The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton 43 – Frankau · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton 43Part 10 · Chapter 3
18
Literature · Romance
The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton 43
Part 10 · Chapter 3
FrankauEnglish
It was late, nearly midnight; but Mollie still sat strumming on the piano in the big balconied drawing-room.
Ever since dinner began the girl had been conscious of domestic 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's eyes.
Occasionally, when he thought himself unobserved, Hector would glance at Alie. Mollie knew, of course, that Alie didn't get on very well with Hector. On more than one of her visits to them there had been such periods of tension. But this--to the girl's intuition--seemed far more serious, far nearer definite crisis than anything before. Somehow the situation frightened her; somehow she felt averse to leaving Alie alone with Hector. All the same, one couldn't go on playing ragtimes till dawn.
Mollie fired a final rafale on the bass keys, and closed the piano.
"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 almost evaporated under the fire of Hector's covert glances. Her mind no longer whirled. She knew now--definitely--that contest between them was unavoidable; and, though she still dreaded 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 saw that there were pearls of sweat on his forehead. His hands gripped the blue grapes of the cretonne chair-cover as though he 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 one another."
"What things?" Her voice sounded a little shy, but she no longer averted her eyes. They met his--brown cold and resolute, against gray kindling to passion.
"Everything. Aliette," he began to plead with her, "we can't go on like this for ever."
"Why not?"
"Because the whole position's intolerable. Either you're my 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," he pleaded 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 can see no use in referring to it again."
"Possibly you can't." Hector rose. Her very aloofness urged 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 enforce them."
The words sounded calm enough; but there was no calm in Aliette's heart. Suddenly she grew conscious that the sense of rectitude which had sustained her for three years sustained her no longer. In thought she had descended to her husband's level. Her cheeks flushed.
"Why shouldn't I enforce them?" The flush did not escape his eye. Perhaps, after all, she was no different from other women, from the women who liked one to be forceful. He made a movement towards her. "Why shouldn't I enforce them?" he repeated.
"Because you have no rights." Even his blurred judgment knew better than to touch her. "Because you forfeited them--three years ago."
"That old affair," he muttered sullenly; and drew away from where she sat. Then, excusing himself, "Renée's in Australia. She's been in Australia two years. I paid her passage----"
Proudly, coldly, Aliette answered him back: "I hope you do not discuss your wife with your mistresses in the same way that you discuss your mistresses with your wife."
The cold pride weakened him. "You're very harsh. I made a mistake--three years ago. I admitted it at the time. I admit it once more. I've made--other mistakes. But that's all over. You're a woman, a well-bred woman. You can'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 take her hand. She drew it away from him. The overwhelming physical hunger of his eyes worried her. His feet, on the white rug, showed suddenly enormous, grotesque--grotesque as his affection.
"Why is it impossible?"
She thought how often she had asked herself that same question; knew that--in Ronnie's arms--she had at last found the 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 that overwhelming hunger in Hector's eyes.
She said quietly, "Must we go over all this old ground again?" And since he did not answer: "It does no good. I don't want to hurt you more than I can help. Won't you just leave things as they are? Won't you believe me when I tell you that it's just--impossible?"
His legal mind, suddenly active, caught at the pleading note in 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. The flush had gone from her cheeks; her eyes--aloof, impersonal--told him the utter hopelessness of his cause. And with that knowledge came suspicion--a suspicion formless as the first shadow-haze of storm in a brazen sky.
"I don't wish to hurt you," she reiterated. "But the thing you ask is out of the question; and will always be out of the 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 just said?"
"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 know perfectly well what happens to a man whose wife refuses to live with him. I've never pretended to be a saint: I've left that to you."
"Hector!" Temper clenched her fingers. Her whole fastidiousness revolted against the man, against the topic he would not relinquish.
"I'm sorry if you're shocked"--all his cruelty wanted to shock her, to see her fastidiousness in degradation--"but I'm trying to tell you the truth--just for a change. If you persist in your saintliness, there's only one course open to me. Another Renée! A man can't live without a woman. It isn't fair 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 to me like that? How dare you? Healthy! I suppose that was your idea when you married me. You took me--medicinally."
"Aliette!" Her fury cowed the cruelty in him. "I married you because I loved you. I love you still."
"Love!" Her cheeks kindled. Caution was ripped loose from her as a sail is ripped loose by the wind. The shreds of it flapped against her mind, infuriating her. That this man who might have been father of her children should cloak his lusts 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 me the degradation of what it pleases you to call your love."
At that, definitely, the lawyer in Brunton suspected. Black thoughts drove and drove, thunder-cloud-like, across the sky of his mind; and through the rifts in those thunder-clouds his mind saw two visions--his wife, infernally desirable, infernally distant from the reach of his desires, and a woman to be probed, 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 saintly authority."
"You're insolent." The last shred of her caution parted. "Insolent."
"Perhaps"--his voice dropped two full tones--"I have the right to be insolent."
"Explain yourself, please."
He came so close to her that she could see every pore in the skin of his face. "I should hardly have thought an explanation necessary. I said, 'Perhaps I have the right to be insolent.' It is for you to explain why"--his lips worked--"you regard 'what I am pleased to call my love for you' as a degradation."
"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 to possess--to possess this woman. Why should he not possess her? She was as much his as the furniture in his home, the books in his chambers. By law and by religion, she owed him her body. He had always been chivalrous to her; he had always tried to fall in with her whimsies, to be kind. She had never 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 he wished to spare himself. He wanted her so; his whole body ached for her little hands, for her lips, for the touch of her hair. Why should she thus goad him? Even if--even if she had cared--virtuous women did care sometimes, platonically of course--for somebody else, he could forgive her.
He did not want, even, to forgive. He only wanted to know nothing. He only wanted her to be kind to him, to let him love her--in his own way. Without all this--all this fuss.
But her eyes refused him kindness; her lips demanded their answer. She maddened him with her rigid lips, with her blank unfriendly scrutiny.
"Your conclusion, please, Hector?"
"Since you insist," the words seemed torn from the man's throat, "the conclusion I draw is that--you're in love with somebody 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 would you have to object?"
Aliette saw Hector recoil as though she had struck him; saw rage, incredulity, fear, apprehension, chase in scarlet chaos across his face. His thin lips writhed--as though in torment. But she could feel no pity for his torment. In her eyes, he was the beast, the defiling beast: defeated, he yet stood, shifty on those great feet of his, between her and happiness, between her and her chance of motherhood, between her and--Ronnie.
"Well," she shot at him, "what right would you have to object?"
"I should have the right," he stammered, "the right that any husband possesses. But you're not serious. For God's sake, tell me you're not serious. I haven't been such a bad husband to you. I haven't deserved this----"
Suddenly she remembered Ronnie's words: "Unless he lets you divorce him. Why not? It's done every day." Suddenly she remembered Hector's own words, the speech he had insisted she should read after the Ellerson case.
"You're not serious," he challenged.
"I'm perfectly serious. Please answer my question. And before you answer it, let me remind you of something you said in public not more than a fortnight ago. You said: 'A woman 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--"I want to know, definitely, if there is anybody else."
Her lips pursed to silence. She could almost see Ronnie--and her silence was all for him. For herself she had no fear, only the violent instinct to be free, to be free at any cost, from Hector Brunton.
"Answer me!" He almost shouted at her.
Quietly, she answered, "There is nobody else--in the way you mean."
"Will you swear?"
"You have my word. If that's not enough for you----"
The unfinished sentence tortured him. He saw himself alive, tormented; her as a statue of fate, unmoving, cold by his cold fireside. If only she would make some movement--not stand 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 your property or not? If I asked you for my freedom, would you give it to me?"
"You mean--let you divorce me?"
For a moment, aware of hypocrisy, Aliette hesitated. Then she said, "Yes."
"On what grounds?"
"Your infidelities."
"My infidelities!" He laughed, his legal mind seeing the whole strength of his position. "You have no proof of them. And even if you had, infidelity by itself is no ground for divorce. Besides"--his cruelty could not forbear the blow--"you've condoned them."
"Condoned them! I?"
"Yes. You. By not leaving my house. By continuing to live with me."
"That's untrue. I've never lived with you, since--since I found 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 plead with her,--"think of my position, our position. Even if it were legally possible, you wouldn't ask me----"
He continued to plead till he felt utterly worn out, utterly beaten; till it seemed to him that he had been arguing with her--arguing uselessly--for hours. And all the time he argued, one thought nagged at him: "There is somebody else. There must be somebody else. I must find out who he is."
"Then you refuse," she was saying. "You refuse me my freedom. 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's words about James Wilberforce came into her weary mind--Hector had not beaten around the bush. He had been straight-forward enough; whereas she--she was not being straight-forward, was not playing the game. But the instinct to be free did not abate its violence.
"Very well"--the cross-examiner in Brunton urged him to the playing of his last card,--"I won't go back on my words. I'll admit the justice of everything you've said. You shall have your freedom." Her eyes lit; and his suspicion became certainty. "I'll arrange everything. There need be very little scandal; only the usual fake--a suit for restitution of your conjugal rights. You'll get an order of the court, an order for me to return to you. You needn't worry, I sha'n't comply with it. After that----"
He broke off, watching her. Her face had softened, renewed its coloring. Yet she was nervous. She fidgeted ever so slightly, 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, became the voice of the K.C. "Before I take any steps in this matter, I must have your assurance, your definite assurance, that you are not asking for your freedom with a view--with a view"--he hesitated--"to marrying any one else."
The blood ebbed from Aliette's cheeks: it seemed to her that her heart had stopped beating. This was the test! One downright lie--and she might win to freedom. That issue she saw clearly. But she saw another issue--the issue between herself and Ronnie. Even though Ronnie himself had suggested that she should divorce Hector, his suggestion--she knew--had implied telling Hector the truth. Surely Ronnie would 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 imprinted itself, sharper than sharpest snapshot, on unfading memory. Always, burnt into memory, would remain Hector, his sandy hair awry, his thin lips parted under the bulbous nose, his jowl set; would remain herself, torture-pale on the rack of indetermination; would remain the light white room, blazing with electrics, the stripes of its wall-paper upright as prison bars. No freedom from that prison--save at the price of truth!
But at last, truth spoke.
"I cannot give you that assurance, Hector," said Hector's wife.
About her, the snapshotted scene trembled, shivered and broke to whirling fragments. She was conscious of Hector's hands, itching to take her by the throat, of Hector's feet, of the red fury in Hector's eyes. His hands itched to strike her. If he struck, she would strike back--madly, through those whirling fragments.
But Brunton could not strike; he could not even speak. The insanity of balked desire dumbed his mouth as it numbed his limbs. Nature, fighting like a wild beast, wrenched at the cage of his self-control. He could hear nature wrenching ape-like at his ribs, howling to him: "Kill! Kill both! Kill both the man and the woman!" The blood-lust and the sex-lust were knives in his loins.
"You!" he stammered. "You, you----" Then his hands ceased their itching, and the red in his eyes flickered out, smoldering to gray.
She heard his great feet go creaking across the room, creaking through the doorway, creaking up the staircase. She heard the slam of an upstairs door. She heard herself whisper to the wide-eyed distraught woman who peered out from the mirror over the mantelpiece: "That leaves only one way--only one way to freedom."
