Merry Go Round (9 page)

'Oh, that's lots,' she cried. 'Why, dad has never had more than three-ten a week.'

Basil smiled doubtfully, for his tastes were expensive, and he had never been able satisfactorily to make ends meet. But he persuaded himself that two persons could live more economically than one; he would give serious attention to his law, and had no doubt that in time he would earn an income. While he waited for briefs he might write. They could afford a little house in the suburbs at Barnes or Putney, and, so as not to be extravagant, for their honeymoon would merely go to Cornwall for a fortnight. After that he must set to work immediately.

'Ma will be surprised when I tell her I'm going to get married,' said Jenny, laughing. 'You must come down and see them.'

Though a brother in the City sometimes came to the
Golden Crown,
Basil had never made acquaintance with any of Jenny's relations; he knew that they lived at Crouch End.

'I wouldn't have gone back to them if you hadn't said you'd marry me, Basil. Ma would have turned me out of doors. I was frightened to go down today in case she suspected something.' Suddenly, a doubt rising in her mind, she turned to him quickly. 'You do mean it, don't you? You won't go back on me now?'

'Of course not, you foolish child. Don't you think I shall be proud to have so beautiful a wife?'

Jenny was obliged to go a little before six, at which hour
the
Golden Crown
opened its doors to thirsty Christians; and Basil,
having accompanied her thither, walked on to consider this new state of his
affairs. The capacity to stand quite alone, careless of praise or censure,
is very rare among men, and he, temperamentally lacking confidence in himself,
felt at that moment a most urgent need for advice and sympathy; but Frank
was inaccessible, and he could not disturb Miss Ley again that day. He went
to his club and wrote a note asking if he might see her the following morning.

He slept uneasily, and getting up later than usual, had scarcely finished breakfast when an answer came to say that she would be pleased to walk with him at eleven in St James's Park. He fetched her punctually. They sauntered for a while, looking at the wild-fowl, and Basil, hesitating, spoke of indifferent subjects; but Miss Ley, noting his unusual gravity, surmised that he had a difficult communication to make.

'Well, what is it?' she asked point-blank, sitting down.

'Only that I'm going to be married.'

Her thoughts at once went to Mrs Murray, and she wondered when Basil could have found opportunity for his declaration.

'Is that all?' she cried, smiling. 'It's a very proper proceeding for young things, but surely you need not look so serious over it.'

'I'm going to marry a Miss Bush.'

'Who on earth is she? I've never heard of her,' answered the good lady, turning to him with surprise; but a dim recollection flashed across her mind. 'Wasn't it a certain Jenny Bush that Frank told me you had discovered somewhere and vowed was the loveliest creature in the world?' She gave him a long and searching look. 'I suppose you're not going to marry a barmaid from a public-house in Fleet Street?'

'Yes,' he answered quietly.

'But why?'

'Presumably because I'm in love with her.'

'Nonsense! A susceptible youth falls in love with a dozen girls, but in a country where monogamy is enforced by Act of Parliament, it is impracticable to marry them all.'

'I'm afraid I can give you no other reason.'

'You might really have made that interesting announcement by letter,' returned Miss Ley dryly.

He looked down with a discouraged air, and for a while was silent.

'I must talk it over with someone,' he burst out at length. 'I'm so utterly alone, and I have no one to help or advise me. ... I'm marrying Jenny because I must. I've known her for some time – the whole thing was sordid and hateful – and yesterday after I left you she came to my rooms. She was half hysterical, poor thing, she hardly knew what she was saying, and she told me ...'

'What you very well might have foreseen,' interrupted Miss Ley.

'Yes.'

Miss Ley meditated, slowly drawing her initials with the point of her parasol in the gravel, and Basil stared at her anxiously.

'Are you sure you're not making a fool of yourself?' she asked finally. 'You're not in love with her, are you?'

'No.'

'Then you have no right to marry her. Oh, my dear boy, you don't know how tiresome marriage is sometimes, even with persons of the same class and inclinations. I've known so many people in my life, and I'm convinced that marriage is the most terrible thing in the world unless passion makes it absolutely inevitable. And I hate and abhor with all my soul those fools who strive to discredit and ignore that.'

'If I don't marry Jenny she'll kill herself. She's not like an ordinary barmaid. Until I knew her she was perfectly straight. It means absolute ruin to her.'

'I think you exaggerate. After all, it's not much more than a very regrettable incident due to your – innocence; and there's no need for desperate courses or histrionics. You will behave like a gentleman, and take proper care of the girl. She can go into the country till the whole thing is over, and when she comes back no one will be the wiser nor she very much the worse.'

'But it isn't a matter of people knowing; it's a matter of honour.'

'Isn't it rather late in the day to talk of morality? I don't see where precisely the honour came in when you seduced her.'

'I dare say I've been an utter cad,' he answered humbly; 'but I see a plain duty before me, and I must do it.'

'You talk as though such things had never happened before,' pursued Miss Ley.

'Oh yes, I know they happen every day. If the girl gives way, so much the worse for her; it's no business of the man's. Let her go on the streets, let her go to the devil, and be hanged to her.'

Miss Ley, pursing her lips, shrugged her shoulders. She wondered how he proposed to live, since his income was quite insufficient for the necessities of a family, and he was peculiarly unsuited to the long drudgery of the Bar. She knew the profession termed 'literary' well enough to be aware that in it little money could be earned. Basil lacked the journalistic quickness, and it took him two years to write a novel for which he would probably not get more than fifty pounds; and his passion for the analysis of mental states offered small chance of lucrative success. Besides, he was extravagant, and would hate to pinch and spare: nor had he occasion ever to learn the difficult art of getting a shilling's-worth of goods for twelve coppers.

'I suppose you've realized that people will cut your wife,' Miss Ley added.

'Then they will cut me too.'

'But you're the last man in the world to give up these things. There's nothing you enjoy more than dinner-parties and visits to country houses. Women's smiles are all-important to you.'

'You talk of me as if I were a tame cat,' he returned smiling. 'After all, I'm only trying to do my duty. I made an awful mistake, and heaven knows how bitterly I've regretted it. But now I see the way clearly before me, and whatever the cost, I must take it.'

Miss Ley looked at him sharply, and her keen grey eyes travelled over his face in a minute examination.

'Are you sure you don't admire a little too much your heroic attitude?' she asked, and in her voice was a stinging coldness at which Basil winced. 'Nowadays self-sacrifice is a luxury which
few have the strength to deny themselves; people took to it when they left off sugar because it was fattening, and they sacrifice themselves wantonly, from sheer love of it, however worthless the object. In fact, the object scarcely concerns them; they don't care how much they harm it so long as they can gratify their passion.'

'When I asked Jenny to marry me, and saw the radiant joy in her poor, tear-stained face, I knew I'd done the right thing. Ah, what does it matter if I'm wretched, so long as I can make her happy!'

'I wasn't thinking of your wretchedness, Basil. I was thinking that you had done that girl harm enough already without marrying her. ... D'you think she'll be anything but utterly miserable? You're only doing this from selfishness and cowardice, because you love your self-esteem and you're afraid to give pain.'

This point of view was new to Basil, but it seemed unreasonable. He put it hastily aside.

'All this time you've not thought of the child, Miss Ley,' he said slowly. 'I can't let the child skulk into the world like a thief. Let him go through life with an honest name; it's hard enough without marking him with a hideous stigma. And, after all, I'm proud to be the father of a living child. Whatever I suffer, whatever we both suffer, will be worth it for that.'

'When are you to be married?' asked Miss Ley, after a pause.

'I think this day week. You won't abandon me, Miss Ley, will you?'

'Of course not,' she answered, smiling gently. 'I think you're a fool, but then most people are. They never realize that they have only one life, and mistakes are irreparable. They play with it as though it were a game of chess in which they could try this move and that, and when they get in a muddle, sweep the board clear and begin again.'

'But life is a game of chess in which one is always beaten. Death sits on the other side of the board, and for every move he has a counter-move, for all your deep-laid schemes a parry.'

They walked back to Old Queen Street, both occupied with
their thoughts, and at her door Miss Ley gave Basil her hand. He hesitated a little, but forced himself to speak.

'There's one thing more, Miss Ley: I fancied – that Mrs Murray ... I dare say I was wrong, but I shouldn't like her to think too ill of me.'

'I'm afraid you must put up with that,' replied Miss Ley sharply. 'There was nothing in the way of an engagement between you?'

'Nothing.'

'I shall see her in a day or two, and I'll tell her that you're going to be married.'

'But what will she think of me?'

'I suppose you don't want her to know the truth?'

'No. I told you only because I felt I must talk it over with someone. Of all persons, I least wish Mrs Murray to know.'

'Then you must let her think as she chooses. Good-bye.'

'Have you nothing more to say to me than that?' he asked despairingly.

'My dear, if you can suffer all things, you may venture all things.'

M
ISS
L
EY
found the Dean alone in the library, for the Langtons returned to Tercanbury that afternoon, and Bella was spending her last morning at the Stores.

'You know, Algernon, in this world it's the good who do all the harm,' remarked Miss Ley, sitting down. 'The bad carry off their wrong-doing with a certain dash which lessens the iniquity, and common-sense robs their vice of sting; but there's no reasoning with a man conscious of his own rectitude.'

'That is a very subversive doctrine,' answered the Dean, smiling.

'Only the wicked should sin, for experience teaches them moderation, and little hurt befalls. But when the virtuous slip from the narrow path they flounder hopelessly, committing one error after another in the effort to right themselves by the methods of virtue. Under like circumstances they injure all concerned far more desperately than the entirely vicious, because they won't face the fact that a different code is applicable.'

'Pray tell me the reason of this harangue.'

'A young friend of mine has done a foolish thing, and means to cap it with another. He came to me just now ostensibly for advice, but in reality that I might applaud his magnanimity.'

Without giving names, Miss Ley told her cousin Basil's story.

'My first curacy was at Portsmouth,' the Dean said when she finished, 'and I was then very intolerant of evil, very eager to right the wrong. I remember one of my parishioners got into a similar trouble, and for the child's sake as well as for the woman's I insisted that the man should marry. I practically dragged them to the altar by the hair of their heads, and when I had properly legalized the position felt I had done a good day's work: six months afterwards the man cut his wife's
throat and was duly hanged. If I hadn't been so officious two lives might have been spared.'

'Mrs Grundy is a person of excellent understanding, who does not in the least deserve the obloquy with which she is now regarded. She does not mind if a man is a little wild, and if he isn't thinks him rather a milksop; but with admirable perspicacity she realizes that for the woman a straighter rule is needed: if
she
falls Mrs Grundy, without the smallest qualm, will give the first push into the pit. Society is a grim monster, somnolent apparently, so that you think you can take every kind of liberty; but all the time he watches you, he watches slily, and when you least expect it puts out an iron hand to crush you.'

'I hope Bella won't be late,' said the Dean; 'we haven't too much time after luncheon to catch our train.'

'Society has made its own decalogue, a code just fit for middling people, who are neither very good nor very bad; but the odd thing is it punishes you just as severely if you act above its code as if you act below.'

'Sometimes it makes a god of you when you're dead.'

'But it takes precious good care to crucify you when you're alive, Algernon.'

Soon after this Bella came in, and when the Dean went upstairs, told Miss Ley that on her bookseller's advice she had purchased for Herbert Field the two portly tomes of Dowden's
Life of Shelley.

'I hope soon he'll have enough poetry to make a little volume,' said Bella, 'and then I shall ask him if I may arrange for publication. I wonder if Mr Kent will help me to find a publisher.'

'You will find a bank balance your best friend there, my dear,'
answered Miss Ley.

Basil announced the approaching marriage to his solicitor, for his small fortune was held in trust, and his mother's signature was needed for various documents. In a day or two the following letter reached him.

C
HER
E
NFANT,

I find that you mean to be married, and I desire to give you my maternal blessing. Do come to tea tomorrow and receive it in due form. You have sulked with me quite long enough, and the masculine boudeur is always a trifle ridiculous. In case it has escaped your memory I venture to remind you that I am – your mother.

Yours affectionately,
M
ARGUERITE
V
IZARD

P.S.—It is one of the ironies of nature, that though
a man, if his father is canaille, may console himself with the thought that
this relationship is always a little uncertain, with regard to his mother
he can lay no such flattering unction to his soul.

Lady Vizard was shrewd when she prophesied that a couple of years would suffice for her to regain the place in society due to her beauty, wealth, and distinction. None knew better that her position after the trial was precarious, and it required much tact to circumvent the many pitfalls. She was aware that the two best stepping-stones for social aspirants are philanthropy and the Church of Rome, but the astute creature did not think her state so desperate as to need conversion, and a certain assiduity in charitable pursuits offered all that was requisite. Lady Vizard made a dead-set for respectability in the person of a tedious old lady, whose rank and opulence gave her unlimited credit with the world, and whose benevolence made her an easy tool. Lady Edward Stringer was a little old woman with false teeth and a bright chestnut wig, always set awry; and, though immensely dull, managed to assemble in her drawing-rooms everyone in London of real importance. A relation of Lord Vizard, she had quarrelled with him desperately, and it was but natural that his wife should pour her troubles into a willing ear. Now, when she chose, Lady Vizard could assume a manner so flattering that few could resist it: she had an agile tongue and so good a memory for the lies she told that she was never caught tripping; she unfolded the story of her matrimonial unhappiness with such pathetic skill that Lady Edward, touched, promised to do everything to help her. She appeared at the old lady's parties, was seen with her in all places where fashion congregates; and presently the world concluded
it could well afford to know an amusing woman who suffered from no lack of money.

When Basil arrived, obedient to her summons, he found his mother seated in that favourite attitude in which she had been painted; and the portrait, by its daring colour the sensation of its season, hung behind her to show how little in ten years the clever woman had changed. By her side were the inevitable cigarettes, smelling-salts, and a French novel which on its appearance lately had excited a prosecution. Lady Vizard held a stall at a forthcoming bazaar, and it was not altogether without satisfaction that she read at that moment the prospectus in which her name figured on a list whereof the obvious respectability was highly imposing.

Tall and statuesque, she wore her gowns with a flaunting extravagance rather than with the simplicity, often bordering on slovenliness, of most of her countrywomen. She had no desire to conceal from masculine gaze the sinuous outlines of her splendid figure, and dressed, with the bold effrontery of the sensual woman, to draw attention to her particular anatomy rather than to conceal it. Nor was she strange to the intricate art of
maquillage
: the average Englishwoman who paints her face, characteristically feeling it a first step in the descent to Avernus, paints it badly. She can never avoid the idea that cosmetics are a little wicked or a little vulgar, and a tiny devil, cloven-footed and betailed, lurks always at the bottom of her rouge-pot. Then, perversely, the plunge once taken, to reassure herself she very distinctly exaggerates. Lady Vizard used all the artifices known to the wise, but so cleverly that the result was admirable: even her hair, which to most of her sex is a block of stumbling, was dyed in complete harmony with her eyes and complexion, so that the gross male intelligence was often deceived. Her eyebrows were perfect, and the pencilled line at her eyelashes gave her flashing eyes a greater intensity; the cosmetic on her lips was applied with an artist's hand, and her mouth was no less beautiful than Cupid's bow.

Lady Vizard had not seen her son for five years, and she noted the change in him with interest but without emotion.

'Let me give you some tea,' she said. 'By the way, why didn't you come and see me on your return from the Cape?'

'You forget that you gave Miller orders not to admit me.'

'You shouldn't have taken that
au grand sérieux;
I dismiss my maid every time she does my hair badly, but she's been with me for years. I forgave you in a week.'

Their eyes met, and they realized that the position between them was unchanged. Lady Vizard shrugged her shoulders.

'I asked you to come today because I thought you might have grown more tolerant in five years. Apparently you are one of those men who never learn.'

Even a year before Basil would have answered that he hoped never to grow tolerant of dishonour, but now, ashamed, he sat in silence. His effort was to assume the air of polite indifference which his mother used so easily. He foresaw her next question, and it tortured him that he must expose part at least of his secret to that scornful woman; yet, just because it was so distasteful, he meant to answer them openly.

'And whom are you going to marry?'

'No one you have ever heard of,' he answered, smiling.

'Do you wish to make a secret of the fortunate creature's name?'

'Miss Bush.'

'That doesn't sound very distinguished, does it? Who is her father?'

'He's in the City.'

'Rich?'

'Very poor.'

Lady Vizard looked at her son keenly, then with a peculiar expression leaned forward.

'Pardon me if I ask, but is she what your tedious grandmother called a gentlewoman?'

'She's a barmaid in Fleet Street,' he answered defiantly.

Without hesitation came the next question, in a ringing voice.

'And when do you expect the
accouchement?'

A blow could not have taken him more aback. The blood rushed to his cheeks, and he sprang to his feet. Her eyes rested
on him with cool scorn, and confounded by her penetration, he found nothing to say.

'I'm right, am I? Virtue has had a fall, apparently. Ah,
mon cher,
I've not forgotten the charming things you said to me five years ago. Have you? Don't you remember the eloquence with which you spoke of chastity and honour? And you called me a name – which well-conducted sons don't usually apply to their mothers; but I take it your wife will have no fewer claims to it than I?'

'If I have lust in my blood, it's because I have the misfortune to be your son,' he cried fiercely.

'I can't help admiring you when I remember the unctuous rectitude with which you acted the upright man, and you were playing your little game all the time. But,
franchement,
your little game rather disgusts me. I don't like these hole-and-corner tricks with barmaids.'

'I dare say I did wrong, but I mean to make amends.'

'Of all fools, the saints preserve me from the fool who repents. If you can't sin like a gentleman, you'd really better be virtuous. A gentleman doesn't marry a barmaid because he's seduced her – unless he has the soul of a counter-jumper. And then you dared come to me with your impudent sermons!'

At the recollection her eyes flashed, and she stood over Basil like some wrathful, outraged goddess.

'What do you know of life and the fiery passion that burns in my veins? You don't know what devils tear at my breast. How can you judge me? But what do I care? I've had a good time in my day, and I'm not finished yet; and after all, if you weren't such a prig, you'd see that I'm a better sort than most women, for I've never deserted a friend nor hit an enemy that was down.'

This she said with an angry vehemence, fluently as though she had often uttered the words to herself, and now at last found the opportunity for which she had waited. But quickly she regained that cutting irony of manner which she well knew was most effective.

'And when I grow old I shall go into the Catholic Church and finish my days in the odour of sanctity.'

'Have you anything more to say to me?' asked Basil coldly.

'Nothing,' she replied, shrugging her shoulders. 'You were born to make a fool of yourself. You're one of those persons who are doomed to mediocrity because you haven't the spirit to go to the devil like a man. Go away and marry your barmaid. I tell you that you disgust me.'

Blind with rage, his hands clenched, Basil turned to the door, but before he reached it the butler announced Lord de Capit, and a tall fair youth entered. Basil gave him an angry glare, for he could well imagine what were the relations between his mother and the wealthy peer. Lord de Capit looked after him with astonishment.

'Who is that amiable person?' he asked.

Lady Vizard gave a little, irritated laugh.

'A foolish creature. He doesn't interest me.'

'One of my predecessors?'

'No, of course not,' answered Lady Vizard, amused. 'Give me
a kiss, child.'

Profoundly despondent, Basil walked back to the Temple, and when he came to his door it was opened by Jenny. He remembered then that she had promised to come that afternoon to hear the final arrangements for their marriage, which was to take place at a registry office.

'I met my brother Jimmie in the Strand, Basil,' she said, 'and I've brought him up to see you.'

Going in, he found a weedy youth seated on the table, with dangling legs. He had sandy hair, a clean-shaven, sharp face, and pale eyes. Much commoner than his sister, he spoke with a pronounced Cockney accent, and when he smiled, showing small, discoloured teeth, had an expression of rather odious cunning. He was dressed in the height of fashion – for City sportsmen, with a rakish bowler, a check suit, and a bright violet shirt: he flourished a thin bamboo cane.

'How do?' he said, nodding to Basil. 'Pleased to make your acquaintance.'

'I'm afraid I've kept you waiting.'

'Don't apologize,' Mr Bush answered cheerfully. 'I can't stay long, because I'm a business man, but I thought I'd better
just pop in and say 'ow d'ye do to my future brother-in-law. I'm a chap as likes to be cordial.'

'It's very kind of you,' said Basil politely.

'My! He was surprised when I told him I was going to marry you, Basil,' cried Jenny, with a little laugh of pleasure.