1 Two more days, terrible days for them both, went by. To Aliette it seemed as though all her courage, all her clear-visioning mentality, had ebbed away. Everything terrified her; but most of all the thought of precipitating crisis by telling Ronnie the truth.
Vainly he argued with her, pleaded with her. Vainly he assured her that it was their duty to risk this last maddest hazard of the gamble; that to jeopardize his newly-won success mattered not at all; that "social ruin" existed only in Sir Peter's imagination; that not even "social ruin" should deter them from achieving his mother's main object; that there was only the one way of achieving that object; and that, matrimony once achieved, they would be free to enjoy the riches Julia Cavendish had left them--in some other country if scandal drove them from their own. To all his arguments, Aliette had but one reply: the same reply she had made to him long and long ago in his chambers in Jermyn Street: "Don't try to hurry me, Ronnie. You must give me time----"
She hardly knew why she was playing for time. She hardly knew which she could face best; suspense or certainty. She wanted, more than anything, to run away. Her terrors, vague at first, grew definite. She saw Ronnie's career smashed, Ronnie's child born out of wedlock. She saw them both hounded from England. She asked herself, terror-stricken, if it were better that the child should be born out of wedlock than born in scandal. She told herself that wedlock, won as her lover pleaded with her to win it, at the price of notoriety and exile, would be the blacker stigma.
"We can go abroad," he said. How would that help the unborn? Hide themselves wheresoever they might, their world would not forget. If she gave way to Ronnie, then--for at least a generation--men and women of their own class would remember, when they spoke of Julia Cavendish's grandchild, how Julia Cavendish's son had ruined his career for the sake of Hector Brunton's wife.
And yet, what else was there to do but yield to Ronnie's wishes? And yet, even yielding, what would be gained? The divorce, if divorce came, would come too late. Or would it be just in time? She didn't know. She couldn't think. She could only reproach herself bitterly for the pride which had so long prevented her from seeking out Hector.
But Julia, Aliette could not reproach. Even though Julia had carried her vendetta beyond the grave, it was--Aliette knew--no selfish vendetta. All that Ronnie's mother had tried to achieve had been planned selflessly, out of love for them, and not out of hate for Hector.
If only Julia were alive! If only her mother had been such as Julia! If only she could have taken train to Clyst Fullerford! If only she could lay the legal issue before the legal wisdom of Andrew! For there must be (did not intuition warn her?), there was (had not Sir Peter almost said so?) some way, legal or illegal, out of this coil, some method by which all four of them--she, Ronnie, Ronnie's child, Hector--could be saved.
Always, her distraught mind grew more lenient toward Hector. Ronnie, her love and loyalty could console even for his lost career. The child (that fear also she knew) might never 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 anything fair?
2
Those two days, Bruton Street seemed to run on oiled wheels. The "ridiculous flat" was locked up. Once more, as she had maided her through that other period of indecision at Hector's house in Lancaster Gate, Caroline Staley maided her mistress. Now, as then, the routine of life went on. Yet routine's self--Aliette felt--demanded decision. Ronnie's mother had been a woman of possessions, of responsibilities. The proving of her will pressed. She had been a woman of genius, too. The publishing of her book was a duty one owed to the world.
The will and the book haunted Aliette. Ronnie had locked them both away in a drawer of Julia's desk; but it seemed to her that their presence pervaded all the house. She felt conscious of them, stalking her from room to room. It was as though both demanded something of her; as though her mind alone could decide their destiny. The will and the book were children! Julia's brain-children! To destroy them would be murder. To jeopardize her own chances of motherhood (that impulse, also, she knew) would be murder.
What could one do? What could one do? Ronnie was adamant. Palpably the mantle of his mother's resolution had fallen on Ronnie's shoulders. Ronnie was no longer the boyish lover she remembered. Ronnie was a man; a man bent on self-destruction, willing, for her sake, to sacrifice his whole career.
What could one do? What could one do? If Ronnie knew about the child, Ronnie might kill Hector. Ronnie hated Hector. Ronnie wouldn't mind the consequences, so long as Hector suffered them equally.
What could one do? Only play for time! Time.
A third day went by. She must decide--decide! Ronnie said so: Sir Peter had said so.
She must act--act. Better certain ruin than this suspense! She would run away, renounce Ronnie forever, renounce her legacy. She would efface herself from London, take that little cottage of her dreams; live there, year in, year out, unknown and unknowing of the world, satisfied with a clandestine Ronnie. There she would bring up Ronnie's child, his manchild, her Dennis; bring him up in ignorance of the smirch on his name, until such time as he grew old enough to judge for himself whether she had done right or wrong. She would go to Hector for the last time, implore him--for Ronnie's sake--to take pity on her. She would go to Ronnie, implore him--for her own sake--to take pity on Hector.
Like a squirrel-cage, the future whirled under the crazed feet of Aliette's thoughts. Like a squirrel, her crazed thoughts spun the cage of the future. Was there no way, no way out of the cage? She must find the way, the way out.
3
"It was very kind of you to make an appointment so quickly, Sir Peter."
"Not at all, dear lady, not at all."
Inspecting his client benignantly across the leather-topped desk by the big window of his Norfolk Street office, Sir Peter Wilberforce could see that Aliette's mental tether was stretched to its tautest. In the low light of a waning autumn sun, the face under the black Russian hat showed pale as thinnest ivory. The vivid eyes were pools of fear. Lines of indecision penciled the temples. But the little black-gloved hand she gave him had not trembled; nor had there been any fear, any indecision in the shy, ladylike voice. And the baronet had thought, "Now, I wonder, I wonder if she'd have the nerve."
His eyes ceased their benignant inspection, and wandered--apparently aimless--from the sunlight outside to the closed door, round the pictureless walls, till finally they rested among the racks of black deed-boxes. There were many titled names gold-lettered on those japanned deed-boxes; but the two names which interested Sir Peter's eye bore no titles. "And how is my 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; were you serious when you said that the proving of this will, the publication of this book, would mean--social ruin for--all three of us?"
"Perfectly serious, dear lady."
"And is there"--her heart sank----"no other method by which we--Ronnie--can carry out his mother's wishes?"
"That"--Sir Peter's eyes left the deed-boxes, and resumed an inspection suddenly more purposeful than benignant--"is precisely what I have been considering for the last three 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, was sheerest self-accusation. "It doesn't. As a matter of fact, the plan I had in mind depends more on"--the paper-knife tapped slow Morse--"the lady in the case than any one else. And even then----"
The paper-knife hung suspended. Although the founder of Wilberforce, Wilberforce & Cartwright was celebrated for his handling of delicate situations, he had never, in half a century of practice, encountered a social situation as delicate as this one.
"Does my co-executor know of this visit?" he proceeded after a pause which dropped Aliette's heart into the tips of her shoes.
"No. I--I wanted to consult you privately."
"And would you be bound to--er--tell him of any suggestion I might make?"
"Well----" Again Aliette managed a smile. "That would rather depend on the suggestion, wouldn't it?"
The baronet smiled confidentially in reply. "You see, the main point, as I view it, is whether we have any means at our disposal by which we can induce your--er--former husband to bring an action for divorce. My co-executor, I gathered, was--shall we say--a trifle biased on the subject. Now, in the first place, it appears to me that if your--er--former husband knew about this codicil, he would do--er--almost anything to avoid its publication. If, therefore, he were told that by bringing his action immedi............