Merry Go Round (7 page)

But finally the idea came to Basil that it was not brave to remain there in concealment. For such talents as he had the Cape offered no scope, and he made up his mind to return to London, holding up his head proudly, and there show what stuff he was made of. He felt more self-reliant because he knew he could withstand cheerfully fatigue and want; and the medal on his breast proved that he lacked not courage.

Back at length in London, he entered his name at Lincoln's Inn, and while arranging for publication a little series of sketches he had written during the war, worked hard at law. Though the storm through which he passed had left him somewhat taciturn, with a leaning towards introspection, at bottom Basil was no less open-hearted and sanguine than before, and he entered upon this new phase with glowing hopes. But sometimes his chambers in the Temple seemed very lonely. He was a man who yearned for domestic ties; a woman's hands busied about him, the rustle of a dress or the sound of a loving voice were necessities of his nature. And now it seemed the last bitterness of his life would be removed, for Mrs Murray offered just that affection which he needed, and, still somewhat distrustful of himself, he looked for support to her strength.

Then, in the midst of his thought, Basil frowned, for on a sudden there had arisen in his mind a form which in his newborn joy he had momentarily forgotten. Leaving the bridge he wandered to the greater darkness of the Mall, his hands behind him; and for a long time walked up and down beneath the trees, perplexed and downcast. It was very late, and there was scarcely a soul about; on the seats homeless wretches lay asleep, huddled in grotesque attitudes, and a policeman stealthily crept along behind them.

Some months before, Basil, instead of lunching in hall, went by chance into a tavern in Fleet Street, and there saw behind the bar a young girl whose extreme beauty at once attracted his attention. Her freshness was charming in that tawdry place, grey with London smoke notwithstanding the gaudiness of its decoration; and though not a man to gossip with barmaids over his refreshment, in this case he could not resist a commonplace remark. To this the girl answered rather saucily (a public-house is apparently an excellent school for repartee) and her bright smile gave a new witchery to the comely face. Interested and a little thrilled, for there was none on whom sheer beauty made a greater impression, Basil told Frank Hurrell, then resident physician at St Luke's, that he had found in Fleet Street of all places the loveliest woman in London. The
doctor laughed at his friend's enthusiasm, and one day when they were passing, Basil, to justify himself, insisted on going again to the
Golden Crown.
Then once or twice he went alone, and the barmaid, beginning to recognize him, gave a little friendly nod of greeting. Basil had ever something of a romantic fancy, and his quick imagination decked the pretty girl with whimsical conceits: he dignified her trade by throwing back the date, and seeing in her a neat-footed maid who gave sack to cavaliers and men-at-arms; she was Hebe pouring nectar for the immortal gods; and when he told her this with other fantastic inventions, the girl, though she did not altogether comprehend, reddened as the grosser compliments of the usual frequenters of the bar – accredited admirers – had no power to make her. Basil thought he had never seen anything more captivating than that blush.

And then he began to visit the
Golden Crown
more frequently – at tea-time, when there were fewest people. The pair grew friendly; and they discussed the weather, the customers, and the news of the day. Basil found that half an hour passed very pleasantly in her company, and perhaps he was a little flattered because the barmaid set greater store on his society than on that of the other claimants to her attention. One afternoon, going somewhat later than usual, he was delighted with the bright look that lit her face like sunshine on his appearance.

'I was afraid you weren't coming, Mr Kent.'

By now she used his name, and hers he found was Jenny Bush.

'Would you have minded if I hadn't?'

'A bit'

At that moment the second barmaid of the
Golden Crown
came to her.

'It's your evening out tonight, isn't it, Jenny?'

'Yes, it is.'

'What are you going to do?'

'I don't know,' said Jenny; 'I haven't made any plans.'

A customer came in, and Jenny's friend shook hands with him.

'Same as usual, I suppose?' she said.

'Would you like to come to the play with me?' asked Basil lightly. 'We'll have a bit of dinner first, and then go wherever you like.'

The suggestion flashed across his mind, and he spoke the words without thinking. Jenny's eyes sparkled with pleasure.

'Oh, I should like it. Come and fetch me here at seven, will you?'

But then came in a somewhat undersized young man, with obviously false teeth and a jaunty air. Basil vaguely knew that he was engaged to Jenny, and on most days he might be seen making sheep's eyes across the bar, and drinking innumerable whiskies-and-soda.

'Coming out to dinner, Jenny?' he said. 'I'll stand you a seat at the Tivoli if you like.'

'I'm afraid I can't tonight, Tom,' she answered, blushing slightly. 'I've made other arrangements.'

'What arrangements?'

'A friend has promised to take me to the theatre.'

'Who's that?' answered the man, with an ugly look.

'That's my business, isn't it?' answered Jenny.

'Well, if you won't tell me, I'm off.'

'I'm not stopping you, am I?'

'Just give me a Scotch-and-soda, will you? And look sharp about it.'

The man spoke impudently, wishing to remind Jenny that she was there to carry out his orders. Basil reddened, and with some sharpness was about to say that he would be discreet to use greater politeness, when Jenny's eyes stopped him. Without a word she gave the clerk what he asked for, and the three of them remained silent.

Presently the newcomer finished his liquor and lit a cigarette. He glanced suspiciously at Basil, and opened his mouth to make an observation, but catching the other's steady look, thought better of it.

'Good night then,' he said to Jenny.

When he was gone Basil asked her why she had not thrown him over; it would have been better than to vex her lover.

'I don't care,' cried Jenny; 'I'm about sick of the airs he
gives himself. I'm not married to him yet, and if he won't let me do as I like now he can just take himself off.'

They dined at a restaurant in Soho, and Basil, in high spirits over the little adventure, was amused with the girl's delight. It did his heart good to cause such pleasure, and perhaps his satisfaction was not lessened by the attention which Jenny's comeliness attracted. She was rather shy, but when Basil strove to entertain her laughed very prettily and flushed: the idea came to him that he would much like to be of use to her, for she seemed to have a very agreeable nature; he might give her new ideas and a view of the beauty of life which she had never known. She wore a hat, and he morning dress, so they took seats in the back-row of the dress circle at the Gaiety; but even this was unwonted luxury to Jenny, accustomed to the pit or the upper boxes. At the end of the performance she turned to him with dancing eyes.

'Oh, I have enjoyed myself,' she cried. 'I like going out with you much more than with Tom; he's always trying to save money.'

They took a cab to the
Golden Crown,
where Jenny shared a room with the other barmaid.

'Will you come out with me again?' asked Basil.

'Oh, I should love to. You're so different from the other men who come to the bar. You're a gentleman, and you treat me – as if I was a lady. That's why I first liked you, because you didn't go on as if I was a lump of dirt: you always called me Miss Bush ...'

'I'd much rather call you Jenny.'

'Well, you may,' she answered, smiling and blushing. 'All those fellows who hang about the bar think they can do anything with me. You never tried to kiss me like they do.'

'It's not because I didn't want to, Jenny,' answered Basil, laughing.

She made no reply, but looked at him with smiling mouth and tender eyes; he would have been a fool not to recognize the invitation. He slipped his arm round her waist and touched her lips, but he was astonished at the frank surrender with which she received his embrace, and the fugitive pressure turned
into a kiss so passionate that Basil's limbs tingled. The cab stopped at the
Golden Crown,
and he helped her out.

'Good night.'

Next day, when he went to the public-house, Jenny blushed deeply, but she greeted him with a quiet intimacy which in his utter loneliness was very gratifying. It caused him singular content that someone at last took an interest in him. Freedom is all very well, but there are moments when a man yearns for someone to whom his comings and goings, his health or illness, are not matters of complete indifference.

'Don't go yet,' said Jenny; 'I want to tell you something.'

He waited till the bar was clear.

'I've broken off my engagement with Tom,' she said then. 'He waited on the other side of the street last night and saw us go out together. And this morning he came in and rounded on me. I told him if he didn't like it he could lump it. And then he got nasty, and I told him I wouldn't have anything more to do with him.'

Basil looked at her for a moment silently.

'But aren't you fond of him, Jenny?'

'No; I can't bear the sight of him. I used to like him well enough, but it's different now. I'm glad to be rid of him.'

Basil could not help knowing it was on his account that she had broken off the engagement. He felt a curious thrill of power, and his heart beat with elation and pride, but at the same time he feared he was doing her some great injury.

'I'm very sorry,' he murmured. 'I'm afraid I've done you harm.'

'You won't stop coming here because of this?' she asked, anxiously watching his doubtful face.

His first thought was that a sudden rupture might be best for both of them, but he could not bear that on his account pain should darken those beautiful eyes, and when he saw the gathering tears he put it aside hastily.

'No, of course not. If you like to see me I'm only too glad to come.'

'Promise that you'll come every day.'

'I'll come as often as I can.'

'No, that won't do. You must come every day.'

'Well, I will.'

He was touched by her eagerness, for he must have been a dolt not to see that Jenny cared a good deal for him, but introspective though he was, never asked himself what were his own feelings. He wished to have a good influence on her, and vowed she would never through him come to any harm. She was very unlike his notion of the ordinary barmaid, and he thought it would be simple to lead her to some idea of personal dignity; he would have liked to take her away from that rather degrading occupation, placing her where she could learn more easily: her character, notwithstanding three years at the
Golden Crown,
was very ingenuous, but in those surroundings she could not for ever remain unspoilt, and it would have seemed a justification of his friendship if he could put her in the way to lead a more beautiful life. The most obvious result of these deliberations was that Basil presently made it a practice to take Jenny on her free evenings to dinner and to the play.

As for her, she had never known anyone like the young barrister who impressed her by the courtesy of his manner and the novelty of his conversation: though often she did not understand the things he said, she was flattered nevertheless, and, womanlike, simulated a comprehension which made Basil think her less uneducated than she really was. At first she was intimidated by the grave stateliness of his treatment, for she was accustomed to less respect, and he could not have used a duchess with more polite decorum; but insensibly admiration and awe passed into love, and at last into blind adoration of which Basil not for a moment dreamed. She wondered why since that first night he had never kissed her, but at parting merely gave his hand; in three months she had advanced only so far as to use his Christian name.

At length the spring came. Along Fleet Street and the Strand flower-women offered for sale gay vernal blossoms, and their baskets gave a dash of colour to the City's hurrying grey. There were days when the very breath of the country, bland and generous, seemed to blow down the crowded thoroughfare, uplifting weary hearts despondent with long monotonous toil:
the sky was blue, and it was the same sky that overhung green meadows and trees bursting into leaf. Sometimes towards the west bevies of cloud, dazzling in the sunshine, were piled upon one another, and at sundown, all rosy and golden, would fill the street with their effulgence, so that the smoky vapours took a gorgeous opalescence, and the heart beat with sheer delight of this goodly London town.

One balmy night in May, when the air was suave and fragrant, so that the heavy step was lightened and the tired mind eased by a strange sad gaiety, Jenny dined with Basil at the little restaurant in Soho where now they were well known. Afterwards they went to a music-hall, but the noise and the glare on that sweet night were unendurable; the pleasant darkness of the streets called to them, and Basil soon proposed that they should go from that place of tedium. Jenny agreed with relief, for the singers left her listless, and an unquiet emotion, which she had never known, made her heart throb with indescribable yearning. As they passed into the night she looked at Basil for a moment with wide-open eyes, in which, strangely mingled, were terror and the primitive savagery of some wild thing.

'Let's go on the Embankment,' she whispered. 'It's quiet there.'

They looked at the silent flowing river and at the warehouses of the Surrey side, uneven against the starlit sky. From one of these gleamed like a malevolent eye one solitary light, and it gave mystery to that square mass of dingy brick, suggesting some grim story of lawless passion and crime. It was low-tide, and below the stone wall was a long strip of shining mud; but Waterloo Bridge, with its easy arches, was oddly dapper, and its lights, yellow and white, threw gay reflections on the water. Near at hand, outlined vaguely by their red lamps, were moored three barges; and there was a weird magic about them, for, notwithstanding their present abandonment, they spoke of strenuous life and passion and toil: for all their squalid brutality there was romance in the hard, strong men who dwelt there on the widening river, travelling on an eternal pilgrimage to the salt sea and the open.