At length the spring came. Along Fleet Street and the Strand

flower-women offered for sale gay vernal blossoms, and baskets gave a

dash of colour to the City’s hurrying gray. There were days when the

very breath of the country, bland and generous, seemed to blow down the

crowded thoroughfare, uplifting weary hearts despondent with long

monotonous toil: the sky was blue, and it was same sky that overhung

green meadows and trees bursting into leaf. Sometimes towards the west

bevies of cloud, dazzling in the sunshine, were piled upon one another,

and at sundown, all rosy and golden, would fill the street with their

effulgence, so that the smoky vapours took a gorgeous opalescence, and

the heart beat with sheer delight of this goodly London town.

One balmy night in May, when the air was suave and fragrant, so that

the heavy step was lightened and the tired mind eased by a strange sad

gaiety, Jenny dined with Basil at the little restaurant in Soho where

now they were well known. Afterwards they went to a music-hall, but the

noise and the glare on that sweet night were unendurable; the pleasant

darkness of the streets called to them, and Basil soon proposed that

they should go from that place of tedium. Jenny agreed with relief, for

the singers left her listless, and an unquiet emotion, which she had

never known, made her heart throb with indescribable yearning. As they

passed into the night she looked at Basil for a moment with wide-open

eyes, in which, strangely mingled, were terror and the primitive

savagery of some wild thing.

“Let’s go on the Embankment,” she whispered. “It’s quiet there.”

They looked at the silent flowing river and at the warehouses of the

Surrey side, uneven against the starlit sky. From one of these gleamed

like a malevolent eye one solitary light, and it gave mystery to that

square mass of dingy brick, suggesting some grim story of lawless

passion and crime. It was low-tide, and below the stone wall was a long

strip of shining mud; but Waterloo Bridge, with its easy arches, was

oddly dapper, and its lights, yellow and white, threw gay reflections

on the water. Near at hand, outlined vaguely by their red lamps, were

moored three barges; and there was a weird magic about them, for,

notwithstanding their present abandonment, they spoke of strenuous life

and passion and toil; for all their squalid brutality there was romance

in the hard, strong men who dwelt there on the widening river,

travelling on an eternal pilgrimage to the salt sea and the open.

They wandered slowly towards Westminster Bridge, and the lights of the

Embankment in their sinuous line were strangely reflected, so that a

forest was seen on the river of fiery piles on which might have been

built a mystic, invisible city. But the short walk wearied them, though

the night was sweet with the savour of springtime, and their limbs were

heavy as lead.

“I can’t walk back,” said Jenny; “I’m too tired.”

“Let us take a cab.”

Basil hailed a passing hansom, and they got in. He gave the address in

Fleet Street of the _Golden Crown_. They did not speak, but the silence

told them things more significant than ever words had done. At last, in

a voice not her own, as though speech were dragged from her, Jenny

broke the oppressive stillness.

“Why have you never kissed me since that first night, Basil?”

She did not look at him, and he made no sign that he heard, but she

felt the trembling of his limbs. Her throat grew hot and dry, and a

horrible anxiety seized her.

“Basil!” she said hoarsely, insisting on an answer.

“Because I didn’t dare.”

She could count now the throbbing of that torturer in her breast, and

the cabman seemed to drive as for a wager. They sped along the

Embankment, and it was very dark.

“But I wanted you to,” she said fiercely.

“Jenny, don’t let us make fools of ourselves.”

But as though his words were from the mouth only, and a stronger power

mastered him, even as he spoke he sought her lips; and because he had

resisted so long their sweetness was doubly sweet. With a stifled gasp

like a wild beast, she flung her arms about him, and the soft fragrance

of her body drove away all thoughts but one: mindless of the

passers-by, he pressed her eagerly to his heart. He was mad with her

fair, yielding beauty and the passion of her surrender, mad with that

never-ending kiss, than which in his whole life he had never known a

greater rapture. And his heart trembled like a leaf trembling before

the wind.

“Will you come back to my rooms, Jenny?” he whispered.

She did not answer, but drew herself more closely to him. He lifted the

trap in the roof of the hansom and told the cabman to drive to the

Temple.

For a week, for a month even, feeling stronger and braver because this

woman had given him her love, Basil enjoyed a very ecstasy of pride; he

faced the world with greater assurance, and life possessed a spirit and

a vigour which were quite new to him. But presently the romantic

adventure gained the look of a somewhat vulgar intrigue, and when he

recalled his ideal of an existence, spotless and pure, given over to

noble pursuits, he was ashamed. This love of his was nothing more than

a passing whim of which the knell sounded with its gratification, and

he saw with dismay that Jenny had given herself to him body and soul:

on her side it was a deathless passion compared with which his

attachment was very cold. Each day fanned the flames in her heart, so

that he became a necessity of her existence, and if by chance he was

too busy to see her an anxious letter came, pitiful in its faulty

spelling and clumsy expression, imploring him to visit her. Jenny was

exacting, and he resigned himself to going every day to the _Golden

Crown_, though that bar grew ever more distasteful. The girl was quite

uneducated, and the evenings they spent together—for now, instead of

going to a theatre, Jenny passed her leisure in Basil’s rooms—went

rather heavily; he found it sometimes hard work to make conversation.

He realised that he was manacled hand and foot with fetters that were

only more intolerable because they consisted of nothing more

substantial than the dread of causing pain. He was a man who bore

uneasily an irregular attachment of this sort, and he asked himself

what could be the end; a dozen times he made up his mind to break with

Jenny, but coming to the point, when he saw how dependent she was upon

his love, had not the courage. For six months, degraded to a habit, the

connection went on.

But it was only by reminding himself constantly that he was not free

that Basil abated his nascent love for Mrs. Murray, and he imagined

that his feeling towards her was different from any he had known

before. His desire now was overwhelming to break from the past that

sullied him, and thenceforward to lead a fresher, more wholesome life:

cost what it might, he must finish with Jenny. He knew that Mrs. Murray

meant to winter abroad, and there was no reason why he, too, should not

go to Italy; there he might see her occasionally, and at the end of six

months, with a free conscience, ask her to be his wife.

Thinking he saw the way more clearly before him, Basil ceased his

lonely promenade and walked slowly into Piccadilly. After the stir and

restless movement of the day, the silence there, unnatural and almost

ghostly, seemed barely credible; and the great street, solemn and empty

and broad, descended in a majestic sweep with the tranquillity and ease

of some placid river. The air was pure and limpid, but resonant, so

that a solitary cab on a sudden sent the whole place ringing, and the

emphatic trot of the horse clattered with long reverberations. The line

of electric lights, impressive by their regularity, self-asserting and

staid, flung their glare upon the houses with an indifferent violence,

and lower down threw into distinctness the straight park railing and

the nearer trees, outlining more sombrely the leafy darkness beyond.

And between, outshone, like an uneven string of discoloured gems

twinkled the yellow flicker of the gas-jets. Everywhere was silence,

but the houses, white except for the gaping windows, had a different

silence from the rest; for in their sleep, closed and bolted, they

lined the pavement helplessly, disordered and undignified, as though

without the busy hum of human voices and the hurrying of persons in and

out they had lost all significance.

VII

On the following Sunday Basil Kent and Hurrell lunched with Miss Ley,

and there met Mr. and Mrs. Castillyon, who came early in the afternoon.

The husband of this lively lady was a weighty man, impressive by the

obesity of his person and the commonplace of his conversation; his head

was bald, his fleshy face clean-shaven, and his manner had the double

pomposity of a landed proprietor and a member of Parliament. It seemed

that Nature had taken a freakish revenge on his dulness when she mated

him with such a sprightly person as his wife, who, notwithstanding his

open adoration, treated him with impatient contempt. Mr. Castillyon

might have been sufferable had he been as silent as he was tedious; but

he had an interminable flow of conversation, and now, finding the

company somewhat overwhelmed by his appearance, seized the opportunity

to air opinions which should more properly have found utterance in that

last refuge of dullards and bores, the House of Commons.

But in a little while, at the butler’s heels, Reggie, with the

stealthiness of a sleek cat, slouched into the room. He was pale after

Saturday’s amusement, but very handsome. Miss Ley, rising to welcome

him, intercepted a glance at Mrs. Castillyon, and, seeing in that

lady’s eye a malicious twinkle, was convinced that the pair had

arranged this meeting. But though it amused the acute woman that an

assignation should be made in her house, she would not have given Mrs.

Castillyon further occasion to exercise her wiles if the member of

Parliament had not bored her into a bad temper. And really Emily

Bassett exaggerated the care she took of her son; it irritated Miss Ley

that anyone should be so virtuous as Reggie was thought to be.

“Paul,” said Mrs. Castillyon, “Mr. Bassett has heard that you’re going

to speak in the House to-morrow, and he would so much like to hear you.

. . . My husband—Mr. Barlow-Bassett.”

“Really! How did you hear that?” asked Mr. Castillyon, delighted.

It was part of Reggie’s ingenuity that he never lied in haste to repent

at leisure. For one moment he meditated, then fixed his eyes firmly on

Frank to prevent a contradiction.

“Dr. Hurrell told me.”

“Of course I shall be delighted if you’ll come,” pursued the orator. “I

shall speak just before dinner. Won’t you dine afterwards? I’m afraid

the dinner they give you is very bad.”

“He won’t mind that after he’s heard you speak, Paul,” said Mrs.

Castillyon.

A faint smile flickered on her lips at the success of this manœuvre.

Mr. Castillyon turned blandly to Miss Ley, with the little shake of his

whole body which announced a display of eloquence. Frank and Basil

immediately jumped up and bade Miss Ley farewell; they walked together

towards the Embankment, and for awhile neither spoke.

“I wanted to talk to you, Frank,” said Basil at last. “I’m thinking of

going abroad for the winter.”

“Are you? What about the Bar?”

“I don’t mind about that. After all, I have enough to live on, and I

mean to have a shot if I can do any real good as a writer. Besides, I

want to break with Jenny, and I can think of no kinder way to do it.”

“I think you’re very wise.”

“Oh, I wish I hadn’t got into this mess, Frank. I don’t know what to

do. I’m afraid she’s grown a good deal fonder of me than I ever thought

she would, and I don’t want to cause her pain. I can’t bear it when I

think of the wretchedness she’ll suffer—and yet we can’t go on as we

are.”

Frank remained silent, with compressed lips and a stern look on his

face. Basil divined the unspoken censure, and burst out passionately.

“Oh, I know I oughtn’t to have given way. D’you think I’ve not bitterly

regretted? I never thought she’d take it any more seriously than I did.

And, after all, I’m a man like any other. I have passions as other men

have. I suppose most men in my place would have done as I did.”

“I didn’t venture to reproach you, Basil,” said Frank dryly.

“I meant to do only good to the girl. But I lost my head. After all, if

we were all as cool at night as we are in the morning. . . .”

“Life would be a Sunday-school,” interrupted Frank.

At that moment they were near Westminster Bridge, and a carriage passed

them. They saw that in it sat Mrs. Murray, and she bowed gravely; Basil

reddened and looked back.

“I wonder if she’s on the way to Miss Ley.”

“Would you like to go back and see?” asked Frank coldly.

He looked sharply at Basil, who flushed again, and then threw off his

momentary hesitation.

“No,” he answered firmly; “let us go on.”

“Is it on account of Mrs. Murray that you wish to throw over Jenny?”

“Oh, Frank, don’t think too hardly of me. I hate the ugly sordid

vulgarity of an intrigue. I wanted to lead a cleaner life than most men

because of my—because of Lady Vizard; and when I’ve been with Jenny I’m

disgusted with myself. If I’d never seen Mrs. Murray, I should still do

all I could to finish.”

“Are you in love with Mrs. Murray?”

“Yes,” answered Basil, after a moment’s pause.

“D’you think she cares for you?”

“The other night I felt sure of it, but now again I’m doubtful. Oh, I

want her to care for me. I can’t help it, Frank, this is quite a

different love from the other; it lifts me up and supports me. I don’t

want to seem a prig, but when I think of Mrs. Murray I can’t imagine

anything unworthy. And I’m proud of it because my love for her is

almost spiritual. If she does care for me and will marry me, I think I

may do some good in the world. I fancied that if I went away for six

months Jenny would gradually think less of me—I think it’s better to

drift apart than just to break cruelly at once.”

“It would certainly be less painful to you,” said Frank.

“And when I’m free I shall go to Mrs. Murray, tell her the whole story,

and ask her to marry me.”

Basil lived in a pleasant court of the Temple to which, notwithstanding

the sordid contentions of its daily life, the old red houses and the

London plane-trees, with their leafy coolness, gave a charm full of

repose. His rooms, on the top floor, were furnished simply, but with

the taste of a man who cared for beautiful things. The ladies of Sir

Peter Lely, with their sweet artificial grace, looked down in mezzotint

from the panelled walls, and the Sheraton furniture gave a delicate

austerity to the student’s room.

Frank filled his pipe, but they had not been long seated, when there

came a knock at the door.

“I wonder who the dickens that is?” said Basil. “I don’t often have

visitors on Sunday afternoon.”

He went into the tiny passage and opened. Frank heard Jenny’s voice.

“Can I come in, Basil? Is anyone there?”

“Only Frank,” he answered, leading the way in.

Jenny was arrayed in Sabbath garments, the colours of which to the

doctor’s eye seemed a little crude; the bright bow in her black hat

contrasted violently with a fawn jacket, but her beauty was such as to

overcome all extravagance of costume. She was rather tall, handsomely

made, with the rounded hips and full breasts of a passionate woman; her

features were chiselled with the clean perfection of a Greek statue,

and no duchess could have had a shorter lip or a more delicate nose;

her pink ears were more exquisite than the shells of the sea. But it

was her wonderful colouring which chiefly attracted notice, with the

rich magnificence of her hair, the brilliant eyes, and the creamy

perfection of her skin. Her face had a girlish innocence which was very

captivating, and Frank, observing her with critical gaze, could not

deny that Mrs. Murray by her side, notwithstanding all the advantages

of dress and manner, would have been reduced to insignificance.

“I thought you were going home this afternoon,” said Basil.

“No, I couldn’t manage it. I came here immediately after we closed at

three, but you weren’t in. I was so afraid that you wouldn’t come

before six o’clock.”

It was very clear that Jenny wished to talk with Basil, and Frank,

deliberately knocking out the ashes of his pipe, rose to go. His host

accompanied him downstairs.

“Look here, Basil,” said Frank; “if I were you I’d take this

opportunity to tell Jenny that you’re going away.”

“Yes, I mean to. I’m glad she’s come. I wanted to write to her, but I

think that would be funking it. Oh, I hate myself because I must cause

her so much pain.”

Frank walked away. Disposed at first to envy Basil his good fortune, he

had cursed his fate because pretty girls never fell desperately

enamoured of him: it would certainly have been a bore, and to him more

than to another an insufferable slavery, but yet the marked abstention

was not flattering. Now, however, on his way to the club, wanted by no

one, with no claims on him of any sort, he congratulated himself

cynically because fair ladies kept their smiles for persons more

fascinating than himself.

When Basil returned to his room, he found that Jenny had not, as usual,

taken off her hat, but stood by the window looking at the door. He went

to kiss her, but she drew back.

“Not to-day, Basil. I’ve got something to say to you.”

“Well, take off your things first, and make yourself comfortable.”

It occurred to him that Jenny had perhaps quarrelled with her employer

at the _Golden Crown_, or wished to reproach him because for a couple

of days he had not seen her, and, lighting his pipe, he answered with

careless gaiety. He did not see that she looked at him strangely, but

when she spoke there was such tragic anguish in her tone that he was

startled.

“I don’t know what I should have done if I’d not found you in to-day.”

“Good heavens, Jenny! what’s the matter?”

Her voice broke with a sob.

“I’m in trouble, Basil.”

The tears cut his heart, and very tenderly he put his arms round her;

but again she withdrew.

“No, please don’t sit near me, or I shall never have the courage to

tell you.”

She stood up, drying her eyes, and walked up and down.

“I wanted to see you this morning, Basil. I came to your door, and then

I was afraid to knock. So I went away again. And then this afternoon,

when I couldn’t make you hear, I thought you’d gone away, and I

couldn’t have borne another night of it.”

“Tell me quickly what it is, Jenny.”

A horrible fear seized him, and his cheeks grew pale as hers. She

watched him with anxious eyes.

“I’ve not been feeling very well these last few days,” she whispered,

“and yesterday I went to the doctor. He told me I was going to have a

child.”

And then, hiding her face, she sobbed bitterly, Basil’s heart sank

within him, and when he looked at that wretched girl, bowed down with

fear and shame, he was filled with remorse. If he had never regretted

before, he regretted now, with all his soul.

“Don’t cry, Jenny; I can’t bear it.”

She looked up hopelessly, and the ugliness of that fair face,

pain-distraught, tortured him. He was all confused, and many an impulse

madly skeltered through his brain: he, too, feared, but at the same

time, above all and overmastering, was a wonderful elation because he

would be the father of a living child. His pulse throbbed with pride,

and like a miracle a sudden love mysteriously burnt op his heart; he

took Jenny in his arms and kissed her more passionately than he had

ever done before.

“Oh, don’t, for God’s sake; it’s nothing to you,” she cried, trying to

tear herself away. “But what about me? I wish I was dead. I’d always

been straight till I knew you.”

He could bear her agony no longer, and the thought which had come to

him immediately now grew irresistible. There was one way to dry those

tears, one way alone to repair that wrong, and a rising flood of

passion made it very easy. His whole soul demanded one definite course,

uplifting him and crushing every nascent objection; but his heart beat

painfully when he spoke, for he was taking an irretrievable step, and

God only knew what would be the end.

“Don’t cry, darling; it’s not so bad as all that,” he said. “We’d

better get married at once.”

With a little gasp Jenny’s sobs were stilled, and quite motionless,

looking down, she clung to Basil like a thing from which all life was

gone. The words sank into her mind slowly, and she puzzled over them as

though they were said in a language she barely understood; and then,

still silent, she began to tremble.

“Say that again, Basil,” she whispered, and after a pause: “Did you

mean it? Can you bring yourself to marry me?”

She stood up and looked at him, dishevelled and beautiful, a tragic

figure in whose unutterable woe was a most noble pathos.

“I’m only a barmaid, Basil.”

“You’re the mother of my child, and I love you,” he answered gravely.

“I’ve always longed to have children, Jenny, and you’ve made me very

proud and very happy.”

Her eyes shone with tears, and into her anxious, terror-stricken face

came a look of such ecstatic happiness that Basil felt himself ten

times rewarded.

“Oh, Basil, you are good. You do mean it, don’t you? And I shall be

with you always?”

“Did you think so badly of me as to suppose I would throw you over

now?”

“Oh, I was afraid. You’ve cared for me less of late, and I’ve been so

unhappy, Basil, but I didn’t dare show it. At first I hadn’t the

courage to tell you, because I thought you’d be angry. I knew you

wouldn’t let me starve, but you might just have given me money and told

me to go.”

He kissed her hands, aflame as never before with her radiant beauty.

“I didn’t know I loved you so much,” he cried.

She sank into his arms with a sob, but it was a sob now of

uncontrollable passion, and avid of love she sought his lips.

Basil had in his passage a little gas-stove, and presently, with a

charming housewifely grace, Jenny set about making the tea: languorous

and happy, she was proud to do things for him, and insisted, while she

prepared, that he should sit still and smoke.

“I wish we needn’t keep a servant, Basil, so as I might wait on you.”

“You mustn’t go back to that beastly bar.”

“I can’t leave them in a hole, you know. I shall have to give a week’s

notice.”

“Then give it at once, and as soon as you’re free we’ll be married.”

“Oh, I shall be so happy!” she sighed with rapture.

“Now, look here: we must be sensible and talk over things. You know I’m

not very well-to-do. I’ve only got three hundred a year.”

“Oh, that’s lots,” she cried. “Why, dad has never had more than

three-ten a week.”

Basil smiled doubtfully, for his tastes were expensive, and he had

never been able satisfactorily to make ends meet. But he persuaded

himself that two persons could live more economically than one; he

would give serious attention to his law, and had no doubt that in time

he would earn an income. While he waited for briefs he might write.

They could afford a little house in the suburbs at Barnes or Putney,

and, so as not to be extravagant, for their honeymoon would merely go

to Cornwall for a fortnight. After that he must set to work

immediately.

“Ma will be surprised when I tell her I’m going to get married,” said

Jenny, laughing. “You must come down and see them.”

Though a brother in the City sometimes came to the _Golden Crown_,

Basil had never made acquaintance with any of Jenny’s relations; he

knew that they lived at Crouch End.

“I wouldn’t have gone back to them if you hadn’t said you’d marry me,

Basil. Ma would have turned me out of doors. I was frightened to go

down to-day in case she suspected something.” Suddenly, a doubt rising

in her mind, she turned to him quickly. “You do mean it, don’t you? You

won’t go back on me now?”

“Of course not, you foolish child. Don’t you think I shall be proud to

have so beautiful a wife?”

Jenny was obliged to go a little before six, at which hour the _Golden

Crown_ opened its doors to thirsty Christians; and Basil, having

accompanied her thither, walked on to consider this new state of his

affairs. The capacity to stand quite alone, careless of praise or

censure, is very rare among men, and he, temperamentally lacking

confidence in himself, felt at that moment a most urgent need for

advice and sympathy; but Frank was inaccessible, and he could not

disturb Miss Ley again that day. He went to his club and wrote a note

asking if he might see her the following morning.

He slept uneasily, and getting up later than usual, had scarcely

finished breakfast, when an answer came to say that she would be

pleased to walk with him at eleven in St. James’s Park. He fetched her

punctually. They sauntered for a while, looking at the wild-fowl, and

Basil, hesitating, spoke of indifferent subjects; but Miss Ley, noting

his unusual gravity, surmised that he had a difficult communication to

make.

“Well, what is it?” she asked point-blank, sitting down.

“Only that I’m going to be married.”

Her thoughts at once went to Mrs. Murray, and she wondered when Basil

could have found opportunity for his declaration.

“Is that all?” she cried, smiling. “It’s a very proper proceeding for

young things, but surely you need not look so serious over it.”

“I’m going to marry a Miss Bush.”

“Who on earth is she? I’ve never heard of her,” answered the good lady,

turning to him with surprise; but a dim recollection flashed across her

mind. “Wasn’t it a certain Jenny Bush that Frank told me you had

discovered somewhere and vowed was the loveliest creature in the

world?” She gave him a long and searching look. “I suppose you’re not

going to marry a barmaid from a public-house in Fleet Street?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

’But why?”

“Presumably because I’m in love with her.”

“Nonsense! A susceptible youth falls in love with a dozen girls, but in

a country where monogamy is enforced by Act of Parliament, it is

impracticable to marry them all.”

“I’m afraid I can give you no other reason.”

“You might really have made that interesting announcement by letter,”

returned Miss Ley dryly.

He looked down with a discouraged air, and for a while was silent.

“I must talk it over with someone,” he burst out at length. “I’m so

utterly alone, and I have no one to help or advise me. . . . I’m

marrying Jenny because I must I’ve known her for some time—the whole

thing was sordid and hateful—and yesterday after I left you she came to

my rooms. She was half hysterical, poor thing, she hardly knew what she

was saying, and she told me . . . .”

“What you very well might have foreseen,” interrupted Miss Ley.

“Yes.”

Miss Ley meditated, slowly drawing her initials with the point of her

parasol in the gravel, and Basil stared at her anxiously.

“Are you sure you’re not making a fool of yourself!” she asked finally.

“You’re not in love with her, are you?”

“No.”

“Then you have no right to marry her. Oh, my dear boy, you don’t know

how tiresome marriage is sometimes, even with persons of the same class

and inclinations. I’ve known so many people in my life, and I’m

convinced that marriage is the most terrible thing in the world unless

passion makes it absolutely inevitable. And I hate and abhor with all

my soul those fools who strive to discredit and ignore that.”

“If I don’t marry Jenny she’ll kill herself. She’s not like an ordinary

barmaid. Until I knew her she was perfectly straight. It means absolute

ruin to her.”

“I think you exaggerate. After all, it’s not much more than a very

regrettable incident due to your—innocence; and there’s no need for

desperate courses or histrionics. You will behave lite a gentleman, and

take proper care of the girl. She can go into the country till the

whole thing is over, and when she comes back no one will be the wiser

nor she very much the worse.”

“But it isn’t a matter of people knowing; it’s a matter of honour.”

“Isn’t it rather late in the day to talk of morality? I don’t see where

precisely the honour came in when you seduced her.”

“I dare say I’ve been an utter cad,” he answered humbly; “but I see a

plain duty before me, and I must do it.”

“You talk as though such things had never happened before,” pursued

Miss Ley.

“Oh yes, I know they happen every day. If the girl gives way, so much

the worse for her; it’s no business of the man’s. Let her go on the

streets, let her go to the devil, and be hanged to her.”

Miss Ley, pursing her lips, shrugged her shoulders. She wondered how he

proposed to live, since his income was quite insufficient for the

necessities of a family, and he was peculiarly unsuited to the long

drudgery of the Bar. She knew the profession termed “literary” well

enough to be aware that in it little money could be earned. Basil

lacked the journalistic quickness, and it took him two years to write a

novel for which he would probably not get more than fifty pounds; and

his passion for the analysis of mental states offered small chance of

lucrative success. Besides, he was extravagant, and would hate to pinch

and spare: nor had he occasion ever to learn the difficult art of

getting a shilling’s-worth of goods for twelve coppers.

“I suppose you’ve realized that people will cut your wife,” Miss Ley

added.

“Then they will cut me too.”

“But you’re the last man in the world to give up these things. There’s

nothing you enjoy more than dinner-parties and visits to country

houses. Women’s smiles are all important to you.”

“You talk of me as if I were a tame cat,” he returned, smiling. “After

all, I’m only trying to do my duty. I made an awful mistake, and heaven

knows how bitterly I’ve regretted it. But now I see the way clearly

before me, and whatever the cost, I must take it.”

Miss Ley looked at him sharply, and her keen gray eyes travelled over

his face in a minute examination.

“Are you sure you don’t admire a little too much your heroic attitude?”

she asked, and in her voice was a stinging coldness at which Basil

winced. “Nowadays self-sacrifice is a luxury which few have the

strength to deny themselves; people took to it when they left off sugar

because it was fattening, and they sacrifice themselves wantonly, from

sheer love of it, however worthless the object. In fact, the object

scarcely concerns them; they don’t care how much they harm it so long

as they can gratify their passion.”

“When I asked Jenny to marry me, and saw the radiant joy in her poor,

tear-stained face, I knew I’d done the right thing. Ah, what does it

matter if I’m wretched, so long as I can make her happy!”

“I wasn’t thinking of your wretchedness, Basil. I was thinking that you

had done that girl harm enough already without marrying her. . . .

D’you think she’ll be anything but utterly miserable? You’re only doing

this from selfishness and cowardice, because you love your self-esteem

and you’re afraid to give pain.”

This point of view was new to Basil, but it seemed unreasonable. He put

it hastily aside.

“All this time you’ve not thought of the child, Miss Ley,” he said

slowly. “I can’t let the child skulk into the world like a thief. Let

him go through life with an honest name; it’s hard enough without

marking him with a hideous stigma. And, after all, I’m proud to be the

father of a living child. Whatever I suffer, whatever we both suffer,

it will be worth it for that.”

“When are you to be married?” asked Miss Ley, after a pause.

“I think this day week. You won’t abandon me, Miss Ley, will you?”

“Of course not?” she answered, smiling gently. “I think you’re a fool,

but then most people are. They never realize that they have only one

life, and mistakes are irreparable. They play with it as though it were

a game of chess in which they could try this move and that, and when

they get in a muddle, sweep the board clear and begin again.”

“But life is a game of chess in which one is always beaten. Death sits

on the other side of the board, and for every move he has a

counter-move, for all your deep-laid schemes a parry.”

They walked back to Old Queen Street, both occupied with their

thoughts, and at her door Miss Ley gave Basil her hand. He hesitated a

little, but forced himself to speak.

“There’s one thing more. Miss Ley: I fancied—that Mrs. Murray . . . . I

dare say I was wrong, but I shouldn’t like her to think too ill of me.”

“I’m afraid you must put up with that,” replied Miss Ley sharply.

“There was nothing in the way of an engagement between you?”

“Nothing.”

“I shall see her in a day or two, and I’ll tell her that you’re going

to be married.”

“But what will she think of me?”

“I suppose you don’t want her to know the truth?”

“No. I told you only because I felt I must talk it over with someone.

Of all persons, I least wish Mrs. Murray to know.”

“Then you must let her think as she chooses. Good-bye.”

“Have you nothing more to say to me than that?” he asked despairingly.

“My dear, if you can suffer all things, you may venture all things.”

VIII

Miss Ley found the Dean alone in the library, for the Langtons returned

to Tercanbury that afternoon, and Bella was spending her last morning

at the Stores.

“You know, Algernon, in this world it’s the good who do all the harm,”

remarked Miss Ley, sitting down. “The bad carry off their wrong-doing

with a certain dash which lessens the iniquity, and common-sense robs

their vice of sting; but there’s no reasoning with a man conscious of

his own rectitude.”

“That is a very subversive doctrine,” answered the Dean, smiling.

“Only the wicked should sin, for experience teaches them moderation,

and little hurt befalls. But when the virtuous slip from the narrow

path they flounder hopelessly, committing one error after another in

the effort to right themselves by the methods of virtue. Under like

circumstances they injure all concerned far more desperately than the

entirely vicious, because they won’t face the fact that a different

code is applicable.”

“Pray tell me the reason of this harangue.”

“A young friend of mine has done a foolish thing, and means to cap it

with another. He came to me just now ostensibly for advice, but in

reality that I might applaud his magnanimity.”

Without giving names, Miss Ley told her cousin Basil’s story.

“My first curacy was at Portsmouth,” the Dean said when she finished,

“and I was then very intolerant of evil, very eager to right the wrong.

I remember one of my parishioners got into a similar trouble, and for

the child’s sake as well as for the woman’s I insisted that the man

should marry. I practically dragged them to the altar by the hair of

their heads, and when I had properly legalized the position felt I had

done a good day’s work: six months afterwards the man cut his wife’s

throat and was duly hanged. If I hadn’t been so officious two lives

might have been spared.”

“Mrs. Grundy is a person of excellent understanding, who does not in

the least deserve the obloquy with which she is now regarded. She does

not mind if a man is a little wild, and if he isn’t thinks him rather a

milksop; but with admirable perspicacity she realizes that for the

woman a straighter rule is needed: if _she_ falls Mrs. Grundy, without

the smallest qualm, will give the first push into the pit. Society is a

grim monster, somnolent apparently, so that you think you can take

every kind of liberty; but all the time he watches you, he watches

slily, and when you least expect it puts out an iron hand to crush

you.”

“I hope Bella won’t be late,” said the Dean; “we haven’t too much time

after luncheon to catch our train.”

“Society has made its own decalogue, a code just fit for middling

people, who are neither very good nor very bad; but the odd thing is it

punishes you just as severely if you act above its code as if you act

below.”

“Sometimes it makes a god of you when you’re dead.”

“But it takes precious good care to crucify you when you’re alive,

Algernon.”

Soon after this Bella came in, and when the Dean went upstairs, told

Miss Ley that on her bookseller’s advice she had purchased for Herbert

Field the two portly tomes of Dowden’s _Life of Shelley_.

“I hope soon he’ll have enough poetry to make a little volume,” said

Bella, “and then I shall ask him if I may arrange for publication. I

wonder if Mr. Kent will help me to find a publisher.”

“You will find a bank balance your best friend there, my dear,”

answered Miss Ley.

Basil announced the approaching marriage to his solicitor, for his

small fortune was held in trust, and his mother’s signature was needed

for various documents. In a day or two the following letter reached

him.

“CHER ENFANT.

“I find that you mean to be married, and I desire to give you my

maternal blessing. Do come to tea to-morrow and receive it in due

form. You have sulked with me quite long enough, and the masculine

boudeur is always a trifle ridiculous. In case it has escaped your

memory I venture to remind you that I am—your mother.

“Yours affectionately,

“MARGUERITE VIZARD.”

“P.S.—It is one of the ironies of nature, that though a man, if his

father is canaille, may console himself with the thought that this

relationship is always a little uncertain, with regard to his mother he

can lay no such flattering unction to his soul.”

Lady Vizard was shrewd when she prophesied that a couple of years would

suffice for her to regain the place in society due to her beauty,

wealth, and distinction. None knew better that her position after the

trial was precarious, and it required much tact to circumvent the many

pitfalls. She was aware that the two best stepping-stones for social

aspirants are philanthropy and the Church of Rome, but the astute

creature did not think her state so desperate as to need conversion,

and a certain assiduity in charitable pursuits offered all that was

requisite. Lady Vizard made a dead-set for respectability in the person

of a tedious old lady, whose rank and opulence gave her unlimited

credit with the world, and whose benevolence made her an easy tool.

Lady Edward Stringer was a little old woman with false teeth and a

bright chestnut wig, always set awry; and, though immensely dull,

managed to assemble in her drawing-rooms everyone in London of real

importance. A relation of Lord Vizard, she had quarrelled with him

desperately, and it was but natural that his wife should pour her

troubles into a willing ear. Now, when she chose, Lady Vizard could

assume a manner so flattering that few could resist it: she had an

agile tongue and so good a memory for the lies she told that she was

never caught tripping; she unfolded the story of her matrimonial

unhappiness with such pathetic skill that Lady Edward, touched,

promised to do everything to help her. She appeared at the old lady’s

parties, was seen with her in all places where fashion congregates; and

presently the world concluded it could well afford to know an amusing

woman who suffered from no lack of money.

When Basil arrived, obedient to her summons, he found his mother seated

in that favourite attitude in which she had been painted; and the

portrait, by its daring colour the sensation of its season, hung behind

her to show how little in ten years the clever woman had changed. By

her side were the inevitable cigarettes, smelling-salts, and a French

novel which on its appearance lately had excited a prosecution. Lady

Vizard held a stall at a forthcoming bazaar, and it was not altogether

without satisfaction that she read at that moment the prospectus in

which her name figured on a list whereof the obvious respectability was

highly imposing.

Tall and statuesque, she wore her gowns with a flaunting extravagance

rather than with the simplicity, often bordering on slovenliness, of

most of her countrywomen. She had no desire to conceal from masculine

gaze the sinuous outlines of her splendid figure, and dressed, with the

bold effrontery of the sensual woman, to draw attention to her

particular anatomy rather than to conceal it. Nor was she strange to

the intricate art of _maquillage:_ the average Englishwoman who paints

her face, characteristically feeling it a first step in the descent to

Avernus, paints it badly. She can never avoid the idea that cosmetics

are a little wicked or a little vulgar, and a tiny devil, cloven-footed

and betailed, lurks always at the bottom of her rouge-pot. Then,

perversely, the plunge once taken, to reassure herself she very

distinctly exaggerates. Lady Vizard used all the artifices known to the

wise, but so cleverly that the result was admirable: even her hair,

which to most of her sex is a block of stumbling, was dyed in complete

harmony with her eyes and complexion, so that the gross male

intelligence was often deceived. Her eyebrows were perfect, and the

pencilled line at her eyelashes gave her flashing eyes a greater

intensity; the cosmetic on her lips was applied with an artist’s hand,

and her mouth was no less beautiful than Cupid’s bow.

Lady Vizard had not seen her son for five years, and she noted the

change in him with interest but without emotion.

“Let me give you some tea,” she said. “By the way, why didn’t you come

and see me on your return from the Cape?”

“You forget that you gave Miller orders not to admit me.”

“You shouldn’t have taken that _au grand serieux;_ I dismiss my maid

every time she does my hair badly, but she’s been with me for years. I

forgave you in a week.”

Their eyes met, and they realized that the position between them was

unchanged. Lady Vizard shrugged her shoulders.

“I asked you to come to-day because I thought you might have grown more

tolerant in five years. Apparently you are one of those men who never

learn.”

Even a year before Basil would have answered that he hoped never to

grow tolerant of dishonour, but now, ashamed, he sat in silence. His

effort was to assume the air of polite indifference which his mother

used so easily. He foresaw her next question, and it tortured him that

he must expose part at least of his secret to that scornful woman; yet,

just because it was so distasteful, he meant to answer openly.

“And whom are you going to marry?”

“No one you have ever heard of,” he answered, smiling.

“Do you wish to make a secret of the fortunate creature’s name?”

“Miss Bush.”

“That doesn’t sound very distinguished, does it? Who is her father?”

“He’s in the City.”

“Rich?” ’

“Very poor.”

Lady Vizard looked at her son keenly, then with a peculiar expression

leaned forward.

“Pardon me if I ask, but is she what your tedious grandmother called a

gentlewoman?”

“She’s a barmaid in Fleet Street,” he answered defiantly.

Without hesitation came the next question, in a ringing voice.

“And when do you expect the _accouchement?_”

A blow could not have taken him more aback. The blood rushed to his

cheeks, and he sprang to his feet. Her eyes rested on him with cool

scorn, and confounded by her penetration, he found nothing to say.

“I’m right, am I? Virtue has had a fall, apparently. Ah, _mon cher_,

I’ve not forgotten the charming things you said to me five years ago.

Have you? Don’t you remember the eloquence with which you spoke of

chastity and honour? And you called me a name—which well-conducted sons

don’t usually apply to their mothers; but I take it your wife will have

no fewer claims to it than I?”

“If I have lust in my blood, it’s because I have the misfortune to be

your son,” he cried fiercely.

I can’t help admiring you when I remember the unctuous rectitude with

which you acted the upright man, you were playing your little game all

the time. But, _franchement_, your little game rather disgusts me. I

don’t like these hole-and-corner tricks with barmaids.”

“I dare say I did wrong, but I mean to make amends.”

“Of all fools, the saints preserve me from the fool who repents. If you

can’t sin like a gentleman, you’d really better be virtuous. A

gentleman doesn’t marry a barmaid because he’s seduced her—unless he

has the soul of a counter-jumper. And then you dared come to me with

your impudent sermons!”

At the recollection her eyes flashed, and she stood over Basil like

some wrathful, outraged goddess.

“What do you know of life and the fiery passion that burns in my veins?

You don’t know what devils tear at my breast. How can you judge me? But

what do I care! I’ve had a good time in my day, and I’m not finished

yet; and after all, if you weren’t such a prig, you’d see that I’m a

better sort than most women, for I’ve never deserted a friend nor hit

an enemy that was down.”

This she said with an angry vehemence, fluently as though she had often

uttered the words to herself, and now at last found the opportunity for

which she had waited. But quickly she regained that cutting irony of

manner which she well knew was most effective.

“And when I grow old I shall go into the Catholic Church and finish my

days in the odour of sanctity.”

“Have you anything more to say to me?” asked Basil coldly.

“Nothing,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders. “You were born to make

a fool of yourself. You’re one of those persons who are doomed to

mediocrity because you haven’t the spirit to go to the devil like a

man. Go away and marry your barmaid. I tell you that you disgust me.”

Blind with rage, his hands clenched, Basil turned to the door, but

before he reached it the butler announced Lord de Capit, and a tall

fair youth entered. Basil gave him an angry glare, for he could well

imagine what were the relations between his mother and the wealthy

peer. Lord de Capit looked after him with astonishment.

“Who is that amiable person?” he asked.

Lady Vizard gave a little, irritated laugh.

“A foolish creature. He doesn’t interest me.”

“One of my predecessors?”

“No, of course not,” answered Lady Vizard, amused. “Give me a kiss,

child.”

Profoundly despondent, Basil walked back to the Temple, and when he

came to his door it was opened by Jenny. He remembered then that she

had promised to come that afternoon to hear the final arrangements for

their marriage, which was to take place at a registry office.

“I met my brother Jimmie in the Strand, Basil,” she said,” “and I’ve

brought him up to see you.”

Going in, he found a weedy youth seated on the table, with dangling

legs. He had sandy hair, a clean-shaven, sharp face, and pale eyes.

Much commoner than his sister, he spoke with a pronounced Cockney

accent, and when he smiled, showing small, discoloured teeth, had an

expression of rather odious cunning. He was dressed in the height of

fashion—for City sportsmen, with a rakish bowler, a check suit, and a

bright violet shirt: he flourished a thin bamboo cane.

“How do?” he said, nodding to Basil. “Pleased to make your

acquaintance.”

“I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting,”

“Don’t apologize,” Mr. Bush answered cheerfully. “I can’t stay long,

because I’m a business man, but I thought I’d better just pop in and

say ’ow d’ye do to my future brother-in-law. I’m a chap as likes to be

cordial.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Basil politely.

“My! He was surprised when I told him I was going to marry you, Basil,”

cried Jenny, with a little laugh of pleasure.

“Now then, don’t mind me,” said James. “Give ’im a slobber, old tart.”

“Go on, Jimmie; you are a caution!”

“Oh, I see you re bashful Well, I’ll be toddling.”

“Won’t you have some tea before you go?” asked Basil.

“Bless you, I don’t want to disturb you canary birds. And I’m not much

of an ’and at tea; I leave that to females. I like something stronger

myself.”

“That’s Jimmie all over,” cried his sister, amused.

“I have some whisky, Mr. Bush,” said Basil, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, blow the Mister and blow the Bush. Call me Jimmie. I can’t stand

ceremony. We’re both of us gentlemen. Now mind you, I’m not a feller to

praise myself, but I will say this—I am a gentleman. That’s not

self-praise, is it?”

“Dear me, no. Mere statement of fact.”

“It’s a thing you can’t ’elp, so what’s the good of being proud about

it? If I meet a chap in a pub, and he wants to stand me a drink, I

don’t ask ’im if he’s a lord.”

“But you just take it.”

“Well, you’d do the same yourself, wouldn’t you?”

“I dare say. May I offer you some whisky now?”

“Well, if you are so pressing. My motto is: Never refuse a gargle. They

say it’s good for the teeth.”

Basil poured out.

“Hold hard, old man,” cried James. “You needn’t be too generous with

the soda. Well, ’ere’s luck!”

He emptied his glass at a gulp and smacked his lips.

“There are no flies about that, I lay. Now I’ll be toddling.”

Basil did not press him to stay, but by way of speeding the parting

guest, offered a cigar. James took and examined it.

“_Villar y Villar!_” he exclaimed. ’That’s all right. How much do they

run you in a ’undred?”

“I really don’t know what they cost. They were given to me.” Basil

struck a match. ’Won’t you take the label off?”

“Not if I know it,” said James, with much decision. I don’t smoke a

_Villar y Villar_ every day, and when I do I smoke it with the label

on. . . . Well, so long. See you later, old tart.”

When he was gone Jenny turned to her lover.

“Kiss me. . . . There! Now I can sit down quietly and talk. How d’you

like my brother?”

“I scarcely know him yet,” answered Basil cautiously.

“He’s not a bad sort when you do, and he can make you laugh. He’s just

like my mother.”

“Is he?” cried Basil, with some vivacity. “And is your father like that

too?”

“Well, you know, pa’s not had the education that Jimmie’s had. Jimmie

was at a boarding-school at Margate. You were at a boarding-school,

weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was at Harrow.”

“Ah, you don’t get the fine air at Harrow that you do at Margate.”

“No,” said Basil.

“Come and sit by me, ducky. . . . I’m so glad we’re I alone. I should

like to be alone with you all my life. You do love me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Much?”

“Yes,” he repeated, smiling.

She gave him a long, searching glance, and her eyes suddenly darkened.

She looked away.

“Basil, I want to say something to you, and it’s dreadfully hard.”

“What is it, darling?”

He put his arm round her waist and drew her towards him.

“No, don’t do that,” she said, getting up and moving away. “Please stay

where you are. I can’t say it if I look at you.”

He paused, wondering what was in her mind. She spoke brokenly, as

though by an effort almost beyond her strength.

“Are you sure you love me, Basil?”

“Quite sure,” he answered, trying to smile.

“Because I don’t want to be married out of pity or anything like that.

If you’re only doing it because you think you ought, I’d rather go on

as I am.”

“But why d’you say this now, Jenny?”

“I’ve been thinking it over. The other day when you offered to marry me

I was so happy I couldn’t think it out. But I love you so much that

I’ve seen things quite differently since then. I don’t want to hurt

you. I know I’m not the sort of woman you ought to marry, and I can’t

help you to get on.”

Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to continue, and Basil,

motionless, listened to her gravely. He could not see her face.

“I want to know if you really care for me, Basil. If you don’t, you’ve

only got to say so, and we’ll break it off. After all, I’m not the

first girl that’s got into trouble; I could easily manage, you know.”

For one moment he hesitated, and his heart beat painfully. Miss Ley’s

cold advice, his mother’s scorn, recurred to him: the girl herself

offered an opportunity, and would it not, after all, be best to seize

it?

His freedom stood before him, and he exulted; a few easy words might

destroy that horrible nightmare, and he could start life afresh, wiser

and better. But Jenny turned round, and in her sad, beautiful eyes he

saw a mortal anxiety; in the sickening anguish of her expectation she

could scarcely breathe. He had not the strength to speak.

“Jenny, don’t torture yourself,” he said brokenly. “And you torture me,

too. You know I love you, and I want to marry you.”

“Straight?”

“Yes.”

She sighed deeply, and heavy tears fell down her cheeks. For a while

she remained silent.

“You’ve saved my life, Basil,” she said at last. “I made up my mind

that if you didn’t want to marry me I’d do away with myself.”

“What nonsense you talk!”

“I mean it. I couldn’t have faced it. I’d fixed it all up in my head—I

should have waited till it was dark, and then I’d have gone over the

bridge.”

“I will do my best to be a good husband to you, Jenny,” he said.

But when Jenny left him, Basil, utterly bowed down, surrendered himself

to an uncontrollable depression. It came to his mind that Miss Ley had

likened existence to a game of chess, and now bitterly he recalled each

move that he should have played differently: again and again the result

hung as on a balance, so that if he had acted otherwise everything

would have gone right; but each time the choice appeared to matter so

little one way or the other, and it was not till afterwards that he saw

the fateful consequence. Every move was irretrievable, but at the

moment seemed strangely unimportant; it was not a fair game, for the

issue was hidden constantly by a trivial mask. And then it appeared to

him as though, alter all, he had never had a choice in the matter; he

felt himself powerless in the hand of a greater might, and Fate, for

once grown ghastly visible, directed each step as though he were a

puppet. Now life before him loomed black and cheerless, and even his

child, the thought of which had been his greatest strength, offered no

solace.

“Oh, what shall I do?” he moaned—“what shall I do?” He remembered with

a shudder Jenny’s threat of suicide, and he knew that she would have

carried it out, unhesitating; a sudden impulse seized him in just such

a manner to finish with all that doubt and misery. But then, setting

his teeth, he sprang up.

“I won’t be such a funk,” he cried savagely. “Alter all, I’ve made my

bed and I must lie on it.”

IX

A few days later Basil was married, and Frank, who had assisted him in

the rather sordid proceedings of the registry office, going back to his

rooms, found Reggie Bassett comfortably lounging in an armchair, with

his long legs on another. By his side were Frank’s cigarettes and the

whisky-and-soda.

“I see you make yourself at home, my friend.”

“I was passing this way and I hadn’t got anything particular to do, so

I thought I’d look in: my mamma thinks your society good for me. Got

your wedding over?”

“What do you know about it?” asked Frank sharply.

“More than you think, my boy,” answered Reggie, with a grin. “The mater

told me as a solemn warning. She says Kent’s married a barmaid, and

it’s the result of keeping bad company and going to pubs. What did he

do it for?”

“If I were you I’d mind my own business, Reggie.”

“If it’s because she’s in the family way, he’s a bally ass. If I got in

a mess like that, I’d see the lady shot before I married her.”

“I have some work to do, my friend,” said Frank shortly. “You would

show discretion if you took yourself off.”

“All right! I’ll just have another drink,” he answered, helping himself

to the whisky. “I’m going out to tea with Mrs. Castillyon.”

Frank pricked up his ears, but said nothing. Reggie looked at him,

smiled with great self-satisfaction, and winked.

“Smart work, ain’t it—considering I’ve only known her a fortnight. But

that’s the right way with women—rush ’em, I saw she was smitten the

first time we met, so I made a dead-set for her. I knew she was all

right, so I just told her what I wanted; by Jove, she is a little

baggage! I’ve come to the conclusion I like ladies, Frank; you don’t

have to beat about the bush. You just come to the point at once, and

there’s no blasted morality about them.”

“You’re a philosopher, Reggie.”

“You think I’m rotting, but I’m not. I’ll read you the letter she wrote

me. By the way, I’m going to give her your address—in case the mater

stops anything.”

“If letters come for you here, my friend, they shall be promptly

returned to the postman.”

“You are a low blackguard; it wouldn’t hurt you,” said Reggie crossly.

“But if you think that’ll stop her writing, it won’t, as I shall just

have them sent to my crammer’s. I say, I must read you this; it’s

rather funny.”

Reggie took from his pocket a letter on which Frank recognised Mrs.

Castillyon’s large writing.

“Don’t you think it’s playing it rather low down to show the private

letters which a woman has written you?”

“Rot!” cried Reggie, with a laugh. “If she didn’t want anyone to see

them, she oughtn’t to have written.”

With manifest pride he read parts of an epistle which would have left

the President of the Divorce Court few doubts as to the relations

between the happy pair. The wretched woman’s love tickled his vanity,

and to him the pleasure lay chiefly in boasting of it: he uttered with

rolling emphasis certain expressions of endearment.

“‘Yours till death,’” he finished. “Good Lord, what rot women write!

and the funny thing is that it’s always the same rot. But there’s not

much doubt about this, is there? She’s as far gone as she can be.”

“Amiable youth!” said Frank. “Does your mother know that you have

struck up an acquaintance with Mrs. Castillyon?”

“Rather! At first the mater thought her a bit vulgar, but she looked

her up in the _Landed Gentry_, and when she found out her grandfather

was a lord she thought it must be all right. The mater’s a bit of a

snob, you know—her governor was in the City, and she’s got it into her

head that the Castillyons will ask us down to Dorsetshire. By Gad, if

they do I’ll make things hum.”

Reggie looked at his watch.

“I shall have to be scooting, or I shall be late for tea.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“Yes, but I can let that wait. You see, I’m not going up for the exam

next time. The mater gave me the fees, and I blued them, so I shall

just tell her that I’ve got through. It’ll be all right in the end.”

“Isn’t that very dishonest?”

“Why?” asked Reggie, with surprise. “She keeps me so devilish short,

and I must have money somehow. It’ll all be mine when she pegs out, so

it can’t matter, you know.”

“And what about the little lady you dined with on Saturday?”

“Oh, I’ve chucked her. I think Mrs. Castillyon will be more economical.

She’s got lots of tin, and I’m blowed if I see why a man should always

be expected to fork out for women.”

“You’re trying to reconcile two contradictory things, my boy—love and

economy.”

Reggie marched off to Bond Street, and finding that Mrs. Castillyon was

not yet arrived, began to walk up and down; but having waited half an

hour, he grew annoyed, and it was with no smiling countenance that he

met the pretty little lady when at length she drove up. “Have I kept

you waiting?” she asked airily.

“Yes, you have,” he answered.

“It’s good for you.”

She tripped in, and they ordered tea.

“I can’t possibly eat those cakes,” she said. “Tell them to bring some

more.”

The next plateful was as little to her taste, and she called for a

third.

“I think I like the first lot best, after all,” she said, when these

were produced.

“You might have taken one of them straight away, instead of disturbing

the whole place,” exclaimed Reggie, very peevish himself, but

peculiarly impatient of that defect in others.

“That woman has nothing else to do: why shouldn’t I disturb her? And

she was very impudent; I have a good mind to report her.”

“If you do, I shall go and say that she was nothing of the sort.”

“This is a disgusting place; I can’t think why you suggested it.

Anyhow, I’ll have some sweets to make up.”

Looking round, she saw a box of chocolates, elaborately decorated with

ribands and artificial violets.

“You can get those for me, I love sweets—don’t you?”

“Yes, when somebody else pays for them.”

She threw back her head and laughed boisterously, so that people turned

round and looked. Reggie grew vexed.

“I wish you wouldn’t make such a row. Everyone’s staring at you.”

“Well, let them! Give me a cigarette.”

“You can’t smoke here.”

“Why not? There’s a woman over there smoking.”

“Yes, but she’s no better than she should be.”

“Nonsense! It’s Lady Vizard. It’s only your friends in Piccadilly who

are always thinking of propriety; they’re so afraid of not behaving

like ladies, and you can always tell them because they’re so prim.”

Mrs. Castillyon, powdered and scented, was dressed in the most

outrageous taste, but no one could have been more fashionable; and she

displayed uncommon sagacity when she said that her flaunting manners

alone distinguished her from persons of easy virtue. She looked across

at Lady Vizard, no less strikingly attired, but with a sort of

flamboyant discretion which marked the woman of character: she sat with

the young Lord de Capit, and Mrs. Castillyon told Reggie the latest

scandal about the pair.

“You know she’s Mr. Kent’s mother, don’t you? By the way, is it true he

married a creature off the streets?”

“Yes,” said Reggie. “Silly ass!”

He gave a vivid account of the affair according to his lights.

Unaccountably, for Frank and Miss Ley, both highly discreet, alone knew

the circumstances, Basil’s adventure in a very elaborate form was

current among all his friends.

“I say, Reggie, will you come to the play to-morrow? Lady Paperleigh’s

got a box for _The Belle of Petersburg_, and she’s asked me to bring my

man.”

“Am I your man?” asked Reggie.

“Why not?”

“It sounds bally vulgar. I should have thought it meant your valet.”

At this Mrs. Castillyon laughed as she spoke at the top of her voice,

so that people, to Reggie’s confusion, again turned round.

“How prim you are! Is it your mamma’s bringing-up, Reggie? She’s rather

an old frump, you know.”

“Thanks!”

“But I intend to ask her down to Jeyston for Christmas. We’re going to

have a house-party, and I mean to get Miss Ley and Dr. Hurrell. I don’t

like him much, but Miss Ley won’t come without him. Pity she’s not

younger, isn’t it? They could talk philosophy to more purpose then.

They say she has a passion for young men; I wonder what she does with

them. D’you think she was very gay in her youth?”

“She’s a regular ripper, I know that,” answered Reggie, remembering the

frequent tips which in his school-days the generous creature had

slipped into his hand.

“I’m sure there was something,” expostulated Mrs. Castillyon, “or she

wouldn’t have lived so long in Italy.”

“My mother thinks her about the straightest woman she’s ever known.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep thrusting your mother down my throat, Reggie.

It’s bad enough having to put up with Paul’s, without getting yours as

well. I suppose I shall have to ask that old cat for Christmas: she’s

awful, as rich as they make ’em, and she’ll get on with your mother

first-rate. Let’s go; I’m sick of this hole.”

When Reggie asked for the bill, he found the box of chocolates cost

fifteen shillings, and preferring to spend his money exclusively on

himself, was consequently none too pleased. Mrs. Castillyon had kept

the cab, and offered to drive her cavalier to Grosvenor Gardens, where

she was going for a second tea.

’I’ve had a good time,” she said, when they arrived. “You’d better give

the driver five bob. Good-bye, Reggie. Mind you’re not late to-morrow.

Where shall we dine?”

“I don’t mind as long as it’s cheap,” he said, ruefully handing the

cabman five shillings.

“Oh, I’ll stand you a dinner,” said Mrs. Castillyon.

“All right,” he answered, his face brightening. “Let’s go to the

_Carlton_, then.”

Mrs. Castillyon skipped into the house, and Reggie, who hated walking,

to save money trudged sulkily home to Sloane Gardens: Frank showed much

wisdom when he asserted that love and economy went seldom hand-in-hand.

“It’s cost me over a quid,” he muttered. “I could have dined Madge

three times for that, and I’m blowed if she’s so damned vulgar as that

little baggage.”

But next day he met her in the _Carlton_ vestibule, and they sat down

to dinner. The waiter brought him a wine-card.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“Something fizzy.”

This entirely agreed with Reggie’s ideas, and since he was not to pay

the bill, he took care to order the champagne he liked best, which was

by no means the least expensive. Flattering himself on his educated

palate, he drank the wine with added satisfaction because the price was

high. Mrs. Castillyon, overpowdered, with somewhat the look of a faded

rose arranged under careful lights in a shop window to delude the

purchaser that it had still its first freshness, was in high spirits:

pleased with her own appearance and with that of the handsome youth in

front of her, languid and sensual as the waking Adam of Michaelangelo,

she talked very quickly in an excessively loud voice. Reggie’s spirits

rose with the intoxicating liquor, and his doubts whether an amour with

a woman of distinction was quite worth while, were soon dissipated;

looking at the costly splendour of her gown, the boy’s flesh tingled,

and his eyes rested with approval on the diamonds about her neck and in

her yellow hair. It was a new sensation to dine with a well-dressed,

rich woman in a crowded restaurant, and he felt himself with pride a

very gay Lothario.

Handing something, he touched her fingers.

“Don’t,” she said, “you give me the shivers;” and seeing the effect she

created, Mrs. Castillyon displayed all her arts and graces.

“Confound this theatre! I wish we weren’t bound to go to it.”

“But we are. Lady Paperleigh is going with her man, and we’ve got to

chaperon her.”

It pleased Reggie to sit in a box with a person of title, and he knew

it would gratify his mother.

“Why don’t they make your hubby a Baronet?” he asked ingenuously.

“My mother-in-law won’t fork out. You see, Paul ain’t what you might

call a genius—he’d love a handle to name, but the price has gone up

lately, and a baronetcy is one of the few things you have to pay for

money down.

Reggie’s appetite was large, and he went through the long dinner with

huge satisfaction. When they arrived at dessert, he lit a cigarette and

gave a sigh of contented repletion.

“Yet people say the pleasures of the intellect are higher than the

pleasures of the table,” he sighed.

He looked at Mrs. Castillyon with heavy eyes, and since, like most men,

love arose in his heart as an accompaniment to the satisfactory process

of digestion, he gave her a peculiarly sensual smile.

“I say, Grace, don’t you think you could come away for a week-end

somewhere?”

“Oh, I couldn’t risk it. It would be too dangerous.”

“Not if we go somewhere quiet. It would be a beano!”

Her heart beat quickly, and under those handsome, lazy eyes she felt a

curious defaillance; his hand rested on the table, large, soft and

smooth, and the sight of it sent through her an odd thrill.

“Paul’s going up to the North to speak next month,” she said. “That’s

our chance, isn’t it?”

The risk fascinated her, and the whim for Reggie grew on a sudden to an

ardent passion for which she was willing to venture all things.

“I say, I’ve got an idea,” she whispered, with sparkling eyes. “Let’s

go to Rochester. Don’t you remember, Basil Kent spoke of it the other

day? I could easily say I was going down to see the view or whatever it

is. I believe it’s a dull hole, and nobody goes there but Americans.”

“All right,” he said. “That’ll do A1.”

“Now we must be getting off. Call for the bill.”

Mrs. Castillyon felt for her pocket; then, throwing back her head, gave

a little shriek of laughter.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve forgotten my purse. You’ll have to pay, after all. D’you mind?”

“Fortunately the mater gave me a fiver this morning,” he answered,

without enthusiasm, and when he doled out the shining sovereigns, added

to himself: “By Jove, I’ll punish her for this some time.”

Arriving at the theatre, they found Lady Paperleigh was not yet come

and since they did not know the number of her box, were obliged to wait

in the entrance. They waited for nearly half an hour, during which Mrs.

Castillyon grew every moment more peevish.

“It’s perfectly disgusting and awfully rude of her,” she cried for the

tenth time. “I wish I hadn’t come, and I wish to goodness you wouldn’t

stand there looking bored. Can’t you say something to amuse me?”

“I should have thought you could wait for a few minutes without getting

into a beastly temper.”

“I shall take care to serve that woman as she has served me. I suppose

she’s eating somewhere with her wretched man. Why don’t you pay for the

box so that we can go in?”

“Why should I? They’ve asked us, and we must hang about till they

choose to turn up.”

“If you cared for me the least bit, you wouldn’t refuse to do things I

asked you.”

“If you’ll ask for something reasonable I’ll do it.”

Reggie had a very pretty little temper of his own, which his fond

mother’s upbringing had never taught him to restrain; and seeing that

Mrs. Castillyon raged with impatience, he assumed an exaggerated calm

which was far more irritating than if he had fussed or fumed. The lady

busied herself with sharp tongue to pierce his thick hide of

indifference, and abused him roundly. In a little while without more

ado he answered her in kind.

“If you’re not satisfied with me I’ll go. D’you think you’re the only

woman in the world? I’m about sick of your vixenish temper. Good Lord,

if this is what a married man has to put up with, God save me from

marriage!”

They sat without speaking, and through her powder Mrs. Castillyon’s

cheeks glowed angrily; but when at length Lady Paperleigh appeared,

accompanied by a strapping youth with military airs, Mrs. Castillyon

greeted her with smiles and soft words, vowing that they had only that

very moment arrived. Reggie, less accustomed to the ways of polite

society, could not conceal his ill-humour, and shook hands in sulky

silence.

After the performance Reggie put Mrs. Castillyon into a cab, but he

would not shake hands, and there was a malevolent scowl on his handsome

face which singularly disturbed her; for what at first had seemed but a

passing fancy was now unaccountably changed into a desperate passion.

She had the soul of a trollop, and for years had flirted more or less

seriously with one man after another; but it was chiefly admiration she

sought and someone to go about with her and pay for little

extravagances; and though several had taken the matter in earnest, she

always kept her head, and was careful to drop them when they grew

troublesome. But now, driving away alone, there was a dull and hungry

pain in her heart; she was tormented by the anger of those handsome

eyes, and remembered sorrowfully the hurried kiss he had given her the

day before in the cab.

“Supposing he doesn’t come back,” she whispered, with a painful sob.

She was a little frightened also, knowing herself in the power of a

dissolute, selfish boy who cared nothing for her. Any woman would have

served his purpose as well, for she saw with bitter clearness that he

was merely dazzled by her wealth and her diamonds. He liked to dine at

her house, and it pleased his vanity to embrace a woman in expensive

clothes. But she had not the temperament to make a fight for freedom,

and gave herself up to this love weakly, careless into what abyss of

shame and misery it led. Going to her room, she wrote a pitiful letter

to Reggie, and those with whom in time past she had cruelly played,

seeing this utter abasement, might have felt abundantly revenged.

“Don’t be angry with me, darling; I can’t bear it. I love you with all

my heart and soul. I’m sorry that I was horrid this evening, but I

couldn’t help it, and I will try to keep my temper. Write and say you

forgive me, because my head is throbbing and my heart is aching for

you.

“I love you—I love you—I love you.

“GRACE.”

She folded the letter, and was about to put it in an envelope, when an

idea crossed her mind. For all her flippancy, Mrs. Castillyon had a

good deal of observation; it had not escaped her notice that Reggie

hated to spend money. She went to a drawer and took out a ten-pound

note, which with a postscript she enclosed.

“I’m sorry I hadn’t my purse to-night, and I’ve only got this note

here. Please take what I owe you out of it, and with the change you

might buy yourself a tie-pin. I wanted to give you a little present,

but I’m afraid of getting something you won’t like. Please say you’re

not cross with me for asking you to see about it yourself.”

The youth read the letter with indifference, but when he came to the

last lines blushed, for his mother had instilled into him certain rules

of honour, and against his will, he could not escape the notion that it

was the most discreditable thing possible to accept money from a woman.

For a moment he felt sick with shame, but the note was crisp and clean

and inviting. His fingers itched.

His first impulse was to send it back, and he sat down at his

writing-table. But when he came to put the note in an envelope, he

hesitated and looked at it again.

“After all, what with the dinner and tea yesterday, she owes me a good

deal of it, and I shall spend it on her if I keep it. She’s so rich, it

means nothing to her.”

Then he had an inspiration.

“I’ll put the balance on a horse, and if it comes in I’ll give her the

tenner back. If it doesn’t—well, it’s not my fault.”

He pocketed the note.

X

The Kents spent their honeymoon in a fisherman’s cottage at Carbis

Water, the very name of which, romantic and muflical, enchanted Basil’s

ear; and from their window the cliff, grown over with odorous broom,

tumbled lazily to the edge of the coloured sea. There was an amiable

simplicity about the old man from whom they hired rooms, and Basil

delighted to hear his long stories of the pilchard fishery, of storms

that had strewn the beach with wreckage, and of fierce battles fought

between the fishers of St. Ives and the foreigners from Lowestoft. He

told of the revivals which burned along the countryside, calling

sinners to repentance, and how himself on a memorable occasion had

found salvation; now he confessed his late-found faith with savage

ardour, but notwithstanding made the most he could out of the strangers

in his house! And the tall, gaunt figure of that ancient seaman, with

furrowed cheeks and eyes bleared with long scanning of the sea, seemed

a real expression of that country—wild with its deserted mines, yet

tender; barren, yet with the delicate colour of a pastel. To Basil,

weary with the conflicting emotions of the last month, it had a restful

charm unrivalled by the distincter glories of more southern lands.

One afternoon they walked up a hill to see the local curiosity, a

gravestone which crowned its summit, and Basil wandered on while Jenny,

indifferent and tired, sat down to test. He sauntered through the

furze, saffron and green, and the heather rich with the subdued and

decorous richness of an amethyst: some child had gathered a bunch of

this and thrown it aside, so that it lay on the grass dying, faded

purple, like a symbol of the decay of an imperial power. For a reason

that escaped him, it recalled to Basil’s mind that most poetical of

prose-writers, the divinely simple weaver of words, Jeremy Taylor, and

he repeated to himself that sad, passionate phrase used in the _Holy

Dying:_ “Break the beds, drink your wine, crown your head with roses

and besmear your curled locks with nard; for God bids you to remember

death.”

Standing on the brink, he overlooked the valley of the sea—Hale in the

distance, with its placid river, like some old Italian town coloured

and gay even under that sombre heaven. The sky was gray and overcast,

and the clouds, pregnant with rain, swept over the hill-top like the

gauzy drapery of some dying pagan spirit, lingering solitary among the

grotesque shapes of Christian legend. There was a line of dead trees on

the crest of the hill, and Basil, visiting this place earlier in the

year, had found them then incongruous with the summer, a hideous

darkness against the joyous colour of the Cornish June. But now all

Nature drew into harmony with them, and they stood, gnarled and

leafless, with a placid silence, as though in a sense of the eternity

of things they felt a singular content. The green leaves and the

flowers were vanity, ephemeral as the butterflies and the light breeze

of April, but they were changeless and constant. Dead ferns lay all

about, brown as the earth, and they were the first of the summer plants

to go, chilled to death by the mild wind of September. The silence was

so great that Basil seemed to hear the wings of the rooks as they beat

the air, flying overhead from field to field, and in his mind,

curiously, he listened to the voice of London calling. Basil peculiarly

enjoyed his solitude, for he was used to be much alone, and the

constant companionship since his marriage at times proved irksome. He

began to plan out his future. There was no reason why Jenny should not

be induced to a wider view of things than she then possessed; she was

by no means a fool, and little by little, with patience on his side,

she might gain interest in the things that interested him: it would be

wonderful to disclose a human soul to its own beauty. But his

enthusiasm was short-lived, for, walking down the hillside, he found

Jenny asleep, her head thrown back and her hat slouched over one eye,

her mouth open. His heart sank, for he saw her as he had never seen her

before: amid the soft grace of that scene her clothes looked tawdry and

crude, and with keen eyes he detected, under her beauty, the commonness

of nature for which already he loathed the brother.

But, fearing it would rain, he woke her and proposed that they should

go home. She smiled at him lovingly.

“Have you been looking at me asleep? Had I got my mouth open?”

“Yes.”

“I must have looked a sight.”

“Where did you buy your hat?” he asked.

“I made it myself. Don’t you like it?”

“I wish it weren’t so very bright.”

“Colours suit me,” she answered. “They always did.”

The Cornish drizzle hovered over the earth, all-penetrating like human

sorrow, and at length, with the closing day, the rain fell. In the mist

and in the night the country sank into darkness. But in Basil’s heart

was a greater darkness, and already, after one short week, he feared

that the task he had confidently undertaken was beyond his strength.

On their return to London Basil moved such furniture as he possessed

into the little house he had taken in Barnes. He liked the

old-fashioned High Street of that place because it had preserved a

certain village simplicity, and the common made up for the dreary look

of the long row of villas in which was his own: the builder, careful of

his invention, had placed on each side fifty small houses so alike that

they were distinguishable only by their numbers and the grandiloquent

names on the fanlight. For two or three weeks the young couple were

engaged in putting things to rights, and then Basil settled to the

monotonous life he liked because it gave most opportunity for work. He

went away every morning early to chambers, where he devilled for the

“silk” in whose room he sat, waiting for briefs that came not, and

about five took the train back to Barnes; then followed a stroll along

the tow-path with Jenny, and after dinner he wrote till bed-time. Basil

felt now a certain quiet satisfaction in his marriage; his affairs

settled for good, and he could surrender himself to his literary

ambition. Apparently there was a magic in the nuptial tie, since there

arose within him by degrees a sober but deep affection for Jenny; he

was flattered by her adoration, and touched at the humility wherewith

she did his bidding. With all his heart he looked forward to the birth

of their child. They talked of him incessantly for both were convinced

that it must be a son, and they never tired of discussing what to do

with him, how he should wear his hair, when be breeched, and where go

to school. When Basil pictured the beautiful woman nursing her

child—and she had never been lovelier than then—his pulse throbbed with

thankfulness and pride; and he chid himself because he had ever

hesitated to marry her or for a moment during the honeymoon bitterly

regretted his rashness.

Jenny was radiantly happy. She was of indolent temper, and it delighted

her, after the bondage of the _Golden Crown_, to do nothing from

morning till night. It was very amusing to have at her beck and call a

servant who called her “ma’am,” and hugely satisfactory to watch her

work while she sat idly. She was proud also of the little house and the

furniture, and dusted the pictures with greater complacency because she

thought them rather ugly; Basil said they were very beautiful, and she

knew they cost a lot of money. In the same way Jenny admired her

husband all the more because she neither understood his ideas nor

sympathized with his ambitions. She worshipped him like a dog his

master. It was a daily torment when he went to town, and invariably she

accompanied him to the door to see the last of him: when he was due to

return, she listened with held breath for his step on the pavement, and

sometimes in her impatience walked to meet him.

Basil had not the amiable gift of taking people as they are, asking no

more from them than they can give; but rather sought to mould after his

own ideas the persons with whom he came in contact. Jenny’s taste was

deplorable, and the ignorance which had not been unbecoming to the

pretty barmaid in the wife was a little distressing. In accordance with

a plan of unconscious education whereby, like powder in jam, Jenny

might acquire knowledge without realizing it, Basil gave her books to

read; and though she took them obediently, his choice, perhaps, was not

altogether happy, for alter a diligent quarter of an hour she would

mostly drop the volume, and for the rest of the morning chat familiarly

with the maid-of-all-work. If, however, at any time she yearned for

literary pabulum, she much preferred to buy a novelette at the station

bookstall, but took care to hide it when Basil came in; and once he

found by chance a work entitled _Rosamund’s Revenge_, explained that it

belonged to the servant. For one penny Mrs. Kent could get a long and

blood-curdling romance, the handsome, aristocratic hero of which bore

an unusual similarity to Basil, while the peerless creature for whom

doughty deeds were so fearlessly performed was none other than herself;

under the mattress in the spare bedroom she kept her favourite story,

wherein a maid of high degree nobly sacrificed herself, and Jenny’s

heart beat fast when she thought how willingly under similar

circumstances she would have risked her life for Basil. Ignorant of all

this, Kent talked frequently of the books himself had given her, but in

his enthusiasm was apt to be so carried away as not to notice how small

her knowledge thereof remained.

“I wish you’d read me your book, Basil,” she said one evening. “You

never tell me anything about it.”

“It would only bore you, darling.”

“D’you think I’m not clever enough to understand it?”

“Of course not! If you’d like me to, I shall be only too pleased to

read you bits of it.”

“I’m so glad you’re a novelist. It’s so uncommon, isn’t it? And I

_shall_ be proud when I see your name in the papers. Read me some now,

will you?”

No writer, however violent his protests, really dislikes being asked to

read an unpublished book; it is the child of his heart, and has still

the glamour which, when it is coldly set up in type and bound in cloth,

will be utterly destroyed. Basil especially needed sympathy, for he was

distrustful of himself, and could work better when someone expressed

admiration for his efforts. It had been his ardent hope that Jenny

would take interest in his writing, and it was only from diffidence

that hitherto he had said little about it.

The idea of his novel, the scene of which was Italy in the early

sixteenth century, came to him one day in the National Gallery soon

after his return from South Africa, when his mind, fallow after the

long rest from artistic things, was peculiarly sensitive to the

impression of beauty. He wandered among the pictures, visiting old

favourites, and the sober quiet of that place filled his soul with a

greater elation than love or wine; he recalled the moment often for its

singular happiness, spiritual and calm, yet very fruitful. At last he

came to that portrait of an Italian nobleman by Moretto, which to an

imaginative mind seems to express the whole spirit of the later

Renaissance. It fitted his mood strangely. He thought that to make

lovely patterns was the ultimate end of the painter’s art, and noticed

with keen appreciation the decorative effect of the sombre colouring

and of the tall man, leaning, melancholy and languid, in that marble

embrasure. Nameless through the ages, he stood in an attitude that was

half weariness and half affectation; and his restrained despair was

reflected by the tawny landscape of the background, blank like the

desert places of the spiritual life; the turquoise sky even was cold

and sad. The date was given, 1526, and he wore the slit sleeves and

hose of the period; (the early passion for the New Birth was passed

already; or Michaelangelo was dead, and Cæsar Borgia rotted in far

Navarre;) the dark cerise of his parti-coloured dress was no less

mournful than the black, but against it gleamed the delicate cambric of

his shirt and ruffles. One hand, ungloved, rested idly on the pommel of

his long sword, the slender, delicate hand, white and soft, of a

gentleman and student. On his head he wore a strange-shaped hat, part

buff, part scarlet, with a medallion on the front of St. George and the

Dragon.

The face haunted Basil, paler by reason of the dark beard; and out of

it looked wistfully the eyes, as though sight were weariness and the

world had naught to offer but disillusion. Presently, brooding over the

character which seemed there expressed, he invented a story, and to

work it out for some months, steeping himself in the poets and

historians of the period, spent much time in the British Museum. At

last he began actually to write. Basil wished to describe Italian

society at that time, its profound disenchantment after the vigorous

glow with which it had welcomed the freedom of mind when the fall of

Constantinople threw open to the human intellect a new horizon; and

devised a man who waged life as though it were a battle, vehemently,

seeking to enjoy every moment, and now, finding all things vain, looked

back with despair because the world had nothing more to offer.

Acquainted with the courts of princes and the tents of condottieri, he

had experienced every emotion, fought bloodily, loved and intrigued,

written poetry and talked platonism. The incidents of this career were

stirring, but Basil referred to them only so much as was necessary to

explain the state of mind, for he desired to show his scorn of

commonplace by eschewing sensation and giving merely detailed analyses

of a spiritual condition.

His theme gave opportunity for the elaborate style Basil affected, and

he began to read, emphasizing the rhythm of his sentences and rejoicing

in their music. His vocabulary, chosen from the Elizabethans, was rich

and sonorous, and the beauty of certain words intoxicated him. But at

last he stopped suddenly.

“Jenny?” he said.

No answer came, and he saw that she was fast asleep. Taking care not to

disturb her, he put aside the book and rose from his chair. It was not

worth while to ask him to read if she could not keep awake, and with

some vexation he went to his desk. But his sense of humour came the

rescue.

“What a fool I am!” he cried, with a laugh. “Why should I think it

would interest her?”

Yet Mrs. Murray had listened to that same chapter with most flattering

attention, and afterwards was loud in its praise. Basil remembered that

Molière read comedies to his cook, and if she was not amused rewrote

them. By that test he should have destroyed his novel; but then

impatiently he told himself that he wrote, not for the many, but for a

chosen few.

No longer feeling him near her, Jenny presently awoke.

“Well, I never! I haven’t been to sleep, have I?”

“Snoring!”

“’ I am sorry. Did I disturb you?”

“Not at all,”

“I couldn’t help it. I felt so drowsy with you reading. I did enjoy it,

Basil.”

“It’s something to write a book which is a soporific,” he answered,

smiling grimly.

“Do read me some more, I’m wide awake now, and it was beautiful.”

“I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll do a little work.”

A few days later Jenny’s mother, who had seen neither Basil nor the

house, paid them a visit. She was a stout woman with a determined

manner, and wore a black satin dress so uneasily as to suggest it was

her Sunday best; it gave her a queer feeling that the days had got

mixed, and a Sabbath come somehow in the middle of the week. Against

Basil’s will, Jenny insisted on keeping for special occasions their

nicest things, and when they were alone made tea in an earthenware pot.

“You don’t mind if I don’t get out the silver teapot, ma?” she asked,

when they sat down. “We don’t use it every day.”

“No more do I come and see you every day, my dear,” answered Mrs. Bush,

gloomily stroking her black satin.

“But I suppose I’m nobody now you’re married. Don’t you sit down at

table for tea?”

“Basil likes to have it in the drawing-room,” answered Jenny, pouring

milk in the bottom of each cup.

“Well, I think it’s messy. My tea is my best meal; you know that,

Jenny.”

“Yes, ma.”

“I always say it looks mean just to have a few pieces of

bread-and-butter put on a plate, with the butter just scraped on so as

you can’t see it.”

“Basil likes it like that.”

“In my ’ouse I ’ave things my own way. Don’t begin to give way to your

’usband in the ’ouse, my dear, or he’ll presume on it.”

Basil, coming in at this moment, was introduced to the visitor, and

Jenny, rather nervously, watched her to see that she behaved nicely!

But Mrs. Bush, though somewhat awed by his reserved manner, took care

to show that she was a perfect lady, and when she lifted her cup curled

her little finger in the most elegant and approved fashion. Basil,

after a few polite remarks, lapsed into silence, and the two women for

five minutes talked difficultly of trivial subjects. Then a carriage

stopped at their door, and in a minute the maid announced—Mrs. Murray.

“I thought you would allow me to call on you,” she said, holding out

her hand to Jenny. “I’m an old friend of your husband.”

Jenny blushed, taken aback, but Basil, delighted to see her, shook

hands warmly.

“It’s awfully good of you. You’ve just come in time for tea.”

“I’m simply dying for some.”

She sat down, looking very handsome and self-possessed, and Mrs. Bush

deliberately examined her gown. But Jenny remembered that they had only

the common teapot.

“I’ll just go and get some fresh tea,” she said.

“Fanny will get it, Jenny.”

“Oh no, I must get it myself, and I keep the tea locked up. You know I

have to,” she added to Mrs. Murray; “these girls are so dishonest.”

She went out hurriedly, and while she was gone Basil eagerly asked Mrs.

Murray how she had found them out.

“It was horrid of you not to write and tell me where you were. Miss Ley

gave me your address.”

“Don’t you think it’s an amusing place? You must go into the High

Street. Bits of it are so odd and quaint.”

They chattered gaily, almost taming their backs on Mrs. Bush, who

watched them with lowering brows. But she often said that she was not a

woman to be put upon.

“It’s a fine day, isn’t it?” she interrupted aggressively.

“Beautiful!” said Mrs. Murray, smiling.

And before Mrs. Bush could make another observation Basil asked when

she was startling for Italy. Fortunately, at that moment Jenny came in,

but her mother noticed with indignation that she brought the silver

teapot; she drew herself up very straight and sat in mute anger, a

bristling figure of outraged susceptibility. Nor did it escape her that

Basil, who till Mrs. Murray ’s arrival had scarcely spoken, now talked

volubly; he gave a humorous account of their troubles in moving into

the house, but though it appeared to amuse Mrs. Murray hugely, Mrs.

Bush could see nothing at all funny in it.

At last the visitor rose.

“I really must fly. Good-bye, Mrs. Kent. You must get your husband to

bring you to see me.”

She sailed out, with a rustle of silk, and Basil accompanied her

downstairs.

“She’s come in a carriage, ma,” said Jenny, looking from the window.

“I ’ave eyes in my ’ead, my dear,” answered Mrs. Bush.

“Isn’t he aristocratic-looking?” exclaimed the admiring wife.

“Aristocratic is as aristocratic does,” returned her mother severely.

They saw Basil at the door talk with Mrs. Murray and laugh. Then she

gave an order to the coachman, who followed them while they walked

slowly down the street.

“Well, Jenny!” cried Mrs. Bush, in tones of surprise, horror, and

indignation.

“I wonder where they’re going,” said Jenny, looking away.

“You take my advice, my dear, and keep your eyes on that young man. I

wouldn’t trust ’im too far if I was you. And you tell him that your ma

can see through a brick wall as well as anyone. . . . ’Ad he ever said

anything about his lady friend?”

“Oh yes, ma, he’s spoken of her often,” said Jenny uneasily, for as a

matter of fact till that day she had never even heard Mrs. Murray’s

name.

“Well, you tell ’im you want to hear nothing about her. You must be

careful, my dear. I ’ad a rare lot of trouble with your pa when I was

first married. But I put my foot down, and let ’im see I wouldn’t stand

his nonsense.”

“I wonder why Basil doesn’t come back?”

“And, if you please, he never introduced me to his lady friend. I

suppose I’m not good enough.”

“Ma!”

“Oh, don’t talk to me, my dear. I think you’ve treated me very bad,

both of you, and it’ll be a long day before I leave my pleasant home in

Crouch End to cross this threshold.”

At this Basil returned, and saw at once that Mrs. Bush was much

disturbed.

“Hulloa, what’s up?” he asked, smiling.

“It’s no laughing matter, Mr. Kent,” answered the ruffled matron, with

dignity. “I’m put out, and I won’t deny it. I do expect to be treated

like a lady, and I don’t think Jenny ought to ’ave given me my tea out

of a sixpenny ’alfpenny teapot—and you can’t deny that’s what they

cost, my dear, because I know as well as you do.”

“We’ll behave ourselves better next time,” said Basil good-humouredly.

“It didn’t take Jenny long to get the silver teapot as soon as your

lady friend come in. But I suppose I’m not worth troubling about.”

“I believe tea always tastes much better in earthenware,” remarked

Basil mildly.

“Oh yes, I dare say it does,” returned Mrs. Bush ironically. “And to

catch sparrows you’ve only got to put a little salt on their tails.

Good-afternoon to you.”

“You’re not going yet, ma?”

“I know when I’m not wanted, and you needn’t trouble to show me out,

because I know my way and I shan’t steal the umbrellas.”

Basil was in high spirits, and this display of temper vastly amused

him.

“Where did you go just now, Basil?” asked Jenny, when her mother had

stalked defiantly out of the house.

“I just showed Mrs. Murray the High Street, I thought it would amuse

her.”

Jenny did not answer. Basil had discussed with the unexpected visitor

the progress of his book, and thinking still of the pleasant things she

said to him, paid no attention to his wife’s silence. All the evening

she scarcely spoke, but it struck her that Basil had never been more

cheerful; during dinner he laughed and joked, without caring that she

was irresponsive; and afterwards sat down to work. Inspiration flowed

in upon him, and he wrote easily and quickly. Jenny, pretending to

read, watched him through her eyelashes.

XI

About a week after Basil’s marriage, Miss Ley found on her

breakfast-table the following letter from Bella;

“MY DEAREST MARY,

“I have been very anxious lately about my friend Herbert Field, and

I want you to do me a great favour. You know that he is not very

strong, and some time ago he caught a horrid cold which he seems

quite unable to shake, off. He refuses to take proper care of

himself, and he looks very ill and thin. Our doctor has been

attending him, but he grows no better, and I am dreadfully alarmed.

I don’t know what I should do if anything happened to him. At last

I have been able to persuade him to come to London to see a

specialist. Do you think Dr. Hurrell would look at him if I brought

Mr. Field up next Saturday? Of course I would pay the ordinary

fees, but there is no need that Herbert should know this. He can

manage to get away early on Saturday morning, if you will get me an

appointment we would drive straight to Dr. Hurrell. May we come to

luncheon with you afterwards?

“Yours affectionately,

“BELLA LANGTON,”

When Frank came in to tea, as was his habit whenever he had time, Miss

Ley showed him the letter, and afterwards wrote back to say that Dr.

Hurrell would be pleased to see the invalid at twelve on the following

Saturday.

“I don’t suppose he has anything the matter with him,” said Frank, “but

I don’t mind having a look. And tell her she can keep her confounded

fees.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Frank,” replied Miss Ley.

At the appointed hour Bella and Herbert were shown into his

consulting-room. The youth was shy and ill at ease.

“Now, will you go into the waiting-room, Miss Langton?” said Frank.

“I’ll send for you later.”

Bella, somewhat impressed by his professional manner, retired, and

Frank examined his patient’s face slowly, as though he sought the

hidden springs of character. Herbert watched with apprehension the

grave man in front of him.

“I don’t think I’ve really got anything much the matter with me; only

Miss Langton was anxious.”

“Medical men would starve if they depended only on the diseased,”

answered Frank. “You’d better take off your things.”

Herbert reddened at the discomfort of undressing himself before a

stranger. The doctor noted the milky whiteness of his skin, and the

emaciation of his body, which revealed the entire form of the skeleton;

he took the boy’s hand and looked at the long fingers with nails

slightly bent over.

“Have you ever spat any blood?”

“No.”

“D’you sweat at night at all?”

“I never used to, but this last week I have a bit.”

“I believe most of your relations are dead, aren’t they?”

“All of them.”

“What did they die of?”

“My father died of consumption, and my sister also.”

Frank said nothing, but his face grew somewhat graver as he heard the

bad history. He began to percuss the boy’s chest.

“I can find nothing abnormal there,” he said.

Then he took his stethoscope and listened.

“Say ninety-nine. Now cough. Breathe deeply.”

He went over every inch carefully, but found nothing more than might be

due to an attack of bronchitis. But before putting down the stethoscope

he applied it again to the apex of the lung, just above the

collar-bone.

“Breathe deeply.”

Then very distinctly he heard a slight crackling sound, which the

hectic flush on Herbert’s cheeks, the symptoms and the history, had led

him to expect. Once more he percussed, more carefully still, and the

note was dull. There could be little doubt about the diagnosis.

“You can put on your clothes,” he said, sitting down at his desk to

write notes of the case.

Without a word Herbert dressed himself. He waited till the doctor

finished.

“Is there anything the matter with me?” he asked.

Frank looked at him gravely.

“Nothing very serious. I’ll talk to Miss Langton if you’ll get her to

come here.”

“I’d sooner hear myself, if you don’t mind,” said Herbert, flushing.

“I’m not afraid to be told anything.”

“You need not be very much alarmed, you know,” answered Frank in a

moment, with a brief hesitation which did not escape Herbert. “You have

râles at the right apex. At first I didn’t hear them.”

“What does that mean?” A cold shiver of dread ran through him so that

his hands and feet felt horribly cold; there was a slight tremor in his

voice when he asked a further question. “Is it the same as my father

and my sister?”

“I’m afraid it is,” said Frank.

And the shadow of Death stood suddenly in the room, patient and

sinister; and each knew that henceforward it would never leave the

young man’s side; it would sit by him at table silently, and lie in his

bed at night; and when he read, a long finger would underline the words

to remind him that he was a prisoner condemned. When the wind, marching

through the country, sang to himself like a strong-limbed ploughboy,

Death, whistling in his ears, would mock the tune softly; when he

looked at the rising sun which coloured the mist like a chalcedony,

purple and rosy and green, Death would snigger at his delight in the

sad world’s beauty. An icy hand gripped his heart so that he felt sick

with dread and anguish; he could not repress the sob torn from him by

bitter agony. Frank was ashamed to look at that boyish face, so frank

and fair, distraught with terror, and he cast down his eyes. Then, to

hide himself, Herbert went to the window and looked out: opposite, the

houses were gray, ugly, and monotonous, and the heavy sky lowered as

though verily it would crush the earth; but he saw life like a pageant

processioning before him, and the azure heaven more profound than the

rich enamel of an old French jewel, the ploughed fields gaining in the

sunshine the various colour of the jasper, and the elm-trees more

sombre than jade. He was like a man in a deep chasm who scans at noon

the stars which those who live in daylight cannot see.

Frank’s voice came to him like a sound from another world.

“I wouldn’t take it too much to heart if I were you. With care you may

easily recover, and after all, plenty of people have lived to a ripe

old age with tuberculous lungs.”

“My sister was only ill four months, and my father less than a year.”

His pale face expressed no emotion, so that Frank could only divine the

fear that made his heart sink; he had seen many take the sentence of

death, and knew that in comparison the final agony itself was small

indeed. It was the most awful moment in life, and it must have been a

cruel god who was not satisfied with that instant of hopeless misery to

punish all the sins and follies of mankind: beside it all human

suffering, the death of children or the ingratitude of friends, loss of

honour or of wealth, sank into insignificance. It was the bitter,

bitter cup that each must drink because man had raised himself above

the beasts.

Frank rang the bell.

“Ask Miss Langton to be so good as to come here,” he told the servant

who answered.

She looked anxiously from Frank to Herbert standing at the window, his

back turned; and the two men’s silence, the doctor’s grave constraint,

filled her with terrified foreboding.

“Herbert, what’s the matter?” she cried. “What has he told you?”

The boy turned round.