AN INCIDENT
“Eleven o'clock,” said Crocker, as they went out of college. “I don't
feel sleepy; shall we stroll along the 'High' a bit?”
Shelton assented; he was too busy thinking of his encounter with the
dons to heed the soreness of his feet. This, too, was the last day of
his travels, for he had not altered his intention of waiting at Oxford
till July.
“We call this place the heart of knowledge,” he said, passing a great
building that presided, white and silent, over darkness; “it seems to me
as little that, as Society is the heart of true gentility.”
Crocker's answer was a grunt; he was looking at the stars, calculating
possibly in how long he could walk to heaven.
“No,” proceeded Shelton; “we've too much common-sense up here to strain
our minds. We know when it's time to stop. We pile up news of Papias
and all the verbs in 'ui' but as for news of life or of oneself! Real
seekers after knowledge are a different sort. They fight in the dark--no
quarter 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 button
of his coat. His eyes, like a dog's, stared wistfully. It seemed as
though he wished to speak, but feared to give offence.
“They tell you,” pursued Shelton, “that we learn to be gentlemen up
here. We learn that better through one incident that stirs our hearts
than we learn it here in all the time we're up.”
“Hum!” muttered Crocker, twisting at the button; “those fellows
who seemed the best sorts up here have turned out the best sorts
afterwards.”
“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 to
Shelton's “set.”
“You never were much like your 'set,' old chap,” he said.
Shelton turned away, sniffing the perfume of the limes. Images were
thronging through his mind. The faces of his old friends strangely mixed
with 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 its
magic sweetness. From the street behind, the footsteps of the passers-by
sounded muffled, yet exact, and on the breeze was borne the strain: “For
he's a jolly good fellow!”
“For he's a jolly good fellow! For he's a jolly good fe-ellow! And so
say all of us!”
“Ah!” he said, “they were good chaps.”
“I used to think,” said Crocker dreamily, “that some of them had too
much side.”
And Shelton laughed.
“The thing sickens me,” said he, “the whole snobbish, selfish
business. The place sickens me, lined with cotton-wool-made so beastly
comfortable.”
Crocker shook his head.
“It's a splendid old place,” he said, his eyes fastening at last on
Shelton's boots. “You know, old chap,” he stammered, “I think you--you
ought 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--to
be--to be losing yourself.”
“Losing myself! Finding myself, you mean!”
Crocker did not answer; his face was disappointed. Of what exactly was
he thinking? In Shelton's heart there was a bitter pleasure in knowing
that his friend was uncomfortable on his account, a sort of contempt, a
sort of aching. Crocker broke the silence.
“I think I shall do a bit more walking to-night,” he said; “I feel very
fit. 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 of
missing something good. The latter's feet had instantly begun to ache
and 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 do
another 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 knock
yourself up.”
But the sole answer was the pale moon of Crocker's face screwed round
towards him in the darkness, and the waving of his stick.
Shelton strolled slowly on; leaning over the bridge, he watched the
oily gleam of lamps, on the dark water underneath the trees. He felt
relieved, yet sorry. His thoughts were random, curious, half mutinous,
half sweet. That afternoon five years ago, when he had walked back from
the river with Antonia across the Christchurch meadows, was vivid to his
mind; the scent of that afternoon had never died away from him-the aroma
of his love. Soon she would be his wife--his wife! The faces of the dons
sprang 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 Shelton
smiled. “As if man's honour suffered when he's injured!” And slowly he
walked 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 his
probation, and the end seemed long in coming. To be so near Antonia, and
as far as if he lived upon another planet, was worse than ever. Each
day he took a sculling skiff, and pulled down to near Holm Oaks, on the
chance of her being on the river; but the house was two miles off, and
the chance but slender. She never came. After spending the afternoons
like this he would return, pulling hard against the stream, with a queer
feeling of relief, dine heartily, and fall a-dreaming over his cigar.
Each morning he awoke in an excited mood, devoured his letter if he had
one, and sat down to write to her. These letters of his were the most
amazing portion of that fortnight. They were remarkable for failing
to express any single one of his real thoughts, but they were full of
sentiments which were not what he was truly feeling; and when he set
himself to analyse, he had such moments of delirium that he was scared,
and shocked, and quite unable to write anything. He made the discovery
that no two human beings ever tell each other what they really feel,
except, perhaps, in situations with which he could not connect Antonia's
ice-blue eyes and brilliant smile. All the world was too engaged in
planning decency.
Absorbed by longings, he but vaguely realised the turmoil of
Commemoration, which had gathered its hundreds for their annual cure of
salmon mayonnaise and cheap champagne. In preparation for his visit
to Holm Oaks he shaved his beard and had some clothes sent down from
London. With them was forwarded a letter from Ferrand, which ran as
follows:
IMPERIAL PEACOCK HOTEL, FOLKESTONE,
June 20.
MY DEAR SIR,
Forgive me for not having written to you before, but I have been so
bothered 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 encountered
that demon of misfortune which dogs my footsteps. Being occupied all day
and nearly all night upon business which brings me a heap of worries
and next to no profit, I have no chance to look after my things. Thieves
have entered my room, stolen everything, and left me an empty box. I am
once again almost without clothes, and know not where to turn to make
that figure necessary for the fulfilment of my duties. You see, I am not
lucky. Since coming to your country, the sole piece of fortune I have
had was to tumble on a man like you. Excuse me for not writing more at
this moment. Hoping that you are in good health, and in affectionately
pressing your hand,
I am,
Always your devoted
LOUIS FERRAND.
Upon reading this letter Shelton had once more a sense of being
exploited, of which he was ashamed; he sat down immediately and wrote
the 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 had
made 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 off
his responsibilities.
Three days before July he met with one of those disturbing incidents
which befall no persons who attend quietly to their property and
reputation.
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 of
those made by men into mediums for their pleasure, to feel sympathy with
whom was sentimental. Her face was flushed, her whisper hoarse; she had
no attractions but the curves of a tawdry figure. Shelton was repelled
by her proprietary tone, by her blowzy face, and by the scent of
patchouli. Her touch on his arm startled him, sending a shiver through
his marrow; he almost leaped aside, and walked the faster. But her
breathing as she followed sounded laboured; it suddenly seemed pitiful
that 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 accepted
the 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 hurrying
uneasily; 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 concerned
in such affairs.
He retraced his steps, however, and halted half a dozen paces from their
figures.
“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 both
hate and fear, as if brought face to face with all that he despised
and loathed, yet strangely dreaded. The cold certainty of law and order
upholding the strong, treading underfoot the weak, the smug front of
meanness that only the purest spirits may attack, seemed to be facing
him. 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; we
have 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 of
uttering these words he thought how pitiable they sounded.
“We 're not to be trifled with,” returned the policeman in a threatening
voice.
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. His
feeling was not one of pity for the woman, nor of peculiar anger with
the policeman, but rather of dissatisfaction with himself.
“What ought I to have done?” he thought, “the beggar was within his
rights.”
He stared at the pictures on the wall, and a tide of disgust surged up
in 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 about
the 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 without
soiling even the hem of our phylacteries--the women are the only ones
that 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 that
the case would get into the local papers. The press would never miss
so nice a little bit of scandal--“Gentleman v. Policeman!” And he had a
vision of Antonia's father, a neighbouring and conscientious magistrate,
solemnly reading this. Someone, at all events, was bound to see his name
and make a point of mentioning it too good to be missed! And suddenly
he saw with horror that to help the woman he would have to assert again
that he had spoken to her first. “I must go to the Court!” he kept
thinking, 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 be
telling a lie, and they 'll make me swear it, too!”
He tried to persuade himself that this was against his principles, but
at the bottom of his heart he knew that he would not object to telling
such a lie if only guaranteed immune from consequences; it appeared to
him, indeed, but obvious humanity.
“But why should I suffer?” he thought; “I've done nothing. It's neither
reasonable nor just.”
He hated the unhappy woman who was causing him these horrors of
uncertainty. 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 with
the full determination to go and see what happened.
He woke with a sense of odd disturbance. “I can do no good by going,” he
thought, remembering, aid lying very still; “they 're certain to believe
the policeman; I shall only blacken myself for nothing;” and the combat
began again within him, but with far less fury. It was not what other
people thought, not even the risk of perjury that mattered (all this he
made quite clear)--it was Antonia. It was not fair to her to put himself
in such a false position; in fact, not decent.
He breakfasted. In the room were some Americans, and the face of one
young girl reminded him a little of Antonia. Fainter and fainter grew
the 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 daily
paper, pointing out the danger run by the community from the power which
a belief in their infallibility places in the hands of the police--how,
since they are the sworn abettors of right and justice, their word
is almost necessarily taken to be gospel; how one and all they hang
together, from mingled interest and esprit de corps. Was it not, he
said, reasonable to suppose that amongst thousands of human beings
invested with such opportunities there would be found bullies who would
take advantage of them, and rise to distinction in the service upon
the helplessness of the unfortunate and the cowardice of people with
anything to lose? Those who had in their hands the sacred duties of
selecting a practically irresponsible body of men were bound, for the
sake of freedom and humanity, to exercise those duties with the utmost
care and thoroughness . . . .
However true, none of this helped him to think any better of himself at
heart, and he was haunted by the feeling that a stout and honest bit of
perjury was worth more than a letter to a daily paper.
He never saw his letter printed, containing, as it did, the germs of an
unpalatable truth.
In the afternoon he hired a horse, and galloped on Port Meadow. The
strain of his indecision over, he felt like a man recovering from an
illness, and he carefully abstained from looking at the local papers.
There was that within him, however, which resented the worsting of his
chivalry.