know that if a girl of my age makes up her mind to marry a man, he must
be awfully cute to save himself?”
“I confess I had often suspected it,” smiled Miss Ley.
“Of course, you have to choose your man. I saw Reggie was gone on me,
and I led him a dance. You know, we’ve got a reputation for being wrong
uns on the stage, but that’s all rot. We’re no worse than anyone else,
only we’ve got more temptation, and when anything happens the papers
take it up just because we’re professional. But I’ve known how to take
care of myself, and I just let Reggie understand that I wasn’t going to
be made a fool of. I played up to him for a fortnight, and then told
him I wouldn’t see him any more, and by that time he was fairly
stage-struck, and so he asked me to marry him.”
“It sounds very simple. And how did you manage to tame him?”
“I just let him see that if he wanted to have a decent time he’d got to
be nice to me, and he very soon tumbled to it. You wouldn’t think it,
but I’ve got a nasty temper when I’m roused. He looks up to me like
anything, and he knows I don’t mean to stand any nonsense. Oh, he’ll be
all right in six months.”
“And what do you want me to tell his mother?”
“Just tell her not to interfere. We’re all right with regard to money,
and when she calms down she can make us an allowance. Six hundred a
year will do, and we’ll take a house at Bournemouth. I don’t want to
live in London till I’m sure of Reggie.”
“Very well,” answered Miss Ley. “I’ll say that, and I’ll say besides
that she ought to thank her stars Reggie has found a decent woman. I
have no doubt in a little while you’ll make him into quite a
respectable member of society.”
“Here he comes with the milk!”
Reggie entered, and together they began to make tea. When Miss Ley
departed Lauria sent him downstairs to show her out.
“Ain’t she a ripper?” he exclaimed. “And I tell you what, Miss Ley,
she’s a real good sort. Tell the mater that she’s not beneath me at
all.”
“Beneath you! My dear boy, she’s worth six of you. And I dare say under
her charge you’ll turn into a very passable imitation of a gentleman,
after all.”
Reggie looked at her with tragic countenance, flung back his head, and
pressed both hands to his manly bosom.
“‘_Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!_’” he cried.
“For goodness’ sake, hold your tongue!” she interrupted quickly.
She gave him her hand, and while pressing it he leaned forward
confidentially and exclaimed:
“‘I’ll have grounds
More relative than this. The play’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’”
XII
Meanwhile things with Basil and Jenny had gone from bad to worse. There
had been no power in their reconciliation to pacify the Fates, and
presently another violent quarrel proved that under no circumstances
could they live without discord. Basil, training his tongue to silence
whatever the provocation, maintained over himself the most careful
restraint; but it was very irksome, and in his breast there arose
gradually a blind and angry hatred for Jenny because she made him
suffer such unspeakable torture. They had so fallen out of sympathy
that he never realized how ardent her love for him still was, and that
she tormented him only on this account. So passed the summer, for
Basil, crippled with debts, felt bound to remain in chambers through
the vacation on the chance of picking up a stray brief which no one
else was on hand to take.
A profound depression settled upon him, and he brooded hopelessly over
the future. What had it to offer but a continuance of this unceasing
pain? He looked into the years dragging out their weary length, and it
seemed to him impossible to live under such conditions. Only his
passion for Hilda Murray supported him, for therein he seemed to find
strength to face the world, and at the same time resignation. He had
learnt to ask for little from the gods, and was content to love without
hope of reward. He was immensely grateful for her friendship, and felt
that she understood and sympathized with his distress. Mrs. Murray
spent the summer abroad, but wrote often, and her letters made him
happy for days. In his solitary walks he analyzed his feelings
endlessly, telling himself that they were very pure; and just because
he thought of her so much it seemed to him that he grew better and
simpler. In October she returned, and two days later Basil called upon
her, but was grievously disappointed to find Mr. Farley already on the
scene. Basil detested the Vicar of _All Souls_, detecting in him a
rival who lay under no such disadvantage as himself. Mr. Farley was
still a handsome man, with the air and presence of a person of
importance. His conversation smacked of the diner-out who could discuss
urbanely all the topics used at the tables of the cultured. He was
diverting and easy, knowing well the discreet thing to say; and about
his manner towards Mrs. Murray was a subtle but significant flattery.
Basil was hugely annoyed by the familiarity with which he used the
woman whom himself could only treat quite formally. They appeared to
have little understandings which made him furiously jealous. Hilda had
busied herself in certain charitable concerns of the Vicar of _All
Souls_, and with much laughter they discussed the various amusing
things to which these had given rise.
Basil went home sullen and resentful, thinking through the whole
evening of Hilda, whom he had left with Mr. Farley, and when he went to
bed gained no repose. He heard the hours strike one after the other,
and turned from side to side restlessly, striving to get a little
sleep; his love now was uncontrollable, and he was mad with grief and
pain. He tried not to think of Hilda, but each subject he forced upon
his brain gave way to her image, and in hopeless woe he asked himself
how he could bear with life. He tried to reason, saying that this
height of passion could only be temporary, and in a very few months he
would look upon the present madness with scorn; he tried to soothe his
aching heart by turning his emotion to literary uses, and set himself
to describe his agony in words, as though he were going to write it in
a novel. But nothing served. When the clock struck five he was thankful
that only three hours remained before he could reasonably get up. He
thought to read, but had not the heart to do anything which should
disturb the bitter-sweet of his contemplation. Next morning at
breakfast Jenny noticed that his eyes were heavy with want of rest, his
mouth drawn and haggard, and with jealous intuition guessed the cause.
She sought to make him angry, and the opportunity coming, made some
spiteful remark; but he was listless; he looked up wearily, too
exhausted to reply. They ate breakfast in silence, and then with heavy
heart he set out for his daily work.
So things continued through the autumn, and with November the winter
set in cold, dark, and wet. Coming home in the evenings, Basil’s heart
sank when he entered the street in which was his house; he felt sick
with the sordid regularity of all those little dwellings exactly like
one another. Miss Ley, perhaps ironically, had once remarked that life
in a suburb must be quite idyllic; and Basil laughed savagely when he
thought that only the milk-cart and the barrel-organ disturbed the
romantic seclusion. He loathed his neighbours, with whom he knew Jenny
discussed him, and shuddered with horror at their narrow lives, from
which was excluded firmly all that made existence comely and urbane.
It was inevitable that quarrels should occur between the pair,
notwithstanding Basil’s determination to avoid friction, and of late
these on both sides were grown more bitter. On a certain occasion,
taking up his letters, noticed that one had already been opened, and
then somewhat clumsily fastened down; he glanced at Jenny, who was
watching him, but she quickly dropped her eyes. Her suspicions had been
aroused evidently because of the pink paper; _Private_ was written
above the address, and on the back was a golden initial. It was merely
an offer from a money-lender to accommodate him with any sum between
five pounds and five thousand, and he could not help a little laugh of
scorn because Jenny, on steaming it open, had found nothing but an
impudent circular: when she heard this she coloured furiously. She
waited for him to speak, but he, only wondering why she had not the
sense altogether to suppress that communication, said nothing. In a
minute or two he gathered up his correspondence, and taking some paper,
walked towards the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked abruptly, “Can’t you write in here?”
“Certainly, if it pleases you, but I have some rather bothering
letters, and I want to be perfectly quiet.”
She flung aside the work on which she was engaged, and faced him
angrily, stung to the quick by the indifference of his tone and manner.
“I suppose you have no objection to my talking to you when I want to
say something? You seem to think only fit to see after the house and
mend your clothes, after that I can go and sit in the kitchen with the
servant.”
“D’you think it’s worth while making a scene? We seem to have said all
this before so many times.”
“I want to have it out.”
“We’ve been having it out twice a week for the last six months,” he
answered, bored to extinction, “and we’ve never got anywhere yet.”
“Am I your wife or not, Basil?”
“You have your marriage lines carefully locked up to prove it.” He
looked at her reflectively, putting back the letters in his desk. “They
say the first year of marriage is he worst; ours has been bad enough,
in all conscience, hasn’t it?”
“I suppose you think it’s my fault?”
She spoke aggressively, with a sort of brutal sneer, but somehow it
seemed no longer to affect him; he was able in a manner to look on this
scene with a curious detachment, as though he were a spectator at a
theatre watching players acting their parts.
“After all, I tried my best to make you happy.”
“Well, you haven’t succeeded very well. Did you think I was likely to
be happy when you left me alone all day and half the night for the
swell friends for whom I’m not good enough?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You know very well that I scarcely ever see any of my old friends.”
“Except Mrs. Murray, eh?” she interrupted.
“I’ve seen Mrs. Murray a dozen times in the last year.”
“Oh, you needn’t tell me that; I know it. She’s a lady, isn’t she?”
Basil stared coolly at his wife; though asking himself why that name
had occurred to her, it never dawned on him that she could suspect how
violent was his passion. But he meant to ignore the charge.
“My work takes me away from you,” he said. “Think how bored you’d be if
I were always here.”
“A precious lot of good your work does,” she cried scornfully. “You
can’t earn enough money to keep us out of debt.”
“We are in debt, but we share that very respectable condition with half
the nobility and gentry in the kingdom.”
“All the neighbours know that we’ve got bills with the tradesmen.”
Basil flushed and tightened his lips.
“I’m sorry that you shouldn’t have made so good a bargain as you
expected when you married me,” he replied acidly.
“I wonder what you do succeed in. Your book was very successful, wasn’t
it? You thought you were going to set the Thames on fire, and it fell
flat, flat, flat!”
“That is a fate which has befallen better books than mine,” he
answered, with a laugh.
“It deserved it.”
“I didn’t expect you to appreciate it. Unfortunately, it’s not given to
all of us to write about wicked earls and beautiful duchesses.”
“The papers praised it, didn’t they?”
“The unanimity of their blame was the only thing that consoled me. I
often wonder if the reviewer who abuses you realizes what pleasure he
causes to the wife of your bosom.”
It was Basil’s apparent indifference to her taunts, his disdain and
bitter sarcasm, that made Jenny lose all restraint. Often she could not
see the point of his replies, but vaguely felt that he laughed at her;
and then her passionate wrath knew no limits.
“Oh, I’ve learnt to know you so well since the baby died,” she said,
clenching her hands. “You’ve got no cause to set yourself up on a
pedestal. I know what you are now; I was such a fool as to think you a
hero. You’re merely a failure. In everything you try you’re a miserable
failure.”
He faced her steadily, but a look of complete despair came into his
eyes, for she had voiced with sufficient emphasis the thought which for
so many months had wormed its way into his soul, destroying all his
energy; he saw the future like a man condemned to death, for whom the
beauty of life is only bitterness.
“Perhaps you’re right, Jenny,” he replied’ “I dare say I’m only a
rotten failure.”
He walked up and down the room, reflecting bitterly, and then stared
out of the window at the even row of houses, somehow more sordid than
ever in the dim light of gas-jets. He shuddered when he looked round
this parlour, so common, so uninteresting; and like a sudden rush of
water overwhelming, came the recollection of all the misery he had
suffered within those four walls. Jenny had again taken up her sewing,
and was hemming dusters; he sat down beside her.
“Look here, Jenny, I want to have a rather serious talk with you. I
should like you to listen quietly for a few minutes, and I want to put
away all passion and temper, so that we may discuss the matter quite
reasonably. We don’t seem able to get on very well, and I see no chance
of things going any better. You’re unhappy, and I’m afraid I’m not very
happy, either; I don’t want to seem selfish, but I can’t do any work or
anything while this sort of thing continues. And I feel that all these
quarrels are so awfully degrading. Don’t you think it would be better
for both of us if we lived apart for a bit? Perhaps later on we might
try again.”
While he spoke Jenny had watched with startled eyes, but, though
vaguely alarmed, did not till quite the end understand to what his
words tended. Then she could scarcely answer.
“D’you mean to say you want to separate? And what’ll you do?”
“I should go abroad for awhile.”
“With Mrs. Murray?” she cried excitedly. “Is that it! You want to go
away with her. You’re sick of me. You’ve had all you want out of me,
and now I can go. The fine lady comes along, and you send me away like
a housemaid. D’you think I can’t see that you’re in love with her?
You’d sacrifice me without a thought to save her a moment’s
unpleasantness. And because you love her you hate me.”
“How can you talk such nonsense! You’ve got no right to say things like
that.”
“Haven’t I? I suppose I must shut my eyes and say nothing. You’re in
love with her. D’you think I’ve not seen it in these months? That’s why
you want to leave me.”
“It’s impossible for us to live together,” he answered desperately. “We
shall never agree, and we shall never be happy. For God’s sake, let us
separate and have done with it.”
Basil was standing up now, and Jenny went up to him, close, so that
they stood face to face.
“Look here, Basil: will you swear that you’re not in love with that
woman?”
“Certainly,” he answered scornfully.
“It’s a lie. . . . And she’s just as much in love with you as you are
with her.”
“What d’you mean by that?” he cried, the blood running to his head and
his heart beating painfully. He seized her wrists. “What d’you mean,
Jenny?”
“D’you think I haven’t got eyes in my head? I saw it that day she came
here. D’you suppose she came to see me? She despises me because I’m not
a lady. She came here to please you; she was polite to me to please
you; she asked me to go and see her to please you.”
“It’s absurd. Of course she came. She was an old friend of mine.”
“I know that sort of friend. D’you think I didn’t see the way she
looked at you, and how she followed you with her eyes? She simply hung
on every word you said. When you smiled she smiled; when you laughed
she laughed. Oh, I should think she was in love with you; I know what
love is, and I felt it. And when she looked at me, I knew she hated me
because I’d robbed her of you.”
“Oh, what a dog’s life it is we lead!” he cried, unable to contain
himself. “We’ve both been utterly wretched, and it can’t go on. I do my
best to hold myself in, but sometimes I feel it’s impossible. I shall
be led to saying things that we shall both regret. For Heaven’s sake,
let us part.”
“No. I won’t consent.”
“We can’t go on having these awful quarrels. It was a horrible mistake
that we ever married. You must see that as well as I. We’re utterly
unsuited to one another, and the baby’s death removed the only
necessity that held us together.”
“You talk as if we only remained together because it I was convenient.”
“Let me go, Jenny; I can’t stand it any more,” he cried passionately.
“I feel as if I shall go mad.” He stretched out his hands, appealing.
“I did my best for you a year ago. I gave you all I had to give; it was
little enough, in all conscience. Now I ask you to give me back my
freedom.”
She was perfectly distracted; it had never occurred to her for a moment
that things would go so far.
“You only think of yourself!” she exclaimed. “What’s to become of me?”
“You’ll be much happier,” he answered eagerly, thinking she would
yield. “It’s the best thing for both of us.”
“But I love you, Basil.”
“You!” He stared at her with dismay and consternation. “Why, you’ve
tortured me for six mouths beyond all endurance. You’ve made all my
days a burden to me. You’ve made my life a perfect hell.”
She stared at him, sheer panic in her eyes; each word was like a
death-blow, and she gasped and shuddered. Like a hunted thing, she
looked this way and that for means of escape, but nothing offered; and
then, groping strangely, seeking to hide herself, she staggered to the
door.
“Give me time to think it over,” she said hoarsely.
Next morning at breakfast Basil, with elaborate politeness, spoke of
trivial things, but Jenny noticed that he kept his eyes averted, and it
cut her to the quick because he used her as he might a chance
acquaintance. It seemed then that even stony silence would have been
more easy to endure. Rising from the table, he asked whether she had
considered his proposal.
“No; I didn’t think you really meant it.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and did not answer. He made ready to go out,
and she watched him with trembling heart, hoping with most sickening
anguish that he would say one kind word to her before he left.
“You’re going very early this morning,” she remarked.
“I’ve got to devil a case at eleven, and I want to see someone before I
go into court.”
“Who?”
He coloured and looked away.
“My solicitor.”
This time it was she who kept silence; but when he went out into the
street she watched him from the window, carefully, so that he should
not see her if he looked up. But he never turned back. He walked slowly
with bowed shoulders, as though he were very tired; then she gave way
to her bitter sorrow and wept uncontrollably. She did not know what to
do, and more than ever before needed advice. On a sudden she made up
her mind to see Frank Hurrell; for during the summer he had come fairly
often to Barnes, and she had been always grateful for his sober
kindness; him at least she could trust, and unlike the others, he would
not scorn her because she was of mean birth. Part of her difficulties
arose from the fact that of late she had grown quite out of sympathy
with her own people, seeing things from a different standpoint, so that
it impossible to appeal to their sympathy; she was a stranger to all
the world, disaccustomed now to her own class, and still outside that
into which she had married. Desperately she fancied that the very
universe stood against her, and it appeared vaguely that she struggled
like a drowning man against the overwhelming waters of humanity.
Jenny hurriedly dressed, and took the train to Waterloo. She did not
know at what time Frank went out, and was terrified at the thought of
missing him. But her training prevented her from taking a cab, and she
got into a ’bus. It seemed to crawl along, and the minutes were hours;
each stoppage drove her to such a pitch of nervous exasperation that
she could scarcely sit still, and only persuaded herself with
difficulty that, however slowly it went, the omnibus must go faster
than she could walk. Arrived at length, Jenny to her great relief found
that Frank was in, but he was so obviously surprised to see her that
for a moment, disconcerted, she knew not how to explain her visit.
“May I speak to you for a few minutes? I won’t keep you long.”
“By all means. Where is Basil?”
He made her sit down, and tried to take from her the umbrella which she
held firmly; but she refused to be parted from it, and sat on the edge
of the chair, ill at ease, with the awkward formality of a person
unused to drawing-rooms. To Frank, seeking to make her comfortable, she
seemed like a housekeeper applying for a situation.
“Can I trust you?” she broke out abruptly, with an effort “I’m in awful
trouble. You’re a good sort, and you’ve never looked down on me because
I was a barmaid. Tell me I can trust you. There’s no one I can speak
to, and I feel if I don’t speak I shall go off my head.”
“But, good heavens! what’s the matter?”
“Everything’s the matter. He wants to separate. He’s gone to his
solicitor to-day. He’s going to turn me out in the street like a
servant; and I shall kill myself—I tell you I’ll kill myself.” She
wrung her hands, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. “Before you
we’ve always kept up appearances, because he was ashamed to let you see
how he regrets having married me.”
Frank knew well enough that for some months things had not gone very
smoothly with the pair, but it had never occurred to him that they were
come to such a pass. He did not know what to say nor how to reassure
her.
“It’s nonsense. It can only be a little passing quarrel. After all, you
must expect to have those.”
“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t mind if I thought he loved me, but he
doesn’t. He calls it a dog’s life, and he’s right.” She hesitated, but
only for an instant. “Will you tell me the truth if I ask you
something—on your honour?”
“Of course.”
“Is there anything between Basil and Mrs. Murray?”
“No, certainly not!” he cried emphatically. “How can such an idea have
come to you!”
“You wouldn’t tell me if there was,” she answered distractedly; and now
the words, which before had come so hardly, poured out in a disordered
torrent. “You’re all against me because I’m not a lady. . . . Oh, I’m
so unhappy! I tell you he’s in love with Mrs. Murray. The other day he
was going to dine there, and you should have seen him! He was so
restless he couldn’t sit still; he looked at his watch every minute.
His eyes simply glittered with excitement, and I could almost hear his
heart beating. He was there twice last week, and twice the week
before.”
“How d’you know?”
“Because I followed him. If I’m not ladylike enough for him, I needn’t
play the lady there. You’re shocked now, I suppose?”
“I wouldn’t presume to judge you,” he answered quietly.
“He never loved me,” she went on, feverish and overwrought. “He married
me because he thought it was his duty. And then, when the baby died—he
thought I’d entrapped him.”
“He didn’t say so.”
“No,” she shouted hysterically, “he never says anything; but I saw it
in his eyes.” She clasped her hands passionately, rocking to and fro.
“Oh, you don’t know what our life is. For days he never says a word
except to answer my questions. And the silence simply drives me mad. I
shouldn’t mind if he blackguarded me; I’d rather he hit me than simply
look and look. I could see he was keeping himself in, and I knew it was
getting towards the end.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Frank helplessly.
Even to himself the words sounded formal and insincere, and Jenny broke
out vehemently.
“Oh, don’t you pity me, too. I’ve had a great deal too much pity; I
don’t want it. Basil married me from pity. Oh, God, I wish he hadn’t! I
can’t stand the unhappiness.”
“You know, Jenny, he’s a man of honour, and he’d never do anything that
wasn’t straight.”
“Oh, I know he’s a man of honour,” she cried bitterly. “I wish he had a
little less of it; one doesn’t want a lot at fine sentiments in married
life—they don’t work.” She stood up and beat her breast. “Oh, why
couldn’t I fall in love with a man of my own class? I should have been
so much happier. I used to be so proud that Basil wasn’t a clerk or
something in the City. He’s right—we shall never be happy. It isn’t a
matter of yesterday, or to-day, or to-morrow. I can’t alter myself. He
knew I wasn’t a lady when he married me. My father had to bring up five
children on two-ten a week. You can’t expect a man to send his
daughters to a boarding-school at Brighton on that, and have them
finished in Paris. . . . He doesn’t say a word when I do something or
say something a lady wouldn’t, but he purses up his lips and looks.
Then I get so mad I do things just to aggravate him. Sometimes I try to
be vulgar. One learns a good deal in a bar in the City, and I know so
well the things that’ll make Basil curl up. I want to get a bit of
revenge out of him sometimes, and I know exactly where he’s raw and
where I can hurt him. You should see the way he looks when I don’t eat
properly, or call a man a Johnny.”
“It opens up endless possibilities of domestic unhappiness,” answered
Frank dryly.
“Oh, I know it isn’t fair to him, but I lose my head. I can’t always be
refined. Sometimes I can’t help breaking out; I feel I must let myself
go.”
Her cheeks were flaming, and she breathed rapidly. Never before had she
disclosed her heart so completely to anyone, and Frank, watching her
keenly, could not understand this curious mingling of love and hate.
“Why don’t you separate, then?” he asked.
“Because I love him.” Her voice, hard and metallic before, grew
suddenly so tender that the change was extraordinary; the bitterness
went out of her face. “Oh, you don’t know how I love him! I’d do
anything to make him happy; I’d give my life if he wanted it. Oh, I
can’t say it, but when I think of him my heart burns so that sometimes
I can hardly breathe. I can never show him that he’s all in the world
to me; I try to make him love me, and I only make him hate me. What can
I do to show him? Ah, if he only knew, I’m sure he’d not regret that he
married me. I feel—I feel as if my heart was full of music, and yet
something prevents me from ever bringing it out.”
For awhile they sat in silence.
“What is it you wish me to do?” asked Frank at last.
“I want you to tell him I love him. I can’t; I always make a mess of
it. Tell him he’s all in the world to me, and I _will_ try to be a good
wife to him. Ask him not to leave me, and say that I mean everything
for the best.” She paused and dried her eyes. “And couldn’t you go to
Mrs. Murray and tell her? Ask her to have mercy on me. Perhaps she
doesn’t know what she’s doing. Ask her not to take him away from me.”
She seized his hands in appeal, and he had no power to resist.
“I’ll do my best. Don’t be too downhearted. I’m sure it’ll all come
right and you’ll be very happy again.”
She tried to smile through her tears and to thank him, but her voice
refused to help her, and she could only press his hands. With a sudden
impulse she bent down and kissed them; then quickly, leaving him
strangely moved, went out.
XIII
Jenny had not given Frank a very easy task, and when she was gone he
cursed her irritably—her father, mother, husband, and all her stock. He
knew Mrs. Murray fairly well, had treated her in illness, and also gone
somewhat frequently to the house in Charles Street; but, for all that
it was awkward to attack her on a subject of so personal a nature, and
he was aware that he lay himself open to an unpleasant rebuke. He
shrugged his shoulders, making up his mind to call on her that
afternoon and say his say.
“She can snub me till she’s blue in the face,” he muttered.
Ignorant of what was in store, Hilda Murray, coming in from luncheon,
went into her drawing-room, and since the day was wet and dismal,
ordered the curtains, to be drawn, the lights to be turned on. She
relished enormously the warm and comfortable cosiness of that room,
furnished pleasantly, with a good deal of taste, if without marked
originality; there were dozens of such apartments in Mayfair, with the
same roomy, chintz-covered chairs, Chippendale tables and marquetry
cabinets, with the same pictures on the walls. Wealth was there without
ostentation, art without eccentricity; and Mr. Farley, the Vicar of
_All Souls_, who came early, recognised with sleek content that a woman
who dwelt in such a room must possess a due sense of the proprieties
and a gratifying belief in the importance of the London clergy. Meeting
her for the first time a year before in Old Queen Street, the amiable
parson had quickly grown intimate with Hilda. The robust common-sense
of Protestantism has made it lawful for the clerical bosom to be
affected in due measure by the charms of fair women, and the Vicar of
_All Souls_ had ever looked upon a good marriage as the culmination of
his parochial activities. Hilda was handsome, rich, and sufficiently
well born to be the equal of a minister of Christ who stayed with
Duchesses for three days at a time; nor could he think she was quite
indifferent to his attentions. Mr. Farley determined to abandon the
imperfect state of single blessedness, falling like a ripe apple at the
feet of this comely and opulent widow; and as Othello, making love to
Desdemona, poured into her astonished ears brave tales of pillage and
assault, of hairbreadth ’scapes and enterprises perilous, the Rev.
Collinson Farley spoke of charities and sales of work, encounters with
churchwardens, and the regeneration of charwomen. Hilda took great
interest in _All Souls_, and willingly presented the church with an
entire set of hassocks, so that, as the Vicar said, the pious should
have no excuse for not kneeling at their prayers; somewhat later she
consented to take a stall at a bazaar for getting a new organ; and
then, the Rubicon of philanthropy once crossed, her efforts were
untiring. These things brought them constantly together and afforded
endless matter for conversation; but Mr. Farley flattered himself he
was a brilliant talker, and it would have been contrary to all his
principles to allow their intercourse to be confined to affairs of
business. The claims of culture were not forgotten. He lent Hilda
books, and went with her to picture-galleries and to exhibitions;
sometimes they read Tennyson together, at others visited the theatre
and discussed the moral aspects of the English drama; on fine mornings
they frequently studied the Italian masters in Trafalgar Square or the
Elgin marbles at the British Museum. Mr. Farley had a vast fund of
information, and could give historic details or piquant anecdotes about
every work of art; and Hilda, with a woman’s passion for being
lectured, found him in consequence an entertaining and instructive
friend. But it had never occurred to her that any warmer feeling
agitated the heart which lay beneath his immaculate silk waistcoat, and
it was not without alarm that now she found the conversation verging to
topics that before they had never touched upon. Mr. Farley had at
length made up his mind, and since he was not a man to hesitate from
feelings of diffidence, went straight to the point.
“Mrs. Murray,” he said, “I have a matter of some importance which I
desire to impart to you.”
“More charities, Mr. Farley?” she cried. “You’ll ruin me.”
“You are a veritable angel of mercy, and your purse is ever open to the
needs of the parish; but on this occasion it is of a more personal
matter that I desire to speak.” He stood up and went to the fireplace,
against which he stood so that no heat should enter the room at all. “I
feel it my duty to preface the question I am about to ask by some
account of my position and of my circumstances. I think it better to
run the risk of being slightly tedious than to fail to make myself
perfectly clear.”
Certainly Hilda could not help seeing to what his words tended, and
after the first moment of consternation was seized with an almost
irresistible desire to laugh. Perhaps because her love for Basil was so
great, she had never dreamed that another man could desire her; and Mr.
Farley in this connection had not for a moment occupied her thoughts.
When she looked at him now, well dressed, his gray hair carefully done,
his hands manicured, with his easy assurance and his inclination to
obesity, the Vicar of _All Souls_ seemed a profoundly ridiculous
object. Gravely, with deliberation, he set out the advantages of his
state, and not without decorum explained that he was no penniless
fortune-hunter. It was a fair exchange that he offered, and many women
would have been grateful, Hilda knew she should stop him, but had not
the readiness; nor was she without a malicious desire to know in what
precise terms he would make the proposal. He paused abruptly, smiled,
and stepped forward.
“Mrs. Murray, I have the honour to ask you to be my wife.”
Now she was confronted by the necessity to answer, and with all her
heart wished she had possessed strength of mind to prevent the man from
going so far.
“I’m sure I feel enormously flattered,” she replied awkwardly. “It
never struck me that you—cared for me in that way.”
He put out a deprecating hand,
“I don’t want an immediate answer, Mrs. Murray. It’s a matter that
requires grave consideration, and we’re neither of us children to
plunge into marriage recklessly. It’s a great responsibility that we
are proposing to take on ourselves, but I should like you to reflect on
the real good that you could do as my wife. Do you remember that
beautiful passage in Tennyson: ‘And hand in hand we will go towards
higher things’?”
The door opened, and the Vicar of _All Souls_ was able to conceal his
annoyance only because he was a very polite man; but Hilda, enormously
relieved, turned to Frank Hurrell, the incoming visitor, with the
greatest cordiality. Frank had been to Basil’s chambers, but not
finding him, was come to Charles Street resolved, whatever the cost, to
speak with Mrs. Murray about Jenny. It looked, however, as though the
opportunity would not present itself, for other callers appeared, and
the conversation became general. In a little while Basil was announced,
and Frank saw Mrs. Murray’s hurried, anxious glance. With one sweep of
her eyes she took in his whole person, his harassed air, his stem
pallor and deep depression. She spoke laughingly, but he scarcely
smiled, gazing at her with such an expression of anguish that her heart
was horribly troubled. It was very painful to see his utter
wretchedness. At length Frank found himself with Hilda out of earshot
of the others.
“Basil looks very ill, doesn’t he? His wife came to see me this
morning. I dare say you remember that he was married about a year ago.”
Mrs. Murray coloured, and stared at Frank with cold suspicion. She
tightened her lips, wondering what he had in mind.
“I went down to see her,” she answered frigidly. “She seemed to me
vulgar and pretentious. I’m afraid I can take no great interest in
her.”
“She loves Basil with all her heart, and she’s desperately unhappy.” He
looked steadily at Mrs. Murray, and dropped his voice, so that it
seemed no sound issued from his mouth; but Hilda heard every word so
emphatically that it struck her heart as though with a hammer. “She
asked me to give you a message. She knows that Basil—loves you, and she
begs you to have mercy on her.”
For a moment Hilda could not reply.
“Don’t you think it’s rather impertinent of you to say such things to
me?” she returned, uttering the words disjointedly, as though she
forced them out one by one.
“Excessively,” he answered. “And I wouldn’t have ventured only she told
me her love was like music in her heart, and something prevented it
from ever coming out. It seemed to me that for a rather stupid, narrow,
common woman to have got hold of a thought like that she must have gone
through a perfect hell of suffering. And I was sorry.”
“And d’you think I’ve not suffered?”
Hilda could not preserve that mask of cold decorum. The question
thrilled from her, and she had no power to leave it unasked.
“Are you very fond of him?”
“No, I’m not fond of him. I worship the very ground he treads on.”
Frank held out his hand to say good-bye.
“Then you must do as you think fit. You’re playing the most dangerous
game in the world; you’re playing with human hearts. . . . Forgive me
for what I’ve said.”
“I’m very glad—for now I know better what to do. I’d forgotten his
wife.”
Frank went away, and presently Mr. Farley, despairing to stay the
others out, rose also. Shaking hands with Hilda, he asked when he might
come again. In the agitation of her talk with Frank she had completely
forgotten his proposal; but now, with a sudden passion for
self-sacrifice, it seemed neither grotesque nor impossible. Indeed, if
she accepted, it would solve many difficulties, and she determined not
to put aside the offer, as at first she intended, but to think it over.
At least, she must do nothing rashly.
“I will write to you to-morrow,” she answered gravely,
He smiled and pressed her hand affectionately, already with somewhat
the fervour of an accepted lover. Mrs. Murray was left alone with
Basil. He turned over the pages of a book, and the trivial action,
indicating to her excited temper a callousness which was not his,
filled her with anger, so that for an instant, on account of all the
pain he caused her, she hated him furiously.
“Is that a very interesting work?” she asked coldly.
He flung it aside with impatience.
“I thought that man was never going. It makes me angry each time I see
him here. Are you very much attached to him?”
“What an extraordinary question!” she answered coolly. “I wonder why on
earth you ask it?”
“Because I love you,” he burst out impulsively, “and I hate anyone else
to be with you.”
She stared at him with the utmost calm, and some icy power seized her,
so that she felt absolutely no emotion.
“It may interest you to know that Mr. Farley has asked me to marry
him.”
“And what are you going to say?”
His face had suddenly fallen ashen gray, and his voice was hoarse.
“I don’t know—perhaps yes.”
“I thought you loved me, Hilda.”
“It’s because I love you that I shall marry Mr. Farley.”
He sprang forward passionately and seized her hands.
“Oh, but you can’t, Hilda. It’s absurd. You don’t know what you’re
doing. Oh, don’t do that, for God’s sake! You’ll make both of us
utterly miserable. Hilda. I love you; I can’t live without you. You
don’t know how unhappy I’ve been. For months I’ve dreaded going home.
When I saw my house as I walked along, I almost turned sick. You don’t
know how fervently I wished that I’d got killed in the war. I can’t go
on.”
“But you must,” she said; “it’s your duty.”
“Oh, I think I’ve had enough of duty and honour. I’ve used up all my
principles in the last year. I know I brought the whole thing on
myself. I was weak and stupid, and I must take the consequences. But I
haven’t the strength; I don’t love—my wife.”
“Then, don’t let her ever find it out. Be kind to her, and gentle, and
forbearing.”
“I can’t be kind and gentle and forbearing day after day for weeks and
months and years. And the worst of it is there’s no hope for me. I’ve
tried honestly to make the best of things, but it’s no good. We’re too
different, and it’s impossible that we should continue to live
together. Everything she says, everything she does, jars upon me so
frightfully. A man, when he marries a woman like that, thinks he’s
going to lift her up to his own station. The fool! It’s she who drags
him down to hers.”
She walked from end to end of the room distracted, and mingled feelings
tore her breast. She knew how overwhelming was her own love, and knew
that his was no less; she could not bear to think that he was unhappy.
She stopped, and looked at him with tear-filled eyes.
“If it weren’t for you I couldn’t have lived,” he was saying, and his
voice played upon her heart-strings as though they were some strange
living instrument. “It was only by seeing you that I gathered courage
to go on with it. And each time I came here I loved you more
passionately.”
“Why did you come?” she whispered.
“I couldn’t help it. I knew it was poison, but I loved the poison. I
would give my whole soul for one look of your eyes.”
It was the first time he had said such things to her, and they were
very, very sweet; but she tried to be strong.
“If you care for me at all, do your duty like a brave man, and let me
respect you. You’re only making our friendship impossible. Don’t you
see that you’re preventing me from ever having you here again?”
“I can’t help it. Even if I see you never again, I must tell you now
that I love you. For months it’s been burning my tongue, and I’ve
scarcely known sometimes how to prevent myself. I made you suffer, I
was blind; but I love you with all my heart, Hilda. I can’t live
without you.”
He stepped forward, but quickly, with a cry of anguish, she sprang
back.
“For God’s sake, don’t say such things! I can’t bear them. Don’t you
see how weak I am? Have mercy on me.”
“You don’t love me.”
“You know I love you,” she cried vehemently, angrily; “but because of
my great love I beseech you to do your duty.”
“My duty is to be happy. Let us go where we can love one another—away
from England, to some place where love isn’t sinful and ugly.”
“Oh, Basil,” she cried earnestly, stronger now because she had thrown
herself on his charity; “oh, Basil, let us try to walk straight. Think
of your wife, who loves you also—as much as I do. You’re all in the
world to her; you can’t treat her so shamefully.”
She sank in a chair and dried her eyes. Her agony had calmed the man’s
ardent passion, and it wrung his heart that she should weep.
“Don’t cry, Hilda; I can’t bear it.”
He was standing over her, and very gently she took his hand.
“Don’t you understand that we could never respect ourselves again if we
did that poor creature such a fearful wrong? She would always be
between us with her tears and her sorrows. I tell you I couldn’t bear
it. Have mercy on me—if you love me at all.”
He did not answer, and very brokenly she went on.
“I know it’s better to do our duty. For my sake, dearest, go back to
your wife, and don’t let her ever know that you love me. It’s because
we’re stronger than she that we must sacrifice ourselves.”
“A profound discouragement seized him, and silence fell upon them both.
At last he released her hand.
“I don’t know any longer what’s right and what’s wrong. It all seems
confused. It’s very hard.”
“It’s just as hard for me, Basil.”
“Good-bye, then,” he said broken-heartedly. “I dare say you’re right,
and perhaps I should only make you very unhappy.”
“Good-bye, my dearest.”
She got up and gave him both her hands, and he bent down and kissed
them. She could hardly stand the pain, and when he turned away and
walked towards the door all resolution left her. She could not bear him
to go—at all events, not thus coldly, not yet. She thought that perhaps
this was the last time she would ever see him, and her passion, so long
restrained, rose up and overpowered her, and it seemed that nothing
mattered but love.
“Don’t go, Basil,” she cried. “Don’t go!”
With a cry of joy he turned, and she found herself in his arms; he
kissed her violently, he kissed her mouth and her eyes and her hair;
and she wept with the extremity of her desire. She cared now for
nothing. All might go, and the very heavens fall; nothing in the world
signified but this divine madness.
“Oh, I can’t bear it,” she moaned. “I won’t lose you. Basil, say you
love me.”
“Yes, yes: I love you with all my heart and soul.”
He sought her lips again, and she nearly fainted with the rapture; she
yielded herself to his strong, encircling arms, and felt that there she
could happily die.
“Oh, Basil, I want your love—I want your love badly.”
“Now nothing can separate us. You belong to me for ever.”
He passed his hands over her face, and his eyes were flaming. She
exulted in his ardent passion, proud that a man on her account should
be thus frenzied.
“Say again that you love me,” she whispered.
“Oh, Hilda, Hilda, at last! We’ll go to a land where the whole earth
speaks only of love, and where only love and youth and beauty matter.”
“Let’s go where we can be together always. We have so short a time;
let’s snatch all the happiness we can.”
He kissed her again, and in her ecstasy she burst into tears. They
talked madly of their love and past anguish, making venturesome plans
for the future, forgetting all but the passion that devoured them. At
that moment only the present existed, and they wondered how it had been
possible to live so long apart. She pressed his hands joyfully when he
said that nothing now could separate them, for they belonged to one
another for ever and always; and it signified not if they lost their
souls, for they gained the whole world. But suddenly Hilda sprang up.
“Take care! There’s somebody coming.”
And the words were scarcely out of her mouth when the butler came in,
followed immediately by Jenny. Basil gave a cry of surprise. The
servant closed the door, and for one moment, embarrassed, Hilda did not
know what to say. Basil recovered himself first.
“I think you know my wife, Mrs. Murray.”
“Oh yes, I know her; you needn’t introduce me,” Jenny burst out with a
loud and angry voice. She went up quickly to Hilda. “I’ve come for my
husband.”
“Jenny, what are you saying?” cried Basil, foreseeing a hideous scene.
He turned to Hilda. “Would you mind leaving us alone?”
“No, I want to speak to you,” interrupted Jenny. “I don’t want any of
your society shams. I’ve come here to speak out. I’ve caught you at
last. You’re trying to get my husband from me.”
“Be quiet, Jenny. Are you mad? For God’s sake, leave us, Mrs. Murray;
shell insult you.”
“You think of her—you don’t think of me. You don’t care how much I
suffer.”
Basil took his wife’s arm, trying to get her away, but vehemently she
shook him off. And Hilda stood before her pale and conscience-stricken;
that sudden irruption showed her the sordid ugliness of what she had
meant to do, and she was horrified. She motioned to Basil that he was
to allow his wife to say what she would.
“You’re stealing my husband from me!” exclaimed Jenny threateningly.
“Oh, you. . . .” She was at a loss for words violent enough, and she
trembled with impotent rage. “You wicked woman!”
Hilda forced herself to speak.
“I don’t want to make you unhappy, Mrs. Kent. If you like, I’ll promise
never to see your husband again.”
“Much good your promises will do me. I wouldn’t believe a word you
said. I know what society ladies are. We know all about them in the
City.”
Basil stepped forward, and again begged Hilda to leave them. He opened
the door, and his glance was so appealing that she could not stay; but
though keeping her eyes averted, she felt that his besought her not to
be angry for the hateful, odious scene to which she had been exposed.
“She’s frightened of me,” Jenny hissed savagely. “She daren’t stand up
to me.”
He closed the door, and then turned to his wife. He was pale with rage,
but she heeded not.
“What d’you mean by coming here and behaving like this?” he said
violently. “You had no right to come at all. What d’you want?”
“I want you. D’you think I didn’t guess what was going on? I’ve been
waiting here for hours. I saw people come in, and I saw them go out,
and at last I knew you were alone with her.”
“How did you know?”
“I gave the butler a sovereign, and he told me.”
An icy shiver of disgust passed through Basil, and she laughed bitterly
when she saw his profound scorn. Then she caught sight of a photograph
of Basil which stood on a table near the window, and before he could
prevent her, seized it and flung it on the floor, and viciously dug her
heel into it.
“She’s got no right to have your photo here. Oh, I hate her, I hate
her!”
“You drive me perfectly mad. For God’s sake go.”
“I shan’t go till you come with me.”
He watched her for a moment, trying to command the hatred, the
passionate vindictive hatred, which now welled up uncontrollably within
him. He strode up to her and seized her arm.
“Look here, until to-day I swear to you before God that I’ve never
done anything or said anything that you couldn’t have known. I’ve tried
to do my duty, and I’ve done my best to make you happy. I’ve struggled
with all my might to love you. And now I don’t wish to deceive you.
It’s best that you should know exactly what has happened. This
afternoon I told Hilda that I loved her. . . . And she loves me, too.”
Jenny gave a cry of rage, and impulsively with her umbrella gave him a
swinging blow on the face. He snatched it from her, and in blind anger
broke it across his knee and threw it aside.
“You’ve brought it on yourself,” he said. “You made me too unhappy,”
He looked at Jenny as he might at some strange woman whom he saw for
the first time. She stood before him, panting and bewildered, trying to
control herself.
“And now it’s the end,” he went on coldly. “The life we led was
impossible. I tried to do something that was beyond my power. I’m going
away. I can’t and I won’t live with you any longer.”
“Basil, you don’t mean that,” she cried, feeling suddenly that he spoke
in deadly earnest. Before she had fancied that he threatened only what
he did not mean to perform. “You’ve got me to count with. I won’t let
you go.”
“What more d’you want?” he asked bitterly. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve
ruined my whole life?”
“You don’t love me?”
“I never loved you.”
“Why did you marry me?”
“Because you made me.”
“You never loved me?” she repeated, entirely crushed now, trembling and
faint with fear. “Even at the beginning?”
“Never. It’s too late now to keep it in. I must tell you and have done
with it. You’ve been having it out for months—now it’s my turn.”
“But I love you, Basil,” she cried passionately, going to him to put
her arms round his neck. “I’ll make you love me.”
But he shrank away.
“For God’s sake, don’t touch me! . . . Oh, Jenny, let us finish with
it. I’m very sorry. I don’t wish to be unkind to you, but you must have
seen that—that I didn’t care for you. What’s the good of going on
hum-bugging and pretending and making ourselves utterly miserable?”
She faced him, humbled, shaken with sobs which she would not allow to
come, and stared at Basil with eyes preternaturally large.”
“Yes, I’ve seen it,” she cried hoarsely. “But I wouldn’t believe it.
When I’ve put my hand on your shoulder I’ve seen that you could hardly
help shuddering; and sometimes when I’ve kissed you I’ve seen you put
out all your strength to prevent yourself from pushing me away.”
After all, he was tender-hearted, and now that his first anger was gone
could not help being touched by the dreadful anguish of her tone.
“Jenny, I can’t help it if I don’t love you. I can’t help it if I—if I
love someone else.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, dazed and cowed.
“I’m going away.”
“Where?”
“God knows!”
They stood for a while in silence, while Jenny sought to collect and
order her thoughts, which throbbed horribly in her brain, like raving
maniacs dancing some tumultuous, distracted measure. The butler came in
softly and handed a note to Basil, saying that Mrs. Murray had ordered
him to bring it. Basil did not open this till the servant was gone, and
then, having read, gave it without a word to Jenny.
“You may tell your wife that I’ve made up my mind to marry Mr. Farley,
I will never see you again.—H. M.”
“What does it mean?” asked Jenny.
“Isn’t it clear? Someone has asked her to marry him, and she means to
accept.”
“But you said she loved you.”
He shrugged his shoulders and did not answer. Then a ray of hope shot
through Jenny’s heart, and with outstretched hands, tenderly,
anxiously, she went to him.
“Oh, Basil, if it’s true, give me another chance. She doesn’t love you
as I love you. I’ve been selfish and quarrelsome and exacting, but I’ve
always loved you. Oh, don’t leave me, Basil. Let me try once more if I
can’t make you care for me.”
“I’m very sorry,” he returned, looking down. “It’s too late.”
“Oh God! what shall I do?” she cried. “And even though she’s going to
marry somebody else, you care for her better than anyone else in the
world?”
He nodded.
“And even if she does marry that other man, she’ll love you still.
There’s no room for me between you, and I can go away like a discharged
servant. Oh God, oh God! what have I done to deserve it?”
“I’m very sorry to make you so unhappy,” he whispered, deeply moved by
her utter misery.
“Oh, don’t pity me! D’you think I want your pity now?”
“You’d better come away, Jenny,” he said gently.
“No. You’ve told me you don’t want me any more. I shall go my own way.”
He looked at her, hesitating, and shrugged his shoulders.
“Then good-bye.”
He went out, and Jenny followed him with her eyes. At first she could
hardly believe that he was gone. It seemed that he must turn back and
take her in his arms; it seemed that he must come up the stairs again
and say that he loved her still. But he did not come, and from the
window she watched him walk down the street.
“He’s so glad to go,” she whispered.
Then, heart-broken, she sank to the door, and burying her face in her
hands, broke into a passion of tears.
XIV
But presently she got up and walked downstairs. She let herself out
quietly into the street. Though much exhausted, Jenny’s instinctive
economy prevented her from taking a cab, and with heavy steps she set
out on foot to Waterloo. The night was cold and dark, and the November
drizzle soaked her clothes, but in extreme distress of mind she noticed
nothing. She went, staring straight in front of her, a set despair upon
her face, and her eyes saw neither houses nor people: she walked
through the crowd of Piccadilly as though through an empty street.
Muffled, with umbrellas up, folk hurried to their homes, or,
notwithstanding the inclement weather, aimlessly sauntered. Sometimes
she sobbed brokenly, and then on a sudden scalding, painful tears ran
down her cheeks. The way seemed endless, and her strength rapidly
failed; her limbs, heavier than lead, ached terribly; but she would not
drive, for the pain of motion was less than the pain of immobility. She
crossed Westminster Bridge, and at length, scarcely realizing it, found
herself at Waterloo. In so dazed a manner that the porter thought she
had been drinking, Jenny asked when there would be a train, and sat
down to wait. The glitter of electricity difficultly pierced the humid
night, and the spaces of the station in that uncertain light seemed
vast and cavernous. It was a mysterious place, sordid and horrible,
which stretched weirdly to an infinite distance: people came and went,
porters passed with luggage, trains arrived and departed; and the whole
scene impressed itself on her tortured brain with a hideous, cruel
intensity.
Having reached Barnes at length, Jenny felt no relief, but if possible,
a greater wretchedness, for she remembered how often in summer, under
soft blue skies, she had wandered across the common, clinging to
Basil’s arm; and now it was dark and ugly, and the broom, all charred
and bedraggled, even under cover of night had a dismal, squalid look.
She came to the little pokey villa, let herself in, and went upstairs,
vaguely hoping that Basil, after all, had come back, for it seemed
impossible that she would never see him again. But he was nowhere. Now
her agony grew too great for tears, and she walked through the house
like one demented, mechanically setting straight things which were not
in their usual place. In her bedroom she looked in the glass, comparing
herself with Mrs. Murray, and noted with a certain bitter pride the
splendour of her hair, the brilliancy of her eyes, the dazzling
perfection of her skin: notwithstanding all she had gone through, Jenny
was conscious of a beauty greater than Mrs. Murray’s. She was younger,
too, and when she recalled the admiration which in the old days at the
_Golden Crown_ had been hers, could not understand how it was that with
Basil she was so powerless. Other men had cared for her passionately,
other men had been willing humbly to do her bidding; some, devouring
her with their eyes, had trembled when they touched her hand; others
turned pale with desire when she smiled upon them. Her beauty had been
dinned into her ears, and Basil alone was insensible to it. Then,
confusedly, with somewhat of that puritanic instinct which is ever in
English blood, Jenny asked herself how she had merited such bitter
punishment. She had done her best: she had been a good and faithful
wife to Basil, and sought in every way to please him; and yet he
loathed her. It seemed that God Almighty was against her, and she stood
helpless before a vindictive power.
Still hoping against hope, she waited, and knowing at what hour each
train was due, spent in agonised expectation the time which must elapse
between its arrival and the walk of a passenger from station to house.
The evening passed, and one train came after another, but Basil never;
and then the last train was gone, and despair seized her, for he would
not come that night. She understood that this was really the end, and
abandoned utterly that shred of hope which alone had upborne her. She
saw again the look of hatred with which he had flung at her the bitter
words of scorn; his passion, long pent up, burst forth in that moment
of uncontrollable irritation, and when she thought of it she quailed
still. With all her heart Jenny wished she had closed her eyes to his
doings, for now she would be thankful to keep him even without his
love; she would have given worlds not to have forced from him the
avowal of his passion for Mrs. Murray; the suspicion which had tortured
her before was infinitely preferable to this horrible certainty. She
would have borne anything rather than lose him altogether; she would
have been grateful even for a look now and then; but never to see him
at all! She would far sooner die.
Her heart gave a sudden throb. She would far sooner die. . . . That was
the solution of it all. It was impossible to live with this aching
pain; the unhappiness was too frightful—how much better it would be to
be dead, to feel nothing!
“They’ve got no room for me,” she repeated. “I’m only in the way.”
Perhaps by dying she would do Basil a last service, and he might be
sorry for her. He might regret what he had said, and wish he had been
kinder and more forbearing. Living, she knew it was impossible to
regain his love, but who could tell what miracle her death might work?
The temptation seized her, and possessed her, and mastered her. A great
excitement filled the wretched woman, and gathering together the
remains of her strength, without hesitation, she got up, put on her
hat, and went out. She went swiftly, upborne strangely by this resolve
which attracted her with an intense fascination, for she expected peace
from all trouble and safety from this anguish which rent her heart as
no physical pain had ever done. She came to the river which flowed
silent and dark in the dark and silent night, with heavy flood,
menacing and chill; but in her it inspired no terror: if her heart beat
quickly, it was with fearful joy because she was about to end her
torment. She was glad that the night was sombre, and thanked God for
the rain that kept loiterers away. She walked along the tow-path to a
place she knew—the year before a woman had there thrown herself in
because it was deep and the bank shelved suddenly, and Jenny had often
passed the spot with a little shudder: once, half laughing, she said
she was walking over her grave. A man came towards her, and she hid in
the shadow of the wall, so that he went by without noticing that anyone
was there; the trees in the garden above dripped heavily. She came to
the spot she sought, and looked about to see that none was near; she
took off her hat and laid it on the ground under the wall, so that it
should get as little wet as possible; then, without hesitation, went to
the river-bank. She felt no fear at all. For one moment she looked at
the torpid, unmerciful water, and then boldly flung herself in.
Basil, on leaving Mrs. Murray’s, went to Harley Street, but finding
Frank out, proceeded to his club, where he spent the evening in morose
despair, heart-rent because Hilda had signified her intention to marry
the Vicar of _All Souls_, and repentant already of the pain he had
caused his wife. At first he meant to pass the night in town, but the
more he thought of it, the more necessary it seemed to return to
Barnes; for though fully minded to part from Jenny, on account of all
that had gone before, he could not part in anger. But he felt it
impossible to see her again immediately, and determined to get home so
late that she would be in bed. There was in him an absolute
impossibility of sleep, and he so dreaded the long wakefulness that,
thinking to tire himself out, he set out to walk. It was nearly two
when he came to his little house in River Gardens, and when he turned
to enter Basil was much surprised to see a policeman ringing the bell.
“What d’you want, constable?” he asked.
“Are you Mr. Basil Kent? Will you come down to the station? There’s
been an accident to your wife.”
Basil gave a cry, and with horror already upon him, asked the man what
he meant. But the policeman simply repeated that he was to come at
once, and together with haste they strode off. An inspector broke the
news to him.
“You’re wanted to identify your wife. A man saw her walk along the
tow-path and throw herself in. She was drowned before help could be
got.”
Unable to understand the full meaning of those words, Basil stared
stupidly, aghast and terror-struck. He opened his mouth to speak, but
only gasped unintelligibly. He looked from one to another of those men,
who watched him with indifference. The whole room turned round, and he
could not see; he felt horribly faint, and then it seemed as though
someone cruelly tore apart the sutures of his skull. He stretched out
his hands aimlessly, and the inspector, understanding, led him to where
Jenny lay. A doctor was still with her, but it seemed all efforts to
restore life had been stopped.
“This is the husband,” said Basil’s guide.
“We could do nothing,” murmured the doctor. “She was quite dead when
she was got out.”
Basil looked at her and hid his face. He felt inclined suddenly to
scream at the top of his voice. It seemed too ghastly, too impossible.
“D’you know at all why she did it?” asked the doctor.
Basil did not answer, but gazed distraught at the closed eyes and the
lovely hair disarranged and soaking wet.
“Oh, God! what shall I do? Can nothing be done at all?”
The doctor looked at him, and told a constable to bring some brandy;
but Basil pushed it aside with distaste.
“What do you want me to do now?”
“You’d better go home. I’ll walk along with you,” said the doctor.
Basil stared at him with abject fear, and his eyes had an inhuman
blackness, shining horribly out of the death-pale face.
“Go home? Can’t I stay here?”
The other took his arm and led him away. There was not far to go, and
at the door the doctor asked if he could manage by himself.
“Yes. I shall be all right. Don’t trouble.”
He let himself in and went upstairs, and somehow a terror had seized
him, so that when he stumbled against a chair he cried out in sheer
fright. He sat down trying to gather his thoughts, but his mind
seethed, so that he feared he would go mad, and ever there continued
that appalling torture in his head which seemed to combine the two
agonies of physical and of mental pain. Then there fell upon his
consciousness the scene at the police-station, which before had been
confused and dim. Now strangely, with keen minuteness, he saw each
detail—the bare stone walls of the mortuary, the glaring light with its
violent shadows, the countenances of those men in uniform, (every
feature, the play of expression, was immensely distinct,) and the body!
That sight tore into the inmost recesses of his soul, so that he nearly
fainted with horror and with remorse. He groaned in his anguish. He
never knew it was possible to suffer so dreadfully.
“Oh, if she’d only waited a little longer! If I’d only come back
sooner, I might have saved her.”
With the same unnatural clearness he remembered the events of the
afternoon, and he was absolutely aghast at his own cruelty. He repeated
his words and hers, and saw the pitiful look on her face when she
begged him to give her one more chance. Her voice trembled still in his
ears, and the dreadful pain of her eyes daunted him. It was his fault,
all his fault.
“I killed her as surely as though I’d strangled her with my own hands.”
His imagination violently excited, he saw the scene at the riverside,
the dread of the murky heavy stream, the pitiless cold of it. He heard
the splash and the scream of terror. He saw the struggle as the desire
of life grew for one moment all-powerful. His head reeled with the
woman’s agony of fear as the water seized on her, and he felt the
horrible choking, the vain effort for breath. He burst into hysterical
tears.
Then he remembered the love which she had lavished upon him, and his
own ingratitude. He could only reproach himself bitterly because he had
never really tried to make the best of things. The first obstacles had
discouraged him, so that he forgot his duty. She had surrendered
herself trustfully, and he had given sorrow instead of the happiness
for which she was so brightly born, a dreadful death instead of the
life which for his sake she loved so wonderfully. And at last it seemed
that he could not go on living, for he despised himself. He could not
look forward to the coming day and the day after. His life was finished
now, finished in misery and utter despair. How could he continue, with
the recollection of those reproachful eyes searing his very soul, so
that he felt he could never sleep again? And the desire came strongly
upon him to finish with existence as she had finished, thus offering in
some sort reparation for her death, and at the same time gaining the
peace for which she had given so much. A hideous fascination urged him,
so that like a man hypnotized he went downstairs, out into the street,
along the tow-path, and stood at the very place where Jenny had thrown
herself in. He knew it well. And notwithstanding the darkness of the
night, he could see that something had happened there; the bank was
beaten and trodden down. But looking at the water, he shuddered with
dismay. It was too bitterly cold, and he could not bear the long agony
of drowning. Yet she had done it so easily. It appeared that she flung
herself in quite boldly, without hesitating for a moment. Sick with
terror, loathing himself for this cowardice, Basil turned away and
walked quickly from that dreadful spot. Presently he broke into a run,
and reached home trembling in every limb. That way, at all events, he
could not face death.
But still he felt it impossible to continue with life, and he took from
the drawer of his writing-desk a revolver, and loaded it. It needed but
a slight pressure of the trigger, and there would be an end to the
intolerable shame, to the remorse, and to all his difficulties. He
stared at the little weapon, so daintily fashioned, and fingered it
curiously, as though he were bewitched, but then, with vehement
passion, flung it from him. He could not finish with the life which,
after all, he loved still, and he shuddered with horror of himself
because he was afraid. Tet he knew that the pain of a wound was small.
During the war he had been hurt, and at the moment scarcely felt the
tearing, burning bullet. The clock struck three. He did not know how to
bear the rest of that unendurable night. Nearly five hours must pass
before it was light, and the darkness terrified him. He tried to read,
but his brain was in such a turmoil that he could make no sense of the
words. He lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes to sleep, but then
with vivid and ghastly distinctness saw Jenny’s pale face, her clenched
hands and dripping hair. The silence of that room was inhuman. His eye
caught some work of Jenny’s on a little table, left carelessly when she
went out, and he appeared to see her, seated, as was her habit, over
her sewing. His anguish was insufferable, and springing up, he took his
hat and went out. He must have someone with whom to speak, someone to
whom he could tell his bitter, bitter sorrow. He forgot the hour, and
walked rapidly towards Hammersmith. The road was very lonely, so dark
in that cold, starless night that he could not see a step before him;
and never a human soul passed by, so that he might have traversed
desert places. At length, crossing the bridge, he came to houses. He
walked on pavements, and the recollection of the crowds which in the
daytime thronged those streets eased him a little of that panic fear
which drove him on. His steps, which had been directed without aim, now
more consciously took him to Frank. From someone he must get help and
advice how to bear himself. In his exhaustion he went more slowly, and
the way seemed endless. There were signs at last that the City was
awaking. Now and again a cart trundled heavily by with produce for
Covent Garden; here and there a milk-shop blazed with light. His heart
went out to those early toilers whose busy activity seemed to unite him
once more with human kind. He stood for a moment in front of a
butcher’s, where brawny fellows, silhouetted by the flaring gas,
scrubbed the floor lustily.
At last—it seemed hours since he left Barnes—Basil found himself in
Harley Street, and staggered up the steps. He rang the night-bell and
waited. No answer came, and with anguish it crossed his mind that Frank
might have been called out. Where could he go, for he was exhausted and
faint, so that he could not walk another step? Since midnight he had
trudged a good sixteen miles. He rang again, and presently heard a
sound. The electric light was put on in the hall, and the door opened.
“Frank, Frank, for God’s sake, take me in! I feel as if I were dying.”
With amazement Frank saw his friend, dishevelled, without a great-coat,
wet, splashed with mud; his face was ghastly pale, drawn and
affrighted, and his eyes stared with the unnatural fixedness of a
maniac. He asked no questions, but took Basil’s arm and led him into
the room. Then the remains of his strength gave way, and sinking into a
chair, he fainted.
“Idiot!” muttered Frank.
He seized him by the scruff of the neck and bent his head firmly till
he forced it between the knees; and presently Basil regained
consciousness.
“Keep your head down till I get you some brandy.”
Frank was not a man to be disconcerted by an unexpected occurrence, and
methodically poured out a sufficient quantity of neat spirit which he
made Basil drink. He told him to sit still for a moment and hold his
tongue; then took his own pipe, filled and lit it, sat down quietly,
wrapping himself up as best he could, and began to smoke. The
nonchalance of his movements had a marvellous effect on Basil, for it
was impossible to remain in that strained atmosphere of unearthliness
when Frank, apparently not in the least surprised by his strange
irruption, went about things in so stolid and unemotional a way. This
unconcern exerted a kind of hypnotic influence, so that he felt oddly
relieved. At last the doctor turned to him.
“I think you’d better take those things off. I can let you have some
pyjamas.”
The sound of his voice suddenly called Basil back to the horrible
events of his life, and with staring eyes and hoarse voice, cut by
little gasps of anguish, he poured out incoherently the whole dreadful
story. And then, breaking down again, he hid his face and sobbed.
“Oh, I can’t bear it—I can’t bear it!”
Frank looked at him thoughtfully, wondering what he had better do.
“I tried to kill myself in the night.”
“D’you think that would have done anyone much good?’
“I despise myself. I feel I haven’t the right to live; but I hadn’t the
pluck to do it. People say it’s cowardly to destroy one’s self: they
don’t know what courage it wants. I couldn’t face the pain. And yet she
did it so easily—she just walked along the tow-path and threw herself
in. And then, I don’t know what’s on the other side. After all, it may
be true that there’s a cruel avenging God who will punish us to all
eternity if we break His laws.”
“I wouldn’t high-falute if I were you, Basil. Supposing you came into
the next room and went to bed. You’d be all the better for a few hours’
sleep.”
“D’you think I could sleep?” cried Basil.
“Come on,” said Frank, taking his arm.
He led him into the bedroom, and, Basil unresisting, took off his
clothes and made him lie down. Then he got his hypodermic syringe.
“Now give me your arm and stop still. I’m only going to prick you—it
won’t hurt.”
He injected a little morphia, and after a while had the satisfaction of
seeing Basil fall comfortably asleep.
Frank put away his syringe with a meditative smile.
“It’s rather funny,” he muttered, “that the most tempestuous and tragic
of human emotions are no match against a full dose of _morphinæ
hydrochlor_.”
That tiny instrument could allay the troubled mind; grief and remorse
lost their vehemence under its action, the pangs of conscience were
stilled, and pain, the great enemy of man, was effectually vanquished.
It emphasized the fact that the finest-strung emotions of the human
race depended on the matter which fools have stigmatized as gross.
Frank, in one wide-embracing curse, expressed his whole-hearted
abhorrence of dualists, spiritualists, Christian Scientists, quacks,
and popularizers of science; then, enveloped in a rug, settled down
comfortably in an armchair to await the tardy dawn.
Two hours later he found himself at Barnes, gathering at the
police-station more precise details of Jenny’s tragic death than Basil
had been able to give him. Frank told the inspector that Kent was in a
condition of absolute collapse and able personally to attend to
nothing, then gave his own address, and placed himself for all needful
business at the disposal of the authorities. He discovered that the
inquest would probably be held two days later, and guaranteed that
Basil would then be well enough to attend. After this he went to the
house and found the servant amazed because neither master nor mistress
had slept in bed, told her what had happened, and then wrote to James
Bush some account of the facts. He promised the maid to return next
morning, and went back to Harley Street.
Basil was up, but terribly depressed. All day he would not speak, and
Frank could only divine the frightful agony he suffered. He went over
in his mind eternally that scene with Hilda and his bitter words to his
wife; and always he saw her in two ways: appealing for one last chance,
and then—dead. Sometimes he felt he could scream with anguish when he
recalled those passionate words of his to Hilda, for it seemed that
final surrender was the cause of the whole catastrophe.
Next day, when Frank was about to go out, he turned to Basil, who was
looking moodily into the fire.
“I’m going to Barnes, old chap. Is there anything you want?”
Basil began to tremble violently, and his pallor grew still more
ghastly.
“What about the inquest? Have I got to go through that?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And the whole story will come out. They’ll know it was my fault, and I
shall never be able to hold up my head again. Oh, Frank, is there no
way out of it?”
Frank shook his head, and Basil’s mouth was drawn to an expression of
hopeless despair. He said nothing more till the other was on the point
of leaving the room; then he jumped up.
“Frank, there’s one thing you must do for me. I suppose you think me a
cad and a brute. Heaven knows I despise myself as much as anyone else
can do—but because we’ve been friends for such ages do one thing more
for me. I don’t know what Jenny said to her people, and they’ll welcome
a chance of hitting me now I’m down—Mrs. Murray’s name must be kept out
of it at any cost.”
Frank stopped and meditated for a moment.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied.
On his way to Waterloo the doctor went round to Old Queen Street and
found Miss Ley breakfasting.
“How is Basil this morning?” she asked’
“Poor devil! he’s in rather a bad way. I scarcely know what to do with
him. I think as soon as the inquest is over he’d better go abroad.”
“Why don’t you let him stay here till then? I’ll feed him up.”
“You’d only fuss. He’s much better by himself. He’ll just brood over it
till his mind is exhausted, and then things will get better,”
Miss Ley smiled at the scorn with which he refused her suggestion, and
waited for him to go on.
“Look here, I want you to lend me some money. Will you pay two hundred
and fifty pounds into my bank this morning?”
“Of course I will,” she answered, delighted to be asked.
She went to her desk to get a cheque-book, while Frank looked at her
with a little smile.
“Don’t you want to know what it’s for?”
“Not unless you wish to tell me.”
“You brick!”
He shook her hand warmly, and glancing at his watch, bolted off to
Waterloo. When he arrived at River Gardens, Fanny, the servant, who
opened the door, told him that James Bush was waiting to see him. She
said he had been telling her all he meant to do to ruin Basil, and had
been through the house to find papers and letters. Frank congratulated
himself on the caution with which he had locked up everything. He
walked upstairs softly, and opening the door, found James trying
various keys on the writing-table. He started away when Frank entered,
but quickly recovered his coolness.
“Why are all these drawers locked up?” he asked impudently.
“Presumably so that curious persons should not examine their contents,”
answered Frank, with great amiability.
“Where’s that man? He’s murdered my sister. He’s a blackguard and a
murderer, and I’ll tell him so to his face.”
“I was hoping to find you here, Mr. Bush. I wanted to have a talk with
you. Won’t you sit down?”
“No, I won’t sit down,” he answered aggressively. “This ain’t the ’ouse
that a gentleman would sit down in. I’ll be even with ’im yet. I’ll
tell the jury a pretty story. He deserves to be strung up, he does.”
Frank looked sharply at the auctioneer’s clerk, noting the keen
suspicious eyes, the thin lips, and the expression of low cunning.
Wishing to prevent a scandalous scene at the inquest, for Basil was ill
enough and wretched enough without having to submit to
cross-examination on his domestic affairs, Frank thought it would not
be difficult to bring James Bush to the frame of mind he desired; but
the distaste with which this person inspired him led the doctor to use
a very brutal frankness. He felt with such a man it was better not to
mince matters, and unnecessary to clothe his meaning with flattering
euphemisms.
“What d’you think you’ll get out of making a row at the inquiry?” he
said, looking fixedly into the other’s eyes.
“Oh, you’ve thought of that, ’ave you? Did Master Basil send you to get
round me? It won’t work, young feller, I mean to make it as ’ot for
Basil as I can. I’ve ’ad something to put up with, I ’ave. He’s simply
treated me like dirt. I wasn’t good enough for ’im, if you please.”
He hissed the words with the utmost malevolence, and it was possible to
imagine that he cared little for his sister’s death, except that it
gave opportunity for paying off the score which had so long rankled
with him.
“Supposing you sat down quietly and listened to me without interruption
for five minutes.”
“You’re trying to bamboozle me, but you won’t. I can see through you as
if you was a pane of glass. You people in the West End—you think you
know everything!”
Frank waited calmly till James Bush held his offensive tongue.
“What d’you think the furniture of this house is worth?” he asked
deliberately.
The question surprised James, but in a moment he replied.
“It’s a very different thing what a thing’s worth and what it’ll fetch.
If it was sold by a man as knew his business, it might fetch—a hundred
pounds.”
“Basil thought of giving it to your mother and sister—on the condition,
of course, that nothing is said at the inquest.”
James burst into a shout of ironical laughter.
“You make me laugh. D’you think you can gag me by giving a houseful of
furniture to my mother and sister?”
“I had no such exalted opinion of your disinterestedness,” smiled Frank
icily. “I come to you now. It appears that you owe Basil a good deal of
money. Can you pay it?”
“No.”
“Also it appears there was some difficulty with your accounts in your
last place,”
“That’s a lie,” James interrupted hotly.
“Possibly,” retorted Frank, with the utmost calm. “I merely mention it
to suggest to your acute intelligence that we could make it uncommonly
nasty for you if you made a fuss. If dirty linen is going to be washed
in public, there’s generally a good deal to be said on both sides.”
“I don’t care,” cried the other vindictively; “I mean to get my own
back. If I can get my knife into that man, I’ll take the consequences.”
“I understand it is your intention to unfold to a delighted jury the
whole story of Basil’s married life.” Frank paused and looked at the
other. “I’ll give you fifty pounds to hold your tongue.”
The offer was made cynically, and James actually coloured. He jumped up
indignantly, and went over to Frank, who remained seated, watching with
somewhat amused indifference.
“Are you trying to bribe me? I would ’ave you know that I’m a
gentleman; and, what’s more, I’m an Englishman, and I’m proud of it.
I’ve never ’ad anyone try and bribe me before.”
“Otherwise you would doubtless have accepted,” murmured Frank gently.
The doctor’s coolness greatly disconcerted the little clerk. He felt
vaguely that high-flown protestations were absurd, for Frank had
somehow taken his measure so accurately that it was no use to make any
false pretences.
“Come, come, Mr. Bush, don’t be ridiculous. The money will doubtless be
very useful to you, and you’re far too clever to allow private
considerations to have any effect on you where business is concerned.”
“What d’you think fifty pounds is to me?” cried James, a little
uncertainly.
“You must have mistaken me,” said Frank, after a quick look. “The sum I
mentioned was a hundred and fifty.”
“Oh!” He coloured again, and a curious look came over his face. “That’s
a very different pair of shoes.”
“Well?”
Frank observed the struggle in the man’s mind, and it interested him to
see some glimmering of shame. James hesitated, and then forced himself
to speak; but it was not with his usual self-assurance—it was almost in
a whisper.
“Look ’ere, make it two ’undred and I’ll say done.”
“No,” answered Frank firmly. “You can take one fifty or go to the
devil.”
James made no reply, but seeing that he agreed, Frank took a cheque
from his pocket, wrote it out at the desk, and handed it.
“I’ll give you fifty now, and the rest after the inquest.”
James nodded, but did not answer. He was curiously humbled. He looked
at the door, and then glanced at Frank, who understood.
“There’s nothing you need stay for. If you’re wanted for anything, I’ll
let you know.”
“Well, so long.”
James Bush walked out with somewhat the air of a whipped cur. In a
moment the servant passed through the room.
“Has Mr. Bush gone?” asked Frank.
“Yes. And good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Frank looked at her reflectively.
“Ah, Fanny, if there were no rogues in the world, life would really be
too difficult for honest men.”
XV
Six months went by, and again the gracious airs of summer blew into
Miss Ley’s dining-room in Old Queen Street. She sat at luncheon with
Mrs. Castillyon wonderfully rejuvenated by a winter in the East; for
Paul, characteristically anxious to combine self-improvement with
pleasure, had suggested that they should mark their reconciliation by a
journey to India, where they might enjoy a second, pleasanter
honeymoon, and he at the same time study various questions which would
be to him of much political value. Mrs. Castillyon, in a summer frock,
had all her old daintiness of a figurine in Dresden china, and her
former vivacity was more charming by reason of an added tenderness. She
emphasized her change of mind by allowing her hair to regain its
natural colour.
“D’you like it, Mary?” she asked. “Paul says it makes me look ten years
younger. And I’ve stopped slapping up.”
“Entirely?” asked Miss Ley, with a smile.
“Of course, I powder a little, but that doesn’t count; and you know, I
never use a puff now—only a leather. You can’t think how we enjoyed
ourselves in India, and Paul’s a perfect duck. He’s been quite awfully
good to me. I’m simply devoted to him, and I think we shall get a
baronetcy at the next Birthday honours.”
“The reward of virtue.”
Mrs. Castillyon coloured and laughed.
“You know, I’m afraid I shall become a most awful prig, but the fact is
it’s so comfortable to be good and to have nothing to reproach one’s
self with.... Now tell me about everyone. Where did you pass the
winter?”
“I went to Italy as usual, and my cousin Algernon with his daughter
spent a month with me at Christmas.”
“Was she awfully cut up at the death of her husband?”
There was really a note of genuine sympathy in Mrs. Castillyon’s voice,
so that Miss Ley realized how sincere was the change in her.
“She bore it very wonderfully, and I think she’s curiously happy; she
tells me that she feels constantly the presence of Herbert.” Miss Ley
paused. “Bella has collected her husband’s verses and wishes to publish
them, and she’s written a very touching account of his life and death
by way of preface.”
“Are they any good?”
“No; that’s just the tragedy of the whole thing. I never knew a man
whose nature was so entirely poetical, and yet he never wrote a line
which is other than mediocre. If he’d only written his own feelings,
his little hopes and disappointments, he might have done something
good; but he’s only produced pale imitations of Swinburne and Tennyson
and Shelley. I can’t understand how Herbert Field, who was so simple
and upright, should never have turned out a single stanza which wasn’t
stilted and forced. I think in his heart he felt that he hadn’t the
gift of literary expression, which has nothing to do with high ideals,
personal sincerity, or the seven deadly virtues, for he was not sorry
to die. He only lived to be a great poet, and before the end realized
that he would never have become one.”
Miss Ley saw already the pretty little book which Bella would publish
at her own expense, the neat type and wide margin, the dainty binding;
she saw the scornful neglect of reviewers, and the pile of copies which
eventually Bella would take back and give one by one as presents to her
friends, who would thank her warmly, but never trouble to read ten
lines.
“And what has happened to Reggie Bassett?” asked Grace suddenly.
Miss Ley gave her a quick glance, but the steadiness of Mrs.
Castillyon’s eyes told her that she asked the question indifferently,
perhaps to show how entirely her infatuation was overcome.
“You heard that he married?”
“I saw it in the _Morning Post_.”
“His mother was very indignant, and for three months refused to speak
to him. But at last I was able to tell her that an heir was expected;
so she made up her mind to swallow her pride, and became reconciled
with her daughter-in-law, who is a very nice, sensible woman.”
“Pretty?” asked Grace.
“Not at all, but eminently capable. Already she has made Reggie into
quite a decent member of society. Mrs. Bassett has now gone down to
Bournemouth, where the young folks have taken a house, to be at hand
when the baby appears.”
“It’s reassuring to think that the ancient race of the Barlow-Bassetts
will not be extinguished,” murmured Grace, ironically. “I gathered that
your young friend was settling down because one day he returned every
penny I had—lent him.”
“And what did you do with it?” asked Miss Ley.
Grace flushed and smiled whimsically.
“Well, it happened to reach me just before our wedding-day so I spent
it all in a gorgeous pearl pin for Paul. He was simply delighted.”
Mrs. Castillyon got up, and, when she was gone, Miss Ley took a letter
that had come before luncheon, but which her guest’s arrival had
prevented her from opening. It was from Basil, who had spent the whole
winter on Miss Ley’s recommendation in Seville. She opened it
curiously, for it was the first time he had written to her since, after
the inquest, he left England.
“MY DEAR MISS LEY,
Don’t think me ungrateful if I have left you without news of me,
but at first I felt I could not write to people in England.
Whenever I thought of them everything came back, and it was only by
a desperate effort that I could forget. For some time it seemed to
me that I could never face the world again, and I was tormented by
self-reproach; I vowed to give up my whole life to the expression
of my deep regret, and fancied I could never again have a peaceful
moment or anything approaching happiness. But presently I was
ashamed to find that I began to regain my old temper; I caught
myself at times laughing contentedly, amused and full of spirits;
and I upbraided myself bitterly because only a few weeks after the
poor girl’s death I could actually be entertained by trivial
things. And then I don’t know what came over me, for I could not
help the thought that my prison door was opened; though I called
myself brutal and callous, deep down in my soul arose the idea that
the Fates had given me another chance. The slate was wiped clean,
and I could start fresh. I pretended even to myself that I wanted
to die, but it was sheer hypocrisy—I wanted to live and to take
life by both hands and enjoy it. I have such a desire for
happiness, such an eager yearning for life in its fulness and
glory. I made a ghastly mistake, and I suffered for it: Heaven
knows how terribly I suffered and how hard I tried to make the best
of it. And perhaps it wasn’t all my fault—even to you I feel
ashamed of saying this; I ought to go on posing decently to the
end—in this world, we’re made to act and think things because
others have thought them good; we never have a chance of going our
own way; we’re bound down by the prejudices and the morals of all
and sundry. For God’s sake let us be free. Let us do this and that
because we want to and because we must, not because other people
think we ought. And d’you know the worst of the whole thing? If I’d
acted like a blackguard and let Jenny go to the dogs, I should have
remained happy and contented and prosperous, and she, I daresay,
wouldn’t have died. It’s because I tried to do my duty that all
this misery came about. The world held up an ideal, and I thought
they meant one to act up to it; it never occurred to me that they
would only sneer.
“Don’t think too badly of me because I say these things; they have
come to me here, and it was you who sent me to Seville; you must
have known what effect it would have on my mind, tortured and sick.
It is a land of freedom, and at last I have become conscious of my
youth. How can I forget the delight of wandering in the Sierpes,
released from all imprisoning ties, watching the various movements
as though it were a stage-play, yet half afraid that a falling
curtain would bring back the unendurable reality. The songs, the
dances, the happy idleness of orange-gardens by the Guadalquivir,
the gay turbulence of Seville by night: I could not long resist it,
and at last forgot everything but that time was short and the world
was to the living.
“By the time you get this letter I shall be on my way home.
“Yours ever,
“BASIL KENT.”
Miss Ley read this letter with a smile and gave a little sigh.
“I suppose at that age one can afford to have no very conspicuous sense
of humour,” she murmured.
But she sent Basil a telegram asking him to stay, with the result that
three days later the young man arrived, very brown after his winter in
the sunshine, healthy, and better-looking than ever. Miss Ley had
invited Frank to meet him at dinner, and the pair of them, with the
cold unconcern of anatomists, observed what changes the intervening
time had wrought on the impressionable nature. Basil was in high
spirits, delighted to come back to his friends; but a discreet
soberness, underlying his vivacity, suggested a more composed
temperament. What he had gone through had given him perhaps a solid
store of experience on which he could rest himself. He was less
emotional and more mature. Miss Ley summed up her impressions next time
she was alone with Frank.
“Every Englishman has a churchwarden shut away in his bosom, an old man
of the sea whom it is next to impossible to shake off. Sometimes you
think he’s asleep or dead, but he’s wonderfully tenacious of life, and
sooner or later you find him enthroned in full possession of the soul.”
“I don’t know what you mean by the word _soul_,” interrupted Frank,
“but if you do, pray go on.”
“The churchwarden is waking up in Basil, and I feel sure he will have a
very successful career. But I shall warn him not to let that
ecclesiastical functionary get the upper hand.”
Miss Ley waited for Basil to speak of Mrs. Murray, but after two days
her patience was exhausted, and she attacked him point-blank. At the
mention of the name his cheeks flamed.
“I daren’t go and see her. After what happened, I can never see her
again. I am steeling myself to forget.”
“And are you succeeding?” she asked, dryly.
“No, no—I shall never succeed. I’m more desperately in love with her
than ever I was. But I couldn’t marry her now. The recollection of poor
Jenny would be continually between us, for it was we, Hilda and I, who
drove her to her death.”
“Don’t be a melodramatic idiot,” answered Miss Ley, sharply. “You talk
like the persecuted hero of a penny novelette. Hilda’s very fond of
you, and she has the feminine common sense which alone counterbalances
in the world the romantic folly of men. What on earth do you imagine is
the use of making yourselves wretched so that you may cut a picturesque
figure? I should have thought you were cured of heroics. You wrote and
told me that the world was for the living—an idea which has truth
rather than novelty to recommend it—and do you think there is any sense
in posturing absurdly to impress an inattentive gallery?”
“How do I know that Hilda cares for me still? She may hate me because I
brought on her humiliation and shame.”
“If I were you I’d go and ask her,” laughed Miss Ley. “And go with good
heart, for she cared for you for your physical attractiveness rather
than for your character. And that, I may tell you, whatever moralists
say, is infinitely more reliable; since you may easily be mistaken in a
person’s character, but his good looks are obvious and visible. You’re
handsomer than ever you were.”
When Basil set out to call on Mrs. Murray, Miss Ley amused herself with
conjecturing ironically the scene of their meeting. With curling lips
she noted in her mind’s eye the embarrassed handshake, the trivial
conversation, the disconcerting silence, and without sympathy imagined
the gradual warmth and the passionate declaration that followed. She
moralized.
“A common mistake of writers is to make their characters in moments of
great emotion express themselves with good taste. Nothing could be more
false, for, at such times, people, however refined, use precisely the
terms of the _Family Herald_. The utterance of violent passion is never
artistic, but trite, ridiculous, and grotesque, vulgar often and
silly.” Miss Ley smiled. “Probably novelists alone make love in a truly
romantic manner, but then it’s ten to one they’re quoting from some
unpublished work, or are listening intently to themselves in admiration
of their glowing and polished phraseology.”
At all events, the interview between Hilda and Basil was eminently
satisfactory, as may be seen by the following letter which some days
later the young man received:
“MON CHER ENFANT,
It is with the greatest surprise and delight that I read in this
morning’s _Post_ of your engagement to Mrs. Murray. You have fallen
on your feet, _mon ami_, and I congratulate you. Don’t you remember
that Becky Sharp said she could be very good on five thousand a
year, and the longer I live the more convinced I am that this is a
_vraie vérité_. With a house in Charles Street and _le reste_, you
will find the world a very different place to live in. You will
grow more human, dress better, and be less censorious. Do come to
luncheon to-morrow, and bring Mrs. Murray. There will be a few
people, and I hope it will be amusing—one o’clock. I’m afraid it’s
an extraordinary hour to lunch, but I’m going to be received into
the Catholic Church in the morning, and we’re all coming on here
afterward. I mean to assume the names of the two saints whose
example has most assisted me in my conversion, and henceforth shall
sign myself,
“Your affectionate mother,
“MARGUERITE ELIZABETH CLAIRE VIZARD.
“P. S.—The Duke of St. Olpherts is going to be my sponsor.”
A month later, Hilda Murray and Basil were married in _All Souls_ by
the Rev. Collinson Farley. Miss Ley gave away the bride, and in the
church besides were only the verger and Frank Hurrell. Afterwards in
the vestry Miss Ley shook the Vicar’s hand.
“I think it went off very nicely. It was charming of you to offer to
marry them.”
“The bride is a very dear friend of mine. I was anxious to give her
this proof of my goodwill at the beginning of her new life.” He paused
and smiled benignly, so that Miss Ley, who knew something of his old
attachment to Hilda, wondered at his good spirits. She had never seen
him more trim and imposing; he looked already every inch a Bishop.
“Shall I tell you a great secret?” he added blandly. “I am about to
contract an alliance with Florence, Lady Newhaven. We shall be married
at the end of the season.”
“My dear Mr. Farley, I congratulate you with all my heart. I see
already these shapely calves encased in the gaiters episcopal.”
Mr. Farley smiled pleasantly, for he made a practice of appreciating
the jests of elderly maiden ladies with ample means, and he could boast
that to his sense of humour was due the luxurious appointing of his
church; for no place of worship in the West End had more beautiful
altar-cloths, handsomer ornaments, nowhere could be seen smarter
hassocks for the knees of the devout or hymn-books in a more excellent
state of preservation.
The newly married couple meant to spend their honeymoon on the river,
and having lunched in Charles Street, started immediately.
“I’m thankful they don’t want us to see them off at Paddington,” said
Frank, when he walked with Miss Ley towards the park.
“Why are you in such an abominable temper?” she asked, smiling. “During
luncheon I was twice on the point of reminding you that marriage is an
event at which a certain degree of hilarity is not indecorous.”
Frank did not answer, and now they turned in at one of the Park gates.
In that gay June weather the place was crowded; though the hour was
early still, motors tore along with hurried panting, carriages passed
tranquil and dignified; the well-dressed London throng sat about idly
on chairs, or lounged up and down looking at their neighbours, talking
light-heartedly of the topics of the hour. Frank’s eyes travelled over
them slowly, and shuddering a little, his brow grew strangely dark.
“During that ceremony and afterwards I could think of nothing but
Jenny. It’s only eighteen months since I signed my name for Basil’s
first marriage in a dingy registry office. You don’t know how beautiful
the girl was on that day, full of love and gratitude and happiness. She
looked forward to the future with such eager longing! And now she’s
rotting underground, and the woman she hated and the man she adored are
married, and they haven’t a thought for all her misery. I hated Basil
in his new frock-coat, and Hilda Murray, and you. I can’t imagine why a
sensible woman like you should overdress ridiculously for such a
function.”
Miss Ley, conscious of the entire success of her costume, could afford
to smile at this.
“I have observed that, whenever you’re out of humour with yourself, you
insult me,” she murmured.
Frank went on, his face hard and set, his dark eyes glowering fiercely.
“It all seemed so useless. It seemed that the wretched girl had to
undergo such frightful torture merely to bring these two commonplace
creatures together. They must have no imagination, or no shame—how
could they marry with that unhappy death between them? For, after all,
it was they who killed her. And d’you think Basil is grateful because
Jenny gave him her youth and her love, her wonderful beauty and at last
her life? He doesn’t think of her. And you, too, because she was a
barmaid are convinced that it’s a very good thing she’s out of the way.
The only excuse I can see for them is that they’re blind instruments of
fate: Nature was working through them, obscurely, working to join them
together for her own purposes, and because Jenny came between she
crushed her ruthlessly.”
“I can find a better excuse for them than that,” answered Miss Ley,
looking gravely at Frank. “I forgive them because they’re human and
weak. The longer I live, the more I am overwhelmed by the utter, utter
weakness of men; they do try to do their duty, they do their best
honestly, they seek straight ways, but they’re dreadfully weak. And so
I think one ought to be sorry for them and make all possible
allowances. I’m afraid it sounds rather idiotic, but I find the words
now most frequently on my lips are: ‘Forgive them, for they know not
what they do.’”
They walked silently, and after a while Frank stopped on a sudden and
faced Miss Ley. He pulled out his watch.
“It’s quite early yet, and we have the afternoon before us. Will you
come with me to the cemetery where Jenny is buried?”
“Why not let the dead lie? Let us think of life rather than of death.”
Frank shook his head.
“I must go. I couldn’t rest otherwise. I can’t bear that on this day
she should be entirely forgotten.”
“Very well. I will come with you.”
They turned round and came out of the Park. Frank hailed a cab, and
they started. They passed the pompous mansions of the great, sedate and
magnificent, and driving north, traversed long streets of smaller
dwellings, dingy and gray notwithstanding the brightness of the sky;
they went on, it seemed, interminably, and each street strangely,
awfully, resembled its predecessor. They came to roads where each house
was separate and had its garden, and there were trees and flowers. They
were the habitations of merchants and stockbrokers, and had a trim,
respectable look, self-satisfied and smug; but these they left behind
for more crowded parts. And now it seemed a different London, more
vivacious, more noisy. The way was thronged with trams and ’buses, and
there were coster-barrows along the pavements; the shops were gaudy and
cheap, and the houses mean. They drove through slums, with children
playing merrily on the curb and women in dirty aprons, blowzy and
dishevelled, lounging about their doorsteps. At length they reached a
broad straight road, white and dusty and unshaded, and knew their
destination was at hand, for occasionally they passed a shop where
gravestones were made; and an empty hearse trundled by, the mutes
huddled on the box, laughing loudly, smoking after the fatigue of their
accustomed work. The cemetery came in sight, and they stopped at iron
gates and walked in. It was a vast place, crowded with every imaginable
kind of funeral ornament, which glistened white and cold in the sun. It
was hideous, vulgar, and sordid, and one shuddered to think of the rude
material minds of those who could bury folk they loved in that restless
ground wherein was neither peace nor silence. They might prate of the
soul’s immortality, but surely in their hearts they looked upon the
dead as common clay, or they would never have borne that they should
lie till the Day of Judgment in that unhallowed spot. There was about
it a gross, business-like air that was infinitely depressing. Frank and
Miss Ley walked through, passing a knot of persons, black-robed, about
an open grave, where a curate uttered hastily, with the boredom of long
habit, the most solemn words that man has ever penned:
“_Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is
full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth
as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay._”
Miss Ley, pale of face, took Frank’s arm and hurried on. Here and there
dead flowers were piled upon new graves; here and there the earth was
but freshly turned. They came at last to where Jenny lay, an oblong
stone of granite whereon was cut a simple cross; and Frank gave a
sudden cry, for it was covered at that moment, so that only the cross
was outlined, with red roses. For a while they stared in silence,
amazed.
“They’re quite fresh,” said Miss Ley. “They were put here this
morning.” She turned to Frank and looked at him slowly. “You said
they’d forgotten, and they came on their wedding-day and laid roses on
her grave.”
“D’you think she came, too?”
“I’m sure of it. Ah, Frank, I think one should forgive them a good deal
for that. I told you that they did strive to do right, and if they fell
it was only because they were human and very weak. Don’t you think it’s
better for us to be charitable? I wonder if we should have surmounted
any better than they did their great difficulties and their great
temptations?”
Frank made no reply, and for a long time they contemplated those rich
red roses and thought of Hilda’s tender hands laying them gently on the
poor woman’s cold gravestone.
“You’re right,” he said at last. “I can forgive them a good deal
because they had this thought. I hope they will be very happy.”
“I think it’s a good omen.” She laid her hand on Frank’s arm. “And now
let us go away, for we are living, and the dead have nothing to say to
us. You brought me here, and now I want to take you on farther—to show
you something more.”
He did not understand, but followed obediently till they came to the
cab; Miss Ley told the driver to go straight on, away from London, till
she bade him stop. And then, leaving behind them that sad place of
death, they came suddenly into the open. The highway had the pleasant
brown hardness of a country road, and it was bordered by a hawthorn
hedge. Green fields stretched widely on either side, and they might
have been a hundred miles from London town. Miss Ley stopped the cab,
and told the man to wait whilst she and her friend walked on.
“Don’t look back,” she said to Frank, “only look forward. Look at the
trees and the meadows.”
The sky was singularly blue, and the dulcet breeze bore gracious odours
of the country. There was a suave limpidity of the air which chased
away all ugly thoughts. Both of them, walking quickly, breathed with
wide lungs, inspiring eagerly the radiance of that summer afternoon. On
a turn of the road Miss Ley gave a quick cry of delight, for she saw
the hedge suddenly ablaze with wild roses.
“Have you a knife?” she said. “Do cut some.”
And she stood while he gathered a great bunch of the simple fresh
flowers. He gave them to her, and she held them with both hands.
“I love them because they’re the same roses as grow in Rome from the
sarcophagi in the gardens. They grow out of those old coffins to show
us that life always triumphs over death. What do I care for illness and
old age and disease! The world may be full of misery and disillusion,
it may not give a tithe of what we ask; it may offer hatred instead of
love—disappointment, wretchedness, triviality, and heaven knows what;
but there is one thing that compensates for all the rest, that takes
away the merry-go-round from a sordid show, and gives it a meaning, a
solemnity, and a magnificence which make it worth while to live. And
for that one thing all we suffer is richly overpaid.”
“And what the dickens is that?” asked Frank, smiling.
Miss Ley looked at him with laughing eyes, holding out the roses, her
cheeks flushed.
“Why, beauty, you dolt!” she cried gaily. “Beauty.”
THE END