Merry Go Round (19 page)

'I daren't run the risk, Bella. I'm afraid to put my fancies to the test of reality. I want to keep my illusions. Italy has shown me that nothing is so lovely and enchanting as the image of it in my mind. Each time that something hasn't quite come up to my expectations I've said to myself that Greece would repay me
for everything. But now I know that Greece will have just the same disappointments, and I can't bear them. Let me die with the picture still in my heart of the long-beloved country as I have fancied it. What is it to me when fauns no longer scamper through the fields, and dryads aren't in the running brooks? It's not Greece I go to see, but the land of my ideal.'

'But, my dearest, there's no need to go. You know I'd much rather not,' cried Bella.

He looked at her at length, and his glance was long and searching. It seemed that he wished to speak, yet for some reason hesitated strangely. Then he made an effort.

'I want to go home, Bella,' he whispered. 'I feel I can't
breathe here; the blue sky overwhelms me, and I long for the
grey clouds of England. I didn't know I loved my country till I
left it D'you think I'm an awful prig?'

'No, dear,' she answered, with choking voice.

'The clamour of the South tires my ears, and the colours are overbright, the air is too thin and too brilliant, the eternal sunshine blinds me. Oh, give me my own country again. I can't die down here; I want to be buried among my own people. I've never said a word to you, Bella, but lately I've lain awake at night thinking of the fat Kentish soil. I want to take it up in my hands, the cool, rich mould, and feel its coldness and its strength. When I look up at that blue fire, I think of my beautiful Kentish sky, so grey, so soft, so low; and I yearn for those rounded clouds, all pregnant with rain.'

His excitement was unbearable as the thoughts crowded upon him, and he pressed his hands to his eyes so that nothing should disturb.

'My mouth is parched for the spring showers. D'you know, we've not seen a drop of rain for a month. Now at Leanham and at Ferne the elm-trees and the oaks are all in leaf, and I love their fresh young green. There's nothing here like the green of the Kentish fields. Oh, I can feel the salt breeze of the North Sea blowing against my cheek, and in my nostrils are all the spring smells of the country. I must see the hedgerows once more, and I want to listen to the birds singing. I long for the cathedral with its old grey stones, and the dark, shady streets
of Tercanbury. I want to hear English spoken around me; I want to see English faces. Bella, Bella, for God's sake take me home, or I shall die!'

There was such agony in his passionate appeal that Bella was more than ever alarmed. She thought he had some mysterious premonition of the end, and it was only with difficulty that she brought herself to utter words of consolation and of reassurance. They settled to start at once. Herbert, in his anxiety, wished to travel directly to London; but his wife, determined to take no risk that could possibly be avoided, insisted on going by very easy stages. Through the winter she had written every week to the Dean, telling him of their doings and the places they saw, but he had never once replied, and for news of him she had been forced to rely on friends in Tercanbury. Now she wrote to him immediately.

M
Y DEAREST
F
ATHER,

My husband is dying, and I am bringing him home at his own wish. I do not know how long he can continue to live, but at the most I'm afraid it can only be a question of very few months. I beg you most earnestly to put aside your anger. Let us come to you. I have nowhere to take Herbert, and I cannot bear that he should die in a stranger's house. I beseech you to write to me at Paris.

Your affectionate daughter,
B
ELLA

Her first two letters the Dean had enough resolution not to open, but he could not grow used to his solitude, and each day missed more acutely his daughter's constant care. The house was very empty without her, and sometimes in the morning, forgetting what had happened, he expected when he went down to breakfast to find her as ever, alert and trim, at the head of his table. The third letter he could not resist, and afterwards, though his pride forbade him to answer, looked forward intensely to the weekly communication. Once, when by some chance it was two days delayed, he was so anxious that he went to a friend in the chapter whose wife, he knew, corresponded with Bella, and asked whether anything had been heard.

On opening this final note, the Dean was surprised to find it
so short, for Bella, to comfort and interest him, was used to write a sort of diary of the week. He read it two or three times. He gathered first that Bella was on her way home, and if he liked might once more sit at his solitary table, go about the house gently as of old, and in the evening play to him the simple melodies he loved so well; but then he became aware of the restrained despair in those few hurried lines, and reading deeper than the words, understood for the first time her overwhelming love for that poor sick boy. From his daughter's letters the Dean had come to know Herbert somewhat intimately, for with subtle tenderness Bella related little traits which she knew would touch him, and for long he had struggled with an uneasy feeling of his own injustice. He remembered now the lad's youth and simplicity, that he was poor and ill, and his heart went out to him strangely. Contrition seized him. A portrait of his wife, dead for five-and-thirty years, hung in the Dean's study, showing her in the first year of marriage with the simpering air, the brown ringlets, of a middle Victorian young lady; and though a work of no merit, to the sorrowing husband it seemed a real masterpiece. He had often gathered solace and advice from those brown eyes, and now, pride and love contending in his breast, looked at it earnestly. The face seemed to wear an expression of reproach, and in mute self-abasement the Dean bent his head. The hungry had come to him, and he had given no meat; the stranger he had cast out, and the sick turned from his door.

'I have sinned against heaven and in Thy sight,' he mutttered painfully, 'and am no more worthy to be called Thy son.'

His eyes caught a photograph of Bella, which, for a while banished from the room, now again occupied its accustomed place, and as though to take her in his arms, he stretched his hands towards it. He smiled happily, for his mind was made up. Notwithstanding the words uttered in his wrath, he would go to Paris and bring home his daughter with her dying husband; and if in the last months of the boy's life he could make up for past harshness, perhaps it would be taken as some atonement for his cruel pride.

Announcing his intention to no one, the Dean set out at
once. He had no means to communicate with Bella, but knew the hotel to which she would go, and determined there to await her arrival. Finding at what hour she must reach it, he lingered in the hall, but twice was grievously disappointed. On the third day, however, when he began to feel the tension unbearable, a cab drove up, and trembling with excitement, he saw Bella step out. Desirous that she should not see him immediately, the Dean withdrew a little to one side. He noted the care with which she helped Herbert to get out of the cab: she took his arm to lead him in. He was apparently very weak, wrapped up to his eyes though the evening was warm, and while she asked for rooms he sat down in sheer exhaustion.

The Dean was very remorseful when he saw the change in him, for when last they met Herbert Field was full of spirits and gay; and these months of anxiety had left their mark on Bella also, whose hair was beginning to turn quite grey. Her expression was tired and wan. When they were gone upstairs, the Dean asked for the number of their room, but to give them time to get off their things, forced himself to wait half an hour by the clock. Then, going up, he knocked at the door. Bella, thinking it was a maid, called out in French.

'Bella,' he said in a low voice, and he remembered how once she had begged to be admitted to his study and he had refused.

With a cry she flung open the door, and in a moment they were clasped in one another's arms; he pressed her to his heart, but in his emotion found no word to say. She drew him in eagerly.

'Herbert, here's my father.'

The youth was lying on the bed in the next room, and Bella led the Dean in. Herbert was too tired to rise.

'I've come to take you both home,' said the old man, tears of joy in his voice.

'Oh, father, I'm so glad. You're not angry with me any longer. It'll make me so happy if you forgive me.'

'It's not you that need forgiveness, but I, Bella. I want to ask your husband to pardon my unkindness. I've been harsh and proud and cruel.'

He went to Herbert and took his hand.

'Will you forgive me, my dear? Will you allow me to be your father as well as Bella's?'

'I shall be very grateful.'

'And will you come back to Tercanbury with me? I should like you to know that so long as I live my home will be yours. And I will try and make you forget that I was ever –'

The Dean broke off with a gesture of appeal, unable to finish.

'I know you're very good,' smiled Herbert, 'and you see I have brought Bella back to you.'

The Dean hesitated a moment shyly, then bent down and very tenderly kissed the pale, suffering lad.

S
OME
days after the party at Lady Edward Stringer's Basil went to Brighton, and was met at the station by Jenny and her sister. Sending the traps by porter, they set out for the lodgings, but were quickly joined by a very smart young man, introduced to Basil as Mr Higgins, who paired off with Annie Bush. When they had gone ahead, Basil asked who he was.

'He's Annie's latest,' answered Jenny, laughing.

'Have you known him long?'

'We got to know him the second day we were down. I noticed him look at us, and I said to Annie: "There you are, my dear; there's company for you when Basil comes, because I can't stick walking three in a row."'

'Who introduced him to you?'

'What a silly you are!' laughed Jenny. 'He just came up and said good evening, and Annie said good evening, and then he began to talk. He seems to have lots of money. He took us to a concert last night, to the best places. It was nice of him, wasn't it?'

'But, my dear child, you can't go about with people you don't know.'

'You must let Annie enjoy herself, and he's a very respectable young fellow, isn't he? You see, living at home, she hasn't the opportunity to get to know men that I had. And he's quite a gentleman.'

'Is he? I should have thought him a most awful bounder.'

'You're so particular,' said Jenny. 'I don't see anything wrong in him.'

Arriving at the lodging-house, Annie, engaged in lively conversation with her new acquaintance, stopped till the others came up. She resembled Jenny as much as it was possible for a somewhat plain woman to resemble a beautiful. She had the same graceful figure, but her hair, arranged with needless
elaboration, was colourless, and her complexion had not the mellow delicacy which distinguished her elder.

'Jenny,' she cried, 'he won't come in to tea because he says you want to be alone with your hubby. Tell him it's all right.'

'Of course it's all right,' said Jenny. 'You come in and take a cup of tea with us, and then we'll all go on the front.'

He was evidently a facetious person, for while Basil washed he heard the two women in the adjoining room shout with uproarious merriment. Presently Jenny called out that tea was ready, and somewhat against his will, he was forced to go in. His wife, much better in health, talking and laughing loudly, was in high spirits; and the three had evidently enjoyed thoroughly the last two weeks, for they were full of remembered jokes. Basil, annoyed by the stranger's intrusion, sought not to join in the conversation, but sat silently, and after a while took up a newspaper. Annie gave him an angry glance, and Mr Higgins looked once or twice uncertainly, but then went on with his rapid string of anecdote. Perhaps he also had cause for irritation, since his best stories were heard by Basil with all the appearance of profound boredom.

'Well, who says a stroll on the parade?' he cried at last.

'Come on, Jenny,' answered Annie Bush, and turned to Basil. 'Are you coming?'

He looked up from his paper indifferently.

'No; I have some letters to write.'

Jenny preferred to remain with her husband, and, once alone, they talked for a time of domestic affairs; but there seemed a certain constraint between them, and presently Basil began to read. When Annie, after some while, came back, she glanced at him aggressively.

'Better?' she asked.

'What?'

'I thought you didn't seem well at tea.'

'Thanks, I'm in the best of health.'

'You might make yourself obliging, then, instead of sitting there like a funeral-mute when I have a gentleman to visit me.'

'I'm sorry my behaviour doesn't meet with your approval,' he answered quietly.

'Mr Higgins says he won't come here till your husband's taken himself off, my dear. He says he knows where he's not wanted, and I don't blame him, either.'

'Oh, Annie, what nonsense!' cried Mrs Kent. 'Basil was only tired.'

'Yes, a journey to Brighton's very tiring, isn't it? I tell you straight, Basil, I expect my friends to be treated like gentlemen.'

'You're an amiable creature, Annie,' he answered, shrugging his shoulders.

After supper Annie waited somewhat impatiently till the servant came in to say that Mr Higgins was at the door; then hurriedly put on her hat. Basil hesitated for one moment, unwilling to give offence, but decided that some word of warning was necessary.

'I say, Annie, d'you think you ought to go out alone at night with a man you've picked up casually on the pier?'

'What I do is no business of yours, is it?' she answered angrily. 'I'd thank you to give me your advice when I ask for it.'

'Shall I come with you, Annie?' said her sister.

'Now, don't you interfere. I can look after myself, as you know very well.'

She went out, vindictively slamming the door, and Basil, without another word, a frown on his brow, returned to his book. But in a little while he heard that Jenny was crying very quietly.

'Jenny, Jenny, what's the matter?' he exclaimed.

'Oh, nothing,' she answered, drying her eyes and doing her best to smile. 'Only I've been having such a good time down here; I only wanted you to make it perfect. I did look forward so to your coming, and now you've upset everything.'

'I'm very sorry,' he sighed, with complete discouragement.

He did not know what to say nor how to comfort her, for he realized, too, that his appearance had disturbed her enjoyment, and for all his goodwill he appeared able to bring her only unhappiness. She was most herself in the company of such as Mr Higgins; her greatest pleasure was to walk on the
parade, staring at the people, or to listen to nigger-minstrels' sentimental ditties; she wanted gaiety and noise and garish colour. On the other hand, things which affected him painfully left her unmoved, and she was perfectly content in the sordid, vulgar lodging which overwhelmed him with disgust. It seemed that he was in a labyrinth of cross-purposes wherefrom was no issue.

Next morning occurred a trifling incident which showed Basil how his wife regarded him. Annie, dressed for church, came downstairs in a costume which was positively outrageous, so that one wondered at the perverse ingenuity with which the colours were blended; and she wore much cheap finery.

'Well, my dear, you're never going out like that!' she cried, seeing that Jenny was no differently attired from the day before. (An antipathy to Sunday clothes was to his wife one of Basil's most incomprehensible fads.) 'Aren't you going to put on your new hat?'

Mrs Kent looked somewhat uneasily at her husband.

'I saw such a smart hat in a shop, Basil, and Annie simply made me buy it. And I must say it was dirt cheap – only six and eleven.'

'This is evidently an occasion to put it on,' he smiled.

In a few minutes she came back, radiant and flushed, but Basil could not persuade himself that her headgear was cheap at the price.

'D'you like it?' she asked anxiously.

'Very much,' he replied, wishing to please.

'There, Jenny, I knew he wouldn't mind. If you heard all the fuss she made about your being angry and not liking it, and I don't know what all!'

'Basil says I look best in black,' said Jenny in self-defence.

'Men never know what's dressy, my dear,' Annie answered. 'If you went by what Basil said, you would be a dowd.'

It was rather distressing to find that his wife still somewhat feared him. In her eyes, apparently, he was a bearish creature whose whimsical fancies must be humoured, and he thought bitterly of the confidence which he hoped would exist between them, of the complete union in which not a thought nor an
emotion should be unshared. And knowing that his own love was long since dead, Basil sought to persuade himself that hers also was on the wane. The week-end bored him immensely, and it was not without relief that he found himself on Monday morning at the station, whither his wife accompanied him.

'I'm awfully busy; I don't know whether I can manage to come down next Saturday,' he said tentatively.

But Jenny's eyes filled on a sudden with tears.

'Oh, Basil, Basil, I can't live without you! I'd rather come up to town. If you don't like Annie, she can go away. Promise me you'll come. I look forward to it all the week.'

'You'll have a very good time without me. I've only made you wretched by my visit.'

'No, you haven't. I want you so badly. I'd rather be utterly unhappy with you than happy without. Promise me you'll come.'

'All right. I will.'

The chains that bound him were as fast as ever. And as the train sped towards London his heart beat madly because each minute he drew nearer to Hilda Murray. It was very plain now that he loved her passionately, more than ever he had done, and with violent rage he told himself that she was lost to him for always. Intoxicated by the ring of her voice, by the sweep of her dress, by the tender look in her eyes, he repeated every word she had said at Lady Edward's. On Wednesday he was to dine with Miss Ley, and already he felt sick with hope at the thought of meeting Hilda. In the afternoon, leaving chambers, he went home by way of Charles Street, and like a lover of eighteen, looked up at her windows. There were lights in the drawing-room, so that he knew she was at home, but he dared not go in. Mrs Murray had not asked him to visit her, and he could not tell whether she had no wish to see him, or whether she thought a call so obvious as to need no special invitation. The windows seemed to beckon, the very door offered a mute welcome; but while he lingered someone came out, Mr Farley, and Basil wondered angrily why he should go to that house so often. At length with a desperate effort he walked away.

Though Basil went on Wednesday to Miss Ley almost trembling
with excitement, he managed to ask gaily who was expected to dinner, but his heart sank when she made no mention of Mrs Murray. Then he wondered how to pass the dreariness of that evening to which he had so enormously looked forward. Since the meeting at Lady Edward Stringer's, the passion, hitherto dormant, had blazed into such a vehement flame that he could scarcely bear himself. It seemed impossible to live through the week without seeing Hilda; he could think of nothing else, and foresaw with sheer horror his excursion on Saturday to Brighton. Of course it was madness, and he knew well enough it was no use to see Mrs Murray again – it would have been better if they had never met; but the sound sense which he preached to himself seemed folly, and his eagerness to see her overcame all prudence. He thought there could be no harm in speaking to her just once more, only once, after which he vowed entirely to forget her.

Next day he walked again through Charles Street, and again saw the light in her windows. He hesitated, walking up and down. He could not tell if she wished any longer to know him, and feared horribly to discern on her face that he intruded, but at length in sullen anger decided to adventure. He could not love Hilda more if he saw her, and perhaps by some miracle the sight might console him, helping him to bear his captivity. He rang.

'Is Mrs Murray at home?'

'Yes, sir.'

She was reading when he entered the room, and with dismay Basil fancied that a very slight look of vexation crossed her eyes. It disconcerted him so that he could think of nothing to say. Then he imagined that his behaviour must astonish her, and asked himself whether she knew the cause of his sudden marriage. He listened to the polite or flippant things she said, and did his best to answer fittingly; but his words sounded so unnatural that he scarcely recognized his voice. Yet they laughed and jested as though neither had a care in the world; they spoke of Miss Ley and of Frank, of the plays then to be seen in London, of one trivial topic after another, till Basil was forced to go.

'I came in fear and trembling,' he said gaily, 'because you certainly never asked me to call.'

'I thought it wasn't needful,' she answered, smiling; but she looked straight into his eyes with an odd air of defiance.

Basil flushed, glancing at her quickly, for there seemed a double meaning in her words, and he knew not how to take them. He lost momentarily his urbane, courteous manner.

'I wanted so much to come and see you,' he said, in a low voice, which he strove to keep firm. 'May I come again?'

'Of course!' she replied; but her tone was full of cold surprise, as though she wondered at his question and resented it.

Suddenly she found his eyes fixed upon her with such an expression of deadly anguish that she was troubled. His face was very white, and his lips twitched as though he sought to command himself. All through the night she thought of that look of utter agony; it stared at her from the darkness, and she knew that if she needed revenge the fates had given it. But she was not pleased. For the hundredth time, unable to get it out of her head that he loved her still, she asked herself why he had married so strangely; but she would not inquire into her own feelings. She tightened her lips.

Knowing well that he would come again, it was Mrs Murray's impulse to tell the butler not to admit him; but something, she knew not what, prevented her. She wished to observe once more the terrible wretchedness of his face; she wished to make sure that he was not happy in what seemed his cruel treachery. One afternoon of the following week, coming in from a drive, she found his card. She took it in her hand and turned it over.

'Shall I ask him to luncheon?' With a frown of annoyance she put it down. 'No; if he wants to see me, let him come again.'

Basil was bitterly disappointed that day when the servant said that Mrs Murray was not at home, and at first determined that there he must leave it. He waited for a note, but none came. He waited for a week, able to do nothing but think of her, restless and preoccupied. With stricken conscience he went to Brighton, and so far as possible avoided to be alone with
Jenny. He took her to a play one night, to a concert the next, and insisted that Mr Higgins, still faithful, should be constantly with them; but the whole thing disgusted him, and he felt utterly ashamed.

Then he made it a practice every evening to take Charles Street on his way to Frank, and ever the windows appeared to invite him. When he looked back, the whole street beckoned, and at length he could resist no longer. He knew that Mrs Murray was in. If the butler sent him away it must be taken as definite, for it would mean that Hilda had given orders he was not to be admitted.