THE ISLAND PHARISEES

By John Galsworthy

 "But this is a worshipful society" KING JOHN

PREFACE

Each man born into the world is born like Shelton in this book--to go ajourney, and for the most part he is born on the high road. At firsthe sits there in the dust, with his little chubby hands reaching atnothing, and his little solemn eyes staring into space. As soon as hecan toddle, he moves, by the queer instinct we call the love of life, straight along this road, looking neither to the right nor left, sopleased is he to walk. And he is charmed with everything--with the niceflat road, all broad and white, with his own feet, and with the prospecthe can see on either hand. The sun shines, and he finds the road alittle hot and dusty; the rain falls, and he splashes through the muddypuddles. It makes no matter--all is pleasant; his fathers went this waybefore him; they made this road for him to tread, and, when they bredhim, passed into his fibre the love of doing things as they themselveshad done them. So he walks on and on, resting comfortably at nightsunder the roofs that have been raised to shelter him, by those who wentbefore. 

Suddenly one day, without intending to, he notices a path or openingin the hedge, leading to right or left, and he stands, looking at theundiscovered. After that he stops at all the openings in the hedge; oneday, with a beating heart, he tries one. 

And this is where the fun begins. 

Out of ten of him that try the narrow path, nine of him come back tothe broad road, and, when they pass the next gap in the hedge, they say:"No, no, my friend, I found you pleasant for a while, but after that-ah!after that! The way my fathers went is good enough for me, and it isobviously the proper one; for nine of me came back, and that poor sillytenth--I really pity him!"

And when he comes to the next inn, and snuggles in his well-warmed, bed, he thinks of the wild waste of heather where he might have had to spendthe night alone beneath the stars; nor does it, I think, occur to himthat the broad road he treads all day was once a trackless heath itself. 

But the poor silly tenth is faring on. It is a windy night that heis travelling through a windy night, with all things new around, andnothing to help him but his courage. Nine times out of ten that couragefails, and he goes down into the bog. He has seen the undiscovered, and--like Ferrand in this book--the undiscovered has engulfed him; hisspirit, tougher than the spirit of the nine that burned back to sleepin inns, was yet not tough enough. The tenth time he wins across, and onthe traces he has left others follow slowly, cautiously--a new road isopened to mankind! A true saying goes: Whatever is, is right! And if allmen from the world's beginning had said that, the world would never havebegun--at all. Not even the protoplasmic jelly could have commenced itsjourney; there would have been no motive force to make it start. 

And so, that other saying had to be devised before the world could setup business: Whatever is, is wrong! But since the Cosmic Spirit foundthat matters moved too fast if those that felt "All things that are, are wrong" equalled in number those that felt "All things that are, areright, " It solemnly devised polygamy (all, be it said, in a spiritualway of speaking); and to each male spirit crowing "All things that are, are wrong" It decreed nine female spirits clucking "All things that are, are right. " The Cosmic Spirit, who was very much an artist, knew itswork, and had previously devised a quality called courage, and dividedit in three, naming the parts spiritual, moral, physical. To all themale-bird spirits, but to no female (spiritually, not corporeallyspeaking), It gave courage that was spiritual; to nearly all, both maleand female, It gave courage that was physical; to very many hen-birdspirits It gave moral courage too. But, because It knew that if all themale-bird spirits were complete, the proportion of male to female--oneto ten--would be too great, and cause upheavals, It so arranged thatonly one in ten male-bird spirits should have all three kinds ofcourage; so that the other nine, having spiritual courage, but lackingeither in moral or in physical, should fail in their extensions of thepoultry-run. And having started them upon these lines, it left them toget along as best they might. 

Thus, in the subdivision of the poultry-run that we call England, theproportion of the others to the complete male-bird spirit, who, ofcourse, is not infrequently a woman, is ninety-nine to one; andwith every Island Pharisee, when he or she starts out in life, theinteresting question ought to be, "Am I that one?" Ninety very soonfind out that they are not, and, having found it out, lest others shoulddiscover, they say they are. Nine of the other ten, blinded by theirspiritual courage, are harder to convince; but one by one they sink, still proclaiming their virility. The hundredth Pharisee alone sits outthe play. 

Now, the journey of this young man Shelton, who is surely not thehundredth Pharisee, is but a ragged effort to present the working of thetruth "All things that are, are wrong, " upon the truth "All things thatare, are right. "

The Institutions of this country, like the Institutions of all othercountries, are but half-truths; they are the working daily clothing ofthe nation; no more the body's permanent dress than is a baby's frock. Slowly but surely they wear out, or are outgrown; and in their fashionthey are always thirty years at least behind the fashions of thosespirits who are concerned with what shall take their place. Theconditions that dictate our education, the distribution of our property, our marriage laws, amusements, worship, prisons, and all other things, change imperceptibly from hour to hour; the moulds containing them, being inelastic, do not change, but hold on to the point of bursting, and then are hastily, often clumsily, enlarged. The ninety desiringpeace and comfort for their spirit, the ninety of the well-warmed beds, will have it that the fashions need not change, that morality is fixed, that all is ordered and immutable, that every one will always marry, play, and worship in the way that they themselves are marrying, playing, worshipping. They have no speculation, and they hate with a deep hatredthose who speculate with thought. This is the function they were madefor. They are the dough, and they dislike that yeasty stuff of lifewhich comes and works about in them. The Yeasty Stuff--the otherten--chafed by all things that are, desirous ever of new forms andmoulds, hate in their turn the comfortable ninety. Each party hasinvented for the other the hardest names that it can think of:Philistines, Bourgeois, Mrs. Grundy, Rebels, Anarchists, andNe'er-do-weels. So we go on! And so, as each of us is born to go hisjourney, he finds himself in time ranged on one side or on the other, and joins the choruses of name-slingers. 

But now and then--ah! very seldom--we find ourselves so near that thingwhich has no breadth, the middle line, that we can watch them both, andpositively smile to see the fun. 

When this book was published first, many of its critics found thatShelton was the only Pharisee, and a most unsatisfactory young man--andso, no doubt, he is. Belonging to the comfortable ninety, they felt, infact, the need of slinging names at one who obviously was of the ten. Others of its critics, belonging to the ten, wielded their epithets uponAntonia, and the serried ranks behind her, and called them Pharisees; asdull as ditch-water--and so, I fear, they are. 

One of the greatest charms of authorship is the privilege it givesthe author of studying the secret springs of many unseen persons, of analysing human nature through the criticism that his workevokes--criticism welling out of the instinctive likings or aversions, out of the very fibre of the human being who delivers it; criticism thatoften seems to leap out against the critic's will, startled like a fawnfrom some deep bed, of sympathy or of antipathy. And so, all authorslove to be abused--as any man can see. 

In the little matter of the title of this book, we are all Pharisees, whether of the ninety or the ten, and we certainly do live upon anIsland. JOHN GALSWORTHY. 

January 1, 1908

PART I

THE TOWN

CHAPTER I

SOCIETY

A quiet, well-dressed man named Shelton, with a brown face and a short, fair beard, stood by the bookstall at Dover Station. He was aboutto journey up to London, and had placed his bag in the corner of athird-class carriage. 

After his long travel, the flat-vowelled voice of the bookstall clerkoffering the latest novel sounded pleasant--pleasant the independentanswers of a bearded guard, and the stodgy farewell sayings of a man andwife. The limber porters trundling their barrows, the greyness of thestation and the good stolid humour clinging to the people, air, andvoices, all brought to him the sense of home. Meanwhile he waveredbetween purchasing a book called Market Hayborough, which he hadread and would certainly enjoy a second time, and Carlyle's FrenchRevolution, which he had not read and was doubtful of enjoying; he feltthat he ought to buy the latter, but he did not relish giving up theformer. While he hesitated thus, his carriage was beginning to fillup; so, quickly buying both, he took up a position from which hecould defend his rights. "Nothing, " he thought, "shows people up liketravelling. "

The carriage was almost full, and, putting his bag, up in the rack, hetook his seat. At the moment of starting yet another passenger, a girlwith a pale face, scrambled in. 

"I was a fool to go third, " thought Shelton, taking in his neighboursfrom behind his journal. 

They were seven. A grizzled rustic sat in the far corner; his emptypipe, bowl downwards, jutted like a handle from his face, all blearedwith the smear of nothingness that grows on those who pass their livesin the current of hard facts. Next to him, a ruddy, heavy-shouldered manwas discussing with a grey-haired, hatchet-visaged person the conditionof their gardens; and Shelton watched their eyes till it occurred tohim how curious a look was in them--a watchful friendliness, an allieddistrust--and that their voices, cheerful, even jovial, seemed to becautious all the time. His glance strayed off, and almost rebounded fromthe semi-Roman, slightly cross, and wholly self-complacent face of astout lady in a black-and-white costume, who was reading the StrandMagazine, while her other, sleek, plump hand, freed from its blackglove, and ornamented with a thick watch-bracelet, rested on her lap. Ayounger, bright-cheeked, and self-conscious female was sitting next her, looking at the pale girl who had just got in. 

"There's something about that girl, " thought Shelton, "they don'tlike. " Her brown eyes certainly looked frightened, her clothes were ofa foreign cut. Suddenly he met the glance of another pair of eyes; theseeyes, prominent and blue, stared with a sort of subtle roguery fromabove a thin, lopsided nose, and were at once averted. They gave Sheltonthe impression that he was being judged, and mocked, enticed, initiated. His own gaze did not fall; this sanguine face, with its two-day growthof reddish beard, long nose, full lips, and irony, puzzled him. "Acynical face!" he thought, and then, "but sensitive!" and then, "toocynical, " again. 

The young man who owned it sat with his legs parted at the knees, hisdusty trouser-ends and boots slanting back beneath the seat, hisyellow finger-tips crisped as if rolling cigarettes. A strange air ofdetachment was about that youthful, shabby figure, and not a scrap ofluggage filled the rack above his head. 

The frightened girl was sitting next this pagan personality; it waspossibly the lack of fashion in his looks that caused, her to select himfor her confidence. 

"Monsieur, " she asked, "do you speak French?"

"Perfectly. "

"Then can you tell me where they take the tickets?

"The young man shook his head. 

"No, " said he, "I am a foreigner. "

The girl sighed. 

"But what is the matter, ma'moiselle?"

The girl did not reply, twisting her hands on an old bag in her lap. Silence had stolen on the carriage--a silence such as steals on animalsat the first approach of danger; all eyes were turned towards thefigures of the foreigners. 

"Yes, " broke out the red-faced man, "he was a bit squiffy thatevening--old Tom. "

"Ah!" replied his neighbour, "he would be. "

Something seemed to have destroyed their look of mutual distrust. Theplump, sleek hand of the lady with the Roman nose curved convulsively;and this movement corresponded to the feeling agitating Shelton's heart. It was almost as if hand and heart feared to be asked for something. 

"Monsieur, " said the girl, with a tremble in her voice, "I am veryunhappy; can you tell me what to do? I had no money for a ticket. "

The foreign youth's face flickered. 

"Yes?" he said; "that might happen to anyone, of course. "

"What will they do to me?" sighed the girl. 

"Don't lose courage, ma'moiselle. " The young man slid his eyes from leftto right, and rested them on Shelton. "Although I don't as yet see yourway out. "

"Oh, monsieur!" sighed the girl, and, though it was clear that none butShelton understood what they were saying, there was a chilly feeling inthe carriage. 

"I wish I could assist you, " said the foreign youth; "unfortunately----"he shrugged his shoulders, and again his eyes returned to Shelton. 

The latter thrust his hand into his pocket. 

"Can I be of any use?" he asked in English. 

"Certainly, sir; you could render this young lady the greatest possibleservice by lending her the money for a ticket. "

Shelton produced a sovereign, which the young man took. Passing it tothe girl, he said:

"A thousand thanks--'voila une belle action'!"

The misgivings which attend on casual charity crowded up in Shelton'smind; he was ashamed of having them and of not having them, and he stolecovert looks at this young foreigner, who was now talking to the girl ina language that he did not understand. Though vagabond in essence, thefellow's face showed subtle spirit, a fortitude and irony not found uponthe face of normal man, and in turning from it to the other passengersShelton was conscious of revolt, contempt, and questioning, that hecould not define. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he tried todiagnose this new sensation. He found it disconcerting that the facesand behaviour of his neighbours lacked anything he could grasp andsecretly abuse. They continued to converse with admirable and slightlyconscious phlegm, yet he knew, as well as if each one had whisperedto him privately, that this shady incident had shaken them. Somethingunsettling to their notions of propriety-something dangerous anddestructive of complacency--had occurred, and this was unforgivable. Each had a different way, humorous or philosophic, contemptuous, sour, or sly, of showing this resentment. But by a flash of insight Sheltonsaw that at the bottom of their minds and of his own the feeling was thesame. Because he shared in their resentment he was enraged with them andwith himself. He looked at the plump, sleek hand of the woman with theRoman nose. The insulation and complacency of its pale skin, the passiverighteousness about its curve, the prim separation from the others ofthe fat little finger, had acquired a wholly unaccountable importance. It embodied the verdict of his fellow-passengers, the verdict ofSociety; for he knew that, whether or no repugnant to the well-bredmind, each assemblage of eight persons, even in a third-class carriage, contains the kernel of Society. 

But being in love, and recently engaged, Shelton had a right to beimmune from discontent of any kind, and he reverted to his mental imageof the cool, fair face, quick movements, and the brilliant smile thatnow in his probationary exile haunted his imagination; he took out hisfiancee's last letter, but the voice of the young foreigner addressinghim in rapid French caused him to put it back abruptly. 

"From what she tells me, sir, " he said, bending forward to be out ofhearing of the girl, "hers is an unhappy case. I should have been onlytoo glad to help her, but, as you see"--and he made a gesture by whichShelton observed that he had parted from his waistcoat--"I am notRothschild. She has been abandoned by the man who brought her over toDover under promise of marriage. Look"--and by a subtle flicker of hiseyes he marked how the two ladies had edged away from the French girl"they take good care not to let their garments touch her. They arevirtuous women. How fine a thing is virtue, sir! and finer to know youhave it, especially when you are never likely to be tempted. "

Shelton was unable to repress a smile; and when he smiled his face grewsoft. 

"Haven't you observed, " went on the youthful foreigner, "that those whoby temperament and circumstance are worst fitted to pronounce judgmentare usually the first to judge? The judgments of Society are alwayschildish, seeing that it's composed for the most part of individuals whohave never smelt the fire. And look at this: they who have money run toogreat a risk of parting with it if they don't accuse the penniless ofbeing rogues and imbeciles. "

Shelton was startled, and not only by an outburst of philosophy from anutter stranger in poor clothes, but at this singular wording of hisown private thoughts. Stifling his sense of the unusual for the queerattraction this young man inspired, he said:

"I suppose you're a stranger over here?"

"I've been in England seven months, but not yet in London, " repliedthe other. "I count on doing some good there--it is time!" A bitter andpathetic smile showed for a second on his lips. "It won't be my fault ifI fail. You are English, Sir?"

Shelton nodded. 

"Forgive my asking; your voice lacks something I've nearlyalways noticed in the English a kind of--'comment celas'appelle'--cocksureness, coming from your nation's greatest quality. "

"And what is that?" asked Shelton with a smile. 

"Complacency, " replied the youthful foreigner. 

"Complacency!" repeated Shelton; "do you call that a great quality?"

"I should rather say, monsieur, a great defect in what is always a greatpeople. You are certainly the most highly-civilised nation on the earth;you suffer a little from the fact. If I were an English preacher mydesire would be to prick the heart of your complacency. "

Shelton, leaning back, considered this impertinent suggestion. 

"Hum!" he said at last, "you'd be unpopular; I don't know that we're anycockier than other nations. "

The young foreigner made a sign as though confirming this opinion. 

"In effect, " said he, "it is a sufficiently widespread disease. Look atthese people here"--and with a rapid glance he pointed to the inmatesof the carnage, --"very average persons! What have they done to warranttheir making a virtuous nose at those who do not walk as they do? Thatold rustic, perhaps, is different--he never thinks at all--but look atthose two occupied with their stupidities about the price of hops, theprospects of potatoes, what George is doing, a thousand things all ofthat sort--look at their faces; I come of the bourgeoisie myself--havethey ever shown proof of any quality that gives them the right to patthemselves upon the back? No fear! Outside potatoes they know nothing, and what they do not understand they dread and they despise--thereare millions of that breed. 'Voila la Societe'! The sole qualitythese people have shown they have is cowardice. I was educated by theJesuits, " he concluded; "it has given me a way of thinking. "

Under ordinary circumstances Shelton would have murmured in a well-bredvoice, "Ah! quite so, " and taken refuge in the columns of the DailyTelegraph. In place of this, for some reason that he did not understand, he looked at the young foreigner, and asked, "Why do you say all this to me?"

The tramp--for by his boots he could hardly have been better--hesitated. 

"When you've travelled like me, " he said, as if resolved to speak thetruth, "you acquire an instinct in choosing to whom and how you speak. It is necessity that makes the law; if you want to live you must learnall that sort of thing to make face against life. "

Shelton, who himself possessed a certain subtlety, could not but observethe complimentary nature of these words. It was like saying "I'm notafraid of you misunderstanding me, and thinking me a rascal just becauseI study human nature. "

"But is there nothing to be done for that poor girl?"

His new acquaintance shrugged his shoulders. 

"A broken jug, " said he; "--you'll never mend her. She's going to acousin in London to see if she can get help; you've given her the meansof getting there--it's all that you can do. One knows too well what'llbecome of her. "

Shelton said gravely, "Oh! that's horrible! Could n't she be induced to go back home? I shouldbe glad--"

The foreign vagrant shook his head. 

"Mon cher monsieur, " he said, "you evidently have not yet had occasionto know what the 'family' is like. 'The family' does not like damagedgoods; it will have nothing to say to sons whose hands have dipped intothe till or daughters no longer to be married. What the devil wouldthey do with her? Better put a stone about her neck and let her drown atonce. All the world is Christian, but Christian and good Samaritan arenot quite the same. "

Shelton looked at the girl, who was sitting motionless, with her handscrossed on her bag, and a revolt against the unfair ways of life arosewithin him. 

"Yes, " said the young foreigner, as if reading all his thoughts, "what'scalled virtue is nearly always only luck. " He rolled his eyes as thoughto say: "Ah! La, Conventions? Have them by all means--but don't looklike peacocks because you are preserving them; it is but cowardice andluck, my friends--but cowardice and luck!"

"Look here, " said Shelton, "I'll give her my address, and if she wantsto go back to her family she can write to me. "

"She'll never go back; she won't have the courage. "

Shelton caught the cringing glance of the girl's eyes; in the droop ofher lip there was something sensuous, and the conviction that the youngman's words were true came over him. 

"I had better not give them my private address, " he thought, glancingat the faces opposite; and he wrote down the following: "Richard ParamorShelton, c/o Paramor and Herring, Lincoln's Inn Fields. "

"You're very good, sir. My name is Louis Ferrand; no address at present. I'll make her understand; she's half stupefied just now. "

Shelton returned to the perusal of his paper, too disturbed to read; theyoung vagrant's words kept sounding in his ears. He raised his eyes. Theplump hand of the lady with the Roman nose still rested on her lap;it had been recased in its black glove with large white stitching. Herfrowning gaze was fixed on him suspiciously, as if he had outraged hersense of decency. 

"He did n't get anything from me, " said the voice of the red-faced man, ending a talk on tax-gatherers. The train whistled loudly, and Sheltonreverted to his paper. This time he crossed his legs, determined toenjoy the latest murder; once more he found himself looking at thevagrant's long-nosed, mocking face. "That fellow, " he thought, "has seenand felt ten times as much as I, although he must be ten years younger. "

He turned for distraction to the landscape, with its April clouds, trimhedgerows, homely coverts. But strange ideas would come, and he wasdiscontented with himself; the conversation he had had, the personalityof this young foreigner, disturbed him. It was all as though he had madea start in some fresh journey through the fields of thought. 

CHAPTER II

ANTONIA

Five years before the journey just described Shelton had stood oneafternoon on the barge of his old college at the end of the summerraces. He had been "down" from Oxford for some years, but these Olympiancontests still attracted him. 

The boats were passing, and in the usual rush to the barge side his armcame in contact with a soft young shoulder. He saw close to him a younggirl with fair hair knotted in a ribbon, whose face was eager withexcitement. The pointed chin, long neck, the fluffy hair, quickgestures, and the calm strenuousness of her grey-blue eyes, impressedhim vividly. 

"Oh, we must bump them!" he heard her sigh. 

"Do you know my people, Shelton?" said a voice behind his back; andhe was granted a touch from the girl's shy, impatient hand, thewarmer fingers of a lady with kindly eyes resembling a hare's, the dryhand-clasp of a gentleman with a thin, arched nose, and a quizzicalbrown face. 

"Are you the Mr. Shelton who used to play the 'bones' at Eton?" said thelady. "Oh; we so often heard of you from Bernard! He was your fag, wasn't he? How distressin' it is to see these poor boys in the boats!"

"Mother, they like it!" cried the girl. 

"Antonia ought to be rowing, herself, " said her father, whose name wasDennant. 

Shelton went back with them to their hotel, walking beside Antoniathrough the Christchurch meadows, telling her details of his collegelife. He dined with them that evening, and, when he left, had a feelinglike that produced by a first glass of champagne. 

The Dennants lived at Holm Oaks, within six miles of Oxford, and twodays later he drove over and paid a call. Amidst the avocations ofreading for the Bar, of cricket, racing, shooting, it but required awhiff of some fresh scent--hay, honeysuckle, clover--to bring Antonia'sface before him, with its uncertain colour and its frank, distant eyes. But two years passed before he again saw her. Then, at an invitationfrom Bernard Dennant, he played cricket for the Manor of Holm Oaksagainst a neighbouring house; in the evening there was dancing ohthe lawn. The fair hair was now turned up, but the eyes were quiteunchanged. Their steps went together, and they outlasted every othercouple on the slippery grass. Thence, perhaps, sprang her respect forhim; he was wiry, a little taller than herself, and seemed to talk ofthings that interested her. He found out she was seventeen, and shefound out that he was twenty-nine. The following two years Sheltonwent to Holm Oaks whenever he was asked; to him this was a period ofenchanted games, of cub-hunting, theatricals, and distant sounds ofpractised music, and during it Antonia's eyes grew more friendly andmore curious, and his own more shy, and schooled, more furtive and moreardent. Then came his father's death, a voyage round the world, and thatpeculiar hour of mixed sensations when, one March morning, abandoninghis steamer at Marseilles, he took train for Hyeres. 

He found her at one of those exclusive hostelries amongst the pineswhere the best English go, in common with Americans, Russian princesses, and Jewish families; he would not have been shocked to find herelsewhere, but he would have been surprised. His sunburnt face andthe new beard, on which he set some undefined value, apologeticallydisplayed, were scanned by those blue eyes with rapid glances, at oncemore friendly and less friendly. "Ah!" they seemed to say, "here youare; how glad I am! But--what now?"

He was admitted to their sacred table at the table d'hote, a snowyoblong in an airy alcove, where the Honourable Mrs. Dennant, MissDennant, and the Honourable Charlotte Penguin, a maiden aunt withinsufficient lungs, sat twice a day in their own atmosphere. A momentaryweakness came on Shelton the first time he saw them sitting there atlunch. What was it gave them their look of strange detachment? Mrs. Dennant was bending above a camera. 

"I'm afraid, d' you know, it's under-exposed, " she said. 

"What a pity! The kitten was rather nice!" The maiden aunt, placingthe knitting of a red silk tie beside her plate, turned her aspiring, well-bred gaze on Shelton. 

"Look, Auntie, " said Antonia in her clear, quick voice, "there's thefunny little man again!"

"Oh, " said the maiden aunt--a smile revealed her upper teeth; she lookedfor the funny little man (who was not English)--"he's rather nice!"

Shelton did not look for the funny little man; he stole a glance thatbarely reached Antonia's brow, where her eyebrows took their tiny upwardslant at the outer corners, and her hair was still ruffled by a windywalk. From that moment he became her slave. 

"Mr. Shelton, do you know anything about these periscopic binoculars?"said Mrs. Dennant's voice; "they're splendid for buildin's, butbuildin's are so disappointin'. The thing is to get human interest, isn't it?" and her glance wandered absently past Shelton in search ofhuman interest. 

"You haven't put down what you've taken, mother. "

From a little leather bag Mrs. Dennant took a little leather book. 

"It's so easy to forget what they're about, " she said, "that's soannoyin'. "

Shelton was not again visited by his uneasiness at their detachment; heaccepted them and all their works, for there was something quite sublimeabout the way that they would leave the dining-room, unconscious thatthey themselves were funny to all the people they had found so funnywhile they had been sitting there, and he would follow them outunnecessarily upright and feeling like a fool. 

In the ensuing fortnight, chaperoned by the maiden aunt, for Mrs. Dennant disliked driving, he sat opposite to Antonia during many drives;he played sets of tennis with her; but it was in the evenings afterdinner--those long evenings on a parquet floor in wicker chairs draggedas far as might be from the heating apparatus--that he seemed so verynear her. The community of isolation drew them closer. In place of acompanion he had assumed the part of friend, to whom she could confideall her home-sick aspirations. So that, even when she was sittingsilent, a slim, long foot stretched out in front, bending with an airof cool absorption over some pencil sketches which she would not showhim--even then, by her very attitude, by the sweet freshness that clungabout her, by her quick, offended glances at the strange persons round, she seemed to acknowledge in some secret way that he was necessary. Hewas far from realising this; his intellectual and observant parts werehypnotised and fascinated even by her failings. The faint frecklingacross her nose, the slim and virginal severeness of her figure, withits narrow hips and arms, the curve of her long neck-all were addedcharms. She had the wind and rain look, a taste of home; and over theglaring roads, where the palm-tree shadows lay so black, she seemed topass like the very image of an English day. 

One afternoon he had taken her to play tennis with some friends, andafterwards they strolled on to her favourite view. Down the Toulon roadgardens and hills were bathed in the colour of ripe apricot; an eveningcrispness had stolen on the air; the blood, released from the sun'snumbing, ran gladly in the veins. On the right hand of the road wasa Frenchman playing bowls. Enormous, busy, pleased, and upright as asoldier, pathetically trotting his vast carcass from end to end, hedelighted Shelton. But Antonia threw a single look at the huge creature, and her face expressed disgust. She began running up towards the ruinedtower. 

Shelton let her keep in front, watching her leap from stone to stone andthrow back defiant glances when he pressed behind. She stood at the top, and he looked up at her. Over the world, gloriously spread below, she, like a statue, seemed to rule. The colour was brilliant in her cheeks, her young bosom heaved, her eyes shone, and the flowing droop of herlong, full sleeves gave to her poised figure the look of one who flies. He pulled himself up and stood beside her; his heart choked him, all thecolour had left his cheeks. 

"Antonia, " he said, "I love you. "

She started, as if his whisper had intruded on her thoughts; but hisface must have expressed his hunger, for the resentment in her eyesvanished. 

They stood for several minutes without speaking, and then went home. Shelton painfully revolved the riddle of the colour in her face. Had hea chance then? Was it possible? That evening the instinct vouchsafed attimes to lovers in place of reason caused him to pack his bag and go toCannes. On returning, two days later, and approaching the group in thecentre of the Winter Garden, the voice of the maiden aunt reading aloudan extract from the Morning Post reached him across the room. 

"Don't you think that's rather nice?" he heard her ask, and then: "Oh, here you aye! It's very nice to see you back!"

Shelton slipped into a wicker chair. Antonia looked up quickly from hersketch-book, put out a hand, but did not speak. 

He watched her bending head, and his eagerness was changed to gloom. With desperate vivacity he sustained the five intolerable minutes ofinquiry, where had he been, what had he been doing? Then once again themaiden aunt commenced her extracts from the Morning Post. 

A touch on his sleeve startled him. Antonia was leaning forward; hercheeks were crimson above the pallor of her neck. 

"Would you like to see my sketches?"

To Shelton, bending above those sketches, that drawl of the well-bredmaiden aunt intoning the well-bred paper was the most pleasant soundthat he had ever listened to. 

"My dear Dick, " Mrs. Dennant said to him a fortnight later, "we wouldrather, after you leave here, that you don't see each other again untilJuly. Of course I know you count it an engagement and all that, andeverybody's been writin' to congratulate you. But Algie thinks you oughtto give yourselves a chance. Young people don't always know what they'reabout, you know; it's not long to wait. "

"Three months!" gasped Shelton. 

He had to swallow down this pill with what grace he could command. There was no alternative. Antonia had acquiesced in the condition with aqueer, grave pleasure, as if she expected it to do her good. 

"It'll be something to look forward to, Dick, " she said. 

He postponed departure as long as possible, and it was not until the endof April that he left for England. She came alone to see him off. Itwas drizzling, but her tall, slight figure in the golf cape lookedimpervious to cold and rain amongst the shivering natives. Desperatelyhe clutched her hand, warm through the wet glove; her smile seemedheartless in its brilliancy. He whispered "You will write?"

"Of course; don't be so stupid, you old Dick!"

She ran forward as the train began to move; her clear "Good-bye!"sounded shrill and hard above the rumble of the wheels. He saw herraise her hand, an umbrella waving, and last of all, vivid still amongstreceding shapes, the red spot of her scarlet tam-o'-shanter. 

CHAPTER III

A ZOOLOGICAL GARDEN

After his journey up from Dover, Shelton was still fathering his luggageat Charing Cross, when the foreign girl passed him, and, in spite ofhis desire to say something cheering, he could get nothing out but ashame-faced smile. Her figure vanished, wavering into the hurly-burly;one of his bags had gone astray, and so all thought of her soon fadedfrom his mind. His cab, however, overtook the foreign vagrant marchingalong towards Pall Mall with a curious, lengthy stride--an observant, disillusioned figure. 

The first bustle of installation over, time hung heavy on his hands. July loomed distant, as in some future century; Antonia's eyes beckonedhim faintly, hopelessly. She would not even be coming back to Englandfor another month. 

. . . I met a young foreigner in the train from Dover [he wrote toher]--a curious sort of person altogether, who seems to have infectedme. Everything here has gone flat and unprofitable; the only good thingsin life are your letters. .. . John Noble dined with me yesterday; thepoor fellow tried to persuade me to stand for Parliament. Why should Ithink myself fit to legislate for the unhappy wretches one sees about inthe streets? If people's faces are a fair test of their happiness, I' drather not feel in any way responsible. .. . 

The streets, in fact, after his long absence in the East, affordedhim much food for thought: the curious smugness of the passers-by; theutterly unending bustle; the fearful medley of miserable, over-drivenwomen, and full-fed men, with leering, bull-beef eyes, whom he saweverywhere--in club windows, on their beats, on box seats, on thesteps of hotels, discharging dilatory duties; the appalling chaosof hard-eyed, capable dames with defiant clothes, and white-cheekedhunted-looking men; of splendid creatures in their cabs, and cadgingcreatures in their broken hats--the callousness and the monotony!

One afternoon in May he received this letter couched in French:

3, BLANK ROW

WESTMINSTER. 

MY DEAR SIR, Excuse me for recalling to your memory the offer of assistance you sokindly made me during the journey from Dover to London, in which I wasso fortunate as to travel with a man like you. Having beaten the wholetown, ignorant of what wood to make arrows, nearly at the end of myresources, my spirit profoundly discouraged, I venture to avail myselfof your permission, knowing your good heart. Since I saw you I have runthrough all the misfortunes of the calendar, and cannot tell what dooris left at which I have not knocked. I presented myself at the businessfirm with whose name you supplied me, but being unfortunately in rags, they refused to give me your address. Is this not very much in theEnglish character? They told me to write, and said they would forwardthe letter. I put all my hopes in you. 

Believe me, my dear sir, (whatever you may decide)

Your devoted

LOUIS FERRAND. 

Shelton looked at the envelope, and saw, that it, bore date a weekago. The face of the young vagrant rose before him, vital, mocking, sensitive; the sound of his quick French buzzed in his ears, and, oddly, the whole whiff of him had a power of raising more vividly than ever hismemories of Antonia. It had been at the end of the journey from Hyeresto London that he had met him; that seemed to give the youth a claim. 

He took his hat and hurried, to Blank Row. Dismissing his cab atthe corner of Victoria Street he with difficulty found the house inquestion. It was a doorless place, with stone-flagged corridor--in otherwords, a "doss-house. " By tapping on a sort of ticket-office witha sliding window, he attracted the attention of a blowsy woman withsoap-suds on her arms, who informed him that the person he was lookingfor had gone without leaving his address. 

"But isn't there anybody, " asked Shelton, "of whom I can make inquiry?"

"Yes; there's a Frenchman. " And opening an inner door she bellowed:"Frenchy! Wanted!" and disappeared. 

A dried-up, yellow little man, cynical and weary in the face, as if amoral steam-roller had passed over it, answered this call, andstood, sniffing, as it were, at Shelton, on whom he made the singularimpression of some little creature in a cage. 

"He left here ten days ago, in the company of a mulatto. What do youwant with him, if I may ask?" The little man's yellow cheeks werewrinkled with suspicion. 

Shelton produced the letter. 

"Ah! now I know you"--a pale smile broke through the Frenchman'scrow's-feet--"he spoke of you. 'If I can only find him, ' he used to say, 'I 'm saved. ' I liked that young man; he had ideas. "

"Is there no way of getting at him through his consul?"

The Frenchman shook his head. 

"Might as well look for diamonds at the bottom of the sea. "

"Do you think he will come back here? But by that time I suppose, you'llhardly be here yourself?"

A gleam of amusement played about the Frenchman's teeth:

"I? Oh, yes, sir! Once upon a time I cherished the hope of emerging;I no longer have illusions. I shave these specimens for a living, andshall shave them till the day of judgment. But leave a letter with me byall means; he will come back. There's an overcoat of his here on whichhe borrowed money--it's worth more. Oh, yes; he will come back--a youthof principle. Leave a letter with me; I'm always here. "

Shelton hesitated, but those last three words, "I'm always here, "touched him in their simplicity. Nothing more dreadful could be said. 

"Can you find me a sheet of paper, then?" he asked; "please keep thechange for the trouble I am giving you. "

"Thank you, " said the Frenchman simply; "he told me that your heartwas good. If you don't mind the kitchen, you could write there at yourease. "

Shelton wrote his letter at the table of this stone-flagged kitchen incompany with an aged, dried-up gentleman; who was muttering to himself;and Shelton tried to avoid attracting his attention, suspecting that hewas not sober. Just as he was about to take his leave, however, the oldfellow thus accosted him:

"Did you ever go to the dentist, mister?" he said, working at a loosetooth with his shrivelled fingers. "I went to a dentist once, whoprofessed to stop teeth without giving pain, and the beggar did stop myteeth without pain; but did they stay in, those stoppings? No, my bhoy;they came out before you could say Jack Robinson. Now, I shimply askyou, d'you call that dentistry?" Fixing his eyes on Shelton's collar, which had the misfortune to be high and clean, he resumed with drunkenscorn: "Ut's the same all over this pharisaical counthry. Talk of highmorality and Anglo-Shaxon civilisation! The world was never at suchlow ebb! Phwhat's all this morality? Ut stinks of the shop. Look at thecondition of Art in this counthry! look at the fools you see upon th'stage! look at the pictures and books that sell! I know what I'm talkingabout, though I am a sandwich man. Phwhat's the secret of ut all? Shop, my bhoy! Ut don't pay to go below a certain depth! Scratch the skin, butpierce ut--Oh! dear, no! We hate to see the blood fly, eh?"

Shelton stood disconcerted, not knowing if he were expected to reply;but the old gentleman, pursing up his lips, went on:

"Sir, there are no extremes in this fog-smitten land. Do ye thinkblanks loike me ought to exist? Whoy don't they kill us off?Palliatives--palliatives--and whoy? Because they object to th' extremecourse. Look at women: the streets here are a scandal to the world. Theywon't recognise that they exist--their noses are so dam high! They blinkthe truth in this middle-class counthry. My bhoy"--and he whisperedconfidentially--"ut pays 'em. Eh? you say, why shouldn't they, then?"(But Shelton had not spoken. ) "Well, let'em! let 'em! But don't tellme that'sh morality, don't tell me that'sh civilisation! What can youexpect in a counthry where the crimson, emotions are never allowed tosmell the air? And what'sh the result? My bhoy, the result is sentiment, a yellow thing with blue spots, like a fungus or a Stilton cheese. Go tothe theatre, and see one of these things they call plays. Tell me, arethey food for men and women? Why, they're pap for babes and shop-boys! Iwas a blanky actor moyself!"

Shelton listened with mingled feelings of amusement and dismay, till theold actor, having finished, resumed his crouching posture at the table. 

"You don't get dhrunk, I suppose?" he said suddenly--"too much of 'nEnglishman, no doubt. "

"Very seldom, " said Shelton. 

"Pity! Think of the pleasures of oblivion! Oi 'm dhrunk every night. "

"How long will you last at that rate?"

"There speaks the Englishman! Why should Oi give up me only pleasureto keep me wretched life in? If you've anything left worth the keepingshober for, keep shober by all means; if not, the sooner you are dhrunkthe better--that stands to reason. "

In the corridor Shelton asked the Frenchman where the old man came from. 

"Oh, and Englishman! Yes, yes, from Belfast very drunken old man. Youare a drunken nation"--he made a motion with his hands "he no longereats--no inside left. It is unfortunate-a man of spirit. If you havenever seen one of these palaces, monsieur, I shall be happy to show youover it. "

Shelton took out his cigarette case. 

"Yes, yes, " said the Frenchman, making a wry nose and taking acigarette; "I'm accustomed to it. But you're wise to fumigate the air;one is n't in a harem. "

And Shelton felt ashamed of his fastidiousness. 

"This, " said the guide, leading him up-stairs and opening a door, "isa specimen of the apartments reserved for these princes of the blood. "There were four empty beds on iron legs, and, with the air of a showman, the Frenchman twitched away a dingy quilt. "They go out in the mornings, earn enough to make them drunk, sleep it off, and then begin again. That's their life. There are people who think they ought to be reformed. 'Mon cher monsieur', one must face reality a little, even in thiscountry. It would be a hundred times better for these people to spendtheir time reforming high Society. Your high Society makes all thesecreatures; there's no harvest without cutting stalks. 'Selon moi', " hecontinued, putting back the quilt, and dribbling cigarette smoke throughhis nose, "there's no grand difference between your high Societyand these individuals here; both want pleasure, both think only ofthemselves, which is very natural. One lot have had the luck, theother--well, you see. " He shrugged. "A common set! I've been robbedhere half a dozen times. If you have new shoes, a good waistcoat, an overcoat, you want eyes in the back of your head. And they arepopulated! Change your bed, and you'll run all the dangers of notsleeping alone. 'V'la ma clientele'! The half of them don't pay me!" He, snapped his yellow sticks of fingers. "A penny for a shave, twopencea cut! 'Quelle vie'! Here, " he continued, standing by a bed, "is agentleman who owes me fivepence. Here's one who was a soldier; he's donefor! All brutalised; not one with any courage left! But, believe me, monsieur, " he went on, opening another door, "when you come down tohouses of this sort you must have a vice; it's as necessary as breath isto the lungs. No matter what, you must have a vice to give you a littlesolace--'un peu de soulagement'. Ah, yes! before you judge these swine, reflect on life! I've been through it. Monsieur, it is not nice neverto know where to get your next meal. Gentlemen who have food in theirstomachs, money in their pockets, and know where to get more, they neverthink. Why should they--'pas de danger'! All these cages are the same. Come down, and you shall see the pantry. " He took Shelton through thekitchen, which seemed the only sitting-room of the establishment, to aninner room furnished with dirty cups and saucers, plates, and knives. Another fire was burning there. "We always have hot water, " said theFrenchman, "and three times a week they make a fire down there"--hepointed to a cellar--"for our clients to boil their vermin. Oh, yes, wehave all the luxuries. "

Shelton returned to the kitchen, and directly after took leave of thelittle Frenchman, who said, with a kind of moral button-holing, as iftrying to adopt him as a patron:

"Trust me, monsieur; if he comes back--that young man--he shall haveyour letter without fail. My name is Carolan Jules Carolan; and I amalways at your service. "

CHAPTER IV

THE PLAY

Shelton walked away; he had been indulging in a nightmare. "That oldactor was drunk, " thought he, "and no doubt he was an Irishman; still, there may be truth in what he said. I am a Pharisee, like all the restwho are n't in the pit. My respectability is only luck. What should Ihave become if I'd been born into his kind of life?" and he stared ata stream of people coming from the Stares, trying to pierce the mask oftheir serious, complacent faces. If these ladies and gentlemen were putinto that pit into which he had been looking, would a single one of thememerge again? But the effort of picturing them there was too much forhim; it was too far--too ridiculously far. 

One particular couple, a large; fine man and wife, who, in the midst ofall the dirt and rumbling hurry, the gloomy, ludicrous, and desperatelyjovial streets, walked side by side in well-bred silence, had evidentlybought some article which pleased them. There was nothing offensive intheir manner; they seemed quite unconcerned at the passing of the otherpeople. The man had that fine solidity of shoulder and of waist, theglossy self-possession that belongs to those with horses, guns, anddressing-bags. The wife, her chin comfortably settled in her fur, kepther grey eyes on the ground, and, when she spoke, her even and unruffledvoice reached Shelton's ears above all the whirring of the traffic. It was leisurely precise, as if it had never hurried, had never beenexhausted, or passionate, or afraid. Their talk, like that of manydozens of fine couples invading London from their country places, was ofwhere to dine, what theatre they should go to, whom they had seen, whatthey should buy. And Shelton knew that from day's end to end, and evenin their bed, these would be the subjects of their conversation. Theywere the best-bred people of the sort he met in country houses andaccepted as of course, with a vague discomfort at the bottom of hissoul. Antonia's home, for instance, had been full of them. They were thebest-bred people of the sort who supported charities, knew everybody, had clear, calm judgment, and intolerance of all such conduct as seemedto them "impossible, " all breaches of morality, such as mistakesof etiquette, such as dishonesty, passion, sympathy (except with acanonised class of objects--the legitimate sufferings, for instance, oftheir own families and class). How healthy they were! The memory of thedoss-house worked in Shelton's mind like poison. He was conscious thatin his own groomed figure, in the undemonstrative assurance of his walk, he bore resemblance to the couple he apostrophised. "Ah!" he thought, "how vulgar our refinement is!" But he hardly believed in his ownoutburst. These people were so well mannered, so well conducted, and sohealthy, he could not really understand what irritated him. What was thematter with them? They fulfilled their duties, had good appetites, clear consciences, all the furniture of perfect citizens; they merelylacked-feelers, a loss that, he had read, was suffered by plants andanimals which no longer had a need for using them. Some rare nationalfaculty of seeing only the obvious and materially useful had destroyedtheir power of catching gleams or scents to right or left. 

The lady looked up at her husband. The light of quiet, proprietaryaffection shone in her calm grey eyes, decorously illumining herfeatures slightly reddened by the wind. And the husband looked backat her, calm, practical, protecting. They were very much alike. Sodoubtless he looked when he presented himself in snowy shirt-sleeves forher to straighten the bow of his white tie; so nightly she would look, standing before the full-length mirror, fixing his gifts upon her bosom. Calm, proprietary, kind! He passed them and walked behind a second lessdistinguished couple, who manifested a mutual dislike as matter-of-factand free from nonsense as the unruffled satisfaction of the first; thisdislike was just as healthy, and produced in Shelton about the samesensation. It was like knocking at a never-opened door, looking at acircle--couple after couple all the same. No heads, toes, angles oftheir souls stuck out anywhere. In the sea of their environments theywere drowned; no leg braved the air, no arm emerged wet and naked wavingat the skies; shop-persons, aristocrats, workmen, officials, they wereall respectable. And he himself as respectable as any. 

He returned, thus moody, to his rooms and, with the impetuosity whichdistinguished him when about to do an unwise thing, he seized a pen andpoured out before Antonia some of his impressions:

. .. Mean is the word, darling; we are mean, that's what 's the matterwith us, dukes and dustmen, the whole human species--as mean ascaterpillars. To secure our own property and our own comfort, to doleout our sympathy according to rule just so that it won't really hurt us, is what we're all after. There's something about human nature that isawfully repulsive, and the healthier people are, the more repulsive theyseem to me to be. .. . 

He paused, biting his pen. Had he one acquaintance who would not counselhim to see a doctor for writing in that style? How would the world goround, how could Society exist, without common-sense, practical ability, and the lack of sympathy?

He looked out of the open window. Down in the street a footman wassettling the rug over the knees of a lady in a carriage, and thedecorous immovability of both their faces, which were clearly visible tohim, was like a portion of some well-oiled engine. 

He got up and walked up and down. His rooms, in a narrow square skirtingBelgravia, were unchanged since the death of his father had made him aman of means. Selected for their centrality, they were furnished ina very miscellaneous way. They were not bare, but close inspectionrevealed that everything was damaged, more or less, and there wasabsolutely nothing that seemed to have an interest taken in it. Hisgoods were accidents, presents, or the haphazard acquisitions of apressing need. Nothing, of course, was frowsy, but everything wassomewhat dusty, as if belonging to a man who never rebuked a servant. Above all, there was nothing that indicated hobbies. 

Three days later he had her answer to his letter:

. . . I don't think I understand what you mean by "the healthier peopleare, the more repulsive they seem to be"; one must be healthy to beperfect, must n't one? I don't like unhealthy people. I had to play onthat wretched piano after reading your letter; it made me feel unhappy. I've been having a splendid lot of tennis lately, got the back-handedlifting stroke at last--hurrah! . . . 

By the same post, too, came the following note in an autocratic writing:

DEAR BIRD [for this was Shelton's college nickname], My wife has gone down to her people, so I'm 'en garcon' for a few days. If you've nothing better to do, come and dine to-night at seven, and goto the theatre. It's ages since I saw you. 

Yours as ever, B. M. HALIDOME. 

Shelton had nothing better to do, for pleasant were his friendHalidome's well-appointed dinners. At seven, therefore, he went toChester Square. His friend was in his study, reading Matthew Arnoldby the light of an electric lamp. The walls of the room were hung withcostly etchings, arranged with solid and unfailing taste; from thecarving of the mantel-piece to the binding of the books, from themiraculously-coloured meerschaums to the chased fire-irons, everythingdisplayed an unpretentious luxury, an order and a finish significant oflife completely under rule of thumb. Everything had been collected. The collector rose as Shelton entered, a fine figure of a man, cleanshaven, --with dark hair, a Roman nose, good eyes, and the rather weightydignity of attitude which comes from the assurance that one is in theright. 

Taking Shelton by the lapel, he drew him into the radius of the lamp, where he examined him, smiling a slow smile. "Glad to see you, old chap. I rather like your beard, " he said with genial brusqueness; and nothing, perhaps, could better have summed up his faculty for forming independentjudgments which Shelton found so admirable. He made no apology for thesmallness of the dinner, which, consisting of eight courses andthree wines, served by a butler and one footman, smacked of the sameperfection as the furniture; in fact, he never apologised for anything, except with a jovial brusqueness that was worse than the offence. Thesuave and reasonable weight of his dislikes and his approvals stirredShelton up to feel ironical and insignificant; but whether from a senseof the solid, humane, and healthy quality of his friend's egoism, ormerely from the fact that this friendship had been long in bottle, hedid not resent his mixed sensations. 

"By the way, I congratulate you, old chap, " said Halidome, while drivingto the theatre; there was no vulgar hurry about his congratulations, nomore than about himself. "They're awfully nice people, the Dennants. "

A sense of having had a seal put on his choice came over Shelton. 

"Where are you going to live? You ought to come down and live nearus; there are some ripping houses to be had down there; it's reallya ripping neighbourhood. Have you chucked the Bar? You ought to dosomething, you know; it'll be fatal for you to have nothing to do. Itell you what, Bird: you ought to stand for the County Council. "

But before Shelton had replied they reached the theatre, and theirenergies were spent in sidling to their stalls. He had time to pass hisneighbours in review before the play began. Seated next to him was alady with large healthy shoulders, displayed with splendid liberality;beyond her a husband, red-cheeked, with drooping, yellow-grey moustacheand a bald head; beyond him again two men whom he had known at Eton. One of them had a clean-shaved face, dark hair, and a weather-tannedcomplexion; his small mouth with its upper lip pushed out above thelower, his eyelids a little drooped over his watchful eyes, gave hima satirical and resolute expression. "I've got hold of your tail, old fellow, " he seemed to say, as though he were always busy withthe catching of some kind of fox. The other's goggling eyes rested onShelton with a chaffing smile; his thick, sleek hair, brushed with waterand parted in the middle, his neat moustache and admirable waistcoat, suggested the sort of dandyism that despises women. From his recognitionof these old schoolfellows Shelton turned to look at Halidome, who, having cleared his throat, was staring straight before him at thecurtain. Antonia's words kept running in her lover's head, "I don't likeunhealthy people. " Well, all these people, anyway, were healthy; theylooked as if they had defied the elements to endow them with a spark ofanything but health. Just then the curtain rose. 

Slowly, unwillingly, for he was of a trustful disposition, Sheltonrecognised that this play was one of those masterpieces of the moderndrama whose characters were drawn on the principle that men were madefor morals rather than morals made by men, and he watched the playunfold with all its careful sandwiching of grave and gay. 

A married woman anxious to be ridded of her husband was the pivot ofthe story, and a number of scenes, ingeniously contrived, with a hundredreasons why this desire was wrong and inexpedient, were revealedto Shelton's eyes. These reasons issued mainly from the mouth of awell-preserved old gentleman who seemed to play the part of a sort ofMoral Salesman. He turned to Halidome and whispered:

"Can you stand that old woman?"

His friend fixed his fine eyes on him wonderingly. 

"What old woman?"

"Why, the old ass with the platitudes!"

Halidome's countenance grew cold, a little shocked, as though he hadbeen assailed in person. 

"Do you mean Pirbright?" he said. "I think he's ripping. "

Shelton turned to the play rebuffed; he felt guilty of a breach ofmanners, sitting as he was in one of his friend's stalls, and henaturally set to work to watch the play more critically than ever. Antonia's words again recurred to him, "I don't like unhealthy people, "and they seemed to throw a sudden light upon this play. It was healthy!

The scene was a drawing-room, softly lighted by electric lamps, with acat (Shelton could not decide whether she was real or not) asleep uponthe mat. 

The husband, a thick-set, healthy man in evening dress, was drinking offneat whisky. He put down his tumbler, and deliberately struck a match;then with even greater deliberation he lit a gold-tipped cigarette. .. . 

Shelton was no inexperienced play-goer. He shifted his elbows, for hefelt that something was about to happen; and when the match was pitchedinto the fire, he leaned forward in his seat. The husband poured morewhisky out, drank it at a draught, and walked towards the door; then, turning to the audience as if to admit them to the secret of sometremendous resolution, he puffed at them a puff of smoke. He left theroom, returned, and once more filled his glass. A lady now entered, paleof face and dark of eye--his wife. The husband crossed the stage, andstood before the fire, his legs astride, in the attitude which somehowShelton had felt sure he would assume. He spoke:

"Come in, and shut the door. "

Shelton suddenly perceived that he was face to face with one ofthose dumb moments in which two people declare their inextinguishablehatred--the hatred underlying the sexual intimacy of two ill-assortedcreatures--and he was suddenly reminded of a scene he had once witnessedin a restaurant. He remembered with extreme minuteness how the womanand the man had sat facing each other across the narrow patch of white, emblazoned by a candle with cheap shades and a thin green vase withyellow flowers. He remembered the curious scornful anger of theirvoices, subdued so that only a few words reached him. He rememberedthe cold loathing in their eyes. And, above all, he remembered hisimpression that this sort of scene happened between them every otherday, and would continue so to happen; and as he put on his overcoat andpaid his bill he had asked himself, "Why in the name of decency do theygo on living together?" And now he thought, as he listened to the twoplayers wrangling on the stage: "What 's the good of all this talk?There's something here past words. "

The curtain came down upon the act, and he looked at the lady next him. She was shrugging her shoulders at her husband, whose face was healthyand offended. 

"I do dislike these unhealthy women, " he was saying, but catchingShelton's eye he turned square in his seat and sniffed ironically. 

The face of Shelton's friend beyond, composed, satirical as ever, wasclothed with a mask of scornful curiosity, as if he had been listeningto something that had displeased him not a little. The goggle-eyed manwas yawning. Shelton turned to Halidome:

"Can you stand this sort of thing?" said he. 

"No; I call that scene a bit too hot, " replied his friend. 

Shelton wriggled; he had meant to say it was not hot enough. 

"I'll bet you anything, " he said, "I know what's going to happen now. You'll have that old ass--what's his name?--lunching off cutlets andchampagne to fortify himself--for a lecture to the wife. He'll show herhow unhealthy her feelings are--I know him--and he'll take her handand say, 'Dear lady, is there anything in this poor world but the goodopinion of Society?' and he'll pretend to laugh at himself for sayingit; but you'll see perfectly well that the old woman means it. And thenhe'll put her into a set of circumstances that are n't her own but hisversion of them, and show her the only way of salvation is to kiss herhusband"; and Shelton grinned. "Anyway, I'll bet you anything he takesher hand and says, 'Dear lady. '"

Halidome turned on him the disapproval of his eyes, and again he said, "I think Pirbright 's ripping!"

But as Shelton had predicted, so it turned out, amidst great applause. 

CHAPTER V

THE GOOD CITIZEN

Leaving the theatre, they paused a moment in the hall to don theircoats; a stream of people with spotless bosoms eddied round the doors, as if in momentary dread of leaving this hothouse of false morals andemotions for the wet, gusty streets, where human plants thrive and die, human weeds flourish and fade under the fresh, impartial skies. Thelights revealed innumerable solemn faces, gleamed innumerably onjewels, on the silk of hats, then passed to whiten a pavement wet withnewly-fallen rain, to flare on horses, on the visages of cabmen, andstray, queer objects that do not bear the light. 

"Shall we walk?" asked Halidome. 

"Has it ever struck you, " answered Shelton, "that in a play nowadaysthere's always a 'Chorus of Scandalmongers' which seems to have acquiredthe attitude of God?"

Halidome cleared his throat, and there was something portentous in thesound. 

"You're so d---d fastidious, " was his answer. 

"I've a prejudice for keeping the two things separate, " went on Shelton. "That ending makes me sick. "

"Why?" replied Halidome. "What other end is possible? You don't want aplay to leave you with a bad taste in your mouth. "

"But this does. "

Halidome increased his stride, already much too long; for in his walk, as in all other phases of his life, he found it necessary to be infront. 

"How do you mean?" he asked urbanely; "it's better than the woman makinga fool of herself. "

"I'm thinking of the man. "

"What man?"

"The husband. "

"What 's the matter with him? He was a bit of a bounder, certainly. "

"I can't understand any man wanting to live with a woman who doesn'twant him. "

Some note of battle in Shelton's voice, rather than the sentimentitself, caused his friend to reply with dignity:

"There's a lot of nonsense talked about that sort of thing. Women don'treally care; it's only what's put into their heads. "

"That's much the same as saying to a starving man: 'You don't reallywant anything; it's only what's put into your head!' You are begging thequestion, my friend. "

But nothing was more calculated to annoy Halidome than to tell him hewas "begging the question, " for he prided himself on being strong inlogic. 

"That be d---d, " he said. 

"Not at all, old chap. Here is a case where a woman wants her freedom, and you merely answer that she dogs n't want it. "

"Women like that are impossible; better leave them out of court. "

Shelton pondered this and smiled; he had recollected an acquaintance ofhis own, who, when his wife had left him, invented the theory that shewas mad, and this struck him now as funny. But then he thought:"Poor devil! he was bound to call her mad! If he didn't, it would beconfessing himself distasteful; however true, you can't expect a man toconsider himself that. " But a glance at his friend's eye warned him thathe, too, might think his wife mad in such a case. 

"Surely, " he said, "even if she's his wife, a man's bound to behave likea gentleman. "

"Depends on whether she behaves like a lady. "

"Does it? I don't see the connection. "

Halidome paused in the act of turning the latch-key in his door; therewas a rather angry smile in his fine eyes. 

"My dear chap, " he said, "you're too sentimental altogether. "

The word "sentimental" nettled Shelton. "A gentleman either is agentleman or he is n't; what has it to do with the way other peoplebehave?"

Halidome turned the key in the lock and opened the door into his hall, where the firelight fell on the decanters and huge chairs drawn towardsthe blaze. 

"No, Bird, " he said, resuming his urbanity, and gathering his coat-tailsin his hands; "it's all very well to talk, but wait until you'remarried. A man must be master, and show it, too. "

An idea occurred to Shelton. 

"Look here, Hal, " he said: "what should you do if your wife got tired ofyou?"

The expression on Halidome's face was a mixture of amusement andcontempt. 

"I don't mean anything personal, of course, but apply the situation toyourself. "

Halidome took out a toothpick, used it brusquely, and responded:

"I shouldn't stand any humbug--take her travelling; shake her mind up. She'd soon come round. "

"But suppose she really loathed you?"

Halidome cleared his throat; the idea was so obviously indecent. Howcould anybody loathe him? With great composure, however, regardingShelton as if he were a forward but amusing child, he answered:

"There are a great many things to be taken into consideration. "

"It appears to me, " said Shelton, "to be a question of common pride. Howcan you, ask anything of a woman who doesn't want to give it. "

His friend's voice became judicial. 

"A man ought not to suffer, " he said, poring over his whisky, "because awoman gets hysteria. You have to think of Society, your children, house, money arrangements, a thousand things. It's all very well to talk. Howdo you like this whisky?"

"The part of the good citizen, in fact, " said Shelton, "self-preservation!"

"Common-sense, " returned his friend; "I believe in justice beforesentiment. " He drank, and callously blew smoke at Shelton. "Besides, there are many people with religious views about it. "

"It's always seemed to me, " said Shelton, "to be quaint that peopleshould assert that marriage gives them the right to 'an eye for an eye, 'and call themselves Christians. Did you ever know anybody stand on theirrights except out of wounded pride or for the sake of their own comfort?Let them call their reasons what they like, you know as well as I dothat it's cant. "

"I don't know about that, " said Halidome, more and more superior asShelton grew more warm; "when you stand on your rights, you do it forthe sake of Society as well as for your own. If you want to do away withmarriage, why don't you say so?"

"But I don't, " said Shelton, "is it likely? Why, I'm going--" Hestopped without adding the words "to be married myself, " for it suddenlyoccurred to him that the reason was not the most lofty and philosophicin the world. "All I can say is, " he went on soberly, "that you can'tmake a horse drink by driving him. Generosity is the surest way oftightening the knot with people who've any sense of decency; as to therest, the chief thing is to prevent their breeding. "

Halidome smiled. 

"You're a rum chap, " he said. 

Shelton jerked his cigarette into the fire. 

"I tell you what"--for late at night a certain power of vision came tohim--"it's humbug to talk of doing things for the sake of Society; it'snothing but the instinct to keep our own heads above the water. "

But Halidome remained unruffled. 

"All right, " he said, "call it that. I don't see why I should go to thewall; it wouldn't do any good. "

"You admit, then, " said Shelton, "that our morality is the sum total ofeverybody's private instinct of self-preservation?"

Halidome stretched his splendid frame and yawned. 

"I don't know, " he began, "that I should quite call it that--"

But the compelling complacency of his fine eyes, the dignified postureof his healthy body, the lofty slope of his narrow forehead, theperfectly humane look of his cultivated brutality, struck Shelton asridiculous. 

"Hang it, Hall" he cried, jumping from his chair, "what an old fraud youare! I'll be off. "

"No, look here!" said Halidome; the faintest shade of doubt had appearedupon his face; he took Shelton by a lapel: "You're quite wrong--"

"Very likely; good-night, old chap!"

Shelton walked home, letting the spring wind into him. It was Saturday, and he passed many silent couples. In every little patch of shadow hecould see two forms standing or sitting close together, and in theirpresence Words the Impostors seemed to hold their tongues. The windrustled the buds; the stars, one moment bright as diamonds, vanishedthe next. In the lower streets a large part of the world was under theinfluence of drink, but by this Shelton was far from being troubled. Itseemed better than Drama, than dressing-bagged men, unruffled women, and padded points of view, better than the immaculate solidity of hisfriend's possessions. 

"So, " he reflected, "it's right for every reason, social, religious, andconvenient, to inflict one's society where it's not desired. Thereare obviously advantages about the married state; charming to feelrespectable while you're acting in a way that in any other walk of lifewould bring on you contempt. If old Halidome showed that he was tired ofme, and I continued to visit him, he'd think me a bit of a cad; but ifhis wife were to tell him she couldn't stand him, he'd still considerhimself a perfect gentleman if he persisted in giving her the burden ofhis society; and he has the cheek to bring religion into it--a religionthat says, 'Do unto others!'"

But in this he was unjust to Halidome, forgetting how impossible itwas for him to believe that a woman could not stand him. He reachedhis rooms, and, the more freely to enjoy the clear lamplight, the soft, gusty breeze, and waning turmoil of the streets, waited a moment beforeentering. 

"I wonder, " thought he, "if I shall turn out a cad when I marry, likethat chap in the play. It's natural. We all want our money's worth, our pound of flesh! Pity we use such fine words--'Society, Religion, Morality. ' Humbug!"

He went in, and, throwing his window open, remained there a long time, his figure outlined against the lighted room for the benefit of thedark square below, his hands in his pockets, his head down, a reflectivefrown about his eyes. A half-intoxicated old ruffian, a policeman, and aman in a straw hat had stopped below, and were holding a palaver. 

"Yus, " the old ruffian said, "I'm a rackety old blank; but what I sayis, if we wus all alike, this would n't be a world!"

They went their way, and before the listener's eyes there rose Antonia'sface, with its unruffled brow; Halidome's, all health and dignity; theforehead of the goggle-eyed man, with its line of hair parted in thecentre, and brushed across. A light seemed to illumine the plane oftheir existence, as the electric lamp with the green shade had illuminedthe pages of the Matthew Arnold; serene before Shelton's vision laythat Elysium, untouched by passion or extremes of any kind, autocratic;complacent, possessive, and well-kept as any Midland landscape. Healthy, wealthy, wise! No room but for perfection, self-preservation, thesurvival of the fittest! "The part of the good citizen, " he thought:"no, if we were all alike, this would n't be a world!"

CHAPTER VI

MARRIAGE SETTLEMENT

"My dear Richard" (wrote Shelton's uncle the next day), "I shall be gladto see you at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon upon the question ofyour marriage settlement. .. . " At that hour accordingly Shelton madehis way to Lincoln's Inn Fields, where in fat black letters the names"Paramor and Herring (Commissioners for Oaths)" were written on the wallof a stone entrance. He ascended the solid steps with nervousness, andby a small red-haired boy was introduced to a back room on the firstfloor. Here, seated at a table in the very centre, as if he therebybetter controlled his universe, a pug-featured gentleman, without abeard, was writing. He paused. "Ow, Mr. Richard!" he said; "glad to seeyou, sir. Take a chair. Your uncle will be disengaged in 'arf a minute";and in the tone of his allusion to his employer was the satiricalapproval that comes with long and faithful service. "He will doeverything himself, " he went on, screwing up his sly, greenish, honesteyes, "and he 's not a young man. "

Shelton never saw his uncle's clerk without marvelling at the prosperitydeepening upon his face. In place of the look of harassment which onmost faces begins to grow after the age of fifty, his old friend'scountenance, as though in sympathy with the nation, had expanded--alittle greasily, a little genially, a little coarsely--every time hemet it. A contemptuous tolerance for people who were not getting on wasspreading beneath its surface; it left each time a deeper feeling thatits owner could never be in the wrong. 

"I hope you're well, sir, " he resumed: "most important for you to haveyour health now you're going-to"--and, feeling for the delicate way toput it, he involuntarily winked--"to become a family man. We saw itin the paper. My wife said to me the other morning at breakfast: 'Bob, here's a Mr. Richard Paramor Shelton goin' to be married. Is that anyrelative of your Mr. Shelton?' 'My dear, ' I said to her, 'it's the veryman!'"

It disquieted Shelton to perceive that his old friend did not pass thewhole of his life at that table writing in the centre of the room, butthat somewhere (vistas of little grey houses rose before his eyes) heactually lived another life where someone called him "Bob. " Bob! Andthis, too, was a revelation. Bob! Why, of course, it was the only namefor him! A bell rang. 

"That's your uncle"; and again the head clerk's voice sounded ironical. "Good-bye, sir. "

He seemed to clip off intercourse as one clips off electric light. Shelton left him writing, and preceded the red-haired boy to an enormousroom in the front where his uncle waited. 

Edmund Paramor was a medium-sized and upright man of seventy, whosebrown face was perfectly clean-shaven. His grey, silky hair was brushedin a cock's comb from his fine forehead, bald on the left side. Hestood before the hearth facing the room, and his figure had the springyabruptness of men who cannot fatten. There was a certain youthfulness, too, in his eyes, yet they had a look as though he had been throughfire; and his mouth curled at the corners in surprising smiles. The roomwas like the man--morally large, void of red-tape and almost voidof furniture; no tin boxes were ranged against the walls, no paperslittered up the table; a single bookcase contained a complete edition ofthe law reports, and resting on the Law Directory was a single red rosein a glass of water. It looked the room of one with a sober magnanimity, who went to the heart of things, despised haggling, and before whosesmiles the more immediate kinds of humbug faded. 

"Well, Dick, " said he, "how's your mother?"

Shelton replied that his mother was all right. 

"Tell her that I'm going to sell her Easterns after all, and put intothis Brass thing. You can say it's safe, from me. "

Shelton made a face. 

"Mother, " said he, "always believes things are safe. "

His uncle looked through him with his keen, half-suffering glance, andup went the corners of his mouth. 

"She's splendid, " he said. 

"Yes, " said Shelton, "splendid. "

The transaction, however, did not interest him; his uncle's judgment insuch matters had a breezy soundness he would never dream of questioning. 

"Well, about your settlement"; and, touching a bell three times, Mr. Paramor walked up and down the room. "Bring me the draft of Mr. Richard's marriage settlement. "

The stalwart commissionaire reappearing with a document--"Now then, Dick, " said Mr. Paramor. "She 's not bringing anything into settlement, I understand; how 's that?"

"I did n't want it, " replied Shelton, unaccountably ashamed. 

Mr. Paramor's lips quivered; he drew the draft closer, took up ablue pencil, and, squeezing Shelton's arm, began to read. The latter, following his uncle's rapid exposition of the clauses, was relieved whenhe paused suddenly. 

"If you die and she marries again, " said Mr. Paramor, "she forfeits herlife interest--see?"

"Oh!" said Shelton; "wait a minute, Uncle Ted. "

Mr. Paramor waited, biting his pencil; a smile flickered on his mouth, and was decorously subdued. It was Shelton's turn to walk about. 

"If she marries again, " he repeated to himself. 

Mr. Paramor was a keen fisherman; he watched his nephew as he might havewatched a fish he had just landed. 

"It's very usual, " he remarked. 

Shelton took another turn. 

"She forfeits, " thought he; "exactly. "

When he was dead, he would have no other way of seeing that shecontinued to belong to him. Exactly!

Mr. Paramor's haunting eyes were fastened on his nephew's face. 

"Well, my dear, " they seemed to say, "what 's the matter?"

Exactly! Why should she have his money if she married again? She wouldforfeit it. There was comfort in the thought. Shelton came back andcarefully reread the clause, to put the thing on a purely businessbasis, and disguise the real significance of what was passing in hismind. 

"If I die and she marries again, " he repeated aloud, "she forfeits. "

What wiser provision for a man passionately in love could possibly havebeen devised? His uncle's eye travelled beyond him, humanely turningfrom the last despairing wriggles of his fish. 

"I don't want to tie her, " said Shelton suddenly. 

The corners of Mr. Paramour's mouth flew up. 

"You want the forfeiture out?" he asked. 

The blood rushed into Shelton's face; he felt he had been detected in apiece of sentiment. 

"Ye-es, " he stammered. 

"Sure?"

"Quite!" The answer was a little sulky. 

Her uncle's pencil descended on the clause, and he resumed the readingof the draft, but Shelton could not follow it; he was too much occupiedin considering exactly why Mr. Paramor had been amused, and to dothis he was obliged to keep his eyes upon him. Those features, justpleasantly rugged; the springy poise of the figure; the hair neitherstraight nor curly, neither short nor long; the haunting look of hiseyes and the humorous look of his mouth; his clothes neither shabby nordandified; his serviceable, fine hands; above all, the equability ofthe hovering blue pencil, conveyed the impression of a perfect balancebetween heart and head, sensibility and reason, theory and its opposite. 

"'During coverture, '" quoted Mr. Paramor, pausing again, "youunderstand, of course, if you don't get on, and separate, she goes ontaking?"

If they didn't get on! Shelton smiled. Mr. Paramor did not smile, andagain Shelton had the sense of having knocked up against somethingpoised but firm. He remarked irritably:

"If we 're not living together, all the more reason for her having it. "

This time his uncle smiled. It was difficult for Shelton to feel angryat that ironic merriment, with its sudden ending; it was too impersonalto irritate: it was too concerned with human nature. 

"If--hum--it came to the other thing, " said Mr. Paramor, "thesettlement's at an end as far as she 's concerned. We 're bound to lookat every case, you know, old boy. "

The memory of the play and his conversation with Halidome was stillstrong in Shelton. He was not one of those who could not face the notionof transferred affections--at a safe distance. 

"All right, Uncle Ted, " said he. For one mad moment he was attacked bythe desire to "throw in" the case of divorce. Would it not be commonchivalry to make her independent, able to change her affections if shewished, unhampered by monetary troubles? You only needed to take out thewords "during coverture. "

Almost anxiously he looked into his uncle's face. There was no meannessthere, but neither was there encouragement in that comprehensive browwith its wide sweep of hair. "Quixotism, " it seemed to say, "has merits, but--" The room, too, with its wide horizon and tall windows, looking asif it dealt habitually in common-sense, discouraged him. Innumerable menof breeding and the soundest principles must have bought their wives inhere. It was perfumed with the atmosphere of wisdom and law-calf. Thearoma of Precedent was strong; Shelton swerved his lance, and once moresettled down to complete the purchase of his wife. 

"I can't conceive what you're--in such a hurry for; you 're not going tobe married till the autumn, " said Mr. Paramor, finishing at last. 

Replacing the blue pencil in the rack, he took the red rose from theglass, and sniffed at it. "Will you come with me as far as Pall Mall? I'm going to take an afternoon off; too cold for Lord's, I suppose?"

They walked into the Strand. 

"Have you seen this new play of Borogrove's?" asked Shelton, as theypassed the theatre to which he had been with Halidome. 

"I never go to modern plays, " replied Mr. Paramor; "too d---d gloomy. "

Shelton glanced at him; he wore his hat rather far back on his head, hiseyes haunted the street in front; he had shouldered his umbrella. 

"Psychology 's not in your line, Uncle Ted?"

"Is that what they call putting into words things that can't be put inwords?"

"The French succeed in doing it, " replied Shelton, "and the Russians;why should n't we?"

Mr. Paramor stopped to look in at a fishmonger's. 

"What's right for the French and Russians, Dick, " he said "is wrong forus. When we begin to be real, we only really begin to be false. I shouldlike to have had the catching of that fellow; let's send him to yourmother. " He went in and bought a salmon:

"Now, my dear, " he continued, as they went on, "do you tell me that it'sdecent for men and women on the stage to writhe about like eels? Is n'tlife bad enough already?"

It suddenly struck Shelton that, for all his smile, his uncle's face hada look of crucifixion. It was, perhaps, only the stronger sunlight inthe open spaces of Trafalgar Square. 

"I don't know, " he said; "I think I prefer the truth. "

"Bad endings and the rest, " said Mr. Paramor, pausing under one ofNelson's lions and taking Shelton by a button. "Truth 's the verydevil!"

He stood there, very straight, his eyes haunting his nephew's face;there seemed to Shelton a touching muddle in his optimism--a muddle oftenderness and of intolerance, of truth and second-handedness. Like thelion above him, he seemed to be defying Life to make him look at her. 

"No, my dear, " he said, handing sixpence to a sweeper; "feelings aresnakes! only fit to be kept in bottles with tight corks. You won't cometo my club? Well, good-bye, old boy; my love to your mother when yousee her"; and turning up the Square, he left Shelton to go on to hisown club, feeling that he had parted, not from his uncle, but from thenation of which they were both members by birth and blood and education. 

CHAPTER VII

THE CLUB

He went into the library of his club, and took up Burke's Peerage. The words his uncle had said to him on hearing his engagement had beenthese: "Dennant! Are those the Holm Oaks Dennants? She was a Penguin. "

No one who knew Mr. Paramor connected him with snobbery, but there hadbeen an "Ah! that 's right; this is due to us" tone about the saying. 

Shelton hunted for the name of Baltimore: "Charles Penguin, fifth BaronBaltimore. Issue: Alice, b. 184-, m. 186-Algernon Dennant, Esq. , of HolmOaks, Cross Eaton, Oxfordshire. " He put down the Peerage and took upthe 'Landed Gentry': "Dennant, Algernon Cuffe, eldest son of the lateAlgernon Cuffe Dennant, Esq. , J. P. , and Irene, 2nd daur. Of the Honble. Philip and Lady Lillian March Mallow; ed. Eton and Ch. Ch. , Oxford, J. P. For Oxfordshire. Residence, Holm Oaks, " etc. , etc. Dropping the'Landed Gentry', he took up a volume of the 'Arabian Nights', which somemember had left reposing on the book-rest of his chair, but instead ofreading he kept looking round the room. In almost every seat, readingor snoozing, were gentlemen who, in their own estimation, might havemarried Penguins. For the first time it struck him with what majesticleisureliness they turned the pages of their books, trifled with theirteacups, or lightly snored. Yet no two were alike--a tall man-withdark moustache, thick hair, and red, smooth cheeks; another, bald, withstooping shoulders; a tremendous old buck, with a grey, pointed beardand large white waistcoat; a clean-shaven dapper man past middleage, whose face was like a bird's; a long, sallow, misanthrope; and asanguine creature fast asleep. Asleep or awake, reading or snoring, fator thin, hairy or bald, the insulation of their red or pale faces wascomplete. They were all the creatures of good form. Staring at them orreading the Arabian Nights Shelton spent the time before dinner. Hehad not been long seated in the dining-room when a distant connectionstrolled up and took the next table. 

"Ah, Shelton! Back? Somebody told me you were goin' round the world. "He scrutinised the menu through his eyeglass. "Clear soup! . . . ReadJellaby's speech? Amusing the way he squashes all those fellows. Bestman in the House, he really is. "

Shelton paused in the assimilation of asparagus; he, too, had been inthe habit of admiring Jellaby, but now he wondered why. The red andshaven face beside him above a broad, pure shirt-front was swollenby good humour; his small, very usual, and hard eyes were fixedintrospectively on the successful process of his eating. 

"Success!" thought Shelton, suddenly enlightened--"success is what weadmire in Jellaby. We all want success . . . . Yes, " he admitted, "asuccessful beast. "

"Oh!" said his neighbour, "I forgot. You're in the other camp?"

"Not particularly. Where did you get that idea?"

His neighbour looked round negligently. 

"Oh, " said he, "I somehow thought so"; and Shelton almost heard himadding, "There's something not quite sound about you. "

"Why do you admire Jellaby?" he asked. 

"Knows his own mind, " replied his neighbour; "it 's more than the othersdo . . . . This whitebait is n't fit for cats! Clever fellow, Jellaby!No nonsense about him! Have you ever heard him speak? Awful good sportto watch him sittin' on the Opposition. A poor lot they are!" andhe laughed, either from appreciation of Jellaby sitting on a smallminority, or from appreciation of the champagne bubbles in his glass. 

"Minorities are always depressing, " said Shelton dryly. 

"Eh? what?"

"I mean, " said Shelton, "it's irritating to look at people who have n'ta chance of success--fellows who make a mess of things, fanatics, andall that. "

His neighbour turned his eyes inquisitively. 

"Er--yes, quite, " said he; "don't you take mint sauce? It's the bestpart of lamb, I always think. "

The great room with its countless little tables, arranged so that everyman might have the support of the gold walls to his back, began toregain its influence on Shelton. How many times had he not sat there, carefully nodding to acquaintances, happy if he got the table he wasused to, a paper with the latest racing, and someone to gossip with whowas not a bounder; while the sensation of having drunk enough stoleover him. Happy! That is, happy as a horse is happy who never leaves hisstall. 

"Look at poor little Bing puffin' about, " said his neighbour, pointingto a weazened, hunchy waiter. "His asthma's awf'ly bad; you can hear himwheezin' from the street. "

He seemed amused. 

"There 's no such thing as moral asthma, I suppose?" said Shelton. 

His neighbour dropped his eyeglass. 

"Here, take this away; it's overdone;" said he. "Bring me some lamb. "

Shelton pushed his table back. 

"Good-night, " he said; "the Stilton's excellent!"

His neighbour raised his brows, and dropped his eyes again upon hisplate. 

In the hall Shelton went from force of habit to the weighing-scales andtook his weight. "Eleven stone!" he thought; "gone up!" and, clipping acigar, he sat down in the smoking-room with a novel. 

After half an hour he dropped the book. There seemed something ratherfatuous about this story, for though it had a thrilling plot, and wasfull of well-connected people, it had apparently been contrived to throwno light on anything whatever. He looked at the author's name; everyonewas highly recommending it. He began thinking, and staring at thefire. .. . 

Looking up, he saw Antonia's second brother, a young man in the Rifles, bending over him with sunny cheeks and lazy smile, clearly just a littledrunk. 

"Congratulate you, old chap! I say, what made you grow that b-b-eastlybeard?"

Shelton grinned. 

"Pillbottle of the Duchess!" read young Dennant, taking up the book. "You been reading that? Rippin', is n't it?"

"Oh, ripping!" replied Shelton. 

"Rippin' plot! When you get hold of a novel you don't want any rotabout--what d'you call it?--psychology, you want to be amused. "

"Rather!" murmured Shelton. 

"That's an awfully good bit where the President steals her diamondsThere's old Benjy! Hallo, Benjy!"

"Hallo, Bill, old man!"

This Benjy was a young, clean-shaven creature, whose face and voice andmanner were a perfect blend of steel and geniality. 

In addition to this young man who was so smooth and hard and cheery, agrey, short-bearded gentleman, with misanthropic eyes, called Stroud, came up; together with another man of Shelton's age, with a moustacheand a bald patch the size of a crown-piece, who might be seen in theclub any night of the year when there was no racing out of reach ofLondon. 

"You know, " began young Dennant, "that this bounder"--he slapped theyoung man Benjy on the knee--"is going to be spliced to-morrow. MissCasserol--you know the Casserols--Muncaster Gate. "

"By Jove!" said Shelton, delighted to be able to say something theywould understand. 

"Young Champion's the best man, and I 'm the second best. I tell youwhat, old chap, you 'd better come with me and get your eye in; youwon't get such another chance of practice. Benjy 'll give you a card. "

"Delighted!" murmured Benjy. 

"Where is it?"

"St. Briabas; two-thirty. Come and see how they do the trick. I'll callfor you at one; we'll have some lunch and go together"; again he pattedBenjy's knee. 

Shelton nodded his assent; the piquant callousness of the affair hadmade him shiver, and furtively he eyed the steely Benjy, whose suavityhad never wavered, and who appeared to take a greater interest in someapproaching race than in his coming marriage. But Shelton knew from hisown sensations that this could not really be the case; it was merely aquestion of "good form, " the conceit of a superior breeding, the dutynot to give oneself away. And when in turn he marked the eyes of Stroudfixed on Benjy, under shaggy brows, and the curious greedy glances ofthe racing man, he felt somehow sorry for him. 

"Who 's that fellow with the game leg--I'm always seeing him about?"asked the racing man. 

And Shelton saw a sallow man, conspicuous for a want of parting in hishair and a certain restlessness of attitude. 

"His name is Bayes, " said Stroud; "spends half his time among theChinese--must have a grudge against them! And now he 's got his leg hecan't go there any more. "

"Chinese? What does he do to them?"

"Bibles or guns. Don't ask me! An adventurer. "

"Looks a bit of a bounder, " said the racing man. 

Shelton gazed at the twitching eyebrows of old Stroud; he saw at oncehow it must annoy a man who had a billet in the "Woods and Forests, " andplenty of time for "bridge" and gossip at his club, to see these peoplewith untidy lives. A minute later the man with the "game leg" passedclose behind his chair, and Shelton perceived at once how intelligiblethe resentment of his fellow-members was. He had eyes which, notuncommon in this country, looked like fires behind steel bars; he seemedthe very kind of man to do all sorts of things that were "bad form, " aman who might even go as far as chivalry. He looked straight at Shelton, and his uncompromising glance gave an impression of fierce loneliness;altogether, an improper person to belong to such a club. Sheltonremembered the words of an old friend of his father's: "Yes, Dick, all sorts of fellows belong here, and they come here for all sorts o'reasons, and a lot of em come because they've nowhere else to go, poorbeggars"; and, glancing from the man with the "game leg" to Stroud, itoccurred to Shelton that even he, old Stroud, might be one of these poorbeggars. One never knew! A look at Benjy, contained and cheery, restoredhim. Ah, the lucky devil! He would not have to come here any more! andthe thought of the last evening he himself would be spending before longflooded his mind with a sweetness that was almost pain. 

"Benjy, I'll play you a hundred up!" said young Bill Dennant. 

Stroud and the racing man went to watch the game; Shelton was left oncemore to reverie. 

"Good form!" thought he; "that fellow must be made of steel. They'llgo on somewhere; stick about half the night playing poker, or some suchfoolery. "

He crossed over to the window. Rain had begun to fall; the streetslooked wild and draughty. The cabmen were putting on their coats. Twowomen scurried by, huddled under one umbrella, and a thin-clothed, dogged-looking scarecrow lounged past with a surly, desperatestep. Shelton, returning to his chair, threaded his way amongst hisfellow-members. A procession of old school and college friends came upbefore his eyes. After all, what had there been in his own education, ortheirs, to give them any other standard than this "good form"? Whathad there been to teach them anything of life? Their imbecility wasincredible when you came to think of it. They had all the air of knowingeverything, and really they knew nothing--nothing of Nature, Art, orthe Emotions; nothing of the bonds that bind all men together. Why, evensuch words were not "good form"; nothing outside their little circle was"good form. " They had a fixed point of view over life because they cameof certain schools, and colleges, and regiments! And they were those incharge of the state, of laws, and science, of the army, and religion. Well, it was their system--the system not to start too young, to formhealthy fibre, and let the after-life develop it!

"Successful!" he thought, nearly stumbling over a pair of patent-leatherboots belonging to a moon-faced, genial-looking member with goldnose-nippers; "oh, it 's successful!"

Somebody came and picked up from the table the very volume which hadoriginally inspired this train of thought, and Shelton could see hissolemn pleasure as he read. In the white of his eye there was a torpidand composed abstraction. There was nothing in that book to startle himor make him think. 

The moon-faced member with the patent boots came up and began talking ofhis recent visit to the south of France. He had a scandalous anecdote ortwo to tell, and his broad face beamed behind his gold nose-nippers; hewas a large man with such a store of easy, worldly humour that itwas impossible not to appreciate his gossip, he gave so perfect animpression of enjoying life, and doing himself well. "Well, good-night!"he murmured--"An engagement!"--and the certainty he left behind that hisengagement must be charming and illicit was pleasant to the soul. 

And, slowly taking up his glass, Shelton drank; the sense of well-beingwas upon him. His superiority to these his fellow-members soothed him. He saw through all the sham of this club life, the meanness of thisworship of success, the sham of kid-gloved novelists, "good form, "and the terrific decency of our education. It was soothing thus to seethrough things, soothing thus to be superior; and from the soft recessesof his chair he puffed out smoke and stretched his limbs toward thefire; and the fire burned back at him with a discreet and venerableglow. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE WEDDING

Punctual to his word, Bill Dennant called for Shelton at one o'clock. 

"I bet old Benjy's feeling a bit cheap, " said he, as they got out oftheir cab at the church door and passed between the crowded files ofunelect, whose eyes, so curious and pitiful, devoured them from thepavement. 

The ashen face of a woman, with a baby in her arms and two more byher side, looked as eager as if she had never experienced the pangs ofragged matrimony. Shelton went in inexplicably uneasy; the price ofhis tie was their board and lodging for a week. He followed his futurebrother-in-law to a pew on the bridegroom's side, for, with intuitiveperception of the sexes' endless warfare, each of the opposing partiesto this contract had its serried battalion, the arrows of whosesuspicion kept glancing across and across the central aisle. 

Bill Dennant's eyes began to twinkle. 

"There's old Benjy!" he whispered; and Shelton looked at the hero of theday. A subdued pallor was traceable under the weathered uniformity ofhis shaven face; but the well-bred, artificial smile he bent upon theguests had its wonted steely suavity. About his dress and his neatfigure was that studied ease which lifts men from the ruck of commonbridegrooms. There were no holes in his armour through which theimpertinent might pry. 

"Good old Benjy!" whispered young Dennant; "I say, they look a bit shortof class, those Casserols. "

Shelton, who was acquainted with this family, smiled. The sensuoussanctity all round had begun to influence him. A perfume of flowersand dresses fought with the natural odour of the church; the rustle ofwhisperings and skirts struck through the native silence of the aisles, and Shelton idly fixed his eyes on a lady in the pew in front; withoutin the least desiring to make a speculation of this sort, he wonderedwhether her face was as charming as the lines of her back in theirdelicate, skin-tight setting of pearl grey; his glance wandered to thechancel with its stacks of flowers, to the grave, business faces of thepresiding priests, till the organ began rolling out the wedding march. 

"They're off!" whispered young Dermant. 

Shelton was conscious of a shiver running through the audience whichreminded him of a bullfight he had seen in Spain. The bride came slowlyup the aisle. "Antonia will look like that, " he thought, "and the churchwill be filled with people like this . . . . She'll be a show to them!"The bride was opposite him now, and by an instinct of common chivalry heturned away his eyes; it seemed to him a shame to look at that downcasthead above the silver mystery of her perfect raiment; the modest headfull, doubtless, of devotion and pure yearnings; the stately head whereno such thought as "How am I looking, this day of all days, before allLondon?" had ever entered; the proud head, which no such fear as "How amI carrying it off?" could surely be besmirching. 

He saw below the surface of this drama played before his eyes, and sethis face, as a man might who found himself assisting at a sacrifice. The words fell, unrelenting, on his ears: "For better, for worse, forricher, for poorer; in sickness and in health--" and opening the PrayerBook he found the Marriage Service, which he had not looked at since hewas a boy, and as he read he had some very curious sensations. 

All this would soon be happening to himself! He went on reading in akind of stupor, until aroused by his companion whispering, "No luck!"All around there rose a rustling of skirts; he saw a tall figure mountthe pulpit and stand motionless. Massive and high-featured, sunkenof eye, he towered, in snowy cambric and a crimson stole, above theblackness of his rostrum; it seemed he had been chosen for his beauty. Shelton was still gazing at the stitching of his gloves, when once againthe organ played the Wedding March. All were smiling, and a few wereweeping, craning their heads towards the bride. "Carnival of second-handemotions!" thought Shelton; and he, too, craned his head and brushed hishat. Then, smirking at his friends, he made his way towards the door. 

In the Casserols' house he found himself at last going round thepresents with the eldest Casserol surviving, a tall girl in pale violet, who had been chief bridesmaid. 

"Did n't it go off well, Mr. Shelton?" she was saying

"Oh, awfully!"

"I always think it's so awkward for the man waiting up there for thebride to come. "

"Yes, " murmured Shelton. 

"Don't you think it's smart, the bridesmaids having no hats?"

Shelton had not noticed this improvement, but he agreed. 

"That was my idea; I think it 's very chic. They 've had fifteentea-sets-so dull, is n't it?"

"By Jove!" Shelton hastened to remark. 

"Oh, its fearfully useful to have a lot of things you don't want; ofcourse, you change them for those you do. "

The whole of London seemed to have disgorged its shops into this room;he looked at Miss Casserol's face, and was greatly struck by the shrewdacquisitiveness of her small eyes. 

"Is that your future brother-in-law?" she asked, pointing to BillDennant with a little movement of her chin; "I think he's such a brightboy. I want you both to come to dinner, and help to keep things jolly. It's so deadly after a wedding. "

And Shelton said they would. 

They adjourned to the hall now, to wait for the bride's departure. Herface as she came down the stairs was impassive, gay, with a furtivetrouble in the eyes, and once more Shelton had the odd sensation ofhaving sinned against his manhood. Jammed close to him was her oldnurse, whose puffy, yellow face was pouting with emotion, while tearsrolled from her eyes. She was trying to say something, but in the hubbubher farewell was lost. There was a scamper to the carriage, a flurryof rice and flowers; the shoe was flung against the sharply drawn-upwindow. Then Benjy's shaven face was seen a moment, bland and steely;the footman folded his arms, and with a solemn crunch the broughamwheels rolled away. "How splendidly it went off!" said a voice onShelton's right. "She looked a little pale, " said a voice on Shelton'sleft. He put his hand up to his forehead; behind him the old nursesniffed. 

"Dick, " said young Dennant in his ear, "this isn't good enough; I votewe bolt. "

Shelton assenting, they walked towards the Park; nor could he tellwhether the slight nausea he experienced was due to afternoon champagneor to the ceremony that had gone so well. 

"What's up with you?" asked Dennant; "you look as glum as any m-monkey. "

"Nothing, " said Shelton; "I was only thinking what humbugs we all are!"

Bill Dennant stopped in the middle of the crossing, and clapped hisfuture brother-in-law upon the shoulder. 

"Oh, " said he, "if you're going to talk shop, I 'm off. "

CHAPTER IX

THE DINNER

The dinner at the Casserols' was given to those of the bride's friendswho had been conspicuous in the day's festivities. Shelton found himselfbetween Miss Casserol and a lady undressed to much the same degree. Opposite sat a man with a single diamond stud, a white waistcoat, black moustache, and hawk-like face. This was, in fact, one of thoseinteresting houses occupied by people of the upper middle class whohave imbibed a taste for smart society. Its inhabitants, by natureacquisitive and cautious, economical, tenacious, had learnt to worshipthe word "smart. " The result was a kind of heavy froth, an air ofthoroughly domestic vice. In addition to the conventionally fast, Shelton had met there one or two ladies, who, having been divorced, orhaving yet to be, still maintained their position in "society. " Divorcedladies who did not so maintain their place were never to be found, forthe Casserols had a great respect for marriage. He had also met thereAmerican ladies who were "too amusing"--never, of course, American men, Mesopotamians of the financial or the racing type, and several of thosegentlemen who had been, or were about to be, engaged in a transactionwhich might or again might not, "come off, " and in conduct of an orderwhich might, or again might not be spotted. The line he knew, was alwaysdrawn at those in any category who were actually found out, for thevalue of these ladies and these gentlemen was not their claim topity--nothing so sentimental--but their "smartness, " clothes, jokes, racing tips, their "bridge parties, " and their motors. 

In sum, the house was one whose fundamental domesticity attracted andsheltered those who were too "smart" to keep their heads for long abovethe water. 

His host, a grey, clean-shaven city man, with a long upper lip, wastrying to understand a lady the audacity of whose speech came ringingdown the table. Shelton himself had given up the effort with hisneighbours, and made love to his dinner, which, surviving theincoherence of the atmosphere, emerged as a work of art. It was withsurprise that he found Miss Casserol addressing him. 

"I always say that the great thing is to be jolly. If you can't findanything to make you laugh, pretend you do; it's so much 'smarter to beamusin'. Now don't you agree?"

The philosophy seemed excellent. 

"We can't all be geniuses, but we can all look jolly. "

Shelton hastened to look jolly. 

"I tell the governor, when he 's glum, that I shall put up the shuttersand leave him. What's the good of mopin' and lookin' miserable? Are yougoing to the Four-in-Hand Meet? We're making a party. Such fun; all thesmart people!"

The splendour of her shoulders, her frizzy hair (clearly not two hoursout of the barber's hands), might have made him doubtful; but the frankshrewdness in her eyes, and her carefully clipped tone of voice, wereguarantees that she was part of the element at the table which wasreally quite respectable. He had never realised before how "smart" shewas, and with an effort abandoned himself to a sort of gaiety that wouldhave killed a Frenchman. 

And when she left him, he reflected upon the expression of her eyes whenthey rested on a lady opposite, who was a true bird-of-prey. "What isit, " their envious, inquisitive glance had seemed to say, "that makesyou so really 'smart'?" And while still seeking for the reason, henoticed his host pointing out the merits of his port to the hawk-likeman, with a deferential air quite pitiful to see, for the hawk-like manwas clearly a "bad hat. " What in the name of goodness did these staidbourgeois mean by making up to vice? Was it a craving to be thoughtdistinguished, a dread of being dull, or merely an effect ofoverfeeding? Again he looked at his host, who had not yet enumerated allthe virtues of his port, and again felt sorry for him. 

"So you're going to marry Antonia Dennant?" said a voice on his right, with that easy coarseness which is a mark of caste. "Pretty girl!They've a nice place, the, Dennants. D' ye know, you're a lucky feller!"

The speaker was an old baronet, with small eyes, a dusky, ruddy face, and peculiar hail-fellow-well-met expression, at once morose and sly. He was always hard up, but being a man of enterprise knew all the bestpeople, as well as all the worst, so that he dined out every night. 

"You're a lucky feller, " he repeated; "he's got some deuced goodshootin', Dennant! They come too high for me, though; never touched afeather last time I shot there. She's a pretty girl. You 're a luckyfeller!"

"I know that, " said Shelton humbly. 

"Wish I were in your shoes. Who was that sittin' on the other side ofyou? I'm so dashed short-sighted. Mrs. Carruther? Oh, ay!" An expressionwhich, if he had not been a baronet, would have been a leer, came on hislips. 

Shelton felt that he was referring to the leaf in his mental pocket-bookcovered with the anecdotes, figures, and facts about that lady. "The oldogre means, " thought he, "that I'm lucky because his leaf is blankabout Antonia. " But the old baronet had turned, with his smile, andhis sardonic, well-bred air, to listen to a bit of scandal on the otherside. 

The two men to Shelton's left were talking. 

"What! You don't collect anything? How's that? Everybody collectssomething. I should be lost without my pictures. "

"No, I don't collect anything. Given it up; I was too awfully had overmy Walkers. "

Shelton had expected a more lofty reason; he applied himself to theMadeira in his glass. That, had been "collected" by his host, and itsprice was going up! You couldn't get it every day; worth two guineas abottle! How precious the idea that other people couldn't get it, made itseem! Liquid delight; the price was going up! Soon there would be noneleft; immense! Absolutely no one, then, could drink it!

"Wish I had some of this, " said the old baronet, "but I have drunk allmine. "

"Poor old chap!" thought Shelton; "after all, he's not a bad old boy. Iwish I had his pluck. His liver must be splendid. "

The drawing-room was full of people playing a game concerned with horsesridden by jockeys with the latest seat. And Shelton was compelled tohelp in carrying on this sport till early in the morning. At last heleft, exhausted by his animation. 

He thought of the wedding; he thought over his dinner and the wine thathe had drunk. His mood of satisfaction fizzled out. These people wereincapable of being real, even the smartest, even the most respectable;they seemed to weigh their pleasures in the scales and to get the mostthat could be gotten for their money. 

Between the dark, safe houses stretching for miles and miles, histhoughts were of Antonia; and as he reached his rooms he was overtakenby the moment when the town is born again. The first new air had stolendown; the sky was living, but not yet alight; the trees were quiveringfaintly; no living creature stirred, and nothing spoke except his heart. Suddenly the city seemed to breathe, and Shelton saw that he was notalone; an unconsidered trifle with inferior boots was asleep upon hisdoorstep. 

CHAPTER X

AN ALIEN

The individual on the doorstep had fallen into slumber over his ownknees. No greater air of prosperity clung about him than is conveyedby a rusty overcoat and wisps of cloth in place of socks. Sheltonendeavoured to pass unseen, but the sleeper woke. 

"Ah, it's you, monsieur!" he said "I received your letter this evening, and have lost no time. " He looked down at himself and tittered, asthough to say, "But what a state I 'm in!"

The young foreigner's condition was indeed more desperate than on theoccasion of their first meeting, and Shelton invited him upstairs. 

"You can well understand, " stammered Ferrand, following his host, "thatI did n't want to miss you this time. When one is like this--" and aspasm gripped his face. 

"I 'm very glad you came, " said Shelton doubtfully. 

His visitor's face had a week's growth of reddish beard; the deep tanof his cheeks gave him a robust appearance at variance with the fit of, trembling which had seized on him as soon as he had entered. 

"Sit down-sit down, " said Shelton; "you 're feeling ill!"

Ferrand smiled. "It's nothing, " said he; "bad nourishment. "

Shelton left him seated on the edge of an armchair, and brought him insome whisky. 

"Clothes, " said Ferrand, when he had drunk, "are what I want. These arereally not good enough. "

The statement was correct, and Shelton, placing some garments in thebath-room, invited his visitor to make himself at home. Whilethe latter, then, was doing this, Shelton enjoyed the luxuries ofself-denial, hunting up things he did not want, and laying them in twoportmanteaus. This done, he waited for his visitor's return. 

The young foreigner at length emerged, unshaved indeed, and innocent ofboots, but having in other respects an air of gratifying affluence. 

"This is a little different, " he said. "The boots, I fear"--and, pullingdown his, or rather Shelton's, socks he exhibited sores the size of halfa crown. "One does n't sow without reaping some harvest or another. Mystomach has shrunk, " he added simply. "To see things one must suffer. 'Voyager, c'est plus fort que moi'!"

Shelton failed to perceive that this was one way of disguising thehuman animal's natural dislike of work--there was a touch of pathos, asuggestion of God-knows-what-might-have-been, about this fellow. 

"I have eaten my illusions, " said the young foreigner, smoking acigarette. "When you've starved a few times, your eyes are opened. 'Savoir, c'est mon metier; mais remarquez ceci, monsieur': It 's notalways the intellectuals who succeed. "

"When you get a job, " said Shelton, "you throw it away, I suppose. "

"You accuse me of restlessness? Shall I explain what I think about that?I'm restless because of ambition; I want to reconquer an independentposition. I put all my soul into my trials, but as soon as I see there'sno future for me in that line, I give it up and go elsewhere. 'Je neveux pas etre rond de cuir, ' breaking my back to economise sixpence aday, and save enough after forty years to drag out the remains ofan exhausted existence. That's not in my character. " This ingeniousparaphrase of the words "I soon get tired of things" he pronounced withan air of letting Shelton into a precious secret. 

"Yes; it must be hard, " agreed the latter. 

Ferrand shrugged his shoulders. 

"It's not all butter, " he replied; "one is obliged to do things that arenot too delicate. There's nothing I pride myself on but frankness. "

Like a good chemist, however, he administered what Shelton could standin a judicious way. "Yes, yes, " he seemed to say, "you'd like meto think that you have a perfect knowledge of life: no morality, noprejudices, no illusions; you'd like me to think that you feel yourselfon an equality with me, one human animal talking to another, without anybarriers of position, money, clothes, or the rest--'ca c'est un peu tropfort'! You're as good an imitation as I 've come across in your class, notwithstanding your unfortunate education, and I 'm grateful to you, but to tell you everything, as it passes through my mind would damage myprospects. You can hardly expect that. "

In one of Shelton's old frock-coats he was impressive, with his airof natural, almost sensitive refinement. The room looked as if it wereaccustomed to him, and more amazing still was the sense of familiaritythat he inspired, as, though he were a part of Shelton's soul. It cameas a shock to realise that this young foreign vagabond had taken such aplace within his thoughts. The pose of his limbs and head, irregular butnot ungraceful; his disillusioned lips; the rings of smoke that issuedfrom them--all signified rebellion, and the overthrow of law and order. His thin, lopsided nose, the rapid glances of his goggling, prominenteyes, were subtlety itself; he stood for discontent with the accepted. 

"How do I live when I am on the tramp?" he said, "well, there arethe consuls. The system is not delicate, but when it's a question ofstarving, much is permissible; besides, these gentlemen were created forthe purpose. There's a coterie of German Jews in Paris living entirelyupon consuls. " He hesitated for the fraction of a second, and resumed:"Yes, monsieur; if you have papers that fit you, you can try six orseven consuls in a single town. You must know a language or two; butmost of these gentlemen are not too well up in the tongues of thecountry they represent. Obtaining money under false pretences? Well, it is. But what's the difference at bottom between all this honourablecrowd of directors, fashionable physicians, employers of labour, ferry-builders, military men, country priests, and consuls themselvesperhaps, who take money and give no value for it, and poor devils whodo the same at far greater risk? Necessity makes the law. If thosegentlemen were in my position, do you think that they would hesitate?"

Shelton's face remaining doubtful, Ferrand went on instantly: "You'reright; they would, from fear, not principle. One must be hard pressedbefore committing these indelicacies. Look deep enough, and you will seewhat indelicate things are daily done by the respectable for not half sogood a reason as the want of meals. "

Shelton also took a cigarette--his own income was derived from propertyfor which he gave no value in labour. 

"I can give you an instance, " said Ferrand, "of what can be done byresolution. One day in a German town, 'etant dans la misere', I decidedto try the French consul. Well, as you know, I am a Fleming, butsomething had to be screwed out somewhere. He refused to see me; I satdown to wait. After about two hours a voice bellowed: 'Has n't the brutegone?' and my consul appears. 'I 've nothing for fellows like you, ' sayshe; 'clear out!'

"'Monsieur, ' I answered, 'I am skin and bone; I really must haveassistance. '

"'Clear out, ' he says, 'or the police shall throw you out!'

"I don't budge. Another hour passes, and back he comes again. 

"'Still here?' says he. 'Fetch a sergeant. '

"The sergeant comes. 

"'Sergeant, ' says the consul, 'turn this creature out. '

"'Sergeant, ' I say, 'this house is France!' Naturally, I had calculatedupon that. In Germany they're not too fond of those who undertake thebusiness of the French. 

"'He is right, ' says the sergeant; 'I can do nothing. '

"'You refuse?'

"'Absolutely. ' And he went away. 

"'What do you think you'll get by staying?' says my consul. 

"'I have nothing to eat or drink, and nowhere to sleep, ' says I. 

"'What will you go for?'

"'Ten marks. '

"'Here, then, get out!' I can tell you, monsieur, one must n't have athin skin if one wants to exploit consuls. "

His yellow fingers slowly rolled the stump of his cigarette, hisironical lips flickered. Shelton thought of his own ignorance of life. He could not recollect ever having gone without a meal. 

"I suppose, " he said feebly, "you've often starved. " For, having alwaysbeen so well fed, the idea of starvation was attractive. 

Ferrand smiled. 

"Four days is the longest, " said he. "You won't believe that story. .. . It was in Paris, and I had lost my money on the race-course. There wassome due from home which didn't come. Four days and nights I lived onwater. My clothes were excellent, and I had jewellery; but I never eventhought of pawning them. I suffered most from the notion that peoplemight guess my state. You don't recognise me now?"

"How old were you then?" said Shelton. 

"Seventeen; it's curious what one's like at that age. "

By a flash of insight Shelton saw the well-dressed boy, with sensitive, smooth face, always on the move about the streets of Paris, for fearthat people should observe the condition of his stomach. The story was avaluable commentary. His thoughts were brusquely interrupted; looking inFerrand's face, he saw to his dismay tears rolling down his cheeks. 

"I 've suffered too much, " he stammered; "what do I care now whatbecomes of me?"

Shelton was disconcerted; he wished 'to say something sympathetic, ' but, being an Englishman, could only turn away his eyes. 

"Your turn 's coming, " he said at last. 

"Ah! when you've lived my life, " broke out his visitor, "nothing 'sany good. My heart's in rags. Find me anything worth keeping, in thismenagerie. "

Moved though he was, Shelton wriggled in his chair, a prey to racialinstinct, to an ingrained over-tenderness, perhaps, of soul that forbadehim from exposing his emotions, and recoiled from the revelation ofother people's. He could stand it on the stage, he could stand it in abook, but in real life he could not stand it. When Ferrand had gone offwith a portmanteau in each hand, he sat down and told Antonia:

. . . The poor chap broke down and sat crying like a child; and insteadof making me feel sorry, it turned me into stone. The more sympathetic Iwanted to be, the gruffer I grew. Is it fear of ridicule, independence, or consideration, for others that prevents one from showing one'sfeelings?

He went on to tell her of Ferrand's starving four days sooner than facea pawnbroker; and, reading the letter over before addressing it, the faces of the three ladies round their snowy cloth arose beforehim--Antonia's face, so fair and calm and wind-fresh; her mother's face, a little creased by time and weather; the maiden aunt's somewhat toothin-and they seemed to lean at him, alert and decorous, and the words"That's rather nice!" rang in his ears. He went out to post the letter, and buying a five-shilling order enclosed it to the little barber, Carolan, as a reward for delivering his note to Ferrand. He omitted tosend his address with this donation, but whether from delicacy or fromcaution he could not have said. Beyond doubt, however, on receivingthrough Ferrand the following reply, he felt ashamed and pleased. 

3, BLANK ROW, WESTMINSTER. 

From every well-born soul humanity is owing. A thousand thanks. Ireceived this morning your postal order; your heart henceforth for mewill be placed beyond all praise. 

J. CAROLAN. 

CHAPTER XI

THE VISION

A few days later he received a letter from Antonia which filled him withexcitement:

. . . Aunt Charlotte is ever so much better, so mother thinks we can gohome-hurrah! But she says that you and I must keep to our arrangementnot to see each other till July. There will be something fine in beingso near and having the strength to keep apart . . . All the English aregone. I feel it so empty out here; these people are so funny-all foreignand shallow. Oh, Dick! how splendid to have an ideal to look up to!Write at once to Brewer's Hotel and tell me you think the same. .. . We arrive at Charing Cross on Sunday at half-past seven, stay atBrewer's for a couple of nights, and go down on Tuesday to Holm Oaks. 

Always your

ANTONIA. 

"To-morrow!" he thought; "she's coming tomorrow!" and, leaving hisneglected breakfast, he started out to walk off his emotion. His squareran into one of those slums that still rub shoulders with the mostdistinguished situations, and in it he came upon a little crowdassembled round a dogfight. One of the dogs was being mauled, but theday was muddy, and Shelton, like any well-bred Englishman, had a horrorof making himself conspicuous even in a decent cause; he looked fora policeman. One was standing by, to see fair play, and Shelton madeappeal to him. The official suggested that he should not have broughtout a fighting dog, and advised him to throw cold water over them. 

"It is n 't my dog, " said Shelton. 

"Then I should let 'em be, " remarked the policeman with evidentsurprise. 

Shelton appealed indefinitely to the lower orders. The lower orders, however, were afraid of being bitten. 

"I would n't meddle with that there job if I was you, " said one. 

"Nasty breed o' dawg is that. "

He was therefore obliged to cast away respectability, spoil his trousersand his gloves, break his umbrella, drop his hat in the mud, andseparate the dogs. At the conclusion of the "job, " the lower orders saidto him in a rather shamefaced spanner:

"Well, I never thought you'd have managed that, sir"; but, like all menof inaction, Shelton after action was more dangerous. 

"D----n it!" he said, "one can't let a dog be killed"; and he marchedoff, towing the injured dog with his pocket-handkerchief, and lookingscornfully at harmless passers-by. Having satisfied for once thesmouldering fires within him, he felt entitled to hold a low opinion ofthese men in the street. "The brutes, " he thought, "won't stir a fingerto save a poor dumb creature, and as for policemen--" But, growingcooler, he began to see that people weighted down by "honest toil" couldnot afford to tear their trousers or get a bitten hand, and that eventhe policeman, though he had looked so like a demi-god, was absolutelymade of flesh and blood. He took the dog home, and, sending for a vet. , had him sewn up. 

He was already tortured by the doubt whether or no he might venture tomeet Antonia at the station, and, after sending his servant with the dogto the address marked on its collar, he formed the resolve to go and seehis mother, with some vague notion that she might help him to decide. She lived in Kensington, and, crossing the Brompton Road, he was soonamongst that maze of houses into the fibre of whose structure architectshave wrought the motto: "Keep what you have--wives, money, a goodaddress, and all the blessings of a moral state!"

Shelton pondered as he passed house after house of such intenserespectability that even dogs were known to bark at them. His blood wasstill too hot; it is amazing what incidents will promote the loftiestphilosophy. He had been reading in his favourite review an articleeulogising the freedom and expansion which had made the upper middleclass so fine a body; and with eyes wandering from side to side henodded his head ironically. "Expansion and freedom, " ran his thoughts:"Freedom and expansion!"

Each house-front was cold and formal, the shell of an owner with fromthree to five thousand pounds a year, and each one was armoured againstthe opinion of its neighbours by a sort of daring regularity. "Consciousof my rectitude; and by the strict observance of exactly what isnecessary and no more, I am enabled to hold my head up in the world. Theperson who lives in me has only four thousand two hundred and fifty-fivepounds each year, after allowing for the income tax. " Such seemed thelegend of these houses. 

Shelton passed ladies in ones and twos and threes going out shopping, orto classes of drawing, cooking, ambulance. Hardly any men were seen, andthey were mostly policemen; but a few disillusioned children were beingwheeled towards the Park by fresh-cheeked nurses, accompanied by a greatarmy of hairy or of hairless dogs. 

There was something of her brother's large liberality about Mrs. Shelton, a tiny lady with affectionate eyes, warm cheeks, and chillyfeet; fond as a cat of a chair by the fire, and full of the sympathythat has no insight. She kissed her son at once with rapture, and, asusual, began to talk of his engagement. For the first time a tremor ofdoubt ran through her son; his mother's view of it grated on him likethe sight of a blue-pink dress; it was too rosy. Her splendid optimism, damped him; it had too little traffic with the reasoning powers. 

"What right, " he asked himself, "has she to be so certain? It seems tome a kind of blasphemy. "

"The dear!" she cooed. "And she is coming back to-morrow? Hurrah! how Ilong to see her!"

"But you know, mother, we've agreed not to meet again until July. "

Mrs. Shelton rocked her foot, and, holding her head on one side like alittle bird, looked at her son with shining eyes. 

"Dear old Dick!" she said, "how happy you must be!"

Half a century of sympathy with weddings of all sorts--good, bad, indifferent--beamed from her. 

"I suppose, " said Shelton gloomily, "I ought not to go and see her atthe station. "

"Cheer up!" replied the mother, and her son felt dreadfully depressed. 

That "Cheer-up!"--the panacea which had carried her blind and brightthrough every evil--was as void of meaning to him as wine without aflavour. 

"And how is your sciatica?" he asked. 

"Oh, pretty bad, " returned his mother; "I expect it's all right, really. Cheer up!" She stretched her little figure, canting her head still more. 

"Wonderful woman!" Shelton thought. She had, in fact, like many of herfellow-countrymen, mislaid the darker side of things, and, enjoyingthe benefits of orthodoxy with an easy conscience, had kept as young inheart as any girl of thirty. 

Shelton left her house as doubtful whether he might meet Antonia as whenhe entered it. He spent a restless afternoon. 

The next day--that of her arrival--was a Sunday. He had made Ferrand apromise to go with him to hear a sermon in the slums, and, catchingat any diversion which might allay excitement, he fulfilled it. Thepreacher in question--an amateur, so Ferrand told him--had an originalmethod of distributing the funds that he obtained. To male sheep he gavenothing, to ugly female sheep a very little, to pretty female sheepthe rest. Ferrand hazarded an inference, but he was a foreigner. TheEnglishman preferred to look upon the preacher as guided by a purelyabstract love of beauty. His eloquence, at any rate, was unquestionable, and Shelton came out feeling sick. 

It was not yet seven o'clock, so, entering an Italian restaurant to killthe half-hour before Antonia's arrival, he ordered a bottle of wine forhis companion, a cup of coffee for himself, and, lighting a cigarette, compressed his lips. There was a strange, sweet sinking in his heart. His companion, ignorant of this emotion, drank his wine, crumbled hisroll, and blew smoke through his nostrils, glancing caustically atthe rows of little tables, the cheap mirrors, the hot, red velvet, thechandeliers. His juicy lips seemed to be murmuring, "Ah! if you onlyknew of the dirt behind these feathers!" Shelton watched him withdisgust. Though his clothes were now so nice, his nails were not quiteclean, and his fingertips seemed yellow to the bone. An anaemic waiterin a shirt some four days old, with grease-spots on his garments anda crumpled napkin on his arm, stood leaning an elbow amongst doubtfulfruits, and reading an Italian journal. Resting his tired feet inturn, he looked like overwork personified, and when he moved, each limbaccused the sordid smartness of the walls. In the far corner sat a ladyeating, and, mirrored opposite, her feathered hat, her short, roundface, its coat of powder, and dark eyes, gave Shelton a shiver ofdisgust. His companion's gaze rested long and subtly on her. 

"Excuse me, monsieur, " he said at length. "I think I know that lady!"And, leaving his host, he crossed the room, bowed, accosted her, andsat down. With Pharisaic delicacy, Shelton refrained from looking. Butpresently Ferrand came back; the lady rose and left the restaurant; shehad been crying. The young foreigner was flushed, his face contorted; hedid not touch his wine. 

"I was right, " he said; "she is the wife of an old friend. I used toknow her well. "

He was suffering from emotion, but someone less absorbed than Sheltonmight have noticed a kind of relish in his voice, as though he weresavouring life's dishes, and glad to have something new, and spiced withtragic sauce, to set before his patron. 

"You can find her story by the hundred in your streets, but nothinghinders these paragons of virtue"--he nodded at the stream ofcarriages--"from turning up their eyes when they see ladies of her sortpass. She came to London--just three years ago. After a year one of herlittle boys took fever--the shop was avoided--her husband caught it, anddied. There she was, left with two children and everything gone to paythe debts. She tried to get work; no one helped her. There was no moneyto pay anyone to stay with the children; all the work she could get inthe house was not enough to keep them alive. She's not a strong woman. Well, she put the children out to nurse, and went to the streets. Thefirst week was frightful, but now she's used to it--one gets used toanything. "

"Can nothing be done?" asked Shelton, startled. 

"No, " returned his companion. "I know that sort; if they once take toit all's over. They get used to luxury. One does n't part with luxury, after tasting destitution. She tells me she does very nicely; thechildren are happy; she's able to pay well and see them sometimes. Shewas a girl of good family, too, who loved her husband, and gave up muchfor him. What would you have? Three quarters of your virtuous ladiesplaced in her position would do the same if they had the necessarylooks. "

It was evident that he felt the shock of this discovery, and Sheltonunderstood that personal acquaintance makes a difference, even in avagabond. 

"This is her beat, " said the young foreigner, as they passed theilluminated crescent, where nightly the shadows of hypocrites andwomen fall; and Shelton went from these comments on Christianity to thestation of Charing Cross. There, as he stood waiting in the shadow, hisheart was in his mouth; and it struck him as odd that he should havecome to this meeting fresh from a vagabond's society. 

Presently, amongst the stream of travellers, he saw Antonia. She wasclose to her mother, who was parleying with a footman; behind themwere a maid carrying a bandbox and a porter with the travelling-bags. Antonia's figure, with its throat settled in the collar of her cape, slender, tall, severe, looked impatient and remote amongst the bustle. Her eyes, shadowed by the journey, glanced eagerly about, welcoming allshe saw; a wisp of hair was loose above her ear, her cheeks glowed coldand rosy. She caught sight of Shelton, and bending her neck, stag-like, stood looking at him; a brilliant smile parted her lips, and Sheltontrembled. Here was the embodiment of all he had desired for weeks. Hecould not tell what was behind that smile of hers--passionate aching oronly some ideal, some chaste and glacial intangibility. It seemed tobe shining past him into the gloomy station. There was no trembling anduncertainty, no rage of possession in that brilliant smile; it had thegleam of fixedness, like the smiling of a star. What did it matter? Shewas there, beautiful as a young day, and smiling at him; and she washis, only divided from him by a space of time. He took a step; her eyesfell at once, her face regained aloofness; he saw her, encircled bymother, footman, maid, and porter, take her seat and drive away. It wasover; she had seen him, she had smiled, but alongside his delight lurkedanother feeling, and, by a bitter freak, not her face came up before himbut the face of that lady in the restaurant--short, round, and powdered, with black-circled eyes. What right had we to scorn them? Had theymothers, footmen, porters, maids? He shivered, but this time withphysical disgust; the powdered face with dark-fringed eyes had vanished;the fair, remote figure of the railway-station came back again. 

He sat long over dinner, drinking, dreaming; he sat long after, smoking, dreaming, and when at length he drove away, wine and dreams fumed in hisbrain. The dance of lamps, the cream-cheese moon, the rays of clean wetlight on his horse's harness, the jingling of the cab bell, the whirringwheels, the night air and the branches--it was all so good! He threwback the hansom doors to feel the touch of the warm breeze. The crowdson the pavement gave him strange delight; they were like shadows, insome great illusion, happy shadows, thronging, wheeling round the singlefigure of his world. 

CHAPTER XII

ROTTEN ROW

With a headache and a sense of restlessness, hopeful and unhappy, Shelton mounted his hack next morning for a gallop in the Park. 

In the sky was mingled all the languor and the violence of the spring. The trees and flowers wore an awakened look in the gleams of light thatcame stealing down from behind the purple of the clouds. The air wasrain-washed, and the passers by seemed to wear an air of tranquilcarelessness, as if anxiety were paralysed by their responsibility ofthe firmament. 

Thronged by riders, the Row was all astir. 

Near to Hyde Park Corner a figure by the rails caught Shelton's eye. Straight and thin, one shoulder humped a little, as if its owner werereflecting, clothed in a frock-coat and a brown felt hat pinched up inlawless fashion, this figure was so detached from its surroundingsthat it would have been noticeable anywhere. It belonged to Ferrand, obviously waiting till it was time to breakfast with his patron. Sheltonfound pleasure in thus observing him unseen, and sat quietly on hishorse, hidden behind a tree. 

It was just at that spot where riders, unable to get further, are forever wheeling their horses for another turn; and there Ferrand, the birdof passage, with his head a little to one side, watched them cantering, trotting, wheeling up and down. 

Three men walking along the rails were snatching off their hats before ahorsewoman at exactly the same angle and with precisely the same air, as though in the modish performance of this ancient rite they weresatisfying some instinct very dear to them. 

Shelton noted the curl of Ferrand's lip as he watched this sight. "Manythanks, gentlemen, " it seemed to say; "in that charming little actionyou have shown me all your souls. "

What a singular gift the fellow had of divesting things and peopleof their garments, of tearing away their veil of shams, and theirphylacteries! Shelton turned and cantered on; his thoughts were withAntonia, and he did not want the glamour stripped away. 

He was glancing at the sky, that every moment threatened to dischargea violent shower of rain, when suddenly he heard his name called frombehind, and who should ride up to him on either side but Bill Dennantand--Antonia herself!

They had been galloping; and she was flushed--flushed as when she stoodon the old tower at Hyeres, but with a joyful radiance different fromthe calm and conquering radiance of that other moment. To Shelton'sdelight they fell into line with him, and all three went galloping alongthe strip between the trees and rails. The look she gave him seemed tosay, "I don't care if it is forbidden!" but she did not speak. He couldnot take his eyes off her. How lovely she looked, with the resolutecurve of her figure, the glimpse of gold under her hat, the gloriouscolour in her cheeks, as if she had been kissed. 

"It 's so splendid to be at home! Let 's go faster, faster!" she criedout. 

"Take a pull. We shall get run in, " grumbled her brother, with achuckle. 

They reined in round the bend and jogged more soberly down on the farside; still not a word from her to Shelton, and Shelton in his turnspoke only to Bill Dennant. He was afraid to speak to her, for he knewthat her mind was dwelling on this chance forbidden meeting in a wayquite different from his own. 

Approaching Hyde Park Corner, where Ferrand was still standing againstthe rails, Shelton, who had forgotten his existence, suffered a shockwhen his eyes fell suddenly on that impassive figure. He was aboutto raise his hand, when he saw that the young foreigner, noting hisinstinctive feeling, had at once adapted himself to it. They passedagain without a greeting, unless that swift inquisition; followed byunconsciousness in Ferrand's eyes, could so be called. But the feelingof idiotic happiness left Shelton; he grew irritated at this silence. It tantalised him more and more, for Bill Dennant had lagged behindto chatter to a friend; Shelton and Antonia were alone, walking theirhorses, without a word, not even looking at each other. At one moment hethought of galloping ahead and leaving her, then of breaking the vowof muteness she seemed to be imposing on him, and he kept thinking:"It ought to be either one thing or the other. I can't stand this. " Hercalmness was getting on his nerves; she seemed to have determined justhow far she meant to go, to have fixed cold-bloodedly a limit. Inher happy young beauty and radiant coolness she summed up that saneconsistent something existing in nine out of ten of the people Sheltonknew. "I can't stand it long, " he thought, and all of a sudden spoke;but as he did so she frowned and cantered on. When he caught her shewas smiling, lifting her face to catch the raindrops which were fallingfast. She gave him just a nod, and waved her hand as a sign for him togo; and when he would not, she frowned. He saw Bill Dennant, postingafter them, and, seized by a sense of the ridiculous, lifted his hat, and galloped off. 

The rain was coming down in torrents now, and every one was scurryingfor shelter. He looked back from the bend, and could still make outAntonia riding leisurely, her face upturned, and revelling in theshower. Why had n't she either cut him altogether or taken the sweetsthe gods had sent? It seemed wicked to have wasted such a chance, and, ploughing back to Hyde Park Corner, he turned his head to see if by anychance she had relented. 

His irritation was soon gone, but his longing stayed. Was ever anythingso beautiful as she had looked with her face turned to the rain? Sheseemed to love the rain. It suited her--suited her ever so much betterthan the sunshine of the South. Yes, she was very English! Puzzling andfretting, he reached his rooms. Ferrand had not arrived, in fact did notturn up that day. His non-appearance afforded Shelton another proof ofthe delicacy that went hand in hand with the young vagrant's cynicism. In the afternoon he received a note. 

. . . You see, Dick [he read], I ought to have cut you; but I felt toocrazy--everything seems so jolly at home, even this stuffy old London. Of course, I wanted to talk to you badly--there are heaps of things onecan't say by letter--but I should have been sorry afterwards. I toldmother. She said I was quite right, but I don't think she took it in. Don't you feel that the only thing that really matters is to have anideal, and to keep it so safe that you can always look forward and feelthat you have been--I can't exactly express my meaning. 

Shelton lit a cigarette and frowned. It seemed to him queer that sheshould set more store by an "ideal" than by the fact that they had metfor the first and only time in many weeks. 

"I suppose she 's right, " he thought--"I suppose she 's right. I oughtnot to have tried to speak to her!" As a matter of fact, he did not atall feel that she was right. 

CHAPTER XIII

AN "AT HOME"

On Tuesday morning he wandered off to Paddington, hoping for achance view of her on her way down to Holm Oaks; but the sense of theridiculous, on which he had been nurtured, was strong enough to keephim from actually entering the station and lurking about until she came. With a pang of disappointment he retraced his steps from Praed Street tothe Park, and once there tried no further to waylay her. He paid a roundof calls in the afternoon, mostly on her relations; and, seeking outAunt Charlotte, he dolorously related his encounter in the Row. Butshe found it "rather nice, " and on his pressing her with his views, shemurmured that it was "quite romantic, don't you know. "

"Still, it's very hard, " said Shelton; and he went away disconsolate. 

As he was dressing for dinner his eye fell on a card announcing the "athome" of one of his own cousins. Her husband was a composer, and he hada vague idea that he would find at the house of a composer some quiteunusually free kind of atmosphere. After dining at the club, therefore, he set out for Chelsea. The party was held in a large room on theground-floor, which was already crowded with people when Sheltonentered. They stood or sat about in groups with smiles fixed on theirlips, and the light from balloon-like lamps fell in patches on theirheads and hands and shoulders. Someone had just finished rendering onthe piano a composition of his own. An expert could at once have pickedout from amongst the applauding company those who were musicians byprofession, for their eyes sparkled, and a certain acidity pervadedtheir enthusiasm. This freemasonry of professional intolerance flew fromone to the other like a breath of unanimity, and the faint shrugging ofshoulders was as harmonious as though one of the high windows had beenopened suddenly, admitting a draught of chill May air. 

Shelton made his way up to his cousin--a fragile, grey-haired woman inblack velvet and Venetian lace, whose starry eyes beamed at him, untilher duties, after the custom of these social gatherings, obliged her tobreak off conversation just as it began to interest him. He was passedon to another lady who was already talking to two gentlemen, and, theirvolubility being greater than his own, he fell into the position ofobserver. Instead of the profound questions he had somehow expected tohear raised, everybody seemed gossiping, or searching the heart of suchtopics as where to go this summer, or how to get new servants. Triflingwith coffee-cups, they dissected their fellow artists in the same wayas his society friends of the other night had dissected thefellow--"smart"; and the varnish on the floor, the pictures, and thepiano were reflected on all the faces around. Shelton moved from groupto group disconsolate. 

A tall, imposing person stood under a Japanese print holding the palm ofone hand outspread; his unwieldy trunk and thin legs wobbled in concertto his ingratiating voice. 

"War, " he was saying, "is not necessary. War is not necessary. I hope Imake myself clear. War is not necessary; it depends on nationality, butnationality is not necessary. " He inclined his head to one side, "Whydo we have nationality? Let us do away with boundaries--let us have thewarfare of commerce. If I see France looking at Brighton"--he laid hishead upon one side, and beamed at Shelton, --"what do I do? Do I say'Hands off'? No. 'Take it, ' I say--take it!'" He archly smiled. "But doyou think they would?"

And the softness of his contours fascinated Shelton. 

"The soldier, " the person underneath the print resumed, "is necessarilyon a lower plane--intellectually--oh, intellectually--than thephilanthropist. His sufferings are less acute; he enjoys thecompensations of advertisement--you admit that?" he breathedpersuasively. "For instance--I am quite impersonal--I suffer; but do Italk about it?" But, someone gazing at his well-filled waistcoat, he puthis thesis in another form: "I have one acre and one cow, my brother hasone acre and one cow: do I seek to take them away from him?"

Shelton hazarded, "Perhaps you 're weaker than your brother. "

"Come, come! Take the case of women: now, I consider our marriage lawsare barbarous. "

For the first time Shelton conceived respect for them; he made acomprehensive gesture, and edged himself into the conversation ofanother group, for fear of having all his prejudices overturned. Here anIrish sculptor, standing in a curve, was saying furiously, "Bees arenot bhumpkins, d---n their sowls!" A Scotch painter, who listened witha curly smile, seemed trying to compromise this proposition, whichappeared to have relation to the middle classes; and though agreeingwith the Irishman, Shelton felt nervous over his discharge ofelectricity. Next to them two American ladies, assembled under the tentof hair belonging to a writer of songs, were discussing the emotionsaroused in them by Wagner's operas. 

"They produce a strange condition of affairs in me, " said the thinnerone. 

"They 're just divine, " said the fatter. 

"I don't know if you can call the fleshly lusts divine, " replied thethinner, looking into the eyes of the writer of the songs. 

Amidst all the hum of voices and the fumes of smoke, a sense offormality was haunting Shelton. Sandwiched between a Dutchman anda Prussian poet, he could understand neither of his neighbours;so, assuming an intelligent expression, he fell to thinking thatan assemblage of free spirits is as much bound by the convention ofexchanging their ideas as commonplace people are by the convention ofhaving no ideas to traffic in. He could not help wondering whether, in the bulk, they were not just as dependent on each other as theinhabitants of Kensington; whether, like locomotives, they could runat all without these opportunities for blowing off the steam, and whatwould be left when the steam had all escaped. Somebody ceasedplaying the violin, and close to him a group began discussing ethics. Aspirations were in the air all round, like a lot of hungry ghosts. Herealised that, if tongue be given to them, the flavour vanishes fromideas which haunt the soul. 

Again the violinist played. 

"Cock gracious!" said the Prussian poet, falling into English as thefiddle ceased: "Colossal! 'Aber, wie er ist grossartig'!"

"Have you read that thing of Besom's?" asked shrill voice behind. 

"Oh, my dear fellow! too horrid for words; he ought to be hanged!"

"The man's dreadful, " pursued the voice, shriller than ever; "nothingbut a volcanic eruption would cure him. "

Shelton turned in alarm to look at the authors of these statements. Theywere two men of letters talking of a third. 

"'C'est un grand naif, vous savez, '" said the second speaker. 

"These fellows don't exist, " resumed the first; his small eyes gleamedwith a green light, his whole face had a look as if he gnawed himself. Though not a man of letters, Shelton could not help recognising fromthose eyes what joy it was to say those words: "These fellows don'texist!"

"Poor Besom! You know what Moulter said . . . "

Shelton turned away, as if he had been too close to one whose hairsmelt of cantharides; and, looking round the room, he frowned. Withthe exception of his cousin, he seemed the only person there of Englishblood. Americans, Mesopotamians, Irish, Italians, Germans, Scotch, andRussians. He was not contemptuous of them for being foreigners; it wassimply that God and the climate had made him different by a skin or so. 

But at this point his conclusions were denied (as will sometimes happen)by his introduction to an Englishman--a Major Somebody, who, with smoothhair and blond moustache, neat eyes and neater clothes, seemed a littleanxious at his own presence there. Shelton took a liking to him, partlyfrom a fellow-feeling, and partly because of the gentle smile with whichhe was looking at his wife. Almost before he had said "How do you do?"he was plunged into a discussion on imperialism. 

"Admitting all that, " said Shelton, "what I hate is the humbug withwhich we pride ourselves on benefiting the whole world by our so-calledcivilising methods. "

The soldier turned his reasonable eyes. 

"But is it humbug?"

Shelton saw his argument in peril. If we really thought it, was ithumbug? He replied, however:

"Why should we, a small portion of the world's population, assume thatour standards are the proper ones for every kind of race? If it 's nothumbug, it 's sheer stupidity. "

The soldier, without taking his hands out of his pockets, but by aforward movement of his face showing that he was both sincere and just, re-replied:

"Well, it must be a good sort of stupidity; it makes us the nation thatwe are. "

Shelton felt dazed. The conversation buzzed around him; he heardthe smiling prophet saying, "Altruism, altruism, " and in his voice asomething seemed to murmur, "Oh, I do so hope I make a good impression!"

He looked at the soldier's clear-cut head with its well-opened eyes, thetiny crow's-feet at their corners, the conventional moustache; he enviedthe certainty of the convictions lying under that well-parted hair. 

"I would rather we were men first and then Englishmen, " he muttered;"I think it's all a sort of national illusion, and I can't standillusions. "

"If you come to that, " said the soldier, "the world lives by illusions. I mean, if you look at history, you'll see that the creation ofillusions has always been her business, don't you know. "

This Shelton was unable to deny. 

"So, " continued the soldier (who was evidently a highly cultivated man), "if you admit that movement, labour, progress, and all that have beenproperly given to building up these illusions, that--er--in fact, they're what you might call--er--the outcome of the world's crescendo, "he rushed his voice over this phrase as if ashamed of it--"why do youwant to destroy them?"

Shelton thought a moment, then, squeezing his body with his folded arms, replied:

"The past has made us what we are, of course, and cannot be destroyed;but how about the future? It 's surely time to let in air. Cathedralsare very fine, and everybody likes the smell of incense; but when they've been for centuries without ventilation you know what the atmospheregets like. "

The soldier smiled. 

"By your own admission, " he said, "you'll only be creating a fresh setof illusions. "

"Yes, " answered Shelton, "but at all events they'll be the honestnecessities of the present. "

The pupils of the soldier's eyes contracted; he evidently felt theconversation slipping into generalities; he answered:

"I can't see how thinking small beer of ourselves is going to do us anygood!"

An "At Home!"

Shelton felt in danger of being thought unpractical in giving vent tothe remark:

"One must trust one's reason; I never can persuade myself that I believein what I don't. "

A minute later, with a cordial handshake, the soldier left, and Sheltonwatched his courteous figure shepherding his wife away. 

"Dick, may I introduce you to Mr. Wilfrid Curly?" said his cousin'svoice behind, and he found his hand being diffidently shaken by afresh-cheeked youth with a dome-like forehead, who was saying nervously:

"How do you do? Yes, I am very well, thank you!"

He now remembered that when he had first come in he had watched thisyouth, who had been standing in a corner indulging himself in privatesmiles. He had an uncommon look, as though he were in love with life--asthough he regarded it as a creature to whom one could put questionsto the very end--interesting, humorous, earnest questions. He lookeddiffident, and amiable, and independent, and he, too, was evidentlyEnglish. 

"Are you good at argument?" said Shelton, at a loss for a remark. 

The youth smiled, blushed, and, putting back his hair, replied:

"Yes--no--I don't know; I think my brain does n't work fast enoughfor argument. You know how many motions of the brain-cells go to eachremark. It 's awfully interesting"; and, bending from the waist in amathematical position, he extended the palm of one hand, and started toexplain. 

Shelton stared at the youth's hand, at his frowns and the taps hegave his forehead while he found the expression of his meaning; he wasintensely interested. The youth broke off, looked at his watch, and, blushing brightly, said:

"I 'm afraid I have to go; I have to be at the 'Den' before eleven. "

"I must be off, too, " said Shelton. Making their adieux together, theysought their hats and coats. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE NIGHT CLUB

"May I ask, " said Shelton, as he and the youth came out into the chillystreet, "What it is you call the 'Den'?"

His companion smilingly answered:

"Oh, the night club. We take it in turns. Thursday is my night. Wouldyou like to come? You see a lot of types. It's only round the corner. "

Shelton digested a momentary doubt, and answered:

"Yes, immensely. "

They reached the corner house in an angle of a dismal street, throughthe open door of which two men had just gone in. Following, theyascended some wooden, fresh-washed stairs, and entered a large boardedroom smelling of sawdust, gas, stale coffee, and old clothes. It wasfurnished with a bagatelle board, two or three wooden tables, somewooden forms, and a wooden bookcase. Seated on these wooden chairs, orstanding up, were youths, and older men of the working class, who seemedto Shelton to be peculiarly dejected. One was reading, one against thewall was drinking coffee with a disillusioned air, two were playingchess, and a group of four made a ceaseless clatter with the bagatelle. 

A little man in a dark suit, with a pale face, thin lips, and deep-set, black-encircled eyes, who was obviously in charge, came up with ananaemic smile. 

"You 're rather late, " he said to Curly, and, looking ascetically atShelton, asked, without waiting for an introduction: "Do you play chess?There 's young Smith wants a game. "

A youth with a wooden face, already seated before a fly-blownchess-board, asked him drearily if he would have black or white. Sheltontook white; he was oppressed by the virtuous odour of this room. 

The little man with the deep blue eyes came up, stood in an uneasyattitude, and watched:

"Your play's improving, young Smith, " he said; "I should think you'd beable to give Banks a knight. " His eyes rested on Shelton, fanatical anddreary; his monotonous voice was suffering and nasal; he was continuallysucking in his lips, as though determined to subdue 'the flesh. "Youshould come here often, " he said to Shelton, as the latter receivedcheckmate; "you 'd get some good practice. We've several very fairplayers. You're not as good as Jones or Bartholomew, " he added toShelton's opponent, as though he felt it a duty to put the latter in hisplace. "You ought to come here often, " he repeated to Shelton; "we havea lot of very good young fellows"; and, with a touch of complacence, heglanced around the dismal room. "There are not so many here tonight asusual. Where are Toombs and Body?"

Shelton, too, looked anxiously around. He could not help feelingsympathy with Toombs and Body. 

"They 're getting slack, I'm afraid, " said the little deep-eyed man. "Our principle is to amuse everyone. Excuse me a minute; I see thatCarpenter is doing nothing. " He crossed over to the man who had beendrinking coffee, but Shelton had barely time to glance at his opponentand try to think of a remark, before the little man was back. "Do youknow anything about astronomy?" he asked of Shelton. "We have severalvery interested in astronomy; if you could talk to them a little itwould help. "

Shelton made a motion of alarm. 

"Please-no, " said he; "I--"

"I wish you'd come sometimes on Wednesdays; we have most interestingtalks, and a service afterwards. We're always anxious to get new blood";and his eyes searched Shelton's brown, rather tough-looking face, asthough trying to see how much blood there was in it. "Young Curly saysyou 've just been around the world; you could describe your travels. "

"May I ask, " said Shelton, "how your club is made up?"

Again a look of complacency, and blessed assuagement, visited the littleman. 

"Oh, " he said, "we take anybody, unless there 's anything against them. The Day Society sees to that. Of course, we shouldn't take anyone ifthey were to report against them. You ought to come to our committeemeetings; they're on Mondays at seven. The women's side, too--"

"Thank you, " said Shelton; "you 're very kind--"

"We should be pleased, " said the little man; and his face seemed tosuffer more than ever. "They 're mostly young fellows here to-night, butwe have married men, too. Of course, we 're very careful about that, "he added hastily, as though he might have injured Shelton'sprejudices--"that, and drink, and anything criminal, you know. "

"And do you give pecuniary assistance, too?"

"Oh yes, " replied the little man; "if you were to come to our committeemeetings you would see for yourself. Everything is most carefully goneinto; we endeavour to sift the wheat from the chaff. "

"I suppose, " said Shelton, "you find a great deal of chaff?"

The little man smiled a suffering smile. The twang of his toneless voicesounded a trifle shriller. 

"I was obliged to refuse a man to-day--a man and a woman, quite youngpeople, with three small children. He was ill and out of work; but oninquiry we found that they were not man and wife. "

There was a slight pause; the little man's eyes were fastened on hisnails, and, with an appearance of enjoyment, he began to bite them. Shelton's face had grown a trifle red. 

"And what becomes of the woman and the children in a case like that?" hesaid. 

The little man's eyes began to smoulder. 

"We make a point of not encouraging sin, of course. Excuse me a minute;I see they've finished bagatelle. "

He hurried off, and in a moment the clack of bagatelle began again. Hehimself was playing with a cold and spurious energy, running after theballs and exhorting the other players, upon whom a wooden acquiescenceseemed to fall. 

Shelton crossed the room, and went up to young Curly. He was sitting ona bench, smiling to himself his private smiles. 

"Are you staying here much longer?" Shelton asked. 

Young Curly rose with nervous haste. 

"I 'm afraid, " he said, "there 's nobody very interesting hereto-night. "

"Oh, not at all!" said Shelton; "on the contrary. Only I 've had arather tiring day, and somehow I don't feel up to the standard here. "

His new acquaintance smiled. 

"Oh, really! do you think--that is--"

But he had not time to finish before the clack of bagatelle ballsceased, and the voice of the little deep-eyed man was heard saying:"Anybody who wants a book will put his name down. There will be theusual prayer-meeting on Wednesday next. Will you all go quietly? I amgoing to turn the lights out. "

One gas-jet vanished, and the remaining jet flared suddenly. By itsharder glare the wooden room looked harder too, and disenchanting. Thefigures of its occupants began filing through the door. The little manwas left in the centre of the room, his deep eyes smouldering upon thebacks of the retreating members, his thumb and finger raised to theturncock of the metre. 

"Do you know this part?" asked young Curly as they emerged into thestreet. "It 's really jolly; one of the darkest bits in London--it isreally. If you care, I can take you through an awfully dangerous placewhere the police never go. " He seemed so anxious for the honour thatShelton was loath to disappoint him. "I come here pretty often, " he wenton, as they ascended a sort of alley rambling darkly between a wall androw of houses. 

"Why?" asked Shelton; "it does n't smell too nice. "

The young man threw up his nose and sniffed, as if eager to add any newscent that might be about to his knowledge of life. 

"No, that's one of the reasons, you know, " he said; "one must find out. The darkness is jolly, too; anything might happen here. Last week therewas a murder; there 's always the chance of one. "

Shelton stared; but the charge of morbidness would not lie against thisfresh-cheeked stripling. 

"There's a splendid drain just here, " his guide resumed; "the people aredying like flies of typhoid in those three houses"; and under the firstlight he turned his grave, cherubic face to indicate the houses. "Ifwe were in the East End, I could show you other places quite as good. There's a coffee-stall keeper in one that knows all the thievesin London; he 's a splendid type, but, " he added, looking a littleanxiously at Shelton, "it might n't be safe for you. With me it'sdifferent; they 're beginning to know me. I've nothing to take, yousee. "

"I'm afraid it can't be to-night, " said Shelton; "I must get back. "

"Do you mind if I walk with you? It's so jolly now the stars are out. "

"Delighted, " said Shelton; "do you often go to that club?"

His companion raised his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. 

"They 're rather too high-class for me, " he said. "I like to go whereyou can see people eat--school treats, or somewhere in the country. It does one good to see them eat. They don't get enough, you see, asa rule, to make bone; it's all used up for brain and muscle. There aresome places in the winter where they give them bread and cocoa; I liketo go to those. "

"I went once, " said Shelton, "but I felt ashamed for putting my nosein. "

"Oh, they don't mind; most of them are half-dead with cold, you know. You see splendid types; lots of dipsomaniacs . . . . It 's useful tome, " he went on as they passed a police-station, "to walk about atnight; one can take so much more notice. I had a jolly night last weekin Hyde Park; a chance to study human nature there. "

"And do you find it interesting?" asked Shelton. 

His companion smiled. 

"Awfully, " he replied; "I saw a fellow pick three pockets. "

"What did you do?"

"I had a jolly talk with him. "

Shelton thought of the little deep-eyed man; who made a point of notencouraging sin. 

"He was one of the professionals from Notting Hill, you know; told mehis life. Never had a chance, of course. The most interesting part wastelling him I 'd seen him pick three pockets--like creeping into a cave, when you can't tell what 's inside. "

"Well?"

"He showed me what he 'd got--only fivepence halfpenny. "

"And what became of your friend?" asked Shelton. 

"Oh, went off; he had a splendidly low forehead. "

They had reached Shelton's rooms. 

"Will you come in, " said the latter, "and have a drink?"

The youth smiled, blushed, and shook his head. 

"No, thank you, " he said; "I have to walk to Whitechapel. I 'm livingon porridge now; splendid stuff for making bone. I generally live onporridge for a week at the end of every month. It 's the best diet ifyou're hard up"; once more blushing and smiling, he was gone. 

Shelton went upstairs and sat down on his bed. He felt a littlemiserable. Sitting there, slowly pulling out the ends of his white tie, disconsolate, he had a vision of Antonia with her gaze fixed wonderinglyon him. And this wonder of hers came as a revelation--just as thatmorning, when, looking from his window, he had seen a passer-by stopsuddenly and scratch his leg; and it had come upon him in a flash thatthat man had thoughts and feelings of his own. He would never know whatAntonia really felt and thought. "Till I saw her at the station, I didn't know how much I loved her or how little I knew her"; and, sighingdeeply, he hurried into bed. 

CHAPTER XV

POLE TO POLE

The waiting in London for July to come was daily more unbearableto Shelton, and if it had not been for Ferrand, who still came tobreakfast, he would have deserted the Metropolis. On June first thelatter presented himself rather later than was his custom, and announcedthat, through a friend, he had heard of a position as interpreter to anhotel at Folkestone. 

"If I had money to face the first necessities, " he said, swiftly turningover a collection of smeared papers with his yellow fingers, as ifsearching for his own identity, "I 'd leave today. This London blackensmy spirit. "

"Are you certain to get this place, " asked Shelton. 

"I think so, " the young foreigner replied; "I 've got some good enoughrecommendations. "

Shelton could not help a dubious glance at the papers in his hand. Ahurt look passed on to Ferrand's curly lips beneath his nascent redmoustache. 

"You mean that to have false papers is as bad as theft. No, no; I shallnever be a thief--I 've had too many opportunities, " said he, with prideand bitterness. "That's not in my character. I never do harm to anyone. This"--he touched the papers--"is not delicate, but it does harm to noone. If you have no money you must have papers; they stand between youand starvation. Society, has an excellent eye for the helpless--it nevertreads on people unless they 're really down. " He looked at Shelton. 

"You 've made me what I am, amongst you, " he seemed to say; "now put upwith me!"

"But there are always the workhouses, " Shelton remarked at last. 

"Workhouses!" returned Ferrand; "certainly there are--regular palaces:I will tell you one thing: I've never been in places so discouraging asyour workhouses; they take one's very heart out. "

"I always understood, " said Shelton coldly; "that our system was betterthan that of other countries. "

Ferrand leaned over in his chair, an elbow on his knee, his favouriteattitude when particularly certain of his point. 

"Well, " he replied, "it 's always permissible to think well of your owncountry. But, frankly, I've come out of those places here with littlestrength and no heart at all, and I can tell you why. " His lips losttheir bitterness, and he became an artist expressing the result ofhis experience. "You spend your money freely, you have fine buildings, self-respecting officers, but you lack the spirit of hospitality. Thereason is plain; you have a horror of the needy. You invite us--andwhen we come you treat us justly enough, but as if we were numbers, criminals, beneath contempt--as if we had inflicted a personal injury onyou; and when we get out again, we are naturally degraded. "

Shelton bit his lips. 

"How much money will you want for your ticket, and to make a start?" heasked. 

The nervous gesture escaping Ferrand at this juncture betrayed how farthe most independent thinkers are dependent when they have no money intheir pockets. He took the note that Shelton proffered him. 

"A thousand thanks, " said he; "I shall never forget what you have donefor me"; and Shelton could not help feeling that there was true emotionbehind his titter of farewell. 

He stood at the window watching Ferrand start into the world again; thenlooked back at his own comfortable room, with the number of things thathad accumulated somehow--the photographs of countless friends, theold arm-chairs, the stock of coloured pipes. Into him restlessness hadpassed with the farewell clasp of the foreigner's damp hand. To waitabout in London was unbearable. 

He took his hat, and, heedless of direction, walked towards the river. It was a clear, bright day, with a bleak wind driving showers beforeit. During one of such Shelton found himself in Little Blank Street. "Iwonder how that little Frenchman that I saw is getting on!" he thought. On a fine day he would probably have passed by on the other side; he nowentered and tapped upon the wicket. 

No. 3 Little Blank Street had abated nothing of its stone-flaggeddreariness; the same blowsy woman answered his inquiry. Yes, Carolan wasalways in; you could never catch him out--seemed afraid to go intothe street! To her call the little Frenchman made his appearance aspunctually as if he had been the rabbit of a conjurer. His face was asyellow as a guinea. 

"Ah! it's you, monsieur!" he said. 

"Yes, " said Shelton; "and how are you?"

"It 's five days since I came out of hospital, " muttered the littleFrenchman, tapping on his chest; "a crisis of this bad atmosphere. Ilive here, shut up in a box; it does me harm, being from the South. Ifthere's anything I can do for you, monsieur, it will give me pleasure. "

"Nothing, " replied Shelton, "I was just passing, and thought I shouldlike to hear how you were getting on. "

"Come into the kitchen, --monsieur, there is nobody in there. 'Brr! Ilfait un froid etonnant'!"

"What sort of customers have you just now?" asked Shelton, as theypassed into the kitchen. 

"Always the same clientele, " replied the little man; "not so numerous, of course, it being summer. "

"Could n't you find anything better than this to do?"

The barber's crow's-feet radiated irony. 

"When I first came to London, " said he, "I secured an engagement atone of your public institutions. I thought my fortune made. Imagine, monsieur, in that sacred place I was obliged to shave at the rate of tena penny! Here, it's true, they don't pay me half the time; but when I'mpaid, I 'm paid. In this, climate, and being 'poitrinaire', one doesn'tmake experiments. I shall finish my days here. Have you seen thatyoung man who interested you? There 's another! He has spirit, as I hadonce--'il fait de la philosophie', as I do--and you will see, monsieur, it will finish him. In this world what you want is to have no spirit. Spirit ruins you. "

Shelton looked sideways at the little man with his sardonic, yellow, half-dead face, and the incongruity of the word "spirit" in his mouthstruck him so sharply that he smiled a smile with more pity in it thanany burst of tears. 

"Shall we 'sit down?" he said, offering a cigarette. 

"Merci, monsieur, it is always a pleasure to smoke a good cigarette. Youremember, that old actor who gave you a Jeremiad? Well, he's dead. Iwas the only one at his bedside; 'un vrai drole'. He was another who hadspirit. And you will see, monsieur, that young man in whom you take aninterest, he'll die in a hospital, or in some hole or other, or even onthe highroad; having closed his eyes once too often some cold night; andall because he has something in him which will not accept things as theyare, believing always that they should be better. 'Il n'y a riens deplus tragique'!"

"According to you, then, " said Shelton--and the conversation seemed tohim of a sudden to have taken too personal a turn--"rebellion of anysort is fatal. "

"Ah!" replied the little man, with the eagerness of one whose ideal itis to sit under the awning of a cafe, and talk life upside down, "youpose me a great problem there! If one makes rebellion; it is alwaysprobable that one will do no good to any one and harm one's self. Thelaw of the majority arranges that. But I would draw your attentionto this"--and he paused; as if it were a real discovery to blow smokethrough his nose--"if you rebel it is in all likelihood because you areforced by your nature to rebel; this is one of the most certain thingsin life. In any case, it is necessary to avoid falling between twostools--which is unpardonable, " he ended with complacence. 

Shelton thought he had never seen a man who looked more completely as ifhe had fallen between two stools, and he had inspiration enough to feelthat the little barber's intellectual rebellion and the action logicallyrequired by it had no more than a bowing acquaintanceship. 

"By nature, " went on the little man, "I am an optimist; it is inconsequence of this that I now make pessimism. I have always had ideals;seeing myself cut off from them for ever, I must complain; to complain, monsieur, is very sweet!"

Shelton wondered what these ideals had been, but had no answer ready;so he nodded, and again held out his cigarettes, for, like a trueSoutherner, the little man had thrown the first away, half smoked. 

"The greatest pleasure in life, " continued the Frenchman, with a bow, "is to talk a little to a being who is capable of understanding you. Atpresent we have no one here, now that that old actor's dead. Ah! therewas a man who was rebellion incarnate! He made rebellion as other menmake money, 'c'etait son metier'; when he was no longer capable ofactive revolution, he made it getting drunk. At the last this was hisonly way of protesting against Society. An interesting personality, 'je le regrette beaucoup'. But, as you see, he died in great distress, without a soul to wave him farewell, because as you can well understand, monsieur, I don't count myself. He died drunk. 'C'etait un homme'!"

Shelton had continued staring kindly at the little man; the barber addedhastily:

"It's difficult to make an end like that one has moments of weakness. "

"Yes, " assented Shelton, "one has indeed. "

The little barber looked at him with cynical discretion. 

"Oh!" he said, "it 's to the destitute that such things are important. When one has money, all these matters--"

He shrugged his shoulders. A smile had lodged amongst his crow's-feet;he waved his hand as though to end the subject. 

A sense of having been exposed came over Shelton. 

"You think, then, " said he, "that discontent is peculiar to thedestitute?"

"Monsieur, " replied the little barber, "a plutocrat knows too well thatif he mixes in that 'galere' there 's not a dog in the streets more lostthan he. "

Shelton rose. 

"The rain is over. I hope you 'll soon be better; perhaps you 'll acceptthis in memory of that old actor, " and he slipped a sovereign into thelittle Frenchman's hand. 

The latter bowed. 

"Whenever you are passing, monsieur, " he said eagerly, "I shall becharmed to see you. "

And Shelton walked away. "'Not a dog in the streets more lost, '" thoughthe; "now what did he mean by that?"

Something of that "lost dog" feeling had gripped his spirit. Anothermonth of waiting would kill all the savour of anticipation, might evenkill his love. In the excitement of his senses and his nerves, caused bythis strain of waiting, everything seemed too vivid; all was beyondlife size; like Art--whose truths; too strong for daily use, are thus, unpopular with healthy people. As will the bones in a worn face, thespirit underlying things had reached the surface; the meanness andintolerable measure of hard facts, were too apparent. Some craving forhelp, some instinct, drove him into Kensington, for he found himselfbefore his, mother's house. Providence seemed bent on flinging him frompole to pole. 

Mrs. Shelton was in town; and, though it was the first of June, satwarming her feet before a fire; her face, with its pleasant colour, was crow's-footed like the little barber's, but from optimism, notrebellion. She, smiled when she saw her son; and the wrinkles round hereyes twinkled, with vitality. 

"Well, my dear boy, " she said, "it's lovely to see you. And how is thatsweet girl?"

"Very well, thank you, " replied Shelton. 

"She must be such a dear!"

"Mother, " stammered Shelton, "I must give it up. "

"Give it up? My dear Dick, give what up? You look quite worried. Comeand sit down, and have a cosy chat. Cheer up!" And Mrs. Shelton; withher head askew, gazed at her son quite irrepressibly. 

"Mother, " said Shelton, who, confronted by her optimism, had never, since his time of trial began, felt so wretchedly dejected, "I can't goon waiting about like this. "

"My dear boy, what is the matter?";

"Everything is wrong!"

"Wrong?" cried Mrs. Shelton. "Come, tell me all, about it!"

But Shelton, shook his head. 

"You surely have not had a quarrel----"

Mrs. Shelton stopped; the question seemed so vulgar--one might haveasked it of a groom. 

"No, " said Shelton, and his answer sounded like a groan. 

"You know, my dear old Dick, " murmured his mother, "it seems a littlemad. "

"I know it seems mad. "

"Come!" said Mrs. Shelton, taking his hand between her own; "you neverused to be like this. "

"No, " said Shelton, with a laugh; "I never used to be like this. "

Mrs. Shelton snuggled in her Chuda shawl. 

"Oh, " she said, with cheery sympathy, "I know exactly how you feel!"

Shelton, holding his head, stared at the fire, which played and bubbledlike his mother's face. 

"But you're so fond of each other, " she began again. "Such a sweetgirl!"

"You don't understand, " muttered Shelton gloomily; "it 's not her--it'snothing--it's--myself!"

Mrs. Shelton again seized his hand, and this time pressed it to hersoft, warm cheek, that had lost the elasticity of youth. 

"Oh!" she cried again; "I understand. I know exactly what you 'refeeling. " But Shelton saw from the fixed beam in her eyes that she hadnot an inkling. To do him justice, he was not so foolish as to try togive her one. Mrs. Shelton sighed. "It would be so lovely if you couldwake up to-morrow and think differently. If I were you, my dear, I wouldhave a good long walk, and then a Turkish bath; and then I would justwrite to her, and tell her all about it, and you'll see how beautifullyit'll all come straight"; and in the enthusiasm of advice Mrs. Sheltonrose, and, with a faint stretch of her tiny figure, still so young, clasped her hands together. "Now do, that 's a dear old Dick! You 'lljust see how lovely it'll be!" Shelton smiled; he had not the heart tochase away this vision. "And give her my warmest love, and tell her I 'mlonging for the wedding. Come, now, my dear boy, promise me that's whatyou 'll do. "

And Shelton said: "I'll think about it. "

Mrs. Shelton had taken up her stand with one foot on the fender, inspite of her sciatica. 

"Cheer up!" she cried; her eyes beamed as if intoxicated by hersympathy. 

Wonderful woman! The uncomplicated optimism that carried her throughgood and ill had not descended to her son. 

From pole to pole he had been thrown that day, from the French barber, whose intellect accepted nothing without carping, and whose littlefingers worked all day, to save himself from dying out, to his ownmother, whose intellect accepted anything presented with sufficientglow, but who, until she died, would never stir a finger. When Sheltonreached his rooms, he wrote to Antonia:

I can't wait about in London any longer; I am going down to Bideford tostart a walking tour. I shall work my way to Oxford, and stay there tillI may come to Holm Oaks. I shall send you my address; do write as usual. 

He collected all the photographs he had of her--amateur groups, takenby Mrs. Dennant--and packed them in the pocket of his shooting-jacket. There was one where she was standing just below her little brother, who was perched upon a wall. In her half-closed eyes, round throat, andsoftly tilted chin, there was something cool and watchful, protectingthe ragamuffin up above her head. This he kept apart to be looked atdaily, as a man says his prayers. 

PART II

THE COUNTRY

CHAPTER XVI

THE INDIAN CIVILIAN

One morning then, a week later, Shelton found himself at the walls ofPrincetown Prison. 

He had seen this lugubrious stone cage before. But the magic of hismorning walk across the moor, the sight of the pagan tors, the songs ofthe last cuckoo, had unprepared him for that dreary building. He leftthe street, and, entering the fosse, began a circuit, scanning the wallswith morbid fascination. 

This, then, was the system by which men enforced the will of themajority, and it was suddenly borne in on him that all the ideasand maxims which his Christian countrymen believed themselves tobe fulfilling daily were stultified in every cellule of the socialhoneycomb. Such teachings as "He that is without sin amongst you" hadbeen pronounced unpractical by peers and judges, bishops, statesmen, merchants, husbands--in fact, by every truly Christian person in thecountry. 

"Yes, " thought Shelton, as if he had found out something new, "the moreChristian the nation, the less it has to do with the Christian spirit. "

Society was a charitable organisation, giving nothing for nothing, little for sixpence; and it was only fear that forced it to give at all!

He took a seat on a wall, and began to watch a warder who was slowlyparing a last year's apple. The expression of his face, the way he stoodwith his solid legs apart, his head poked forward and his lower jawthrust out, all made him a perfect pillar of Society. He was undisturbedby Shelton's scrutiny, watching the rind coil down below the apple;until in a springing spiral it fell on the path and collapsed like a toysnake. He took a bite; his teeth were jagged; and his mouth immense. It was obvious that he considered himself a most superior man. Sheltonfrowned, got down slowly, from the wall, and proceeded on his way. 

A little further down the hill he stopped again to watch a groupof convicts in a field. They seemed to be dancing in a slow and sadcotillon, while behind the hedge on every side were warders armed withguns. Just such a sight, substituting spears could have been seen inRoman times. 

While he thus stood looking, a man, walking, rapidly, stopped besidehim, and asked how many miles it was to Exeter. His round visage; andlong, brown eyes, sliding about beneath their brows, his cropped hairand short neck, seemed familiar. 

"Your name is Crocker, is n't it?"

"Why! it's the Bird!" exclaimed the traveller; putting out his hand. "Have n't seen you since we both went down. "

Shelton returned his handgrip. Crocker had lived above his head atcollege, and often kept him, sleepless half the night by playing on thehautboy. 

"Where have you sprung from?"

"India. Got my long leave. I say, are you going this way? Let's gotogether. "

They went, and very fast; faster and faster every minute. 

"Where are you going at this pace?" asked Shelton. 

"London. "

"Oh! only as far as London?"

"I 've set myself to do it in a week. "

"Are you in training?"

"No. "

"You 'll kill yourself. "

Crocker answered with a chuckle. 

Shelton noted with alarm the expression of his eye; there was a sortof stubborn aspiration in it. "Still an idealist!" he thought; "poorfellow!" "Well, " he inquired, "what sort of a time have you had inIndia?"

"Oh, " said the Indian civilian absently, "I've, had the plague. "

"Good God!"

Crocker smiled, and added:

"Caught it on famine duty. "

"I see, " said Shelton; "plague and famine! I suppose you fellows reallythink you 're doing good out there?"

His companion looked at him surprised, then answered modestly:

"We get very good screws. "

"That 's the great thing, " responded Shelton. 

After a moment's silence, Crocker, looking straight before him, asked:

"Don't you think we are doing good?"

"I 'm not an authority; but, as a matter of fact, I don't. "

Crocker seemed disconcerted. 

"Why?" he bluntly asked. 

Shelton was not anxious to explain his views, and he did not reply. 

His friend repeated:

"Why don't you think we're doing good in India?"

"Well, " said Shelton gruffly, "how can progress be imposed on nationsfrom outside?"

The Indian civilian, glancing at Shelton in an affectionate and doubtfulway, replied:

"You have n't changed a bit, old chap. "

"No, no, " said Shelton; "you 're not going to get out of it that way. Give me a single example of a nation, or an individual, for that matter, who 's ever done any good without having worked up to it from within. "

Crocker, grunting, muttered, "Evils. "

"That 's it, " said Shelton; "we take peoples entirely different from ourown, and stop their natural development by substituting a civilisationgrown for our own use. Suppose, looking at a tropical fern in ahothouse, you were to say: 'This heat 's unhealthy for me; therefore itmust be bad for the fern, I 'll take it up and plant it outside in thefresh air. '"

"Do you know that means giving up India?" said the Indian civilianshrewdly. 

"I don't say that; but to talk about doing good to India is--h'm!"

Crocker knitted his brows, trying to see the point of view his friendwas showing him. 

"Come, now! Should we go on administering India if it were dead loss?No. Well, to talk about administering the country for the purposeof pocketing money is cynical, and there 's generally some truth incynicism; but to talk about the administration of a country by which weprofit, as if it were a great and good thing, is cant. I hit you in thewind for the benefit of myself--all right: law of nature; but to say itdoes you good at the same time is beyond me. "

"No, no, " returned Crocker, grave and anxious; "you can't persuade methat we 're not doing good. "

"Wait a bit. It's all a question of horizons; you look at it from tooclose. Put the horizon further back. You hit India in the wind, and sayit's virtuous. Well, now let's see what happens. Either the wind nevercomes back, and India gasps to an untimely death, or the wind doescome back, and in the pant of reaction your blow--that's to say yourlabour--is lost, morally lost labour that you might have spent where itwould n't have been lost. "

"Are n't you an Imperialist?" asked Crocker, genuinely concerned. 

"I may be, but I keep my mouth shut about the benefits we 're conferringupon other people. "

"Then you can't believe in abstract right, or justice?"

"What on earth have our ideas of justice or right got to do with India?"

"If I thought as you do, " sighed the unhappy Crocker, "I should be alladrift. "

"Quite so. We always think our standards best for the whole world. It'sa capital belief for us. Read the speeches of our public men. Does n'tit strike you as amazing how sure they are of being in the right? It'sso charming to benefit yourself and others at the same time, though, when you come to think of it, one man's meat is usually another'spoison. Look at nature. But in England we never look at nature--there'sno necessity. Our national point of view has filled our pockets, that'sall that matters. "

"I say, old chap, that's awfully bitter, " said Crocker, with a sort ofwondering sadness. 

"It 's enough to make any one bitter the way we Pharisees wax fat, andat the same time give ourselves the moral airs of a balloon. I muststick a pin in sometimes, just to hear the gas escape. " Shelton wassurprised at his own heat, and for some strange reason thought ofAntonia--surely, she was not a Pharisee. 

His companion strode along, and Shelton felt sorry for the signs oftrouble on his face. 

"To fill your pockets, " said Crocker, "is n't the main thing. One hasjust got to do things without thinking of why we do them. "

"Do you ever see the other side to any question?" asked Shelton. "Isuppose not. You always begin to act before you stop thinking, don'tyou?"

Crocker grinned. 

"He's a Pharisee, too, " thought Shelton, "without a Pharisee's pride. Queer thing that!"

After walking some distance, as if thinking deeply, Crocker chuckledout:

"You 're not consistent; you ought to be in favour of giving up India. "

Shelton smiled uneasily. 

"Why should n't we fill our pockets? I only object to the humbug that wetalk. "

The Indian civilian put his hand shyly through his arm. 

"If I thought like you, " he said, "I could n't stay another day inIndia. "

And to this Shelton made no reply. 

The wind had now begun to drop, and something of the morning's magic wasstealing again upon the moor. They were nearing the outskirt fields ofcultivation. It was past five when, dropping from the level of the tors, they came into the sunny vale of Monkland. 

"They say, " said Crocker, reading from his guide-book--"they say thisplace occupies a position of unique isolation. "

The two travellers, in tranquil solitude, took their seats under an oldlime-tree on the village green. The smoke of their pipes, the sleepyair, the warmth from the baked ground, the constant hum, made Sheltondrowsy. 

"Do you remember, " his companion asked, "those 'jaws' you used to havewith Busgate and old Halidome in my rooms on Sunday evenings? How is oldHalidome?"

"Married, " replied Shelton. 

Crocker sighed. "And are you?" he asked. 

"Not yet, " said Shelton grimly; "I 'm--engaged. "

Crocker took hold of his arm above the elbow, and, squeezing it, hegrunted. Shelton had not received congratulations that pleased him more;there was the spice of envy in them. 

"I should like to get married while I 'm home, " said the civilian aftera long pause. His legs were stretched apart, throwing shadows on thegreen, his hands deep thrust into his pockets, his head a little to oneside. An absent-minded smile played round his mouth. 

The sun had sunk behind a tor, but the warmth kept rising from theground, and the sweet-briar on a cottage bathed them with its spicyperfume. From the converging lanes figures passed now and then, loungedby, staring at the strangers, gossiping amongst themselves, and vanishedinto the cottages that headed the incline. A clock struck seven, andround the shady lime-tree a chafer or some heavy insect commenced itsbooming rushes. All was marvellously sane and slumbrous. The softair, the drawling voices, the shapes and murmurs, the rising smell ofwood-smoke from fresh-kindled fires--were full of the spirit of securityand of home. The outside world was far indeed. Typical of some islandnation was this nest of refuge--where men grew quietly tall, fattened, and without fuss dropped off their perches; where contentmentflourished, as sunflowers flourished in the sun. 

Crocker's cap slipped off; he was nodding, and Shelton looked at him. From a manor house in some such village he had issued; to one of athousand such homes he would find his way at last, untouched by thestruggles with famines or with plagues, uninfected in his fibre, hisprejudices, and his principles, unchanged by contact with strangepeoples, new conditions, odd feelings, or queer points of view!

The chafer buzzed against his shoulder, gathered flight again, andboomed away. Crocker roused himself, and, turning his amiable face, jogged Shelton's arm. 

"What are you thinking about, Bird?" he asked. 

CHAPTER XVII

A PARSON

Shelton continued to travel with his college friend, and on Wednesdaynight, four days after joining company, they reached the village ofDowdenhame. All day long the road had lain through pastureland, withthick green hedges and heavily feathered elms. Once or twice they hadbroken the monotony by a stretch along the towing-path of a canal, which, choked with water-lily plants and shining weeds, broodedsluggishly beside the fields. Nature, in one of her ironic moods, hadcast a grey and iron-hard cloak over all the country's bland luxuriance. From dawn till darkness fell there had been no movement in the steelydistant sky; a cold wind ruffed in the hedge-tops, and sent shiversthrough the branches of the elms. The cattle, dappled, pied, or bay, orwhite, continued grazing with an air of grumbling at their birthright. In a meadow close to the canal Shelton saw five magpies, and about fiveo'clock the rain began, a steady, coldly-sneering rain, which Crocker, looking at the sky, declared was going to be over in a minute. But itwas not over in a minute; they were soon drenched. Shelton was tired, and it annoyed him very much that his companion, who was also tired, should grow more cheerful. His thoughts kept harping upon Ferrand: "Thismust be something like what he described to me, tramping on and on whenyou're dead-beat, until you can cadge up supper and a bed. " And sulkilyhe kept on ploughing through the mud with glances at the exasperatingCrocker, who had skinned one heel and was limping horribly. It suddenlycame home to him that life for three quarters of the world meantphysical exhaustion every day, without a possibility of alternative, and that as soon as, for some cause beyond control, they failed thus toexhaust themselves, they were reduced to beg or starve. "And then we, who don't know the meaning of the word exhaustion, call them 'idlescamps, '" he said aloud. 

It was past nine and dark when they reached Dowdenhame. The streetyielded no accommodation, and while debating where to go they passed thechurch, with a square tower, and next to it a house which was certainlythe parsonage. 

"Suppose, " said Crocker, leaning on his arms upon the gate, "we ask himwhere to go"; and, without waiting for Shelton's answer, he rang thebell. 

The door was opened by the parson, a bloodless and clean-shaven man, whose hollow cheeks and bony hands suggested a perpetual struggle. Ascetically benevolent were his grey eyes; a pale and ghostly smileplayed on the curves of his thin lips. 

"What can I do for you?" he asked. "Inn? yes, there's the Blue Chequers, but I 'm afraid you 'll find it shut. They 're early people, I 'm gladto say"; and his eyes seemed to muse over the proper fold for these dampsheep. "Are you Oxford men, by any chance?" he asked, as if that mightthrow some light upon the matter. "Of Mary's? Really! I'm of Paul'smyself. Ladyman--Billington Ladyman; you might remember my youngestbrother. I could give you a room here if you could manage withoutsheets. My housekeeper has two days' holiday; she's foolishly taken thekeys. "

Shelton accepted gladly, feeling that the intonation in the parson'svoice was necessary unto his calling, and that he did not want topatronise. 

"You 're hungry, I expect, after your tramp. I'm very much afraid there's--er--nothing in the house but bread; I could boil you water; hotlemonade is better than nothing. "

Conducting them into the kitchen, he made a fire, and put a kettle on toboil; then, after leaving them to shed their soaking clothes, returnedwith ancient, greenish coats, some carpet slippers, and some blankets. Wrapped in these, and carrying their glasses, the travellers followed tothe study, where, by doubtful lamp-light, he seemed, from books upon thetable, to have been working at his sermon. 

"We 're giving you a lot of trouble, " said Shelton, "it's really verygood of you. "

"Not at all, " the parson answered; "I'm only grieved the house isempty. "

It was a truly dismal contrast to the fatness of the land they had beenpassing through, and the parson's voice issuing from bloodless lips, although complacent, was pathetic. It was peculiar, that voice of his, seeming to indicate an intimate acquaintanceship with what was fat andfine, to convey contempt for the vulgar need of money, while all thetime his eyes--those watery, ascetic eyes--as plain as speech they said, "Oh, to know what it must be like to have a pound or two to spare justonce a year, or so!"

Everything in the room had been bought for cheapness; no luxuries werethere, and necessaries not enough. It was bleak and bare; the ceilingcracked, the wall-paper discoloured, and those books--prim, shiningbooks, fat-backed, with arms stamped on them--glared in the surroundingbarrenness. 

"My predecessor, " said the parson, "played rather havoc with thehouse. The poor fellow had a dreadful struggle, I was told. You can, unfortunately, expect nothing else these days, when livings have comedown so terribly in value! He was a married man--large family!"

Crocker, who had drunk his steaming lemonade, was smiling and alreadynodding in his chair; with his black garment buttoned closely round histhroat, his long legs rolled up in a blanket, and stretched towardsthe feeble flame of the newly-lighted fire, he had a rather patchyair. Shelton, on the other hand, had lost his feeling of fatigue; thestrangeness of the place was stimulating his brain; he kept stealingglances at the scantiness around; the room, the parson, the furniture, the very fire, all gave him the feeling caused by seeing legs thathave outgrown their trousers. But there was something underlying thatleanness of the landscape, something superior and academic, which defiedall sympathy. It was pure nervousness which made him say:

"Ah! why do they have such families?"

A faint red mounted to the parson's cheeks; its appearance there wasstartling, and Crocker chuckled, as a sleepy man will chuckle who feelsbound to show that he is not asleep. 

"It's very unfortunate, " murmured the parson, "certainly, in manycases. "

Shelton would now have changed the subject, but at this moment theunhappy Crocker snored. Being a man of action, he had gone to sleep. 

"It seems to me, " said Shelton hurriedly, as he saw the parson'seyebrows rising at the sound, "almost what you might call wrong. "

"Dear me, but how can it be wrong?"

Shelton now felt that he must justify his saying somehow. 

"I don't know, " he said, "only one hears of such a lot ofcases--clergymen's families; I've two uncles of my own, who--"

A new expression gathered on the parson's face; his mouth had tightened, and his chin receded slightly. "Why, he 's like a mule!" thoughtShelton. His eyes, too, had grown harder, greyer, and more parroty. Shelton no longer liked his face. 

"Perhaps you and I, " the parson said, "would not understand each otheron such matters. "

And Shelton felt ashamed. 

"I should like to ask you a question in turn, however, " the parson said, as if desirous of meeting Shelton on his low ground: "How do you justifymarriage if it is not to follow the laws of nature?"

"I can only tell you what I personally feel. "

"My dear sir, you forget that a woman's chief delight is in hermotherhood. "

"I should have thought it a pleasure likely to pall with too muchrepetition. Motherhood is motherhood, whether of one or of a dozen. "

"I 'm afraid, " replied the parson, with impatience, though still keepingon his guest's low ground, "your theories are not calculated to populatethe world. "

"Have you ever lived in London?" Shelton asked. "It always makes me feela doubt whether we have any right to have children at all. "

"Surely, " said the parson with wonderful restraint, and the jointsof his fingers cracked with the grip he had upon his chair, "you areleaving out duty towards the country; national growth is paramount!"

"There are two ways of looking at that. It depends on what you want yourcountry to become. "

"I did n't know, " said the parson--fanaticism now had crept into hissmile--"there could be any doubt on such a subject. "

The more Shelton felt that commands were being given him, the morecontroversial he naturally became--apart from the merits of thissubject, to which he had hardly ever given thought. 

"I dare say I'm wrong, " he said, fastening his eyes on the blanketin which his legs were wrapped; "but it seems to me at least an openquestion whether it's better for the country to be so well populated asto be quite incapable of supporting itself. "

"Surely, " said the parson, whose face regained its pallor, "you're not aLittle Englander?"

On Shelton this phrase had a mysterious effect. Resisting an impulse todiscover what he really was, he answered hastily:

"Of course I'm not!"

The parson followed up his triumph, and, shifting the ground of thediscussion from Shelton's to his own, he gravely said:

"Surely you must see that your theory is founded in immorality. It is, if I may say so, extravagant, even wicked. "

But Shelton, suffering from irritation at his own dishonesty, repliedwith heat:

"Why not say at once, sir, 'hysterical, unhealthy'? Any opinion whichgoes contrary to that of the majority is always called so, I believe. "

"Well, " returned the parson, whose eyes seemed trying to bind Sheltonto his will, "I must say your ideas do seem to me both extravagant andunhealthy. The propagation of children is enjoined of marriage. "

Shelton bowed above his blanket, but the parson did not smile. 

"We live in very dangerous times, " he said, "and it grieves me when aman of your standing panders to these notions. "

"Those, " said Shelton, "whom the shoe does n't pinch make this rule ofmorality, and thrust it on to such as the shoe does pinch. "

"The rule was never made, " said the parson; "it was given us. "

"Oh!" said Shelton, "I beg your pardon. " He was in danger of forgettingthe delicate position he was in. "He wants to ram his notions down mythroat, " he thought; and it seemed to him that the parson's face hadgrown more like a mule's, his accent more superior, his eyes moredictatorial: To be right in this argument seemed now of greatimportance, whereas, in truth, it was of no importance whatsoever. Thatwhich, however, was important was the fact that in nothing could theyever have agreed. 

But Crocker had suddenly ceased to snore; his head had fallen so that apeculiar whistling arose instead. Both Shelton and the parson looked athim, and the sight sobered them. 

"Your friend seems very tired, " said the parson. 

Shelton forgot all his annoyance, for his host seemed suddenly pathetic, with those baggy garments, hollow cheeks, and the slightly reddened nosethat comes from not imbibing quite enough. A kind fellow, after all!

The kind fellow rose, and, putting his hands behind his back, placedhimself before the blackening fire. Whole centuries of authority stoodbehind him. It was an accident that the mantelpiece was chipped andrusty, the fire-irons bent and worn, his linen frayed about the cuffs. 

"I don't wish to dictate, " said he, "but where it seems to me that youare wholly wrong in that your ideas foster in women those lax views ofthe family life that are so prevalent in Society nowadays. "

Thoughts of Antonia with her candid eyes, the touch of freckling on herpink-white skin, the fair hair gathered back, sprang up in Shelton, andthat word--"lax" seemed ridiculous. And the women he was wont to seedragging about the streets of London with two or three small children, Women bent beneath the weight of babies that they could not leave, women going to work with babies still unborn, anaemic-looking women, impecunious mothers in his own class, with twelve or fourteen children, all the victims of the sanctity of marriage, and again the word "lax"seemed to be ridiculous. 

"We are not put into the world to exercise our wits, "--muttered Shelton. 

"Our wanton wills, " the parson said severely. 

"That, sir, may have been all right for the last generation, thecountry is more crowded now. I can't see why we should n't decide it forourselves. "

"Such a view of morality, " said the parson, looking down at Crocker witha ghostly smile, "to me is unintelligible. "

Cracker's whistling grew in tone and in variety. 

"What I hate, " said Shelton, "is the way we men decide what women areto bear, and then call them immoral, decadent, or what you will, if theydon't fall in with our views. "

"Mr. Shelton, " said the parson, "I think we may safely leave it in thehands of God. "

Shelton was silent. 

"The questions of morality, " said the parson promptly, "have always lainthrough God in the hands of men, not women. We are the reasonable sex. "

Shelton stubbornly replied

"We 're certainly the greater humbugs, if that 's the same. "

"This is too bad, " exclaimed the parson with some heat. 

"I 'm sorry, sir; but how can you expect women nowadays to have the sameviews as our grandmothers? We men, by our commercial enterprise, havebrought about a different state of things; yet, for the sake of our owncomfort, we try to keep women where they were. It's always those men whoare most keen about their comfort"--and in his heat the sarcasm of usingthe word "comfort" in that room was lost on him--"who are so ready toaccuse women of deserting the old morality. "

The parson quivered with impatient irony. 

"Old morality! new morality!" he said. "These are strange words. "

"Forgive me, " explained Shelton; "we 're talking of working morality, Iimagine. There's not a man in a million fit to talk of true morality. "

The eyes of his host contracted. 

"I think, " he said--and his voice sounded as if he had pinched it inthe endeavour to impress his listener--"that any well-educated man whohonestly tries to serve his God has the right humbly--I say humbly--toclaim morality. "

Shelton was on the point of saying something bitter, but checkedhimself. "Here am I, " thought he, "trying to get the last word, like anold woman. "

At this moment there was heard a piteous mewing; the parson went towardsthe door. 

"Excuse me a moment; I 'm afraid that's one of my cats out in the wet. "He returned a minute later with a wet cat in his arms. "They will getout, " he said to Shelton, with a smile on his thin face, suffused bystooping. And absently he stroked the dripping cat, while a drop ofwet ran off his nose. "Poor pussy, poor pussy!" The sound of that "Poorpussy!" like nothing human in its cracked superiority, the softness ofthat smile, like the smile of gentleness itself, haunted Shelton till hefell asleep. 

CHAPTER XVIII

ACADEMIC

The last sunlight was playing on the roofs when the travellers enteredthat High Street grave and holy to all Oxford men. The spirit hoveringabove the spires was as different from its concretions in their caps andgowns as ever the spirit of Christ was from church dogmas. 

"Shall we go into Grinnings'?" asked Shelton, as they passed the club. 

But each looked at his clothes, for two elegant young men in flannelsuits were coming out. 

"You go, " said Crocker, with a smirk. 

Shelton shook his head. Never before had he felt such love for this oldcity. It was gone now from out his life, but everything about it seemedso good and fine; even its exclusive air was not ignoble. Clothed in thecalm of history, the golden web of glorious tradition, radiant withthe alchemy of memories, it bewitched him like the perfume of a woman'sdress. At the entrance of a college they glanced in at the cool greypatch of stone beyond, and the scarlet of a window flowerbox--secluded, mysteriously calm--a narrow vision of the sacred past. Pale andtrencher-capped, a youth with pimply face and random nose, grabbingat his cloven gown, was gazing at the noticeboard. The collegeporter--large man, fresh-faced, and small-mouthed--stood at his lodgedoor in a frank and deferential attitude. An image of routine, he lookedlike one engaged to give a decorous air to multitudes of pecadilloes. His blue eyes rested on the travellers. "I don't know you, sirs, but ifyou want to speak I shall be glad to hear the observations you may haveto make, " they seemed to say. 

Against the wall reposed a bicycle with tennis-racquet buckled to itshandle. A bull-dog bitch, working her snout from side to side, wassnuffling horribly; the great iron-studded door to which her chain wasfastened stayed immovable. Through this narrow mouth, human metal hadbeen poured for centuries--poured, moulded, given back. 

"Come along, " said Shelton. 

They now entered the Bishop's Head, and had their dinner in the roomwhere Shelton had given his Derby dinner to four-and-twenty well-bredyouths; here was the picture of the racehorse that the wineglass, thrownby one of them, had missed when it hit the waiter; and there, servingCrocker with anchovy sauce, was the very waiter. When they had finished, Shelton felt the old desire to rise with difficulty from the table; theold longing to patrol the streets with arm hooked in some other arm;the old eagerness to dare and do something heroic--and unlawful; theold sense that he was of the forest set, in the forest college, of theforest country in the finest world. The streets, all grave and mellowin the sunset, seemed to applaud this after-dinner stroll; the entrancequad of his old college--spaciously majestic, monastically modern, foryears the heart of his universe, the focus of what had gone before itin his life, casting the shadow of its grey walls over all that had comeafter-brought him a sense of rest from conflict, and trust in his ownimportant safety. The garden-gate, whose lofty spikes he had so oftencrowned with empty water-bottles, failed to rouse him. Nor when theypassed the staircase where he had flung a leg of lamb at some indelicatedisturbing tutor, did he feel remorse. High on that staircase were therooms in which he had crammed for his degree, upon the system by whichthe scholar simmers on the fire of cramming, boils over at the moment ofexamination, and is extinct for ever after. His coach's face recurred tohim, a man with thrusting eyes, who reeled off knowledge all the week, and disappeared to town on Sundays. 

They passed their tutor's staircase. 

"I wonder if little Turl would remember us?" said Crocker; "I shouldlike to see him. Shall we go and look him up?"

"Little Turl?" said Shelton dreamily. 

Mounting, they knocked upon a solid door. 

"Come in, " said the voice of Sleep itself. 

A little man with a pink face and large red ears was sitting in a fatpink chair, as if he had been grown there. 

"What do you want?" he asked of them, blinking. 

"Don't you know me, sir?"

"God bless me! Crocker, isn't it? I didn't recognise you with a beard. "

Crocker, who had not been shaved since starting on his travels, chuckledfeebly. 

"You remember Shelton, sir?" he said. 

"Shelton? Oh yes! How do you do, Shelton? Sit down; take a cigar"; and, crossing his fat little legs, the little gentleman looked them up anddown with drowsy interest, as who should say, "Now, after, all you know, why come and wake me up like this?"

Shelton and Crocker took two other chairs; they too seemed thinking, "Yes, why did we come and wake him up like this?" And Shelton, who couldnot tell the reason why, took refuge in the smoke of his cigar. Thepanelled walls were hung with prints of celebrated Greek remains; thesoft, thick carpet on the floor was grateful to his tired feet; thebacks of many books gleamed richly in the light of the oil lamps;the culture and tobacco smoke stole on his senses; he but vaguelycomprehended Crocker's amiable talk, vaguely the answers of his littlehost, whose face, blinking behind the bowl of his huge meerschaum pipe, had such a queer resemblance to a moon. The door was opened, and atall creature, whose eyes were large and brown, whose face was rosy andironical, entered with a manly stride. 

"Oh!" he said, looking round him with his chin a little in the air, "amI intruding, Turl?"

The little host, blinking more than ever, murmured, "Not at all, Berryman--take a pew!"

The visitor called Berryman sat down, and gazed up at the wall with hisfine eyes. 

Shelton had a faint remembrance of this don, and bowed; but the newcomersat smiling, and did not notice the salute. 

"Trimmer and Washer are coming round, " he said, and as he spoke thedoor opened to admit these gentlemen. Of the same height, but differentappearance, their manner was faintly jocular, faintly supercilious, asif they tolerated everything. The one whose name was Trimmer had patchesof red on his large cheek-bones, and on his cheeks a bluish tint. Hislips were rather full, so that he had a likeness to a spider. Washer, who was thin and pale, wore an intellectual smile. 

The little fat host moved the hand that held the meerschaum. 

"Crocker, Shelton, " he said. 

An awkward silence followed. Shelton tried to rouse the cultured portionof his wits; but the sense that nothing would be treated seriouslyparalysed his faculties; he stayed silent, staring at the glowing tip ofhis cigar. It seemed to him unfair to have intruded on these gentlemenwithout its having been made quite clear to them beforehand who and whathe was; he rose to take his leave, but Washer had begun to speak. 

"Madame Bovary!" he said quizzically, reading the title of the bookon the little fat man's bookrest; and, holding it closer to hisboiled-looking eyes, he repeated, as though it were a joke, "MadameBovary!"

"Do you mean to say, Turl, that you can stand that stuff?" saidBerryman. 

As might have been expected, this celebrated novel's name had galvanisedhim into life; he strolled over to the bookcase, took down a book, opened it, and began to read, wandering in a desultory way about theroom. 

"Ha! Berryman, " said a conciliatory voice behind--it came from Trimmer, who had set his back against the hearth, and grasped with either hand afistful of his gown--"the book's a classic!"

"Classic!" exclaimed Berryman, transfixing Shelton with his eyes; "thefellow ought to have been horsewhipped for writing such putridity!"

A feeling of hostility instantly sprang up in Shelton; he looked at hislittle host, who, however, merely blinked. 

"Berryman only means, " explains Washer, a certain malice in his smile, "that the author is n't one of his particular pets. "

"For God's sake, you know, don't get Berryman on his horse!" growled thelittle fat man suddenly. 

Berryman returned his volume to the shelf and took another down. Therewas something almost godlike in his sarcastic absent-mindedness. 

"Imagine a man writing that stuff, " he said, "if he'd ever been at Eton!What do we want to know about that sort of thing? A writer should be asportsman and a gentleman"; and again he looked down over his chin atShelton, as though expecting him to controvert the sentiment. 

"Don't you--" began the latter. 

But Berryman's attention had wandered to the wall. 

"I really don't care, " said he, "to know what a woman feels when she isgoing to the dogs; it does n't interest me. "

The voice of Trimmer made things pleasant:

"Question of moral standards, that, and nothing more. "

He had stretched his legs like compasses, --and the way he grasped hisgown-wings seemed to turn him to a pair of scales. His lowering smileembraced the room, deprecating strong expressions. "After all, " heseemed to say, "we are men of the world; we know there 's not very muchin anything. This is the modern spirit; why not give it a look in?"

"Do I understand you to say, Berryman, that you don't enjoy a spicybook?" asked Washer with his smile; and at this question the littlefat man sniggered, blinking tempestuously, as if to say, "Nothingpleasanter, don't you know, before a hot fire in cold weather. "

Berryman paid no attention to the impertinent inquiry, continuing to dipinto his volume and walk up and down. 

"I've nothing to say, " he remarked, stopping before Shelton, and lookingdown, as if at last aware of him, "to those who talk of being justifiedthrough Art. I call a spade a spade. "

Shelton did not answer, because he could not tell whether Berryman wasaddressing him or society at large. And Berryman went on:

"Do we want to know about the feelings of a middle-class woman with ataste for vice? Tell me the point of it. No man who was in the habit oftaking baths would choose such a subject. "

"You come to the question of-ah-subjects, " the voice of Trimmer geniallybuzzed he had gathered his garments tight across his back--"my dearfellow, Art, properly applied, justifies all subjects. "

"For Art, " squeaked Berryman, putting back his second volume and takingdown a third, "you have Homer, Cervantes, Shakespeare, Ossian; forgarbage, a number of unwashed gentlemen. "

There was a laugh; Shelton glanced round at all in turn. With theexception of Crocker, who was half asleep and smiling idiotically, theywore, one and all, a look as if by no chance could they consider anysubject fit to move their hearts; as if, one and all, they were soprofoundly anchored on the sea of life that waves could only seemimpertinent. It may have been some glimmer in this glance of Shelton'sthat brought Trimmer once more to the rescue with his compromising air. 

"The French, " said he, "have quite a different standard from ourselvesin literature, just as they have a different standard in regard tohonour. All this is purely artificial. "

What he, meant, however, Shelton found it difficult to tell. 

"Honour, " said Washer, "'l'honneur, die Ehre' duelling, unfaithfulwives--"

He was clearly going to add to this, but it was lost; for the little fatman, taking the meerschaum with trembling fingers, and holding it withintwo inches of his chin, murmured:

"You fellows, Berryman's awf'ly strong on honour. "

He blinked twice, and put the meerschaum back between his lips. 

Without returning the third volume to its shelf, Berryman took downa fourth; with chest expanded, he appeared about to use the books asdumb-bells. 

"Quite so, " said Trimmer; "the change from duelling to law courts isprofoundly--"

Whether he were going to say "significant" or "insignificant, " inShelton's estimate he did not know himself. Fortunately Berryman brokein:

"Law courts or not, when a man runs away with a wife of mine, I shallpunch his head!"

"Come, come!" said Turner, spasmodically grasping his two wings. 

Shelton had a gleam of inspiration. "If your wife deceived you, " hethought, looking at Trimmer's eyes, "you 'd keep it quiet, and hold itover her. "

Washer passed his hand over his pale chaps: his smile had never wavered;he looked like one for ever lost in the making of an epigram. 

The punching theorist stretched his body, holding the books level withhis shoulders, as though to stone his hearers with his point of view. His face grew paler, his fine eyes finer, his lips ironical. Almostpainful was this combination of the "strong" man and the student who wasbound to go to pieces if you hit him a smart blow. 

"As for forgiving faithless wives, " he said, "and all that sort ofthing, I don't believe in sentiment. "

The words were high-pitched and sarcastic. Shelton looked hastilyaround. All their faces were complacent. He grew red, and suddenlyremarked, in a soft; clear voice:

"I see!"

He was conscious that he had never before made an impression of thissort, and that he never would again. The cold hostility flashing outall round was most enlightening; it instantly gave way to the polite, satirical indulgence peculiar to highly-cultivated men. Crocker rosenervously; he seemed scared, and was obviously relieved when Shelton, following his example, grasped the little fat man's hand, who saidgood-night in a voice shaken by tobacco. 

"Who are your unshaven friends?" he heard as the door was closed behindthem. 

CHAPTER XIX

AN INCIDENT

"Eleven o'clock, " said Crocker, as they went out of college. "I don'tfeel sleepy; shall we stroll along the 'High' a bit?"

Shelton assented; he was too busy thinking of his encounter with thedons to heed the soreness of his feet. This, too, was the last day ofhis travels, for he had not altered his intention of waiting at Oxfordtill July. 

"We call this place the heart of knowledge, " he said, passing a greatbuilding that presided, white and silent, over darkness; "it seems to meas little that, as Society is the heart of true gentility. "

Crocker's answer was a grunt; he was looking at the stars, calculatingpossibly in how long he could walk to heaven. 

"No, " proceeded Shelton; "we've too much common-sense up here to strainour minds. We know when it's time to stop. We pile up news of Papiasand all the verbs in 'ui' but as for news of life or of oneself! Realseekers after knowledge are a different sort. They fight in the dark--noquarter given. We don't grow that sort up here. "

"How jolly the limes smell!" said Crocker. 

He had halted opposite a garden, and taken hold of Shelton by a buttonof his coat. His eyes, like a dog's, stared wistfully. It seemed asthough he wished to speak, but feared to give offence. 

"They tell you, " pursued Shelton, "that we learn to be gentlemen uphere. We learn that better through one incident that stirs our heartsthan we learn it here in all the time we're up. "

"Hum!" muttered Crocker, twisting at the button; "those fellowswho seemed the best sorts up here have turned out the best sortsafterwards. "

"I hope not, " said Shelton gloomily; "I was a snob when I was up here. I believed all I was told, anything that made things pleasant; my 'set'were nothing but--"

Crocker smiled in the darkness; he had been too "cranky" to belong toShelton's "set. "

"You never were much like your 'set, ' old chap, " he said. 

Shelton turned away, sniffing the perfume of the limes. Images werethronging through his mind. The faces of his old friends strangely mixedwith those of people he had lately met--the girl in the train, Ferrand, the lady with the short, round, powdered face, the little barber;others, too, and floating, mysterious, --connected with them all, Antonia's face. The scent of the lime-trees drifted at him with itsmagic sweetness. From the street behind, the footsteps of the passers-bysounded muffled, yet exact, and on the breeze was borne the strain: "Forhe's a jolly good fellow!"

"For he's a jolly good fellow! For he's a jolly good fe-ellow! And sosay all of us!"

"Ah!" he said, "they were good chaps. "

"I used to think, " said Crocker dreamily, "that some of them had toomuch side. "

And Shelton laughed. 

"The thing sickens me, " said he, "the whole snobbish, selfishbusiness. The place sickens me, lined with cotton-wool-made so beastlycomfortable. "

Crocker shook his head. 

"It's a splendid old place, " he said, his eyes fastening at last onShelton's boots. "You know, old chap, " he stammered, "I think you--youought to take care!"

"Take care? What of?"

Crocker pressed his arm convulsively. 

"Don't be waxy, old boy, " he said; "I mean that you seem somehow--tobe--to be losing yourself. "

"Losing myself! Finding myself, you mean!"

Crocker did not answer; his face was disappointed. Of what exactly washe thinking? In Shelton's heart there was a bitter pleasure in knowingthat his friend was uncomfortable on his account, a sort of contempt, asort of aching. Crocker broke the silence. 

"I think I shall do a bit more walking to-night, " he said; "I feel veryfit. Don't you really mean to come any further with me, Bird?"

And there was anxiety in his voice, as though Shelton were in danger ofmissing something good. The latter's feet had instantly begun to acheand burn. 

"No!"? he said; "you know what I'm staying here for. "

Crocker nodded. 

"She lives near here. Well, then, I'll say good-bye. I should like to doanother ten miles to-night. "

"My dear fellow, you're tired and lame. "

Crocker chuckled. 

"No, " he said; "I want to get on. See you in London. Good-bye!" and, gripping Shelton's hand, he turned and limped away. 

Shelton called after him: "Don't be an idiot: You 'll only knockyourself up. "

But the sole answer was the pale moon of Crocker's face screwed roundtowards him in the darkness, and the waving of his stick. 

Shelton strolled slowly on; leaning over the bridge, he watched theoily gleam of lamps, on the dark water underneath the trees. He feltrelieved, yet sorry. His thoughts were random, curious, half mutinous, half sweet. That afternoon five years ago, when he had walked back fromthe river with Antonia across the Christchurch meadows, was vivid to hismind; the scent of that afternoon had never died away from him-the aromaof his love. Soon she would be his wife--his wife! The faces of the donssprang up before him. They had wives, perhaps. Fat, lean, satirical, and compromising--what was it that through diversity they had in common?Cultured intolerance! . . . Honour! . . . A queer subject to discuss. Honour! The honour that made a fuss, and claimed its rights! And Sheltonsmiled. "As if man's honour suffered when he's injured!" And slowly hewalked along the echoing, empty street to his room at the Bishop's Head. Next morning he received the following wire:

 Thirty miles left eighteen hours heel bad but going strong CROCKER

He passed a fortnight at the Bishop's Head, waiting for the end of hisprobation, and the end seemed long in coming. To be so near Antonia, andas far as if he lived upon another planet, was worse than ever. Eachday he took a sculling skiff, and pulled down to near Holm Oaks, on thechance of her being on the river; but the house was two miles off, andthe chance but slender. She never came. After spending the afternoonslike this he would return, pulling hard against the stream, with a queerfeeling of relief, dine heartily, and fall a-dreaming over his cigar. Each morning he awoke in an excited mood, devoured his letter if he hadone, and sat down to write to her. These letters of his were the mostamazing portion of that fortnight. They were remarkable for failingto express any single one of his real thoughts, but they were full ofsentiments which were not what he was truly feeling; and when he sethimself to analyse, he had such moments of delirium that he was scared, and shocked, and quite unable to write anything. He made the discoverythat no two human beings ever tell each other what they really feel, except, perhaps, in situations with which he could not connect Antonia'sice-blue eyes and brilliant smile. All the world was too engaged inplanning decency. 

Absorbed by longings, he but vaguely realised the turmoil ofCommemoration, which had gathered its hundreds for their annual cure ofsalmon mayonnaise and cheap champagne. In preparation for his visitto Holm Oaks he shaved his beard and had some clothes sent down fromLondon. With them was forwarded a letter from Ferrand, which ran asfollows:

IMPERIAL PEACOCK HOTEL, FOLKESTONE, June 20. 

MY DEAR SIR, Forgive me for not having written to you before, but I have been sobothered that I have felt no taste for writing; when I have the time, I have some curious stories to tell you. Once again I have encounteredthat demon of misfortune which dogs my footsteps. Being occupied all dayand nearly all night upon business which brings me a heap of worriesand next to no profit, I have no chance to look after my things. Thieveshave entered my room, stolen everything, and left me an empty box. I amonce again almost without clothes, and know not where to turn to makethat figure necessary for the fulfilment of my duties. You see, I am notlucky. Since coming to your country, the sole piece of fortune I havehad was to tumble on a man like you. Excuse me for not writing more atthis moment. Hoping that you are in good health, and in affectionatelypressing your hand, I am, Always your devoted

LOUIS FERRAND. 

Upon reading this letter Shelton had once more a sense of beingexploited, of which he was ashamed; he sat down immediately and wrotethe following reply:

BISHOPS HEAD HOTEL, OXFORD, June 25. 

MY DEAR FERRAND, I am grieved to hear of your misfortunes. I was much hoping that you hadmade a better start. I enclose you Post Office Orders for four pounds. Always glad to hear from you. 

Yours sincerely, RICHARD SHELTON. 

He posted it with the satisfaction that a man feels who nobly shakes offhis responsibilities. 

Three days before July he met with one of those disturbing incidentswhich befall no persons who attend quietly to their property andreputation. 

The night was unbearably hot, and he had wandered out with his cigar;a woman came sidling up and spoke to him. He perceived her to be one ofthose made by men into mediums for their pleasure, to feel sympathy withwhom was sentimental. Her face was flushed, her whisper hoarse; she hadno attractions but the curves of a tawdry figure. Shelton was repelledby her proprietary tone, by her blowzy face, and by the scent ofpatchouli. Her touch on his arm startled him, sending a shiver throughhis marrow; he almost leaped aside, and walked the faster. But herbreathing as she followed sounded laboured; it suddenly seemed pitifulthat a woman should be panting after him like that. 

"The least I can do, " he thought, "is to speak to her. " He stopped, and, with a mixture of hardness and compassion, said, "It 's impossible. "

In spite of her smile, he saw by her disappointed eyes that she acceptedthe impossibility. 

"I 'm sorry, " he said. 

She muttered something. Shelton shook his head. 

"I 'm sorry, " he said once more. "Good. -night. "

The woman bit her lower lip. 

"Good-night, " she answered dully. 

At the corner of the street he turned his head. The woman was hurryinguneasily; a policeman coming from behind had caught her by the arm. 

His heart began to beat. "Heavens!" he thought, "what shall I do now?"His first impulse was to walk away, and think no more about it--to act, indeed, like any averagely decent man who did not care to be concernedin such affairs. 

He retraced his steps, however, and halted half a dozen paces from theirfigures. 

"Ask the gentleman! He spoke to me, " she was saying in her brassy voice, through the emphasis of which Shelton could detect her fear. 

"That's all right, " returned the policeman, "we know all about that. "

"You--police!" cried the woman tearfully; "I 've got to get my living, have n't I, the same as you?"

Shelton hesitated, then, catching the expression in her frightened face, stepped forward. The policeman turned, and at the sight of his pale, heavy jowl, cut by the cheek-strap, and the bullying eyes, he felt bothhate and fear, as if brought face to face with all that he despisedand loathed, yet strangely dreaded. The cold certainty of law and orderupholding the strong, treading underfoot the weak, the smug front ofmeanness that only the purest spirits may attack, seemed to be facinghim. And the odd thing was, this man was only carrying out his duty. Shelton moistened his lips. 

"You're not going to charge her?"

"Aren't I?" returned the policeman. 

"Look here; constable, you 're making a mistake. "

The policeman took out his note-book. 

"Oh, I 'm making a mistake? I 'll take your name and address, please; wehave to report these things. "

"By all means, " said Shelton, angrily giving it. "I spoke to her first. "

"Perhaps you'll come up to the court tomorrow morning, and repeat that, "replied the policeman, with incivility. 

Shelton looked at him with all the force at his command. 

"You had better be careful, constable, " he said; but in the act ofuttering these words he thought how pitiable they sounded. 

"We 're not to be trifled with, " returned the policeman in a threateningvoice. 

Shelton could think of nothing but to repeat:

"You had better be careful, constable. "

"You're a gentleman, " replied the policeman. "I'm only a policeman. You've got the riches, I've got the power. "

Grasping the woman's arm, he began to move along with her. 

Shelton turned, and walked away. 

He went to Grinnings' Club, and flung himself down upon a sofa. Hisfeeling was not one of pity for the woman, nor of peculiar anger withthe policeman, but rather of dissatisfaction with himself. 

"What ought I to have done?" he thought, "the beggar was within hisrights. "

He stared at the pictures on the wall, and a tide of disgust surged upin him. 

"One or other of us, " he reflected, "we make these women what they are. And when we've made them, we can't do without them; we don't want to;but we give them no proper homes, so that they're reduced to prowl aboutthe streets, and then we run them in. Ha! that's good--that's excellent!We run them in! And here we sit and carp. But what do we do? Nothing!Our system is the most highly moral known. We get the benefit withoutsoiling even the hem of our phylacteries--the women are the only onesthat suffer. And why should n't they--inferior things?"

He lit a cigarette, and ordered the waiter to bring a drink. 

"I'll go to the Court, " he thought; but suddenly it occurred to him thatthe case would get into the local papers. The press would never missso nice a little bit of scandal--"Gentleman v. Policeman!" And he had avision of Antonia's father, a neighbouring and conscientious magistrate, solemnly reading this. Someone, at all events, was bound to see his nameand make a point of mentioning it too good to be missed! And suddenlyhe saw with horror that to help the woman he would have to assert againthat he had spoken to her first. "I must go to the Court!" he keptthinking, as if to assure himself that he was not a coward. 

He lay awake half the night worrying over this dilemma. 

"But I did n't speak to her first, " he told himself; "I shall only betelling a lie, and they 'll make me swear it, too!"

He tried to persuade himself that this was against his principles, butat the bottom of his heart he knew that he would not object to tellingsuch a lie if only guaranteed immune from consequences; it appeared tohim, indeed, but obvious humanity. 

"But why should I suffer?" he thought; "I've done nothing. It's neitherreasonable nor just. "

He hated the unhappy woman who was causing him these horrors ofuncertainty. Whenever he decided one way or other, the policeman's face, with its tyrannical and muddy eyes, rose before him like a nightmare, and forced him to an opposite conviction. He fell asleep at last withthe full determination to go and see what happened. 

He woke with a sense of odd disturbance. "I can do no good by going, " hethought, remembering, aid lying very still; "they 're certain to believethe policeman; I shall only blacken myself for nothing;" and the combatbegan again within him, but with far less fury. It was not what otherpeople thought, not even the risk of perjury that mattered (all this hemade quite clear)--it was Antonia. It was not fair to her to put himselfin such a false position; in fact, not decent. 

He breakfasted. In the room were some Americans, and the face of oneyoung girl reminded him a little of Antonia. Fainter and fainter grewthe incident; it seemed to have its right proportions. 

Two hours later, looking at the clock, he found that it was lunch-time. He had not gone, had not committed perjury; but he wrote to a dailypaper, pointing out the danger run by the community from the power whicha belief in their infallibility places in the hands of the police--how, since they are the sworn abettors of right and justice, their wordis almost necessarily taken to be gospel; how one and all they hangtogether, from mingled interest and esprit de corps. Was it not, hesaid, reasonable to suppose that amongst thousands of human beingsinvested with such opportunities there would be found bullies who wouldtake advantage of them, and rise to distinction in the service uponthe helplessness of the unfortunate and the cowardice of people withanything to lose? Those who had in their hands the sacred duties ofselecting a practically irresponsible body of men were bound, for thesake of freedom and humanity, to exercise those duties with the utmostcare and thoroughness . . . . 

However true, none of this helped him to think any better of himself atheart, and he was haunted by the feeling that a stout and honest bit ofperjury was worth more than a letter to a daily paper. 

He never saw his letter printed, containing, as it did, the germs of anunpalatable truth. 

In the afternoon he hired a horse, and galloped on Port Meadow. Thestrain of his indecision over, he felt like a man recovering from anillness, and he carefully abstained from looking at the local papers. There was that within him, however, which resented the worsting of hischivalry. 

CHAPTER XX

HOLM OAKS

Holm Oaks stood back but little from the road--an old manor-house, notset upon display, but dwelling close to its barns, stables, and walledgardens, like a good mother; long, flat-roofed, red, it had Queen Annewindows, on whose white-framed diamond panes the sunbeams glinted. 

In front of it a fringe of elms, of all trees the tree of mostestablished principle, bordered the stretch of turf between the graveldrive and road; and these elms were the homes of rooks of all birds themost conventional. A huge aspen--impressionable creature--shiveredand shook beyond, apologising for appearance among such imperturbablesurroundings. It was frequented by a cuckoo, who came once a year tohoot at the rules of life, but seldom made long stay; for boys threwstones at it, exasperated by the absence of its morals. 

The village which clustered in the dip had not yet lost its dread ofmotor-cars. About this group of flat-faced cottages with gabled roofsthe scent of hay, manure, and roses clung continually; just now theodour of the limes troubled its servile sturdiness. Beyond the dip, again, a square-towered church kept within grey walls the record ofthe village flock, births, deaths, and marriages--even the births ofbastards, even the deaths of suicides--and seemed to stretch a handinvisible above the heads of common folk to grasp the forgers of themanor-house. Decent and discreet, the two roofs caught the eye tothe exclusion of all meaner dwellings, seeming to have joined in aconspiracy to keep them out of sight. 

The July sun had burned his face all the way from Oxford, yet pale wasShelton when he walked up the drive and rang the bell. 

"Mrs. Dennant at home, Dobson?" he asked of the grave butler, who, oldservant that he was, still wore coloured trousers (for it was not yettwelve o'clock, and he regarded coloured trousers up to noon as a sacreddistinction between the footmen and himself). 

"Mrs. Dennant, " replied this personage, raising his round and hairlessface, while on his mouth appeared that apologetic pout which comes ofliving with good families--"Mrs. Dennant has gone into the village, sir;but Miss Antonia is in the morning-room. "

Shelton crossed the panelled, low-roofed hall, through whose far sidethe lawn was visible, a vision of serenity. He mounted six wide, shallowsteps, and stopped. From behind a closed door there came the sound ofscales, and he stood, a prey to his emotions, the notes mingling in hisears with the beating of his heart. He softly turned the handle, a fixedsmile on his lips. 

Antonia was at the piano; her head was bobbing to the movements of herfingers, and pressing down the pedals were her slim monotonously movingfeet. She had been playing tennis, for a racquet and her tam-o'-shanterwere flung down, and she was dressed in a blue skirt and creamy blouse, fitting collarless about her throat. Her face was flushed, and wore alittle frown; and as her fingers raced along the keys, her neck swayed, and the silk clung and shivered on her arms. 

Shelton's eyes fastened on the silent, counting lips, on the fair hairabout her forehead, the darker eyebrows slanting down towards the nose, the undimpled cheeks with the faint finger-marks beneath the ice-blueeyes, the softly-pouting and undimpled chin, the whole remote, sweet, suntouched, glacial face. 

She turned her head, and, springing up, cried:

"Dick! What fun!" She gave him both her hands, but her smiling face saidvery plainly, "Oh; don't let us be sentimental!"

"Are n't you glad to see me?" muttered Shelton. 

"Glad to see you! You are funny, Dick!--as if you did n't know! Why, you've shaved your beard! Mother and Sybil have gone into the village tosee old Mrs. Hopkins. Shall we go out? Thea and the boys areplaying tennis. It's so jolly that you 've come!" She caught up thetam-o'-shanter, and pinned it to her hair. Almost as tall as Shelton, she looked taller, with arms raised and loose sleeves quivering likewings to the movements of her fingers. "We might have a game beforelunch; you can have my other racquet. "

"I've got no things, " said Shelton blankly. 

Her calm glance ran over him. 

"You can have some of old Bernard's; he's got any amount. I'll wait foryou. " She swung her racquet, looked at Shelton, cried, "Be quick!" andvanished. 

Shelton ran up-stairs, and dressed in the undecided way of men assumingother people's clothes. She was in the hall when he descended, humminga tune and prodding at her shoe; her smile showed all her pearly upperteeth. He caught hold of her sleeve and whispered:

"Antonia!"

The colour rushed into her cheeks; she looked back across her shoulder. 

"Come along, old Dick!" she cried; and, flinging open the glass door, ran into the garden. 

Shelton followed. 

The tennis-ground was divided by tall netting from a paddock. A holm oaktree shaded one corner, and its thick dark foliage gave an unexpecteddepth to the green smoothness of the scene. As Shelton and Antonia cameup, Bernard Dennant stopped and cordially grasped Shelton's hand. Fromthe far side of the net Thea, in a shortish skirt, tossed back herstraight fair hair, and, warding off the sun, came strolling up to them. The umpire, a small boy of twelve, was lying on his stomach, squealingand tickling a collie. Shelton bent and pulled his hair. 

"Hallo, Toddles! you young ruffian!"

One and all they stood round Shelton, and there was a frank and pitilessinquiry in their eyes, in the angle of their noses something chaffingand distrustful, as though about him were some subtle poignant scentexciting curiosity and disapproval. 

When the setts were over, and the girls resting in the double hammockunderneath the holm oak, Shelton went with Bernard to the paddock tohunt for the lost balls. 

"I say, old chap, " said his old school-fellow, smiling dryly, "you're infor a wigging from the Mater. "

"A wigging?" murmured Shelton. 

"I don't know much about it, but from something she let drop it seemsyou've been saying some queer things in your letters to Antonia"; andagain he looked at Shelton with his dry smile. 

"Queer things?" said the latter angrily. "What d' you mean?"

"Oh, don't ask me. The Mater thinks she's in a bad way--unsettled, orwhat d' you call at. You've been telling her that things are not whatthey seem. That's bad, you know"; and still smiling he shook his head. 

Shelton dropped his eyes. 

"Well, they are n't!" he said. 

"Oh, that's all right! But don't bring your philosophy down here, oldchap. "

"Philosophy!" said Shelton, puzzled. 

"Leave us a sacred prejudice or two. "

"Sacred! Nothing's sacred, except--" But Shelton did not finish hisremark. "I don't understand, " he said. 

"Ideals, that sort of thing! You've been diving down below the lineof 'practical politics, ' that's about the size of it, my boy"; and, stooping suddenly, he picked up the last ball. "There is the Mater!"Shelton saw Mrs. Dennant coming down the lawn with her second daughter, Sybil. 

By the time they reached the holm oak the three girls had departedtowards the house, walking arm in arm, and Mrs. Dennant was standingthere alone, in a grey dress, talking to an undergardener. Her hands, cased in tan gauntlets, held a basket which warded off the beardedgardener from the severe but ample lines of her useful-looking skirt. The collie, erect upon his haunches, looked at their two faces, prickinghis ears in his endeavour to appreciate how one of these two bipedsdiffered from the other. 

"Thank you; that 'll do, Bunyan. Ah, Dick! Charmin' to see you here, atlast!"

In his intercourse with Mrs. Dennant, Shelton never failed to mark thetypical nature of her personality. It always seemed to him that he hadmet so many other ladies like her. He felt that her undoubtable qualityhad a non-individual flavour, as if standing for her class. She thoughtthat standing for herself was not the thing; yet she was full ofcharacter. Tall, with nose a trifle beaked, long, sloping chin, andan assured, benevolent mouth, showing, perhaps, too many teeth--thoughthin, she was not unsubstantial. Her accent in speaking showed herheritage; it was a kind of drawl which disregarded vulgar merits such astone; leaned on some syllables, and despised the final 'g'--the peculiaraccent, in fact, of aristocracy, adding its deliberate joys to life. 

Shelton knew that she had many interests; she was never really idle, from the time (7 A. M. ) when her maid brought her a little china pot oftea with a single biscuit and her pet dog, Tops, till eleven o'clock atnight, when she lighted a wax candle in a silver candlestick, and withthis in one hand, and in the other a new novel, or, better still, one ofthose charming volumes written by great people about the still greaterpeople they have met, she said good-night to her children and herguests. No! What with photography, the presidency of a local league, visiting the rich, superintending all the poor, gardening, reading, keeping all her ideas so tidy that no foreign notions might stray in, she was never idle. The information she collected from these sources wasboth vast and varied, but she never let it flavour her opinions, whichlacked sauce, and were drawn from some sort of dish into which, with allher class, she dipped her fingers. 

He liked her. No one could help liking her. She was kind, and of suchgood quality, with a suggestion about her of thin, excellent, and usefulchina; and she was scented, too--not with verbena, violets, or thoseessences which women love, but with nothing, as if she had taken standagainst all meretricity. In her intercourse with persons not "quite thething" (she excepted the vicar from this category, though his father haddealt in haberdashery), her refinement, gently, unobtrusively, and withgreat practical good sense, seemed continually to murmur, "I am, andyou--well, are you, don't you know?" But there was no self-consciousnessabout this attitude, for she was really not a common woman. She simplycould not help it; all her people had done this. Their nurses breathedabove them in their cradles something that, inhaled into their systems, ever afterwards prevented them from taking good, clear breaths. Andher manner! Ah! her manner--it concealed the inner woman so as to leavedoubt of her existence!

Shelton listened to the kindly briskness with which she dwelt upon theunder-gardener. 

"Poor Bunyan! he lost his wife six months ago, and was quite cheerfuljust at first, but now he 's really too distressin'. I 've done all Ican to rouse him; it's so melancholy to see him mopin'. And, my dearDick, the way he mangles the new rose-trees! I'm afraid he's goin' mad;I shall have to send him away; poor fellow!"

It was clear that she sympathised with Bunyan, or, rather, believedhim entitled to a modicum of wholesome grief, the loss of wives being acanonised and legal, sorrow. But excesses! O dear, no!

"I 've told him I shall raise his wages, " she sighed. "He used to besuch a splendid gardener! That reminds me, my dear Dick; I want to havea talk with you. Shall we go in to lunch?"

Consulting the memorandum-book in which she had been noting the case ofMrs. Hopkins, she slightly preceded Shelton to the house. 

It was somewhat late that afternoon when Shelton had his "wigging"; nordid it seem to him, hypnotised by the momentary absence of Antonia, sucha very serious affair. 

"Now, Dick, " the Honourable Mrs. Dennant said, in her decisive drawl, "Idon't think it 's right to put ideas into Antonia's head. "

"Ideas!" murmured Shelton in confusion. 

"We all know, " continued Mrs. Dennant, "that things are not always whatthey ought to be. "

Shelton looked at her; she was seated at her writing-table, addressingin her large, free writing a dinner invitation to a bishop. There wasnot the faintest trace of awkwardness about her, yet Shelton could nothelp a certain sense of shock. If she--she--did not think things werewhat they ought to be--in a bad way things must be indeed!

"Things!" he muttered. 

Mrs. Dennant looked at him firmly but kindly with the eyes that wouldremind him of a hare's. 

"She showed me some of your letters, you know. Well, it 's not a bit ofuse denyin', my dear Dick, that you've been thinkin' too much lately. "

Shelton perceived that he had done her an injustice; she handled"things" as she handled under-gardeners--put them away when they showedsigns of running to extremes. 

"I can't help that, I 'm afraid, " he answered. 

"My dear boy! you'll never get on that way. Now, I want you to promiseme you won't talk to Antonia about those sort of things. "

Shelton raised his eyebrows. 

"Oh, you know what I mean!"

He saw that to press Mrs. Dennant to say what she meant by "things"would really hurt her sense of form; it would be cruel to force her thusbelow the surface!

He therefore said, "Quite so!"

To his extreme surprise, flushing the peculiar and pathetic flush ofwomen past their prime, she drawled out:

"About the poor--and criminals--and marriages--there was that wedding, don't you know?"

Shelton bowed his head. Motherhood had been too strong for her; in hermaternal flutter she had committed the solecism of touching in so manywords on "things. "

"Does n't she really see the fun, " he thought, "in one man dining out ofgold and another dining in the gutter; or in two married people livingon together in perfect discord 'pour encourages les autres', or inworshipping Jesus Christ and claiming all her rights at the same time;or in despising foreigners because they are foreigners; or in war; or inanything that is funny?" But he did her a certain amount of justice byrecognising that this was natural, since her whole life had been passedin trying not to see the fun in all these things. 

But Antonia stood smiling in the doorway. Brilliant and gay she looked, yet resentful, as if she knew they had been talking of her. She sat downby Shelton's side, and began asking him about the youthful foreignerwhom he had spoken of; and her eyes made him doubt whether she, too, sawthe fun that lay in one human being patronising others. 

"But I suppose he's really good, " she said, "I mean, all those things hetold you about were only--"

"Good!" he answered, fidgeting; "I don't really know what the wordmeans. "

Her eyes clouded. "Dick, how can you?" they seemed to say. 

Shelton stroked her sleeve. 

"Tell us about Mr. Crocker, " she said, taking no heed of his caress. 

"The lunatic!" he said. 

"Lunatic! Why, in your letters he was splendid. "

"So he is, " said Shelton, half ashamed; "he's not a bit mad, really--that is, I only wish I were half as mad. "

"Who's that mad?" queried Mrs. Dennant from behind the urn--"TomCrocker? Ah, yes! I knew his mother; she was a Springer. "

"Did he do it in the week?" said Thea, appearing in the window with akitten. 

"I don't know, " Shelton was obliged to answer. 

Thea shook back her hair. 

"I call it awfully slack of you not to have found out, " she said. 

Antonia frowned. 

"You were very sweet to that young foreigner, Dick, " she murmured with asmile at Shelton. "I wish that we could see him. "

But Shelton shook his head. 

"It seems to me, " he muttered, "that I did about as little for him as Icould. "

Again her face grew thoughtful, as though his words had chilled her. 

"I don't see what more you could have done, " she answered. 

A desire to get close to her, half fear, half ache, a sense of futilityand bafflement, an inner burning, made him feel as though a flame werelicking at his heart. 

CHAPTER XXI

ENGLISH

Just as Shelton was starting to walk back to Oxford he met Mr. Dennantcoming from a ride. Antonia's father was a spare man of medium height, with yellowish face, grey moustache, ironical eyebrows, and some tinycrow's-feet. In his old, short grey coat, with a little slit up themiddle of the back, his drab cord breeches, ancient mahogany leggings, and carefully blacked boats, he had a dry, threadbare quality notwithout distinction. 

"Ah, Shelton!" he said, in his quietly festive voice; "glad to see thepilgrim here, at last. You're not off already?" and, laying his handon Shelton's arm, he proposed to walk a little way with him across thefields. 

This was the first time they had met since the engagement; and Sheltonbegan to nerve himself to express some sentiment, however bald, aboutit. He squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and looked askanceat Mr. Dennant. That gentleman was walking stiffly, his cord breechesfaintly squeaking. He switched a yellow, jointed cane against hisleggings, and after each blow looked at his legs satirically. He himselfwas rather like that yellow cane-pale, and slim, and jointed, withfeatures arching just a little, like the arching of its handle. 

"They say it'll be a bad year for fruit, " Shelton said at last. 

"My dear fellow, you don't know your farmer, I 'm afraid. We ought tohang some farmers--do a world of good. Dear souls! I've got some perfectstrawberries. "

"I suppose, " said Shelton, glad to postpone the evil moment, "in aclimate like this a man must grumble. "

"Quite so, quite so! Look at us poor slaves of land-owners; if Icouldn't abuse the farmers I should be wretched. Did you ever seeanything finer than this pasture? And they want me to lower theirrents!"

And Mr. Dennant's glance satirically wavered, rested on Shelton, andwhisked back to the ground as though he had seen something that alarmedhim. There was a pause. 

"Now for it!" thought the younger man. 

Mr. Dennant kept his eyes fixed on his boots. 

"If they'd said, now, " he remarked jocosely, "that the frost had nippedthe partridges, there 'd have been some sense in it; but what can youexpect? They've no consideration, dear souls!"

Shelton took a breath, and, with averted eyes, he hurriedly began:

"It's awfully hard, sir, to--"

Mr. Dennant switched his cane against his shin. 

"Yes, " he said, "it 's awfully hard to put up with, but what can afellow do? One must have farmers. Why, if it was n't for the farmers, there 'd be still a hare or two about the place!"

Shelton laughed spasmodically; again he glanced askance at his futurefather-in-law. What did the waggling of his head mean, the deepening ofhis crow's-feet, the odd contraction of the mouth? And his eye caughtMr. Dennant's eye; its expression was queer above the fine, dry nose(one of the sort that reddens in a wind). 

"I've never had much to do with farmers, " he said at last. 

"Have n't you? Lucky fellow! The most--yes, quite the most tryingportion of the human species--next to daughters. "

"Well, sir, you can hardly expect me--" began Shelton. 

"I don't--oh, I don't! D 'you know, I really believe we're in for aducking. "

A large black cloud had covered up the sun, and some drops werespattering on Mr. Dennant's hard felt hat. 

Shelton welcomed the shower; it appeared to him an intervention on thepart of Providence. He would have to say something, but not now, later. 

"I 'll go on, " he said; "I don't mind the rain. But you'd better getback, sir. "

"Dear me! I've a tenant in this cottage, " said Mr. Dennant in his, leisurely, dry manner "and a beggar he is to poach, too. Least we cando 's to ask for a little shelter; what do you think?" and smilingsarcastically, as though deprecating his intention to keep dry, herapped on the door of a prosperous-looking cottage. 

It was opened by a girl of Antonia's age and height. 

"Ah, Phoebe! Your father in?"

"No, " replied the girl, fluttering; "father's out, Mr. Dennant. "

"So sorry! Will you let us bide a bit out of the rain?"

The sweet-looking Phoebe dusted them two chairs, and, curtseying, leftthem in the parlour. 

"What a pretty girl!" said Shelton. 

"Yes, she's a pretty girl; half the young fellows are after her, but shewon't leave her father. Oh, he 's a charming rascal is that fellow!"

This remark suddenly brought home to Shelton the conviction that he wasfurther than ever from avoiding the necessity for speaking. He walkedover to the window. The rain was coming down with fury, though a goldenline far down the sky promised the shower's quick end. "For goodness'sake, " he thought, "let me say something, however idiotic, and get itover!" But he did not turn; a kind of paralysis had seized on him. 

"Tremendous heavy rain!" he said at last; "coming down in waterspouts. "

It would have been just as easy to say: "I believe your daughter tobe the sweetest thing on earth; I love her, and I 'm going to make herhappy!" Just as easy, just about the same amount of breath required;but he couldn't say it! He watched the rain stream and hiss againstthe leaves and churn the dust on the parched road with its insistenttorrent; and he noticed with precision all the details of the processgoing on outside how the raindrops darted at the leaves like spears, and how the leaves shook themselves free a hundred times a minute, whilelittle runnels of water, ice-clear, rolled over their edges, soft andquick. He noticed, too, the mournful head of a sheltering cow that waschewing at the hedge. 

Mr. Dennant had not replied to his remark about the rain. Sodisconcerting was this silence that Shelton turned. His futurefather-in-law, upon his wooden chair, was staring at his well-blackedboots, bending forward above his parted knees, and prodding at thecarpet; a glimpse at his face disturbed Shelton's resolution. It was notforbidding, stern, discouraging--not in the least; it had merely for themoment ceased to look satirical. This was so startling that Shelton losthis chance of speaking. There seemed a heart to Mr. Dennant's gravity;as though for once he were looking grave because he felt so. Butglancing up at Shelton, his dry jocosity reappeared at once. 

"What a day for ducks!" he said; and again there was unmistakable alarmabout the eye. Was it possible that he, too, dreaded something?

"I can't express--" began Shelton hurriedly. 

"Yes, it's beastly to get wet, " said Mr. Dennant, and he sang--

 "For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, And jump out anywhere. "

"You 'll be with us for that dinner-party next week, eh? Capital!There's the Bishop of Blumenthal and old Sir Jack Buckwell; I must getmy wife to put you between them--"

 "For it's my delight of a starry night--"

"The Bishop's a great anti-divorce man, and old Buckwell 's been in thecourt at least twice--"

 "In the season of the year!"

"Will you please to take some tea, gentlemen?" said the voice of Phoebein the doorway. 

"No, thank you, Phoebe. That girl ought to get married, " went on Mr. Dennant, as Phoebe blushingly withdrew. A flush showed queerly on hissallow cheeks. "A shame to keep her tied like this to her father'sapron-strings--selfish fellow, that!" He looked up sharply, as if he hadmade a dangerous remark. 

 The keeper he was watching us, For him we did n't care!

Shelton suddenly felt certain that Antonia's father was just as anxiousto say something expressive of his feelings, and as unable as himself. And this was comforting. 

"You know, sir--" he began. 

But Mr. Dennant's eyebrows rose, his crow's-feet twinkled; hispersonality seemed to shrink together. 

"By Jove!" he said, "it's stopped! Now's our chance! Come along, my dearfellow; delays are dangerous!" and with his bantering courtesy he heldthe door for Shelton to pass out. "I think we'll part here, " he said--"Ialmost think so. Good luck to you!"

He held out his dry, yellow hand. Shelton seized it, wrung it hard, andmuttered the word:

"Grateful!"

Again Mr. Dennant's eyebrows quivered as if they had been tweaked; hehad been found out, and he disliked it. The colour in his face had diedaway; it was calm, wrinkled, dead-looking under the flattened, narrow brim of his black hat; his grey moustache drooped thinly; thecrow's-feet hardened round his eyes; his nostrils were distended by thequeerest smile. 

"Gratitude!" he said; "almost a vice, is n't it? Good-night!"

Shelton's face quivered; he raised his hat, and, turning as abruptly ashis senior, proceeded on his way. He had been playing in a comedy thatcould only have been played in England. He could afford to smile nowat his past discomfort, having no longer the sense of duty unfulfilled. Everything had been said that was right and proper to be said, in theway that we such things should say. No violence had been done; he couldafford to smile--smile at himself, at Mr. Dennant, at to-morrow; smileat the sweet aroma of the earth, the shy, unwilling sweetness that onlyrain brings forth. 

CHAPTER XXII

THE COUNTRY HOUSE

The luncheon hour at Holm Oaks, was, as in many well-bred countryhouses--out of the shooting season, be it understood--the soulful hour. The ferment of the daily doings was then at its full height, and theclamour of its conversation on the weather, and the dogs, the horses, neighbours, cricket, golf, was mingled with a literary murmur; for theDennants were superior, and it was quite usual to hear remarks likethese "Have you read that charmin' thing of Poser's?" or, "Yes, I've gotthe new edition of old Bablington: delightfully bound--so light. " Andit was in July that Holm Oaks, as a gathering-place of the elect, was atits best. For in July it had become customary to welcome there many ofthose poor souls from London who arrived exhausted by the season, andthan whom no seamstress in a two-pair back could better have earned aholiday. The Dennants themselves never went to London for the season. It was their good pleasure not to. A week or fortnight of it satisfiedthem. They had a radical weakness for fresh air, and Antonia, evenafter her presentation two seasons back, had insisted on returning home, stigmatising London balls as "stuffy things. "

When Shelton arrived the stream had only just begun, but every daybrought fresh, or rather jaded, people to occupy the old, dark, sweet-smelling bedrooms. Individually, he liked his fellow-guests, buthe found himself observing them. He knew that, if a man judged peoplesingly, almost all were better than himself; only when judged in bulkwere they worthy of the sweeping criticisms he felt inclined to passon them. He knew this just as he knew that the conventions, having beeninvented to prevent man following his natural desires, were merely thedisapproving sums of innumerable individual approvals. 

It was in the bulk; then, that he found himself observing. But withhis amiability and dread of notoriety he remained to all appearance awell-bred, docile creature, and he kept his judgments to himself. 

In the matter of intellect he made a rough division of the guests--thosewho accepted things without a murmur, those who accepted them withcarping jocularity; in the matter of morals he found they all acceptedthings without the semblance of a kick. To show sign of private moraljudgment was to have lost your soul, and, worse, to be a bit of anoutsider. He gathered this by intuition rather than from conversation;for conversation naturally tabooed such questions, and was carried on inthe loud and cheerful tones peculiar to people of good breeding. Sheltonhad never been able to acquire this tone, and he could not help feelingthat the inability made him more or less an object of suspicion. Theatmosphere struck him as it never had before, causing him to feela doubt of his gentility. Could a man suffer from passion, heart-searchings, or misgivings, and remain a gentleman? It seemedimprobable. One of his fellow-guests, a man called Edgbaston, small-eyedand semi-bald, with a dark moustache and a distinguished air ofmeanness, disconcerted him one day by remarking of an unknown person, "A half-bred lookin' chap; did n't seem to know his mind. " Shelton washarassed by a horrid doubt. 

Everything seemed divided into classes, carefully docketed and valued. For instance, a Briton was of more value than a man, and wives thanwomen. Those things or phases of life with which people had no personalacquaintance were regarded with a faint amusement and a certaindisapproval. The principles of the upper class, in fact, were strictlyfollowed. 

He was in that hypersenstive and nervous state favourable for recordingcurrents foreign to itself. Things he had never before noticed nowhad profound effect on him, such as the tone in which men spoke ofwomen--not precisely with hostility, nor exactly with contempt best, perhaps, described as cultured jeering; never, of course, when men spokeof their own wives, mothers, sisters, or immediate friends, but merelywhen they spoke of any other women. He reflected upon this, and came tothe conclusion that, among the upper classes, each man's own propertywas holy, while other women were created to supply him with gossip, jests, and spice. Another thing that struck him was the way in which thewar then going on was made into an affair of class. In their view it wasa baddish business, because poor hack Blank and Peter Blank-Blank hadlost their lives, and poor Teddy Blank had now one arm instead oftwo. Humanity in general was omitted, but not the upper classes, nor, incidentally, the country which belonged to them. For there they were, all seated in a row, with eyes fixed on the horizon of their lawns. 

Late one evening, billiards and music being over and the ladies gone, Shelton returned from changing to his smoking-suit, and dropped into oneof the great arm-chairs that even in summer made a semicircle round thefendered hearth. Fresh from his good-night parting with Antonia, he satperhaps ten minutes before he began to take in all the figures in theirparti-coloured smoking jackets, cross-legged, with glasses in theirhands, and cigars between their teeth. 

The man in the next chair roused him by putting down his tumbler with atap, and seating himself upon the cushioned fender. Through the mistof smoke, with shoulders hunched, elbows and knees crooked out, cigarprotruding, beak-ways, below his nose, and the crimson collar of hissmoking jacket buttoned close as plumage on his breast, he looked alittle like a gorgeous bird. 

"They do you awfully well, " he said. 

A voice from the chair on Shelton's right replied, "They do you better at Verado's. "

"The Veau d'Or 's the best place; they give you Turkish baths fornothing!" drawled a fat man with a tiny mouth. 

The suavity of this pronouncement enfolded all as with a blessing. Andat once, as if by magic, in the old, oak-panelled room, the world fellnaturally into its three departments: that where they do you well; thatwhere they do you better; and that where they give you Turkish baths fornothing. 

"If you want Turkish baths, " said a tall youth with clean red face, whohad come into the room, and stood, his mouth a little open, and longfeet jutting with sweet helplessness in front of him, "you should go, you know, to Buda Pesth; most awfully rippin' there. "

Shelton saw an indescribable appreciation rise on every face, as thoughthey had been offered truffles or something equally delicious. 

"Oh no, Poodles, " said the man perched on the fender. "A Johnny I knowtells me they 're nothing to Sofia. " His face was transfigured by thesubtle gloating of a man enjoying vice by proxy. 

"Ah!" drawled the small-mouthed man, "there 's nothing fit to hold acandle to Baghda-ad. "

Once again his utterance enfolded all as with a blessing, and once againthe world fell into its three departments: that where they do you well;that where they do you better; and--Baghdad. 

Shelton thought to himself: "Why don't I know a place that's better thanBaghdad?"

He felt so insignificant. It seemed that he knew none of thesedelightful spots; that he was of no use to any of his fellow-men; thoughprivately he was convinced that all these speakers were as ignorant ashimself, and merely found it warming to recall such things as they hadheard, with that peculiar gloating look. Alas! his anecdotes would neverearn for him that prize of persons in society, the label of a "goodchap" and "sportsman. "

"Have you ever been in Baghdad?" he feebly asked. 

The fat man did not answer; he had begun an anecdote, and in his broadexpanse of face his tiny mouth writhed like a caterpillar. The anecdotewas humorous. 

With the exception of Antonia, Shelton saw but little of the ladies, for, following the well-known custom of the country house, men andwomen avoided each other as much as might be. They met at meals, and occasionally joined in tennis and in croquet; otherwise itseemed--almost Orientally--agreed that they were better kept apart. 

Chancing one day to enter the withdrawing room, while searching forAntonia, he found that he had lighted on a feminine discussion; he wouldhave beaten a retreat, of course, but it seemed too obvious that he wasmerely looking for his fiancee, so, sitting down, he listened. 

The Honourable Charlotte Penguin, still knitting a silk tie--the sixthsince that she had been knitting at Hyeres--sat on the low window-seatclose to a hydrangea, the petals of whose round flowers almost kissedher sanguine cheek. Her eyes were fixed with languid aspiration on thelady who was speaking. This was a square woman of medium height, withgrey hair brushed from her low forehead, the expression of whoseface was brisk and rather cross. She was standing with a book, as ifdelivering a sermon. Had she been a man she might have been describedas a bright young man of business; for, though grey, she never could beold, nor ever lose the power of forming quick decisions. Her featuresand her eyes were prompt and slightly hard, tinged with faith fanaticalin the justice of her judgments, and she had that fussy simpleness ofdress which indicates the right to meddle. Not red, not white, neitheryellow nor quite blue, her complexion was suffused with a certainmixture of these colours, adapted to the climate; and her smile had astrange sour sweetness, like nothing but the flavour of an apple on theturn. 

"I don't care what they tell you, " she was saying--not offensively, though her voice seemed to imply that she had no time to waste inpleasing--"in all my dealings with them I've found it best to treat themquite like children. "

A lady, behind the Times, smiled; her mouth--indeed, her whole hard, handsome face--was reminiscent of dappled rocking-horses found in theSoho Bazaar. She crossed her feet, and some rich and silk stuff rustled. Her whole personality seemed to creak as, without looking, she answeredin harsh tones:

"I find the poor are most delightful persons. "

Sybil Dennant, seated on the sofa, with a feathery laugh shot a barkingterrier dog at Shelton. 

"Here's Dick, " she said. "Well, Dick, what's your opinion?"

Shelton looked around him, scared. The elder ladies who had spokenhad fixed their eyes on him, and in their gaze he read his utterinsignificance. 

"Oh, that young man!" they seemed to say. "Expect a practical remarkfrom him? Now, come!"

"Opinion, " he stammered, "of the poor? I haven't any. "

The person on her feet, whose name was Mrs. Mattock, directing herpeculiar sweet-sour smile at the distinguished lady with the Times, said:

"Perhaps you 've not had experience of them in London, Lady Bonington?"

Lady Bonington, in answer, rustled. 

"Oh, do tell us about the slums, Mrs. Mattock!" cried Sybil. 

"Slumming must be splendid! It's so deadly here--nothing but flannelpetticoats. "

"The poor, my dear, " began Mrs. Mattock, "are not the least bit what youthink them--"

"Oh, d' you know, I think they're rather nice!" broke in Aunt Charlotteclose to the hydrangea. 

"You think so?" said Mrs. Mattock sharply. "I find they do nothing butgrumble. "

"They don't grumble at me: they are delightful persons", and LadyBonington gave Shelton a grim smile. 

He could not help thinking that to grumble in the presence of that rich, despotic personality would require a superhuman courage. 

"They're the most ungrateful people in the world, " said Mrs. Mattock. 

"Why, then, " thought Shelton, "do you go amongst them?"

She continued, "One must do them good, one, must do one's duty, but asto getting thanks--"

Lady Bonington sardonically said, "Poor things! they have a lot to bear. "

"The little children!" murmured Aunt Charlotte, with a flushing cheekand shining eyes; "it 's rather pathetic. "

"Children indeed!" said Mrs. Mattock. "It puts me out of all patience tosee the way that they neglect them. People are so sentimental about thepoor. "

Lady Bonington creaked again. Her splendid shoulders were wedged intoher chair; her fine dark hair, gleaming with silver, sprang back uponher brow; a ruby bracelet glowed on the powerful wrist that held thejournal; she rocked her copper-slippered foot. She did not appear to betoo sentimental. 

"I know they often have a very easy time, " said Mrs. Mattock, as if someone had injured her severely. And Shelton saw, not without pity, thatFate had scored her kind and squashed-up face with wrinkles, whose tinyfurrows were eloquent of good intentions frustrated by the unpracticaland discontented poor. "Do what you will, they are never satisfied; theyonly resent one's help, or else they take the help and never thank youfor it!"

"Oh!" murmured Aunt Charlotte, "that's rather hard. "

Shelton had been growing, more uneasy. He said abruptly:

"I should do the same if I were they. "

Mrs. Mattock's brown eyes flew at him; Lady Bonington spoke to theTimes; her ruby bracelet and a bangle jingled. 

"We ought to put ourselves in their places. "

Shelton could not help a smile; Lady Bonington in the places of thepoor!

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Mattock, "I put myself entirely in their place. I quite understand their feelings. But ingratitude is a repulsivequality. "

"They seem unable to put themselves in your place, " murmured Shelton;and in a fit of courage he took the room in with a sweeping glance. 

Yes, that room was wonderfully consistent, with its air of perfectsecond-handedness, as if each picture, and each piece of furniture, each book, each lady present, had been made from patterns. They were allwidely different, yet all (like works of art seen in some exhibitions)had the look of being after the designs of some original spirit. Thewhole room was chaste, restrained, derived, practical, and comfortable;neither in virtue nor in work, neither in manner, speech, appearance, nor in theory, could it give itself away. 

CHAPTER XXIII

THE STAINED-GLASS MAN

Still looking for Antonia, Shelton went up to the morning-room. TheaDennant and another girl were seated in the window, talking. From thelook they gave him he saw that he had better never have been born;he hastily withdrew. Descending to the hall, he came on Mr. Dennantcrossing to his study, with a handful of official-looking papers. 

"Ah, Shelton!" said he, "you look a little lost. Is the shrineinvisible?"

Shelton grinned, said "Yes, " and went on looking. He was not fortunate. In the dining-room sat Mrs. Dennant, making up her list of books. 

"Do give me your opinion, Dick, " she said. "Everybody 's readin' thisthing of Katherine Asterick's; I believe it's simply because she's got atitle. "

"One must read a book for some reason or other, " answered Shelton. 

"Well, " returned Mrs. Dennant, "I hate doin' things just because otherpeople do them, and I sha'n't get it. "

"Good!"

Mrs. Dennant marked the catalogue. 

"Here 's Linseed's last, of course; though I must say I don't carefor him, but I suppose we ought to have it in the house. And there'sQuality's 'The Splendid Diatribes': that 's sure to be good, he's alwaysso refined. But what am I to do about this of Arthur Baal's? They saythat he's a charlatan, but everybody reads him, don't you know"; andover the catalogue Shelton caught the gleam of hare-like eyes. 

Decision had vanished from her face, with its arched nose and slightlysloping chin, as though some one had suddenly appealed to her to trusther instincts. It was quite pathetic. Still, there was always the book'scirculation to form her judgment by. 

"I think I 'd better mark it, " she said, "don't you? Were you lookin'for Antonia? If you come across Bunyan in the garden, Dick, do say Iwant to see him; he's gettin' to be a perfect nuisance. I can understandhis feelin's, but really he 's carryin' it too far. "

Primed with his message to the under-gardener, Shelton went. He took adespairing look into the billiard-room. Antonia was not there. Instead, a tall and fat-cheeked gentleman with a neat moustache, called Mabbey, was practising the spot-stroke. He paused as Shelton entered, and, pouting like a baby, asked in a sleepy voice, "Play me a hundred up?"

Shelton shook his head, stammered out his sorrow, and was about to go. 

The gentleman called Mabbey, plaintively feeling the places where hismoustaches joined his pink and glossy cheeks, asked with an air of somesurprise, "What's your general game, then?"

"I really don't know, " said Shelton. 

The gentleman called Mabbey chalked his cue, and, moving his round, knock-kneed legs in their tight trousers, took up his position for thestroke. 

"What price that?" he said, as he regained the perpendicular; and hiswell-fed eyes followed Shelton with sleepy inquisition. "Curious darkhorse, Shelton, " they seemed to say. 

Shelton hurried out, and was about to run down the lower lawn, when hewas accosted by another person walking in the sunshine--a slight-builtman in a turned-down collar, with a thin and fair moustache, and a faintbluish tint on one side of his high forehead, caused by a networkof thin veins. His face had something of the youthful, optimistic, stained-glass look peculiar to the refined English type. He walkedelastically, yet with trim precision, as if he had a pleasant taste infurniture and churches, and held the Spectator in his hand. 

"Ah, Shelton!" he said in high-tuned tones, halting his legs in such aneasy attitude that it was impossible to interrupt it: "come to take theair?"

Shelton's own brown face, nondescript nose, and his amiable butdogged chin contrasted strangely with the clear-cut features of thestained-glass man. 

"I hear from Halidome that you're going to stand for Parliament, " thelatter said. 

Shelton, recalling Halidome's autocratic manner of settling otherpeople's business, smiled. 

"Do I look like it?" he asked. 

The eyebrows quivered on the stained-glass man. It had never occurred tohim, perhaps, that to stand for Parliament a man must look like it; heexamined Shelton with some curiosity. 

"Ah, well, " he said, "now you mention it, perhaps not. " His eyes, socarefully ironical, although they differed from the eyes of Mabbey, alsoseemed to ask of Shelton what sort of a dark horse he was. 

"You 're still in the Domestic Office, then?" asked Shelton. 

The stained-glass man stooped to sniff a rosebush. "Yes, " he said; "itsuits me very well. I get lots of time for my art work. "

"That must be very interesting, " said Shelton, whose glance was rovingfor Antonia; "I never managed to begin a hobby. "

"Never had a hobby!" said the stained-glass man, brushing back his hair(he was walking with no hat); "why, what the deuce d' you do?"

Shelton could not answer; the idea had never troubled him. 

"I really don't know, " he said, embarrassed; "there's always somethinggoing on, as far as I can see. "

The stained-glass man placed his hands within his pockets, and hisbright glance swept over his companion. 

"A fellow must have a hobby to give him an interest in life, " he said. 

"An interest in life?" repeated Shelton grimly; "life itself is goodenough for me. "

"Oh!" replied the stained-glass man, as though he disapproved ofregarding life itself as interesting. 

"That's all very well, but you want something more than that. Why don'tyou take up woodcarving?"

"Wood-carving?"

"The moment I get fagged with office papers and that sort of thing Itake up my wood-carving; good as a game of hockey. "

"I have n't the enthusiasm. "

The eyebrows of the stained-glass man twitched; he twisted hismoustache. 

"You 'll find not having a hobby does n't pay, " he said; "you 'll getold, then where 'll you be?"

It came as a surprise that he should use the words "it does n'tpay, " for he had a kind of partially enamelled look, like that modernjewellery which really seems unconscious of its market value. 

"You've given up the Bar? Don't you get awfully bored having nothing todo?" pursued the stained-glass man, stopping before an ancient sundial. 

Shelton felt a delicacy, as a man naturally would, in explaining thatbeing in love was in itself enough to do. To do nothing is unworthy ofa man! But he had never felt as yet the want of any occupation. Hissilence in no way disconcerted his acquaintance. 

"That's a nice old article of virtue, " he said, pointing with his chin;and, walking round the sundial, he made its acquaintance from the otherside. Its grey profile cast a thin and shortening shadow on the turf;tongues of moss were licking at its sides; the daisies clustered thickaround its base; it had acquired a look of growing from the soil. "Ishould like to get hold of that, " the stained-glass man remarked; "Idon't know when I 've seen a better specimen, " and he walked round itonce again. 

His eyebrows were still ironically arched, but below them his eyes werealmost calculating, and below them, again, his mouth had opened justa little. A person with a keener eye would have said his face lookedgreedy, and even Shelton was surprised, as though he had read in theSpectator a confession of commercialism. 

"You could n't uproot a thing like that, " he said; "it would lose allits charm. "

His companion turned impatiently, and his countenance looked wonderfullygenuine. 

"Couldn't I?" he said. "By Jove! I thought so. 1690! The best period. "He ran his forger round the sundial's edge. "Splendid line-clean as theday they made it. You don't seem to care much about that sort of thing";and once again, as though accustomed to the indifference of Vandals, hisface regained its mask. 

They strolled on towards the kitchen gardens, Shelton still busysearching every patch of shade. He wanted to say "Can't stop, " and hurryoff; but there was about the stained-glass man a something that, whilestinging Shelton's feelings, made the showing of them quite impossible. "Feelings!" that person seemed to say; "all very well, but you want morethan that. Why not take up wood-carving? . . . Feelings! I was born inEngland, and have been at Cambridge. "

"Are you staying long?" he asked Shelton. "I go on to Halidome'sto-morrow; suppose I sha'n't see you there? Good, chap, old Halidome!Collection of etchings very fine!"

"No; I 'm staying on, " said Shelton. 

"Ah!" said the stained-glass man, "charming people, the Dennants!"

Shelton, reddening slowly, turned his head away; he picked a gooseberry, and muttered, "Yes. "

"The eldest girl especially; no nonsense about her. I thought she was aparticularly nice girl. "

Shelton heard this praise of Antonia with an odd sensation; it gave himthe reverse of pleasure, as though the words had cast new light uponher. He grunted hastily, "I suppose you know that we 're engaged?"

"Really!" said the stained-glass man, and again his bright, clear, iron-committal glance swept over Shelton--"really! I didn't know. Congratulate you!"

It was as if he said: "You're a man of taste; I should say she would gowell in almost any drawing-room!"

"Thanks, " said Shelton; "there she' is. If you'll excuse me, I want tospeak to her. "

CHAPTER XXIV

PARADISE

Antonia, in a sunny angle of the old brick wall, amid the pinks andpoppies and cornflowers, was humming to herself. Shelton saw thestained-glass man pass out of sight, then, unobserved, he watched hersmelling at the flowers, caressing her face with each in turn, castingaway spoiled blossoms, and all the time humming that soft tune. 

In two months, or three, all barriers between himself and thisinscrutable young Eve would break; she would be a part of him, and he apart of her; he would know all her thoughts, and she all his; togetherthey would be as one, and all would think of them, and talk of them, asone; and this would come about by standing half an hour together in achurch, by the passing of a ring, and the signing of their names. 

The sun was burnishing her hair--she wore no hat flushing her cheeks, sweetening and making sensuous her limbs; it had warmed her through andthrough, so that, like the flowers and bees, the sunlight and the air, she was all motion, light, and colour. 

She turned and saw Shelton standing there. 

"Oh, Dick!" she said: "Lend me your hand-kerchief to put these flowersin, there 's a good boy!"

Her candid eyes, blue as the flowers in her hands, were clear and coolas ice, but in her smile was all the warm profusion of that corner; thesweetness had soaked into her, and was welling forth again. The sightof those sun-warmed cheeks, and fingers twining round the flower-stalks, her pearly teeth, and hair all fragrant, stole the reason out ofShelton. He stood before her, weak about the knees. 

"Found you at last!" he said. 

Curving back her neck, she cried out, "Catch!" and with a sweep of bothher hands flung the flowers into Shelton's arms. 

Under the rain of flowers, all warm and odorous, he dropped down on hisknees, and put them one by one together, smelling at the pinks, to hidethe violence of his feelings. Antonia went on picking flowers, and everytime her hand was full she dropped them on his hat, his shoulder, or hisarms, and went on plucking more; she smiled, and on her lips a littledevil danced, that seemed to know what he was suffering. And Sheltonfelt that she did know. 

"Are you tired?" she asked; "there are heaps more wanted. These arethe bedroom-flowers--fourteen lots. I can't think how people can livewithout flowers, can you?" and close above his head she buried her facein pinks. 

He kept his eyes on the plucked flowers before him on the grass, andforced himself to answer, "I think I can hold out. "

"Poor old Dick!" She had stepped back. The sun lit the clear-cut profileof her cheek, and poured its gold over the bosom of her blouse. "Poorold Dick! Awfully hard luck, is n't it?" Burdened with mignonette, shecame so close again that now she touched his shoulder, but Shelton didnot look; breathless, with wildly beating heart, he went on sorting outthe flowers. The seeds of mignonette rained on his neck, and as she letthe blossoms fall, their perfume fanned his face. "You need n't sortthem out!" she said. 

Was she enticing him? He stole a look; but she was gone again, swayingand sniffing at the flowers. 

"I suppose I'm only hindering you, " he growled; "I 'd better go. "

She laughed. 

"I like to see you on your knees, you look so funny!" and as she spokeshe flung a clove carnation at him. "Does n't it smell good?"

"Too good Oh, Antonia! why are you doing this?"

"Why am I doing what?"

"Don't you know what you are doing?"

"Why, picking flowers!" and once more she was back, bending and sniffingat the blossoms. 

"That's enough. "

"Oh no, " she called; "it's not not nearly. 

"Keep on putting them together, if you love me. "

"You know I love you, " answered Shelton, in a smothered voice. 

Antonia gazed at him across her shoulder; puzzled and inquiring was herface. 

"I'm not a bit like you, " she said. "What will you have for your room?"

"Choose!"

"Cornflowers and clove pinks. Poppies are too frivolous, and pinkstoo--"

"White, " said Shelton. 

"And mignonette too hard and--"

"Sweet. Why cornflowers?"

Antonia stood before him with her hands against her sides; her figurewas so slim and young, her face uncertain and so grave. 

"Because they're dark and deep. "

"And why clove pinks?"

Antonia did not answer. 

"And why clove pinks?"

"Because, " she said, and, flushing, touched a bee that had settled onher skirt, "because of something in you I don't understand. "

"Ah! And what flowers shall t give YOU?"

She put her hands behind her. 

"There are all the other flowers for me. "

Shelton snatched from the mass in front of him an Iceland poppy withstraight stem and a curved neck, white pinks, and sprigs of hard, sweetmignonette, and held it out to her. 

"There, " he said, "that's you. " But Antonia did not move. 

"Oh no, it is n't!" and behind her back her fingers slowly crushed thepetals of a blood-red poppy. She shook her head, smiling a brilliantsmile. The blossoms fell, he flung his arms around her, and kissed heron the lips. 

But his hands dropped; not fear exactly, nor exactly shame, had come tohim. She had not resisted, but he had kissed the smile away; had kisseda strange, cold, frightened look, into her eyes. 

"She did n't mean to tempt me, then, " he thought, in surprise and anger. "What did she mean?" and, like a scolded dog, he kept his troubled watchupon her face. 

CHAPTER XXV

THE RIDE

"Where now?" Antonia asked, wheeling her chestnut mare, as they turnedup High Street, Oxford City. "I won't go back the same way, Dick!"

"We could have a gallop on Port Meadow, cross the Upper River twice, andget home that way; but you 'll be tired. "

Antonia shook her head. Aslant her cheek the brim of a straw hat threw acurve of shade, her ear glowed transparent in the sun. 

A difference had come in their relations since that kiss; outwardly shewas the same good comrade, cool and quick. But as before a change onefeels the subtle difference in the temper of the wind, so Sheltonwas affected by the inner change in her. He had made a blot upon hercandour; he had tried to rub it out again, but there was left a mark, and it was ineffaceable. Antonia belonged to the most civilised divisionof the race most civilised in all the world, whose creed is "Let us loveand hate, let us work and marry, but let us never give ourselves away;to give ourselves away is to leave a mark, and that is past forgiveness. Let our lives be like our faces, free from every kind of wrinkle, even those of laughter; in this way alone can we be really civilised. "

He felt that she was ruffled by a vague discomfort. That he should givehimself away was natural, perhaps, and only made her wonder, but that heshould give her the feeling that she had given herself away was a verydifferent thing. 

"Do you mind if I just ask at the Bishop's Head for letters?" he said, as they passed the old hotel. 

A dirty and thin envelope was brought to him, addressed "Mr. RichardShelton, Esq. , " in handwriting that was passionately clear, as thoughthe writer had put his soul into securing delivery of the letter. It wasdated three days back, and, as they rode away, Shelton read as follows:

IMPERIAL PEACOCK HOTEL, FOLKESTONE. 

MON CHER MONSIEUR SHELTON, This is already the third time I have taken up pen to write to you, but, having nothing but misfortune to recount, I hesitated, awaiting betterdays. Indeed, I have been so profoundly discouraged that if I had notthought it my duty to let you know of my fortunes I know not even nowif I should have found the necessary spirit. 'Les choses vont de malen mal'. From what I hear there has never been so bad a season here. Nothing going on. All the same, I am tormented by a mob of littlematters which bring me not sufficient to support my life. I know notwhat to do; one thing is certain, in no case shall I return here anotheryear. The patron of this hotel, my good employer, is one of thoseinnumerable specimens who do not forge or steal because they have noneed, and if they had would lack the courage; who observe the marriagelaws because they have been brought up to believe in them, and knowthat breaking them brings risk and loss of reputation; who do not gamblebecause they dare not; do not drink because it disagrees with them; goto church because their neighbours go, and to procure an appetite forthe mid-day meal; commit no murder because, not transgressing in anyother fashion, they are not obliged. What is there to respect in personsof this sort? Yet they are highly esteemed, and form three quarters ofSociety. The rule with these good gentlemen is to shut their eyes, neveruse their thinking powers, and close the door on all the dogs of lifefor fear they should get bitten. 

Shelton paused, conscious of Antonia's eyes fixed on him with theinquiring look that he had come to dread. In that chilly questioning sheseemed to say: "I am waiting. I am prepared to be told things--that is, useful things--things that help one to believe without the risk of toomuch thinking. "

"It's from that young foreigner, " he said; and went on reading tohimself. 

I have eyes, and here I am; I have a nose 'pour, flairer le humbug'. I see that amongst the value of things nothing is the equal of "freethought. " Everything else they can take from me, 'on ne pent pas m'otercela'! I see no future for me here, and certainly should have departedlong ago if I had had the money, but, as I have already told you, allthat I can do barely suffices to procure me 'de quoi vivre'. 'Je me sensecceuye'. Do not pay too much attention to my Jeremiads; you know what apessimist I am. 'Je ne perds pas courage'. 

Hoping that you are well, and in the cordial pressing of your hand, Isubscribe myself, Your very devoted

LOUIS FERRAND. 

He rode with the letter open in his hand, frowning at the curiousturmoil which Ferrand excited in his heart. It was as though thisforeign vagrant twanged within him a neglected string, which gave forthmoans of a mutiny. 

"What does he say?" Antonia asked. 

Should he show it to her? If he might not, what should he do when theywere married?

"I don't quite know, " he said at last; "it 's not particularlycheering. "'

"What is he like, Dick--I mean, to look at? Like a gentleman, or what?"

Shelton stifled a desire to laugh. 

"He looks very well in a frock-coat, " he replied; "his father was a winemerchant. "

Antonia flicked her whip against her skirt. 

"Of course, " she murmured, "I don't want to hear if there's anything Iought not. "

But instead of soothing Shelton, these words had just the oppositeeffect. His conception of the ideal wife was not that of one from whomthe half of life must be excluded. 

"It's only, " he stammered again, "that it's not cheerful. "

"Oh, all right!" she cried, and, touching her horse, flew off in front. "I hate dismal things. "

Shelton bit his lips. It was not his fault that half the world was dark. He knew her words were loosed against himself, and, as always at a signof her displeasure, was afraid. He galloped after her on the scorchedturf. 

"What is it?" he said. "You 're angry with me!"

"Oh no!"

"Darling, I can't help it if things are n't cheerful. We have eyes, " headded, quoting from the letter. 

Antonia did not look at him; but touched her horse again. 

"Well, I don't want to see the gloomy side, " she said, "and I can't seewhy YOU should. It's wicked to be discontented;" and she galloped off. 

It was not his fault if there were a thousand different kinds of men, athousand different points of view, outside the fence of her experience!"What business, " he thought, digging in his dummy spurs, "has our classto patronise? We 're the only people who have n't an idea of what lifereally means. " Chips of dried turf and dust came flying back, stinginghis face. He gained on her, drew almost within reach, then, as thoughshe had been playing with him, was left hopelessly behind. 

She stooped under the far hedge, fanning her flushed face withdock-leaves:

"Aha, Dick! I knew you'd never catch me" and she patted the chestnutmare, who turned her blowing muzzle with contemptuous humour towardsShelton's steed, while her flanks heaved rapturously, graduallydarkening with sweat. 

"We'd better take them steadily, " grunted Shelton, getting off andloosening his girths, "if we mean to get home at all. "

"Don't be cross, Dick!"

"We oughtn't to have galloped them like this; they 're not in condition. We'd better go home the way we came. "

Antonia dropped the reins, and straightened her back hair. 

"There 's no fun in that, " she said. "Out and back again; I hate a dog'swalk. "

"Very well, " said Shelton; he would have her longer to himself!

The road led up and up a hill, and from the top a vision of Saxonialay disclosed in waves of wood and pasture. Their way branched downa gateless glade, and Shelton sidled closer till his knee touched themare's off-flank. 

Antonia's profile conjured up visions. She was youth itself; her eyesso brilliant, and so innocent, her cheeks so glowing, and her browunruffled; but in her smile and in the setting of her jaw lurkedsomething resolute and mischievous. Shelton put his hand out to themare's mane. 

"What made you promise to marry me?" he said. 

She smiled. 

"Well, what made you?"

"I?" cried Shelton. 

She slipped her hand over his hand. 

"Oh, Dick!" she said. 

"I want, " he stammered, "to be everything to you. Do you think I shall?"

"Of course!"

Of course! The words seemed very much or very little. 

She looked down at the river, gleaming below the glade in a curvingsilver line. "Dick, there are such a lot of splendid things that wemight do. "

Did she mean, amongst those splendid things, that they might understandeach other; or were they fated to pretend to only, in the oldtime-honoured way?

They crossed the river by a ferry, and rode a long time in silence, while the twilight slowly fell behind the aspens. And all the beauty ofthe evening, with its restless leaves, its grave young moon, and lightedcampion flowers, was but a part of her; the scents, the witchery andshadows, the quaint field noises, the yokels' whistling, and the splashof water-fowl, each seemed to him enchanted. The flighting bats, theforms of the dim hayricks, and sweet-brier perfume-she summed themall up in herself. The fingermarks had deepened underneath her eyes, a languor came upon her; it made her the more sweet and youthful. Hershoulders seemed to bear on them the very image of our land--grave andaspiring, eager yet contained--before there came upon that land the grinof greed, the folds of wealth, the simper of content. Fair, unconscious, free!

And he was silent, with a beating heart. 

CHAPTER XXVI

THE BIRD 'OF PASSAGE

That night, after the ride, when Shelton was about to go to bed, hiseyes fell on Ferrand's letter, and with a sleepy sense of duty he beganto read it through a second time. In the dark, oak-panelled bedroom, hisfour-post bed, with back of crimson damask and its dainty sheets, waslighted by the candle glow; the copper pitcher of hot water in thebasin, the silver of his brushes, and the line of his well-polishedboots all shone, and Shelton's face alone was gloomy, staring at theyellowish paper in his hand. 

"The poor chap wants money, of course, " he thought. But why go onfor ever helping one who had no claim on him, a hopeless case, incurable--one whom it was his duty to let sink for the good of thecommunity at large? Ferrand's vagabond refinement had beguiled him intocharity that should have been bestowed on hospitals, or any charitablework but foreign missions. To give a helping hand, a bit of himself, anod of fellowship to any fellow-being irrespective of a claim, merelybecause he happened to be down, was sentimental nonsense! The linemust be drawn! But in the muttering of this conclusion he experienceda twinge of honesty. "Humbug! You don't want to part with your money, that's all!"

So, sitting down in shirt-sleeves at his writing table, he penned thefollowing on paper stamped with the Holm Oaks address and crest:

MY DEAR FERRAND, I am sorry you are having such a bad spell. You seem to be dead out ofluck. I hope by the time you get this things will have changed for thebetter. I should very much like to see you again and have a talk, butshall be away for some time longer, and doubt even when I get backwhether I should be able to run down and look you up. Keep me 'aucourant' as to your movements. I enclose a cheque. 

Yours sincerely, RICHARD SHELTON. 

Before he had written out the cheque, a moth fluttering round the candledistracted his attention, and by the time he had caught and put it outhe had forgotten that the cheque was not enclosed. The letter, removedwith his clothes before he was awake, was posted in an empty state. 

One morning a week later he was sitting in the smoking-room in thecompany of the gentleman called Mabbey, who was telling him how manygrouse he had deprived of life on August 12 last year, and how many heintended to deprive of life on August 12 this year, when the door wasopened, and the butler entered, carrying his head as though it held somefatal secret. 

"A young man is asking for you, sir, " he said to Shelton, bending downdiscreetly; "I don't know if you would wish to see him, sir. "

"A young man!" repeated Shelton; "what sort of a young man?"

"I should say a sort of foreigner, sir, " apologetically replied thebutler. "He's wearing a frock-coat, but he looks as if he had beenwalking a good deal. "

Shelton rose with haste; the description sounded to him ominous. 

"Where is he?"

"I put him in the young ladies' little room, sir. "

"All right, " said Shelton; "I 'll come and see him. Now, what thedeuce!" he thought, running down the stairs. 

It was with a queer commingling of pleasure and vexation that he enteredthe little chamber sacred to the birds, beasts, racquets, golf-clubs, and general young ladies' litter. Ferrand was standing underneath thecage of a canary, his hands folded on his pinched-up hat, a nervoussmile upon his lips. He was dressed in Shelton's old frock-coat, tightlybuttoned, and would have cut a stylish figure but far his look oftravel. He wore a pair of pince-nez, too, which somewhat veiled hiscynical blue eyes, and clashed a little with the pagan look of him. Inthe midst of the strange surroundings he still preserved that air ofknowing, and being master of, his fate, which was his chief attraction. 

"I 'm glad to see you, " said Shelton, holding out his hand. 

"Forgive this liberty, " began Ferrand, "but I thought it due toyou after all you've done for me not to throw up my efforts to getemployment in England without letting you know first. I'm entirely atthe end of my resources. "

The phrase struck Shelton as one that he had heard before. 

"But I wrote to you, " he said; "did n't you get my letter?"

A flicker passed across the vagrant's face; he drew the letter from hispocket and held it out. 

"Here it is, monsieur. "

Shelton stared at it. 

"Surely, " said he, "I sent a cheque?"

Ferrand did not smile; there was a look about him as though Shelton byforgetting to enclose that cheque had done him a real injury. 

Shelton could not quite hide a glance of doubt. 

"Of course, " he said, "I--I--meant to enclose a cheque. "

Too subtle to say anything, Ferrand curled his lip. "I am capable ofmuch, but not of that, " he seemed to say; and at once Shelton felt themeanness of his doubt. 

"Stupid of me, " he said. 

"I had no intention of intruding here, " said Ferrand; "I hoped to seeyou in the neighbourhood, but I arrive exhausted with fatigue. I'veeaten nothing since yesterday at noon, and walked thirty miles. " Heshrugged his shoulders. "You see, I had no time to lose before assuringmyself whether you were here or not. "

"Of course--" began Shelton, but again he stopped. 

"I should very much like, " the young foreigner went on, "for one of yourgood legislators to find himself in these country villages with a pennyin his pocket. In other countries bakers are obliged to sell you anequivalent of bread for a penny; here they won't sell you as much as acrust under twopence. You don't encourage poverty. "

"What is your idea now?" asked Shelton, trying to gain time. 

"As I told you, " replied Ferrand, "there 's nothing to be done atFolkestone, though I should have stayed there if I had had the moneyto defray certain expenses"; and again he seemed to reproach his patronwith the omission of that cheque. "They say things will certainly bebetter at the end of the month. Now that I know English well, I thoughtperhaps I could procure a situation for teaching languages. "

"I see, " said Shelton. 

As a fact, however, he was far from seeing; he literally did not knowwhat to do. It seemed so brutal to give Ferrand money and ask him toclear out; besides, he chanced to have none in his pocket. 

"It needs philosophy to support what I 've gone through this week, " saidFerrand, shrugging his shoulders. "On Wednesday last, when I receivedyour letter, I had just eighteen-pence, and at once I made a resolutionto come and see you; on that sum I 've done the journey. My strength isnearly at an end. "

Shelton stroked his chin. 

"Well, " he had just begun, "we must think it over, " when by Ferrand'sface he saw that some one had come in. He turned, and saw Antonia in thedoorway. "Excuse me, " he stammered, and, going to Antonia, drew her fromthe room. 

With a smile she said at once: "It's the young foreigner; I'm certain. Oh, what fun!"

"Yes, " answered Shelton slowly; "he's come to see me about getting somesort of tutorship or other. Do you think your mother would mind if Itook him up to have a wash? He's had a longish walk. And might he havesome breakfast? He must be hungry. "

"Of course! I'll tell Dobson. Shall I speak to mother? He looks nice, Dick. "

He gave her a grateful, furtive look, and went back to his guest; animpulse had made him hide from her the true condition of affairs. 

Ferrand was standing where he had been left his face still clothed inmordant impassivity. 

"Come up to my room!" said Shelton; and while his guest was washing, brushing, and otherwise embellishing his person, he stood reflectingthat Ferrand was by no means unpresentable, and he felt quite gratefulto him. 

He took an opportunity, when the young man's back was turned, ofexamining his counterfoils. There was no record, naturally, of a chequedrawn in Ferrand's favour. Shelton felt more mean than ever. 

A message came from Mrs. Dennant; so he took the traveller to thedining-room and left him there, while he himself went to the lady of thehouse. He met Antonia coming down. 

"How many days did you say he went without food that time--you know?"she asked in passing. 

"Four. "

"He does n't look a bit common, Dick. "

Shelton gazed at her dubiously. 

"They're surely not going to make a show of him!" he thought. 

Mrs. Dennant was writing, in a dark-blue dress starred over with whitespots, whose fine lawn collar was threaded with black velvet. 

"Have you seen the new hybrid Algy's brought me back from Kidstone? Isn't it charmin'?" and she bent her face towards this perfect rose. "Theysay unique; I'm awfully interested to find out if that's true. I've toldAlgy I really must have some. "

Shelton thought of the unique hybrid breakfasting downstairs; he wishedthat Mrs. Dennant would show in him the interest she had manifested inthe rose. But this was absurd of him, he knew, for the potent law ofhobbies controlled the upper classes, forcing them to take more interestin birds, and roses, missionaries, or limited and highly-bound editionsof old books (things, in a word, in treating which you knew exactlywhere you were) than in the manifestations of mere life that came beforetheir eyes. 

"Oh, Dick, about that young Frenchman. Antonia says he wants atutorship; now, can you really recommend him? There's Mrs. Robinson atthe Gateways wants someone to teach her boys languages; and, if hewere quite satisfactory, it's really time Toddles had a few lessons inFrench; he goes to Eton next half. "

Shelton stared at the rose; he had suddenly realised why it was thatpeople take more interest in roses than in human beings--one could do itwith a quiet heart. 

"He's not a Frenchman, you know, " he said to gain a little time. 

"He's not a German, I hope, " Mrs. Dennant answered, passing her forgersround a petal, to impress its fashion on her brain; "I don't likeGermans. Is n't he the one you wrote about--come down in the world? Sucha pity with so young a fellow! His father was a merchant, I think youtold us. Antonia says he 's quite refined to look at. "

"Oh, yes, " said Shelton, feeling on safe ground; "he's refined enough tolook at. "

Mrs. Dennant took the rose and put it to her nose. 

"Delicious perfume! That was a very touchin' story about his goin'without food in Paris. Old Mrs. Hopkins has a room to let; I should liketo do her a good turn. I'm afraid there's a hole in the ceilin', though. Or there's the room here in the left wing on the ground-floor where Johnthe footman used to sleep. It's quite nice; perhaps he could have that. "

"You 're awfully kind, " said Shelton, "but--"

"I should like to do something to restore his self-respect, ", wenton Mrs. Dennant, "if, as you say, he 's clever and all that. Seein' alittle refined life again might make a world of difference to him. It'sso sad when a young man loses self-respect. "

Shelton was much struck by the practical way in which she looked atthings. Restore his self-respect! It seemed quite a splendid notion! Hesmiled, and said, "You're too kind. I think--"

"I don't believe in doin' things by halves, " said Mrs. Dennant; "he doesn't drink, I suppose?"

"Oh, no, " said Shelton. "He's rather a tobacco maniac, of course. "

"Well, that's a mercy! You would n't believe the trouble I 've had withdrink, especially over cooks and coachmen. And now Bunyan's taken toit. "

"Oh, you'd have no trouble with Ferrand, " returned Shelton; "youcouldn't tell him from a gentleman as far as manners go. "

Mrs. Dennant smiled one of her rather sweet and kindly smiles. 

"My dear Dick, " she said, "there's not much comfort in that. Look atpoor Bobby Surcingle, look at Oliver Semples and Victor Medallion; youcould n't have better families. But if you 're sure he does n'tdrink! Algy 'll laugh, of course; that does n't matter--he laughs ateverything. "

Shelton felt guilty; being quite unprepared for so rapid an adoption ofhis client. 

"I really believe there's a lot of good in him, " he stammered; "but, ofcourse, I know very little, and from what he tells me he's had a verycurious life. I shouldn't like--"

"Where was he educated?" inquired Mrs. Dennant. "They have no publicschools in France, so I 've been told; but, of course, he can't helpthat, poor young fellow! Oh, and, Dick, there 's one thing--has herelations? One has always to be so careful about that. It 's one thingto help a young fellow, but quite another to help his family too. Onesees so many cases of that where men marry girls without money, don'tyou know. "

"He has told me, " answered Shelton, "his only relations are somecousins, and they are rich. "

Mrs. Dennant took out her handkerchief, and, bending above the rose, removed a tiny insect. 

"These green-fly get in everywhere, " she said. 

"Very sad story; can't they do anything for him?" and she maderesearches in the rose's heart. 

"He's quarrelled with them, I believe, " said Shelton; "I have n't likedto press him, about that. "

"No, of course not, " assented Mrs. Dennant absently--she had foundanother green-fly "I always think it's painful when a young man seems sofriendless. "

Shelton was silent; he was thinking deeply. He had never before felt sodistrustful of the youthful foreigner. 

"I think, " he said at last, "the best thing would be for you to see himfor yourself. "

"Very well, " said Mrs. Dennant. "I should be so glad if you would tellhim to come up. I must say I do think that was a most touchin' storyabout Paris. I wonder whether this light's strong enough now for me tophotograph this rose. "

Shelton withdrew and went down-stairs. Ferrand was still at breakfast. Antonia stood at the sideboard carving beef for him, and in the windowsat Thea with her Persian kitten. 

Both girls were following the traveller's movements with inscrutableblue eyes. A shiver ran down Shelton's spine. To speak truth, hecursed the young man's coming, as though it affected his relations withAntonia. 

CHAPTER XXVII

SUB ROSA

From the interview, which Shelton had the mixed delight of watching, between Ferrand and the Honourable Mrs. Dennant, certain definiteresults accrued, the chief of which was the permission accorded theyoung wanderer to occupy the room which had formerly been tenanted bythe footman John. Shelton was lost in admiration of Ferrand's manner inthis scene. . Its subtle combination of deference and dignity was almostparalysing; paralysing, too, the subterranean smile upon his lips. 

"Charmin' young man, Dick, " said Mrs. Dennant, when Shelton lingered tosay once more that he knew but very little of him; "I shall send a noteround to Mrs. Robinson at once. They're rather common, you know--theRobinsons. I think they'll take anyone I recommend. "

"I 'm sure they will, " said Shelton; "that's why I think you ought toknow--"

But Mrs. Dennant's eyes, fervent, hare-like, were fixed on somethingfar away; turning, he saw the rose in a tall vase on a tall and spindlystool. It seemed to nod towards them in the sunshine. Mrs. Dennant divedher nose towards her camera. 

"The light's perfect now, " she said, in a voice muffled by the cloth. "I feel sure that livin' with decent people will do wonders for him. Ofcourse, he understands that his meals will be served to him apart. "

Shelton, doubly anxious, now that his efforts had lodged his client in aplace of trust, fell, back on hoping for the best; his instinct told himthat, vagabond as Ferrand was, he had a curious self-respect, that wouldsave him from a mean ingratitude. 

In fact, as Mrs. Dennant, who was by no means void of common-sense, foresaw, the arrangement worked all right. Ferrand entered on his dutiesas French tutor to the little Robinsons. In the Dennants' household hekept himself to his own room, which, day and night, he perfumed withtobacco, emerging at noon into the garden, or, if wet, into the study, to teach young Toddles French. After a time it became customary for himto lunch with the house-party, partly through a mistake of Toddles, whoseemed to think that it was natural, and partly through John Noble, oneof Shelton's friends, who had come to stay, and discovered Ferrand to bea most awfully interesting person he was always, indeed, discoveringthe most awfully interesting persons. In his grave and toneless voice, brushing his hair from off his brow, he descanted upon Ferrand withenthusiasm, to which was joined a kind of shocked amusement, as whoshould say, "Of course, I know it's very odd, but really he 's such anawfully interesting person. " For John Noble was a politician, belongingto one of those two Peculiar parties, which, thoroughly in earnest, ofan honesty above suspicion, and always very busy, are constitutionallyaverse to anything peculiar for fear of finding they have oversteppedthe limit of what is practical in politics. As such he inspiredconfidence, not caring for things unless he saw some immediate benefitto be had from them, having a perfect sense of decency, and a smallimagination. He discussed all sorts of things with Ferrand; on oneoccasion Shelton overheard them arguing on anarchism. 

"No Englishman approves of murder, " Noble was saying, in the gloomyvoice that contrasted with the optimistic cast of his fine head, "butthe main principle is right. Equalisation of property is bound to come. I sympathise with then, not with their methods. "

"Forgive me, " struck in Ferrand; "do you know any anarchists?"

"No, " returned Noble; "I certainly do not. "

"You say you sympathise with them, but the first time it comes toaction--"

"Well?"

"Oh, monsieur! one doesn't make anarchism with the head. "

Shelton perceived that he had meant to add, "but with the heart, thelungs, the liver. " He drew a deeper meaning from the saying, and seemedto see, curling with the smoke from Ferrand's lips, the words: "What doyou, an English gentleman, of excellent position, and all the prejudicesof your class, know about us outcasts? If you want to understand us youmust be an outcast too; we are not playing at the game. "

This talk took place upon the lawn, at the end of one of Toddles'sFrench lessons, and Shelton left John Noble maintaining to the youthfulforeigner, with stubborn logic, that he, John Noble, and the anarchistshad much, in common. He was returning to the house, when someone calledhis name from underneath the holm oak. There, sitting Turkish fashion onthe grass, a pipe between his teeth, he found a man who had arrived thenight before, and impressed him by his friendly taciturnity. Hisname was Whyddon, and he had just returned from Central Africa; abrown-faced, large-jawed man, with small but good and steady eyes, andstrong, spare figure. 

"Oh, Mr. Shelton!" he said, "I wondered if you could tell me what tipsI ought to give the servants here; after ten years away I 've forgottenall about that sort of thing. "

Shelton sat down beside him; unconsciously assuming, too, a cross-leggedattitude, which caused him much discomfort. 

"I was listening, " said his new acquaintance, "to the little chaplearning his French. I've forgotten mine. One feels a hopeless dufferknowing no, languages. "

"I suppose you speak Arabic?" said Shelton. 

"Oh, Arabic, and a dialect or two; they don't count. That tutor has acurious face. "

"You think so?" said Shelton, interested. "He's had a curious life. "

The traveller spread his hands, palms downwards, on the grass and lookedat Shelton with, a smile. 

"I should say he was a rolling stone, " he said. "It 's odd, I' ve seenwhite men in Central Africa with a good deal of his look about them. 

"Your diagnosis is a good one, " answered Shelton. 

"I 'm always sorry for those fellows. There's generally some good inthem. They are their own enemies. A bad business to be unable to takepride in anything one does!" And there was a look of pity on his face. 

"That's exactly it, " said Shelton. "I 've often tried to put it intowords. Is it incurable?"

"I think so. "

"Can you tell me why?"

Whyddon pondered. 

"I rather think, " he said at last, "it must be because they have toostrong a faculty of criticism. You can't teach a man to be proud of hisown work; that lies in his blood "; folding his arms across his breast, he heaved a sigh. Under the dark foliage, his eyes on the sunlight, hewas the type of all those Englishmen who keep their spirits brightand wear their bodies out in the dark places of hard work. "You can'tthink, " he said, showing his teeth in a smile, "how delightful it is tobe at home! You learn to love the old country when you're away from it. "

Shelton often thought, afterwards; of this diagnosis of the vagabond, for he was always stumbling on instances of that power of subtlecriticism which was the young foreigner's prime claim to be "a mostawfully interesting" and perhaps a rather shocking person. 

An old school-fellow of Shelton's and his wife were staying in thehouse, who offered to the eye the picture of a perfect domesticity. Passionless and smiling, it was impossible to imagine they could everhave a difference. Shelton, whose bedroom was next to theirs, could hearthem in the mornings talking in exactly the tones they used at lunch, and laughing the same laughs. Their life seemed to accord them perfectsatisfaction; they were supplied with their convictions by Society justas, when at home, they were supplied with all the other necessaries oflife by some co-operative stores. Their fairly handsome faces, with thefairly kind expressions, quickly and carefully regulated by a sense ofcompromise, began to worry him so much that when in the same room hewould even read to avoid the need of looking at them. And yet they werekind--that is, fairly kind--and clean and quiet in the house, exceptwhen they laughed, which was often, and at things which made him want tohowl as a dog howls at music. 

"Mr. Shelton, " Ferrand said one day, "I 'm not an amateur ofmarriage--never had the chance, as you may well suppose; but, in anycase, you have some people in the house who would make me marktime before I went committing it. They seem the ideal young marriedpeople--don't quarrel, have perfect health, agree with everybody, go tochurch, have children--but I should like to hear what is beautiful intheir life, " and he grimaced. "It seems to me so ugly that I can onlygasp. I would much rather they ill-treated each other, just to show theyhad the corner of a soul between them. If that is marriage, 'Dieu m'engarde!'"

But Shelton did not answer; he was thinking deeply. 

The saying of John Noble's, "He's really a most interesting person, "grew more and more upon his nerves; it seemed to describe the Dennantattitude towards this stranger within their gates. They treated himwith a sort of wonder on the "don't touch" system, like an object inan exhibition. The restoration, however, of, his self-respect proceededwith success. For all the semblance of having grown too big forShelton's clothes, for all his vividly burnt face, and the quick butguarded play of cynicism on his lips--he did much credit to his patrons. He had subdued his terror of a razor, and looked well in a suit ofShelton's flannels. For, after all, he had only been eight years exiledfrom middle-class gentility, and he had been a waiter half that time. But Shelton wished him at the devil. Not for his manners' sake--he wasnever tired of watching how subtly the vagabond adapted his conduct tothe conduct of his hosts, while keeping up his critical detachment--butbecause that critical detachment was a constant spur to his own vision, compelling him to analyse the life into which, he had been born and wasabout to marry. This process was disturbing; and to find out when it hadcommenced, he had to go back to his meeting with Ferrand on the journeyup from Dover. 

There was kindness in a hospitality which opened to so strange a bird;admitting the kindness, Shelton fell to analysing it. To himself, topeople of his class, the use of kindness was a luxury, not significantof sacrifice, but productive of a pleasant feeling in the heart, suchas massage will setup in the legs. "Everybody's kind, " he thought; "thequestion is, What understanding is there, what real sympathy?" Thisproblem gave him food for thought. 

The progress, which Mrs. Dennant not unfrequently remarked upon, inFerrand's conquest of his strange position, seemed to Shelton but asign that he was getting what he could out of his sudden visit to greenpastures; under the same circumstances, Shelton thought that he himselfwould do the same. He felt that the young foreigner was making aconvenient bow to property, but he had more respect for the sarcasticsmile on the lips of Ferrand's heart. 

It was not long before the inevitable change came in the spirit of thesituation; more and more was Shelton conscious of a quaint uneasiness inthe very breathing of the household. 

"Curious fellow you've got hold of there, Shelton, " Mr. Dennant said tohim during a game of croquet; "he 'll never do any good for himself, I'mafraid. "

"In one sense I'm afraid not, " admitted Shelton. 

"Do you know his story? I will bet you sixpence"--and Mr. Dennant pausedto swing his mallet with a proper accuracy "that he's been in prison. "

"Prison!" ejaculated Shelton. 

"I think, " said Mr. Dennant, with bent knees carefully measuring hisnext shot, "that you ought to make inquiries--ah! missed it! Awkwardthese hoops! One must draw the line somewhere. "

"I never could draw, " returned Shelton, nettled and uneasy; "but Iunderstand--I 'll give him a hint to go. "

"Don't, " said Mr. Dennant, moving after his second ball, which Sheltonhad smitten to the farther end, "be offended, my dear Shelton, and by nomeans give him a hint; he interests me very much--a very clever, quietyoung fellow. "

That this was not his private view Shelton inferred by studying Mr. Dennant's manner in the presence of the vagabond. Underlying thewell-bred banter of the tranquil voice, the guarded quizzicality of hispale brown face, it could be seen that Algernon Cuffe Dennant, Esq. , J. P. , accustomed to laugh at other people, suspected that he was beinglaughed at. What more natural than that he should grope about to seehow this could be? A vagrant alien was making himself felt by an EnglishJustice of the Peace--no small tribute, this, to Ferrand's personality. The latter would sit silent through a meal, and yet make his effect. He, the object of their kindness, education, patronage, inspired their fear. There was no longer any doubt; it was not of Ferrand that they wereafraid, but of what they did not understand in him; of horrid subtletiesmeandering in the brain under that straight, wet-looking hair; ofsomething bizarre popping from the curving lips below that thin, lopsided nose. 

But to Shelton in this, as in all else, Antonia was what mattered. Atfirst, anxious to show her lover that she trusted him, she seemed nevertired of doing things for his young protege, as though she too had sether heart on his salvation; but, watching her eyes when they restedon the vagabond, Shelton was perpetually reminded of her saying on thefirst day of his visit to Holm Oaks, "I suppose he 's really good--Imean all these things you told me about were only. .. . "

Curiosity never left her glance, nor did that story of his four days'starving leave her mind; a sentimental picturesqueness clung about thatincident more valuable by far than this mere human being with whomshe had so strangely come in contact. She watched Ferrand, and Sheltonwatched her. If he had been told that he was watching her, he would havedenied it in good faith; but he was bound to watch her, to find outwith what eyes she viewed this visitor who embodied all the rebelliousunder-side of life, all that was absent in herself. 

"Dick, " she said to him one day, "you never talk to me of MonsieurFerrand. "

"Do you want to talk of him?"

"Don't you think that he's improved?"

"He's fatter. "

Antonia looked grave. 

"No, but really?"

"I don't know, " said Shelton; "I can't judge him. "

Antonia turned her face away, and something in her attitude alarmed him. 

"He was once a sort of gentleman, " she said; "why shouldn't he becomeone again?"

Sitting on the low wall of the kitchen-garden, her head was framed bygolden plums. The sun lay barred behind the foliage of the holm oak, but a little patch filtering through a gap had rested in the plum-tree'sheart. It crowned the girl. Her raiment, the dark leaves, the red wall, the golden plums, were woven by the passing glow to a block of pagancolour. And her face above it, chaste, serene, was like the scentlesssummer evening. A bird amongst the currant bushes kept a little chantvibrating; and all the plum-tree's shape and colour seemed alive. 

"Perhaps he does n't want to be a gentleman, " said Shelton. 

Antonia swung her foot. 

"How can he help wanting to?"

"He may have a different philosophy of life. "

Antonia was slow to answer. 

"I know nothing about philosophies of life, " she said at last. 

Shelton answered coldly, "No two people have the same. "

With the falling sun-glow the charm passed off the tree. Chilled andharder, yet less deep, it was no more a block of woven colour, warm andimpassive, like a southern goddess; it was now a northern tree, with agrey light through its leaves. 

"I don't understand you in the least, " she said; "everyone wishes to begood. "

"And safe?" asked Shelton gently. 

Antonia stared. 

"Suppose, " he said--"I don't pretend to know, I only suppose--whatFerrand really cares for is doing things differently from other people?If you were to load him with a character and give him money on conditionthat he acted as we all act, do you think he would accept it?"

"Why not?"

"Why are n't cats dogs; or pagans Christians?"

Antonia slid down from the wall. 

"You don't seem to think there 's any use in trying, " she said, andturned away. 

Shelton made a movement as if he would go after her, and then stoodstill, watching her figure slowly pass, her head outlined above thewall, her hands turned back across her narrow hips. She halted at thebend, looked back, then, with an impatient gesture, disappeared. 

Antonia was slipping from him!

A moment's vision from without himself would have shown him that itwas he who moved and she who was standing still, like the figure of onewatching the passage of a stream with clear, direct, and sullen eyes. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE RIVER

One day towards the end of August Shelton took Antonia on the river--theriver that, like soft music, soothes the land; the river of the reedsand poplars, the silver swan-sails, sun and moon, woods, and the whiteslumbrous clouds; where cuckoos, and the wind, the pigeons, and theweirs are always singing; and in the flash of naked bodies, the playof waterlily leaves, queer goblin stumps, and the twilight faces of thetwisted tree-roots, Pan lives once more. 

The reach which Shelton chose was innocent of launches, champagnebottles and loud laughter; it was uncivilised, and seldom troubled bythese humanising influences. He paddled slowly, silent and absorbed, watching Antonia. An unaccustomed languor clung about her; her eyeshad shadows, as though she had not slept; colour glowed softly in hercheeks, her frock seemed all alight with golden radiance. She madeShelton pull into the reeds, and plucked two rounded lilies sailing likeships against slow-moving water. 

"Pull into the shade, please, " she said; "it's too hot out here. "

The brim of her linen hat kept the sun from her face, but her head wasdrooping like a flower's head at noon. 

Shelton saw that the heat was really harming her, as too hot a day willdim the icy freshness of a northern plant. He dipped his sculls, theripples started out and swam in grave diminuendo till they touched thebanks. 

He shot the boat into a cleft, and caught the branches of an overhangingtree. The skiff rested, balancing with mutinous vibration, like a livingthing. 

"I should hate to live in London, " said Antonia suddenly; "the slumsmust be so awful. What a pity, when there are places like this! But it'sno good thinking. "

"No, " answered Shelton slowly! "I suppose it is no good. "

"There are some bad cottages at the lower end of Cross Eaton. I wentthem one day with Miss Truecote. The people won't help themselves. It'sso discouraging to help people who won't help themselves. "

She was leaning her elbows on her knees, and, with her chin resting onher hands, gazed up at Shelton. All around them hung a tent of soft, thick leaves, and, below, the water was deep-dyed with green refraction. Willow boughs, swaying above the boat, caressed Antonia's arms andshoulders; her face and hair alone were free. 

"So discouraging, " she said again. 

A silence fell. .. . Antonia seemed thinking deeply. 

"Doubts don't help you, " she said suddenly; "how can you get any goodfrom doubts? The thing is to win victories. "

"Victories?" said Shelton. "I 'd rather understand than conquer!"

He had risen to his feet, and grasped stunted branch, canting the boattowards the bank. 

"How can you let things slide like that, Dick? It's like Ferrand. "

"Have you such a bad opinion of him, then?" asked Shelton. He felt onthe verge of some, discovery. 

She buried her chin deeper in her hands. 

"I liked him at first, " she said; "I thought that he was different. Ithought he couldn't really be--"

"Really be what?"

Antonia did not answer. 

"I don't know, " she said at last. "I can't explain. I thought--"

Shelton still stood, holding to the branch, and the oscillation of theboat freed an infinity of tiny ripples. 

"You thought--what?" he said. 

He ought to have seen her face grow younger, more childish, even timid. She said in a voice smooth, round, and young:

"You know, Dick, I do think we ought to try. I know I don't tryhalf hard enough. It does n't do any good to think; when you think, everything seems so mixed, as if there were nothing to lay hold of. I doso hate to feel like that. It is n't as if we didn't know what's right. Sometimes I think, and think, and it 's all no good, only a waste oftime, and you feel at the end as if you had been doing wrong. "

Shelton frowned. 

"What has n't been through fire's no good, " he said; and, letting go thebranch, sat down. Freed from restraint, the boat edged out towards thecurrent. "But what about Ferrand?"

"I lay awake last night wondering what makes you like him so. He's sobitter; he makes me feel unhappy. He never seems content with anything. And he despises"--her face hardened--"I mean, he hates us all!"

"So should I if I were he, " said Shelton. 

The boat was drifting on, and gleams of sunlight chased across theirfaces. Antonia spoke again. 

"He seems to be always looking at dark things, or else he seems asif--as if he could--enjoy himself too much. I thought--I thought atfirst, " she stammered, "that we could do him good. "

"Do him good! Ha, ha!"

A startled rat went swimming for its life against the stream; andShelton saw that he had done a dreadful thing: he had let Antonia witha jerk into a secret not hitherto admitted even by himself--the secretthat her eyes were not his eyes, her way of seeing things not his norever would be. He quickly muffled up his laughter. Antonia had droppedher gaze; her face regained its languor, but the bosom of her dress washeaving. Shelton watched her, racking his brains to find excuses forthat fatal laugh; none could he find. It was a little piece of truth. Hepaddled slowly on, close to the bank, in the long silence of the river. 

The breeze had died away, not a fish was rising; save for the lostmusic of the larks no birds were piping; alone, a single pigeon at briefintervals cooed from the neighbouring wood. 

They did not stay much longer in the boat. 

On the homeward journey in the pony-cart, rounding a corner of the road, they came on Ferrand in his pince-nez, holding a cigarette between hisfingers and talking to a tramp, who was squatting on the bank. The youngforeigner recognised them, and at once removed his hat. 

"There he is, " said Shelton, returning the salute. 

Antonia bowed. 

"Oh!" she, cried, when they were out of hearing, "I wish he 'd go. Ican't bear to see him; it's like looking at the dark. "

CHAPTER XXIX

ON THE WING

That night, having gone up to his room, Shelton filled his pipe for hisunpleasant duty. He had resolved to hint to Ferrand that he had bettergo. He was still debating whether to write or go himself to the youngforeigner, when there came a knock and Ferrand himself appeared. 

"I should be sorry, " he said, breaking an awkward silence, "if you wereto think me ungrateful, but I see no future for me here. It wouldbe better for me to go. I should never be content to pass my life inteaching languages 'ce n'est guere dans mon caractre'. "

As soon as what he had been cudgelling his brains to find a way ofsaying had thus been said for him, Shelton experienced a sense ofdisapproval. 

"What do you expect to get that's better?" he said, avoiding Ferrand'seyes. 

"Thanks to your kindness, " replied the latter, "I find myself restored. I feel that I ought to make some good efforts to dominate my socialposition. "

"I should think it well over, if I were you!" said Shelton. 

"I have, and it seems to me that I'm wasting my time. For a man with anycourage languages are no career; and, though I 've many defects, I stillhave courage. "

Shelton let his pipe go out, so pathetic seemed to him this young man'sfaith in his career; it was no pretended faith, but neither was it, hefelt, his true motive for departure. "He's tired, " he thought; "that 'sit. Tired of one place. " And having the instinctive sense that nothingwould keep Ferrand, he redoubled his advice. 

"I should have thought, " he said, "that you would have done betterto have held on here and saved a little before going off to God knowswhat. "

"To save, " said Ferrand, "is impossible for me, but, thanks to you andyour good friends, I 've enough to make front to first necessities. I'm in correspondence with a friend; it's of great importance for me toreach Paris before all the world returns. I 've a chance to get, a postin one of the West African companies. One makes fortunes out there--ifone survives, and, as you know, I don't set too much store by life. "

"We have a proverb, " said Shelton, "'A bird in the hand is worth twobirds in the bush!'"

"That, " returned Ferrand, "like all proverbs, is just half true. This isan affair of temperament. It 's not in my character to dandle one whenI see two waiting to be caught; 'voyager, apprendre, c'est plus fort quemoi'. " He paused; then, with a nervous goggle of the eyes and an ironicsmile he said: "Besides, 'mon cher monsieur', it is better that I go. Ihave never been one to hug illusions, and I see pretty clearly that mypresence is hardly acceptable in this house. "

"What makes you say that?" asked, Shelton, feeling that the murder wasnow out. "

"My dear sir, all the world has not your understanding and your lack ofprejudice, and, though your friends have been extremely kind to me, Iam in a false position; I cause them embarrassment, which is notextraordinary when you reflect what I have been, and that they know myhistory. "

"Not through me, " said Shelton quickly, "for I don't know it myself. "

"It's enough, " the vagrant said, "that they feel I'm not a bird oftheir feather. They cannot change, neither can I. I have never wanted toremain where I 'm not welcome. "

Shelton turned to the window, and stared into the darkness; he wouldnever quite understand this vagabond, so delicate, so cynical, and hewondered if Ferrand had been swallowing down the words, "Why, even youwon't be sorry to see my back!"

"Well, " he said at last, "if you must go, you must. When do you start?"

"I 've arranged with a man to carry my things to the early train. Ithink it better not to say good-bye. I 've written a letter instead;here it is. I left it open for you to read if you should wish. "

"Then, " said Shelton, with a curious mingling of relief, regret, good-will, "I sha'n't see you again?"

Ferrand gave his hand a stealthy rub, and held it out. 

"I shall never forget what you have done for me, " he said. 

"Mind you write, " said Shelton. 

"Yes, yes"--the vagrant's face was oddly twisted--"you don't know whata difference it makes to have a correspondent; it gives one courage. Ihope to remain a long time in correspondence with you. "

"I dare say you do, " thought Shelton grimly, with a certain queeremotion. 

"You will do me the justice to remember that I have never asked you foranything, " said Ferrand. "Thank you a thousand times. Good-bye!"

He again wrung his patron's hand in his damp grasp, and, going out, leftShelton with an odd sensation in his throat. "You will do me the justiceto remember that I have never asked you for anything. " The phrase seemedstrange, and his mind flew back over all this queer acquaintanceship. It was a fact: from the beginning to the end the youth had never reallyasked for anything. Shelton sat down on his bed, and began to read theletter in his hand. It was in French. 

DEAR MADAME (it ran), It will be insupportable to me, after your kindness, if you take me forungrateful. Unfortunately, a crisis has arrived which plunges me intothe necessity of leaving your hospitality. In all lives, as you are wellaware, there arise occasions that one cannot govern, and I know that youwill pardon me that I enter into no explanation on an event which givesme great chagrin, and, above all, renders me subject to an imputationof ingratitude, which, believe me, dear Madame, by no means lies in mycharacter. I know well enough that it is a breach of politeness toleave you without in person conveying the expression of my profoundreconnaissance, but if you consider how hard it is for me to becompelled to abandon all that is so distinguished in domestic life, you will forgive my weakness. People like me, who have gone throughexistence with their eyes open, have remarked that those who are endowedwith riches have a right to look down on such as are not by wealth andbreeding fitted to occupy the same position. I shall never dispute aright so natural and salutary, seeing that without this distinction, this superiority, which makes of the well-born and the well-bred a raceapart, the rest of the world would have no standard by which to ruletheir lives, no anchor to throw into the depths of that vast sea offortune and of misfortune on which we others drive before the wind. It is because of this, dear Madame, that I regard myself so doublyfortunate to have been able for a few minutes in this bitter pilgrimagecalled life, to sit beneath the tree of safety. To have been able, ifonly for an hour, to sit and set the pilgrims pass, the pilgrims withthe blistered feet and ragged clothes, and who yet, dear Madame, guardwithin their hearts a certain joy in life, illegal joy, like the desertair which travellers will tell you fills men as with wine to be ablethus to sit an hour, and with a smile to watch them pass, lame andblind, in all the rags of their deserved misfortunes, can you notconceive, dear Madame, how that must be for such as I a comfort?Whatever one may say, it is sweet, from a position of security, to watchthe sufferings of others; it gives one a good sensation in the heart. 

In writing this, I recollect that I myself once had the chance ofpassing all my life in this enviable safety, and as you may suppose, dear Madame, I curse myself that I should ever have had the courage tostep beyond the boundaries of this fine tranquil state. Yet, too, therehave been times when I have asked myself: "Do we really differ from thewealthy--we others, birds of the fields, who have our own philosophy, grown from the pains of needing bread--we who see that the human heartis not always an affair of figures, or of those good maxims that onefinds in copy-books--do we really differ?" It is with shame that Iconfess to have asked myself a question so heretical. But now, when forthese four weeks I have had the fortune of this rest beneath your roof, I see how wrong I was to entertain such doubts. It is a great happinessto have decided once for all this point, for it is not in my characterto pass through life uncertain--mistaken, perhaps--on psychologicalmatters such as these. No, Madame; rest happily assured that there isa great difference, which in the future will be sacred for me. For, believe me, Madame, it would be calamity for high Society if by chancethere should arise amongst them any understanding of all that side oflife which--vast as the plains and bitter as the sea, black as the ashesof a corpse, and yet more free than any wings of birds who fly away--isso justly beyond the grasp of their philosophy. Yes, believe me, dearMadame, there is no danger in the world so much to be avoided by all themembers of that circle, most illustrious, most respectable, called highSociety. 

From what I have said you may imagine how hard it is for me to take myflight. I shall always keep for you the most distinguished sentiments. With the expression of my full regard for you and your good family, andof a gratitude as sincere as it is badly worded, Believe me, dear Madame, Your devoted

LOUIS FERRAND. 

Shelton's first impulse was to tear the letter up, but this he reflectedhe had no right to do. Remembering, too, that Mrs. Dennant's French wasorthodox, he felt sure she would never understand the young foreigner'ssubtle innuendoes. He closed the envelope and went to bed, haunted stillby Ferrand's parting look. 

It was with no small feeling of embarrassment, however, that, havingsent the letter to its destination by an early footman, he made hisappearance at the breakfast-table. Behind the Austrian coffee-urn, filled with French coffee, Mrs. Dennant, who had placed four eggs in aGerman egg-boiler, said "Good-morning, " with a kindly smile. 

"Dick, an egg?" she asked him, holding up a fifth. 

"No, thank you, " replied Shelton, greeting the table and fitting down. 

He was a little late; the buzz of conversation rose hilariously around. 

"My dear, " continued Mr. Dennant, who was talking to his youngestdaughter, "you'll have no chance whatever--not the least little bit ofchance. "

"Father, what nonsense! You know we shall beat your heads off!"

"Before it 's too late, then, I will eat a muffin. Shelton, pass themuffins!" But in making this request, Mr. Dennant avoided looking in hisface. 

Antonia, too, seemed to keep her eyes away from him. She was talkingto a Connoisseur on Art of supernatural appearances, and seemed inthe highest spirits. Shelton rose, and, going to the sideboard, helpedhimself to grouse. 

"Who was the young man I saw yesterday on the lawn?" he heard theConnoisseur remark. "Struck me as having an--er--quite intelligentphysiog. "

His own intelligent physiog, raised at a slight slant so that he mightlook the better through his nose-nippers, was the very pattern ofapproval. "It's curious how one's always meeting with intelligence;"it seemed to say. Mrs. Dennant paused in the act of adding cream, andShelton scrutinised her face; it was hare-like, and superior as ever. Thank goodness she had smelt no rat! He felt strangely disappointed. 

"You mean Monsieur Ferrand, teachin' Toddles French? Dobson, theProfessor's cup. "

"I hope I shall see him again, " cooed the Connoisseur; "he was quiteinteresting on the subject of young German working men. It seems theytramp from place to place to learn their trades. What nationality washe, may I ask?"

Mr. Dennant, of whom he asked this question, lifted his brows, and said, "Ask Shelton. "

"Half Dutch, half French. "

"Very interesting breed; I hope I shall see him again. "

"Well, you won't, " said Thea suddenly; "he's gone. "

Shelton saw that their good breeding alone prevented all from adding, "And thank goodness, too!"

"Gone? Dear me, it's very--"

"Yes, " said Mr. Dennant, "very sudden. "

"Now, Algie, " murmured Mrs. Dennant, "it 's quite a charmin' letter. Must have taken the poor young man an hour to write. "

"Oh, mother!" cried Antonia. 

And Shelton felt his face go crimson. He had suddenly remembered thather French was better than her mother's. 

"He seems to have had a singular experience, " said the Connoisseur. 

"Yes, " echoed Mr. Dennant; "he 's had some singular experience. If youwant to know the details, ask friend Shelton; it's quite romantic. Inthe meantime, my dear; another cup?"

The Connoisseur, never quite devoid of absent-minded malice, spurred hiscuriosity to a further effort; and, turning his well-defended eyes onShelton, murmured, "Well, Mr. Shelton, you are the historian, it seems. "

"There is no history, " said Shelton, without looking up. 

"Ah, that's very dull, " remarked the Connoisseur. 

"My dear Dick, " said Mrs. Dennant, "that was really a most touchin'story about his goin' without food in Paris. "

Shelton shot another look at Antonia; her face was frigid. "I hate yourd---d superiority!" he thought, staring at the Connoisseur. 

"There's nothing, " said that gentleman, "more enthralling thanstarvation. Come, Mr Shelton. "

"I can't tell stories, " said Shelton; "never could. "

He cared not a straw for Ferrand, his coming, going, or his history;for, looking at Antonia, his heart was heavy. 

CHAPTER XXX

THE LADY FROM BEYOND

The morning was sultry, brooding, steamy. Antonia was at her music, andfrom the room where Shelton tried to fix attention on a book he couldhear her practising her scales with a cold fury that cast an added gloomupon his spirit. He did not see her until lunch, and then she againsat next the Connoisseur. Her cheeks were pale, but there was somethingfeverish in her chatter to her neighbour; she still refused to look atShelton. He felt very miserable. After lunch, when most of them had leftthe table, the rest fell to discussing country neighbours. 

"Of course, " said Mrs. Dennant, "there are the Foliots; but nobody callson them. "

"Ah!" said the Connoisseur, "the Foliots--the Foliots--thepeople--er--who--quite so!"

"It's really distressin'; she looks so sweet ridin' about. Many peoplewith worse stories get called on, " continued Mrs. Dennant, with thatlarge frankness of intrusion upon doubtful subjects which may be made bycertain people in a certain way, "but, after all, one couldn't ask themto meet anybody. "

"No, " the Connoisseur assented. "I used to know Foliot. Thousand pities. They say she was a very pretty woman. "

"Oh, not pretty!" said Mrs. Dennant! "more interestin than pretty, Ishould say. "

Shelton, who knew the lady slightly, noticed that they spoke of heras in the past. He did not look towards Antonia; for, though a littletroubled at her presence while such a subject was discussed, he hatedhis conviction that her face, was as unruffled as though the Foliots hadbeen a separate species. There was, in fact, a curiosity about her eyes, a faint impatience on her lips; she was rolling little crumbs of bread. Suddenly yawning, she muttered some remark, and rose. Shelton stoppedher at the door. 

"Where are you going?"

"For a walk. "

"May n't I come?". 

She shook her head. 

"I 'm going to take Toddles. "

Shelton held the door open, and went back to the table. 

"Yes, " the Connoisseur said, sipping at his sherry, "I 'm afraid it'sall over with young Foliot. "

"Such a pity!" murmured Mrs. Dennant, and her kindly face looked quitedisturbed. "I've known him ever since he was a boy. Of course, I thinkhe made a great mistake to bring her down here. Not even bein' ableto get married makes it doubly awkward. Oh, I think he made a greatmistake!"

"Ah!" said the Connoisseur, "but d' you suppose that makes muchdifference? Even if What 's--his-name gave her a divorce, I don't think, don't you know, that--"

"Oh, it does! So many people would be inclined to look over it in time. But as it is it's hopeless, quite. So very awkward for people, too, meetin' them about. The Telfords and the Butterwicks--by the way, they're comin' here to dine to-night--live near them, don't you know. "

"Did you ever meet her before-er-before the flood?" the Connoisseurinquired; and his lips parting and unexpectedly revealing teeth gave hima shadowy resemblance to a goat. 

"Yes; I did meet her once at the Branksomes'. I thought her quite acharmin' person. "

"Poor fellow!" said the Connoisseur; "they tell me he was going to takethe hounds. "

"And there are his delightful coverts, too. Algie often used to shootthere, and now they say he just has his brother down to shoot with him. It's really quite too melancholy! Did you know him, Dick?"

"Foliot?" replied Shelton absently. "No; I never met him: I've seen heronce or twice at Ascot. "

Through the window he could see Antonia in her scarlet Tam-o'-shanter, swinging her stick, and he got up feigning unconcern. Just then Toddlescame bounding up against his sister. They went off arm in arm. She hadseen him at the window, yet she gave no friendly glance; Shelton feltmore miserable than ever. He stepped out upon the drive. There was alurid, gloomy canopy above; the elm-trees drooped their heavy blackishgreen, the wonted rustle of the aspen-tree was gone, even the rooks weresilent. A store of force lay heavy on the heart of nature. He startedpacing slowly up and down, his pride forbidding him to follow her, andpresently sat down on an old stone seat that faced the road. He stayed along time staring at the elms, asking himself what he had done and whathe ought to do. And somehow he was frightened. A sense of loneliness wason him, so real, so painful, that he shivered in the sweltering heat. Hewas there, perhaps, an hour, alone, and saw nobody pass along the road. Then came the sound of horse's hoofs, and at the same time he hearda motor-car approaching from the opposite direction. The rider madeappearance first, riding a grey horse with an Arab's high set headand tail. She was holding him with difficulty, for the whirr of theapproaching car grew every moment louder. Shelton rose; the car flashedby. He saw the horse stagger in the gate-way, crushing its rider upagainst the gatepost. 

He ran, but before he reached the gate the lady was on foot, holding theplunging horse's bridle. 

"Are you hurt?" cried Shelton breathlessly, and he, too, grabbed thebridle. "Those beastly cars!"

"I don't know, " she said. "Please don't; he won't let strangers touchhim. "

Shelton let go, and watched her coax the horse. She was rather tall, dressed in a grey habit, with a grey Russian cap upon her head, and hesuddenly recognised the Mrs. Foliot whom they had been talking of atlunch. 

"He 'll be quiet now, " she said, "if you would n't mind holding him aminute. "

She gave the reins to him, and leaned against the gate. She was verypale. 

"I do hope he has n't hurt you, " Shelton said. He was quite close toher, well able to see her face--a curious face with high cheek-bonesand a flatfish moulding, enigmatic, yet strangely passionate for all itslistless pallor. Her smiling, tightened lips were pallid; pallid, too, her grey and deep-set eyes with greenish tints; above all, pale the ashymass of hair coiled under her grey cap. 

"Th-thanks!" she said; "I shall be all right directly. I'm sorry to havemade a fuss. "

She bit her lips and smiled. 

"I 'm sure you're hurt; do let me go for--" stammered Shelton. "I caneasily get help. "

"Help!" she said, with a stony little laugh; "oh, no, thanks!"

She left the gate, and crossed the road to where he held the horse. Shelton, to conceal embarrassment, looked at the horse's legs, andnoticed that the grey was resting one of them. He ran his hand down. 

"I 'm afraid, " he said, "your horse has knocked his off knee; it'sswelling. "

She smiled again. 

"Then we're both cripples. "

"He'll be lame when he gets cold. Would n't you like to put him in thestable here? I 'm sure you ought to drive home. "

"No, thanks; if I 'm able to ride him he can carry me. Give me a handup. "

Her voice sounded as though something had offended her. Rising frominspection of the horse's leg, Shelton saw Antonia and Toddles standingby. They had come through a wicketgate leading from the fields. 

The latter ran up to him at once. 

"We saw it, " he whispered--"jolly smash-up. Can't I help?"

"Hold his bridle, " answered Shelton, and he looked from one lady to theother. 

There are moments when the expression of a face fixes itself withpainful clearness; to Shelton this was such a moment. Those two facesclose together, under their coverings of scarlet and of grey, showed acontrast almost cruelly vivid. Antonia was flushed, her eyes had growndeep blue; her look of startled doubt had passed and left a question inher face. 

"Would you like to come in and wait? We could send you home, in thebrougham, " she said. 

The lady called Mrs. Foliot stood, one arm across the crupper of hersaddle, biting her lips and smiling still her enigmatic smile, and itwas her face that stayed most vividly on Shelton's mind, its ashy hail, its pallor, and fixed, scornful eyes. 

"Oh, no, thanks! You're very kind. "

Out of Antonia's face the timid, doubting friendliness had fled, and wasreplaced by enmity. With a long, cold look at both of them she turnedaway. Mrs. Foliot gave a little laugh, and raised her foot for Shelton'shelp. He heard a hiss of pain as he swung her up, but when he looked ather she smiled. 

"Anyway, " he said impatiently, "let me come and see you don't breakdown. "

She shook her head. "It 's only two miles. I'm not made of sugar. "

"Then I shall simply have to follow. "

She shrugged her shoulders, fixing her resolute eyes on him. 

"Would that boy like to come?" she asked. 

Toddles left the horse's head. 

"By Jove!" he cried. "Would n't I just!"

"Then, " she said, "I think that will be best. You 've been so kind. "

She bowed, smiled inscrutably once more, touched the Arab with her whip, and started, Toddles trotting at her side. 

Shelton was left with Antonia underneath the elms. A sudden puff oftepid air blew in their faces, like a warning message from the heavy, purple heat clouds; low rumbling thunder travelled slowly from afar. 

"We're going to have a storm, " he said. 

Antonia nodded. She was pale now, and her face still wore its cold lookof offence. 

"I 've got a headache, " she said, "I shall go in and lie down. "

Shelton tried to speak, but something kept him silent--submission towhat was coming, like the mute submission of the fields and birds to themenace of the storm. 

He watched her go, and went back to his seat. And the silence seemed togrow; the flowers ceased to exude their fragrance, numbed by the weightyair. All the long house behind him seemed asleep, deserted. No noisecame forth, no laughter, the echo of no music, the ringing of no bell;the heat had wrapped it round with drowsiness. And the silence added tothe solitude within him. What an unlucky chance, that woman's accident!Designed by Providence to put Antonia further from him than before! Whywas not the world composed of the immaculate alone? He started pacing upand down, tortured by a dreadful heartache. 

"I must get rid of this, " he thought. "I 'll go for a good tramp, andchance the storm. "

Leaving the drive he ran on Toddles, returning in the highest spirits. 

"I saw her home, " he crowed. "I say, what a ripper, isn't she? She 'llbe as lame as a tree to-morrow; so will the gee. Jolly hot!"

This meeting showed Shelton that he had been an hour on the stone seat;he had thought it some ten minutes, and the discovery alarmed him. Itseemed to bring the import of his miserable fear right home to him. Hestarted with a swinging stride, keeping his eyes fixed on the road, theperspiration streaming down his face. 

CHAPTER XXXI

THE STORM

It was seven and more when Shelton returned, from his walk; a few heatdrops had splashed the leaves, but the storm had not yet broken. Inbrooding silence the world seemed pent beneath the purple firmament. 

By rapid walking in the heat Shelton had got rid of his despondency. Hefelt like one who is to see his mistress after long estrangement. He, bathed, and, straightening his tie-ends, stood smiling at the glass. Hisfear, unhappiness, and doubts seemed like an evil dream; how much worseoff would he not have been, had it all been true?

It was dinner-party night, and when he reached the drawing-room theguests were there already, chattering of the coming storm. Antonia wasnot yet down, and Shelton stood by the piano waiting for her entry. Redfaces, spotless shirt-fronts, white arms; and freshly-twisted hair wereall around him. Some one handed him a clove carnation, and, as he heldit to his nose, Antonia came in, breathless, as though she had rusheddown-stairs, Her cheeks were pale no longer; her hand kept stealing toher throat. The flames of the coming storm seemed to have caught firewithin her, to be scorching her in her white frock; she passed himclose, and her fragrance whipped his senses. 

She had never seemed to him so lovely. 

Never again will Shelton breathe the perfume of melons and pineappleswithout a strange emotion. From where he sat at dinner he could not seeAntonia, but amidst the chattering of voices, the clink of glass andsilver, the sights and sounds and scents of feasting, he thought how hewould go to her and say that nothing mattered but her love. He drank thefrosted, pale-gold liquid of champagne as if it had been water. 

The windows stood wide open in the heat; the garden lay in thick, softshadow, where the pitchy shapes of trees could be discerned. There wasnot a breath of air to fan the candle-flames above the flowers; but twolarge moths, fearful of the heavy dark, flew in and wheeled between thelights over the diners' heads. One fell scorched into a dish of fruit, and was removed; the other, eluding all the swish of napkins and theefforts of the footmen, continued to make soft, fluttering rushes tillShelton rose and caught it in his hand. He took it to the window andthrew it out into the darkness, and he noticed that the air was thickand tepid to his face. At a sign from Mr. Dennant the muslin curtainswere then drawn across the windows, and in gratitude, perhaps, for thisprotection, this filmy barrier between them and the muffled threatsof Nature, everyone broke out in talk. It was such a night as comesin summer after perfect weather, frightening in its heat, and silence, which was broken by the distant thunder travelling low along the groundlike the muttering of all dark places on the earth--such a night asseems, by very breathlessness, to smother life, and with its fatefulthreats to justify man's cowardice. 

The ladies rose at last. The circle of the rosewood dining-table, whichhad no cloth, strewn with flowers and silver gilt, had a likeness tosome autumn pool whose brown depths of oily water gleam under thesunset with red and yellow leaves; above it the smoke of cigarettes wasclinging, like a mist to water when the sun goes down. Shelton becameinvolved in argument with his neighbour on the English character. 

"In England we've mislaid the recipe of life, " he said. "Pleasure's alost art. We don't get drunk, we're ashamed of love, and as to beauty, we've lost the eye for' it. In exchange we have got money, but what 'sthe good of money when we don't know how to spend it?" Excited by hisneighbour's smile, he added: "As to thought, we think so much of whatour neighbours think that we never think at all. .. . Have you everwatched a foreigner when he's listening to an Englishman? We 're in thehabit of despising foreigners; the scorn we have for them is nothing tothe scorn they have for us. And they are right! Look at our taste! Whatis the good of owning riches if we don't know how to use them?"

"That's rather new to me, " his neighbour said. "There may be somethingin it. .. . Did you see that case in the papers the other day of oldHornblower, who left the 1820 port that fetched a guinea a bottle? Whenthe purchaser--poor feller!--came to drink it he found eleven bottlesout of twelve completely ullaged--ha! ha! Well, there's nothing wrongwith this"; and he drained his glass. 

"No, " answered Shelton. 

When they rose to join the ladies, he slipped out on the lawn. 

At once he was enveloped in a bath of heat. A heavy odour, sensual, sinister, was in the air, as from a sudden flowering of amorous shrubs. He stood and drank it in with greedy nostrils. Putting his hand down, hefelt the grass; it was dry, and charged with electricity. Then he saw, pale and candescent in the blackness, three or four great lilies, theauthors of that perfume. The blossoms seemed to be rising at himthrough the darkness; as though putting up their faces to be kissed. Hestraightened himself abruptly and went in. 

The guests were leaving when Shelton, who was watching; saw Antonia slipthrough the drawing-room window. He could follow the white glimmerof her frock across the lawn, but lost it in the shadow of the trees;casting a hasty look to see that he was not observed, he too slippedout. The blackness and the heat were stifling he took great breaths ofit as if it were the purest mountain air, and, treading softly on thegrass, stole on towards the holm oak. His lips were dry, his heart beatpainfully. The mutter of the distant thunder had quite ceased; waves ofhot air came wheeling in his face, and in their midst a sudden rush ofcold. He thought, "The storm is coming now!" and stole on towards thetree. She was lying in the hammock, her figure a white blur in, theheart of the tree's shadow, rocking gently to a little creaking of thebranch. Shelton held his breath; she had not heard him. He crept upclose behind the trunk till he stood in touch of her. "I mustn't startleher, " he thought. "Antonia!"

There was a faint stir in the hammock, but no answer. He stood overher, but even then he could not see her face; he only, had a sense ofsomething breathing and alive within a yard of him--of something warmand soft. He whispered again, "Antonia!" but again there came no answer, and a sort of fear and frenzy seized on him. He could no longer hear herbreathe; the creaking of the branch had ceased. What was passing inthat silent, living creature there so close? And then he heard again thesound of breathing, quick and scared, like the fluttering of a bird; ina moment he was staring in the dark at an empty hammock. 

He stayed beside the empty hammock till he could bear uncertainty nolonger. But as he crossed the lawn the sky was rent from end to endby jagged lightning, rain spattered him from head to foot, and with adeafening crack the thunder broke. 

He sought the smoking-room, but, recoiling at the door, went to hisown room, and threw himself down on the bed. The thunder groaned andsputtered in long volleys; the lightning showed him the shapes of thingswithin the room, with a weird distinctness that rent from them alllikeness to the purpose they were made for, bereaved them of utility, of their matter-of-factness, presented them as skeletons, abstractions, with indecency in their appearance, like the naked nerves and sinewsof a leg preserved in, spirit. The sound of the rain against the housestunned his power of thinking, he rose to shut his windows; then, returning to his bed, threw himself down again. He stayed there till thestorm was over, in a kind of stupor; but when the boom of the retreatingthunder grew every minute less distinct, he rose. Then for the firsttime he saw something white close by the door. 

It was a note:

I have made a mistake. Please forgive me, and go away. --ANTONIA. 

CHAPTER XXXII

WILDERNESS

When he had read this note, Shelton put it down beside his sleeve-linkson his dressing table, stared in the mirror at himself, and laughed. Buthis lips soon stopped him laughing; he threw himself upon his bed andpressed his face into the pillows. He lay there half-dressed throughoutthe night, and when he rose, soon after dawn, he had not made his mindup what to do. The only thing he knew for certain was that he must notmeet Antonia. 

At last he penned the following:

I have had a sleepless night with toothache, and think it best to run upto the dentist at once. If a tooth must come out, the sooner the better. 

He addressed it to Mrs. Dennant, and left it on his table. After doingthis he threw himself once more upon his bed, and this time fell into adoze. 

He woke with a start, dressed, and let himself quietly out. The likenessof his going to that of Ferrand struck him. "Both outcasts now, " hethought. 

He tramped on till noon without knowing or caring where he went; then, entering a field, threw himself down under the hedge, and fell asleep. 

He was awakened by a whirr. A covey of partridges, with wings glisteningin the sun, were straggling out across the adjoining field of mustard. They soon settled in the old-maidish way of partridges, and began tocall upon each other. 

Some cattle had approached him in his sleep, and a beautiful bay cow, with her head turned sideways, was snuffing at him gently, exhaling herpeculiar sweetness. She was as fine in legs and coat as any race-horse. She dribbled at the corners of her black, moist lips; her eye was softand cynical. Breathing the vague sweetness of the mustard-field, rubbingdry grasp-stalks in his fingers, Shelton had a moment's happiness--thehappiness of sun and sky, of the eternal quiet, and untold movements ofthe fields. Why could not human beings let their troubles be as this cowleft the flies that clung about her eyes? He dozed again, and woke upwith a laugh, for this was what he dreamed:

He fancied he was in a room, at once the hall and drawing-room of somecountry house. In the centre of this room a lady stood, who was lookingin a hand-glass at her face. Beyond a door or window could be seena garden with a row of statues, and through this door people passedwithout apparent object. 

Suddenly Shelton saw his mother advancing to the lady with thehand-glass, whom now he recognised as Mrs. Foliot. But, as he looked, his mother changed to Mrs. Dennant, and began speaking in a voice thatwas a sort of abstract of refinement. "Je fais de la philosophic, " itsaid; "I take the individual for what she's worth. I do not condemn;above all, one must have spirit!" The lady with the mirror continuedlooking in the glass; and, though he could not see her face, he couldsee its image-pale, with greenish eyes, and a smile like scorn itself. Then, by a swift transition, he was walking in the garden talking toMrs. Dennant. 

It was from this talk that he awoke with laughter. "But, " she had beensaying, "Dick, I've always been accustomed to believe what I wastold. It was so unkind of her to scorn me just because I happen tobe second-hand. " And her voice awakened Shelton's pity; it was likea frightened child's. "I don't know what I shall do if I have to formopinions for myself. I was n't brought up to it. I 've always had themnice and secondhand. How am I to go to work? One must believe what otherpeople do; not that I think much of other people, but, you do know whatit is--one feels so much more comfortable, " and her skirts rustled. "But, Dick, whatever happens"--her voice entreated--"do let Antonia gether judgments secondhand. Never mind for me--if I must form opinions formyself, I must--but don't let her; any old opinions so long as they areold. It 's dreadful to have to think out new ones for oneself. " And heawoke. His dream had had in it the element called Art, for, in its grossabsurdity, Mrs. Dennant had said things that showed her soul more fullythan anything she would have said in life. 

"No, " said a voice quite close, behind the hedge, "not many Frenchmen, thank the Lord! A few coveys of Hungarians over from the Duke's. SirJames, some pie?"

Shelton raised himself with drowsy curiosity--still half asleep--andapplied his face to a gap in the high, thick osiers of the hedge. Fourmen were seated on camp-stools round a folding-table, on which was a pieand other things to eat. A game-cart, well-adorned with birds and hares, stood at a short distance; the tails of some dogs were seen movinghumbly, and a valet opening bottles. Shelton had forgotten that it was"the first. " The host was a soldierly and freckled man; an older man satnext him, square-jawed, with an absent-looking eye and sharpened nose;next him, again, there was a bearded person whom they seemed to call theCommodore; in the fourth, to his alarm, Shelton recognised the gentlemancalled Mabbey. It was really no matter for surprise to meet him milesfrom his own place, for he was one of those who wander with a valet andtwo guns from the twelfth of August to the end of January, and are thensupposed to go to Monte Carlo or to sleep until the twelfth of Augustcomes again. 

He was speaking. 

"Did you hear what a bag we made on the twelfth, Sir James?"

"Ah! yes; what was that? Have you sold your bay horse, Glennie?"

Shelton had not decided whether or no to sneak away, when theCommodore's thick voice began:

"My man tellsh me that Mrs. Foliot--haw--has lamed her Arab. Does shemean to come out cubbing?"

Shelton observed the smile that came on all their faces. "Foliot 'spaying for his good time now; what a donkey to get caught!" it seemed tosay. He turned his back and shut his eyes. 

"Cubbing?" replied Glennie; "hardly. "

"Never could shee anything wonderful in her looks, " went on theCommodore; "so quiet, you never knew that she was in the room. Iremember sayin' to her once, 'Mrs. Lutheran, now what do you like beshtin all the world?' and what do you think she answered? 'Music!' Haw!"

The voice of Mabbey said:

"He was always a dark horse, Foliot: It 's always the dark horses thatget let in for this kind of thing"; and there was a sound as though helicked his lips. 

"They say, " said the voice of the host, "he never gives you back agreeting now. Queer fish; they say that she's devoted to him. "

Coming so closely on his meeting with this lady, and on the dream fromwhich he had awakened, this conversation mesmerised the listener behindthe hedge. 

"If he gives up his huntin' and his shootin', I don't see what the deucehe 'll do; he's resigned his clubs; as to his chance of Parliament--"said the voice of Mabbey. 

"Thousand pities, " said Sir James; "still, he knew what to expect. "

"Very queer fellows, those Foliots, " said the Commodore. "There was hisfather: he 'd always rather talk to any scarecrow he came across than toyou or me. Wonder what he'll do with all his horses; I should like thatchestnut of his. "

"You can't tell what a fellow 'll do, " said the voice of Mabbey--"taketo drink or writin' books. Old Charlie Wayne came to gazin' at stars, and twice a week he used to go and paddle round in Whitechapel, teachin'pothooks--"

"Glennie, " said Sir James, "what 's become of Smollett, your oldkeeper?"

"Obliged to get rid of him. " Shelton tried again to close his ears, butagain he listened. "Getting a bit too old; lost me a lot of eggs lastseason. "

"Ah!" said the Commodore, "when they oncesh begin to lose eggsh--"

"As a matter of fact, his son--you remember him, Sir James, he used toload for you?--got a girl into trouble; when her people gave her thechuck old Smollet took her in; beastly scandal it made, too. The girlrefused to marry Smollett, and old Smollett backed her up. Naturally, the parson and the village cut up rough; my wife offered to get her intoone of those reformatory what-d' you-call-'ems, but the old fellow saidshe should n't go if she did n't want to. Bad business altogether; puthim quite off his stroke. I only got five hundred pheasants last yearinstead of eight. "

There was a silence. Shelton again peeped through the hedge. All wereeating pie. 

"In Warwickshire, " said the Commodore, "they always marry--haw--and livereshpectable ever after. "

"Quite so, " remarked the host; "it was a bit too thick, her refusing tomarry him. She said he took advantage of her. "

"She's sorry by this time, " said Sir James; "lucky escape for youngSmollett. Queer, the obstinacy of some of these old fellows!"

"What are we doing after lunch?" asked the Commodore. 

"The next field, " said the host, "is pasture. We line up along thehedge, and drive that mustard towards the roots; there ought to be agood few birds. "

"Shelton rose, and, crouching, stole softly to the gate:

"On the twelfth, shootin' in two parties, " followed the voice of Mabbeyfrom the distance. 

Whether from his walk or from his sleepless night, Shelton seemed toache in every limb; but he continued his tramp along the road. He wasno nearer to deciding what to do. It was late in the afternoon when hereached Maidenhead, and, after breaking fast, got into a London trainand went to sleep. At ten o'clock that evening he walked into St. James's Park and there sat down. 

The lamplight dappled through the tired foliage on to these bencheswhich have rested many vagrants. Darkness has ceased to be the lawfulcloak of the unhappy; but Mother Night was soft and moonless, and manhad not despoiled her of her comfort, quite. 

Shelton was not alone upon the seat, for at the far end was sittinga young girl with a red, round, sullen face; and beyond, and furtherstill, were dim benches and dim figures sitting on them, as thoughlife's institutions had shot them out in an endless line of rubbish. 

"Ah!" thought Shelton, in the dreamy way of tired people; "theinstitutions are all right; it's the spirit that's all--"

"Wrong?" said a voice behind him; "why, of course! You've taken thewrong turn, old man. "

He saw a policeman, with a red face shining through the darkness, talking to a strange old figure like some aged and dishevelled bird. 

"Thank you, constable, " the old man said, "as I've come wrong I'll takea rest. " Chewing his gums, he seemed to fear to take the liberty ofsitting down. 

Shelton made room, and the old fellow took the vacant place. 

"You'll excuse me, sir, I'm sure, " he said in shaky tones, and snatchingat his battered hat; "I see you was a gentleman"--and lovingly he dweltupon the word--"would n't disturb you for the world. I'm not used tobeing out at night, and the seats do get so full. Old age must lean onsomething; you'll excuse me, sir, I 'm sure. "

"Of course, " said Shelton gently. 

"I'm a respectable old man, really, " said his neighbour; "I never took aliberty in my life. But at my age, sir, you get nervous; standin'about the streets as I been this last week, an' sleepin' in themdoss-houses--Oh, they're dreadful rough places--a dreadful rough lotthere! Yes, " the old man said again, as Shelton turned to look at him, struck by the real self-pity in his voice, "dreadful rough places!"

A movement of his head, which grew on a lean, plucked neck like that ofan old fowl, had brought his face into the light. It was long, andrun to seed, and had a large, red nose; its thin, colourless lips weretwisted sideways and apart, showing his semi-toothless mouth; and hiseyes had that aged look of eyes in which all colour runs into a thinrim round the iris; and over them kept coming films like the films overparrots' eyes. He was, or should have been, clean-shaven. His hair--forhe had taken off his hat was thick and lank, of dusty colour, as far ascould be seen, without a speck of grey, and parted very beautifully justabout the middle. 

"I can put up with that, " he said again. "I never interferes withnobody, and nobody don't interfere with me; but what frightens me"--hisvoice grew steady, as if too terrified to shake, "is never knowin' day today what 's to become of yer. Oh, that 'a dreadful, that is!"

"It must be, " answered Shelton. 

"Ah! it is, " the old man said; "and the winter cumin' on. I never wasmuch used to open air, bein' in domestic service all my life; but Idon't mind that so long as I can see my way to earn a livin'. Well, thank God! I've got a job at last"; and his voice grew cheerfulsuddenly. "Sellin' papers is not what I been accustomed to; but theWestminister, they tell me that's one of the most respectable of theevenin' papers--in fact, I know it is. So now I'm sure to get on; I tryhard. "

"How did you get the job?" asked Shelton. 

"I 've got my character, " the old fellow said, making a gesture witha skinny hand towards his chest, as if it were there he kept hischaracter. 

"Thank God, nobody can't take that away! I never parts from that"; andfumbling, he produced a packet, holding first one paper to the light, and then another, and he looked anxiously at Shelton. "In that housewhere I been sleepin' they're not honest; they 've stolen a parcel of mythings--a lovely shirt an' a pair of beautiful gloves a gentleman gaveme for holdin' of his horse. Now, would n't you prosecute 'em, sir?"

"It depends on what you can prove. "

"I know they had 'em. A man must stand up for his rights; that's onlyproper. I can't afford to lose beautiful things like them. I think Iought to prosecute, now, don't you, sir?"

Shelton restrained a smile. 

"There!" said the old man, smoothing out a piece of paper shakily, "that's Sir George!" and his withered finger-tips trembled on the middleof the page: 'Joshua Creed, in my service five years as butler, duringwhich time I have found him all that a servant should be. ' And this'ere'--he fumbled with another--"this 'ere 's Lady Glengow: 'JoshuaCreed--' I thought I'd like you to read 'em since you've been so kind. "

"Will you have a pipe?"

"Thank ye, sir, " replied the aged butler, filling his clay fromShelton's pouch; then, taking a front tooth between his finger and histhumb, he began to feel it tenderly, working it to and fro with a sortof melancholy pride. 

"My teeth's a-comin' out, " he said; "but I enjoys pretty good health fora man of my age. "

"How old is that?"

"Seventy-two! Barrin' my cough, and my rupture, and this 'ereaffliction"--he passed his hand over his face--"I 've nothing tocomplain of; everybody has somethink, it seems. I'm a wonder for my age, I think. "

Shelton, for all his pity, would have given much to laugh. 

"Seventy-two!" he said; "yes, a great age. You remember the country whenit was very different to what it is now?"

"Ah!" said the old butler, "there was gentry then; I remember themdrivin' down to Newmarket (my native place, sir) with their own horses. There was n't so much o' these here middle classes then. There was more, too, what you might call the milk o' human kindness in people then--noneo' them amalgamated stores, every man keepin' his own little shop; notso eager to cut his neighbour's throat, as you might say. And then lookat the price of bread! O dear! why, it is n't a quarter what it was!"

"And are people happier now than they were then?" asked Shelton. 

The old butler sucked his pipe. 

"No, " he answered, shaking his old head; "they've lost the contentedspirit. I see people runnin' here and runnin' there, readin' books, findin' things out; they ain't not so self-contented as they were. "

"Is that possible?" thought Shelton. 

"No, " repeated the old man, again sucking at his pipe, and this timeblowing out a lot of smoke; "I don't see as much happiness about, notthe same look on the faces. 'T isn't likely. See these 'ere motorcars, too; they say 'orses is goin' out"; and, as if dumbfounded at his ownconclusion, he sat silent for some time, engaged in the lighting andrelighting of his pipe. 

The girl at the far end stirred, cleared her throat, and settled downagain; her movement disengaged a scent of frowsy clothes. The policemanhad approached and scrutinised these ill-assorted faces; his glance wasjovially contemptuous till he noticed Shelton, and then was modified bycuriosity. 

"There's good men in the police, " the aged butler said, when thepoliceman had passed on--"there's good men in the police, as good men asyou can see, and there 's them that treats you like the dirt--a dreadfullow class of man. Oh dear, yes! when they see you down in the world, they think they can speak to you as they like; I don't give them nochance to worry me; I keeps myself to myself, and speak civil to all theworld. You have to hold the candle to them; for, oh dear! if they 'recrossed--some of them--they 're a dreadful unscrup'lous lot of men!"

"Are you going to spend the night here?"

"It's nice and warm to-night, " replied the aged butler. "I said to theman at that low place I said: 'Don't you ever speak to me again, ' Isaid, 'don't you come near me!' Straightforward and honest 's beenmy motto all my life; I don't want to have nothing to say to them lowfellows"--he made an annihilating gesture--"after the way they treatedme, takin' my things like that. Tomorrow I shall get a room for threeshillin's a week, don't you think so, sir? Well, then I shall be allright. I 'm not afraid now; the mind at rest. So long as I ran keepmyself, that's all I want. I shall do first-rate, I think"; and hestared at Shelton, but the look in his eyes and the half-scared optimismof his voice convinced the latter that he lived in dread. "So long as Ican keep myself, " he said again, "I sha'n't need no workhouse nor loserespectability. "

"No, " thought Shelton; and for some time sat without a word. "When youcan;" he said at last, "come and see me; here's my card. "

The aged butler became conscious with a jerk, for he was nodding. 

"Thank ye, sir; I will, " he said, with pitiful alacrity. "Down byBelgravia? Oh, I know it well; I lived down in them parts with agentleman of the name of Bateson--perhaps you knew him; he 's deadnow--the Honourable Bateson. Thank ye, sir; I'll be sure to come"; and, snatching at his battered hat, he toilsomely secreted Shelton's cardamongst his character. A minute later he began again to nod. 

The policeman passed a second time; his gaze seemed to say, "Now, what'sa toff doing on that seat with those two rotters?" And Shelton caughthis eye. 

"Ah!" he thought; "exactly! You don't know what to make of me--a man ofmy position sitting here! Poor devil! to spend your days in spying onyour fellow-creatures! Poor devil! But you don't know that you 're apoor devil, and so you 're not one. "

The man on the next bench sneezed--a shrill and disapproving sneeze. 

The policeman passed again, and, seeing that the lower creatures wereboth dozing, he spoke to Shelton:

"Not very safe on these 'ere benches, sir, " he said; "you never knowwho you may be sittin' next to. If I were you, sir, I should be gettin'on--if you 're not goin' to spend the night here, that is"; and helaughed, as at an admirable joke. 

Shelton looked at him, and itched to say, "Why shouldn't I?" but itstruck him that it would sound very odd. "Besides, " he thought, "I shallonly catch a cold"; and, without speaking, he left the seat, and wentalong towards his rooms. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE END

He reached his rooms at midnight so exhausted that, without waitingto light up, he dropped into a chair. The curtains and blinds had beenremoved for cleaning, and the tall windows admitted the night's staringgaze. Shelton fixed his eyes on that outside darkness, as one lost manmight fix his eyes upon another. 

An unaired, dusty odour clung about the room, but, like some God-sentwhiff of grass or flowers wafted to one sometimes in the streets, aperfume came to him, the spice from the withered clove carnation stillclinging, to his button-hole; and he suddenly awoke from his queertrance. There was a decision to be made. He rose to light a candle;the dust was thick on everything he touched. "Ugh!" he thought, "howwretched!" and the loneliness that had seized him on the stone seat atHolm Oaks the day before returned with fearful force. 

On his table, heaped without order, were a pile of bills and circulars. He opened them, tearing at their covers with the random haste of menback from their holidays. A single long envelope was placed apart. 

MY DEAR DICK [he read], I enclose you herewith the revised draft of your marriage settlement. Itis now shipshape. Return it before the end of the week, and I will haveit engrossed for signature. I go to Scotland next Wednesday for a month;shall be back in good time for your wedding. My love to your mother whenyou see her. 

Your-affectionate uncle, EDMUND PARAMOR. 

Shelton smiled and took out the draft. 

"This Indenture made the -- day of 190-, between Richard ParamorShelton--"

He put it down and sank back in his chair, the chair in which theforeign vagrant had been wont to sit on mornings when he came to preachphilosophy. 

He did not stay there long, but in sheer unhappiness got up, and, takinghis candle, roamed about the room, fingering things, and gazing in themirror at his face, which seemed to him repulsive in its wretchedness. He went at last into the hall and opened the door, to go downstairsagain into the street; but the sudden certainty that, in street orhouse, in town or country, he would have to take his trouble with him, made him shut it to. He felt in the letterbox, drew forth a letter, andwith this he went back to the sitting-room. 

It was from Antonia. And such was his excitement that he was forced totake three turns between the window and the wall before he could read;then, with a heart beating so that he could hardly hold the paper, hebegan:

I was wrong to ask you to go away. I see now that it was breaking mypromise, and I did n't mean to do that. I don't know why things havecome to be so different. You never think as I do about anything. 

I had better tell you that that letter of Monsieur Ferrand's to motherwas impudent. Of course you did n't know what was in it; but whenProfessor Brayne was asking you about him at breakfast, I felt that youbelieved that he was right and we were wrong, and I can't understand it. And then in the afternoon, when that woman hurt her horse, it was all asif you were on her side. How can you feel like that?

I must say this, because I don't think I ought to have asked you to goaway, and I want you to believe that I will keep my promise, or I shouldfeel that you and everybody else had a right to condemn me. I was awakeall last night, and have a bad headache this morning. I can't write anymore. ANTONIA. 

His first sensation was a sort of stupefaction of relief that had in itan element of anger. He was reprieved! She would not break her promise;she considered herself bound! In the midst of the exaltation of thisthought he smiled, and that smile was strange. 

He read it through again, and, like a judge, began to weigh what she hadwritten, her thoughts when she was writing, the facts which had led upto this. 

The vagrant's farewell document had done the business. True to his fatalgift of divesting things of clothing, Ferrand had not vanished withoutshowing up his patron in his proper colours; even to Shelton thosecolours were made plain. Antonia had felt her lover was a traitor. Sounding his heart even in his stress of indecision, Shelton knew thatthis was true. 

"Then in the afternoon, when that woman hurt her horse-" That woman! "Itwas as if you were on her side!"

He saw too well her mind, its clear rigidity, its intuitive perceptionof that with which it was not safe to sympathise, its instinct forself-preservation, its spontaneous contempt for those without thatinstinct. And she had written these words considering herself boundto him--a man of sentiment, of rebellious sympathies, of untidiness ofprinciple! Here was the answer to the question he had asked all day:"How have things come to such a pass?" and he began to feel compassionfor her. 

Poor child! She could not jilt him; there was something vulgar in theword! Never should it be said that Antonia Dennant had accented him andthrown him over. No lady did these things! They were impossible! Atthe bottom of his heart he had a queer, unconscious sympathy with, thisimpossibility. 

Once again he read the letter, which seemed now impregnated with freshmeaning, and the anger which had mingled with his first sensation ofrelief detached itself and grew in force. In that letter there wassomething tyrannous, a denial of his right to have a separate pointof view. It was like a finger pointed at him as an unsound person. In marrying her he would be marrying not only her, but her class--hisclass. She would be there always to make him look on her and onhimself, and all the people that they knew and all the things they did, complacently; she would be there to make him feel himself superior toeveryone whose life was cast in other moral moulds. To feel himselfsuperior, not blatantly, not consciously, but with subconsciousrighteousness. 

But his anger, which was like the paroxysm that two days before had madehim mutter at the Connoisseur, "I hate your d---d superiority, " struckhim all at once as impotent and ludicrous. What was the good of beingangry? He was on the point of losing her! And the anguish of thatthought, reacting on his anger, intensified it threefold. She wasso certain of herself, so superior to her emotions, to her naturalimpulses--superior to her very longing to be free from him. Of thatfact, at all events, Shelton had no longer any doubt. It was beyondargument. She did not really love him; she wanted to be free of him!

A photograph hung in his bedroom at Holm Oaks of a group round the halldoor; the Honourable Charlotte Penguin, Mrs. Dennant, Lady Bonington, Halidome, Mr. Dennant, and the stained-glass man--all were there; and onthe left-hand side, looking straight in front of her, Antonia. Her facein its youthfulness, more than all those others, expressed theirpoint of view: Behind those calm young eyes lay a world of safety andtradition. "I am not as others are, " they seemed to say. 

And from that photograph Mr. And Mrs. Dennant singled themselves out;he could see their faces as they talked--their faces with a peculiar anduneasy look on them; and he could hear their voices, still decisive, buta little acid, as if they had been quarrelling:

"He 's made a donkey of himself!"

"Ah! it's too distressin'!"

They, too, thought him unsound, and did n't want him; but to save thesituation they would be glad to keep him. She did n't want him, butshe refused to lose her right to say, "Commoner girls may break theirpromises; I will not!" He sat down at the table between the candles, covering his face. His grief and anger grew and grew within him. If shewould not free herself, the duty was on him! She was ready without loveto marry him, as a sacrifice to her ideal of what she ought to be!

But she had n't, after all, the monopoly of pride!

As if she stood before him, he could see the shadows underneath her eyesthat he had dreamed of kissing, the eager movements of her lips. Forseveral minutes he remained, not moving hand or limb. Then once morehis anger blazed. She was going to sacrifice herself and--him! All hismanhood scoffed at such a senseless sacrifice. That was not exactly whathe wanted!

He went to the bureau, took a piece of paper and an envelope, and wroteas follows:

There never was, is not, and never would have been any question ofbeing bound between us. I refuse to trade on any such thing. You areabsolutely free. Our engagement is at an end by mutual consent. 

RICHARD SHELTON. 

He sealed it, and, sitting with his hands between his knees, he lethis forehead droop lower and lower to the table, till it rested on hismarriage settlement. And he had a feeling of relief, like one who dropsexhausted at his journey's end.