Merry Go Round (20 page)

This time better fortune was his, but when he saw her the many things on the tip of his tongue seemed impossible of Utterance, and it was an effort to speak commonplace. Mrs Murray was disconcerted by the look of pain which darkened his face, and the constraint between them made conversation very difficult. Basil dared not prolong his visit, yet it was dreadfully hard to go leaving unspoken all that lay so heavily on his heart. Talk flagged, and presently silence fell upon them.

'When is your book to be published?' she asked, oppressed, she knew not why.

'In a fortnight.... I wanted to thank you for your help.'

'Me!' she cried, with surprise. 'What have I done?'

'More than you know. I felt sometimes as if I were writing for you only. I judged of everything by what I thought would be your opinion of it.'

Mrs Murray, somewhat embarrassed, did not answer. He looked away, as though forcing himself to speak, but nervous.

'You know, it seems to me as though everyone were surrounded by an invisible ring which cuts him off from the rest of the world. Each of us stands entirely alone, and each step one must judge for one's self, and none can help.'

'D'you think so?' she answered. 'If people only knew, they would be so ready to do anything they could.'

'Perhaps, but they never know. The things about which it's possible to ask advice are so unimportant. There are other things, in which life and death are at stake, about which a man can never say a word; yet if he could it would alter so much.'
He turned and faced her gravely. 'A man may have acted in a certain way, causing great pain to someone who was very dear to him, yet if all the facts were known that person might – excuse and pardon.'

Mrs Murray's heart began to beat, and she had some difficulty in preserving the steadiness of her voice.

'Does it much matter? In the end everyone resigns himself. I think an onlooker who could see into human hearts would be dismayed to find how much wretchedness there is which men bear smiling. We should all be very gentle to our fellows if we realized how dreadfully unhappy they were.'

Again there was silence, but strangely enough, the barrier between them appeared suddenly to have fallen, and now, though neither spoke, there was no discomfort. Basil got up.

'Good-bye, Mrs Murray. I'm glad you let me come today.'

'Why on earth shouldn't I?'

'I was afraid your servant would say you weren't at home.'

He looked at her steadily, as though meaning to say far more than was expressed in the words.

'I shall always be very glad to see you,' she answered, in a low voice.

'Thank you.'

A look of deep gratitude softened away the pain on his face.

At that moment Mrs Barlow-Bassett was announced. She shook hands with Basil somewhat coldly, thinking that a man who had married a barmaid could be no proper companion for her virtuous son, and she determined not to renew the old acquaintance. He went out.

'D'you know whom Mr Kent married, and why?' asked Mrs Murray.

The question had been often on her lips, but pride till this moment had ever prevented her from making an effort to clear up a difficulty which had long puzzled her.

'My dear Hilda, don't you know? It's a most shocking story. I must say I was surprised to find him here, but of course, if you didn't know, that explains it. He got into trouble with some dreadfully low creature.'

'She's very beautiful. I've seen her.'

'You?' cried Mrs Bassett, with astonishment. 'It seems there was going to be a baby, and he was forced to marry.'

Mrs Murray blushed to the roots of her hair, and for one moment bitter anger blazed in her heart. Again she told herself that she hated and loathed him, but remembering on a sudden the woe in his eyes, knew it was no longer true.

'D'you think he's very unhappy?'

'He must be. When a man marries beneath him he's always unhappy, and I must say I think he deserves it. I told my boy the whole story as a warning. It just shows what comes of not having good principles.'

Mrs Murray's eyes dwelt on the speaker absently, as though she thought of other things.

'Poor fellow! I'm afraid you're right. He is very unhappy.'

I
N
his distress Basil could scarcely bear the thought of resuming his old life at Barnes, so unprofitable to the spirit, mean and illiberal; and though ill able to afford it, pretexting Jenny's health, he insisted that she should remain at Brighton longer than was at first intended. But at length she was evidently quite well, and no persuasions of Basil could induce her to prolong her visit. They returned to the little house in River Gardens, and outwardly things went very much as in the past. Yet certain differences there were. They seemed more strange to one another after the temporary separation, and on each side trifles arose occasionally to embitter their relations. Basil observed his wife now in a more critical spirit, and certain little vulgarities which before had escaped him now set his teeth on edge. He thought that the company of her sister for two months had affected her somewhat badly. She used expressions which he found objectionable, and he could not help it if her manners at table offended his fastidious taste. He loathed the slovenly way with which she conducted her household affairs, and the carelessness of her dress. Though what she bought was ever in outrageous taste, indoors she took no pains to be even tidy, and spent most of the day in a dirty dressing-gown, with bedraggled hair. But since alteration seemed impossible, Basil determined rather to ignore things, leading his own life apart, and allowing Jenny to lead hers. When she did anything of which he disapproved, he merely shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips. He grew much more silent, and did not now attempt to discuss with her matters wherein he was aware she took no interest.

But he had reckoned without his wife's passionate affection, no less than when first they married. Realizing the change in him, of which the causes were to her quite incomprehensible, Jenny was profoundly disturbed. Sometimes she wept helplessly, wondering what she had done to lose his love, and at
others, conscious of his injustice, broke irritably into sharp speeches. She resented his reserve, and the indifference with which he put aside her questions on topics which before he would have eagerly discussed. Brooding over all this, she concluded that only a woman could have wrought this difference, and remembered on a sudden her mother's advice to keep a sharp eye on him. Basil one morning told her that he was dining out that day. He had accepted the invitation before he knew she would be back.

'Who with?' asked Jenny, quickly suspicious.

'Mrs Murray.'

'Your lady friend who came down here to see you last year?'

'She came to see
you'
replied Basil, smiling.

'Yes, I believe that. I don't think a married man ought to go dining in the West End by himself.'

'I'm sorry. I've accepted the invitation, and I must go.'

Jenny did not answer, but when Basil came home in the afternoon watched him. She saw how restless he was. His eyes shone with excitement, and he looked at his watch a dozen times to see if it were time to dress. The moment he was gone, determined to find out on what terms he was with Mrs Murray, and hindered by no scruple, she went to the pockets of the coat he had just taken off, but his pocket-book was not there. A little surprised, for he was careless about such things, she thought there might be a letter in the desk, and with beating heart went to it. But it was locked, and this unaccustomed precaution doubled her suspicions. Remembering that there was a duplicate key, she fetched it, and on opening the drawer at once came upon a note signed
Hilda Murray,
It began with
Dear Mr Kent,
and ended
Yours Sincerely –
a merely formal invitation to dinner. Jenny glanced through the other letters, but they related to business matters. She replaced them in the old order and locked the drawer. She felt sick with shame now that she had actually done this thing.

'Oh, how he'd despise me!' she cried.

And in terror lest she had left any trace of her interference, she opened the drawer again, and once more smoothed out and tidied everything. Basil had asked her not to wait up for him,
but she could not go to bed. She looked at the clock, ticking so slowly, and with something like rage told herself that Basil all this time enjoyed himself, and never thought of her. When he came home, flushed and animated, she fancied that a look of annoyance crossed his face when he saw her still sitting in the armchair.

'Are you very sleepy?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'Why don't you go to bed? I'm just going to have one more pipe.'

'I'll wait till you're ready.'

She watched him walk up and down the room, excited with his thoughts, and he never spoke to her. He seemed to have forgotten that she was present. Then rage and jealousy overcame all other feelings.

'All right, my young fellow,' she whispered to herself, 'I'll find out if there's anything in this.'

She had taken note of Mrs Murray's writing, and thenceforward examined closely the addresses of all letters that came for him, to see if one was written by her. Basil had been used to leave his correspondence lying about, but now took care to lock up everything, and this convinced her that he had something to conceal. But she flattered herself, with a little bitter laugh, that she was fairly sharp, and he did not know that every day after he went out she ransacked his desk. Though she never found anything, Jenny was none the less assured that there were good grounds for her jealousy. One morning she noticed that he was dressed in new clothes, and it flashed across her mind that in the afternoon he meant to see Mrs Murray. It seemed to her that if he actually went it would be a confirmation of her fears, while if not she could put aside all these tormenting fancies. Knowing at what time he left chambers, Jenny, veiled and dressed soberly, that she might not attract his attention, took up her stand in good time on the other side of the square, and waited. Presently he came out, and she followed. She followed him sauntering down the Strand, she followed him to Piccadilly Circus, and here was obliged to come a little closer, for fear of losing him in the throng. On a sudden
he wheeled round and quickly strode up to her. She gave a stifled cry, and then, seeing his face white with rage, was overwhelmed with shame.

'How dare you follow me, Jenny?'

'I wasn't following you. I didn't see you.'

He called a cab, and told her to get in, jumped up, and bade the driver go to Waterloo. They were just in time to catch a train to Barnes. He did not speak to her, and she watched him in frightened silence. He said no word during the walk back to the house. They went to the drawing-room, and he closed the door carefully.

'Now will you have the goodness to tell me what you mean by this?' he asked.

She gave no answer, but looked down in sullen anger.

'Well?'

'I won't be bullied,' she answered.

'Look here, Jenny, we had better understand one another. Why have you been going to my drawer and reading my letters?'

'You've got no right to accuse me of that. It's not true.'

'You leave my desk in such disorder when you've been to it.'

'Well, I've got a right to know. Where were you going today?'

'That is absolutely no business of yours. I'm simply ashamed that you should do such horrible things. Don't you know that nothing is so disgraceful as to follow anyone in the street, and I'd sooner you stole than read private letters.'

'I'm not going to stand by and let you run after other women, so you needn't think I am.'

He gave a laugh, partly of scorn, partly of disgust.

'Don't be absurd. We're married, and we must make the best of it. You may be quite sure that I'll give you no cause for reproach.'

'You're always after your fine friends that I'm not good enough for.'

'Good heavens!' he cried bitterly, 'you can't grudge me a little relaxation. It surely does you no harm if sometimes I go and see the people I knew intimately before my marriage?'

Jenny did not answer, but pretended to order anew flowers in a vase; then she smoothed down cushions on the sofa and set a picture straight.

'If you've done preaching at me, I'll go and take off my hat,' she said at length viciously.

'You may do exactly as you choose,' he answered, with cold
indifference.

Shortly after this Basil's novel was published. Knowing that it could not interest her, and conscious of her small sympathy, he gave a copy to Jenny somewhat shyly, but said no more than the truth when he wrote to Mrs Murray that great part of his pleasure in the book's appearance lay in the fact that he was able to send it to her. He waited for her letter of thanks with as much anxiety as for the first reviews. She wrote twice, first to acknowledge the receipt and say that she had already read a chapter; then, having finished, to bestow enthusiastic praise. Her appreciation lifted him to a very heaven of delight. When Jenny, after an obvious struggle, reached the last page, he waited for some criticism, but since none came, was forced to ask what she thought.

'I liked it very much,' she said.

But there was in her tone an unconcern which not a little incensed him, and though he knew this indifference pointed to no particular fault in his book, he was none the less profoundly humiliated. Yet a bitterer disappointment awaited him in the reviews which now began to come in. For the most part they were short, somewhat scornful, somewhat patronizing, and it appeared that this book, which he had imagined would raise him at once to a literary position of some eminence, was no more than prentice work, showing more promise than performance. Its merits, indeed, were not few, but scarcely such as to excite any sudden admiration; his construction was faulty, and in parts his attention to the environment suggested rather the essay or the treatise. The result, notwithstanding many qualities, was neither very good romance nor very good history. Two literary papers at length offered salve to his wounded vanity in long and appreciative notices, doing full justice to
his passion for beauty, his measured and careful style, the clear-cut perfection of his portraits. The first of these was sent him with a note of congratulation by Mrs Murray, and he read it with leaping heart. It gave him new confidence, and a firmer resolution to do better in future. But though careful to hand over to Jenny all unfavourable criticisms, these, which from a literary standpoint were more important than all the others put together, with a kind of inverted pride he forbore to show.

The consequence of this was that Jenny gained a rather false impression of the book's failure, and the idea came that Basil, after all, was perhaps not such a wonderful person as once she fancied. She sought not to analyse her feelings, but had she done so would have found in them a strange medley. She adored Basil passionately, jealously, but at the same time felt against him a sort of confused irritation which made her welcome the published sneers that wounded him so keenly; they seemed to draw him down to her, for if he was less clever than at first she thought it lessened the distance between them. Yet the gulf which separated them grew daily greater, and quarrels were of more frequent occurrence. Basil, hating his life at Barnes, wrapped himself in a reserve which he strove to make impenetrable; he was very silent, going about his work methodically, and doing his best to avoid the acrimonious discussions which Jenny forced upon him. He tried to relieve his unhappiness with unceasing toil, and to counter his wife's ill-temper with philosophic indifference. It drove her to furious anger that, however she taunted, he seldom replied, and then only with cold sarcasm. But sometimes remorse seized her. Then she went to her husband in tears, begging him to forgive and asserting again her great love; and this for some days would be followed by a measure of peace.

But one morning a more serious quarrel arose, for Basil, somewhat pressed for money, had discovered that James Bush, still out of work, was steadily borrowing from Jenny. He had begged her not to lend any more, and finding her unwilling to give a promise, was obliged somewhat peremptorily to insist that not another penny should go into the grasping hands of the Bush family. On both sides there was a good deal
of irritation, and finally Basil flung out of the house. Presently James Bush, cause of all the trouble, sauntered in.

'Where's his lordship this afternoon?' he asked, helping himself to Basil's cigarettes.

'He's gone out for a walk.'

'That's what he tells you, my dear,' he answered with a malevolent laugh.

'Have you seen him anywhere?' asked Jenny quickly, full of suspicion.

'No, I can't say I 'ave, an' if I 'ad I wouldn't boast about it.'

'What did you mean, then?' she insisted.

'Well, whenever I come here he's out for a walk.'

He glanced at her, and then without more ado asked for the loan of a couple of sovereigns; but Jenny, mindful of the morning's dispute, and regretfully conscious that herself had brought it about, firmly refused. Since he insisted, accusing her of meanness, she was forced to explain how heavy of late had been their expenses; the doctor had sent in a bill for fifty pounds, the visit to Brighton cost a great deal, and they would have much difficulty to make both ends meet.

'It was a wonderful fine thing you did when you married him, Jenny, and you thought you'd done precious well for yourself too.'

'I won't have you say anything against him,' she cried impetuously.

'All right; keep your shirt in. I'm Mowed if I know what you've got to stick up for him about. He don't care much about you.'

She looked up with a quick drawing-in of breath.

'How d'you know?'

'Think I can't see!' He chuckled slily at his own acuteness. 'I suppose you 'aven't been crying today?'

'We had a little tiff this morning,' she answered. 'Oh, don't say he doesn't care for me. I couldn't live.'

'Go along with you,' he laughed. 'Basil Kent ain't the only pebble on the beach.'

Jenny went to the window and looked out. She saw her husband walk slowly along, his head bent down, betraying in his
whole appearance the most profound depression, and thinking of their wretchedness, she could not restrain her tears. Everything went against them, and though loving him so tenderly, some mysterious power seemed ever to force her to anger him. With entire despair she turned to her brother and spoke words which had long been in her heart, but which till then she had not uttered to a living soul.