1 To a certain type of mind, the woman who goes to a man's rooms is already labeled. It seems therefore necessary to explain that Aliette--when she suggested going to Ronnie's--acted on no passionate impulse, but as the result of a whole afternoon's deliberation. It was, she felt, vital that they should have speech together; and equally vital that their speech should not be disturbed. Wherefore--fastidiousness revolting alike from a clandestine appointment in Hyde Park or at her husband's house--she chose the courageous alternative.
Now, however, as she strolled quietly down Bond Street at half-past four of a sunlit Monday afternoon, Aliette did not altogether succeed in bridling the fears with which both sex and training strove to stampede her mentality.
She had to say to herself: "How absurd I am! These are the nineteen-twenties; not the eighteen-sixties. Even discovered, I run no risk of scandal." Yet scandal, she knew subconsciously, was the least of the risks she ran in going to Ronnie.
Nevertheless, go she must: even if--worst risk of all--he had misunderstood her motive. The issue between them could not be shirked any longer. Rather a desperate issue it seemed as, at the corner of Conduit Street, Aliette ran into Hector's father!
Rear-Admiral Billy, having arrived at his club two hours since, was taking his first "cruise round." The old man looked 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's dying for a pretty woman to pour out his tea."
She let him rumble on; accepted his compliments about her hat, her lace frock, her parasol; but refused his offer of a taxi to Ranelagh.
"I'm so sorry, Billy. But I'm going--I'm going to tea with some one else."
"That be blowed for a tale," laughed the admiral. "You're coming with me. If Ranelagh's too far, we'll make it Rumpelmayer's."
He took her arm; and she began to panic. Billy, in his "on the spree" mood, could be very persistent. A few yards on, however, they met Hermione Ellerson. She too, declared the sailor, "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 for me."
"You'll give me strawberries and cream--whatever they cost?" pouted the ex-plaintiff in Ellerson v. Ellerson.
"Give you anything you want," rumbled Rear-Admiral Billy. "Alie's going to meet her best boy; so we'll leave her out of the party."
Aliette, on the pretext of shopping, managed an immediate riddance of the pair. Watching them walk off together, she felt 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. Passing a mirrored window, she glanced at her reflection, and saw herself well turned-out, en beauté. The sight gave her keenest satisfaction. 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 the clock of St. James's Palace told her that it still lacked more than a quarter of an hour to their rendezvous.
She turned back again; stood a full minute in admiration of Rowland Ward's trophies; debated with herself whether she should drop into Fortnum & Mason's or dawdle at the book-counter in Hatchard's; decided against both schemes; lingered to examine the Harrison Fisher drawings in the display-window of "Nash's Magazine"; examined the diamond watch at her wrist; and nearly bolted down the Little Arcade into the narrow Londonishness of Jermyn Street.
Here again she felt the need for courage; felt as though the whole place--the church under the tree, and the public-house at the corner, the shops and the restaurants--held spies. The street, after broad Piccadilly, seemed furtive, sunless, a street of danger. She wanted to avert her head from the passers-by.
2
By the time Hector Brunton's self-possessed wife reached the dark-green Adams door of 127b Jermyn Street, she was as nervous as any other woman in the same equivocal position.
But Ronnie's name-plate, the sedateness of the house, and above all the trim gentleman--obviously a retired butler--who answered her tremulous ringing, did more than a little to restore her confidence.
"Mr. Cavendish? Mr. Cavendish is at home, madam. He is expecting guests." (Aliette could have blessed Moses Moffatt for that final "s.") "Allow me to show you the way up, madam."
She followed the restorer of confidence up two dark flights of 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 into the hall of Ronnie's flat. Automatically Aliette noticed--and admired--the black grandfather's clock, the one engraving, the beige wall-paper. Then her cicerone knocked on polished mahogany; and a voice, Ronnie's voice, called, "Come in."
Moses Moffatt opened the second door; announced the visitor in his best style; and withdrew. They heard the click of his final exit as they faced one another--she still in the doorway, he at the tea-table by the fireplace.
For a moment, social poise deserted them both; for a moment they could only stare--brown eyes into blue, blue eyes 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 the room towards her; took the hand she proffered; and raised it to his lips. At that, she felt shy again. Confidence deserted her. If he failed in this first test; if, by one word, he betrayed misunderstanding; then, indeed, she would have irretrievably demeaned herself. But Ronnie released her hand after that one kiss; and said, very simply: "I oughtn't to have let you come."
Relieved, and a little touched at his words, Aliette let him take her bag and parasol.
"I didn't mean you to have tea for me," she said, pulling off her gloves. "Shall I pour out?"
"I'll have to boil the kettle first," he stammered, fumbling in his pocket for matches. "You'll sit here, won't you! I--I've so often imagined you sitting here and pouring out tea for me--Aliette."
"Have you--Ronnie?" Laughter dimpled her cheeks. She let him lead her to the settee by the tea-table; and sat watching his struggle with the refractory wick. "Why don't you have an electric one? They're so much easier."
"Are they?" How shy he seemed!
"Rather!" She imagined herself infinitely the more at ease. "I like this room."
"I'm so glad. It isn't my taste, you know."
"Really?" As if she hadn't guessed whose taste had chosen that beige paper, those écru velvet curtains with their flimsy lace brise-bise, the Aubusson carpet, and the plain silver tea-service on the Chippendale tray!
He did not pursue the subject; and for that reticence her heart went out in thankfulness to him. Yet, at best, his reticence could only be a temporary respite: before she left this room which his mother had furnished for him, the whole issue must 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 before she left him. Only--only--this respite was very sweet. Why couldn't life be just one long tea-time! She felt so unutterably happy. A sense, almost a sensuousness, of well-being pervaded her. She wanted no more than this: to be with Ronnie; to hear his voice; to watch his lips, his eyes, his hands as they poured from silver kettle to silver pot; to answer, quietly, impersonally, his quiet impersonal questions.
She thought how boyish he looked; how unlike Hector he was in his courtesy, his delicacy. Till suddenly, watching him across the table, she grew conscious of tension in him, of passion. And on that, this business of pouring out his tea, of accepting his cakes, turned to sorriest of farces. She wanted him beside her, close to her; she wanted to hear him whisper, "Aliette, I love you"; she wanted to whisper back, "And I love 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 should find the courage to tell her his thoughts; incredible that this vivid, radiant creature, alone with him in the intimacy of his own 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. She heard, as through the maze of sleep, steady tick-tick-tick of the clock on the mantelpiece, sizzle of the kettle-flame, the hoot and drone of traffic from the street below. She heard, as a sleeper 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 with you. Because you're"--he was on his feet now--"because you're not mine. And I want you to be mine."
"Ronnie! Ronnie!" Still mazed, she stretched out a hand to him. He seized her hand; and pressed it to his lips, to his eyes.
"Aliette--my dearest--sweetest--I'm behaving like a cad to you. I----"
Speech died at his lips; he stood before her, tense, tongue-tied--her hand held, like a shield against her beauty, before his eyes. She knew passion kindling in her, kindling them both to madness; knew the flames of desire a-leap between them; knew the overpowering impulse to immolate herself in the flames of desire.
"My dear," he whispered, "my dear."
Then, as in a dream, she divined that the flames leaped no more, that he had mastered passion, that he had fallen to his knees, that he was covering her hand with kisses. "Forgive me," she heard, "forgive me. I'm not that sort of cad. I didn't think, just because you came to my rooms----"
"Don't, don't." Her free hand fondled his hair. "You mustn't kneel to me. Please, please----"
He rose, her hand still in his; and she drew him down beside her.
"Ronnie----" She would have looked into his eyes, but his 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--I need your love. I need your love more than I can ever tell you." His hand trembled at her words. "I'm very lonely, and I'm afraid--I'm afraid that I'm very weak. You're the only person in the world who can help----"
"Then----" His eyes turned to hers, and she saw hope light in them. "Then, you do love me."
"Yes. I love you." She laughed--a little strained laugh that was almost a caress. "I oughtn't to say that, I suppose."
"Oh, my dear"--now he had prisoned both her hands--"why shouldn't you say it? No--no harm shall ever come to you from me."
"I know that." Her voice grew almost inaudible. "Otherwise--I shouldn't be here."
"No harm shall ever come to you from me," he repeated--and fell silent.
They sat for a while, hand in hand, taking quiet comfort from one another, each knowing what must next be said, each fearful of being first to speak. At last, releasing her hands, Aliette braced herself to the o............