1
dazed, hopeless, almost beaten, aliette passed out of the offices of wilberforce, wilberforce & cartwright.
the sun had already set. the embankment showed steel-gray and violet; fantastic under a fantastic sky. trams clanged by her. taxis. cars. she did not see them. she did not see london. she saw the country, the country under a march sunset. it seemed to her that she was riding; riding alone; riding for defeat in a desperate race.
automatically her feet turned away from the sunset--eastward from norfolk street toward the temple. above her, the sky darkled. lamps gleamed along the embankment. but no lamp of hope gleamed in her mind. there was no way out of the cage. the book could be altered, the will destroyed. hector, blackmailed, might bring his action. what did that matter? freedom, even won, must come too late. ronnie's child, 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. the awful truth.
and suddenly, her brain clearing a little, she knew that she was standing at the gates of the temple. ronnie was in there--in there--barely a hundred yards away--behind those railings--across that misty lawn--among the lights and the pinnacles. 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 went toward the gate. behind her she heard the vague ripple of the river, of london's river. the river called to her. "come to me," rippled london's river, "i am the way out--the one way out of the cage."
swiftly she passed through the gate. swiftly, a blind thing seeking its mate, she passed up the lane. figures hurried by her. 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, unconscious of one hurrying behind her, she made the tiled passage which leads to pump court. ronnie--ronnie would not plead for her. ronnie, knowing the truth, would know her for what she was. for a woman who had belonged to two men. on such, man's law had no mercy. she could go no further--no further. better the river! better the river than man'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 feet stopped; and a voice--a known voice--hailed her out of the darkness.
"alie!" hailed the voice. "alie! is that you?"
still dazed, she could not answer. the voice, close this time, 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--she recognized, within a yard of her, the trim, old-fashioned figure, the vast beard of rear-admiral billy.
"good god!" panted the admiral. "good god--i've never run so fast in me life." and, without another word, he gripped her by the arm, steering her rapidly through the dark passage into pump court, out of pump court, past the temple itself, and across king's bench walk.
"billy!" she managed to gasp. "billy, where are you taking me?"
"to my damn fool of a son."
she tried to free herself, but the grasp on her elbow tightened. for rear-admiral billy, rushing hot-foot out of sir peter's offices and--directed by the commissionaire--down the embankment in pursuit of his son's wife, had determined to 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 not advisable."
it flashed through aliette's distraught mind that she must be having a nightmare. a nightmare! billy's beard meshed his words. billy would go on walking, walking and talking and gripping her by the arm until she woke up. but it couldn't be a nightmare. billy was real--real. billy was dragging her away from ronnie, dragging her back to hector. they were within ten yards of hector's chambers. she recognized the stone stairs, the lamp.
stubbornly, then, she dug her heels into the gravel. stubbornly--one thought only in her mind--she faced her panting captor.
"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's enough for you."
"it isn't." other thoughts, terrible thoughts, harried her. "it isn't. billy, you've just come from sir peter's. did he tell you anything--anything about the codicil--anything about me?"
and rear-admiral billy, for the good of his soul, committed the double perjury: "the only thing i know, me dear, is that my damn fool of a son made up his mind to divorce you nearly a fortnight ago, and that i've been trying to get sir peter to let the pair of you meet ever since. come on, now, don't be obstinate."
almost forced up the stone stairs by the renewed grip on her arm, aliette was aware, dimly, of david patterson's astonished countenance, of the admiral swinging past david patterson, of a chair against which she leaned, of an opening door and a quick inaudible colloquy. then the admiral came back and said to her: "in we go."
automatically in she went.
hector stood, motionless, behind his littered desk. she saw him through a glass, a glass of silence, not as the man she had feared and hated, but as a stranger whose eyes were gentle, whose shoulders were bowed, a complete stranger who proffered no hand. the glass of silence slid away; and the stranger spoke to her.
"won't you sit down?"
exhausted, she obeyed. the stranger turned to hector's father, and said, pleadingly: "you'll leave us alone for five minutes, 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 suddenly she knew him for her legal owner.
"why did you want to see me?" could this be the man who had tortured her so long; this broken, stammering creature whose eyes seemed afraid to look into her eyes?
"i don't quite know. shall we say that i just--just wanted to see you? you mustn't stay more than five minutes, you know. it might--it might invalidate the proceedings--the divorce proceedings. they're rather technical. you see, dear,"--the word came clumsily from between the thin lips--"as things have turned out, i'm afraid--i'm afraid that i shall have to divorce you. i've been trying to arrange things the 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 i wanted to talk to you."
dumbly, realizing a little of the pain behind those gray unshifting pupils, aliette listened. speak she could not. what did the divorce matter? the divorce would come too late. too late!
the man who had found his own soul went on: "what i wanted to tell you was that everything will be done quietly. as quietly as possible. if there's any publicity, you sha'n't suffer 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 deserve kindness of you. i've behaved like a cad right through the piece. but you'll shake hands with me, won't you? you'll part 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 her right hand.
holding his wife's fingers for one last fugitive second, hector brunton was conscious that a shiver--the tiniest faintest shiver as of revulsion--ran through her body. and hector brunton thought: "this is my punishment, my supreme punishment. god, if there is a such a person, can do no more to me."
then, releasing her hand, he said to himself: "but i can't let her go. i can't let her go out of my life like this. she's miserable, miserable."
his father's recent words flashed through his mind. suppose--suppose aliette were to die, as lucy towers had so nearly 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 had reached 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 scurry through the temple; of her taxi chugging, chugging, chugging down the embankment, chugging up northumberland avenue, chugging through trafalgar square, of her taxi blocked in the haymarket, of herself calling frantically through the window, "don't go up the haymarket," of their sweep along pall mall, up st. james's street and along piccadilly, aliette remembered nothing. she knew only that there was hope--a gleam of hope for them all, for ronnie's child, for ronnie, for herself, for hector; knew only that she must act--act at once--before ronnie came home.
perhaps ronnie was home already. perhaps he had gone upstairs to dress. perhaps he had heard her let herself in with her latch-key.
a key! if only there were a key, so that she might lock herself in julia's work-room.
a key! if only there were a key, so that she might open julia's desk. how the fire glowed on the red mahogany, on the yellow brass of the desk! how the fire crackled, crackled!
she must break open the desk. break it open before ronnie could stop her. she must save ronnie--save hector. they were only men. men of the law--of man's law. men only talked. 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. now she was at the desk. now she had inserted the poker through the ormolu handle of the drawer in the pedestal of the desk. now--gingerly--she levered her poker against the mahogany rim of the desk.
but the locked drawer would not open. stubbornly its lock fought against her lever. panic gripped her by the throat. she must be quick--quick. suppose ronnie were home, suppose ronnie heard? ronnie would hate her--hate her for damaging his mother's desk. julia's beautiful desk. never mind--never mind the desk.
frantically, her hands dragged at the poker. the mahogany splintered and splintered. god! what a noise she was making. would the lock never yield?
her eyes blurred. her breasts ached. her wrists ached. she could feel sweat under her armpits, feel the breath whistling through her lips. she was beaten, beaten. she would not be beaten--she would conquer the stubbornness of that lock. conquer it.
teeth set, little hands steel on steel, aliette propped both feet against the pedestal, and flung back her full weight from the lever.
the poker was bent in her hands, the mahogany desk-top splintered to white slivers. but the lock had yielded, the drawer stood out open from its pedestal. there--there lay the 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 the shovel, pressed the will down among the flames.
but the flames would not kindle. the thick parchment would not take fire. it would only curl--curl. the words on the curling parchment hypnotized her. "twenty thousand pounds for the benefit of aliette, née fullerford, at present the wife of----"
slowly, slowly, the parchment was kindling.
but even as aliette's eyes saw the parchment blacken to the flames, her ears caught the sound of a key in the lock of the front door, of the door closing, of feet--ronnie's feet--coming swiftly down the passage.
"alie, alie! i say, darling, are you in the library?"
and a second afterward he stood in the doorway. she knew that he was eying the desk, eying her back as she stooped to hurry her work.
"what are you doing?"
aliette neither looked up nor answered. her thoughts were all for the flames--for the blessed consuming flames.
"what are you burning?"
he sprang across the room at her; and the shovel dropped with a clatter from her nerveless fingers.
turning, she faced him. he put out an arm as though to fend 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 him away from the fire. behind her, in the flames, the last shred of parchment charred to stiff black ashes.
"alie"--the loved face was a blur before her eyes, the loved voice a far-away whisper in her ear--"alie--what have you done? you haven't burnt it? you haven't burnt my mother'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--because of dennis."
"dennis?"
"yes. dennis. our boy, dennis." suddenly, the loved face 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 understood a little of his own unworthiness.
