Merry Go Round (8 page)

They wandered slowly towards Westminster Bridge, and the lights of the Embankment in their sinuous line were strangely reflected, so that a forest was seen on the river of fiery piles on which might have been built a mystic, invisible city. But the short walk wearied them, though the night was sweet with the savour of springtime, and their limbs were heavy as lead.

'I can't walk back,' said Jenny; 'I'm too tired.'

'Let us take a cab.'

Basil hailed a passing hansom, and they got in. He gave the address in Fleet Street of the
Golden Crown,
They did not speak, but the silence told them things more significant than ever words had done. At last, in a voice not her own, as though speech were dragged from her, Jenny broke the oppressive stillness.

'Why have you never kissed me since that first night, Basil?'

She did not look at him, and he made no sign that he heard, but she felt the trembling of his limbs. Her throat grew hot and dry, and a horrible anxiety seized her.

'Basil!' she said hoarsely, insisting on an answer.

'Because I didn't dare.'

She could count now the throbbing of that torturer in her breast, and the cabman seemed to drive as for a wager. They sped along the Embankment, and it was very dark.

'But I wanted you to,' she said fiercely.

'Jenny, don't let us make fools of ourselves.'

But as though his words were from the mouth only, and a stronger power mastered him, even as he spoke he sought her lips; and because he had resisted so long their sweetness was doubly sweet. With a stifled gasp like a wild beast, she flung her arms about him, and the soft fragrance of her body drove away all thoughts but one: mindless of the passers-by, he pressed her eagerly to his heart. He was mad with her fair, yielding beauty and the passion of her surrender, mad with that never-ending kiss, than which in his whole life he had never known a greater rapture. And his heart trembled like a leaf trembling before the wind.

'Will you come back to my rooms, Jenny?' he whispered.

She did not answer, but drew herself more closely to him. He
lifted the trap in the roof of the hansom and told the cabman to drive to
the Temple.

For a week, for a month even, feeling stronger and braver because this woman had given him her love, Basil enjoyed a very ecstasy of pride; he faced the world with greater assurance, and life possessed a spirit and a vigour which were quite new to him. But presently the romantic adventure gained the look of a somewhat vulgar intrigue, and when he recalled his ideal of an existence, spotless and pure, given over to noble pursuits, he was ashamed. This love of his was nothing more than a passing whim of which the knell sounded with its gratification, and he saw with dismay that Jenny had given herself to him body and soul: on her side it was a deathless passion compared with which his attachment was very cold. Each day fanned the flames in her heart, so that he became a necessity of her existence, and if by chance he was too busy to see her an anxious letter came, pitiful in its faulty spelling and clumsy expression, imploring him to visit her. Jenny was exacting, and he resigned himself to going every day to the
Golden Crown,
though that bar grew ever more distasteful. The girl was quite uneducated, and the evenings they spent together – for now, instead of going to a theatre, Jenny passed her leisure in Basil's rooms – went rather heavily; he found it sometimes hard work to make conversation. He realized that he was manacled hand and foot with fetters that were only more intolerable because they consisted of nothing more substantial than the dread of causing pain. He was a man who bore uneasily an irregular attachment of this sort, and he asked himself what could be the end; a dozen times he made up his mind to break with Jenny, but coming to the point, when he saw how dependent she was upon his love, had not the courage. For six months, degraded to a habit, the connection went on.

But it was only by reminding himself constantly that he was not free that Basil abated his nascent love for Mrs Murray, and he imagined that his feeling towards her was different from any he had known before. His desire now was overwhelming to break from the past that sullied him, and thenceforward to
lead a fresher, more wholesome life: cost what it might, he must finish with Jenny. He knew that Mrs Murray meant to winter abroad, and there was no reason why he, too, should not go to Italy; there he might see her occasionally, and at the end of six months, with a free conscience, ask her to be his wife.

Thinking he saw the way more clearly before him, Basil ceased his lonely promenade and walked slowly into Piccadilly. After the stir and restless movement of the day, the silence there, unnatural and almost ghostly, seemed barely credible; and the great street, solemn and empty and broad, descended in a majestic sweep with the tranquillity and ease of some placid river. The air was pure and limpid, but resonant, so that a solitary cab on a sudden sent the whole place ringing, and the emphatic trot of the horse clattered with long reverberations. The line of electric lights, impressive by their regularity, self-asserting and staid, flung their glare upon the houses with an indifferent violence, and lower down threw into distinctness the straight park railing and the nearer trees, outlining more sombrely the leafy darkness beyond. And between, outshone, like an uneven string of discoloured gems twinkled the yellow flicker of the gas-jets. Everywhere was silence, but the houses, white except for the gaping windows, had a different silence from the rest; for in their sleep, closed and bolted, they lined the pavement helplessly, disordered and undignified, as though without the busy hum of human voices and the hurrying of persons in and out they had lost all significance.

O
N
the following Sunday Basil Kent and Hurrell lunched with Miss Ley, and there met Mr and Mrs Castillyon, who came early in the afternoon. The husband of this lively lady was a weighty man, impressive by the obesity of his person and the commonplace of his conversation; his head was bald, his fleshy face clean-shaven, and his manner had the double pomposity of a landed proprietor and a member of Parliament. It seemed that Nature had taken a freakish revenge on his dullness when she mated him with such a sprightly person as his wife, who, notwithstanding his open adoration, treated him with impatient contempt. Mr Castillyon might have been suffering had he been as silent as he was tedious; but he had an interminable flow of conversation, and now, finding the company somewhat overwhelmed by his appearance, seized the opportunity to air opinions which should more properly have found utterance in that last refuge of dullards and bores, the House of Commons.

But in a little while, at the butler's heels, Reggie, with the stealthiness of a sleek cat, slouched into the room. He was pale after Saturday's amusement, but very handsome. Miss Ley, rising to welcome him, intercepted a glance at Mrs Castillyon, and, seeing in that lady's eye a malicious twinkle, was convinced that the pair had arranged this meeting. But though it amused the acute woman that an assignation should be made in her house, she would not have given Mrs Castillyon further occasion to exercise her wiles if the member of Parliament had not bored her into a bad temper. And really Emily Bassett exaggerated the care she took of her son; it irritated Miss Ley that anyone should be so virtuous as Reggie was thought to be.

'Paul,' said Mrs Castillyon, 'Mr Bassett has heard that you're going to speak in the House tomorrow, and he would so much like to hear you.... My husband – Mr Barlow-Bassett.'

'Really! How did you hear that?' asked Mr Castillyon, delighted.

It was part of Reggie's ingenuity that he never lied in haste to repent at leisure. For one moment he meditated, then fixed his eyes firmly on Frank to prevent a contradiction.

'Dr Hurrell told me.'

'Of course I shall be delighted if you'll come,' pursued the orator. 'I shall speak just before dinner. Won't you dine afterwards? I'm afraid the dinner they give you is very bad.'

'He won't mind that after he's heard you speak, Paul,' said Mrs Castillyon.

A faint smile flickered on her lips at the success of this manoeuvre. Mr Castillyon turned blandly to Miss Ley, with the little shake of his whole body which announced a display of eloquence. Frank and Basil immediately jumped up and bade Miss Ley farewell; they walked together towards the Embankment, and for a while neither spoke.

'I wanted to talk to you, Frank,' said Basil at last. 'I'm thinking of going abroad for the winter.'

'Are you? What about the Bar?'

'I don't mind about that. After all, I have enough to live on, and I mean to have a shot if I can do any real good as a writer. Besides, I want to break with Jenny, and I can think of no kinder way to do it.'

'I think you're very wise.'

'Oh, I wish I hadn't got into this mess, Frank. I don't know what to do. I'm afraid she's grown a good deal fonder of me than I ever thought she would, and I don't want to cause her pain. I can't bear it when I think of the wretchedness she'll suffer – and yet we can't go on as we are.'

Frank remained silent, with compressed lips and a stern look on his face. Basil divined the unspoken censure, and burst out passionately.

'Oh, I know I oughtn't to have given way. D'you think I've not bitterly regretted? I never thought she'd take it any more seriously than I did. And, after all, I'm a man like any other. I have passions as other men have. I suppose most men in my place would have done as I did.'

'I didn't venture to reproach you, Basil,' said Frank dryly.

'I meant to do only good to the girl. But I lost my head. After all, if we were all as cool at night as we are in the morning....'

'Life would be a Sunday-school,' interrupted Frank.

At that moment they were near Westminster Bridge, and a carriage passed them. They saw that in it sat Mrs Murray, and she bowed gravely; Basil reddened and looked back.

'I wonder if she's on the way to Miss Ley.'

'Would you like to go back and see?' asked Frank coldly.

He looked sharply at Basil, who flushed again, and then threw off his momentary hesitation.

'No,' he answered firmly; 'let us go on.'

'Is it on account of Mrs Murray that you wish to throw over Jenny?'

'Oh, Frank, don't think too hardly of me. I hate the ugly sordid vulgarity of an intrigue. I wanted to lead a cleaner life than most men because of my – because of Lady Vizard; and when I've been with Jenny I'm disgusted with myself. If I'd never seen Mrs Murray, I should still do all I could to finish.'

'Are you in love with Mrs Murray?'

'Yes,' answered Basil, after a moment's pause.

'D'you think she cares for you?'

'The other night I felt sure of it, but now again I'm doubtful. Oh, I want her to care for me. I can't help it, Frank, this is quite a different love from the other; it lifts me up and supports me. I don't want to seem a prig, but when I think of Mrs Murray I can't imagine anything unworthy. And I'm proud of it because my love for her is almost spiritual. If she does care for me and will marry me, I think I may do some good in the world. I fancied that if I went away for six months Jenny would gradually think less of me – I think it's better to drift apart than just to break cruelly at once.'

'It would certainly be less painful to you,' said Frank.

'And when I'm free I shall go to Mrs Murray, tell her the whole
story, and ask her to marry me.'

Basil lived in a pleasant court of the Temple to which, notwithstanding
the sordid contentions of its daily life, the old red houses and the London plane-trees, with their leafy coolness, gave a charm full of repose. His rooms, on the top floor, were furnished simply, but with the taste of a man who cared for beautiful things. The ladies of Sir Peter Lely, with their sweet artificial grace, looked down in mezzotint from the panelled walls, and the Sheraton furniture gave a delicate austerity to the student's room.

Frank filled his pipe, but they had not been long seated, when there came a knock at the door.

'I wonder who the dickens that is?' said Basil. 'I don't often have visitors on Sunday afternoon.'

He went into the tiny passage and opened. Frank heard Jenny's voice.

'Can I come in, Basil? Is anyone there?'

'Only Frank,' he answered, leading the way in.

Jenny was arrayed in Sabbath garments, the colours of which to the doctor's eye seemed a little crude; the bright bow in her black hat contrasted violently with a fawn jacket, but her beauty was such as to overcome all extravagance of costume. She was rather tall, handsomely made, with the rounded hips and full breasts of a passionate woman; her features were chiselled with the clean perfection of a Greek statue, and no duchess could have had a shorter lip or a more delicate nose; her pink ears were more exquisite than the shells of the sea. But it was her wonderful colouring which chiefly attracted notice, with the rich magnificence of her hair, the brilliant eyes, and the creamy perfection of her skin. Her face had a girlish innocence which was very captivating, and Frank, observing her with critical gaze, could not deny that Mrs Murray by her side, notwithstanding all the advantages of dress and manner, would have been reduced to insignificance.

'I thought you were going home this afternoon,' said Basil.

'No, I couldn't manage it. I came here immediately after we closed at three, but you weren't in. I was so afraid that you wouldn't come before six o'clock.'

It was very clear that Jenny wished to talk with Basil, and
Frank, deliberately knocking out the ashes of his pipe, rose to go. His host accompanied him downstairs.

'Look here, Basil,' said Frank; 'if I were you I'd take this opportunity to tell Jenny that you're going away.'

'Yes, I mean to. I'm glad she's come. I wanted to write to her, but I think that would be funking it. Oh, I hate myself because I must cause her so much pain.'

Frank walked away. Disposed at first to envy Basil his good
fortune, he had cursed his fate because pretty girls never fell desperately
enamoured of him: it would certainly have been a bore, and to him more than
to another an insufferable slavery, but yet the marked abstention was not
flattering. Now, however, on his way to the club, wanted by no one, with no
claims on him of any sort, he congratulated himself cynically because fair
ladies kept their smiles for persons more fascinating than himself.

When Basil returned to his room, he found that Jenny had not, as usual, taken off her hat, but stood by the window looking at the door. He went to kiss her, but she drew back.

'Not today, Basil. I've got something to say to you.'

'Well, take off your things first, and make yourself comfortable.'

It occurred to him that Jenny had perhaps quarrelled with her employer at the
Golden Crown,
or wished to reproach him because for a couple of days he had not seen her, and, lighting his pipe, he answered with careless gaiety. He did not see that she looked at him strangely, but when she spoke there was such tragic anguish in her tone that he was startled.

'I don't know what I should have done if I'd not found you in today.'

'Good heavens, Jenny! what's the matter?'

Her voice broke with a sob.

'I'm in trouble, Basil.'

The tears cut his heart, and very tenderly he put his arms round her; but again she withdrew.

'No, please don't sit near me, or I shall never have the courage to tell you.'

She stood up, drying her eyes, and walked up and down.

'I wanted to see you this morning, Basil. I came to your door, and then I was afraid to knock. So I went away again. And then this afternoon, when I couldn't make you hear, I thought you'd gone away, and I couldn't have borne another night of it.'

'Tell me quickly what it is, Jenny.'

A horrible fear seized him, and his cheeks grew pale as hers. She watched him with anxious eyes.

'I've not been feeling very well these last few days,' she whispered, 'and yesterday I went to the doctor. He told me I was going to have a child.'

And then, hiding her face, she sobbed bitterly. Basil's heart sank within him, and when he looked at that wretched girl, bowed down with fear and shame, he was filled with remorse. If he had never regretted before, he regretted now, with all his soul.

'Don't cry, Jenny; I can't bear it.'

She looked up hopelessly, and the ugliness of that fair face, pain-distraught, tortured him. He was all confused, and many an impulse madly skeltered through his brain: he, too, feared, but at the same time, above all and overmastering, was a wonderful elation because he would be the father of a living child. His pulse throbbed with pride, and like a miracle a sudden love mysteriously burnt up his heart; he took Jenny in his arms and kissed her more passionately than he had ever done before.

'Oh, don't, for God's sake; it's nothing to you,' she cried, trying to tear herself away. 'But what about me? I wish I was dead. I'd always been straight till I knew you.'

He could bear her agony no longer, and the thought which had come to him immediately now grew irresistible. There was one way to dry those tears, one way alone to repair that wrong, and a rising flood of passion made it very easy. His whole soul demanded one definite course, uplifting him and crushing every nascent objection; but his heart beat painfully when he spoke, for he was taking an irretrievable step, and God only knew what would be the end.

'Don't cry, darling; it's not so bad as all that,' he said. 'We'd better get married at once.'

With a little gasp Jenny's sobs were stilled, and quite motionless, looking down, she clung to Basil like a thing from which all life was gone. The words sank into her mind slowly, and she puzzled over them as though they were said in a language she barely understood; and then, still silent, she began to tremble.

'Say that again, Basil,' she whispered, and after a pause: 'Did you mean it? Can you bring yourself to marry me?'

She stood up and looked at him, dishevelled and beautiful, a tragic figure in whose unutterable woe was a most noble pathos.

'I'm only a barmaid, Basil.'

'You're the mother of my child, and I love you,' he answered gravely. 'I've always longed to have children, Jenny, and you've made me very proud and very happy.'

Her eyes shone with tears, and into her anxious, terror-stricken face came a look of such ecstatic happiness that Basil felt himself ten times rewarded.

'Oh, Basil, you are good. You do mean it, don't you? And I shall be with you always?'

'Did you think so badly of me as to suppose I would throw you over now?'

'Oh, I was afraid. You've cared for me less of late, and I've been so unhappy, Basil, but I didn't dare show it. At first I hadn't the courage to tell you, because I thought you'd be angry. I knew you wouldn't let me starve, but you might just have given me money and told me to go.'

He kissed her hands, aflame as never before with her radiant beauty.

'I didn't know I loved you so much,' he cried.

She sank into his arms with a sob, but it was a sob now of uncontrollable passion, and avid of love she sought his lips.

Basil had in his passage a little gas-stove, and presently with a charming housewifely grace, Jenny set about making the tea: languorous and happy, she was proud to do things for him, and insisted, while she prepared, that he should sit still and smoke.

'I wish we needn't keep a servant, Basil, so as I might wait on you.'

'You mustn't go back to that beastly bar.'

'I can't leave them in a hole, you know. I shall have to give a week's notice.'

'Then give it at once, and as soon as you're free we'll be married.'

'Oh, I shall be so happy!' she sighed with rapture.

'Now, look here: we must be sensible and talk over things. You know I'm not very well-to-do. I've only got three hundred a year.'