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                                  The
                            Merry-go-round

                        By W. Somerset Maugham




                          THE MERRY-GO-ROUND




                          The Merry-go-round

                        By W. Somerset Maugham

                            [Illustration]

                               NEW YORK
                       DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
                                 1904

                      COPYRIGHT, SEPT., 1904, BY
                          W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM




PART ONE




THE MERRY-GO-ROUND




CHAPTER I


All her life Miss Elizabeth Dwarris had been a sore trial to her
relations. A woman of means, she ruled tyrannously over a large number
of impecunious cousins, using her bank-balance like the scorpions of
Rehoboam to chastise them, and, like many another pious creature, for
their soul’s good making all and sundry excessively miserable. Nurtured
in the evangelical ways current in her youth, she insisted that her
connections should seek salvation according to her own lights; and, with
harsh tongue and with bitter gibe, made it her constant business to
persuade them of their extreme unworthiness. She arranged lives as she
thought fit, and ventured not only to order the costume and habits, but
even the inner thought of those about her: the Last Judgment could have
no terrors for any that had faced her searching examination. She invited
to stay with her in succession various poor ladies who presumed on a
distant tie to call her Aunt Eliza, and they accepted her summons, more
imperious than a royal command, with gratitude by no means unmixed with
fear, bearing the servitude meekly as a cross which in the future would
meet due testamentary reward.

Miss Dwarris loved to feel her power. During these long visits--for, in
a way, the old lady was very hospitable--she made it her especial object
to break the spirit of her guests; and it entertained her hugely to see
the mildness with which were borne her extravagant demands, the humility
with which every inclination was crushed. She took a malicious pleasure
in publicly affronting persons, ostensibly to bend a sinful pride, or
in obliging them to do things which they particularly disliked. With a
singular quickness for discovering the points on which they were most
sensitive, she attacked every weakness with blind invective till the
sufferer writhed before her, raw and bleeding: no defect, physical or
mental, was protected from her raillery, and she could pardon as little
an excess of avoirdupois as a want of memory. Yet, with all her heart,
she despised her victims, she flung in their face insolently their
mercenary spirit, vowing that she would never leave a penny to such a
pack of weak fools; it delighted her to ask for advice in the
distribution of her property among charitable societies, and she heard,
with unconcealed hilarity, their unwilling and confused suggestions.

With one of her relations only, Miss Dwarris found it needful to observe
a certain restraint, for Miss Ley, perhaps the most distant of her
cousins, was as plain-spoken as herself, and had, besides, a far keener
wit whereby she could turn rash statements to the utter ridicule of the
speaker. Nor did Miss Dwarris precisely dislike this independent spirit;
she looked upon her in fact with a certain degree of affection and not a
little fear. Miss Ley, seldom lacking a repartee, appeared really to
enjoy the verbal contests, from which, by her greater urbanity,
readiness, and knowledge, she usually emerged victorious: it confounded,
but at the same time almost amused, the elder lady that a woman so much
poorer than herself, with no smaller claims than others to the coveted
inheritance, should venture not only to be facetious at her expense, but
even to carry war into her very camp. Miss Ley, really not grieved to
find some one to whom without prickings of conscience she could speak
her whole mind, took a grim pleasure in pointing out to her cousin the
poor logic of her observations or the foolish unreason of her acts. No
cherished opinion of Miss Dwarris was safe from satire--even her
evangelicism was laughed at, and the rich old woman, unused to argument,
was easily driven into self-contradiction; and then--for the victor
took no pains to conceal her triumph--she grew pale and speechless with
rage. The quarrels were frequent, but Miss Dwarris, though it was a
sharp thorn in her flesh that the first advances must be made by her, in
the end always forgave; yet at last it was inevitable that a final
breach should occur. The cause thereof, characteristically enough, was
very trivial.

Miss Ley, accustomed, when she went abroad in the winter, to let her
little flat in Chelsea, had been obliged by unforeseen circumstances to
return to England while her tenants were still in possession; and had
asked Miss Dwarris whether she might stay with her in Old Queen Street.
The old tyrant, much as she hated her relations, hated still more to
live alone; she needed some one on whom to vent her temper, and through
the illness of a niece, due to spend March and April with her, had been
forced to pass a month of solitude; she wrote back, in the peremptory
fashion which, even with Miss Ley, she could not refrain from using,
that she expected her on such and such a day by such and such a train.
It is not clear whether there was in the letter anything to excite in
Miss Ley a contradictory spirit, or whether her engagements really
prevented it; but, at all events, she answered that her plans made it
more convenient to arrive on the day following and by a different train.
Miss Dwarris telegraphed that, unless her guest came on the day and at
the hour mentioned in her letter, she could not send the carriage to
meet her, to which the younger lady replied concisely: “Don’t.”

“She’s as obstinate as a pig,” muttered Miss Dwarris, reading the
telegram; and she saw in her mind’s eye the thin smile on her cousin’s
mouth when she wrote that one indifferent word. “I suppose she thinks
she’s very clever.”

Her hostess greeted Miss Ley, notwithstanding, with a certain grim
affability reserved only for her; she was, at all events, the least
detestable of her relations, and, though neither docile nor polite, at
least was never tedious. Her conversation braced Miss Dwarris so that
with her she was usually at her best, and sometimes, forgetting her
overbearing habit, showed herself a sensible and entertaining woman, of
not altogether unamiable disposition.

“You’re growing old, my dear,” said Miss Dwarris, when they sat down to
dinner, looking at her guest with eyes keen to detect wrinkles and
crowsfeet.

“You flatter me,” Miss Ley retorted; “antiquity is the only excuse for a
woman who has determined on a single life.”

“I suppose, like the rest of them, you would have married if any one had
asked you.”

Miss Ley smiled.

“Two months ago an Italian prince offered me his hand and heart, Eliza.”

“A <DW7> would do anything,” replied Miss Dwarris. “I suppose you told
him your income and he found he’d misjudged the strength of his
affections.”

“I refused him because he was so virtuous.”

“I shouldn’t have thought at your age you could afford to pick and
choose, Polly.”

“Allow me to observe that you have an amiable faculty of thinking of one
subject at one time in two diametrically opposed ways.”

Miss Ley was a slender woman of middle size, her hair, very plainly
arranged, beginning to turn gray, and her face, already much wrinkled,
by its clear precision of feature indicating a comfortable strength of
character; her lips, thin but expressive, mobile, added to this
appearance of determination. She was by no means handsome, and had
certainly never been pretty; but her carriage was not without grace nor
her manner without fascination. Her eyes were very bright and so shrewd
as sometimes to be almost disconcerting: without words, they could make
pretentiousness absurd; and most affectations, under that searching
glance, part contemptuous, part amused, willingly hid themselves. Yet,
as Miss Dwarris took care to remind her, she was not without her own
especial pose, but it was carried out so admirably, with such a
restrained, comely decorum, that few observed it, and such as did found
not the heart to condemn: it was the perfect art that concealed itself.
To execute this æsthetic gesture, it pleased Miss Ley to dress with the
greatest possible simplicity, usually in black, and her only ornament
was a renaissance jewel of such exquisite beauty that no museum would
have disdained to possess it: this she wore around her neck attached to
a long gold chain, and she fingered it with pleasure to show, according
to her plain-spoken relative, the undoubted beauty of her hands. Her
well-fitting shoes and the elaborate open-work of her silk stockings
suggested also a not unreasonable pride in a shapely foot, small and
high of instep. Thus attired, when she had visitors, Miss Ley sat in an
oak, Italian straight-backed chair, delicately carved, which was placed
between two windows against the wall; and she cultivated already a
certain primness of manner which made very effective the audacious
criticism of life wherewith she was used to entertain her friends.

Two mornings after her arrival in Old Queen Street, Miss Ley announced
her intention to go out. She came downstairs with a very fashionable
parasol--a purchase on her way through Paris.

“You’re not going out with that thing?” cried Miss Dwarris, scornfully.

“I am indeed.”

“Nonsense; you must take an umbrella. It’s going to rain.”

“I have a new sunshade and an old umbrella, Eliza: I feel certain it
will be fine.”

“My dear, you know nothing about the English climate. I tell you it will
pour cats and dogs.”

“Fiddlesticks, Eliza.”

“Polly,” answered Miss Dwarris, her temper rising. “I wish you to take
an umbrella. The barometer is going down, and I have a tingling in my
feet, which is a sure sign of wet. It’s very irreligious of you to
presume to say what the weather is going to be.”

“I venture to think that, meteorologically, I am no less acquainted with
the ways of Providence than you.”

“That I think is not funny, but blasphemous, Polly. In my house, I
expect people to do as I tell them, and I insist on your taking an
umbrella.”

“Don’t be absurd, Eliza.”

Miss Dwarris rang the bell and, when the butler appeared, ordered him to
fetch her own umbrella for Miss Ley.

“I absolutely refuse to use it,” said the younger lady, smiling.

“Pray remember that you are my guest, Polly.”

“And, therefore, entitled to do exactly as I like.”

Miss Dwarris rose to her feet, a massive old woman of commanding
presence, and stretched out a threatening hand.

“If you leave this house without an umbrella, you shall not come into it
again. You shall never cross this threshold so long as I am alive.”

Miss Ley cannot have been in the best of humours that morning, for she
pursed her lips in the manner already characteristic of her, and looked
at her elderly cousin with a cold scorn, most difficult to bear.

“My dear Eliza, you have a singularly exaggerated idea of your
importance. Are there no hotels in London? You appear to think I stay
with you for pleasure rather than to mortify my flesh. And, really, the
cross is growing too heavy for me, for I think you must have quite the
worst cook in the metropolis.”

“She’s been with me for five and twenty years,” answered Miss Dwarris,
two red spots appearing on her cheeks, “and no one has ventured to
complain of the cooking before. If any of my guests had done so, I
should have answered that what was good enough for me was a great deal
too good for any one else. I know that you’re obstinate, Polly, and
quick-tempered, and this impertinence I am willing to overlook. Do you
still refuse to do as I wish?”

“Yes.”

Miss Dwarris rang the bell violently.

“Tell Martha to pack Miss Ley’s boxes at once, and call a four-wheeler,”
she cried, in tones of thunder.

“Very well, Madam,” answered the butler, used to his mistress’s
vagaries.

Then Miss Dwarris turned to her guest, who observed her with irritating
good-humour.

“I hope you realise, Polly, that I fully mean what I say.”

“All is over between us,” answered Miss Ley, mockingly, “and shall I
return your letters and your photographs?”

Miss Dwarris sat for a while, in silent anger, watching her cousin, who
took up the _Morning Post_, and, with great calmness, read the
fashionable intelligence. Presently the butler announced that the
four-wheeler was at the door.

“Well, Polly, so you’re really going?”

“I can hardly stay when you’ve had my boxes packed and sent for a cab,”
replied Miss Ley, mildly.

“It’s your own doing; I don’t wish you to go. If you’ll confess
that you were headstrong and obstinate, and if you’ll take an
umbrella, I am willing to let bygones be bygones.”

“Look at the sun,” answered Miss Ley.

And, as if actually to annoy the tyrannous old woman, the shining rays
danced into the room and made importunate patterns on the carpet.

“I think I should tell you, Polly, that it was my intention to leave you
ten thousand pounds in my will. This intention I shall, of course, not
now carry out.”

“You’d far better leave your money to the Dwarris people: upon my word,
considering that they’ve been related to you for over sixty years, I
think they thoroughly deserve it.”

“I shall leave my money to whom I choose,” cried Miss Dwarris, beside
herself; “and if I want to I shall leave every penny of it in charity.
You’re very independent because you have a beggarly five hundred a year,
but, apparently, it isn’t enough for you to live without letting your
flat when you go away. Remember, that no one has any claims upon me, and
I can make you a rich woman.”

Miss Ley replied with great deliberation.

“My dear, I have a firm conviction that you will live for another thirty
years to plague the human race in general and your relations in
particular. It is not worth my while, on the chance of surviving you, to
submit to the caprices of a very ignorant old woman, presumptuous and
overbearing, dull and pretentious.”

Miss Dwarris gasped and shook with rage, but the other proceeded without
mercy.

“You have plenty of poor relations--bully them. Vent your spite and
ill-temper on those wretched sycophants, but pray in future spare me the
infinite tediousness of your conversation.”

Miss Ley had ever a discreet passion for the rhetorical, and there was a
certain grandiloquence about the phrase which entertained her hugely.
She felt that it was unanswerable, and, with great dignity, walked out.
No communication passed between the two ladies, though Miss Dwarris,
peremptory, stern, and evangelical to the end, lived in full possession
of her faculties for another twenty years. She died at last in a passion
occasioned by some trifling misdemeanour of her maid; and as though a
heavy yoke were removed from their shoulders, her family heaved a deep
and unanimous sigh of relief.

They attended her funeral with dry eyes, looking still with silent
terror at the leaden coffin which contained the remains of that harsh,
strong, domineering old woman. Then, nervously expectant, they begged
the family solicitor to disclose her will. Written with her own hand,
and witnessed by two servants, it was in these terms:

     “I, Elizabeth Ann Dwarris, of 79, Old Queen Street, Westminster,
     Spinster, hereby revoke all former Wills and Testamentary
     Dispositions, made by me and declare this to be my last Will and
     Testament. I appoint Mary Ley, of 72, Eliot Mansions, Chelsea, to
     be the executrix of this my Will, and I give all my real and
     personal property whatsoever to the said Mary Ley. To my
     great-nephews and great-nieces, to my cousins near and remote, I
     give my blessing; and I beseech them to bear in mind the example
     and advice which for many years I have given them. I recommend them
     to cultivate in future strength of character and an independent
     spirit; I venture to remind them that the humble will never inherit
     this earth, for their reward is to be awaited in the life to come;
     and I desire them to continue the subscriptions which, at my
     request, they have so long and generously made to the Society for
     the Conversion of the Jews and to the Additional Curates Fund.

     “In witness whereof, I have set my hand to this my Will the 4th day
     of April, 1883.

“ELIZABETH ANN DWARRIS.”



To her amazement, Miss Ley found herself at the age of fifty-seven in
possession of nearly three thousand pounds a year, the lease of a
pleasant old house in Westminster, and a great quantity of early
Victorian furniture. The will was written two days after her quarrel
with the eccentric old woman, and the terms of it certainly achieved the
three purposes for which it was designed: it occasioned the utmost
surprise to all concerned; it heaped coals of fire on Miss Ley’s
indifferent head; and caused the bitterest disappointment and vexation
to all that bore the name of Dwarris.




PART II




THE MERRY-GO-ROUND




CHAPTER I


Miss Ley returned to England at the end of February. Unlike the most of
her compatriots, she did not go abroad to see the friends with whom she
spent much time at home; and though Bella and Herbert Field were at
Naples, Mrs. Murray in Rome, she took care systematically to avoid them.
Rather was it her practice to cultivate chance acquaintance, for she
thought the English in foreign lands betrayed their idiosyncrasies with
a pleasant and edifying frankness; in Venice, for example, or at Capri,
the delectable isle, romance might be seized, as it were, in the act,
and all manner of oddities were displayed with a most diverting
effrontery: in those places you meet middle-aged pairs, uncertainly
related, whose vehement adventures startled the decorum of a previous
generation; you discover how queer may be the most conventional, how
ordinary the most eccentric. Miss Ley, with her discreet knack for
extracting confidence, after her own staid fashion enjoyed herself
immensely; she listened to the strange confessions of men who for their
souls’ sake had abandoned the greatness of the world, and now spoke of
their past zeal with indulgent irony, of women who for love had been
willing to break down the very pillars of heaven, and now shrugged their
shoulders in amused recollection of passion long since dead.

“Well, what have you fresh to tell me?” asked Frank, having met Miss Ley
at Victoria, when he sat down to dinner in Old Queen Street.

“Nothing much. But I’ve noticed that when pleasure has exhausted a man
he’s convinced that he has exhausted pleasure; then he tells you
gravely that nothing can satisfy the human heart.”

But Frank had more important news than this, for Jenny, a week before,
was delivered of a still-born child, and had been so ill that it was
thought she could not recover; now, however, the worst was over, and if
nothing untoward befell, she might be expected slowly to regain health.

“How does Basil take it?” asked Miss Ley.

“He says very little; he’s grown silent of late, but I’m afraid he’s
quite heart-broken. You know how enormously he looked forward to the
baby.”

“D’you think he’s fond of his wife?”

“He’s very kind to her. No one could have been gentler than he after the
catastrophe. I think she was the more cut up of the two. You see, she
looked upon it as the reason of their marriage--and he’s been doing his
best to comfort her.”

“I must go down and see them. And now tell me about Mrs. Castillyon.”

“I haven’t set eyes on her for ages.”

Miss Ley observed Frank with deliberation. She wondered if he knew of
the affair with Reggie Bassett, but, though eager to discuss it, would
not risk to divulge a secret. In point of fact, he was familiar with all
the circumstances, but it amused him to counterfeit ignorance that he
might see how Miss Ley guided the conversation to the point she wanted.
She spoke of the Dean of Tercanbury, of Bella and her husband, then, as
though by chance, mentioned Reggie; but the twinkling of Frank’s eyes
told her that he was laughing at her stratagem.

“You brute!” she cried, “why didn’t you tell me all about it, instead of
letting me discover the thing by accident?”

“My sex suggests to me certain elementary notions of honour, Miss Ley.”

“You needn’t add priggishness to your other detestable vices. How did
you know they were carrying on in this way?”

“The amiable youth told me. There are very few men who can refrain from
boasting of their conquests, and certainly Reggie isn’t one of them.”

“You don’t know Hugh Kearon, do you? He’s had affairs all over Europe,
and the most notorious was with a royal princess who shall be nameless;
I think she would have bored him to death if he hadn’t been able to
flourish ostentatiously a handkerchief with a royal crown in the corner
and a large initial.”

Miss Ley then gave her account of the visit to Rochester, and certainly
made of it a very neat and entertaining story.

“And did you think for a moment that this would be the end of the
business?” asked Frank, ironically.

“Don’t be spiteful because I hoped for the best.”

“Dear Miss Ley, the bigger blackguard a man is, the more devoted are his
lady-loves. It’s only when a man is decent and treats women as if they
were human beings that he has a rough time of it.”

“You know nothing about these things, Frank,” retorted Miss Ley. “Pray
give me the facts, and the philosophical conclusions I can draw for
myself.”

“Well, Reggie has a natural aptitude for dealing with the sex. I heard
all about your excursion to Rochester, and went so far as to assure him
that you wouldn’t tell his mamma. He perceived that he hadn’t cut a very
heroic figure, so he mounted the high horse, and, full of virtuous
indignation, for a month took no notice whatever of Mrs. Castillyon.
Then she wrote most humbly, begging him to forgive her; and this, I
understand, he graciously did. He came to see me, flung the letter on
the table, and said: ‘There, my boy, if any one asks you, say that what
I don’t know about women ain’t worth knowing.’ Two days later he
appeared with a gold cigarette-case!”

“What did you say to him?”

“One of these days you’ll come the very devil of a cropper.”

“You showed wisdom and emphasis. I hope with all my heart, he will.”

“I don’t imagine things are going very smoothly,” proceeded Frank.
“Reggie tells me she leads him a deuce of a life, and he’s growing
restive; it appears to be no joke to have a woman desperately in love
with you. And then he’s never been on such familiar terms with a person
of quality, and he’s shocked by her vulgarity; her behaviour seems often
to outrage his sense of decorum.”

“Isn’t that like an Englishman! He cultivates propriety even in the
immoral.”

Then Miss Ley asked Frank about himself, but they had corresponded with
diligence, and he had little to tell; the work at Saint Luke’s went on
monotonously, lectures to students three times a week and out-patients
on Wednesday and Saturday; people were beginning to come to his
consulting-room in Harley Street, and he looked forward, without great
enthusiasm, to the future of a fashionable physician.

“And are you in love?”

“You know I shall never permit my affections to wander so long as you
remain single,” he answered, laughing.

“Beware I don’t take you at your word and drag you by the hair of your
head to the altar. Have I no rival?”

“Well, if you press me, I will confess.”

“Monster! what is her name?”

“_Bilharzia Holmatobi._”

“Good heavens!”

“It’s a parasite I’m studying. I think authorities are all wrong about
it; they’ve not got its life-history right, and the stuff they believe
about the way people catch it is sheer footle.”

“It doesn’t sound frightfully thrilling to me, and I’m under the
impression you’re only trumping it up to conceal some scandalous amour
with a ballet-girl.”

Miss Ley’s visit to Barnes seemed welcome neither to Jenny nor to Basil,
who looked harassed and unhappy, and only with a visible effort assumed
a cheerful manner when he addressed his wife. Jenny was still in bed,
very weak and ill, but Miss Ley, who had never before seen her, was
surprised at her great beauty; her face, whiter than the pillows against
which it rested, had a very touching pathos, and, notwithstanding all
that had gone before, that winsome, innocent sweetness which has
occasioned the comparison of English maidens to the English rose. The
observant woman noticed also the painful, questioning anxiety with which
Jenny continually glanced at her husband, as though pitifully dreading
some unmerited reproach.

“I hope you like my wife,” said Basil, when he accompanied Miss Ley
downstairs.

“Poor thing! She seems to me like a lovely bird imprisoned by fate
within the four walls of practical life, who should by rights sing
careless songs under the open skies. I’m afraid you’ll be very unkind to
her.”

“Why?” he asked, not without resentment.

“My dear, you’ll make her live up to your blue china teapot. The world
might be so much happier if people wouldn’t insist on acting up to their
principles.”

Mrs. Bush had been hurriedly sent for when Jenny’s condition seemed
dangerous, but, in her distress and excitement, she had sought solace in
Basil’s whiskey-bottle to such an extent that he was obliged to beg her
to return to her own home. The scene was not edifying. Surmising an
alcoholic tendency, Kent, two or three days after her arrival, locked
the side-board and removed the key. But in a little while the servant
came to him.

“If you please, sir, Mrs. Bush says, can she ’ave the whiskey; she’s not
feelin’ very well.”

“I’ll go to her.”

Mrs. Bush sat in the dining-room with folded hands, doing her utmost to
express on a healthy countenance maternal anxiety, indisposition, and
ruffled dignity; she was not vastly pleased to see her son-in-law
instead of the expected maid.

“Oh, is that you, Basil?” she said; “I can’t find the sideboard key
anywhere, and I’m that upset I must ’ave a little drop of something.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you, Mrs. Bush. You’re much better without it.”

“Oh, indeed!” she answered, bristling. “P’raps you know more about me
inside feelings than I do myself. I’ll just trouble you to give me the
key, young man, and look sharp about it. I’m not a woman to be put upon
by any one, and I tell you straight.”

“I’m very sorry, but I think you’ve had quite enough to drink. Jenny may
want you, and you would be wise to keep sober.”

“D’you mean to insinuate that I’ve ’ad more than I can carry?”

“I wouldn’t go quite so far as that,” he answered, smiling.

“Thank you for nothing,” cried Mrs. Bush indignantly. “And I should be
obliged if you wouldn’t laugh at me, and I must say it’s very ’eartless
with me daughter lying ill in her bedroom. I’m very much upset and I did
think you’d treat me like a lady, but you never ’ave, Mr. Kent--no, not
even the first time I come here. Oh, I ’aven’t forgot, so don’t you
think I ’ave--a sixpenny ’alfpenny teapot was good enough for me, but
when your lady-friend come in out pops the silver, and I don’t believe
for a moment it’s real silver. Blood’s all very well, Mr. Kent, but what
I say is, give me manners. You’re a nice young feller, you are, to
grudge me a little drop of spirits when me poor daughter’s on her
death-bed. I wouldn’t stay another minute in this ’ouse if it wasn’t for
‘er.”

“I was going to suggest it would be better if you returned to your happy
home in Crouch End,” answered Basil, when the good woman stopped to take
breath.

“Were you, indeed! Well, we’ll just see what Jenny ’as to say to that. I
suppose my daughter is mistress in ’er own ’ouse.”

Mrs. Bush started to her feet and made for the door, but Basil stood
with his back against it.

“I can’t allow you to go to her now. I don’t think you’re in a fit
state.”

“D’you think I’m going to let you prevent me? Get out of my way, young
man.”

Basil, more disgusted than out of temper, looked at the angry creature
with a cold scorn which was not easy to stomach.

“I’m sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Bush, but I think you’d better
leave this house at once. Fanny will put your things together. I’m going
to Jenny’s room, and I forbid you to come to it. I expect you to be gone
in half an hour.”

He turned on his heel, leaving Mrs. Bush furious but intimidated. She
was so used to have her own way that opposition took her aback, and
Basil’s manner did not suggest that he would easily suffer
contradiction. But she made up her mind, whatever the consequences, to
force her way into Jenny’s room, and there set out her grievance. She
had not done repeating to herself what she would say when the servant
entered to state that, according to her master’s order, she had packed
Mrs. Bush’s things. Jenny’s mother started up indignantly, but pride
forbade her to let the maid see she was turned out.

“Quite right, Fanny! This isn’t the ’ouse that a lady would stay in, and
I pity you, my dear, for ’aving a master like my son-in-law. You can
tell ’im with my compliments thate’s no gentleman.”

Jenny, who was asleep, woke at the slamming of the front-door.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Your mother has gone away, dearest. D’you mind?”

She looked at him quickly, divining from knowledge of her parent’s
character that some quarrel had occurred and anxious to see that Basil
was not annoyed. She gave him her hand.

“No, I’m glad. I want to be alone with you. I don’t want any one to come
between us.”

He bent down and kissed her, and she put her arms round his neck.

“You’re not angry with me because the baby died?”

“My darling, how could I be?”

“Say that you don’t regret having married me.”

Jenny, realising by now that Basil had married her only on account of
the child, was filled with abject terror; his interests were so
different from hers (and she had but gradually come to understand how
great was the separation between them) that the longed-for son alone
seemed able to preserve to her Basil’s affection. It was the mother he
loved, and now he might bitterly repent his haste, for it seemed she had
forced marriage upon him by false pretenses. The chief tie that bound
them was severed, and though with meek gratitude accepting the
attentions suggested by his kindness, she asked herself with aching
heart what would happen on her recovery.

Time passed, and Jenny, though ever pale and listless, grew strong
enough to leave her room. It was proposed that in a little while she
should go with her sister for a month to Brighton; Basil’s work
prevented him from leaving London for long, but he promised to run down
for the week-end. One afternoon he came home in high spirits, having
just received from his publishers a letter to say that his book had
found favour and would be issued in the coming spring. It seemed the
first step to the renown he sought. He found James Bush, his
brother-in-law, seated with Jenny, and, in his elation, greeted him with
unusual cordiality; but James lacked his usual facetious flow of
conversation, and wore indeed a hang-dog air, which at another time
would have excited Basil’s attention. He took his leave at once, and
then Basil noticed that Jenny was much disturbed. Though he knew
nothing for certain, he had an idea that the family of Bush came to his
wife when they were in financial straits, but from the beginning had
decided that such inevitable claims must be satisfied; he preferred,
however, to ignore the help which Jenny gave, and, when she asked for
some small sum beyond her allowance, handed it without question.

“Why was Jimmie here at this hour?” he asked, carelessly, thinking him
bound on some such errand. “I thought he didn’t leave his office till
six.”

“Oh, Basil, something awful has happened! I don’t know how to tell you;
he’s sacked.”

“I hope he doesn’t want us to keep him,” answered Basil, coldly. “I’m
very hard up this year, and all the money I have I want for you.”

Jenny braced herself for a painful effort. She looked away and her voice
trembled.

“I don’t know what’s to be done. He’s got into trouble. Unless he can
find a hundred and fifteen pounds in a week, his firm are going to
prosecute.”

“What on earth d’you mean, Jenny?”

“Oh, Basil, don’t be angry! I was so ashamed to tell you, I’ve been
hiding it for a month; but now I can’t any more. Something went wrong
with his accounts.”

“D’you mean to say he’s been stealing?” asked Basil, sternly; and a
feeling of utter horror and disgust came over him.

“For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that!” she cried, for his eyes,
his firm-set mouth, made her feel a culprit confessing on her own
account some despicable crime. “He didn’t mean to be dishonest. I don’t
exactly understand, but he can tell you how it all was. Oh, Basil, you
won’t let him be sent to prison! Couldn’t he have the money instead of
my going away?”

Basil sat down at his desk to think out the matter, and, resting his
face thoughtfully on his hands, sought to avoid Jenny’s fixed, appealing
gaze; he did not want her to see the consternation, the abject shame,
with which her news oppressed him. But all the same she saw.

“What are you thinking about, Basil?”

“Nothing particular. I was wondering how to raise the money.”

“You don’t think because he’s my brother I must be tarred with the same
brush?”

He looked at her without answering; it was certainly unfortunate that
his wife’s mother should drink more than was seemly and her brother have
but primitive ideas about property.

“It’s not my fault,” she cried, with bitter pain, interrupting his
silence. “Don’t think too hardly of me.”

“No, it’s not your fault,” he answered, with involuntary coldness. “You
must go away to Brighton all the same, but I’m afraid it means no
holiday in the summer.”

He wrote a cheque and then a letter to his bank begging them to advance
a hundred pounds on securities they held.

“There he is,” cried Jenny, hearing a ring. “I told him to come back in
half an hour.”

Basil got up.

“You’d better give the cheque to your brother at once. Say that I don’t
wish to see him.”

“Isn’t he to come here any more, Basil?”

“That is as you like, Jenny. If you wish, we’ll pretend he was
unfortunate rather than--dishonest; but I’d rather he didn’t refer to
the matter. I want neither his thanks nor his excuses.”

Without answering, Jenny took the cheque. She would have given a great
deal to fling her arms gratefully round Basil’s neck, begging him to
forgive, but there was a hardness in his manner which frightened her.
All the evening he sat in moody silence, and Jenny dare not speak; his
kiss when he bade her good-night had never been so frigid, and, unable
to sleep, she cried bitterly. She could not understand the profound
abhorrence with which he looked upon the incident; to her mind, it was
little more than a mischance occasioned by Jimmie’s excessive sharpness,
and she was disposed to agree with her brother that only luck had been
against him. She somewhat resented Basil’s refusal to hear any defence
and his complete certainty that the very worst must be true.

A few days later, coming unexpectedly, Kent found Jenny in earnest
conversation with her brother, who had quite regained his jaunty air and
betrayed no false shame at Basil’s knowledge of his escapade.

“Well met, ‘Oratio!” he cried, holding out his hand. “I just come in on
the chance of seeing you. I wanted to thank you for that loan.”

“I’d rather you didn’t speak of it.”

“Why, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I ’ad a bit of bad luck, that’s
all. I’ll pay you back, you know; you needn’t fear about that.”

He gave a voluble account of the affair, proving how misfortune may
befall the deserving, and what a criminal complexion the most innocent
acts may wear. Basil, against his will admiring the fellow’s jocose
effrontery, listened with chilling silence.

“You need not excuse yourself,” he said, at length. “My reasons for
helping you were purely selfish. Except for Jenny, it would have been a
matter of complete indifference to me if you had been sent to prison or
not.”

“Oh, that was all kid! They wouldn’t have prosecuted. Don’t I tell you
they had no case. You believe me, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“What d’you mean by that?” asked James, angrily.

“We won’t discuss it.”

The other did not answer, but shot at Basil a glance of singular
malevolence.

“You can whistle for your money, young feller,” he muttered, under his
breath. “You won’t get much out of me.”

He had but small intention of paying back the rather large sum, but now
abandoned even that. During the six months since Jenny’s marriage he had
never been able to surmount the freezing politeness with which Basil
used him; he hated him for his supercilious air, but, needing his help,
took care, though sometimes he could scarcely keep his temper, to
preserve a familiar cordiality. He knew his brother-in-law would welcome
an opportunity to forbid him the house, and this, especially now that he
was out of work, he determined to avoid; he stomached the affront as
best he could, but solaced his pride with the determination sooner or
later to revenge himself.

“Well, so long,” he cried, with undiminished serenity, “I’ll be
toddling.”

Jenny watched this scene with some alarm, but with more irritation,
since Basil’s frigid contempt for her brother seemed a reflection on
himself.

“You might at least be polite to him,” she said, when Jimmie was gone.

“I’m afraid I’ve pretty well used up all my politeness.”

“After all, he is my brother.”

“That is a fact I deplore with all my heart,” he answered.

“You needn’t be so hard on him now he’s down. He’s no worse than plenty
more.”

Basil turned to her with flaming eyes.

“Good God, don’t you realise the man’s a thief! Doesn’t it mean anything
to you that he’s dishonest? Don’t you see how awful it is that a man--”

He broke off with a gesture of disgust. It was the first quarrel they
ever had, and a shrewish look came to Jenny’s face, her pallor gave way
to an angry flush. But quickly Basil recovered himself; recollecting
his wife’s illness and her bitter disappointment at the poor babe’s
death, he keenly regretted the outburst.

“I beg your pardon, Jenny. I didn’t mean to say that. I should have
remembered you were fond of him.”

But, since she did not answer, looking away somewhat sulkily, he sat
down on the arm of her chair and stroked her wonderful, rich tresses.

“Don’t be cross, darling. We won’t quarrel, will we?”

Unable to resist his tenderness, tears came to her eyes, and
passionately she kissed his caressing hands.

“No, no,” she cried. “I love you too much. Don’t ever speak angrily to
me; it hurts so awfully.”

The momentary cloud passed, and they spoke of the approaching visit to
Brighton. Jenny was to take lodgings, and she made him promise
faithfully that he would come every Saturday. Frank had offered a room
in Harley Street, and while she was away Basil meant to stay with him.

“You won’t forget me, Basil?”

“Of course not! But you must hurry up and get well and come back.”

When at length she set off, and Basil found himself Frank’s guest, he
could not suppress a slight sigh of relief; it was very delightful to
live again in a bachelor’s rooms, and he loved the smell of smoke, the
untidy litter of books, the lack of responsibility: there was no need to
do anything he did not like, and, for the first time since his marriage,
he felt entirely comfortable. Recalling his pleasant rooms in the
Temple--and there was about them an old-world air which amiably fitted
his humour--he thought of the long conversations of those days, the
hours of reverie, the undisturbed ease with which he could read books;
and he shuddered at the pokey villa which was now his home, the worries
of housekeeping, and the want of privacy. He had meant his life to be so
beautiful, and it was merely sordid.

“There are advantages in single blessedness,” laughed the Doctor, when
he saw Basil after breakfast light his pipe and, putting his feet on the
chimney-piece, lean back with a sigh of content.

But he regretted his words when he saw on the other’s mobile face a look
of singular wistfulness: it was his first indication that things were
not going very well with the young couple.

“By the way,” Frank suggested, presently, “would you care to come to a
party to-night? Lady Edward Stringer is giving some sort of function,
and there’ll be a lot of people you know.”

“I’ve been nowhere since my marriage,” Basil answered, irresolutely.

“I shall be seeing the old thing to-day. Shall I ask if I can bring
you?”

“It would be awfully good of you. By Jove, I should enjoy it.” He gave a
laugh. “I’ve not had evening clothes on for six months.”




CHAPTER II


Six months went by, and again the gracious airs of summer blew into Miss
Ley’s dining-room in Old Queen Street. She sat at luncheon with Mrs.
Castillyon wonderfully rejuvenated by a winter in the East; for Paul,
characteristically anxious to combine self-improvement with pleasure,
had suggested that they should mark their reconciliation by a journey to
India, where they might enjoy a second, pleasanter honeymoon, and he at
the same time study various questions which would be to him of much
political value. Mrs. Castillyon, in a summer frock, had all her old
daintiness of a figurine in Dresden china, and her former vivacity was
more charming by reason of an added tenderness; she emphasised her
change of mind by allowing her hair to regain its natural colour.

“D’you like it, Mary?” she asked. “Paul says it makes me look ten years
younger. And I’ve stopped slapping up.”

“Entirely?” asked Miss Ley, with a smile.

“Of course, I powder a little, but that doesn’t count; and you know, I
never use a puff now--only a leather. You can’t think how we enjoyed
ourselves in India, and Paul’s a perfect duck. He’s been quite awfully
good to me, I’m simply devoted to him, and I think we shall get a
baronetcy at the next birthday honours.”

“The reward of virtue.”

Mrs. Castillyon  and laughed.

“You know, I’m afraid I shall become a most awful prig, but the fact is
it’s so comfortable to be good and to have nothing to reproach one’s
self with.... Now tell me about every one. Where did you pass the
winter?”

“I went to Italy as usual; and my cousin Algernon, with his daughter,
spent a month with me, at Christmas.”

“Was she awfully cut up at the death of her husband?”

There was really a note of genuine sympathy in Mrs. Castillyon’s voice,
so that Miss Ley realised how sincere was the change in her.

“She bore it very wonderfully, and I think she’s curiously happy; she
tells me that she feels constantly the presence of Herbert.” Miss Ley
paused. “Bella has collected her husband’s verses, and wishes to publish
them, and she’s written a very touching account of his life and death by
way of preface.”

“Are they any good?”

“No; that’s just the tragedy of the whole thing. I never knew a man
whose nature was so entirely poetical, and yet he never wrote a line
which is other than mediocre. If he’d only written his own feelings, his
little hopes and disappointments, he might have done something good; but
he’s only produced pale imitations of Swinburne and Tennyson and
Shelley. I can’t understand how Herbert Field, who was so simple and
upright, should never have turned out a single stanza which wasn’t
stilted and forced. I think in his heart he felt that he hadn’t the gift
of literary expression, which has nothing to do with high ideals,
personal sincerity, or the seven deadly virtues, for he was not sorry to
die. He only lived to be a great poet, and before the end realised that
he would never have become one.”

Miss Ley saw already the pretty little book which Bella would publish at
her own expense, the neat type and wide margin, the dainty binding; she
saw the scornful neglect of reviewers, and the pile of copies which
eventually Bella would take back and give one by one as presents to her
friends, who would thank her warmly, but never trouble to read ten
lines.

“And what has happened to Reggie Bassett?” asked Grace, suddenly.

Miss Ley gave her a quick glance, but the steadiness of Mrs.
Castillyon’s eyes told her that she asked the question indifferently,
perhaps to show how entirely her infatuation was overcome.

“You heard that he married?”

“I saw it in the _Morning Post_.”

“His mother was very indignant, and for three months refused to speak to
him. But at last I was able to tell her that an heir was expected; so
she made up her mind to swallow her pride, and became reconciled with
her daughter-in-law, who is a very nice, sensible woman.”

“Pretty?” asked Grace.

“Not at all, but eminently capable. Already she has made Reggie into
quite a decent member of society. Mrs. Bassett has now gone down to
Bournemouth, where the young folks have taken a house, to be at hand
when the baby appears.”

“It’s reassuring to think that the ancient race of the Barlow-Bassetts
will not be extinguished,” murmured Grace, ironically. “I gathered that
your young friend was settling down because one day he returned every
penny I had--lent him.”

“And what did you do with it?” asked Miss Ley.

Grace flushed and smiled whimsically.

“Well, it happened to reach me just before our wedding-day so I spent it
all in a gorgeous pearl pin for Paul. He was simply delighted.”

Mrs. Castillyon got up, and, when she was gone, Miss Ley took a letter
that had come before luncheon, but which her guest’s arrival had
prevented her from opening. It was from Basil, who had spent the whole
winter on Miss Ley’s recommendation in Seville; she opened it curiously,
for it was the first time he had written to her since, after the
inquest, he left England.

     “_My Dear Miss Ley_: Don’t think me ungrateful if I have left you
     without news of me, but at first I felt I could not write to people
     in England; whenever I thought of them everything came back, and it
     was only by a desperate effort that I could forget. For some time
     it seemed to me that I could never face the world again, and I was
     tormented by self-reproach; I vowed to give up my whole life to the
     expression of my deep regret, and fancied I could never again have
     a peaceful moment or anything approaching happiness. But presently
     I was ashamed to find that I began to regain my old temper; I
     caught myself at times laughing contentedly, amused and full of
     spirits; and I upbraided myself bitterly because, only a few weeks
     after the poor girl’s death, I could actually be entertained by
     trivial things. And then I don’t know what came over me, for I
     could not help the thought that my prison door was opened; though I
     called myself brutal and callous, deep down in my soul arose the
     idea that the fates had given me another chance. The slate was
     wiped clean, and I could start fresh. I pretended even to myself
     that I wanted to die, but it was sheer hypocrisy--I wanted to live
     and to take life by both hands and enjoy it. I have such a desire
     for happiness, such an eager yearning for life in its fulness and
     glory. I made a ghastly mistake, and I suffered for it; heaven
     knows how terribly I suffered and how hard I tried to make the best
     of it. And perhaps it wasn’t all my fault--even to you I feel
     ashamed of saying this; I ought to go on posing decently to the
     end--in this world, we’re made to act and think things because
     others have thought them good; we never have a chance of going our
     own way; we’re bound down by the prejudices and the morals of all
     and sundry. For God’s sake, let us be free. Let us do this and that
     because we want to and because we must, not because other people
     think we ought. And d’you know the worst of the whole thing? If I’d
     acted like a blackguard and let Jenny go to the dogs, I should have
     remained happy and contented and prosperous; and she, I daresay,
     wouldn’t have died. It’s because I tried to do my duty that all
     this misery came about. The world held up an ideal, and I thought
     they meant one to act up to it: it never occurred to me that they
     would only sneer.

     “Don’t think too badly of me because I say these things; they have
     come to me here, and it was you who sent me to Seville; you must
     have known what effect it would have on my mind, tortured and sick.
     It is a land of freedom, and at last I have become conscious of my
     youth. How can I forget the delight of wandering in the Sierpes,
     released from all imprisoning ties, watching the various movements
     as though it were a stage-play, yet half afraid that a falling
     curtain would bring back the unendurable reality. The songs, the
     dances, the happy idleness of orange-gardens by the Guadalquivir,
     the gay turbulence of Seville by night: I could not long resist it,
     and at last forgot everything but that time was short and the world
     was to the living.

     “By the time you get this letter I shall be on my way home.

“Yours ever,

“BASIL KENT.”



Miss Ley read this letter with a smile and gave a little sigh.

“I suppose at that age one can afford to have no very conspicuous sense
of humour,” she murmured.

But she sent Basil a telegram asking him to stay, with the result that
three days later the young man arrived, very brown after his winter in
the sunshine, healthy, and better-looking than ever. Miss Ley had
invited Frank to meet him at dinner, and the pair of them, with the cold
unconcern of anatomists, observed what changes the intervening time had
wrought on the impressionable nature. Basil was in high spirits,
delighted to come back to his friends; but a discreet soberness,
underlying his vivacity, suggested a more composed temperament: what he
had gone through had given him perhaps a solid store of experience on
which he could rest himself; he was less emotional and more mature. Miss
Ley summed up her impressions next time she was alone with Frank.

“Every Englishman has a churchwarden shut away in his bosom--an old man
of the sea whom it is next to impossible to shake off: sometimes you
think he’s asleep or dead, but he’s wonderfully tenacious of life, and,
sooner or later, you find him enthroned in full possession of the
soul.”

“I don’t know what you mean by the word _soul_,” interrupted Frank, “but
if you do, pray go on.”

“The churchwarden is waking up in Basil, and I feel sure he will have a
very successful career. But I shall warn him not to let that
ecclesiastical functionary get the upper hand.”

Miss Ley waited for Basil to speak of Mrs. Murray, but after two days
her patience was exhausted and she attacked him point blank. At the
mention of the name his cheeks flamed.

“I daren’t go and see her. After what happened, I can never see her
again. I am steeling myself to forget.”

“And are you succeeding?” she asked, drily.

“No, no; I shall never succeed. I’m more desperately in love with her
than ever I was. But I couldn’t marry her now--the recollection of poor
Jenny would be continually between us, for it was we, Hilda and I, who
drove her to her death.”

“Don’t be a melodramatic idiot,” answered Miss Ley, sharply. “You talk
like the persecuted hero of a penny novelette. Hilda’s very fond of you,
and she has the feminine common sense which alone counterbalances in the
world the romantic folly of men. What on earth do you imagine is the use
of making yourselves wretched so that you may cut a picturesque figure?
I should have thought you were cured of heroics. You wrote and told me
that the world was for the living--an idea which has truth rather than
novelty to recommend it--and do you think there is any sense in
posturing absurdly to impress an inattentive gallery?”

“How do I know that Hilda cares for me still? She may hate me because I
brought on her shame and humiliation.”

“If I were you, I’d go and ask her,” laughed Miss Ley. “And go with good
heart, for she cared for you for your physical attractiveness rather
than for your character. And that, I may tell you, whatever moralists
say, is infinitely more reliable; since you may easily be mistaken in a
person’s character, but his good looks are obvious and visible. You’re
handsomer than ever you were.”

When Basil set out to call on Mrs. Murray, Miss Ley amused herself with
conjecturing ironically the scene of their meeting: with curling lips
she noted in her mind’s eye the embarrassed handshake, the trivial
conversation, the disconcerting silence, and without sympathy imagined
the gradual warmth and the passionate declaration that followed. She
moralised.

“A common mistake of writers is to make their characters, in moments of
great emotion, express themselves with good taste: nothing could be more
false, for, at such times, people, however refined, use precisely the
terms of the _Family Herald_. The utterance of violent passion is never
artistic, but trite, ridiculous, and grotesque, vulgar often, and
silly.” Miss Ley smiled. “Probably novelists alone make love in a truly
romantic manner; but then it’s ten to one they’re quoting from some
unpublished work, or are listening intently to themselves in admiration
of their glowing and polished phraseology.”

At all events, the interview between Hilda and Basil was eminently
satisfactory, as may be seen by the following letter which some days
later the young man received.

     “_Mon cher enfant_: It is with the greatest surprise and delight
     that I read in this morning’s _Post_ of your engagement to Mrs.
     Murray. You have fallen on your feet, _mon ami_, and I congratulate
     you. Don’t you remember that Becky Sharp said she could be very
     good on five thousand a year, and the longer I live the more
     convinced I am that this is a _vraie vérité_: with a house in
     Charles Street and _le reste_, you will find the world a very
     different place to live in; you will grow more human, dress better,
     and be less censorious. Do come to luncheon to-morrow, and bring
     Mrs. Murray; there will be a few people, and I hope it will be
     amusing--one o’clock. I’m afraid it’s an extraordinary hour to
     lunch, but I’m going to be received into the Catholic Church in the
     morning, and we’er all coming on here afterward. I mean to assume
     the names of the two saints whose example has most assisted me in
     my conversion, and henceforth shall sign myself,

“Your affectionate mother,

“MARGUÉRITE ELIZABETH CLAIRE VIZARD.

     “_P. S._--The Duke of St. Olpherts is going to be my sponsor.”

A month later, Hilda Murray and Basil were married in _All Souls_ by the
Rev. Collinson Farley; Miss Ley gave away the bride, and in the church,
besides, were only the verger and Frank Hurrell. Afterward, in the
vestry, Miss Ley shook the Vicar’s hand.

“I think it went off very nicely. It was charming of you to offer to
marry them.”

“The bride is a very dear friend of mine; I was anxious to give her this
proof of my goodwill at the beginning of her new life.” He paused and
smiled benignly, so that Miss Ley, who knew something of his old
attachment to Hilda, wondered at his good spirits; she had never seen
him more trim and imposing--he looked already every inch a bishop.
“Shall I tell you a great secret?” he added blandly. “I am about to
contract an alliance with Florence, Lady Newhaven. We shall be married
at the end of the season.”

“My dear Mr. Farley, I congratulate you with all my heart. I see already
these shapely calves encased in the gaiters episcopal.”

Mr. Farley smiled pleasantly, for he made a practice of appreciating the
jests of elderly maiden ladies with ample means, and he could boast that
to his sense of humour was due the luxurious appointing of his church;
for no place of worship in the West End had more beautiful altar-cloths,
handsomer ornaments; nowhere could be seen smarter hassocks for the
knees of the devout, or hymn-books in a more excellent state of
preservation.

The newly married couple meant to spend their honeymoon on the river,
and, having lunched in Charles Street, started immediately.

“I’m thankful they don’t want us to see them off at Paddington,” said
Frank, when he walked with Miss Ley toward the park.

“Why are you in such an abominable temper?” she asked, smiling. “During
luncheon, I was twice on the point of reminding you that marriage is an
event at which a certain degree of hilarity is not indecorous.”

Frank did not answer, and now they turned into one of the park gates: in
that gay June weather, the place was crowded; though the hour was early
still, motors tore along with hurried panting, carriages passed tranquil
and dignified; the well-dressed London throng sat about idly on chairs
or lounged up and down looking at their neighbours, talking
light-heartedly of the topics of the hour. Frank’s eyes travelled over
them slowly, and shuddering a little, his brow grew strangely dark.

“During that ceremony and afterward I could think of nothing but Jenny.
It’s only eighteen months since I signed my name for Basil’s first
marriage in a dingy registry office. You don’t know how beautiful the
girl was on that day--full of love and gratitude and happiness; she
looked forward to the future with such eager longing! And now she’s
rotting underground, and the woman she hated and the man she adored are
married, and they haven’t a thought for all her misery. I hated Basil in
his new frock coat, and Hilda Murray, and you: I can’t imagine why a
sensible woman like you should overdress ridiculously for such a
function.”

Miss Ley, conscious of the entire success of her costume, could afford
to smile at this.

“I have observed that, whenever you’re out of humour with yourself, you
insult me,” she murmured.

Frank went on, his face hard and set, his dark eyes glowering fiercely.

“It all seemed so useless. It seemed that the wretched girl had to
undergo such frightful torture merely to bring these two commonplace
creatures together. They must have no imagination, or no shame--how
could they marry with that unhappy death between them? For, after all,
it was they who killed her. And d’you think Basil is grateful because
Jenny gave him her youth and her love, her wonderful beauty and at last
her life? He doesn’t think of her. And you, too, because she was a
barmaid, are convined that it’s a very good thing she’s out of the way.
The only excuse I can see for them is that they’re blind instruments of
fate: nature was working through them, obscurely--working to join them
together for her own purposes, and, because Jenny came between, she
crushed her ruthlessly.”

“I can find a better excuse for them than that,” answered Miss Ley,
looking gravely at Frank; “I forgive them because they’re human and
weak. The longer I live, the more I am overwhelmed by the utter, utter
weakness of men; they do try to do their duty, they do their best
honestly, they seek straight ways--but they’re dreadfully weak. And so I
think one ought to be sorry for them and make all possible
allowances--I’m afraid it sounds rather idiotic, but I find the words
now most frequently on my lips are: forgive them, for they know not what
they do.”

They walked silently, and after a while Frank stopped on a sudden and
faced Miss Ley. He pulled out his watch.

“It’s quite early yet, and we have the afternoon before us. Will you
come with me to the cemetery where Jenny is buried?”

“Why not let the dead lie? Let us think of life, rather than of death.”

Frank shook his head.

“I must go. I couldn’t rest otherwise. I can’t bear that, on this day,
she should be entirely forgotten.”

“Very well. I will come with you.”

They turned round and came out of the park; Frank hailed a cab, and they
started. They passed the pompous mansions of the great, sedate, and
magnificent, and, driving north, traversed long streets of smaller
dwellings, dingy and gray notwithstanding the brightness of the sky;
they went on, it seemed, interminably, and each street strangely,
awfully, resembled its predecessor; they came to roads where each house
was separate and had its garden, and there were trees and flowers--they
were the habitations of merchants and stock-brokers, and had a trim,
respectable look, self-satisfied and smug; but these they left behind
for more crowded parts; and now it seemed a different London, more
vivacious, more noisy; the way was thronged with trams and ’buses, and
there were coster-barrows along the pavements; the shops were gaudy and
cheap, and the houses mean; they drove through slums, with children
playing merrily on the curb and women in dirty aprons, blousy and
dishevelled, lounging about their doorsteps. At length they reached a
broad, straight road, white and dusty and unshaded, and knew their
destination was at hand, for occasionally they passed a shop where
grave-stones were made; and an empty hearse trundled by, the mutes
huddled on the box, laughing loudly, smoking after the fatigue of their
accustomed work. The cemetery came in sight, and they stopped at iron
gates and walked in: it was a vast place, crowded with every imaginable
kind of funeral ornament which glistened white and cold in the sun; it
was hideous, vulgar, and sordid, and one shuddered to think of the rude
material minds of those who could bury folk they loved in that restless
ground wherein was neither peace nor silence; they might prate of the
soul’s immortality, but surely in their hearts they looked upon the dead
as common clay, or they would never have borne that they should lie till
the Day of Judgment in that unhallowed spot. There was about it a gross,
businesslike air that was infinitely depressing. Frank and Miss Ley
walked through, passing a knot of persons, black-robed, about an open
grave, where a curate uttered hastily, with the boredom of long habit,
the most solemn words that man has ever penned:

“_Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full
of misery. He cometh up and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it
were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay._”

Miss Ley, pale of face, took Frank’s arm and hurried on. Here and there
dead flowers were piled upon new graves; here and there the earth was
but freshly turned. They came at last to where Jenny lay--an oblong
stone of granite whereon was cut a simple cross; and Frank gave a sudden
cry, for it was covered at that moment, so that only the cross was
outlined, with red roses. For a while they stared in silence, amazed.

“They’re quite fresh,” said Miss Ley; “they were put here this morning.”
She turned to Frank and looked at him slowly. “You said they’d
forgotten--and they came on their wedding day and laid roses on her
grave.”

“D’you think she came, too?”

“I’m sure of it. Ah, Frank, I think one should forgive them a good deal
for that! I told you that they did strive to do right, and if they fell
it was only because they were human and very weak. Don’t you think it’s
better for us to be charitable? I wonder if we should have surmounted
any better than they did their great difficulties and their great
temptations.”

Frank made no reply, and for a long time they contemplated those rich
red roses and thought of Hilda’s tender hands laying them gently on the
poor woman’s cold grave-stone.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “I can forgive them a good deal because
they had this thought. I hope they will be very happy.”

“I think it’s a good omen.” She laid her hand on Frank’s arm. “And now
let us go away--for we are living, and the dead have nothing to say to
us. You brought me here, and now I want to take you on farther--to show
you something more.”

He did not understand, but followed obediently till they came to the
cab; Miss Ley told the driver to go straight on, away from London, till
she bade him stop. And then, leaving behind them that sad place of
death, they came suddenly into the open; the highway had the pleasant
brown hardness of a country road, and it was bordered by a hawthorn
hedge; green fields stretched widely on either side, and they might have
been a hundred miles from London town. Miss Ley stopped the cab, and
told the man to wait whilst she and her friend walked on.

“Don’t look back,” she said to Frank, “only look forward. Look at the
trees and the meadows.”

The sky was singularly blue, and the dulcet breeze bore gracious savours
of the country; there was a suave limpidity of the air which chased away
all ugly thoughts. Both of them, walking quickly, breathed with wide
lungs, inspiring eagerly the radiance of that summer afternoon. On a
turn of the road Miss Ley gave a quick cry of delight, for she saw the
hedge suddenly ablaze with wild roses.

“Have you a knife?” she said. “Do cut some.”

And she stood while he gathered a great bunch of the simple fresh
flowers; he gave them to her, and she held them with both hands.

“I love them because they’re the same roses as grow in Rome from the
sarcophagi in the gardens; they grow out of those old coffins to show us
that life always triumphs over death. What do I care for illness and old
age and disease! The world may be full of misery and disillusion, it may
not give a tithe of what we ask; it may offer hatred instead of
love--disappointment, wretchedness, triviality, and heaven knows what.
But there is one thing that compensates for all the rest, that takes
away the merry-go-round from a sordid show, and gives it a meaning, a
solemnity, and a magnificence which make it worth while to live. And
for that one thing, all we suffer is richly overpaid.”

“And what the Dickens is that?” asked Frank, smiling.

Miss Ley looked at him with laughing eyes, holding out the roses, her
cheeks flushed.

“Why, beauty, you dolt,” she cried gaily. “Beauty.”

THE END


Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

Nonesense=> Nonsense {pg 7}

proseperous=> prosperous {pg 32}

frighful=> frightful {pg 38}







End of Project Gutenberg's The Merry-go-round, by W. Somerset Maugham

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