The Bond/Part 1/Chapter 10
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IN the carriage, going home, Basil—entirely forgetting that his evening had been spoiled—put his arm about his wife, and kissed her with a warmth which she discouraged mildly.
"Did you enjoy it?" she asked.
"Oh, fairly. I liked the food—and the wine"
"And Mary."
"I always like Mary. She's uncommonly amusing."
"She's more so since she got rid of Jack."
"Perhaps she isn't rid of him. Remember what we saw in the restaurant. Perhaps she likes him as a lover, though she didn't as a husband—eh?"
"You're wicked. So is she, rather. That's why you like her. I thought you seemed interested in Alice."
"Alice is interesting so long as she doesn't talk. She did that dance, or whatever you call it, well. That's the latest fad, I suppose. I'd like to paint her in that gold thing."
"Do—she'd be charmed. So long as someone will look at her she's happy."
"You're a little waspish, ain't you?" said Basil with amusement and another kiss.
"I was bored."
"I thought you were having a good time with Page."
"He's amusing, but not interesting. But Alice always puts the most interesting man where I can't talk to him."
"Oh, does she? Who was the interesting man to-night—the poet?"
"Poet! The rude Englishman, of course."
"Rude, was he? I thought he was gallant. He bolted off after you in no time."
"He was bored by your silly metaphysics. I kept thinking all the time you and Page were arguing, about Goethe's picture of the meta- physician—an ass led round by the nose in the midst of a barren plot of ground, while all round him are green fields that he never sees!"
"You flatter us. But where were the green fields to-night? Is Crayven a green field?"
"Not exactly. But something out-of-doors—natural and primitive."
"Hello, you've fallen in love with him! Any man is natural and primitive. The difficulty is to be anything else. But I can tell you, Crayven isn't primitive—he's only limited."
"I thought you liked him."
"No, not much. He's rather dry."
"He hasn't a free-flowing temperament, and doesn't like either whisky or philosophy—is that what you mean?"
"You're satirical. You are in love with him, aren't you?"
"He's coming to see me to-morrow. Then I shall decide whether I am or not."
"Better hurry a bit, for he's off to the wilds in a few days, to shoot something. Who was it said that if an Englishman saw an angel his first impulse would be to shoot it?"
"And yours would be to give it a drink, and get it to pose. … Basil, you don't tell me everything, do you?"
"Everything—you know I do. Why do you say that?"
"Because—I had an idea to-night, watching you. You know you told me about a person—before we were married—a married woman. … Was it Mary?"
"No! What an idea—why on earth?"
"You wouldn't tell me if it was Mary, would you?"
"No, I wouldn't. But it wasn't. I've told you, it wasn't anyone you know."
"Yes, but if it were somebody I knew, you'd lie about it, wouldn't you?"
"I don't lie to you, Teresa."
"You would, in such a case. You wouldn't betray the other woman. … So how can I know you aren't lying now?"
Basil gave an exasperated groan.
"I thought we'd settled all that! What earthly difference does it make to you, Teresa"
"Oh, well, it does, that's all. I hate that woman. You know you did love her."
"I didn't, and she didn't love me. I liked her—she was clever and amusing, and she was unhappy with her husband"
Teresa swayed into her corner of the carriage and shut her eyes.
"Don't talk about such things, dearest," implored Basil with a certain sad humility. "There's nothing that really matters to us, you know"
"There's nothing perfect in this world," said Teresa, in a strange, quiet voice. "Not even our—not even love."
"Dearest!" he cried, and leaned toward her—but she repelled him gently.
They were silent for the few minutes that remained of their drive. …
In the little drawing-room the windows were open, and the curtains swayed in a warm breeze. Teresa took off her coat, and lay down in the long chair, and Basil walked about the room, smoking nervously.
"Don't you want to go to bed—aren't you tired?" he asked.
"No, I'm not sleepy," she answered absently. Her face, her half-closed eyes, were sad; and she had the cold aloof look that Basil dreaded. He came presently, and sat on the floor at her side, laying his head against her shoulder.
"Do you hate me?" he asked.
"Sometimes I hate all men."
"Oh, Teresa, you don't. That sounds like your aunt."
"Perhaps my aunt is right. I hate self-indulgent, sensual, self-satisfied men. I hate comfortable men—and you all try to be as much I that as you can."
"Why shouldn't we be as comfortable as we can—if it hurts nobody else? I don't understand you. I thought you believed in enjoying life in all possible ways. You"
"No, it's disgusting! Disgusting to have appetites, and coddle them as tenderly as if they were your children! It makes a man a ridiculous spectacle. I wish I knew one man who didn't care for physical pleasures—I wish I knew a good priest, or some man who was ascetic by choice, who lived hard, and worked hard—who had something besides himself to think about."
Basil raised his head, and looked at her in surprise. After a moment he said:
"There are plenty of men who live hard, and work hard—but generally because they must—in which case it's no virtue. As for the few who do it when they needn't, it's because they have some idea or some cause that possesses them—or some person"
"Yes, if I only knew some one with a cause—some prophet or other"
"All prophets are very sensual. Look at Mahomet—Brigham Young"
"Oh, be quiet!"
"But it's true!" said Basil, kissing her hand and laughing. "So don't run off after the first prophet you see. There are lots of them. But all of them, and all the great poets and philosophers of the world"
"Yes, yes, I've heard all that. Spiritual life, intellectual life, is only another form of self-indulgence. I'm tired of you."
"You are tired, dearest. Go to bed, won't you?"
"No, I won't. … Sometimes I wish you had something of that in you, Basil. …"
"Something of what, dearest one?"
"Oh, something of—the mystic, the prophet! … You are all so clear, so defined, so—worldly. Not worldly in a small sense, but worldly all the same. But … if you were a prophet, I suppose you wouldn't be as nice to live with as you are now, perhaps."
"No—you're not ascetic, my girl! You wouldn't want to tread the thorny path of self-mortification, prophet or no prophet."
"Who knows?"
"I know! If there ever was a self-indulgent person, it's you! What's got into you this evening, Teresa? You talk a little bit like Mrs. Perry—and you're not a bit like her"
"I should hope not," said Teresa with contempt.
She drew her hand away from Basil, in sudden irritation.
"How nasty of you to say that! Go away, and leave me alone, will you?"
"Oh, don't be cross, dearest, I didn't mean"
Teresa crossed her hands under her head and closed her eyes wearily. After a moment Basil got up and touched the bell. Its sharp trill could be heard distinctly from the region of the kitchen.
"What do you want? It's Mary's night out."
"I want some whisky and water. It seems to me it's always Mary's night out. Does she stay out all night?"
"I think she does. She has a key."
"I suppose she goes on a bat, then."
"Very likely. Why shouldn't she, poor thing, messing over horrid pots and pans all the week. I hope she does. She works hard enough for it—and she supports her family out of us, most admirably."
"She does—on her wages?"
"Yes—and incidentals."
"Incidentals? Do you mean she steals from us?"
"Of course she does. A little sugar here, a little tea there, a half-pound of chops—to cheer up her poor old mother."
"Well, look here, I didn't know that. You oughtn't to let her do it!"
"Why not? We can afford it. Property is theft anyhow. I'll get you your whisky—though really you've had enough."
Teresa went quickly out of the room, to avoid discussion, and brought back the decanters and two glasses.
"I'll take a little, too, just to make you happy," she said, smiling.
"Well, look here, about Mary"
"Oh, bother Mary. Let's talk about ourselves. I forgive you for everything."
"Do you—honestly?" He was won instantly away from the theme of Mary. And he was used to Teresa's jumps.
"Yes. I don't really blame you, you know. I think you're a sweet, dear thing, and very good to me. And I don't want you different at all from what you are. Only don't make me jealous."
"Jealous—you! It isn't in you."
"Oh, isn't it! Don't try it, that's all. I don't mind other women liking you—only don't you like them!"
"I couldn't. You're just the one and only. You combine everything I like—if only you liked me a little more!"
"I love you. … Did I look pretty to-night?"
"Charming, dearest. That dress is very nice—is it new?"
"Yes—Nina sent it to me from Rome. It cost a pretty penny!"
"You are a nice person to talk about self-indulgence! When did you deny yourself anything you wanted?"
"Never, if I could get it. But I admire it in other people."
"I daresay!"
"It pleases my æsthetic sense. It has beauty in it. Most people are so smug. I like hungry people."
"That's the reason you liked me, then—because I was starving for you."
She kissed him tenderly.
"Not for me, but for something beautiful that you mistook me for! I'm glad you mistook me."
"I didn't—I just took you."
She smiled. All the weariness was gone now from her look. She looked young and joyous. She went to a mirror and admired herself in the blue and silver dress.
"Yes, I am pretty," she said confidingly. "I like the dress—it makes my eyes look bluer. Can you unhook it, do you think? Because if not, I shall have to sleep in it."
"I can try," said Basil, manfully.
"Fraud! As if you hadn't had enough practice. …"
He looked into the mirror over her shoulder. Their eyes met, and they both laughed gaily.