The Tysons Part 24

He was magnanimous. It was he who had done the wrong, and it was he who had pardoned. He had always been sorry for that poor devil, Tyson.

Tyson was aware of this feeling, and he generally resented it; but at times like the present it gave him a curious sense of moral support.

The two men sat and smoked in a silence which Tyson, as usual, was the first to break.

"I wouldn't like to swear," said he, "that I don't go abroad again before long. It's my only chance. I'm knocked out of the game here. It's too quick, too hard, and the rules are too cursedly complicated."

"All the same, I'd wait a bit before I flung it up, if I were you."

"Wait? Wait? I've done nothing but wait ever since I came to this detestable country, and my chance never turned up. It never will turn up--here."

"Why not?"

"My own fault, I suppose. I've spent my life in going round and round the earth pa.s.sionately in a circle. I don't say that perpetual rotation is a natural function of the ordinary human being; but it's my function--I'm good for nothing else. And they expect a man with the world in his brain and the devil in his blood to live decently in this d.a.m.nable city of fog and filth! And when the world-madness comes on him n.o.body knows anything about this particular form of mania--the poor wretch must get into a stiff shirt or a strait waistcoat and converse sanely with that innocent woman, his wife. If he doesn't there's a scandal, and the devil to pay--"

Stanistreet looked grave. Whither was all this tending? To a final abandonment of Mrs. Nevill Tyson?

"Of course, the mistake was to try. There might have been a chance for me if I'd had a t.i.the of your sense. But being what I am, I must needs go and marry. It was the deed of a lunatic."

"Isn't it rather late to go back on that now? What's the good?"

"None, you fool, none. And if there's anything that stamps a man as a cur and a cad, it's this vile habit of slanging the women for his own sins.

All the same--I'm not blaming anybody but myself, mind--all the same, I being what I am, there's no doubt I married the wrong sort of woman. I don't mind making that confession to you. I believe you know more about me than anybody, barring my Maker."

Stanistreet looked straight in front of him, terribly detached and stern.

"She was not the wrong sort," he said slowly; "but she may have been the wrong woman for you."

"Men like you and me, Stanistreet, contrive to get hold of the wrong woman; I don't know why."

"You must know that your marriage did nothing for you that was not very well done before."

"Yes. It seems to me that there was a time when I had an immortal soul. That was before the Framley episode. You remember? An edifying experience."

Stanistreet a.s.sented. He knew the horrible story, of a mad boy and a bad woman. Perhaps it accounted for the ugliest facts in Tyson's character.

He was warped from his youth, the bitter, premature manhood, so soon corrupt.

"That woman was possessed of seven distinct devils, and amongst them they didn't leave much of my immortal soul. And you hear men talk of their 'first love.' Good G.o.d!"

Stanistreet shrugged his shoulders. He had not met these men. But there could be no doubt that if any of Tyson's loves could be called his first, he would have talked freely enough about it. No subject was too sacred or too vile for his unbridled tongue. He continued to talk.

"After all, at my worst, I never did as much harm to any woman as that Framley fiend did to me. I suppose I had my revenge; but that was Nature's justice, not mine. Right or wrong, I obeyed the law of the cosmos. And for the life of me I don't see why I should bother about it."

If it had not been for Mrs. Nevill Tyson, Stanistreet might have been faintly amused at the idea of this little c.o.c.kney cosmopolitan persuading himself that his contemptible vices were part of the pageant of the world. As it was he was disgusted. He, too, was a sinner in all conscience; but his sins and his repentance had been alike simple and sincere. He had none of the pendantry of vice.

"If you ask me," he said, "what did for you was that low trick of the old man Tyson when he left you his respectability. A property you really could not be expected to manage. _That_ was your ruin, if you like."

Tyson looked up. His drowning conscience s.n.a.t.c.hed at straws. "It was.

I've thought as much myself. But that doesn't square my account. I lied when I said my marriage was a mistake. It was not a mistake. It was a crime committed against the dearest, sweetest woman that ever lived."

"You mean--?" It was hard to tell what Tyson meant when he went off into reminiscences. And for the moment Stanistreet's vision was obscured by a painful memory. Three years ago a woman had come to his rooms and asked for Tyson. She sat in that chair opposite--where Tyson was sitting now.

She said unspeakable things that were by no means pleasant for Stanistreet to hear. It had required all his tact to break the news of Tyson's marriage and take her home in a cab. He could see her now, in her pitiful finery, sitting back, trying to hide her white face with gloves that were anything but white.

But Tyson was not thinking of Mrs. Hathaway.

"I mean that baby--Molly--my wife. That was the wickedest, cruellest thing I ever did in the whole course of my abominable life. I might have known how it would end."

Stanistreet looked thoughtfully at his friend. He was used to these outbursts of self-reproach, but they had never moved him greatly until now.

"They told me I ought to have married a clever woman. _She_ wasn't clever, thank G.o.d! Yet somehow she had a sort of originality--I don't know what it was." (Tyson had lately fallen into the habit of talking about his wife in the past tense, as if she were dead.) "It was something that no clever woman ever has. _I_ know them! Upon my soul I do believe I loved her." He paused, pondering. "I wonder how it would have answered though if I'd married a thing with more brains?"

"Brains? They're d.a.m.nation. Are you thinking of Miss Batchelor?"

"N-no. There _is_ a medium. A woman needn't be a fool or a philosopher, nor yet a saint or a devil. It exists somewhere, that golden mean."

"Oh, no doubt."

"It's odd how that notion of the perfect woman sticks to you. How the devil did I get hold of it, I wonder?"

Stanistreet made no answer. It was sufficiently evident that Tyson had got it from his wife. The odd thing was that Tyson was unaware of this.

He seemed to have no doubt whatever that his marriage with the perfect woman had been arranged for in heaven, though somehow it had failed to come off on earth. A delusion not uncommon with men of Tyson's stamp.

"I believe," said Tyson, "it's a what d'ye call 'em--category--innate idea--_a priori_ form of the masculine intelligence. I've never seen a man yet who hadn't it somewhere about him. And I've seen most sorts.

Terrific bounders, too, some of them."

A year ago Stanistreet would have laughed at this, now he smiled.

Tyson lay back in his chair and fell into a waking dream. He spoke slowly, in the curious m.u.f.fled voice of the dreamer. "The perfect woman--the eternal, incomprehensible divinity, all-wise, all-good, all-loving, the guardian of the soul--I believe in it, I adore it; but, unfortunately, I have never met it."

"My dear Tyson, I doubt if you and I would know it if we did meet it."

Tyson said nothing. He had closed his eyelids. He was following his dream.

Presently he spoke.

"I say, Stanistreet, do you believe in miracles?"

Stanistreet looked down. Only the other day he had seen a miracle and believed. And he himself was a greater miracle than the one he saw. But the experience was not one that he cared to talk about.

"They don't happen here, where people are so d.a.m.ned clever. But I know that they happen--sometimes--over there--in the East--_ex oriente lux_."

He rose. "Some day I shall go there or thereabouts, and see."

"And leave your wife here?"

"That's it. Do you think I ought to go?"

"I think it doesn't matter in the very least."