The sound of his voice suddenly called Basil back to the horrible events of his life, and with staring eyes and hoarse voice, cut by little gasps of anguish, he poured out incoherently the whole dreadful story. And then, breaking down again, he hid his face and sobbed.
'Oh, I can't bear it – I can't bear it!'
Frank looked at him thoughtfully, wondering what he had better do.
'I tried to kill myself in the night.'
'D'you think that would have done anyone much good?'
'I despise myself. I feel I haven't the right to live; but I hadn't the pluck to do it. People say it's cowardly to destroy one's self: they don't know what courage it wants. I couldn't face the pain. And yet she did it so easily – she just walked along the tow-path and threw herself in. And then, I don't know what's on the other side. After all, it may be true that there's a cruel avenging God who will punish us to all eternity if we break His laws.'
'I wouldn't high-falute if I were you, Basil. Supposing you came into the next room and went to bed. You'd be all the better for a few hours' sleep.'
'D'you think I could sleep?' cried Basil.
'Come on,' said Frank, taking his arm.
He led him into the bedroom, and, Basil unresisting, took off his clothes and made him lie down. Then he got his hypodermic syringe.
'Now give me your arm and stop still. I'm only going to prick you – it won't hurt.'
He injected a little morphia, and after a while had the satisfaction of seeing Basil fall comfortably asleep.
Frank put away his syringe with a meditative smile.
'It's rather funny,' he muttered, 'that the most tempestuous and tragic of human emotions are no match against a full dose of morphinœ hydrochlor'
That tiny instrument could allay the troubled mind; grief and remorse lost their vehemence under its action, the pangs of conscience were stilled, and pain, the great enemy of man, was effectually vanquished. It emphasized the fact that the finest-strung emotions of the human race depended on the matter which fools have stigmatized as gross. Frank, in one wide-embracing curse, expressed his whole-hearted abhorrence of dualists, spiritualists, Christian Scientists, quacks, and popularizes of science; then, enveloped in a rug, settled down comfortably in an arm-chair to await the tardy dawn.
Two hours later he found himself at Barnes, gathering at the police-station more precise details of Jenny's tragic death than Basil had been able to give him. Frank told the inspector that Kent was in a condition of absolute collapse and able personally to attend to nothing, then gave his own address, and placed himself for all needful business at the disposal of the authorities. He discovered that the inquest would probably be held two days later, and guaranteed that Basil would then be well enough to attend. After this he went to the house and found the servant amazed because neither master nor mistress had slept in bed, told her what had happened, and then wrote to James Bush some account of the facts. He promised the maid to return next morning, and went back to Harley Street.
Basil was up, but terribly depressed. All day he would not speak, and Frank could only divine the frightful agony he suffered. He went over in his mind eternally that scene with Hilda and his bitter words to his wife; and always he saw her in two ways: appealing for one last chance, and then – dead. Sometimes he felt he could scream with anguish when he recalled those passionate words of his to Hilda, for it seemed that final surrender was the cause of the whole catastrophe.
Next day, when Frank was about to go out, he turned to Basil, who was looking moodily into the fire.
'I'm going to Barnes, old chap. Is there anything you want?'
Basil began to tremble violently, and his pallor grew still more ghastly.
'What about the inquest? Have I got to go through that?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'And the whole story will come out. They'll know it was my fault, and I shall never be able to hold up my head again. Oh, Frank, is there no way out of it?'
Frank shook his head, and Basil's mouth was drawn to an expression of hopeless despair. He said nothing more till the other was on the point of leaving the room; then he jumped up.
'Frank, there's one thing you must do for me. I suppose you think me a cad and a brute. Heaven knows I despise myself as much as anyone else can do – but because we've been friends for such ages do one thing more for me. I don't know what Jenny said to her people, and they'll welcome a chance of hitting me now I'm down – Mrs Murray's name must be kept out of it at any cost.'
Frank stopped and meditated for a moment.
'I'll see what I can do,' he replied.
On his way to Waterloo the doctor went round to Old Queen Street and found Miss Ley breakfasting.
'How is Basil this morning?' she asked.
'Poor devil! he's in rather a bad way. I scarcely know what to do with him. I think as soon as the inquest is over he'd better go abroad.'
'Why don't you let him stay here till then? I'll feed him up.'
'You'd only fuss. He's much better by himself. He'll just brood over it till his mind is exhausted, and then things will get better.'
Miss Ley smiled at the scorn with which he refused her suggestion, and waited for him to go on.
'Look here, I want you to lend me some money. Will you pay two hundred and fifty pounds into my bank this morning?'
'Of course I will,' she answered, delighted to be asked.
She went to her desk to get a cheque-book, while Frank looked at her with a little smile.
'Don't you want to know what it's for?'
'Not unless you wish to tell me.'
'You brick!'
He shook her hand warmly, and glancing at his watch, bolted off to Waterloo. When he arrived at River Gardens, Fanny, the servant, who opened the door, told him that James Bush was waiting to see him. She said he had been telling her all he meant to do to ruin Basil, and had been through the house to find papers and letters. Frank congratulated himself on the caution with which he had locked up everything. He walked upstairs softly, and opening the door, found James trying various keys on the writing-table. He started away when Frank entered, but quickly recovered his coolness.
'Why are all these drawers locked up?' he asked impudently.
'Presumably so that curious persons should not examine their contents,' answered Frank, with great amiability.
'Where's that man? He's murdered my sister. He's a blackguard and a murderer, and I'll tell him so to his face.'
'I was hoping to find you here, Mr Bush. I wanted to have a talk with you. Won't you sit down?'
'No, I won't sit down,' he answered aggressively. 'This ain't the 'ouse that a gentleman would sit down in. I'll be even with 'im yet. I'll tell the jury a pretty story. He deserves to be strung up, he does.'
Frank looked sharply at the auctioneer's clerk, noting the keen suspicious eyes, the thin lips, and the expression of low cunning. Wishing to prevent a scandalous scene at the inquest, for Basil was ill enough and wretched enough without having to submit to cross-examination on his domestic affairs, Frank thought it would not be difficult to bring James Bush to the frame of mind he desired; but the distaste with which this person inspired him led the doctor to use a very brutal frankness. He felt with such a man it was better not to mince matters, and unnecessary to clothe his meaning with flattering euphemisms.
'What d'you think you'll get out of making a row at the inquiry?' he said, looking fixedly into the other's eyes.
'Oh, you've thought of that, 'ave you? Did Master Basil send you to get round me? It won't work, young feller. I mean to make it as 'ot for Basil as I can. I've 'ad something to put up with, I 'ave. He's simply treated me like dirt. I wasn't good enough for 'im, if you please.'
He hissed the words with the utmost malevolence, and it was possible to imagine that he cared little for his sister's death, except that it gave opportunity for paying off the score which had so long rankled with him.
'Supposing you sat down quietly and listened to me wi
thout interruption for five minutes.'
'You're trying to bamboozle me, but you won't. I can see through you as if you was a pane of glass. You people in the West End – you think you know everything!'
Frank waited calmly till James Bush held his offensive tongue.
'What d'you think the furniture of this house is worth?' he asked deliberately.
The question surprised James, but in a moment he replied.
'It's a very different thing what a thing's worth and what it'll fetch. If it was sold by a man as knew his business, it might fetch – a hundred pounds.'
'Basil thought of giving it to your mother and sister – on the condition, of course, that nothing is said at the inquest.'
James burst into a shout of ironical laughter.
'You make me laugh. D'you think you can gag me by giving a houseful of furniture to my mother and sister? '
'I had no such exalted opinion of your disinterestedness,' smiled Frank icily. 'I come to you now. It appears that you owe Basil a good deal of money. Can you pay it?'
'No.'
'Also it appears there was some difficulty with your accounts in your last place.'
'That's a lie,' James interrupted hotly.
'Possibly,' retorted Frank, with the utmost calm. 'I merely mention it to suggest to your acute intelligence that we could make it uncommonly nasty for you if you made a fuss. If dirty linen is going to be washed in public, there's generally a good deal to be said on both sides.'
'I don't care,' cried the other vindictively; 'I mean to get my own back. If I can get my knife into that man, I'll take the consequences.'
'I understand it is your intention to unfold to a delighted jury the whole story of Basil's married life.' Frank paused and looked at the other. 'I'll give you fifty pounds to hold your tongue.'
The offer was made cynically, and James actually coloured. He jumped up indignantly, and went over to Frank, who remained seated, watching with somewhat amused indifference.
'Are you trying to bribe me? I would 'ave you know that I'm a gentleman; and, what's more, I'm an Englishman, and I'm proud of it. I've never had anyone try and bribe me before.'
'Otherwise you would doubtless have accepted,' murmured Frank gently.
The doctor's coolness greatly disconcerted the little clerk. He felt vaguely that high-flown protestations were absurd, for Frank had somehow taken his measure so accurately that it was no use to make any false pretences.
'Come, come, Mr Bush, don't be ridiculous. The money will doubtless be very useful to you, and you're far too clever to allow private considerations to have any effect on you where business is concerned.'
'What d'you think fifty pounds is to me?' cried James, a little uncertainly.
'You must have mistaken me,' said Frank, after a quick look. 'The sum I mentioned was a hundred and fifty.'
'Oh!' He coloured again, and a curious look came over his face. 'That's a very different pair of shoes.'
'Well?'
Frank observed the struggle in the man's mind, and it interested him to see some glimmering of shame. James hesitated, and then forced himself to speak; but it was not with his usual self-assurance – it was almost in a whisper.
'Look 'ere, make it two hundred and I'll say done.'
'No,' answered Frank firmly. 'You can take one fifty or go to the devil.'
James made no reply, but seeing that he agreed, Frank took a cheque from his pocket, wrote it out at the desk, and handed it.
'I'll give you fifty now, and the rest after the inquest.'
James nodded, but did not answer. He was curiously humbled. He looked at the door, and then glanced at Frank, who understood.
'There's nothing you need stay for. If you're wanted for anything, I'll let you know.'
'Well, so long.'
James Bush walked out with somewhat the air of a whipped cur. In a moment the servant passed through the room.
'Has Mr Bush gone?' asked Frank.
'Yes. And good riddance to bad rubbish.'
Frank looked at her reflectively.
'Ah, Fanny, if there were no rogues in the world, life would really be too difficult for honest men.'
15
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 figure 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.'
'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 become reconciled with her daughter-in-law, who is a very nice, sensible woman.'
'Pretty?' asked Grace.
'Not at all, but eminent
ly 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 on 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 fullness 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 dare say, 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.