“Well, so long,” he cried, with undiminished serenity, “I’ll be toddling.”
Jenny watched this scene with some alarm, but with more irritation, since Basil’s frigid contempt for her brother seemed a reflection on himself.
“You might at least be polite to him,” she said, when Jimmie was gone.
“I’m afraid I’ve pretty well used up all my politeness.”
“After all, he is my brother.”
“That is a fact I deplore with all my heart,” he answered.
“You needn’t be so hard on him now he’s down. He’s no worse than plenty more.”
Basil turned to her with flaming eyes.
“Good God, don’t you realise the man’s a thief! Doesn’t it mean anything to you that he’s dishonest? Don’t you see how awful it is that a man—”
He broke off with a gesture of disgust. It was the first quarrel they ever had, and a shrewish look came to Jenny’s face, her pallor gave way to an angry flush. But quickly Basil recovered himself; recollecting his wife’s illness and her bitter disappointment at the poor babe’s death, he keenly regretted the outburst.
“I beg your pardon, Jenny. I didn’t mean to say that. I should have remembered you were fond of him.”
But, since she did not answer, looking away somewhat sulkily, he sat down on the arm of her chair and stroked her wonderful, rich tresses.
“Don’t be cross, darling. We won’t quarrel, will we?”
Unable to resist his tenderness, tears came to her eyes, and passionately she kissed his caressing hands.
“No, no,” she cried. “I love you too much. Don’t ever speak angrily to me; it hurts so awfully.”
The momentary cloud passed, and they spoke of the approaching visit to Brighton. Jenny was to take lodgings, and she made him promise faithfully that he would come every Saturday. Frank had offered a room in Harley Street, and while she was away Basil meant to stay with him.
“You won’t forget me, Basil?”
“Of course not! But you must hurry up and get well and come back.”
When at length she set off, and Basil found himself Frank’s guest, he could not suppress a slight sigh of relief; it was very delightful to live again in a bachelor’s rooms, and he loved the smell of smoke, the untidy litter of books, the lack of responsibility: there was no need to do anything he did not like, and, for the first time since his marriage, he felt entirely comfortable. Recalling his pleasant rooms in the Temple—and there was about them an old-world air which amiably fitted his humour—he thought of the long conversations of those days, the hours of reverie, the undisturbed ease with which he could read books; and he shuddered at the pokey villa which was now his home, the worries of housekeeping, and the want of privacy. He had meant his life to be so beautiful, and it was merely sordid.
“There are advantages in single blessedness,” laughed the Doctor, when he saw Basil after breakfast light his pipe and, putting his feet on the chimney-piece, lean back with a sigh of content.
But he regretted his words when he saw on the other’s mobile face a look of singular wistfulness: it was his first indication that things were not going very well with the young couple.
“By the way,” Frank suggested, presently, “would you care to come to a party to-night? Lady Edward Stringer is giving some sort of function, and there’ll be a lot of people you know.”
“I’ve been nowhere since my marriage,” Basil answered, irresolutely.
“I shall be seeing the old thing to-day. Shall I ask if I can bring you?”
“It would be awfully good of you. By Jove, I should enjoy it.” He gave a laugh. “I’ve not had evening clothes on for six months.”
CHAPTER II
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 emphasised 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 every one. 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 realised 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 realised 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,