Chapter VIII: Part II: I (2)

A certain force of will gave him an imaginary strength, so that in a couple of days he was on his feet again; but the elation, which during a fortnight had upborne him, now was quite gone, and he was so silent that Bella feared he had not forgiven the delay on which she insisted. They were obliged to spend a week in Brindisi, that dull, sordid, populous town, and together wandered much about its tortuous and narrow streets. It pleased Herbert chiefly to go down to the port, for he loved the crowded ships, loading and unloading, and dreamt of their long voyages over the wild waste of the sea; and he loved the lounging sailormen, the red-sashed, swarthy porters, the urchins who played merrily on the quay. But the life which thrilled through them, one and all, caused him sometimes an angry despair; they seemed to possess such infinite power to enjoy things, and with all his heart he envied the poorest stoker because his muscles were like iron and his breathing free. The week passed, and on the afternoon before their boat sailed Herbert went out alone; but Bella, knowing his habits, was presently able to find him: he sat on a little hill, olive-clad, and overlooked the sea. He did not notice her approach, for his gaze, intent as though he sought to see the longed-for shores of Greece, was fixed upon the blue Ægean distance, and on his wan and wasted face was a pain indescribable.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Bella: I wanted you.”

She sat beside him, and taking her hand, his eyes wandered again to the far horizon. A fishing-boat, with a white, strange-shaped sail, sped like a fair sea-bird over the water’s shining floor. The sky was a hard, hot blue like the lapis-lazuli, and not a cloud broke its serene monotony.

“Bella,” he said at last, “I don’t want to go to Greece. I haven’t the courage.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, enormously surprised. All his thoughts had tended to this one object, and it seemed a sign of ill omen that when at length it lay within reach he should draw back.

“You thought I was angry because we didn’t start last week. I tried to be, but in my heart I was glad of the respite. I was afraid. I’ve been trying to screw up my courage, but I can’t.”

He did not look at her, but gazed straight out to sea.

“I daren’t run the risk, Bella. I’m afraid to put my fancies to the test of reality. I want to keep my illusions. Italy has shown me that nothing is so lovely and enchanting as the image of it in my mind. Each time that something hasn’t quite come up to my expectations I’ve said myself that Greece would repay me for everything. But now I know that Greece will have just the same disappointments, and I can’t bear them. Let me die with the picture still in my heart of the long-beloved country as I have fancied it. What is it to me when fauns no longer scamper through the fields, and dryads aren’t in the running brooks? It’s not Greece I go to see, but the land of my ideal.”

“But, my dearest, there’s no need to go. You know I’d much rather not,” cried Bella.

He looked at her at length, and his glance was long and searching. It seemed that he wished to speak, yet for some reason hesitated strangely. Then he made an effort.

“I want to go home, Bella,” he whispered. “I feel I can’t breathe here; the blue sky overwhelms me, and I long for the gray clouds of England. I didn’t know I loved my country till I left it. . . . D’you think I’m an awful prig?”

“No, dear,” she answered, with choking voice.

“The clamour of the South tires my ears, and the colours are overbright, the air is too thin and too brilliant, the eternal sunshine blinds me. Oh, give me my own country again. I can’t die down here; I want to be buried among my own people. I’ve never said a word to you, Bella, but lately I’ve lain awake at night thinking of the fat Kentish soil. I want to take it up in my hands, the cool, rich mould, and feel its coldness and its strength. When I look up at that blue fire, I think of my beautiful Kentish sky, so gray, so soft, so low; and I yearn for those rounded clouds, all pregnant with rain.”

His excitement was unbearable as the thoughts crowded upon him, and he pressed his hands to his eyes so that nothing should disturb.

“My mouth is parched for the spring showers. D’you know, we’ve not seen a drop of rain for a month. Now at Leanham and at Ferne the elm-trees and the oaks are all in leaf, and I love their fresh young green. There’s nothing here like the green of the Kentish fields. Oh, I can feel the salt breeze of the North Sea blowing against my cheek, and in my nostrils are all the spring smells of the country. I must see the hedgerows once more, and I want to listen to the birds singing. I long for the cathedral with its old gray stones, and the dark, shady streets of Tercanbury. I want to hear English spoken around me; I want to see English faces. Bella, Bella, for God’s sake take me home, or I shall die!”

There was such agony in his passionate appeal that Bella was more than ever alarmed. She thought he had some mysterious premonition of the end, and it was only with difficulty that she brought herself to utter words of consolation and of reassurance. They settled to start at once. Herbert, in his anxiety, wished to travel directly to London; but his wife, determined to take no risk that could possibly be avoided, insisted on going by very easy stages. Through the winter she had written every week to the Dean, telling him of their doings and the places they saw, but he had never once replied, and for news of him she had been forced to rely on friends in Tercanbury. Now she wrote to him immediately.

“MY DEAREST FATHER,
“My husband is dying, and I am bringing him home at his own wish, I
do not know how long he can continue to live, but at the most I’m
afraid it can only be a question of very few months. I beg you most
earnestly to put aside your anger. Let us come to you. I have
nowhere to take Herbert, and I cannot bear that he should die in a
stranger’s house. I beseech you to write to me at Paris.

“Your affectionate daughter, “BELLA.”

Her first two letters the Dean had enough resolution not to open, but he could not grow used to his solitude, and each day missed more acutely his daughter’s constant care. The house was very empty without her, and sometimes in the morning, forgetting what had happened, he expected when he went down to breakfast to find her as ever, alert and trim, at the head of his table. The third letter he could not resist, and afterwards, though his pride forbade him to answer, looked forward intensely to the weekly communication. Once, when by some chance it was two days delayed, he was so anxious that he went to a friend in the chapter whose wife, he knew, corresponded with Bella, and asked whether anything had been heard.

On opening this final note, the Dean was surprised to find it so short, for Bella, to comfort and interest him, was used to write a sort of diary of the week. He read it two or three times. He gathered first that Bella was on her way home, and if he liked might once more sit at his solitary table, go about the house gently as of old, and in the evening play to him the simple melodies he loved so well; but then he became aware of the restrained despair in those few hurried lines, and reading deeper than the words, understood for the first time her overwhelming love for that poor sick boy. From his daughter’s letters the Dean had come to know Herbert somewhat intimately, for with subtle tenderness Bella related little traits which she knew would touch him, and for long he had struggled with an uneasy feeling of his own injustice. He remembered now the lad’s youth and simplicity, that he was poor and ill, and his heart went out to him strangely. Contrition seized him. A portrait of his wife, dead for five-and-thirty years, hung in the Dean’s study, showing her in the first year of marriage with the simpering air, the brown ringlets, of a middle Victorian young lady; and though a work of no merit, to the sorrowing husband it seemed a real masterpiece. He had often gathered solace and advice from those brown eyes, and now, pride and love contending in his breast, looked at it earnestly. The face seemed to wear an expression of reproach, and in mute self-abasement the Dean bent his head. The hungry had come to him, and he had given no meat; the stranger he had cast out, and the sick turned from his door.

“I have sinned against heaven and in Thy sight,” he muttered painfully, “and am no more worthy to be called Thy son.”

His eyes caught a photograph of Bella, which, for a while banished from the room, now again occupied its accustomed place, and as though to take her in his arms, he stretched his hands towards it. He smiled happily, for his mind was made up. Notwithstanding the words uttered in his wrath, he would go to Paris and bring home his daughter with her dying husband; and if in the last months of the boy’s life he could make up for past harshness, perhaps it would be taken as some atonement for his cruel pride.

Announcing his intention to no one, the Dean set out at once. He had no means to communicate with Bella, but knew the hotel to which she would go, and determined there to await her arrival. Finding at what hour she must reach it, he lingered in the hall, but twice was grievously disappointed. On the third day, however, when he began to feel the tension unbearable, a cab drove up, and trembling with excitement, he saw Bella step out. Desirous that she should not see him immediately, the Dean withdrew a little to one side. He noted the care with which she helped Herbert to get out of the cab: she took his arm to lead him in. He was apparently very weak, wrapped up to his eyes though the evening was warm, and while she asked for rooms he sat down in sheer exhaustion.

The Dean was very remorseful when he saw the change in him, for when last they met Herbert Field was full of spirits and gay; and these months of anxiety had left their mark on Bella also, whose hair was beginning to turn quite gray. Her expression was tired and wan. When they were gone upstairs, the Dean asked for the number of their room, but to give them time to get off their things, forced himself to wait half an hour by the clock. Then, going up, he knocked at the door. Bella, thinking it was a maid, called out in French.

“Bella,” he said in a low voice, and he remembered how once she had begged to be admitted to his study and he had refused.

With a cry she flung open the door, and in a moment they were clasped in one another’s arms; he pressed her to his heart, but in his emotion found no word to say. She drew him in eagerly.

“Herbert, here’s my father.”

The youth was lying on the bed in the next room, and Bella led the Dean in. Herbert was too tired to rise.

“I’ve come to take you both home,” said the old man, tears of joy in his voice.

“Oh, father, I’m so glad. You’re not angry with me any longer. It’ll make me so happy if you forgive me.”

“It’s not you that need forgiveness, but I, Bella. I want to ask your husband to pardon my unkindness. I’ve been harsh and proud and cruel.”

He went to Herbert and took his hand.

“Will you forgive me, my dear? Will you allow me to be your father as well as Bella’s?”

“I shall be very grateful.”

“And will you come back to Tercanbury with me? I should like you to know that so long as I live my home will be yours. And I will try and make you forget that I was ever——”

The Dean broke off with a gesture of appeal, unable to finish.

“I know you’re very good,” smiled Herbert, “and you see I have brought Bella back to you.”

The Dean hesitated a moment shyly, then bent down and very tenderly kissed the pale, suffering lad.

IV

Some days after the party at Lady Edward Stringer’s Basil went to Brighton, and was met at the station by Jenny and her sister. Sending the traps by porter, they set out for the lodgings, but were quickly joined by a very smart young man, introduced to Basil as Mr. Higgins, who paired off with Annie Bush, When they had gone ahead, Basil asked who he was.

“He’s Annie’s latest,” answered Jenny, laughing.

“Have you known him long?”

“We got to know him the second day we were down. I noticed him look at us, and I said to Annie: ‘There you are, my dear; there’s company for you when Basil comes, because I can’t stick walking three in a row.’”

“Who introduced him to you?”

“What a silly you are!” laughed Jenny. “He just came up and said good-evening, and Annie said good-evening, and then he began to talk. He seems to have lots of money. He took us to a concert last night, to the best places. It was nice of him, wasn’t it?”

“But, my dear child, you can’t go about with people you don’t know.”

“You must let Annie enjoy herself, and he’s a very respectable young fellow, isn’t he? You see, living at home, she hasn’t the opportunity to get to know men that I had. And he’s quite a gentleman.”

“Is he? I should have thought him a most awful bounder.”

“You’re so particular,” said Jenny. “I don’t see anything wrong in him.”

Arriving at the lodging-house, Annie, engaged in lively conversation with her new acquaintance, stopped till the others came up. She resembled Jenny as much as it was possible for a somewhat plain woman to resemble a beautiful. She had the same graceful figure, but her hair, arranged with needless elaboration, was colourless, and her complexion had not the mellow delicacy which distinguished her elder.

“Jenny,” she cried, “he won’t come in to tea because he says you want to be alone with your hubby. Tell him it’s all right.”

“Of course it’s all right,” said Jenny. “You come in and take a cup of tea with us, and then we’ll all go on the front.”

He was evidently a facetious person, for while Basil washed he heard the two women in the adjoining room shout with uproarious merriment. Presently Jenny called out that tea was ready, and somewhat against his will, he was forced to go in. His wife, much better in health, talking and laughing loudly, was in high spirits; and the three had evidently enjoyed thoroughly the last two weeks, for they were full of remembered jokes. Basil, annoyed by the stranger’s intrusion, sought not to join in the conversation, but sat silently, and after a while took up a newspaper. Annie gave him an angry glance, and Mr. Higgins looked once or twice uncertainly, but then went on with his rapid string of anecdote. Perhaps he also had cause for irritation, since his best stories were heard by Basil with all the appearance of profound boredom.

“Well, who says a stroll on the parade?” he cried at last.

“Come on, Jenny,” answered Annie Bush, and turned to Basil. “Are you coming?”

He looked up from his paper indifferently.

“No; I have some letters to write.”

Jenny preferred to remain with her husband, and, once alone, they talked for a time of domestic affairs; but there seemed a certain constraint between them, and presently Basil began to read. When Annie, after some while, came back, she glanced at him aggressively.

“Better?” she asked.

“What?”

“I thought you didn’t seem well at tea.”

“Thanks, I’m in the best of health.”

“You might make yourself obliging, then, instead of sitting there like a funeral-mute when I have a gentleman to visit me.”

“I’m sorry my behaviour doesn’t meet with your approval,” he answered quietly.

“Mr. Higgins says he won’t come here till your husband’s taken himself off, my dear. He says he knows where he’s not wanted, and I don’t blame him, either.”

“Oh, Annie, what nonsense!” cried Mrs. Kent, “Basil was only tired.”

“Yes, a journey to Brighton’s very tiring, isn’t it? I tell you straight, Basil, I expect my friends to be treated like gentlemen.”

“You’re an amiable creature, Annie,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders.

After supper Annie waited somewhat impatiently till the servant came in to say that Mr. Higgins was at the door; then hurriedly put on her hat. Basil hesitated for one moment, unwilling to give offence, but decided that some word of warning was necessary.

“I say, Annie, d’you think you ought to go out alone at night with a man you’ve picked up casually on the pier?”

“What I do is no business of yours, is it?” she answered angrily. “I’d thank you to give me your advice when I ask for it.”

“Shall I come with you, Annie?” said her sister.

“Now, don’t you interfere. I can look after myself, as you know very well.”

She went out, vindictively slamming the door, and Basil, without another word, a frown on his brow, returned to his book. But in a little while he heard that Jenny was crying very quietly.

“Jenny, Jenny, what’s the matter?” he exclaimed.

“Oh, nothing,” she answered, drying her eyes and doing her best to smile. “Only I’ve been having such a good time down here; I only wanted you to make it perfect. I did look forward so to your coming, and now you’ve upset everything.”

“I’m very sorry,” he sighed, with complete discouragement.

He did not know what to say nor how to comfort her, for he realized, too, that his appearance had disturbed her enjoyment, and for all his goodwill he appeared able to bring her only unhappiness. She was most herself in the company of such as Mr. Higgins; her greatest pleasure was to walk on the parade, staring at the people, or to listen to nigger-minstrels’ sentimental ditties; she wanted gaiety and noise and garish colour. On the other hand, things which affected him painfully left her unmoved, and she was perfectly content in the sordid, vulgar lodging which overwhelmed him with disgust. It seemed that he was in a labyrinth of cross-purposes wherefrom was no issue.

Next morning occurred a trifling incident which showed Basil how his wife regarded him. Annie, dressed for church, came downstairs in a costume which was positively outrageous, so that one wondered at the perverse ingenuity with which the colours were blended; and she wore much cheap finery.

“Well, my dear, you’re never going out like that!” she cried, seeing that Jenny was no differently attired from the day before. (An antipathy to Sunday clothes was to his wife one of Basil’s most incomprehensible fads.) “Aren’t you going to put on your new hat?”

Mrs. Kent looked somewhat uneasily at her husband.

“I saw such a smart hat in a shop, Basil, and Annie simply made me buy it. And I must say it was dirt cheap—only six and eleven.”

“This is evidently an occasion to put it on,” he smiled. In a few minutes she came back, radiant and flushed, but Basil could not persuade himself that her headgear was cheap at the price.

“D’you like it?” she asked anxiously.

“Very much,” he replied, wishing to please.

“There, Jenny, I knew he wouldn’t mind. If you heard all the fuss she made about your being angry and not liking it, and I don’t know what all!”

“Basil says I look best in black,” said Jenny in self-defence.

“Men never know what’s dressy, my dear,” Annie answered. “If you went by what Basil said, you would be a dowd.”

It was rather distressing to find that his wife still somewhat feared him. In her eyes, apparently, he was a bearish creature whose whimsical fancies must be humoured, and he thought bitterly of the confidence which he hoped would exist between them, of the complete union in which not a thought nor an emotion should be unshared. And knowing that his own love was long since dead, Basil sought to persuade himself that hers also was on the wane. The week-end bored him immensely, and it was not without relief that he found himself on Monday morning at the station, whither his wife accompanied him.

“I’m awfully busy; I don’t know whether I can manage to come down next Saturday,” he said tentatively.

But Jenny’s eyes filled on a sudden with tears.

“Oh, Basil, Basil, I can’t live without you! I’d rather come up to town. If you don’t like Annie, she can go away. Promise me you’ll come. I look forward to it all the week.”

“You’ll have a very good time without me. I’ve only made you wretched by my visit.”

“No, you haven’t. I want you so badly. I’d rather be utterly unhappy with you than happy without. Promise me you’ll come.”

“All right. I will.”

The chains that bound him were as fast as ever. And as the train sped towards London his heart beat madly because each minute he drew nearer to Hilda Murray. It was very plain now that he loved her passionately, more than ever he had done, and with violent rage he told himself that she was lost to him for always. Intoxicated by the ring of her voice, by the sweep of her dress, by the tender look in her eyes, he repeated every word she had said at Lady Edward’s. On Wednesday he was to dine with Miss Ley, and already he felt sick with hope at the thought of meeting Hilda. In the afternoon, leaving chambers, he went home by way of Charles Street, and like a lover of eighteen, looked up at her windows. There were lights in the drawing-room, so that he knew she was at home, but he dared not go in. Mrs. Murray had not asked him to visit her, and he could not tell whether she had no wish to see him, or whether she thought a call so obvious as to need no special invitation. The windows seemed to beckon, the very door offered a mute welcome; while he lingered someone came out, Mr. Farley, and wondered angrily why he should go to that house so often. At length with a desperate effort he walked away.

Though Basil went on Wednesday to Miss Ley almost trembling with excitement, he managed to ask gaily who was expected to dinner, but his heart sank when she made no mention of Mrs. Murray. Then he wondered how to pass the dreariness of that evening to which he had so enormously looked forward. Since the meeting at Lady Edward Stringer’s, the passion, hitherto dormant, had blazed into such a vehement flame that he could scarcely bear himself. It seemed impossible to live through the week without seeing Hilda; he could think of nothing else, and foresaw with sheer horror his excursion on Saturday to Brighton. Of course it was madness, and he knew well enough it was no use to see Mrs. Murray again—it would have been better if they had never met; but the sound sense which he preached to himself seemed folly, and his eagerness to see her overcame all prudence. He thought there could be no harm in speaking to her just once more, only once, after which he vowed entirely to forget her.

Next day he walked again through Charles Street, and again saw the light in her windows. He hesitated, walking up and down. He could not tell if she wished any longer to know him, and feared horribly to discern on her face that he intruded, but at length in sullen anger decided to adventure. He could not love Hilda more if he saw her, and perhaps by some miracle the sight might console him, helping him to bear his captivity. He rang.

“Is Mrs. Murray at home?”

“Yes, sir.”

She was reading when he entered the room, and with dismay Basil fancied that a very slight look of vexation crossed her eyes. It disconcerted him so that he could think of nothing to say. Then he imagined that his behaviour must astonish her, and asked himself whether she knew the cause of his sudden marriage. He listened to the polite or flippant things she said, and did his best to answer fittingly; but his words sounded so unnatural that he scarcely recognised his voice. Yet they laughed and jested as though neither had a care in the world; they spoke of Miss Ley and of Frank, of the plays then to be seen in London, of one trivial topic after another, till Basil was forced to go.

“I came in fear and trembling,” he said gaily, “because you certainly never asked me to call.”

“I thought it wasn’t needful,” she answered, smiling; but she looked straight into his eyes with an odd air of defiance.

Basil flushed, glancing at her quickly, for there seemed a double meaning in her words, and he knew not how to take them. He lost momentarily his urbane, courteous manner.

“I wanted so much to come and see you,” he said, in a low voice, which he strove to keep firm. “May I come again?”

“Of course!” she replied; but her tone was full of cold surprise, as though she wondered at his question and resented it.

Suddenly she found his eyes fixed upon her with such an expression of deadly anguish that she was troubled. His face was very white, and his lips twitched as though he sought to command himself. All through the night she thought of that look of utter agony; it stared at her from the darkness, and she knew that if she needed revenge the fates had given it. But she was not pleased. For the hundredth time, unable to get it out of her head that he loved her still, she asked herself why he had married so strangely; but she would not inquire into her own feelings. She tightened her lips.

Knowing well that he would come again, it was Mrs. Murray’s impulse to tell the butler not to admit him; but something, she knew not what, prevented her. She wished to observe once more the terrible wretchedness of his face; she wished to make sure that he was not happy in what seemed his cruel treachery. One afternoon of the following week, coming in from a drive, she found his card. She took it in her hand and turned it over.

“Shall I ask him to luncheon?” With a frown of annoyance she put it down. “No; if he wants to see me, let him come again.”

Basil was bitterly disappointed that day when the servant said that Mrs. Murray was not at home, and at first determined that there he must leave it. He waited for a note, but none came. He waited for a week, able to do nothing but think of her, restless and preoccupied. With stricken conscience he went to Brighton, and so far as possible avoided to be alone with Jenny. He took her to a play one night, to a concert the next, and insisted that Mr. Higgins, still faithful, should be constantly with them; but the whole thing disgusted him, and he felt utterly ashamed.

Then he made it a practice every evening to take Charles Street on his way to Frank, and ever the windows appeared to invite him. When he looked back, the whole street beckoned, and at length he could resist no longer. He knew that Mrs. Murray was in. If the butler sent him away it must be taken as definite, for it would mean that Hilda had given orders he was not to be admitted.

This time better fortune was his, but when he saw her the many things on the tip of his tongue seemed impossible of utterance, and it was an effort to speak commonplace. Mrs. Murray was disconcerted by the look of pain which darkened his face, and the constraint between them made conversation very difficult. Basil dared not prolong his visit, yet it was dreadfully hard to go leaving unspoken all that lay so heavily on his heart. Talk flagged, and presently silence fell upon them.

“When is your book to be published?” she asked, oppressed, she knew not why.

“In a fortnight.... I wanted to thank you for your help.”

“Me!” she cried, with surprise. “What have I done!”

“More than you know. I felt sometimes as if I were writing for you only. I judged of everything by what I thought would be your opinion of it.”

Mrs. Murray, somewhat embarrassed, did not answer. He looked away, as though forcing himself to speak, but nervous.

“You know, it seems to me as though everyone were surrounded by an invisible ring which cuts him off from the rest of the world. Each of us stands entirely alone, and each step one must judge for one’s self, and none can help.”

“D’you think so?” she answered. “If people only knew, they would be so ready to do anything they could.”

“Perhaps, but they never know. The things about which it’s possible to ask advice are so unimportant. There are other things, in which life and death are at stake, about which a man can never say a word; yet if he could it would alter so much.” He turned and faced her gravely. “A man may have acted in a certain way, causing great pain to someone who was very dear to him, yet if all the facts were known that person might—excuse and pardon.”

Mrs. Murray’s heart began to beat, and she had some difficulty in preserving the steadiness of her voice.

“Does it much matter? In the end everyone resigns himself. I think an onlooker who could see into human hearts would be dismayed to find how much wretchedness there is which men bear smiling. We should all be very gentle to our fellows if we realized how dreadfully unhappy they were.”

Again there was silence, but strangely enough, the barrier between them appeared suddenly to have fallen, and now, though neither spoke, there was no discomfort, Basil got up.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Murray. I’m glad you let me come to-day.”

“Why on earth shouldn’t I?”

“I was afraid your servant would say you weren’t at home.”

He looked at her steadily, as though meaning to say far more than was expressed in the words.

“I shall always be very glad to see you,” she answered, in a low voice.

“Thank you.”

A look of deep gratitude softened away the pain on his face.

At that moment Mrs. Barlow-Bassett was announced. She shook hands with Basil somewhat coldly, thinking that a man who had married a barmaid could be no proper companion for her virtuous son, and she determined not to renew the old acquaintance. He went out.

“D’you know whom Mr. Kent married, and why?” asked Mrs. Murray.

The question had been often on her lips, but pride till this moment had ever prevented her from making an effort to clear up a difficulty which had long puzzled her.

“My dear Hilda, don’t you know? It’s a most shocking story. I must say I was surprised to find him here, but of course, if you didn’t know, that explains it. He got into trouble with some dreadfully low creature.”

“She’s very beautiful. I’ve seen her.”

“You?” cried Mrs. Bassett, with astonishment. “It seems there was going to be a baby, and he was forced to marry.”

Mrs. Murray blushed to the roots of her hair, and for one moment bitter anger blazed in her heart. Again she told herself that she hated and loathed him, but remembering on a sudden the woe in his eyes, knew it was no longer true.

“D’you think he’s very unhappy?”

“He must be. When a man marries beneath him he’s always unhappy, and I must say I think he deserves it. I told my boy the whole story as a warning. It just shows what comes of not having good principles.”

Mrs. Murray’s eyes dwelt on the speaker absently, as though she thought of other things.

“Poor fellow! I’m afraid you’re right. He is very unhappy.”

V

In his distress Basil could scarcely bear the thought of resuming his old life at Barnes, so unprofitable to the spirit, mean and illiberal; and though ill able to afford it, pretexting Jenny’s health, he insisted that she should remain longer at Brighton than was at first intended. But at length she was evidently quite well, and no persuasions of Basil could induce her to prolong her visit. They returned to the little house in River Gardens, and outwardly things went very much as in the past. Yet certain differences there were. They seemed more strange to one another after the temporary separation, and on each side trifles arose occasionally to embitter their relations. Basil observed his wife now in a more critical spirit, and certain little vulgarities which before had escaped him now set his teeth on edge. He thought that the company of her sister for two months had affected her somewhat badly. She used expressions which he found objectionable, and he could not help it if her manners at table offended his fastidious taste. He loathed the slovenly way with which she conducted her household affairs, and the carelessness of her dress. Though what she bought was ever in outrageous taste, indoors she took no pains to be even tidy, and spent most of the day a dirty dressing-gown, with bedraggled hair. But since alteration seemed impossible, Basil determined rather to ignore things, leading his own life apart, and allowing Jenny to lead hers. When she did anything of which he disapproved, he merely shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips. He grew much more silent, and did not now attempt to discuss with her matters wherein he was aware she took no interest.

But he had reckoned without his wife’s passionate affection, no less than when first they married. Realizing the change in him, of which the causes were to her quite incomprehensible, Jenny was profoundly disturbed. Sometimes she wept helplessly, wondering what she had done to lose his love, and at others, conscious of his injustice, broke irritably into sharp speeches. She resented his reserve, and the indifference with which he put aside her questions on topics which before he would have eagerly discussed. Brooding over all this, she concluded that only a woman could have wrought this difference, and remembered on a sudden her mother’s advice to keep a sharp eye on him. Basil one morning told her that he was dining out that day. He had accepted the invitation before he knew she would be back.

“Who with?” asked Jenny, quickly suspicious.

“Mrs. Murray.”

“Your lady friend who came down here to see you last year?”

“She came to see _you_,” replied Basil, smiling.

“Yes, I believe that. I don’t think a married man ought to go dining in the West End by himself.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve accepted the invitation, and I must go.”

Jenny did not answer, but when Basil came home in the afternoon watched him. She saw how restless he was. His eyes shone with excitement, and he looked at his watch a dozen times to see if it were time to dress. The moment he was gone, determined to find out on what terms he was with Mrs. Murray, and hindered by no scruple, she went to the pockets of the coat he had just taken off, but his pocket-book was not there. A little surprised, for he was careless about such things, she thought there might be a letter in the desk, and with beating heart went to it. But it was locked, and this unaccustomed precaution doubled her suspicions. Remembering that there was a duplicate key, she fetched it, and on opening the drawer at once came upon a note signed _Hilda Murray_. It began with _Dear Mr. Kent_, and ended _Yours Sincerely_—a mere formal invitation to dinner. Jenny glanced through the other letters, but they related to business matters. She replaced them in the old order and locked the drawer. She felt sick with shame now that she had actually done this thing.

“Oh, how he’d despise me!” she cried.

And in terror lest she had left any trace of her interference, she opened the drawer again, and once more smoothed out and tidied everything. Basil had asked her not to wait up for him, but she could not go to bed. She looked at the clock, ticking so slowly, and with something like rage told herself that Basil all this time enjoyed himself, and never thought of her. When he came home, flushed and animated, she fancied that a look of annoyance crossed his face when he saw her still sitting in the armchair.

“Are you very sleepy?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you go to bed? I’m just going to have one more pipe.”

“I’ll wait till you’re ready.”

She watched him walk up and down the room, excited with his thoughts, and he never spoke to her. He seemed to have forgotten that she was present. Then rage and jealousy overcame all other feelings.

“All right, my young fellow,” she whispered to herself, “I’ll find out if there’s anything in this.”

She had taken note of Mrs. Murray’s writing, and thenceforward examined closely the addresses of all letters that came for him, to see if one was written by her. Basil had been used to leave his correspondence lying about, but now took care to lock up everything, and this convinced her that he had something to conceal. But she flattered herself, with a little bitter laugh, that she was fairly sharp, and he did not know that every day after he went out she ransacked his desk. Though she never found anything, Jenny was none the less assured that there were good grounds for her jealousy. One morning she noticed that he was dressed in new clothes, and it flashed across her mind that in the afternoon he meant to see Mrs. Murray. It seemed to her that if he actually went it would be a confirmation of her fears, while if not she could put aside all these tormenting fancies. Knowing at what time he left chambers, Jenny, veiled and dressed soberly, that she might not attract his attention, took up her stand in good time on the other side of the square, and waited. Presently he came out, and she followed. She followed him sauntering down the Strand, she followed him to Piccadilly Circus, and here was obliged to come a little closer, for fear of losing him in the throng. On a sudden he wheeled round and quickly strode up to her. She gave a stifled cry, and then, seeing his face white with rage, was overwhelmed with shame.

“How dare you follow me, Jenny?”

“I wasn’t following you. I didn’t see you.”

He called a cab, and told her to get in, jumped up, and bade the driver go to Waterloo. They were just in time to catch a train to Barnes. He did not speak to her, and she watched him in frightened silence. He said no word during the walk back to the house. They went to the drawing-room, and he closed the door carefully.

“Now will you have the goodness to tell me what you mean by this?” he asked.

She gave no answer, but looked down in sullen anger,

“Well?”

“I won’t be bullied,” she answered.

“Look here, Jenny, we had better understand one another. Why have you been going to my drawer and reading my letters?”

“You’ve got no right to accuse me of that. It’s not true.”

You leave my desk in such disorder when you’ve been to it.”

“Well, I’ve got a right to know. Where were you going, to-day?”

“That is absolutely no business of yours. I’m simply ashamed that you should do such horrible things. Don’t you know that nothing is so disgraceful as to follow anyone in the street, and I’d sooner you stole than read private letters.”

“I’m not going to stand by and let you run after other women, so you needn’t think I am.”

He gave a laugh, partly of scorn, partly of disgust.

“Don’t be absurd. We’re married, and we must make the best of it. You may be quite sure that I’ll give you no cause for reproach.”

“You’re always after your fine friends that I’m not good enough for.”

“Good heavens!” he cried bitterly, “you can’t grudge me a little relaxation. It surely does you no harm if sometimes I go and see the people I knew intimately before my marriage?”

Jenny did not answer, but pretended to order anew flowers in a vase; then she smoothed down cushions on the sofa and set a picture straight.

“If you’ve done preaching at me, I’ll go and take off my hat,” she said at length viciously.

“You may do exactly as you choose,” he answered, with cold indifference.

Shortly after this Basil’s novel was published. Knowing that it could not interest her, and conscious of her small sympathy, he gave a copy to Jenny somewhat shyly, but said no more than the truth when he wrote to Mrs. Murray that great part of his pleasure in the book’s appearance lay in the fact that he was able to send it to her. He waited for her letter of thanks with as much anxiety as for the first reviews. She wrote twice, first to acknowledge the receipt and say that she had already read a chapter; then, having finished, to bestow enthusiastic praise. Her appreciation lifted him to a very heaven of delight. When Jenny, after an obvious struggle, reached the last page, he waited for some criticism, but since none came, was forced to ask what she thought.

“I liked it very much,” she said.

But there was in her tone an unconcern which not a little incensed him, and though he knew this indifference pointed to no particular fault in his book, he was none the less profoundly humiliated. Yet a bitterer disappointment awaited him in the reviews which now began to come in. For the most part they were short, somewhat scornful, somewhat patronizing, and it appeared that this book, which he had imagined would raise him at once to a literary position of some eminence, was no more than prentice work, showing more promise than performance. Its merits, indeed, were not few, but scarcely such as to excite any sudden admiration; his construction was faulty, and in parts his attention to the environment suggested rather the essay or the treatise. The result, notwithstanding many qualities, was neither very good romance nor very good history. Two literary papers at length offered salve to his wounded vanity in long and appreciative notices, doing full justice to his passion for beauty, his measured and careful style, the clear-cut perfection of his portraits. The first of these was sent him with a note of congratulation by Mrs. Murray, and he read it with leaping heart. It gave him new confidence, and a firmer resolution to do better in future. But though careful to hand over to Jenny all unfavourable criticisms, these, which from a literary standpoint were more important than all the others put together, with a kind of inverted pride he forbore to show.

The consequence of this was that Jenny gained a rather false impression of the book’s failure, and the idea came that Basil, after all, was perhaps not such a wonderful person as once she fancied. She sought not to analyze her feelings, but had she done so would have found in them a strange medley. She adored Basil passionately, jealously, but at the same time felt against him a sort of confused irritation which made her welcome the published sneers that wounded him so keenly; they seemed to draw him down to her, for if he was less clever than at first she thought it lessened the distance between them. Yet the gulf which separated them grew daily greater, and quarrels were of more frequent occurrence. Basil, hating his life at Barnes, wrapped himself in a reserve which he strove to make impenetrable; he was very silent, going about his work methodically, and doing his best to avoid the acrimonious discussions which Jenny forced upon him. He tried to relieve his unhappiness with unceasing toil, and to counter his wife’s ill-temper with philosophic indifference. It drove her to furious anger that, however she taunted, he seldom replied, and then only with cold sarcasm. But sometimes remorse seized her. Then she went to her husband in tears, begging him to forgive and asserting again her great love; and this for some days would be followed by a measure of peace.

But one morning a more serious quarrel arose, for Basil, somewhat pressed for money, had discovered that James Bush, still out of work, was steadily borrowing from Jenny. He had begged her not to lend any more, and finding her unwilling to give a promise, was obliged somewhat peremptorily to insist that not another penny should go into the grasping hands of the Bush family. On both sides there was a good deal of irritation, and finally Basil flung out of the house. Presently James Bush, cause of all the trouble, sauntered in.

“Where’s his lordship this afternoon?” he asked, helping himself to Basil’s cigarettes.

“He’s gone out for a walk.”

“That’s what he tells you, my dear,” he answered with a malevolent laugh.

“Have you seen him anywhere?” asked Jenny quickly, full of suspicion.

“No, I can’t say I ’ave, an’ if I ’ad I wouldn’t boast about it.”

“What did you mean, then?” she insisted.

“Well, whenever I come here he’s out for a walk.”

He glanced at her, and then without more ado asked for the loan of a couple of sovereigns; but Jenny, mindful of the morning’s dispute, and regretfully conscious that herself had brought it about, firmly refused. Since he insisted, accusing her of meanness, she was forced to explain how heavy of late had been their expenses; the doctor had sent in a bill for fifty pounds, the visit to Brighton cost a great deal, and they would have much difficulty to make both ends meet.

“It was a wonderful fine thing you did when you married him, Jenny, and you thought you’d done precious well for yourself too.”

“I won’t have you say anything against him,” she cried petuously.

“All right; keep your shirt in. I’m blowed if I know what you’ve got to stick up for him about. He don’t care much about you.”

She looked up with a quick drawing-in of the breath.

“How d’you know?”

“Think I can’t see?” He chuckled slily at his own acuteness. “I suppose you ’aven’t been crying to-day?”

“We had a little tiff this morning,” she answered. “Oh, don’t say he doesn’t care for me. I couldn’t live.”

“Go along with you,” he laughed. “Basil Kent ain’t the only pebble on the beach.”

Jenny went to the window and looked out. She saw her husband walk slowly along, his head bent down, betraying in his whole appearance the most profound depression, and thinking of their wretchedness, she could not restrain her tears. Everything went against them, and though loving him so tenderly, some mysterious power seemed ever to force her to anger him. With entire despair she turned to her brother and spoke words which had long been in her heart, but which till then she had not uttered to a living soul.

“Oh, Jimmie, Jimmie, sometimes I don’t know which way to turn, I’m that unhappy. If the baby had only lived, I might have kept my husband—I might have made him love me.”

She sank on a chair and hid her face, but in a moment, hearing the door close, looked up.

“He’s just come in, Jimmie. Mind you don’t say anything to put him out.”

“I’d just like to give ’im a piece of my mind.”

“Oh, Jimmie, don’t. It was my fault that we quarrelled this morning. I wanted to make him angry, and I nagged at him.” She knew the best way to influence her brother. “Don’t let him see that I’ve said anything to you, and I’ll try and send you a pound to-morrow.”

“Well, he’d better not start patronizing me, because I won’t put up with it. I’m a gentleman, and every bit as good as he is, if not better.” At this Basil came in, noticed James, but did not speak. “’Afternoon, Basil.”

“You here again?” he remarked indifferently.

“Looks like it, don’t it?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“Are you? I suppose I can come and see my own sister.”

“I suppose it’s inevitable. Only I should be excessively grateful if you’d time your coming with my going, and _vice versâ_.”

“That means you want me to get out, I reckon.”

“You show unusual perspicacity, dear James,” said Basil, with a frigid smile.

“Look here, Basil, let me give you a bit of advice. Don’t put on quite so much side, or you’ll hurt yourself.”

“I observe that you have not acquired the useful art of being uncivil without being impertinent.”

There was nothing James could brook less easily than the irony and the deliberate sarcasm with which Basil invariably answered him, and now in his exasperation, forgetting all prudence, he jumped up.

“Look ’ere, I’ve ’ad about enough of this. I’m not going to stand you sneerin’ and snarlin’ at me when I come here. You seem to think I’m nobody, I should just like to know why you go on as if I was I don’t know what.”

“Because I choose,” answered Basil, looking him up and down with chilling scorn.

Jenny’s heart beat furiously as she foresaw the approaching quarrel, and in an undertone, hurriedly, she begged James to hold his tongue. But he would not be restrained.

“You can bet anything you like I don’t come ’ere to see you.”

“It has been borne in upon me that the length of my I purse attracts you more than the charm of my conversation. I wonder why you imagined, because I married your sister, I was bound to support the whole gang of you for the rest of your lives? Would you have the intense amiability to inform your family that I’m sick and tired of giving money?”

“I wonder you don’t forbid us your house while you’re about it,” snarled James.

Basil shrugged his shoulders.

“You may come here when I’m not at home—if you I behave yourself.”

“I’m not good enough for you, I suppose?”

“No, you’re not,” answered Basil, with deliberation.

“I dare say you’d like to get me out of the way. But I mean to keep my eye on you.”

“What d’you mean by that?” asked Basil, so sharply that James saw he had touched him on the raw.

He pursued his advantage.

“You think I don’t know what sort of a feller you are. I can just about see through two of you. Jenny has something to put up with, I lay.”

But Basil recovered himself quickly, and turned to Jenny with a smile of contempt, which, since it was undeserved, most deeply wounded her.

“Has she been telling you my numerous faults? You must have had plenty to talk about, my dear.” He saw her motion of protest, and gave a laugh. “Oh, my dear girl, if it amuses you, by all means discuss me with your relations. I should be so dull if I had no failings.”

“Tell him I’ve not said anything against him, Jimmie,” she cried.

“It’s not for want of something to say, I’ll be bound.”

Basil was growing bored, and saw no reason for concealing the fact. He sat down at his desk to write a letter, and took a sheet of note-paper. Jimmie watched him viciously, smarting under the bitter things the other had said, and wondering what the next move would be. Basil glanced at him indifferently.

“I’m getting rather tired, brother James. I’d go if I were you.”

“I shan’t go till I choose,” answered Bush very aggressively.

Basil looked up with a smile.

“Of course, we’re both of us Christians, dear James, and there’s a good deal of civilization kicking about the world nowadays. But the last word is still with the strongest.”

“What d’you mean by that?”