Merry Go Round (24 page)

He felt a tremor pass through his wife, and wished that he had kept his second resolution, to say nothing to her.

'I know you hate to speak of such things, but I must do something. She can't go on living here.' Fanny Bridger's father was an under-gamekeeper on the estate, and his two sons were likewise employed. 'I saw Bridger today, and told him his daughter must be sent away; I can't in my position connive at immorality.'

'But where is she to go?' asked Mrs Castillyon in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper.

'That is no business of mine. The Bridgers have been good servants for many years, and I don't wish to be hard on them. I've told the old man that I'll give him a week to find somewhere for his daughter to go.'

'And if he can't?'

'If he can't, it'll be because he's a stupid and obstinate dolt. He began to make excuses this afternoon; he talked a deal of nonsense about keeping her in his care, and that it would break his heart to send her away, and he couldn't afford to. I thought it was no good mincing matters, so I told him if Fanny wasn't gone for good by Tuesday next I should dismiss him and his two sons.'

Abruptly Mrs Castillyon snatched her arm from his, and a coldness seized her; she was indignant and horrified.

'We'd better go in to your mother, Paul,' she said, knowing to whom this determination of her husband was due. 'We must talk this out at once.'

Surprised at the change in her tone, Castillyon followed his wife, who walked quickly to the drawing-room and flung aside her cloak. She went up to Mrs Castillyon the elder.

'Did you advise Paul that Fanny Bridger should be sent away?' she asked, her eyes flaming with anger.

'Of course I did. She can't stay here, and I'm happy to see that Paul has behaved with spirit. People in our position have to take great care; we must allow no contamination to enter the parish.'

'What d'you think will happen to the wretched girl if we turn her out? The only chance for her is to remain in her family.'

Paul's mother, by no means a patient woman, vastly resented the scornful indignation apparent on Grace's face; she drew herself up, and spoke with tight lips, acidly.

'Perhaps you're not very capable of judging matters of this sort, my dear. You've lived so much in London that I dare say your notions of right and wrong are not quite clear. But, you see, I'm only a country bumpkin. I'm happy to say I think differently from you. I've always been under the impression that there is something to be said for morality. To my mind, Paul has been absurdly lenient in giving them a week. My father would have turned them out bag and baggage in twenty-four hours.'

Grace shuddered at the cruel self-righteousness of that narrow, bigoted face, and then slowly examined Paul, whose eyes were upon her, dreadfully pained because she was angry, but none the less assured of his own rectitude. She pursed her lips, and saying not a word more, went to her room. She felt that nothing could be done then, and made up her mind next morning to visit for herself the unlucky girl. Paul, disturbed because she did not speak to him, was about to follow further to expostulate; but his mother, sharply rapping the table with her fan, prevented him.

'Now, don't run after her, Paul,' she cried peremptorily.
'You behave like a perfect fool, and she just turns you round her little finger. If your wife has no sense of morality, other people have, and you must do your duty, however much Grace dislikes it.'

'I dare say we might manage to find Fanny Bridger some place.'

'I dare say you'll do nothing of the sort, Paul,' she answered. 'The girl's a little wanton. I've known her since she was a child, and she always was. I wonder she had the impudence to come back here, but if you have any sense of decency
you
won't help her. How d'you suppose you're going to keep people moral if you pamper those who fall? Remember that I have some claims upon you, Paul, and I don't expect my wishes to be entirely disregarded.'

In her domineering way she looked round the room, and it was obvious in every repellent feature – in her narrow lips, in her thin nose and little sharp eyes – that she remembered how absolute was her power over the finances of that house. Paul indeed was the Squire, but the money was hers, if she chose, to leave every penny to Bainbridge. Next day she came in to luncheon in a towering passion.

'I think you should know, Paul, that Grace has been to Bridger's cottage. I don't know how you expect the tenants to have any regard for modesty and decorum if your wife openly favours the most scandalous indecency.'

Grace turned on her mother-in-law with flashing eyes.

'I felt sorry for the girl, and I went to see her. Poor thing! she's in great distress.'

She saw again that little cottage at one of the park gates – a pretty rural place overgrown with ivy, the tiny garden vivid with carefully-tended flowers. Here Bridger was working, a man of middle age, hard-featured and sullen, his face tanned by exposure. He turned his back on her approach, and when she bade good morning answered unwillingly.

'I've come to see Fanny,' said Mrs Castillyon. 'May I go in?'

He faced her with a dark scowl, and for a moment did not answer.

'Can't you leave the girl alone?' he muttered at last huskily.

Mrs Catillyon looked at him doubtfully, but only for a moment. She passed by quickly, and without another word entered the house. Fanny was seated at the table, sewing, and close to her was a cradle. Seeing Grace, she rose nervously, and a painful blush darkened her white cheeks. Once a pretty girl with fresh colours, active and joyful, deep lines of anxiety now gave a haggard look to her eyes. Her cheeks were sunken, and the former trimness of her person had given way to slovenly disorder. She stood before Grace like a culprit, conscience-stricken, and for a moment the visitor, abashed, knew not what to say. Her eyes went to the baby, and Fanny, seeing it, anxiously stepped forward to get between them.

'Was you looking for father, mum?' she asked.

'No; I came to see you. I thought I might be of some use. I want to help you if you'll let me.'

The girl looked down stubbornly, white again to her very lips.

'No, mum, there's nothing I want.'

Facing her, Grace understood that there was something common to them both, for each had loved with her whole soul and each had been very unhappy. Her heart went out strangely to the wretched girl, and it was torture that she could not pierce that barrier of cold hostility. She knew not how to show that she came with no thought of triumphing over her distress, but rather as one poor weak creature to another. She could have cried out that before her Fanny need fear no shame, for herself had fallen lower even than she. The girl stood motionless, waiting for her to go, and Mrs Castillyon's lips quivered in helpless pity.

'Mayn't I look at your baby?' she asked.

Without a word the girl stepped aside, and Mrs Castillyon went to the cradle. The little child opened two large blue eyes and lazily yawned.

'Let me take it in my arms,' she said.

Again the fleeting colour came to Fanny's cheeks as with a softer look she took the baby and gave it to Grace. With
curious motherly instinct Grace rocked it, crooning gently, and then she kissed it. Against her will a cry was forced from her.

'Oh, I wish it were mine!'

She looked at Fanny with pitiful longing in her eyes all bright with tears; and her own emotion thawed at length the girl's cold despair, for she buried her face in her hands and burst into passionate weeping. Grace placed the child again in the cradle, and gently leaned over Fanny.

'Don't cry. I dare say we can do something. Do talk to me, and let me see how I can help.'

'No one can help,' she moaned. 'We've got to go in a week; the Squire says so.'

'But I'll try and make him change his mind, and if I can't I'll see that you and the baby are well provided for.'

Fanny shook her head hopelessly.

'Father says if I go he goes, too. Oh, the Squire can't turn us out! What are we to do? We shall starve, all of us. Father's not so young as he was, and he won't get another job so easy, and Jim and Harry have got to go, too.'

'Won't you trust me? I'll do whatever I can. I'm sure he'll let you stay.'

'The Squire's a hard man,' muttered Fanny. 'When he sets his mind to anything he does it.'

And now at luncheon, looking at Paul and his mother, Bain-bridge and Miss Johnston, she felt a bitter enmity against them all because of their narrow cruelty. What did they know of the horrible difficulties of life, when their self-complacency made the way so easy to their feet?

'Fanny Bridger is no worse than anyone else, and she's very unhappy. I'm glad I went to see her, and I've promised to do all I can to help her.'

'Then I wash my hands of you,' cried the elder Mrs Castillyon violently. 'But I can tell you this, that I'm shocked and scandalized that you should be quite dead to all sense of decency, Grace. I think that you should have some regard for your husband's name, and not degrade yourself by pampering an immoral woman.'

'I think it was unwise of you to go to Bridger's cottage,' said Paul gently.

'You're all of you so dreadfully hard. Have you none of you pity or mercy? Have
you
never done anything in your lives that you regret?'

Mrs Castillyon turned to Grace severely.

'Pray remember that Miss Johnston is a single woman, and unaccustomed to hearing matters of this sort discussed. Paul has been very lenient. If he were more so, it would seem as if he connived at impropriety. It's the duty of people in our position to look after those whom Providence has placed in our care. It's our duty to punish as well as to reward. If Paul has any sense remaining of his responsibilities, he will turn out neck and crop the whole Bridger family.'

'If he does that,' cried Grace, 'I shall go too.'

'Grace!' cried Mr Castillyon, 'what do you mean?'

She looked at him with shining eyes, but did not answer. They were too many against her, and she knew it useless to attempt anything more till next day, when Paul's mother departed. Yet it was almost impossible to hold her tongue, and she was desperately tempted to cry out before them all the story of her own shameful misery.

'Oh, these virtuous people!' she muttered to herself. 'They're never content unless they see us actually roasting in hell! As if hell were needed when every sin brings along with it its own bitter punishment. And they never make excuses for us. They don't know how many temptations we resist for the one we fall to.'

B
UT
Grace found her husband more obstinate than ever before, and though she used every imaginable device he remained unmoved; by turns she was caressing and persuasive, scornful, bitter, and angry, but at length, because of his unperturbed complacency, was seized with indignant wrath. He was a man who prided himself on the accomplishment of every resolve he formed, and his determination once made, that the Bridgers at the end of their week's warning should go, no appeals to his reason or to his emotion would induce him to another mind. Though it hurt him infinitely to thwart his wife, though it was very painful to feel her cold antagonism, his duty seemed to point clearly in one direction, and the suffering it caused made him only more resolute to do it. Paul Castillyon had a very high opinion both of the claims his tenants had upon him and of his great responsibilities towards them; and he never imagined for a moment that their private lives could be no concern of his: on the contrary, convinced that a merciful Providence had given him a trust of much consequence, he was fully prepared to answer for all who were thus committed to his charge; and he took his office so seriously that even in London he was careful to inform himself of the smallest occurences on his estate. To all these people he was a just and not ungenerous master, charitable in their need, sympathetic in their sickness, but arrogated to himself in return full authority over their way of life. In this instance his moral sense was sincerely outraged; the presence of Fanny Bridger appeared a contamination, and with the singular prudery of some men, he could not think of her case without a nausea of disgust. It horrified him somewhat that Grace not only could defend, but even visit her; it seemed to him that a pure woman should feel only disdain for one who had so fallen.

The week passed, and Grace had been able to effect nothing;
bitterly disappointed, angry with her husband and with herself, she made up her mind that no pecuniary difficulties should add to Fanny's distress; if she had to go, at least it was possible so to provide that some measure of happiness should not be unattainable. But here she was confronted by Bridger's obstinate determination not to be separated from his daughter; he had got it into his slow brain that the trouble came only because she had gone away, and no argument would convince him that in future little need be feared; somehow, also, he was filled with sullen resentment against the Squire, and, himself no less self-willed, refused to yield one inch. He repeated over and over that if the girl went, he and his sons must go too.

Late in the afternoon of the day before that on which Fanny was to leave for ever the village of her birth, Mrs Castillyon sat moodily in the drawing-room, turning over the pages of a periodical, while Paul, now and then glancing at her anxiously, read with difficulty a late-published Blue-Book. A servant came in to say that Bridger would like to speak with the Squire. Paul rose to go to him, but Mrs Castillyon begged that he might come there.

'Send him in,' said the Squire.

Bridger entered the room somewhat timidly, and stood at the door cap in hand; it was raining, and the wet of his clothes gave out an unpleasant odour. There was a certain grim savagery about the man, as though his life spent among wild things in the woods had given him a sort of fawnlike spirit of the earth.

'Well, Bridger, what do you want?'

'Please, Squire, I came to know if I was really to go tomorrow?'

'Are you accustomed to hear me say things I don't mean? I told you that if you did not send away your daughter within a week I should dismiss you and your sons from my service.'

The gamekeeper looked down, revolving these words in his mind: even then he could not bring himself to believe that they were spoken in grim earnest; he felt that if only he could make Mr Castillyon understand how impossible was what he asked, he would surely allow him to stay.

'There's nowhere Fanny can go. If I send her away, shell go to the bad altogether.'

'You doubtless know that Mrs Castillyon has promised to provide for her. I have no doubt there are homes for fallen women where she can be looked after.'

'Paul,' cried Grace indignantly, 'how can you say that!'

Bridger stepped forward and faced the Squire; he looked into his eyes with surly indignation.

'I've served you faithfully, man and boy, for forty years, and I was born in that there cottage I live in now. I tell you the girl can't go; she's a good girl in her heart, only she's 'ad a misfortune. If you turn us out, where are we to go? I'm getting on in years, and I shan't find it easy to get another job. It'll mean the workus.'

He could not express himself, nor show in words his sense of the intolerable injustice of this thing; he could only see that the long years of loyal service counted for nothing, and that the future offered cold and want and humiliation. Paul stood over him cold and stern.

'I'm very sorry,' he said. 'I can do nothing for you. You've had your chance, and you've refused to take it.'

'I've got to go tomorrow?'

'Yes.'

The gamekeeper turned his cap round nervously, and to his face came an expression of utter distress; he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came, only an inarticulate groan. He turned on his heel and walked out. Then Grace went up to Paul desperately.

'Oh, Paul, you can't do it,' she cried. 'You'll break the man's heart. Haven't you any pity? Haven't you any forgiveness?'

'It's no good, Grace. I'm sorry that I can't fall in with your wishes. I must do my duty. It wouldn't be fair to the other people on the estate if I let this go by without notice.'

'How can you be so hard!'

He wouldn't see, he couldn't see, that it was out of the question to drive Bridger away callously from the land he loved with all his soul; in one flash of inspiration she realized all that his little cottage signified to him, the woods and
coverts, the meadows, the trees, the hedges: with all these things his life was bound up; like a growing thing, his roots were in the earth which had seen his birth and childhood, his marriage, and the growth of his children. She took hold of her husband's arms and looked up into his face.

'Paul, don't you know what you're doing? We've come nearer to one another of late. I've felt a new love grow up in my heart for you, and you're killing it. You won't let me love you. Can't you forget that you're this and that and the other, and remember that you're only a man, weak and frail like the rest of us? You hope to be forgiven yourself, and you're utterly pitiless.'

'My darling, it's for your sake also that I must be firm with this man. It's because you are so good and pure that I dare not be lenient.'

'What on earth d'you mean?'

She disengaged herself roughly from his arms and stepped back. Her face, without powder or rouge, was ashen grey, and in her eyes was a look of panic fear.

'I can't allow that creature to live in the same place as you. Because you're a virtuous and a good woman, it's my duty to protect you from all contact with evil. It horrifies me to think that you may meet her on your walks – her and her child.'

Mrs Castillyon's cheeks flamed with red, and there was such a catching at her throat that she put her hand to it.

'But I tell you, Paul, that compared with me that woman is innocent and virtuous.'

'Nonsense, my dear,' he laughed.

'Paul, I'm not what you think. That woman sinned because she was ignorant and unhappy, but I knew what I was doing. I had everything I wanted, and I had your love; there were no excuses for me. I was nothing better than a wanton.'

'Don't be absurd, Grace! How can you talk such rubbish?'

'Paul, I'm talking perfectly seriously. I've not been a good wife to you. I'm very sorry. It's best that you should know.'

He stared at her incredulously.

'Are you mad, Grace? What do you mean?'

'I've been – unfaithful.'

He said nothing, he did not move, but a trembling came over his fleshy limbs and his face turned deathly white. Still he could scarcely believe. She went on with dry throat, forcing out the words that came unwillingly.

'I'm unworthy of the love and confidence that you gave me. I've deceived you shamefully. I've committed – adultery!'

The word hit him like a blow, and with a cry of rage he stepped forward to his wife, cowering before him, and seized her shoulders. He seized her roughly, cruelly, with strong hands, so that she set her teeth to repress the cry of pain.

'What d'you mean? Have you been in love with someone else? Tell me who it is.'

She did not answer, looking at him in terror, and he shook her angrily; he was blind with rage now, in a condition which she had never seen before.

'Who is it?' he repeated. 'You'd better tell me,'

She shrank away from him, but he held her fast with ruthless hands, and he tightened them so that she could have screamed with pain.

'Reggie Bassett,' she cried at last.

He released her roughly, so that she fell against a table.

'You dirty little beast!' he cried.

Mrs Castillyon's breath came quickly. She felt about to faint, and steadied herself against the table; she was trembling still with the pain she had suffered; her shoulders ached from the violence of his hands. He faced her, looking as though even now he scarcely understood what she had said; he passed his hands over his face wearily.

'And yet I loved you with all my heart; I did everything I could to make you happy.' Suddenly he remembered something. 'The other night when you kissed me and said we must come closer together, what did you mean?'

'I'd just broken with Reggie for ever,' she gasped.

He laughed savagely.

'You didn't come back to me till he'd thrown you over.'

She stepped forward, but he put out his hands to prevent her.

'For God's sake, don't come near me, or I shall hit you.'

She stopped dead, and for a moment they confronted one another strangely. Then again he passed his hands across his face, as though he wished to push away some horrible thing before him.

'Oh God, oh God! what shall I do?' he moaned.

He turned away quickly, and sinking in a chair, hid his face and burst into tears. He sobbed uncontrollably, with all the agony and the despair of a man who has cast shame from him.

'Paul, Paul, for Heaven's sake don't cry; I can't bear it.' She went up to him, and tried to take away his hands. 'Don't think of me now; you can do what you like with me afterwards. Think of these wretched people. You can't send them away now.'

He pushed her away more gently, and stood up.

'No, I can't send them away now. I must tell Bridger that he and the girl can stay.'

'Go to them at once,' she implored. 'The man's heart is breaking, and you can give him happiness. Don't let them wait a minute longer.'

'Yes, I'll go to him at once.'

Paul Castillyon seemed now to have no will of his own, but acted as though under some foreign impulse. He went to the door, walking heavily as if grown suddenly old, and Grace saw him go out into the rain, and disappear into the mist of the approaching night. She stood at the window wondering what he would do, and imagined with a shiver of dismay the shame of proceedings for divorce; she looked at the great trees of Jeyston as though for the last time, and tried to picture to herself the life that awaited her. Reggie would make no offer of marriage, nor, if he did, would she accept, since no trace remained of her vehement passion, and she thought of him merely with loathing. She hoped the case, going undefended, would excite small attention; and afterwards she was rich enough in her own right to live on the Continent as she chose. At all events, peace of sorts would be hers, and she could drag out somehow the rest of her years; she was thankful
now that she had no child from whom separation would be unendurable. Wearily Grace pressed her eyes.

'What a fool I've been!' she cried.

Quickly the events of her life marshalled themselves before her, and she looked back with shame and horror on her old self, flippant and egoistic, worthless.

'Oh, I hope I'm not like that now.'

The minutes passed like hours, so that she was surprised because Paul did not return; she glanced at the clock, and found that half an hour had gone. The Bridgers' cottage was not more than five minutes' walk from the house, and it was incomprehensible that Paul delayed so long. She was seized with fear of impending disaster, and the mad thought came that the gamekeeper, without waiting for his master's words, in his rage and grief had committed some horrible deed. She was on the point of sending a servant to see what had become of her husband. Suddenly she saw him running along the drive towards the house; dusk had set in, and she could not see plainly. At first she thought herself mistaken, but it was Paul. He ran with little quick steps, like a man unused to running, and his hat was gone; the rain pelted down on him. Quickly she flung open the glass doors that led into the garden, and he came in.

'Paul, what's the matter?' she cried.

He stretched out his hands to support himself against a chair; he was soaked to the skin, muddy and dishevelled; his large white face was set to an expression of sheer horror, and his eyes started out of his head. For a moment he pressed his hand to his heart, unable to speak.

'It's too late,' he gasped; and his voice was raucous and strange. It was a dreadful sight, this pompous man, ordinarily so self-composed, all disarrayed and terror-struck. 'For God's sake, get me some brandy!'

Quickly she went into the dining-room, and brought him a glass and the decanter. Though by habit so temperate that he drank little but claret and water, now with shaking hand he poured out half a tumbler of neat spirit, and hastily swallowed it. He took a handkerchief, and wiped his face, streaming with rain and sweat, and sank heavily into the nearest chair. Still his eyes stared at her as though filled with some ghastly sight; he made an effort to speak, but no words came; he gesticulated with aimless hands, like a madman; he groaned inarticulately.

'For Heaven's sake, tell me what it is,' she cried.