IN WHICH FELLOWES GOES A JOURNEY
Kruger's ultimatum, expected though it was, shook England as nothing
had done since the Indian mutiny, but the tremour of national
excitement presently gave way to a quiet, deep determination.
An almost Oriental luxury had gone far to weaken the fibre of that
strong and opulent middle-class who had been the backbone of England,
the entrenched Philistines. The value of birth as a moral asset which
had a national duty and a national influence, and the value of money
which had a social responsibility and a communal use, were unrealized
by the many nouveaux riches who frequented the fashionable purlieus;
who gave vast parties where display and extravagance were the principal
feature; who ostentatiously offered large sums to public objects. Men
who had made their money where copper or gold or oil or wool or silver
or cattle or railways made commercial kings, supported schemes for the
public welfare brought them by fine ladies, largely because the ladies
were fine; and they gave substantial sums--upon occasion--for these
fine ladies' fine causes. Rich men, or reputed rich men, whose wives
never appeared, who were kept in secluded quarters in Bloomsbury or
Maida Vale, gave dinners at the Savoy or the Carlton which the
scrapings of the aristocracy attended; but these gave no dinners in
return.
To get money to do things, no matter how,--or little matter how; to be
in the swim, and that swim all too rapidly washing out the real
people--that was the almost universal ambition. But still the real
people, however few or many, in the time of trouble came quietly into
the necessary and appointed places with the automatic precision of the
disciplined friend of the state and of humanity; and behind them were
folk of the humbler sort, the lower middle-class, the labouring-man. Of
these were the landpoor peer, with his sense of responsibility
cultivated by daily life and duty in his county, on the one hand; the
professional man of all professions, the little merchant, the sailor,
the clerk and artisan, the digger and delver, on the other; and, in
between, those people in the shires who had not yet come to be material
and gross, who had old-fashioned ideas of the duty of the citizen and
the Christian. In the day of darkness these came and laid what they had
at the foot of the altar of sacrifice.
This at least the war did: it served as a sieve to sift the people, and
it served as the solvent of many a life-problem.
Ian Stafford was among the first to whom it offered "the way out," who
went to it for the solution of their own set problem. Suddenly, as he
stood with Jasmine in the little room where so many lives were tossed
into the crucible of Fate that morning, the newsboy's voice shouting,
"War declared!" had told him the path he must tread.
He had astonished the War Office by his request to be sent to the Front
with his old arm, the artillery, and he was himself astonished by the
instant assent that was given. And now on this October day he was on
his way to do two things--to see whether Adrian Fellowes was keeping
his promise, and to visit Jigger and his sister.
There had not been a week since the days at Glencader when he had not
gone to the sordid quarters in the Mile End Road to see Jigger, and to
hear from him how his sister was doing at the opera, until two days
before, when he had learned from Lou herself what she had suffered at
the hands of Adrian Fellowes. That problem would now be settled
forever; but there remained the question of Jigger, and that must be
settled, whatever the other grave problems facing him. Jigger must be
cared for, must be placed in a position where he could have his start
in life. Somehow Jigger was associated with all the movements of his
life now, and was taken as part of the problem. What to do? He thought
of it as he went eastward, and it did not seem easy to settle it.
Jigger himself, however, cut the Gordian knot.
When he was told that Stafford was going to South Africa, and that it
was a question as to what he--Jigger--should now do, in what sphere of
life his abnormally "cute" mind must run, he answered, instantly.
"I'm goin' wiv y'r gryce," he said. "That's it--stryght. I'm goin' out
there wiv you."
Ian shook his head and smiled sadly. "I'm afraid that's not for you,
Jigger. No, think again."
"Ain't there work in Souf Afriker--maybe not in the army itself, y'r
gryce? Couldn't I have me chanct out there? Lou's all right now, I bet;
an' I could go as easy as can be."
"Yes, Lou will be all right now," remarked Stafford, with a reflective
irony.
"I ain't got no stiddy job here, and there's work in Souf Afriker,
ain't they? Couldn't I get a job holdin' horses, or carryin' a flag, or
cleanin' the guns, or nippin' letters about--couldn't I, y'r gryce? I'm
only askin' to go wiv you, to work, same as ever I did before I was run
over. Ain't I goin' wiv you, y'r gryce?"
With a sudden resolve Stafford laid a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, you
are going 'wiv' me, Jigger. You just are, horse, foot, and artillery.
There'll be a job somewhere. I'll get you something to do, or--"
"Or bust, y'r gryce?"
So the problem lessened, and Ian's face cleared a little. If all the
difficulties perplexing his life would only clear like that! The babe
and the suckling had found the way so simple, so natural; and it was a
comforting way, for he had a deep and tender regard for this quaint,
clever waif who had drifted across his path.
To-morrow he would come and fetch Jigger: and Jigger's face followed
him into the coming dusk, radiant and hopeful and full of life--of life
that mattered. Jigger would go out to "Souf Afriker" with all his life
before him, but he, Ian Stafford, would go with all his life behind
him, all mile-stones passed except one.
So, brooding, he walked till he came to an underground station, and
there took a train to Charing Cross. Here he was only a little distance
away from the Embankment, where was to be found Adrian Fellowes; and
with bent head he made his way among the motley crowd in front of the
station, scarcely noticing any one, yet resenting the jostle and the
crush. Suddenly in the crowd in front of him he saw Krool stealing
along with a wide-awake hat well down over his eyes. Presently the
sinister figure was lost in the confusion. It did not occur to him that
perhaps Krool might be making for the same destination as himself; but
the sight of the man threw his mind into an eddy of torturing thoughts.
The flare of light, white and ghastly, at Charing Cross was shining on
a moving mass of people, so many of whom were ghastly also--derelicts
of humanity, ruins of womanhood, casuals, adventurers, scavengers of
life, prowlers who lived upon chance, upon cards, upon theft, upon
women, upon libertines who waited in these precincts for some foolish
and innocent woman whom they could entrap. Among them moved also the
thousand other good citizens bent upon catching trains or wending their
way home from work; but in the garish, cruel light, all, even the good,
looked evil in a way, and furtive and unstable. To-night, the crowd
were far more restless than usual, far more irritating in their
purposeless movements. People sauntered, jerked themselves forward,
moved in and out, as it were, intent on going everywhere and nowhere;
and the excitement possessing them, the agitation in the air, made them
seem still more exasperating, and bewildering. Newsboys with shrill
voices rasped the air with invitations to buy, and everywhere eager,
nervous hands held out their half-pennies for the flimsy sensational
rags.
Presently a girl jostled Stafford, then apologized with an endearing
word which brought a sick sensation to his brain; but he only shook his
head gravely at her. After all, she had a hard trade and it led
nowhere--nowhere.
"Coming home with me, darling?" she added in response to his meditative
look. Anything that was not actual rebuff was invitation to her blunted
sense. "Coming home with me--?"
Home! A wave of black cynicism, of sardonic mirth passed through
Stafford's brain. Home--where the business of this poor wayfarer's
existence was carried on, where the shopkeeper sold her wares in the
inner sanctuary! Home.... He shook the girl's hand from his elbow and
hastened on.
Yet why should he be angered with her, he said to himself. It was not
moral elevation which had made him rough with her, but only that word
Home she used.... The dire mockery of it burned his mind like a
corrosive acid. He had had no home since his father died years
ago,--his mother had died when he was very young--and his eldest
brother had taken possession of the family mansions, placing them in
the control of his foreign wife, who sat in his mother's chair and in
her place at table.
He had wished so often in the past for a home of his own, where he
could gather round him young faces and lose himself in promoting the
interests of those for whom he had become forever responsible. He had
longed for the Englishman's castle, for his own little realm of
interest where he could be supreme; and now it was never to be.
The idea gained in sacred importance as it receded forever from all
possibility. In far-off days it had been associated with a vision in
blue, with a face like a dresden-china shepherdess and hair like
Aphrodite's. Laughter and wit and raillery had been part of the
picture; and long evenings in the winter-time, when they two would read
the books they both loved, and maybe talk awhile of world events in
which his work had place; in which his gifts were found, shaping,
influencing, producing. The garden, the orchard--he loved orchards--the
hedges of flowering ivy and lilacs; and the fine grey and chestnut
horses driven by his hand or hers through country lanes; the smell of
the fallen leaves in the autumn evenings; or the sting of the bracing
January wind across the moors or where the woodcock awaited its
spoiler. All these had been in the vision. It was all over now. He had
seen an image, it had vanished, and he was in the desert alone.
A band was playing "The Banks o' Garry Owen," and the tramp of marching
men came to his ears. The crowd surged round him, pushed him, forced
him forward, carried him on, till the marching men came near, were
alongside of him--a battalion of Volunteers, going to the war to see
"Kruger's farmers bite the dust!"--a six months' excursion, as they
thought. Then the crowd, as it cheered jostled him against the wall of
the shops, and presently he found himself forced down Buckingham
Street. It was where he wished to go in order to reach Adrian Fellowes'
apartments. He did not notice, as he was practically thrown into the
street, that Krool was almost beside him.
The street was not well lighted, and he looked neither to right nor
left. He was thinking hard of what he would say to Adrian Fellowes, if,
and when, he saw him.
But not far behind him was a figure that stole along in the darker
shadows of the houses, keeping at some distance. The same figure
followed him furtively till he came into that part of the Embankment
where Adrian Fellowes' chambers were; then it fell behind a little, for
here the lights were brighter. It hung in the shadow of a door-way and
watched him as he approached the door of the big building where Adrian
Fellowes lived.
Presently, as he came nearer, Stafford saw a hansom standing before the
door. Something made him pause for a moment, and when, in the pause,
the figure of a woman emerged from the entrance and hastily got into
the hansom, he drew back into the darkness of a doorway, as the man did
who was now shadowing him; and he waited till it turned round and
rolled swiftly away. Then he moved forward again. When not far from the
entrance, however, another cab--a four-wheeler--discharged its occupant
at a point nearer to the building than where he waited. It was a woman.
She paid the cabman, who touched his hat with quick and grateful
emphasis, and, wheeling his old crock round, clattered away. The woman
glanced along the empty street swiftly, and then hurried to the doorway
which opened to Adrian Fellowes' chambers.
Instantly Stafford recognized her. It was Jasmine, dressed in black and
heavily veiled. He could not mistake the figure--there was none other
like it; or the turn of her head--there was only one such head in all
England. She entered the building quickly.
There was nothing to do but wait until she came out again. No passion
stirred in him, no jealousy, no anger. It was all dead. He knew why she
had come; or he thought he knew. She would tell the man who had said no
word in defense of her, done nothing to protect her, who let the worst
be believed, without one protest of her innocence, what she thought of
him. She was foolish to go to him, but women do mad things, and they
must not be expected to do the obviously sensible thing when the crisis
of their lives has come. Stafford understood it all.
One thing he was certain Jasmine did not know--the intimacy between
Fellowes and Al'mah. He himself had been tempted to speak of it in
their terrible interview that morning; but he had refrained. The
ignominy, the shame, the humiliation of that would have been beyond her
endurance. He understood; but he shrank at the thought of the nature of
the interview which she must have, at the thought of the meeting at all.
He would have some time to wait, no doubt, and he made himself easy in
the doorway, where his glance could command the entrance she had used.
He mechanically took out a cigar-case, but after looking at the cigars
for a moment put them away again with a sigh. Smoking would not soothe
him. He had passed beyond the artificial.
His waiting suddenly ended. It seemed hardly three minutes after
Jasmine's entrance when she appeared in the doorway again, and, after a
hasty glance up and down the street, sped away as swiftly as she could,
and, at the corner, turned up sharply towards the Strand. Her movements
had been agitated, and, as she hurried on, she thrust her head down
into her muff as a woman would who faced a blinding rain.
The interview had been indeed short. Perhaps Fellowes had already gone
abroad. He would soon find out.
He mounted the deserted staircase quickly and knocked at Fellowes'
door. There was no reply. There was a light, however, and he knocked
again. Still there was no answer. He tried the handle of the door. It
turned, the door gave, and he entered. There was no sound. He knocked
at an inner door. There was no reply, yet a light showed in the room.
He turned the handle. Entering the room, he stood still and looked
round. It seemed empty, but there were signs of packing, of things
gathered together hastily.
Then, with a strange sudden sense of a presence in the room, he looked
round again. There in a far corner of the large room was a couch, and
on it lay a figure--Adrian Fellowes, straight and still--and sleeping.
Stafford went over. "Fellowes," he said, sharply.
There was no reply. He leaned over and touched a shoulder. "Fellowes!"
he exclaimed again, but something in the touch made him look closely at
the face half turned to the wall. Then he knew.
Adrian Fellowes was dead.
Horror came upon Stafford, but no cry escaped him. He stooped once more
and closely looked at the body, but without touching it. There was no
sign of violence, no blood, no disfigurement, no distortion, only a
look of sleep--a pale, motionless sleep.
But the body was warm yet. He realized that as his hand had touched the
shoulder. The man could only have been dead a little while.
Only a little while: and in that little while Jasmine had left the
house with agitated footsteps.
"He did not die by his own hand," Stafford said aloud.
He rang the bell loudly. No one answered. He rang and rang again, and
then a lazy porter came.