Though Basil went on Wednesday to Miss Ley almost trembling with excitement, he managed to ask gaily who was expected to dinner, but his heart sank when she made no mention of Mrs Murray. Then he wondered how to pass the dreariness of that evening to which he had so enormously looked forward. Since the meeting at Lady Edward Stringer's, the passion, hitherto dormant, had blazed into such a vehement flame that he could scarcely bear himself. It seemed impossible to live through the week without seeing Hilda; he could think of nothing else, and foresaw with sheer horror his excursion on Saturday to Brighton. Of course it was madness, and he knew well enough it was no use to see Mrs Murray again – it would have been better if they had never met; but the sound sense which he preached to himself seemed folly, and his eagerness to see her overcame all prudence. He thought there could be no harm in speaking to her just once more, only once, after which he vowed entirely to forget her.
Next day he walked again through Charles Street, and again saw the light in her windows. He hesitated, walking up and down. He could not tell if she wished any longer to know him, and feared horribly to discern on her face that he intruded, but at length in sullen anger decided to adventure. He could not love Hilda more if he saw her, and perhaps by some miracle the sight might console him, helping him to bear his captivity. He rang.
'Is Mrs Murray at home?'
'Yes, sir.'
She was reading when he entered the room, and with dismay Basil fancied that a very slight look of vexation crossed her eyes. It disconcerted him so that he could think of nothing to say. Then he imagined that his behaviour must astonish her, and asked himself whether she knew the cause of his sudden marriage. He listened to the polite or flippant things she said, and did his best to answer fittingly; but his words sounded so unnatural that he scarcely recognized his voice. Yet they laughed and jested as though neither had a care in the world; they spoke of Miss Ley and of Frank, of the plays then to be seen in London, of one trivial topic after another, till Basil was forced to go.
'I came in fear and trembling,' he said gaily, 'because you certainly never asked me to call.'
'I thought it wasn't needful,' she answered, smiling; but she looked straight into his eyes with an odd air of defiance.
Basil flushed, glancing at her quickly, for there seemed a double meaning in her words, and he knew not how to take them. He lost momentarily his urbane, courteous manner.
'I wanted so much to come and see you,' he said, in a low voice, which he strove to keep firm. 'May I come again?'
'Of course!' she replied; but her tone was full of cold surprise, as though she wondered at his question and resented it.
Suddenly she found his eyes fixed upon her with such an expression of deadly anguish that she was troubled. His face was very white, and his lips twitched as though he sought to command himself. All through the night she thought of that look of utter agony; it stared at her from the darkness, and she knew that if she needed revenge the fates had given it. But she was not pleased. For the hundredth time, unable to get it out of her head that he loved her still, she asked herself why he had married so strangely; but she would not inquire into her own feelings. She tightened her lips.
Knowing well that he would come again, it was Mrs Murray's impulse to tell the butler not to admit him; but something, she knew not what, prevented her. She wished to observe once more the terrible wretchedness of his face; she wished to make sure that he was not happy in what seemed his cruel treachery. One afternoon of the following week, coming in from a drive, she found his card. She took it in her hand and turned it over.
'Shall I ask him to luncheon?' With a frown of annoyance she put it down. 'No; if he wants to see me, let him come again.'
Basil was bitterly disappointed that day when the servant said that Mrs Murray was not at home, and at first determined that there he must leave it. He waited for a note, but none came. He waited for a week, able to do nothing but think of her, restless and preoccupied. With stricken conscience he went to Brighton, and so far as possible avoided to be alone with Jenny. He took her to a play one night, to a concert the next, and insisted that Mr Higgins, still faithful, should be constantly with them; but the whole thing disgusted him, and he felt utterly ashamed.
Then he made it a practice every evening to take Charles Street on his way to Frank, and ever the windows appeared to invite him. When he looked back, the whole street beckoned, and at length he could resist no longer. He knew that Mrs Murray was in. If the butler sent him away it must be taken as definite, for it would mean that Hilda had given orders he was not to be admitted.
This time better fortune was his, but when he saw her the many things on the tip of his tongue seemed impossible of Utterance, and it was an effort to speak commonplace. Mrs Murray was disconcerted by the look of pain which darkened his face, and the constraint between them made conversation very difficult. Basil dared not prolong his visit, yet it was dreadfully hard to go leaving unspoken all that lay so heavily on his heart. Talk flagged, and presently silence fell upon them.
'When is your book to be published?' she asked, oppressed, she knew not why.
'In a fortnight.... I wanted to thank you for your help.'
'Me!' she cried, with surprise. 'What have I done?'
'More than you know. I felt sometimes as if I were writing for you only. I judged of everything by what I thought would be your opinion of it.'
Mrs Murray, somewhat embarrassed, did not answer. He looked away, as though forcing himself to speak, but nervous.
'You know, it seems to me as though everyone were surrounded by an invisible ring which cuts him off from the rest of the world. Each of us stands entirely alone, and each step one must judge for one's self, and none can help.'
'D'you think so?' she answered. 'If people only knew, they would be so ready to do anything they could.'
'Perhaps, but they never know. The things about which it's possible to ask advice are so unimportant. There are other things, in which life and death are at stake, about which a man can never say a word; yet if he could it would alter so much.' He turned and faced her gravely. 'A man may have acted in a certain way, causing great pain to someone who was very dear to him, yet if all the facts were known that person might – excuse and pardon.'
Mrs Murray's heart began to beat, and she had some difficulty in preserving the steadiness of her voice.
'Does it much matter? In the end everyone resigns himself. I think an onlooker who could see into human hearts would be dismayed to find how much wretchedness there is which men bear smiling. We should all be very gentle to our fellows if we realized how dreadfully unhappy they were.'
Again there was silence, but strangely enough, the barrier between them appeared suddenly to have fallen, and now, though neither spoke, there was no discomfort. Basil got up.
'Good-bye, Mrs Murray. I'm glad you let me come today.'
'Why on earth shouldn't I?'
'I was afraid your servant would say you weren't at home.'
He looked at her steadily, as though meaning to say far more than was expressed in the words.
'I shall always be very glad to see you,' she answered, in a low voice.
'Thank you.'
A look of deep gratitude softened away the pain on his face.
At that moment Mrs Barlow-Bassett was announced. She shook hands with Basil somewhat coldly, thinking that a man who had married a barmaid could be no proper companion for her virtuous son, and she determined not to renew the old acquaintance. He went out.
'D'you know whom Mr Kent married, and why?' asked Mrs Murray.
The question had been often on her lips, but pride till this moment had ever prevented her from making an effort to clear up a difficulty which had long puzzled her.
'My dear Hilda, don't you know? It's a most shocking story. I must say I was surprised to find him here, but of course, if you didn't know, that explains it. He got into trouble with some dreadfully low creature.'
'She's very beau
tiful. I've seen her.'
'You?' cried Mrs Bassett, with astonishment. 'It seems there was going to be a baby, and he was forced to marry.'
Mrs Murray blushed to the roots of her hair, and for one moment bitter anger blazed in her heart. Again she told herself that she hated and loathed him, but remembering on a sudden the woe in his eyes, knew it was no longer true.
'D'you think he's very unhappy?'
'He must be. When a man marries beneath him he's always unhappy, and I must say I think he deserves it. I told my boy the whole story as a warning. It just shows what comes of not having good principles.'
Mrs Murray's eyes dwelt on the speaker absently, as though she thought of other things.
'Poor fellow! I'm afraid you're right. He is very unhappy.'
5
IN his distress Basil could scarcely bear the thought of resuming his old life at Barnes, so unprofitable to the spirit, mean and illiberal; and though ill able to afford it, pretexting Jenny's health, he insisted that she should remain at Brighton longer than was at first intended. But at length she was evidently quite well, and no persuasions of Basil could induce her to prolong her visit. They returned to the little house in River Gardens, and outwardly things went very much as in the past. Yet certain differences there were. They seemed more strange to one another after the temporary separation, and on each side trifles arose occasionally to embitter their relations. Basil observed his wife now in a more critical spirit, and certain little vulgarities which before had escaped him now set his teeth on edge. He thought that the company of her sister for two months had affected her somewhat badly. She used expressions which he found objectionable, and he could not help it if her manners at table offended his fastidious taste. He loathed the slovenly way with which she conducted her household affairs, and the carelessness of her dress. Though what she bought was ever in outrageous taste, indoors she took no pains to be even tidy, and spent most of the day in a dirty dressing-gown, with bedraggled hair. But since alteration seemed impossible, Basil determined rather to ignore things, leading his own life apart, and allowing Jenny to lead hers. When she did anything of which he disapproved, he merely shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips. He grew much more silent, and did not now attempt to discuss with her matters wherein he was aware she took no interest.
But he had reckoned without his wife's passionate affection, no less than when first they married. Realizing the change in him, of which the causes were to her quite incomprehensible, Jenny was profoundly disturbed. Sometimes she wept helplessly, wondering what she had done to lose his love, and at others, conscious of his injustice, broke irritably into sharp speeches. She resented his reserve, and the indifference with which he put aside her questions on topics which before he would have eagerly discussed. Brooding over all this, she concluded that only a woman could have wrought this difference, and remembered on a sudden her mother's advice to keep a sharp eye on him. Basil one morning told her that he was dining out that day. He had accepted the invitation before he knew she would be back.
'Who with?' asked Jenny, quickly suspicious.
'Mrs Murray.'
'Your lady friend who came down here to see you last year?'
'She came to see you' replied Basil, smiling.
'Yes, I believe that. I don't think a married man ought to go dining in the West End by himself.'
'I'm sorry. I've accepted the invitation, and I must go.'
Jenny did not answer, but when Basil came home in the afternoon watched him. She saw how restless he was. His eyes shone with excitement, and he looked at his watch a dozen times to see if it were time to dress. The moment he was gone, determined to find out on what terms he was with Mrs Murray, and hindered by no scruple, she went to the pockets of the coat he had just taken off, but his pocket-book was not there. A little surprised, for he was careless about such things, she thought there might be a letter in the desk, and with beating heart went to it. But it was locked, and this unaccustomed precaution doubled her suspicions. Remembering that there was a duplicate key, she fetched it, and on opening the drawer at once came upon a note signed Hilda Murray, It began with Dear Mr Kent, and ended Yours Sincerely – a merely formal invitation to dinner. Jenny glanced through the other letters, but they related to business matters. She replaced them in the old order and locked the drawer. She felt sick with shame now that she had actually done this thing.
'Oh, how he'd despise me!' she cried.
And in terror lest she had left any trace of her interference, she opened the drawer again, and once more smoothed out and tidied everything. Basil had asked her not to wait up for him, but she could not go to bed. She looked at the clock, ticking so slowly, and with something like rage told herself that Basil all this time enjoyed himself, and never thought of her. When he came home, flushed and animated, she fancied that a look of annoyance crossed his face when he saw her still sitting in the armchair.
'Are you very sleepy?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'Why don't you go to bed? I'm just going to have one more pipe.'
'I'll wait till you're ready.'
She watched him walk up and down the room, excited with his thoughts, and he never spoke to her. He seemed to have forgotten that she was present. Then rage and jealousy overcame all other feelings.
'All right, my young fellow,' she whispered to herself, 'I'll find out if there's anything in this.'
She had taken note of Mrs Murray's writing, and thenceforward examined closely the addresses of all letters that came for him, to see if one was written by her. Basil had been used to leave his correspondence lying about, but now took care to lock up everything, and this convinced her that he had something to conceal. But she flattered herself, with a little bitter laugh, that she was fairly sharp, and he did not know that every day after he went out she ransacked his desk. Though she never found anything, Jenny was none the less assured that there were good grounds for her jealousy. One morning she noticed that he was dressed in new clothes, and it flashed across her mind that in the afternoon he meant to see Mrs Murray. It seemed to her that if he actually went it would be a confirmation of her fears, while if not she could put aside all these tormenting fancies. Knowing at what time he left chambers, Jenny, veiled and dressed soberly, that she might not attract his attention, took up her stand in good time on the other side of the square, and waited. Presently he came out, and she followed. She followed him sauntering down the Strand, she followed him to Piccadilly Circus, and here was obliged to come a little closer, for fear of losing him in the throng. On a sudden he wheeled round and quickly strode up to her. She gave a stifled cry, and then, seeing his face white with rage, was overwhelmed with shame.
'How dare you follow me, Jenny?'
'I wasn't following you. I didn't see you.'
He called a cab, and told her to get in, jumped up, and bade the driver go to Waterloo. They were just in time to catch a train to Barnes. He did not speak to her, and she watched him in frightened silence. He said no word during the walk back to the house. They went to the drawing-room, and he closed the door carefully.
'Now will you have the goodness to tell me what you mean by this?' he asked.
She gave no answer, but looked down in sullen anger.
'Well?'
'I won't be bullied,' she answered.
'Look here, Jenny, we had better understand one another. Why have you been going to my drawer and reading my letters?'
'You've got no right to accuse me of that. It's not true.'
'You leave my desk in such disorder when you've been to it.'
'Well, I've got a right to know. Where were you going today?'
'That is absolutely no business of yours. I'm simply ashamed that you should do such horrible things. Don't you know that nothing is so disgraceful as to follow anyone in the street, and I'd sooner you stole than read private letters.'
'I'm not going to stand by and let you run after other women, so you needn't think I am.'
; He gave a laugh, partly of scorn, partly of disgust.
'Don't be absurd. We're married, and we must make the best of it. You may be quite sure that I'll give you no cause for reproach.'
'You're always after your fine friends that I'm not good enough for.'
'Good heavens!' he cried bitterly, 'you can't grudge me a little relaxation. It surely does you no harm if sometimes I go and see the people I knew intimately before my marriage?'
Jenny did not answer, but pretended to order anew flowers in a vase; then she smoothed down cushions on the sofa and set a picture straight.
'If you've done preaching at me, I'll go and take off my hat,' she said at length viciously.
'You may do exactly as you choose,' he answered, with cold indifference.
Shortly after this Basil's novel was published. Knowing that it could not interest her, and conscious of her small sympathy, he gave a copy to Jenny somewhat shyly, but said no more than the truth when he wrote to Mrs Murray that great part of his pleasure in the book's appearance lay in the fact that he was able to send it to her. He waited for her letter of thanks with as much anxiety as for the first reviews. She wrote twice, first to acknowledge the receipt and say that she had already read a chapter; then, having finished, to bestow enthusiastic praise. Her appreciation lifted him to a very heaven of delight. When Jenny, after an obvious struggle, reached the last page, he waited for some criticism, but since none came, was forced to ask what she thought.
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