Merry Go Round (31 page)

S
IX
months went by, and again the gracious airs of summer blew into Miss Ley's dining-room in Old Queen Street. She sat at luncheon with Mrs Castillyon, wonderfully rejuvenated by a winter in the East, for Paul, characteristically anxious to combine self-improvement with pleasure, had suggested that they should mark their reconciliation by a journey to India, where they might enjoy a second, pleasanter honeymoon, and he at the same time study various questions which would be to him of much political value. Mrs Castillyon, in a summer frock, had all her old daintiness of a figure in Dresden china, and her former vivacity was more charming by reason of an added tenderness. She emphasized her change of mind by allowing her hair to regain its natural colour.

'D'you like it, Mary?' she asked. 'Paul says it makes me look ten years younger. And I've stopped slapping up.'

'Entirely?' asked Miss Ley, with a smile.

'Of course, I powder a little, but that doesn't count; and you know, I never use a puff now – only a leather. You can't think how we enjoyed ourselves in India, and Paul's a perfect duck. He's been quite awfully good to me. I'm simply devoted to him, and I think we shall get a baronetcy at the next Birthday honours.'

'The reward of virtue.'

Mrs Castillyon coloured and laughed.

'You know, I'm afraid I shall become a most awful prig, but the fact is it's so comfortable to be good and to have nothing to reproach one's self with. ... Now tell me about everyone. Where did you pass the winter?'

'I went to Italy as usual, and my cousin Algernon with his daughter spent a month with me at Christmas.'

'Was she awfully cut up at the death of her husband?'

There was really a note of genuine sympathy in Mrs Castillyon's voice, so that Miss Ley realized how sincere was the change in her.

'She bore it very wonderfully, and I think she's curiously happy. She tells me that she feels constantly the presence of Herbert.' Miss Ley paused. 'Bella has collected her husband's verses and wishes to publish them, and she's written a very touching account of his life and death by way of preface.'

'No; that's just the tragedy of the whole thing. I never knew a man whose nature was so entirely poetical, and yet he never wrote a line which is other than mediocre. If he'd only written his own feelings, his little hopes and disappointments, he might have done something good; but he's only produced pale imitations of Swinburne and Tennyson and Shelley. I can't understand how Herbert Field, who was so simple and upright, should never have turned out a single stanza which wasn't stilted and forced. I think in his heart he felt that he hadn't the gift of literary expression, which has nothing to do with high ideals, personal sincerity, or the seven deadly virtues, for he was not sorry to die. He only lived to be a great poet, and before the end realized that he would never have become one.'

Miss Ley saw already the pretty little book which Bella would publish at her own expense, the neat type and wide margin, the dainty binding; she saw the scornful neglect of reviewers, and the pile of copies which eventually Bella would take back and give one by one as presents to her friends, who would thank her warmly, but never trouble to read ten lines.

'And what has happened to Reggie Bassett?' asked Grace suddenly.

Miss Ley gave her a quick glance, but the steadiness of Mrs Castillyon's eyes told her that she asked the question indifferently, perhaps to show how entirely her infatuation was overcome.

'You heard that he married?'

'I saw it in the
Morning Post.'

'His mother was very indignant, and for three months refused to speak to him. But at last I was able to tell her that an heir was expected; so she made up her mind to swallow her
pride, and become reconciled with her daughter-in-law, who is a very nice, sensible woman.'

'Pretty?' asked Grace.

'Not at all, but eminently capable. Already she has made Reggie into quite a decent member of society. Mrs Bassett has now gone down to Bournemouth, where the young folks have taken a house, to be at hand when the baby appears.'

'It's reassuring to think that the ancient race of the Barlow-Bassetts will not be extinguished,' murmured Grace ironically. 'I gathered that your young friend was settling down, because one day he returned every penny I had – lent him.'

'And what did you do with it?' asked Miss Ley.

Grace flushed and smiled whimsically.

'Well, it happened to reach me just before our wedding-day, so I spent it all on a gorgeous pearl pin for Paul. He was simply delighted.'

Mrs Castillyon got up, and when she was gone Miss Ley took a letter that had come before luncheon, but which her guest's arrival had prevented her from opening. It was from Basil, who had spent the whole winter, on Miss Ley's recommendation, in Seville. She opened it curiously, for it was the first time he had written to her since, after the inquest, he left England.

M
Y DEAR
M
ISS LEY,

Don't think me ungrateful if I have left you without news of me, but at first I felt I could not write to people in England. Whenever I thought of them everything came back, and it was only by a desperate effort that I could forget. For some time it seemed to me that I could never face the world again, and I was tormented by self-reproach; I vowed to give up my whole life to the expression of my deep regret, and fancied I could never again have a peaceful moment or anything approaching happiness. But presently I was ashamed to find that I began to regain my old temper; I caught myself at times laughing contentedly, amused and full of spirits; and I upbraided myself bitterly because only a few weeks after the poor girl's death I could actually be entertained by trivial things. And then I don't know what came over me, for I could not help the thought that my prison door was opened; though I called myself brutal and callous, deep down in my soul arose the idea that the
Fates had given me another chance. The slate was wiped clean, and I could start fresh. I pretended even to myself that I wanted to die, but it was sheer hypocrisy – I wanted to live and to take life by both hands and enjoy it. I have such a desire for happiness, such an eager yearning for life in its fullness and glory. I made a ghastly mistake, and I suffered for it: Heaven knows how terribly I suffered, and how hard I tried to make the best of it. And perhaps it wasn't all my fault – even to you I feel ashamed of saying this; I ought to go on posing decently to the end – in this world we're made to act and think things because others have thought them good; we never have a chance of going our own way; we're bound down by the prejudices and the morals of all and sundry. For God's sake let us be free. Let us do this and that because we want to and because we must, not because other people think we ought. And d'you know the worst of the whole thing? If I'd acted like a blackguard and let Jenny go to the dogs, I should have remained happy and contented and prosperous, and she, I dare say, wouldn't have died. It's because I tried to do my duty that all this misery came about. The world held up an ideal, and I thought they meant one to act up to it; it never occurred to me that they would only sneer.

Don't think too badly of me because I say these things; they have come to me here, and it was you who sent me to Seville; you must have known what effect it would have on my mind, tortured and sick. It is a land of freedom, and at last I have become conscious of my youth. How can I forget the delight of wandering in the Sierpes, released from all imprisoning ties, watching the various movement as though it were a stage-play, yet half afraid that a falling curtain would bring back the unendurable reality? The songs, the dances, the happy idleness of orange-gardens by the Guadalquivir, the gay turbulence of Seville by night: I could not long resist it, and at last forgot everything but that time was short and the world was to the living.

By the time you get this letter I shall be on my way home.

Yours ever,
B
ASIL
K
ENT

Miss Ley read this letter with a smile and gave a little sigh.

'I suppose at that age one can afford to have no very conspicuous sense of humour,' she murmured.

But she sent Basil a telegram asking him to stay, with the
result that three days later the young man arrived, very brown after his winter in the sunshine, healthy and better-looking than ever. Miss Ley had invited Frank to meet him at dinner, and the pair of them, with the cold unconcern of anatomists, observed what changes the intervening time had wrought on that impressionable nature. Basil was in high spirits, delighted to come back to his friends; but a discreet soberness, underlying his vivacity, suggested a more composed temperament. What he had gone through had given him, perhaps, a solid store of experience on which he could rest himself. He was less emotional and more mature. Miss Ley summed up her impressions next time she was alone with Frank.

'Every Englishman has a churchwarden shut away in his bosom, an old man of the sea whom it is next to impossible to shake off. Sometimes you think he's asleep or dead, but he's wonderfully tenacious of life, and sooner or later you find him enthroned in full possession of the soul.'

'I don't know what you mean by the word
soul,'
interrupted Frank, 'but if you do, pray go on.'

'The churchwarden is waking up in Basil, and I feel sure he will have a very successful career. But I shall warn him not to let that ecclesiastical functionary get the upper hand.'

Miss Ley waited for Basil to speak of Mrs Murray, but after two days her patience was exhausted, and she attacked him point-blank. At the mention of the name his cheeks flamed.

'I daren't go and see her. After what happened, I can never see her again. I am steeling myself to forget.'

'And are you succeeding?' she asked dryly.

'No, no – I shall never succeed. I'm more desperately in love with her than ever I was. But I couldn't marry her now. The recollection of poor Jenny would be continually between us; for it was we, Hilda and I, who drove her to her death.'

'Don't be a melodramatic idiot,' answered Miss Ley sharply. 'You talk like the persecuted hero of a penny novelette. Hilda's very fond of you, and she has the feminine common sense which alone counterbalances in the world the romantic folly of men. What on earth do you imagine is the use of making yourselves wretched so that you may cut a picturesque
figure? I should have thought you were cured of heroics. You wrote and told me that the world was for the living – an idea which has truth rather than novelty to recommend it – and do you think there is any sense in posturing absurdly to impress an inattentive gallery?'

'How do I know that Hilda cares for me still? She may hate me because I brought on her humiliation and shame.'

'If I were you I'd go and ask her,' laughed Miss Ley. 'And go with good heart, for she cared for you for your physical attractiveness rather than for your character. And that, I may tell you, whatever moralists say, is infinitely more reliable, since you may easily be mistaken in a person's character, but his good looks are obvious and visible. You're handsomer than ever you were.'

When Basil set out to call on Mrs Murray, Miss Ley amused herself with conjecturing ironically the scene of their meeting. With curling lips she noted in her mind's eye the embarrassed handshake, the trivial conversation, the disconcerting silence, and without sympathy imagined the gradual warmth and the passionate declaration that followed. She moralized.

'A common mistake of writers is to make their characters in moments of great emotion express themselves with good taste. Nothing could be more false, for at such times people, however refined, use precisely the terms of the
Family Herald,
The utterance of violent passion is never artistic, but trite, ridiculous and grotesque, vulgar often and silly.' Miss Ley smiled. 'Probably novelists alone make love in a truly romantic manner, but then, it's ten to one they're quoting from some unpublished work, or are listening to themselves in admiration of their glowing and polished phraseology.'

At all events, the interview between Hilda and Basil was eminently satisfactory, as may be seen by the following letter, which some days later the young man received:

M
ON CHER
E
NFANT,

It is with the greatest surprise and delight that I read in this morning's
Post
of your engagement to Mrs Murray. You have fallen on your feet,
mon ami,
and I congratulate you. Don't you remember that Becky Sharp said she could be very good on five thousand a year, and the longer I live the more convinced I am that this is a
vraie vérité.
With a house in Charles Street and
le reste
you will find the world a very different place to live in. You will grow more human, dress better, and be less censorious. Do come to luncheon tomorrow, and bring Mrs Murray. There will be a few people, and I hope it will be amusing – one o'clock. I'm afraid it's an extraordinary hour to lunch, but I'm going to be received into the Catholic Church in the morning, and we're all coming on here afterwards. I mean to assume the names of the two saints whose example has most assisted me in my conversion, and henceforth shall sign myself,

Your affectionate mother,
M
ARGUERITE
E
LIZABETH
C
LAIRE
V
IZARD

P.S. – The Duke of St Olpherts is going to be my sponsor.

A month later Hilda Murray and Basil were married in All Souls by the Rev. Collinson Farley. Miss Ley gave away the bride, and in the church besides were only the verger and Frank Hurrell. Afterwards in the vestry Miss Ley shook the Vicar's hand.

'I think it went off very nicely. It was charming of you to offer to marry them.'

'The bride is a very dear friend of mine. I was anxious to give her this proof of my goodwill at the beginning of her new life.' He paused and smiled benignly, so that Miss Ley, who knew something of his old attachment to Hilda, wondered at his good spirits. She had never seen him more trim and imposing; he looked already every inch a Bishop. 'Shall I tell you a great secret?' he added blandly. 'I am about to contract an alliance with Florence, Lady Newhaven. We shall be married at the end of the season.'