Merry Go Round (17 page)

'Why was Jimmie here at this hour?' he asked carelessly, thinking him bound on some such errand. 'I thought he didn't leave his office till six.'

'Oh, Basil, something awful has happened. I don't know how to tell you. He's sacked.'

'I hope he doesn't want us to keep him,' answered Basil coldly. 'I'm very hard up this year, and all the money I have I want for you.'

Jenny braced herself for a painful effort. She looked away, and her voice trembled.

'I don't know what's to be done. He's got in trouble. Unless he can find a hundred and fifteen pounds in a week, his firm are going to prosecute.'

'What on earth d'you mean, Jenny?'

'Oh, Basil, don't be angry. I was so ashamed to tell you, I've been hiding it for a month; but now I can't any more. Something went wrong with his accounts.'

'D'you mean to say he's been stealing?' asked Basil sternly; and a feeling of utter horror and disgust came over him.

'For God's sake, don't look at me like that,' she cried, for his eyes, his firm-set mouth, made her feel a culprit confessing on her own account some despicable crime. 'He didn't mean to be dishonest. I don't exactly understand, but he can tell you how it all was. Oh, Basil, you won't let him be sent to prison! Couldn't he have the money instead of my going away?'

Basil sat down at his desk to think out the matter, and resting his face thoughtfully on his hands, sought to avoid Jenny's
fixed, appealing gaze. He did not want her to see the consternation, the abject shame, with which her news oppressed him. But all the same she saw.

'What are you thinking about, Basil?'

'Nothing particular. I was wondering how to raise the money.'

'You don't think because he's my brother I must be tarred with the same brush?'

He looked at her without answering. It was certainly unfortunate that his wife's mother should drink more than was seemly, and her brother have but primitive ideas about property.

'It's not my fault,' she cried, with bitter pain, interrupting his silence. 'Don't think too hardly of me.'

'No, it's not your fault,' he answered, with involuntary coldness. 'You must go away to Brighton all the same, but I'm afraid it means no holiday in the summer.'

He wrote a cheque, and then a letter to his bank begging them to advance a hundred pounds on securities they held.

'There he is,' cried Jenny, hearing a ring. 'I told him to come back in half an hour.'

Basil got up.

'You'd better give the cheque to your brother at once. Say that I don't wish to see him.'

'Isn't he to come here any more, Basil?'

'That is as you like, Jenny. If you wish, we'll pretend he was unfortunate rather than – dishonest; but I'd rather he didn't refer to the matter. I want neither his thanks nor his excuses.'

Without answering Jenny took the cheque. She would have given a great deal to fling her arms gratefully round Basil's neck, begging him to forgive, but there was a hardness in his manner which frightened her. All the evening he sat in moody silence, and Jenny dared not speak. His kiss when he bade her good night had never been so frigid, and unable to sleep, she cried bitterly. She could not understand the profound abhorrence with which he looked upon the incident. To her mind it was little more than a mischance occasioned by Jimmie's excessive sharpness, and she was disposed to agree with her brother
that only luck had been against him. She somewhat resented Basil's refusal to hear any defence, and his complete certainty that the very worst must be true.

A few days later, coming unexpectedly, Kent found Jenny in earnest conversation with her brother, who had quite regained his jaunty air, and betrayed no false shame at Basil's knowledge of his escapade.

'Well met, 'Oratio!' he cried, holding out his hand. 'I just come in on the chance of seeing you. I wanted to thank you for that loan.'

'I'd rather you didn't speak of it.'

'Why, there's nothing to be ashamed of. I 'ad a bit of bad luck, that's all. I'll pay you back, you know. You needn't fear about that.'

He gave a voluble account of the affair, proving how misfortune may befall the deserving, and what a criminal complexion the most innocent acts may wear. Basil, against his will admiring the fellow's jocose effrontery, listened with chilling silence.

'You need not excuse yourself,' he said at length. 'My reasons for helping you were purely selfish. Except for Jenny, it would have been a matter of complete indifference to me if you had been sent to prison or not.'

'Oh, that was all kid. They wouldn't have prosecuted. Don't I tell you they had no case. You believe me, don't you?'

'No, I don't.'

'What d'you mean by that?' asked James angrily.

'We won't discuss it.'

The other did not answer, but shot at Basil a glance of singular malevolence.

'You can whistle for your money, young feller,' he muttered under his breath. 'You won't get much out of me.'

He had but small intention of paying back the rather large sum, but now abandoned even that. During the six months of Jenny's married life he had never been able to surmount the freezing politeness with which Basil used him. He hated him for his supercilious air, but needing his help, took care, though sometimes he could scarcely keep his temper, to preserve a familiar cordiality. He knew his brother-in-law would welcome an opportunity to forbid him the house, and this, especially now that he was out of work, he determined to avoid. He stomached the affront as best he could, but solaced his pride with the determination sooner or later to revenge himself.

'Well, so long,' he cried, with undiminished serenity; 'I'll be toddling.'

Jenny watched this scene with some alarm, but with more irritation, since Basil's frigid contempt for her brother seemed a reflection on herself.

'You might at least be polite to him,' she said, when Jimmie was gone.

'I'm afraid I've pretty well used up all my politeness.'

'After all, he is my brother.'

'That is a fact I deplore with all my heart,' he answered.

'You needn't be so hard on him now he's down. He's no worse than plenty more.'

Basil turned to her with flaming eyes.

'Good God, don't you realize the man's a thief! Doesn't it mean anything to you that he's dishonest? Don't you see how awful it is that a man –'

He broke off with a gesture of disgust. It was the first quarrel they had ever had, and a shrewish look came to Jenny's face, her pallor gave way to an angry flush. But quickly Basil recovered himself. Recollecting his wife's illness and her bitter disappointment at the poor babe's death, he keenly regretted the outburst.

'I beg your pardon, Jenny. I didn't mean to say that. I should have remembered you were fond of him.'

But since she did not answer, looking away somewhat sulkily, he sat down on the arm of her chair and stroked her wonderful rich tresses.

'Don't be cross, darling. We won't quarrel, will we?'

Unable to resist his tenderness, tears came to her eyes, and passionately she kissed his caressing hands.

'No, no,' she cried. 'I love you too much. Don't ever speak angrily to me; it hurts so awfully.'

The momentary cloud passed, and they talked of the approaching visit to Brighton. Jenny was to take lodgings, and she made him promise faithfully that he would come every Saturday. Frank had offered a room in Harley Street, and while she was away Basil meant to stay with him.

'You won't forget me, Basil?'

'Of course not! But you must hurry up and get well and come back.'

When at length she set off, and Basil found himself Frank's guest, he could not suppress a faint sigh of relief. It was very delightful to live again in a bachelor's rooms, and he loved the smell of smoke, the untidy litter of books, the lack of responsibility. There was no need to do anything he did not like, and for the first time since his marriage he felt entirely comfortable. Recalling his pleasant rooms in the Temple, and there was about them an old-world air which amiably fitted his humour, he thought of the long conversations of those days, the hours of reverie, the undisturbed ease with which he could read books; and he shuddered at the poky villa which was now his home, the worries of housekeeping, and the want of privacy. He had meant his life to be so beautiful, and it was merely sordid.

'There are advantages in single blessedness,' laughed the doctor, when he saw Basil after breakfast light his pipe, and putting his feet on the chimney-piece, lean back with a sigh of content.

But he regretted his words when he saw on the other's mobile face a look of singular wistfulness. It was his first indication that things were not going very well with the young couple.

'By the way,' Frank suggested presently, 'would you care to come to a party tonight? Lady Edward Stringer is giving some sort of function, and there'll be a lot of people you know.'

'I've been nowhere since my marriage,' Basil answered irresolutely.

'I shall be seeing the old thing today. Shall I ask if I can bring you?'

'It would be awfully good of you. By Jove, I should enjoy it.' He gave a laugh. 'I've not had evening clothes on for six months.'

L
ADY
E
DWARD
S
TRINGER
said she would be delighted to see Basil that evening, and Frank, whose toilet was finished in a quarter of an hour, with scornful amusement watched the care wherewith the young man dressed. At last, with a final look at the glass, he turned round.

'You look very nice indeed,' said the doctor ironically.

'Shut up!' answered Basil, reddening; but it was evident all the same that he was not displeased with his appearance.

They dined at Frank's very respectable club, surrounded by men of science with their diverting air of middle-aged schoolboys, and soon after ten drove off to Kensington. Basil hated the economy which since his marriage he had been forced to practise, and the signs of wealth in Lady Edward's house were very grateful to him. A powdered footman took his hat, another seized his coat; and after the cramped stuffiness of the villa at Barnes it pleased him hugely to walk through spacious and lofty rooms, furnished splendidly in the worst Victorian manner. Lady Edward, her fair wig more than usually askew, dressed in shabby magnificence, with splendid diamonds round her withered neck, gave him the indifferent welcome of a fashionable hostess, and turned to the next arrival. Moving on, Basil found himself face to face with Mrs Murray.

'Oh, I
am
glad to see you!' he cried, enthusiastic and surprised. 'I didn't know you were back. Come and sit down, and tell me all you've seen.'

'Nonsense! I'm not going to say a word. You must give me all the news. I see your book is announced.'

Basil was astonished to find how handsome she was. He had thought of her very frequently, against his will, but the picture in his mind had not that radiant health nor that spirited vitality. Rather had his imagination exaggerated the likeness to a Madonna of Sandro Botticelli, dwelling on the sad passion of
her lips and the pallid oval of her languid face. Tonight her vivacity was enchanting; the grey eyes were full of laughter, and her cheeks delightfully flushed. He looked at her beautiful hands, recognizing the rings, and at the picturesque splendour of her gown. The favourite scent which vaguely clung to her recalled the past with its pleasant intercourse, and he remembered her drawing-room in Charles Street where they had sat so often talking of charming things. His heart ached, and he knew that for all his efforts he loved her no less than that night before his marriage when he became convinced that she also cared.

'I don't believe you're listening to a word I say,' she cried.

'Yes, I am,' he answered, 'but the sound of your voice intoxicates me. It has all the music of Italy. I haven't heard it for such ages.'

'When did I see you last?' she inquired, remembering perfectly well, but curious to know his answer.

'You were driving near Westminster Bridge one Sunday afternoon, but I've not spoken to you since the Thursday before that. I remember the cloak you wore then. Have you still got it?'

'What a memory!'

She laughed flippantly, but there was triumph in her eyes; for he seemed to have forgotten completely the visit to Barnes, and his recollection was only of their mutual love.

'I often think of the long talks we used to have,' he said. 'Except for you, I should never have written my book.'

'Ah, yes, before you married, wasn't it?'

She uttered the words carelessly, with a smile, but she meant to wound; and Basil's face grew on a sudden deathly pale, an inexpressible pain darkened his eyes, and his lips trembled. Mrs Murray observed him with a cruel curiosity. Sometimes in her anger she had prayed for an occasion of revenge for all the torture she had suffered, and this was the beginning. She hated him now, she told herself – she hated him furiously. At that moment she caught sight of Mr Farley, the fashionable parson, and smiled. As she expected, he came forward.

'Did you get a letter from me?' she asked, holding out her hand.

'Thanks so much. I've already written to accept.'

Her question was not without malice, for she wished Basil to understand that she had sent Mr Farley some invitation. Unwillingly, the younger man rose from her side, and the Vicar of All Souls' took the vacant place. As Basil sauntered away, sore at heart, she addressed the newcomer with a flattering, though somewhat unusual, cordiality.

'Tiens!
There's chaste Lucretia. How on earth did you get here?'

Basil started, and his face grew suddenly cold and hard when at his elbow he heard his mother's mocking voice.

'Dr Hurrell brought me,' he answered.

'He showed discretion in bringing you to the dullest house in London, also the most respectable. How is Camberwell, and do you have high tea?'

'My wife is at Brighton,' replied Basil, feeling, as ever, humiliated by Lady Vizard's banter.

'I didn't expect she was here. You're really very good-looking. What a pity it is you're so absurd!'

She nodded to her son and passed on. Presently she came to Miss Ley, who stood by herself watching with amusement the various throng.

'How d'you do?' said Lady Vizard.

'I had no idea that you remembered me,' answered the other.

'I saw in the paper that you had inherited the fortune of that odious Miss Dwarris. Haven't you found that lots of people have remembered you since then?' She did not wait for an answer. 'Aren't you a friend of my young hopeful? I've just seen him, and I can't imagine why he dislikes me so much. I suppose he thinks I'm wicked, but I'm not in the least, really. I'm not conscious of ever having committed a sin in my life. I've done foolish things and things 'I regret, but that's all.'

'It's very comfortable to have the approval of one's own conscience,' murmured Miss Ley.

Lord de Capit at that moment advanced to Lady Vizard, and
Miss Ley took the opportunity to go to Mrs Barlow-Bassett, superbly imposing as usual, who was talking with the Castillyons.

'It's a great comfort to me to know he's such a good boy,' she heard her saying. 'He has no secrets from me, and I can assure you he hasn't a thought which he needs to hide from anyone.'

'Who is this admirable person?' asked Miss Ley.

'I was thanking Mrs Castillyon for being so good to Reggie. He's just of an age when the influence of a woman of the world – a good woman – is so important.'

'Reginald is a compendium of all the virtues,' remarked Miss Ley quietly; 'and Mrs Castillyon is a pattern of charity.'

'You overwhelm me with confusion,' cried the little woman, with the lightest laugh, but only the powder hid a crimson blush of shame.

She managed in a little while to get Miss Ley to herself, and they sat down. Mrs Castillyon's manner was so airy and flippant that none could have guessed she dealt with tragic issues.

'You must utterly despise me, Miss Ley,' she said.

'Why?'

'I promised you I'd never see Reggie again, and what must you have thought when you heard Mrs Bassett!'

'At least it saved you the trouble of telling me fibs.'

'I wouldn't have lied about it. I must have someone to whom I can talk openly. Oh, I'm so unhappy!'

These words also she said with so expressionless a countenance that an onlooker out of earshot would have been persuaded she spoke of most trivial things.

'I did my best,' she went on. 'I bore it for a month. Then I couldn't do without him any longer. I feel like a woman in one of those old stories, under some love-spell so that no power of hers could help her. I suppose you'll say I'm a fool, but I think Isolde or Phèdre must have had just that same sensation. I haven't any will and I haven't any courage, and the worst is that the whole thing's so absolutely degrading. There's no reason why you shouldn't despise me, because I utterly despise myself. And Heaven knows what'll be the end of it; I feel that
something awful will happen. Some day or other Paul is certain to find out, and then it means ruin, and I shall have thrown away everything for such a miserable, poor-spirited cur.'

'Don't talk so loud,' said Miss Ley, for the other had slightly raised her voice. 'D'you think he'd marry you?'

'No; he's often told me he wouldn't. And I wouldn't marry him now; I know him too well. Oh, I wish I'd never seen him. He doesn't care two straws for me; he knows I'm in his power, and he treats me as if I were a woman off the streets. I've been so bitterly punished.'

Her eyes wandered across the room, and she saw Reggie talking to Mrs Murray.

'Look at him,' she said to Miss Ley. 'Even now I would give my soul for him to take me in his arms and kiss me. I wouldn't mind the danger, I wouldn't mind the shame, if he only loved me.'

Self-possessed and handsome, immaculately attired, Reggie chatted with the ease of a man of forty; his dark, lustrous eyes fixed on Mrs Murray, his red lips smiling sensually, indicated plainly enough that her beauty attracted him. Mrs Castillyon watched the pair with jealous rage and with agony.

'She's got every chance,' she muttered; 'she's a widow, and she's rich, and she's younger than I am. But I wouldn't wish my worst enemy the wretchedness of falling in love with that man.'

'But, good heavens! why don't you pull yourself together? Have you given up all thought of breaking with him?'

'Yes,' she answered desperately; 'I'm not going to struggle any more. Let come what may. It's not I that is concerned now, but fate. I won't leave him till he throws me aside like a toy he's tired of.'

'And what about your husband?'

'Paul? Paul's worth ten of the other. I didn't know his value till I was so unhappy.'

'Aren't you a little ashamed to treat him so badly?'

'I can't sleep at night for thinking of it. Every present he gives me is like a stab in my heart; every kindness is the bitterest anguish. But I can't help it.'

Miss Ley meditated for a moment.

'I've just been talking to Lady Vizard,' she said then. 'I suppose there's no one in London whom a pious person would more readily consign to eternal flames, and yet she looks upon herself as a very good woman indeed. Also I feel sure that our mutual friend, Reggie, has no qualms about any of his proceedings. It suggests to me that the only wicked people in the world are those who have consciences.'

'And d'you think I have a conscience?' asked Mrs Castillyon bitterly.

'Apparently. I never saw any trace of it till I met you at Rochester. But I suppose it was there in a rudimentary condition, and events have brought it to the front. Take care it doesn't get the better of you. I see a great danger staring you in the face.'

'What do you mean?'

Mrs Castillyon's face, notwithstanding the rouge, was haggard and white. Miss Ley looked at her with piercing keenness.

'Have you never thought of confessing the whole thing to your husband?'

'Oh, Miss Ley, Miss Ley, how did you guess that?'

In her uncontrollable agitation she forgot her self-control, and wrung her hands with anguish.

'Take care. Remember everyone can see you.'

'I forgot.' With an effort she regained her wonted ease of manner. 'It's been with me night and day. Sometimes, when Paul is good to me, I can hardly resist the temptation. Some awful fascination lures me on, and I know that one day I shan't be able to hold my tongue, and I shall tell him everything.'

During the last six months Mrs Castillyon had aged, and bitterly conscious of her failing beauty, resorted now to a more extravagant artifice; the colour of her hair was more obviously unnatural, she pencilled her eyebrows, and used too much paint on her cheeks. The unquiet of her manner had increased, so that it was somewhat painful to be with her. She talked more than ever, more loudly, and her laughter was shriller and more frequent; but the high spirits, which before were due to an entire unconcern for the world in general, now were deliberately assumed to conceal, if possible even from
herself, a most utter wretchedness. Life had been wont to go most smoothly. She had wealth to gratify every whim, admiration to give a sense of power, a position of some consequence; and she had never wanted anything so desperately that it was more than tiresome to do without it: but now, with no previous experience to guide her, she was beset on every side with harassing difficulties. This ardent passion had swept her off her feet, and the wakening was very bitter when she learnt that it was her turn to suffer. She had no illusions with regard to Reggie. He was immeasurably selfish, callous to her pain, and she had long since discovered that tears had no effect upon him. He meant to get his own way, and when she rebelled gave her the truth in brutal terms.

'If you don't like me, you can go to the devil. You're not the only woman in the world.'

But on the whole he was fairly good-humoured – it was his best quality – and she had a certain hold over him in his immense love of pleasure. She could always avoid his peevishness by taking him to the theatre; he was anxious to move in polite circles, and an invitation to some great house made him affectionate for a week. But he never allowed her to dictate, and an occasional display of jealousy was met with an indifferent cynicism which nearly drove her to distraction; besides, she was afraid of him, knowing that to save his own skin he would not hesitate to betray her. Yet, notwithstanding, she loved Reggie still so passionately that it affected her character. Mrs Castillyon, who had never sought to restrain herself, now took care to avoid causes of offence to the dissolute boy. She made herself complaisant so that he might not again throw in her face her age and waning charms; in bitter misery she learnt a gentleness and a self-control which before she had never known. In the general affairs of life she exhibited a new charity, and especially with her husband was less petulant. His sure devotion was singularly comforting, and she knew that in his eyes she was no less adorable than when first he loved her.