Merry Go Round (29 page)

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 event, 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 so 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; she'll 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 today 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 humbugging 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 floor, and burying her face in her hands, broke into a passion of tears.

B
UT
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 poky 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 agonized 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. Yet 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.