Lady Vizard still inhabited her husband's house in Charles Street, and it was thither on the day after the case had been dismissed that Basil hurried. He expected to find her cowering in her room, afraid of the light of day, haggard and weeping; and his tender heart, filled only with pity, bled at the thought of her distress. He would go to her and kiss her, and say: 'Here am I, mother. Let us go away together where we can start a new life. The world is wide and there is room even for us. I love you more than ever I did, and I will try to be a good and faithful son to you.'
He rang the bell, and the door was opened by the butler he had known for years.
'Can I see her ladyship at once, Miller?' he said.
'Yes, sir. Her ladyship is still at luncheon. Will you go into the dining-room.'
Basil stepped forward, but caught sight of several hats on the hall-table.
'Is anyone here?' he asked with surprise.
But before the butler could answer there was a shout of laughter from the adjoining room. Basil started as though he had been struck.
'Is her ladyship giving a party?'
'Yes, sir.'
Basil stared at the butler with dismay, unable to understand; he wished to question him, but was ashamed. It seemed too monstrous to be true. The very presence of that servant seemed an outrage, for he too had given evidence at the hateful trial. How could his mother bear the sight of that unctuous, servile visage? Miller, seeing the horror in the young man's eyes and the pallor of his cheek, looked away with a vague discomfort.
'Will you tell her ladyship that I am here, and should like to speak to her? I'll go into the morning-room. I suppose no one will come there?'
Basil waited for a quarter of an hour before he heard the dining-room door open, and several people, talking loudly and laughing, walk upstairs. Then his mother's voice rang out, clear and confident as ever it had been:
'You must all make yourselves comfy. I've got to see somebody, and I forbid anyone to go till I come back.'
In a moment Lady Vizard appeared, a smile still on her lips, and the suspicion which Basil during that interval had vainly combated now was changed to naked certainty. Not at all downcast was she nor abashed, but alert as ever, neither less stately nor less proud than when last he saw her. He expected to find his mother in sackcloth and ashes, but behold! she wore a gown by Paquin, the flaunting audacity of which only she could have endured. Very dark, with great flashing eyes and magnificent hair, she had the extravagant flamboyance, the opulence of colour of some royal gipsy. Her height was unusual, her figure splendid, and holding herself admirably, she walked with the majesty of an Eastern queen.
'How nice of you to come, dear boy!' she cried, with a smile showing her beautiful teeth. 'I suppose you want to congratulate me on my victory. But why on earth didn't you come into the dining-room? It was so amusing. And you really should begin to décrasser yourself a little.' She put forward her cheek for Basil to kiss (this was surely as much as could be expected from a fond though fashionable mother), but he stepped back. Even his lips grew pale.
'Why didn't you tell me that this action was coming on?' he asked hoarsely.
Lady Vizard gave a little laugh, and from a box on the table took a cigarette.
'Voyons, mon cher, I really didn't think it was your business.'
Lighting a cigarette, she blew into the air two neat smoke-rings, and watched her son with somewhat contemptuous amusement.
'I didn't expect to find you giving a party today.'
'They insisted on coming, and I had to do something to celebrate my triumph.' She laughed lightly. 'Mon Dieu! you don't know what a narrow shave it was. Did you read my cross-examination? It was that which saved me.'
'Saved you from what?' cried Basil sternly, two lines of anger appearing between his brows. 'Has it saved you from shameful dishonour? Yes, I read every word. At first I couldn't believe it was true.'
'Et après?' asked Lady Vizard calmly.
'But it was true; there were a dozen people to prove it. Oh God, how could you! I admired you more than anyone else in the world. ... I thought of your shame, and I came here because I wanted to help you. Don't you understand the horrible disgrace of it? Oh, mother, mother, you can't go on like this! Heaven knows I don't want to blame you. Come away with me, and let us go to Italy and start afresh....'
In the midst of his violent speech he was stopped by the amusement of Lady Vizard's cold eyes.
'But you talk as if I'd been divorced. How absurd you are! In that case it might have been better to go away for a bit, yet even then I should have faced it. But d'you think I'm going to run away now? Pas si bête, mon petit!'
'D'you mean to say you're going to stay here when everyone knows what you are – when they'll point at you in the street, and whisper to one another foul stories? And however foul they are, they'll be true.'
Lady Vizard shrugged her shoulders.
'Oh, que tu m'assomes!' she said scornfully, justly proud of her French accent. 'You know me very little if you think I'm going to hide myself in some pokey Continental town, or add another tarnished reputation to the declassée society of Florence. I mean to stay here. I shall go everywhere, I shall be seen at every theatre, at the opera, at the races, everywhere. I've got some good friends who'll stick to me, and you'll see in a couple of years I shall pull through. After all, I've done little more than plenty of others, and if the bourgeois knows a good deal about me that he didn't know before—je m'en bats l'oeil. I've got rid of my pig of a husband, and, for that, the whole thing was almost worth it. After all, he knew what was going on; he only rounded on me because he was afraid I spent too much.'
'Aren't you ashamed?' asked Basil, in a low voice. 'Aren't you even sorry?'
'Only fools repent, my dear. I've never done anything in my life that I wouldn't do over again – except marry the two men I did.'
'And you're just going to remain here as if nothing had happened?'
'Don't be foolish, Basil,' answered Lady Vizard ill-temperedly. 'Of course, I'm not going to stay in this particular house. Ernest Torrens has rather a nice little shanty vacant in Curzon Street, and he's offered to lend it me.'
'But you wouldn't take it from him, mother. That would be too infamous. For God's sake, don't have anything more to do with these men.'
'Really, I can't throw over an old friend just because my husband makes him a co-respondent.'
Basil went up to her, and placed his hands on her shoulders.
'Mother, you can't mean all you say. I dare say I'm stupid and awkward – I can't say what I have in my mind. Heaven knows, I don't want to preach to you, but isn't there something in honour and duty and cleanliness and chastity, and all the rest of it? Don't be so hard on yourself. What does it matter what people say? Leave all this and let us go away.'
'T'es ridicule, mon cher,' said Lady Vizard, her brow darkening. 'If you have nothing more amusing to suggest than that, we might go to the drawing-room.... Are you coming?'
She walked towards the door, but Basil intercepted her.
'You shan't go yet. After all, I'm your son, and you've got no right to disgrace yourself.'
'And what will you do, pray?'
Lady Vizard smiled now in a manner that suggested no great placidity of temper.
'I don't know, but I shall find something. If you haven't the honour to protect yourself, I must protect you.'
'You impudent boy, how dare you speak to me like that!' cried Lady Vizard, turning on him with flashing eyes. 'And what d'you mean by coming here and preaching at me? You miserable prig! I suppose it runs in your family, for your father was a prig before you.'
Basil looked at her, anger taking the place of every other feeling; pity now had vanished, and he sought not to hide his indignation.
'Oh, what a fool I was to believe in you all these years! I would have staked my life that you were chaste and pure. And yet when I read those papers, although the jury doubted, I knew that it was true.'
'Of cours
e it was true!' she cried defiantly. 'Every word of it, but they couldn't prove it.'
'And now I'm ashamed to think I'm your son.'
'You needn't have anything to do with me, my good boy. You've got money of your own. D'you think I want a lubberly, ill-bred oaf hanging about my skirts?'
'I know what you are now, and you horrify me. I hope I shall never see you again. I would sooner my mother were a wretched woman on the streets than you!'
Lady Vizard rang the bell.
'Miller,' she said when the butler appeared, as though she had forgotten Basil's presence, 'I shall want the carriage at four.'
'Very well, my lady.'
'You know I'm dining out, don't you?'
'Yes, my lady.'
Then she pretended to remember Basil, who watched her silently, pale and scarcely able to contain himself.
'You can show Mr Kent out, Miller. And if he happens to call again you can say that I'm not at home.'
With scornful insolence she saw him go, and once again remained mistress of the situation.
Then came three years at the Cape, for Basil, unwilling to return to England, stayed after the expiration of the year for which he enlisted. At first his shame seemed unendurable, and he brooded over it night and day; but when the distance increased between him and Europe, when at length he set foot on African soil, the load of dishonour grew lighter to bear. His squadron was quickly sent up-country, and the hard work relieved his aching mind; the drudgery of a trooper's lot, the long marches, the excitement and the novelty, exhausted him so that he slept with a soundness he had never known before. Then came the sheer toil of war and its dull monotony; he suffered from hunger and thirst, from heat and cold. But these things drew him closer to the companions from whom at first he had sought to hide himself; he was touched by their rough good-humour, their mutual help, and the sympathy with which they used him in sickness; his bitterness towards mankind in general diminished when he saw human good-fellowship face to face with actual hardship; and when at last he found himself in battle, though he had looked forward to it with horrible anxiety, fearing that he might be afraid, Basil felt a great exhilaration which made life most excellent to live. For then vice and squalor and ugliness vanished away, and men stood before one another in primeval strength, the blood burning in their veins, and Death walked between contending hosts; and where Death is there can be nothing petty, sordid, nor mean.
But finally the idea came to Basil that it was not brave to remain there in concealment. For such talents as he had the Cape offered no scope, and he made up his mind to return to London, holding up his head proudly, and there show what stuff he was made of. He felt more self-reliant because he knew he could withstand cheerfully fatigue and want; and the medal on his breast proved that he lacked not courage.
Back at length in London, he entered his name at Lincoln's Inn, and while arranging for publication a little series of sketches he had written during the war, worked hard at law. Though the storm through which he passed had left him somewhat taciturn, with a leaning towards introspection, at bottom Basil was no less open-hearted and sanguine than before, and he entered upon this new phase with glowing hopes. But sometimes his chambers in the Temple seemed very lonely. He was a man who yearned for domestic ties; a woman's hands busied about him, the rustle of a dress or the sound of a loving voice were necessities of his nature. And now it seemed the last bitterness of his life would be removed, for Mrs Murray offered just that affection which he needed, and, still somewhat distrustful of himself, he looked for support to her strength.
Then, in the midst of his thought, Basil frowned, for on a sudden there had arisen in his mind a form which in his newborn joy he had momentarily forgotten. Leaving the bridge he wandered to the greater darkness of the Mall, his hands behind him; and for a long time walked up and down beneath the trees, perplexed and downcast. It was very late, and there was scarcely a soul about; on the seats homeless wretches lay asleep, huddled in grotesque attitudes, and a policeman stealthily crept along behind them.
Some months before, Basil, instead of lunching in hall, went by chance into a tavern in Fleet Street, and there saw behind the bar a young girl whose extreme beauty at once attracted his attention. Her freshness was charming in that tawdry place, grey with London smoke notwithstanding the gaudiness of its decoration; and though not a man to gossip with barmaids over his refreshment, in this case he could not resist a commonplace remark. To this the girl answered rather saucily (a public-house is apparently an excellent school for repartee) and her bright smile gave a new witchery to the comely face. Interested and a little thrilled, for there was none on whom sheer beauty made a greater impression, Basil told Frank Hurrell, then resident physician at St Luke's, that he had found in Fleet Street of all places the loveliest woman in London. The doctor laughed at his friend's enthusiasm, and one day when they were passing, Basil, to justify himself, insisted on going again to the Golden Crown. Then once or twice he went alone, and the barmaid, beginning to recognize him, gave a little friendly nod of greeting. Basil had ever something of a romantic fancy, and his quick imagination decked the pretty girl with whimsical conceits: he dignified her trade by throwing back the date, and seeing in her a neat-footed maid who gave sack to cavaliers and men-at-arms; she was Hebe pouring nectar for the immortal gods; and when he told her this with other fantastic inventions, the girl, though she did not altogether comprehend, reddened as the grosser compliments of the usual frequenters of the bar – accredited admirers – had no power to make her. Basil thought he had never seen anything more captivating than that blush.
And then he began to visit the Golden Crown more frequently – at tea-time, when there were fewest people. The pair grew friendly; and they discussed the weather, the customers, and the news of the day. Basil found that half an hour passed very pleasantly in her company, and perhaps he was a little flattered because the barmaid set greater store on his society than on that of the other claimants to her attention. One afternoon, going somewhat later than usual, he was delighted with the bright look that lit her face like sunshine on his appearance.
'I was afraid you weren't coming, Mr Kent.'
By now she used his name, and hers he found was Jenny Bush.
'Would you have minded if I hadn't?'
'A bit'
At that moment the second barmaid of the Golden Crown came to her.
'It's your evening out tonight, isn't it, Jenny?'
'Yes, it is.'
'What are you going to do?'
'I don't know,' said Jenny; 'I haven't made any plans.'
A customer came in, and Jenny's friend shook hands with him.
'Same as usual, I suppose?' she said.
'Would you like to come to the play with me?' asked Basil lightly. 'We'll have a bit of dinner first, and then go wherever you like.'
The suggestion flashed across his mind, and he spoke the words without thinking. Jenny's eyes sparkled with pleasure.
'Oh, I should like it. Come and fetch me here at seven, will you?'
But then came in a somewhat undersized young man, with obviously false teeth and a jaunty air. Basil vaguely knew that he was engaged to Jenny, and on most days he might be seen making sheep's eyes across the bar, and drinking innumerable whiskies-and-soda.
'Coming out to dinner, Jenny?' he said. 'I'll stand you a seat at the Tivoli if you like.'
'I'm afraid I can't tonight, Tom,' she answered, blushing slightly. 'I've made other arrangements.'
'What arrangements?'
'A friend has promised to take me to the theatre.'
'Who's that?' answered the man, with an ugly look.
'That's my business, isn't it?' answered Jenny.
'Well, if you won't tell me, I'm off.'
'I'm not stopping you, am I?'
'Just give me a Scotch-and-soda, will you? And look sharp about it.'
The man spoke impudently, wishing to remind Jenny that she was there to carry out his orders. Basil reddened, a
nd with some sharpness was about to say that he would be discreet to use greater politeness, when Jenny's eyes stopped him. Without a word she gave the clerk what he asked for, and the three of them remained silent.
Presently the newcomer finished his liquor and lit a cigarette. He glanced suspiciously at Basil, and opened his mouth to make an observation, but catching the other's steady look, thought better of it.
'Good night then,' he said to Jenny.
When he was gone Basil asked her why she had not thrown him over; it would have been better than to vex her lover.
'I don't care,' cried Jenny; 'I'm about sick of the airs he gives himself. I'm not married to him yet, and if he won't let me do as I like now he can just take himself off.'
They dined at a restaurant in Soho, and Basil, in high spirits over the little adventure, was amused with the girl's delight. It did his heart good to cause such pleasure, and perhaps his satisfaction was not lessened by the attention which Jenny's comeliness attracted. She was rather shy, but when Basil strove to entertain her laughed very prettily and flushed: the idea came to him that he would much like to be of use to her, for she seemed to have a very agreeable nature; he might give her new ideas and a view of the beauty of life which she had never known. She wore a hat, and he morning dress, so they took seats in the back-row of the dress circle at the Gaiety; but even this was unwonted luxury to Jenny, accustomed to the pit or the upper boxes. At the end of the performance she turned to him with dancing eyes.
Merry Go Round Page 6
