"Bad French novel," she echoed. "Why do you read it if it is bad? I wouldn't."
"All people are not perfect," he said recklessly. "Most of us--except you--have a bad side. I often wonder what you would say if I were to show you mine?"
"You couldn't," she said softly.
He had literally to harden his heart before he could go on, and then he had to double back. "It--it isn't a bad book after all," he went on turning the leaves idly, "it is only real life. I'll tell you the story if you like. Of course it is about a woman, and a man, and--and a husband--the old story that is always cropping up in the world, so the book's no good." He threw it aside in sudden impulse upon the table, and knelt down beside her. "Aura," he said passionately, "you and I know the beginning of the story well. Why should we try and escape from the ending of it? Oh! for God's sake, child, don't look like that!"
She had sprung up and was glancing down at the white shimmering folds of her gown in absolute horror.
"It is the dress," she muttered. "It is not me--it is not you, Ned--oh Ned, it can't be you--it is the dress--I will go home--I must go home----"
"Aura!" he cried, but she eluded him and was out in the wide lit corridor ere he could even ask her to be calm--to forgive him--to forget. He glanced after her for a moment; then with a curse at himself closed the door and sat down moodily before the fire. What was the good?
Between the palms, the roses, the endless flowers and curtains of the corridor were many a cosy corner, many a prepared nook where men and women in the intervals between the dances sought seclusion and love-making, more or less casual according to the taste of the makers--and where passion, doubtless, had gone further than Ned's brief outburst.
"Hullo, Aura!" came her husband's voice as he issued from one of these corners with Miss Hirsch on his arm. "All alone! Why, what's up?"
The necessity for calm came to her. "I was looking for you," she said. "I want you to order the carriage for me. I'm feeling--not very well--and I shall be better at home--you see, as I don't dance." She looked helplessly at him wondering if she would be allowed to go.
"I'll take you home, of course, if you want to go," he said gloomily--"that is, if Miss Hirsch will excuse me." His regret for three more dances with the jolliest girl he had met for years was in his voice.
"Then I won't go," she began, "I couldn't spoil----"
"You are not looking a bit well," said Miss Hirsch kindly. "See! I'll take you to the ladies' room. Mr. Cruttenden, you might send her in a glass of champagne. Then you can have a quiet rest there, and go home later if you want to, but I expect you'll be all right by supper time."
She nodded knowingly to Ted and went off with Aura, bursting over with friendliness.
But, left alone in charge of a bevy of prim maids, with the untouched champagne before her, Aura's courage rose. She would do what she wanted to do. So, on her programme card she wrote a note to her husband using all the most consoling phrases she could think of--"Feeling a little bilious," was in itself sufficient to allay any anxiety--ended up with a cheerful--"I shall be asleep long ere you come home, please enjoy yourself," and leaving this to be given to him when he came to inquire, slipped away. The clocks were just striking half-past eleven when she paid the cabman at the gate. She had forgotten the latch-key, but, thank heaven, the servants were still up. It was New Year's Eve. Her thoughts flew back to Cwmfaernog, to the last New Year's Day when she had learnt so many things.
She was going to learn more now. She could not understand. She did not know what the world meant. She was going to see for herself once and for all.
As she thought this she was stripping off Myfanwy's creation.
"Enjoy herself!" She flung it into a corner almost with a cry, and the next minute stood in her white serge and the brown Tam-o'-Shanter.
Mercifully some faint instinct of self-preservation made her muffle up the bronze beauty of her hair and hide some of the perfection of her face under a thick veil. The next instant she had carefully closed the front door again, and was hurrying away down the road towards the electric tram. They went till midnight; that would take her quickest to the heart of the great city. She had Ted's duplicate latch-key with her; she would try and be back before he returned.
Hitherto she had sought for the uttermost wisdom of nature amongst the everlasting hills--now she was going to seek the uttermost wisdom of man in his haunts.
"Hullo! Polly, my dear, ain't you comin' my side?" came a voice from the shadows over the way, but she was close to the tram lines now, and a car was coming along. It was full of holiday-makers singing, shouting, harmless enough, but over hilarious. Here there were more appeals to Polly (why perpetually Polly rather puzzled her) as she clung to a strap, until a jovial elderly man pulled her down on his knee. Whereat the whole car roared as if it were some exquisite joke.
But they meant no harm; they were only just a little convivial.
The car stopped at the Cross, the centre of the great city, and she got out. It was a fine old Cross, weather-beaten, worn, bearing on its four sides beneath the soaring quaintly floreated Symbol of Salvation, four bas-reliefs of the Passion of the Master, the Scourging, the Mocking, the Cross-carrying, the Crucifying.
Beneath the latter Aura stood looking out with clear eyes at the conduct of Christendom. The radiating streets were all thronged; the late music-halls were belching out their crowds, the supper-rooms were preparing to close by turning out their guests. But the streets were not ready for bed.
What a crowd! Gaily dressed women of almost all types. Some painted, bedizened, unmistakable, others apeing them amused, uncertain, even faintly repelled. Men with every expression on their faces, from evil passion, through vulgarity, to contemptuous tolerance. Half-grown girls more outrageous than their elders, half-grown lads jostling, leering, raiding the pavement-walkers into the very street. The electric light danced and quivered, the moistened mud of a thousand footsteps sparkled and shone.
Where in all her midnight walks upon the hills had she seen a sight like to this?
As she stood, more than one offer of a drink fell on her ears; but she took no notice.
"If you ain't goin'," said a policeman familiarly, "you must move on.
I can't 'ave you standin' doing nothin'."
So she quitted the shadow of the Crucifixion; but at the corner of the street also, it was still "move on," when she herself had failed to move on; so the next time the offer of a drink came she accepted it.
"Bully for you, my girl; come along," said the offerer, and they went across to a gin shop, the doors of which had never once been still; the flashing of their backwards and forward swing beating out the seconds with the regularity of a clock.
How bright it was! How full these last few minutes before twelve.
The offerer appraised his guest critically, "Sherry!" he ordered, "and the usual--now! my girl, drink it up sharp. The night's young for pleasure yet, but we shall have to turn out and find some other place."
Aura looked at him clearly; at the face, not bad in itself, but overlaid with sensuality.
"I am not going to drink," she said coldly. "I only came in to see--and I have seen."
She turned to go. Luckily for her, his torrent of obscene abuse was interrupted by a general exodus; for suddenly the Town Hall clock boomed, the church bells rang out, the old year passed, the new year began; began with shouts and curses and kisses and laughter. Some one struck up "Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot," and a band of perfect strangers to each other, hand-clasped and feeling wildly at each end for further friendship, lurched across the street.
A Salvation lass, her face vivid with intent, clutched at Aura's arm.
"Don't go with him, my girl--don't--he is the Devil--he is Sin incarnate--he is----"
"I am not going," answered Aura in a queer strained voice. "I am in school. I am learning. I want to see for myself."
"That was Eve's sin--you are lost--come--come with me."
The crowd jostled them apart, jostled Aura into the shadow of a narrow archway. More than one man's face looked into the shadow, spoke, then passed on with a jibe. The streets were beginning to empty; the crowd was dissolving into couples; men and women were hurrying away into the side streets. She must be going also.
"Hullo! you young devil! I have got you again, have I?" came a hoarse voice, and a hand clutched at her arm.
She wrenched it away, and looked for escape. Beside the low archway rose a flight of steps, above the steps a wider archway. A small door in it stood open. Scarcely thinking what she did, she sprang towards it, set aside a leathern curtain, and for the first time in her life found herself in a church. At least the man would not follow her here.
What a quaint little place! It was almost dark, but lights were burning, small twinkling lights set in the form of a star at the further end, and she went forward curiously. The chapel, for it was no more than that, was not quite empty. Here and there among the shadowy chairs some figure--generally two figures together--showed dimly.
It must be a Roman Catholic chapel, for that gracious woman's figure crowned with stars uplifted above the sanctuary doors with a child in her arms, must be the Blessed Mother.
Aura's heart leapt up to her. That she understood. And what was this at her gracious feet, beneath the five-pointed star of light?
That was the mother again kneeling in adoration before her new-born child, while the ox and the ass worshipped with wide, soft eyes, and the shepherds and the wise men thronged the door.
Aura knelt down before the _creche_, her eyes wide, soft as those of the beasts that perish. Here was peace. Here was perfection! No! not perfection, but the road to it. This was the solution of the horrors of human life outside, but beyond human life lay the life that was not human, the something better of her dreams.
A touch on her shoulder roused her. One of the Sisters of the Immaculate Conception, engaged in this rescue work, was beside her.
"Courage!" she said. "Courage! my sister! Our Blessed Lady will help you. Give up your sinful life."
Aura rose and looked at her simply. "I am not a bad woman," she said.
"I--I don't think I ever could have been one. Now I know I couldn't."
Then she flushed up. "I--I should like to give something," she continued, and thrusting her purse into the sister's hand, she turned and passed rapidly into the street again.