Merry Go Round (6 page)

This was somewhat hard on Miss Langton, who for an hour had barely opened her mouth.

B
UT
while the two ladies thus discussed him, Basil Kent stood on the bridge over the ornamental water in St James's Park, and looked thoughtfully at that scene than which perhaps there is none more beautiful in the most beautiful of all cities, London : the still water, silvered by the moon, the fine massing of the trees, and the Foreign Office, pompous and sedate, formed a composition as perfect and no less formally elaborate than any painted by Claude Lorrain. The night was warm and balmy, the sky clear; and the quiet was so delightful, notwithstanding the busy hum of Piccadilly, where, at that hour, all was gaiety and frolic, that it reminded Basil of some restful, old-fashioned town in France. His heart beat with a strange elation, for he knew at last, without possibility of doubt, that Mrs Murray loved him. Before, though he could not be unaware that she saw him with pleasure and listened to his conversation with interest, he had not the audacity to suppose a warmer feeling; but when they met that evening he surprised a blush while she gave her hand, and this had sent the blood running to his own cheeks. He took her down to dinner, and the touch of her fingers on his arm burnt him like fire. She spoke but little, yet listened to his words with a peculiar intensity as though she sought in them some hidden meaning, and when his eyes met hers seemed to shrink back almost in fear. But at the same time her look had a strange, expectant eagerness, as though she had heard the promise of some excellent thing, and awaited it vehemently, yet half afraid.

Basil recalled Mrs Murray's entrance into the drawing-room, and his admiration for the grace of her bearing and the fine sweep of her long dress. She was a tall woman, as tall as himself, with a certain boyishness of figure that lent itself to a sinuous distinction of line; her hair was neither dark nor fair,
the eyes grey and tender, but her smile was very noticeable for a peculiar sweetness that marked an attractive nature. And if there was no precise beauty in her face, its winsome expression, the pallor of her skin, gave it a fascinating grave sadness reminiscent of the women of Sandro Botticelli: there was that same inscrutable look of melancholy eyes which suggested a passionate torment repressed and hidden, and she had that very grace of gesture which one is certain was theirs. But to Basil Mrs Murray's greatest charm was the protecting fondness, as though she were ready to shield him from all the world's trouble, which he felt in her; it made him at once grateful, proud, and humble. He longed to take in his own those caressing hands and to kiss her lips; he felt already round his neck the long white arms as she drew him to her heart with an affection half maternal.

Mrs Murray had never looked handsomer than that night when she stood in the hall, holding herself very erect, and spoke with Basil while waiting for her carriage. Her cloak was so beautiful that the young man remarked on it, and she, flushing slightly with pleasure because he noticed, looked down at the heavy brocade as splendid as some material of the eighteenth century.

'I bought the stuff in Venice,' she said, 'but I feel almost unworthy to wear it. I couldn't resist it because it's exactly like a gown worn by Catherine Cornaro in a picture in one of the galleries.'

'Only you could wear it,' answered Basil, with flashing eyes. 'It would overwhelm anyone else.'

She smiled and blushed and bade him good night.

Basil Kent was much changed from the light-hearted youth whom Frank had known at Oxford, for at that time he gave himself carelessly, like a leaf to the wind, to every emotion; and a quick depression at the failure of something in which he was interested would be soon followed by a boisterous joy. Life seemed very good then, and without after-thought he could rejoice in its various colour, in its ceaseless changing beauty; it was already his ambition to write books, and with
the fertile, rather thin invention of youth, he scribbled incessantly. But when he learned with shame and with dismay that the world was sordid and vile, for his very mother was unchaste, he felt he could never hold up his head again. Yet, after the first nausea of disgust, Basil rebelled against his feeling; he loved that wretched woman better than anyone, and now his place was surely by her side. It was not for him to judge nor to condemn, but rather in her shameful humiliation to succour and protect. Could he not show his mother that there were finer things in life than admiration and amusement, jewels and fine clothes? He made up his mind to go to her and take her away to the Continent, where they could hide themselves; and perhaps this might be a means to draw closer together his mother and himself, for, notwithstanding his blind admiration, Basil had suffered a good deal because he could never reach her very heart.

Lady Vizard still inhabited her husband's house in Charles Street, and it was thither on the day after the case had been dismissed that Basil hurried. He expected to find her cowering in her room, afraid of the light of day, haggard and weeping; and his tender heart, filled only with pity, bled at the thought of her distress. He would go to her and kiss her, and say: 'Here am I, mother. Let us go away together where we can start a new life. The world is wide and there is room even for us. I love you more than ever I did, and I will try to be a good and faithful son to you.'

He rang the bell, and the door was opened by the butler he had known for years.

'Can I see her ladyship at once, Miller?' he said.

'Yes, sir. Her ladyship is still at luncheon. Will you go into the dining-room.'

Basil stepped forward, but caught sight of several hats on the hall-table.

'Is anyone here?' he asked with surprise.

But before the butler could answer there was a shout of laughter from the adjoining room. Basil started as though he had been struck.

'Is her ladyship giving a party?'

'Yes, sir.'

Basil stared at the butler with dismay, unable to understand; he wished to question him, but was ashamed. It seemed too monstrous to be true. The very presence of that servant seemed an outrage, for he too had given evidence at the hateful trial. How could his mother bear the sight of that unctuous, servile visage? Miller, seeing the horror in the young man's eyes and the pallor of his cheek, looked away with a vague discomfort.

'Will you tell her ladyship that I am here, and should like to speak to her? I'll go into the morning-room. I suppose no one will come there?'

Basil waited for a quarter of an hour before he heard the dining-room door open, and several people, talking loudly and laughing, walk upstairs. Then his mother's voice rang out, clear and confident as ever it had been:

'You must all make yourselves comfy. I've got to see somebody, and I forbid anyone to go till I come back.'

In a moment Lady Vizard appeared, a smile still on her lips, and the suspicion which Basil during that interval had vainly combated now was changed to naked certainty. Not at all downcast was she nor abashed, but alert as ever, neither less stately nor less proud than when last he saw her. He expected to find his mother in sackcloth and ashes, but behold! she wore a gown by Paquin, the flaunting audacity of which only she could have endured. Very dark, with great flashing eyes and magnificent hair, she had the extravagant flamboyance, the opulence of colour of some royal gipsy. Her height was unusual, her figure splendid, and holding herself admirably, she walked with the majesty of an Eastern queen.

'How nice of you to come, dear boy!' she cried, with a smile showing her beautiful teeth. 'I suppose you want to congratulate me on my victory. But why on earth didn't you come into the dining-room? It was so amusing. And you really should begin to
décrasser
yourself a little.' She put forward her cheek for Basil to kiss (this was surely as much as could be expected from a fond though fashionable mother), but he stepped back. Even his lips grew pale.

'Why didn't you tell me that this action was coming on?' he asked hoarsely.

Lady Vizard gave a little laugh, and from a box on the table took a cigarette.

'Voyons, mon cher,
I really didn't think it was your business.'

Lighting a cigarette, she blew into the air two neat smoke-rings, and watched her son with somewhat contemptuous amusement.

'I didn't expect to find you giving a party today.'

'They insisted on coming, and I had to do something to celebrate my triumph.' She laughed lightly.
'Mon Dieu!
you don't know what a narrow shave it was. Did you read my cross-examination? It was that which saved me.'

'Saved you from what?' cried Basil sternly, two lines of anger appearing between his brows. 'Has it saved you from shameful dishonour? Yes, I read every word. At first I couldn't believe it was true.'

'Et après?'
asked Lady Vizard calmly.

'But it was true; there were a dozen people to prove it. Oh God, how could you! I admired you more than anyone else in the world. ... I thought of your shame, and I came here because I wanted to help you. Don't you understand the horrible disgrace of it? Oh, mother, mother, you can't go on like this! Heaven knows I don't want to blame you. Come away with me, and let us go to Italy and start afresh....'

In the midst of his violent speech he was stopped by the amusement of Lady Vizard's cold eyes.

'But you talk as if I'd been divorced. How absurd you are! In that case it might have been better to go away for a bit, yet even then I should have faced it. But d'you think I'm going to run away now?
Pas si bête, mon petit!'

'D'you mean to say you're going to stay here when everyone knows what you are – when they'll point at you in the street, and whisper to one another foul stories? And however foul they are, they'll be true.'

Lady Vizard shrugged her shoulders.

'Oh, que tu m'assomes!'
she said scornfully, justly proud of her French accent. 'You know me very little if you think I'm
going to hide myself in some pokey Continental town, or add another tarnished reputation to the
declassée
society of Florence. I mean to stay here. I shall go everywhere, I shall be seen at every theatre, at the opera, at the races, everywhere. I've got some good friends who'll stick to me, and you'll see in a couple of years I shall pull through. After all, I've done little more than plenty of others, and if the
bourgeois
knows a good deal about me that he didn't know before—
je m'en bats l'oeil.
I've got rid of my pig of a husband, and, for that, the whole thing was almost worth it. After all, he knew what was going on; he only rounded on me because he was afraid I spent too much.'

'Aren't you ashamed?' asked Basil, in a low voice. 'Aren't you even sorry?'

'Only fools repent, my dear. I've never done anything in my life that I wouldn't do over again – except marry the two men I did.'

'And you're just going to remain here as if nothing had happened?'

'Don't be foolish, Basil,' answered Lady Vizard ill-temperedly. 'Of course, I'm not going to stay in this particular house. Ernest Torrens has rather a nice little shanty vacant in Curzon Street, and he's offered to lend it me.'

'But you wouldn't take it from him, mother. That would be too infamous. For God's sake, don't have anything more to do with these men.'

'Really, I can't throw over an old friend just because my husband makes him a co-respondent.'

Basil went up to her, and placed his hands on her shoulders.

'Mother, you can't mean all you say. I dare say I'm stupid and awkward – I can't say what I have in my mind. Heaven knows, I don't want to preach to you, but isn't there something in honour and duty and cleanliness and chastity, and all the rest of it? Don't be so hard on yourself. What does it matter what people say? Leave all this and let us go away.'

'T'es ridicule, mon cher,'
said Lady Vizard, her brow darkening. 'If you have nothing more amusing to suggest than that, we might go to the drawing-room.... Are you coming?'

She walked towards the door, but Basil intercepted her.

'You shan't go yet. After all, I'm your son, and you've got no right to disgrace yourself.'

'And what will you do, pray?'

Lady Vizard smiled now in a manner that suggested no great placidity of temper.

'I don't know, but I shall find something. If you haven't the honour to protect yourself, I must protect you.'

'You impudent boy, how dare you speak to me like that!' cried Lady Vizard, turning on him with flashing eyes. 'And what d'you mean by coming here and preaching at me? You miserable prig! I suppose it runs in your family, for your father was a prig before you.'

Basil looked at her, anger taking the place of every other feeling; pity now had vanished, and he sought not to hide his indignation.

'Oh, what a fool I was to believe in you all these years! I would have staked my life that you were chaste and pure. And yet when I read those papers, although the jury doubted, I knew that it was true.'

'Of course it was true!' she cried defiantly. 'Every word of it, but they couldn't prove it.'

'And now I'm ashamed to think I'm your son.'

'You needn't have anything to do with me, my good boy. You've got money of your own. D'you think I want a lubberly, ill-bred oaf hanging about my skirts?'

'I know what you are now, and you horrify me. I hope I shall never see you again. I would sooner my mother were a wretched woman on the streets than you!'

Lady Vizard rang the bell.

'Miller,' she said when the butler appeared, as though she had forgotten Basil's presence, 'I shall want the carriage at four.'

'Very well, my lady.'

'You know I'm dining out, don't you?'

'Yes, my lady.'

Then she pretended to remember Basil, who watched her silently, pale and scarcely able to contain himself.

'You can show Mr Kent out, Miller. And if he happens to call again you can say that I'm not at home.'

With scornful insolence she saw him go, and once again remained
mistress of the situation.

Then came three years at the Cape, for Basil, unwilling to return to England, stayed after the expiration of the year for which he enlisted. At first his shame seemed unendurable, and he brooded over it night and day; but when the distance increased between him and Europe, when at length he set foot on African soil, the load of dishonour grew lighter to bear. His squadron was quickly sent up-country, and the hard work relieved his aching mind; the drudgery of a trooper's lot, the long marches, the excitement and the novelty, exhausted him so that he slept with a soundness he had never known before. Then came the sheer toil of war and its dull monotony; he suffered from hunger and thirst, from heat and cold. But these things drew him closer to the companions from whom at first he had sought to hide himself; he was touched by their rough good-humour, their mutual help, and the sympathy with which they used him in sickness; his bitterness towards mankind in general diminished when he saw human good-fellowship face to face with actual hardship; and when at last he found himself in battle, though he had looked forward to it with horrible anxiety, fearing that he might be afraid, Basil felt a great exhilaration which made life most excellent to live. For then vice and squalor and ugliness vanished away, and men stood before one another in primeval strength, the blood burning in their veins, and Death walked between contending hosts; and where Death is there can be nothing petty, sordid, nor mean.