The Merry-go-round

XV XV 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 emphasized 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 coloured 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 everyone. 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 realized 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 realized 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. “M Y DEAR M ISS L EY , 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, “B ASIL K ENT .” 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, dryly. “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 humiliation and shame.” “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 moralized. “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: “M ON CHER E NFANT , 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’re 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, “M ARGUERITE E LIZABETH C LAIRE V IZARD . “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. Afterwards 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 towards 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 in at 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 afterwards 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 convinced 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 stockbrokers, 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, blowzy 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 gravestones 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, business-like 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 gravestone. “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 odours 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 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MERRY-GO-ROUND *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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