“You know, Algernon, in this world it’s the good who do all the harm,” remarked Miss Ley, sitting down. “The bad carry off their wrong-doing with a certain dash which lessens the iniquity, and common-sense robs their vice of sting; but there’s no reasoning with a man conscious of his own rectitude.”
“That is a very subversive doctrine,” answered the Dean, smiling.
“Only the wicked should sin, for experience teaches them moderation, and little hurt befalls. But when the virtuous slip from the narrow path they flounder hopelessly, committing one error after another in the effort to right themselves by the methods of virtue. Under like circumstances they injure all concerned far more desperately than the entirely vicious, because they won’t face the fact that a different code is applicable.”
“Pray tell me the reason of this harangue.”
“A young friend of mine has done a foolish thing, and means to cap it with another. He came to me just now ostensibly for advice, but in reality that I might applaud his magnanimity.”
Without giving names, Miss Ley told her cousin Basil’s story.
“My first curacy was at Portsmouth,” the Dean said when she finished, “and I was then very intolerant of evil, very eager to right the wrong. I remember one of my parishioners got into a similar trouble, and for the child’s sake as well as for the woman’s I insisted that the man should marry. I practically dragged them to the altar by the hair of their heads, and when I had properly legalized the position felt I had done a good day’s work: six months afterwards the man cut his wife’s throat and was duly hanged. If I hadn’t been so officious two lives might have been spared.”
“Mrs. Grundy is a person of excellent understanding, who does not in the least deserve the obloquy with which she is now regarded. She does not mind if a man is a little wild, and if he isn’t thinks him rather a milksop; but with admirable perspicacity she realizes that for the woman a straighter rule is needed: if she falls Mrs. Grundy, without the smallest qualm, will give the first push into the pit. Society is a grim monster, somnolent apparently, so that you think you can take every kind of liberty; but all the time he watches you, he watches slily, and when you least expect it puts out an iron hand to crush you.”
“I hope Bella won’t be late,” said the Dean; “we haven’t too much time after luncheon to catch our train.”
“Society has made its own decalogue, a code just fit for middling people, who are neither very good nor very bad; but the odd thing is it punishes you just as severely if you act above its code as if you act below.”
“Sometimes it makes a god of you when you’re dead.”
“But it takes precious good care to crucify you when you’re alive, Algernon.”
Soon after this Bella came in, and when the Dean went upstairs, told Miss Ley that on her bookseller’s advice she had purchased for Herbert Field the two portly tomes of Dowden’s Life of Shelley.
“I hope soon he’ll have enough poetry to make a little volume,” said Bella, “and then I shall ask him if I may arrange for publication. I wonder if Mr. Kent will help me to find a publisher.”
“You will find a bank balance your best friend there, my dear,” answered Miss Ley.
Basil announced the approaching marriage to his solicitor, for his small fortune was held in trust, and his mother’s signature was needed for various documents. In a day or two the following letter reached him.
“CHER ENFANT.
“I find that you mean to be married, and I desire to give you my maternal blessing. Do come to tea to-morrow and receive it in due form. You have sulked with me quite long enough, and the masculine boudeur is always a trifle ridiculous. In case it has escaped your memory I venture to remind you that I am—your mother.
“Yours affectionately,
“MARGUERITE VIZARD.”
“P.S.—It is one of the ironies of nature, that though a man, if his father is canaille, may console himself with the thought that this relationship is always a little uncertain, with regard to his mother he can lay no such flattering unction to his soul.”
Lady Vizard was shrewd when she prophesied that a couple of years would suffice for her to regain the place in society due to her beauty, wealth, and distinction. None knew better that her position after the trial was precarious, and it required much tact to circumvent the many pitfalls. She was aware that the two best stepping-stones for social aspirants are philanthropy and the Church of Rome, but the astute creature did not think her state so desperate as to need conversion, and a certain assiduity in charitable pursuits offered all that was requisite. Lady Vizard made a dead-set for respectability in the person of a tedious old lady, whose rank and opulence gave her unlimited credit with the world, and whose benevolence made her an easy tool. Lady Edward Stringer was a little old woman with false teeth and a bright chestnut wig, always set awry; and, though immensely dull, managed to assemble in her drawing-rooms everyone in London of real importance. A relation of Lord Vizard, she had quarrelled with him desperately, and it was but natural that his wife should pour her troubles into a willing ear. Now, when she chose, Lady Vizard could assume a manner so flattering that few could resist it: she had an agile tongue and so good a memory for the lies she told that she was never caught tripping; she unfolded the story of her matrimonial unhappiness with such pathetic skill that Lady Edward, touched, promised to do everything to help her. She appeared at the old lady’s parties, was seen with her in all places where fashion congregates; and presently the world concluded it could well afford to know an amusing woman who suffered from no lack of money.
When Basil arrived, obedient to her summons, he found his mother seated in that favourite attitude in which she had been painted; and the portrait, by its daring colour the sensation of its season, hung behind her to show how little in ten years the clever woman had changed. By her side were the inevitable cigarettes, smelling-salts, and a French novel which on its appearance lately had excited a prosecution. Lady Vizard held a stall at a forthcoming bazaar, and it was not altogether without satisfaction that she read at that moment the prospectus in which her name figured on a list whereof the obvious respectability was highly imposing.
Tall and statuesque, she wore her gowns with a flaunting extravagance rather than with the simplicity, often bordering on slovenliness, of most of her countrywomen. She had no desire to conceal from masculine gaze the sinuous outlines of her splendid figure, and dressed, with the bold effrontery of the sensual woman, to draw attention to her particular anatomy rather than to conceal it. Nor was she strange to the intricate art of maquillage: the average Englishwoman who paints her face, characteristically feeling it a first step in the descent to Avernus, paints it badly. She can never avoid the idea that cosmetics are a little wicked or a little vulgar, and a tiny devil, cloven-footed and betailed, lurks always at the bottom of her rouge-pot. Then, perversely, the plunge once taken, to reassure herself she very distinctly exaggerates. Lady Vizard used all the artifices known to the wise, but so cleverly that the result was admirable: even her hair, which to most of her sex is a block of stumbling, was dyed in complete harmony with her eyes and complexion, so that the gross male intelligence was often deceived. Her eyebrows were perfect, and the pencilled line at her eyelashes gave her flashing eyes a greater intensity; the cosmetic on her lips was applied with an artist’s hand, and her mouth was no less beautiful than Cupid’s bow.
Lady Vizard had not seen her son for five years, and she noted the change in him with interest but without emotion.
“Let me give you some tea,” she said. “By the way, why didn’t you come and see me on your return from the Cape?”
“You forget that you gave Miller orders not to admit me.”
“You shouldn’t have taken that au grand serieux; I dismiss my maid every time she does my hair badly, but she’s been with me for years. I forgave you in a week.”
Their eyes met, and they realized that the position between them was unchanged. Lady Vizard shrugged her shoulders.
“I asked you to come to-day because I thought you might have grown more tolerant in five years. Apparently you are one of those men who never learn.”
Even a year before Basil would have answered that he hoped never to grow tolerant of dishonour, but now, ashamed, he sat in silence. His effort was to assume the air of polite indifference which his mother used so easily. He foresaw her next question, and it tortured him that he must expose part at least of his secret to that scornful woman; yet, just because it was so distasteful, he meant to answer openly.
“And whom are you going to marry?”
“No one you have ever heard of,” he answered, smiling.
“Do you wish to make a secret of the fortunate creature’s name?”
“Miss Bush.”
“That doesn’t sound very distinguished, does it? Who is her father?”
“He’s in the City.”
“Rich?” ’
“Very poor.”
Lady Vizard looked at her son keenly, then with a peculiar expression leaned forward.
“Pardon me if I ask, but is she what your tedious grandmother called a gentlewoman?”
“She’s a barmaid in Fleet Street,” he answered defiantly.
Without hesitation came the next question, in a ringing voice.
“And when do you expect the accouchement?”
A blow could not have taken him more aback. The blood rushed to his cheeks, and he sprang to his feet. Her eyes rested on him with cool scorn, and confounded by her penetration, he found nothing to say.
“I’m right, am I? Virtue has had a fall, apparently. Ah, mon cher, I’ve not forgotten the charming things you said to me five years ago. Have you? Don’t you remember the eloquence with which you spoke of chastity and honour? And you called me a name—which well-conducted sons don’t usually apply to their mothers; but I take it your wife will have no fewer claims to it than I?”
“If I have lust in my blood, it’s because I have the misfortune to be your son,” he cried fiercely.
I can’t help admiring you when I remember the unctuous rectitude with which you acted the upright man, you were playing your little game all the time. But, franchement, your little game rather disgusts me. I don’t like these hole-and-corner tricks with barmaids.”
“I dare say I did wrong, but I mean to make amends.”
“Of all fools, the saints preserve me from the fool who repents. If you can’t sin like a gentleman, you’d really better be virtuous. A gentleman doesn’t marry a barmaid because he’s seduced her—unless he has the soul of a counter-jumper. And then you dared come to me with your impudent sermons!”
At the recollection her eyes flashed, and she stood over Basil like some wrathful, outraged goddess.
“What do you know of life and the fiery passion that burns in my veins? You don’t know what devils tear at my breast. How can you judge me? But what do I care! I’ve had a good time in my day, and I’m not finished yet; and after all, if you weren’t such a prig, you’d see that I’m a better sort than most women, for I’ve never deserted a friend nor hit an enemy that was down.”
This she said with an angry vehemence, fluently as though she had often uttered the words to herself, and now at last found the opportunity for which she had waited. But quickly she regained that cutting irony of manner which she well knew was most effective.
“And when I grow old I shall go into the Catholic Church and finish my days in the odour of sanctity.”
“Have you anything more to say to me?” asked Basil coldly.
“Nothing,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders. “You were born to make a fool of yourself. You’re one of those persons who are doomed to mediocrity because you haven’t the spirit to go to the devil like a man. Go away and marry your barmaid. I tell you that you disgust me.”
Blind with rage, his hands clenched, Basil turned to the door, but before he reached it the butler announced Lord de Capit, and a tall fair youth entered. Basil gave him an angry glare, for he could well imagine what were the relations between his mother and the wealthy peer. Lord de Capit looked after him with astonishment.
“Who is that amiable person?” he asked.
Lady Vizard gave a little, irritated laugh.
“A foolish creature. He doesn’t interest me.”
“One of my predecessors?”
“No, of course not,” answered Lady Vizard, amused. “Give me a kiss, child.”
Profoundly despondent, Basil walked back to the Temple, and when he came to his door it was opened by Jenny. He remembered then that she had promised to come that afternoon to hear the final arrangements for their marriage, which was to take place at a registry office.
“I met my brother Jimmie in the Strand, Basil,” she said,” “and I’ve brought him up to see you.”
Going in, he found a weedy youth seated on the table, with dangling legs. He had sandy hair, a clean-shaven, sharp face, and pale eyes. Much commoner than his sister, he spoke with a pronounced Cockney accent, and when he smiled, showing small, discoloured teeth, had an expression of rather odious cunning. He was dressed in the height of fashion—for City sportsmen, with a rakish bowler, a check suit, and a bright violet shirt: he flourished a thin bamboo cane.
“How do?” he said, nodding to Basil. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting,”
“Don’t apologize,” Mr. Bush answered cheerfully. “I can’t stay long, because I’m a business man, but I thought I’d better just pop in and say ’ow d’ye do to my future brother-in-law. I’m a chap as likes to be cordial.”
“It’s very kind of you,” said Basil politely.
“My! He was surprised when I told him I was going to marry you, Basil,” cried Jenny, with a little laugh of pleasure.
“Now then, don’t mind me,” said James. “Give ’im a slobber, old tart.”
“Go on, Jimmie; you are a caution!”
“Oh, I see you re bashful Well, I’ll be toddling.”
“Won’t you have some tea before you go?” asked Basil.
“Bless you, I don’t want to disturb you canary birds. And I’m not much of an ’and at tea; I leave that to females. I like something stronger myself.”
“That’s Jimmie all over,” cried his sister, amused.
“I have some whisky, Mr. Bush,” said Basil, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh, blow the Mister and blow the Bush. Call me Jimmie. I can’t stand ceremony. We’re both of us gentlemen. Now mind you, I’m not a feller to praise myself, but I will say this—I am a gentleman. That’s not self-praise, is it?”
“Dear me, no. Mere statement of fact.”
“It’s a thing you can’t ’elp, so what’s the good of being proud about it? If I meet a chap in a pub, and he wants to stand me a drink, I don’t ask ’im if he’s a lord.”
“But you just take it.”
“Well, you’d do the same yourself, wouldn’t you?”
“I dare say. May I offer you some whisky now?”
“Well, if you are so pressing. My motto is: Never refuse a gargle. They say it’s good for the teeth.”
Basil poured out.
“Hold hard, old man,” cried James. “You needn’t be too generous with the soda. Well, ’ere’s luck!”
He emptied his glass at a gulp and smacked his lips.
“There are no flies about that, I lay. Now I’ll be toddling.”
Basil did not press him to stay, but by way of speeding the parting guest, offered a cigar. James took and examined it.
“Villar y Villar!” he exclaimed. ’That’s all right. How much do they run you in a ’undred?”
“I really don’t know what they cost. They were given to me.” Basil struck a match. ’Won’t you take the label off?”
“Not if I know it,” said James, with much decision. I don’t smoke a Villar y Villar every day, and when I do I smoke it with the label on. . . . Well, so long. See you later, old tart.”
When he was gone Jenny turned to her lover.
“Kiss me. . . . There! Now I can sit down quietly and talk. How d’you like my brother?”
“I scarcely know him yet,” answered Basil cautiously.
“He’s not a bad sort when you do, and he can make you laugh. He’s just like my mother.”
“Is he?” cried Basil, with some vivacity. “And is your father like that too?”
“Well, you know, pa’s not had the education that Jimmie’s had. Jimmie was at a boarding-school at Margate. You were at a boarding-school, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was at Harrow.”
“Ah, you don’t get the fine air at Harrow that you do at Margate.”
“No,” said Basil.
“Come and sit by me, ducky. . . . I’m so glad we’re I alone. I should like to be alone with you all my life. You do love me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Much?”
“Yes,” he repeated, smiling.
She gave him a long, searching glance, and her eyes suddenly darkened. She looked away.
“Basil, I want to say something to you, and it’s dreadfully hard.”
“What is it, darling?”
He put his arm round her waist and drew her towards him.
“No, don’t do that,” she said, getting up and moving away. “Please stay where you are. I can’t say it if I look at you.”
He paused, wondering what was in her mind. She spoke brokenly, as though by an effort almost beyond her strength.
“Are you sure you love me, Basil?”
“Quite sure,” he answered, trying to smile.
“Because I don’t want to be married out of pity or anything like that. If you’re only doing it because you think you ought, I’d rather go on as I am.”
“But why d’you say this now, Jenny?”
“I’ve been thinking it over. The other day when you offered to marry me I was so happy I couldn’t think it out. But I love you so much that I’ve seen things quite differently since then. I don’t want to hurt you. I know I’m not the sort of woman you ought to marry, and I can’t help you to get on.”
Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to continue, and Basil, motionless, listened to her gravely. He could not see her face.
“I want to know if you really care for me, Basil. If you don’t, you’ve only got to say so, and we’ll break it off. After all, I’m not the first girl that’s got into trouble; I could easily manage, you know.”
For one moment he hesitated, and his heart beat painfully. Miss Ley’s cold advice, his mother’s scorn, recurred to him: the girl herself offered an opportunity, and would it not, after all, be best to seize it?
His freedom stood before him, and he exulted; a few easy words might destroy that horrible nightmare, and he could start life afresh, wiser and better. But Jenny turned round, and in her sad, beautiful eyes he saw a mortal anxiety; in the sickening anguish of her expectation she could scarcely breathe. He had not the strength to speak.
“Jenny, don’t torture yourself,” he said brokenly. “And you torture me, too. You know I love you, and I want to marry you.”
“Straight?”
“Yes.”
She sighed deeply, and heavy tears fell down her cheeks. For a while she remained silent.
“You’ve saved my life, Basil,” she said at last. “I made up my mind that if you didn’t want to marry me I’d do away with myself.”
“What nonsense you talk!”
“I mean it. I couldn’t have faced it. I’d fixed it all up in my head—I should have waited till it was dark, and then I’d have gone over the bridge.”
“I will do my best to be a good husband to you, Jenny,” he said.
But when Jenny left him, Basil, utterly bowed down, surrendered himself to an uncontrollable depression. It came to his mind that Miss Ley had likened existence to a game of chess, and now bitterly he recalled each move that he should have played differently: again and again the result hung as on a balance, so that if he had acted otherwise everything would have gone right; but each time the choice appeared to matter so little one way or the other, and it was not till afterwards that he saw the fateful consequence. Every move was irretrievable, but at the moment seemed strangely unimportant; it was not a fair game, for the issue was hidden constantly by a trivial mask. And then it appeared to him as though, alter all, he had never had a choice in the matter; he felt himself powerless in the hand of a greater might, and Fate, for once grown ghastly visible, directed each step as though he were a puppet. Now life before him loomed black and cheerless, and even his child, the thought of which had been his greatest strength, offered no solace.
“Oh, what shall I do?” he moaned—“what shall I do?” He remembered with a shudder Jenny’s threat of suicide, and he knew that she would have carried it out, unhesitating; a sudden impulse seized him in just such a manner to finish with all that doubt and misery. But then, setting his teeth, he sprang up.
“I won’t be such a funk,” he cried savagely. “Alter all, I’ve made my bed and I must lie on it.”