WILDERNESS
When he had read this note, Shelton put it down beside his sleeve-links
on his dressing table, stared in the mirror at himself, and laughed. But
his lips soon stopped him laughing; he threw himself upon his bed and
pressed his face into the pillows. He lay there half-dressed throughout
the night, and when he rose, soon after dawn, he had not made his mind
up what to do. The only thing he knew for certain was that he must not
meet Antonia.
At last he penned the following:
I have had a sleepless night with toothache, and think it best to run up
to 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 doing
this he threw himself once more upon his bed, and this time fell into a
doze.
He woke with a start, dressed, and let himself quietly out. The likeness
of his going to that of Ferrand struck him. “Both outcasts now,” he
thought.
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 glistening
in the sun, were straggling out across the adjoining field of mustard.
They soon settled in the old-maidish way of partridges, and began to
call 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 her
peculiar 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 soft
and cynical. Breathing the vague sweetness of the mustard-field, rubbing
dry grasp-stalks in his fingers, Shelton had a moment's happiness--the
happiness of sun and sky, of the eternal quiet, and untold movements of
the fields. Why could not human beings let their troubles be as this cow
left the flies that clung about her eyes? He dozed again, and woke up
with a laugh, for this was what he dreamed:
He fancied he was in a room, at once the hall and drawing-room of some
country house. In the centre of this room a lady stood, who was looking
in a hand-glass at her face. Beyond a door or window could be seen
a garden with a row of statues, and through this door people passed
without apparent object.
Suddenly Shelton saw his mother advancing to the lady with the
hand-glass, whom now he recognised as Mrs. Foliot. But, as he looked,
his mother changed to Mrs. Dennant, and began speaking in a voice that
was a sort of abstract of refinement. “Je fais de la philosophic,” it
said; “I take the individual for what she's worth. I do not condemn;
above all, one must have spirit!” The lady with the mirror continued
looking in the glass; and, though he could not see her face, he could
see its image-pale, with greenish eyes, and a smile like scorn itself.
Then, by a swift transition, he was walking in the garden talking to
Mrs. Dennant.
It was from this talk that he awoke with laughter. “But,” she had been
saying, “Dick, I've always been accustomed to believe what I was
told. It was so unkind of her to scorn me just because I happen to
be second-hand.” And her voice awakened Shelton's pity; it was like
a frightened child's. “I don't know what I shall do if I have to form
opinions for myself. I was n't brought up to it. I 've always had them
nice and secondhand. How am I to go to work? One must believe what other
people do; not that I think much of other people, but, you do know what
it is--one feels so much more comfortable,” and her skirts rustled.
“But, Dick, whatever happens”--her voice entreated--“do let Antonia get
her judgments secondhand. Never mind for me--if I must form opinions for
myself, I must--but don't let her; any old opinions so long as they are
old. It 's dreadful to have to think out new ones for oneself.” And he
awoke. His dream had had in it the element called Art, for, in its gross
absurdity, Mrs. Dennant had said things that showed her soul more fully
than 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. Sir
James, some pie?”
Shelton raised himself with drowsy curiosity--still half asleep--and
applied his face to a gap in the high, thick osiers of the hedge. Four
men were seated on camp-stools round a folding-table, on which was a pie
and 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 moving
humbly, and a valet opening bottles. Shelton had forgotten that it was
“the first.” The host was a soldierly and freckled man; an older man sat
next him, square-jawed, with an absent-looking eye and sharpened nose;
next him, again, there was a bearded person whom they seemed to call the
Commodore; in the fourth, to his alarm, Shelton recognised the gentleman
called Mabbey. It was really no matter for surprise to meet him miles
from his own place, for he was one of those who wander with a valet and
two guns from the twelfth of August to the end of January, and are then
supposed to go to Monte Carlo or to sleep until the twelfth of August
comes 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 the
Commodore's thick voice began:
“My man tellsh me that Mrs. Foliot--haw--has lamed her Arab. Does she
mean to come out cubbing?”
Shelton observed the smile that came on all their faces. “Foliot 's
paying for his good time now; what a donkey to get caught!” it seemed to
say. He turned his back and shut his eyes.
“Cubbing?” replied Glennie; “hardly.”
“Never could shee anything wonderful in her looks,” went on the
Commodore; “so quiet, you never knew that she was in the room. I
remember sayin' to her once, 'Mrs. Lutheran, now what do you like besht
in 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 that
get let in for this kind of thing”; and there was a sound as though he
licked his lips.
“They say,” said the voice of the host, “he never gives you back a
greeting now. Queer fish; they say that she's devoted to him.”
Coming so closely on his meeting with this lady, and on the dream from
which he had awakened, this conversation mesmerised the listener behind
the hedge.
“If he gives up his huntin' and his shootin', I don't see what the deuce
he '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 his
father: he 'd always rather talk to any scarecrow he came across than to
you or me. Wonder what he'll do with all his horses; I should like that
chestnut of his.”
“You can't tell what a fellow 'll do,” said the voice of Mabbey--“take
to 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 old
keeper?”
“Obliged to get rid of him.” Shelton tried again to close his ears, but
again he listened. “Getting a bit too old; lost me a lot of eggs last
season.”
“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 to
load for you?--got a girl into trouble; when her people gave her the
chuck old Smollet took her in; beastly scandal it made, too. The girl
refused to marry Smollett, and old Smollett backed her up. Naturally,
the parson and the village cut up rough; my wife offered to get her into
one of those reformatory what-d' you-call-'.ms, but the old fellow said
she should n't go if she did n't want to. Bad business altogether; put
him quite off his stroke. I only got five hundred pheasants last year
instead of eight.”
There was a silence. Shelton again peeped through the hedge. All were
eating pie.
“In Warwickshire,” said the Commodore, “they always marry--haw--and live
reshpectable ever after.”
“Quite so,” remarked the host; “it was a bit too thick, her refusing to
marry him. She said he took advantage of her.”
“She's sorry by this time,” said Sir James; “lucky escape for young
Smollett. 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 the
hedge, and drive that mustard towards the roots; there ought to be a
good few birds.”
“Shelton rose, and, crouching, stole softly to the gate:
“On the twelfth, shootin' in two parties,” followed the voice of Mabbey
from the distance.
Whether from his walk or from his sleepless night, Shelton seemed to
ache in every limb; but he continued his tramp along the road. He was
no nearer to deciding what to do. It was late in the afternoon when he
reached Maidenhead, and, after breaking fast, got into a London train
and 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 benches
which have rested many vagrants. Darkness has ceased to be the lawful
cloak of the unhappy; but Mother Night was soft and moonless, and man
had not despoiled her of her comfort, quite.
Shelton was not alone upon the seat, for at the far end was sitting
a young girl with a red, round, sullen face; and beyond, and further
still, were dim benches and dim figures sitting on them, as though
life's institutions had shot them out in an endless line of rubbish.
“Ah!” thought Shelton, in the dreamy way of tired people; “the
institutions are all right; it's the spirit that's all--”
“Wrong?” said a voice behind him; “why, of course! You've taken the
wrong 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 take
a rest.” Chewing his gums, he seemed to fear to take the liberty of
sitting 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 snatching
at his battered hat; “I see you was a gentleman”--and lovingly he dwelt
upon the word--“would n't disturb you for the world. I'm not used to
being out at night, and the seats do get so full. Old age must lean on
something; 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 a
liberty in my life. But at my age, sir, you get nervous; standin'
about the streets as I been this last week, an' sleepin' in them
doss-houses--Oh, they're dreadful rough places--a dreadful rough lot
there! 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 of
an old fowl, had brought his face into the light. It was long, and
run to seed, and had a large, red nose; its thin, colourless lips were
twisted sideways and apart, showing his semi-toothless mouth; and his
eyes had that aged look of eyes in which all colour runs into a thin
rim round the iris; and over them kept coming films like the films over
parrots' eyes. He was, or should have been, clean-shaven. His hair--for
he had taken off his hat was thick and lank, of dusty colour, as far as
could be seen, without a speck of grey, and parted very beautifully just
about the middle.
“I can put up with that,” he said again. “I never interferes with
nobody, and nobody don't interfere with me; but what frightens me”--his
voice grew steady, as if too terrified to shake, “is never knowin' day to
day 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 was
much used to open air, bein' in domestic service all my life; but I
don'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 cheerful
suddenly. “Sellin' papers is not what I been accustomed to; but the
Westminister, they tell me that's one of the most respectable of the
evenin' papers--in fact, I know it is. So now I'm sure to get on; I try
hard.”
“How did you get the job?” asked Shelton.
“I 've got my character,” the old fellow said, making a gesture with
a skinny hand towards his chest, as if it were there he kept his
character.
“Thank God, nobody can't take that away! I never parts from that”; and
fumbling, he produced a packet, holding first one paper to the light,
and then another, and he looked anxiously at Shelton. “In that house
where I been sleepin' they're not honest; they 've stolen a parcel of my
things--a lovely shirt an' a pair of beautiful gloves a gentleman gave
me 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 only
proper. I can't afford to lose beautiful things like them. I think I
ought 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 middle
of the page: 'Joshua Creed, in my service five years as butler, during
which time I have found him all that a servant should be.' And this
'.re'--he fumbled with another--“this 'ere 's Lady Glengow: 'Joshua
Creed--' 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 from
Shelton's pouch; then, taking a front tooth between his finger and his
thumb, he began to feel it tenderly, working it to and fro with a sort
of melancholy pride.
“My teeth's a-comin' out,” he said; “but I enjoys pretty good health for
a man of my age.”
“How old is that?”
“Seventy-two! Barrin' my cough, and my rupture, and this 'ere
affliction”--he passed his hand over his face--“I 've nothing to
complain 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 when
it was very different to what it is now?”
“Ah!” said the old butler, “there was gentry then; I remember them
drivin' 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--none
o' them amalgamated stores, every man keepin' his own little shop; not
so eager to cut his neighbour's throat, as you might say. And then look
at 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 contented
spirit. 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 time
blowing out a lot of smoke; “I don't see as much happiness about, not
the 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 own
conclusion, he sat silent for some time, engaged in the lighting and
relighting of his pipe.
The girl at the far end stirred, cleared her throat, and settled down
again; her movement disengaged a scent of frowsy clothes. The policeman
had approached and scrutinised these ill-assorted faces; his glance was
jovially contemptuous till he noticed Shelton, and then was modified by
curiosity.
“There's good men in the police,” the aged butler said, when the
policeman had passed on--“there's good men in the police, as good men as
you can see, and there 's them that treats you like the dirt--a dreadful
low 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 no
chance to worry me; I keeps myself to myself, and speak civil to all the
world. You have to hold the candle to them; for, oh dear! if they 're
crossed--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 the
man at that low place I said: 'Don't you ever speak to me again,' I
said, 'don't you come near me!' Straightforward and honest 's been
my motto all my life; I don't want to have nothing to say to them low
fellows”--he made an annihilating gesture--“after the way they treated
me, takin' my things like that. Tomorrow I shall get a room for three
shillin's a week, don't you think so, sir? Well, then I shall be all
right. I 'm not afraid now; the mind at rest. So long as I ran keep
myself, that's all I want. I shall do first-rate, I think”; and he
stared at Shelton, but the look in his eyes and the half-scared optimism
of his voice convinced the latter that he lived in dread. “So long as I
can keep myself,” he said again, “I sha'n'. need no workhouse nor lose
respectability.”
“No,” thought Shelton; and for some time sat without a word. “When you
can;” 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 by
Belgravia? Oh, I know it well; I lived down in them parts with a
gentleman of the name of Bateson--perhaps you knew him; he 's dead
now--the Honourable Bateson. Thank ye, sir; I'll be sure to come”; and,
snatching at his battered hat, he toilsomely secreted Shelton's card
amongst his character. A minute later he began again to nod.
The policeman passed a second time; his gaze seemed to say, “Now, what's
a toff doing on that seat with those two rotters?” And Shelton caught
his eye.
“Ah!” he thought; “exactly! You don't know what to make of me--a man of
my position sitting here! Poor devil! to spend your days in spying on
your fellow-creatures! Poor devil! But you don't know that you 're a
poor 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 were
both dozing, he spoke to Shelton:
“Not very safe on these 'ere benches, sir,” he said; “you never know
who 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 he
laughed, as at an admirable joke.
Shelton looked at him, and itched to say, “Why shouldn't I?” but it
struck him that it would sound very odd. “Besides,” he thought, “I shall
only catch a cold”; and, without speaking, he left the seat, and went
along towards his rooms.