolical of their joint lives. They were "boarding-housepeople"; and even that only under false pretenses.

So far, she had managed to conceal her mental state fromRonnie. Yet she was aware, dimly, of occasional unkindnessesto him, of a tiny retrogression from the standard of happinesswhich 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 aslatternly maid brought them their tea, their lukewarm "hotwater." Ronnie, kept waiting half an hour for his bath,gashed his chin with his razor, and soothed the resultant ill-temperwith one of the cheap cigarettes to which he hadlately taken. Breakfast, in the stuffy communal dining-room,was as cold as the perfunctory Christmas wishes of theirfellow-boarders.

Ponto, developing a cough, had been sent to the vet's.Ronnie, kindling his pipe, suggested that they should "lookup the hound." Aliette refused and he went off by himself.

Aliette returned to their room, and surveyed its untidinesswith a shudder.

"I'm the wrong sort of woman for Ronnie," she said toherself. "I'm not a bit domesticated." And from that,thought switched automatically to the other side of domesticity.Imagination pictured some old-fashioned Christmasin some old-fashioned country cottage; herself mistress of areal home; Ronnie a father; he and she and "they" church-goingalong snow-powdered roads; their return to a boardloaded with goodies. Almost, in that moment, imaginationheard the laughter of unborn children.

But the moment passed, and she knew herself still childless."Better childless," she thought bitterly; and tried, for a wholewretched hour, to bring order into the chaos of their unfriendlyroom; dusting and redusting the melancholy furniture;hanging and rehanging hats and dresses; finally, in sheerdesperate need of distraction, plying Caroline Staley's littlewire brush on a pair of white suède shoes she found hiddenaway in a corner of the wardrobe.

There was dust on the shoes; and, here and there under thedust, a speck of mud. A wire brush--thought Aliette--couldcleanse dust and mud from shoes. But no brush could cleansethe mud and the dust from one's mind. Mind--what wasmind? Her very soul felt itself besmirched. A Hermione'scuriosity, a Mary O'Riordan's ingratitude, the snubs of aLady Siegfried Moss--all these were flecks, undeserved yetineradicable, upon the white surface of one's purity.

She finished cleaning the shoes, and put them aside. Yetthe symbolism of them remained with her. It seemed a bitterand a cruel thing that she must drag her feet through so muchmire, that the wheels of all the world's traffic must bespatterher because--because she had gone to her mate openly and notin secret.

"Not for our sin," she thought, "the penalty; but for thecandor of our sinning"; and so fell to resenting the hypocrisyof a country which winks tolerant eyes at "dancing-partners,""tame cats," "best boys," "fancy-men," and all the ragtagand bobtail of clandestine lovers whom England excuses, tolerates,and even finds romantic. "Only for women suchas I am," thought Aliette, "for those of us who go openlyto our one lover, can England find neither excuse nor toleration."

"Nothing much wrong with the hound," pronounced areturning Ronnie; and then, noticing the unhappiness in hislady's eyes, "Anything the matter, darling?"

"No. Nothing in particular."

Silently Aliette changed her gown, pinned on her hat, andlet him help her with her furs. Silently they made their waydownstairs. 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 Kensingtonstation, Ronnie, too, grew unhappy.

"Poor darling! I wish I could afford taxis," he said; andthroughout the journey to Bruton Street--thinking of theirlong-ago taxi-ride from "Queen's"--a depression almostphysical constrained both to silence.

The arrival at Bruton Street minimized a little of the morning'sdepression. Julia was in her old form, jovially dictatorial.They had brought presents for her: from Ronnie, aplain gold penholder, such as she always used; from Aliette,a trifle of embroidery. Her present, newly-written, lay in anenvelope on her writing-desk. She gave it to Aliette with thecommand, "Don't open it till we've had lunch," just as Katecame in to ask if she should bring in the meal.

3

The "lunch," laid--Aliette noticed--for five, consisted ofgrilled soles, turkey with cranberry sauce, plum-pudding withcream and brandy, mince-pies, and the whole old-fashionedindigestible paraphernalia. Holly decked the Venetian wall-lights;mistletoe hung from the chandelier. But there wereghosts 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 therules of her "medicine-man," took a glass of brandy and acigarette.

"You haven't even looked at my Christmas present," shesaid to Aliette; and she would have liked to add, if the wordshad not seemed so ill-omened, "I sha'n't give you one at allnext year, if you don't take more interest in it."

Aliette reached for her hand-bag (which she had hung, ahabit of hers, on the back of her chair) and took out the envelopeJulia had given her before luncheon. Throughout themeal she had been dreading this moment, because, obviously,the envelope contained a check--and she hated the idea ofaccepting a check from Ronnie's mother. Slitting the flapwith her fruit-knife, picking out the stamped paper, she sawat a glance that the check was for five hundred pounds. Herheart leaped. Five hundred pounds meant freedom fromPowolney Mansions, the possibility of taking some little abodewhere she and Ronnie could be happy. Then reluctance overwhelmedher.

"It's too good of you," she protested. "But I can't, reallyI can't take all this money."

"Rubbish!" snapped Julia in her bruskest manner. "Whyshouldn't you take money from me? All my money reallybelongs to Ronnie. If his father had had any sense he'd haveleft it to him. Besides, you need it. You can't go on stayingat that appalling boarding-house for ever."

"But we can't take it! Can we, man?" Aliette's eyesappealed to Ronnie; who said, trying to be gay: "Youmustn't rob yourself for us, mater."

"I'm not robbing myself. Sir Peter sold three of the LittleOverdine properties a fortnight ago."

"Did he, though? Whom to?"

"The tenants."

"Really!"

Ensued an awkward silence, during which Ronnie stared atthe check, Julia at her "daughter-in-law," and Aliette at thepair 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'sjust because we do need this money that we oughtn't totake it?"

"You're two very stubborn young people," said Julia, halfin anger and half good-humoredly. "But as it's Christmasday, and as I'm nearly old enough to be Aliette's grand-mother,you'll have to humor me." She took the check in herown hands, and returned it to Aliette's bag, which she closedwith a little snap of decision--at the precise moment whenKate announced "Mr. Paul Flower."

The distinguished litterateur entered languidly; extendedboth flabby hands to his hostess; and allowed himself to bepersuaded into drinking a glass of port.

"My dear Paul," remonstrated Julia, glad of the interruption,"you were invited for luncheon, and it's now nearlyhalf-past three."

"My dear Julia,"--the new-comer raised his glass to thelight, and inspected the ruby glow of the wine with some care--"afterall these years you ought to know that I never takeluncheon."

"Not even on Christmas day?" put in Aliette.

"No, dear lady, not even on Christmas day." Paul beganto be epigrammatic; striving to convince them that Christmaswas an essentially pagan function, and that paganism was thefount of all true art. "More especially of my own art," hewent on, pulverizing an imaginary object between thumband forefinger; and immediately became so Rabelaisianthat it needed all Julia's tact to prevent him from narratinghis pet story of the American lady who had visitedhim in Mount Street, "because Texas, Mr. Flower, has noliterature."

"These literary people," thought Aliette, listening to him,"are all peculiar." Yet undoubtedly Paul Flower's harmlessegotism had relieved an awkward situation.

It was nearly a quarter past four by the time that theparty eventually moved upstairs to the drawing-room; nearlyfive before Julia Cavendish, whose brain had been singularlyactive since Paul's arrival, succeeded in leaving him alonewith Aliette while she and Ronnie "went off to the libraryfor a little chat."

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

"Not if you're bent on our keeping it. But I say," hiseyes were troubled, "are you sure it's the right time to sellout the Rutland farms?"

"I'm positive. And Ronnie," she rose from her desk andlaid a hand on his arm, "you'll let me make that allowanceeight 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 thingsrather difficult." She sat down again, and began to fidgetwith the gold pen he had given her. "Young Wilberforcecame to see me yesterday," she said abruptly.

"Jimmy? What did he have to say?"

"A great deal." Julia laughed nervously. "It appearsthat he's sounded Brunton."

"The dickens he has!" Ronnie's brain leaped to the inevitableconclusion. "I suppose that's the result of Mollie'sarrival in London."

"Probably." The mother eyed her son. "'Cherchez lafemme' is not a bad rule when one sits in judgment on theJimmy Wilberforces of this world. However, we can't affordto leave any stone unturned."

"No, I suppose not. Still, I hate people going behind myback. 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 Juliafell to playing with the penholder--"Wilberforce made thesuggestion--mind you, it's only a suggestion--that I shouldtry to get into touch with the admiral."

"I don't see how that could do any good." Ronnie's foreheadwrinkled with thought. "Besides, Aliette would neverconsent. 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 orsucceeded?"

Her son rose from his chair, and took two strides up anddown the little room. "Aliette wouldn't like it," he repeatedstubbornly.

"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 himurged acceptance of the plan. All the schoolmaster Cavendishurged refusal. "It would be going behind her back," he saidat last. "It wouldn't be fair. She ought to be consultedfirst."

"And suppose she refuses?" A little of the old dominancecrept into Julia's voice. "Suppose she refuses? What arewe to do then? Ronnie," the tone rose, "don't you see thatit's our duty, our absolute duty? I don't want to be unkind,but the social position gets more impossible every day. Unlesssomething is done, and done quickly, it'll take the pair ofyou all your lives to live down the scandal."

"I know." His blue eyes saddened. "But there are worsethings than scandal. There's," he seemed to be searchingin his mind for a word, "there's disloyalty."

"Don't be obstinate." She summoned up all her strengthto beat down his opposition. "Do trust me. Do let me writeto the admiral. I used to know him years ago. That mighthelp."

"Yes. But suppose it doesn't! Suppose you fail? SupposeAlie finds out?"

"If I fail, we shall be no worse off than when I started. Asfor Aliette finding out, you can tell her if you like. Onlydon'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 extraallowance."

"Very well. That shall be as you wish."

They came back, a little guilty, to the drawing-room. Aliettewas laughing. Hearing her laugh, it seemed to Ronnie asthough the tension of the morning had relaxed.

4

But the tension between them did not relax; rather, in thosefew days which followed Christmas, they came nearer to quarrelingthan ever before. The paying in of Julia's check raisedthe money question again. Ronnie wanted Aliette to use itimmediately, to buy herself some clothes, to take a holiday.Aliette demurred.

"We can't stay here forever," she protested, eying thescratched 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 themoment."

"You are."

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

So the game went on--the fact of their not being legallymarried and the sense of isolated responsibility which eachfelt for the other's happiness, making mountains out of everymolehill.

1

Ever since the contretemps at Patrick O'Riordan's first-night--althoughhis sense of family solidarity would havegiven much to admit his eldest son entirely in the right--Rear-AdmiralBilly's sense of chivalry had been troubling him.From whatever angle he considered Hector's conduct, thecruelty of it was apparent. Moreover, he and Aliette had alwaysbeen "jolly good pals," and he hated "parting brass-ragswith the little woman" who, all said and done, had beenperfectly "aboveboard."

Nor was it only this "aboveboardness" on the part of hisdaughter-in-law which worried the admiral, but the knowledge,acquired quite fortuitously, and therefore relegated to thebackground of his memory, of his son's first infidelity to her.

Always a religious man, though never a formal religionist,Rear-Admiral Billy worshiped a god of his own in his ownway. But this god--a peculiar combination of the laws ofcricket, navy discipline, family feeling, and sheer sentimentalism--foundin Julia Cavendish's short, carefully worded noteso insoluble a problem that within half an hour of its arrivalthe admiral sent his stable-boy on a bicycle to summon Adrian.

Adrian mounted his cock-throppled nag and rode over toMoor Park. Said Adrian, who knew his father better thanmost sons: "Naturally, sir, you won't go?"

Whereupon Adrian's father, after damning the episcopalianeyes for narrow-minded bigotry, dashed off a characteristicscrawl to say that, he "would take pleasure in calling on Mrs.Cavendish on the following Monday, December 30, at3:30 P.M."

2

It was exactly twenty-five years since "the young Mrs.Cavendish," whose second novel had already laid the foundation-stoneof her literary reputation, danced the old-fashionedwaltz with Commander Brunton of her Majesty's ChinaSquadron, newly returned from foreign service; but the pleasantbygone meeting came back clearly to Julia's mind as sherose from her sofa to welcome the bearded figure in the cutawaycoat and sponge-bag trousers.

This present meeting, both felt, was not going to be pleasant.On the contrary, it was going to be very awkward: its purposepresenting a social stile over which even their good breedingand the similarity of their castes must inevitably stumble.

However, after a good deal of finesse on Julia's part, andvarious high-falutin compliments from her visitor, the admiralmanaged to stumble over it first, with a gallant:

"Mrs. Cavendish, I fancy I've a pretty shrewd idea whyyou sent for me."

"It's nice of you to come to the point, admiral," said anequally gallant Julia; and then, taking opportunity by theforelock, "Your son isn't behaving very well, is he?"

The father in Rear-Admiral Billy bristled. "He's behavingwithin his rights. Your son hasn't behaved over-well,either."

"If you think that," the mother in Julia met brusqueriewith brusquerie, "why did you come and see me?"

The sailor in Rear-Admiral Billy cuddled his beard."Damned if I know why I came," he ejaculated. "We can'tdo anything, either of us. Young people are the very deuce.I don't know what your son's like, but mine's as obstinateas a mule."

"You've spoken to your son then?" The novelist in Juliacould not restrain a smile at her opponent's incapacity as adiplomat.

"Spoken to him? Of course I've spoken to him. I've donenothing else but speak to him." The sailor waxed confidential."But what's the use? Sons don't care a cuss about theirfathers nowadays, nor about their mothers, either."

"I'm sure mine does."

"Don't you believe it. None of 'em care about their parents.They call us 'Victorians'--whatever that may mean.Ungrateful young puppies!"

Seeing her man mollified and disposed for confidences, Juliathought it best to let him "return to his muttons" in hisown way.

"Nice little woman, Aliette," he said, apropos of nothingin particular. "Not like these up-to-date hussies."

"A charming woman, I call her."

"Pity her kicking over the traces like this."

"You're sorry for her, then?"

"Sorry for her? Of course I'm sorry for her. I'm sorryfor any woman who makes a hash of things. But that"--thedisciplinarian, finding that the luxurious room and the pleasantcreature on the sofa were both affecting his judgment,momentarily revolted--"that don't alter facts. Marriage ismarriage; and if your son runs away with my son's wife, youcan't expect me to sympathize with either of 'em."

"But surely," Julia nearly purred, "surely, my dear admiral--sympathyapart--your son doesn't intend----"

"My dear lady,"--the disciplinarian in Billy subsided--"ifI only knew what my son did intend, I might be able tohelp you. Whenever I try to talk to him about this business,he just shuts me up. What has your son got to say?"

And suddenly both of them began to laugh. Old age, thegreatest tie in the world, made them for the moment peculiarlycomrades. In the light of that comradeship, the young, eventheir own young, seemed less pathetic than to be envied."After all," they thought, "it's all very sad; but it's worsefor us than for them. They do get some fun out of these affairs.We don't. We only get the trouble; and we're too oldfor troubles."

"It isn't so much the scandal I mind," broke in the admiral,voicing their mutual idea; "it's the damned upset of the wholebusiness. I like a quiet life, you know. And that seems theone thing one simply can't get nowadays. Not for love normoney."

For fully ten minutes they wandered away from the purposein hand; discussing first their own era, then his profession,then her profession.

"Talking about books," said the admiral, "give me Surtees."

Truth to tell, the pair were rather enjoying themselves.Both belonged to the conversational school of an earlier day;and the flow of conversation was so satisfactory that--finally--itneeded all Julia's strength of will, all her love for herson, to interpolate a crisp, "We don't seem to have come to anydecision. You will try and do something, won't you, admiral?"

The sailor interrupted himself sufficiently to manage acourteous, "But, my dear lady, what can I do?"

"Couldn't you talk to your son again? Couldn't you tellhim that he's doing himself just as much harm as he's doinghis wife?"

"I have told him that. He says he doesn't care."

"And your other son? You have another son, haven't you,a clergyman?"

"Oh, Adrian! Adrian's no good to us. Hector doesn'tlike him. Still,"--after all, thought the admiral, one reallyought to do something for a woman who lived in Bruton Street--"Imight get him to talk to Hector. I might even have anothertalk with Hector myself. But I'm afraid it'll be quiteuseless. You see, Mrs. Cavendish, neither of my sons is aman of the world. That's the whole trouble. Alie isn't awoman of the world, either. Between men and women of theworld, these situations don't occur. At least, they didn't inour day. Not often."

"I rather agree with you. Still, we have to take life aswe find it."

"Exactly, exactly." The old man waved a hairy-backedhand. "Nobody can say that I'm old-fashioned. Divorcedon't mean what it did in my young days. And besides--I'mdevilish fond of little Alie."

"Then I can rely upon your help?" smiled Ronnie's mother.

"Absolutely, dear lady, absolutely."

Ringing the bell for Kate to see her guest out, Julia Cavendishfelt that she had at last found an ally; but the feelingwas tinged with apprehension--reticence, she gathered, notbeing the admiral's strong point.

3

The admiral, making his way up Bruton Street, and alongBerkeley Street toward his club, felt not only apprehensivebut a trifle foolish. He had intended to be so very much onhis dignity, so very much on his guard. Instead of which----

"That's a damn clever woman," he said to himself, half inadmiration, half in annoyance. "An infernally clever woman.Wormed everything out of me, she did, just as if I'd been aninnocent snotty. Not that I ever met an innocent snotty.Confound it, I've let myself in for something this trip. Haveanother talk with Hector! Made me promise that, she did."

For frankly, the admiral funked the idea of having anothertalk with Hector. One never knew how to tackle Hector."Hector was such a damned unreasonable dumb-facedpuppy!"

Cruising along Piccadilly, a mid-Victorian figure in theinevitable top-hat, with the inevitable white spats and theinevitable malacca cane, the admiral wondered whether hehadn't better get Simeon to tackle Hector, Adrian to tackleHector, any one other than himself to tackle Hector--and sowondering, nearly rammed Hector's wife.

The meeting, completely unexpected, entirely unavoidable,flurried the parties. But the sailor recovered his wits first; andAliette, wavering between the impulse to pass on without bowingand the desire to smile and fly, knew herself cornered.Automatically she extended a hand, which her father-in-lawsqueezed in a firm clasp.

"Hello, my dear, whither away?" he asked in his bluffest,heartiest manner.

"Nowhere in particular," answered Aliette shyly.

"Then you can walk me as far as the club." He took herarm and steered her masterfully along the pavement. Itflashed across his mind, "Bless her heart, she didn'twant to recognize me. After all, she is a lady. She is oneof us."

"Quaint--our meeting this afternoon," he volunteeredaloud.

"Why this afternoon, Billy?"

Billy thought, guiltily, "Perhaps I oughtn't to tell her,"but the words were out of his mouth before thought couldrestrain them: "Because I've just come from BrutonStreet."

"Bruton Street!" She panicked at that; and tried to releaseher arm. "Billy, I'm sure you oughtn't to be seenwalking with me."

"Stuff and nonsense, my dear! Stuff and nonsense!" Theold man, gripping her arm all the tighter, lowered his voicein conspiratorial sympathy. "We ain't either of us criminals.Why shouldn't we be seen walking together? Besides, youand I've got to have a little chat. Between you and me andthe gatepost, Mrs. Cavendish has been asking my advice aboutthings. Naturally, I had to tell her that I thought you'dbehaved pretty badly to Hector. Still," he patted her armblatantly, "that's no reason why Hector should behave badlyto you, is it?"

And for a full five minutes--all the way from DevonshireHouse to the door of his club--chivalry had its way with Rear-AdmiralBilly Brunton. He called her his "dear Alie," heassured her that he'd "fix up the whole business," and thatshe was to "rely upon him." He even managed to rememberthat she would like news of Miracle, and to inquire afterPonto.

Listening, Aliette's heart warmed. Billy seemed so hopeful,so sympathetic. And she needed both hope and sympathy thatafternoon: for latterly the tension between her and Ronniehad become almost unbearable, vitiating every hour, accentuatingthe loneliness of outlawry, till outlawry--in comparisonwith retrogression from their standard of happiness--appearedonly a trivial sorrow.

They arrived at the club. "Tell you what you'd betterdo," said Billy, "you'd better come in and drink a dish oftea. We've got a ladies room at the Jag-and-Bottle thesedays. Too early for a cocktail, I'm afraid. That's what youneed. You're looking peaky."

"You're a dear, Billy," retorted Aliette, at last disengagingher arm. "But you mustn't be a silly dear. You know perfectlywell that you can't take me in there"; and, cuttingshort the old man's protests, she bolted.

4

As he watched his daughter-in-law's fur-coated figure, thelittle shoes thereunder and the little hat a-top, recede fromview up Piccadilly, chivalry still had its way with the sailor'ssentimental soul. He had promised Julia Cavendish that hewould tackle Hector--and, by jingo, he would tackle Hector.

So, navy discipline and the laws of cricket alike allottinghim the role of knight-errant, he drew a fat watch from hisfob-pocket, consulted it, waved the malacca at a crawling taxi-driver,ordered him peremptorily: "The Temple, Embankmententrance," and stepped aboard.

The admiral anchored his taxi on the Embankment; strodethrough the gates, up Middle Temple Lane, and across King'sBench Walk. David Patterson, rising superciliously from thedesk in the outer office of Brunton's chambers to inquire astranger's business in vacation-time, encountered a curt, "Tellmy son that his father wants to see him," and disappearedwithin.

"What the devil does he want?" Hector Brunton lookedup from a letter he was studying; rose to his big feet, andstraddled himself before the fire as his subdued clerk usheredhis father through the doorway.

"This is an unexpected honor, sir," said Hector Brunton,K.C.

The old man took off his top-hat, laid it among the paperson the desk; retained his malacca; and sat himself down pompouslyon an imitation mahogany chair.

"I've come to talk to you about your wife," he began tactlessly;and without more ado plunged into a recital of his interviewwith Julia Cavendish and his chance meeting withAliette, concluding: "And if you take my advice, the bestthing you can do is to start an action for divorce."

"As I told you before, sir," broke in the K.C., who hadlistened with restrained anger to his father's recital, "I regretI cannot take that advice." The hands trembled behindhis back. "If I may say so, I consider that you've put meentirely in the wrong by calling on Mrs. Cavendish."

"Oh, you do, do you?" The old man, already sufficientlyexcited for one afternoon by his interview with the two ladies,felt his temper getting the better of him. "You do, do you?Well, I don't. Mrs. Cavendish is a very delightful woman. Awoman of the world."

"Is that all you came to tell me, sir?" Hector's gray eyessmoldered.

"No, sir." The senior service beard bristled. "I came tohave this matter out once and for all. I came to tell you thatyou're not behaving like a gentleman."

"So you said before, sir. And I repeat the answer I gaveyou then. I see no reason why I should behave like a gentlemanto a wife who hasn't behaved like a lady."

"Two blacks don't make a white, Hector."

"Possibly." The K.C. gathered up the tails of hismorning-coat, and sat down, as though to terminate the discussion.

But the old man, gloved hands glued on the handle of themalacca, stuck to his guns. "Black's black and white'swhite," he rumbled dogmatically. "You won't whitewashyourself by throwing mud at your wife. I didn't want to goand see the Cavendish woman. I've always stood by my ownand I always shall, so long as they stand by me. A man'sfirst duty is to his family."

"Exactly my opinion, sir."

"Then why not act on it?" The admiral fumed. "D'youthink this business is doing me any good? D'you think it'snice for Adrian, or Simeon, or Simeon's wife, to hear youtalked about all over London----"

"A man has his rights and I mean to assert mine. Let Londontalk if it likes." Aliette's husband spoke resolutelyenough, yet he was conscious of a tremor in his voice. Moreand more now the thought of Aliette made him feel uncertainof himself. "Let London talk!" he repeated. "My wife'smade a fool of me. She and young Cavendish between themhave dragged my name in the dirt. May I remind you, sir,that it's your name, too----"

"All the more reason, then, to drag it out of the dirt. Youwon't do that by continuing to behave"--the sailor's rage gotthe better of him--"like a cad."

At that, Hector Brunton forgot himself. His left handthumped furiously on the desk. "You tell me I'm behavinglike a cad, sir. What about this bastard Cavendish! Whatabout the man who seduced my wife from her allegiance?He's the gentleman, I presume. Well--let the gentlemankeep his strumpet----"

"By God, Hector"--the old man's eyes blazed,--"you area cad."

The K.C. quaked at the red fury in his father's look.Weakly he tried to take refuge in silence; but the next words--wordsuttered almost of their own volition--stung him outof silence.

"Who are you to talk of keeping strumpets?"

"Sir----"

"Be quiet, sir. D'you take me for a fool? D'you thinkI don't know--d'you think London doesn't know"--theadmiral's gall mastered him completely--"about thestrumpet you kept--kept without your wife's knowledge--keptin luxury for two years while other men were beingkilled----"

"Really, sir, I protest----"

"Protest then, and be damned to you. That's all you lawyersare fit for--protesting. Christ Almighty, you're worsethan parsons. Talk of your rights, would you? Preciousgood care you took not to fight for other people's rights whenyou had a chance. Why, even Adrian----"

"I fail to see, sir----" Hector Brunton's face whitened,as the face of a man hit by a bullet whitens, at the taunt.

"You fail to see a good many things, sir." The admiralreached for his hat. "Allow me to tell you one of them--thatthe man who permits his wife to live with somebody elsewithout taking any steps to get rid of her, is a common orgarden pimp."

And the senior service, having said considerably morethan it intended, marched out of the door.

5

Left alone, the K.C.'s first feeling was relief. During thelast weeks he had grown more and more resentful of hisfather's interference. And now he had finished with hisfather for good.

Nevertheless, the taunt about his war-service rankled.Rankled, too, the admiral's last sentence, "Get rid of her.""God, if only I could get her back," thought Hector; andso thinking, remembered, as born orators will remember pastspeeches, his opening in the Ellerson case, his impassioneddefense of woman's right to free citizenship.

Then he remembered Renée. Renée had returned to England.How the devil had his father found out about Renée?Aliette, of course! Aliette must have told his father aboutRenée.

Hector's gorge rose. He took a cigar from the box on hisdesk, lit it, and began to stride slowly up and down the book-linedroom. Alternatively he visioned Renée, greedy, compliant,satisfying to nausea, and Aliette--Aliette the ultra-fastidious,infinitely unsatisfying. His marriage to a womanof Aliette's temperament had been a mistake. A mistake!Best cut one's loss--best get rid of her. Best comply with hisfather's wishes. And yet--how desirable, how infernally andeternally desirable was Aliette.

The mood passed, leaving only rage in its wake. CurseAliette! Curse his father! Curse the Cavendishes! Howthey would laugh if he yielded. They were all persecutinghim, trying to break him. And "They sha'n't break me," hemuttered; his teeth biting on the cigar till they met throughthe sodden leaf. "They sha'n't break me."

Hector returned to his desk, and tried to absorb himselfonce more in study. But his mind refused its office. It seemedto him as though there were a ghost in the room, the ghost ofhis wife. "I wonder if she ever thinks of me. I wonder ifshe ever sees me--as I see her," he thought. "As I am seeingher now."

6

That afternoon, however, there was no picture of her legalowner in Aliette's mind. For months he had been recedingfurther and further into the background of her thoughts, tillnow he had become more a menace than a man. It surprisedher, as she walked slowly up Piccadilly after her meetingwith Hector's father, to realize how little Hector had evermattered, how much--always--Ronnie. Ronnie would be gladperhaps, to hear of her meeting with the admiral.

"Dear old Billy!" she thought, "dear old Billy!" Andthinking about him, a rare tinge of selfishness streaked heraltruism. Suppose Billy succeeded! Suppose Hector reallydid set her free! How wonderful to be "respectable" again--tobe done with the make-believe "Mrs. Cavendish" ofPowolney Mansions, to be really and truly and legally Ronnie's!Always Ronnie had been splendid, loyalest of lovers;and yet--and yet--even in the shelter of a lover's arms onewas conscious of outlawry, of the world's ostracism. Whatif, soon perhaps, the lover's arms were to be a husband's?

But at that, illusions burst as bubbles in the breeze. Oncemore the tension of the past days strung Aliette's mind tomisery. She was an outlaw, a woman apart--a woman ostracized--worse,a woman who had failed her mate. Memory,killing illusions, cast itself back, remembering and exaggeratingher every little unloving word, her every little unlovinggesture, blaming her for them. "My fault," thought Aliette,"mine and mine only. I have been selfish to him. Utterlyselfish. I've been--like I used to be with Hector."

Thought threw up its line, horrified at the comparison; and,abruptly conscious of every-day life, Aliette found herself inBerkeley Square. Automatically she turned down BrutonStreet.

The mere name of the street--newly-painted in black blockletters on gray stone--reminded her again of Billy, of Billy'svisit to Julia Cavendish. At whose instigation, his own orhers, had the admiral visited Ronnie's mother? Hope roseagain; but now, with hope, mingled despair. Had she so farfailed Ronnie as to have forfeited his confidence?

Still walking automatically, Aliette found herself facing themahogany door of Julia's house, and rang the bell.

"Yes," said Kate, "Mrs. Cavendish was at home, and alone.Would Mrs. Ronnie" (it was an understood thing in the basementof Bruton Street that Aliette should be referred to as"Mrs. Ronnie") "like some tea?"

"Thank you, Kate. That would be very nice." Aliette,unannounced, went slowly up the print-hung staircase; tappedon the drawing-room door; heard a faint "Come in"; andturned the handle.

Ronnie's mother lay on the sofa. She looked white, exhausted;but her lips framed themselves to a smile.

"I may come in, mayn't I?" Aliette's misery increased atthe sight of her hostess's pallor. "Kate's promised to bringme some tea. I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

"My dear, you're always welcome. Come and sit here byme." Julia made place on the sofa, and Aliette sat down.

"I wonder why she came this afternoon," mused the elderwoman. "I wonder if, by any chance, she can have found out.Awkward, if she has found it. Very awkward." But therewas no tremor of guilt in her, "How's Ronnie?"

"Quite well, thank you."

"And you?"

"Oh, I'm all right. A little worried, that's all."

"Worried? What about?"

"Oh, various things."

Kate, bringing the tea, interrupted their conversation.Watching Aliette as she drank, Julia saw that the hands, usuallyso steady, trembled. "Can't you tell me about the worries?"she said kindly.

"There's nothing--really." Aliette's voice trembled as herhands. "Only I--I--met Hector's father just now. Andsomehow--it rather made me realize--my position."

"Did he tell you," Julia's courage fought with her fatigue,"that he'd been to see me?"

"He did." Aliette put down her tea-cup on the littlemahogany stand. "May I know--did you send for him?"

"Yes. I sent for him." A smile. "You mustn't be angrywith me."

"But why--why wasn't I told about it?"

"Then you are angry?" Another smile.

"Not angry. Only a little hurt."

"Hurt! Why? It was done in your interests." The oldeyes looked into the young. "We thought that, if we consultedyou, you mightn't allow it."

"We! Then Ronnie"--the young eyes looked into the old--"Ronnieknew. And he never told me--he never toldme."

"It wasn't Ronnie's fault." Julia laid a hand on Aliette'sshoulder.

At the touch, it seemed to the younger woman as though allthe misery of the past days stabbed to one dagger-point of pain.Jealousy wrenched at her tongue. She wanted to cry out, "Oh,you're cruel, cruel. Why can't you tell me the truth, thetruth?" But the pain stabbed her dumb; stabbed and stabbedtill her mind was one unbearable tension of self-torture.Ronnie no longer loved her. Ronnie only wanted to do hisduty by her. And it was her own fault, her very own, ownestfault, for not having loved him enough.

And then, suddenly, the tension snapped--leaving her weak,defenseless.

"You're so good--so much too good to me," falteredAliette. "So infinitely better than I deserve. If only--ifonly I hadn't brought all this trouble into your life."

"Nonsense, child," said Julia bruskly--for, despite herown weariness, she recognized hysterics in the other's voice.

"It isn't nonsense. I've brought you only troubles--troubles."

"Don't be foolish. The troubles, as you call them, arenothing. Nothing at all in comparison with Ronnie's happiness."

"Happiness!" Now hysteria was blatant in the other'severy word. "Happiness! How can I make him happy?I can't--can't even make a home for him. All I've done is to--tolet him keep me--in a--in a boarding-house."

"You're overtired, child. Overwrought. Otherwise youwouldn't talk like that." The brusquerie had given place toa quiet understanding tenderness; the hand tightened onAliette's shoulder. "I tell you, you have brought happinessinto our lives. Into Ronnie's life and into mine. Nothing thateither of us could ever do----"

"But I'm not worth it. I'm not worth it." Tear-choked,Aliette seized Julia's hand and pressed it to her lips. "I'vebeen rotten--rotten to your son. That's why he didn't tellme about Billy."

"Rubbish!" Resolutely the elder woman withdrew herhand. "Utter rubbish! It was entirely my fault that youweren't told about the admiral."

"Your fault?" A ray of hope illumined the brown eyes.

"Yes. Ronnie wanted you to know. But I overpersuadedhim."

Silently the blue eyes held the brown, till--gradually--self-controlcame back to Aliette; till--gradually--she realizedthe tension gone from her brain.

"I'm sorry," she began. "I don't often make scenes."

"My dear"--exhausted, Julia lay back on the cushions--"youneedn't apologize. No one understands better than Ithat life isn't altogether easy for you. But don't lose yourpluck. Believe me, it'll all come out right now that we havethe admiral on our side."

"Billy hasn't much influence over Hector." There was nofear, only certainty in the statement. "Hector's so vain. It'shis vanity, only his vanity that prevents him from giving memy freedom."

"One day he'll be forced to give you your freedom. But,"of a sudden, anxiety crept into Julia's tired voice, "if hedoesn't? What if he doesn't give you your freedom, child?"

"Even if he doesn't,"--proudly, all the misery of the pastdays forgotten, Aliette took up the unspoken challenge--"evenif he never does,"--proudly, all her being resuffused withhappy courage, she rose to her feet--"it will make no difference.Whatever happens, I shall always be your son's--Ishall always be Ronnie's."

And bending down, she sealed the promise with a farewellkiss--a kiss whose memory lingered with Julia long afterAliette had gone, comforting her against the prescience whichhad prompted that unspoken challenge, even against theprescience of death.

1

Even average people, when obsessed by the grand passion--whichis a far rarer passion among Anglo-Saxons thanAnglo-Saxon novelists would have us believe--cannot bejudged by average standards. Such are as surely bound tothe wheels of terror as to the wheels of courage. In such,strength and weakness, misery and ecstasy, love's heaven andlove's hell, mingle as wax and honey in the comb. For thegrand passion is the sublime exaggerator of human emotion,the indefinable complex of the soul.

So, to Aliette, returning from her interview with Julia,it seemed as though London's self had altered its countenance,as though every face encountered on her homeward way spokeof her own newly-regained happiness. Her momentary changeof feeling toward Ronnie had been trivial; an undercurrentof misunderstanding rather than an overt quarrel. Yet therelief of knowing it over was tremendous.

She found him huddled in the armchair before the gas-fire;Ponto, surreptitiously introduced into Powolney Mansions,couched at his feet. He rose as she entered; and the great dog,wagging a delighted stern, rose with him. In a flash of newinsight, she saw how alike they were: the big man and thebig dog--devoted both, both asking only kindness. Andwhimsically she thought: "I've been unkind to both of them.I ought to have gone to see Ponto when he was ill. I oughtnever to have let myself drift away, even in thought, fromRonnie."

As always, Ponto nuzzled his great head against her knee;Ronnie, as always, kissed her. But that night, as never sinceChilworth nights, Aliette answered Ronnie's kisses, givinghim all her confidence, all her tenderness.

"No more quarrels, man. No more secrets," she whispereddrowsily, falling to sleep in his arms.

"Quarrels, darling?" he whispered back. "We couldn'treally quarrel--you and I."

And after that, for many a day, their rose-bubble of enchantment--thefrail yet impermeable magic of the grand passion--reblewitself about those twain, isolating them from theirfellows, making even Powolney Mansions a paradise.

For many a day neither spiritual nor material troublesclouded the bright mirror of their joint happiness. Scarcelyconscious of the discomforts in which they lived; utterly unconsciousof the nascent hostility--a hostility based on somerumor which had arisen none knew whence and was tendingnone knew whither--among their fellow-boarders; carelessalike of financial difficulties, of outlawry, and of ostracism,they went their way among their uncaring kind.

The high courts were closed; and so far, despite the promisesof John Cartwright, neither county nor police courtsafforded Ronnie a single brief. Wherefore he and Aliette madeholiday together, with London for their playground. Wandering,Ponto at heel, her streets and her parks, her squaresand her terraces, they knew the keen radium of London'smorning, her smoke-gray half-lights, the red-gold radiance ofher dimmed sunsets, the first out-twinkle of her street-lamps,faintly green against a faintly violet sky, her high eveningarcs, and the long lit saffron parallels of her mysteriousnights.

And one day, wandering casually beside London's river,wandering, to be exact, through Fulham and over PutneyBridge, they knew that, by sheerest accident, they had foundthem a home.

To a Lady Hermione or a Lady Cynthia, EmbankmentHouse, a great red building-block which overlooks the Thames,would have been the last word in discomfort. Except for theautomatic lift (into which Ronnie, Aliette, Ponto, and theuniformed porter who showed them over, squeezed only asasparagus into a tin), and the gas-cooker left in the tiny top-floorkitchen by an absconding tenant, no luxuries whatsoeverameliorated the bareness of Flat 27, Block B. It was, in fact,hardly more than the model working-man's tenement of itsoriginal builder's dream. But since it possessed five tolerablerooms, the possibility of installing a geyser bath, and, aboveall things, its own front door, they decided instantaneouslyon its acquirement, seeking out the secretary of the house andpaying the requisite deposit of a quarter's rent that veryafternoon.

So excited were both at the prospect of domestic privacy,so engrossed with their plans for expending Julia's Christmaspresent to best advantage, that two incidents which--at anyother time--would have been of immense importance, passedalmost unnoticed. The first of these incidents was Rear-AdmiralBilly's written confession of failure, and the second--"thescandal of Powolney Mansions." For the rumor whichhad arisen none knew whence, the rumor that "Mrs. Cavendishwasn't really Mrs. Cavendish at all, but the wife of a well-knownsociety man who refused to divorce her," at last blewso strongly that Monsieur (who before the war would havecalled himself Herr) Mayer, proprietor of the Mansions, felthimself finally obliged to take notice of it.

"Of course, I ask you no questions, Mr. Cavendish," saidMonsieur Mayer, seated undistinguished at the dusty desk inhis private office. "Of course I ask you and your wife noquestions. Your private affairs are your private affairs. Butin a boarding-house it is not always possible to keep one'sprivate affairs private; and there has been talk, much talk.That Miss Greenwell, she who have No. 26, and pay less thanany one in the house, she gossip all the time. She gossip aboutyou and Mrs. Cavendish. For my part," he waved a deprecatoryhand, "I know it is only gossip. I make no suggestion.To me, so long as you pay your bill at the end of the week, itis all right."

To which Ronnie, in his most cautious legal manner, retorted:

"If Miss Greenwell or any of your other guests wish to makeimputations against myself or my wife, I shall be glad ifthey will make them to me personally"--and promptly gavea fortnight's notice.

"Dash the fellow's impertinence." he laughed to Aliette,when he reported the interview. "There's no law in Englandto stop you from calling yourself Mrs. Cavendish." ButAliette, looking up from the wall-paper pattern-book she wasstudying, did not laugh; because intuitively she knew thepower behind Miss Greenwell's throne.

"Hector's doing," she thought. "Somehow or other hemust have put the tale about." And in that moment, for thefirst time, she began to despise her legal owner.

There was neither fear nor hate in her despising; only disdainand a crystallization of courage. That Hector shouldtry to hurt her man financially seemed unsporting enough;but this latest secret effort to drive them shelterless into thestreets of London put him, in her eyes, definitely beyond thepale.

All the same, for the last fortnight of their stay, "Mr. andMrs. Cavendish" more than ever eschewed the public apartmentsand "congenial society" of Powolney Mansions.

2

Meanwhile, for the only character in our story who was notdirectly concerned with the feud of the Bruntons and theCavendishes--to wit, Betty Masterman--the average metropolitanlife went on. Betty Masterman, however, treatingher self-invited guest with that lavish hospitality which providesbed and board without asking even companionship inexchange, lunching out, dining out, dancing and theatering,visiting and being visited by a horde of acquaintances, knewa good deal more about the progress of the feud than she confidedto Mollie, and vastly more than Mollie confided to her.

Betty knew, for instance, that Hector Brunton, had it notbeen for the now full-blown scandal of his wife's desertion,would have been offered his knighthood; that Julia Cavendish,for the identical reason, had not been made a dame ofthe British Empire; that Dot Fancourt who, it was rumored,had been captured in betrothal by a middle-aged spinster ofmarkedly reactionary views, never tired of lamenting "dearJulia's mistaken devotion to her son"; and that Sir PeterWilberforce, whose baronetcy had been duly announced inthe New Year's honors, was more than anxious that his sonshould get married.

To the grass-widow, it must be confessed, the feud itselfseemed as petty as its ramifications ludicrous. Her own affair--theaffair of the known husband who wrote every monthfrom Toowoomba, Queensland, and the unknown lover whowrote almost every day from Queen's Gate, London--had alwaysbeen one of those semi-public secrets which leave no speckupon the escutcheon. Aliette's method, therefor, appeared inher estimation foolish--though not quite so unnecessarilyfoolish as the scruples which prevented Mollie Fullerfordfrom accepting the obvious heart and equally obvious hand ofher Jimmy.

"Sorry, dear," Betty used to say, "but I can't see it.Either you're in love with the man or you're not. If youare in love with him, why on earth don't you marry him?He's got plenty of money; you've got a little money; anduntil you're tired of one another it ought to be ideal."

"You needn't be so beastly cynical," Mollie, ignorant ofQueen's Gate, used to protest. "Just because your own marriagewasn't a success, there's no reason why mine shouldn'tbe. But I'm not going to marry Jimmy until he's arrangedthings between Alie and her husband."

"Suppose he can't arrange them, my dear?"

"Of course he can arrange them if he really wants to.He's a lawyer."

"You absolutely refuse to marry him until he does?"

"Absolutely."

Despite which repeated assurance, Mollie Fullerford knewthat her decision weakened daily. It was all very well to pretendto Jimmy when he called, as he constantly did call, thatthere could be no hope for him until her wishes had been carriedout; all very well, for the moment, to be reluctant in hand-clasps,grudging with kisses. But "that sort of thing"couldn't go on. It wasn't--Aliette's phrase--"dignified."

And besides--she felt herself growing far too fond of Jimmyfor half-love. She wanted Jimmy; wanted him very badly;wanted him worse than she had ever wanted anything in herlife. In point of fact--it had come to that now--she couldn't"jolly well live without Jimmy"; and would undoubtedlyhave yielded to Jimmy's persistence before the spring, hadit not been for Eva Martin's interference.

That resolute lady of the cold blue eyes, the fading goldhair, and the hard unpleasant hands came to London early inJanuary with the avowed intention of "putting mattersstraight once and for all." With Aliette, invited to luncheonat the Ladies' Army and Navy Club (irreverently known as"Arms and Necks" to junior subalterns), she failed completely,Ronnie's "wife" refusing, tight-lipped, even to discussthe situation. But with Mollie the sisterly machinationsattained, in some slight degree, their trouble-making objective.

"You see, my dear," said the colonel's lady, "you're sucha child that one really oughtn't to take you into one's confidenceat all. But unfortunately this sort of thing can't beglossed over. In a way, I need hardly tell you, I'm very sorryfor poor Alie. When I compare my own Harold with herHector, I realize Hector's inferiority. All the same,"--thislast with both elbows firmly on the tea-table--"the only courseto be pursued, believe me, is for Aliette to return to her husband."

"But that would be perfectly beastly," retorted Mollie, themild antagonism she had always felt for Eva turning to intensestdislike.

"Beastly or not," decided the colonel's lady, with some asperity,"it's the only thing to be done." And she added,with that bitter-sweetness which made Colonel Harold Martinlook back upon the western front during the great war asthe only peaceful place he had ever known: "Let me remindyou, dear child, that there isn't only Alie to be considered.There are your own chances. You'll want to be getting marriedone of these days, and naturally, no man in a good position----"

The sentence trailed off into a silence as suggestive as theatmosphere Eva left behind her when she trailed out ofBetty Masterman's flat; so strengthening the girl's weakeneddecision that Jimmy Wilberforce, who dropped in half anhour later to plead his own and his baronet father's cause,found himself confronted with a white face, a pair of haggardeyes, and the tense ultimatum, "Jimmy, I'll marry youthe day Hector sets Alie free, but not a day before."

1

England has not yet quite forgotten the "BournemouthTragedy" during which Hector Brunton, who led forthe Crown, first became known to the public as the "hangingprosecutor."

The charge against Mrs. Cairns was murder; and for daysno newspaper dared to omit a single comma from its reportsof the case. For days Hector's bewigged photograph blazedon the back page of the "Daily Mail" and the front page ofthe "Sunday Pictorial"; for days England abandoned itselfto the raptest scrutiny of Dr. Spilsbury's and other experts'evidence anent the poisonous properties of a certain arsenicalface lotion with which--the "hanging prosecutor" alleged--Mrs.Cairns had doctored her dead husband's whisky; and tospeculations, ruminations, discussions, and wagers as to theprobable fate of Mrs. Cairns.

During those days, that epitome of England, Powolney Mansions,oblivious alike of reconstruction, strikes, German indemnities,the Irish question, and the "scandal of Mr. and Mrs.Cavendish," demanded only to know whether Mrs. Cairnswould dare to face Hector Brunton's cross-examination;whether, cross-examination concluded, Hector Brunton wouldsucceed in securing a verdict of "guilty" against Mrs. Cairns;and whether Mrs. Cairns, having been found guilty, would behanged by the neck until she was dead or incarcerated for theperiod of her natural life--which period, Miss Greenwell informedMonsieur Mayer, was limited to twenty years with theremission of one quarter the sentence for good conduct.

"She'll be out in fifteen years," said Miss Greenwell, when,some ten days after the conclusion of the trial, the home secretary'sremission of the death penalty was duly announced,"and she'll still be a young woman."

"I," retorted Monsieur Mayer, "do not believe that she wasguilty at all. If it had not been for 'Ector Brunton----"

"And that reminds me," began Miss Greenwell--but bythen the lovers were already away.

2

Consciously and subconsciously, the success and the réclameof the "hanging prosecutor" infuriated Ronnie. Always hehated the man, but now, every time he saw H. B.'s face staringat him from the newspapers, a new thought, the thought ofhis own meagerly employed talents, talents of which he hadbegun to feel more and more surely confident, rankled. Evenin the "ridiculous flat" (he and Aliette christened it the"ridiculous flat" in the same way that Orientals always referto their most cherished possessions as things of no account)he felt himself a failure.

Yet the flat's self was an indubitable success--a home oftheir own--very symbol of mated unity.

Julia Cavendish herself, too weak, with a curious lethargyof which Heron Baynet alone knew the exact cause, to paymore than one visit to Flat 27, Block B, Embankment House,admitted it "passable." At her suggestion Aliette had decidedon using a beige wall-paper, almost identical with theone at Jermyn Street, throughout; on Ronnie's Chippendaleand Ronnie's eighteenth century engravings (removed almostby force from Moses Moffatt's) for the tiny flame-curtaineddining-room. Ronnie's ascetic bedroom furniture she relegatedto Caroline Staley, providing him in its stead withhanging-cupboards craftily and cheaply contrived in thewall-spaces either side his dressing-room fireplace.

For the sitting-room (christened by Aliette the "parlor"),the tiniest box of French simplicity combined with Englishcomfort; and for their communal chamber, with its testerbed and its short purple curtains, Julia's Christmas checkprovided the adornment. But it was only by adding some ofher own income that Aliette, faced with and realizing forthe first time the petty troubles of home-making with oneservant, could install the electric kitchenette, the Canadian"cook's table," the gas-fires and the tiled hearths, the Califonthot-water system which functioned automatically as soonas one turned the taps, the Hoover vacuum-sweeper, and allthose other labor-saving devices which people who really needthem can never afford.

Despite all of which, the "ridiculous flat" had its discomforts,not least of them being the impossibility of sleepingPonto on the exiguous premises.

"Man," asked Aliette dubiously, as they finally drove away,luggage on taxi, from a curiously incurious Powolney Mansions,"what are we going to do with him?"

"The Lord knows, my dear," laughed Ronnie. "Peoplewho elope have no right to take Great Danes with them."

"I suppose we ought to get rid of him. He's very expensive."

However, neither of them had the heart to part with thebeast; and eventually they found quarters for him in a littleside-street off the Hammersmith Road.

3

From their very first meal together, faultlessly cooked andfaultlessly served by Caroline Staley--as glad as she to be freefrom boarding-housedom; all through February and well intoMarch, Aliette's home-life was one long ecstasy, marred onlyby her growing anxiety about Julia's health and a vague suspicionthat Ronnie "worried." Looking back from the safecoziness of the "ridiculous flat" on the long months they hadwasted in Powolney Mansions, it seemed impossible that theyshould ever have been "boarding-house people," ever havetolerated the uncleanliness, the unhomeliness, the gossip, andthe monotony of Monsieur Mayer's establishment.

And by the end of March even Ronnie's "worries" seemedto have disappeared. For John Cartwright's promises hadmore than materialized; and though the briefs were rarelymarked higher than "Two guineas," the work they entailedkept Ronnie from brooding.

Despite his whimsical grumblings at being forced to leaveher alone all day, Aliette knew that her man, growing hourlymore ambitious for success, saw prospects of it in this strangeemployment. Coming back of a late afternoon, he wouldlounge into the parlor, kiss her, accept the tea Caroline Staleynever failed to bring him, light his pipe, and talk at lengthabout his petty triumphs at the Old Bailey or Brixton.

Once, even, he showed her his name in a press-report, witha smiled "I'm getting quite a reputation among the criminalclasses. Soon there won't be a pickpocket within the metropolitanradius who doesn't regard me as his only hope ofsalvation. They call me 'Cut Cavendish,' I believe. Hopeyou haven't had too dull a day, darling."

But Aliette's days were never dull. The hours when Ronniewas away from her "defending his pickpockets" passedall too swiftly for accomplishment of the manifold trivialitieswhich ministered to his comfort. Literally "she never had amoment to sit down."

So soon as he had left for his chambers (he hated seeingher do housework, and so she used to maintain the pretense ofidleness until she heard the front door close, and the gate ofthe automatic lift clink to behind him), Caroline Staley--grown,as all servants, somewhat dictatorial in her old age--woulddemand help in the making of the bed, demand thather mistress sally forth to wrangle with the milkman orimpress upon the butcher the alien origin of the previousday's joint.

These wrangles provided Aliette, hitherto immune fromthe petty worries of the average woman and now almost completelyisolated from her kind, with a certain amusement. Returnedfrom them, she helped lay her own table for luncheon;and, luncheon over, busied herself with the darning of stockings,with the cleaning of special pieces of silver, or withsome other of the thousand and one tasks which your reallyclass-conscious domestic, whose master is waited on hand andfoot, always manages to leave to her master's wife. So that if,as at least once a week, Aliette felt it her duty to visit JuliaCavendish, it meant a rush for tube or omnibus, and a secondrush homewards in time to dress for dinner--"dressing fordinner" being a shibboleth on which both lovers insistedas their "last relic of respectability."

And even if her days had been dull, the evenings wouldhave made their dullness worth while. Those evenings! Theirone servant abed. She and her man alone together, isolatedhigh above London--solitary--safe--not even the telephone toconnect them with their kind: Ronnie, pipe between his lips,his face tired yet happy in the glow of the fire, his long limbsoutstretched, his lips moving rarely to speech; Aliette, someunread novel on her lap, the light of the reading-lamp a-shimmeron her dimpled shoulders, on the vivid of her hairand the vivid of her eyes; Aliette, pleasantly wearied of body,pleasantly vacuous of thought, speaking rarely as her mate,utterly happy in his silent company, so happy that all theterrors of her past life with Hector seemed like a nightmaredreamed long since in girlhood and remembered in maturityonly as foolishness.

Nevertheless, as London March blew chilly toward LondonApril, Aliette again grew fearful. Try as she would to eludethem, moments came when she craved so desperately formaternity that Ronnie's very passion seemed a reproach. Andin those moments her imagination fashioned itself children--aboy-child and a girl-child--Dennis and Etta--dream-babieswho would bind her man to her forever and forever.

Ronnie, too, had his moments of fear, of hope, of dreamery.But for the most part they were a silent couple; and onlyonce did either give voice to their secret thoughts. Then itwas Ronnie, who said with one of his whimsical smiles:

"You've no idea, Alie, what an orator I'm getting to be.If only I could get one really big case. A murder trial, forinstance. But one needs luck for that!"

So the equable days went by.

4

April came; and, to Aliette, the fret of spring. More andmore with every opening bud, with every deepening of thegreen leaf-haze along the river-bank below her windows, sheyearned for children--for Ronnie's children. Her body gaveno sign; but already, as though for warning, her mind waspregnant with a new power, the power of prophetic imaginationwhich comes only to the isolated.

Sometimes--as when, after one of Mollie's rare visits, itshowed her sister married to Wilberforce--this new powerpleased Aliette; sometimes, playing about Hector, it frightenedher. But always it made her restless; so that, abandoningmore and more of her household duties to Caroline Staley,she walked again with Ponto, as she had walked in the olddays when Ronnie was not yet hers.

Fulham Park knew the pair of them--and Barnes Common--andPutney Heath. Down the myriad streets that leadaway from the river to the unexplored south of London theywandered as far as Shadwell Wood and Coombe Wood andRichmond Park. And always, from those walks, Aliette returnedthoughtful; for now, as imagination pictured more andmore clearly the fate of Dennis and of Etta should thosedream-children be at last made real, there waxed in her thedetermination to strike the one last possible blow for legalfreedom.

Hitherto pride, and to a certain extent the fear of still furtherexasperating him, had prevented her from making anypersonal move in Hector's direction. Hitherto she had acquiescedin the policy that others--Ronnie, Julia, the admiral,James Wilberforce--should fight for her. But all these hadfailed!

And, "Surely," thought Aliette, "surely it is my duty toconquer this pride, to put aside these fears, to meet him faceto face."

But, despite the assurances of the imaginative power--whichshowed her herself resolute against Hector, reasoning withHector, remonstrating with Hector, finally shaming Hectorinto giving her her freedom--Aliette could not bring herselfto ask even the favor of an interview. Three separate timesshe sat down to the little satin-wood desk in the parlor, threeseparate times she took pen in hand; but each time determinationfailed at mere sight of the first uncompromising "Dear"on the tinted note-paper. Pride and her disdain for the man,courage and fear alike forbade her to cross that Rubicon.

"I'm a fool," she said to herself, "a fool and a funk. ForRonnie's sake, for the sake of Ronnie's mother, even for myown sake I ought to write. But I can't--I just can't." Andthe pen would drop from her nerveless fingers, leaving hersoul prey to that utter despondency which only the propheticallyimaginative suffer.

Meanwhile, the imaginative powers of another woman--powersso infinitely better trained than Aliette's that theirleast effort could formulate the written word--were concentratingon Hector Brunton. To Julia Cavendish, ever sincethe Bournemouth Tragedy, the mere name had become an obsession.Despite her growing prescience of death, despite thelethargy which every day made more potent over her limbs,the old lady's mind throbbed with activity. That tiniest protoplasmof a plan which she had conceived on Christmas dayspored under her thoughts as coral-blossoms spore under thesea; till her brain, mistress of the written word, saw itselfjoin issue with the brain of Hector Brunton, master of theword spoken--and defeat it.

"There is one weapon," thought Julia Cavendish, "one sureweapon with which I can pierce his armor." Yet somehowher hand tarried in the forging of that weapon, as though themoment were not yet come.

5

The "ridiculous flat" held one supreme joy--the finest viewwhich a Londoner may have of London. From its parlorwindow, of a day, one could survey all the city--from PutneyChurch to St. Paul's, from Chiswick Mall where once red-heeledgallants tripped it with the ladies of St. James's, toKeats's Hampstead and the dim blue of Highgate.

At that window, on an April evening, Aliette and her loverstood to contemplate the pageant which Thames and townproffered nightly for their delight. Dusk had fallen, maskingthe river-pageant with a cloak of indigo and silver. Northward,a saffron shimmer under murky skies, lay London.Westward, the river dwindled out between its fringing lampsto darkness and the misty fields.

"Time for bed," said Ronnie practically. He made to closethe curtains, but Aliette restrained him.

"Not yet, man."

"Why? Aren't you sleepy?"

Aliette made no answer. She seemed to have forgotten hispresence. Her eyes were all for the pageant below; her earsall for the faint hum of the city which mounted, drowsily murmurous,to their high apartment. And after a little while,knowing the need for solitude upon her, Ronnie tiptoed away.

Aliette was hardly conscious of his going. It seemed to heras though--in that moment--she were aloof from him, from allmen; as though her soul, wandering free, mingled withmyriads of other souls whom night had liberated from theirearthly bodies to hover above the city.

The little French clock on the mantelpiece ticked and ticked.Hardly she heard it ticking. The earthly minutes passed andpassed, flowing under her, flowing away into the ocean of timeas the river-flood flows away into the oceans of the sea. Frombelow came sound of London's clocks chiming the quarters.

Thought died in her brain. Only the imaginative powerwas alive. Imagination's self died. Only her soul was alive.And, with her soul, she dreamed a dream.

She dreamed that her letter to Hector had been written,that Hector had answered it. She saw herself setting out tomeet him. He had sent his car to fetch her from EmbankmentHouse. She saw herself stepping into the car. It was theirold car; but the man whose back she could see through theplate-glass of the cabriolet was not their old chauffeur. "Iwonder what his name is," she thought.

The car set out, noiseless. It left Embankment Housebehind; it crossed Putney Bridge. It came, between milesand miles of utterly empty streets, into London. A peculiargrayness, neither of the night nor of the day, a peculiar silence,almost a silence of death, brooded over London. Nolights gleamed from its ghostly houses; no feet, no wheelsechoed on its ghostly paving.

The car spun on, noiseless--beyond the ghostly gray intoghostly green--and now it seemed to Aliette as though thetime were twilight-time; as though she were in Hyde Park;as though in a few minutes she would make the remembereddoor in Lancaster Gate.

"Hector's house," she thought. And the thought frightenedher. She wanted not to go to Hector. She wanted Ronnie--herRonnie. But the car spun on.

Now, faltering and afraid, she stood before the door of herhusband's house. Now the door opened; and Lennard, subservientas ever, led her into the recollected hall.

Lennard vanished; and suddenly Aliette's soul knew itsdream for dream.

Then the dream grew real again. Fearful and alone shestood in the chill vastness of that shadowy hall among therecollected furniture. She felt her breasts throbbing underthe thin frock, felt her knees tremble as she grasped the door-handleof Hector's study.

No lights burned in the study. It was all gray, gray as thestreets without. Hector was not there--only a face--a huge,cruel, unrelenting face.

"So you've come back," it said.

She moved toward the face, across the gray carpet thatgave back no sound to her feet. But she could not speak withthe face. Between her and the face--as a great sheet of glass--slidsilence, the interminable unbearable silence of dreams.Through the glass, Aliette could see every pore in the greatface, every hair of its head; but she might not speak with it,nor it with her. Then a voice, a voice as of very conscience,cried out in her: "Your strength against its strength. Yourwill against its will."

She felt her will beat out from her as wings beat, beat andbatter at the glass between them. The glass of silence slidaway; and she knew the face for Hector's. She said to it:

"Hector, I haven't come back. I'm never coming back."

"You shall," said the face, Hector's face; and now, underthe face, she knew feet, her husband's feet.

At that, terror, the hopeless panic of dreams, gripped hersoul by the throat, choking down speech. It seemed to herthat she stood naked in that gray and silent room.

But now, as a momentary beam through the grayness, anotherface--the face of her lover--was added to their silentcompany. And again, "Your will against its will," said thevoice.

Terror's fingers unclutched from her throat, so that her willspoke, "I shall never come back, Hector."

The face writhed at the words as a face in pain; and suddenly,knowing herself its master, she knew pity for the face,pity for the thing she had done. Till once more she heard theinner voice whisper: "No pity. Your strength against itsstrength. Your will against its will."

"But I love you," pleaded Hector. "I need you."

She said to him, "My children need me, Hector. Set mefree."

And once more the glass of the silences slid between them;once more the interminable, unbearable silence of dreams heldher speechless.

Tap, tap, tap. Who was that knocking on Hector's door?It must be Ronnie. Tap, tap, tap. Ronnie mustn't come in.Ronnie mustn't find her and Hector alone together.

The glass darkled. Behind the glass Aliette could seeHector's face blur and blur. The face vanished. She wasalone, alone in Hector's study. She was cold, desperatelycold through all her limbs.

Tap, tap, tap. She heard a voice, a human voice: "Mr.Cavendish, Mr. Cavendish. Are you there, Mr. Cavendish?You're wanted on the 'phone, Mr. Cavendish."

1

Abruptly, as the strung ball snaps back to its woodencup, Aliette's soul returned to its body.

Waking, she knew that she had fallen asleep by the openwindow; that somebody was knocking on the outer door of theflat, somebody who called insistently, "Mr. Cavendish, Mr.Cavendish. I've a message for you, Mr. Cavendish."

Her heart thumping, her head still muzzy with dreams,Aliette ran across the sitting-room, out into the hall; unchained,unlatched the door. The night-porter stood beforeher. His shirt was open at the neck; she could see the veinsin his throat throb to his words: "Is your husband awake,madam? He's wanted on the telephone. His mother's house.It's very urgent."

"Mr. Cavendish is asleep." Aliette's heart still thumped,but she spoke quietly enough. "I'll go and wake him. Waithere, please."

She darted back to the door of their bedroom; knocked;opened. The light by the bed still burned, showing her lover'sface just roused from the pillow.

"Am I wanted?" he asked.

"Yes, dear." Aliette controlled her nerves. "BrutonStreet's asking for you on the telephone. I'm afraid yourmother's been taken ill."

"I'll be down in a second." He was out of bed and intohis dressing-gown before she could stop him. She thought,"If it's bad news, he'll have to go to Bruton Street. He'llhave to get dressed." She said, "You'd better get someclothes on. I'll go down and find out exactly what's thematter."

After a second's hesitation, he decided, "You're right";and made for his dressing-room. Aliette went back to theouter door. The night-porter still waited. She asked him,"Who telephoned?"

"A servant, I think."

"Did she say why she wanted to speak to my husband?"

"No. Only that it was very urgent."

"Is the lift still working?"

"Yes, madam."

"Then I'll come down immediately."

Aliette's mind, as she followed the slippered man along thecold stone corridor to the lift-shaft, worked rapidly. If JuliaCavendish had been taken ill--and obviously Julia Cavendishmust have been taken ill--the sooner she and Ronnie got toBruton Street the better.

She asked the porter, "What's the time?"

He told her, "Three o'clock."

"Can you get me a taxi?"

"I'll do my best, madam."

The lift was working badly. The slowness fretted herimagination. Suppose Julia Cavendish were--more than ill;suppose she were--dead?

At last they reached the ground-floor. The night porter,flinging back the iron gates, let her out and made for thestreet. Aliette, running to the telephone-box, picked up thereceiver.

"I want to speak to Mr. Cavendish, Mr. Ronald Cavendish.Is that Mr. Cavendish?" Kate's voice sounded stupid, excitable,over the wire.

"No, it's Mrs. Cavendish. Is that Kate?"

"Yes, Mrs. Ronnie."

"Mr. Cavendish will be down in a minute. What's thematter?"

"Mrs. Cavendish has been taken ill. She's very bad indeed.She told us to telephone for Mr. Ronnie."

"You telephoned for a doctor?"

"Oh yes, Mrs. Ronnie. We did that first thing. But SirHeron's out of town."

"Then you should have telephoned to another doctor."

"We never thought of that." Obviously the maid had losther head. "We thought we'd better telephone Mr. Ronniefirst. That's what she said we was to do."

"Wait." Aliette thought swiftly. "Isn't there a doctorin Bruton Street?"

"Oh yes, Mrs. Ronnie. Dr. Redbank."

"You'd better send for him immediately. Don't waste timetelephoning. Go yourself.... And, Kate, you can tell Mrs.Cavendish that Mr. Ronald and myself will be round in lessthan half an hour. Can you give me any idea what's thematter with Mrs. Cavendish?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Ronnie, but Smithers says she's verybad indeed. Smithers says she woke up with her mouth fullof blood. Smithers says she doesn't know how she managedto ring her bell----"

The parlor-maid would have gone on talking, but Aliettecut her short with a curt: "You're to go and fetch the doctor,Kate. You're to go and fetch him at once. Do youunderstand?"

"Yes, Mrs. Ronnie."

Aliette hung up the receiver; turned to find Ronnie, apparentlyfull dressed, at her side; explained things to him inthree terse sentences; saw his face blanch; ran for the lift;swung-to the lift-gate; pressed the automatic button; reachedher own floor, her own flat; twitched a fur coat from its peg;remembered something Mollie had once told her about hemorrhages;darted into the kitchen; snatched what she wantedfrom the refrigerator; wrapped a dish-cloth about it; dartedback to the lift.

Downstairs, Ronnie waited impatiently. "The taxi's here,"he said.

They leaped into the taxi.

2

The shock of unexpected ill-news held both lovers rigid,speechless, as their vehicle, an old one, rattled and bumpedover Putney Bridge; and when at last Aliette spoke it was ofthose trivial things with which human beings console themselvesagainst the threat of disaster. "How on earth did youmanage to get dressed so quickly?"

"The old school trick." Ronnie masked his anxiety withthe semblance of a laugh. "Trousers and an overcoat." Butsheer anxiety forced the next words to his lips. "What do youthink can have happened?"

"From what Kate said, it sounded as though your motherhad had a hemorrhage."

"A hemorrhage," repeated Ronnie. And then, under hisbreath, as though trying to convince himself, "But she can'thave had a hemorrhage."

The taxi rattled on down a gray and empty King's Road,bringing back to Aliette's mind the memory of that other driveshe had taken in vision-land.

"What's that?" asked Ronnie suddenly, pointing to thedish-cloth at her feet.

"Ice. There's just a chance they won't have any."

They swung out of King's Road into Sloane Street. Underthe lights of Knightsbridge, Ronnie, looking sideways at hismate, marveled at the composure of her face; marveled thather brain should have acted so swiftly in crisis. His own brainfelt impotent, dumb. His heart hung like a nodule of ice inhis breast. The nodule of ice sank into his bowels, turninghis bowels to water. The Wixton imagination pictured hismother helpless, in agony. He thought, "Suppose we're toolate. My God, suppose we're too late."

"I don't expect there's any immediate danger." Aliette,fighting for her own composure, guessed the unspoken thoughtin her lover's mind. "Servants always exaggerate."

Ronnie wrenched down the window, leaned out. "Hurry,"he called to the driver, "hurry." The old taxi rattled tospeed. Hyde Park corner flashed by--Piccadilly.

"Don't worry, dear," Aliette managed to whisper. "Thedoctor will be there by now."

Ronnie sat silent. It seemed as though, for the moment, hehad forgotten her presence. Nor could she be angry with himfor that forgetting. "His mother," she thought; "hismother!"

At last they made Bruton Street. Outside the open frontdoor, waiting for them, stood Kate. Kate, the immaculate cap-and-apronedKate, was in tears. "Oh, Mr. Ronnie," shesobbed, "I'm so glad you've come. I'm so glad you'vecome."

"Doctor here?" Julia Cavendish's son, usually so affablewith servants, snapped out his question as though he hadbeen speaking to a defaulter.

"Yes, Mr. Ronnie. I fetched him myself. He's with yourmother now. He wants cook to go out and get some ice, butcook don't know," the domestically precise English vanishedunder stress of emergency, "where to get no ice."

"Lucky you thought of bringing some." Abruptly, rudelyalmost, Ronnie snatched the dish-cloth from Aliette's hand;and she watched him disappear, three at a bound, up the green-carpetedstairs.

"Kate," she said quietly, "tell the taxi-driver to stop hisengine and wait. We may want him for something."

3

Ronnie, a little out of breath, found himself, on the secondlanding, confronted at the closed door of his mother's bedroomby his mother's woman, Smithers. Smithers was still in herdressing-gown--her hair disheveled, but her black eyes unpanicked.

"You can't go in, sir. The doctor's with her."

"I've got the ice." He made to push past the woman, butshe put a hand on his arm.

"I'll take it to him, sir. Your mother said you wasn't togo in."

"Why not?"

"Because of the blood. After the doctor came, she said youwasn't to see her till I'd put clean sheets on the bed. It'sa hemorrhage, sir."

"I know. Let me go in." Again Ronnie tried to push pastthe woman. Again she restrained him. Her black eyes seemedstrangely hostile, resolute.

"It's a hemorrhage," she repeated fiercely, "and it's herown fault. Time and again I've told her she ought to heedwhat Sir Heron said. But she wouldn't. She wouldn't givein." Then, accusingly, "Because she didn't want you andMrs. Ronnie to know."

"Know what?"

"That she had the consumption."

"Consumption!" The word struck Ronnie like the lash of awhip. He saw accusation--an accusation of selfishness--in thewoman's hostile eyes. Those eyes knew his whole story. Hewanted to say to them: "We hadn't an idea. Honestly, wehadn't the slightest idea." Sir Heron Baynet's reported diagnosisrecurred to his mind. "She isn't ill, but she has atendency to illness." Either the specialist had made a mistake,or else---- He realized, with a heart-rending clarity,that Julia must have purposely concealed her danger, because--becauseof his own troubles.

The bedroom door opened noiselessly, and a clean-shavenintellectual face inspected him through gold-rimmed glasses.

"Are you the patient's son?" asked Dr. Redbank; andthen, seeing the dish-cloth in Ronnie's hand, "Is that theice?"

"Yes. Can I come in?"

"If you like. But please understand she mustn't talk."

Ronnie followed the man into the bedroom, and closed thedoor quietly behind him.

Save for the glow of the bed-lamp, the room was in darkness.Making his way round the foot of the bed, Julia's son saw, inthe light of that one lamp--the shade of it was crimson, crimsonas those telltale marks on his mother's pillow--hismother's face.

The face lay on the stained pillow, pallid, motionless, thehair awry, the mouth half-open as though in pain. On thechin and on the half-open lips, blood clots showed like brownstains. But the blue eyes were wide open. Motionless in theirsockets, they recognized him.

Stooping down, Ronnie saw that Julia would have spoken.Remembering the doctor's warning, he said: "You're notto talk, mater. I'm here. Aliette's here. It's quite allright." It seemed to him as though the blue eyes understood.They closed wearily; and a sigh, almost a sigh of relief, camethrough the half-opened lips. He thought, standing there bythe bedside: "I am powerless. Powerless to help. I can donothing. Nothing. Why doesn't the doctor do something?Why did he want that ice?"

Then, glancing toward the shadowy fireplace, Ronnie sawthe doctor at work; heard the faint smash-smash of the pokerhandle on ice in a cloth. The doctor came to the bedside.He felt the doctor's hand on his arm; heard his authoritativewhisper, "Hold this for me, please"; and found himself graspinga soap-basin.

The soap-basin was full of crushed ice, of the ice Aliettehad remembered to bring. The doctor had been crushing theice. Now he was feeding the ice to his patient. Piece by littlepiece he fed it--fed it between those half-open lips.

Through interminable minutes Ronnie, holding the soap-basin,watched. At last the doctor said: "One more piece,Mrs. Cavendish, just one more piece. It'll do you good."His mother tried to shake her head in refusal, but Dr. Redbankinsisted. "There, that will do."

Somehow Julia's son knew her immediate danger over. Forthe first time he could hear her breathing. Faint, irregularbreathing. "She's asleep, isn't she?" he whispered, lookingdown at the closed eyes.

But at that, the eyes opened again. His mother seemed tobe searching--searching for him about the darkness of theroom. He bent over her, and it appeared to him that her pupilsmoved. "Is there anything you want, mater?" he asked,forgetful of the doctor's warning. The eyes turned in theirsockets.

Following their glance, Ronnie saw, beside the bed-lamp, ahandkerchief--a stained handkerchief. Scarcely consciousof his action, he fumbled in the pocket of the overcoat he wasstill wearing, found his own handkerchief, dipped it in thesoap-basin, and wiped the blood-clots from his mother's lips.Faintly, the lips murmured: "Smithers--want Smithers--wantclean sheets."

"Please don't talk, Mrs. Cavendish," interrupted the doctor'svoice.

"You're all right now, mater." Ronnie grasped the situation."Quite all right. I know exactly what you want done.I'll tell Smithers for you." "She'd like her maid," he whisperedto the doctor. "She'd like clean pillow-cases."

"Of course she would." The answer sounded loud, almostcheerful. "Of course, she'd like clean pillow-cases. But notfor another half-hour, Mrs. Cavendish. I want you to rest. Imust insist on your resting."

Julia's eyes closed.

"We shall have to have a hospital-nurse," whispered Dr.Redbank. "If you'll stay with her I'll go and telephone forone." He tiptoed from the room, leaving mother and sonalone.

For a long time, hours as it seemed, Ronnie stood watchful.His mother must be asleep--safe--out of pain. A great rushof gratitude, gratitude to some unknown deity, overwhelmedhim. Quietly he drew a chair to the bedside. Quietly he satdown. But the faint noise disturbed the woman on the bed.Her eyelids fluttered; and she tried to speak--indistinctly,incoherently, choking on each word.

"Ronnie,"--her first thoughts, as always, were for him--"didI--frighten--you?"

"Mater," he implored, "please don't try and talk. Ifthere's anything you want, just look at it, and I'll get itfor you.''

"Ice," she choked, "more ice."

Every movement of her lips frightened him, but he managedto keep fear out of his voice.

"Good for you. I'll get it."

He took the basin of ice from the bed-table, and fed it toher bit by bit, slowly, as Dr. Redbank had done.

The touch of her lips on his fingers almost unnerved him.The lips were so weak, so loving, so piteously grateful as--pieceby piece--they sucked down the melting pellets. Controllinghimself for her sake, Ronnie realized a little of theself-control, of the unselfishness which had so long locked thoseweak lips from revealing their own danger. And again, at thatrealization, he felt his heart melting, even as the ice melted.

"Good man!" It was the doctor--whispering. "She can'thave too much of that. I've sent your taxi for the nurse.It's her first hemorrhage, I suppose?"

"Yes--as far as I know."

"H'm. I thought so. Frightening things, hemorrhages.But there's no cause for immediate alarm. I'll wait till thenurse comes, and give her a second injection. You'd bettergo down and look after your wife."

On the landing, Smithers still waited. "Is she better, sir?"asked Smithers.

"Much better, Smithers. She's out of danger. But youcan't go in yet."

Tiptoeing downstairs, Ronald Cavendish knew that thewoman was watching him--blaming him. Half-way down, hehesitated. "I can't face Alie," he thought. "I can't faceAlie." Then he turned, tiptoed upstairs again.

Together, in silence, the son and the servant waited outsidethe mother's door.

4

Aliette, too, waited--waited downstairs in the dining-roomwhere Kate had insisted on lighting a fire for her--waited andwaited while the slow half-hours went by. She felt weary;but there was no sleep in her weariness. Her ears, keyed toacutest tension, magnified every whisper in the house of illness;Dr. Redbank's feet in the hall, the jar of the front door,the taxi chugging away, the faint creak of carpeted stairs, thefainter clink of crockery in the basement.

At four o'clock Kate came in with a pot of coffee; at half-past,Smithers to ask if the nurse had arrived. Aliette sufferedboth maids to go without question. In that well-orderedhome she felt herself the useless stranger. Her musclesyearned to be of use, to be doing something, anything, forJulia. "I owe her so much," she thought; "such a debt ofgratitude."

The impotence of her muscles stung her mind. Her mindached with memories, memories of Julia, of her brusk kindliness,of her courage. "I wonder if she knew," thoughtAliette. And at that, painfully, her mind conjured up the"scene" she had made--Julia comforting her--Julia's unspokenchallenge--her own promise. "She knew then,"thought Aliette. "She must have known. That was why shewanted to be certain--of me."

At last the nurse arrived. At last Ronnie, tired out, white-faced,and unshaven, left his post on the landing and joinedher.

She asked him, "How is she?"

"Better. Much better. She's asleep."

"Isn't there anything I can do?"

"No, dear, nothing." His voice seemed curiously toneless,and after two or three nervous puffs at a cigarette he againwent upstairs.

Another half-hour went by. Already Aliette could see hintsof dawn behind the dining-room curtains. Now, knowing dangeraverted, her mind reacted. She wanted desperately tosleep. Her eyes closed wearily. But her ears were still keento sound. She heard the doctor's feet and Ronnie's creepcautiously downstairs, heard their whispered colloquy at thedining-room door, woke from her brief doze before they couldopen it.

"I do hope you haven't been frightened." Dr. Redbanksmiled professionally at the pale pretty woman by the fireside."I hear we have to thank your thoughtfulness for the ice.Most useful it was, too. I have assured your husband thatthere is no cause for immediate alarm."

"You're sure, doctor?"

"Quite sure. However, as I understand that your mother-in-law'sregular attendant is away, I purpose looking in tomorrow,or rather this morning, at about half-past ten.Meanwhile, you must keep her quiet; and, of course, no solidfood." He shook hands with her; and went out, accompaniedby Ronnie. Aliette, still sleepy, heard the front door closegently behind him.

"Good man, that," said Ronnie, returning. He sat downheavily at the table, and tried to light himself another cigarette.But his hands trembled. The smoke seemed to stifle him.

"Won't you have some coffee?" she asked, suddenly wideawake, and as suddenly aware of the misery in his eyes.

"Thanks dear, not yet."

Rising, she laid a hand on his arm.

"Man," she ventured, "was it very terrible?"

"Dreadful." His voice, usually so controlled, shook onthe word, jangling her overwrought nerves to breaking strain."She's dying. Dying."

"But the doctor said----"

"Never mind the doctor. I know. And Alie," a sob toreat his diaphragm, "it's my fault."

"Your fault?" Awfully, she guessed his meaning.

"Yes."

Her hand dropped from his arm, and they stared at oneanother in silence.

"Tell me," she said at last.

"No. Not now. Not yet." The remoteness of his eyesfrightened her.

"I'd rather know," she pleaded; and again, "Why is ityour fault? How can it be your fault?"

"I'd rather not tell you." Once more she caught thatfrightening remoteness in his eyes--in his very voice. Then,awfully, his reserve broke. "She knew all the time, Alie."

"Knew what?" There was no need for her question.

"That she had consumption. That her only hope was to goaway. She only stayed on in London for--for," the wordschoked in his throat, "my sake."

Minutes passed. Through the chinks in the curtains Aliettecould see dawn growing and growing. Her mouth ached tocomfort him; but she dared not speak. Her eyes ached fortears; but she dared not shed a tear. Superstition torturedher mind--it seemed to her as though, Biblically, their sin hadfound them out. Then resolutely, remembering the promisesealed by her own lips to the dying, she put superstition fromher.

"Not your fault," she said at last. "Not even our fault.Ronnie--believe me--even if she did know that she--that shewas very ill--she knew that you and I loved her, that wecouldn't, either of us, do without her. She's--she's notgoing to die. Not with us, both of us, to nurse her--to lookafter her."

"Alie--you--you believe there's a chance?" He rosefrom the table; and she saw that the remoteness had gonefrom his eyes.

"Chance!" she smiled at him. "Chance! It's not a questionof chance, man. We'll make her get well."

And with those words, Aliette knew that she had paid alittle of her debt to them both.

1

Miraculously, as it seemed to her comforted son,death stayed its hand from Julia Cavendish.

For three days and nights of morphia she drowsed away theeffects of that first hemorrhage. Heron Baynet, returning hot-footto Harley Street on his secretary's telegram, insisted--despitethe fact that he was a consultant--on ousting Dr. Redbank;on taking over the entire conduct of the case in person.

A year ago the little keen scientist of the lined face, the fineforehead, and the shining eye-glasses had suspected, warned,begged his distinguished patient to let him radiograph herlungs;--mentioned the possibility of a diabetic complication--advisedSwitzerland. Now perhaps his advice, and the oneslender chance of life it offered, would be taken.

"How she tricked me!" he used to ruminate, looking downat the tired face on the smooth pillow. "How she fought me!"For although in his heart Sir Heron both pitied and admiredthis woman whose stubbornness and stamina had so longeluded his aid, it gave him a certain satisfaction, not altogetherprofessional, to feel that she would now be completely in hispower. Yet--would she be completely in his power? Already,on the fourth day of her illness, he sensed the stubbornnessand the false stamina of stubbornness renewing themselves inher; already he perceived that his medical fight would be two-fold--againsthis patient as well as against her disease.

"I suppose you're pleased," she managed to stammer."You warned me that this might happen if I refused to takeyour advice." And after he had given her the morphiainjection, "The less I have of that stuff, the better. If I'mgoing to die, I'd rather die with my brain clear."

"You're not going to die yet awhile," retorted the specialist."Not if you refrain from talking, lie perfectly still,and get away into the country as soon as you're fit to bemoved."

Julia smiled up at him without moving her head. "I congratulateyou on your bedside manner, Sir Heron, but youneedn't be professional with me. My case is hopeless. Italways has been hopeless. You haven't forgotten our compact,I hope? You won't tell my son or my son's wife morethan is absolutely necessary?"

"Of course I won't tell your son," he humored her; "notif you'll consent to go to sleep."

"But I don't want to go to sleep."

"Oh yes, you do. Besides, if you go on talking, you'llhave another hemorrhage."

That seemed to frighten her. "Very well," she said, closingher eyes, for already the morphia was pouring wave on waveof lassitude through her body. "Very well, I won't talk. Doyou think you can manage to keep me alive for six months?It's rather important. I've got work to do."

Thinking her brain already under the influence of the drug,he humored her again. "We'll see about that in the morning.Meanwhile I shouldn't worry. Your daughter-in-law andyour secretary between them will be able to manage quite welluntil you're up and about again."

"It isn't that sort of work," began Julia Cavendish; andpretended to fall asleep.

This pretense of falling asleep was a trick, learned from thedrug. One had only, Julia discovered, to pretend sleep, andnurse or doctor left one entirely alone. Alone with one'sdreams. Very curious, very pleasant dreams hers were, too.All about a book. A book called--Now what had she intendedto call the book?--"Man's--Man's--Man's Law." Yes--thatwas the title. If only--one took--enough morphia--one couldwrite--like--like de Quincey.

"I mustn't let them give me too much, though," thoughtJulia; and fell really asleep.

2

For Aliette those first four days of her "mother-in-law's"illness were almost happy. At Julia's particular request, bothlovers had abandoned the "ridiculous flat," to take up theirabode in Bruton Street; and the sense of self-sacrifice--for itwas a sacrifice to abandon the little home where she had beenso safe and face the inevitable difficulties of her anomalousposition in Julia's household--seemed yet another chance ofrepaying her debt.

Work (she found enormously to do) saved her from overmuchintrospection. Julia, the feudalist, had never learneddomestic decentralization; her daily secretary, Mrs. Sanderson,a gray-haired gentlewoman with tortoise-shell spectacles anda diffidence which only just avoided crass stupidity, had becomea typewriter-thumping automaton; her cook was a mereobedient preparer of ordered meals, and even Kate seemedincapable of performing the simplest household duty on herown initiative. Resultantly there devolved on Aliette, seatedof a morning in the novelist's work-room, the manifold activitiesof a strenuous celebrity, a housekeeper, a woman of property,and an information bureau. For, of course, everybodywanted information about the celebrity's health.

The telephone and the telegrams were a curse. The pressassociation rang, apologetically, twice a day. The Northcliffepress, commandingly, once. Julia's American publisherscabled almost hourly; and hourly, scandal for the momentforgotten, one or other of her private acquaintances questedfor news of her. Even Dot Fancourt rallied gallantly to thereceiver. While as for the three other sisters Wixton andtheir appanages, one would have imagined them afflicted tothe verge of suicide.

Of an evening, Ronnie helped Aliette to deal with the"family"; but by day she had to cope with them single-handed.The "family" were never satisfied with Mrs. Sanderson'sreport; the "family" demanded to speak with thehospital nurse; the "family," barred by Sir Heron's instructionsfrom visiting, demanded to speak with Sir Heron himself.Soon Aliette began to recognize their voices--Sir JohnBentham, courteous if a little aloof; Lady Clementina, full-throatedand fussy; May Robinson, piteous and protestant outof the depths of St. John's Wood; Alice Edwards, distantlyjovial on the trunk-line from Cheltenham. "How they mustbe hating me," Aliette used to think.

On the afternoon of the fifth day, Julia--having coaxedpermission from a reluctant nurse--sent down word that her"daughter-in-law" was to come up.

"You won't stay with her long, will you, ma'am?" saidSmithers, permanently on guard at the bedroom door. (Mysteriously,since Aliette had moved to Bruton Street, the socialsense of the basement had substituted "ma'am" for Mrs.Ronnie.) "The doctor says the less she talks, the better."

Aliette passed into the bedroom; and heard a weak voicesay, "Leave us alone please, nurse."

Nurse--a pleasant-faced creature very much impressed atfinding herself in charge of so literary an invalid--made herexit to a stiff rustle of starched linen. Aliette moved across tothe bedside. Sunshine illuminated the elegance of the room,slanting down in dust-motes from the three open windows onto the écru pile carpet. Among Julia's cut-glass toilet-wareon the porphyry Empire wash-table showed none of the paraphernaliaof sickness. The pillow-propped figure on the lowmahogany and gold bedstead seemed, to the visitor, ratherthat of a resting than of a dying woman. A frilled boudoir-caphid Julia's hair; a padded bed-jacket of crimson silkswathed her shoulders.

"I suppose I gave you all a rare fright," she said, thinkinghow well she had staged the little scene.

"We were rather frightened." Aliette took a chair, obviouslyarranged for her, at the bedside; and began to talkaimlessly of this and that.

But Julia soon interrupted the aimless phrases. "Are myservants behaving themselves?" she asked. "Are they makingyou and Ronnie really comfortable? I told Smithers tomaid you. I hope she's been doing it properly."

"Beautifully," prevaricated Aliette.

"You're sure you wouldn't rather have your own maid?You could shut up the flat easily enough. You don't mindcoming to live with me, do you? It's," the weak voice betrayedthe first sign of emotion, "it's bound to be a littledifficult for you, but I'm not quite up to running things myselfyet. And Mrs. Sanderson is a fool."

"Of course I don't mind. It's wonderful to feel that Ican be of some use at last."

Aliette did her best to prevent the patient from talking;but Julia Cavendish, feudalist, wanted to know a thousanddomestic details. Whether cook was being economical?Whether the new kitchen-maid promised to be a success? IfMrs. Sanderson had remembered to take carbon-copies ofimportant correspondence? Whether the "family" had beenvery troublesome?

"Families are bad enough when one's well. They're impossiblein illness," pronounced Julia. "I'm always glad myhusband died abroad. One day I must tell you about Ronnie'sfather." She relapsed into silence, closing her eyes; andAliette thought she had fallen asleep. But in a moment theeyes opened again. "Talking of families, my dear, how isyour sister?"

"Mollie? Oh, Mollie's gone back to Devonshire."

"Is she engaged to young Wilberforce?"

"No. I don't think so."

"What a pity!"

The nurse, tapping discreetly, announced it "time for Mrs.Cavendish's medicine"; and the invalid closed the interviewwith a weak, "If the family call, for heaven's sake keep themout of my room."

3

On the seventh day after the hemorrhage, Aliette's ordealat the hands of the Wixton family began.

Sir John and his lady, dissatisfied with the meager informationafforded them on the telephone, called in person to insistupon seeing "some one in authority." But Julia's bell hadrung four times during the night, and nurse was lying down.

"Surely there's a day-nurse?" fussed Clementina.

"No, m'lady. Only Mrs. Ronnie, m'lady." Kate, erect andcorrect at the front door, watched the pair of them whispertogether; heard them decide after some hesitation that theywould like to see "Mrs. Ronald Cavendish"; and showedthem upstairs into the drawing-room.

Rising to receive her guests, Aliette was humorously awareof Sir John's discomfort. She could almost read behind hiskeen brown eyes the thought, "So this is the little lady there'sbeen all the trouble about, is it? Rather good-looking. Iwonder what the deuce one ought to call her, Mrs. Cavendishor Mrs. Brunton?"

"How do you do--er--how do you do?" he compromised."And how is your illustrious patient? I'm sure it's mostkind of you to look after my sister-in-law. Very kind indeed."

But there was little compromise about the breasted Clementina.Her greeting, her scrutiny, her omission to shake hands,were definitely hostile. In attitude she resembled nothing somuch as a virtuous English lady visiting the questionablequarter of Cairo. Aliette, her sense of humor fighting againsther resentment, invited the pair of them to sit down, andoffered propitiatory tea.

"Please don't trouble," retorted the female of the speciesBentham. "We've had tea. And besides, we wouldn't thinkof disturbing you. As a matter of fact, it was my husband'sidea that we should look in for a moment to get first-handnews about dear Julia. In a few days, I presume, we shall beable to see her ourselves."

That "dear Julia" made Aliette wholly resentful. "Ronnie'smother," she began stiffly, observing, not without acertain malicious satisfaction, how Lady Bentham writhed atthe phrase, "is going on as well as we can possibly expect.But I'm afraid it will be some time before Sir Heron willallow her to receive visitors."

"But surely her sister----" protested Sir John.

"Not even her sister, I'm afraid," decided Aliette; andJulia, informed of the Bentham defeat, chuckled audibly.

But the interview, for all Julia's chuckles, left its scar onAliette's sensitive pride--as did her talk with May Robinson.

The tea-broker's scrawny widow called two days later inher 1908 Panhard; accepted tea, and stayed for a full threequarters of an hour gossiping about her sister's symptoms.May, far from being outwardly hostile, positively beamedwith that particular brand of offensive condescension whichonly those whose lives are devoted to good works know howto assume toward "fallen sisters." With her every non-committalword, the untempted widow contrived to suggest,"Considering what a thoroughly bad woman you must be, Ithink it remarkable, entirely remarkable and praiseworthy,not to say Christian of you, to have given up your fast life soas to look after my poor dear sister in her illness." Luckilyfor May, Paul Flower arrived just in time to prevent Aliettefrom losing her temper!

Alice Edwards's visit, however--for reasons that can beimagined, she did not bring her daughter with her--passedoff easily enough. "I never was any good in a sick-room,"said the Anglo-Indian lady brightly.

Followed, to Aliette's surprise, the admiral, who, calling toleave formal cards, heard that she was at home and insistedupon seeing her. The sailor only stayed his Victorian quarterof an hour; managed, however, although Aliette did her bestto restrain him, to thrust a good Georgian foot into the conversationalplate with his "That boy of mine's putting youin a rotten position, me dear. But it ain't my fault."

"Billy," Aliette, seeing his sorrowful face, could not refrainfrom laughing, "you've got no tact. Of course I know itisn't your fault. I've never really thanked you for whatyou tried to do for me."

"Me dear," retorted the admiral, "it's no laughing matter.Honestly, I'm sorry I ever sired the fellow. But never youmind; just you keep your courage up, and it'll all come outright in the long run."

"I'm keeping my courage up all right," said Aliette, stilllaughing; for, somehow or other, Julia's illness had madeher own affairs seem rather petty.

4

After ten days of bed, the patient insisted on seeing Mrs.Sanderson.

"Sir Heron advises a few months in the country," shetold that secretarial automaton. "I shall take a furnishedhouse; the bigger the better. You'd better write to Hampton'sand ask for particulars. It mustn't be more thanforty miles from town, so that my son can run down forweek-ends. You'll have to come with me, and I shall takeall the servants."

"Sir Heron says we must humor her," said Aliette, consultingRonnie over dinner. "He says that if she wantsa big house, she must have a big house. Nurse seems tothink Sussex would be the best place."

"But, Alie, is she really fit to be moved?"

"Sir Heron says he wouldn't risk it with any one else, butthat with her constitution it's the best thing we can do."

Ronnie agreed. His mother's recovery appeared so rapid,her good spirits were so infectious, that he had alreadypersuaded himself of her ultimate cure. Of the diabeticcomplication, definitely diagnosed at last, neither he norAliette was informed, nurse and specialist being alike constrainedto secrecy by a patient whose brain had begun tofunction so masterfully, even under the reduced doses ofmorphia, that they were afraid to cross her will.

For now that the hemorrhage had eliminated all possibilityof self-deception from her imagination; now that sherealized--despite Sir Heron's confident reassurances--howat the best she could only live two years, at the worst abare six months, the plan, the final plan for Aliette's release,had taken concrete shape in Julia's brain. Wilberforce'srevelations about the Carrington case had stuck in her memory.Carrington, according to Wilberforce, had been brokenby the press. She, Julia, wielded a more enduring weapon.

It was strange, very strange, to lie there, on one's own bed,surrounded by one's own cherished furniture; and knowingone's self doomed, yet know one's self capable of wielding aweapon--could one but forge it--which would outlast deathitself. Yet could she, an ill woman, a woman who had neverknown the financial need for working swiftly, hope to forgeher weapon, her sword of the written word, within sixmonths? "Yes," she decided, ruminating one late afternoonbehind the warm darkness of closed eyelids, "yes, it canjust be done."

There and then she wanted to begin. Then and there,opening her eyes, she attempted to untuck the bedclothes.But her arms, weak, almost powerless, refused their task.Even as she moved them, the ghost of a remembered painstabbed at her left lung; and, frightened by remembrance ofpast agony, she desisted. "Not yet," she thought, "not yet.I must rest for another week, perhaps for another fortnight.Fresh air might cure these lungs of mine, and make me wellagain. What a fool I am to deceive myself! That must bethe consumption. Consumption always cheats its victims withthe hope of life."

And she fell to remembering Aubrey Beardsley, to comparingherself with him, to conjuring up mental pictures ofhis "handkerchief-parties," as he used to call them, when hewould break off in the midst of some gay anecdote, rush--silkpressed to mouth--from the room, and return, gayer thanever, to carry on the game of make-believe with his cronies."Brave!" mused Julia, "but I mustn't be brave like that.For Ronnie's sake I must husband every ounce of my strength.Above all, I must find a house in the country."

The taking of that country-house, even though it had to beaccomplished by proxy, served in no small way to distracther mind from gloomier thoughts. Mrs. Sanderson's inquiryhad brought many answers, and Julia used to sit up in bedof a morning, her secretary in attendance, buff "particulars"from the house-agent's littered like cards on the heavilyembroidered eiderdown. These perused, she would send forAliette. "Take a car," she used to say. "Charge it to myaccount. The brougham's too slow for long journeys. Thislot," handing over a packet of slips, "look as though theymight do. All the rest are hopeless."

For the best part of a week, Aliette motored about thesouthern counties. April was almost May; the blossomedcountryside a dream of green and white beauty. Rushinglonely through the sunlit air, hedges, fields, and orchardsstreaming by, it seemed impossible that any breathing creatureshould be near to death. Her mood expanded to theexpanding summer, so that she forgot her personal troubles,too, in the sheer fun of her quest, and enjoyed every minuteof it, from the setting-out of midday to the evening consultationswith her "mother-in-law" and Ronnie about the placesshe had seen.

Finally, their choice narrowed itself down to two places--one,a modern mansion perched high on the slopes that overlookReigate and Dorking; the other, an old-fashioned brownstone house roofed with great slabs of Sussex slate, midwaybetween Horsham and the sea.

"Let it be Sussex," decided Julia; and to Daffadillies, asthe brown stone house called itself, some fortnight later, theywent.

5

Even to die in, Daffadillies was marvelous. No roads, savethe one road through the woodlands by which the recumbentJulia and her nurse motored, gave access to that great houseset high above terraced gardens. On three sides of it--east,west, and north--great oaks baffled the winds; southwardwere no trees, only slope on slope of field and farm-land, rampartedin middle distance by the bosoming downs.

Day-long, the wise brown southward-gazing face of Daffadilliestrapped the sunshine in its high gabled windows; day-long,whiffs of the sparkling sea blew tempered across twentymiles of kindly earth into that vast oak-floored room, with thefour-poster bed and the Jacobean furniture, which Aliette ather very first visit had mentally chosen for the invalid.

In that Sussex home quiet reigned like a sleeping princess.The balustered staircases gave back scarcely a sound to thesedulous feet of Julia'a serving-women. Neither from thebrown-paneled dining-room nor from the book-lined librarycould any whisper of voice arise to where, had she so willedit, the invalid might have dreamed away her summer in countrypeace, hearing only the swish and click of the mower onthe tennis-lawn, the snap and cut of gardeners' shears amongthe shrubberies.

But it was not for dreams, rather for their accomplishment,that Julia had taken Daffadillies. Aliette, bringing Ponto onthe evening train, found her in the highest fettle, curiouslyawake.

"My dear," she smiled, "this place is ideal. Ideal!You've done wonders."

"Then the journey didn't tire you?"

"Not a bit. I feel quite well. So well, in fact, that I'vetold nurse she needn't sleep in my room to-night."

"But suppose you were taken ill?"

"I sha'n't be taken ill." Something of the old masterywas back in Julia's voice. "If I am, I can always ring forSmithers." And she touched the two electric pushes, one forthe light and the other for the bell, which nurse had arrangedunder her pillow; smiling at her own astuteness when--hermorphia refused--the watchers withdrew for the night. Thenshe waited, ears tense, eyes wide open, heart throbbing in anticipationof its deed.

Smithers, acting on instructions, had set out her writing-thingson the desk under the vast curtained window. Anight-light burned on the bed-table. Across the glow of thenight-light she saw her traveling ink-pot, the gold pen whichRonnie had given her for Christmas, the leather manuscript-boxwith its store of foolscap and sharpened pencils.

"Was it safe to begin?" If only she could be certain thatnurse and Smithers were in bed.

At last she heard the pair of them whispering to oneanother in the corridor; at last she heard them separate, heardtheir doors close; and after yet another interminable quarterof an hour the house grew utterly quiet.

"Now," she said to herself, "now"; and very carefully,very quietly, very fearful of waking the woman in the nextroom, her wasted hands untucked the bedclothes. Veryquietly her wasted limbs released themselves from the sheets;very quietly her feet touched the carpet. Then, surreptitiousas a schoolboy breaking bounds--a tottering figure of couragein her cambric nightgown,--she stole toward her desk.

She could never reach that desk! She felt her legs, weakafter their unaccustomed effort, wobble under her like loosesprings. The dim room spun. A breeze rustled the cretonnecurtains, chilling her to the bone, terrifying her for her ownfrailty. Quivering, she reached the desk; clung to it. Thedim room ceased its spinning. Quivering still, she took twoblocks of manuscript-paper from the leather-lined basket;and tottered back to the bed.

Pencils! She had forgotten to bring pencils. She must goback--all those miles from her bed to her desk, from her deskto her bed. She tottered to the desk. It seemed as thoughshe would never win her way back to the safety of thosedistant sheets, those distant pillows.

Somehow, the pencils clutched in her trembling fingers, shehad reached the bed. Faintness overwhelmed her. The weakwire springs that were her limbs sank under the weight ofher body. Her body was a flaccid torment, sinking down bythe bed. Her heart yearned to give up its struggle. Herbrain told her to ring for Smithers. Smithers would lift hergently, so gently, put her to rest between those waiting sheets.

Somehow she had climbed into bed; somehow she hadcovered her aching body. On the eiderdown, two oblongpatches of white, lay the paper.

For a full five minutes, exhausted, fearful with a thousandfears, Julia Cavendish watched those two white oblongs. Butgradually her fears subsided. Gradually her brain conqueredthe exhaustion of her body.

She began to think, as literary craftsfolk think, in words."'Man's Law,'" she thought; "'The story of a greatwrong.' I wonder if I need that second title."

The night-light sputtered, expired. Sleep began to beat,soft-winged, on her eyelids. Her brain fought with sleep inthe darkness, fought sleep away from her.

Wide-eyed in the silent darkness she thought, "I must havelight--light for the forging of my weapon." Her handsgroped for the two electric pushes under her pillow; foundthem. Her hands panicked lest they should press the bell-pushin mistake, and so waken Smithers. Her hands rememberedthe light-switch pear-shaped. She drew the light-switchfrom under the pillow; pressed it.

Light glinted on Julia Cavendish's wasted hands, on thevirgin manuscript-blocks and the sharpened pencils, on therunkled bed and the wadded jacket at bed-foot. Painfullyshe reached for the jacket; painfully, afraid for her lung,she managed to drape it about her shoulders; painfully shearranged a pillow to prop her back; painfully she tookpaper, a pencil; and, drawing up her knees to support themanuscript-block, began.

"God," she prayed, "give me strength for the forging ofthis last weapon."

It seemed to Julia Cavendish that she had scarcely setpencil to paper when the first bird-twitter from dewy lawnswarned her to abandon work; to make, once again, that supremeeffort from bed to desk, from desk to bed; to smoothaway with trembling fingers all signs of her surreptitioustask, and lay herself down to get what sleep she might beforeSmithers brought her morning medicine.

1

Only those who have tended their loved ones throughlong illnesses know how at such times hour slides intohour, eventless save for the notches on the temperature-chart,for the slight recoveries or the slight relapses of the patient,for the doctor's cautious warnings or the nurse's hopefulcheeriness; how wary nights are but the interludes betweenweary days.

But night after night at Daffadillies, while her watchersslept, unwearied and warier than they, Julia's brain clockedaway its eventful hours; and dawn after wakeful dawn herweary hands added their carefully-hidden sheets to the pile ofpenciled manuscript in the leather-lined basket.

"Nurse," she used to say of a morning, "I haven't sleptquite as well as usual. After I've had my breakfast I thinka little doze would do me good." After lunch, too, she likedto doze, and sometimes even after tea. "It's the best thingfor her," said nurse. "She's getting better. Quite soonshe'll be able to get up."

And indeed to all of them, not only to nurse, but toSmithers and Mrs. Sanderson, to Aliette and to Ronnie, whocame down every week-end with better and better news ofthe work for which John Cartwright had briefed him, itseemed as though eventually she must get well. Already shetalked of returning to Bruton Street for the autumn, ofwintering on the Riviera. "That hemorrhage," she pronounced,"was a blessing in disguise. This rest is doing methe good in the world. I feel like a two-year-old."

Her assumed high spirits deceived everybody. Even SirHeron Baynet, who motored down one evening, felt the slenderchance possible. "Let her get up," he told Aliette overdinner. "Let her come downstairs if she feels like it."

But Julia, on that first visit, refused to get up. She andshe alone at Daffadillies knew, with that mysterious prescienceof the doomed, that death had only consented to standoff for a period; that only by husbanding every ounce of herstrength could she hope to run the full race with him. Sofar, in that race, she was well ahead. But inevitably therewould be setbacks, stumbles and faintings, when death wouldclose up his distance.

It was a fascinating race, yet terrible--this secret coursewhich she and her pencil ran nightly, for her son's sake,against the ultimate doom. Times came when she tasted thevery foreknowledge of victory; times when despondency tookher by the shrunken throat, when it seemed as though not eventhe supremest effort of her pencil could outrun those cellulesof consumption, those tiny implacable burrowers into theshrinking lung-tissue, which spored with every breath shedrew.

Once for twenty-four whole hours she relapsed into blackdespair. "Man's Law"--so alive through so many wonderfulnights--was dead in her brain. Her body, too, was dying.She would perish, leaving her sword unforged, Ronnie's Gordianknot unsevered.

Then, and then only, did Julia Cavendish decide to get up.

"I feel I need some distraction," she told Sir Heron on hisnext visit. "A little literary work. It'll take my mind offthings. Just a few rough notes for a new book."

The physician, after much protest, yielded; and next afternoonJulia, duly dressed by the adoring Smithers and helpedto a cushioned chair at the window by a proud nurse, sent forAliette, who came bringing a great armful of flowers fromthe garden, and--Aliette gone--for Mrs. Sanderson, to whom,under pledge of secrecy and with the threat of instant dismissalshould the secret be revealed, she confided the penciledcontents of her manuscript-box.

2

May drifted into June. Forty miles away London seethedwith strikes, with rumors of a general election, and withHector Brunton's viciously victorious prosecution of threefraudulent bank directors. At Daffadillies brooded peace.

Once more, typed, "Man's Law" grew alive. Once more,by daylight now, Julia ran her race with death. From half-pastten to half-past one she would sit at her desk by the openwindow--resentful of the faintest noise, of the slightest interruption,resentful even of the medicines which kept thosetiny cellules at bay. At half-past one would come Mrs.Sanderson, her face an unhappy mask; then lunch; and, lunchover, sleep. Every afternoon nurse and Smithers would carrythe invalid down the wide staircase to take tea with Alietteand Ponto, either in the book-shelved morning-room, or underthe big cedar, whose branches just shadowed the base-line ofthe tennis-court.

At those tea-parties Julia was curiously inquisitive.Habitually she would steer conversation into personal channels,putting question after question to Aliette--about hermarriage with Hector, about her family, about her elopement;till it seemed to the younger woman, shrinking from thefrankness of those questions, as though the elder were strivingto probe every secret of her life. But the probing wasnever unkindly; and after Julia had retired to her room,Aliette, lonely in the hush of Sussex sunsets that splashedwarm gold on the gabled brown of the great house, musedmuch for love of this marvelously valiant old lady whose veryvaliance had beaten down death.

For actually, listening to the courage in Julia's voice, it wasimpossible to imagine that voice forever silent. Even thesecond hemorrhage, so slight that only the patient divined itsfull significance, failed to dissipate Aliette's confidence.

Those nights, Hector's wife dreamed no more of Hector.Her dreams were all of Ronnie; of Ronnie, solitary fromMonday night to Friday in the ridiculous flat where CarolineStaley still tended his sparse requirements; of Ronnie, veryloving, very confident of ultimate success.

Latterly more than one important case--cases that broughtpublicity rather than fees--had been put in Ronnie's way;and Julia, reading his name in the papers, would gloat alittle, seeing him already famous.

With her son, too, whenever he visited them, Julia hadgrown curiously inquisitive, cross-examining him by the hourtogether about the work he had done during the week, aboutthe intricacies of the law, about various prominent membersof his profession. But when he grew inquisitive about herwork, Ronnie's mother always pleaded tiredness.

"I'm only playing at things," she used to say. "Don'tworry me to tell you about my scribbling."

3

The love of a man for a woman, and of a woman for hermate are very blind, very selfish, when compared with thelove of a mother for her son. Every week, as June flamedinto July, as her fears for Julia subsided, as the fret ofLondon dwindled into memory and the country wove itssoothing spells more and more surely about her consciousness;every week-end when she drove to welcome her lover at thelittle wayside station which served Daffadillies, Aliette grewmore and more radiant, more and more akin to the woman ofa year ago, the woman whose kisses had made paradise ofChilworth Cove.

Here, under the ramparting downs, even as then by thecreaming beaches, no harsh breeze from the outer world blewcold to wither the crimson flowers of their lonely happiness.Even as at Chilworth, no strangers came nigh them. Friends,acquaintances, her chagrined family--Julia banned them all.The rare visitors from neighboring places had to content theircuriosity with leaving cards. The press, satisfied of convalescence,left them undisturbed. Miraculously the telephonehad ceased to ring.

So while in the high rooms and on the smooth lawns ofDaffadillies Julia worked undistracted, glad that her lovedones, all unknowing what they did, should make high holiday,Ronnie and Aliette, careless of Hector, careless of scandal,careless of ostracism, played man and wife: until, since noword, no thought, no living creature reminded them of reality,their play grew truth and they forgot.

In this, their second honeymoon-time, their second oasis ofmake-believe in the desert of unmarried life, Daffadillies becamevery "Joyous Gard," love's castle whence they rode outtogether--every week-end--on hired nags--into fairyland.Southward to the downs or eastward into the weald theyrode; and wonderful it was once again to feel even hiredhorseflesh under them, to recapture for ecstatic moments onswift scurries across sheep-bitten turf the mad inexplicablebliss of their first meeting long and long ago in the hunting-field.

"Man, if only hounds ran in summertime," Aliette wouldlaugh, and crack a playful whip at Ponto lolloping, sternhigh, beside them.

For if the man and the woman were happy, the hugehound was in his seventh heaven. The great house suitedhim. His harlequin shape might have been bred to match thegleam and shadows of those stone terraces where--coat silkenfrom the chamois-leather, slitty eyes somnolent yet watchful--hebasked in sunshine or bayed the moon till Aliette, fearfulfor the invalid's comfort, drove him to the stables.

In "Joyous Gard" even Dennis and Etta were forgotten.How could Aliette desire dream-children or any children solong as her present happiness endured? To feel that Ronniestill cared, that the mere touch of her hand could still kindlein him the flames of their early passion; to realize herselfresponsible for his mother's comfort; to know that at last shewas being of real service to both of them--these things sufficedthe woman.

But the man, subconsciously, still yearned for materialsuccess, for the prizes of his profession, for the fame and theemoluments of it. At the woman's touch not only passionbut ambition kindled him. If only once, just once, he couldmeet and defeat, snatch a forensic victory from the "hangingprosecutor."

4

Once again, as July sped, Julia Cavendish stumbled in herrace with death. The sustained effort of the past weeks hadexhausted her vitality. Her brain wearied of its weapon-forging;and for a week she stayed it from the anvil.

But her brain, once released from its secret task, felt theimpulse--as is the habit of creative brains--to burden itselfwith other tasks. The imaginative power, no longer underdefinite control, grew fearful, painting devils on every wall.She summoned Sir Heron Baynet from London, questionedand cross-questioned him about her disease. "You're a mind-specialist,inter alia?" was one of her questions. "Tell me,do you believe that a healthy mind can triumph over an unhealthybody?"

"It depends on the quality of the mind," Sir Heron humoredher. "In your own case, I should say that the sheerwill to be cured has done more than all my drugs. But don'toverdo the work."

That--since all she now lived for was to bring her work toits conclusion--frightened her but the more. Torn betweenthe desire for work and the fear lest, overworking, she shouldtoo soon pay the inevitable penalty, she drove her brain oncemore to the anvil--hammering, hammering, hammering at hersword of the written word till even Mrs. Sanderson dared toprotest with her.

"Your business is to type, not to argue," said Julia grimly;and once again, openly this time, she began to work o' nights--sothat it was a novelist nearer than she had ever been to anervous breakdown who said to her "daughter-in-law" oneafternoon as they took their tea in the book-shelved morning-roomoverlooking the rain-dripped magnificence of the herbaceousborders: "I wonder if I ought to have my familydown. They'll be a frightful nuisance, and I sha'n't be ableto scribble while they're here. All the same, one has one'sduties----"

"I think your first duty is to get quite well," smiled the"daughter-in-law.''

"Perhaps you're right, child." Nervously Julia's tiredmind broached another of its secret anxieties. "And yourfamily? Don't you ever feel the need of them?"

"Mollie wrote last week," answered Aliette, burking themain question.

"Yes, but your father, your mother, that other sister ofyours? Don't you ever wish that they'd see reason; thatthey knew the exact truth; that somebody could tell them theinside story of your married life?" The questions cameabruptly from the shawled figure in the easy chair.

"Sometimes. Not that the truth would influence mother.Mother was a Roman Catholic, you know, before she married."

"Ah! I'd nearly forgotten that. It's important, veryimportant, because----" Julia, as though she had said toomuch, checked herself, leaving the other rather mystified."Still," she went on, "your mother isn't a Roman Catholicnow. She'd forgive you if there were a divorce, if you marriedmy son?"

"Yes. I suppose so." The younger woman brushed awaythe topic. "But mother and I never cared for one another asyou and Ronnie care. Mollie and I were the pals in ourfamily."

"Quite so." A sudden plan formulated itself in Julia'stroubled brain. "It must be lonely for you down here," shesaid after a pause. "Wouldn't you like to have your sisterMollie to stay for a week?"

"But wouldn't she be a nuisance?"

"No. I like having young people about me, and besides,I've a reason----"

Again, as though fearful of betraying herself, Julia checkedspeech. But the next day and the next, work finished, hermind reverted to its plan.

"We might invite young Wilberforce, too," she suggestedwhen Ronnie came down on the Saturday. "That wouldmake you four for tennis."

"And two for match-making," retorted Ronnie, entirelyunsuspicious of his mother's real motive.

1

Jimmy's two-seater was suffering from one of its usualbreakdowns. That red-haired young man, instructinghis porter to put his bag into a first-class smoker, had no ideaof the coil woven about his destiny. Ronnie he had not seenfor some weeks; Julia's letter to his firm requesting that"Mr. Wilberforce, Jr., should, if possible, come down and seeme" conveyed an invitation to stay the Friday night, but nohint of Mollie's presence at Daffadillies.

Nevertheless, as he watched Victoria Station slide past thelowered windows, the solicitor's thoughts visualized a girlwhose letters from Clyst Fullerford showed all too plainlythat she meant to insist, despite her love for him, on Aliette'sdivorce preceding her own marriage. Jimmy had writtenthat girl only a week since, begging her--"for the absolutelylast time of asking"--to be reasonable. But the veiled threatbrought only the inevitable reply, "You mustn't ask me that.It wouldn't be fair to Alie."

He had apologized for his veiled threat; but the reply to itstill rankled. "Really," thought the junior partner in Wilberforce,Wilberforce & Cartwright, "it's getting a bit toothick. I've told her over and over again that I don't carewhat her sister does. As far as I am concerned, she can goon living with Cavendish till the cows come home. But whenit comes to that dear little idiot insisting that I should arrangemy prospective sister-in-law's divorce before my own marriage--well,it's enough to try the temper of the lord chief!"

Though temperamentally incapable of a grand passion, thesolicitor had long ceased to regard matrimony, in his ownparticular and individual case, as an unsentimental contract.He wanted the girl; and "Dash it all," he decided, "thisthing's got to stop. If necessary, I'll have to run down toDevonshire. I can't wait much longer. She's asking toomuch of a chap. I can't settle this affair of her sister's. Nobodycan settle it except H. B. And H. B.'s as obstinate asa mule. Bit of a cad is H. B. Clever devil, though; I wish Ihad his income."

Ruminating thus, James Wilberforce made Horsham Junction;changed trains; and arrived, still ruminating, at WestWater.

"Here, you," he called to the solitary porter, "is there aconveyance of any sort from Daffadillies?"

"Yes, sir. There's a motor; and two ladies, sir."

For a moment, Jimmy's eyes refused to recognize the twolone figures by the ticket-collector's gate of the little waysideplatform: Aliette in a dove-gray coat and skirt, floppy strawshading her eyes; and Mollie, hatless, gloveless, almost tooobviously unperturbed at his approach. Then, conqueringsurprise, he took off his hat; shook hands; and was whiskedinto the tonneau of a dusty car before he could collect his wits.

"Astonished, Jimmy?" smiled the girl, still outwardlyunperturbed, as Aliette, hardly restraining a sly chuckle ofamusement, climbed up beside the driver.

"I certainly didn't expect----"

"To find me here." Imperturbability gave place to diffidence."I didn't know you were coming down till an hourago. Perhaps, if I had known, I shouldn't have come."

"That's a jolly remark to one's fiancé."

"I'm not your fiancée."

They were within two miles of Daffadillies before Jimmyventured his next remark. "Then you haven't changed yourmind, dear?"

"Certainly not. And, Jimmy--please behave yourself."

The man--his slight caress eluded--fell into a sulky silence."Devilish awkward position," he decided--thought of hisfather's baronetcy, and of the social responsibilities entailedon a family solicitor, weighing heavily on his Philistine mind--"womenare the devil!" He felt that he had been trapped;first, into foregathering with Aliette, a situation he had donehis best to avoid since the scandal; secondly, into a scenewith Mollie; and thirdly, into yet another discussion withthat very resolute old lady, Julia Cavendish, about her son'smatrimonial troubles.

Nevertheless, the drive soothed him; and by the time theymade the stone lodge and the eagle-crowned pillars of thegreat house, the prospect--scene or no scene--of twenty-fourhours in Mollie's company outweighed all other considerations.Moreover, it seemed impossible to associate the foursquaremagnificence and tree-girt terraces of Daffadillies withany form of scandal!

"And how is Mrs. Cavendish?" he remembered to askAliette, as they alighted. "Bucking up, one hears."

"She's ever so much better. She's in the garden to-day."

2

It is one of the tragedies of a long illness that those who livein daily contact with it fail to perceive the changes wrought intheir loved one.

James Wilberforce, as he made his way through the longhall and out of the French windows, down the stone steps onto the south lawns, was horrified at the first sight of his client.Only two days since he had read of her, somewhere or other,as "well on her way to recovery." Nearing the shawledfigure in the long chair under the cedar-tree, he knew the fullinaccuracy of that bulletin. Julia Cavendish had shrunk toa merest vestige of the woman he remembered. The hand sheextended to him seemed so frail that he hardly dared clasp it.The gray hair was nearly white; the sunken cheeks hectic;the bloodless lips tremulous. Only in her eyes shone the olddominance.

"Ronnie's coming down by the evening train," said thesemblance of his old client. "We're wondering if you'llstay the week-end." A servant whom Jimmy remembered tohave seen at Bruton Street brought silver tea-things, a table,a cake-stand, and a hot-water-bottle for the invalid's feet."My daughter-in-law coddles me," she told him, as Aliettearranged the hot-water-bottle on the foot-rest of the chair andretucked an eiderdown round the thin knees. "But I don'tgrumble. It's so splendid to feel one's getting well again."

The pathos of that last remark brought tears very close toJimmy's eyes.

But once Julia had been carried into the house by nurse andSmithers, the young man in the town clothes forgot all abouther. He wanted to be alone with Mollie--and the "Bruntonwoman," confound her, refused to leave them alone.

That tea-time, James Wilberforce learned yet another lesson,to wit, the exact meaning of our ancient saw, "one man'smeat is another man's poison." To him Aliette, the exquisiteAliette, was a bore, a nuisance, an interloper. He had neverpretended to like Mollie's sister. Now positively he loathedher. Had it not been for the old lady's "daughter-in-law"--Daughter-in-law,forsooth. Why, damn it all, the positionwas a public disgrace!

Irritably surveying both sisters, Jimmy speculated why onearth Ronald Cavendish should have jeopardized his careerfor any one so utterly insipid as Aliette. She was insipid,compared with Mollie. Except for her hair. And that, inthe sunlight, was red. A rotten red! (Jimmy, like most red-hairedpeople, could not bear the color in others.) As forthe pale complexion and the carefully modulated, rather shyvoice, he, personally, found them tiresome.

"If only she'd go," he thought; and, at last, making theexcuse that it was time for her to meet Ronnie's train, the"Brunton woman," still chuckling, went.

"Isn't Alie a dear?" said Alie's sister, following her withher eyes across the lawn. "Isn't Hector a beast?" Andagain James Wilberforce was troublesomely aware of his ownselfishness.

"What did you think of Mrs. Cavendish?" went on the girlafter a pause. "I've only met her once before. She seemsrather--rather thin, don't you think?"

"She is rather thin," prevaricated Jimmy.

"But you do think she's going to get well, don't you?"

"Let's hope so."

For both the new-comers had seen, though neither of themcould speak it, the truth about Julia; and in the light of thattruth, their own troubles seemed petty. They didn't wanteven to speak of themselves. With their eyes, they said toone another: "Not now. Not here. Not just under herwindows." With their lips, till Ronnie and Aliette arrived,they made pretense. "She'll get well," they said, sheeringaway, by mutual consent, from every personal topic.

And this game of make-believe--which only good breedingenabled them to play--endured all through the dinner ofwhich those four partook (Mrs. Sanderson and the hospital-nursemealed alone) in the paneled room whose heavy gold-framedpictures looked down across vast spaces on the paleoval pool of the candle-lit dining table.

But Ronnie, even taking part in the game, seemed distrait,self-absorbed. Dinner finished and the sisters gone, he pouredhimself a second glass of port; and, extracting a piece ofcarefully-clipped newsprint from his waistcoat-pocket, handedit across the table.

"Tell me," he said, "of whom does this remind you?"

James Wilberforce took the proffered paper and scrutinizedit carefully before replying: "Well--it's a littlelike----"

"Like Aliette." Ronnie's self-absorption passed in a flash."My dear chap, it's the very image of her. Look at thoseeyes, that mouth. I tell you I got the shock of my lifewhen I opened the 'Evening News' on my way down to-night."

"Really--and who is the lady? Lucy Towers, eh! Screen-star,I suppose."

"Screen-star, you blithering idiot; she's just been arrestedfor murder."

"By Jove!" Jimmy, whose wits had been wool-gathering,skimmed through the paragraph underneath the photo, andhanded it back without further comment. His friend's excitementover the vague resemblance to Aliette--for thatRonnie was excited, quite uncontrollably excited, even thelove-lorn solicitor could now see--appeared, to say the leastof it, peculiar.

"Jimmy," went on the barrister, his eyes shining, "I'llswear that woman's no murderess."

"You'd better offer to defend her then."

"Wouldn't I like the chance! Look here,"--another newspaper-cuttingemerged from Ronnie's pocket,--"that's thechap she's alleged to have murdered. Her husband, apparently.A nice-looking blackguard, too. As far as I can makeout, there's another person under arrest for complicity. Aman----"

"Crime passionel, eh?"

"Possibly." Ronnie folded up both the cuttings and putthem carefully back into his pocket. "And from the look ofthe late Mr. Towers, I can't say they're either of them muchto blame." He relapsed into silence; and James Wilberforcerealized, in a rare flash of psychological illumination, whitherthe chance remark had led his excited imagination.

"Talking of murder," he said suddenly. "What wouldhappen if I were to put a bullet into H. B.? There's beenmany a time when I've wanted to. It makes me mad to feelthat that man, or any man, has the power to deny a womanher freedom. It's sheer slavery--our marriage system."

"What the dickens is the matter with you to-night?"James Wilberforce had risen, and placed a restraining handon his friend's shoulder.

"I'm bothered if I know. Seeing that photograph got onmy nerves, I suppose. Funny things--nerves. I never knewwhat they were till--Hello, what the hell's that?" A bellshrilled loud and long above their heads. "The mater's bell.I hope to Christ there's nothing wrong."

Ronnie sprang from his chair, and they waited a moment orso--as those in invalids' houses do wait on sudden summonses.

But the bell did not ring again, and after a little whileappeared Smithers with the news that "Mrs. Cavendish wouldbe very grateful if Mr. Wilberforce would go up and see her,alone, for a few minutes."

3

"I hope you've finished dinner?" Julia Cavendish lay,like a queen in state, on the smoothed bed. To the eyes ofJames Wilberforce, puzzling their way here and there aboutthe subdued light of the room, she looked almost herselfagain. "You didn't mind my sending for you?"

"Not in the very least. Isn't that what I came downfor?" The solicitor, unpleasantly self-conscious of his ownphysical bulk, sat down awkwardly beside the weak form onthe bed.

The invalid dismissed her nurse. She had intended topostpone Wilberforce's interview till the next morning, towork an hour or so. But her mind was in one of its peculiarturmoils. To any other listener, the tremor in her voice alonewould have betrayed the importance, to her plans, of theforthcoming talk.

"I ought to have sent for your father, I suppose," shebegan. "Have you brought the will with you?"

"Yes. It's in my room. Shall I go and get it?"

"No. There's a copy on my desk. Do you mind handingit to me?"

Obeying, James Wilberforce asked: "Is there anythingyou want altered?"

"Well--no--not exactly. But tell me, suppose I did wantto make certain alterations, would it be necessary for you todraw up an entirely new document, or would this one do?"

"If it was only a minor alteration," said Jimmy, quiteunconscious of the thought at the back of his client's head,"we could execute a codicil."

"A codicil." She played with the word. "That's a kindof postscript, isn't it?"

"More or less. But, of course, a codicil has to be properlywitnessed." Wilberforce went on to explain the law of lastwills and testaments at some length; and the invalid listenedcarefully. She appeared curiously inquisitive on the subject.and he humored her inquisitiveness till nurse, returning withmedicine-glass and bottle, interrupted their conversation.

"I'm sure you're tired," said nurse. "I'm sure youought to let me settle you down for the night."

"I sha'n't go to sleep for at least another hour. I've agreat deal to discuss."

The nurse, realizing the patient in her stubbornest mood,left them alone again; and Julia, apparently satisfied on thesubject of her will, began to talk of Ronnie. What did Mr.Wilberforce think of her son's chances at the criminal bar?What hopes were there, in Mr. Wilberforce's opinion, ofBrunton's being forced to take action? Would publicity, forinstance, the kind of publicity Belfield had used againstCarrington, help?

"I shouldn't worry about that till you're better." Jimmystrove to be cheerful.

"But I do worry about it."

"Why? It's only a question of time. H.B.'s boundto come round in the long run."

"I doubt that." Dropped lashes veiled the interest inJulia's eyes. "Not without considerable pressure. He's acruel man; and if he doesn't want to marry again, I'm afraidthere's very little hope. That's why----" She grewthoughtful, silent. Then a new idea seemed to cross her mind."If he doesn't bring his divorce soon, he won't be able tobring one at all, will he?"

"That depends." Wilberforce laughed. "Divorce judgesdon't want to know too much in undefended cases."

"That's good." Julia, her mind now more or less at restabout its main problem, lay back among her pillows. So far,apprehensive lest the solicitor should discover her secret, shehad gone subtly to work. But there was no subtlety abouther next speech:

"Mr. Wilberforce, I suppose you know I'm going to die?"

The directness of those words dumbed Jimmy. Only afterthe greatest difficulty could he manage the conventional prevarication:"We all of us have to die some day."

"I'm too tired for clichés." The woman on the bed smiledsuperciliously, whimsically almost. "Death, in my case, isa very near certainty. That's a privileged communication."She smiled again. "You won't tell my son or my daughter-in-law,will you?"

Not knowing how to reply, the man held his peace; andafter a little while Julia Cavendish continued: "When theend comes, it will be your father's duty as my executor to gothrough my papers. I'll telegraph for him if my mind isstill clear. But he may not arrive in time. I'd have sent forhim to-night instead of for you, if I hadn't been afraid of,"she hesitated, "frightening people. I want you to give yourfather this message. Memorize it carefully, please. Tell himthat there will be a letter for him--either for him or for you--Ihaven't yet made up my mind which. It depends on--oncertain circumstances."

With an effort, the frail form raised itself from the pillowand leaned forward. Even in the subdued light, JamesWilberforce could see the pearls of sweat beading his client'sforehead. Her hands showed blue-white on the sheets. Herblue eyes were an imploring question. "The instructions inthat letter will be a sacred trust. Will you give me yourpromise, your personal promise, that they shall be carriedout?"

"Of course, Mrs. Cavendish." Jimmy, moved to a greatcompassion, took one of the blue-white hands in his own strongclasp. "You can rely upon me."

"Thank you. I can sleep now."

He released her hand; and Julia subsided, eyes closed,among her pillows.

For a moment, Jimmy was terrified. "She's going todie," he thought. "She's going to die to-night!"

But the eyes opened again; and it seemed to Jimmy thatthey read his unspoken thought. "I'm not going to die yetawhile," said Julia Cavendish. "I'm only sleepy. Youmight ring for nurse."

Just as the nurse came in, she said to him, "If I write thatletter to you instead of to your father, it will be because Ifeel that you owe me a debt--a debt of gratitude. Scandal'sa very small price to pay for--love, Mr. Wilberforce."

4

Once outside Julia's bedroom door, the solicitor took a silkhandkerchief from the pocket of his dinner-jacket and pretendedto blow his nose. He wanted, in his own elegantphraseology, "to blub like anything." For the moment,his essentially legal mind was off its balance. "I must controlmyself," he thought; "I mustn't let those people downstairssee."

And perhaps, if Ronnie and Aliette had been in thedrawing-room, James Wilberforce might have succeeded indisciplining himself. But Mollie was alone; had been alone fora whole anxious hour.

"Jimmy"--she rose from the sofa as he entered, and hereyes met his across the sudden brightness of the room--"Jimmy,what's the matter? You look as if you'd seen aghost."

"Nothing's the matter," he said dully.

"You're sure?"

"Quite. She's asleep." He came across the room to her,and they faced one another, all pretense wiped from theireyes.

"Tell me," said the girl at last. "Tell me, is it quite hopeless?Does she--does she know?"

"Yes. She knows."

"How terrible!" Mollie's voice trembled. "Jimmy, won'tyou tell me what she said? There might be some way in whichI could help----"

"There's only one way in which you can help me, Mollie."

"Don't! Please don't!" Her hands protested. "Wemustn't think of ourselves. Not here. Not now."

"Why not!" he said sullenly; and then, sinking heavilyinto a chair, "I suppose you're right, dear. Life's a rottenmess----"

"Poor Jimmy!" Mollie's voice was very tender. "Mypoor Jimmy!" She put her hand on his head. He graspedit feverishly; and quite suddenly she knew that her James,her unemotional Philistine of a James, was crying.

Thought expired like a candle in the mind of Mollie Fullerford.She was just conscious that Jimmy had risen from hischair--that his hand still grasped hers--that he was leadingher through the open windows--over a lawn which felt dampto her thin-shod feet--under a moon-fretted tree--toward thedark of shrubberies.

Somehow they were standing on a bridge; a little rusticbridge, mossy banks and moss-green water below. Her handson the bridge-rail quivered like the hands of a 'cello player.She was quivering all over, quivering like a restive horse.Jimmy's arm was round her shoulders. He was speaking toher, hoarsely, hysterically, pleading with her; and she knewthat the resolution which had held her so long firm againsthis importunities was weakening; weakening to every jerk ofthe Adam's apple in his throat.

"Mollie," he pleaded, "I need you. I want you. I can'tdo without you. I can't wait any longer for you. You mustmarry me. You must, I tell you, you must."

"Jimmy," she stammered, "Jimmy--please."

"You little idiot!" Suddenly, she grew conscious of animmense anger in him. "You dear, damned little idiot.What good do you think you're doing by refusing to marryme? You're not doing yourself any good. You're notdoing me any good. You're not doing your sister anygood." Words rushed out of him--faster--faster--alwaysless coherent. "Little fool. Selfish little fool We sha'n'tdo anybody any good by waiting. Shall we? Answer me,Mollie! Shall we? Shall we do anybody any good?"

Words petered out. He could only strain her to him,crudely, fiercely. She felt her body weakening; felt the inhibitionsof a year ebbing like water from, the channels of hermind. His lips sought hers. She yielded her lips to him--yieldedherself beaten, to the fierceness of his arms.

"Little idiot, will you marry me?"

"Yes, Jimmy."

Triumphant, he released her; and in that moment his mind,still quivering from the verity of death, knew the verity oflove.

1

Next morning, Saturday, after breakfast, a very subduedJimmy and Mollie broke the news of their formal engagement.To both of them the events of overnight, rememberedin the prosaic day, seemed curiously out of perspective.They had, they decided, "gone off the deep end"; and, beingrather casual young people, left it at that, content to enjoythe happiness which their emotional plunge had broughtthem.

Jimmy, of course, changed his original plan of returningto town by the evening train. The usual notice for the "DailyTelegraph" was drafted, Clyst Fullerford and the baronetcommunicated with in two conventional letters, and the inevitablebottle of champagne broached for luncheon.

Though Julia did not share that bottle, the engagement waslike a draft of wine to her mentality. She felt that the allianceof the Wilberforces with the Fullerfords could onlybenefit her secret schemes; and, strong in that feeling, putall cerebral turmoils away. On Saturday afternoon, quiteundisturbed by the swish and pat from the tennis-court, sheworked two hours, and on Sunday morning, three.

Aliette, delighted though she was at her sister's obvioushappiness (for some time past she had guessed that only herown peculiar position could be hindering Mollie's chance ofmatrimony), found it hard to restrain a vague jealousy, atrace of petty resentment. Soon Mollie would be a marriedwoman. Whereas she----

And in Aliette's lover the resentment was tenfold stronger.The utter legality and social correctness of the whole procedureinfuriated him. It took all his self-control to makesemblance of congratulating the "lucky couple." His overnightabsorption in a "vulgar murder-case" seemed absurd.Every time he looked at Aliette, graceful on the tennis-courtor dignified across the dinner-table, he said to himself: "Ifonly we could be 'engaged,' if only we could be legally married."

But Monday morning--the two men traveled to Londontogether, leaving Julia at her anvil and the sisters surreptitiouslyplanning trousseaux--brought back the nervous excitementof Friday night with a rush. No sooner had Ronniearrived at Pump Court than Benjamin Bunce--a little souredby the setback suffered in the civil courts, yet tolerably optimisticabout the new criminal work--informed him that Mr.John Cartwright had been on the telephone twice before teno'clock and would be glad of a conference as soon as possible.

"It's about this shooting case at Brixton. Perhaps you'veread about it, sir," confided Benjamin; and Ronnie's heartleaped at the confidence.

At twelve o'clock precisely the clerk announced the solicitor,who came in clutching an armful of the Sunday papers,which he flung down on the barrister's table with a curt"Here you are. Here's your murder at last."

For John Cartwright, John Cartwright was phenomenallymoved. A man of five-and-fifty, domed of forehead, bald ofpate, his black pupils--which possessed the inclination tosquint--prominent under rimless eye-glasses of peculiar magnification,he had those thin, unemotional lips, those bony,unemotional hands, which are so often found in the legalprofession. But to-day the unemotional lips twitched, and thebony hands were almost feverish in their excitement as theydrew a battered pocket-book from the tail of a battered blackcoat, fumbled for an envelope, and handed it over.

"Read what's in that," said John Cartwright, "and see ifit isn't a plum."

"That" turned out to be a letter from the millionaireeditor of the "Democratic News," a new Sunday illustratedpaper devoted almost exclusively to those readers whom unkindjournalists describe, when they foregather with oneanother, as "the father-of-the-family public."

Bertram Standon--he had so far refused two titles andowned one Derby winner--was apparently much exercisedover "this unfortunate woman, Mrs. Towers." "I feel convinced,"he wrote to his friend, Sir Peter Wilberforce, Bart.,who had turned the letter over to his partner, "that she ismore sinned against than sinning; and in the cause of honestjustice, no less than in the cause of honest journalism, I havedecided that--should the coroner's court bring in a verdictof wilful murder against her or the ex-sailor, Fielding--I willput all my personal resources, and all the resources of mypaper, at their disposal. Will you therefore have the casewatched on my behalf, and, should the verdict go as I amafraid it will, take any steps you consider necessary."

"A stunt, I should imagine," decided Cartwright, "andnot a very new stunt at that. Bottomley, you may remember,once did the same thing. Still, it may not be a stunt. Standon'sa curious fellow. Sometimes his heart gets away withhis brain. It certainly has in this case."

"You think Lucy Towers and Fielding guilty then?"

"Not a doubt, I should say. Still, that's not our affair.Our job is to give Standon as good a run as we can for hismoney. The inquest, I see, has been adjourned for a week.When it comes on again you'll have to go down."

"Can't I see the prisoners beforehand?"

"Better not, as I take our instructions."

"But we might get them off at the inquest."

"Where would Bertram Standon's stunt come in if wedid?" said John Cartwright satirically, and so closed theinterview.

2

During the week which preceded the adjourned inquest onWilliam Towers, Bertram Standon held his journalistic hand;and--Fleet Street being momentarily occupied with the controversyof "Submarines v. Battleships"--no further detailsof the tragedy became available.

Reperusing the week-end papers of an evening, it seemedto Ronnie that the case against the woman--whose likeness toAliette waned and waned the more one scrutinized her photograph--lookedblack enough. Apparently she had shot herhusband during an altercation in another man's room. Theother man, a sailor who had lost both his arms in the war,was her cousin, and--the reports suggested--her lover.

All the same, the "vulgar murder-case" continued to exciteboth his personalities: the magisterial Cavendish becauseof a curious inward conviction--the conviction he had voicedto Wilberforce--that "the woman was no murderess": andthe imaginative Wixton because if the coroner's jury foundher guilty he might at last get his chance--slim though thatchance appeared--of a big forensic victory.

Night after night, therefore, Caroline Staley, who, in theabsence of her mistress, had relapsed into the perfect bachelorhousekeeper, completely idle from ten to four, and completelyassiduous for the rest of the time, left her master at work inthe little sitting-room of the "ridiculous flat," studying--withhis mother's own concentration--first in his red "Gibsonand Weldon," and thereafter at length, the reports of Rex v.Lesbini, of Rex v. Simpson, of Rex v. Greening (in which itis definitely held that, though the sight of adultery committedwith his wife gives sufficient provocation for a husband toplead manslaughter, the major accusation must hold good ifthe woman be only mistress of the accused), and of any othercase that might, by the vaguest possibility, have some bearingon the problematic defense of Lucy Towers.

3

On the Saturday, Ronnie, as usual, went down to Daffadillies.Mollie had returned to Clyst Fullerford. Julia andAliette, informed of the new work, were enthusiastic.

"It'll be a public prosecution, I suppose?" asked Julia.

"Of course. All murder cases are conducted by the directorof public prosecutions. But I haven't got the brief yet."

"Not even a watching brief?" put in Aliette.

Ronnie laughed. "Where did you pick up that phrase?"

"In the newspapers, I suppose." Aliette, rememberingfrom whose lips she had last heard the expression, blushedfaintly. And next morning, Sunday, the front page of the"Democratic News" again reminded her of Hector.

Standon, nervous lest some of his titled brethren in FleetStreet should appropriate the stunt, devoted his Napoleonicleader-page to "The Quality of Mercy."

Standon dared not, of course, comment on a case which wasstill "sub judice," but Standon could and did dare to commentat great length on "one-sided justice," on the delaysdemanded by the police at inquests, on the hardships sufferedby those who could not afford "our overpaid silks," and onthe crying need of a "public defender."

"Our 'hanging prosecutor,'" howled Standon, "is paidby the state. Who pays for the defense of his victims? Why,even as I write, there lie in Brixton Prison a man and awoman who--for all we know--may be as innocent of thecharge brought against them as I am. Next week they willbe haled before the coroner. The police will have sifted everyvestige of evidence against them. But who will have siftedthe evidence in their defense? No one! I ask the great-heartedBritish people, whose generosity to the weak andunhappy never fails, whether this is justice or a travesty ofjustice; whether, in any properly constituted community, thevery finest legal brains obtainable would not have been placedimmediately and without any fee whatsoever entirely at theservice of these two unfortunates, who now lie in a felon'scell, hoping against hope, if they are innocent, as I believethem to be innocent, that some public-spirited person willcome forward and give them, out of mere charity, money.Money! The shame of it!! The shame of it!!!"

The "silly season," when newsprint gasps for "copy" as adrowning man for air, was already on Fleet Street; andStandon's article, duly garnished with photographs of LucyTowers, of Bob Fielding, the ex-sailor, and of "Big Bill"Towers, started a controversy which relegated both submarinesand battleships to the editorial scrap-heap.

"Mark my words," said John Cartwright, calling for Ronnieon the Tuesday morning, "the Cairns case will be nothingto this one. If by any chance you were to get Lucy Towersoff, you'd be a made man."

"But surely,"--for a moment the wild idea that by someamazing piece of fortune Hector Brunton might be briefedfor the prosecution crossed Ronnie's mind--"surely, if Standon'sout for publicity, he'll never let you brief me for theactual trial? He'll have one of the big guns, Marshall Hallor somebody like that."

"No, he won't." John Cartwright chuckled slyly. "Ohno, he won't. He'll make a discovery."

"A discovery?"

"Yes, a young man. 'A new light in the legal firmament--aDavid to slay Goliath.' That'd look well in the DemocraticNews.' Besides," Cartwright chuckled again, "MarshallHall would cost them a week's advertising revenue, andyou're Julia Cavendish's son."

"I've no wish to trade on my mother's reputation," saidRonnie stiffly. But, as Cartwright's car came nearer andnearer to the coroner's court, he realized that if by anypossible miracle Hector Brunton were briefed for the prosecution,he, Ronald Cavendish, would trade on any one'sreputation rather than not be entrusted with the defense.

4

By the peculiar processes of the English legal machine, aman or woman on trial for murder may be required to undergono less than three ordeals: at the coroner's court, beforethe magistrate, and finally at the assizes.

Even before Cartwright's car came to a standstill outsidethe modest building of the coroner's court at Brixton, RonaldCavendish could see tangible effects of Bertram Standon'spublicity. The two bemedaled constables at the door weresurrounded by a knot of people, well-dressed for the mostpart, all equally anxious for admittance to the first ordeal ofLucy Towers, and all equally ready to pay modest baksheeshfor the privilege. Various alert youngsters, whose livingdepended on the news-pictures which their wits and theirhand-cameras could snap, hovered--eager for the face of acelebrity--on the pavement. A touch of the theatrical wasadded to this scene by two sandwich-men, parading boardswith the latest slogan of the "Democratic News": "Why nota Public Defender?"

Ronald and Cartwright pushed their way to the door; and--Cartwrighthaving shown his card--were conducted down along passage into the exiguous court-room. The jury, allmales, had already taken their chairs. The coroner, a meek,tubby mid-Victorian fellow with a rosy bald head and a hintof port wine in his rosy cheeks--was just about to sit down.

One of Cartwright's henchmen, sent on in advance, cameup, whispering that he had kept them seats at the back ofthe room. These, unobtrusively, they took.

So far, apparently, the state--to use Standon's phraseology--hadnot thought it worth while to brief counsel. Atthe table reserved for the prosecution Ronnie saw only ablack-mustached uninterested solicitor and his clerk. Thesolicitor for the defense, a weak-kneed, unimposing little man,sat at the table opposite, looking even more bored. Only thereporters, bent over their note-books, and the few membersof the public who had by now bribed themselves into the room,seemed in any way alive to the enacting of a human tragedy.

Then the coroner whispered something to his clerk, and theprisoners were brought in.

In that moment--despite the photographs--Ronnie thoughthimself the victim of hallucinations. "It's a dream," hethought; "a crazy nightmare." For the accused woman,accompanied on the one side by a hatchet-faced constable,and on the other by a tall prison-wardress in the blue cloakand cap of her order, might--had it not been for the work-reddenedhands, the over-feathered hat and the rusty blackcoat and skirt--have been Aliette's self. Complexion, figure,carriage, personality, the very voice that answered to hername, showed Lucy Towers the living, breathing double ofHector Brunton's wife. She had the same auburn hair, thesame vivid eyes, the identical nose, the identical mouth. Therewas about her, even, that same shy dignity which, in Ronnie'seyes, distinguished the woman he loved from all other womenin the world.

"Not a bad-looking wench," whispered Cartwright.

But the barrister could not answer. Sheer amazement heldhim speechless. He had no eyes for the other guarded figure,for the pale unshaven young man whose two coat-sleeves hungempty from his broad shoulders. As it was to be throughoutthe case, so now at the very first glimpse of his client, everyinstinct urged him to her defense. He forgot Standon, Cartwright,his own career, everything. Seeing, not a woman ofthe lower orders, presumably the mistress of a common sailor,but his own woman, his Aliette, Aliette on trial for her life,lone save for his aid against a hostile world, he no longerwanted even the coroner's jury to convict her. He wantedher to be free. Free!

And suddenly, he hated the law. The law--policemen,wardress, coroner, jury, the little black-haired Treasury solicitor--wantedto hang this woman, to put a greasy rope roundher throat, to let her body drop with one jerk into eternity.Against her, even as against Aliette, the law was hostile. And"They sha'n't hang her," swore Ronnie. "By God, theysha'n't."

With a great effort he pulled his legal wits together andbegan to follow the evidence. Deadly, damning evidence itwas, too. The woman, according to the police, had alreadyconfessed.

"Bob didn't do it. I did it," began the confession whicha sergeant, thumbing over his note-book, read out in a tonelessvoice. "Bob is my cousin. He lived in the same houseas me and my husband, Bill. Every afternoon I used to goand clean Bob's room for him, because he couldn't do it himself,having no arms. Bill, my husband, didn't like megoing to Bob's room. He was jealous of Bob. He didn't likeme giving Bob money. This morning Bill told me that if Iwent to Bob's room again, he would do us both in. I toldhim I must go and help Bob, because he couldn't feed himselfproper. I went to Bob's room about half-past four. Itold Bob what my husband had said, and Bob laughed aboutit. He told me there was an old pistol in the cupboard andthat if my husband came, I could pretend to shoot him. Ofcourse Bob was joking. I got him a cup of tea. I was helpinghim drink the tea when my husband came in. Bill was veryangry. He said he was going to thrash Bob, and then thrashme. I got very frightened, and thought of the pistol. Billhad his stick in his hand. I thought he was going to hit Bobwith the stick, so I ran to the cupboard. I found the pistoland pointed it at Bill. I told him not to touch Bob. Hesaid, 'That pistol's not loaded. You can't frighten me.'Bob said, 'Don't be a fool, Bill; it is loaded.' I thought Billwas going to strike Bob, so I pulled the trigger. I'm notsorry I killed Bill because I thought he was going to do Bobin. I love Bob very much."

"I love Bob very much." As those last words fell, heavyfor all their tonelessness, on the hot hush of the crowdedroom, Ronald Cavendish knew--with the instinct of the borncriminal lawyer--that coroner, jury, and public had alreadydecided on their verdict. He could read condemnation, abhorrence,fear, in every eye that stared and stared at the paleforlorn creature seated motionless between her jailors. "Thesailor was her lover," said those condemning eyes. "Thatwas why she killed her rightly jealous husband." But forthe armless man whose lips, as he listened, writhed in pain,those eyes held only pity.

Cartwright's voice whispered to his clerk, "You'll get acopy of that, of course," and the inquiry went on.

The police produced Bob Fielding's revolver, the blood-stainedbullet, the empty cartridge-case, a plan of the roomwhere the crime had been committed, Bob Fielding's navyrecord. The black-mustached solicitor called witnesses whohad heard the shot, witnesses who had seen the body, onewitness, even, who was prepared to swear the crime premeditated.

"More than once I've heard her say," swore Maggie Peterson,a frowzy, blowzy creature whose hands showed like collopsof raw meat against her blowzy skirt, "that she wishedBill was dead. And there's others as heard her besides me."

In the case of Lucy Towers, the weak-kneed unimposingsolicitor for the defense reserved his cross-examination, butfor Fielding, to Ronnie's surprise, he put up a most spiritedfight; and despite the prosecution's every effort to implicatethe sailor as accessory to the shooting, the jury refused togive a verdict against him. "As if," decided the unimaginativejury, "armless men could fire pistols."

But Lucy Towers they found guilty of murder. "Andquite rightly," said John Cartwright, as the woman--with afaint smile in the direction of her released cousin--was ledfrom the room.

5

"All the same, mater, I'll swear that--in intention--LucyTowers is innocent."

It was Sunday afternoon at Daffadillies, and ever since hisarrival Ronnie had been harping on the same topic. ButRonnie found his womenfolk hard to convince. In their eyes,as in the eyes of the public, Fleet Street's report of the inquest,and more particularly Maggie Peterson's evidence,branded Lucy Towers irrevocably murderess.

"Rubbish!" said Julia--it was one of her "good" days--"Rubbish!She's guilty, and she'll either hang or go to jailfor life."

"That would be an outrage," answered Ronnie gravely.

"Why?" The novelist laughed. "Lucy Towers shot herhusband. She'll never get over that point. Not in England,anyway. In France it's just possible that a sentimental jurywould give her their verdict. We, thank heaven, do not indulgein that sort of perverted justice."

Aliette reluctantly sided with Julia.

"But, of course, man," said Aliette, "of course, I'm sorryfor the poor creature. Still, whatever her husband did, shehad no right to shoot him."

"Not even in self-defense?"

"No, not even in self-defense."

"In defense of an armless man, then?" countered Ronnie;and, so countering, saw in one vivid flash of insight his oneand only chance of victory should Cartwright give him thebrief.

1

"There is always," says Bertram Standon in his book"How I Fought Fleet Street," "a psychological news-moment.To be premature with news is even worse than to bedilatory with it. The editor who knows when not to publishis worth his weight in gold."

In the Towers-public defender stunt, the proprietor of the"Democratic News" backed his maxim to the limit. Cleanthrough a newsless August, and well into a newsless September,he stirred the pool of the controversy he had started;whipped up every ripple of public interest to a wave ofexcitement over the guilt or innocence of Lucy Towers; butgave no hint of the rope he, Standon the Magnificent, intendedto pull when finally the last act of the great dramashould be launched upon London.

Even Ronnie, chafing for his chance, could ascertain nodetail of the magnate's intention. Cartwright, pumped wheneveretiquette allowed it, only beamed, "Wait and see!"Jimmy, who must have known something, had disappearedinto Devonshire. At her second ordeal, the trial before themagistrate, Lucy Towers--still represented by the same unimposingsolicitor--reserved her defense and was formallycommitted for trial at the Old Bailey.

Meanwhile Julia Cavendish worked on.

2

Physically and mentally, as day followed September day,Ronnie's mother felt well--better, indeed, than at any otherperiod of her illness. The weapon of her forging grew sharpand sharper under her hand.

Despite the realization, every time she set pencil to paper,that the candle of her life was burning remorselessly to itssocket, that her mind and her body must alike expire at task'scompletion, she experienced no fear. Her brain, rapt in thecreative ecstasy of Julia Cavendish, living novelist, regardedJulia Cavendish, dying woman, from a point of view of thecoolest detachment.

Outwardly, to her watchers, to Ronnie, nurse, Aliette, andMrs. Sanderson, she played a part; the part of the convalescent.That they, in their ignorance, should believe the partshe played to be real, gave to her detachment a whimsicaland peculiar happiness.

And always in those days the illusion of immortality sustainedher. She used to think, lying weary of work on hergreat bed: "Like Horace, I shall not utterly die. Dying, Ishall leave my Ronnie this sword of the written word. Whatgreater proof of love and service could any son or any godrequire?"

For now, almost at the end of her race with death, JuliaCavendish knew the conviction of Godhead. The priest-hoistedsectarian idol of her middle years lay shattered intoa thousand fragments. In its stead was a spiritual Presence,all-pervading, all-comprehending, all-pardoning: an Individualof Individuals, to whom, freed from the slave-allegianceof the formal churches, each unhampered soul must fight itsown unhampered way: a Soul of Souls who--despising noman-made creed--yet demanded more than any creed made ofman, even the courage to look on life and death and Himselfalike fearlessly.

But to that Godhead the soul of Aliette Brunton had notyet come. Her second honeymoon-time was over; Daffadilliesno longer "Joyous Gard"; Ronnie no more the single-mindedlover of July. Between them, like a wraith, hovered a man'sambition.

And, "If only--if only I could be with child," thoughtAliette. "If only there could be given me one tiny mite oflove--one human atom to be wholly mine." For always now--asit seemed--Ronnie and Ronnie's mother grew less andless dependent on her affection. To each was their work: toher only the waiting.

Ronnie's nerves, Ronnie's chafing after success, remindedher of Hector, of the Hector she had married. Every Mondaymorning, as she drove with him down the odorous countryroads to West Water, his talk would be of Lucy Towers:"She's innocent, Alie. I'll swear she's innocent"; "If onlyI can get that brief, I'll be a made man"; "A made man, Itell you; Cartwright said so."

Rushing back to Daffadillies she used to think: "I'm selfish,selfish. I mustn't stand between him and his career. Imust help him--help both of them." But at Daffadillies,demanding no help, resolute over her desk, sat Julia; andAliette, looking up at the magnolia-sheathed window, wouldfeel lonely; lonelier than ever before; so lonely that not evenRonnie's letters could console her through the desert week.

Yes! even his letters seemed less loving. Through everyline of them she could feel the pulse and surge of a new desire--ofthe desire for success--which, if gratified, must leave herlonelier yet. Once she had cherished his letters at her breasts.But now her very breasts were a reproach; a reproach ofchildlessness. Once, laying her head among the pillows, shehad dreamed of him beside her. But now, every night, herpillows were wet; wet with tears. Strange terrors tore herin the nighttime. She dreamed herself utterly outcast--thewoman reproached of her own children--mother indeed, butmother-in-shame.

3

And then suddenly, a bare fortnight before the reopeningof the Central Criminal Courts, Ronnie's dreams came true.John Cartwright himself brought round the brief, the longtaped document marked on the outside:

"Standon jibbed a bit at that fifty," chuckled John. "Hesaid you ought to take the case for nothing, considering thepublicity he's going to give you."

"Oh, did he?" Ronnie laughed; but his nerves were quivering."My whole career," he thought. "Riches--success--fame.It's all in my own hands now. Standon thinks he'soverpaid me, does he? Perhaps he has. But I'll give him arun for his money. Fight! By Jove, I'll fight every foot,every inch of the way."

"I shall want an order to see the prisoner," he went on."And, look here, if Standon's people can find out----" Thecautious voice dropped; so that Benjamin Bunce, in the outeroffice, heard only a vague drone of talk.

"That'll be all right," answered the solicitor; and twodays later a very different Ronnie caught the Saturday afternoontrain to West Water.

"I'll get her off," he told Julia and Aliette, seated at teaunder the cedar. "I'll get her off--or die in the attempt.This is my chance, I tell you. My big chance at last!"

"Optimist!" Julia laughed, a little wearily. "How canyou 'get her off'? As far as I can see there's nothing in thewoman's favor except that she's a little like our Aliette."

"A little like her! Mater, it's amazing. When I saw heryesterday, in that wretched place at Brixton, I could havesworn it was Alie." And he went on talking, talking, talkingof "his chance" till the sun sank behind the cedar-tree; till--Julia,utterly tired out, having been carried into the house--Alietteinterrupted him with, "I've been rather worriedabout her this week. Don't you think we might have SirHeron down again?"

"We might see what she's got to say about it in the morning,"answered Ronnie; but next morning, Sunday, the"Democratic News" drove all thoughts save one from hismind.

At long last, Bertram Standon had launched his journalisticthunderbolt. "Shall Lucy Towers hang?" howled BertramStandon. "Never--if she be innocent--while we can preventit. Never--if she be innocent--while there's a dollar in ourpurse or a sense of pity in our hearts. Let the state pour outthe taxpayers' money like water--let the bureaucrats brieftheir 'hanging prosecutor' if they will. We, so far failing inour efforts to secure the appointment of a public defender,have briefed--out of our own pocket--a defender for LucyTowers, a young man, an untried man, but a man in whomboth we and the unfortunate woman in whose defense he willrise at the Old Bailey have the most unbounded confidence.And who is this young man? He is Ronald Cavendish--sonof a woman who is known wherever the English language isspoken, of Julia Cavendish, our greatest woman novelist."

And squeezed away in the "stop press," so inconspicuousthat Julia, who did not see the papers till tea-time, was thefirst of the three to notice it, stood the news: "BrixtonMurder. Saturday night. The Crown has briefed Mr. HectorBrunton, K.C., for the prosecution of Lucy Towers."

4

Hector Brunton sat alone in his chambers at King's BenchWalk. Within the dusty book-littered room brooded silence.From without, from under trees already browning for a hintof autumn, sounded the occasional tup-tup of feet on theflagstones, the occasional staccato of a raised voice. Thenoises fretted Brunton, distracting his attention from themultitudinous papers prepared by the director of publicprosecutions in the case of Rex v. Towers, which stood piledon his ink-stained desk. "I'm getting jumpy," he thought,turning from the signed and sealed findings of the coroner'sjury, through the verbatim reports of the proceedings beforethe magistrate, to the actual indictment.

Concentrating, the K.C. reread the words of thatindictment.

Lucy Towers is charged with the following offense:

Statement of Offense: Homicide.

Particulars of Offence: Lucy Towers on the fifth day of July, in theCounty of Middlesex, murdered her husband, William Towers, byshooting him with a revolver.

Reading, an expression almost of mania flickered acrossBrunton's face. Behind the words of the indictment, hismind visualized the actual crime: the woman, some blowzyMessalina of the slums lusting horribly for a mutilated lover:the lover, a puppet in her adulterous arms: the husband, shotdown in cold blood because he dared to come between thewoman and her desires.

A fitting client--thought Brunton--for this other adulterer,this Ronald Cavendish with his gutter-press backing, to defend.But he would defend her in vain!

The K.C.'s long fingers prodded among the papers. Eversince the Cairns case, he had derived--subconsciously--a satisfaction,a secret chop-licking satisfaction, from his title of"hanging prosecutor." It was as though, harrying Mrs.Cairns to her death, he had taken his revenge on all women.And he thought: "Hilda Cairns escaped my rope. LucyTowers shall not escape it."

Concentrating again, he reread the entire evidence. Outsideit grew darker--silent. He switched on the opal-shadedreading-lamp; and sent David Patterson home. It was good--goodto be alone with this chess-game of death: Messalinafor its queen, his brain the mover of those pawns which wouldsweep her from the board.

Brunton's gray pupils shrank to pin-points. There wereflaws, flaws in the evidence. The chess-board, as prepared bythe solicitors for the Crown, lacked one pawn; the pawn ofpremeditation. Given himself, with his gift of oratory, todefend her, Lucy Towers might escape the black-cap sentenceof the murderess.

Now the K. C.'s brain took the other side of the chess-board.He played the queen against himself; played her tothe stalemate of "manslaughter." That would be Cavendish'sgambit; a reduction of the charge.

But could Cavendish succeed?

For a long time Hector Brunton sat motionless, brooding;a cruel figure in the green glare of the desk-light. Then hedrew the proof of Maggie Peterson's evidence from the paperpile; and, recasting it word by word, saw the rope tighten,tighten round his victim's neck, saw her drop feet firstthrough the sliding floor.

God! but it would be good--good to know Cavendishbeaten; to know him as incapable of defending this womanas of defending that other.

And at that, abruptly, the K.C.'s concentration snapped.The Furies were on him again, lashing at his loins, lashinghim to blood-frenzy. He sprang to his feet; and his chaircrashed backward as he sprang. This woman, this LucyTowers, must hang. Hang! Between him and his enemy,between him and the man whose body possessed Aliette, she,the Messalina of the slums, stood for a symbol. Destroyingthe one, he would destroy all three. This was his chance; hischance for revenge.

Vengeance at last! Too long Aliette and Cavendish hadeluded him--eluded the torturer.

God! If only he could torture Aliette; torture her, not ashe would torture this other woman when she stood before himin the witness-box, but physically. Of what avail was thelaw--the law that had reprieved Hilda Cairns from the rope,that left Aliette to revel unpunished in the arms of her paramour--thelaw that gave him, the wronged husband, no remedyfor his wrongs save to set the woman who had wrongedhim free--free to marry her paramour, to flaunt herself asher paramour's wife before an uncensorious world?

The Furies were howling at him: "Don't set her free, HectorBrunton. Don't set her free! Get her back, Hector Brunton!Make her come back to you! Make her submit--submit hercold unyielding body to your hot desires. Make her yourslave, your puppet--as the armless man was puppet of thewoman you have sworn to hang."

With a great shock of self-disgust, of self-realization,Aliette's husband controlled his distraught brain. But hisloins still quivered to memory of the lash; sweat beaded hisforehead; his hands, as he lifted the overset chair, felt hotand clammy on the polished rail. For months he had succeededin forgetfulness; in chasing the Furies from his mind.Work had helped him to forget--and Renée, Renée with herred and riotous hair, her facile, faithless sensuality. Otherwomen too--facile, unfastidious.

Christ! but he was tired of it all. Tired! Work andwomen, women and work--month after month, the sameeternal treadmill! Now he was weary; wearied alike of hiswork and his women. Remained in him only the one desire;the desire for vengeance. That desire he would satisfy. Andafter that?

What did it matter? He, Hector Brunton, knew the hollownessof all desires. Even in success, even in hatred, evenin vengeance, could be no enduring satisfaction.

A great mood of self-pity submerged his mind. Fame,riches, every fruit of his up-reaching--he had won. And thechoicest fruits left only a bitterness in his mouth. How coulda man enjoy those fruits in loneliness?

Christ! but he was lonely--lonely. He hadn't even afriend. Not one single friend with whom to take counsel!Not one solitary being in all the world who would listen--asa friend listens--to---to the still, small scarce-articulate voicewhich had begun to whisper in Hector Brunton's soul.

That voice, the still small voice of conscience, was whisperingnow. "Cruel," it whispered; "cruel. Set her free. Sether free!"

Heavily Hector Brunton sat him down at his desk. Hisgray pupils stared vacantly at the light. He saw two faces inthe light: his wife's face, torture-pale; and the face he imaginedLucy's, heavy-jowled, animal, yet with a hint of soulbehind the animal eyes.

The two faces seemed to be pleading with him, pleading forpity. "We have known love," they pleaded, "but you--howshould you understand?"

The faces vanished; and in their stead he saw Renée--insatiate,submissive, her mouth still upcurled for his. "Iam love," said the mouth of Renée.

But always the still small voice of conscience whispered inHector's soul. "Between love and lust," whispered the voice,"between the good and the bad that is in you, between thecruelty that cries for vengeance and the understanding whichis pity--choose!"

1

For Ronald Cavendish, the fortnight which intervenedbetween his briefing and the Monday of the trial passedlike an hour. All that he had ever hoped for seemed at lastwithin reach: and his mind, concentrating, could spare nominute for introspection. Even the personal factor, thatBrunton would be his opponent, dwindled into insignificancewhen compared with the supreme issue of winning; even hisbelief in his client's spiritual guiltlessness seemed paltry beforethe difficulties of proving her technically innocent. Yetthe belief was there, keying him to effort, making him utterlyoblivious of his every-day surroundings.

But all that fortnight Aliette scarcely slept. Dozing orwaking, two figures--the figures of Ronnie and of Hector--hauntedher thoughts: she saw them, gowned and wigged,fiercely terrible, at death-grips for the soul of a woman--awoman whose face showed white and tormented in the dock--awoman who was no longer Lucy Towers, but herself. Sometimes,too, behind the woman in the dock, she saw Dennis--herdream-son--Dennis whose eyes, Ronnie's own blue eyes,stared accusingly at the mother who had born him to shame.

And all that fortnight, fearful only of interruption, JuliaCavendish worked on. The leather manuscript-box was nearlyfull. Almost, the weapon of her mind's conceiving had beenforged sharp to the point. The watchers at her bedside--evenher own son--were no longer quite real. She saw them asdream-folk; queer dear people who ministered to her comfortsin the hours when her brain, weary of word-fashioning, restedawhile. Those dream-folk--she knew--all except Ronnie,were growing anxious, doubtful of the part she played tothem. They wanted her to send for the "medicine-man."But the "medicine-man" could not help. His part was done.Only courage could help her now--courage and the certaintyof that all-pervading Presence, of the Godhead who, watchingher as she ran her painful race with physical death, understood.

Vaguely--when her son came to bid her au revoir--JuliaCavendish realized the Presence hovering about the familiarroom. Distant church-bells told her that it was a Sunday, thatRonnie must catch the afternoon train for London within thehour.

"Just looked in to see if you were all right, before I toddledoff, mater," he said; and hearing his voice she yearned, with aforeknowledged longing acuter than any physical pain, toabandon the part she played for him, to tell him--for his ownsake--the truth. But the Presence sustained her; so thatshe fought back the betraying truth; so that she answered him,gaily, casually, "I'm feeling like a two-year-old, son"; sothat she sat upright in her bed--oh, for the comfort to havefelt his arms about her shoulders!--and listened for twentyagonized minutes to his talk of "the case."

"You must wish me luck, mater," he said, as he rose to go."It'll be a terrific fight; but I feel, somehow, that I'm goingto win."

"You will win," she answered. "Don't worry about me.I'll be all right. And remember--if by any chance the verdictgoes against you--that no man can do more than hisbest."

Yet after he had kissed her good-by, after the door hadclosed gently behind him, leaving her alone with her thoughtsin the slanting sun-rays of that quiet room, even the knowledgethat she had done her best, even the conviction ofGodhead, failed to comfort Julia Cavendish, mother.

2

The Central Criminal Court of London, though still knownas the "Old" Bailey, is the modernest of modern edifices;domed stone without, polished marble within. Were it notfor the uniformed police on guard at its narrow portal, andfor the particular legal atmosphere which pervades it evenout of session-time, you might at first glance take the placefor a club-house or a bank building. From the tessellatedspaciousness of its ground floor, a central staircase, broad betweenmarble balusters, up-sweeps to an immense landingwhere witnesses, constables, and barristers foregather outsidethe various oaken doors which lead into the oak-paneled court-rooms.Below are the cells.

There is nothing theatrical about the Old Bailey. To thehighly sensitized mind its aura is the aura of a museum. Thevery statues which garnish it seem aloof from actual life. Yeshere London stages her tensest human dramas; here Englanddispenses her ultimate justice.

But there was no sense of justice in the mind of HectorBrunton, K.C., as, scornful alike of the crowd and the cameramen,he strode bullheaded through that narrow portal;acknowledged with perfunctory hand the salutes of the constables;and pushed his way up the stairs, diagonally acrossthe landing to the robing-room.

Deliberately the man had made his choice. For the sakeof his vengeance on Cavendish, Lucy Towers must die thedeath. Righteous or unrighteous, he, the "hanging prosecutor"whom no prisoner had yet eluded, meant to secure hisverdict. His mind, as he adjusted his robe, his wig and tapes,was the actor's mind, resolute in illusion. Actor-like, histhoughts discarded all truth that might tell in the victim'sfavor. Actor-like, his thoughts clung to their part; the partwhich should prove conclusively that this woman, this LucyTowers, had shot her husband of malice aforethought and forlove of another man.

And yet, making his early way through the crowd towardsthe door of the court--he had no wish to meet with Cavendishface to face in the robing-rooms,--a vision of his wife flashedfor one vivid instant through the K.C.'s mind. In that vividinstant, conscience troubled him again. "Was he being cruelto Aliette?" asked conscience. "Was he planning yet anothercruelty toward this woman he had never seen, this LucyTowers?"

"Cavendish defends them both," he thought; and stifledthe voice of conscience.

3

Ronald, when Caroline Staley woke him on that first morningof the trial, thought neither of Hector nor of Aliette.Hardly, he thought to himself. To win--and, now that thecontest so long anticipated was actually at hand, he felt thatnot to win outright would be disaster--seemed almost impossible,the forlornest of hopes.

Dressing, breakfasting, making his way to Putney BridgeStation, his mind held only the picture of his client. Visitedovernight, the woman--whose likeness to his own woman neverfailed to strike a responsive chord in Ronnie's heart--hadafforded no help. Curiously resigned to an adverse verdict,curiously incurious as to whether that verdict should be murderor manslaughter, the tense clamor of the newspapers andthe tense pleading of her counsel left her alike unmoved.

"I'll go into the witness-box if you like, sir," she had consented."But I don't see what good it'll do. I can only tellthem the truth. And I told them that at the police-station. Inever was a liar, sir. I did it to save Bob."

"I did it to save Bob!" Those words still echoed in thebarrister's ears as he emerged from the gloom of Templestation into sunlight, and turned down the Embankmenttoward his chambers, where--Bunce, brief and witnesses forthe defense being already on their way to the court--JohnCartwright alone awaited him.

The solicitor was in his gloomiest mood, thoroughly convincedof Lucy's guilt.

"Unless Brunton fails on the issue of premeditation," hesaid, "we haven't got a dog's chance. Even if he does failon that point, she'll get seven years."

At that, poignantly, the human element of the case camehome to Ronnie. It seemed to him as though he saw Aliette'sself imprisoned, beating out her heart--day after day, monthafter month, year after year--against the cold walls and thecold bars of a prison-house.

"Not if I can help it," he said hotly.

"Have you decided to put her in the box? H. B.'s a holyterror for cross-examination."

"Of course I shall put her in the box. I'm not afraid ofH. B.! Let's be off."

John Cartwright--thinking the tactics hopeless--wouldhave protested; but, realizing from the other's demeanor howmuch this case meant to him, realizing (Ronnie's matrimonialposition was common gossip in the offices of Wilberforce, Wilberforce& Cartwright) more than a little of the secret dramawhich underlay the public, he kept his own counsel allthe way to the Old Bailey. "At any rate," thought JohnCartwright, "Standon will get the show he's payingfor."

It was fifteen minutes to ten by the time their car madeHolborn; ten to when it drew up at the door of the court.Already they could see the forerunners of a crowd. Publicsympathy, astutely roused by Standon, had enlisted itself onthe side of the accused and of her counsel. In any other country,the little knot of people would have cheered. As it was,they only stared sympathetically while the cameras clickedand the two men disappeared from view.

"I'll see to the witnesses," said Cartwright, as the liftjerked them to the first floor. "You go and get dressed."

In the robing-room Ronnie found Hugh Spillcroft.

"I'm at a loose end," said that genial youth, "so I'vecome to watch the show. Going to win?"

"If I can," retorted Ronald grimly. "But it's going tobe a devil of a job."

They passed out of the robing-room, and threaded their wayacross the crowded landing toward No. 2 court. By the outerdoor, its oak and glass guarded by two enormous constables,stood Bob Fielding and various other witnesses. The youngsailor's face was gray. His whole body, even the two emptysleeves of the shabby coat, twitched.

"You'll do your best for her, sir?" he stammered."You'll do your best for Lucy?"

"I'll do my utmost, Fielding," answered the tall, dignifiedman in the wig and gown, the man who was no longer eitherAliette Brunton's lover or Julia Cavendish's son, but only anadvocate whose brain, keyed to contest-pitch, resented anyand every unnecessary strain on its concentration.

With the various other people who tried to detain him,more especially with Benjamin Bunce and Bertram Standon'ssecretary, Ronnie's manner was abrupt, irritable to the pointof discourtesy. Knowing that he would need it all, he husbandedhis self-control against the inevitable face-to-facemeeting with Brunton.

"Time to toddle in," reminded Spillcroft.

One of the constables opened for them. Halting just insidethe outer door, Ronnie could see, through the glass panels ofthe inner, the back of the great dock, light oak below, glass-and-ironpaneled above; and beyond the dock, on the left ofit, the already-occupied jury-box and the projecting canopyof the judge's dais. Then the outer door closed, the innerdoor opened, and they made their way in.

The domed court was a sight, every seat taken. Therewere ten tiers of curious heads behind the dock. On the lowbenches between dock and witness-box; in the high galleryopposite; and even below the gallery, among the bewiggedcounsel who crowded the benches reserved for the bar, layspectators packed and packed. At the press table, the reporterssat so close to one another that their right arms couldscarcely reach their note-books. But Ronnie had no eyes forthe crowd; his eyes were all for his enemy.

Brunton sat very still, like a mastiff on watch, in the farcorner of the front bench just below the three unoccupiedthrones of the judge's dais. The gray eyes under the grayhorsehair, fixed on the jury as though to hypnotize them, didnot deign to notice the entrance of counsel for the defense.Nevertheless, Ronnie, taking his seat below the dock at theopposite end of the bench, knew instinctively that Bruntonwas aware of him.

Sitting, the barrister could no longer see his enemy. HenrySmith-Assher's vast Pickwickian back blocked his view. Butthe mental vision still remained; and with it, strengtheningthe will to win, came the first fierce gush of personal hatred.

"His lordship's late," whispered Spillcroft.

Ronnie, controlling himself, settled his back comfortablyagainst the oak; glanced through his brief; and glanced upcovertly from his brief at the jury. There were nine men andthree women in the box. The men looked to be ordinaryorderly citizens, apparently of the shop-keeping class, theirfaces bovine, their eyes unimaginative. Of the women, twowere hard-featured, sour-faced spinsters whom he felt instinctivelywould be difficult to convince, and the third a fat, good-naturedmatron of five-and-forty, with a string of false pearlsround her ample neck and a feathered hat on her jaunty head.He decided not to challenge any of them.

The click of an opening door disturbed further scrutiny;and a moment later there appeared, on the right of thejudge's dais, a man's figure in full court dress--silk stockingson his legs, lace ruffle at his throat, and sword at his side--whoushered in his lordship, robed in the scarlet and ermineof full ceremonial, and, following his lordship, two portlycreatures in aldermanic robes, chains of office round theirnecks.

"Silence!" called the crier of the court.

Rising to his feet, Ronnie felt the tense pull of the crowd.The crowd expected him to speak; expected oratory of him.Supposing he were to fail them! The tongue felt like leatherin his mouth. His mind blurred. He forgot every detail ofthe case. To sit down again, to fumble among the papers onthe desk in front of him, was positive relief.

The crier of the court began swearing in the jury. One byone the nine men and the three women rose from their places,answering to their names and to the quaint old formula:"You shall well and truly try, and true deliverance make,between our sovereign lord the king and the prisoner at thebar, whom you shall have in charge, and a true verdict giveaccording to the evidence." Last of all, from the back of thebox, answered the fat and friendly matron.

"Quel chapeau!" whispered Hugh Spillcroft from behind;and a second later, as it seemed to Ronnie, he heard the soundof feet moving up the steps below the dock; and caught sightof Lucy's face pale above the pale oak.

Her gaze sought his trustfully; and at that precise momentRonnie's ears, nervously attuned, were aware of the faintestgasp behind him, of the whistling breath-intake of a manshocked beyond self-control. Turning his head, he sawBrunton; Brunton---gray eyes staring, jowl a-twitch, teeth bitto the underlip.

To Brunton, startled almost out of his wits by the unexpectedapparition; to Brunton with his preconceived idea ofthe blowzy slum-woman, it was as though Aliette herself stoodbefore him; as though the wraith of her had materialized,Banquo-like, to fight for Cavendish. Then, as Lucy Towers,upright between wardress and constable, proud, dignified,aloof with Aliette's own aloofness, her brown head bare, herbrown eyes unflinching, her hands--small as Aliette's own--grippingthe edge of the dock, smiled down at Ronnie, the lastleast whisper of conscience was still in the K.C.'s soul; and heswore to himself that the very likeness of this woman to thewife who had deserted him should be her doom. "Vengeance,"he thought. "Vengeance indeed!"

The crier of the court was reading the indictment. "Murderedher husband--William Towers--by shooting him," readthe crier; and Brunton, watching his victim as a snakewatches the bird, saw that her eyes, Aliette's own vivid eyes,were still on Cavendish.

"Prisoner at the bar, do you plead guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty, my lord," came Aliette's own shy voice.

And a moment afterwards, cool, self-controlled, pitiless,deadly sure of every deadly word, the "hanging prosecutor"rose to speak.

"My lord and members of the jury"--the man was all actornow, an actor keyed to cold genius by the hot urge of suppressedrage,--"you have already heard the indictmentagainst this woman. It is an indictment on the charge ofmurder, the penalty for which is death. The actual facts ofthe case will not, I fancy, be disputed. Let me give them toyou as briefly as I can. At about six o'clock on the afternoonof the fifth of July last, a police-constable on duty in Brixtonheard the noise of a revolver-shot from No. 25 LaburnumGrove, a block of working-class flats.

"Entering these flats, the constable--as he will tell you inhis evidence--found, in a room on the third floor, the prisonerand a man, a certain Robert Fielding, of whom the less saidthe better. At their feet, a bullet-wound through his heart,lay the dead body of the prisoner's husband, William Towers.In the woman's hand was a smoking revolver, one cartridgeof which--and one only--had been fired.

"The constable arrested both the man and the woman. Hetook them to Brixton police-station. There, Lucy Towers,entirely on her own initiative, made a clean breast of thewhole business. Her confession, which you will hear, is--Ishall submit--even without the other evidence in possessionof the Crown, sufficient to merit the rope."

Now, pausing, Brunton grew aware of his enemy. Hisenemy was eying him, quietly, dispassionately. For a secondhis concentration failed. Then, pitiless, the deadly speechflowed on.

"Such, members of the jury, are the actual undeniablefacts. The defense has entered a plea of not guilty. Afteryou have heard my evidence--evidence which in my contentionproves conclusively not only the commission of thisdreadful crime, but its dreadful motive--it will be for youto decide, subject to his lordship's direction, the issue betweenus.

"And at this point, before I go into the question of motive,I purpose, with his lordship's permission, to give you a brief,a very brief summary of the legal definition of homicide. OurEnglish law divides the crime of homicide into three classes:justifiable or excusable homicide, manslaughter, and murder.It is of this last that I shall ask you, after duly weighing myevidence, to convict Lucy Towers.

"Murder, let me tell you, has been very aptly defined inthe few words, 'Murder is unlawful homicide with maliceaforethought.' It is the existence of malice which distinguishesthis crime from justifiable or excusable homicide andfrom manslaughter. In order, therefore, to prove to youthat this woman murdered her husband, I must demonstrate,as I shall demonstrate, not only that she shot him down witha revolver--a fact which I again remind you is not in dispute--butthat she shot him down in cold blood and with maliceaforethought. That is to say, that she had actually plannedto kill him before--long before--the fifth of July. On thispoint, quite apart from the point of motive, we have incontrovertibleevidence."

Again Brunton paused, conscious of his opponent; again,actor-like, Brunton's part went on.

"Malice aforethought, as his lordship will direct you, entailsmotive. Now, what was this woman's motive? Whydid she kill her husband? Had she, in killing him, someulterior object? It is my contention," the voice rose, "thatshe had such an object; that this woman," one gentlemanlyfinger pointed accusingly at the dock, "when she killedWilliam Towers, her wedded husband, had one object, andone object only in her mind--to free herself from him, to freeherself at all and any cost. Why?

"Members of the jury, it will be my duty, my very painfulduty, to answer that question by proving that this woman,this Lucy Towers, is not only a murderess but an adulteress;that she had a lover, an illicit lover--none other than RobertFielding, the very man in whose room this crime, thisatrocious crime, was committed. I think"--Brunton's eyesdropped to the brief in front of him, and he began turningover the pages of it--"that after I have read to you the confession,the voluntary confession of the prisoner, you willadmit that not only the crime but its motive stands proved,and proved up to the hilt, out of her own mouth."

So far, Ronnie--chin propped on one hand, the other busywith his notes--had listened, unmoved, to his enemy's opening.But now, suddenly, as Brunton read out, emphasizingevery word that might tell against her, his client's confession;as he guessed from the very looks of the jury, from the veryway in which they craned forward from their box, how deepan impression those words were creating in their minds; hisheart misgave him, and he glanced up, as though for confirmationof her innocence, at Lucy.

Lucy Towers was eying Brunton, not as the fascinated birdeyes the snake, but as the slandered eyes the slanderer. Inthe white of her cheeks, color came and went by fitful flashes.Her mouth kept opening and closing, as though to give Bruntonthe lie. Once, when the harsh voice mouthed the end ofher confession, "I love Bob very much," she would havestarted to her feet had not the wardress placed a restraininghand on her arm.

But in all that crowded court only Lucy's advocate and thewardress noticed Lucy. Judge, jury, spectators--all watchedthe "hanging prosecutor." He, and he alone, dominated thecourt by the sheer amazing flow of his oratory. For nowBrunton had thrown aside the legal mask; now his every wordcame hot from his heart, from that heart which had made itschoice between mercy and vengeance.

"My lord," rang the harsh voice, "my lord, members ofthe jury, can any statement be more damnable, more damningthat those words which I have just read to you? What needhave I for eloquence, when this adulteress, this fallen woman,"again his hand shot out, pointing to the prisoner in the dock,"whom my learned friend for the defense would have you findnot guilty, has proved herself, out of her own mouth, RobertFielding's strumpet? What need have I of witnesses to provethe malice, the lecherous malice which inspired this crime?What mitigation can any counsel put before you?

"Will he say that this crime was an accident? That it wasan act of self-defense? Accident! This was no accident.Self-defense! This was no act of self-defense. It was murder,members of the jury, deliberate, cold-blooded murder.

"What need have I of witnesses? Yet I have witnesses--notone witness, but many witnesses--a witness who will proveto you that for weeks, for months, nay, for years before theperpetration of this crime, Robert Fielding had been amorousof his cousin--witnesses who will testify that this woman,almost since the day of her marriage, had been on the worstpossible terms with her murdered husband--witnesses, unimpeachable,independent witnesses to whom she has admitted,not once but a dozen times, that she wished her husband dead.

"Members of the jury, we do not live in an age of miracles.When you know, as you already do know, that those wishescame true, and came true by her own hand--when you hear,as you will hear, of her clandestine visits, at dead of nightto her lover's room--you will say to yourself, as I say to younow, 'This was no accident; no act of self-defense: this wasmurder, murder premotived and premeditated, the murderwhich our justice punishes with death.'

"A life for a life, your lordship. A life for a life, membersof the jury. That is the penalty which, on behalf of theCrown, I shall demand against this woman whom counsel forthe defense would have you find not guilty of any crimewhatsoever."

Slowly Hector Brunton's eyes turned from the woman inthe dock toward his enemy; till even Ronnie shrank beforethe vindictive fury in those gray and glimmering pupils.

"This is the man," muttered the voiceless soul behind thosegrayly glimmering eyes, "this is the man who stole yourwoman; the man who dares defend this other adulteressagainst you." But the words, the words planned overnight,never faltered on Brunton's lips. For all his fury, his legalmind, functioning automatically, missed never a point.

The clock-hands crept on and on. In the packed courtroomwas no sound save the scratch of the shorthand-writers'fountain pens, the tap-tap of the gentlemanly fingers on theoak, the harsh interminable harangue. Till at last theharangue slowed to its peroration; and passion ebbed fromBrunton's voice, leaving it once more cool, deadly, pitiless.

"If I," rang the cool, deadly voice, "if I, the paid advocateof the Crown, have spoken in anger, rarely it is just anger.Surely, in this England of ours, adultery which leads to murder--asthis woman's adultery has led to murder--will findnone to excuse, none to condone it. Surely, the quality ofmercy was overstrained when another court let this woman'sparamour go free.

"Members of the jury, that woman in the dock, thatadulteress, shot her husband. She shot him down in coldblood, of malice aforethought and after due deliberation. Itis for you, as just citizens, to see that she does not escape theuttermost penalty of her guilt."

The harsh voice ceased.

Brunton, with one last glance at the woman in the dock, aglance commingled of fear and triumph--for now, once again,he saw her as Aliette, a ghost siding with the man who hadbetrayed him--sat down; and Henry Smith-Assher, rising,began to call the stereotyped, commonplace evidence entrustedto a junior counsel.

Ronnie hardly listened. The production of the revolver,the testimony of the constable who had made the arrest, theplan of the room--none of these mattered. Mattered onlyBrunton--Brunton whose eyes never left the jury--Bruntonwhose deadly oratory had closed every loophole of escape saveone.

But just before the luncheon interval, when the sergeantwho had taken down Lucy's statement kissed the book andbegan his tale in the usual toneless voice of the police, Cartwright--watchingcounsel for the defense--saw his handsbusy with the pencil; and knew that--luncheon interval over--thereal fight would begin.

4

Usually barristers at the Old Bailey lunch communally inthe mess-room; sometimes in private, with the judge. Butto-day no invitation came from his tactful lordship; and, sinceBrunton might be in the mess-room, Ronnie elected for thenear-by "George."

Emerging disrobed from the court, Hugh Spillcroft on hisone side and Cartwright on his other, he was again aware ofthe crowd. The little knot of idlers had increased. On theopposite side of the road, newspaper placards--black on redof the "Evening Standard," black on white of the "EveningNews," black on green of the "Westminster Gazette," alreadyflaunted their slogans: "Towers Case: Speech for theCrown." "Hanging Prosecutor Opens Towers Case.""Trial of Lucy Towers Begun."

The placards worried Ronnie; they seemed to accentuatethe forlornness of his cause. All through their hasty meal,snatched at a corner-table of the crowded chop-house, hefelt himself growing more and more nervous, less and lessconfident of success. Spillcroft's conversation and Cartwright'sirritated him. Their interest was so coldly legal.They spoke of Lucy Towers, of himself and Brunton, as menwho have betted well within their means speak of race-horses.

"H. B.'ll have you on toast if he proves adultery," decidedSpillcroft.

"Do as you like, of course; but I shouldn't risk putting thewoman in the box," urged Cartwright. "I should plead'manslaughter' and have done with it."

"Thanks for the suggestion," fumed Ronnie. "I thought Iwas being paid to fight."

"Good for you! Try one of these." Cartwright, laughing,offered him a small cigar: "Nothing like tobacco for a fightingman."

Smoking, Ronnie visualized Brunton, gray eyes staring,jowl a-twitch, teeth bit to the under lip; Brunton as he hadseen him when Lucy Towers first entered the dock. Andvisualizing, realizing the shock that amazing likeness musthave been, he could not help admiring the man. Brunton,startled at the very moment of tensest concentration, had yetmanaged to make the speech of his life, missing never a legalpoint in two hours of impassioned argument. How could he,the poor orator, compete with such a man; how prove anyflaw in the "hanging prosecutor's" thesis that Lucy Towers,adulteress, shot her husband so that she might marry herparamour?

"Ten minutes to two," said Cartwright, paying the bill.

5

Reëntering the crowded court, Ronnie saw that Bruntonwas already seated. The K.C., turning from conference withhis junior, darted one look at his opponent; that same look,compound of fear and obstinacy, of injured pride and determinationfor revenge, of the weak man who knows himself inthe wrong and means to persist in his wrong-doing, whichRonnie had noted on the day when he pleaded for Aliette'sfreedom.

Forcibly the personal issue obtruded on Ronnie's mind;and he could not help speculating, as Mr. Justice Heber tookhis seat, whether that ermined figure, whose gleaming spectaclesturned this way and that, to the police-sergeantreëntering the box, to the jury, to Henry Smith-Assher risingto continue his examination-in-chief, and lastly to the motionlesswoman in the dock, knew anything of the fight for anotherwoman's freedom, of the private quarrel between counsel forthe prosecution and counsel for the defense.

"May we take it, then," Henry Smith-Assher fidgeted withthe tapes round his bull-neck, "that the accused's statementwas entirely voluntary?"

"Entirely," answered the witness, obviously honest, andas obviously convinced of the prisoner's guilt.

"Thank you, sergeant, that's all I have to ask you."

Henry Smith-Assher subsided; and Ronnie--his voicevibrating with suppressed nerves, but all issues save the immediatedriven from his mind--rose to cross-examine.

"I want you to tell me, sergeant, whether the originalsuggestion that the accused should make a statement camefrom you or from her?"

"From the accused."

"You cautioned her, of course?"

"Yes."

"Did she, at the time she made the statement, appear muchupset?"

"Considerably, I should say."

"Ah." Ronnie---one hand spread-eagled on his brief,jingled with the other at the coins in his trouser-pocket."Then I should not, perhaps, be putting it too strongly if Isuggested that at the time she made this so-called confessionthe accused was in a state of hysteria?"

"She was considerably upset," repeated the witnessstolidly.

"Was she crying?"

"Well----"

"Answer the question, please."

"She might have been crying."

"H'm." Again the coins jingled in the trouser-pocket."Did you gather from her general demeanor that the accusedwas attempting to tell you the exact truth?"

"Yes."

"And, coming to the last words of her statement, 'I loveBob very much,' did you gather from the way accused madethat statement that Robert Fielding was her lover, in theaccepted sense of the word?"

The uniformed witness hesitated; and Ronnie, his nervesfor the moment forgotten, took advantage of the hesitation."I want you to tell his lordship and the jury, sergeant,whether, when the accused volunteered this statement to you,the impression made on your mind was the impression thatshe had been guilty of adultery with her cousin, RobertFielding."

"I can't say I thought very much about it."

"You can't say you thought very much about it? Exactly.Didn't you think, perhaps, as any reasoning man wouldthink, that all the accused meant to imply was that she wasvery fond of her cousin?"

"Yes. I suppose so."

"Thank you. I'll take that answer."

The next witnesses were the medical experts--Dr. Spilsburyand Dr. Wilcox. Them Ronnie did not cross-examine. Butas Maggie Peterson, answering instantly to the call of hername, flounced through the glass doors and made her defiantway past the reporters' table to the box, John Cartwright--watchingcounsel for the defense as a trainer watches hisman in the ring--saw his mouth set, his chin protrude. AndJohn Cartwright thought, "I wonder if I was right aboutbriefing Cavendish. I wish I knew what he was driving atwith that last cross-examination. I wonder what he'll makeof this witness. From the look in H. B.'s eyes, she's the cruxof his case."

Lucy Towers, too, seemed to realize the importance ofMaggie Peterson's evidence. Again, as during Brunton'sopening, aloofness went from her. She leaned forward fromthe dock.

"You're a married woman, Mrs. Peterson?" HectorBrunton in person rose to examine the blowzy black-eyedcreature who had just kissed the well-thumbed book.

"I am."

"And at the time when Lucy Towers shot her husband youwere living at 25 Laburnum Grove?"

"I was."

"Could you tell us the date of the shooting?"

"The fifth of July."

"Were you actually in the house when the crime tookplace?"

"I was not." The patness of the cockney woman's answerswarned Ronnie that she must have been coached in her part.It seemed to him, listening to her every carefully-pronouncedsyllable, that a purpose, a definite, a personal, and a premeditatedpurpose, underlay them.

"For how long before the fifth of July had you beenliving at Laburnum Grove?" went on Brunton.

"Two years."

"Had you known Mr. and Mrs. Towers for some considerabletime?"

"I had. And Bob Fielding."

"Confine yourself to answering my questions, please. Forhow long had you know William Towers and his wife?"

"Eighteen months. Ever since they came to live at theGrove."

The K.C. paused, and looked warningly at the jury beforeputting his next question. "Then can you tell us, of yourown knowledge, whether, during those eighteen months, theaccused was on good terms with her husband?"

The woman--purposely as it appeared to Ronnie--hesitated;and Brunton, leaning forward, altered his formula."Did they, as husband and wife, get on well with oneanother?"

"Well, I shouldn't like to say they was on the best ofterms."

"Were they on bad terms?"

"Yuss." The voice, hitherto so careful, lapsed into slumcockney. "Yuss. She was a bad wife to Bill, was Lucy.Never did nothing for him."

At that his lordship made as though to put a question, andthe examiner changed his line. "Now I want to ask you:have you ever heard the dead man complain about his wife?"

"Not till Bob Fielding came to live at the Grove."

"But after Robert Fielding came, he did complain abouther?"

"Yuss, often."

"Can you tell us the sort of thing he used to say?"

"Yuss. He said that he could never get nothing done becauseshe was always muckin' about with Bob."

With any other examiner except Brunton, the coarse phrasewould have elicited laughter from the spectators. But Bruntonwas taking no chances. Quickly he carried on hiswitness's story.

"You gathered then, I take it, that William Towers wasnot satisfied with his wife's behavior?"

"Satisfied?" The black eyes under the feathered hatglinted. "Nah. He wasn't never satisfied, with 'er. Notafter Bob Fielding came to the Grove."

"Would you describe William Towers as jealous of RobertFielding?"

"Nah. Not jealous, but suspicious."

"Suspicious, eh? Had he, to your knowledge, any reasonsfor that suspicion? Have you personally, for instance, everseen any act on the part of the accused which might give riseto suspicion in her husband's mind?"

"Well----" Again it seemed to Ronnie, weighing everyinflection of the cockney voice, that both the hesitant monosyllableand the answer which followed it were premeditated."Well, I've seen her going to 'is room often enough."

"Whose room?"

"Bob Fielding's."

Brunton paused to study his brief; and in that pause itcame home to Ronnie that the whole atmosphere of the courtwas hostile. The domed place seemed charged with psychicalelectricity. He could actually feel the currents of fear andprejudice tingling between the motionless jury and themotionless figure in the dock. Looking at his client, hesaw that her lips moved, as though in dumb, unavailing protest.

"And these visits"--the "hanging prosecutor" did noteven look up from his brief,--"were they paid by night or byday?"

"She was alwus going to 'im."

"By night as well as by day?"

"Yuss. By night as well as by day."

"What time of the night?"

"All hours of the night."

"You're certain on that point?" Now Brunton lookedat his witness.

"Yuss, certain."

"Then can you give us any particular date on which youactually saw the accused woman go into Bob Fielding's roomlate at night?"

"She went there about half-past nine on the night ofJuly 4th."

"And did you see her come out?"

"Nah. She hadn't come out by the time I went to bed."

"The night before the murder. Thank you, Mrs. Peterson."Brunton smiled grimly. "And now, just one morequestion. Has the accused ever spoken to you about her husband?"

"Yuss."

"When was the last time she spoke to you about him?"

"On the Sunday."

"What Sunday?"

"The Sunday"--Maggie Peterson's voice shrilled--"beforeshe shot 'im."

"Please tell his lordship and the jury, to the best of yourrecollection, what she said to you."

The hard eyes of the woman in the witness-box turned tothe woman in the dock. For a full second they looked atone another; and Ronnie, watching, saw that it was MaggiePeterson who first turned away.

"Tell his lordship and the jury," prompted Brunton.

"Well"--a fraction of its certainty had gone out of theshrill voice,--"it was like this. We meets in the passage, andshe says to me: 'Bill ain't fit to be no woman's 'usband. Iwish to Gawd 'e was dead. I shan't never know a moment's'appiness till he is dead.'"

"And had the accused previously made, in your presence,similar statements?"

"Yuss. Time and again."

"Thank you. That will be all."

Hector Brunton sat down; but before Ronnie could rise tocross-examine, the judge had intervened.

"You say," said the judge, referring to his notes, "that onthe night before the crime was committed, at about half-pastnine o'clock, you saw the accused go into Robert Fielding'sroom. Was she--to your personal knowledge--in the habitof making such visits?"

"Yuss, m'lord."

"You're prepared to swear that?"

"Yuss, m'lord."

"Very well." Deliberately, Mr. Justice Heber wrote downthe answer. "Now, on the night of July 4, you're preparedto swear that you actually saw the accused"--the legal voicewas stern--"go into Robert Fielding's room; and you arealso prepared to swear that by the time you went to bed, shehad not come out."

"Yes, m'lord."

"Where were you at the time you saw all this?"

"I was standing in the passage----"

"What passage?"

"The passage between her room and mine."

Mr. Justice Heber relapsed into a meditative silence; andRonnie, looking across the thirty feet of crowded space whichseparated him from the hard defiant eyes of Maggie Peterson,rose nervously to his feet.

"You told my learned friend"--the suave tone betrayedno hint of hostility--"that you are a married woman. Arewe to understand from that that you and your husband livetogether?"

"No."

"I take it, then, that you are legally separated----"

"My lord, I protest." Instantly Brunton, too, was onhis feet. "My learned friend is not entitled to cross-examine----"

"My lord, I submit," instantly, counsel for the defensetook up the challenge, "that on the question of credibility Iam entitled----"

The judge allowed the question, and Brunton, muttering,subsided.

Yes, admitted Maggie Peterson, she was separated from herhusband.

"And you told his lordship"--his first victory over theenemy made Ronnie suaver than ever--"that you occupiedthe room opposite to that in which the accused lived with herhusband. Can I take it, from that, that you were--and stillare--on friendly terms with the accused?"

The witness faltered. "Well, she and me used to speak toone another when we met."

"Then you neither were nor are on particularly good termswith the accused. Now, were you on friendly terms with theaccused's husband?"

Again the witness faltered, and Ronnie repeated his question."I put it to you that you were not on friendly termswith Lucy Towers, but that you were very friendly withWilliam Towers."

"Not very friendly. We were just neighbors."

"Just neighbors, eh?" For the first time since MaggiePeterson had entered the witness-box, Ronnie felt the atmosphereof the court favorable. The jury, and more especiallythe three women on the jury, had obviously taken his luckypoint. He pressed it home: "You say the accused told you,some days before the crime, that she would never be happyuntil her husband was dead. Why should she tell you thatif you and she were not on friendly terms?"

"I dunno," sulkily; "she just said it."

"Are you prepared to swear that those were the actualwords she used?"

"Yuss," defiantly, "I am."

"Then if I put Mrs. Towers in the witness-box, if she denieson oath that she made any such statement to you, she will beguilty of perjury?"

"Well----"

"I want an answer to my question. If Mrs. Towers denies,on oath, that she made any such statement, will she or you beguilty of perjury?"

"Well," the red hands shifted on the rail of the witness-box,"I wouldn't care to say she used those actual words.But that was what she meant."

"You realize that what you are saying is of very graveimportance?"

"Yuss."

"But you abide by what you have told us about the conversationbetween you and the accused?"

"Yuss."

Question and answer went on; till Maggie Peterson, gazingangrily at her interrogator, saw a black-coated figure move tohis side.

"What the devil----" Ronnie, feeling a twitch at hisgown, turned to see Bunce, all agog with excitement.

"Chap at the back of the court, sir, says you're to look atthis before you ask any more questions."

Benjamin Bunce, having delivered himself of his messageand a scrap of soiled paper, slipped away. Ronnie, taking nofurther notice of the interruption, continued his attempts toshake Maggie Peterson's evidence. But the witness hadgrown sullen. His suavity elicited only monosyllables. Hefelt the jury wearying, growing hostile once more--felt himselfoutwitted--felt it useless to continue the struggle.

Then, just as he was preparing to sit down, his left hand,fidgeting with his notes, touched the scrap of paper whichBunce had laid among them; and glancing down, he saw:"M. P. is a bloody liar. I can tell you something about whatshe was doing on the fourth of July."

Ronnie looked round for his clerk, but his clerk had disappeared.The ermined figure on the bench was growingbored.

"If you have no further questions to ask this witness----"began the ermined figure.

Maggie Peterson grinned. And suddenly Ronnie knewpanic. Either he must close his cross-examination; or risk ashot in the dark. For a second he made as though to sit down;then, seeing some emotion almost akin to reproach flit acrossthe pale face of his client, he took his risk.

"You told both my learned friend and his lordship that athalf-past nine o'clock on the fourth of July--I want you to bevery careful of the date, please--you saw the accused go intoRobert Fielding's room. You are still prepared to swear, onyour oath, that that statement is the truth, the whole truth,and nothing but the truth?"

"Yuss"--shrilly, but there was a trace of fear in the shrill.

"And supposing--mind you, I'm only supposing--that awitness were to come forward and say that, on the night inquestion, you could not possibly have seen any such thing,that witness would not be telling the truth?"

"What do yer mean?"

"I should have thought it was sufficiently obvious," saidRonnie gravely; and repeating his question knew, by the verylook on the witness's face, that his shot in the dark had foundits mark.

"I've told yer all I know," retorted Maggie Peterson stubbornly.

"Possibly more." Ronnie, warming to a subdued chucklefrom Spillcroft, ventured one more question. "Tell me,please, what you did after you had--as you say--watched theaccused woman go into her cousin's room?"

"Went to bed, of course."

"Then you were in bed by a quarter to ten?"

"I suppose so."

"Not later than ten o'clock, anyway?"

"No."

"Thank you." Ronnie turned to the judge. "That is allI have to ask this witness, m' lord."

To the woman in the box, it seemed that her ordeal wasover; to the jury, that the bulk of her evidence remained unshaken.But Brunton--reëxamining at length--was obviouslysuspicious of a trap. He kept on glancing at Ronnieas though to find out what had prompted those last questions;and Ronnie, as though hiding some secret, kept on refusing tomeet the glance.

"I shall adjourn till ten o'clock to-morrow," said his lord-ship--reëxaminationconcluded.

Sweeping his scornful way out of court, the "hangingprosecutor" deigned yet another glance at his enemy. Buthis enemy's eyes did not look up: they were still glued to thatlittle scrap of paper which he had spread out on his brief.

1

Walking back alone to the "ridiculous flat," RonaldCavendish was oppressed with a sense of his own inefficiency.Even though his intuitive suspicions about MaggiePeterson's honesty had been to a very large extent confirmedby that piece of paper, the author of that piece of paper couldnot be found. Bunce, bullied to remember who had given himthe document, thought it was "a common-looking kind offellow." Cartwright, told, had said skeptically, "Those sortof things always happen in murder-trials. I'd forget it if Iwere you." But Ronnie could not forget.

Halting under the light of a street-lamp, he drew the paperfrom his pocketbook and reread it for the twentieth time. Ifonly he could succeed in discrediting the Peterson woman.Yet, even if he did succeed in discrediting Maggie Peterson,in nullifying her evidence as to motive, Brunton--accordingto his opening--had other witnesses.

Walking on, he bought an evening paper. The paper reportedBrunton's speech verbatim. Curse Brunton! Whatan orator the man was. Listening to him, one could hardlyimagine Lucy Towers anything but the murderous adulteress.

2

Caroline Staley had prepared the usual faultless dinner;but her master ate hardly anything. In his mind, he wentover Maggie Peterson's evidence, weighing it word by word.Obviously the woman hated Lucy Towers; obviously, almostobviously, she had had some sort of relations, probably immoralrelations, with the dead man. But how the devil couldone prove that? Even proved, how did it advance matters?If only Bunce hadn't been such an infernal fool. If onlyBrunton weren't such an infernally fine orator. CurseBrunton!

Half a bottle of claret and a cigar only added to Ronnie'sdepression. Alone in the drawing-room where he and Aliettehad so often sat together, he felt as though, failing LucyTowers, he would fail his own woman; as though the fate ofLucy and the fate of Aliette were one fate; as though, by notsaving the one from Brunton's hideous cleverness, he wouldnever rescue the other from Brunton's hideous obduracy.

Brunton! The man's face traced itself, bewigged, implacable,relentless, in every up-curling puff of Ronnie's cigar-smoke.Behind that face hovered the faces of the jury. Andthe jury stood for public opinion; public opinion solid onBrunton's side. In his fight against Lucy Towers, as in hisfight against his wife, Brunton had the world's judgment inhis favor: yet both women--"both," repeated conviction--wereinnocent, at least in intent, of anti-social crime.

A hell of a lot "intent" mattered to Hector Brunton!

If only Hector Brunton were dead! If only for Aliette'ssake, for Lucy's sake, he, Ronald Cavendish, could kill Bruntonas William Towers had been killed! Surely that killingwould be not murder, but justice. For more than a yearBrunton, moved only by blind vanity, had been striving tocompass the ruin of a woman against whom his only grudgewas that she had denied herself to him. Now, moved by thesame blind motive, he was striving to compass the ruin andthe death of Lucy Towers. Between those two women and thetyrant who oppressed them stood but one man. Himself--RonaldCavendish. Surely the killing of Brunton would beno murder!

The little mood of madness passed. Resolutely Ronnie putthe personal issue out of mind. Resolutely he fetched hispapers from his dressing-room and set himself to study thereports of the trial before the magistrate. If only he coulddiscredit Brunton's evidence on the question of adultery,surely there was a chance, just the shadow of a chance, tosecure the coveted verdict, justifiable homicide.

"But I'd need to be an orator for that," he thought; andall night, tossing sleepless, visions flickered across the tautscreen-board of his brain. Alternately he saw Aliette, Lucy,his mother--sad faces, each oppressed, each pleading for deliverance.

Yet next morning, as he emerged from Temple Stationand made his way along the Embankment to his chambers,Ronald Cavendish's self-confidence returned. And the self-confidenceincreased fourfold when Bunce, rather shamefaced,handed him yet another scrap of paper.

"Found this in our letter-box, sir," said Bunce.

Deciphered, the sprawly disguised handwriting read: "Iseed her in the Red Lion, Hill Street, with Bill T. Time10:15 pip emma. She's a bitch. I ought to know. I marriedher."

This time even John Cartwright thought the informationof value. "Though I don't see how you can use it," he saiddubiously. "Unless Standon's people can find this fellowPeterson for us."

"I sha'n't need Peterson," decided Ronnie, as their carswung them down Holborn. "He probably has his own reasonsfor keeping out of the way. A witness from the public-housewill be enough. Will you send some one down at once?The fourth of July, luckily, is American Independence day.Some one's sure to remember if Towers was there on thatparticular night, and who was with him."

The solicitor, dropping his passenger at the Old Bailey,drove off hurriedly.

Public interest in the case had not diminished overnight.Already the early street crowd numbered hundreds. On thegreat staircase, on the wide landing, folks seethed and jostled.The packed court-room itself--as the dignified figures of Mr.Justice Heber and his accompanying big-wigs took their seats---wasa lake of straining faces.

Immediately Brunton rose to examine his next witness;a tall black-mustached, black-haired type with flashy ringsand a flashy tie-pin, who answered to the name of JohnHodges.

He was a book-maker, John Hodges told the court. He hadknown Bill Towers for many years--long before he married.He had often heard the dead man speak of his wife. Thedead man had been very fond of his wife; but the affection,according to Hodges, had not been reciprocated.

Question and answer flowed on. But to Ronnie, waitinganxiously for Cartwright's return, it seemed as though Bruntonmust be ill. Twice the harsh voice missed the sequence ofits questions. Twice Henry Smith-Assher had need to prompthis leader. And twice, as the examination neared its ending,the gray eyes under the "hanging prosecutor's" gray horsehairdeserted their witness to stare, fascinated, at the womanin the dock. Lucy Towers, it seemed to Brunton, stared backat him with his wife's own brown unfathomable pupils.

"You've known the accused ever since she married thedeceased?" he asked his witness. "Has she ever spoken toyou about her husband?"

"Only once."

"Can you remember what she said?"

"Yes. She said that she wished she'd never marriedhim."

"When was that?"

"Some time in June."

"Can't you fix the exact date?"

"No, not the exact date. It was somewhere about the endof June, I think."

"Thank you." Heavily Hector Brunton sat down. Allnight the face of the woman in the dock had haunted him.And now, now the still, small voice of conscience was whisperingagain. "Cruel," whispered the voice; "cruel." Butthe sight of Cavendish, rising to cross-examine, silenced thevoice of conscience, brought back the suspicion that Cavendishheld some card, some trump-card, up his sleeve. And "Evenif he gets the charge reduced to manslaughter," thoughtBrunton, "she'll do time. She won't be able to trouble mefor years. Say seven years."

"Mr. Hodges"--Ronnie's voice recalled his enemy to theactualities,--"when the accused made this statement to you,were there any other people present?"

"Yes."

"Will you please tell his lordship and the jury who elsewas present."

"Bill Towers, of course."

"Why 'of course'?"

"Well, naturally he wouldn't leave another man alone withhis wife."

"He was jealous of her, eh?"

"Jealous!" The rings flashed. "I should just about sayhe was jealous."

"Ah!"--Ronnie's coins jingled--"and did this jealoushusband make any comment on his wife's remark?"

"No."

"Wasn't that rather curious? Now tell me, did yougather, from the way you allege the accused spoke, that shemeant her statement seriously?"

"I thought she was serious."

"Oh, you did, did you? Please tell me something else. Areyou prepared to inform his lordship and the jury that yourimpression at the time was that it was the accused's intentionto kill her husband if ever she got the chance?"

"Well, I shouldn't like to go so far as, to say that."

"Naturally not. Now listen." Ronnie leaned forward;and his gaze traveled towards the jury. "I put it to youthat the remark was meant as a joke."

"Well, not exactly a joke."

"Come, come, Mr. Hodges," said Ronnie, and his tone wasa shade less suave than his words, "you're a man of theworld. You must have realized at the time whether the accusedwas speaking seriously or not.'

"I thought she was serious." The book-maker, thoughobviously flustered, stuck to his guns.

"Very well. We'll leave it at that. The accused told you,in her husband's presence, that she wished she'd never marriedhim. Her husband, apparently, didn't take any noticeof the remark. But you thought it was serious. Not veryconvincing--but still----"

Ronnie's question trailed off into a sarcastic silence. Lookingsideways at Brunton, he could see that Brunton wastroubled; Brunton kept talking to Smith-Assher, kept fidgetingwith his gown and tapes, with the pencils and paper infront of him. The sight gave Ronnie confidence. He continuedhis cross-examination.

"You told my learned friend that, although WilliamTowers was very fond of his wife, his affection was not reciprocated.How did you know that? Did she tell you?"

"No."

"Did William Towers tell you?"

"No."

"Then who did tell you?"

"Well, it was common gossip."

"Gossip!" Ronnie jumped on the word. "Where?"

"Oh, all over the place."

"Ah!" Counsel for the defense jingled two thoughtfulcoins. "I'm afraid I don't know Brixton very well, Mr.Hodges. Tell me, please, when you say all over the place, doyou include," more jingling in the trouser-pocket, "a certainpublic-house called--'The Red Lion'?"

"Well----" the witness hesitated.

"Let me put my point clearly. Do you know, in Brixton,a public-house called 'The Red Lion'?"

"Yes."

"How far is that public-house from 25 Laburnum Grove?"

"About half a mile."

"Shall we say about ten minutes' walk?"

"Yes. That's about it."

Obviously the judge was puzzled. "Mr. Cavendish," heintervened, "I'm afraid I don't quite follow."

"M' lord," every syllable of Ronnie's fell with its distinctemphasis, "the point is of vital importance in connection withthe evidence of a previous witness." And he went on swiftlyto ask the book-maker, "Do you know a woman called MaggiePeterson?"

"Oh, yes." The white teeth under the black mustacheparted in a grin. "Oh, yes, I know her quite well."

"Mrs. Peterson told us in her evidence that she was a friendof the deceased. Is that true?"

"Oh, yes, they were quite friendly."

"Very friendly?"

"Yes."

"Ah!" Ronnie, glancing covertly at the jury, saw a littleripple of excitement pass over the stolid faces of the men. Behindhim, among the barristers, he could hear excited breathing."Now, just one more question, Mr. Hodges, and then Ihave finished with you. Have you ever seen Mrs. Petersonin company with William Towers at 'The Red Lion'?"

"M' lord"--Brunton, scruples and caution thrown to thewinds, leaped upright,--"I protest at this attempt to castaspersions----" But Mr. Justice Heber, who had now takenRonnie's point, allowed the question; and John Hodges, reluctantly,answered it with a "Yes."

The K.C.'s attempt, in reëxamination, to prove the disinterestednessof the book-maker, added to Ronnie's elation.If only Cartwright succeeded in securing that evidence----

But Brunton's examination of the next witness pricked thebubble of his opponent's momentary elation. The "hangingprosecutor" was fighting again, fighting as he had neverbattled in his life, for a conviction. The gray eyes no longerdared look at the dock; the woman in the dock, thought Brunton,was the woman who had wronged him, the creature hemust destroy.

"I swear to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothingbut the truth," said James Travers, a big blond seafaringman whose square-shouldered bulk almost filled the witness-box.And he spoke the truth according to his lights. A storydeadly enough, even without Brunton's prompting. He andBob Fielding had been shipmates during the war. Bob Fieldinghad often spoken to him about his cousin Lucy. BobFielding made no secret of the fact that he was in love withhis cousin; "that he'd have cut off his right hand ratherthan that she should marry Bill Towers." Further, JamesTravers had visited Bob Fielding about three days before thecommission of the crime.

"Did he, on that visit, speak to you about the deceased?"asked Brunton.

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"He said that Bill Towers ought to be shot."

"Did he say anything about Mrs. Towers?"

"Yes, he said that she ought to have some one to look afterher."

"Did he say she ought to have something to look afterherself with?"

Despite Ronnie's protest at the leading question, his lordshipallowed it; and James Travers answered, "Yes."

"And what happened then?"

"He showed me a pistol."

"A pistol!" Brunton signaled to the clerk of the court,and the clerk handed up a revolver to the witness. "Is thatthe pistol?"

"Yes."

"Was this weapon loaded when you last saw it?"

"It was."

"Did Fielding make any remark about it?"

"Yes. He said: 'That'll cook Bill's goose for him.'"

Once more the atmosphere of the court grew hostile.Watching the jury, Bonnie could see that his enemy hadalmost turned them. Impassivity settled like a mask on thefaces of the nine men. The two spinsters gazed awe-struckat the big weapon in the seafarer's big hand. Even the red-hattedmatron, whom he had decided a moment since definitelyfavorable, shook her head twice as though in new doubt.Then, turning from the jury-box to the dock, Ronnie wasaware of his client's eyes. The eyes--Aliette's very own---lookedpitiful. Imagination told him that they were afraid,that at last the woman realized her danger. He tried to signalto her; but she took no notice of his signal.

"That will be enough, I think," gloated Brunton; and,nervously, Ronnie started his task of cross-examination.

"You've known Robert Fielding for some time?"

"About seven years."

"Is he, in your opinion, a violent man? The kind of manwho would commit a murder?"

"No."

"Or," Ronnie's nervous voice dropped two full tones, "thesort of man who would incite some one else to commitmurder?"

"No."

"When Robert Fielding told you that he was in love withhis cousin--that was a good many years ago, wasn't it?--didyou understand that there was anything guilty in that love?That his cousin was his mistress?"

"No. I did not." The sailor's eyes--blue as the barrister'sown--kindled.

"As far as you know, had misconduct taken place betweenRobert Fielding and his cousin?"

"I don't know anything about that."

"Was Lucy Towers in the room during any part of yourconversation with Robert Fielding?"

"No."

"Has Robert Fielding ever suggested to you, since hiscousin's marriage, that he would like to get her away fromher husband?"

"No." The witness hesitated. "Not exactly."

"What do you mean by 'not exactly'?"

"Well, it didn't seem to me that Bob'd be exactly sorry ifanything happened to Towers."

Brunton chuckled audibly. The chuckle enraged Ronnie.For a question or two he fenced aimlessly with his witness'shonesty. Then suddenly he decided to try and turn that veryhonesty against his opponent.

"Tell me," he said suavely, "did you gather from the wayin which Robert Fielding habitually spoke of him that thedead man, William Towers, was of a very violent disposition?"

"Well, more or less I suppose I did."

"And would it be too much if I suggested to you that itwas solely because of her husband's violent disposition thatRobert Fielding thought his cousin should have either someone to protect her, or some means of protecting herself? Thathe had that particular thought in his mind, and that thoughtonly, when he showed you this revolver?"

The sailor seemed to find some difficulty in understandingthe suggestions; and even after Ronnie had repeated thempiecemeal, he refused, sailor-like, to commit himself.

Nervously, the cross-examination went on. "Now aboutthis revolver: did you gather that Robert Fielding had onlyjust bought it, or that he had had it in his possession for someconsiderable time? It's an old-fashioned navy revolver, isn'tit?"

"Yes."

"He must have had it some time--ever since he left theservice, probably?"

"Probably."

"He didn't, at any rate, tell you he'd just bought theweapon?"

"No."

"Coming back to the question of Towers, did Fielding tellyou anything about his habits?"

"Not that I remember."

"He didn't by any chance mention," Ronnie referred to anote at the back of his brief, "that William Towers wasaddicted to drink?"

"No. He only said he ought to be shot."

Seating himself, Ronnie was conscious of partial failure.The sailor-man's innate distrust of lawyers had taken theedge off his questions. Brunton, infinitely experienced,limited his reëxamination to the main points: Robert Fieldinghad admitted himself in love with his cousin; Robert Fieldinghad said that William Towers ought to be shot.

Ronnie's hands, as he made his notes, trembled on thesmooth foolscap. The mute figure in the dock was a reproach.Cartwright had failed him. Brunton's "That, members ofthe jury, is the case for the Crown," seemed to carry the unwordedsting, "And let my learned enemy refute it if he can."

And then, just as Lucy Towers was being marched downto the cells, came Cartwright, his eyes twinkling behind hisrimless eye-glasses. "I've got him outside," whispered Cartwright,"and I daren't leave him alone. It's too damnedimportant. Here's your proof." He disappeared throughthe swing-doors with the crowd; and Ronnie, looking at thescribbled document, read:

"Bert Bishop will state: I am the licensee of the Red LionTavern, Hill Street, Brixton. I remember the fourth of Julylast year, because it was American Independence day, and Ihave some American customers. On the fourth of July I haddifficulty in turning them out at closing-time. I have knownMaggie Peterson for two years. I knew the dead man,William Towers. Maggie Peterson and William Towers wereat the Red Lion that night. They came in about eight o'clock,and did not leave till a quarter past ten."

1

Ronnie, shaking off Spillcroft, spent the luncheonadjournment alone. His bouts with the last witnesses,followed by the shock of Bert Bishop's proof, had rattledhim. As he was leaving the court, the doorkeeper handed himanother shock--a telegram. Opening it, he read, to his relief:"All love and all success. Julia." But the growing crowdin the street, the multiplying posters, the comments whichreached his ears as he made his hasty way towards Holborn,rattled him still further.

His luck only added to his fears. Had it not been for thetwo anonymous notes, Maggie Peterson's evidence would havestood unchallenged. Now he could smash that evidence. Buteven now---even if the jury believed his side of the case sufficientlyto discount Brunton's plea of premeditation--even ifBob Fielding and Lucy came well through the ordeal ofBrunton's cross-questions--how, how the devil could he hope,unless some miracle gave his halting oratory genius, to securea complete acquittal?

Lunching alone in the crowded grill-room of the South-Eastern& Chatham Hotel, Ronnie's thoughts went back toother days. He saw himself soldier again, and rememberedthe particular type of moral courage, of self-control, necessaryfor the winning of battles. That moral courage, that self-controlmust be his again if he would win this fight againstBrunton. "This is my chance," he thought. "My onechance of downing the brute. I mustn't muff it."

Gradually solitude restored his balance. Gradually, hismind reconcentrated. Weeks of thought crystallized to shortsentences. Lucy, Lucy Towers must be saved. Nothing butthat mattered. The personal issue dwindled to unimportance.

Walking back to the court, he found that he could think,even of his enemy, logically.

2

But when, a few minutes later, Ronald Cavendish, rising toopen the defense of Lucy Towers, saw Hector Brunton bowedover his brief, nothing of him visible except a patch of graywig, the hump of a black back, and one gentlemanly handclutched round the gold pencil-case--then, for a moment,logic failed; and only the fear-stricken eyes of the woman inthe dock, only his personal enmity for the man keyed him tothe struggle.

"M' lord, members of the jury," he began, and there wasno attempt at oratory in his beginning, "it will be no part ofmy case to prove to you that Lucy Towers did not shoot herhusband. She did shoot him. She shot him exactly as counselfor the Crown has proved to you. But when the Crown asksyou to find my client guilty of wilful murder, when mylearned friend brings what he is pleased to call evidence insupport of malice and of premeditation; then I join issue withhim. My submission to you is that there was, in what myclient did, neither malice nor premeditation.

"Yet even if my learned friend fails--as it seems to mehe must fail--to convince you of premeditation, that failurewill not furnish me with sufficient grounds on which to askyou for my client's complete exoneration. Only on oneground can I ask you, as I intend to ask you, for your verdictof not guilty; and that ground, members of the jury, is justifiableor excusable homicide.

"Excusable homicide!" For a full ten minutes, the voice,grave, low, meditative, calm as the voice of the judge himself,dealt with the legal aspect of excusability; and all the whileHector Brunton listened, motionless. But suddenly, asRonnie's tone changed to the tone of the pleader, the "hangingprosecutor" shifted on his seat; and savagely he stared athis enemy.

"Those, members of the jury, are some of the grounds onwhich our law excuses the killing of one human being byanother. But there are other grounds, grounds which notonly excuse but justify. It is such justification, the fullestpossible justification, which I purpose to plead. My learnedfriend, you may have noticed, was very careful to avoid anyreference to the character or disposition of my client's husband.I, on the contrary, intend to deal with that pointrather fully."

Already the very quietness, the very certainty of that openinghad impressed the court; and as, still quietly, yet with ahint of mounting passion behind it, the speech went on; as,point by point, counsel for the defense traversed the statementsof counsel for the Crown, it seemed, even to the obtuseSpillcroft, as though the capital charge against Lucy Towersmight fail.

"While as for the minor charge," continued Ronnie, "thecharge of manslaughter--of which, as his lordship will tellyou, even though it is not pleaded on the indictment, it willbe open to you to find my client guilty--on that charge, too, Iintend to ask you for the completest acquittal."

Brunton's stare relaxed. He hunched himself once moreover his notes. And abruptly instinct, the instinct of the bornadvocate, warned Ronnie that he had spoken long enough.He glanced at the clock, at the jury. The jury--and especiallythe three women--were losing interest. Those womenwanted neither argument nor oratory. They wanted drama.They were waiting, as spectators in a theater, for him to putLucy Towers in the witness-box. So, abruptly, he regalvanizedtheir interest.

"Members of the jury, my learned friend who leads forthe Crown has been at great pains to convince you, out ofthe mouths of his witnesses, that Lucy Towers is both murderessand adulteress. I propose to afford him yet anotheropportunity of convincing you--by putting both my clientand her cousin in the witness-box."

At that, the whole court stiffened to attention, and even thejudge, who seemed to have been dozing throughout the speech,leaned forward. "Isn't he even going to deal with the evidencefor the prosecution?" thought the judge.

But Ronnie purposely played his highest card last.

"Nevertheless, before you hear my client's story from herown lips, I must ask you to weigh very carefully certain evidencewhich the Crown has thought fit to call against her.With the testimony of John Hodges and of James Travers,honest testimony, let us hope, I shall deal at a later stage ofthese proceedings. But the evidence of Maggie Peterson callsfor different treatment. Because Maggie Peterson has lied--andlied deliberately!

"Lied--and lied deliberately." Now, as passion mountedand mounted, kindling the quiet voice to rage, Brunton's headtwitched from his brief, and his eyes, the cold gray eyes underthe gray wig, glanced fearfully about the packed court-room.

"Because, on the night of July 4, the night when MaggiePeterson swears that she saw my client making her way toRobert Fielding's room, Maggie Peterson was not at 25 LaburnumGrove at all."

Ronnie paused, letting his every word sink home. Rain,pattering suddenly on the glass dome above, seemed to emphasizethe silence below. Then passionately the speechended. "My lord, members of the jury, I ask for no mercy.I ask only for justice. I ask you to remember, even while youare listening to my client's testimony, that the main evidenceagainst her, the evidence of this woman Peterson is, from beginningto end, one tissue of deliberate lies, of the most wilfuland corrupt perjury, as I shall prove to you out of the mouthof a competent witness, the landlord of the Red Lion Tavern,who will testify to you beyond the shadow of a doubt thatfrom eight o'clock till after ten on the night of July 4, MaggiePeterson never left his establishment; who will testify, moreover,that Maggie Peterson's companion on the night in questionwas none other than my unfortunate client's husband,William Towers himself."

And on that, satisfied with the utter hush which followed,Ronald Cavendish put his client in the box.

3

There are seconds in every man's life when the conviction ofhis own wrong-doing shatters the edifice of conceit and flingsillusion headlong.

Such a second came to Hector Brunton, K.C., as he watchedLucy Towers step down from the side of the dock and makeher way past the packed benches to the witness-box. Withher--he could feel--went a wave, a great wave of humansympathy, the wave against which he, Hector Brunton, hadbeen swimming for more than a year.

Paralyzed he watched her--watched her take the oath, kissthe book. His mind was a torment, a torment of conscience.Conscience howled: "You knew! You knew all the time thatyour principal witness was lying. You knew! You knew allthe time that this woman was no adulteress. She's innocent,innocent, Hector Brunton; as innocent in intention as thatother woman you've been hounding."

Cavendish's voice, the voice of his enemy, broke the spell.

"Mrs. Towers, while the oath you have just sworn is stillfresh in your mind, I want you to answer this question. Haveyou ever, at any time in your life, been guilty of immoralitywith your cousin, Robert Fielding?"

"Never." The answer, so diffident yet so definite, mighthave been Aliette's; and to Ronnie, his brain still throbbingfrom its own unaccustomed eloquence, it seemed, just for afraction of a second, as though the woman he defended wereindeed his own.

"Various witnesses for the Crown have stated that you wereon bad terms with your husband. Are those statements true?"

"I did my best to get on with him." The brown eyes neverflinched. "But he was a cruel man, especially when he was indrink."

"Nevertheless, you were faithful to him?"

"Yes. Always."

"You heard Mrs. Peterson's evidence? She said," Ronniereferred to his notes, "that at half-past nine o'clock on thenight of July 4, she saw you go into Robert Fielding's room.Have you any comment to make on that evidence?"

"It's a lie. I never visited him at night. Only by day."

"At half-past nine on the night of July 4, where wereyou?"

"I was in my own room, washing up the supper things."

"Was your husband with you?"

"No."

"Where was he?"

"I don't know."

"One other point about Mrs. Peterson's evidence. She toldus, if you remember, that you made a statement: that you saidto her that you would never be happy till your husband wasdead. What have you to say about that statement?"

"It's another lie." The lips pursed, stubbornly--it seemedto Brunton--as his wife's own. "An absolute lie."

"One moment, please!" Mr. Justice Heber--every syllableof his question audible as the tinkle of glass--intervened. "Ishould like to be clear on this point, Mrs. Towers. The witnessto whom your counsel refers made the following statements:that at half-past nine o'clock on the night of July 4 she sawyou enter Robert Fielding's room; that you were in the habitof making such visits, and that she was standing in the passagebetween your room and hers when she saw you. Do Iunderstand you positively to deny all three of those statements?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"And the witness in question further stated that you saidto her: 'Bill isn't fit to be any woman's husband. I wish toGod he was dead.' What have you to say to that?"

The woman in the witness-box did not hesitate. Deliberatelyher eyes met the judge's. Deliberately she answeredhis question: "My lord, I may have said that Bill wasn't fitto be any woman's husband. But I never said," the shy voicerose, "either to Maggie Peterson or to any one else, that Iwished he was dead."

"She never said"--word for word Mr. Justice Heber wrotedown his answer--"that she wished her husband was dead."

But Hector Brunton--bent over his brief--could not write.For now, not only conscience, but all his years spent in separatingtruth from falsehood, all the experience of a legal lifetime,told him of Lucy's innocence.

Again his enemy's voice broke the spell: "You heard theevidence of John Hodges. He said that you told him somewhereabout the end of last June that you wished you hadnever married your husband. Have you anything you wouldlike to say in answer to that?"

"Bill was there at the time. I only meant it for a joke."

"And now, before I ask you to tell his lordship and thejury, in your own words, what happened on the afternoon ofJuly 5, I want you, if you can, to give me some idea of thefeelings you entertained, before that date, for your husband."

It was a daring, an unpremeditated, though not a leadingquestion; and, even as he put it, Ronnie perceived its danger.Suppose the woman in the witness-box, the little dignifiedwoman whose hands rested so quietly on the rail, whose wholeattitude indicated nothing but the intensest desire to speaktruth, should speak too much truth, should destroy--with onefatal word--the house of protection he was building abouther? But neither the heart nor the truth in Lucy Towersfailed.

"It wouldn't be right"--the hands on the rail did notmove--"for me to pretend that I cared for Bill. He made mylife an absolute hell. He drank and he used to knock meabout. Many's the time I've wished he was dead. But Inever thought of killing him."

"Ah." Ronnie paused in his examination--one of thoselong, indefinable pauses which have more value than speech.Now--feeling the jury with him--he was no longer hauntedby thought of his own inefficiency, no longer afraid of Brunton.Not Brunton's self could shake such a witness. Already,the first faint foretaste of victory quickened his pulse. Hisquestions grew more and more daring.

"You said, in your statement at the police-station: 'Myhusband didn't like me going to Bob's room. He was jealousof Bob.' Can you give us any further details about that?"

"Details!" Lucy, her eyes downcast, appeared to be consideringthe question. She shot a glance at Brunton. Then,quietly, she said, "Bill was always being jealous of some manor other--the same as Mr. Hodges said. But he hadn't gotany reason to be jealous. I told him so, when he said I wasn'tto go to Bob's room that afternoon. Me and Bob has alwaysbeen pals--since we were kiddies. But if it hadn't been forBob having no arms, I wouldn't have disobeyed Bill and goneto him.''

"I see. And can you tell me, coming to the afternoon ofJuly 5, what your husband said when you threatened to disobeyhim--when you told him," Ronnie referred to his brief,"'I must go and help Bob because he can't feed himself'?"

"Bill said," the words were tremulous: "'If you don'tstop here I'll come over and do in the pair of you.'"

"And what happened after that!"

"I just went to Bob's room."

"And did you say anything to your cousin about your husband'sthreats?"

"No."

"Can you tell me why you didn't?"

"Because"--unconsciously, the woman scored yet anotherpoint--"because I didn't want Bob to see I was frightened."

"And now"--Ronnie craned forward in his mounting excitement--"andnow, Mrs. Towers, I want you to describe tohis lordship and the jury, in your own words, exactly whathappened in Robert Fielding's room on the afternoon ofJuly 5."

"I made Bob his tea, and I was helping him eat it whenBill came in," began the woman.

No sounds save the scratch of reporters' pencils, the occasionaltap of a boot-sole on the bare floor-boards, and thesuppressed breathing of her tense audience interrupted thestory Lucy Towers told her counsel and the court--a story soutterly resembling, yet so utterly differing from the tonelessconfession which the "hanging prosecutor" had read out theday before, a story so redolent of life and truth and certaintythat, listening to it, it seemed as if one could actually see thedead man standing at the doorway of that bare tenementroom, see the lifted stick in his hand, and hear his harsh, grimvoice.

"Bill said, 'I'll do you in. I'll do you both in, damn you.'He had his stick in Ms hand. He lifted his stick. I wasfrightened. I thought he meant to kill Bob. I thought hemeant to kill both of us. I remembered the pistol. I ran tothe cupboard. I pulled out the pistol. I pointed it at him.Bob said, 'Look out, Bill. The gun's loaded.' Bill said, 'Youcan't frighten me.' I thought he was going to kill Bob, so Ifired.

"So I fired." The little story ended to the indescribable,unbearable silence of men and women whose emotions are nearto breaking-point. Through that unbearable silence, Ronnie'snext question cut like a razor through taut string.

"You say that your husband carried a stick. Can youdescribe that stick?"

"It was a heavy stick."

"Can't you tell me any more about it?"

"Yes; it had a bit of lead in the handle."

"Was he holding the stick by the handle?"

"No. By the other end."

"And you thought he meant to kill your cousin with thatloaded stick?"

"Yes. I felt sure of it. That was why I shot him."

Ronnie paused again, making sure that his point shouldsink home in the minds of the jury. Then, picking up hiscopy of the confession, he put his last questions: "I havehere the statement which you made at the time of your arrest.You say, 'I'm not sorry I killed my husband.' Why did yousay that?"

"Because I wasn't sorry--then."

"But you are sorry now?"

"Yes. I didn't mean to kill him. I don't know why I saidthat. I didn't quite know what I was saying."

"And there was one other thing you said. You said, 'I loveBob very much.' Is that true?"

"Yes." Lucy Towers answered fearlessly. "I do love him,but not in the way"--her eyes, which had scarcely left Ronnie'ssince the examination began, turned for a moment toHector Brunton, huddled in his seat--"not in the way thathe tried to make out."

"Thank you, Mrs. Towers. That's all I have to ask,"finished Ronald Cavendish; and, seating himself, waited forHector Brunton's onslaught.

But the onslaught tarried. Almost it seemed as if HectorBrunton were going to leave that cross-examination, on whichthe whole case hung, to his junior. For now Hector Bruntonheard, louder than the whisper of conscience, the very whisperof God. "Thou art the man," whispered God; "thou art themurderer."

The "hanging prosecutor" looked at the woman in thedock, and his courage failed before the accusing glance of her.The "hanging prosecutor" looked at the judge, at the massedspectators; and his heart quailed before the doubting glancesof them. Then the "hanging prosecutor" looked at hisenemy; and rage, the rage of the lusting male, took him by thethroat. God's whisper forgotten, man's duty forgotten, allsave this one last chance of vengeance forgotten; he rose,heavy as the wounded bull, to his ungainly feet. His brain,the cold sure-functioning legal brain, had not yet failed. Hestill knew his strength. But a red mist blinded his eyes, andthrough that red mist he saw, not Lucy Towers but Aliette;Aliette, whom every cheated fiber of his body yearned to torture--and,torturing, possess.

"You admit that you shot your husband?" The words--grim,bitter, devil-prompted--grated in Brunton's throat.

"Yes."

"You admit that you said, just after you had shot him, thatyou were not sorry for the deed?"

"That's written down."

"Answer my question, please. Do you admit that you said,just after your husband's death at your hands, that you werenot sorry you had killed him?"

"That's written down," repeated Lucy Towers stubbornly.And the stubbornness sent a chill through the red mist; achill that pierced to Hector Brunton's very marrow. Thus--thusstubborn and unwrithing--thus clear-eyed and contemptuous,had this same woman outfaced him, long andlong ago in the bright, miserable drawing-room at LancasterGate.

"You have admitted"--there was a singing in the K.C.'sears; he could hardly hear his own voice--"that you loveyour cousin, Robert Fielding. I put it to you that you areRobert Fielding's mistress."

"No."

"I put it to you that you went to Robert Fielding's roomnightly."

"It's a lie."

"I put it to you that ever since Robert Fielding came tolive at 25 Laburnum Grove you have been in the habit ofmisconducting yourself with him."

"It's a lie."

"I put it to you"--God! if only he could make her writhe;if only he could see one stab of pain twitch those cheeks--"thatyou love Robert Fielding."

"Not in the way you're trying to make out."

"I put it to you that it was because of your love for RobertFielding that you shot your husband."

"No."

"Then why did you shoot him?"

"My lord,"--Cavendish's voice--"I protest. This is outrageous."

"I'm afraid, Mr. Cavendish,"--Heber's voice--"I mustallow the question."

"Why did you shoot your husband?" Brunton heard hisown voice, very faint through the buzz at his ears.

"I have already told you"--he heard Aliette's voice--"Ikilled him because I thought he was going to kill Bob."

"You meant to kill him, then?"

Again his enemy's protest. Again the judge's doubtful,"I feel I must allow the question." Again Aliette's stubbornreply:

"No. I never meant to kill him. I didn't think about that.I only wanted to save Bob."

Momentarily the red mist cleared from Brunton's sight.He knew this woman for Lucy Towers--Lucy Towers againstwhom, despite the flaws in the evidence, he had advised prosecutionfor wilful murder; knew himself doomed to failurewith her--as he had always been doomed to failure withAliette; knew that, against the sheer rock of truth in the one,as against the rock of sheer truth in the other, the spray ofhis lawless hate must beat in vain.

Then the red mist thickened, thickened and thickened, againbefore Brunton's smarting eyes. Rage kindled in his bowels,kindled from bowels to brain, burning away self-control. Hewas aware only of Cavendish--of Cavendish, utterly cold,utterly legal--of Cavendish protesting for his witness, protectinghis witness--of Cavendish's will, thrusting bar aftercold steel bar between himself and the woman.

The singing was still in Brunton's ears; and now it grewdark in court, so that the face of the woman faded from hissight; and now it grew light in court, so that the face of thewoman showed itself to him as a white contemptuous sneerunder the electrics; but still, blindly, he tortured her with hisquestions.

At last he heard his own voice clearly once again, "Youdeny, then, that you are an adulteress?"; heard her answer,"Yes. I deny that absolutely"; heard, as a murderer hearinghis own sentence, Mr. Justice Heber's, "If that finishes yourcross-examination, Mr. Brunton, I shall adjourn until teno'clock tomorrow"; heard, as a murderer hears the tramp offeet outside his cell, Cavendish's quiet, "With your lordship'spermission, there is one witness, one most important witness,whom I should like to call before the court adjourns"; listened,powerless to cross-examine, while the witness of Cartwright'sfinding tore Maggie Peterson's testimony in pieces.

4

As Ronnie, striding solitary home, saw on the posters"Towers Case Sensation; Witness Arrested for Perjury."it seemed to him as though victory had been alreadyin his grasp.

1

Hector Brunton tottered out of his car and up thesteps into his chambers like a man in a palsy. Threeclients were waiting in the outer office for consultations. Hetold Patterson: "Send them away. Get rid of them. SayI'm too ill to see anybody." Then heavily he sat down at hisdesk.

The shock of Maggie Peterson's arrest, climaxing emotion,was still on him. Definitely his experience knew himself defeated."God!" he muttered, "another night--another nightof the rack."

The previous night had been torment enough. Then he hadthought: "I may fail. Cavendish may have something up hissleeve"; then he had seen only success in jeopardy; dreadedonly the failure of his vengeance. But now--now he wasbeaten--worse than beaten--delivered up, body and soul, tothe Furies.

The clerk came in to ask if he might go. "Yes," saidBrunton; "go. Go as soon as you like." The clerk went out,leaving him alone; alone with his Furies.

The Furies showed him Aliette, infinitely fastidious, infinitelydesirable; they showed him Renée, Renée who wouldeven now be awaiting him; they showed Lucy, Lucy Towers,stubborn in her cell. "Don't let her go free from her cell,"whispered the Furies. "You're not beaten yet. She did killthe man. Convict her, Hector Brunton. Convict her ofmanslaughter."

They showed him Cavendish, Cavendish gloating at theprospect of victory. "To be beaten," whispered the Furies,"to be beaten by Cavendish, by the adulterer who stole awayyour wife!"

But all the time Hector Brunton knew in his inmost soulthat he had sought to compass the death of an innocentwoman; that he had sinned against his own code, against theholy ghost of justice.

And gradually, terrifyingly, the reason of that sinning wasbrought home to him. He had sinned, not as a woman sins,lovingly, but for sheer hate. Out of his hatred for Cavendishhe had plotted--as surely as any murderer--the death ofLucy Towers.

And suddenly, starkly, irresistibly, it was brought home tohim that--even as he had plotted the death of Lucy Towers--so,and for the same hideous reason, he had plotted the socialruin of his own wife.

Till finally the ultimate pretext, the pretext of his love forAliette, was stripped from him, and he saw that love in all itshideous nakedness, as lust--the savage sadic lust which hadhounded him to crime.

David Patterson had long gone home; but Brunton sat on--alonein his chambers--alone with his conscience, naked beforehis God. His worldly house, the sure material legal house ofhis own making, had crashed, in that one second of time whenhe watched Lucy Towers step down from the dock, to ruin.The law, basis of work and life, lay--a tablet shattered toten thousand fragments--at his feet. Ghosts--the palpableghosts of those two women for the compassing of whose ruinhe had invoked the law--sidled about the darkling room, terrifyinghim. He knew himself a prisoner--prisoner in theinvisible house of God.

Was there no way out? No escape from God's house ofconscience? Had he, abiding by the letter of man's law, forfeited--forall time--the merciful spirit of the law of God?

"Yes," said conscience, "there is one way out. One way,and one way only, of escape. Make reparation, Hector Brunton.Set both these women free."

Must he, then, give up everything--wife, vengeance, victory--becauseof this one damnable insistent whisper, this whisperof conscience that was driving him to madness?

And now, again, he saw the phantoms--phantom of Alietteand phantom of Lucy Towers. They were behind bars--bars--innocentwomen behind bars which he, Hector Brunton, hadsocketed home with his own hands.

At last, thought of those bars drove him into the night.King's Bench Walk lay deserted, chill-gleaming underautumnal trees. Leaves strewed it, swishing against his bootsas he strode. "Autumn," thought Brunton. "Autumn!We've reached middle age, the year and I. And what have Igarnered? Nothing."

Suddenly he realized whither his feet were carrying him;suddenly he found himself under the colonnade of PumpCourt, at the door of his rival's chambers. The door was shut,the court deserted. Yet for a long time Brunton stood by thedoor; stood, as a man stands who waits for some sign, for anopening window or the gleam of a light. But no windowopened, no light gleamed.

He came, hardly knowing how, out of the gloom of theTemple into the raw glare of empty Fleet Street. In front ofhim uprose the long façade of the high courts, the courtswhere he had won fame and money. What did fame andmoney matter to him--to Hector Brunton, who, gaining thewhole legal world, had lost his own soul?

2

Counsel for the defense, as he watched counsel for theprosecution make his way into court next morning, couldalmost feel sorry for the man. Brunton, the overbearing,overconfident Brunton, looked the veriest wreck of his old self.He tottered rather than walked to his seat. His eyes weredull, bloodshot; his hands trembled; his jowl twitched andtwitched.

The judge had not yet arrived; and Ronnie's eyes, switchinghere and there about the packed court, suddenlyenvisaged, below the judge's dais, the "exhibits" of theprosecution: among them the revolver which had killed itsman. More than once, in the last year, he, Ronald Cavendish,had known the desire to kill his man. But now, looking onthe wreck which had been Brunton, he knew the desire dead.No longer could he even hate Brunton. The man was beaten--beaten.

Bunce, approaching, handed up a telegram: "Congratulations.Masterly. Feel confident of your success. BertramStandon."

Ronnie's heart glowed at the penciled words. Already hesaw success, fame, victory; already the sentences he wouldspeak throbbed in his brain. And then, abruptly, the sightof Lucy Towers entering the witness-box for reëxaminationrecalled the fact that Brunton was still undefeated. Thealternative charge of manslaughter had yet to be fought outbetween them!

The judge took his seat. The short reëxamination of LucyTowers began--ended. Quietly she went back to the dock;quietly she took her seat by the blue-uniformed wardress.

"Robert Fielding!" called the constables on guard outsidethe doors.

The armless sailor, unskilled in law, had taken small comfortfrom the morning's papers. His face, shaved clean, wasgray with apprehension; his whole body drooped as he madehis way into the box. Ronnie could see pity written clear onthe faces of the jury. The fat matron--she still wore her redhat--made a convulsive movement as if to assist, when thecrier of the court lifted the Bible to the kiss of that tremblingmouth. Even the two dour spinsters seemed moved.

Robert Fielding's tale of the happenings at LaburnumGrove on the afternoon of July 5 corroborated his cousin's inalmost every detail. Yet he told it haltingly; only whenRonnie asked, "Have you any knowledge of the relationsbetween Mrs. Towers and her husband?" did any certaintycome into the low voice.

"Nobody except me," said Robert Fielding, "knows allthat Lucy had to put up with from that fellow. He wasalways a wrong 'un, was Bill Towers. I looked after her all Icould, but a cripple like me hasn't got much chance."

"Did you ever make any secret of your affection for yourcousin?"

"No, sir."

"When you told James Travers that your cousin's husbandought to be shot, what did you mean to imply?"

The sailor hesitated; and Ronnie, nervous of the one weaknessleft in his case, tried to prompt him. "When you toldJames Travers that Bill Towers ought to be shot, did you haveany intention----"

But at that, the judge intervened--leading questions beingbarred in law; and Ronnie, a trifle annoyed with himself forthe solecism, repeated his former query.

Again Fielding hesitated; then he said, self-excusingly:"When I made that remark, I made it as a good many of uswho have been in the service do make it--in a general sort ofway, meaning that Bill Towers was a bad lot, and that itwouldn't be any loss if somebody did shoot him."

"I see." Ronnie smiled; and a man on the jury, obviouslyan ex-service man, smiled with him. "Now, about the pistol--orrather the revolver. Can you tell us how long it hadbeen in your possession?"

"Two years, I should say."

"Had it always been loaded?"

"Yes. Ever since I can remember."

"When did your cousin first know that you possessed thisrevolver?"

"Not until that afternoon."

"Which afternoon?"

"The afternoon she shot Bill Towers."

"One other point. James Travers told us that you said tohim, 'I'd rather cut off my right hand than that Lucy shouldmarry Bill Towers.' Did you ever make such a statement toJames Travers?"

The sailor looked down, piteously, at his two empty sleeves."I may have," he said. "But if I did, it must have been along time ago."

"Before she married?"

"Yes, before she married."

"James Travers also told us that you said to him, when youshowed him the revolver, 'This will cook Bill's goose for him.'Did you say that?"

"Yes." The answer was hardly audible. "He'd beenknocking Lucy about--and I was mad with him."

"Was there any other reason why you were mad withhim?"

"Yes, there was." And the sailor--fears momentarily forgotten--rappedout, so swiftly that even the judge could notstop him, "He drank, and he was carrying on with anotherwoman. Everybody in the house knew about it."

On the hush which followed that statement--a statementconfirmatory of the point which Ronnie, without specificallyalleging it, had been trying to establish ever since his openingquestion to Maggie Peterson--fell the last question of Mr.Justice Heber: "Do you know, of your own knowledge, anywoman other than his wife with whom the dead man was onterms of sexual intimacy?"

And Robert Fielding, looking squarely into those gleamingspectacles, answered, "Yes, my lord. With Maggie Peterson.Many's the time I've seen the blackguard a-sneaking intoher room."

3

At two o'clock of the afternoon, in a court packed to suffocationpoint, Ronald Cavendish rose to begin his final speechfor the defense of Lucy Towers.

Robert Fielding's testimony, unshaken in cross-examination,had been followed by more evidence, collected by Standon'sassiduous reporters, as to the character of the deadman; and that evidence--Ronnie felt,--coupled with thearrest of Maggie Peterson, made the main issue, the issue ofwilful murder, safe.

Nevertheless, the Wixton imagination in him was doubtfulof the second issue, the issue of manslaughter. In England,the unwritten law did not run; and although, thanks to thepress, the streets outside were black with people, with a mobhungry for news of the verdict, determined on his client'sacquittal, Ronnie knew the difficulties of securing that acquittaltoo well for overconfidence.

Again he had spent the luncheon interval alone; praying--voicelessly--thathis oratory might not fail; visualizingalways those two dour-faced spinsters on the jury, and Mr.Justice Heber, having summed up in cold legal phraseologythe bare facts of the case, awarding, on the jury's recommendation,the lenient sentence of a year's imprisonment.

In those few seconds of time before his speech began, Ronnie'simagination could almost hear the murmur of the mobwithout. The murmur flustered him. After all, Lucy hadshot her husband. Between her, pale in the dock, and the darkcell of felony, stood only a dumb advocate, a fencer unskilledwith the sword of the spoken word.

Till suddenly, standing there silent before Lucy's peers, itseemed to Ronnie as though all the emotions of the last yearstirred in his heart, as though all that pity for womankindwhich Aliette had engendered in him fought for utterance athis lips. For one fleeting moment, his keen gaze swept thecourt, envisaging judge, jury, the motionless figure of hisclient, the constable and the wardress either side of her, thespectators standing two-deep round the closed doors, BenjaminBunce, David Patterson, John Cartwright, Brunton.For one fleeting moment he thought of Brunton, and of thewrong which Brunton had done to the woman he loved.Then, gravely, quietly, feeling the sword of the spoken wordquiver like a live blade at his lips, he engaged his enemy.

Sentence by calm sentence, Julia Cavendish's son--makingscarcely a gesture, referring hardly to a note--traversed thestatements of his enemy and of the witnesses for his enemy;sentence by grave sentence, he demonstrated to those twelvewatchful faces, to the nine men and the three women in thejury-box, that the crime---if crime it were--had been committedon a sudden impulse, without motive, without malice,without premeditation.

"Members of the jury, if we except the evidence of MaggiePeterson--evidence which we now know to be one tissue oflies,--what proof have we of motive or of malice aforethought?No proof, no proof whatsoever. When counsel for the Crowndared to call my client an adulteress, on what did he base hisfoul allegation? On the word of a proved liar. I venture totell him that, if any one fact has emerged from the evidencewhich he has seen fit to put before you, it is the fact of myclient's fidelity to the blackguard whom she had the misfortuneto marry."

At that, fearfully, the "hanging prosecutor" craned forwardin his seat; and fearfully--as though it were of himselfand not of the dead that Ronnie spoke--his bloodshot eyesglanced up at the set, stern face of counsel for the defense.But counsel for the defense deigned him never a glance. Terribly,counsel for the defense went on:

"My lord, members of the jury, he, counsel for the Crown,is a distinguished, perhaps our most distinguished advocate.Behind him are all the resources of the public purse, of thepublic power. Yet I, the humblest of pleaders, should not bedoing my duty to my client did I not tell him that this prosecutionto which he has thought fit to add the weight of hisadvocacy is a prosecution founded on false witness, bolsteredon perjury, a prosecution which no just advocate would havedared to support."

With those words, unprofessional, unpremeditated--fornow the sword of oratory had outlunged Ronnie's self-control,so that he spoke from his heart, careless of etiquette,--a shiverof excitement rippled the gray-wigged heads behind. Thewigged heads nodded toward one another, whispering, "Isay! Why the deuce don't Brunton protest!" But Bruntondid not protest. And counsel for the defense spoke on:

"Why he has so dared, is for my learned friend to explain.My learned friend spoke of mercy. The poet tells us that thequality of mercy is not strained. Did my learned friendponder that saying when his hands drew up the indictmentagainst my client? Did any spirit of mercy move him whenhis brain schemed the evidence which has been put before thiscourt? Is he merciful or merciless, truthful or truthless,when he asks you to believe that this woman, this unfortunateLucy Towers, is guilty not only of murder but of adultery?"

Still Brunton did not protest. His eyes, the bloodshot eyesunder the wig awry, dared look no more upon his enemy. Fornow it seemed to Hector Brunton as though Ronnie pleadedwith him--as he had pleaded long ago--not only for the freedomof the woman in the dock, but for the freedom of Aliette.

"Adultery!" pleaded Ronnie. "Has my learned friendbrought any proof of that adultery? He has brought none.None. None. Has he brought any proof of murder? Anyproof of that malice aforethought without which--as he himselfhas told you--there can be no murder? He has broughtnone. None. None. Yet deliberately he has sought to twine"--onehand shot out, pointing first at Brunton, then at theunmoving figure of Lucy Towers--"the hangman's roperound the neck of this innocent woman. For she is innocent!Innocent of murder as she is of adultery. Innocent--Ideclare it to you in all solemnity!--innocent before the sightof man as she is innocent before the sight of God--of any andof every charge that counsel for the Crown has thought fit tobring against her. Of no charge, not even of manslaughter,can she be found guilty! Is it manslaughter to defend thedefenseless? Is it manslaughter when a weak woman protectsthe man she loves from the beast who makes her days and hernights a living hell?

"A living hell!" For a second the flood of oratory ceased;for a second, through the silence of bated breaths, it seemedto Ronald Cavendish as though once again he caught themurmurs of the crowd without. But now the crowd gavestrength to his words.

"Members of the jury, I do not ask for mercy. I ask onlyfor justice. I ask you, when you weigh your verdict, toremember what manner of man was this William Towers. Iask you to look upon my client. I ask you to think of thiswoman, faithful always, complaining never, enduring always--yearafter hellish year--the bestial defilements of thedrunken reprobate into whose black heart, not of premeditationbut in sheer and sudden defense of a fellow-creature, shefired her fatal shot. Oh, yes, Lucy Towers fired that shot.Lucy Towers and no other killed her husband. That is theone truth in the tissue of lies which has been put before you.But was that killing a crime? Is not the world well rid ofmen like William Towers? Members of the jury, you, whohave heard from the lips of unbiased witnesses what were hiscruelties, what his drinkings and what his lecheries, will younot say to yourselves--as I say to myself--when you come toconsider your verdict: 'God save all women from such aman.'"

And then, for the first time, Ronnie deigned one scornfullook upon his enemy.

"Yet, believe me, you men and you women on whose worddepends life or death for this woman I am defending, it isnot on the ground of her husband's cruelties that I ask you tolet her go free. However degraded, however debauched, howevercruel; this man, this William Towers still had the rightto live. Neither by his lechery nor by his drunkenness did heforfeit his life. Yet his life was forfeit. Why? Let me tellyou why. Let me tell you in one sentence. Because he soughtto take the life of another.

"Remember that. Never forget that. William Towerssought to take the life of another!" Ronnie's voice slowed toemphasis. Subconsciously, he knew himself at the very coreof his defense. But consciously he knew nothing. The facesof the judge, of the jury and the spectators--phantom symbolswhose intelligences his own intelligence must now grapple--blurredto his sight. He swayed as he stood.

"Members of the jury, that is the issue; the whole simpleissue before this court. Dismiss from your minds all prejudice.That my learned friend stooped to call false witnessesis for my learned friend's conscience to excuse. You havenot been summoned to decide the guilt of Maggie Peterson.You are not here to weigh the sins of the dead. You havebeen summoned to decide whether or no my client is guilty ofany crime. Judge--impartially yet compassionately--thatsingle simple issue. And, judging, keep before your mindsthis picture, the picture my client herself painted for you inunshaken, unforgettable words, the picture of the poor cleanroom in the tenement-house where Lucy Towers sits with hercousin; with the armless man, whose arms (need I remindyou?) were sacrificed for your sake and for mine.

"Day by day Lucy Towers has visited that room; day byday her hands and hers alone have ministered to its helpless,to its defenseless occupant. Day by day she has brought him,despite her husband's threats, a little money--food perhaps.Is that a crime? But to-day she has not even brought money.She has only helped him--the piteousness of it!--to drink histea. They are cousins, these two. They are happy with oneanother; not, as my learned friend would have you believe,guiltily happy, but innocently happy. They love one another--asthey themselves told you--in the best, in the highest way,even as brother and sister love one another.

"So, they are sitting. And then, without warning, comesthe crash of a stick-handle on the door. Startled, they lookup. Startled, they see, framed in the doorway, the cruelterrible face of a man, of this woman's legal owner, of WilliamTowers. In his hand this reprobate, this cruel drunken reprobate,brandishes his stick. The stick is no ordinary walking-stick.It is a weapon--a deadly weapon--a loaded stick.William Towers grasps the loaded stick by the ferrule. Helifts it menacingly; he makes as though to brain Robert Fielding--thearmless, the helpless, the defenseless man, RobertFielding. Robert Fielding's cousin is afraid; she fears thisreprobate's violence, fears that he has been drinking, fearshis ungovernable temper. There is a revolver in the cupboard.A revolver!

"A revolver!" Unconsciously, Ronnie's hand shot out,pointing at the weapon.

"My client runs to the cupboard. She opens the cupboard.She sees the revolver. Mad with fear, she grasps the revolver.She points it at William Towers. And William Towers jeersat her, jeers at them both. 'I'll do you in. I'll do you bothin, damn you!' shouts this madman, this drunken madmanwho has made my client's life a living hell. And again hebrandishes his stick, threatening a defenseless man.

"And then? Even then, does Robert Fielding call uponhis cousin to fire? No. Remember that he knows himself indanger of his life; knows that one pressure of his cousin'sfinger on the trigger will save his life. Yet Robert Fieldingdoes not call upon his cousin to fire. He warns the man--thereprobate who is seeking to slay him; he cries, 'Look out, Bill.The gun's loaded.' But William Towers only sneers. 'Youcan't frighten me,' sneers William Towers, and once more hebrandishes his weapon, making as though to batter out RobertFielding's life.

"To batter out Robert Fielding's life!" Now, irresistible,the sword of the spoken word plunges to its peroration. "Mylord, members of the jury, was it murder, or a defense againstmurder, when my client, my innocent client, maddened byfear--driven to desperation by the thought of this foul crimewhich only she could prevent--pulled the trigger, sped thebullet which sent William Towers to his account with God?My lord, members of the jury, all you who listen to me in thiscourt to-day, is there any one of you who--fearful as my clientwas fearful--provoked as my client was provoked--maddenedas my client was maddened, by the sight of an armless man,of the one creature she loved in all the world, about to sufferdeath at the hands of a reprobate--would not have done whatLucy Towers did, would not have torn madly at the revolvertrigger, would not have taken a life that a life might live?

"Men and women in whose hands lies the fate of my client,it is on that plea--on that plea alone--on the plea that the lifeshe took was a life already forfeit--that I ask you to set herfree. Were I in France, were I in America, I might plead theunwritten law. I do not plead it. By the written statutes ofEngland; by every precedent of British justice; by the writtenlaw and by the written law alone; by that inalienableright which every citizen of this country possesses, the rightto kill in another's defense, I ask you by your verdict to-dayto manumit Lucy Towers of all and every penalty, to let hergo free from this court, to acquit her at the hands of herfellow-men--as I, her advocate, am convinced that she standsacquitted at the hands of God."

4

To Ronald Cavendish, the actual world--the judge, thejury, the spectators, the motionless woman in the dock--werestill blurred, a blur of many faces. He knew only that he hadmade his effort; that he was still on his feet; that he wastottering on his feet. His hands still gripped the lapels of hisrobe. He could feel the sweat of his hands as they grippedthe black stuff; feel the sweat pouring down his body. Heknew that his body was twitching; twitching in every nerve.But his brain was a gutted mechanism, unfunctioning, tellingneither success nor failure. Of all the words his lips hadspoken, no memory remained.

And then, sharply, the actual world came back. He saw thefaces distinctly; Heber's face, the faces of the jury. Followedtumult. Men, men and women, were applauding; applaudinghim, Ronald Cavendish, who could remember no wordof all the words he had spoken. Had he succeeded? Surely,he must have succeeded? Mr. Justice Heber was threateningto have the court cleared; but the men, the men and thewomen in the well of the court still applauded. Even Cartwright--"thatold stick Cartwright" was applauding....

At last the tumult quelled; and Ronnie was conscious of asilence, the silence of abashed English folk. Only one sound--thesound of a woman's sobs--intruded upon that silence.And Ronnie knew that the woman in the dock was crying;crying like a broken soul; crying to herself, faintly, feebly,careless of the judge, careless of the spectators, careless of theother woman, the woman in the blue prison-uniform, whobent over her, patting her shoulder, striving to comfort.

Then even that sound ceased; and Ronnie, leaning backexhausted against the oak, saw that his enemy had risen.

But no words came from Hector Brunton. Speechless, heeyed the jury. The jury turned from him; turned theirheads this way and that in conference. The jury--men andwomen--shifted up and down on their benches, taking counselwith one another. Whispers carried across from the jury-box;tense shrill whispers: "It ought to stop." "I've heardenough." "Too much." "Don't let him say any more."And promptly, a bearded man rose among the jury and turnedto the judge.

"My lord," the man's lips trembled, "we have heard allwe want to hear. We are all of one opinion. We have madeup our minds. We find the prisoner not guilty."

Once again, tumult--the tumult of men and women applauding--brokeupon Ronnie's ears. Then he saw Mr. JusticeHeber hold up his hand; heard the crier calling forsilence; heard his lordship's quiet "Prisoner at the bar, thejury have found you not guilty. With that verdict I concur.You are discharged"; and saw Hector Brunton collapse, as astricken boxer collapses to the knock-out.

5

There followed, on that amazing and unprecedented verdict,the craziest half-hour in Ronnie's life. Still stunned bythe swiftness of his victory, he heard--as a man battle-mazedhears gunfire--the plaudits in the court, the plaudits onlanding and staircase, the plaudits of the mob without.

The plaudits of the mob deepened to a roar, to a greatsullen roar of cheers, till it seemed to Ronnie as though allEngland must have been waiting in the street below. Andwithin, all about him, were men; mad excitable men. One ofthose men--Cartwright--was shouting in his ear, "Bravo,my boy! Bravo!" A second--Spillcroft--kept on smitinghim between the shoulders. A third--the gigantic HenrySmith-Assher--had grasped both his hands, whispering, "ByGod, you deserved to beat us," as another robed figure, afigure whom Ronnie remembered to have been his one-timeenemy, slunk off through the crowding people.

Then, for a second, the people parted; and his eyes--dazedas his brain--saw Aliette. Aliette stood, high above him,ringed by people, in the oak-paneled dock. A wardress, ablue-uniformed prison-wardress, was kissing her; kissing hisAliette on the cheeks. Damn it, he had freed Aliette, freedher from the dock! Why didn't the wardress release her?Damn it, he'd release her himself.

"Come on, old man," said a voice; Spillcroft's voice; andsuddenly Ronnie felt himself impelled through the people,impelled toward the dock.

And Aliette came down to him from the dock! Only nowhis brain, clearing a little, knew that this was not Aliette, butLucy, Lucy Towers whom he had saved from the hangman'srope and the felon's cell.

She came toward him through the ringing, crowding people.He was looking into her eyes; Aliette's eyes. The eyes weretear-stained; and he knew, thrilling, that her reserve--thereserve stubborn as Aliette's own--had been broken at last.

They had reached one another. Both her hands were outstretched.Her hands grasped his. He knew that she was tryingto raise his hands to her lips. But people pressed on them.People--panting, emotional people--pressed them apart. Heheard some one say, "Let's chair them. Let's chair themboth." He felt himself lifted off his feet. He heard a constable'svoice: "Easy on, gentlemen. Easy on. This ain't abear-garden."

And suddenly he found himself in the street of Old Bailey.The street, from wall to wall, was a river of upturned faces,laughing faces, cheering faces, shouting faces.

For the London mob had gone mob-mad; and the policecould not hold them, hardly tried to hold them. "Good oldCavendish," howled the mob. "Good old Cut Cavendish.Put that in yer pipe and smoke it!" And again: "Luc-eeTowers. We want ter see Luc-ee. Where's Luc-ee? Wewant to see Standon--Standon. Where's Bertram Standon?"

6

Hector Brunton, K.C., hearing, alone in the deserted robing-room,the hoarse cheering of the mob, seemed to hear in it hisfather's rumbling voice: "The man who lets his wife live withsomebody else is a common or garden pimp."

1

"I think I'll be going now, if you'll permit me, sir," saidBenjamin Bunce. "And, if I may be allowed to say so,sir, congratulations."

"Thanks, Bunce. Toddle off if you like."

It was past eight o'clock, and the Temple curiously quiet.Ronnie, kindling himself a pipe and leaning back in his batteredarmchair, heard his clerk's boot-soles hurrying through,the colonnade of Pump Court; and after that, never a footfall.

Despite Spillcroft's invitation and Cartwright's, despite animploring wire from Bertram Standon to meet his entire staffat the Savoy, the barrister had dined early and alone. Hiswork had played him out. Looking back, he could remembernothing of the case, except that last frenzied scene outside thecourt, whence--the police good-temperedly intervening--heand his client and the armless sailor had escaped in JohnCartwright's car. Trying to recapture the events of the lastthree days, and more especially the words of his final speech,it seemed as though he had been some one other than himself,as though the hand of fate itself had steered him to victory.Perhaps that was why victory seemed so valueless!

To sit there in the old chambers where he had dreamed somany dreams; to watch the pipe-smoke curling round hishead, and know Lucy Towers saved; to imagine Lucy Towersand Bob Fielding happily married; even to realize Brunton,his enemy Brunton, beaten--afforded no satisfaction. Curious,he thought, how little his public triumph over Aliette's husband,his public success, affected him! So often in the lastfifteen months he had thrilled to the vision of himself successful:yet now--now that success had actually been accomplished--itheld no joy.

Glooming, Ronnie's thoughts switched from the public issueto the personal. What did it avail that he, Ronald Cavendish,should have rolled the "hanging prosecutor" in the dust;that the press was already blazing his fame from one end ofEngland to another--so long as Brunton remained, as Bruntonwould remain, the legal owner of Aliette? What did itprofit him to have saved the woman in the dock if he could notsave the woman in his own home?

The pipe went out, and his slack fingers could not be botheredto rekindle it. Depression, the terrible depression ofoverstrain, settled like a miasma-cloud on his brain. Histriumph became a mockery, his fame a whited sepulcher.Saving others, he could save neither himself nor the womanhe loved. Aliette was outcast, would remain outcast; and hewith her. All the pleasant things his success might have wonfor them both--social position, companionship of friends,political possibilities--were beyond their reach. To them,success could only bring money.

Bitterly he fell to reproaching himself--as all the lovers ofall the Aliettes do reproach themselves in those hours whenlove comes not to their aid--for ever having persuaded her torun away with him. What was the use of blaming Brunton,of hating Brunton? He himself and no other was responsible.He felt the flame of his old hatred against Brunton blow back,scorching his own head. Truly loving Aliette, he should havebeen satisfied--as Robert Fielding had been satisfied--withrenunciation.

"I've been selfish," he thought, "selfish"; and, so thinking,remembered his mother.

Toward her, too, he had played the complete egoist; forgetful--inhis self-concentration, in the absorption of his workand the battle against his enemy--of her need for him, of herillness.

And abruptly, luminous through the darkness which hadsettled on his mind, Ronnie saw a picture of Daffadillies.The great house stood foursquare under the moon. Treesspired sable from the gleam of its lawns. Its roof glitteredunder a glittering sky. From its gabled windows glowed thesaffron welcome of lamp-light. Behind one of those gabledwindows, his mother, who had loved him all her life, who hadgrudged him never a thought, never a sacrifice, lay ill; mortallyill perhaps.

And suddenly it seemed to Julia's son as though the darknessof his own mind came between the moon and Daffadillies.Black clouds, ragged and menacing, drifted down from theglitter of the skies, blurring the saffron window-gleams. Mistsswirled about the spring trees, across the gleam of the lawns.Watching the menace of those ragged clouds, the cold swirlof the mists, he knew fear, the old battle-fear of death.

If only the clouds would break, the mists roll away fromDaffadillies. But there came no break in the ragged clouds.Black they banked, and blacker, round the high moon; tillthe moon was no more, and only the ghost of a ghostly housetrembled--as smoke seen through smoked glass--through theswirl of the mist.

Then even the ghost of Daffadillies vanished; and, sightless,he peered at the void.

Till, out of the void, sound issued--the sound of a woman'svoice--of his mother's voice: "Ronnie! Ronnie! I amafraid. Come to me."

2

With a start, Ronald Cavendish awoke.

The green-shaded lamp still burned at his head, showing upevery stain on the leather desk-top, every ink-spot on thepewter inkstand. There were his quill pens; his thumb-soiledbrief. There, on the shelves, were his law-books. At his feet,its ashes spilled from cracked bowl to worn carpet, lay thepipe he had been smoking. "I must have been dreaming," hethought.

But the dream and the fear of the dream still haunted hismind. Vainly, rubbing his eyes, he strove for courage. Always,his imagination saw the darkness gathering about Daffadillies;always, out of the gathering darkness, he heard hismother's voice--calling--calling. Till, fear-haunted, hesprang to his feet.

His feet moved under him. They moved very slowly, asthe feet of a sleep-walker. He said to his feet, "This is foolishness,foolishness." He said to his feet, "Be still."

He found himself in the corridor. He found himself atthe telephone. He said to himself, "I might just make certainthat she's all right."

Then, startlingly, the telephone-bell rang; and, startled, hepicked the receiver from the clip. Ages seemed to pass beforehe heard the operator's: "City double-four two eight? Don'tgo away. I want you."

Followed, very distinct at that hour of the night, "Horsham,you're through"; and after a pause, "Is that Mr.Cavendish? Mr. Ronald Cavendish? This is Mrs. Sandersonspeaking. I rang up Embankment House, but the porter saidyou weren't back yet." Already Ronnie's ears, acute, apprehensive,knew the worst. "Can you get through to Dr. Baynet?Can you bring him down at once? Your mother hashad another hemorrhage."

"A bad one?" Ronnie tried to smooth the fear from hisvoice.

"I'm afraid so. Your wife's upstairs with Dr. Thompson.Would you like to speak to her?"

"No. Tell her that I'll get on to Sir Heron at once. Tellher, please," the words snapped decision, "that I'll bring himdown to Daffadillies to-night. Do you understand? To-night!Tell the lodge-keeper to wait up for us, to have the gates open.Is that quite clear?"

"Quite clear." The automaton's answer sounded irritatinglycalm. "Quite clear, thank you."

"Then good night." With a click of decision, Ronnie replacedthe receiver. Danger, ousting fear, galvanized him toaction. He looked at the clock. The hands pointed to 9:15.The last train for West Water left at nine! He snatched upthe telephone-book; found the doctor's number; called it.

A man-servant answered. "Sir Heron's engaged. Can Itake any message?"

"No. I want to speak to him personally."

"Sir Heron is giving a dinner-party, sir."

"Tell him the matter is urgent ... Yes ... Cavendish ... RonaldCavendish."

The man left the instrument. Waiting, Ronnie grew apprehensive.Suppose Sir Heron refused to come.... Then heheard, "Is that you, Cavendish? No bad news, I hope?"

"Very bad, I'm afraid. I've just spoken to Daffadillies onthe telephone. My mother's had another hemorrhage. Canyou come down to-night?"

"To-night?"

"Yes. With me. The last train's gone. I'm going downby taxi."

Silence ... and again Ronnie grew apprehensive. SirHeron was a specialist--a great man. Absurd to ask such afavor of him!

Interrupted Sir Heron's decisive, "Very well. No need fora taxi. You can come down in my car. Where are you telephoningfrom?"

"The Temple."

"Then be here in twenty minutes."

3

Snatching his hat and his coat, clicking off the light, andslamming his oak behind him, Ronnie darted downstairs intoPump Court, through Pump Court and up Middle TempleLane toward the barred gate which gives on to Fleet Street.In seconds he was at the side door of the gate--through it--andinto a taxi. In seconds he was whirling away from thedeserted law courts, past the gleaming front of the GaietyTheater, down the Strand.

He wanted speed--speed. Not till they were out of theStrand and through Trafalgar Square did thought oust actionfrom his mind. And then thought was fearful--terrifying.Again, as on that night when he and Aliette had taxied fromEmbankment House to Bruton Street, he saw his motherdying. But now he saw himself guilty of her death.

Harley Street reached, a long blue car purred past his taxiand pulled up a hundred yards ahead. Reaching the car, thetaxi stopped. Ronnie leaped out; flung a couple of half-crownsto his driver; leaped up the steps of the Georgianhouse; and rang. The door opened instantaneously; revealing--behindthe portly form of the butler--a long tessellated hall.Down the staircase into the hall--his dinner-party abandoned--camethe punctual specialist.

"That you, Cavendish? I sha'n't be a moment." SirHeron, already in his fur coat, his slouch hat pulled on anyhow,disappeared round the newel post of the staircase towardhis consulting room; and reëmerged, with a battered blackmedicine-case in his hand. "Come along. We can talk in thecar. In you go----"

The butler closed the door of the limousine behind them;and the doctor's chauffeur, obviously preinstructed as to theirdestination, turned the long Rolls-Royce bonnet south.

"Another hemorrhage, you say?" Sir Heron lit himselfa cigarette; and in the red spurt of the match, Ronniecould see that his face was troubled. "I'm glad you telephoned."

"It's very good of you to come down at such short notice,Sir Heron.''

"Only my duty."

The great car swept down Portland Place, down RegentStreet. At the Circus, Heron Baynet picked up the speaking-tube,and called, "Take the Bromley road, please."

"Wonderful woman, your mother," he said suddenly. "Iwish I could have done more for her."

"There's no chance, then?"

"None now, I'm afraid." The car purred on out ofLondon, and after a long time the specialist said: "Not thatthere ever was more than the ghost of a chance."

"There was a chance then--once?" Ronnie's face, seen inthe intermittent light of the passing street-lamps, showedwhite with misery. Again he was remembering that othernight--the night when he had waited with Smithers outsideJulia's door.

"Meaning?" prevaricated the specialist.

"This." Bonnie's teeth clenched on the Bullet. "Supposethat my mother had gone away to Switzerland or the south ofFrance a year ago, she might have been saved?"

"I doubt it."

"But you advised Switzerland, didn't you?"

"Admitted." Sir Heron looked shrewdly at his cross-examiner."Blaming yourself?" he asked bruskly.

"Yes."

"You needn't. Even if she had done what I told her, wecouldn't have cured the diabetes." He plunged into medicaldetails.

"Nobody's to blame then?" The voice of Julia Cavendish'sson embodied a whole army of questions.

"No, nobody. Not even herself. If you blame any one,blame nature." And Sir Heron, who knew more of Ronnie'sstory than Ronnie guessed, added quietly: "Your wife hasbeen a wonderful nurse, Cavendish."

"Thank you, Sir Heron." The men's thoughts, meeting,understood one another. "You've taken rather a weight offmy mind. Tell me one thing more. This work she's beendoing: has it been harmful?"

"Not as harmful as trying to prevent her from doing it."

"I see." Consoled, Ronnie fell silent.

But the consolation was short-lived. All said and done,what did it matter at whose hand--his own or nature's--hismother lay stricken? Remained always the bitter unescapableknowledge that the surest consultant in England spoke of heras one already doomed. In a little while there would be noJulia. Even now--impossible as it seemed, driving thus downthe living breathing streets into the living breathing country--shemight be already dead.

4

"We've done it in well under two hours." Sir Heron, whohad been dozing, opened his eyes as the car-lights climbedWest Water Hill and began to thread their illuminated paththrough the woods which surround Daffadillies.

The Rolls-Royce made the lodge-gates; found them swungback from their stone pillars; swept through; and, roundingthe drive, pulled up noiselessly at the open door of the greathouse. In the glow of the doorway stood Aliette. Ronniehardly saw, as she came down the steps to meet him, how linedand drawn was her face, how wide with anxiety her browneyes.

"Sir Heron"--her voice sounded calm, controlled; thehand on her lover's arm did not tremble--"you'll go to herat once, won't you? I made the local doctor give her morphia.That was right, wasn't it?"

"Quite right."

Kate, appearing through the baize door at the end of thehall, led the doctor upstairs.

"I did what I could, dear," said Aliette hurriedly. "Nursehas been splendid. Dr. Thompson came at once. But I'mafraid it isn't much good. It was all so terribly sudden.She'd gone to bed quite comfortably. Neither nurse nor Ihad the least idea. She only just managed to ring her bell intime. Smithers said it was just the same that first time atBruton Street. She asked for you--twice."

"Is she in any pain?"

"No, darling, not now."

"You're sure?"

"Quite sure."

"But--that's all we can do for her?"

"I--I'm afraid so. Unless Sir Heron----" They spoke inwhispers, like people already in the presence of death. Kate,running downstairs, disturbed them. Kate's eyes were swollen.Tears choked her voice.

"The doctor says, will you please come up, Mr. Ronnie."

Swiftly Ronnie passed up that gloomy balustered staircase.He couldn't think. He couldn't feel. Pain numbed hislimbs, numbed his brain. Just outside his mother's roomstood Smithers. She, too--he could see--had been crying.He wanted to console her--but his lips found no word.

His mother's door was ajar. Pushing it open, he knew fear.In that room waited Death--an impalpable figure--a figure ofmist--icy-cold.

Entering the room, he was just aware of the local doctor'stweeded figure stooped over his mother's bed, and of SirHeron--hand on his arm--whispering, "It's the end, I'mafraid, Cavendish."

Dr. Thompson made way; and, still incapable of thought,Ronnie moved toward the bed. A light burned by the bed. Inthe ring of the light he saw a face. The face, he knew, hadbeen in pain, in terror. But now both the terror and the painwere gone from it. Morphia--eons ago some one must havetold him about the morphia--had driven the terror and thepain away.

Could this gray countenance--this mask of shrunken cheek-bones,of closed eyes, and open mouth--be Julia's? If Julia,surely Julia was already dead. Surely the last breath hadalready left that wasted body, motionless under its bedclothes.

He became aware that his mother was not yet dead. Everynow and then, breath gurgled in her throat. The gurgle ofher breath terrified him. She was still in pain--in pain.

But she could not be in pain. No agony twitched thatwasted body. The fingers of that hand which lay, white andshrunken on the eiderdown, did not move.

Surely he had been standing by his mother's bedside sincethe dawn of time. Fatigue rocked his limbs. His eyelidssmarted with unshed tears. He wanted to kneel down, topress his lips in homage on those shrunken fingers.

Surely, the fingers moved. Surely, even at the gates ofdeath, his mother was aware of him. Her eyes opened. Thegurgling of her breath ceased. And suddenly, desperately,he wanted to hear her voice, to hear one last word from thosebluing lips.

Then, in fear, Ronnie knew that the soul was passing. Then,in fear, he saw the flutter of it at his mother's mouth; saw thehover of it--palest tenuous flame--above her head. Despairingly,his soul called to hers: "Mater! Mater!"

But the soul might not speak with him. The tenuous flamefled upwards; and he knew that the body which had born hisbody was dead.

5

Both doctors were gone. Already nurse busied herself inthe death-chamber.

But to Ronnie and Aliette, sitting side by side in the emptydrawing-room, it seemed as though Julia's spirit still hauntedthe house, as though at any moment they might hear her finecourageous voice and see her come in to them. Outside--weepingfor her--rain fell. The drip of it among the shrubberies,heard through closed curtains, was like the patter oflittle unhappy feet. If only, like the voice of the rain, theirvoices could weep for her! If only, like the feet of the rain,their feet could busy themselves about some task in herservice!

A faint diffident knocking startled them. Mrs. Sandersoncame in.

The automaton's cheeks were swollen. The eyes under hertortoise-shell spectacles showed red and heavy-lidded. "I'msorry to disturb you," said Mrs. Sanderson, "but it was herwish." She moved toward them across the carpet; and Ronniesaw that she carried under her arm a thick wad of papers.

"She told me"--they hardly recognized the woman's voice--"togive you this as soon as she died. She told me to telephoneMr. Wilberforce, Mr. James Wilberforce. There's aletter for him, you know. I'm going to telephone Mr. Wilberforcein the morning. But this--this is for you, Mr. Ronnie.She said I was to give it to you as soon as I possibly could.She said I was to tell you that you were not to show it to anybodyelse until you had spoken to Mr. Wilberforce, Mr. JamesWilberforce."

"Man," Aliette had risen; "what can it be?"

"It's a book." Ronnie spoke in a whisper. "The manuscriptof a book. I wonder if she finished it."

"Yes. She finished it." The automaton handed her burden,to Ronnie, and disappeared.

"She"--Aliette moved away from the sofa where they hadbeen sitting--"she said you weren't to show it to any oneelse."

"But that couldn't have included you."

"I'd rather not see--not yet." She was at the door now;and Ronnie, looking up at her--the parcel still in his hands--sawthat she had gone very pale.

"Darling," he asked, "you're not ill, are you?"

"Ill?" She laughed--unsteadily--her fingers on the door-handle."Ill? No, I'm not ill--only ... only----"

"But you are ill." He put the parcel down on the sofa andcame across the room toward her. "Why, you're shaking allover."

She laughed again, hysterically. "I'm not. I'm not.I'm only tired. Worn out. I'm going to bed. Don't comeup, Ronnie. Don't come up." And, kissing him, she ranfrom the room.

"Poor Alie," thought the man, "it's been too much forher."

6

Alone in the drawing-room, Ronnie sat staring at the thickwad of papers, and at the envelope which topped them. "Tomy son," read the writing on the envelope; the well-knownhandwriting with the little loops at the top of the "o's" andthe upright triangles of the "m's" and "n's."

He took up and opened the envelope. Inside of it, folded,lay a single sheet of note-paper: "Don't be unhappy, Ronnie.Don't blame yourself. This book is my last effort for you andAliette. I feel it is your way to freedom. Use it as you andJames Wilberforce think best. I have just had news of yourgreat success. It makes me very proud. Your Mother."

Ronnie's eyes blurred, as Julia's eyes had blurred when herweak hands penciled the uneven lines. Puzzled and miserable--hisheart choking in his mouth--he turned from the letterto the papers. The papers were in typescript; six pads, eachholed and taped.

"'Man's Law,'" read the topmost paper of all; "'TheStory of a Wrong,' By Julia Cavendish: and by her dedicatedto all those of her own sex who have suffered and aresuffering injustice."

Julia's son picked the top pad from the manuscript,turned over the title-page, and began to read his mother'spreface.

For a few lines he read aimlessly, as folk obsessed by griefread, their thoughts wandering from the written word. Then,with one paragraph, the words gripped him, so that he forgoteven his grief.

"All my life," read the paragraph, "I have believed in thesanctity of the Christian marriage tie. Believing that the oathtaken by a man and a woman before their God--'so long as yeboth shall live'--might only be set aside by death, I made thesafeguarding of that oath a fetish and a shibboleth. The purposeof this book is to undo, so far as in me lies, the teachingsof my former works on the marriage question; and I embracethis purpose the more firmly because it has been brought hometo me by personal experience that there are and must alwaysbe many cases in which the application of a rigid doctrineleads to misery. Therefore I have felt it my duty--a dutynot undertaken lightly--to combat that rigid doctrine; and toplead, in substitution for a code which I now believe un-Christian,the doctrine of 'The Right to Married Happiness.'"

Interested, Ronnie read on. Outside, rain fell and fell.Within was no sound save the rustle of turned paper. Thefirst chapter of "Man's Law"--the second--the third racedthrough his brain, enthralling him, holding him spellbound.The words became symbols of speech--speech itself. It seemedto him as though Julia Cavendish were actually in the room,as though actually he heard her voice. And the voice told hima story similar to his own. The story of a Ronald Cavendishand an Aliette Brunton!

But so grandly did the story draw him on, that only gradually--graduallyas a man sees dawn dissolving night---didRonnie realize the personal application of it; realize that here,in words of sheer genius, an advocate not tonguetied--wherehe himself would always have been tonguetied, in Aliette'sdefense--pleaded not so much the cause of all the Aliettes inthe world as, in sentences now so reasoned that they convincedthe very intellect, now so passionate that they wrung the veryheart, the cause of his own individual Aliette, the cause ofHector Brunton's wife against her legal owner.

And at that, a little, the lawyer in Ronnie's mind ousted,the lover.

Half-way through the book, he put it down for a moment.Sentences--certain sentences so venomous that he marveledhis mother could have written them--comments, certain commentsall leveled against one particular character, stuck likeneedles in his legal mind. His legal mind said to him: "Slander.Those sentences, those comments, are actionable."

Then he picked up the manuscript again, and read on--onand on,--unconscious of the clock-tick from the mantelpiece,of the rain ceasing without, of the day dawning wan acrossthe Sussex Downs.

Till violently, with the ending of the tale, remembering hismother's letter, he saw her purpose plain.

"Man's Law" represented Julia's "flaunting policy" carriedto its uttermost extreme! It wasn't fiction at all--itwas his own story--his story, and Aliette's and Hector's--scarcelydisguised! He recollected her interest in the Carringtoncase--recollected telling her how Belfield had brokenCarrington, at long last, by the aid of the press.

Julia, obviously, had planned to break Aliette's husband inmuch the same way. This book once published, Hector Bruntonwould be compelled (Julia's photographic memory hadetched the husband of her tale so accurately that no readercould mistake him for other than the "hanging prosecutor")to bring an action for divorce. Brunton, even as Carrington,could not permit the knowledge that his wife lived openlywith another man to become the public property of JuliaCavendish's million readers.

"Yes!"--for a moment hope kindled in Ronnie's dazedmind--"'Man's Law' would bring Aliette's husband to hissenses! Publish the book; and Brunton must file his petition!Unless--unless he brought suit for libel. But if he did that,surely he would have to admit that his wife was living unsuedin open adultery. Could a man make that admission--andstill wear silk?"

Ronnie's hope expired; violently reaction set in. His heartquaked. He saw, in a flash, the thousand consequences whichthe publication of "Man's Law"--if, indeed, any publisherwould set his imprint on so libelous a story--must entail.This, his mother's last effort to set Aliette free, was a two-edgedweapon. However wielded, it would have to be wieldedpublicly. And publicity--even if it injured his enemy--couldhelp neither him nor Aliette.

Publish the book--and the whole world would know theirstory! Yes, but who, in all the world, knowing their story,would sympathize with them? Even sympathizing, whowould take their side? It took more than a book to turnpublic opinion. As far as decent people were concerned, thevery asking for sympathy would alienate it. Suppose Bruntonrisked the scandal--sued for libel but not for divorce?Brunton couldn't very well do that. Still----

Fearfully, clutching the letter and the manuscript, Ronniestumbled up the fast-lightening staircase. "Man's Law"seemed like a ton-weight of social dynamite--of social dynamitehe dared not use--in his arms.

7

A night-light still burned on the landing. Still clutching"Man's Law," Ronnie stole toward the door of his mother'sroom. If only he could speak with her, kneel by her bedside,ask her for counsel! But the door was locked and he mightnot go in. Julia Cavendish on whom, lifelong, he had reliedfor counsel, could counsel him no more. And fearfully, doubtfully,dreading lest the weapon she had forged for him shouldshiver in pieces if he dared draw it from its scabbard, Julia'sson crept to his dressing-room, and locked the weapon away.

"I'll ask Alie," he thought, "I'll ask Alie what she thinksabout it."

But Aliette, when he went in to her, was fast asleep. Shelay averted from the window, her head on her right arm, thetumble of her hair vivid among the pillows. Every now andthen a little tormented moan came from between her lips.

Listening to that moan, believing--in his ignorance--thatHector Brunton was the sole cause of it, Ronald Cavendishmade oath with himself, whatever the personal consequences,to use the weapon of his mother's forging.

1

They were burying that flesh which had been JuliaCavendish among the cypresses of the South Londoncemetery whither she brought back the flesh which had beenRonnie's father when Ronnie was still a lad.

To all save three of the mourners it appeared as thoughdeath had conquered scandal, as though their every personalenmity were being laid to rest. But to James Wilberforce,standing at the brink of the grave, it appeared that he stoodon the brink of a scandal so tremendous that nothing exceptthe combined brains of Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwrightcould prevent a social catastrophe, a regular holocaust ofpublic reputations; his own, possibly, and Mollie's of a certainty,included.

Covertly, James Wilberforce looked at the semicircle offacts gathered round the white-surpliced clergyman. AllJulia's family--Benthams, Edwardses, Robinsons; all herliterary friends--Paul Flower, Dot Fancourt, Jack Coole,Robert Backwell, the Binneys; most of her many acquaintancesamong the various circles with which she had beenintimate, were there to do her the last honor.

A little aloof stood the reporters; and at them James Wilberforcelooked, too. "God knows what the newspapers won'tsay if this thing isn't hushed up," thought Jimmy.

The letter of the dead, those four handwritten sheets intheir bulky envelope which Mrs. Sanderson had handed to himimmediately on his arrival at Daffadillies, burned the solicitor'spocket. He thought how cleverly, yet how unwisely"the old lady's" plans had been laid; how, by adding a certaincodicil to her will, she had made it virtually impossiblefor her executors to save the situation.

The clergyman was reading. "Man that is born ofwoman," read the clergyman, "hath but a short time to live,and is full of misery." "O holy and most merciful Savior,deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death."

Jimmy's thoughts wandered. "I wonder if I ought to tellMollie," he thought. "I wonder if we ought to get marriedat once. I wonder how the devil we're going to break thingsto Mollie's sister. I wonder Mollie's sister didn't come tothe funeral. Better not, I suppose."

The coffin on its canvas slings sank from sight into themoss-lined grave. It touched the bottom of the grave; andthe slings relaxed.

"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His greatmercy," read the clergyman, as Ronnie sprinkled a handfulof earth on the coffin-lid. "From henceforth blessed are thedead which die in the Lord; even so saith the Spirit; for theyrest from their labors."

James Wilberforce's mind came back to the ceremony. Helooked at his friend. "Poor Ronnie," he mused, "his laborsare only just begun." And so musing, Jimmy's gaze fell ona bearded man with an old-fashioned top-hat in his hand, whoheld himself very erect and a little apart from the remainderof the mourners.

"Rather sporting of Rear-Admiral Billy B. to turn up,"thought James Wilberforce.

2

The funeral service was over. The clergyman, his surplicecrinkling in the October wind, had returned to the chapel.By twos and threes the mourners were deserting the graveside.Ahead of them, unrecognized except by Wilberforce,went Rear-Admiral Billy, his head high, his heart troubled.Soon--felt the admiral--a parson and mourners would gatherfor him, for an old man who would have to face his God witha promise unfulfilled, with a duty unaccomplished.

The last of the mourners disappeared through the cemeteryfates to their conveyances, leaving only Ronnie, Sir Peter,James Wilberforce and the sexton by the grave.

"We'd better take him back to Bruton Street with us,"whispered Sir Peter to his son. "The less we delay things, atthe present juncture----"

"Ronald, old chap"--Jimmy put a hand on his friend'sshoulder,--"pater says he'll drive you home in our car.We've got to get this matter settled, and the sooner we cometo some decision----"

"Very well." Ronnie, his face a purposeful mask, turnedaway from the scarred earth. "The mater's dead," hethought. "Dead. It's my duty to do as she would have donehad she lived."

And while the three of them made their way slowly to SirPeter's Daimler, he fell to resenting that Aliette had effacedherself from Julia's funeral. His mother had wished that heand Aliette should face the world together. His mother'swishes must be carried out, carried out faithfully.

3

Arrived at Bruton Street, Ronnie led his self-invited guestsinto the little box of a work-room; and, facing the pair ofthem from across his mother's Empire desk, said provocatively:"Sir Peter, it's no use. I've made up my mind. AsI told Jimmy when he showed me the will, my mother's wishesmust be carried out."

"But what were your mother's wishes?" The white-haired,white-mustached old gentleman who had steered so manysocial ships clear of the rocks, smiled benignly. "What wereyour mother's real wishes? Naturally, both my son and Irecognize her object. But, much as we appreciate the filialdevotion which prompts you to carry out her exact wishes, wehave to consider the spirit of those wishes. Now suppose,mind you I'm only supposing, that we publish this book.The publication, as you yourself must be the first to admit,may defeat the very object your mother had in mind whenshe wrote it. Moreover, quite apart from the expense to theestate----"

"But the expense is provided for, pater," interruptedJimmy. "And in view of the testator's letter to me----"

"That letter leaves the ultimate decision with us." SirPeter, who loathed interruptions, shot an irritated glance athis son. "If we decide that this book should not see the lightof day----"

"I'll never consent to that." Ronnie's voice was the voiceof a fanatic. "And besides, even if the book were not published,there's always the codicil."

"Admitted." Sir Peter frowned. "The codicil is the difficulty.I wonder if you'd mind reading it to me again,Jimmy."

Jimmy got up, fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat, drewout a bulky document, unfolded it, and began to read, veryslowly, the paragraph appended in Julia Cavendish's ownhandwriting to the last page:

I empower and charge my executors, Ronald Cavendish and Sir PeterWilberforce, to devote any sum they may think fit, up to ten thousandpounds, for the purpose of having published my book entitled, "Man'sLaw," and more particularly for indemnifying the publishers of thesame against any libel action which may be brought against them byHector Brunton, K.C. And I further instruct my executors to investthe sum of twenty thousand pounds for the benefit of Aliette, néeFullerford, at present the wife of Hector Brunton, K.C. The said sumto become the absolute property of Aliette Brunton so soon as her legalhusband, either by his death or by the process of divorce, sets her freeto marry my son, Ronald Cavendish.

"Rather vague," commented Sir Peter. "Is it properlywitnessed?"

"Yes." James Wilberforce laid the will on the desk, andstared ruminatively at his father. His father stared back atJimmy. Both knew how impossible it would be to contest thatcodicil without the publicity of the courts. Both knew howfatal any publicity would be to their client.

But their client only laughed. "You see, Sir Peter, there'sno way out. Even if I consented not to publish the book, thiswill has to be proved."

"But that means immediate publicity."

"Exactly." Ronald's mouth shut like the teeth of a pike.His eyes, in their resolution, were his mother's own. "Exactly."

Sir Peter, hitherto blandness itself, grew irritable. "Youdon't appear to realize, Cavendish, that the proving of thiswill means a terrific scandal."

"I realize that perfectly, Sir Peter. But scandal--as I seeit--is the only way to effect my mother's object."

"All the same, I should not be doing my duty, either asyour mother's friend or as your co-trustee, if I did not askyou before we come to any decision, to consider, first, theeffect such a scandal would have on your career, and secondly,the effect it would have"--purposely the baronet paused--"onthe reputation of the lady in the case."

"As far as the lady in the case is concerned," Ronnie'sfingers rapped the desk-top, "her freedom is the paramountconsideration."

"Is that the lady's view, or your own?" Sir Peter, seeingan ivory paper-knife near at hand, drew it quietly towardhim.

"My own."

At that, Jimmy, who had been watching his friend carefully,rose and began to stride slowly up and down the littleroom. Quite apart from the personal issue (if the worst cameto the worst, he and Mollie would have to be married byspecial license before the crash came!), it seemed to Jimmythat his friend must be saved, somehow or other, from theconsequences of his own obstinacy. But how--how in thename of the law--could that saving be accomplished?

"And if the lady disapproves?" said Sir Peter.

"She will not disapprove," countered Ronnie.

In the pause which followed, Jimmy drew out Julia Cavendish'sletter, and read it for the tenth time.

If I have brought any happiness into your life by bringing you andthe woman you are going to marry together, help me to bring happinessinto my son's life and into the life of the woman whom he is notable to marry. I feel that I have taken the best, the only way toput things right for Ronnie; but if there is any other method bywhich my main object, the object of forcing Hector Brunton to set hiswife free, is possible of achievement, by all means explore it.

"Don't you think"--James Wilberforce put the letter backin his pocket and turned to Ronnie, who was eying his fatherin positive hostility--"that it might be advisable to discussthis matter with--Hector Brunton?"

"I won't have that. I'll be damned if I'll have that."

Ronnie's answer was openly provocative; but Sir Peterapparently had recovered his temper. "We mustn't behasty," purred Sir Peter. "We mustn't be overhasty. AsJulia Cavendish's executors, we have to regard the spiritrather than the letter of her instructions. Believe me, theimmediate publication of that codicil would be fatal to theplans which your dear mother obviously had in mind. Fatal!"

And the baronet, lighting himself a cigarette, relapsed intothought. Privately he considered that his old friend musthave been mentally deranged some time before her death. Yethe dared not say so to her son; and, moreover, to prove mentalderangement would entail more publicity than to prove thewill itself.

Various plans for the avoidance of publicity began to passthrough Sir Peter's mind. Brunton, faced with the alternativeof the book's being published, might consent to file hispetition for divorce. Then, Julia's main object accomplished,the book might be--accidentally destroyed. Other methods,too--gentler methods--might be adopted with the book. Butwhat in Hades was one to do about the will? Unfortunately,tampering with wills constituted a felony. Therefore, unlesssome one ("And whom could I get to do it!" mused SirPeter) risked going to jail, that will, that deadly, damning,white-faced, blue-written testament on the desk would have tobe filed in toto at Somerset House. Filed, every pressman inEngland would seize upon it for a column.

A knock, followed by a voice asking, "May I come in,Ronnie?" brought the three men to their feet; and, beforeany of them could answer, the door opened, revealing "thelady in the case."

Aliette, her face pale above the high black mourning frock,stood irresolute in the doorway.

"I'm so sorry if I'm interrupting," she said. "I thoughtyou'd gone, Sir Peter. I'll go away if you're talking business."

"We are talking business, dear lady," purred the baronet,playing with his acquired paper-knife. "Business whichaffects you more than anybody." And he looked at Ronnie asthough to say, "Surely you'll consent to my consulting theperson most concerned."

Ronnie signaled acquiescence; Jimmy closed the door;Aliette sat down; and Sir Peter began to speak.

At first Aliette could not grasp what the baronet was talkingabout. For three days now, her mind, still numb fromthe shock of Julia's sudden passing, had been obsessed by itsown problems. Ronnie, she knew, was keeping some secretfrom her--as she from him. His secret, she guessed vaguely,must be in connection with his mother's book. Hers----

Gradually Sir Peter's words became comprehensible. Hewas reading Julia Cavendish's will. In so far as Aliette couldunderstand the peculiar legal phraseology, Julia Cavendishhad left everything to Ronnie. It struck her as curious thatSir Peter should go to all that trouble. Curious, too, that bothRonnie and his friend should look so worried! Ronnie wouldbe even more worried if he knew that----

"That is the will," Sir Peter's voice interrupted the disturbingthought, "as my firm drafted it some years ago. Butthat will has been altered. Perhaps, before I read the alteration,I'd better explain to you about the book."

Now Aliette grew conscious of a question in her lover'seyes. The eyes never left her face. James Wilberforce, too,was eying her in a way that she could not understand. Andsuddenly Ronnie laid a hand upon her shoulder.

Sir Peter went on; "As you probably know, Mrs. Cavendishfinished a novel just before she died. I have not yet readthe manuscript of that novel, but it appears, from what myson and your--er--husband, who have read it, tell me, thatthe book is a roman à clef. A roman à clef, as I need hardlyexplain to you, dealing, as it does, with living people, sometimesresults in a libel action. It is, among other things, toprovide against the possibility of such a libel action that Mrs.Cavendish, without my firm's knowledge, altered her will."

"A libel action, Sir Peter?" Aliette's question was automatic.

"Yes. A libel action." The baronet picked his every wordwith care. "A libel action which might be brought againstMrs. Cavendish's estate and against the publishers of her bookby your--er--former husband."

"Brought by Hector!" The exclamation, low and immediatelysuppressed, barely escaped Aliette's lips. But hershoulder trembled under Ronnie's hand; for now, in one inspiredmoment, she had grasped the secret of the book.Memory, casting back, recalled and understood every personalquestion put to her by the dead.

Sir Peter had stopped speaking. His eyes under the gold-rimmedglasses were perturbed, yet kindly. Obviously hefound the situation difficult. She waited for Ronnie or Jamesto intervene; but they, too, remained dumb.

And, "Do I understand," asked Aliette, summoning up allher courage, "that this novel is a personal story--the story ofmy"--her whole body quivered--"matrimonial difficulties?"

Ronnie removed his hand from her shoulder. James noddedassent. Admiration and gratitude mingled in Sir Peter's:"You've defined the matter exactly. One of the questions onwhich 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 ... aboutmyself? Does it make any difference?" Her intuition, suddenlyactive, remembered two hints dropped--purposefullyperhaps--by Ronnie's mother. "Public judgment is usuallyinaccurate because the public is not told the whole truth";"My dear, if only the whole world realized, as I realize, yourstory, they would not misjudge you."

"My views----" she parried aloud, playing for time.

"Publicity," she thought. "The flaunting policy oncemore. Dear God, that too." And, revisualizing the ordealat Patrick O'Riordan's first night, her nerve frayed. Whycouldn't these three men leave her in peace--in peace? Lookingat 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; andto Aliette: "There are other points besides the publicationof this book to be decided." Then he read to her, always inthe same soft purr, the codicil; and explained, in tense, reasonedsentences, the consequences of its publication in thepress, ending: "It means, to use a rather old-fashioned phrase,social ruin."

For a long while Aliette sat silent, her eyes wide, her palehands clutching the black folds of her dress. Womanlike, shetried to put herself into the mind of the dead. Why had JuliaCavendish done this thing? Why? Could Julia have guessedthat---- Womanlike, Aliette looked into the future, and hercheeks grew hot.

Ronnie said: "He can't bring an action for libel withoutbringing one for divorce"; Sir Peter, "Let's stick to ourpoint; the publication of this codicil means disaster--for allthree of you." "It means Aliette's freedom," retortedRonnie.

The words of the codicil stood out in fire on the screen ofAliette's mind. She saw those words published, saw the bookpublished, 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 wouldfreedom come in time?

She glanced at the three men: at Ronnie and James, ontheir feet, motionless; at Sir Peter, seated at the desk, hishand fidgeting the ivory paper-knife. Swiftly, as a shuttlethrough 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 maybe a way," he said doubtfully. "But whether we can take itor not depends on your--er--former husband."

Blazing, Ronnie intervened. "Once and for all, I'll haveno favors from that--that blackguard. He's made his ownbed. Let him lie in it. Who the devil cares about scandalnowadays? I don't. And if Brunton does, so much the worsefor him."

But the baronet's next remark shattered heroics. "Ithink," said the baronet sarcastically, "that as my co-executoris getting so very excited, we had better adjournour conference. Perhaps you'll let me know what you bothdecide."

4

Late that same evening, Aliette and her lover sat alone inthe familiar drawing-room among the familiar things--thejade idols, the Toby mugs, the Spanish velvets, and theVenetian brocades which Julia Cavendish had collected forher delight. Ever since their hasty dinner--most of the staffwere still at Daffadillies--Ronnie had been urging her decision.Ever since dinner, haggard, she had been playing fortime.

"It was my mother's wish," he said. "Let's prove thewill; publish the book; take the consequences. Anything'sworth 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 ithad been terrifying her all the evening. "We needn't considerhim. He hasn't considered us. There would have beenno need for all this if he'd been reasonable; if he'd broughthis action for divorce when I asked him to."

"There are others we ought to consider, too." Aliette'shand, as she fondled her lover's rigid arm, was tremulous."Mollie, James, my parents. They'll all suffer if you--ifwe carry this thing through."

"They must look after themselves. They've done nothingto help us. Don't let's discuss the matter further. Believeme, it's the only way to get what we want."

"But Sir Peter said----"

"Sir Peter's only a solicitor. Even if that blackguard didfile 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 LucyTowers. I'll have none on him."

Aliette's hands ceased their fondling. For a little while shesat silent, unmoving among the deep cushions. Her mind,busied so long, could function no longer. She felt her womanlinessnaked--flesh quivering under the lash. She wanted tosay to him: 'Ronnie, there's something--something you don'tknow.' But suddenly her courage--the courage which hadcarried her, carried them both, through the hard-run months--broke.She began to sob. Like a broken soul she sobbed--sobbedto herself, faintly, feebly; careless--as Lucy Towershad 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 makeeverybody happy. But I've failed--failed. I'm not blamingyou. I'm not blaming your mother. You and your motherhave done everything. Everything. It's only I who havebeen useless--useless. And I meant, heaven only knows howmuch I meant, to be of use. Before I ran away with you Ireasoned it all out. I thought that I was doing right. Theredidn't seem to be any one else to consider except you andme." She broke off. Then, almost fiercely, she asked him:"Tell me I've been a little bit of use? Tell me I've made youhappy--just sometimes----"

"Of course you've made me happy." He tried to take herhands; but her hands shrank from him.

"I don't believe it You're only saying that to comfortme."

"I'm not."

"You are." Hysteria took her by the throat. "You hateme. If you don't hate me--you ought to. I killed yourmother." She broke off again, sobbing.

"Alie"--the tone told her that he thought her crazy--"what'sthe matter with you? Nothing could havesaved Julia. Sir Heron told me."

"Sir Heron wouldn't tell you. Nobody would tell youanything. You're only a man. All men are the same.You're only thinking about yourself. You're not thinkingabout me. You only want your revenge on--on Hector. Whyshouldn't you have your revenge?"

Suddenly, her sobbing ceased; and she faced him--thisAliette he could not understand--dry-eyed and venomous.

"Have your revenge on him if you want to. But don'tpretend you're being just. Don't pretend you're beingheroic. Don't pretend you're any better than he is. You'renot. He's a man, just the same as you are. You talk aboutmy freedom. You say scandal doesn't matter. Perhaps itdoesn'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 wasphysically afraid of her lover. His arms, which had beenseeking to comfort, abandoned her. He sprang to his feet.Jealousy, a red and angry aura of jealousy, exuded fromhim.

"Christ!" he burst out, "Christ! You needn't remind meof that."

Speech died at his lips. Furiously he strode from her--strodeup and down the familiar room, the room in which,months since, she had given her unspoken promise to JuliaCavendish. The scene came back to her now. She thought,"What have I been saying? Dear God, what have I beensaying?" Hysteria went out of her, as fever goes out, leavingher weak, nerveless.

"Damn it!" he was muttering, "damn it! Do you thinkI 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 thatthis was the hardest of the path, the full price, the full tormentexacted.

Sitting there, rigid, uncomplaining, teeth bit to the underlip lest the mouth should cry out its torture, she rememberedthe long years with Hector, the mornings and the eveningswhen, facing him over the breakfast-table or the dinner-table,listening after dinner to his voice in the library, tolerating--forthe sake of the dream which this other man had made true--theungentle fury of his caresses, she had learned to wearthe mask which so many married women wear, the mask ofcompliance.

Must she, for Ronnie's sake, still wear the mask? Daren'tshe tell him--the truth? Wouldn't he--knowing the truth--flinchfrom his purpose? Wasn't it worth while, more thanworth while, to keep silence till the die was cast? Couldn'tshe still play for time? Time! There might be some way--someother way to freedom. If only she weren't so afraid--sostrangely and newly afraid! If only Ronnie were not soangry!

And suddenly she knew that Ronnie's anger had left him.His feet stopped in mid-stride. Slowly he came across theroom toward her; and she could see a little of the old understandingtenderness in his blue eyes. "Alie," he said, "forgiveme."

"What is there to forgive?" Her voice sounded listless,broken. "It was my fault. I oughtn't to have spoken as Idid. 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; anddumbly she put out her hands to him; dumbly she fondled histemples. Once more she wanted to cry; but no tears came.Her tongue felt parched, as though by some bitter fruit. "Itwasn't your fault, Alie. You're tired. And perhaps I'mnot being just. Perhaps I do want my revenge. But it'sonly for your sake"--his hands sought her shoulders--"onlyfor your sake that I hate him. I think, I know, that if he'dmade you happy, if he'd been kind to you, I could bear thethought 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. "Youmustn'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 arotten woman. Rotten."

"You're not. You 're the best woman in the world." Stillon 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 hisresponsibility, of that awful responsibility for another's happiness,which only illegal lovers know, coiled--tighter thanher arms; tighter than any hempen rope--round his neck.Her tears on his cheeks were as warm rain conjuring up theseedlings of remembrance. He recollected all the miracle oftheir early love for one another, all their resistances and theiryieldings, all the weeks and all the months through which theyhad faced the herd's hostility in mutual loyalty, setting loveabove the law, trusting in one another--he in her as she inhim--for faith. Always they had kept faith with one another.Yet always she, the woman, had borne the heavier burden.And in his ignorance he thought: "That's why I must insist--insiston this thing going through."

Then a voice, as it were his mother's, whispered to themind of Ronald Cavendish: "Comfort her, Ronnie, comforther. Before you ask this last sacrifice, tell her that the pasthas not been in vain"; and then, leaning on her lover, hereyes tear-blinded, her hands slack, her limbs relaxed in misery,Aliette heard him whisper:

"Darling woman. Darling girl. You're not to think thatI don't understand. I do understand--everything." Likewaves, the deeps of his fondness poured from him, pouredover her, healing her wounds; and for a moment she thoughtthat he had guessed the truth.

But his next words dispelled illusion. "I know all thatyou've given up for my sake; all that I've made you give.The blame, if blame there be, is mine. You've sacrificed yourselffor me."

"It's no sacrifice." Hardly, she stirred in his arms."I've never regretted----"

"Nor I, dear. Nor I. I've never regretted for one singleinstant. I never shall regret. Ever since that first day Isaw you, you've been all the world to me. All the world.That's why I want you to be strong, not to be afraid ofscandal, to let me do as my mother wished."

"Ronnie"--her eyes, wet with tears, sought his,--"haveyou counted the cost?"

"Yes." He released her; and she saw, as he rose up, thathe was still resolute. "I've counted the cost. And it'll beheavy--heavier than anything we've had to bear yet. Butit'll be worth while, Alie. Anything's worth while--if onlyI can win you your freedom."

"But your career----"

"My career doesn't matter any more. I've had success.I know how little it's worth. Nothing matters to me nowexcept your happiness."

"My happiness?" Wistfully she looked down at her palehands.

"Yes, your happiness. Oh, my dear, don't think I haven'trealized, all these months, that you'll never be happy--reallyand truly happy--while you belong, legally, to that man."

"Ronnie"--she was trying, trying to tell him--"I havebeen happy. Always. It isn't that----"

"Yes, it is." He was afraid lest, pleading again, she shouldweaken his decision. "It's only that. Once you're my wife,you'll forget all the unhappy times."

"Shall I?" she thought. "Will that little ceremony makeme forget that once, once I was Hector's?"

"That's why I want you to make up your mind," went onRonnie. "Now. To-night. That's why I didn't want youto listen to Sir Peter. Alie, it isn't for my revenge I'masking you to let me do this. It's for your own sake. Ifyou were a different sort of woman, a rotten woman, perhapsit wouldn't matter so much--our not being married. Butyou--you can't go on forever like this. Just think, darling,just think what it would mean if we were to have children."

"Children," she repeated dully, "children." And then,his very vehemence terrifying her again, "Oh, Ronnie, Ronnie--don'task me to decide to-night."

1

Two more days, terrible days for them both, went by. ToAliette it seemed as though all her courage, all her clear-visioningmentality, had ebbed away. Everything terrifiedher; but most of all the thought of precipitating crisis by tellingRonnie the truth.

Vainly he argued with her, pleaded with her. Vainly heassured her that it was their duty to risk this last maddesthazard of the gamble; that to jeopardize his newly-won successmattered not at all; that "social ruin" existed only inSir Peter's imagination; that not even "social ruin" shoulddeter them from achieving his mother's main object; thatthere was only the one way of achieving that object; and that,matrimony once achieved, they would be free to enjoy theriches Julia Cavendish had left them--in some other countryif scandal drove them from their own. To all his arguments,Aliette had but one reply: the same reply she had made tohim long and long ago in his chambers in Jermyn Street:"Don't try to hurry me, Ronnie. You must give metime----"

She hardly knew why she was playing for time. She hardlyknew which she could face best; suspense or certainty. Shewanted, more than anything, to run away. Her terrors, vagueat first, grew definite. She saw Ronnie's career smashed,Ronnie's child born out of wedlock. She saw them bothhounded from England. She asked herself, terror-stricken, ifit were better that the child should be born out of wedlockthan born in scandal. She told herself that wedlock, won asher lover pleaded with her to win it, at the price of notorietyand exile, would be the blacker stigma.

"We can go abroad," he said. How would that help theunborn? Hide themselves wheresoever they might, theirworld would not forget. If she gave way to Ronnie, then--forat least a generation--men and women of their own classwould remember, when they spoke of Julia Cavendish'sgrandchild, how Julia Cavendish's son had ruined his careerfor the sake of Hector Brunton's wife.

And yet, what else was there to do but yield to Ronnie'swishes? And yet, even yielding, what would be gained?The divorce, if divorce came, would come too late. Or wouldit be just in time? She didn't know. She couldn't think.She could only reproach herself bitterly for the pride whichhad so long prevented her from seeking out Hector.

But Julia, Aliette could not reproach. Even though Juliahad carried her vendetta beyond the grave, it was--Alietteknew--no selfish vendetta. All that Ronnie's mother hadtried to achieve had been planned selflessly, out of love forthem, and not out of hate for Hector.

If only Julia were alive! If only her mother had been suchas Julia! If only she could have taken train to Clyst Fullerford!If only she could lay the legal issue before the legalwisdom of Andrew! For there must be (did not intuitionwarn her?), there was (had not Sir Peter almost said so?)some way, legal or illegal, out of this coil, some method bywhich all four of them--she, Ronnie, Ronnie's child, Hector--couldbe saved.

Always, her distraught mind grew more lenient towardHector. Ronnie, her love and loyalty could console even forhis lost career. The child (that fear also she knew) mightnever be born. But Hector her love could not console. He(had not Sir Peter said so?) would suffer as much as they.He might have to leave the bar. Was that fair? Was anythingfair?

2

Those two days, Bruton Street seemed to run on oiledwheels. The "ridiculous flat" was locked up. Once more, asshe had maided her through that other period of indecision atHector's house in Lancaster Gate, Caroline Staley maided hermistress. Now, as then, the routine of life went on. Yetroutine's self--Aliette felt--demanded decision. Ronnie'smother had been a woman of possessions, of responsibilities.The proving of her will pressed. She had been a woman ofgenius, too. The publishing of her book was a duty one owedto the world.

The will and the book haunted Aliette. Ronnie had lockedthem both away in a drawer of Julia's desk; but it seemed toher that their presence pervaded all the house. She felt consciousof them, stalking her from room to room. It was asthough both demanded something of her; as though her mindalone could decide their destiny. The will and the book werechildren! Julia's brain-children! To destroy them would bemurder. To jeopardize her own chances of motherhood (thatimpulse, also, she knew) would be murder.

What could one do? What could one do? Ronnie wasadamant. Palpably the mantle of his mother's resolution hadfallen on Ronnie's shoulders. Ronnie was no longer theboyish lover she remembered. Ronnie was a man; a man benton self-destruction, willing, for her sake, to sacrifice his wholecareer.

What could one do? What could one do? If Ronnie knewabout the child, Ronnie might kill Hector. Ronnie hatedHector. Ronnie wouldn't mind the consequences, so long asHector suffered them equally.

What could one do? Only play for time! Time.

A third day went by. She must decide--decide! Ronniesaid so: Sir Peter had said so.

She must act--act. Better certain ruin than this suspense!She would run away, renounce Ronnie forever, renounce herlegacy. She would efface herself from London, take that littlecottage of her dreams; live there, year in, year out, unknownand unknowing of the world, satisfied with a clandestineRonnie. There she would bring up Ronnie's child, his manchild,her Dennis; bring him up in ignorance of the smirchon his name, until such time as he grew old enough to judgefor himself whether she had done right or wrong. She wouldgo to Hector for the last time, implore him--for Ronnie's sake--totake pity on her. She would go to Ronnie, implore him--forher own sake--to take pity on Hector.

Like a squirrel-cage, the future whirled under the crazedfeet of Aliette's thoughts. Like a squirrel, her crazedthoughts spun the cage of the future. Was there no way, noway out of the cage? She must find the way, the way out.

3

"It was very kind of you to make an appointment soquickly, Sir Peter."

"Not at all, dear lady, not at all."

Inspecting his client benignantly across the leather-toppeddesk by the big window of his Norfolk Street office, Sir PeterWilberforce could see that Aliette's mental tether wasstretched to its tautest. In the low light of a waning autumnsun, the face under the black Russian hat showed pale asthinnest ivory. The vivid eyes were pools of fear. Lines ofindecision penciled the temples. But the little black-glovedhand she gave him had not trembled; nor had there been anyfear, any indecision in the shy, ladylike voice. And the baronethad thought, "Now, I wonder, I wonder if she'd havethe nerve."

His eyes ceased their benignant inspection, and wandered--apparentlyaimless--from the sunlight outside to the closeddoor, round the pictureless walls, till finally they rested amongthe racks of black deed-boxes. There were many titled namesgold-lettered on those japanned deed-boxes; but the two nameswhich interested Sir Peter's eye bore no titles. "And how ismy co-executor," prompted his voice; "still heroic?"

"Worse than that." Aliette managed a smile.

"And you?"

"I'm afraid I'm not a bit heroic. Sir Peter, tell me; wereyou serious when you said that the proving of this will, thepublication of this book, would mean--social ruin for--allthree of us?"

"Perfectly serious, dear lady."

"And is there"--her heart sank----"no other method bywhich we--Ronnie--can carry out his mother's wishes?"

"That"--Sir Peter's eyes left the deed-boxes, and resumedan inspection suddenly more purposeful than benignant--"isprecisely what I have been considering for the lastthree days."

"You said there might be a way----"

"Did I?" The old gentleman took up his ivory paper-knife."Did I, though?"

"Yes. You said it depended on my--my former husband."

"Then I made a mistake." The Wilberforce purr, wassheerest self-accusation. "It doesn't. As a matter of fact,the plan I had in mind depends more on"--the paper-knifetapped slow Morse--"the lady in the case than any one else.And even then----"

The paper-knife hung suspended. Although the founderof Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright was celebrated forhis handling of delicate situations, he had never, in half acentury of practice, encountered a social situation as delicateas this one.

"Does my co-executor know of this visit?" he proceededafter a pause which dropped Aliette's heart into the tips ofher shoes.

"No. I--I wanted to consult you privately."

"And would you be bound to--er--tell him of any suggestionI might make?"

"Well----" Again Aliette managed a smile. "That wouldrather depend on the suggestion, wouldn't it?"

The baronet smiled confidentially in reply. "You see, themain point, as I view it, is whether we have any means atour disposal by which we can induce your--er--formerhusband to bring an action for divorce. My co-executor, Igathered, was--shall we say--a trifle biased on the subject.Now, in the first place, it appears to me that if your--er--formerhusband knew about this codicil, he would do--er--almostanything to avoid its publication. If, therefore, hewere told that by bringing his action immediately----"

"That"--Aliette leaned forward in her chair--"thatwouldn't be fair."

"My dear lady," Sir Peter's paper-knife emphasized hisdisapproval of the interruption, "this is a solicitor's office, nota court of morals."

"But"--a diffident tremor twitched the pallid features--"itwould be blackmail."

"Let us call it justifiable blackmail, performed with kidgloves for the victim's benefit. The victim himself, remember,has hardly behaved chivalrously."

"That's no reason why we should behave"--the pallidfeatures flamed--"caddishly."

A little taken aback--female clients with moral scruplesbeing somewhat rare at Norfolk Street--the baronet changedhis tactics.

"If I follow you," he said quietly, "your objection is notso much to the partial solution of our problem as to the methodof attaining it. Very well. Let us presume--mind you, it'sonly the merest presumption--that the divorce question isarranged without even justifiable--er--blackmail, and thatthe codicil to Mrs. Cavendish's will had--shall we say?--neverbeen penned. That would still leave us faced with the questionof the novel. My co-executor, I gather, still insists on itsbeing published? He wouldn't approve, for instance, if Iadvised its total destruction?"

"Neither of us could bear that." Aliette's voice was unflinching."Ronnie's mother sacrificed six months of her lifeto finish that book. To destroy it would be worse than blackmail,it would be----"

"Murder. Quite so." Once more, the purposeful eyeswandered from their client's face to the deed-boxes againstthe wall. "Mrs. Julia Cavendish," read the eyes among thedeed-boxes; and, thereunder, "Mr. Paul Flower." "Ofcourse the novel must be published. But need it be publishedexactly in its present form? Now presuming--recollect this isstill only the merest presumption--that the--er--divorce werearranged, and the--er--codicil off our minds, don't you thinkwe might--shall we say, alter the novel?"

"Alter it?" Aliette started. Here, at last, was a gleam ofhope.

"You see," the purr grew pronounced, "this is not thefirst time, nor do I expect it will be the last, that the workof a talented author has required legal revision. As a matterof cold fact, most modern novels are more or less libelous.Publishers are constantly asking my advice on the point. Inthe case of Mrs. Cavendish's work, curiously enough, it wasasked once before. I think I may say, without breaking confidence,that I suggested to Sir Frederick then, as I am suggestingto 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. Cavendishwas alive. She made the alterations herself."

"Your pardon." Sir Peter almost permitted himself awink. "She did nothing of the sort. She told Sir Frederickand myself that we were vandals; and went off to Italy vowingshe'd never set pen to paper again. However, she leftthe manuscript behind; and we--er--did what was necessary."

"You mean to say that Ronnie's mother let some one elsetamper with her work?"

"Tamper!" This time the baronet actually did wink. "Iwonder how my friend and client, Mr. Paul Flower, who--totell 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 Peteranswered it: "I told you I wasn't to be disturbed.... Oh,is that you James? Very important, eh?... Well, let'shear what it is."

Aliette, her distraught mind clutching at the baronet's suggestionsas a drowning woman clutches her rescuer, hardlylistened to the conversation. Yet she was aware, dimly, thata mask had come over Sir Peter's face; that his concentrationhad 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 ameeting would be advisable.... Tell him that at presentthere are certain difficulties, certain very serious difficulties,in the way.... No. He'd better stop with you. I shall beable to see him in about ten minutes--a quarter of an hour atthe outside."

Sir Peter hung up the house-telephone, and turned toAliette. The legal mask still covered his face. Behind it, hethought, "Poor little woman. This will cheer her up. I wonderif I ought to let that particular cat out of the bag yetawhile? Better not. Much better not. It might upset thewhole apple-cart."

"Let me see," the mask changed, "what were we talkingabout? Oh, yes, the book, of course. Now, what have you gotto say to my suggestion?"

"I think it splendid." Aliette's irritation subsided. "But--evenif Mr. Flower consents to alter the book--there'salways the will. We couldn't"--hopefully--"we couldn'talter that, too, could we?"

"Hardly." Now, feeling himself at the very crux of theirinterview, Sir Peter took up his paper-knife again. "Hardly.Quite apart from its being a felony, it would be robbing you oftwenty thousand pounds."

"But that wouldn't matter a bit."

"Seriously?"

"Quite seriously, Sir Peter." Strange that she had nevereven considered that point!

"Even then"--still more taken aback, for female clientswho disdained fortunes were even rarer than moralists inNorfolk Street, the senior partner in Wilberforce, Wilberforce& Cartwright tapped a frantic SOS on the desk-top--"eventhen, 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 importantpersonage. The public will be interested, not only inthe extent of her fortune, but in how she has disposed ofit."

"But surely, with your influence----" Once more Aliettefelt hopeless.

"Even my influence"--Sir Peter leaned forward, pointingthe 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 psychologicalmoment") "unless some accident were to happen--unless thewill were, shall we say, burnt--neither my first idea, whichyou will remember was that we should approach your--er--formerhusband 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 theyoung woman tried to fathom one another's minds.

At last the woman asked:

"Tell me, suppose this--this accident of which you havespoken were to happen, what would be the consequences?"

"The consequences to whom?"

"To"--Aliette, her thoughts racing, fumbled at the phrase--"tothe person who might burn--who might be responsiblefor the accident."

"That would depend." Sir Peter's words started pat fromunder his mustache. "If the person responsible for the accidentwere to benefit by the destruction of the will, the consequencesto that person, if discovered, would be very serious.But if that person, instead of benefiting, stood to lose twentythousand pounds----" He broke off; adding, rather gruffly,"You'll understand that if Mrs. Cavendish had died withoutmaking a will, her son, as next of kin, would inherit the entireestate?"

Ensued another momentous pause. Then quietly, Aliettesaid: "Sir Peter, tell me one thing more. How soon--after adivorce-case--can a woman re-marry?"

Startled--sensing, in one vivid flash, the reason of her question--thebaronet rose from his chair; and Aliette--her mind,for all the quietness of her voice, in utter turmoil--rose withhim.

"How soon?" she repeated.

"Not for six months," Sir Peter hesitated; "and we can'trely on less than three between the filing of the petition andthe decree nisi."

At that, his client's face went dead white, so that, for amoment, Sir Peter thought she must faint. But she controlledherself. "And is there no--no exception to that rule?"

"It has been varied--once."

"Is that"--desperately, despairingly, Aliette flung all hercards on the table--"is that all the hope you can give me if--ifI agree to every suggestion you have made this afternoon?"

"Dear lady,"--the man rather than the lawyer spoke--"Idaren'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 Peterrushed to the house-telephone. "James!" called Sir Peter."James! Bring the admiral in here at once."

1

Dazed, hopeless, almost beaten, Aliette passed out of theoffices of Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright.

The sun had already set. The Embankment showed steel-grayand violet; fantastic under a fantastic sky. Tramsclanged by her. Taxis. Cars. She did not see them. She didnot see London. She saw the country, the country under aMarch sunset. It seemed to her that she was riding; ridingalone; riding for defeat in a desperate race.

Automatically her feet turned away from the sunset--eastwardfrom Norfolk Street toward the Temple. Above her, thesky darkled. Lamps gleamed along the Embankment. Butno lamp of hope gleamed in her mind. There was no wayout of the cage. The book could be altered, the will destroyed.Hector, blackmailed, might bring his action. What did thatmatter? Freedom, even won, must come too late. Ronnie'schild, 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. Theawful truth.

And suddenly, her brain clearing a little, she knew thatshe was standing at the gates of the Temple. Ronnie was inthere--in there--barely a hundred yards away--behind thoserailings--across that misty lawn--among the lights and thepinnacles. 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 wenttoward the gate. Behind her she heard the vague ripple ofthe river, of London's river. The river called to her. "Cometo me," rippled London's river, "I am the way out--the oneway out of the cage."

Swiftly she passed through the gate. Swiftly, a blind thingseeking its mate, she passed up the lane. Figures hurried byher. She did not see them. She saw Ronnie--Ronnie in wig-and-gown;Ronnie pleading her cause before the law.

Swiftly she passed under the archway. Swiftly, unconsciousof one hurrying behind her, she made the tiled passagewhich leads to Pump Court. Ronnie--Ronnie would notplead for her. Ronnie, knowing the truth, would know herfor what she was. For a woman who had belonged to twomen. On such, man's law had no mercy. She could go nofurther--no further. Better the river! Better the river thanman's law!

Slowly, she turned away--away from the vision of Ronnie.It was all dark--dark. Darkness and the sound of feet."Clop," went the feet, "clop clop, clop clop." The feetstopped; and a voice--a known voice--hailed her out of thedarkness.

"Alie!" hailed the voice. "Alie! Is that you?"

Still dazed, she could not answer. The voice, close thistime, hailed her again. "Alie! Is that you, Alie?"

"Yes. Who is it?"

"Your father-in-law."

The feet clopped again; and now--her mind all confusion--sherecognized, within a yard of her, the trim, old-fashionedfigure, the vast beard of Rear-Admiral Billy.

"Good God!" panted the admiral. "Good God--I'venever run so fast in me life." And, without another word,he gripped her by the arm, steering her rapidly through thedark passage into Pump Court, out of Pump Court, past theTemple itself, and across King's Bench Walk.

"Billy!" she managed to gasp. "Billy, where are youtaking me?"

"To my damn fool of a son."

She tried to free herself, but the grasp on her elbowtightened. For Rear-Admiral Billy, rushing hot-foot out ofSir Peter's offices and--directed by the commissionaire--downthe Embankment in pursuit of his son's wife, had determinedto take no more advice from lawyers.

"My damn fool of a son's been asking to see you for days,"he panted. "Sir Peter--silly old codger--said it was notadvisable."

It flashed through Aliette's distraught mind that she mustbe having a nightmare. A nightmare! Billy's beard meshedhis words. Billy would go on walking, walking and talkingand gripping her by the arm until she woke up. But itcouldn't be a nightmare. Billy was real--real. Billy wasdragging her away from Ronnie, dragging her back to Hector.They were within ten yards of Hector's chambers. Sherecognized the stone stairs, the lamp.

Stubbornly, then, she dug her heels into the gravel. Stubbornly--onethought only in her mind--she faced her pantingcaptor.

"Billy, I'm not going in there."

"Why on earth not? Hector won't eat you."

"Ronnie wouldn't like it."

"Can't help that. Hector's game to divorce you. That'senough for you."

"It isn't." Other thoughts, terrible thoughts, harried her."It isn't. Billy, you've just come from Sir Peter's. Did hetell you anything--anything about the codicil--anythingabout me?"

And Rear-Admiral Billy, for the good of his soul, committedthe double perjury: "The only thing I know, me dear, is thatmy damn fool of a son made up his mind to divorce you nearlya fortnight ago, and that I've been trying to get Sir Peter tolet the pair of you meet ever since. Come on, now, don't beobstinate."

Almost forced up the stone stairs by the renewed grip on herarm, Aliette was aware, dimly, of David Patterson's astonishedcountenance, of the admiral swinging past David Patterson,of a chair against which she leaned, of an opening doorand a quick inaudible colloquy. Then the admiral came backand said to her: "In we go."

Automatically in she went.

Hector stood, motionless, behind his littered desk. She sawhim through a glass, a glass of silence, not as the man she hadfeared and hated, but as a stranger whose eyes were gentle,whose shoulders were bowed, a complete stranger who profferedno hand. The glass of silence slid away; and the strangerspoke to her.

"Won't you sit down?"

Exhausted, she obeyed. The stranger turned to Hector'sfather, and said, pleadingly: "You'll leave us alone for fiveminutes, won't you, sir?"

The admiral went out without a word.

"I wanted to see you." The stranger, still on his feet,laughed--a pitiful little laugh, high in the throat. And suddenlyshe knew him for her legal owner.

"Why did you want to see me?" Could this be the manwho had tortured her so long; this broken, stammering creaturewhose eyes seemed afraid to look into her eyes?

"I don't quite know. Shall we say that I just--just wantedto see you? You mustn't stay more than five minutes, youknow. It might--it might invalidate the proceedings--thedivorce proceedings. They're rather technical. You see,dear,"--the word came clumsily from between the thin lips--"asthings have turned out, I'm afraid--I'm afraid that Ishall have to divorce you. I've been trying to arrange thingsthe other way. But it can't be done. Too many people know.There's the king's proctor, you see. But that wasn't why Iwanted to talk to you."

Dumbly, realizing a little of the pain behind those grayunshifting pupils, Aliette listened. Speak she could not.What did the divorce matter? The divorce would come toolate. Too late!

The man who had found his own soul went on: "What Iwanted to tell you was that everything will be done quietly.As quietly as possible. If there's any publicity, you sha'n'tsuffer from it. I give you my word about that."

She managed to say: "You're being very kind to me,Hector. Too kind."

"It's you who are kind"--the voice of the "hanging prosecutor"was the voice of a schoolboy--"and I don't deservekindness of you. I've behaved like a cad right through thepiece. But you'll shake hands with me, won't you? You'llpart friends? You'll say that you forgive?"

Automatically Aliette rose. "There's nothing to forgive,"she said dully. "Nothing."

Automatically she took off her glove, and offered him herright hand.

Holding his wife's fingers for one last fugitive second,Hector Brunton was conscious that a shiver--the tiniest faintestshiver as of revulsion--ran through her body. And HectorBrunton thought: "This is my punishment, my supremepunishment. God, if there is a such a person, can do no moreto me."

Then, releasing her hand, he said to himself: "But I can'tlet her go. I can't let her go out of my life like this. She'smiserable, miserable."

His father's recent words flashed through his mind. Suppose--supposeAliette were to die, as Lucy Towers had sonearly died? Suppose that Aliette, crazed and with child,were to kill herself. And he thought: "I've got to say something,something that will give her hope."

He asked, gently, looking into her eyes for the last time:"I'll do my best to get things through as quickly as possible,You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

She stared at him, blankly. "Can these things be done--quickly,Hector?"

"They shall be," promised Hector Brunton, K.C.

2

Somehow, she was in Julia's work-room. Somehow, she hadreached home before Ronnie. To get home before Ronnie!That had been her one panic ever since leaving Hector.

Of her parting with Hector, with the admiral; of her scurrythrough the Temple; of her taxi chugging, chugging, chuggingdown the Embankment, chugging up NorthumberlandAvenue, chugging through Trafalgar Square, of her taxiblocked in the Haymarket, of herself calling franticallythrough the window, "Don't go up the Haymarket," of theirsweep along Pall Mall, up St. James's Street and along Piccadilly,Aliette remembered nothing. She knew only that therewas hope--a gleam of hope for them all, for Ronnie's child, forRonnie, for herself, for Hector; knew only that she must act--actat once--before Ronnie came home.

Perhaps Ronnie was home already. Perhaps he had goneupstairs to dress. Perhaps he had heard her let herself inwith her latch-key.

A key! If only there were a key, so that she might lockherself in Julia's work-room.

A key! If only there were a key, so that she might openJulia's desk. How the fire glowed on the red mahogany, onthe yellow brass of the desk! How the fire crackled, crackled!

She must break open the desk. Break it open before Ronniecould stop her. She must save Ronnie--save Hector. Theywere only men. Men of the law--of man's law. Men onlytalked. She, the mother, must act--act!

Now, in the fraction of a second, Aliette was at the fireplace.Now she had seized the bright steel poker in both hands. Nowshe was at the desk. Now she had inserted the poker throughthe ormolu handle of the drawer in the pedestal of the desk.Now--gingerly--she levered her poker against the mahoganyrim of the desk.

But the locked drawer would not open. Stubbornly its lockfought against her lever. Panic gripped her by the throat.She must be quick--quick. Suppose Ronnie were home, supposeRonnie heard? Ronnie would hate her--hate her fordamaging his mother's desk. Julia's beautiful desk. Nevermind--never mind the desk.

Frantically, her hands dragged at the poker. The mahoganysplintered and splintered. God! what a noise she wasmaking. Would the lock never yield?

Her eyes blurred. Her breasts ached. Her wrists ached.She could feel sweat under her armpits, feel the breathwhistling through her lips. She was beaten, beaten. Shewould not be beaten--she would conquer the stubbornness ofthat lock. Conquer it.

Teeth set, little hands steel on steel, Aliette propped bothfeet against the pedestal, and flung back her full weight fromthe lever.

The poker was bent in her hands, the mahogany desk-topsplintered to white slivers. But the lock had yielded, thedrawer stood out open from its pedestal. There--there laythe will, the will Sir Peter had told her she must burn.Quickly, she snatched at it. Quickly, she dashed to the fireplace,dashed it on the fire. Quickly, she snatched up theshovel, pressed the will down among the flames.

But the flames would not kindle. The thick parchmentwould not take fire. It would only curl--curl. The words onthe curling parchment hypnotized her. "Twenty thousandpounds for the benefit of Aliette, née Fullerford, at presentthe wife of----"

Slowly, slowly, the parchment was kindling.

But even as Aliette's eyes saw the parchment blacken to theflames, her ears caught the sound of a key in the lock of thefront door, of the door closing, of feet--Ronnie's feet--comingswiftly down the passage.

"Alie, Alie! I say, darling, are you in the library?"

And a second afterward he stood in the doorway. Sheknew that he was eying the desk, eying her back as she stoopedto hurry her work.

"What are you doing?"

Aliette neither looked up nor answered. Her thoughts wereall for the flames--for the blessed consuming flames.

"What are you burning?"

He sprang across the room at her; and the shovel droppedwith a clatter from her nerveless fingers.

Turning, she faced him. He put out an arm as though tofend her from the fire. She seized his arm with both hands,crying, "You're not to. You're not to."

He struggled with her; but she fought him, fought himaway from the fire. Behind her, in the flames, the last shredof parchment charred to stiff black ashes.

"Alie"--the loved face was a blur before her eyes, theloved voice a far-away whisper in her ear--"Alie--what haveyou done? You haven't burnt it? You haven't burnt mymother's book?"

"No. Not the book. Sir Peter says we can alter the book.But we can't alter the will. I had to burn the will, because--becauseof Dennis."

"Dennis?"

"Yes. Dennis. Our boy, Dennis." Suddenly, the lovedface went black, black as charred parchment before her eyes."I only did it for the boy, Ronnie. Can't you understand?"

Holding her, fainted, in his arms, Ronald Cavendish understooda little of his own unworthiness.

1

Windmill House, a modest broad-eaved, slant-gabledTudor building, stone below, brick and black oakabove, the whole roofed with Colleyweston slate-slabs whichtime had lichened to dark-green velvet, surveys the Rutlandhamlet of Little Overdine from the brow of Little OverdineHill. Beyond its walled gates the white road switches downbetween two files of red cottages, past the Norman tower ofLittle Overdine Church, toward Screever Castle and thedistant Screever Vale. Behind it and about it the shires sweepsheer fields of ridge-and-furrow to the far and the clear horizonswhither--all winter--high-mettled riders and high-mettledhorses pour at a gallop after the pouring hounds.

But now, all about Windmill House, the ridge-and-furrowsstood knee-deep in hay; and hounds pattered mute at earlymorning exercise along the white road; and the high-mettledhorses grazed leisurely in the shade of the hawthorn hedges;and, in every covert from Lomondham Ruffs to HighboroughGorse the red vixens suckled unmolested. For now, it wasspring in Rutland--spring in the little county of the big-bosomingpastures and the big-bosomed women--spring, too,in the heart of Ronald Cavendish!

Yet, for him, spring held its fear. "Your wife will be allright," Dr. Hartley had assured. "Everything's goingsplendidly. Some time this evening, I expect. About sixo'clock if we're lucky. Why don't you go out for a ride?"

And Aliette, smiling up at him through the increasingpangs, had said almost the same thing: "Go away, man.Please go away."

As he went from her, out of the high cretonne-bright roomdown the blue-carpeted stairs into a hall fragrant with whitelilac, apprehension tightened its grip on Ronnie. SupposeHartley had lied to him--suppose Hartley had made a mistake--supposeAliette, his Aliette, were--were not to "get overthings"?

"But that's ridiculous," he said to himself, "quite ridiculous.Alie's so strong. And besides, after all we've beenthrough together, that just couldn't happen."

He wandered into the low-ceiled library, picked a book atrandom, and sat down to read. But the words of the bookconveyed no meaning to his brain. His brain was upstairs--withAlie. Kate came in to remind him of lunch. He said toher, speaking softly as though he were in a sick-room: "Oh,bring me something in here, will you?"

Kate brought some sandwiches, and a whisky-decanter. Heate a sandwich, and drank a stiff peg. Then he crept quietlyup the wide staircase and listened outside Alie's door. Butthe closed mahogany let through no sound; and after a littlewhile he tiptoed downstairs again.

"If only," he thought, "it were all over. Safely over!"His heart ached for the woman he loved, for the pangs whichshe must bear alone. Almost, he hated the unborn cause ofher sufferings. What need had he and Alie of children? Wasnot their love for one another all-sufficing? Had they notwon enough from life already? Why tempt Providence withyet another hazard?

Suppose--suppose Alie were to die?

Fretfully Ronnie wandered back to the library; fretfully heflung his long length into a big saddle-bag chair. But he couldnot rest in the chair. The Wixton imagination tore and toreat his brain. Windmill House, last of Julia Cavendish's LittleOverdine properties; Windmill House, where his mother hadhoneymooned with his father; Windmill House, whither hehad brought Aliette for sanctuary while the law was separatingher from Hector--seemed sanctuary no longer. Deathand life hovered about the place, each contentious for mastery.

He looked at the Chippendale clock on the dark oak mantelpiece.The clock-hands pointed two. "Another four hours,"he thought. "Another four eternities!"

How the minutes dragged as one watched them! How cruel,how desperately cruel was time!

He looked out of the window, through the shining latticesto a shining garden. Yesterday's gale no longer blew. It hadpelted all morning; and the tennis-lawn still glinted with raindrops.Thrushes hopped on it, and blackbirds. Through theopen pane in the lattices, from under the eaves of the house,came faint eager twitterings. Out of doors, perhaps, onewould feel more hopeful, less--less infernally jumpy.

Ronnie, closing the library door behind him, stole quietlyacross the square hall, and picked an old tweed cap from itspeg in the cloakroom, an ashplant from its corner in theporch. The front door of Windmill House stood open.Through it he could see the flagstone path, bright either sidewith vari-colored primulas; and at the end of the flags, high-hungbetween brown stone walls, the wrought-iron gates thatgave on to the highroad.

For a long time, hands in his pockets, the ashplant danglingby its crook from his forearm, Aliette Cavendish's husbandstood ruminant under the sloped porch. For a long timehis memory, apprehension-prompted, conjured up the pastmonths.

He recollected how, by the sheerest luck, Windmill Househad fallen tenantless just when they most needed a refugefrom London; how, at first sight of the place, Alie, a white-cheekedpathetic Alie, nerve-wracked and listless, had brightenedto interest; and how, as autumn deepened to winter, shehad made the Tudor house a veritable home. He recollectedhimself, Friday after Friday, driving his new car down fromLondon; finding her, week after week, braver, healthier, betterand better equipped for the ordeal to be faced. He recollectedtheir joyous Christmas together--and the black days whichhad followed Christmas--the days when "the case" loomednear and nearer, frightening her anew with the dread of"those awful newspapers."

Luckily, he had been able to keep most of "those awfulnewspapers" from her; so that she had seen only three reportsof "The Hanging Prosecutor's Divorce-Suit."

Ronnie remembered, standing there motionless in the gableddoorway, how--each helping each through the difficult days--theyhad made light of that trouble, telling one another that itwas "like having a tooth out; soon over!" Nevertheless, thememory still ached at times--as a broken bone aches to thecold long after the cure of the actual fracture.

And, "I wonder," thought Ronald Cavendish, lover,"whether the people who make their livings by it, the writing-folk,know how much the written word can hurt? I wonder ifJulia knew, when she wrote 'Man's Law.'"

He began to think of Julia, tenderly, as the imaginativethink of the dead. Julia would be glad to know that thepurpose of her book had been accomplished before its publication;that, published, it would contain no hurt. Julia, chivalrous,would not wish to injure a man who--at the pinch ofthings--had behaved chivalrously.

For that in the end Hector Brunton had behaved well, evenhis enemy admitted. Had it not been for Brunton, Bruntonwith his tremendous influence, the six months between thegranting of the divorce-decree and the making of that decreeabsolute would never have been shortened to three. Had itnot been for Brunton, not even Sir Peter Wilberforce couldhave succeeded in setting Aliette free to marry her loverbefore her lover's child was born to her.

And on that, vividly, Ronnie's memory conjured up thescene of three days ago: he and she, Roberts the chauffeur forwitness, being legally married in the dingy registrar's officeof the near-by townlet. Driving back to Windmill House,they had laughed together--a little cynically--at the formality.Yet underneath their laughter had been tears, tears ofgratitude to the kindly Fates.

"Man," Aliette had smiled, "it feels so--so funny not to bean outcast any more."

2

Ponto's sleek head nuzzling his knees disturbed Ronnie'smusing. He took his hands out of his pockets and beganfondling the dog's ears. But Ponto wanted his mistress; restlesslyhe tried to push his way into the house. His slitty eyeswere a dumb miserable question; his great stern stood out,rigid as a pointer's, from his huge body.

"Down, will you?" whispered Ronnie. "Down--you panickyold devil."

The black-and-white hound, still protesting, squatted on hishaunches; rose up again; and began to pad restlessly up anddown the flagstones. Every now and then he came sniffingtoward the porch.

"She's all right, Ponto," Ronnie kept on saying. "She'squite all right, old man." And somehow, soothing the animal,he succeeded in soothing himself. What a fool he was toworry! Children were born every day, every hour, everyminute. And Alie was so strong. Besides, Alie wanted achild; she wanted a child more than anything else in the world.

After a while Ponto ceased his padding, and subsided--stilldubious--at his master's feet. After a while Ronnie, consultinghis watch, saw that it was nearly three o'clock.

"Three more hours," he thought; "three more hours ofsuspense." He wanted to go back into the house, to wait outsideAlie's door. But instinct, and her last words, restrainedhim. One could do no good by one's presence; one could onlyhinder, flurry the nurse and the doctor at their work.

Slowly, the great dog at his heels, Ronnie wandered downthe flagstones to the gate. Looking back, the house showedrestful, a home of safety under blue spring skies. Thelaburnums made curtains of yellow for its latticed windows;the lilacs were cones of white and mauve to its sloping eaves.Surely not death but life hovered over that lichened roof, overthose high stone chimney-stacks!

And life was good--good. Life had given to him, RonaldCavendish, every fine thing of a man's wishing; love, victoryover his one-time enemy, money, success in his profession.For him, life had been like some old story-book; a story-bookthat ended happily.

But with that thought apprehension gripped him again.Life, perhaps, had given him too much. Fate, perhaps--evennow--meant to snatch the cup of happiness from his lips.

He looked up at Aliette's window. The silk curtains weredrawn; and imagination shuddered at the task of visioningher behind them. She was in pain, his Aliette, the one beingin the world who made life glorious to him. She was in pain.In danger. And he, her husband, could not help.

Slowly, unable longer to bear the sight of those drawn curtains,Ronnie--the unhappy dog in his wake--turned away;slowly, the pair began to wander about the gardens, round thehouse and round again, through the shrubberies, past thegarage and the stables, across the tennis-lawn, up and downthe rose-pergola. And, "I can't stand this," thought RonaldCavendish; "I can't stand this another minute."

It seemed to him, in his agony, as though life must beplanning revenge on him; as though the ultimate penalty werenow to be exacted. Alie would die in child-birth; and all theyhad won together be lost eternally.

Vainly, he strove to curb his imagination. Vainly he said tohimself: "It can't happen. It simply can't happen." Vainlyhe wished that Alie had accepted her mother's offer to jointhem for their wedding-day. One was so lonely, so infernallylonely. If only Mollie and James hadn't been on their honeymoon!If only Julia were alive! But Julia was dead, andJames--selfish beast!--enjoying himself, and Aliette's parentswaiting for a telegram.

He looked at his watch again. Barely half-past three yet!And Hartley had said, "Six o'clock." His hand, as he put thewatch back in his pocket, shook like an apple-tree-spur in aspring gale. He could feel his brow damp with sweat underthe cap-peak. Restlessly he resumed his tramp; restlessly thedog followed him; round the house and round again--till atlast, to Ponto's delight, his master made his way out of thegardens, through the stables, to the gate of the paddock.

3

The paddock, a square two-acre of trampled grasses fencedwith the high white of blossoming hawthorn, shimmered in theafternoon sunshine; and at far end of it, as he opened thegate, Ronnie saw Miracle. At the click of the gate-latch, thebig thoroughbred, golden as a guinea to the rich light, liftedhis head from the fragrant pasture; scrutinized his visitors;and with a whinny of delight came cantering toward them.Ten yards away, he stopped--his neck arched, his eyes wide inspeculation. Then, pace by balancing pace, muzzle outstretched,he came on; snuffled down at the dog; snuffled up atthe man.

Tactfully as Aliette's self Ronnie gentled the horse, caressingthe smooth muzzle, the sleek skin under the branches of thejaws. Somehow, it seemed as though Miracle were aware ofthe fret in him, of the fret in Ponto; as though Miracle, followingthe pair of them up and down the paddock, were tryingto say: "It's all right. It's quite all right."

And Ronnie thought, looking at Miracle's great shoulders,at the slope of his pasterns and the sinuous strength of hishocks: "You carried her over Parson's Brook, old boy. You'llcarry her again, next winter, as you carried me this, across astiller country than Mid-Oxfordshire, across the ridge-and-furrowand the cut-and-laids and the timber of the shires."

Miracle followed the pair of them back to the gate, andstood looking over it while they made their way to the stables.The big blue clock under the old-fashioned hunting wind-vane(a metal man on a metal horse capping on a metal hound)showed ten minutes to four. In the center of the desertedcourtyard--ominous--stood Hartley's car. Toward it, throughthe archway, came the doctor himself.

Ronnie's heart sank at sight of the man. "Anything gonewrong?" he asked curtly.

"On the contrary." Hartley, a big-shouldered fellow whorode like a thruster and looked more like a vet. than a countypractitioner, laughed under his large mustache. "On thecontrary. Everything's going splendidly. If only we couldget you husbands out of the way at these times----"

"How much longer?" interrupted Ronnie.

"Two hours at the least." The doctor abstracted a smallpackage from the dickey of his car. "We can't rush ourfences at this game, you know."

"Is my wife in pain?"

"Of course she's in pain."

"Bad pain?"

"Good Lord, no. Nothing out of the ordinary. She's aTrojan, is your missus, Cavendish." And Hartley, stuffingthe package into a capacious pocket, added. "As a matter offact, it seems to me that you're looking a jolly sight worsethan she is. Why don't you take my advice, and get on a gee-geefor an hour or so? We don't want you kicking about thehouse, I can tell you."

The doctor hurried off through the archway toward thehouse, leaving Ronnie a little ashamed of himself. Hartley,for all his coarseness, knew his job. He began to wonderwhether it wouldn't be a sound scheme to follow Hartley'sadvice, and go out for a ride. Driver, the groom, had askedfor the Saturday afternoon off; but he could easily saddle upone of the hacks in the loose-boxes, either the old brown mare,Daisy, or the little bay horse which he had bought--a weeksince--as a surprise for Aliette on her convalescence.

Ronnie, Ponto still at his heels, made his way into theunlocked harness-room; picked a saddle from its rack, a snafflebridle from its peg; and emerged again into the courtyard.

"Which shall it be?" he thought, "Daisy or the bay?"And hesitating in his choice, it came to him, quite suddenly,that if he really were going to ride--if, despite the apprehensionswhich had once more started nagging at his mind, hereally meant to disregard the pull of that invisible halterwhich bound him to the house where Aliette lay in pain--thenthe only horse possible for him to ride was Miracle.

Why not? The thoroughbred had only been "lying out"a week. An hour's exercise wouldn't do him any harm.He'd enjoy, perhaps, a little canter across the grass toSpaxton's Covert.

Wonderingly, Ponto followed his master back to the paddock.Miracle still had his head across the gate; nor, when hesaw the saddle over Ronnie's right arm, the bridle in his lefthand, did he sulk away. The big golden-gleaming horseseemed rather pleased than sulky to feel the brow-band slippedup his forehead, the snaffle-bar slipped into his mouth, thethroat-lash of the bridle buckled loose, and the saddle-girthsgripping him. He tossed at his bit and hogged his back in theold playful way as Ronnie--the ashplant in his left hand--putan unhorsemanly-shod foot into the iron and swung anunhorsemanly-trousered leg over the cantle.

As the three of them, horse and dog and man, set off acrossthe paddock, Ronnie knew the impulse to turn back, to off-saddle.It seemed heartless that he should ride out acrossgreen fields while Alie--had not Hartley himself admitted?--wasin pain. But half-way across the two-acre the impulseweakened; and by the time they made the far gate it hadaltogether died away.

He unlatched the gate with his ashplant, and Miracle nippedthrough. Before them, up-and-down emerald between rollinggrasses, lay the bridle-path to Spaxton's Covert. The horse,at a touch of the rein, broke from walk to trot, from trot to aspringy canter that traversed the ridge-and-furrow withoutan effort. Southerly breezes blew across the sixty-acre pasture.Two hares, mating, scurried from their approach. The greathorned beasts, white-faced Herefords and black Welsh steers,watched them incuriously till--catching sight of Ponto--they,too, moved lumbering away.

At the crest, Ronnie drew rein. Here, they were on the veryspine of the county. Looking back, he could still see the highchimney-stacks and the stable-clock of Windmill House: butalready Little Overdine had tucked itself away into a cup ofthe vale; so that only its church-tower and the motionless sailsof the windmill betrayed it from the humpy fields throughwhich Little Overdine Brook serpentined like a gigantic greencaterpillar.

Mapwise, from that high eminence, the shires outspreadtheir panorama, pasture on rolling pasture, with here a brightsquare of young green cornland, here a dark blob of covert,here a blue hill and there a vale, here a great house nestlingamong trees, there a red farm, there a church, and there awhite railway-gate, but scarce a factory chimney from horizonto horizon.

Not for nothing do men hark back to the place of theirfather's birth! To Ronnie, ever since he had first set eyes onthis panorama, it had been home. Already he knew its everylandmark; already it had power over him, power to soothe,power to set him a-dream.

And to-day, more than ever before, the shires set their spellupon him, so that he imagined--sitting there motionless onthe motionless horse--a son soon to be born, a son who wouldesteem the Tudor house on the brow of Little Overdine Hill,and all this wide champaign, these counties which were neitherpretty-pretty as the garden South, nor rocked and sea-girt asthe West, nor grandly cragged and forested as the North, butjust--so Ronnie put it to himself that afternoon--just England,the old England of bold horses and bold hounds andbolder men.

4

The three, horse and dog and man, set off again. Down fromthe crest they came at a canter, through fields ridged yellowwith buttercups, where the young lambs frisked bleating fromtheir path, by blazing hawthorn-hedges a-chatter with startledfinches, through the pasture-gates, to the little wooden bridgeover the Brook. Now, on a slope above them, they saw thebright new green of Spaxton's Covert; five acres of blessedwoodland whither, on some dark November afternoon, a dog-foxhard-pressed from Lomondham Ruffs or HighboroughGorse might, if only scent failed, perchance make safety fromthe beaten pack.

But to-day the dog-fox feared neither pack nor horseman.They saw him, a red shape at covert's edge; saw him grin atthem from fifty yards' range, and lope disdainfully backthrough the wooden palings to his mate!

Ronnie, laughing at the incident, halted Miracle, dismounted,and called the rabbit-eager Ponto to heel. The half-houror so of open air had steadied his nerves. Lighting acigarette, looking at his watch, he saw that his hands no longertrembled. "Alie's all right," he said to himself. "Everything'sall right."

He mounted again, and headed away from the covert towardLomondham. From Lomondham to Little Overdine by thehighroad is four good miles. "That'll get me home comfortablyby five," thought Ronnie. But just before he made theLomondham road, fear gripped him again. Suddenly someinstinct, an instinct so strong that he dared not even fightagainst it, warned him that Alie was in danger.

And with fear came self-reproach. He had been away awhole hour, a whole hour of life or death for the woman heloved. He had been enjoying himself, enjoying himself,dreaming of a son when perhaps--perhaps----

Miracle, trotting at ease, felt himself abruptly gatheredtogether, felt the ring of the snaffle hard against his off cheek,felt the grass at roadside under his hoofs, broke to a canterand from a canter to a gallop. Ponto, caught unawares fiftyyards in rear, heard man and horse disappear round a bend inthe hawthorn hedges; Ponto, quickening his lollop round thebend, saw the pair streak hell-for-leather up the hill; Ponto,laboring desperately not to be left behind, saw them halt fora moment at the gate of Lomondham Lane and knew that hismaster had taken the short cut home. "He can't have forgottenme," thought Ponto angrily.

But Ronnie, in that moment of fear, had forgotten everythingexcept Aliette. The lane saved a mile and a half, andthe lane was all soft turf--good going--the first five furlongsof it straight as a race-course.

Down those first five furlongs Miracle went like a steedpossessed. The turf thudded under his hoofs. The hawthorn-hedgesstreaked past him like snowbanks alongside atrain. "Hope to God we don't meet any one at the bend,"thought Ronnie, his silk-socked ankles thrust home in theirons, his trousered knees gripping the saddle-flaps, his handslow and his body a little forward.

For now there was no controlling Miracle. The fear of thethoroughbred man on his back had communicated itself insome mysterious way to the thoroughbred horse. He, too,wanted to get home. Grandly he swept the ground from underhim. Scarcely, with voice and rein, Ronnie succeeded inchecking speed as they tore madly round the bend; scarcely,leaning hard over, he succeeded in keeping his seat.

And then, abruptly, he remembered the tree!

The tree, a great elm, overturned by the gale, was a barefour hundred yards on, just around the next bend, beyondthe bridge that arched up like the back of a big red hog fromthe green of the lane.

"Steady, Miracle," called Ronnie, "steady, you old fool.This isn't the National." He was still terribly frightenedabout Alie; but for himself he had no fear. Even when hishorse, head down, neck-muscles arched against the reins, tookthe red bridge as though it had been a water-jump, it neverstruck Ronnie that he wouldn't be able to stop him.

Two hundred yards from the tree, he still intended to pullup. Miracle, with no corn in him, couldn't hold that paceanother furlong. Miracle, when he caught sight of thosejagged branches blocking the path, would ease up of his ownaccord. Miracle had never bolted in his life....

But Miracle came round that last bend as though it hadbeen Tattenham Corner; and Miracle's rider, peering betweenhis ears at the forbidding obstacle fifty yards ahead, knewthat it would be fatal to try and stop him. As a matter ofcold fact, he didn't want to stop the horse. The overturnedtree, unlopped, five feet high and eight across, lay between himand Aliette: once over it, five minutes would see them home!

Ronnie took one pull at the reins, sat down in his saddle,grasped Miracle between his knees, sent up one voicelessprayer for safety, flicked once with his ashplant, felt thegreat horse steady himself hocks-under-body, felt his forehandlift, gave him his head--went up, down and over, his shouldersalmost touching the croup--and landed like a steeple-chasejock to a crackle of twigs on the turf beyond.

Then, at long last, the tree fifty yards behind and the highroadhalf a mile ahead, Miracle answered to the rein. Graduallyhis pace checked from gallop to hand-canter; from hand-canterto a quick nervous trot that sent the loose stones scuddingfrom his hoofs.

"Good lad," said Ronnie, easing as they emerged from laneto highroad. "Good lad," he repeated, as Miracle--scarcelysweating--clattered swiftly through the stable-gateway andstood for dismounting.

For somehow, even as he swung-from saddle, Ronnie knewthat Alie's danger was over, so that it hardly needed thereturned Driver's cheery grin and cheery words, "It's a boy,sir. Kate's just come out and told us," to reassure him.

5

"Sorry I spoofed you about the time," said Hartley, somehour and a half after. "But you were making such an ass ofyourself that we all thought you'd be better out of the way.You can go up now, if you like. Only don't stay long."

Ronnie, one hand on the newel-post of the staircase, laughedas he answered, "I'm afraid I was a wee bit rattled"; andwent up the blue-carpeted treads three at a time.

The door of Alie's room, as though expectant, stood a miteopen. Through the chink of it shone a primrose gleam oflight. Alie's husband knocked faintly; and nurse rustled tothe doorway. "They're asleep," whispered nurse. "Youmay look at them if you like."

The uniformed woman let him in, closing the door of theroom. The cretonne curtains were still drawn across thelatticed windows. Candles glowed on the mantelpiece andthe dressing-table. But the big bed, toward which Ronnietiptoed, was in shadow; so that Aliette's hair, braided downeither shoulder, showed dark against white pillows and whiterskin.

She slept--the child, his man-child, tiny in the crook of herarm--the ghost of a smile on her breathing lips. Ronniestood for a long while, gazing down on the pair of them. Hisblue eyes were bright with thankfulness. His heart thudded,pleasurably, against his ribs.

"She wouldn't let me take the baby from her," whisperednurse. "You'll go away now, won't you? They mustn't bewoken."

But at that, Aliette's eyes opened. Drowsily, she looked upat him; drowsily, smiling still, she murmured:

"Kiss me before you go, man. I'm so happy, so wonderfullyand gloriously happy."

Bending, Ronald Cavendish kissed his wife's warm flutteringeyelids and the soft downy head in the crook of her arm.

Transcriber's notes:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Panoroma was changed to panorama on page 482 of the original.

[End of The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton, by Gilbert Frankau]