like a dog and leave behind me the sunshine and the blue sky and the
trees.”
Bella cried out, and then despair settled in her eyes, and helplessly
the tears ran down her cheeks.
“How could you be so cruel?” she said to Frank. “Oh, Herbert, perhaps
it’s not true. . . . What’s to be done, Dr. Hurrell? Can’t you save him
somehow?”
She sank into a chair and sobbed. The boy placed his hand on her
shoulder gently.
“Don’t cry, dear. In my heart of hearts I knew, but I tried not to
believe it. After all, it can’t be helped. I shall just have to go
through with it like everyone else.”
“It seems so hard and meaningless,” she groaned. “It can’t be true.”
Herbert looked at her without answering, as though her anguish were a
curious thing which excited in him no emotion. In a little while, with
a sigh, Bella rose to her feet and dried her eyes.
“Come away, Herbert,” she said. “Let us go back to Mary.”
“D’you mind if I go by myself? I feel I can’t talk to anyone just now.
I should like to be alone for a bit to think it out.”
“You must do as you choose, Herbert.”
“Good-bye, Dr. Hurrell, and thanks.”
With eager, pain-filled eyes Bella watched him go, and she, too, felt
that something strange was in him, so that she dared not thwart his
wish; when he spoke there was an inflexion in his voice which she had
never heard before. But presently, with a great effort gathering
herself together, she turned to Frank.
“Now, will you tell me exactly what should be done?” she said, with an
attempt at the decisive manner she used in the conduct of charitable
enterprises at Tercanbury.
“First of all get the fact into your head that there is no immediate
cause for alarm. I’m afraid there’s no doubt that tubercle is there,
but the damage at present is very small. He wants care and proper
treatment.... Is he entirely dependent for means upon his occupation?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is it possible for him to go away? He ought to winter abroad—not only
for the climate, but also because new scenes will distract his mind.”
“Oh, I would so gladly pay for him, but he’d never accept a penny from
me. Is it his only chance of life?”
“I can’t say that. The human body is a machine which constantly acts
counter to expectation; sometimes with every organ diseased it still
manages to dodder along.”
Bella did not listen, for suddenly an idea had flashed cross her mind.
She blushed furiously, but all the same it seemed excellent; her heart
beat madly, and an ecstatic happiness lifted her up. She rose from the
chair.
“I dare say I can manage something, after all. I must go and talk to
Miss Ley. Good-bye.”
She gave him her hand and left him wondering what had caused in her
this sudden change, for the depression had vanished before something
which quickened her gait and rendered her step elastic.
“Well, what did Frank tell you?” asked Miss Ley, when she had kissed
Bella.
“He says that Herbert has consumption and must spend the winter
abroad.”
“I’m very sorry; but is that possible?”
“Only if I take him.”
“My dear, how can you?” cried Miss Ley, astonished.
Bella hesitated and blushed.
“I’m going to ask him to marry me. It’s no good now to counterfeit
modesty and all the rest of it. It’s the only way I can save his life,
and after all, I love him better than anyone else in the world. When I
told you a month ago that it was impossible I should care for a boy
almost young enough to be my son, I lied. I fought against it then as
something shameful and ridiculous, but I’ve loved him from the very
first day I saw him.”
Bella’s vehement seriousness alone prevented Miss Ley from indulging in
her usual irony. She carefully repressed the smile which struggled to
gain possession of her lips.
“Your father will never consent, my dear,” she said gravely.
“I hope he will when I explain the circumstances. I’m afraid he’ll be
dreadfully distressed, but if he refuses I shall remember that I’m a
grown woman, capable of judging for myself.”
“I don’t know what he’ll do without you. He’s entirely dependent on you
for all his comfort and all his happiness.”
“I’ve served him for forty years. I gave him all my youth, not because
it was my duty, but because I loved him. Now someone needs me more than
he does. My father is rich; he has a comfortable home, books and
friends, and health. Herbert has nothing but me. If I take care of him,
I may give him a few more years of life, and if he dies I can soothe
his last days.”
Miss Langton spoke rapidly, with such determination that the elder
woman saw it was useless to argue; her whole mind was set on this idea,
and neither the persuasion of friends nor the entreaties of a father
would hinder her.
“And what does the young man say to it?” asked Miss Ley.
“The thought has never entered his head. He looks upon me as a
middle-aged woman to whom all things of love are absurd. Sometimes he’s
laughed at me because I’m so practical and matter-of-fact.”
“Where is he?”
Before Bella could answer there was a ring at the door, and they heard
Herbert ask the butler if Miss Langton had come in.
“There he is!” cried Bella. “Let me go to him now, Mary. He’s going up
to the drawing-room. Oh, I feel so dreadfully nervous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Bella,” answered Miss Ley, smiling. “I’ve never
seen a woman about to propose marriage to the object of her affections
who was quite so self-possessed as you.”
But at the door Miss Langton stopped, and with a very piteous
expression looked at her friend.
“Oh, I wish I weren’t so old, Mary. Tell me honestly, am I awfully
plain?”
“You’ re a great deal too good for a silly young hobbledehoy, my dear,”
said Miss Ley, hiding by roughness of manner something very like a sob.
“If he had any sense, he’d have insisted on marrying you three months
ago.”
When Bella closed the door. Miss Ley’s eye caught the bronze statue of
Narcissus, standing on a pedestal in that eternal attitude of adorable
affectation, one long forefinger outstretched, and his listening head
bent slightly to one side. She addressed him irritably.
“I wish you wouldn’t look so shocked and puzzled and self-conscious of
your beauty. You ought to know that when love and self-sacrifice are
combined in the heart of a middle-aged woman, nothing on earth will
prevent her from acting like a perfect lunatic. In your day the old
maid was unknown, and you can’t possibly understand her emotions, for,
extraordinary as it may appear, even old maids are human. And if you
are scandalized at this disproportion of ages, know that you are an
idiot, ignorant of the elements both of psychology and of physiology.
And I myself have adored generations of young men, though the relations
between us have invariably remained strictly platonic.’
Narcissus, listening intently to the dying cries of Echo, remained
indifferent to Miss Ley’s harangue, and she turned away impatiently.
Entering the drawing-room, Bella found Herbert standing at the window,
and he came towards her with a smile. She saw that already he was more
collected, and though his face was pale and grave, it bore no longer
that disfigurement of fear.
“You didn’t think it unkind of me to leave you to come home by
yourself, did you?” he asked gently. “I was a little bothered just
then, and I felt if I weren’t alone I should make a fool of myself.”
She took his hand and held it.
“You know that I can never think anything you do unkind. But tell me
now if you have decided anything.” She hesitated, but it seemed futile
to utter expressions of regret; for at that moment how could they
comfort him? “I should like you to know that you can depend on me
always.”
“It’s very good of you. I don’t know that there’s anything much to
decide. I dare say I shall soon get used to the idea of not looking
into the future, but it’ll be rather hard at first, because it was all
I had at that dreary bank. I shall stay there as long as I can, and
when I grow too ill I must try and get into the hospital. I dare say
the Dean will help me to be admitted.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that! It’s too horrible,” cried Bella wretchedly.
“Isn’t there anything I can do? I feel so utterly helpless.”
He looked at her for a while.
“Well, yes, there is,” he answered presently. “There’s one thing I
wished to ask you, Bella. You’ve been an awfully good friend to me, and
now I want you more than ever.”
“I’ll do anything you wish,” she said, with beating heart.
“I’m afraid it’s very selfish. But I don’t want you to go away this
winter—in case anything happened. You know my sister died three months
after the first symptoms were noticed.”
“I’d do so much more for you than that.”
She placed her hands on his shoulders, and gazed into his blue, sad
eyes; searchingly she scrutinized his face, paler than ever and more
exquisitely transparent, and his soft mouth, tremulous still with the
horror of death. She remembered his mouth and his eyes when they were
merry with boyish laughter and his cheeks flushed with excitement at
his own gay rhetoric. Then she looked down.
“I wonder if you could bring yourself to marry me.”
Although her eyes were turned away, she knew that he blushed deeply,
and hopelessly, full of shame, she dropped her hands. It seemed an
intolerable time before he answered.
“I’m not so selfish as all that,” he whispered, his voice trembling.
“Yes, I was afraid the thought would disgust you,” she said, with a
sob.
“Bella, how can you say that! Don’t you know that I should have been
proud? Don’t you know that you’re the only woman I’ve ever liked? But I
won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me. I’ve seen people die of
consumption, and I know the ghastliness of it. D’you think I would let
you nurse me and do all the odious things that are needful? And you
might get ill, too. Oh no, Bella, don’t think me ungrateful, but I
couldn’t marry you.”
“D’you think it would be a sacrifice to me?” she asked in tragic tones.
“My poor boy, you never saw that I loved you with all my soul, and when
you were so happy and careless my heart felt as though it would break
because I was old and plain. You’ve forgotten that one day you kissed
my hands: it was only a joke to you, but when you’d gone I cried
bitterly. You’d never have done it except that you thought I was forty
and it couldn’t matter. And when you took my arm sometimes I felt sick
with love. And now, I suppose, you utterly despise me.”
She broke down, sobbing; but in a little while impatiently she brushed
away her tears and faced him with a sort of despairing pride.
“After, all what am I but a middle-aged woman? I’ve never been even
pretty, and my mind is narrow because I’ve lived all my life among
paltry things, and I’m stupid and dull. Why should I think you would
care to marry me because I love you like a fool?”
“Oh, Bella, Bella, don’t say that. You break my heart.”
“And you thought it was self-sacrifice on my part! I was only asking
you because I wanted to be with you every moment—if you fell ill, I
couldn’t bear that anyone else should touch you. I’ve been lonely in my
life, so dreadfully lonely, and I was making one last bid for
happiness.”
She sank into a chair and hid her face, but Herbert, kneeling beside
her, took her hands.
“Look at me, Bella.... I thought you only suggested it because you know
I ought to leave the bank, and have someone to look after me. I never
suspected that you really cared for me. And I’m ashamed because I was
blind. But don’t you know that there’s nothing I should like better
than to be with you always? Then I should care nothing for my illness,
because it would have brought me a greater happiness than I ever dared
to hope for. Bella, if you don’t mind that I’m poor and ill and
unworthy of you, will you marry me?”
On a sudden she stopped in the middle of her silent crying and a
radiant smile chased away the sorrow. For one moment, while she
realized the meaning of his words, she looked at him half in doubt;
then, bending down, she kissed his hands.
“Oh, my dearest, you’ve made me so happy.”
When at last they went to Miss Ley, Bella’s tear-filled eyes shone with
unspeakable bliss; and the elder woman, looking at Herbert, no longer
wondered at her cousin’s infatuation, for his face, so candid and
sweet, was like the face of a young beautiful saint in an old picture.
XII
It was Frank’s habit after his work at the hospital to have tea with
Miss Ley, but when, that afternoon, he arrived at Old Queen Street she
was surprised at the pallor of his face, from which shone with
unnatural brilliancy the dark eyes. They seemed larger than ever she
had seen them, and his harassed look told her that he was suffering:
the square jaw was set firmly, as though with strong deliberation he
held himself in hand.
“You’re so late,” she said. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“I’m very tired,” he answered, in a strained voice.
She poured out tea, and while he ate and drank, to give him opportunity
to collect himself, read the evening paper. With admirable insight,
she, alone of his friends, had divined Frank’s emotional temper; and
though never hinting at the knowledge, for she was aware it humiliated
him to have so little self-control, could in consequence handle him
with very subtle skill. Presently fetching his tobacco, for they sat in
the library, he lit his pipe; he blew the smoke from his mouth in heavy
clouds.
“Is it very comforting?” asked Miss Ley, smiling.
“Very!”
Waiting till he was ready to speak, she returned to her news-sheet, and
though she felt his eyes rest curiously upon her, took no notice.
“I wish to goodness you’d put that paper down,” he cried at last
irritably.
With a faint smile she did as he suggested.
“Have you had a very hard day, Frank?”
“Oh, it was awful!” he answered. “I don’t know why, but it all seemed
to have a greater meaning for me than ever before. I couldn’t get out
of my head the utter misery of that poor boy when I told him his chest
was affected.”
“I wish the whole thing weren’t so ordinary,” murmured Miss Ley. “The
consumptive poet and the devoted old maid! It’s so fearfully hackneyed.
But the gods have no originality; they always make their æsthetic
effects by confounding the tragic and the commonplace. . . . I suppose
you’re quite certain he has phthisis?”
“I found bacilli in the sputum. Where are they both now?”
“Bella took him back to Tercanbury, and I’ve promised to follow on
Monday. She’s going to marry the boy!”
“What!” cried Frank.
“She wants to take him abroad. Don’t you think if he winters in the
South Nature will have some chance with him?”
“In nine cases out of ten Nature doesn’t want to cure a man; she wants
to put him in his coffin.”
Rising from his chair, Frank walked restlessly up and down the room. On
a sudden he stopped short in front of Miss Ley.
“D’you remember your friend Mr. Farley telling us the other day that
pain ennobles a man? I should like to conduct him through the wards of
a hospital.”
“I have no doubt that when he has a tooth drawn Mr. Farley takes care
that gas should be properly administered.”
“I suppose divines can only justify pain by ascribing to it elevation
of character,” cried Frank savagely. “If they weren’t so ignorant
they’d know it requires no justification. You might as well assert that
a danger-signal elevates a train; for, after all, pain is nothing more
than an indication by the nerves that the organism is in circumstances
hurtful to it.”
“Don’t lecture me, Frank, there’s a dear!” murmured Miss Ley mildly.
“But if that man had seen as much pain as I have he’d know that it
doesn’t refine; it brutalizes. It makes, people self-absorbed and
selfish—you can’t imagine the frightful egoism of physical
suffering—querulous, impatient, unjust, greedy. I could name a score of
petty vices that it engenders, but not a single virtue. . . . Oh, Miss
Ley, when I look at all the misery of the world I am so thankful I
don’t believe in God.”
As though seeking to break through the iron bars of the flesh, like a
wild beast unquietly he paced the room.
“For years I’ve toiled night and day to distinguish truth from
falsehood; I want to be clear about my actions, I want to walk with
sure feet; but I find myself in a labyrinth of quicksands. I can see no
meaning in the world, and sometimes I despair; it seems as senseless as
a madman’s dream. After all, what does it tend to, the effort and the
struggle, hope, love, success, failure, birth, death? Man emerged from
savagery merely because he was fiercer than the tiger and more cunning
than the ape; and nothing seems to me less probable than that humanity
advances to any ideal condition. We believe in progress, but progress
is nothing but change!”
“I confess,” interrupted Miss Ley, “that I sometimes ask myself how it
benefits the Japanese that they have assumed the tall-hat and the
trousers of Western civilization. I wonder if the Malays in their
forests or the Kanakas on their islands have cause vastly to envy the
London slummer.”
“What does it all end in?” pursued Frank, too much absorbed in his own
thoughts to listen, “Where is the use of it? For all my labour I
haven’t the shadow of an answer. And even yet I don’t know what is good
and what is evil, what is high and what is low; I don’t even know if
the words have any sense in them. Sometimes men seem to me cripples
ever seeking to hide their deformity, huddled in a stuffy room, lit by
one smoky taper; and they crowd together to keep warm, and they tremble
at every unexpected sound. And d’you think in the course of evolution
it was the best and noblest who survived to propagate their species? It
was merely the shrewd, the hard, and the strong.”
“It would bore me dreadfully to be so strenuous, dear Frank,” answered
Miss Ley, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “It was a wise man who
said that, with regard to the universe, few questions could be asked
and none could be answered. In the end we all resign ourselves to the
fact, and we find it possible to eat our dinner with no less
satisfaction because at the back of our minds stands continually a
discreet mark of interrogation. For my part, I think there is as little
justification for ascribing an end to the existence of man as there was
for the supposition of the Middle Ages, (pardon me if I seem erudite,)
that the heavenly bodies moved in circles because that was the most
perfect figure; but I assure you that my night’s rest is not in the
least impaired. I, too, went through a stormy period in my youth, and
if you’ll promise not to think me tedious I’ll tell you about it.”
“Please do,” said Frank.
He sat down, fixing upon her his piercing eyes, and Miss Ley, as though
she had given the matter frequent thought, spoke fluently, with ordered
ideas and balanced phrase.
“You know, I was reared on the strictest Evangelical principles to
believe certain dogmas on pain of eternal damnation, but at twenty, why
I scarcely can tell, all I had learnt fell away from me. Faith
presumably is a matter of temperament; good-will has nothing to do with
it, and when I look back on my ignorance I am astounded that such
ill-considered reasons sufficed to destroy the prejudices of so many
years. I was certain then that no God existed; but now I make a point
of being certain of nothing: it saves trouble. Besides, each time you
make up your mind you rob yourself of a subject for cogitation. But
theoretically I cannot help thinking that for a quite reasonable view
of life it is necessary to be convinced that no immortality of the soul
exists.”
“How can a man lead his life uniformly on the earth if he is disturbed
by the thought of another life to come?” broke in Frank eagerly. “God
is a force throwing man’s centre of gravity out of his own body.”
“We agreed, Frank, that I was to expound _my_ views,” answered Miss
Ley, with some asperity, for interruption she never suffered easily.
“Forgive me,” said Frank, smiling.
“But I agree that your remark, though ill-timed, was not without
point,” she proceeded deliberately. “When man is assured that the
insignificant planet on which he lives, and the time, are everything so
far as he is individually concerned, he can look about him and order
himself according to the surroundings. He is a chess-player with his
definite number of pieces, capable of definite moves; and none asks why
the castle must run straight, but the bishop obliquely. These things
are to be accepted, and with these rules, careless of what may befall
when the game is finished, the wise man plays—not to win, for that is
impossible, but to make a good fight of it. And if he is wise indeed he
will never forget that, after all, it is but a game, and therefore not
to be taken too seriously.”
Miss Ley paused, thinking it high time to give Frank opportunity for
some remark, but since he remained silent she went on slowly.
“I think the most valuable thing I have learnt in my life is that there
is so much to say on both sides of every question that there is little
to choose between them. It has made me tolerant, so that I can listen
with equal interest to you and to my cousin Algernon. After all, how
can I tell whether Truth has one shape only, or many? In how many
errors does she linger with a smiling face and insufficient raiment; in
what contrary and irreconcilable places does she dwell, more wilful
than April winds, more whimsical than the Will-o-the-wisp! My art and
science is to live. It is an argument of weak men to say that all
things are vanity because the pleasure of them is ephemeral: it may
console the beggar to look upon the tomb of kings, but then he must be
a fool as well. The pleasures of life are illusion, but when pessimists
complain that human delights are negligible because they are unreal,
they talk absurdly; for reality none knows, and few care about: our
only interest is with illusion. How foolish is it to say that the
mirage in the desert is not beautiful merely because it is an
atmospheric effect!”
“Is life, then, nothing but a voyage which a man takes, bound nowhither
and tossed perpetually upon a treacherous sea?”
“Not quite. Storms don’t rage continually, nor is the wind for ever
boisterous: sometimes it blows fair and strong, so that the ship leaps
forward with animal delight; the mariner exults in his skilful power
and in the joy of the limitless horizon. Sometimes the sea is placid
like a sleeping youth, and the scented air, balmy and fresh, fills the
heart with lazy pleasure. The ocean has its countless mysteries, its
thoughts and manifold emotions. Why on earth should you not look upon
the passage as a pleasure-trip, whereon the rough weather must
necessarily be taken with the smooth—looking regretlessly towards the
end, but joyful even amid hurricane or gale in the recollection of
happy, easy days? Why not abandon life, saying: I have had evil fortune
and good, and the pains were compensated by the pleasures; and though
my journey, with all its perils, has led me nowhither, though I return
tired and old to the port whence with my many hopes I started, I am
content to have lived.”
“And so, for all your experience, your study, and your thought, you’ve
found absolutely no meaning,” cried Frank, profoundly discouraged.
“I invented a meaning of sorts; like a critic explaining a symbolical
picture, or a school-boy construing a passage he doesn’t at all
understand, I at least made the words hang sensibly together. I aimed
at happiness, and I think, on the whole, I’ve found it. I lived
according to my instincts, and sought every emotion that my senses
offered; I turned away deliberately from what was ugly and tedious,
fixing my eyes with all my soul on Beauty—seen, I hope, with a discreet
appreciation of the Ridiculous. I never troubled myself much with
current notions of good and evil, for I knew they were merely relative,
but strove always to order my life so that to my eyes at least it
should form a graceful pattern on the dark inane.”
Miss Ley stopped, and a whimsical smile flickered across her face.
“But I should tell you that, like Mr. Shandy, who was so long about his
treatise on the education of his son that by the time it was finished
Tristram’s growth made it useless, I did not formulate my philosophy
till it was too late to set much of it in practice.”
“Dinner is served, madam,” said the butler, coming into the room.
“By Jove!” cried Frank, springing up, “I had no idea it was so late.”
“But you’re going to stay? I think you’ll find a place laid for you.”
“I’ve ordered my dinner at home.”
“I’m sure it won’t be so good as mine.”
“I never saw anyone quite so conceited as you about the excellence of
your cook, Miss Ley.”
“Just as it is far easier for a man to be a philosopher than a
gentleman, my dear, it is less difficult to cultivate a Christian
disposition than good cooking.”
They went downstairs, and Miss Ley ordered a bottle of Miss Dwarris’
champagne to be opened. She had a cynical belief in the efficacy of a
square meal to relieve most spiritual torments; but besides,
heroically—for she was an indolent woman—took pains to amuse her guest.
She talked of many things, gaily and tenderly, while Frank, the dinner
finished, smoked innumerable pipes. At last Big Ben struck twelve, and
cheerful now, resigned to philosophic doubt, he rose to his feet. Frank
took both Miss Ley’s hands.
“You’re a jewel of a woman. I was quite wretched when I came, and
you’ve put new life into me.”
“Not I!” she cried. “The chocolate souffle and the champagne. I have
always observed that the human soul is peculiarly susceptible to the
culinary art. Personally, I never feel so spiritual as when I’ve
slightly overeaten myself. I wish you wouldn’t squeeze my hands.”
“You’re the only woman I know who’s as interesting to talk to as a
man.”
“Faith, and I believe if I were twenty years younger the child would
propose to me!”
“You have only to say the word, and I’ll lead you to the altar.”
“I’m a proud woman this day to get an offer of marriage in my
fifty-seventh year. But where, my dear, if I married you, would you go
to have tea in the afternoon?”
Frank laughed, but in his voice when he answered there was something
very like a sob.
“You’re a dear, kind thing. And I’m sure I shall never be half so
devoted to any other woman as I am to you.”
The emotion must have been catching, for Miss Ley’s tones had not their
usual cold steadiness.
“Don’t be a drivelling idiot, my dear!” she answered, and when the door
was closed behind him added to herself, half in irritation: “Bless the
boy, I wish I were his mother.”
XIII
Two days later Miss Ley duly travelled down to Tercanbury, and was met
at the station by Bella, who told her that, according to their
arrangement, no mention had yet been made of the proposed marriage. She
had announced merely that Herbert Field, whom she desired to make
acquainted with her father, would come to tea that day. The Dean
welcomed Miss Ley with joy.
“It’s very gracious and charming of you to shed your light on our
provincial darkness, my dear,” he exclaimed, taking her hand.
“Don’t hold my hand, Algernon. I had a proposal of marriage on Saturday
night, and I’m palpitating still.”
“Oh, Mary, do tell us all about it,” cried Miss Langton, with delight.
“I shan’t! I told Algernon simply because I notice the average man has
no consideration at all for a single woman unless she’s marriageable.”
“But why didn’t you bring your friend, Dr. Hurrell?” asked the Dean.
“Only to-day I bought a Latin herbary, written in the seventeenth
century, which I’m sure would interest him.”
“As if he’d understand a word of it, my dear Algernon! Besides, I
thought it quite enough for you to snatch one brand at a time from the
burning.”
“Ah, Polly, I shouldn’t like to stand in your shoes on the Last Day,”
he answered, with twinkling eyes.
“I very much doubt if you could get into them,” replied Miss Ley
quickly, protruding a small and elegant foot.
“The sin of pride, my dear!” said the Dean, shaking his finger at her.
“Pride of all sorts, for not Lucifer himself was more satisfied with
the excellence of his understanding.”
“I don’t care, Algernon—if I frizzle, I frizzle,” laughed Miss Ley. “I
know I’m no fool, and after all, my gloves _are_ sixes.”
Tea was brought in, and presently Herbert Field made his appearance.
The Dean, who liked all young things, shook hands with him warmly.
“I’ve heard about you from Bella. I don’t know why she has never before
allowed me to set eyes on you.”
He talked to the boy about his old school, and finding him interested
in the antiquities of Tercanbury, gave way to his own enthusiasm. He
fetched from his study certain lately-acquired plates of old churches
in that city, and Bella watched the pair, the youth’s fair head
contrasting with her father’s white hair and benign face, bending over
them under the lamp. She was delighted with the friendship that seemed
about to spring up between them, and wished with all her heart that
they might thus spend many charming evenings interchanging views on
books and pictures; while she sat by tending them as though both were
her children.
“Now that you’ve broken the ice, you must come again often,” said the
Dean, holding the boy’s hand, when Herbert bade him good-bye. “I must
show you my library; and, if you’re fond of old books, I dare say there
are some I have in duplicate which you might care to have.”
“It’s very kind of you,” answered Herbert, flushing, for the Dean’s
old-fashioned courtesy was a little overwhelming, and the stately
kindness hard to bear when soon he must distress him so enormously by
taking away his daughter.
When Herbert was gone, the Dean said he would return to his study to
finish an article he was preparing for a learned magazine on one of the
later Roman orators.
“Would you stay a few minutes longer, father?” said Bella; “I have
something I wish to talk to you about.”
“Certainly, my dear,” he replied, sitting down. He turned with a quiet
smile to Miss Ley. “When Bella used to announce an important
communication, my heart sank to my boots, for I always expected she
would inform me of her approaching marriage; but I bear it now with
equanimity, because it is invariably only to wheedle me into getting a
boy into the choir who has every qualification except a voice, or to
provide a home for some deserving widow.”
“D’you think I’m too old to marry now?” asked Bella, smiling.
“My dear, for twenty years you’ve refused the most eligible aspirants.
Shall we tell Polly about the last one?”
“She wouldn’t tell us.”
“Only two months ago one of our Canons solemnly asked me whether he
might pay his addresses to Bella, But she wouldn’t hear of it, because
he had seven children by his first wife.”
“He was a singularly dull man into the bargain,” answered Bella.
“Nonsense, my dear; he has a first edition of the _Pilgrim’s
Progress_.”
“Did you like Mr. Field?” asked Bella quietly.
“Very much,” answered the Dean. “He seems a quiet, modest young man.”
“I’m glad of that, father, because I’m engaged to be married to him.”
The Dean gasped; the shock was so great that for a moment he could not
speak, and then he began to tremble. Miss Langton watched him anxiously.
“It’s impossible, Bella,” he muttered at last. “You must be joking.”
“Why?”
“He’s twenty years younger than you.”
“Yes, that’s true. I should never have thought of marriage only he has
consumption. I want to be his nurse more than his wife.”
“But he isn’t a gentleman,” said the Dean, looking at her gravely.
“Father, how can you say that!” cried Bella indignantly, reddening.
“I’ve never met anyone with such a gentle soul. He’s all goodness and
purity.”
“Women know nothing about such things. They can never tell if a man’s a
gentleman or not. What was his father?”
“His father was a tradesman. But kind hearts are more than coronets.”
The Dean tightened his lips. He had recovered now from his surprise,
and stood before Bella, stern and cold.
“I dare say. But a kind heart doesn’t make a gentleman. Polly can tell
you that as well as I.”
“Quite the biggest scoundrel I ever knew was Lord William Heather,”
said Miss Ley reflectively. “He was a cheat and a blackmailer. He had
committed every crime, great and mean, and kept out of prison only by
miracle and the influence of his family; yet no one for a moment could
deny that to his very finger-tips he was a gentleman. I never saw a
better in my life. Gentility has nothing whatever to do with the Ten
Commandments.”
“Mary, don’t go against me, too,” cried Bella. “I want your help.” She
went up to the Dean and took his hands. “Father dear, this isn’t a rash
whim of mine. I’ve considered it gravely, and I promise you that my
motives are neither low nor unworthy. I would give the world not to
cause you pain, and if I do, it’s only because I think my duty here is
clear. I beg you to give me your consent, and I beg you to remember
that for many years I’ve devoted myself to your comfort.”
The Dean released his hands.
“I didn’t know that you looked upon it as an irksome task,” he answered
frigidly, “And why do you suppose this man wants to marry you?” He
seized Bella’s arm, and with energy surprising in one of so fragile
appearance, led her to the glass. “Look at yourself. Is it natural for
a boy to wish to marry a woman old enough to be his mother?” With hard
eyes he scrutinized his daughter’s face and the wrinkles about her
mouth. “Look at your hands; they’re almost the hands of an old woman. I
was mistaken in your friend; he can be nothing better than an
unscrupulous fortune-hunter.”
Bella turned away with a groan; she could not understand that her
father, gentleness itself, should suddenly be so horribly cruel.
“I know I’m old and plain,” she cried, “and I don’t think a moment that
Herbert loves me. He would never have thought of marrying me unless I
had asked him. But I can only save his life by taking him abroad.”
For a while the Dean looked down in deep thought.
“If he’s ill and must go abroad, Bella, I will willingly give him all
the money he needs.”
“But I love him, father,” she answered, with a blush.
“Do you mean that seriously?”
“Yes.”
Then heavy tears came to his eyes, and ran slowly down his cheeks; the
hardness was gone out of his voice when he answered, and it was half
choked with sobs.
“Would you leave me alone, Bella? Can’t you wait till I’m dead? I
shan’t last very much longer.”
“Oh, father, don’t say that. Heaven knows I don’t want to pain you. It
tears my heart to think of leaving you. Let me marry him, and come with
us to Italy. We may be very happy all three of us.”
But at this the Dean drew back from Bella’s appealing hands, and
brushing away his tears, drew himself up sternly.
“No, I will never do that, Bella. I’ve tried to remember all my life
that first of all I’m a Christian minister, but pride of race is in my
blood. I’m proud of my stock, and in my small way I’ve sought to add
honour to it. By marrying this man you dishonour yourself and you
dishonour me. How can you suffer to change the glorious name you bear
for that of a miserable little counter-jumper! I have no right to ask
you to refrain from marriage because I’m old and helpless, and you’ve
made me utterly dependent on you, but I have a right to ask you not to
disgrace the name of my family.”
Miss Ley had never before seen such severity in the gentle Dean; an
unwonted fire had driven away the delightful sweetness which was his
most charming trait, and two red spots burned on his cheeks. His very
voice was harsh, and he held himself upright, austere and cold, like
some Roman senator conscious of his royal responsibility. But Bella was
unmoved.
“I’m very sorry, father, that you should look at it in such a narrow
way. I can never think it dishonourable to take the name of the man I
love. I’m afraid that if you won’t consent I must still do as I think
right.”
He gave her a long and searching look.
“It’s a very grave step absolutely to disobey your father, Bella. I
think it’s the first time in your life.”
“I realize that.”
“Then let me tell you that if you leave the Deanery to marry this
wretched tradesman, neither you nor he shall ever enter it again.”
“You must do as you think fit, father. I shall follow my husband.”
Slowly the Dean walked out of the room.
“He’ll never change his mind,” said Bella in despair, turning to Miss
Ley. “He refused ever to see Bertha Ley because she married a farmer.
His manner is so gentle, so sweet, that you might think his heart
overflowed with humility, but he’s right when he says pride of race is
in his blood. I think I alone know how enormous it is in him.”
“What will you do now?” asked Miss Ley.
“What can I do? It means that I must choose between Herbert and my
father; and Herbert needs me most.”
They did not see the Dean again till dinner, when he came down, dressed
as was his fastidious habit, with silk stockings and buckled shoes, in
the full array of his degree. He sat at the table silently, scarcely
eating, and paid no attention to the conversation, forced and trivial,
between Bella and Miss Ley. Now and then a heavy tear rolled down his
cheek. He was a man of methodical habits, and till ten o’clock always
remained in the drawing-room; on this occasion, therefore, as on
others, he sat down and took up the _Guardian_, but Bella saw that he
did not read, since for an hour his gaze was fixed vacantly on the same
place, and now and then he drew out a handkerchief to dry his eyes.
When the clock struck he rose, and his face was worn and gray with
utter wretchedness.
“Good-night, Polly,” he said. “I hope Bella has seen that you have
everything you require.”
He walked towards the door, but Miss Langton stopped him.
“You’re not going without kissing me, father? You know it cuts my heart
to make you so unhappy.”
“I don’t think we need discuss the matter again, Bella,” he answered
coldly. “As you reminded me, you are of an age to decide your own
affairs. I have nothing more to say, but I shall remain steadfast to my
resolution.”
He turned on his heels and closed the door behind him; they heard him
lock himself in his study.
“He’s never gone to bed without kissing me before,” said Bella
painfully. “Even when he stayed out late, he used to come into my room
to bid me good-night. Oh, poor man, how frightfully unhappy I’ve made
him!”
She looked at Miss Ley with anguish in her eyes.
“Oh, Mary, how hard it is that in this life you can’t do good to one
person without hurting another! Duty so often points in two contrary
directions, and the pleasure of doing the one duty is so much less than
the pain of neglecting the other.”
“Would you like me to speak to your father?”
“You can do no good. You don’t know what immovable determination lies
behind his meek and gentle manner.”
The Dean sat at his study table, his face buried in his hands, and when
at last he went to bed, could not sleep, but brooded continually over
the change that must occur in all his habits. He knew not what he
should do without Bella, but could have reconciled himself to the loss
if the youth and station of Herbert Field had not to his mind made the
union unnatural and outrageous. He was paler than ever next day, bowed
and haggard, and went about the house restlessly, silent, avoiding
Bella’s compassionate eyes: with an old man’s weakness, he could not
restrain the tears of which he was ashamed, and hid himself that he
might not excite his daughter’s pity. Miss Ley attempted to reason with
him, but no good came; he was by turns obstinate and imploring.
“She can’t leave me now, Polly,” he said. “Can’t she see how old I am,
and how much I want her? Let her wait a little. I don’t want to die
alone with strange hands to close my eyes.”
“But you’re not going to die, my dear Algernon. Our family to its
uttermost branches has two marked characteristics, pig-headedness and
longevity; and you’ll live for another twenty years. After all, Bella
has done a great deal for you. Don’t you realize that she wants to live
her own life for a little? You haven’t noticed the change in her during
the last few years; she’s no longer a girl, but a woman of decided
views; and when a spinster develops views there’s the devil to pay, my
dear. I always think the one duty of human beings is not to hinder
their neighbours in fulfilling themselves. Why don’t you change your
mind, and go with them to Italy?”
“I would sooner remain solitary to the end of my days,” he cried, with
sudden vehemence. “The women of our family have always married
gentlemen. You pretend to despise birth, and consider yourself in
consequence broad-minded; but I was brought up with the belief that my
ancestors had handed down to me an honoured name, and I must sooner die
than disgrace it. In all the temptations of my life I’ve remembered
that, and if I’ve been too proud of my race I ask God to forgive me.”
He was immovable; and Miss Ley, to whom the point of view seemed quite
ridiculous, turned away with a shrug of the shoulders. A special
license had been obtained, and on the following Friday, the day fixed
for the marriage, Bella with a heavy heart put on a travelling-dress.
They were to take the train immediately after the ceremony, catch the
afternoon boat to Calais, and thence travel directly to Milan. The
Dean, informed by Miss Ley of the arrangements, had said no word.
Before starting for church Bella went to her father’s study to bid him
good-bye; she wished to make one more effort to soften him and to gain
his forgiveness.
She knocked at the door, but no answer came, and turning the handle,
she found it locked.
“May I come in, father?” she cried.
“I’m very busy,” he answered, in a trembling voice.
“Please open the door. I’m just going away. Let me say good-bye to
you.”
There was a pause, while Bella waited with beating heart.
“Father,” she called again.
“I tell you I’m very busy. Please don’t disturb me.”
She gave a sob and turned away.
“I think nothing makes one so hard as virtue,” she muttered.
Miss Ley was waiting in the hall, and very quietly the two women walked
to the church where the marriage was to take place. Herbert stood at
the chancel, and when Bella saw his bright smile of welcome she took
courage; she could not doubt that she was acting wisely. Miss Ley gave
her away. It was a very matter-of-fact ceremony, but afterwards in the
vestry Herbert tenderly kissed his bride; then she gave a little
hysterical laugh to choke down her tears.
“Thank heaven it’s over!” she said.
The luggage had preceded them to the station, whither they now walked
demurely; soon the train arrived, and the happy pair set off on their
long journey. But when the Dean knew that his daughter was gone from
his house for good and all, he came out of his study; with aching heart
he went to her room and noted the loneliness which seemed to fill it;
he went to the drawing-room, and that was bare and empty, too. For a
while he sat down, and since none could see, surrendered helplessly to
his grief; he asked himself to what he could now look forward, and with
joined hands prayed that death might soon release him from his utter
misery. Presently, taking his hat, he walked through the cloister,
thinking in the cathedral he loved so well to gain at least a measure
of peace; but in the transept his eye caught the large plate of
polished brass on which were graven the names of all the Deans his
predecessors: first there were strange Saxon names, half mythical in
appearance, and then the sonorous names of Norman priests, names of
divines remembered still in the stately annals of the English Church,
great preachers, scholars, statesmen; and lastly his own. And the fire
came to his cheeks, anger inflamed him, when he thought that his name,
not a whit behind the proudest of them all in dignity and honour, must
henceforth be utterly shameful.
At luncheon the Dean, exerting himself to shake off his despondency,
spoke with Miss Ley of indifferent topics. In a little while she
glanced at the clock.
“Bella must be just leaving Dover now,” she said.
“I would rather you didn’t talk to me of her, Polly,” he answered, with
a shaking voice which he strove to render firm. “I must try to forget
that I ever had a daughter.”
“I believe that the most deep-rooted of human passions is that which
makes men cut off their nose to spite their face,” she answered dryly.
Afterwards Miss Ley expressed a wish to drive over to Leanham and Court
Leys, and invited the Dean to accompany her, but on his refusal ordered
the carriage to be ready at three. For several years she had not seen
the house wherein her ancestors, since the time of George II., had been
born; nor was it without a discreet emotion that she recognised the
well-known fields, the flat marshes, and the shining sea, which at that
spot, to her partial eyes, had a peculiar charm not to be found
elsewhere. She drove to Leanham Church, and getting the key, walked in
to look at the stones and brasses which preserved the memory of her
forebears: a new tablet recorded the birth, death, and qualities of
Edward Craddock, and underneath a space was left for the name of his
widow. She could not repress a sigh when she remembered that herself
and Bertha, wife of the said Edward Craddock, would bring that long
list to an end: after them the chapter of the Family of Ley would be
closed for ever, and the pages of Burke know them no more.
“Algernon can say what he likes,” she muttered, “but they were a dull
lot. Families, like nations, only grow interesting in their decadence.”
Driving on, she came to Court Leys, which stood as ever white and
square, as though placed upon the ground like a house of cards. Closed
since the death of Craddock, husband to her niece, it wore a desolate
and forsaken look; the trim and well-mown lawns were choked with weeds,
and the flower-beds bare of flowers; the closed gates, the shuttered
windows, gave it a sinister appearance, and with a shudder Miss Ley
turned away. She bade the coachman go back to Tercanbury, and deep in
meditation, paid no more attention to the surrounding scenes. She
started at hearing her name called in tones of astonishment, and
noticed that Miss Glover, sister to the Vicar of Leanham, was staring
after her. She stopped the carriage, and Miss Glover quickly walked up.
“Who ever thought of seeing you, Miss Ley? It’s quite like old times.”
Now, don’t gush, my dear. I’m staying with my cousin at the Deanery,
and I thought I would come over and see if Court Leys still stood in
its place.”
“Oh, Miss Ley, you must be very much upset. The poor Dean, they say
he’s quite broken-hearted! You know young Field’s father was a
linen-draper at Blackstable.”
“It looks as if the _mésalliance_ were endemic in my family. You must
never be surprised to hear that I have married my butler, a most
respectable man.”
“Oh, but poor Edward was different, and he turned out so well. Where is
Bertha now? She never writes.”
“I believe she’s in Italy. I mean her to marry Frank Hurrell, the son
of old Dr. Hurrell of Ferne.”
“Oh, but, Miss Ley, will she?”
“She’s never set eyes on him yet,” answered Miss Ley, smiling dryly,
“But they’d suit one another admirably.”
“Doesn’t it make you feel sad to see the old house shut up?”
“My dear, I take care never to give way to regret, which is nearly as
sinful as repentance.”
“I don’t understand you,” answered Miss Glover. “I don’t believe it
means anything to you that, as far as ever you can see, it’s Ley land.”
“There you wrong me. I do feel a certain satisfaction in revisiting the
place; it makes me so glad that I live somewhere else. But I dare say
it’s a fine thing to be in the country on your own land, even if you’re
only a woman. I like to feel that my roots are here. When I look round,
I can hardly resist the temptation to take off my clothes and roll in a
ploughed field.”
“I hope you won’t, Miss Ley,” answered Fanny Glover, somewhat shocked;
“it would look so odd.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear,” smiled the other. “You’re so innocent
that each time I see you I expect to find wings sprouting on your
shoulders.”
“I see you’re just the same as ever.”
“Pardon me, I grow distinctly younger every year. Upon my word,
sometimes I don’t feel more than eighteen.”
Then Miss Glover made the only repartee of her life.
“I confess I think you look quite twenty-five, Miss Ley,” she replied
with a grim smile.
“You impudent creature!” laughed the other, and, telling the coachman
to drive on, with a wave of the hand bade good-bye to Miss Glover, the
scenes of her youth, and the fields which seemed part of her very blood
and her bones.
Since the Dean somewhat curtly declined her offer to stay longer with
him, Miss Ley set out next day for London. But a curious unrest had
seized her, and she began much to regret her determination to spend the
winter in England; Mrs. Murray was already gone to Rome, and the sight
of Bella leaving for the Continent had excited still more in Miss Ley’s
veins the travel-fever. She pictured to herself all the little
delightful bothers of the Custom House, the mustiness of hotel ’buses,
the sweet tediousness of long journeys by train, the grateful
discomforts of foreign hostelries; she thought with dazzled eyes of the
dingy grayness of Boulogne, and her nostrils inhaled the well-known
odours of the port and station. Her nerves tingled with eagerness to
forsake her house, her servants, and to plunge into the charming
freedom of the idle tourist. But the train she was in stopped at
Rochester, and her abstracted gaze fixed suddenly on that scene which,
she remembered, Basil Kent had once highly extolled: the sky with its
massive clouds was sombre, and its restfulness was mirrored on the fiat
surface of the Medway; tall chimneys belched winding smoke, a sinuous
pattern against the grayness, and the low factory buildings were white
with dust; to the observant there was indeed a decorative quality,
recalling in its economy of line, in its subdued and careful colour,
the elegance of a Japanese print.
Miss Ley sprang up.
“Give me my dressing-bag,” she said to her astonished maid. “You can go
on to London. I shall stay here.”
“Alone, madam?”
“D’you think anyone will run away with me! Be quick, or I shall be
taken on.”
She seized her bag, jumped out of the carriage, and when the train
steamed away gave a great sigh of relief; it quietened her nerves to be
alone in a strange town, where none knew her, and walking downstairs
she felt a most curious exhilaration. She surveyed the hotel ’buses,
chose the most elaborate, and drove off.
With characteristic wilfulness, Miss Ley set no great store on the more
celebrated objects that tourists visited; she had an idea that a work
of art could arouse but a limited amount of enthusiasm, and this, with
such as were world-renowned, seemed exhausted before ever she came to
them. On the Continent, when she visited a fresh town, it was her
practice to wander at random, watching the people, and nothing
delighted her more than to discover some neglected garden or a
decorated doorway, which the good Baedeker, carefully left at home, did
not mention. That afternoon, then, in the lamplight, the inhabitants of
Rochester might have seen a little old woman, plainly dressed,
sauntering idly down the High Street, observing with keen eyes, amused
and tolerant, and upborne, evidently, by a feeling of great
self-satisfaction. At that moment the house in Old Queen Street seemed
a prison, of which the faithful butler was head-gaoler; and the
admirable dinner, all prepared, was more abhorrent than skilly and hard
bread.
Presently, growing tired, Miss Ley returned to the hotel, and after
resting went down to the dining-room. The waiter placed her at a little
table, and while waiting for dinner to be brought she played absently
with the Renaissance jewel which never left her. It had not yet
occurred to her to examine the people who sat in the large room, and
now, slowly raising her eyes, she saw fixed upon her, with a terrified
expression, those of—Mrs. Castillyon; her face was livid with anxiety.
At first Miss Ley did not understand, but then she perceived that
Reggie Bassett was there also. No sign of recognition passed between
the two women; Mrs. Castillyon looked down, and with scarcely a
movement of the lips, spoke to Reggie. He started, and instinctively
was about to turn round, but a quick word from his neighbour prevented
him. Though seated some way from Miss Ley, they spoke in hurried
whispers, as though afraid the very air should hear them. Miss Ley
curiously glanced up once more, and once more Mrs. Castillyon’s eyes
were hastily lowered. The ghastly pallor of her face was such that Miss
Ley thought she would faint. Reggie poured out a tumbler of champagne,
which Mrs. Castillyon quickly drank.
“I don’t think they’ll have a very pleasant dinner,” murmured the
elderly spinster, repressing a smile. “I wonder why on earth they chose
Rochester.”
Then, mentally, she abused Frank for not telling her what she felt
certain he very well knew. Indeed, Miss Ley was scarcely less confused
than Mrs. Castillyon, for she had no idea there existed such a
relationship between the pair as to occasion a visit to the country
from Saturday to Monday. But she put two and two together. She pursed
her lips when she remembered that Paul Castillyon was at that time in
the North of England speaking at a political meeting, and again smiled
quietly to herself. She was devoured with eagerness to know how her
neighbours would conduct themselves, for it always amused her to see in
what manner people acted in untoward circumstances. She appeared not to
look at them, but was able, notwithstanding, to note the hurried
colloquy, followed by an uneasy silence, with which they finished their
meal. It could not be denied that Miss Ley ate her dinner not only with
equanimity, but with added zest.
“I didn’t know they cooked so well in English hotels,” she murmured.
She called the waiter. “Can you tell me who that lady is at the fifth
table from here?”
“Mrs. Barlow, madam. They only arrived this afternoon.”
“And is the gentleman her husband or her son?”
“Her husband, madam, I think.”
“Pray bring me a newspaper.”
Mrs. Castillyon and Reggie were bound to pass her on their way to the
door, and Miss Ley, somewhat ill-naturedly, determined to remain where
she was. Her sight was good enough for her to notice a look of utter
despair on the pretty woman’s face when a _Westminster Gazette_
accompanied the coffee. Miss Ley arranged it in front of her, and was
soon engrossed in the perusal of a leading article.
There was no help, and Mrs. Castillyon was obliged to make the best of
it. Reggie got up and strolled out, his eyes glued to the floor, with a
scowl on his handsome features which indicated that Mrs. Castillyon
would suffer for the mischance. But she was bolder; she walked a few
steps behind him, uprightly, with a swaying movement of the hips that
was habitual to her, and arriving in front of Miss Ley, stopped with a
very natural cry of surprise.
“Miss Ley, of all people! How delightful to find you down here!”
She held out her hand with every appearance of joy. Miss Ley smiled
coldly.
“I hope I see you well, Mrs. Castillyon.”
“Have you been dining here? How extraordinary that I didn’t see you!
But it’s been a day of odd things for me. When I came into the hotel,
the first person I ran across was Mr. Bassett. So I asked him to dine
with me. It appears he’s staying in the neighbourhood. I wonder you
didn’t see him.”
“I did.”
“Why on earth didn’t you come and speak to us? We might all have dined
together.”
“What a prodigious fool you must think me, my dear!” drawled Miss Ley,
with a mingled expression of scorn and amusement.
At this Mrs. Castillyon started, her face grew on a sudden horribly
gray, and her eyes were filled with abject tenor. She had not the
strength to continue the pretence on which she had at first counted;
she saw, moreover, that it was useless.
“You won’t give me away, Miss Ley,” she whispered, in a tone that fear
made scarcely articulate.
“I have no doubt that curiosity is my besetting sin,” answered Miss
Ley, “but not indiscretion. Only fools discuss the concrete; the
intelligent are more concerned with the abstract.”
“D’you know that Paul’s mother would give half her fortune to know that
I was down here with a man? Oh, how glad she’d be of the chance of
hounding me down! For God’s sake promise that you’ll never say a word.
You don’t want to ruin me, do you?”
“I promise faithfully.”
Mrs. Castillyon gave a sigh of relief that was half a sob of pain. The
room was empty except for the waiter clearing away, but she thought he
watched suspiciously.
“But now I’m in your power, too,” she groaned. “I wish to God I’d never
come here. Why doesn’t that man go away. I feel I could scream at the
top of my voice.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” answered Miss Ley quietly.
Valuing nothing so much as self-restraint, she observed Mrs. Castillyon
with a certain scorn, for this pitiful exhibition of shame and terror
somewhat disgusted her. None was more indifferent to convention than
herself, and the marriage tie especially excited her ridicule, but she
despised entirely those who disregarded the by-laws of society, yet
lacked courage to suffer the results of their boldness: to seek the
good opinion of the world, and yet secretly to act counter to its idea
of decorum, was a very contemptible hypocrisy. Mrs. Castillyon,
divining the sense of Miss Ley’s scrutiny, watched anxiously.
“You must utterly despise me,” she moaned.
“Don’t you think you’d better come back to London with me to-night,”
answered Miss Ley, fixing on the terrified woman her cold, stern gray
eyes.
Mrs. Castillyon’s buoyant sprightliness had completely disappeared, and
she sat before the elder woman haggard and white, like a guilty
prisoner before his judge. But at this proposition a faint blush came
to her cheeks, and a look of piteous anguish turned down the corners of
her mouth.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “Don’t ask me to do that.”
“Why?”
“I daren’t leave him; he’ll go after some of those women in Chatham.”
“Has it come to that already?”
“Oh, Miss Ley, I’ve been so awfully punished. I didn’t mean to go so
far. I only wanted to amuse myself—I was so bored; you know what Paul
is. Sometimes he was so tedious and dull that I flung myself on my bed
and just screamed.”
“All husbands sometimes are tedious and dull,” remarked Miss Ley
reflectively, “just as all wives are often peevish. But he’s very fond
of you.”
“I think it would break his heart if he knew. I’m so utterly wretched.
I couldn’t help myself; I love Reggie with all my soul. And he doesn’t
care two straws for me! At first he was flattered because I was what he
calls a gentlewoman, but now he only sticks to me because I pay him.”
“What!” cried Miss Ley.
“His mother doesn’t give him enough money, and I manage to help him. He
pays all the bills with notes I give, and I pretend to think there’s
never any change. Oh, I hate and despise him, and yet if he left me I
think I should die.”
Hiding her face in her hands, she wept irresistibly. Miss Ley
meditated. In a moment Mrs. Castillyon looked up, clenching her fists.
“And now when I go to him he’ll abuse me like a fishwife because I
suggested Rochester. He’ll say it was my fault that we came here. Oh, I
wish we’d never come; I knew it was madness. I wish I’d never set eyes
on him.”
“But why did you hit upon Rochester?” asked Miss Ley.
“Don’t you remember Basil Kent talked about it? I thought no one ever
came here, and Paul said wild-horses wouldn’t drag him. That settled
it.”
“Basil must apply his æsthetic theories to less accessible places,”
murmured Miss Ley. “For that is why I came also. You know, our place is
not far from here, and I’ve been staying at Tercanbury.”
“I forgot that.”
For a little while they remained silent. The hotel dining-room, with
most of the lights extinguished, the tables clear but for white
table-cloths, was gloomy and depressing. Mrs. Castillyon shuddered as
painfully she took in the scene, and dimly felt that this passion,
which had seemed so wonderful, in Miss Ley’s eyes must appear most
sordid and mean.
“Can’t you help me at all?” she moaned.
“Why don’t you break with Reggie altogether?” asked Miss Ley. “I know
him pretty well, and I don’t think he will ever bring you much
happiness.”
“I wish I had the strength.”
Miss Ley gently placed her hand on the thin, jewelled fingers of the
unhappy woman.
“Let me take you up to London to-night, my dear.”
Mrs. Castillyon looked at her with tear-filled eyes.
“Not to-night,” she begged. “Give me till Monday, and then I’ll break
with him altogether.”
“It must be now or never. Don’t you think it had better be now?”
None would have thought that Miss Ley’s cold voice was capable of such
persuasive tenderness.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Castillyon, utterly exhausted. “I’ll go and tell
Reggie.”
“If he raises any objection, say that I make it a condition of holding
my tongue.”
“Much he’ll care!” replied Mrs. Castillyon, with a sob of anger.
She went away, but immediately returned.
“He’s gone,” she said.
“Gone?”
“Without a word. All the things are out of his room. He’s always been a
coward, and he’s just run away.”
“And left you to pay the bill. How like dear Reggie!”
“You’re right, Miss Ley: no good can come of the whole thing. This is
the end, I’ll drop him. Take me up to London, and I promise you I’ll
never see him again. I will try from now to do my duty to Paul.”
Their traps were soon collected, and they caught the last train to
town. Mrs. Castillyon sat in the corner of the carriage, her face
woebegone and white against the blue cushions; she looked out into the
night and never spoke. Her companion meditated.
“I wonder what there is in respectability,” she thought, “that I should
take such pains to lead back that woman to its dull, complacent paths.
She’s a poor creature, and I don’t suppose she’s worth the trouble; and
I haven’t seen Rochester after all. But I must take great care, I’m
becoming quite a censor of morals, and soon I shall grow positively
tedious.”
She glanced at the pretty woman, looking then so old and worn, the
powder on her cheeks emphasizing their wan hollowness. She was crying
silently.
“I wonder if that beast Frank knew all the time, and basely kept the
secret.”
When at last they drew near London, Mrs. Castillyon roused herself. She
turned to her friend with a sort of despairing scorn.
“You’re fond of aphorisms, Miss Ley,” she said. “Here’s one that I’ve
found out for myself: One can despise no one so intensely as the person
one loves with all one’s heart.”
“Frank can say what he likes,” answered the other, “but there’s nothing
like mortal pain for making people entertaining.”
A few days later Miss Ley, who prided herself that she made plans only
for the pleasure of breaking them, started for Italy.
PART II
I
Miss Ley returned to England at the end of February. Unlike the most of
her compatriots, she did not go abroad to see the friends with whom she
spent much time at home; and though Bella and Herbert Field were at
Naples, Mrs. Murray in Rome, she took care systematically to avoid
them. Rather was it her practice to cultivate chance acquaintance, for
she thought the English in foreign lands betrayed their idiosyncrasies
with a pleasant and edifying frankness. In Venice, for example, or at
Capri, the delectable isle, romance might be seized as it were in the
act, and all manner of oddities were displayed with a most diverting
effrontery. In those places you meet middle-aged pairs, uncertainly
related, whose vehement adventures startled the decorum of a previous
generation. You discover how queer may be the most conventional, how
ordinary the most eccentric. Miss Ley, with her discreet knack for
extracting confidence, after her own staid fashion enjoyed herself
immensely. She listened to the strange confessions of men who for their
souls’ sake had abandoned the greatness of the world, and now spoke of
their past zeal with indulgent irony; of women who for love had been
willing to break down the very pillars of heaven, and now shrugged
their shoulders in amused recollection of passion long since dead.
“Well, what have you fresh to tell me?” asked Frank, having met Miss
Ley at Victoria, when he sat down to dinner in Old Queen Street.
“Nothing much. But I’ve noticed that when pleasure has exhausted a man
he’s convinced that he has exhausted pleasure; then he tells you
gravely that nothing can satisfy the human heart.”
But Frank had more important news than this, for Jenny, a week before,
was delivered of a still-born child, and had been so ill that it was
thought she could not recover. Now, however, the worst was over, and if
nothing untoward befell she might be expected slowly to regain health.
“How does Basil take it?” asked Miss Ley.
“He says very little. He’s grown silent of late, but I’m afraid he’s
quite heart-broken. You know how enormously he looked forward to the
baby.”
“D’you think he’s fond of his wife?”
“He’s very kind to her. No one could have been gentler than he after
the catastrophe. I think she was the more cut up of the two. You see,
she looked upon it as the reason of their marriage—and he’s been doing
his best to comfort her.”
“I must go down and see them. And now tell me about Mrs. Castillyon.”
“I haven’t set eyes on her for ages.”
Miss Ley observed Frank with deliberation. She wondered if he knew of
the affair with Reggie Bassett, but, though eager to discuss it, would
not risk to divulge a secret. In point of fact, he was familiar with
all the circumstances, but it amused him to counterfeit ignorance that
he might see how Miss Ley guided the conversation to the point she
wanted. She spoke of the Dean of Tercanbury, of Bella and her husband;
then, as though by chance, mentioned Reggie. But the twinkling of
Frank’s eyes told her that he was laughing at her stratagem.
“You brute!” she cried. “Why didn’t you tell me all about it, instead
of letting me discover the thing by accident?”
“My sex suggests to me certain elementary notions of honour, Miss Ley.”
“You needn’t add priggishness to your other detestable vices. How did
you know they were carrying on in this way?”
“The amiable youth told me. There are very few men who can refrain from
boasting of their conquests, and certainly Reggie isn’t one of them.”
“You don’t know Hugh Kearon, do you? He’s had affairs all over Europe,
and the most notorious was with a foreign Princess who shall be
nameless. I think she would have bored him to death if he hadn’t been
able to flourish ostentatiously a handkerchief with a royal crown in
the corner and a large initial.”
Miss Ley then gave her account of the visit to Rochester, and certainly
made of it a very neat and entertaining story.
“And did you think for a moment that this would be the end of the
business?” asked Frank, ironically.
“Don’t be spiteful because I hoped for the best.”
“Dear Miss Ley, the bigger blackguard a man is, the more devoted are
his lady-loves. It’s only when a man is decent and treats women as if
they were human beings that he has a rough time of it.”
“You know nothing about these things, Frank,” retorted Miss Ley. “Pray
give me the facts, and the philosophical conclusions I can draw for
myself.”
“Well, Reggie has a natural aptitude for dealing with the sex. I heard
all about your excursion to Rochester, and went so far as to assure him
that you wouldn’t tell his mamma. He perceived that he hadn’t cut a
very heroic figure, so he mounted the high horse, and full of virtuous
indignation, for a month took no notice whatever of Mrs. Castillyon.
Then she wrote most humbly begging him to forgive her; and this, I
understand, he graciously did. He came to see me, flung the letter on
the table, and said: ‘There, my boy, if anyone asks you, say that what
I don’t know about women ain’t worth knowing.’ Two days later he
appeared with a gold cigarette-case!”
“What did you say to him?”
“‘One of these days you’ll come the very devil of a cropper.’”
“You showed wisdom and emphasis. I hope with all my heart he will.”
“I don’t imagine things are going very smoothly,” proceeded Frank.
“Reggie tells me she leads him a deuce of a life, and he’s growing
restive. It appears to be no joke to have a woman desperately in love
with you. And then he’s never been on such familiar terms with a person
of quality, and he’s shocked by her vulgarity. Her behaviour seems
often to outrage his sense of decorum.”
“Isn’t that like an Englishman! He cultivates propriety even in the
immoral.”
Then Miss Ley asked Frank about himself, but they had corresponded with
diligence, and he had little to tell. The work at Saint Luke’s went on
monotonously—lectures to students three times a week, and out-patients
on Wednesday and Saturday. People were beginning to come to his
consulting-room in Harley Street, and he looked forward, without great
enthusiasm, to the future of a fashionable physician.
“And are you in love?”
“You know I shall never permit my affections to wander so long as you
remain single,” he answered, laughing.
“Beware I don’t take you at your word and drag you by the hair of your
head to the altar. Have I no rival?”
“Well, if you press me, I will confess.”
“Monster, what is her name?”
“_Bilharzia hæmatobi._”
“Good heavens!”
“It’s a parasite I’m studying. I think authorities are all wrong about
it. They’ve not got its life-history right, and the stuff they believe
about the way people catch it is sheer footle.”
“It doesn’t sound frightfully thrilling to me, and I’m under the
impression you’re only trumping it up to conceal some scandalous amour
with a ballet-girl.”
Miss Ley’s visit to Barnes seemed welcome neither to Jenny nor to
Basil, who looked harassed and unhappy, and only with a visible effort
assumed a cheerful manner when he addressed his wife. Jenny was still
in bed, very weak and ill, but Miss Ley, who had never before seen her,
was surprised at her great beauty; her face, whiter than the pillows
against which it rested, had a very touching pathos, and,
notwithstanding all that had gone before, that winsome, innocent
sweetness which has occasioned the comparison of English maidens to the
English rose. The observant woman noticed also the painful, questioning
anxiety with which Jenny continually glanced at her husband, as though
pitifully dreading some unmerited reproach.
“I hope you like my wife,” said Basil, when he accompanied Miss Ley
downstairs.
“Poor thing! She seems to me like a lovely bird imprisoned by fate
within the four walls of practical life, who should by rights sing
careless songs under the open skies. I’m afraid you’ll be very unkind
to her.”
“Why?” he asked, not without resentment.
“My dear, you’ll make her live up to your blue china teapot. The world
might be so much happier if people wouldn’t insist on acting up to
their principles.”
Mrs. Bush had been hurriedly sent for when Jenny’s condition seemed
dangerous, but in her distress and excitement had sought comfort in
Basil’s whisky bottle to such an extent that he was obliged to beg her
to return to her own home. The scene was not edifying. Surmising an
alcoholic tendency, Kent, two or three days after her arrival, locked
the sideboard and removed the key. But in a little while the servant
came to him.
“If you please, sir, Mrs. Bush says, can she ’ave the whisky; she’s not
feelin’ very well.”
“I’ll go to her.”
Mrs. Bush sat in the dining-room with folded hands, doing her utmost to
express on a healthy countenance maternal anxiety, indisposition, and
ruffled dignity. She was not vastly pleased to see her son-in-law
instead of the expected maid.
“Oh, is that you, Basil?” she said. “I can’t find the sideboard key
anywhere, and I’m that upset I must ’ave a little drop of something.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you, Mrs. Bush. You’re much better without it.”
“Oh, indeed!” she answered, bristling. “P’raps you know more about me
inside feelings than I do myself. I’ll just trouble you to give me the
key, young man, and look sharp about it. I’m not a woman to be put upon
by anyone, and I tell you straight.”
“I’m very sorry, but I think you’ve had quite enough to drink. Jenny
may want you, and you would be wise to keep sober.”
“D’you mean to insinuate that I’ve ’ad more than I can carry?”
“I wouldn’t go quite so far as that,” he answered, smiling.
“Thank you for nothing,” cried Mrs. Bush indignantly. “And I should be
obliged if you wouldn’t laugh at me, and I must say it’s very ’eartless
with me daughter lying ill in her bedroom. I’m very much upset, and I
did think you’d treat me like a lady; but you never ’ave, Mr. Kent—no,
not even the first time I come here. Oh, I ’aven’t forgot, so don’t you
think I ’ave. A sixpenny ’alfpenny teapot was good enough for me; but
when your lady-friend come in out pops the silver, and I don’t believe
for a moment it’s real silver. Blood’s all very well, Mr. Kent, but
what I say is, give me manners. You’re a nice young feller, you are, to
grudge me a little drop of spirits when me poor daughter’s on her
death-bed. I wouldn’t stay another minute in this ’ouse if it wasn’t
for ’er.”
“I was going to suggest it would be better if you returned to your
happy home in Crouch End,” answered Basil, when the good woman stopped
to take breath.
“Were you, indeed! Well, we’ll just see what Jenny ’as to say to that.
I suppose my daughter is mistress in ’er own ’ouse.”
Mrs. Bush started to her feet and made for the door, but Basil stood
with his back against it.
“I can’t allow you to go to her now. I don’t think you’re in a fit
state.”
“D’you think I’m going to let you prevent me? Get out of my way, young
man.”
Basil, more disgusted than out of temper, looked at the angry creature
with a cold scorn which was not easy to stomach.
“I’m sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Bush, but I think you’d better
leave this house at once. Fanny will put your things together. I’m
going to Jenny’s room, and I forbid you to come to it. I expect you to
be gone in half an hour.”
He turned on his heel, leaving Mrs. Bush furious but intimidated. She
was so used to have her own way that opposition took her aback, and
Basil’s manner did not suggest that he would easily suffer
contradiction. But she made up her mind, whatever the consequences, to
force her way into Jenny’s room, and there set out her grievance. She
had not done repeating to herself what she would say when the servant
entered to state that, according to her master’s order, she had packed
the things. Jenny’s mother started up indignantly, but pride forbade
her to let the maid see she was turned out.
“Quite right, Fanny! This isn’t the ’ouse that a lady would stay in;
and I pity you, my dear, for ’aving a master like my son-in-law. You
can tell ’im, with my compliments, that he’s no gentleman.”
Jenny, who was asleep, woke at the slamming of the front-door.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Your mother has gone away, dearest. D’you mind?”
She looked at him quickly, divining from knowledge of her parent’s
character that some quarrel had occurred, and anxious to see that Basil
was not annoyed. She gave him her hand.
“No; I’m glad. I want to be alone with you. I don’t want anyone to come
between us.”
He bent down and kissed her, and she put her arms round his neck.
“You’re not angry with me because the baby died?”
“My darling, how could I be?”
“Say that you don’t regret having married me.”
Jenny, realizing by now that Basil had married her only on account of
the child, was filled with abject terror; his interests were so
different from hers (and she had but gradually come to understand how
great was the separation between them) that the longed-for son alone
seemed able to preserve to her Basil’s affection. It was the mother he
loved, and now he might bitterly repent his haste, for it seemed she
had forced marriage upon him by false pretences. The chief tie that
bound them was severed, and though with meek gratitude accepting the
attentions suggested by his kindness, she asked herself with aching
heart what would happen on her recovery.
Time passed, and Jenny, though ever pale and listless, grew strong
enough to leave her room. It was proposed that in a little while she
should go with her sister for a month to Brighton. Basil’s work
prevented him from leaving London for long, but he promised to run down
for the week-end. One afternoon he came home in high spirits, having
just received from his publishers a letter to say that his book had
found favour, and would be issued in the coming spring. It seemed the
first step to the renown he sought. He found James Bush, his
brother-in-law, seated with Jenny, and, in his elation, greeted him
with unusual cordiality; but James lacked his usual facetious flow of
conversation, and wore, indeed, a hang-dog air, which at another time
would have excited Basil’s attention. He took his leave at once, and
then Basil noticed that Jenny was much disturbed. Though he knew
nothing for certain, he had an idea that the family of Bush came to his
wife when they were in financial straits, but from the beginning had
decided that such inevitable claims must be satisfied. He preferred,
however, to ignore the help which Jenny gave, and when she asked for
some small sum beyond her allowance, handed it without question.
“Why was Jimmie here at this hour?” he asked, carelessly, thinking him
bound on some such errand. “I thought he didn’t leave his office till
six.”
“Oh, Basil, something awful has happened. I don’t know how to tell you.
He’s sacked.”
“I hope he doesn’t want us to keep him,” answered Basil, coldly. “I’m
very hard up this year, and all the money I have I want for you.”
Jenny braced herself for a painful effort. She looked away, and her
voice trembled.
“I don’t know what’s to be done. He’s got into trouble. Unless he can
find a hundred and fifteen pounds in a week, his firm are going to
prosecute.”
“What on earth d’you mean, Jenny?”
“Oh, Basil, don’t be angry. I was so ashamed to tell you, I’ve been
hiding it for a month; but now I can’t any more. Something went wrong
with his accounts.”
“D’you mean to say he’s been stealing?” asked Basil, sternly; and a
feeling of utter horror and disgust came over him.
“For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that,” she cried, for his eyes,
his firm-set mouth, made her feel a culprit confessing on her own
account some despicable crime. “He didn’t mean to be dishonest. I don’t
exactly understand, but he can tell you how it all was. Oh, Basil, you
won’t let him be sent to prison! Couldn’t he have the money instead of
my going away?”
Basil sat down at his desk to think out the matter, and resting his
face thoughtfully on his hands, sought to avoid Jenny’s fixed,
appealing gaze. He did not want her to see the consternation, the
abject shame, with which her news oppressed him. But all the same she
saw.
“What are you thinking about, Basil?”
“Nothing particular. I was wondering how to raise the money.”
“You don’t think because he’s my brother I must be tarred with the same
brush?”
He looked at her without answering. It was certainly unfortunate that
his wife’s mother should drink more than was seemly, and her brother
have but primitive ideas about property.
“It’s not my fault,” she cried, with bitter pain, interrupting his
silence. “Don’t think too hardly of me.”
“No, it’s not your fault,” he answered, with involuntary coldness. “You
must go away to Brighton all the same, but I’m afraid it means no
holiday in the summer.”
He wrote a cheque, and then a letter to his bank begging them to
advance a hundred pounds on securities they held.
“There he is,” cried Jenny, hearing a ring. “I told him to come back in
half an hour.”
Basil got up.
“You’d better give the cheque to your brother at once. Say that I don’t
wish to see him.”
“Isn’t he to come here any more, Basil?”
“That is as you like, Jenny. If you wish, we’ll pretend he was
unfortunate rather than—dishonest; but I’d rather he didn’t refer to
the matter. I want neither his thanks nor his excuses.”
Without answering Jenny took the cheque. She would have given a great
deal to fling her arms gratefully round Basil’s neck, begging him to
forgive, but there was a hardness in his manner which frightened her.
All the evening he sat in moody silence, and Jenny dared not speak. His
kiss when he bade her good-night had never been so frigid, and unable
to sleep, she cried bitterly. She could not understand the profound
abhorrence with which he looked upon the incident. To her mind it was
little more than a mischance occasioned by Jimmie’s excessive
sharpness, and she was disposed to agree with her brother that only
luck had been against him. She somewhat resented Basil’s refusal to
hear any defence, and his complete certainty that the very worst must
be true.
A few days later, coming unexpectedly, Kent found Jenny in earnest
conversation with her brother, who had quite regained his jaunty air,
and betrayed no false shame at Basil’s knowledge of his escapade.
“Well met, ’Oratio!” he cried, holding out his hand. “I just come in on
the chance of seeing you. I wanted to thank you for that loan.”
“I’d rather you didn’t speak of it.”
“Why, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I ’ad a bit of bad luck, that’s
all. I’ll pay you back, you know. You needn’t fear about that.”
He gave a voluble account of the affair, proving how misfortune may
befall the deserving, and what a criminal complexion the most innocent
acts may wear. Basil, against his will admiring the fellow’s jocose
effrontery, listened with chilling silence.
“You need not excuse yourself,” he said at length. “My reasons for
helping you were purely selfish. Except for Jenny, it would have been a
matter of complete indifference to me if you had been sent to prison or
not.”
“Oh, that was all kid. They wouldn’t have prosecuted. Don’t I tell you
they had no case. You believe me, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“What d’you mean by that?” asked James, angrily.
“We won’t discuss it.”
The other did not answer, but shot at Basil a glance of singular
malevolence.
“You can whistle for your money, young feller,” he muttered, under his
breath. “You won’t get much out of me.”
He had but small intention of paying back the rather large sum, but now
abandoned even that. During the six months since Jenny’s married life
he had never been able to surmount the freezing politeness with which
Basil used him. He hated him for his supercilious air, but needing his
help, took care, though sometimes he could scarcely keep his temper, to
preserve a familiar cordiality. He knew his brother-in-law would
welcome an opportunity to forbid him the house, and this, especially
now that he was out of work, he determined to avoid. He stomached the
affront as best he could, but solaced his pride with the determination
sooner or later to revenge himself.
“Well, so long,” he cried, with undiminished serenity; “I’ll be
toddling.”
Jenny watched this scene with some alarm, but with more irritation,
since Basil’s frigid contempt for her brother seemed a reflection on
herself.
“You might at least be polite to him,” she said, when Jimmie was gone.
“I’m afraid I’ve pretty well used up all my politeness.”
“After all, he is my brother.”
“That is a fact I deplore with all my heart,” he answered.
“You needn’t be so hard on him now he’s down. He’s no worse than plenty
more.”
Basil turned to her with flaming eyes.
“Good God, don’t you realize the man’s a thief! Doesn’t it mean
anything to you that he’s dishonest? Don’t you see how awful it is that
a man—”
He broke off with a gesture of disgust. It was the first quarrel they
had ever had, and a shrewish look came to Jenny’s face, her pallor gave
way to an angry flush. But quickly Basil recovered himself.
Recollecting his wife’s illness and her bitter disappointment at the
poor babe’s death, he keenly regretted the outburst.
“I beg your pardon, Jenny. I didn’t mean to say that. I should have
remembered you were fond of him.”
But since she did not answer, looking away somewhat sulkily, he sat
down on the arm of her chair and stroked her wonderful rich tresses.
“Don’t be cross, darling. We won’t quarrel, will we?”
Unable to resist his tenderness, tears came to her eyes, and
passionately she kissed his caressing hands.
“No, no,” she cried. “I love you too much. Don’t ever speak angrily to
me; it hurts so awfully.”
The momentary cloud passed, and they spoke of the approaching visit to
Brighton. Jenny was to take lodgings, and she made him promise
faithfully that he would come every Saturday. Frank had offered a room
in Harley Street, and while she was away Basil meant to stay with him.
“You won’t forget me, Basil?”
“Of course not! But you must hurry up and get well and come back.”
When at length she set off, and Basil found himself Frank’s guest, he
could not suppress a faint sigh of relief. It was very delightful to
live again in a bachelor’s rooms, and he loved the smell of smoke, the
untidy litter of books, the lack of responsibility. There was no need
to do anything he did not like, and, for the first time since his
marriage he felt entirely comfortable. Recalling his pleasant rooms in
the Temple, and there was about them an old-world air which amiably
fitted his humour, he thought of the long conversations of those days,
the hours of reverie, the undisturbed ease with which he could read
books; and he shuddered at the poky villa which was now his home, the
worries of housekeeping, and the want of privacy. He had meant his life
to be so beautiful, and it was merely sordid.
“There are advantages in single blessedness,” laughed the doctor, when
he saw Basil after breakfast light his pipe, and putting his feet on
the chimney-piece, lean back with a sigh of content.
But he regretted his words when he saw on the other’s mobile face a
look of singular wistfulness. It was his first indication that things
were not going very well with the young couple.
“By the way,” Frank suggested, presently, “would you care to come to a
party to-night? Lady Edward Stringer is giving some sort of function,
and there’ll be a lot of people you know.”
“I’ve been nowhere since my marriage,” Basil answered, irresolutely.
“I shall be seeing the old thing to-day. Shall I ask if I can bring
you?”
“It would be awfully good of you. By Jove, I should enjoy it.” He gave
a laugh. “I’ve not had evening clothes on for six months.”
II
Lady Edward Stringer said she would be delighted to see Basil that
evening, and Frank, whose toilet was finished in a quarter of an hour,
with scornful amusement watched the care wherewith the young man
dressed. At last, with a final look at the glass, he turned round.
“You look very nice indeed,” said the doctor ironically.
“Shut up!” answered Basil, reddening; but it was evident all the same
that he was not displeased with his appearance.
They dined at Frank’s very respectable club, surrounded by men of
science with their diverting air of middle-aged school-boys, and soon
after ten drove off to Kensington. Basil hated the economy which since
his marriage he had been forced to practise, and the signs of wealth in
Lady Edward’s house were very grateful to him. A powdered footman took
his hat, another seized his coat; and after the cramped stuffiness of
the villa at Barnes it pleased him hugely to walk through spacious and
lofty rooms, furnished splendidly in the worst Victorian manner. Lady
Edward, her fair wig more than usually askew, dressed in shabby
magnificence, with splendid diamonds round her withered neck, gave him
the indifferent welcome of a fashionable hostess, and turned to the
next arrival. Moving on, Basil found himself face to face with Mrs.
Murray.
“Oh, I _am_ glad to see you!” he cried, enthusiastic and surprised. “I
didn’t know you were back. Come and sit down, and tell me all you’ve
seen.”
“Nonsense! I’m not going to say a word. You must give me all the news.
I see your book is announced.”
Basil was astonished to find how handsome she was. He had thought of
her very frequently, against his will, but the picture in his mind had
not that radiant health nor that spirited vitality. Rather had his
imagination exaggerated the likeness to a Madonna of Sandro Botticelli,
dwelling on the sad passion of her lips and the pallid oval of her
languid face. To-night her vivacity was enchanting; the gray eyes were
full of laughter, and her cheeks delightfully flushed. He looked at her
beautiful hands, recognising the rings, and at the picturesque
splendour of her gown. The favourite scent which vaguely clung to her
recalled the past with its pleasant intercourse, and he remembered her
drawing-room in Charles Street where they had sat so often talking of
charming things. His heart ached, and he knew that for all his efforts
he loved her no less than that night before his marriage when he became
convinced that she also cared.
“I don’t believe you’re listening to a word I say,” she cried.
“Yes, I am,” he answered, “but the sound of your voice intoxicates me.
It has all the music of Italy, I haven’t heard it for such ages.”
“When did I see you last?” she inquired, remembering perfectly well,
but curious to know his answer.
“You were driving near Westminster Bridge one Sunday afternoon, but
I’ve not spoken to you since the Thursday before that, I remember the
cloak you wore then. Have you still got it?”
“What a memory!”
She laughed flippantly, but there was triumph in her eyes; for he
seemed to have forgotten completely the visit to Barnes, and his
recollection was only of their mutual love.
“I often think of the long talks we used to have,” he said. “Except for
you, I should never have written my book.”
“Ah, yes, before you married, wasn’t it?”
She uttered the words carelessly, with a smile, but she meant to wound;
and Basil’s face grew on a sudden deathly pale, an inexpressible pain
darkened his eyes, and his lips trembled. Mrs. Murray observed him with
a cruel curiosity. Sometimes in her anger she had prayed for an
occasion of revenge for all the torture she had suffered, and this was
the beginning. She hated him now, she told herself—she hated him
furiously. At that moment she caught sight of Mr. Farley, the
fashionable parson, and smiled. As she expected, he came forward.
“Did you get a letter from me?” she asked, holding out her hand.
“Thanks so much. I’ve already written to accept.”
Her question was not without malice, for she wished Basil to understand
that she had sent Mr. Farley some invitation. Unwillingly, the younger
man rose from her side, and the vicar of All Souls’ took the vacant
place. As Basil sauntered away, sore at heart, she addressed the
new-comer with a flattering, though somewhat unusual, cordiality.
“_Tiens!_ There’s chaste Lucretia. How on earth did you get here?”
Basil started, and his face grew suddenly cold and hard when at his
elbow he heard his mother’s mocking voice.
“Dr. Hurrell brought me,” he answered.
“He showed discretion in bringing you to the dullest house in London,
also the most respectable. How is Camberwell, and do you have high
tea?”
“My wife is at Brighton,” replied Basil, feeling, as ever, humiliated
by Lady Vizard’s banter.
“I didn’t expect she was here. You’re really very good-looking. What a
pity it is you’re so absurd!”
She nodded to her son and passed on. Presently she came to Miss Ley,
who stood by herself watching with amusement the various throng.
“How d’you do?” said Lady Vizard.
“I had no idea that you remembered me,” answered the other.
“I saw in the paper that you had inherited the fortune of that odious
Miss Dwarris. Haven’t you found that lots of people have remembered you
since then?” She did not wait for an answer. “Aren’t you a friend of my
young hopeful? I’ve just seen him, and I can’t imagine why he dislikes
me so much. I suppose he thinks I’m wicked, but I’m not in the least,
really. I’m not conscious of ever having committed a sin in my life.
I’ve done foolish things and things I regret, but that’s all.”
“It’s very comfortable to have the approval of one’s own conscience,”
murmured Miss Ley.
Lord de Capit at that moment advanced to Lady Vizard, and Miss Ley took
the opportunity to go to Mrs. Barlow-Bassett, superbly imposing as
usual, who was talking with the Castillyons.
“It’s a great comfort to me to know he’s such a good boy,” she heard
her saying. “He has no secrets from me, and I can assure you he hasn’t
a thought which he needs to hide from anyone.”
“Who is this admirable person?” asked Miss Ley.
“I was thanking Mrs. Castillyon for being so good to Reggie. He’s just
of an age when the influence of a woman of the world—a good woman—is so
important.”
“Reginald is a compendium of all the virtues,” remarked Miss Ley
quietly; “and Mrs. Castillyon is a pattern of charity.”
“You overwhelm me with confusion,” cried the little woman, with the
lightest laugh, but only the powder hid a crimson blush of shame.
She managed in a little while to get Miss Ley to herself, and they sat
down. Mrs. Castillyon’s manner was so airy and flippant that none could
have guessed she dealt tragic issues.
“You must utterly despise me, Miss Ley,” she said.
“Why?”
“I promised you I’d never see Reggie again, and what must you have
thought when you heard Mrs. Bassett!”
“At least it saved you the trouble of telling me fibs.”
“I wouldn’t have lied about it. I must have someone to whom I can talk
openly. Oh, I’m so unhappy!”
These words also she said with so expressionless a countenance that an
onlooker out of earshot would have been persuaded she spoke of most
trivial things.
“I did my best,” she went on, “I bore it for a month. Then I couldn’t
do without him any longer. I feel like a woman in one of those old
stories, under some love-spell so that no power of hers could help her.
I suppose you’ll say I’m a fool, but I think Isolde or Phèdre must have
had just that same sensation. I haven’t any will and I haven’t any
courage, and the worst is that the whole thing’s so absolutely
degrading. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t despise me, because I
utterly despise myself. And Heaven knows what’ll be the end of it; I
feel that something awful will happen. Some day or other Paul is
certain to find out, and then it means ruin, and I shall have thrown
away everything for such a miserable, poor-spirited cur.”
“Don’t talk so loud,” said Miss Ley, for the other had slightly raised
her voice. “D’you think he’d marry you?”
“No; he’s often told me he wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t marry him now; I
know him too well. Oh, I wish I’d never seen him. He doesn’t care two
straws for me; he knows I’m in his power, and he treats me as if I were
a woman off the streets. I’ve been so bitterly punished.”
Her eyes wandered across the room, and she saw Reggie talking to Mrs.
Murray.
“Look at him,” she said to Miss Ley. “Even now I would give my soul for
him to take me in his arms and kiss me. I wouldn’t mind the danger, I
wouldn’t mind the shame, if he only loved me.”
Self-possessed and handsome, immaculately attired, Reggie chatted with
the ease of a man of forty; his dark, lustrous eyes fixed on Mrs.
Murray, his red lips smiling sensually, indicated plainly enough that
her beauty attracted him, Mrs. Castillyon watched the pair with jealous
rage and with agony.
“She’s got every chance,” she muttered; “she’s a widow, and she’s rich,
and she’s younger than I am. But I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy the
wretchedness of falling in love with that man.”
“But, good heavens! why don’t you pull yourself together? Have you
given up all thought of breaking with him?”
“Yes,” she answered desperately; “I’m not going to struggle any more.
Let come what may. It’s not I that is concerned now, but fate. I won’t
leave him till he throws me aside like a toy he’s tired of.”
“And what about your husband?”
“Paul? Paul’s worth ten of the other. I didn’t know his value till I
was so unhappy.”
“Aren’t you a little ashamed to treat him so badly?”
“I can’t sleep at night for thinking of it. Every present he gives me
is like a stab in my heart; every kindness is the bitterest anguish.
But I can’t help it.”
Miss Ley meditated for a moment.
“I’ve just been talking to Lady Vizard,” she said then. “I suppose
there’s no one in London whom a pious person would more readily consign
to eternal flames, and yet she looks upon herself as a very good woman
indeed. Also I feel sure that our mutual friend, Reggie, has no qualms
about any of his proceedings. It suggests to me that the only wicked
people in the world are those who have consciences.”
“And d’you think I have a conscience?” asked Mrs. Castillyon bitterly.
“Apparently. I never saw any trace of it till I met you at Rochester.
But I suppose it was there in a rudimentary condition, and events have
brought it to the front. Take care it doesn’t get the better of you. I
see a great danger staring you in the face.”
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. Castillyon’s face, notwithstanding the rouge, was haggard and
white. Miss Ley looked at her with piercing keenness.
“Have you never thought of confessing the whole thing to your husband?”
“Oh, Miss Ley, Miss Ley, how did you guess that?”
In her uncontrollable agitation she forgot her self-control, and wrung
her hands with anguish.
“Take care. Remember everyone can see you.”
“I forgot.” With an effort she regained her wonted ease of manner.
“It’s been with me night and day. Sometimes, when Paul is good to me, I
can hardly resist the temptation. Some awful fascination lures me on,
and I know that one day I shan’t be able to hold my tongue, and I shall
tell him everything.”
During the last six months Mrs. Castillyon had aged, and bitterly
conscious of her failing beauty, resorted now to a more extravagant
artifice; the colour of her hair was more obviously unnatural, she
pencilled her eyebrows, and used too much paint on her cheeks. The
unquiet of her manner had increased, so that it was somewhat painful to
be with her. She talked more than ever, more loudly, and her laughter
was shriller and more frequent; but the high spirits, which before were
due to an entire unconcern for the world in general, now were
deliberately assumed to conceal, if possible even from herself, a most
utter wretchedness. Life had been wont to go most smoothly. She had
wealth to gratify every whim, admiration to give a sense of power, a
position of some consequence; and she had never wanted anything so
desperately that it was more than tiresome to do without it: but now,
with no previous experience to guide her, she was beset on every side
with harassing difficulties. This ardent passion had swept her off her
feet, and the awakening was very bitter when she learnt that it was her
turn to suffer. She had no illusions with regard to Reggie. He was
immeasurably selfish, callous to her pain, and she had long since
discovered that tears had no effect upon him. He meant to get his own
way, and when she rebelled gave her the truth in brutal terms.
“If you don’t like me, you can go to the devil. You’re not the only
woman in the world.”
But on the whole he was fairly good-humoured—it was his best
quality—and she had a certain hold over him in his immense love of
pleasure. She could always avoid his peevishness by taking him to the
theatre; he was anxious to move in polite circles, and an invitation to
some great house made him affectionate for a week. But he never allowed
her to dictate, and an occasional display of jealousy was met with an
indifferent cynicism which nearly drove her to distraction; besides,
she was afraid of him, knowing that to save his own skin he would not
hesitate to betray her. Yet, notwithstanding, she loved Reggie still so
passionately that it affected her character. Mrs. Castillyon, who had
never sought to restrain herself, now took care to avoid causes of
offence to the dissolute boy. She made herself complaisant so that he
might not again throw in her face her age and waning charms; in bitter
misery she learnt a gentleness and a self-control which before she had
never known. In the general affairs of life she exhibited a new
charity, and especially with her husband was less petulant. His sure
devotion was singularly comforting, and she knew that in his eyes she
was no less adorable than when first he loved her.
III
Miss Ley took care to learn at which hotel Bella meant to stay in
Milan, and when the pair arrived, at the beginning of their honeymoon,
they found awaiting them in their friend’s neat and scholarly writing a
little ironical letter, enclosing as wedding-present a cheque for five
hundred pounds. This enabled them to travel more sumptuously than at
first seemed possible, and meaning to spend the worst of the winter at
Naples, without fearing the expense they could linger on their way in
one charming town after another. Herbert was full of enthusiasm, and
for a while seemed entirely to regain health. He forgot the disease
which ate away silently his living tissue, and formed extravagant hopes
for the future. His energy was such that Bella had much difficulty in
restraining his eagerness to the sights of which for so many years he
had vainly dreamed. His passion for the sunshine, the blue skies, and
the flowers, was wonderful to see, yet Bella’s heart ached often,
though with greatest care she trained her countenance to cheerfulness,
because this singular capacity for life to her anxious mind seemed to
forebode a short continuance. He was gathering into one feverish moment
all that others spread over a generation.
In the constant companionship his character unfolded itself, and she
learnt how charming was his disposition, how sweet and unselfish his
temper. Admiring him each day more ardently, she enjoyed his little
airs of masculine superiority, for he would not consent to be treated
as an invalid, and somewhat resented her motherly care. On the
contrary, he was full of solicitude for her comfort, and took upon
himself all necessary arrangements, the ordering of details and so
forth, of which she would most willingly have relieved him. He had
ingenuous ideas about a husband’s authority, to which Bella, not
without a sly amusement, delighted to submit. She knew herself stronger
not only in health, but in character, yet it diverted her to fall in
with his fancy that she was the weaker vessel. When she feared that
Herbert would tire himself, simulated fatigue, and then his anxiety,
his self-reproach were quite touching. He never forgot how great was
his debt to Bella, and sometimes his gratitude brought to her eyes, so
that she sought to persuade him nothing at all was due. Ignorant of the
world, his behaviour formed chiefly on books, Herbert used his wife
with the gallant courtesy of some Shakespearian lover, writing sonnets
which to her mind rang with the very nobility of marital passion; and
under the breath of his romantic devotion the dull years fell away from
her heart, so that she felt younger and fairer and more gay. Her
sobriety was coloured by a not unpleasing flippancy, and she leavened
his strenuous enthusiasm with kindly banter. But as though the sun
called out his own youth, dissipating the dark Northern humours,
sometimes he was boyish as a lad of sixteen, and then, talking nonsense
to one another, they shouted with laughter at their own facetiousness.
The world, they say, is a mirror whereon, if you look smiling, joyous
smiles are reflected; and thus it seemed to them as if the whole earth
approved their felicity. The flowers bloomed to fit their happiness,
and the loveliness of Nature was only a frame to their great content.
“D’you know, we began a conversation two months ago,” he said once,
“and we’ve never come to an end yet. I find you more interesting every
day.”
“I am a very good listener, I know,” she answered, laughing. “Nothing
gives one a surer reputation for being a conversationalist.”
“It’s no good paying spiteful things to me when you look like that,” he
cried, for her eyes rested on him with the most caressing tenderness.
“I think you’re growing very vain.”
“How can I help it when you’re my wedded wife? And you’re so absolutely
beautiful.”
“What!” she exclaimed. “If you talk such rubbish to me, I’ll double
your dose of cod-liver-oil.”
“But it’s true,” he said eagerly, so that Bella, though she knew her
comeliness existed only in his imagination, flushed with delight. “I
love your eyes, and when I look into them I feel I have no will of my
own. The other day in Florence you called my attention to someone who
was good-looking, and she wasn’t a patch on you!”