CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 189I BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SACtE 
 
^,..-. u^ 
 
 Mi ^ 
 
 Cornell University Library 
 PR6013.A46I8 1904 
 
 The island Pharisees 
 
 3 1924 013 615 715 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 361 571 5 
 
The Island Pharisees 
 
The 
 
 Island Pharisees 
 
 By 
 
 John Galsworthy 
 
 (John Sinjohn) 
 Author of "A Man of Devon,' 'Villa Rubein,' etc. 
 
 ' But this is worshipful society ' 
 
 King John 
 
 New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons 
 
 London : William Heinemann 
 
 1904 
 
 PI 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 
 THE TOWN 
 
 PACE 
 
 I. SOCIETY - 3 
 
 II. ANTONIA 14 
 
 HI. A ZOOLOGICAL GARDEN 2 2 
 
 IV. THE PLAY 31 
 
 V. THE GOOD CITIZEN 42 
 
 VI. MARRIAGE SETTLEMENT - 50 
 
 VII. THE CLUB 60 
 
 VIII. THE WEDDING 70 
 
 IX. THE DINNER 76 
 
 X. AN ALIEN 82 
 
 XI. THE VISION 90 
 
 XII. ROTTEN ROW lOO 
 
 XIII. AN 'AT home' 106 
 
 XIV. THE NIGHT CLUB I16 
 XV. POLE TO POLE 125 
 
 PART II 
 
 THE COUNTRY 
 
 XVI. THE INDIAN CIVILIAN 1 39 
 
 XVII. A PARSON 148 
 
 XVIII. ACADEMIC 1 60 
 
 V 
 
XXIX. ON THE WINO 
 XXX. THE LADY FROM CEYOND 
 
 XXXn. WILDERNESS 
 XXXIH. THE END 
 
 171 
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 XIX. AN INCIDENT 
 
 XX. HOLM OAKS I 84 
 
 XXI. ENGLISH - 196 
 
 XXII. THE COUNTRY HOUSE 204 
 
 XXIII. THE STAINED-GLASS MAN 
 
 XXIV. PARADISE 
 XXV. THE RIDE 
 
 XXVI. THE BIRD OF PASSAGE 
 XXVII. SUB ROSA 
 
 215 
 223 
 
 229 
 
 - 247 
 XXVIII. THE RIVER 260 
 
 265 
 
 27s 
 XXXI. THE STORM 284 
 
 291 
 
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 book- 
 stall at Dover Station. He was about to journey up to 
 London, and had placed his bag on a corner seat of a 
 third-class carriage. 
 
 After his long travel, the flat-vowelled voice of the 
 bookstall clerk offering the latest novel sounded de- 
 lightful — delightful the independent answers of a tre- 
 mendous guard, the stolid farewells of a man and his 
 wife. The loose-jointed porters trundling their barrows, 
 the grayness of the station, and the sulky good-humour 
 that clung about the people, the air, the voices, all gave 
 him a sensation of positive comfort. Meanwhile he 
 vacillated between the purchase of ' Market Harborough,' 
 which he had read, and thought he was certain to enjoy 
 a second time, and Carlyle's ' French Revolution,' 
 which he had not read, and was doubtful of enjoying ; 
 he felt that he ought to buy the latter, but did not like 
 giving up the former. While he hesitated thus, with 
 his hands in his pockets, and on his face a look of com- 
 posure conferred rather by education than by nature, 
 his carriage was filling ; so, hurriedly buying both books, 
 he took up a position from which he could defend his 
 
 3 I — 2 
 
4 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 rights. ' Nothing,' he thought, watching his bag, ' shows 
 people up like travelling.' 
 
 The carriage was very full, and placing his bag in 
 the rack, he unfolded his paper. At the moment of 
 starting, however, yet another passenger, a girl with a 
 pale face, entered. 
 
 ' I was a fool to go third,' thought Shelton, taking 
 stock of his neighbours from behind the journal. 
 
 They were seven in number. A grizzled rustic sat 
 in the far corner ; his empty pipe, bowl downwards, 
 seemed to jut like a handle out of his visage all-bleared 
 with the smear of nothingness that grows over the 
 faces of those who pass their lives in the full current of 
 hard facts. Next to him, a red-faced man with broad 
 shoulders and a gray-haired, hatchet-faced person were 
 discussing the state of their gardens ; and Shelton 
 watched their eyes till it occurred to him how curious 
 the look in them was — a watchful friendliness, a species 
 of allied distrust, and their voices, cheerful, even jovial, 
 seemed to carry with them an echo of caution. His 
 glance strayed off to the seat opposite, and almost re- 
 bounded from the semi-Roman, slightly cross, and 
 wholly satisfied countenance of a stout lady in a thunder- 
 and-lightning dress, who was reading the Strand Maga- 
 zine, while her sleek, plump hand, freed from a black 
 glove, and adorned with a thick gold watch-bracelet, 
 reposed upon her thigh in a capable curve. A younger, 
 bright-cheeked, self-conscious female was sitting next 
 her, the expression in whose eyes drew Shelton 's atten- 
 tion to the pale girl who had just got in. 
 
 ' There's something about that girl,' he thought, 
 ' that they don't like.' Her brown eyes certainly looked 
 frightened, and her clothes had a foreign cut. He 
 
SOCIETY 5 
 
 withdrew his gaze, and suddenly met the glance of a 
 pair of eyes opposite ; prominent and blue, they stared 
 earnestly for a second with refined roguery from above 
 a thin, lopsided nose, and were subtly averted. They 
 gave him the impression that he was being at once 
 judged, mocked, enticed, and initiated. His own gaze 
 did not so easily fall ; this sanguine face, with its two 
 days' growth of i"eddish beard, long nose, and full, 
 ironical lips, puzzled him. ' What a cynical face !' he 
 thought, and then, ' What a sensitive face !' and again, 
 ' What a cynical face !' 
 
 The young man to whom it belonged sat with his 
 legs parted at the knees, his dusty trouser-ends and 
 boots slanting back under the seat, his yellow finger- 
 tips crisped as if rolling a cigarette. A peculiar air of 
 detachment encircled his youthful, shabby figure, and 
 not a vestige of luggage decorated the rack above his 
 head. 
 
 The frightened girl was seated next this pagan per- 
 sonality ; it was possibly the lack of ' respectability ' in 
 his appearance which caused her to select him for her 
 confidant. 
 
 ' Monsieur,' she asked, 'do you speak French ?' 
 
 ' Perfectly.' 
 
 ' Then perhaps you can tell me where they collect 
 tickets ?' 
 
 The young man shook his head. 
 
 ' No,' said he, in good French, ' I'm a foreigner.' 
 
 The girl sighed. Shelton could not help listening. 
 
 ' But what is the matter, mademoiselle ?' asked the 
 young foreigner. 
 
 The girl did not reply, twisting her hands on an old 
 brown bag in her lap. A momentary uneasiness had 
 
6 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 stolen over the carriage, such as steals upon animals 
 at the first scent of danger, and all eyes were turned 
 towards the figures of the two foreigners. 
 
 ' Yes,' broke out the voice of the red-faced man 
 assertively, 'he was a bit squiffy that evening — old 
 Tom.' 
 
 ' Ah !' replied his neighbour, ' he would be.' 
 
 Something seemed suddenly to have united their eyes 
 and annihilated that mutual look of friendly distrust. 
 The plump, sleek hand upon the thigh of the Roman- 
 faced lady curved convulsively, and the movement cor- 
 responded to a sensation in 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 very unhappy ; can you tell me what to do ? I 
 had no money for a ticket.' 
 
 A flicker passed over the young foreigner's face. 
 
 ' Yes ?' he said ; ' that might happen to anybody.' 
 
 ' I don't know what they will do to me,' murmured 
 the girl. 
 
 ' Don't lose courage,' said the young man, sliding his 
 prominent eyes from left to right, and finally resting 
 them on Shelton, ' although I don't as yet see 3'our 
 way out.' 
 
 ' Oh, monsieur!' sighed the girl, and though it was 
 obvious that no one but Shelton understood their 
 conversation, a shiver of withdrawal ran round the 
 carriage. 
 
 ' I wish I could assist you,' said the young foreigner, 
 
 ' but unfortunately- ' He shrugged his shoulders, and 
 
 again his eyes rested on Shelton. 
 
 The latter involuntarily put his hand in his pocket. 
 
SOCIETY 7 
 
 ' Can I be of any use ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Certainly, sir ; you could render this young lady the 
 greatest possible service by lending her the money for 
 a ticket.' 
 
 Shelton abstracted a half-sovereign, which the young 
 foreigner took. Passing it over to the girl, he said : 
 
 ' A thousand thanks — voild uue belle action !' 
 
 The misgivings which follow the bestowal of casual 
 charity crowded up in Shelton's mind ; he was ashamed 
 of having them, and again ashamed of not having them, 
 and stole covert looks at the young foreigner, who had 
 fallen into conversation with the girl in a language that 
 might have been Flemish. In spite of its essential 
 vagabondism, the fellow's face showed a subtle spirit, 
 an ironical fortitude strange to the normal civilized 
 countenance, and in turning from it to the other in- 
 mates of the carriage, Shelton was conscious of a sense 
 of revolt — a contempt for, and questioning of, something 
 he could not define. Leaning back with half-closed 
 eyes, he tried to diagnose this new sensation. He 
 found it disconcerting that the behaviour of his neigh- 
 bours lacked anything he could lay hold of and secretly 
 abuse. They continued their conversation upon their 
 own affairs with admirable and slightly self-conscious 
 phlegm, yet he knew as well as if each one had taken 
 him into confidence that the shady incident at his 
 end of the carriage had shaken them privately. Some- 
 thing unsettling to their notions of propriety — something 
 dangerous and destructive of their complacency had 
 occurred, than which nothing is less forgiveable. Each 
 had a different way, humorous, philosophical, con- 
 temptuous, sour, or sly, of expressing this resentment, 
 and it was only one of those rare flashes of insight 
 
8 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 vouchsafed to men when they brave the perils of intro- 
 spection which caused Shelton to see that at the 
 bottom of all their minds, even of his own mind, the 
 feehng was the same. Precisely because he shared 
 their resentment was he angry with them and angry 
 with himself, and, as though fascinated, his eyes be- 
 came glued to that plump, sleek, ringed hand resting 
 on the thigh. The insulation and complacency of its 
 pale skin, the passive self-righteousness of its curve, and 
 the prim separation from the others of the fat little 
 iinger, acquired a wholly unaccountable importance. 
 It embodied the attitude of his fellow-passengers, the 
 attitude of Society, for he knew that, however repulsive 
 the notion to his aristocratic mind, every assemblage of 
 six or eight persons, even in a third-class carriage, con- 
 tained the kernel of Society. 
 
 But being in love, and recently engaged to be married, 
 Shelton had a right to be immune from dissatisfaction 
 of any kind, and he returned to the memory of the cool, 
 fair face, the quick movements, and brilliant smile that 
 now in his probationary exile haunted his imagination ; 
 he took out his fiancee's last letter, but the voice of the 
 young foreigner addressing him in his rapid French 
 caused him abruptly to put it back. 
 
 ' From what she tells me, sir,' he said, bending 
 forward to be out of hearing of the girl, ' hers is a very 
 unhappy case. I should have been only too glad to help 
 her myself, but, as you see ' — and he made a gesture by 
 which Shelton observed that he had parted from his 
 waistcoat — ' I'm not Rothschild. She's been aban- 
 doned by the man who brought her over to Dover under 
 promise of marriage. You see ' — by a subtle flicker of 
 his eyes he indicated the two ladies who had edged 
 
SOCIETY 9 
 
 away from their neighbour — ' they take good care not 
 to let their garments touch her. They are virtuous 
 women. How fine it is to have virtue, monsieur ! and 
 finer to know you have it, especially when you're never 
 likely to be tempted.' 
 
 Shelton was unable to repress a smile ; and when he 
 smiled his face grew soft. 
 
 ' Haven't you observed, sir,' went on the young 
 foreigner, ' that those who by temperament and circum- 
 stance are worst fitted to pass judgment are always 
 the first to condemn ? The judgments of Society are 
 always childish, seeing that it's composed for the most 
 part of individuals who've never smelt the fire. And 
 look at this : those who have money run too great a risk 
 of having to part with it if they don't accuse the penni- 
 less of being rogues and imbeciles.' 
 
 Shelton was startled, not only by an expression of 
 philosophy from an utter stranger in poor clothes, but 
 at this singular wording of his own thoughts ; stifling 
 his sense of the unusual for the sake of the queer attrac- 
 tion the young man inspired, he remarked : 
 
 ' I suppose you're a stranger over here ?' 
 
 ' I've been in England some months, but not yet in 
 London,' replied the other. ' I count on doing some 
 good there — it's about time !' An ironical smile, 
 pathetic and bitter, appeared for a second on his lips. 
 ' It won't be my fault if I fail. You are English, 
 sir?' 
 
 Shelton nodded. 
 
 ' Forgive my asking ; your voice lacks something I've 
 nearly always remarked in the English : a kind of — 
 comment cela s'appelle — cocksureness, which comes from 
 your great national quality.' 
 
10 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' And what is that ?' asked Shelton, with some 
 curiosity. 
 
 ' Complacency,' repHed the young foreigner. 
 
 ' Complacency !' repeated Shelton ; ' do you call that 
 a great quality ?' 
 
 ' I should rather say, monsieur, a great defect in what 
 is always a great people. You are certainly the most 
 highly-civilized nation on the earth, and you suffer a 
 little from the fact. If I were an English preacher my 
 one desire would be to prick the heart of your com- 
 placency.' 
 
 Shelton thrust his hands into his coat-pockets, and 
 pressed them against his sides as if to force himself to 
 consider this impertinent suggestion. 
 
 'Hum!' he said at last, 'you'd be unpopular; be- 
 sides, I don't know that we're any worse than other 
 nations.' 
 
 The young foreigner made a gesture as if he deferred 
 to the opinion. 
 
 ' In effect,' said he, ' it's a sufficiently widespread 
 disease. Look at these people here' — and with a rapid 
 glance he indicated the inmates of the carriage, who 
 were very average persons — 'what have they done to 
 warrant their making a virtuous nose at those who don't 
 walk as they do ? That old rustic, perhaps, is different 
 — he never thinks at all — but look at those two who are 
 always occupied \\'ith stupidities like the price of 
 potatoes, the prospects of hops, what George is doing, 
 a thousand things of that sort — you've only to look at 
 their faces ; I come of the bourgeoisie myself — have they 
 ever shown proof of a single quality that gives them the 
 right to be pleased with themselves ? No fear ! Out- 
 side their potatoes they understand nothing, and what 
 
SOCIETY II 
 
 they don't understand they dread and despise — there 
 are milHons of that breed. Voila la Societe ! The sole 
 quahty these people have shown proof of possessing is 
 cowardice. I was educated by the Jesuits,' he con- 
 cluded ; ' it's given me a habit of thinking.' 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances, perhaps, Shelton 
 would have murmured in a well-bred way : ' Ah ! quite 
 so,' and taken refuge behind the columns of the Daily 
 Telegraph. In place of this, for some reason that he 
 himself 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 apologeti- 
 cally, as if resolved to speak the truth, ' you acquire an 
 instinct in choosing to whom and how you may speak. 
 Necessity makes the law ; if you want to live you must 
 learn all that sort of thing to make face against life.' 
 
 Shelton, who himself possessed a certain subtlety, 
 could not choose but observe the delicate compliment 
 implied in these words. It was like saying: 'I'm not 
 afraid of you misunderstanding me, and thinking me a 
 rascal just because I confess to a professional study of 
 human nature.' 
 
 ' Is there nothing to be done for that poor girl ?' he 
 asked, reverting with good practical sense to the subject 
 that had started their conversation. 
 
 His new acquaintance shrugged his shoulders. 
 ' A broken jug,' said he ; 'you can't mend her. She's 
 going to a cousin in London to see if she can get help ; 
 you've given her the means of getting there — it's all you 
 can do. One knows very well what '11 become of her.' 
 
12 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 Shelton looked grave. 
 
 'Oh!' he said warmly, 'that's horrible! Couldn't 
 she be induced to go back to her family ? I should be 
 glad to ' 
 
 The foreigner shook his head. 
 
 ' Mon cher monsieur,' he said bitterly, ' you evidently 
 have not yet had occasion to know what the " family " 
 is like. "The family" does not like damaged goods ; 
 it will have nothing to say to sons whose hands have 
 been in the till or unmarriageable daughters. What 
 the devil would they do with her ? Better to put a 
 stone round her neck and drown her at once. All the 
 world is Christian, but Christian and good Samaritan 
 are not quite the same thing.' 
 
 Shelton looked at the girl, who had remained motion- 
 less, with her hands crossed on her bag, and a burning 
 sense of the unfairness of life rose within him. 
 
 ' Yes,' said the young foreigner, as if reading these 
 thoughts, ' what's called virtue is pretty nearly all luck, 
 isn't it ?' and the eyes which he rolled round the 
 carriage expressed some such comment as this : ' Con- 
 ventions ? Ah ! have them — have them by all means 
 — but don't look like peacocks because you preserve 
 them ; it's all cowardice and luck, my friends — all 
 cowardice and luck !' 
 
 ' Look here,' said Shelton, ' I'll give her my address, 
 and if she wants to 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, inquisitive glance of the 
 girl's eyes ; in the pathetic droop of her lip there was 
 something sensuous, and the conviction that the j'oung 
 man's words were true stole on him. 
 
SOCIETY 13 
 
 He hurriedly tore a leaf out of his pocket-book. 
 
 ' I had better not give them my private address,' 
 he thought, glancing again at the faces opposite ; and 
 he vi^rote down the following : ' Richard Paramor Shelton, 
 c/o Paramor and Herring, 198, 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; the young foreigner's words kept 
 recurring to him. He raised his eyes. The plump 
 hand of the Roman-faced lady still rested upon her 
 thigh, but it had been recased in a black glove with 
 large white stitching. A frown contracted her brow, 
 her gaze was fixed upon him suspiciously, as if in some 
 way he had outraged the proprieties. 
 
 ' He didn't get anything out of me,' said the voice of 
 the red -faced man, emerging triumphantly from the 
 ruck of a conversation on tax-gatherers. The train 
 whistled loudly, and Shelton glued his eyes once more 
 to his paper. This time he crossed his legs, firmly 
 determined to enjoy the account of a murder ; but once 
 again he found himself looking up at the long-nosed, 
 mocking face opposite. ' That fellow,' he thought, ' has 
 seen and felt ten times more than I, though he must be 
 ten years younger.' 
 
 He turned for distraction to the landscape, jumbling 
 up the April clouds, the trim hedgerows and homely 
 coverts with all sorts of strange ideas. He was dis- 
 contented with himself; the conversation he had just 
 had, the whole personality of the young foreigner, had a 
 curious effect on him. It was as though he had made a 
 start in some fresh journey through the fields of thought. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 ANTONIA 
 
 Five years before the journey just described Shelton 
 had stood one afternoon on the barge of his old college 
 towards the end of the ' eights.' He had been ' down ' 
 from Oxford for some years, but the May races rarely 
 failed to attract him. 
 
 The boats were passing, and in the usual rush to the 
 side of the barge his arm came into contact with a soft 
 young shoulder. He saw close to him a strip of a girl 
 with fair hair knotted in a ribbon, whose face was eager 
 with excitement. The pointed chin and long neck, the 
 fluffy hair on the forehead, the quick gestures, the calm 
 strenuousness of the gray-blue eyes, made a vivid impres- 
 sion on him. 
 
 ' Oh, we must bump them !' he heard her sigh. 
 
 ' Do you know my people, Shelton ?' said a voice at 
 his elbow ; and he received in his palm a touch from 
 the girl's shy, impatient hand; the warmer fingers of 
 a lady with round, practical, benevolent eyes like a 
 hare's; the dry, aristocratic grip of a gentleman with 
 a thin, slightly arched nose, and a quizzical, pale- 
 brown face. 
 
 'Are you the Mr. Shelton who used to play the 
 " bones " at Eton ?' said the lady. ' Oh, we so often 
 
 14 
 
ANTONIA 15 
 
 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, 
 Mr. Dennant. 
 
 Shelton returned with them to the Bishop's Head, 
 walking beside Antonia through the Christchurch 
 meadows, and awkwardly telling her uninteresting 
 details of 'Varsity life. He dined with them that even- 
 ing, and, when he left, had a feeling in his heart com- 
 parable to the stimulus from a first glass of champagne. 
 
 The Dennants lived at Holm Oaks, within six miles 
 of Oxford, and he drove over two days later to call 
 upon them. Amidst the avocations of reading for the 
 Bar, of cricket, racing, and shooting, it only required 
 a whiff of some fresh scent — hay, honeysuckle, clover — 
 to bring before him the face of that girl with its 
 uncertain colour and its frank, distant eyes. But it 
 was two years before he saw her again. Then, at an 
 invitation from Bernard Dennant, he played cricket for 
 the Manor of Holm Oaks against a neighbouring house- 
 hold, and in the evening danced on the lawn. The fair 
 hair was now turned up in an ashy-gold ' bob,' but the 
 eyes were unchanged. Their steps went together, and 
 they outlasted every other couple on the slippery grass. 
 Thence, perhaps, sprang her respect for him ; he was 
 wiry, a little taller than herself, and seemed to try and 
 talk about things that interested her. He found out 
 that she was seventeen, and told her that he himself 
 was twenty-nine. The following two years Shelton 
 was at Holm Oaks as often as he was invited ; they 
 were to him two years of vaguely enchanted games, 
 
i6 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 of cub-hunting, theatricals, and distant sounds of prac- 
 tised music, during which Antonia's eyes became more 
 and more friendly, more and more curious, and his own 
 more and more shy, and schooled, and furtive, and 
 ardent. Then came his father's death, a voyage round 
 the world, and that peculiar hour of mixed sensations 
 when, one March morning, he stepped off the boat 
 at Marseilles and took the train for Hyeres. 
 
 He found her at one of those exclusive establish- 
 ments amongst the pines where the best English 
 resort, in common with Americans, Russian princesses, 
 and Jewish families ; he would not have been shocked 
 to find her elsewhere, but he would have been surprised. 
 His sunburnt face and the new beard apologetically 
 displayed, yet on which he set some undefined value, 
 were scanned by those gray-blue eyes with rapid 
 glances, at once more and less friendly. 'Ah!' they 
 seemed to say, ' here you are ; how glad I am ! But — 
 what now?' 
 
 He was admitted to their sacred table at the table- 
 d'hote, a small oblong of snowy cloth in an airy alcove, 
 where the Honourable Mrs. Dennant, Miss Dennant, 
 and the Honourable Charlotte Penguin, a maiden aunt 
 with weak lungs, sat twice a day in an atmosphere 
 of their own. A momentary uneasiness came upon 
 Shelton the first time he saw them sitting there at 
 lunch. What was it that gave them their look of 
 complete detachment ? Certainly nothing affected or 
 pretentious. Mrs. Dennant was bending over a camera. 
 
 ' I'm afraid, d'you know, it's under-exposed,' she was 
 saying. 
 
 ' What a pity ! The kitten was rather nice !' and the 
 maiden aunt, placing the knitting of a red silk tie 
 
ANTONIA 17 
 
 beside her plate, turned her eyes, with their hungry, 
 aspiring, and wholly well-bred gaze, on Shelton. 
 
 ' Look, Auntie,' said Antonia suddenly in her clear, 
 quick voice, ' there's the funny little man again !' 
 
 ' Oh,' said the maiden aunt— a smile revealed her 
 upper teeth, and she negligently looked for the funny 
 little man (a Frenchman) — ' he's rather nice !' 
 
 Shelton did not look for the funny little man ; he 
 stole a glance that barely reached Antonia's brow, 
 where the eyebrows took a slight upward slant at the 
 outer corners, and the hair was still ruffled by her walk 
 in the wind. From that moment he became her slave. 
 
 ' Mr. Shelton, do you know anything about these 
 periscopic binoculars ?' said the voice of Mrs. Dennant ; 
 ' they're splendid for buildin's, but buildin's are so 
 disappointin'. The thing is to get human interest, 
 don't you know ;' and her glance wandered absent- 
 mindedly past Shelton as if in search of human 
 interest. 
 
 ' Have you put down what you've taken this morning. 
 Mother ?' 
 
 Mrs. Dennant took from a little leather bag a little 
 green leather book. 
 
 ' It's so easy to forget what they're about, don't you 
 know,' she said, ' and that's so annoyin'.' 
 
 Shelton was not again visited by the sense of un- 
 easiness at their detachment ; he accepted them and 
 all their works, for there was something sublime about 
 the way they would leave the dining-room, magnificently 
 unconscious that they themselves were funny to those 
 people whom they had negligently found funny during 
 the meal. And he would follow them out unnecessarily 
 upright and feeHng like a fool. 
 
 2 
 
i8 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 In the ensuing fortnight, chaperoned by the maiden 
 aunt, for Mrs. Dennant disliked driving, he sat on the 
 back seat opposite to Antonia throughout a great 
 number of drives ; he played many sets of tennis with 
 her ; but it was in the evenings after dinner — those 
 long evenings on a parquet floor in wicker chairs 
 dragged as far as possible from the heating apparatus — 
 that he seemed especially near her. The community 
 of isolation drew them closer. In place of a friendly 
 companion he suddenly assumed the proportions of a 
 living, breathing, necessary being, to whom she could 
 confide her home-sickness and her aspirations. So 
 that, even when she sat silent, a slim, long foot 
 stretched out in front, bending with an air of cool 
 absorption over one of those pencil sketches which she 
 would not show him — even then, by her very attitude, 
 by the sweet freshness that clung about her, by her 
 quick, offended glances at the strange persons around, 
 she seemed to acknowledge in some secret way that he 
 was essential. He was far from realizing anything of 
 the sort ; his intellectual and observant parts had 
 been hypnotized, fascinated, even by her defects. The 
 shght freckling on the bridge of her nose, the slim, 
 virginal severity of her figure with its narrow hips and 
 angular elbows, the curve of her long neck — all were 
 added charms. She had the wind and rain look, a 
 foretaste of home after his travelling ; and over the 
 glaring roads, where the palm-tree shadows lay black 
 and thick enough to be gathered, she seemed to pass 
 like an English day. 
 
 One afternoon he had taken her to play tennis with 
 some friends at another hotel, and afterwards they 
 strolled on to look at her favourite view. Down the 
 
ANTONIA ig 
 
 Toulon road gardens and hills were bathed in a mist of 
 apricot light ; evening crispness had stolen into the 
 air, and the blood, released from the sun's numbing, 
 ran gladly in the veins. On the right hand of the 
 road a grotesquely fat Frenchman was playing bowls. 
 Enormous, unwieldy, busy, pleased, and upright as a 
 soldier, he delighted Shelton, who found pathos in the 
 way he nimbly trotted his vast carcass from end to end 
 of the ground. Antonia threw a single look at the 
 huge creature, and her face expressed a faint disgust. 
 Turning to the left, she began running up towards the 
 ruined tower. 
 
 Shelton let her keep in front, watching her leap from 
 stone to stone and throw back defiant glances when he 
 pressed behind. She stood at the top with her hand 
 to her eyes, 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 her long, full sleeves gave to her poised figure 
 the look of one flying. He pulled himself up and stood 
 beside her ; his heart choked him, and all the colour 
 had left his cheeks. 
 
 ' Antonia,' he said gently, ' I love you.' 
 
 She started as if his steadfast whisper had been an 
 intrusion upon a sacred thought ; but his face must have 
 had an expression of hunger, for the resentment in her 
 eyes vanished. 
 
 They stood for several minutes without speaking, and 
 then went home. Shelton's mind remained blank, 
 painfully revolving the riddle of the fixed colour in 
 her face. Had he a chance, then ? Was it possible ? 
 That evening the instinct vouchsafed at times to lovers 
 
 2 — 2 
 
20 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 in place of reason caused him to pack his bag and go 
 to Cannes. On returning, two days later, and approach- 
 ing the group in the centre of the Winter Garden, the 
 voice of the maiden aunt reading aloud an extract from 
 the Morning Post reached him half-way across the 
 room. 
 
 ' Don't you think that's rather nice ?' he heard her 
 ask as he came up. 
 
 ' Oh, here you are !' said Mrs. Dennant ; ' we were 
 wonderin' when you were comin' back.' 
 
 Shelton slipped into a wicker chair next to Antonia, 
 who looked up quickly from her sketch-book, put out 
 a hand, and said nothing. 
 
 He watched her bent head, and his eagerness changed 
 to gloom. With desperate vivacity he sustained five 
 intolerable minutes of commonplaces ; then once again 
 the maiden aunt commenced her extracts from the 
 Morning Post. 
 
 A touch on his sleeve startled him. Antonia was 
 leaning forward, her cheeks crimson above the pallor 
 of her neck. 
 
 ' Would you like to see my sketches ?" she asked him. 
 
 To Shelton, bending fatuously over the sketches, that 
 
 carefully well-bred drawl of the maiden aunt intoning 
 
 the carefully well-bred paper became the pleasantest 
 
 sound he had ever listened to. . . . 
 
 -* * * + * 
 
 ' My dear Dick,' Mrs. Dennant said to him a fortnight 
 later, ' we would rather, after you leave here, that you 
 don't see each other again till July. Of course I know 
 you count it an engagement and all that, and everybody's 
 been writin' to congratulate you. But Algie thinks you 
 ought to give yourselves a chance. Young people don't 
 
ANTONIA 21 
 
 always know what they're doin', you know; it's not 
 long to wait.' 
 
 ' Three months !' gasped Shelton. 
 
 He had to swallow this kindly but practical pill with 
 the best grace at his command. What else was left for 
 him ? Antonia had acquiesced in the condition with 
 what seemed like grave pleasure, as if she expected to 
 derive benefit. 
 
 ' It '11 be something to look forward to, Dick,' she 
 said. 
 
 He postponed his departure as long as he decently 
 could, and it was not until the end of April that he left 
 for England. She came alone to see him off at the 
 station. It was drizzling, but her tall, slight figure in 
 the golf cape looked wonderfully impervious to cold 
 and rain amongst all the shivering natives. Desperately 
 he clutched at her hand, which was warm through the 
 wet glove ; her smile seemed heartless in its brilliancy. 
 He whispered an agonized ' You will write ?' 
 
 ' Of course ; don't be so stupid, you old Dick !' 
 
 She ran forward a step or two as the train began to 
 move ; her clear ' Good-bye !' sounded shrill and hard 
 above the rumble of the wheels. He saw her raise her 
 hand, the waving of an umbrella, and last of all, vivid 
 still amongst vanishing shapes, the red splash of her 
 scarlet tam-o'-shanter. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 A ZOOLOGICAL GARDEN 
 
 After his journe}' from Dover, Shelton was still collect- 
 ing his luggage at Charing Cross Station, when the 
 unfortunate girl passed him, and in spite of his earnest 
 desire to say something cheering, he could get nothing 
 out but a shamefaced smile. Her figure vanished 
 waveringly into the hurly-burly ; one of his bags had 
 gone wrong, so all thought of her soon faded from his 
 mind. His cab, however, overtook the young foreigner 
 marching along towards Pall Mall with a curious, 
 lengthy stride — an observant and disillusioned figure. 
 
 The first bustle of installation over, time hung heavily 
 on his hands. July loomed distant, as it were, in some 
 future century, and Antonia's eyes seemed to beckon 
 him faintly, hopelessly. She would not even be return- 
 ing to England for another month. 
 
 ' - . . I met a young foreigner coming up in the train 
 from Dover ' (he wrote to her) — ' a curious sort of person 
 altogether, who seems to have infected me. Everything 
 here has gone flat and unprofitable ; the only good 
 things in life are your letters. . . . John Noble dined 
 with me yesterday ; the poor fellow tried to persuade me 
 to stand for Parliament. Why on earth should I think 
 myself fit to legislate for the unhappy wretches one 
 
 22 
 
A ZOOLOGICAL GARDEN 23 
 
 sees about in the streets ? If people's faces are a fair 
 test of their happiness, I'd rather not feel in any way 
 responsible. . . .' 
 
 The streets, in fact, after his long absence, afforded 
 him much food for reflection — the curious gray smug- 
 ness of the passers-by ; the utterly unending bustle ; 
 the fearful medley of miserable, overworked women 
 and full-fed men, with leering, bull-beef eyes, whom he 
 saw everywhere in club windows, on their beats, on box 
 seats, on the steps of hotels, gossiping or discharging 
 dilatory duties ; the appalling chaos of hard-eyed, 
 capable dames with defiant clothes, and white-cheeked, 
 hunted-looking men ; of splendid creatures in cabs, and 
 cadging creatures in broken hats — the callous monotony. 
 
 One afternoon in May he received the following 
 letter in the French language : 
 
 ' 3, Blank Row, 
 
 < n/r„ „ .„ c.„ 'Westminster. 
 
 ' My dear Sir, 
 
 ' Excuse me for recalling to your memory the 
 
 offer of assistance you so kindly made me during the 
 
 journey from Dover to London, in which I was so 
 
 fortunate as to travel with a man like you. Having 
 
 beaten the whole town, ignorant of what wood to 
 
 make arrows, nearly at the end of my resources, 
 
 my spirit profoundly discouraged, I venture to avail 
 
 myself of your permission, knowing that you are a good 
 
 heart. Since I saw you I have run through all the 
 
 misfortunes of the calendar, and know not what door is 
 
 left at which I have not knocked. I presented myself 
 
 at the business firm with whose name you supplied me, 
 
 but being unfortunately in rags, they refused to give 
 
 me your private address. Is not this very much in the 
 
24 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 English character ? They told me to write, and said 
 they would forward the letter. I put all my hopes 
 in you. 
 
 ' Believe me, my dear sir 
 
 ' (whatever you may decide), 
 ' Your very devoted 
 
 ' Louis Ferrand.' 
 
 Shelton looked at the envelope, and saw that it bore 
 a date more than a week old. The face of the young 
 foreigner floated before him, vital, sensitive, mocking ; 
 the sound of his quick French buzzed in his ears, and 
 oddly, the whole whiff of him had a searching power of 
 raising more vividly than ever his memories of Antonia. 
 It had been at the end of his journey from Hyeres to 
 London that he had met him, and it gave the fellow a 
 certain claim — a certain queer, sensuous claim. 
 
 He took his hat and hurried to Blank Row. Dis- 
 missing his cab at the corner of Victoria Street, with 
 some difficulty he found the house in question. It was 
 one of those doorless zoological gardens, with stone- 
 flagged corridors, known as doss-houses. By tapping 
 on a sort of cage with a sliding window like a ticket- 
 office, he at last attracted the attention of a blowsy 
 woman with soap-suds on her arms, who informed him 
 that the party in question had gone away without 
 leaving any address. 
 
 ' But isn't there anybody,' asked Shelton, 'of whom 
 I can make inquiry ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; there's a Frenchman.' And opening the door 
 of an inner room she bellowed : ' Carolan ! ^^^anted !' 
 and disappeared. 
 
 A dried-up, yellow little man, with one of those 
 
A ZOOLOGICAL GARDEN 25 
 
 wearily cynical faces that look as if a moral steam- 
 roller had passed over them, answered the call, and 
 stood, as it were, sniffing at Shelton, upon whom he 
 made the singular impression of a creature struggling 
 to get out of a pit. 
 
 ' He left here ten days ago, in the company of a 
 mulatto. What do you want with him, if I may ask ?' 
 said the little man, his yellow cheeks wrinkling with 
 suspicion. 
 
 Shelton produced the letter. 
 
 ' Oh, I know you now ' — a pale smile broke through 
 the Frenchman's crow's-feet — 'he spoke of you. " If I 
 can only find him," he used to say, " I am saved." I 
 liked that young man ; he had ideas.' 
 
 ' Is there no way of getting at him through his 
 Consul ?' asked Shelton. 
 
 The Frenchman shook his head. 
 
 ' You may as well look for a diamond at the bottom 
 of the sea.' 
 
 ' Do you think he might come back here ? By that 
 time I suppose you'll hardly 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 such illusions. 
 I shave these specimens for a living, and shall shave 
 them till the day of judgment. But leave a letter with 
 me by all means ; I think he'll come back. There's an 
 overcoat of his here on which he borrowed money — it's 
 valuable. Oh yes ; he'll come back — a youth of 
 principle. Leave a letter with me ; I'm always here.' 
 
 In some vague part of him Shelton had a sensation 
 of being exploited and even of causing amusement, but 
 
26 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 these last three words, ' I'm always here,' in their 
 categorical simplicity touched him. Nothing more 
 dreadful could have been said. 
 
 ' Can you find me a sheet of paper ?' he asked ; ' and 
 please keep the change for the trouble I'm giving you.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said the Frenchman simply ; ' he told 
 me you had a good heart. If you don't mind the 
 kitchen, you could write at your ease.' 
 
 Shelton wrote his letter at the table of the stone- 
 flagged kitchen in the company of an old gentleman 
 dried to the consistency of a mummy by drink and the 
 wind, who was muttering to himself ; and Shelton tried 
 to avoid attracting his attention, for he shrewdly sus- 
 pected that he was not sober. Just as he was about to 
 take his leave the old fellow accosted him : 
 
 ' Did you ever go to the dentist, mister ?' he said, 
 working a loose tooth between his shrivelled lips, and, 
 without waiting for an answer, went on : ' I been to a 
 dentist once, who professed to stop teeth without any 
 pain, and the beggar did stop my teeth without any 
 pain ; but did they stay in, those stoppings ? No, my 
 boy; they came out before you could say Jack Robinson. 
 Now, I shimply ask you, d'you call that dentistry ?' 
 Fixing his eyes on Shelton's collar, which had the 
 misfortune to be both high and clean, he resumed, with 
 drunken scorn : ' It's the same all over this pharisaical 
 country. Talk of high morality and Anglo-Shaxon 
 civilization ! The world was never at such a low ebb 1 
 What's all this morality ? It shtinks of the shop. 
 Look at the condition of Art in this country ! look at 
 these blanks you see on th' stage ! look at the pictures 
 and books that sell ! I know what I'm talking about, 
 though I am a sandwich man. What's the secret of it 
 
A ZOOLOGICAL GARDEN 27 
 
 all ? Shop, my boy ! It don't pay to go below a 
 certain depth ! Scratch the skin, but pierce it — oh ! 
 dear, no ! We hate to see the blood fly, eh ?' 
 
 Shelton stood disconcerted, not knowing if he were 
 expected to answer this question ; but the old gentle- 
 man, pursing his lips, went on : 
 
 ' Sir, there are no extremes in this fog-smitten land. 
 D'you think blanks like me ought to exist ? Why don't 
 they kill us off ? Palliatives — palliatives ' — he worried 
 the word like a dog with a piece of rag — ' and why ? 
 Because they object to th' extreme course. And look 
 at the women : the streets here are a scandal to the 
 resht of the world. They won't recognise that they 
 •exist — their noses are so high, dam 'em ! They blink 
 the. truth in this middle-class country. My boy ' — and 
 he seemed to take Shelton into his confidence — ' it 
 pays 'em. Eh ? you say ; why shouldn't they, then ?' 
 (Shelton had not opened his lips). 'Well, let 'em! 
 oh, let 'em ! But don't tell me that'sh morality ' — and 
 he drummed his shrunken fist on the table — ' don't tell 
 me that'sh civilization ! What can you expect in a 
 country where the crimson emotions are never allowed 
 to smell the air ? And what'sh the result ? My boy, 
 the result is sentiment, a yellow thing with blue spots, 
 like a fungus or a Stilton cheese. Go to the theatre, 
 and see one of these things they call plays. Tell me 
 they're food for men and women ! Why, they're pap 
 for babes and shop-boys ! I was a blanky actor myself !' 
 
 Shelton listened to this lecture with mingled feeHngs 
 of amusement and dismay, till the old actor, having 
 finished, resumed his crouching posture at the table. 
 
 ' You don't get drunk, I suppose ?' he remarked 
 suddenly — ' too much of 'n Englishman, no doubt.' 
 
28 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Very seldom,' said Shelton. 
 
 ' Pity ! Think of the pleasures of oblivion ! I'm 
 drunk every night.' 
 
 ' How long will you last at that rate ?' 
 
 ' There speaks the Englishman ! Why should I give 
 up my only pleasure to keep my wretched life in ? If 
 you've anything left worth the keeping shober for, keep 
 shober by all means ; if not, the sooner you're drunk the 
 better — that stands to reason.' 
 
 In the corridor Shelton asked the Frenchman 
 whether the old fellow could possibly be English. 
 
 ' Englishman ! Yes, yes, certainly, from Belfast — 
 very drunken old man. You are a drunken nation,' — 
 he made an expressive motion with his hands — ' he no 
 longer eats — no inside left. It's unfortunate — a man 
 of spirit. If you have never seen one of these palaces, 
 monsieur, I shall be happy to show you over it.' 
 
 Shelton took out his cigarette .case. 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' said the Frenchman, making a wry nose 
 and taking a proffered cigarette ; ' I'm accustomed to it. 
 But you're wise to fumigate the air ; one isn't in a 
 harem.' 
 
 Shelton felt ashamed of his fastidiousness. 
 
 ' This,' said the guide, leading him upstairs and 
 opening a door, ' is a 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 lifted the dingy quilt. ' They 
 go out in the mornings, earn enough to make them 
 drunk, sleep it off, and begin again. That's their Hfe. 
 There are people who think they ought to be reformed. 
 Mon chcr monsieur, one must face reality a little, even in 
 this country. It would be a hundred times better for 
 
A ZOOLOGICAL GARDEN 29 
 
 these people to spend their time reforming high Society. 
 Your high Society makes all these creatures ; there's no 
 harvest without cutting stalks. Selon moi,' he continued, 
 throwing back the quilt, and dribbling cigarette smoke 
 through his nose, ' there's no grand difference between 
 your high Society and these individuals ; both want 
 pleasure, both think only of themselves, which is very 
 natural. One lot have had luck, the other — well, you 
 see.' He shrugged. 'A common set! I've been robbed 
 here 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 are populated ! Change your 
 bed, and you'll run all the dangers of not sleeping alone. 
 Via ma clientele ! The half of them don't pay me !' He 
 snapped his yellow sticks of fingers. ' A penny for a 
 shave, twopence for a cut ! Quelle vie ! Here,' he 
 continued, standing by one of the beds, ' is a gentleman 
 with a face like a diseased potato who owes me fivepence. 
 Here's one who was a soldier ; he's done for ! All 
 brutalized ; not one with any courage left ! But, believe 
 me, monsieur,' he went on, opening the door of another 
 room, ' when you come down to houses like this you 
 must have a vice ; it's as necessary as breath to the 
 lungs. No matter what, you must have a vice to give 
 you a little solace — un peu de soulagement. Ah, yes ! 
 before condemning these swine reflect a little on life. 
 I've been through it. Believe me, monsieur, it's not 
 nice never to know where to get your next meal. 
 Gentlemen who have food in their stomachs, money in 
 their pockets, and know where to get more, they never 
 reflect. Why should they— ^as de danger ! All these cages 
 are the same. Come down, and I'll show you the pantry.' 
 He took Shelton a second time through the kitchen, 
 
30 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 which seemed to be the only sitting-room of the 
 estabhshment, and showed him an inner room furnished 
 with disgustingly dirty cups, saucers, and plates. 
 Another fire was burning there. ' We always have hot 
 water,' said the Frenchman, ' and three times a week 
 they make a fire down there ' — he pointed to a cellar — 
 ' for our clients to boil their vermin. Oh yes, we have 
 all the luxuries.' 
 
 Shelton returned to the kitchen, and directly after 
 took leave of the little Frenchman, who said, with a 
 kind of moral button-holing, as if trying to adopt him 
 as a patron : 
 
 ' Trust me, monsieur ; if he comes back — that young 
 man — he shall have your letter without fail.' 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE PLAY 
 
 Shelton walked pensively away ; he felt as if he had 
 been indulging in a nightmare. ' That old actor was 
 drunk,' thought he, ' and I suppose he was an Irishman ; 
 still, there may be something in what he said. No 
 doubt I'm a Pharisee, like all the rest who aren't in the 
 pit. My respectability is only luck. What should I 
 have become if I'd been born into his kind of life ?' 
 and he stared at the stream of people coming out of the 
 Army and Navy Stores, trying to pierce the mask of 
 their serious, complacent faces. If these ladies and 
 gentlemen were put into the pit into which he had just 
 been looking, would a single one of them ever again 
 emerge ? Certainly none could ever have imagined 
 themselves in such a position ; it was too remote — too 
 ridiculously remote. 
 
 He fixed his eyes on a particular couple, a large, fine 
 man and his wife, who, in the midst of all the dirt and 
 rumble and hurry, the gloom, ludicrousness, and 
 desperate joviality of the streets, walked side by side in 
 a well-bred way, and had evidently bought something 
 which pleased them. There was nothing offensive 
 about their manner; on the contrary, they seemed 
 quite unconcerned at the passing of other people. The 
 
 31 
 
32 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 man had the fine solidity of shoulder and waist, the 
 quiet, glossy self-possession connected with horses, 
 guns, and dressing-bags. The wife, her chin comfort- 
 ably settled on her fur, kept her gray eyes fixed upon her 
 hands, and, when she spoke, her even, unruffled voice 
 reached SheUon's ears above all the whirring of the 
 traffic. It was leisurely and precise, as if it had never 
 been hurried, never exhausted, never passionate, and 
 never afraid. Their conversation, like that of many 
 dozens of fine couples who invade London from their 
 country places, was of where they should dine, what 
 theatre they should go to, whom they had seen, and 
 what they should buy. And Shelton had a sudden 
 conviction that from day's end to day's end, and even 
 in their bed, these would be the subjects of their 
 conversation. They were the best-bred people of the 
 sort he had constantly met in country houses and 
 accepted as a matter of course, with a vague discomfort 
 at the bottom of his soul. Antonia's home, for instance, 
 had been full of them. They were the best-bred people 
 of the sort who supported good works, knew everybody, 
 had clear, calm judgment, and an intolerance of all 
 conduct that seemed to them 'impossible,' all breaches 
 of morality, such as errors of etiquette, dishonesty, 
 passion and sympathy (except with a canonized class of 
 objects— the legitimate sufferings, for instance, of their 
 own families and class). How healthy they were ! The 
 memory of the doss-house was working in Shelton's 
 mind like a poison. He was subconscious that in his 
 own well-groomed figure, in the undemonstrative 
 assurance of his own walk, he bore a resemblance to 
 the couple he was apostrophizing. ' Ah !' he thought 
 violently, 'how vulgar our refinement is!' But he 
 
THE PLAY 33 
 
 hardly believed his own outburst. These people were 
 so well mannered, so well conducted, so healthy, he 
 could not really understand what gave him the feeling 
 of irritation. What was the matter with them ? They 
 fulfilled their duties, had good appetites, clear con- 
 sciences, all the furniture of exemplary citizens; they 
 merely lacked — feelers, a loss that, he had read, was 
 suffered by plants and animals which no longer had a 
 necessity for employing them. Some rare national 
 faculty, perhaps, of seeing only the obvious and 
 materially advantageous had destroyed their capacity 
 for catching stray gleams or scents to right or left. 
 
 The lady looked up at her husband. The light of 
 quiet, proprietary affection shone in her calm, gray eyes, 
 decorously illumining the full statuesque features, 
 slightly reddened by the wind. The husband looked 
 down at his wife, calm, practical, protecting. They 
 were singularly alike. So doubtless he looked when he 
 presented himself in snowy shirt-sleeves for her to 
 straighten the bow of his white tie ; so nightly she 
 would look, standing before the full-length mirror, and 
 fixing on her bosom his gifts. Calm, proprietary, kind ! 
 He passed them and walked behind a second and less 
 distinguished couple, who manifested a mutual dislike 
 as matter-of-fact and free from nonsense as the unruffled 
 satisfaction of the first ; this dislike was just as healthy, 
 and produced in Shelton about the same sensation. It 
 was like knocking at an unopenable door, looking at a 
 circle — couple after couple all the same. No heads, 
 toes, angles of their souls stuck out anywhere. In the 
 sea of their environments they were drowned ; no leg 
 braved the air, no arm emerged wet and naked to wave 
 at the skies ; shop-persons, aristocrats, workmen, 
 
 3 
 
34 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 officials, they were all respectable. And he himself as 
 respectable as any of them. 
 
 He returned moodily to his rooms, and, with the 
 impetuosity which distinguished him when about to do 
 an unwise thing, seized his pen and poured out before 
 Antonia some of his impressions : 
 
 ' . . . Mean is the word, darhng ; we are mean, 
 that's what's the matter with us, dukes and dustmen, 
 the whole human species — as mean as caterpillars. To 
 secure our own property and our own comfort, to dole 
 out our sympathy according to rule just so that it won't 
 really hurt us, is what we're all after. There's some- 
 thing about human nature that is awfully repulsive, and 
 the healthier people are, the more repulsive they seem 
 to be. . . .' 
 
 He paused, biting the end of his untidy pen ; his pens 
 were by turns hopelessly untidy, or so severely tidy 
 that it was quite a pleasure to use them. Had he a 
 single acquaintance who would not have advised him to 
 see a doctor for writing such rubbish ? How would the 
 world go round, or Society exist, without common- 
 sense, practical ability, and the absence of sympathy ? 
 
 He looked out of the long French window. Down in 
 the street a footman was settling the rug over the knees 
 of a lady in a carriage, and the decorous immovability 
 of both their faces, which were clearly visible to him 
 even on the first floor, was like a portion of some well- 
 oiled rigid machine. He got up and began to walk up 
 and down. His rooms, in one of those narrow squares 
 skirting Belgravia, were the same he had inhabited 
 before the death of his father had made him a man 
 of property. Selected for their centrality, they were 
 
THE PLAY 35 
 
 full of things from his diggings at Oxford, from his 
 chambers in the Temple, from his room in his father's 
 house. They were certainly not bare, but a close 
 inspection revealed an underlying asceticism ; every- 
 thing was damaged, more or less, and there was 
 absolutely nothing that seemed to have any interest taken 
 in it. The things looked like accidents, presents, or the 
 haphazard acquisitions of a pressing necessity. Nothing, 
 of course, was frowsy, but everything was more or less 
 dusty, as if belonging to a man who never had a row 
 with a servant. Above all, there was nothing that 
 indicated a hobby. Through these rooms he walked up 
 and down, smoked a pipe, and looked at Antonia's 
 photograph. 
 
 Three days later he had her answer to his letter : 
 
 ' . . . I don't ' (she wrote) ' think I understand what 
 you mean by " the healthier people are, the more repul- 
 sive they seem to be "; one must be healthy to be 
 perfect, mustn't one ? I don't like unhealthy people. 
 I had to play Bach on that wretched piano after reading 
 your letter; it made me feel so unhappy. I've been 
 having a splendid lot of tennis lately, and I've got the 
 back-handed lifting stroke at last — hurrah ! . . . ' 
 
 By the same post, too, came the following note, in an 
 authoritative handwriting : 
 
 ' Dear Bird (Shelton's nickname), 
 
 ' My wife has gone down to her people, so I'm en 
 garpn for a few days. If you've nothing better to do, 
 come and dine to-night at seven, and go to the theatre. 
 
 It's ages since I saw you. 
 
 ' Yours ever, 
 
 ' B. M. Halidome.' 
 3—2 
 
36 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 Shelton had nothing better to do, for pleasant was his 
 remembrance of Halidome's well-appointed dinners. At 
 seven o'clock, therefore, he presented himself in Chester 
 Square, where he found his friend in his study, reading 
 Arnold by the light of an electric lamp with a green 
 shade. The walls of the room were hung with costly 
 etchings, arranged with solid and scrupulous taste ; 
 from the carving of the mantelpiece to the binding of 
 the book he was reading, from the miraculously-coloured 
 meerschaums on the side-table to the chased fireirons, 
 everything displayed a luxury and lack of pretence, an 
 order and finish significant of a life completely under 
 control. Everything had been collected. The collector 
 rose as Shelton entered, a fine figure of a man, clean 
 shaven, \\ith dark hair, a Roman nose, good eyes, and 
 the slightly ponderous dignity of attitude (he had no 
 gestures) which comes from the assurance that one is 
 in the right. 
 
 ' Glad to see you, old chap,' he said ; and taking 
 Shelton by the lapel, he drew him into the radius of the 
 lamp, where he examined him slowly, smiling a critical 
 smile. ' I rather like your beard,' he said with genial 
 brusqueness ; and nothing, perhaps, could better have 
 summed up his faculty for forming an independent 
 judgment that Shelton had always found so admirable. 
 He did not apologize for the dinner, which, consisting 
 of eight courses and three wines, served by a butler 
 and only one footman, smacked of the same perfection 
 as the furniture ; in fact, he had never been known to 
 apologize for anything, except with a brusque joviality 
 that was a little worse than the offence. The suave 
 and reasonable weight of his approvals and disapprovals 
 stirred Shelton up, as usual, to feel both ironical and 
 
THE PLAY 37 
 
 insignificant ; but whether from a sense of the truly 
 soiid, humane, and healthy quality of Halidome's 
 egoism, or merely from the fact that their friendship 
 had been long in bottle, he had never resented the 
 mixed sensations which his friend's society provoked. 
 
 ' By the way, I congratulate you, old chap,' said the 
 latter, as they were driving to the theatre ; there was 
 no vulgar hurry about his congratulations, no more 
 than about any other part of him. ' They're awfully 
 nice people, the Dennants.' 
 
 An indefinite sense of having had the seal of eclecti- 
 cism put on his engagement invaded Shelton. 
 
 ' Where are you going to live ? You ought to come 
 down and live near us in the country ; there are some 
 ripping houses to be had down there ; it's really a 
 ripping neighbourhood. Have you chucked the Bar ? 
 You ought to do something, you know ; it'll be fatal for 
 you to have nothing to do. I tell you what. Bird : you 
 ought to stand for the County Council.' 
 
 But before Shelton could reply they reached the 
 theatre, and had to devote their energies to sidling into 
 their stalls. He had time to examine his neighbours 
 before the play began. Seated next him was a lady with 
 large healthy shoulders, displayed with splendid liber- 
 ality; beyond her a husband, red cheeked, with drooping, 
 yellow-gray moustache and a very bald head ; beyond 
 him again two men he had known at Eton. One of 
 them had a clean-shaved face, smooth, dark hair, and a 
 weathered complexion ; his small mouth with its upper 
 lip in advance of the lower,his eyelids a little drooped over 
 alert eyes, gave him a satirically resolute expression. 
 ' I've got hold of your tail, old fellow,' he seemed to be 
 saying, as if he had spent a Hfetime in catching a fox. 
 
38 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 The other's large, goggling eyes rested on Shelton with 
 a chaffing smile ; his thick, sleek hair, brushed with 
 water and parted in the middle, his neat moustache and 
 admirable waistcoat, suggested a dandyism contemp- 
 tuous of women. From his recognition of these two 
 old schoolfellows, Shelton turned back to look at 
 Halidome, who, having sonorously cleared his throat, 
 was staring straight before him at the curtain. Antonia's 
 words kept running in her lover's head : ' I don't like 
 unhealthy people.' Well, none of these people, anyway, 
 were unhealthy ; on the contrary, they looked as if they 
 had formally defied the elements to endow them with 
 spirituality ; but at that moment the curtain went up. 
 
 Slowly and unwillingly, for he was of a trustful disposi- 
 tion, Shelton recognised that this play was one of those 
 masterpieces of modern drama where the characters 
 were all drawn on the principle that men have been 
 made for morality rather than morality made by men, 
 and he watched the action unfold itself with a careful 
 sandwiching of grave and gay. 
 
 A married woman anxious to be free of her marriage 
 tie was the pivot of the story, and a number of 
 ingeniously contrived situations, with a hundred reasons 
 why this desire was both wrong and inexpedient, were 
 presented to Shelton. These reasons issued for the most 
 part from the mouth of one of the characters, a well- 
 preserved old gentleman with a moustache and a reputa- 
 tion as a ' man of the \\'orld,' who seemed to Shelton to 
 play the part of a sort of Moral Assessor. He could not 
 help leaning over to Halidome and whispering : 
 
 ' Can you stand that old woman ?' 
 
 His friend turned his fine eyes upon him wonderingly. 
 
 ' What old woman ?' he asked. 
 
THE PLAY 39 
 
 ' Why, the old ass with the platitudes !' returned 
 Shelton, surprised. 
 
 Halidome's countenance (he was one of those men 
 whose faces are best described by the word ' counte- 
 nance') grew cold and a little shocked, as though in 
 some way he had been personally insulted. 
 
 ' Do you mean Pirbright ?' he said. ' I think he's 
 ripping.' 
 
 Shelton turned back to the play rebuffed ; he felt 
 guilty of a breach of good manners, sitting as he was in 
 one of Hahdome's stalls, and he naturally 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 ! 
 
 He was now watching the crisis. 
 
 The scene represented a drawing-room, softly lighted 
 by electric lamps, with a cat (Shelton could not decide 
 whether she was real or not) asleep on the mat. 
 
 The husband, a thick-set, healthy man in evening 
 dress, was drinking neat 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 on the arms of his stall, for he felt that some- 
 thing was about to happen ; and when the match de- 
 scribed a parabola into the fire, he leaned forward in his 
 seat. 
 
 The husband poured out more whisky, tossed it off at 
 a draught, and walked to the door ; then, turning towards 
 the audience as if to let them into the confidence of some 
 momentous decision, he puffed at them a puff of smoke. 
 He went out, returned, and once more filled his glass. 
 
40 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 A lady now entered, pale of face and dark of eye— 
 his wife. The husband crossed to the fireplace, and 
 stood there with his legs astride, in the attitude which 
 somehow Shelton had felt sure he would assume. His 
 voice fell on Shelton's ear with a composed twang : 
 
 ' Come in, please, and shut the door.' 
 
 Shelton suddenly perceived that he was face to face 
 with one of those dumb moments in which two people 
 declare their inextinguishable hatred — the hatred 
 underlying the sexual intimacy of two utterly different 
 creatures, and he was suddenly reminded of a scene he 
 had once witnessed in a restaurant. He remembered 
 with extreme minuteness how the woman and the man 
 had sat facing each other across the narrow patch of 
 white cloth, emblazoned by an electric candle with a 
 cheap shade and a thin, blue-green vase with red flowers. 
 He remembered the curious scornful offensiveness of 
 their voices, subdued so that only a word here and there 
 reached him. He remembered the cold loathing in 
 their eyes. And, above all, he remembered his impres- 
 sion that this sort of scene happened between them 
 every other day, and would continue to happen ; and 
 as he put on his overcoat and paid his bill, he had asked 
 himself, ' Why in the name of decency do they go on 
 living together ?' And he suddenly thought to himself, 
 as he listened to the two players wrangling on the 
 stage : ' What's the good of all this talk ? There's some- 
 thing here past words.' 
 
 The curtain came down upon the act, and he looked 
 furtively at the lady next him. She was shrugging her 
 shoulders at her husband, whose face wore an offended 
 expression. 
 
 ' I do dislike these unhealthy women,' he was just 
 
THE PLAY 41 
 
 saying, but catching Siielton's eye, he turned square in 
 his seat, with an ironical sniff. 
 
 The face of Shelton's friend beyond, composed and 
 satirical as ever, was clothed with a mask of contemp- 
 tuous curiosity, as if he had been listening to something 
 both startling and a little impertinent. The goggle- 
 eyed man was 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 will 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 and champagne to 
 fortify himself for a lecture to the wife. He'll show her 
 how unhealthy her feelings are — I know him — and he'll 
 take her hand and say, " Dear lady, is there anything 
 in this poor world but the good opinion of Society?" 
 and he'll pretend to laugh at himself for saying it ; but 
 you'll see perfectly well that the old woman means it. 
 And then he'll put her into a set of circumstances that 
 aren't her own but his version of them, and show her 
 the only way of salvation is to kiss her husband;' and 
 Shelton grinned. ' Anyway,' he concluded, ' I'll bet 
 you anything he takes her hand and says, " Dear lady." ' 
 
 Halidome turned upon him the cold disapproval of 
 his fine 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 put on their coats ; a stream of people with spotless 
 bosoms eddied round the doors, as if in momentary 
 dread of leaving the hothouse of their emotions, where 
 all was grown by rule, for the wet, gusty streets, where 
 human plants thrive and die, human weeds flourish and 
 fade under fresh, inscrutable skies. The lights revealed 
 innumerable composed faces, gleamed innumerably on 
 jewels, on the silk of tall hats, then passed to whiten a 
 pavement wet with newly-fallen rain, to flare on the 
 horses, the visages of cab-runners, the stray, queer 
 objects that do not bear the light. 
 
 ' Shall we walk ?' asked Halidome, linking his arm in 
 his friend's. 
 
 ' Has it ever struck you,' said Shelton reflectively, 
 ' that in a play nowadays there's always a " Chorus of 
 Scandalmongers " which seems to have acquired the 
 functions of God ?' 
 
 Halidome cleared his throat, and there was some- 
 thing portentous in the sound. 
 
 ' You're so d d fastidious,' he said, with amused 
 
 toleration. 
 
 ' Tve a prejudice for keeping the two things separate,' 
 
 42 
 
THE GOOD CITIZEN 43 
 
 went on Shelton. ' Anyway, that ending makes me 
 sick.' 
 
 ' Why ?' replied Halidome. ' I don't see what other 
 end is possible. You don't want a play to leave you 
 with a bad taste in your mouth.' 
 
 ' But this does.' 
 
 His friend increased his stride, which was already too 
 long. In his walk, as in every other phase of him, he 
 betrayed the necessity for taking the lead. 
 
 ' How d'you mean ?' he asked urbanely ; ' it's better 
 than the woman making a fool of herself.' 
 
 ' I don't know anything about the woman ; I don't 
 believe there ever was one like that. 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't want him.' 
 
 Probably some note of battle in Shelton's voice, rather 
 than the sentiment itself, caused his friend to reply with 
 dignity : 
 
 ' There's a lot of nonsense talked about that sort of 
 thing. Women don't really care ; it's only what's put 
 into their heads.' 
 
 ' By Jove !' said Shelton, ' that's much the same as 
 saying to a starving man : " You don't really want any- 
 thing ; it's only what's put into your head !" Anyway, 
 you're begging the question.' 
 
 But nothing was more calculated to annoy his friend 
 than to tell him he was ' begging the question,' for he 
 prided himself on being strong in logic. 
 
44 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Begging the question be d d,' he repHed. 
 
 'Not at all, old chap,' pleaded Shelton ; ' here is a 
 case where a woman really wants to be free, and j'ou 
 merely answer that she doesn't want to be free.' 
 
 ' Women like that are impossible ; better leave them 
 out of court.' 
 
 Shelton pondered this a moment and smiled ; he 
 had recollected an acquaintance of his own, who, when 
 his wife left him, invented the theory that she was mad, 
 and this struck him now as funny. The next moment, 
 however, another view of the incident presented itself. 
 ' Poor devil !' he thought ; ' he was bound to say she was 
 mad ! If he didn't, it would be as good as confessing 
 himself thoroughly distasteful to her ; and, however 
 true, you can't expect a man to consider himself that.' 
 But he did not say this aloud. A glance at his friend's 
 autocratic eye warned him that he, too, might think his 
 wife mad if she left him. 
 
 ' But surely,' he hazarded, ' even if she's his wife, a 
 man's bound to behave like a gentleman.' 
 
 ' Depends on whether she behaves like a lady.' 
 
 ' Does it ?' said Shelton ; ' I don't see the connection.' 
 
 Halidome paused in the act of turning the latch-key 
 in his door, and looked round at Shelton ; a touch of 
 brutality burned behind the rather angry smile in his 
 fine eyes. 
 
 ' My dear chap,' he said, ' you're too sentimental 
 altogether.' 
 
 ' Hang it !' said Shelton, for the word ' sentimental ' 
 nettled him, ' a gentleman either is a gentleman or he 
 isn't ; what's it got to do with the way other people 
 behave ?' 
 
 Halidome turned the key in the lock and opened the 
 
THE GOOD CITIZEN 45 
 
 door into his cosy hall, where the firelight fell on de- 
 canters of drink and huge chairs drawn towards the blaze. 
 
 ' No, Bird,' he said, with a full resumption of auto- 
 cratic urbanity, and gathering his coat-tails in his hands 
 he gazed down at Shelton's chair ; ' it's all very well to 
 talk, but wait till you're married. A man must be 
 master, and show that he's master.' 
 
 An idea occurred to Shelton. 
 
 ' Look here, Hal,' he said : ' what should you do if 
 your wife got tired of you ?' 
 
 The expression on Halidome's face was a sad mixture 
 of contempt and amusement. 
 
 ' I don't mean anything personal, of course,' Shelton 
 hastened to explain ; ' I mean, just apply the situation 
 to yourself.' 
 
 Halidome took out a toothpick, used it brusquely, 
 and replied : 
 
 ' 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 angrily ; the idea was 
 obviously indecent. How could anybody loathe him ? 
 With great composure, however, and looking at Shelton 
 as if he were a forward but amusing child, he answered : 
 
 ' There are a great many things to be taken into con- 
 sideration !' 
 
 'Really !' said Shelton; 'it seems to me a question 
 of common pride. How can 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 a woman gets hysteria. You have to 
 think of Society, your children, house, money arrange- 
 
46 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ments, a thousand things. It's all very well to talk. 
 How do you like this whisky ?' 
 
 ' The part of the good citizen, in fact,' said Shelton, 
 sitting forward, with eager eyes — ' self-preservation !' 
 
 ' Common-sense,' returned his friend ; ' I believe in 
 justice before sentimentalism.' He drank, and, putting 
 his foot on the fender, callously blew smoke down at 
 Shelton. ' Besides, there are any number of people 
 with religious views about it.' 
 
 'Ah!' said Shelton, 'it's always struck me that for 
 people to assert that marriage gives them the right to 
 "an eye for an eye " and call themselves Christians is 
 quaint. Did you ever know anybody stand on their 
 rights 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 do it's cant.' 
 
 ' I don't know about that,' said Halidome, appearing 
 more and more superior as Shelton grew warm ; ' when 
 you stand on your rights, you do it for the sake of 
 Society just as much as for your own. If you want to 
 do away with marriage, why don't you say so ?' 
 
 'But I don't,' said Shelton warmly; 'is it likely? 
 
 Why, I'm going ' He stopped without adding the 
 
 words ' to be married myself,' for it suddenly occurred 
 to him that the reason was not the most lofty and 
 philosophical in the world. ' All I can say is,' he 
 went on more soberly, ' that you can't make a horse 
 drink by driving him. I should have thought gene- 
 rosity was the surest way of tightening the knot with 
 people who've got any sense of decency; and as to 
 the rest, the chief thing is to prevent their breeding.' 
 
 Halidome smiled. 
 
 ' You're a rum chap,' he said. 
 
THE GOOD CITIZEN 47 
 
 Shelton jerked his cigarette into the fire. 
 ' I tell you what' — for sometimes late at night a certain 
 power of vision would come to him — ' it's all humbug to 
 talk of doing things for the sake of Society ; it's nothing 
 but the instinct to keep our own heads above water.' 
 Halidome remained unruffled. 
 
 ' All right,' said he, ' call it that. I don't see why I 
 should go to the wall ; it wouldn't do any good.' 
 
 ' I suppose you'd say, then,' said Shelton, whose 
 honesty did not suffer him to blink an idea presented 
 by the other side, ' that morality is the sum total of 
 everybody's private instinct of self-preservation ?' 
 
 Halidome stretched his splendid frame and yawned 
 comfortably. 
 
 ' I don't know,' he began, 'that I should quite call it 
 
 that ' 
 
 But at that moment the compelling complacency of 
 his fine eyes, the dignified posture of his healthy body, 
 the lofty slope of his narrow forehead, the perfectly 
 humane look of his cultivated brutality, struck Shelton 
 as supremely ludicrous. 
 
 ' Hang it all, Hal !' he cried, jumping out of his chair, 
 • what an old fraud you are ! I'll just take another 
 cigarette and be off.' 
 
 ' No, look here,' said Halidome, the faintest shade of 
 uneasiness appearing in his smile, as he took Shelton 
 
 by the lapel : ' you're quite wrong ' 
 
 ' Very likely,' said Shelton ; ' good-night, old chap !' 
 and escaped. 
 
 He walked home, and let the spring wind into his 
 lungs. It was Saturday night, and he passed many 
 silent couples. In every little patch of shadow he 
 could see two forms standing or sitting close together. 
 
48 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 and in their presence Life the Impostor seemed to hold 
 its tongue. The wind rustled the buds ; the stars, one 
 moment bright as diamonds, vanished the next. In the 
 lower streets a large part of the world was under the 
 influence of drink, but Shelton was far from being 
 annoyed. It seemed better than Drama, than dressing- 
 bagged men, unruffled women, and padded points of 
 view, better than the immaculate solidity of his friend's 
 possessions. 
 
 ' So,' he reflected, ' it's the right thing for every 
 reason, social, religious, and convenient, to inflict one's 
 society where it's not desired. There are obviously 
 advantages about the married state ; it must be charm- 
 ing to feel thoroughly respectable while you're acting 
 in a way that in any other walk of life would bring 
 you into contempt. If old Halidome showed he 
 was tired of me, and I continued to visit him, he'd 
 think me a bit of a cad ; but if his wife were to tell him 
 she couldn't stand him, he'd still consider himself a 
 perfect gentleman if he persisted in giving her the 
 burden of his society ; and he has the cheek to bring 
 religion into it — a religion that says, " Do unto others !" ' 
 
 But he was unjust to his friend, forgetting for the 
 moment how impossible it would be for him to really 
 believe that his wife couldn't stand him. He reached 
 his rooms, and, the more freely to enjoy the clear lamp- 
 light, the soft, gusty breeze, and waning turmoil of the 
 streets, waited a moment before entering. 
 
 ' I wonder,' thought he, ' if I shall turn out a cad 
 when I marry, like that chap in the play. It's perfectly 
 natural. We all want our money's worth, our pound of 
 flesh ! Pity we use such fine words — " Society, Religion, 
 Morality." Humbug !' 
 
THE GOOD CITIZEN 49 
 
 He went in, and, throwing open his window, remained 
 there a long time, his figure outlined against the lighted 
 room for the benefit of the dark square below, his hands 
 in his pockets, his head down, and a reflective frown 
 about his eyes. A half-intoxicated old ruffian, a police- 
 man, and a man in a straw hat had stopped below, 
 and were holding a palaver. 
 
 ' Yus,' he heard the old ruffian say, ' I'm a rackety 
 old blank ; but what I say is, if we was all alike, this 
 wouldn't be a world !' 
 
 They passed on, and before Shelton's eyes rose 
 Antonia's face, with unruffled brow ; Halidome's, all 
 health and dignity ; the forehead of the goggle-eyed 
 man, with its line of hair parted in the centre and 
 brushed flat and level across. A light seemed to 
 illumine the plane of their existence, as the electric 
 lamp with the green shade had illumined the pages of 
 Hahdome's Arnold ; serene before Shelton's vision lay 
 that Elysium, untouched by passion or extremes of any 
 kind, autocratic, complacent, possessive, well-kept as 
 a Midland landscape. Healthy, wealthy, and wise ! 
 No room for anything but perfection, self-preservation, 
 and the survival of the fittest ! ' The part of the good 
 citizen,' he thought : ' no, if we were all alike, this 
 wouldn't be a world !' 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 MARRIAGE SETTLEMENT 
 
 ' My dear Richard ' (wrote Shelton's uncle the follow- 
 ing day), ' I shall be glad to see you at three o'clock 
 to-morrow afternoon upon the question of your marriage 
 settlement. . . .' At that hour accordingly Shelton 
 made his way to Lincoln's Inn Fields, where in fat 
 black letters the names ' Paramor and Herring (Com- 
 missioners for Oaths) ' were written upon the doorway 
 of a stone entrance. He ascended the solid steps with 
 the nervousness he always experienced in approaching 
 a place of business, and by a small red-haired boy was 
 introduced to a back-room on the first floor. Here, 
 seated at a table in the very centre, as if he thereby 
 acquired an added control of his universe, a pug- 
 featured gentleman, without a vestige of beard, was 
 writing. He paused as Shelton came in. 
 
 ' Ow, Mr. Richard!' said he; 'glad to see you, sir. 
 Won't you take a chair ? Your uncle will be dis- 
 engaged in a minute ;' and the tone of his allusion to 
 his employer was the restrained, semi-satirical dis- 
 approval that comes with long and faithful service. 
 ' He will do everything himself,' he grumbled, taking 
 Shelton into his confidence by screwing up his greenish 
 eyes full of sly honesty, ' and,' he added, with the 
 
 50 
 
MARRIAGE SETTLEMENT 51 
 
 satisfaction of one who delivers a warning, * he's not a 
 young man.' 
 
 Shelton sat down and asked after his health. He 
 never saw his uncle's head clerk without marvelling at 
 the gradual deepening of prosperity upon his face. In 
 place of the look of harassment which most faces begin 
 to acquire after the age of fifty, his old friend's coun- 
 tenance, as though in sympathy with the nation, had 
 expanded — a little greasily, a little genially, a little 
 coarsely — every time he met it. A contemptuous 
 tolerance for people who were not getting on was 
 growing deeper and deeper below the surface ; it left 
 each time a more satisfactory impression that its owner 
 could never be in the wrong. Shelton had never seen 
 him anywhere else but at that table in the centre of the 
 large room. 
 
 ' I hope you're well, sir,' he said in turn : ' most 
 important for you to have your health now you're 
 going — to ' — and, feeling for the delicate way to put it, 
 he quite involuntarily winked — ' to become a family 
 man. We saw it in the paper. My wife said to me 
 the other morning at breakfast : " Bob, here's a Mr. 
 Richard Paramor Shelton going to be married. Is 
 that any relative to your Mr. Shelton ?" " My dear," 
 I said to her, " it's the very man !" ' 
 
 The statement penetrated Shelton like a shock ; it 
 was disquieting to perceive that his old friend did not 
 pass the whole of his life at that table in the centre 
 of that room, taking out figures and tracing round 
 undeviating characters on office -stamped paper, but 
 that somewhere (immense vistas of little gray houses 
 suddenly rose before his eyes) he actually lived another 
 life where somebody called him ' Bob.' Bob ! And 
 
 4—2 
 
52 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 this, too, was a revelation. Bob ! "Why, of course, it 
 was the only possible name. A bell sounded. 
 
 ' That's your uncle ;' and again the head clerk's voice 
 was impregnated with ironical resentment, as if he had 
 been inexpressibly hurt in some remote part of him. 
 ' Good-bye, sir.' 
 
 He seemed to clip off his intercourse as one clips off 
 the electric light. Shelton left him taking out figures, 
 and preceded the red-haired boy to an enormous room 
 in the front where his uncle awaited him. 
 
 Edmund Paramor was a medium-sized, upright man 
 of seventy, with a brown face perfectly clean-shaven, 
 whose silky-gray hair was brushed in a cock's comb away 
 from a fine forehead, bald on the left side, to far back 
 on the skull. He stood in front of the hearth facing 
 out into the room, and his movements still had the 
 springy abruptness of men who never grow fat. There 
 was a certain youthfulness, too, in his eyes, yet they had 
 an upward, ascetic look, as though he had been through 
 fire ; and his mouth was incurably inclined to curl up 
 suddenly at the corners in surprising smiles. The 
 room was like the man — large, morally large, devoid of 
 red-tape and almost devoid of furniture ; no tin boxes 
 of deeds decorated the walls, no papers littered the 
 table; a single bookcase contained a complete edition 
 of the law reports, and resting upon the Commercial 
 Directory was a single red rose in a glass of water. It 
 looked like the abode of a man with a sober magnifi- 
 cence of outlook, of a man who went at once to the 
 heart of affairs, despised haggling, and secured his 
 rights without it, and before the curious suddenness of 
 whose smiles the more immediate kinds of humbug 
 melted away. 
 
MARRIAGE SETTLEMENT 53 
 
 ' Well, Dick,' said he, ' how's your mother ?' 
 
 Shelton replied that his mother was well. 
 
 ' I wish you'd tell her that I'm going to sell her 
 Easterns after all, and put into this Brass thing. You 
 can say it's all right from me.' 
 
 Shelton faintly grimaced. 
 
 ' Mother,' said he, ' always believes things are all 
 right.' 
 
 His uncle looked through him with his keen, half- 
 suffering glance, and up went the corners of his 
 mouth. 
 
 ' She's splendid,' he said. 
 
 'Yes,' said Shelton, ' she's splendid.' 
 
 The transaction, whatever it was, did not interest him ; 
 his uncle's judgment in such matters had a breezy 
 soundness he would never dream of questioning. 
 
 ' Well, about your settlement ;' and Mr. Paramor, 
 touching a bell three times, began walking up and 
 down the room. ' Bring in the draft of Mr. Richard's 
 marriage settlement.' 
 
 The stalwart commissionaire reappeared with a docu- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Not that, you idiot !' said Mr. Paramor, kicking a 
 footstool violently ; ' the clean draft. . . . Now then, 
 Dick ! She's not bringing anything into settlement, I 
 understand ; how's that ?' 
 
 ' I didn't want it,' replied Shelton, unaccountably 
 ashamed of himself. 
 
 Mr. Paramor's lips quivered ; he drew the draft 
 closer, took up a blue pencil, and, squeezing Shelton's 
 arm, began to read. The latter dazedly followed his 
 uncle's rapid exposition of the clauses, and was reheved 
 when he came to a momentary stop. 
 
54 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' If you die and she marries again,' said Mr. 
 Paramor, ' she forfeits her life interest — see ?' 
 
 ' Oh !' said Shelton ; ' wait a minute, Uncle Ted.' 
 
 Mr. Paramor waited, biting the end of his pencil ; a 
 faint gleam flickered on his mouth, and was decorously 
 subdued. It was Shelton's turn to get up and walk about. 
 
 ' If she marries again,' he kept repeating to himself 
 with a sense of discomfort. 
 
 Mr. Paramor was a keen fisherman ; he watched his 
 nephew as he might have watched a fish he had just 
 landed. 
 
 'It's very usual,' he remarked. 
 
 Shelton took another turn, and brought up with his 
 back to the hearth. 
 
 ' She forfeits,' thought he ; ' exactly.' 
 
 When he was dead, he would have no other way of 
 seeing that she continued to belong to him. Exactly ! 
 
 Mr. Paramor's haunting eyes were fastened upon 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 would forfeit it. There was 
 much comfort in the thought. Shelton left the hearth, 
 came back to the table, and carefully reread the 
 clause, as if to put the thing back on a purely business 
 basis, and thereby disguise the real significance of what 
 was passing in his mind. The blue pencil judicially 
 balanced in his uncle's hand made him nervous. 
 
 ' If I die and she marries again,' he repeated aloud, 
 ' she forfeits.' 
 
 What wiser provision for a man passionately in love 
 could possibly have been devised ? His uncle's eye 
 
MARRIAGE SETTLEMENT 55 
 
 travelled beyond him, as if he humanely disliked to see 
 the last despairing wriggles of his fish. 
 
 ' I don't want to tie her,' said Shelton suddenly. 
 
 The corners of Mr. Paramor's mouth flew up ; his 
 eyes returned to Shelton. 
 
 ' You want the forfeiture out ?' he asked. 
 
 The blood rushed into Shelton's face ; he felt he had 
 been detected in a piece of sentiment. 
 
 ' Ye-es,' he stammered. 
 
 ' Sure ?' 
 
 ' Quite !' The answer was a little sulky. 
 
 Mr. Paramor's blue pencil descended upon the clause, 
 his smile writhed up once more, and he resumed the 
 reading of the draft ; but Shelton could not follow it, 
 he was too much occupied in considering exactly why 
 his uncle had been amused, and to do this he was 
 obliged to keep his eyes upon him. Those features, 
 just pleasantly rugged ; the springy poise of the figure ; 
 the hair neither straight nor curly, neither short nor 
 long ; the haunting look of his eyes and the humorous 
 look of his mouth ; his clothes neither shabby nor 
 dandified ; his serviceable, fine hands ; above all, the 
 equability of the hovering blue pencil, conveyed the 
 impression of a magnificent balance between heart and 
 head, sensibility and reason, theory and practice. An 
 appreciation of this did not annul in Shelton the sense 
 of having been laughed at. 
 
 ' " During coverture," ' quoted Mr. Paramor, pausing 
 again at the end of another clause ; ' you understand, 
 of course, if you don't get on and separate, she goes 
 on taking ?' 
 
 If they didn't get on ! Shelton smiled. Mr. Paramor 
 did not smile, and again Shelton had the sense of 
 
56 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 having knocked up against something poised but 
 immovable — Hke one of the logan-stones of his uncle's 
 West Country. He remarked irritably : 
 
 ' If we're not living together, all the more reason for 
 her having the more.' 
 
 This time Mr. Paramor smiled. It was impossible 
 for Shelton to feel angry at the ironic merriment of 
 those smiles with their sudden grave endings, they 
 were too impersonal ; a whole side of human nature, 
 and not the remark of the moment, seemed to pass 
 before their author. 
 
 ' If — hum — it came to the other thing,' said his uncle, 
 ' the settlement's at an end as far as she's concerned. 
 We're bound to look at every case, you know, Dick.' 
 
 The memory of the play and his conversation with 
 Halidome was still strong in Shelton. He was not one 
 of those smug little gods of propriety who could not 
 face the notion of transferred affections — at a safe dis- 
 tance, that is. 
 
 'All right. Uncle Ted,' said he. For one mad 
 moment he was attacked by the desire to ' throw in ' 
 the case of divorce. Would it not be common chivalry 
 to make her perfectly independent to do as she liked, 
 change her affections if she wished, unhampered by 
 money troubles ? You only needed to take out the 
 words ' during coverture.' 
 
 Almost anxiously he gazed at his uncle's face. 
 There was no meanness about it, but neither was 
 there any encouragement in the far-sighted look of 
 the brow with its wide sweep of hair. ' Quixotism,' 
 
 it seemed to say, ' has its merits, of course, but ' 
 
 The room, too, with its wide horizon and tall win- 
 dows over the Square, ungarnished with technicalities, 
 
MARRIAGE SETTLEMENT 57 
 
 and looking as if it dealt practically with big issues, 
 was discouraging. Innumerable men of good breeding 
 and the soundest principles must have bought their 
 wives there. It was perfumed with the atmosphere of 
 wisdom and law-calf. The aroma of Precedent was 
 too strong; Shelton hesitated, swerved his lance, left 
 the logan-stone untilted, and once more settled down 
 to complete the purchase of his wife. 
 
 ' I can't conceive what you're in such a hurry about ; 
 you're not going to be married till the autumn,' said 
 Mr. Paramor at last, as he finished. Replacing the 
 blue pencil in the rack, he took the red rose from the 
 glass, and, sniffing at it, placed it in the button-hole of 
 his black cut-away coat. ' Will you walk with me as 
 far as Pall Mall ?' And with a stretch and yawn he 
 added: 'I'm going to take an afternoon off; too cold 
 for Lord's, I suppose ?' 
 
 They walked out and down into the Strand. 
 
 ' Have you seen this new play of Borogrove's ?' 
 asked Shelton, as they passed the theatre to which he 
 had been with Halidome. 
 
 ' I never go to modern plays,' replied Mr. Paramor ; 
 ' they're so d d gloomy.' 
 
 Shelton glanced at his uncle ; he wore his hat rather 
 on the back of his head, his eyes haunted the end of the 
 street in front, the corners of his mouth had flown up, 
 and he had convulsively shouldered his umbrella. 
 
 'Realism's not in your line. Uncle Ted?' queried 
 Shelton. 
 
 ' Is that what they call putting into words things 
 that can't be put into words ?' 
 
 ' The French succeed in doing it,' replied Shelton, 
 ' and the Russians ; why shouldn't we ?' 
 
58 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 Mr. Paramor stopped to look in at a fishmonger's. 
 
 ' What's right for the French and Russians, Dick,' 
 he said, ' isn't right for us. When we begin to be real, 
 we only really begin to be false. I should like to 
 have had the catching of that fellow ; let's send him 
 to your mother.' He went in and bought a salmon. 
 ' Now, my dear,' he: continued, as they went on, ' do 
 you mean to say it's decent for men and women on the 
 stage to writhe' about like eels ? Come, tell me,' and 
 his lips curled up like a German's moustache, ' isn't 
 life bad enough already?' 
 
 It suddenly struck Shelton that, in spite of that 
 intensely amused smile, his uncle's face had a kind 
 of crucified look, as if his feelings had worn their way 
 to the surface, like the points of nails through the 
 inner sole of a boot. It was, perhaps, only the stronger 
 sunlight in the open space of Trafalgar Square. 
 
 ' I don't know,' he replied, trying to be honest at the 
 expense of his uncle's good opinion ; ' I think I prefer 
 the truth on the whole.' 
 
 ' Bad endings and the rest of it !' said Mr. Paramor, 
 pausing under one of Nelson's lions and taking Shelton 
 by a button. ' Truth's the very devil !' 
 
 As he stood there, with head very straight, and eyes 
 haunting his nephew's face, there seemed a queer, 
 touching muddle in his optimism — a muddle of tender- 
 heartedness and intolerance, of truth and second- 
 handedness, as if the cause for it were at once too 
 deep and not deep enough. Like the lion beneath 
 which he stood, he seemed with a splendid prudery 
 to defy life to make him look at her in the nude. 
 
 ' No, my dear,' he said, handing a sixpence to the 
 crossing-sweeper ; ' feelings are feelings, not words. 
 
MARRIAGE SETTLEMENT 59 
 
 Like snakes, by Jove ! only fit to be kept in bottles 
 with tight corks. You won't come to my club ? Well, 
 good-bye, old boy ; my love to your mother when you 
 see her ;' and turning up the Square, he left Shelton to 
 go on to his own club, feeling queerly as if he had parted, 
 not from his uncle, but from the nation of which they 
 were both members by birth, blood, and education. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE CLUB 
 
 He went into the library of his club, and mechanically 
 took up Burke's Peerage. The first words which his 
 uncle had said to him some days ago on hearing of 
 his engagement had been : ' Dennant ! Are those 
 the Oxfordshire Dennants ? She was a Penguin.' 
 
 No one who knew Mr. Paramor could connect him 
 with the word ' snob,' but there had been an ' Ah ! that's 
 all right ; this is due to us ' kind of tone about the 
 remark. 
 
 Shelton looked for the name Baltimore : ' Charles 
 Penguin, fifth Baron Baltimore. Issue : Alice, b. 184-, 
 ni. 186- to Algernon Dennant, Esq., of Holm Oaks, 
 Cross Eaton, Oxfordshire.' Pie put down the Peerage 
 and took up the Landed Gentry : ' Dennant, Algernon 
 Cuffe, eldest son of the late Algernon 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 
 some member had left reposing on the book-rest 
 attached to his chair, but instead of reading he kept 
 
 60 
 
THE CLUB 6i 
 
 looking round the room. In almost every chair, reading 
 or snoozing, were gentlemen who, in their own estima- 
 tion, might have married Penguins. For the first time, 
 perhaps, it struck him with what majestic leisureliness 
 they turned the pages of their books, trifled with their 
 teacups, or snored lightly. Yet not two of them were 
 alike — a tall man with dark moustache, thick hair, and 
 red, smooth cheeks ; another completely bald, with 
 stooping shoulders ; a tremendous old buck, with a 
 pointed gray beard and a large white waistcoat ; a 
 clean-shaven dapper man past middle age, with a com- 
 placent face like a bird's ; a long, sallow, misanthropi- 
 cal-looking person ; and a sanguine creature asleep. 
 But asleep or awake, reading or snoring, fat or thin, 
 hairy or bald, the insulation of those red or pale faces 
 was complete. They were all persons of good form. 
 And alternately staring at them and reading the 
 'Arabian Nights,' Shelton spent the time before dinner. 
 He had not long been seated in the dining-room before 
 a distant connection strolled up and took the next 
 table. 
 
 ' Ah, Shelton !' said he, ' you're^back, then ? Some- 
 body told me you were goin' round the world;' and 
 leisurely unrolling a napkin, -he scrutinized the menu 
 through his eyeglass. ' Clear soup ! . . . Have you 
 read Jellaby's speech ? It's amusing to see the way he 
 squashes those fellows. He's the best man in the 
 House, you know ; he really is.' 
 
 Shelton paused in the act of helping himself to 
 asparagus ; he, too, had been in the habit of admiring 
 Jellaby, but now he asked himself. Why? The red, 
 intensely-shaven face of his neighbour above a broad, 
 pure surface of shirt front was slightly swollen by good 
 
62 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 humour; his small, very usual, and rather hard eyes 
 were fixed with an introspective look upon the success- 
 ful process of his own eating. 
 
 ' Sii,ccess /' thought Shelton, suddenly enlightened— 
 ' success is what we worship in Jellaby. We all want 
 success. . . . Yes,' he admitted aloud, ' he's a success- 
 ful beast.' 
 
 ' Oh !' said his neighbour, ' I forgot. You're in the 
 other camp, aren't you ?' 
 
 'No,' said Shelton, who of all things hated to be 
 classified, ' not particularly. How did you get that 
 idea ?' • 
 
 His neighbour looked at him for a negligent second. 
 
 ' Oh,' said he, ' I somehow thought so ;' and Shelton 
 knew that he meant : ' There's something not sound 
 about you.' 
 
 ' Why do you admire Jellaby ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Knows his own mind,' replied his neighbour ; ' it's 
 more than some of 'em do. . . . This whitebait isn't fit 
 for a cat ;' and wiping his moustache, he stared hard at 
 the waiter. ' Clever fellow, Jellaby !' he resumed, watch- 
 ing the glass into which the man was pouring Pommery 
 and Greno ; ' no nonsense about him ! Have you ever 
 heard him speak ? It's awfully good sport to watch 
 him sit on those beggars. What a mess they've made 
 of it, eh ?' and he laughed, either from appreciation of 
 Jellaby sitting on a small minority, or from appreciation 
 of the champagne bubbles. His laugh had an odd 
 effect on Shelton. 
 
 ' Minorities are always depressing,' he said dryly. 
 
 ' Eh ? what ?' queried his neighbour. 
 
 ' I mean,' said Shelton, persisting in his sarcasm, and 
 gulping down the sense that he was making a fool of 
 
THE CLUB 63 
 
 himself, 'it's irritating to look at people who haven't 
 a chance of success — fellows who make a mess of 
 things, fanatics, and all that.' 
 
 His neighbour turned his eyes with an inquisitive stare. 
 
 ' Er — yes, quite,' said he ; ' don't you take mint 
 sauce ? It's the best part of lamb, I always think.' 
 
 The great room with its countless little tables, arranged 
 so that every man might have the moral support of the 
 heavy gold walls to his back, began softly to regain its 
 influence over Shelton. How many times had he not 
 sat there, carefully recognising all his acquaintances, 
 happy if he got the table he was used to, a paper with 
 the latest cricket and racing, and someone to gossip to 
 who was not a bounder, while the pleasant sensation of 
 having drunk just enough stole over his being ! Happy ! 
 That is, happy as a horse is happy who is never taken 
 out of his stable. 
 
 ' Look at poor little Bing puffin' about,' said his 
 neighbour with compassionate contempt, indicating a 
 weazened, hunchy waiter, who had been pitchforked by 
 an ironical chance into these halls of success. ' His 
 asthma's awfully bad ; you can hear him wheezin' from 
 the end of the street.' 
 
 He seemed amused. 
 
 ' There's no such thing as moral asthma, I suppose ?' 
 observed Shelton, with startling abruptness. 
 
 His neighbour dropped his eyeglass impatiently. 
 
 ' Here, take this away; it's overdone,' said he; and, 
 looking at Shelton's plate, he added : ' Bring me some 
 lamb.' 
 
 When Shelton had finished, he pushed back his table. 
 
 ' Good-night ! It's an excellent Stilton,' said he, with 
 an attempt to cover up his indiscretion. 
 
64 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Good-night,' nodded his distant connection, raising 
 his eyebrows and dropping his eyes again upon his 
 plate. 
 
 In the hall Shelton went from force of habit to 
 the weighing-machine and solemnly took his weight. 
 ' Eleven stone !' he thought ; ' I've gone up !' and, clip- 
 ping a cigar, he sat down in the smoking-room with one 
 of the latest novels. 
 
 After half an hour he had occasion to put the book 
 down to relight the cigar, which had gone out. There 
 seemed something rather fatuous about the story, for 
 though it had a tremendous plot, and was full of well- 
 connected people, it had apparently been contrived with 
 great ingenuity to throw no light on anything whatever. 
 He looked at the name of its author, [a man with a 
 wide circulation ; everybody was highly recommending 
 it. He did not take up the book again, but began 
 thinking, with his eyes on the fire. . . . 
 
 Looking up, he saw Antonia's second brother, a 
 subaltern in the Rifles, bending over him with his 
 sunny cheeks and lazy smile ; he was evidently a trifle 
 elated. 
 
 ' Congratulate you, old chap !' he was saying. ' I say, 
 what made you grow that b-b-eastly beard ?' 
 
 Shelton grinned, and turned up his eyes. 
 
 ' " Pillbottle of the Duchess !" ' read young Dennant, 
 taking up Shelton's rejected tome. ' You've been reading 
 that ? Rippin', isn't it ?' 
 
 ' Oh, ripping!' replied Shelton. 
 
 ' Rippin' plot ! When you get hold of a novel you 
 don't want any rot about — what d'you call it ? — psycho- 
 logy, you want to be amused.' 
 
 ' Rather !' murmured Shelton. 
 
THE CLUB 65 
 
 ' That's an awfully "good bit where the President 
 
 steals her diamonds There's old Benjy ! Hallo, 
 
 Benjy !' 
 
 'Hallo, Bill, old man!' 
 
 A young, clean-shaven creature approached, whose 
 face and voice and manner were a perfect blend of 
 urbanity and decision, and whose steely geniality was 
 the very hall-mark of success. He nodded to Shelton. 
 
 In addition to the young man who was so smooth 
 and hard and cheery, and went by the name of Benjy, 
 a gray, short-bearded gentleman, with misanthropic eyes 
 like a monkey's, and an unexpected liking for the com- 
 pany of younger men, called Stroud, had come up ; and 
 another man of about Shelton's age, with a moustache 
 and a bald patch exactly the size of a crown exactly at 
 the top of his head, who might be seen in the club any 
 night of the year when there was no racing out of the 
 reach of London. 
 
 ' You know,' said young Dennant to Shelton, ' that 
 this bounder ' — he indicated Benjy by a slap on the 
 knee — ' is going to be spliced to-morrow. Miss Cas- 
 serol — you know the Casserols — Muncaster Gardens.' 
 
 ' By Jove !' said Shelton, delighted to be able to say 
 something at last. 
 
 ' Young Champion's the best man, and I'm second 
 best man. I tell you what, you old beggar,' he pursued 
 to Shelton : ' you'd better come with me and get your 
 eye in ; you won't get such another chance of practice. 
 Benjy '11 give you a card.' 
 
 * Delighted !' murmured the affable Benjy. 
 
 ' Where is it ?' asked Shelton politely. 
 
 ' St. Briabas ; two-thirty. Come and see how they 
 do the trick. I'll call for you about one ; we'll have 
 
 5 
 
66 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 some lunch and go on together ;' and again he patted 
 Benjy's knee. 
 
 Shelton consented to this arrangement ; there was a 
 piquancy about the callousness of the affair which made 
 him shiver, and furtively in the interstices of the conversa- 
 tion he eyed Benjy, the steely suavity of whose manner 
 never wavered, and who appeared to have a greater 
 interest in some approaching race than in his coming 
 marriage. But Shelton knew from his own sensations 
 that this could not really be the case ; it was merely 
 a question of ' good form,' the conceit of superior breed- 
 ing, the necessity of not giving one's self away. And 
 when in turn he noted the eyes of old Stroud fixed 
 on Benjy, amicably malicious under their shaggy eye- 
 brows, and the curiosity which gleamed greedily in 
 the face of the racing man, he felt sorry, somehow. 
 
 ' Who's that fellow with the game leg ; I'm always 
 seeing him about lately ?' asked the racing man 
 suddenly. 
 
 Shelton's attention was drawn to a sallow individual, 
 conspicuous for a want of accuracy in the parting of 
 the hair and a certain restlessness of attitude. 
 
 ' His name is Bayes,' said old Stroud, whose business 
 it was to know everyone, and beneath the malevolence 
 of whose eyes could be detected a perfectly genuine 
 disapproval ; ' spends half his time among the Chinese 
 — must have a grudge against them, poor devils ! Now 
 he's got a game leg, and can't go there any more.' 
 
 ' Chinese ? Good Gad ! What does he do to them ?' 
 
 ' Bibles, perhaps, or guns. Don't ask me ! What do 
 I know about that sort of fellow ? He's an adventurer.' 
 
 ' Looks a bit of a bounder,' said the racing man. 
 
 Shelton gazed at old Stroud's twitching eyebrows ; he 
 
THE CLUB 67 
 
 was dimly conscious that it must be annoying for a 
 gentleman whose ideal is a snug thing in the ' Woods 
 and Forests,' and plenty of time for ' Bridge ' and 
 gossip at the club, to see people going about with 
 untidily arranged lives. A minute later, however, the 
 man with the ' game leg ' passed close to his chair, and 
 then Shelton perceived how very intelligible the resent- 
 ment of his fellow-members was. He had eyes which, 
 not uncommon in this country, looked like lires behind 
 steel bars ; he seemed the very kind of man who might 
 do all sorts of things that were ' bad form,' might even 
 be guilty of chivalry. He looked straight at Shelton, 
 and the uncompromising intensity of his glance gave an 
 impression of rather fierce loneliness ; altogether, an 
 improper person to belong to a club. Shelton remem- 
 bered 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 got nowhere else to go, poor beggars ;' 
 and as he glanced back from the man with the ' game 
 leg' to old Stroud, it occurred to him that after all 
 even he, old Stroud, might be one of these poor 
 beggars, and again he felt sorry. One never knew ! 
 A look, however, at Benjy, contained and cheery, 
 restored him. 'Ah, you lucky, unnatural devil!' he 
 mused : ' You won't have to come here any more !' and 
 the thought of the last evening he himself would before 
 long be spending flooded his mind with an eager sweet- 
 ness that was actual pain. ^ 
 
 'Benjy, I'll play you a h-h-hundred up!' said Bill 
 Dennant. 
 
 Stroud and the racing man went to watch the game, 
 and Shelton was left once more in solitary reverie. 
 
 5—2 
 
68 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Good form !' thought he; ' that fellow must be made 
 of steel. They'll go on somewhere ; stick about half 
 the night playing poker, or some such foolery.' 
 
 He went over to the window. Rain had begun to 
 fall, and the streets looked wild and draughty. The 
 cabmen were putting on their coats. Two women 
 scurried by, huddled under one umbrella, and a thin- 
 clothed, dogged-looking scarecrow lounged past with a 
 surly, desperate step. Shelton returned to his chair, 
 threading his way amongst the groups of his fellow- 
 members. A procession of old school and college 
 friends kept filing before his eyes. After all, what had 
 there been in his own education, or theirs, to give them 
 any other standard than this ' good form '? What had 
 there been to teach them a single fact about life ? 
 Their imbecility was incredible when you came to think 
 of it. They had all the air of knowing everything, 
 and really they knew nothing — nothing of Nature, Art, 
 Philosophy, or the Emotions ; nothing of the bonds 
 that bound people together. Why, even the words were 
 ' bad form '; everything outside their own little circle was 
 ' bad form.' They had a fixed point of view over life 
 because they came of certain Schools, Colleges, and 
 Regiments ! And they were the people in charge of the 
 State, Laws, Science, Army, Religion. Well, but it was 
 part of a system — the system not to begin too young, to 
 form healthy fibre, and let the after-life develop it ! 
 
 'Successful!' he thought, nearly stumbling over a 
 pair of patent-leather boots belonging to a moon-faced, 
 genial -looking member with gold nose-nippers; 'oh 
 yes, it's successful !' 
 
 Somebody came and picked up from the table the 
 very volume which had originally inspired his train of 
 
THE CLUB 69 
 
 thought, and Shelton had the mortification of watching 
 the solemn pleasure with which he sucked it in. By 
 leaning forward he could just see the white of his eye ; 
 there was a torpid, composed abstraction in it. The 
 reader seemed as pleased as Punch ; there was nothing 
 to startle his prejudices or make him think, nothing 
 that worried him by showing what people really felt. 
 
 The moon-faced member with the patent boots came 
 up and began talking of his recent experiences at Monte 
 Carlo. He had one or two anecdotes to relate of a 
 scandalous nature, and his broad face beamed, delight- 
 fully frank, behind the gold nose-nippers ; he was a 
 large man with such a store of easy, worldly good- 
 humour that it was impossible not to succumb to his 
 gossip, he gave so complete an impression of enjoying 
 life, of doing himself well. He said : ' Well, good- 
 night ! I've got an engagement ;' and the certainty he 
 left behind him that that engagement was a soft thing, 
 something, perhaps, charming and illicit, was quite 
 pleasant to the soul. 
 
 Miraculously serene was the room, and slowly taking 
 up his glass, Shelton finished his drink, an inexpressible 
 sense of well-being upon him. The sensation of being 
 superior to his environment, to all these fellow-members, 
 was soothing ; he saw through the sham of this club 
 life, the meanness of this worship of success, the sham 
 of these kid-gloved novelists, the sham of ' good form,' 
 and of the terrific decency of our education. It was 
 soothing to see through these things, soothing to be so 
 superior ; and from the padded recesses of his chair he 
 continued to puff smoke and stretch his limbs towards 
 the fire, which burned back at him with a discreet and 
 venerable glow. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE WEDDING 
 
 Punctual to his word, Bill Dennant called for Shelton 
 at one o'clock. 
 
 ' I b-bet old Benjy's feeling a bit cheap,' said he, as 
 they got out of their cab at the church door and passed 
 between the crowded files of unelect, whose semi-pitiful 
 eyes devoured them from the pavement. 
 
 The ashy face of a woman with a baby in her arms 
 and two more by her side looked as eager as if she had 
 never been married herself. Shelton went in inexplicably 
 uneasy ; the price of his tie was their board and lodging 
 for a week. He followed his future brother-in-law up 
 to a well-advanced pew on the bridegroom's side of the 
 church, for, with intuitive perception of the eternal 
 warfare of sex, each of the opposing parties to this 
 contract had its serried battalion, the arrows of whose 
 mutual suspicion kept glancing across and across the 
 central passage. 
 
 Bill Dennant's eyes had begun to twinkle. 
 
 ' There's old Benjy !' he whispered ; and Shelton 
 looked at the hero of the day. A subdued pallor was 
 traceable under the weathered uniformity of his shaven 
 face ; but the well-bred, perfectly artificial smile which 
 he bent upon the guests had lost none of its steely 
 
 70 
 
THE WEDDING 71 
 
 suavity. His costume, the pose of his neat figure, had 
 that studied and unconventional ease which Hfts men 
 out of the ruck of common bridegrooms. There were 
 no holes in Ms armour through which the impertinent 
 might pry. 
 
 ' G-good old Benjy !' whispered young Dennant ; ' I 
 say, they look a bit short of class, those Casserols.' 
 
 Shelton, who had an acquaintanceship with the bride's 
 family, smiled nervously. The sensuous sanctity all 
 round had begun to affect him. A confused perfume 
 of flowers and dresses fought with the natural odour 
 of the church ; the perpetual rustle of whispers and 
 skirts struck a note of eager hypocrisy through the 
 native silence of the aisles. His eyes fixed themselves 
 on the neck of the lady in front, and without in the 
 least desiring to make such a speculation, he wondered 
 whether her face was as charming as the lines of her 
 back in their dehcate, skin-tight setting of pearl gray ; 
 his eyes wandered on to the chancel with its stacks of 
 flowers, to the grave, business-like faces of the presiding 
 priests; and the organ began rolling out a wedding 
 march. 
 
 'They're off!' whispered young Dennant, jogging 
 Shelton's elbow. 
 
 He turned, conscious of a shiver running through the 
 audience which reminded him of a bull-fight he had 
 seen in Spain. The bride came slowly up the aisle. 
 Shelton set his teeth. ' Antonia will look like that,' he 
 thought, ' and the church will be filled with people like 
 this. . . . She'll be a show to them !' The bride was 
 opposite now, and by an instinct of common chivalry 
 he actually averted his eyes ; it seemed to him a shame 
 to look at that head, downcast above the silver mystery 
 
72 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 of her perfect raiment ; the modest head full, doubtless, 
 of devotion and pure yearnings ; the stately head where 
 no such thought as, ' How am I looking, this day of all 
 days, before all London ?' had ever entered ; the proud 
 head, which no such fear as, ' How am I carrying it 
 off?' could possibly be besmirching. 
 
 A perception of the drama enacted before his eyes 
 invaded him ; he set his face, as a man might who 
 suddenly found himself assisting at a sacrifice. The 
 words, however, fell unrelenting on his ears : ' For 
 better for worse, for richer for poorer ; in sickness and 
 
 in health ' Two perfectly-dressed figures babbling 
 
 monumental words to a perfectly-dressed crowd, hang- 
 ing on their lips for a sign of weakness. ' Its pitiful !' 
 he thought ; and opening the Prayer Book he turned 
 to the Marriage Service, which he had not looked at since 
 he was a schoolboy, and as he read he had some very 
 curious sensations. 
 
 All this would be happening to himself before many 
 months were over ! He went on kneeling and standing 
 in a kind of stupor, until aroused by his companion's 
 whisper, ' No luck !' and while all around rose a resigned 
 rustling of skirts, he saw a tall figure ascend the puipit 
 and stand motionless. Massive and high-featured, sunken 
 of eye, he towered impressive in splendid cambric and 
 crimson stole above the carved blackness of the pulpit ; 
 it seemed almost as if he had been chosen for his 
 aesthetic qualities. Shelton listened attentively, and 
 was still gazing in a disillusioned manner at the stitch- 
 ing of his suede gloves, when once again the organ 
 broke forth into the Wedding March. Everybody was 
 smiling, and a few were weeping, craning their heads 
 and bending their bodies towards the bride. ' Carnival 
 
THE WEDDING 73 
 
 of second-hand emotions !' thought Shelton ; and smiling 
 also, he, too, craned his head and began to brush his 
 hat. Then, smirking at his acquaintances, he made 
 his way in the tail of the crowd towards the door. 
 
 He found himself in the Casserols' house at last, 
 going round the presents with the eldest Miss Casserol, 
 a tall girl in pale yellow and violets, who had been the 
 chief bridesmaid. 
 
 ' Didn't it go off well, Mr. Shelton ?' she said. 
 
 ' Awfully,' replied Shelton. 
 
 ' I always think it's so awkward for the man waiting 
 up there for the bride 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 
 hastened to agree. 
 
 ' That was my idea ; I think it's very chic. They've 
 had fifteen tea-sets — so dull, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' By Jove !' exclaimed Shelton. 
 
 ' Oh, it's fearfully useful to have a lot of things you 
 don't want ; of course, you change them for those 
 you do.' 
 
 To Shelton's bewildered eyes it seemed that the 
 whole of London had disgorged its shops into the 
 room ; he looked at Miss Casserol's face, and was 
 greatly struck by the shrewd acquisitiveness of her 
 small eyes. 
 
 ' Is that your future brother-in-law ?' she asked, 
 indicating Bill Dennant by a little movement of her 
 chin ; ' I think he's such a bright boy. I want you 
 both to come to dinner to-night, and help to keep 
 things jolly. It's so deadly after a wedding.' 
 
74 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 Shelton accepted the invitation. 
 
 They adjourned to the hall now, to wait for the 
 bride's departure, and Shelton looked at her face as she 
 came down the stairs. It was impassive and gay, with 
 a furtive uneasiness in the eyes, and once more he 
 experienced the odd sensation of having sinned against 
 his manhood. Jammed close to him in the crowd was 
 her old nurse, whose puffy, yellow visage was pouted 
 with emotion, while tears rolled into her wrinkles. She 
 was trying to say something, but in the hubbub her 
 farewell, whatever it was, was perfectly inaudible. 
 There was a scamper to the carriage, a flurry of rice and 
 flowers; the shoe was flung against the sharply drawn- 
 up window. Then Benjy's clean-shaven face was seen 
 for a moment, steely and bland, the footman folded his 
 arms, and with a solemn crunch the brougham wheels 
 started. ' How splendidly it went off !' said a voice on 
 Shelton's right. ' She looked a little pale,' said a voice 
 on his left. Shelton put his hand to his forehead, and 
 behind him the old nurse sniffed. 
 
 ' Dick,' said young Dennant in his ear, ' this isn't 
 good enough ; I vote we b-b-bolt !' 
 
 Shelton assented, and as they walked in the direc- 
 tion of Piccadilly he absently listened to his com- 
 panion's impressions, nor could he have said whether 
 the slight nausea he experienced was due to after- 
 noon champagne or to the ceremony that had gone off 
 so well. 
 
 ' What's up with you ?' asked young Dennant, as 
 they reached the Park ; ' you look as glum as any 
 m-monkey.' 
 
 Shelton shrugged his shoulders. 
 
THE WEDDING 75 
 
 ' Nothing,' said he ; 'I was only thinking what 
 humbugs we are !' 
 
 Bill Dennant stopped in the middle of the crossing 
 and clapped his future brother-in-law on 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 friends who had been most prominent in the 
 day's festivity. Shelton found himself between Miss 
 Casserol and another lady exhibiting very much the 
 same species of bosom, but a different species of 
 shoulder-strap. Opposite to him sat a man with a 
 single diamond stud, white \^'aistcoat, black moustache, 
 and hawklike face. This was, in fact, one of those 
 interesting houses occupied by upper middle-class 
 families who have imbibed a taste for smart society. 
 Its inhabitants, naturally acquisitive, cautious, econo- 
 mical, and tenacious, worshipped the word ' smart.' 
 The result was a kind of heavy-handed frivolousness, an 
 air of thoroughly respectable vice. In addition to the 
 domesticated fast, Shelton had met there one or two 
 of those ladies who, having been divorced, or being in 
 the potential crucible of divorce, are still anxious to 
 maintain their position in smart ' society.' Divorced 
 ladies without such ambitions were never to be found 
 there, for the Casserols had the highest respect for 
 marriage. He had also met there an American lady or 
 so who \\'as ' quite too amusing ' — never, of course, 
 an American man — one or more Mesopotamians of a 
 
 76 
 
THE DINNER ^^ 
 
 financial or racing type, and several of those gentlemen 
 who had been, or were about to be, engaged in a trans- 
 action which might, or again might not, ' come off,' and 
 in conduct of an order which might, or again might not, 
 be found out. He knew perfectly well, however, that 
 the line was always drawn at those in any category who 
 were actually found out, for the value of these ladies 
 and gentlemen was not their claim to pity as out- 
 casts — nothing so sentimental — but their ' smartness,' 
 clothes, jokes, racing tips, ' biking ' parties, motor-cars. 
 
 In sum, he knew the house for one of the backbones 
 of Metropolitan gaiety, whose fundamental 'respect- 
 ability ' focussed and cemented detached limbs of an 
 entirely different species, in themselves too ' smart ' to 
 keep their heads above water. 
 
 He always felt sorry for his host, a gray-headed, 
 clean-shaven City man, with a long upper lip, curved 
 back, and bald forehead, who just now was trying to 
 live up to a lady the pleasant audacity of whose speech 
 came ringing down the table. He himself had rather 
 abandoned the attempt with his own neighbours, and 
 made love to his dinner, which, surviving the in- 
 coherence of the atmosphere in this house, invariably 
 emerged as a work of art, and it was with a certain surprise 
 that he found Miss Casserol again addressing him. 
 
 ' I always say that the great thing is to be jolly. If 
 you can't find anything to make you laugh, pretend you 
 do ; it's so much smarter to be amusin'. Now don't you 
 agree ?' 
 
 The philosophy sounded excellent, and he meekly 
 assented. 
 
 ' We can't all be geniuses,' she continued, ' but we 
 can all look jolly.' 
 
78 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 Shelton, much ashamed, hastened to look jolly. 
 
 The young lady resumed : ' I tell the governor, 
 when he gets glum, that I shall put up the shutters 
 and leave him. What's the good of mopin' and lookin' 
 miserable ? Are you going to the Four-in-Hand Meet ? 
 We're making a party. Such fun ; all the smart 
 people !' 
 
 The splendour of her shoulders, the frizziness of her 
 hair (which had clearly not been two hours out of the 
 hands of the hairdresser), might have made him doubt- 
 ful ; but the frank shrewdness in her eyes, and her 
 carefully clipped tone of voice, were guarantees that 
 she was part of the element at the table which was 
 really quite respectable. He had never realized before 
 how ' smart ' she was, and with an effort abandoned 
 himself to a gaiety solid enough to have killed a 
 Parisian. 
 
 He asked after her two younger sisters still in the 
 schoolroom. 
 
 ' Oh, those children !' Miss Casserol replied. 
 
 Again Shelton felt at a loss ; he could not disentangle 
 the sober and genuine family affection in her voice from 
 the off-handed contempt proper to the ' smart ' young 
 woman. 
 
 When the ladies filed out of the room he was left 
 feeling like a man who has been riding upon an un- 
 improved motor-car. He reflected over the expression 
 of Miss Casserol's eyes when they had rested upon a lady 
 opposite, who was of a true bird-of-prey voluptuousness. 
 ' What is it,' the enviousness of their inquisitive glance 
 had seemed to say, ' that makes her so really " smart " ?' 
 And while seeking for the reason of this he noticed his 
 host pointing out the merits of his port to the hawklike 
 
THE DINNER 79 
 
 man, with an expression of deference which was quite 
 pitiful, for the hawklike man was clearly what is called 
 a ' bad hat.' What in the name of goodness was this 
 attraction of vice for the middle classes ? A craving to 
 be distinguished, a dread of being thought dull, or 
 merely an effect of overfeeding ? Again he looked at 
 his host, who had not yet completed the catalogue of 
 his cellar, and again felt sorry for him. 
 
 ' So you're goin' to marry Antonia Dennant ?' said a 
 voice on his right, with the 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 a perennially youthful old baronet, 
 with small eyes, dusky red face, and a peculiar hail- 
 fellow-well-met expression, at once morose and sly. 
 He was always hard up, but being a man of enterprise 
 he knew all the best people, 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 good shootin', Dennant ! They come too high 
 for me, though ; never touched a feather the last time I 
 shot there. She's a pretty girl. You're a lucky feller !' 
 
 ' I know that,' said Shelton humbly. 
 
 ' Wish I were in your shoes. Who was that sittin' 
 the other side of you ? I'm so dashed short-sighted. 
 Mrs. Carruther ? Oh ay!' An expression which, if he 
 had not been a baronet, would have been a leer, passed 
 on to his lips. 
 
 Shelton felt that he was referring to the leaf in his 
 mental pocket-book covered with the anecdotes, figures, 
 and facts about Mrs. Carruther. ' The old ogre means,' 
 thought he, ' that I'm lucky because he's got a blank 
 leaf about Antonia ;' and he actually felt a desire for the 
 
8o THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 page to be smudged and torn, that he might show how 
 he despised this system of entry. He stared at the old 
 fellow as he leaned forward, with his singular smile and 
 his air of sardonic good-breeding, to listen to a bit of 
 scandal on the other side. His host's voice recalled 
 him : 
 
 ' Shelton, try that Madeira ; you won't get it every 
 day.' 
 
 Shelton tried it, and it was like a divine oil poured on 
 the chivalric fire of his sentiments. 
 
 The two men to his left were talking. 
 
 ' What ! You don't collect anything ?' said the one 
 next him ; ' how's that ? Everybody collects something. 
 I should be lost without my pictures.' 
 
 ' No, I don't collect anything. Given it up ; I was 
 too awf 'lly had over my Walkers.' 
 
 Shelton grinned ; he had somehow expected a loftier 
 reason, and returned to the Madeira in his glass. That 
 had been ' collected ' by his host, and its price was 
 steadily going up ! You couldn't get it every day ; 
 worth two guineas a bottle ! How precious the idea 
 that other people couldn't get hold of it made it seem ! 
 Liquid delight ; and the price going up ! Soon there 
 would be none left ; immense ! Absolutely no one 
 would be able to drink it ! 
 
 ' Wish I had some of this,' said the old baronet, 
 screwing his purple cheeks round at him ; ' but I've 
 drunk all mine." 
 
 'Poor old chap!' thought Shelton; 'after all, he's 
 not a bad old boy. I wish I had his pluck. His liver 
 must be magniiicent.' He drained his glass. 
 
 The drawing-room was full of people playing a game 
 concerned with horses ridden by jockeys with the latest 
 
THE DINNER 8i 
 
 seat. With the silent amiability which always seized 
 on him after dinner, he helped to carry on this pursuit 
 till an early hour of the morning. At last he left, ex- 
 hausted by animation. 
 
 He thought of the wedding, and all the energy that 
 had been bestowed on its magnificent insincerity ; he 
 thought over his dinner and the wine he had drunk. 
 His mood of satisfaction had fizzled out ; he felt dis- 
 illusioned and ungrateful. These people suggested to 
 him an incapacity for passion, even the smartest of 
 them, even the most respectable ; they seemed to weigh 
 pleasure in the scales and to get the most they could 
 for their money. 
 
 As he neared home, between the dark, safe houses 
 stretching for miles and miles of security and comfort, 
 his thoughts were full of Antonia ; and just as he reached 
 his rooms he was overtaken by the moment which 
 comes each morning when the town is born again. 
 The first new air had stolen down ; the sky was alive, 
 but not yet with light ; the trees of the Square quivered 
 faintly ; no living creature stirred, and nothing spoke 
 except his own heart. Suddenly the city seemed to 
 breathe, and Shelton perceived that, after all, he was 
 not alone; an unconsidered trifle with inferior boots 
 was asleep upon his doorstep. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 AN ALIEN 
 
 The individual on the doorstep had fallen forward over 
 his knees in watchful slumber. No greater air of pros- 
 perity clung about him than is conveyed by a rusty 
 overcoat and wisps of cloth in place of socks. Shelton 
 endeavoured to pass unseen, but the sleeper awoke at 
 the sound of the latch-key. 
 
 ' Ah, it's you, monsieur!' said he, rising. ' I received 
 your letter this evening, and have lost no time.' He 
 looked down and tittered, as much as to say : ' What a 
 state I'm in !' 
 
 The young foreigner's condition was indeed more 
 desperate than on their first meeting, and Shelton in- 
 vited him upstairs. 
 
 ' You can well understand,' stammered Ferrand, as 
 he followed his host into the chambers, ' that I didn't 
 
 want to miss you this time. When one is like this ' 
 
 and a spasm gripped his face. 
 
 ' I'm very glad you came,' said Shelton, swallowing a 
 qualm. 
 
 His visitor had a week's growth of reddish beard on 
 his face ; the deep tan of his cheeks gave him a robust 
 appearance at variance with the fit of trembling which 
 seized on him as soon as he had entered the room. 
 
 82 
 
AN ALIEN 83 
 
 ' Sit down — sit down,' said Shelton ; * you're feel- 
 ing ill !' 
 
 Ferrand smiled. 
 
 ' It's nothing,' said he ; ' bad nourishment ' 
 
 Shelton left his visitor seated on the edge of a chair, 
 and brought him a whisky-and-soda. 
 
 ' Clothes,' said Ferrand, when he had drunk it, ' are 
 what I want. These are really not good enough.' 
 
 The statement was uncontrovertible, and Shelton, 
 placing a collection of garments in the bath-room, 
 iijvited his visitor to make himself comfortable. While 
 the latter was completing this process, Shelton enjoyed 
 the sensations of self-denial, hunting up things he did not 
 want, and laying them in two canvas portmanteaus. 
 It was an occasion which enabled him to express his 
 talent for generosity, and he awaited the return of his 
 guest in a state of mind not far removed from emotion. 
 He felt like a prince or a millionaire when parting with 
 a portion of his superfluity ; a spasm of secret virtue 
 had attacked him. 
 
 The young foreigner at length emerged, still unshaven 
 and wearing no boots, but having in other respects an 
 air of the most gratifying affluence. 
 
 ' This is rather a different thing,' said he, with a 
 mixture of pride and mockery ; ' I can't get the boots 
 on, though '; and, puUing down his, or rather Shelton's, 
 socks, he exhibited sores the size of half a crown. 
 ■ One doesn't sow without reaping some harvest or 
 other. My stomach has shrunk,' he added simply. 
 'To see things one must suffer. Voyager, c'est plus 
 fori que moi !' 
 
 Shelton failed to perceive that this was one way of 
 disguising the human animal's natural dislike of work 
 
 6—2 
 
84 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 — there was a biting touch of pathos, a suggestion of 
 God-knows-what-might-have-been, about this fellow. 
 
 ' I have eaten my illusions,' said the young foreigner, 
 as he sat in an armchair smoking a cigarette. ' When 
 you've starved a few times, your eyes are opened. 
 Savoir, c'est mon metier ; mais remarquez ceci, monsieur: 
 It's not always the intellectuals who succeed.' 
 
 ' But when you get a job,' said Shelton, ' you throw 
 it away.' 
 
 ' You accuse me of restlessness,' he replied ; ' shall I 
 explain what I think about that ? I'm restless because 
 of ambition ; I want to reconquer an independent 
 position. I put all my soul into my trials, but as soon 
 as I see there's no future for me in that line, I give it 
 up and go elsewhere. Je ne vetix pas etre ' rond de 
 cuir,' breaking my back to economize sixpence a day, 
 and save enough after forty years to drag out the re- 
 mains of an exhausted existence. That's not in my 
 character.' He pronounced this ingenious paraphrase 
 of the words ' I soon get tired of things ' with an 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 are not too delicate. There's nothing I 
 pride myself on but frankness.' 
 
 Like a good chemist, however, he administered what 
 Shelton could stand in a very judicious way. ' Yes, 
 yes,' he seemed to say, 'you'd hke me to think that you 
 have a perfect knowledge of life : no morality, no preju- 
 dices, no illusions ; you'd like me to think that you 
 feel yourself on an equality with me, one human animal 
 talking to another, without any barriers of position, 
 
AN ALIEN 85 
 
 money, clothes, or the rest — ga, c'est un pen trap fort ! 
 You're as good an imitation article as I've come across 
 in your class, notwithstanding your unfortunate educa- 
 tion, and I'm really grateful to you, but to tell you 
 everything as it passes through my mind would damage 
 my prospects. You can hardly expect that.' 
 
 In one of Shelton's old frock-coat suits he was im- 
 pressive, with his air of natural and almost sensitive 
 reiinement. The room looked as if it were accustomed 
 to him, and more amazing still was the sense of famili- 
 arity which he inspired, as though he embodied a part 
 of Shelton's own soul. It came as quite a shock to 
 realize that this young foreign vagabond had taken so 
 great a place in his thoughts. The pose of his limbs 
 and head, irregular but not ungraceful ; his disillusioned 
 lips ; the continual rings of discoloured smoke issuing 
 from them — all signiiied rebellion, the subversion of 
 law and order. His long, thin, lop-sided nose, the 
 rapid glances of his goggling, prominent eyes, were 
 subtlety itself; the whole figure stood for discontent 
 with the accepted. He might have posed to an artist 
 for a statue of the Ideal. 
 
 ' How do I live when I'm on the tramp ?' said he. 
 ' Well, there are the Consuls. The system is not 
 delicate, but when it's a question of starving, much is 
 permissible ; besides, these gentlemen were created for 
 the purpose. There's a coterie of German Jews in 
 Paris who live entirely on Consuls.' He hesitated for 
 the fraction of a second, and resumed : ' Yes, monsieur ; 
 if you have papers that fit you, you can try six or seven 
 Consuls in a single town. You must know a language 
 or two ; most of these gentlemen are not too well up 
 in the tongues of the country they represent. Obtaining 
 
86 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 money under false pretences ? Well, it is. But what's 
 the difference at bottom between all this honourable 
 crowd of directors, fashionable physicians, employers of 
 labour, jerry-builders, military men, country priests, 
 and Consuls themselves perhaps, who take money and 
 give no value for it, and poor devils who do the same at 
 far greater risk ? Necessity makes the law. If those 
 gentlemen were in my position, do you think they 
 would hesitate ?' 
 
 Shelton made a wry face. 
 
 ' You're right,' assented Ferrand instantly ; ' they 
 would, but from fear, not principle. One must be hard 
 pressed before committing these indelicacies. Look 
 deep enough, and you'll see what indelicate things are 
 done daily by respectable gentlemen for not half such 
 good reasons as the want of a meal.' 
 
 Shelton also took a cigarette — his own income was 
 derived from property for which he gave no value in 
 labour. 
 
 ' I can give you an instance,' said Ferrand, ' of what 
 can be done by resolution. One day in a German 
 town, etant dans la misere, I decided to try the French 
 Consul. As you know, I am not French, but something 
 had to be done. Well, as he refused to see me, I sat 
 down to wait. After about two hours, a voice bellowed : 
 
 ' " Hasn't the brute gone ?" and my Consul appears. 
 " I've nothing for fellows like you," says he ; "clear out !" 
 
 '"Monsieur," I answered, "I'm skin and bone; I 
 really must have assistance." 
 
 ' " Clear out," he repHes, " or I'll have you thrown 
 out by the police !" 
 
 ' I don't budge. Another hour passes, and back he 
 comes. 
 
AN ALIEN 87 
 
 ' " Still here ?" says he. " Fetch a zergeant." 
 
 ' The sergeant comes in. 
 
 ' " Zergeant," says the Consul, " durn this creature 
 out." 
 
 ' " Sergeant," I say, " this house is France !" Natur- 
 ally, I had made my calculations on that. In Germany 
 they're not too fond of those who undertake the affairs 
 of the French. 
 
 ' " He is right," says the sergeant ; " I can do 
 nothing." 
 
 ' " You refuse ?" 
 
 ' " Absolutely." 
 
 ' Well, they showed me in to the Consul at last. 
 
 ' " What do you think you'll get by staying ?" says he. 
 
 ' " I have nothing to eat or drink, and nowhere to 
 sleep," say I. 
 
 '" What will you go for ?" 
 
 ' " Ten marks." 
 
 ' " Here, then, get out !" I can tell you, monsieur, one 
 mustn't have a thin skin if one wants to exploit Consuls.' 
 
 His yellow fingers slowly rolled the stump of his 
 cigarette, his ironical lips flickered. Shelton thought of 
 his own ignorance of life. He could not recollect ever 
 having wanted a meal. 
 
 ' I suppose,' he said feebly, ' you've often been with- 
 out food.' For, having always been so well fed, 
 starvation had an attraction for him. 
 
 Ferrand smiled. 
 
 ' Four days is the longest,' said he. ' You won't 
 believe that story, however. ... It was in Paris, and 
 I had lost all my money on the racecourse. There 
 was some due from home which didn't come, so 
 for four days and nights I lived on water. My clothes 
 
88 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 were excellent, I had jewellery ; but I never even 
 thought of a pawnbroker. I suffered most from the 
 notion that people might guess my state. You don't 
 recognise me ?' 
 
 ' 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 smooth, sensitive face, always on the move 
 about the streets of Paris, for fear people should see 
 the condition of his stomach. The story was a valu- 
 able commentary. 
 
 Ferrand's face suddenly contracted, and water rushed 
 into his eyes. 
 
 ' I've suffered too much,' he stammered ; ' what do I 
 care now what becomes of me ?' 
 
 Shelton was disconcerted, he wished to say some- 
 thing sympathetic, but, being an Englishman, could 
 only fasten his eyes on the cloth. 
 
 ' Your turn's coming,' he muttered at last. 
 ' When you've lived my life,' broke out his visitor, 
 'nothing's any good. My heart's in rags. Find me 
 anything worth keeping in this menagerie.' 
 
 Moved though he was, Shelton resented this outburst. 
 He wriggled in his chair, a prey to a racial instinct, to 
 an optimism, an over-tenderness, perhaps, of soul that 
 forbade him to expose his own emotions, and recoiled 
 from the revelation of other people's. He could stand 
 it on the stage, he could stand it in a book, but in real 
 life he could not stand it. When Ferrand had gone 
 off with a portmanteau in each hand, he wrote to 
 Antonia : 
 
 ' . . . The poor chap broke down and sat crying like 
 a child ; but instead of making me feel sorry, it turned 
 
AN ALIEN 89 
 
 me to stone. The more sympathetic I wanted to be, 
 the gruffer I grew. Is it fear of ridicule, independence, 
 or consideration for others that prevents one from 
 showing one's feelings?' 
 
 ' I wonder,' he thought, as he wrote this sentence, 
 ' if it's this which gives us English our reputation, 
 makes us so respected and feared. You can't respect 
 a man who tells you his feelings.' He went on 
 to tell her about Ferrand's starving for four days 
 sooner than face a pawnbroker, and as he read it 
 over before folding it into its envelope, the faces of the 
 three ladies round their snowy oblong of cloth rose 
 before him — 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 too thin — and 
 they seemed to lean at him, full of decorous interest, 
 while the words, 'Oh, that's rather nice!' rang in his 
 ears. He went out to post the letter himself, and 
 buying a five-shilling order, enclosed it to the little 
 French barber, Carolan, as a reward for delivering his 
 note to Ferrarid. He omitted to send his address with 
 the donation, but he could not have said whether the 
 omission was due to delicacy or caution. Beyond doubt, 
 however, on receiving through Ferrand the following 
 reply, he felt both pleased and ashamed of himself : 
 
 ' 3, Blank Row, 
 
 ' Westminster. 
 ' From every well-born soul humanity is owing. 
 A thousand thanks. I received this morning your 
 postal order ; your heart henceforth for me will be 
 placed beyond all praise. 
 
 'J. Carolan.' 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE VISION 
 
 A FEW days later he received a letter from Antonia 
 which filled him with excitement : 
 
 ' . . . Aunt Charlotte is ever so much better, so 
 mother thinks we can go home — hurrah ! But she 
 says that you and I must keep to our arrangement not 
 to see each other till July. There will be something 
 fine in being so near and having the strength to keep 
 apart. . . . All the English are gone. I feel it so 
 empty out here ; these people are so funny— all foreign 
 and shallow. Oh, Dick ! how splendid to have an idea 
 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 at Brewer's 
 for a couple of nights, and go down on Tuesday to 
 Holm Oaks. . . . 
 
 ' Always your 
 
 ' Antonia.' 
 
 'To-morrow!' he thought; 'she's actually coming 
 to-morrow !' and leaving his breakfast untouched, he 
 started out to walk off his emotion. His own square 
 ran into one of those slums that still rub shoulders 
 with the most distinguished situations, and in it he 
 
 90 
 
THE VISION 91 
 
 came upon a little crowd gathered round a dog-fight. 
 One of the dogs was in a bad way, but the day was 
 muddy, and Shelton, like any well-bred Englishman 
 had a horror of making himself conspicuous even in a 
 good cause; so he looked for a policeman. One was 
 standing by, to see fair play, perhaps, and Shelton 
 appealed to him. The official, however, could only 
 suggest that he should not have brought out a fighting 
 dog, and advised him to throw cold water over them. 
 
 ' It isn't my dog,' said Shelton indignantly. 
 
 ' Then I should let 'em be,' remarked the policeman, 
 a little surprised. 
 
 Shelton appealed indefinitely to the lower orders. 
 The lower orders, however, were afraid of being bitten. 
 
 ' I wouldn't meddle with that there job if I was you,' 
 said one. 
 
 ' It's a nasty breed that,' said another. 
 
 He was therefore obliged to cast his respectabilit}' to 
 the winds, and had the satisfaction of hearing his 
 audience guffaw while he spoiled his trousers, his 
 gloves, broke an umbrella, dropped his hat in the mud, 
 and finally separated the dogs. At the conclusion of 
 the 'job,' the member of the lower orders said to him 
 in a rather shamefaced manner : 
 
 ' Well, I never thought you'd have managed that, 
 sir ;' but, like all men of inaction, Shelton after action 
 was dangerous. 
 
 ' D n it !' said he, ' one can't let a dog be killed ;' 
 
 and he marched off, towing the injured dog with his 
 pocket-handkerchief, and looking scornfully at innocent 
 passers-by. Having satisfied for once the smouldering 
 fires within him, he felt entitled to hold a low opinion 
 of the man in the street. ' The brutes,' he thought. 
 
92 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' won't stir a finger to save a poor dumb creature, and 
 
 as for policemen ' But as he grew cooler he began 
 
 to see that people overweighted by ' honest toil ' could 
 not afford luxuries like torn trousers or a bitten hand, 
 and that even the policeman, though he had looked so 
 like a demi-god, was absolutely made of flesh and 
 blood. He took the dog home, and, sending for a vet., 
 had him sewn up. 
 
 He was already tormented by the doubt whether or 
 no he might venture to meet Antonia at the station, 
 and after sending his servant with the dog to the 
 address indicated on its collar, he formed the resolution 
 to go and see his mother, with some vague notion that 
 she might help him to decide. She lived in Kensington, 
 and, crossing the Brompton Road, he was soon amongst 
 that maze of houses into the fibre of whose structure 
 architects have so cunningly embodied the principle : 
 ' Keep what you have got — wives, money, a good 
 address, and all the blessings of civilization !' 
 
 Shelton pondered as he passed house after house of 
 five stories each, and such intense respectability that 
 even dogs have been known to bark at them. His 
 blood was still hot, and it is amazing what small 
 incidents will promote the loftiest philosophy. He 
 had been reading in his favourite review an article 
 eulogizing the freedom and expansion which had made 
 the upper middle class so fine a body of people, and as 
 his eye wandered from side to side, he nodded his head 
 ironically. 'H'm!' he thought, 'freedom and expan- 
 sion ! Freedom and expansion !' 
 
 Each house-front was cold and formal, like the shell, 
 as it were, of an owner with from three to five thousand 
 a year, and each one was armoured against the opinion 
 
THE VISION 93 
 
 of its neighbours by a sort of daring regularity. 
 ' Conscious of my rectitude, and by the strict ob- 
 servance of exactly what is necessary and no more, I 
 am enabled to hold up my head in the world. The 
 person who lives in me has only four thousand two 
 hundred and fifty-five pounds a year, after allowing for 
 income tax.' Such seemed the legend of each house. 
 
 Shelton passed numbers of ladies in ones and twos 
 and threes going out shopping, or to classes of drawing, 
 or cooking, or ambulance. Hardly any men were to be 
 seen, and they were mostly policemen or crossing- 
 sweepers ; but a few disillusioned-looking children were 
 being wheeled by fresh-cheeked nurses towards the 
 Park, accompanied by a great army of hairy or hair- 
 less dogs. 
 
 There was something of her brother's large liberality 
 about Mrs. Shelton — a tiny lady with affectionate 
 eyes, warm cheeks, and cold feet; fond as a cat of a 
 chair by the fire, and full of the sympathy that has no 
 insight. She kissed Shelton rapturously, and, as usual, 
 began at once to talk of Antonia. For the first time a 
 tremor of doubt ran through her son ; his mother's 
 view of the engagement grated on him like the sight of 
 a blue-pink dress; it was too rosy. That splendid, 
 warm-blooded optimism of hers depressed him ; it had 
 too little connection with the reasoning powers. 
 
 'What right,' he asked himself, 'has she to be so 
 certain ? It seems to me a kind of blasphemy.' 
 
 ' The dear !' cooed his mother. ' Is she coming back 
 to-morrow ? Hurrah ! how I long to see her !' 
 
 ' But you know, Mother, we've agreed not to meet 
 again till July.' 
 
 Mrs. Shelton rocked her foot, and, holding her head 
 
94 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 on one side like a little bird, looked at her son with 
 shining eyes. 
 
 ' Dear old Dick !' she said, ' how happy you must be !' 
 
 Half a century of sympathy with marriages of all 
 kinds — good, bad, or indifferent — beamed from her. 
 
 ' I suppose,' said Shelton gloomily, ' I ought not to 
 go and see her at the station.' 
 
 'Cheer up!' replied Mrs. Shelton, and Shelton felt 
 profoundly dejected. 
 
 That 'cheer up!' — the panacea which had carried 
 his mother blind and bright through all evils — was as 
 devoid of meaning to him as wine without flavour. 
 
 ' And how's your sciatica ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Oh, pretty bad,' returned Mrs. Shelton ; ' I expect 
 it's all right, really. Cheer up !' She stretched her 
 little figure, and canted her head still more. 
 
 ' What a wonderful woman ! ' thought Shelton. She 
 had, in fact, like so many of her fellow-countrymen, 
 irretrievably mislaid the dark side of things, and, enjoy- 
 ing the benefits of every species of orthodoxy with a 
 clear conscience, had kept as young in heart as a girl 
 of thirty. 
 
 Shelton left her house as unable to decide whether he 
 might meet Antonia as when he entered it. He spent 
 a most restless afternoon. 
 
 The next day — the day of Antonia's arrival — was a 
 Sunday. He had made Ferrand a promise to go with 
 him to hear an amateur sermon in the slums, and, 
 catching at any diversion which might allay his excite- 
 ment, he fulfilled it. The preacher in question, so 
 Ferrand told him, had an original method of dis- 
 tributing the funds he obtained from his sermons, on 
 the principle that male sheep should have nothing at 
 
THE VISION 95 
 
 all, ugly female sheep very little, and pretty female 
 sheep as much as possible. Ferrand suggested an 
 inference, but he was a foreigner. The Englishman 
 preferred to bestow the benefit of the doubt and regard 
 the preacher as guided by a purely abstract love of 
 beauty. His eloquence was at any rate beyond ques- 
 tion, and Shelton came out feeling rather sick. 
 
 It was not yet seven o'clock, so entering an Italian 
 restaurant to kill the remaining half hour before 
 Antonia's arrival, he ordered a bottle of wine for his 
 companion, a cup of coffee for himself, and, lighting 
 a cigarette, compressed his lips to subdue the spasms 
 of nervousness, the strange, sweet sinking, in his heart. 
 He was pale, and his eyes rested defiantly on everything 
 in turn. His companion, ignorant of this emotion, 
 drank his wine, crumbled his roll, and blew cigarette- 
 smoke through his nostrils, while he glanced caustically 
 at the rows of little tables, the cheap mirrors, the hot, 
 red velvet, the chandeliers. His juicy lips seemed to be 
 murmuring : ' Ah ! if you only knew the dirt behind 
 these feathers !' Shelton watched him with a kind of 
 disgust. Though his clothes were now so nice, his 
 nails were not quite clean, and the tips of his fingers 
 seemed yellow to the bone. An anaemic waiter in a 
 shirt four days old, with grease-spots on his garments 
 and a crumpled napkin across his arm, stood leaning 
 an elbow amongst dishes of doubtful fruits, reading an 
 Italian journal. Resting his tired feet in turn, he 
 looked like a figure-head of overwork, and when he 
 moved, each limb accused the sordid smartness of the 
 walls. In the far corner sat a lady eating an omelette, 
 and, mirrored opposite, her feathered hat, her short, 
 round face, with its coat of powder and dark eyes, gave 
 
95 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 Shelton a shiver of disgust. His companion's eyes, 
 however, rested long and subtly upon her. 
 
 ' Excuse me a moment, monsieur,' said he at length. 
 ' I think I know that lady ;' and, leaving his host, he 
 crossed the room, accosted her with a bow, and sat 
 down. With a delicacy not far removed from 
 Pharisaism, Shelton refrained from glancing in their 
 direction. It was some time before Ferrand came 
 back, and when he did so, the lady rose and left the 
 restaurant ; she had been crying. The young foreigner 
 was flushed, his face contorted ; he left the rest of his 
 wine untouched. 
 
 ' I was right,' said he unexpectedly, as they walked 
 away ; ' she's the wife of an old friend. I used to know 
 her well.' 
 
 He was suffering from emotion, but anyone less 
 absorbed than Shelton might have noticed a kind of 
 relish about the tone of his voice, as though he were 
 savouring one of life's dishes, and glad to have some- 
 thing new and spiced with tragic sauce to set before 
 his patron. 
 
 ' You can find her story by the hundred in your 
 streets, but nothing hinders these paragons of virtue ' — 
 and he nodded at the stream of carriages — ' from turning 
 up their eyes when they see ladies of this description.' 
 
 And Shelton realized with a shock how far his class 
 removed him from the right to express sympathy. 
 
 ' She came to London three years ago. After a year 
 one of her little boys took fever — the shop was avoided 
 in consequence — then her husband caught it, and died. 
 There she was, left with two children and everything 
 gone to pay the debts. She tried to get work ; no one 
 helped her. There was no money to pay anyone to stay 
 
THE VISION 97 
 
 with the children ; all the work she could get in the 
 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. The first week was frightful, 
 but now she's accustomed to it — one gets accustomed 
 to anything.' 
 
 ' Can nothing be done ?' asked Shelton, startled. 
 
 ' No,' returned his companion. ' I know that sort ; if 
 they once take to it it's all over. They get used to 
 luxury. One doesn't part with luxury after tasting 
 destitution. She tells me she does very nicely ; the 
 children are happy ; she's able to pay well and see them 
 sometimes. She was a girl of good family, too, who 
 loved her husband, and gave up much for him. What 
 would you have? Three-quarters of your virtuous ladies 
 placed in her position would do the same if they had the 
 necessary looks.' 
 
 It was evident that he had not got over the shock, 
 and Shelton understood for the first time that personal 
 acquaintance makes a difference, even in a vagabond. 
 
 ' This is her beat,' said the young foreigner, as they 
 passed the illuminated crescent, where nightly the 
 shadows of hypocrites and unfortunates fall ; and 
 Shelton went from these comments on Christianity to the 
 platform of Charing Cross Station. There, as he stood 
 waiting in the shadow with his heart in his mouth, it 
 struck him as unaccountable and almost revolting that 
 he should have come to this meeting fresh from 
 Ferrand's society. 
 
 Presently, amongst the stream of travellers, he saw 
 Antonia. She was close to her mother, to whom a 
 footman was talking ; behind were a maid carrying a 
 bandbox and a porter with the travelling bags. Her 
 
 7 
 
98 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 figure, with its throat settled in the collar of her cape, 
 slender, tall, and severe, looked impatient and remote 
 amongst all the bustle. Her eyes, shadowed by the 
 journey, glanced eagerly about, as if welcoming all she 
 saw ; a wisp of fair hair was loose over her ear, her 
 cheeks glowed rosy and cold. She caught sight of 
 Shelton, and bending her neck, stag-like, stood looking 
 at him ; a brilliant smile parted her lips, and Shelton 
 trembled. Here was the fleeting embodiment of all he 
 had desired for weeks. He could not tell what was 
 behind that smile — a passionate aching or only some 
 ideal, some chaste and glacial intangibility. It seemed 
 to be shining past him into the gloom of the station. 
 There was no trembling and uncertainty, no pale rage 
 of possession in the brilliancy of that smile ; it had the 
 gleam of fixedness, like the smile of a star. What did 
 it matter ? She was there, beautiful as a young day, and 
 smiling at him ; and she was his, only divided from him 
 by a space of time. He took a step, but her eyes fell at 
 once with a gleam of discomfiture, her face regained its 
 aloofness, and he saw her, encircled by mother, maid, 
 footman, and porter, take her seat in the carriage and 
 drive away. 
 
 He walked out. It was over ; she had seen him and 
 smiled, but alongside his delight lurked a feeling of 
 unreahty, and, by a bitter freak, not her face came up 
 before him, but the face of the lady in the restaurant — 
 short, round, and powdered, with black-circled eyes. 
 It gave him a shock. What right had he to despise 
 them ? Had they mothers and maids, porters and foot- 
 men ? A second shiver ran through him, but this time 
 of physical disgust, and with it vanished that powdered 
 face with dark-fringed eyes, and he entered his club 
 
THE VISION 99 
 
 intoxicated by the vision of the fair, remote figure of the 
 railway-station. 
 
 He sat long over dinner, drinking and dreaming ; he 
 sat long in the smoking-room, inhaling the perfume of 
 his cigar and dreaming, and when at length he drove 
 away, wine and thoughts fumed in his brain. The dance 
 of lamps in St. James's Park, the cream-cheese moon, 
 the rays of clean wet light on his horse's harness, the 
 jingling of the cab bell, the whirring wheels, the night 
 air and the branches, all embodied some white idea, 
 some emblem of hope and fair attainment. He threw 
 back the doors of his hansom to feel more thoroughly 
 the touch of the warm breeze. The sight of the crowds 
 on the pavement gave him a sense of inexplicable 
 delight ; they were like shadows in some great illusion, 
 insignificant, happy shadows, thronging and wheeling 
 round the single figure that filled his world. 
 
 7—2 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 ROTTEN ROW 
 
 With a headache and a sense of restlessness at once 
 hopeful and unhappy, Shelton mounted his hack next 
 morning for a gallop in the Park. 
 
 In the sky was one of those odd minglings of languor 
 and violence that come with the spring and linger, 
 belated, sometimes into the middle of May. The clouds 
 were of a hue more intense than an Emperor's cloak, 
 the trees and beds of young flowers wore a look of 
 awakenment in the gleams of passionate light that 
 bathed everything, steahng down from behind the 
 purple of the clouds. The air was clean-washed, and 
 the passers-by seemed all to wear an air of careless 
 tranquillity, as if their anxieties were paralyzed by the 
 irresponsibility of the firmament. 
 
 Thronged by riders splashing through the slush of 
 the late spring showers, the Row was all astir, for the 
 weather seemed to have breathed the gaiety of gamblers 
 into the very horses. 
 
 Near to Hyde Park Corner a figure by the rails 
 caught Shelton's eye. Straight and thin, with one 
 shoulder humped a little, as if its owner were reflecting, 
 clothed in a frock-coat and surmounted by a brown felt 
 hat pinched up with a kind of undefinable lawlessness, 
 
 100 
 
ROTTEN ROW loi 
 
 this figure was so distinctly detached from its surround- 
 ings that it would have been noticeable anywhere. As 
 a matter of fact it belonged to Ferrand, obviously 
 waiting till it was time to breakfast with his patron. 
 Shelton found pleasure in thus observing him unseen, 
 and sat quietly on his horse, hidden behind a tree. 
 
 It was just at that spot where riders, unable to get 
 further, are for ever wheeling their horses for another 
 turn; and there Ferrand, the bird of passage, im- 
 movable on his two feet, with his head a little to one 
 side, stood watching them canter, trot, wheel, up and 
 down, up and down. 
 
 Three men walking along the rails had just made out 
 an acquaintance in one of the horsewomen, and were 
 snatching off their hats one after the other at exactly 
 the same angle and with precisely the same air, as 
 though in the modish performance of this ancient 
 rite they were satisfying some instinct very dear to 
 them. 
 
 Shelton could not help noting the curl of the young 
 foreigner's lip as he saw this sight. ' Many thanks, 
 gentlemen,' it seemed to say ; ' in that charming little 
 action of yours you have shown me your souls.' 
 
 What a singular gift the fellow had of divesting 
 people and things of their outer garments, of tearing 
 away the veil of their shams, and their phylacteries ! 
 Shelton turned his back impatiently and rode off; 
 his thoughts were with Antonia, and he did not want 
 the glamour stripped away. 
 
 He had risen the dip, and was cantering gently under 
 the trees, glancing at the sky that every moment 
 threatened to discharge a violent shower of rain, when 
 suddenly he heard his name called from behind, and 
 
102 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 who should ride up to him on either side but Bill 
 Dennant and — Antonia herself! 
 
 They had been galloping, and she was flushed — 
 flushed as when she stood on the old tower at Hyeres, 
 but with a radiance of irresponsibility different from 
 the calm conquering radiance of that other moment. 
 To Shelton's delight and amazement she fell into Hne 
 with him, and all three went galloping along the strip 
 between the trees and the rails. The look she had 
 given him seemed to say : ' I don't care if it is for- 
 bidden !' but she did not speak. She was on his left, 
 and he could not take his eyes off her. How lovely 
 she looked, with the resolute curve of her figure, the 
 glimpse of gold under her hat, that glorious colour in 
 her cheeks, as if she had been kissed by the day itself ! 
 
 ' It's so splendid to be at home ! Let's go faster !' she 
 cried out to the space in front of her. 
 
 ' Take a pull. We shall get r-run in,' grumbled her 
 brother, with a chuckle. 
 
 They reined in round the bend, and jogged more 
 soberly down the far side ; but still not a word did she 
 speak to Shelton, and Shelton in his turn spoke only 
 to Bill Dennant. He was taciturn with happiness, and 
 he was afraid to speak, for by instinct he knew that 
 her mind was dwelling on this chance and forbidden 
 encounter in a way quite different from his own. 
 
 They approached Hyde Park Corner, where Ferrand 
 was still standing against the rails, and Shelton, who had 
 forgotten his very existence, suffered a shock when his 
 eyes fell suddenly on that impassive figure. He was 
 about to raise his hand to his^hat, when he saw that the 
 young foreigner, noting his instinctive sensation, had at 
 once adapted himself to it. They again passed without 
 
ROTTEN ROW 103 
 
 greeting, unless that swift inquisition, followed by glassy 
 unconsciousness in Ferrand's eyes, could so be called. 
 But the feeling of idiotic happiness had left Shelton, 
 and he grew irritated at this silence. It seemed to 
 him more and more tantalizing and strange, for Bill 
 Dennant had lagged behind to speak to a friend ; Shelton 
 and Antonia were alone, walking their horses, without 
 a word, and not even looking at each other. At one 
 moment he thought of galloping ahead and leaving her, 
 at another of breaking the vow of 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 
 understand this.' He was secretly disturbed by her 
 calmness ; there was in it a sure and practical know- 
 ledge of just how far she might go that seemed to come 
 to her by instinct. It showed a power of judicially, 
 unsentimentally fixing a limit that was surely cold- 
 blooded. In her happy young beauty and radiant 
 calmness she summed up something he was always 
 encountering, some perfectly sane and consistent 
 element in nine out of ten of the people he knew. ' I 
 can't stand this long,' he thought, and all of a sudden 
 began to speak ; but as soon as he did so, she frowned 
 and put her horse into a canter. When he came up 
 with her she was smiling, and holding up her face to 
 catch the raindrops which had begun to fall. She gave 
 him a nod, and waved her hand as a sign for him 
 to go ; and when he would not, she frowned again. 
 He saw Bill Dennant posting after them, and suddenly 
 overwhelmed by a sense of the ridiculous, he gave 
 her the oddest mixture of frown and smile, lifted 
 his hat, stuck his heels into his horse, and galloped 
 ahead. 
 
104 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 The rain was coming down in torrents now, and 
 everyone scurrying for shelter. He looked back at the 
 bend, and could still make out Antonia riding leisurely, 
 with her face upturned, as if revelling in the shower. 
 Why hadn't she either cut him altogether or simply 
 taken the sweets the gods had sent ? It seemed to him 
 wicked to have wasted such a chance, and ploughing 
 back to Hyde Park Corner, he kept turning his head to 
 see if by any chance she had relented. 
 
 His irritation soon vanished, but his longing remained. 
 Was ever anything so beautiful a's she had looked with 
 her face turned to the rain ? Odd how she seemed to 
 like rain. It suited her, too — suited her ever so much 
 better than the sunshine of the South. Yes, she was 
 very English ! Puzzling and fretting, he reached his 
 rooms. Ferrand had not arrived, and, in fact, did not 
 come at all that day. His non-appearance afforded 
 Shelton another proof of the queer delicacy that went 
 hand in hand with his perverse cynicism. In the after- 
 noon he received a note from Antonia : 
 
 ' . . . You see, Dick' (he read) ' I ought to have cut 
 you ; but I felt too crazy this morning — 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 one can't say by letter — but I should 
 have been sorry afterwards. I told mother, of course. 
 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 an idea, and to keep it 
 so safe that you can always look forward and feel 
 
 that 3'ou have been I can't exactly express what 
 
 I mean.' 
 
ROTTEN ROW 105 
 
 Shelton lit a cigarette and frowned. It seemed to him 
 queer that she should set more store by an ' idea ' than 
 by the fact that they had met for the first and only time 
 in many weeks. 
 
 ' I suppose she's right,' he thought — ' I suppose she's 
 right. I ought not to have tried to speak to her, but 
 how could I help it ?' and, as a matter of fact, he did 
 not at all feel that she was right. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 AN 'AT home' 
 
 On Tuesday morning he wandered off early in the 
 direction of Paddington, hoping for a chance view of her 
 on her way down to Holm Oaks ; but the sense of the 
 ridiculous, on which he had been nurtured, was strong 
 enough to keep him from actuallyentering the station and 
 lurking about the booking-office till she came. With a 
 pang of disappointment he retraced his steps from Praed 
 Street to the Park, and once there made no further 
 attempt to waylay her. He paid a round of calls in the 
 afternoon, mostly upon her relations, and especially 
 sought out Aunt Charlotte, to whom he dolorously 
 related his encounter in the Row. But she found it 
 ' rather nice,' and on his pressing her with his view of 
 the matter almost burst forth with the opinion that 
 Antonia had acted in ' quite a romantic way, don't you 
 know.' 
 
 ' Still, it's very hard,' said poor Shelton ; and he went 
 away more disconsolate than ever. 
 
 As he was dressing for dinner his eye fell on a card in 
 his looking-glass announcing the ' at home ' of one of 
 his cousins. Her husband was a composer, and he had 
 a vague idea that he would find at the house of a 
 composer some quite unusually free kind of atmosphere. 
 
 io5 
 
AN 'AT HOME' 107 
 
 After dining at the club, therefore, he set out for 
 Chelsea. The party was held in a large room on the 
 ground-floor, which was already crowded with people 
 when Shelton entered. They stood or sat about in 
 groups with fixed smiles on their Hps, and the light 
 from balloon-like lamps fell in patches on their heads 
 and hands and shoulders. Someone had just finished 
 rendering on the piano a composition of his own. An 
 expert could at once have picked out from amongst 
 the applauding company those who were musicians 
 by profession, for their eyes scintillated, and a certain 
 acidity pervaded the deprecating enthusiasm of their 
 voices. This freemasonry of professional intolerance 
 flew from one to the other like a breath of unanimity, 
 and the faint shrugging of shoulders was as harmonious 
 as though one of the high windows had been opened 
 suddenly, admitting a draught of the chill May air. 
 
 Shelton made his way up to his cousin — a fragile, 
 gray-haired woman in black velvet and Venetian lace, 
 whose starry eyes beamed at him, until her duties, after 
 the custom of social gatherings, obliged her to break off 
 her conversation just as it became interesting. He 
 was passed on to another lady who was already talking 
 to two gentlemen, and their volubility being greater 
 than his own, he fell back into his usual position of 
 observer. Instead of the profound questions he had 
 somehow expected to hear exploited, everybody, with 
 remarkable fluency, seemed to be detailing musical and 
 artistic gossip, or seriously searching the heart of such 
 topics as, where to go for the summer, or how to get 
 new servants. Trifling with coifee-cups, they dissected 
 their fellow-artists in the same way as his Society 
 friends of the other night had dissected the fellow 
 
io8 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' smart '; and the gleam of varnish on floor, and pictures, 
 and piano was subtly reflected on all the faces round. 
 Paralyzed by this loquacity, Shelton moved from group 
 to group disconsolate in accordance with his introduc- 
 tions, smiling inanely. 
 
 A tall, imposing person stood under a Japanese print 
 holding the palm of one hand outspread, his unwieldy 
 trunk, thin legs, and benign smiles wobbling slightly in 
 concert to the ingratiating tone of his voice. 
 
 ' War,' he was saying, ' is not necessary. War is not 
 necessary. I hope I make myself clear. War is not 
 necessary ; it depends on nationality, but nationality is 
 not necessary.' He inclined his head to one side. 
 ' Why do we have nationality ? Let us do away with 
 boundaries — let us have the warfare of commerce. If I 
 saw France looking at Brighton ' — he inclined his head 
 to the other side, and beamed down at Shelton as if 
 conferring a blessing — ' what should I do ? Should I 
 say: "Hands off"? No. I should say: "Take it — 
 take it !" ' He smiled with a sort of fatal archness : 
 ' But do you think they would ?' 
 
 Shelton's ej'es were fascinated by the softness of his 
 contours. 
 
 ' The soldier,' resumed the speaker, ' is necessarily on 
 a lower plane — intellectually — oh, intellectually — than 
 the philanthropist. His sufferings are less acute ; he 
 enjoys the compensations of advertisement — you admit 
 that ?' he breathed persuasively in Shelton's face. ' For 
 instance — I am quite impersonal — I suffer ; but do I talk 
 about it ?' There was no alternative left to Shelton 
 but to gaze again at the well-filled waistcoat, and 
 possibly this was disconcerting, for its owner formulated 
 his argument another way. ' I have one acre and one 
 
AN 'AT HOME' log 
 
 cow, my brother has one acre and one cow : do I seek 
 to take them away from him ?' 
 
 Shelton hazarded : ' Perhaps you are not the 
 stronger.' 
 
 ' Come, come ! Take the case of women : now, I 
 consider our marriage laws barbarous.' 
 
 Shelton began to conceive a respect for them ; he 
 made a comprehensive gesture, and edged himself into 
 the conversation of another group, for fear of having all 
 his prejudices overturned. Here an Irish sculptor, 
 standing plastically in a curve, was saying furiously : 
 
 ' Bees are not bhumpkins, d n their sowls !' A 
 
 Scotch painter, listening with a curly smile, seemed to 
 be trying to compromise this proposition, which ap- 
 peared to have some relation to the middle classes ; and 
 though fully agreeing with the Irishman, Shelton felt 
 nervous over his discharge of electricity. Next to them 
 two American ladies, assembled under the tent of hair 
 belonging to a writer of songs, were discussing the 
 emotions aroused in them by one of Wagner's operas. 
 
 ' It produces a strange condition of affairs in me,' 
 said the thinner of the two. 
 
 ' It's just divine,' said the fatter. 
 
 ' I don't know if you can call the fleshly lusts divine,' 
 replied the thinner, looking into the eyes of the writer 
 of songs with a dry twinkle. 
 
 Amidst the hum of voices and the fumes of cigarette- 
 smoke, a sense of hidden formality haunted Shelton. 
 He had become sandwiched between a Dutchman and 
 a Prussian poet; he could understand neither of his 
 neighbours, so, merely assuming an intelligent expres- 
 sion, he fell to thinking that an assemblage of free 
 spirits is as much bound by the convention of exchang- 
 
no THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ing ideas, as commonplace people are by the convention 
 of having none to exchange. He could not help wonder- 
 ing whether, in the bulk, they were not just as inter- 
 dependent as the inhabitants of those mansions in 
 Kensington ; whether, like locomotives, they could run 
 at all without these opportunities for blowing off steam, 
 and what would be left when the steam had escaped. 
 Somebody began to play the violin, and he let his 
 glance travel over the conscious and unconscious atti- 
 tudes of the listeners. The violin ceased, and close to 
 him a group began talking ethics. Faint mockings of 
 aspirations were in the air all round, like a lot of escaped 
 ghosts. He had never realized before that, if tongue 
 be given to them, the flavour vanishes from ideas which 
 haunt the soul. 
 
 Again the violinist played. 
 
 ' Cock gracious !' said the Prussian poet, falling 
 suddenly into English as the fiddle ceased : ' Colossal ! 
 A ber, wie er ist grossartig /' 
 
 ' Have you read that thing of Besom's ?' asked a shrill 
 voice behind Shelton. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear fellow ! too horrid for words ; he ought 
 to be hanged !' 
 
 ' The man's dreadful,' pursued the shrill voice, now 
 shriller than ever ; ' nothing but a volcanic eruption 
 would cure htm.' 
 
 Shelton turned in alarm to look at the authors of 
 these sanguinary statements, but they were merely two 
 literary men criticising a contemporary. 
 
 ' C'est un grand naif, vous savez,' said the second 
 speaker. 
 
 ' These fellows don't exist,' resumed the first, and 
 Shelton was struck by the look in his eyes ; they were 
 
AN 'AT HOME' iii 
 
 small, and gleamed with a green light, and his whole 
 face had a look as if he gnawed himself. Though not a 
 literary man, Shelton could not help recognising from 
 the sight of those eyes and the sound of that voice 
 what an intimate joy it had given him to utter the 
 magic words, 'These fellows don't exist !' 
 
 ' Poor Besom ! You know what Moulter said. . . .' 
 
 Shelton turned away ; he felt a little sick, as if he had 
 been too close to someone whose hair smelt of can- 
 tharides. He crossed to the door, and, looking round 
 the assembly, involuntarily frowned; with the excep- 
 tion of his cousin he seemed the only person in the 
 room of English blood. The rest were Americans, 
 Mesopotamians, Irish, Italians, Germans, Scotch, and 
 Russians. He was not contemptuous of them for being 
 foreigners — he was not a stupid man — it was simply 
 that God and the climate had made him different by a 
 skin or so. 
 
 But at this point his conclusions were falsified (as 
 usually happens with conclusions) by his introduction 
 to a full-blooded Englishman — a Major Somebody, who, 
 with smooth hair, blond moustache, gray eyes, and neat 
 clothes, seemed a little astonished at himself. Shelton 
 took a liking to him at first sight, partly from a fellow- 
 feeling of dumbness, and partly because of the gentle 
 smile with which he was looking at his own wife. 
 Almost before he had said ' How do you do ?' however, 
 he was plunged into a discussion on Imperialism. 
 
 It had proceeded for some time, when, squeezing his 
 hands together and shaking them at the soldier in the 
 effort to express exactly what he felt, Shelton made the 
 following curious remark : 
 
 ' Admitting all that, what I hate is the humbug with 
 
112 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 which we pride ourselves on benefiting the whole world 
 by our methods and civilization.' 
 
 The soldier turned his reasonable eyes on the 
 speaker. 
 
 ' But is it humbug, you know ?' said he. 
 
 Shelton saw the bottom of his contention dropping 
 out. Quite so; if we really thought it, was it humbug? 
 He felt ashamed of using his hands to support his 
 arguments while his opponent's remained so quietly in 
 their pockets. 
 
 ' Why should we,' he replied, ' a small portion of the 
 world's population, assume that our standards are the 
 proper ones for every kind of race ? If it's not humbug, 
 it's sheer stupidity.' 
 
 The soldier, without taking his hands out of his 
 pockets, but by a forward movement of his face, showing 
 that he was both just and sincere, replied : 
 
 ' Well, it must be a good sort of stupidity ; it makes 
 us the nation we are.' 
 
 Shelton felt dazed ; he agreed, and did not agree. 
 The conversation buzzed around him ; he heard the 
 personage under the Japanese print say something or 
 other about altruism, and in his voice a something 
 seemed to murmur : ' Oh, I do so hope I make a good 
 impression !' 
 
 He looked straight at the soldier's clear-cut head 
 with its open eyes, the tiny crow's-feet at their corners, 
 and the conventional untwisted moustache ; he envied 
 the calm certainty of the convictions lying under that 
 sleek, well-parted hair. 
 
 ' I would rather we were men first and Englishmen 
 afterwards,' he muttered ; ' I think it's all a sort of 
 national illusion, and I can't stand illusions.' 
 
AN 'AT HOME' 113 
 
 ' 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 of illusions has always been her 
 business, don't you know.' 
 
 Shelton was unable to deny this. 
 
 ' So,' continued the soldier (who was evidently a 
 highly intelligent man), ' if you admit that movement, 
 labour, progress, and all that, has been properly 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 you want 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 
 can't be destroyed ; but how about the future ? It's 
 surely time to let in a little air. Cathedrals are all 
 very fine, and everybody likes the smell of incense ; but 
 when they've been for centuries without ventilation you 
 know what the atmosphere's like.' 
 
 The soldier smiled. 
 
 ' By your own admission,' he said, ' you'll only be 
 creating a fresh set of illusions.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Shelton, ' but at all events they'll be 
 the honest necessities of the present.' 
 
 The pupils of the soldier's eyes contracted ; he evi- 
 dently felt that the conversation was slipping into vague 
 generalities eminently un-English, and he answered : 
 
 ' I can't see, you know, how thinking small beer of 
 ourselves is going to do us any good !' 
 
 He had come back to the necessity of doing good 
 to one's self, and Shelton felt in danger of being thought 
 unpractical in giving vent to the remark : 
 
 8 
 
114 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' One must trust to one's reason ; I never can per- 
 suade myself that I believe what I don't.' 
 
 A minute later, with a cordial handshake, the soldier 
 took his departure, and Shelton watched his courteous 
 figure following his wife out of the room. 
 
 'Dick, may I introduce you to Mr. Wilfrid Curly?' 
 said his cousin's voice behind him, and he found his 
 hand being diffidently shaken by a fresh - cheeked 
 youth with a dome-like forehead, who was nervously 
 saying : 
 
 ' How do you do ? Yes, I am very well, thank 
 you !' 
 
 He now remembered that when he had first come 
 in he had watched this youth, who had been standing 
 in a corner indulging in private smiles. He had an 
 uncommon look, as though he were in love with life — 
 as though he regarded it as a strange creature to whom 
 one could put questions up to the very end — interest- 
 ing, slightly humorous, perfectly earnest questions. He 
 had an appearance at once of diffident amiability and 
 of complete independence, and he, too, was English. 
 
 ' Are you good at argument ?' said Shelton, who did 
 not know what to say. 
 
 The youth smiled, blushed, and, putting back the 
 hair from his forehead, said : 
 
 ' Yes — no — I don't know ; I think my brain doesn't 
 work fast enough for argument. You know how many 
 motions of the brain-cells go to each remark. It's 
 awfully interesting ;' and bending from the waist in a 
 sort of mathematical attitude, he extended the palm of 
 one hand, and began to explain. 
 
 Shelton stared at the youth's hand, at his frowns 
 and the taps he gave his forehead while he found the 
 
AN 'AT HOME' ii; 
 
 exact expression of his meaning ; he was intensely 
 interested. Suddenly, however, the youth looked a 
 his watch, and blushed brightly. 
 
 ' I'm afraid I have to go,' he said ; ' I have to be a 
 the " Den " at eleven.' 
 
 ' I must be off, too,' said Shelton ; and making thei 
 adieux together, they both sought out their hats anc 
 coats in the hall. 
 
 8—2 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE NIGHT CLUB 
 
 ' May I ask,' said Shelton, as he and the youth issued 
 into the chilly street, ' what it is that you call the 
 "Den?"' 
 
 His companion smiled. 
 
 ' Oh,' he replied, ' the night club. We take it in 
 turns. Thursday is my night. Would you like to come ? 
 You see a lot of types. It's just round the corner.' 
 
 Shelton digested a momentary hesitation, and said : 
 
 ' Yes, immensely.' 
 
 They reached the corner house in the angle of a 
 dismal street, through the open door of which two men 
 had just gone in. Following, they ascended some 
 wooden, newly-washed stairs, entered a large boarded 
 room smelling of sawdust, gas, stale ci^ifee, and old 
 clothes, and furnished with a bagatelle board, two or 
 three wooden tables, some wooden forms, and a wooden 
 book-case. Seated on these wooden chairs, or standing 
 about, were youths, and one or two older men of the 
 working class, who struck Shelton as looking peculiarly 
 dejected. One was reading, one against the wall was 
 drinking coffee with a disillusioned air, two were playing 
 chess, and a group of four made a ceaseless clatter on 
 the bagatelle board. 
 
 ii6 
 
THE NIGHT CLUB 117 
 
 A little man in a dark suit, with a pale face, thin, 
 compressed lips, and deep-set, black-encircled eyes, who 
 was evidently in charge, came up to them with an 
 anaemic smile. 
 
 ' You're rather late,' he said to Curly, and, looking 
 ascetically at Shelton, asked, without waiting for an 
 introduction : ' Do you play chess ? There's young 
 Smith wanting a game.' 
 
 A youth with a wooden face, who was already seated 
 before a fly-blown chessboard, asked him drearily if he 
 would have black or white. Shelton took white ; he 
 was oppressed by the stale odour of the room, a peculiar 
 virtuous stuffiness. 
 
 The little man with the deep eyes came up, and stood 
 in an uneasy attitude watching the game. 
 
 'Your play's improving, young Smith,' he said 
 presently ; ' I should think you'd be able to give 
 Bartlett a knight.' His eyes, resting on Shelton, had 
 a fanatical dreariness; a suffering twang was audible 
 in the monotonous tones that issued from his thin 
 lips, which he seemed continually sucking in, as though 
 determined to subdue all evidences of the flesh. ' You 
 should come here often,' he said to Shelton, as the 
 latter received checkmate ; ' you'd get some good 
 practice. We've several very fair players. You're 
 not as good as Jones or Bartholomew,' he added to 
 Shelton's opponent, as though he felt it a duty to put 
 the latter in his place. 'You ought to come here 
 often,' he repeated to Shelton ; ' we have a lot of very 
 good young fellows ;' and, with a touch of complacency, 
 he glanced round the dismal room. ' There are not so 
 many here to-night as usual. Where are Toombs and 
 Body ?' he asked of young Smith. 
 
ii8 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 Shelton, too, looked anxiously round. He could not 
 help a feeling of sympathy with Toombs and Body. 
 
 ' They're getting slack, I'm afraid,' said the little 
 man with the deep eyes : ' our principle is to amuse 
 everyone. Excuse me a minute; I see Carpenter's 
 doing nothing.' He crossed over to the man who had 
 been drinking coffee, but Shelton had barely the time 
 to glance at his recent opponent and try to think of 
 a remark, before he was back again. ' Do you know 
 anything about astronomy ?' he asked of Shelton. 
 ' We have several very interested in astronomy ; if 
 you could talk to them a little it would help a 
 great deal.' 
 
 Shelton made a motion of alarm. 
 
 ' Please — no,' said he ; ' I ' 
 
 ' I wish you'd come sometimes on Wednesdays ; we 
 have most interesting talks, and a service afterwards. 
 We're always anxious to get new blood;' and his 
 suffering eyes searched Shelton's brown and rather 
 amiable face, as though trying to discover of what use 
 he could be. ' Young Curly says you've been round 
 the world ; you could describe your travels.' 
 
 ' May I ask,' said Shelton, ' how your club is 
 made up ?' 
 
 Again a touch of complacency, like some blessed 
 assuagement, rested upon the little man's countenance. 
 
 ' Oh,' he said, ' we take anybody, unless there's any- 
 thing against them, of course. The Day Society sees 
 to that. Of course, we shouldn't take anyone if they 
 were to report against them. You ought to come to 
 our committee meetings ; they're on Mondays at seven. 
 The women's side, too.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Shelton ; ' you're very kind ' 
 
THE NIGHT CLUB 119 
 
 ' We should be pleased,' said the little man ; and his 
 face seemed to suffer more than ever. ' They're mostly 
 young fellows to-night, but we have married men, too. 
 Of course, we're very careful about that,' he added 
 hastily, as though he might have injured Shelton's 
 prejudices — ' that, and drink, and anything criminal, 
 you know.' 
 
 ' And do you give pecuniary assistance, too ?' asked 
 Shelton. 
 
 ' Oh yes,' replied the little man ; ' if you were to 
 come to our committee meetings you would see for 
 yourself Everything is most carefully gone into ; 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 voice was a trifle shriller as he replied : 
 
 ' I was obliged to refuse a man to-day — a man 
 and a woman, quite young people, with three small 
 children. He was ill and out of work ; but on inquiry 
 we found that they were not man and wife.' 
 
 There was a slight pause ; the little man's eyes were 
 fastened on his nails, and, with an appearance of enjoy- 
 ment, he began to bite them. Shelton's face had grown 
 
 a trifle red. 
 
 'And what becomes of the woman in a case hke 
 that ?' he said slowly. ' I suppose she has to go on the 
 streets ?' 
 
 The little man's gaze seemed to smoulder as he 
 suddenly turned it up to Shelton. 
 
 'We make a point of not encouraging sin,' he 
 replied. ' Excuse me for a minute ; I see they have 
 finished bagatelle.' 
 
120 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 He hurried away, and a moment later the wooden 
 clack of the bagatelle balls began again. He himself 
 was playing with a sort of cold and spurious energy, 
 running round after the balls and exhorting the other 
 three players, upon whom a wooden acquiescence 
 seemed to have fallen. 
 
 Shelton turned his back abruptly on Smith, and, 
 crossing the room, went up to young Curly. He was 
 sitting on a bench, smiling to himself those peculiar 
 private smiles like the smiles of a world apart. 
 
 ' Shall you be staying much longer ?' asked Shelton. 
 
 Young Curly arose with nervous and apologetic 
 alacrity. 
 
 ' I'm afraid,' he said, ' there's nobody very interesting 
 to-night.' 
 
 ' Oh, not at all !' said Shelton ; ' on the contrary. 
 Only I've had rather a 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 the 
 bagatelle balls ceased, and the voice of the little deep- 
 eyed man was heard saying : ' Anybody who wants a 
 book will please put his name down. There will be 
 the usual prayer-meeting on Wednesday next. Will 
 you all go out quietly, please ? I am going to turn the 
 lights out.' 
 
 One gas-jet vanished, and the remaining jet ilared 
 suddenly. By its harder glare the wooden room looked 
 harder too, more rigid, more formally disenchanting. 
 The figures of its occupants began filing through the 
 door. The little man was left alone standing in the 
 centre of the room, with his deep eyes smouldering 
 
THE NIGHT CLUB 121 
 
 upon the dejected backs of the retreating members, and 
 his finger and thumb upraised to the turncock of the 
 metre. 
 
 ' Do you know this part ?' asked young Curly of 
 Shelton, with a smile and a wave of his hand as they 
 emerged once more into the street. ' It's really jolly, 
 you know; one of the darkest bits in London — it is 
 really. If you care, I can take you through an awfully 
 dangerous place where the police never go.' He seemed 
 so anxious for the honour that Shelton was loath to 
 disappoint him. ' I come here pretty often,' he went 
 on, as they ascended some steps into a species of alley 
 which rambled darkly between a blank wall and a row 
 of tumbledown houses. 
 
 ' Why ?' asked Shelton ; ' it doesn't smell nice.' 
 
 The young man threw up his nose and sniffed, as if 
 eager to add any new scent that might be about to his 
 knowledge of life. 
 
 ' No, that's one of the reasons, you know,' he said 
 with flickering seriousness ; ' one must find out about 
 things. You see, the darkness is jolly, too ; anything 
 might happen here. Last week there was a murder ; 
 there's always the chance of one.' 
 
 Shelton stared, for the charge of morbidness would 
 not lie against this fresh-cheeked stripling. 
 
 ' There's a splendid drain just here,' his guide re- 
 sumed ; ' the people are dying like flies of typhoid in 
 those three houses ;' and, under the first hght they met 
 with, he turned his grave, cherubic face with a smile to 
 indicate the houses in question, ' If we 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 thieves in London ; he's a splendid type, but,' he 
 
122 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 added, looking a little anxiously at Shelton, whom he 
 clearly felt to be in his charge, ' it mightn't be safe for 
 you. With me it's different ; they're beginning to 
 know me. You see, I've got nothing to take.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid it can't be to-night,' said Shelton ; ' I 
 must get back to my rooms.' 
 
 ' Do you mind if I walk with you ? It's so jolly now 
 the stars are out.' 
 
 His hands again curled in a gesture of apology ; he 
 gave the impression of being about to promenade all 
 night. 
 
 ' I shall be delighted,' said Shelton ; ' but do you 
 often go to that club, the " Den " ?' 
 
 His companion raised his hat, and ran his fingers 
 through his hair till it stood on end. 
 
 ' No,' he said ; ' they're rather too high-class for me. 
 I like to go where you 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, as a rule, 
 to make bone ; it all goes out in the brain and the 
 muscles. There are some places in the winter where 
 they give them bread and cocoa ; I like to go to those.' 
 
 ' I went once,' said Shelton, ' but I felt ashamed for 
 putting my nose in.' 
 
 ' 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 to me,' went on his 
 acquaintance as they passed a police-station, ' to walk 
 about at night ; one can take so much more notice. I 
 had a jolly night last week in Hyde Park ; a chance to 
 study human nature there.' 
 
 ' And do you find it interesting ?' asked Shelton. 
 
 His companion smiled an apology. 
 
THE NIGHT CLUB 123 
 
 ' Awfully,' he replied ; ' I saw a fellow pick three 
 pockets.' 
 
 ' What did you do ?' 
 ' I had a jolly talk with him.' 
 
 Shelton smiled, and he could not help thinking of 
 the little man with the deep eyes, who made a point of 
 not encouraging sin. 
 
 ' He was one of the professionals from Notting Hill, 
 you know ; told me his life. Never had a chance, of 
 course. The most interesting part was saying 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.' 
 By this time 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 White- 
 chapel. I'm Hving on porridge just now ; it's splendid 
 for making bone. I generally live on porridge for a 
 week at the end of the month. It's a splendid diet if 
 you're hard up ;' and once more blushing and smihng, 
 he was gone. 
 
 Shelton went upstairs and sat down on his bed. 
 The experiences of the day, trivial as they had been, 
 assumed an unexpected importance in his tired brain ; 
 the calls he had paid, the ' at home,' the visit to the 
 night club, all seemed of a piece, as though he had 
 spent the whole day in watching a single wheel go 
 
124 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 round. He felt a little miserable into the bargain. 
 Sitting there, slowly pulling out the ends of his white 
 tie, while a mirror showed him the crease between his 
 eyes, and the gloss of his shirt-front — sitting there dis- 
 consolate, he was visited by a vision of Antonia with 
 her gaze fixed wonderingly upon him. This wonder of 
 hers came as a revelation — ^just as that morning, when, 
 looking out of his window into the street, he had seen a 
 passer-by stop suddenly as an idea struck him ; and it 
 had come upon him with a flash of intense surprise that 
 there were really separate thoughts of his own in that 
 man. He would never know what Antonia really felt 
 and thought. ' Till I saw her at the station,' he mused, 
 ' I didn't know how much I loved her or how little I 
 knew her;' and sighing deeply, he got into bed. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 POLE TO POLE 
 
 The waiting in London for July to come was daily 
 more unbearable to Shelton, and if it had not been for 
 the visits of Ferrand, who still came to breakfast, he 
 would have deserted the Metropolis. On June i the 
 latter presented himself rather later than usual, and 
 announced that, through the services of a friend, he 
 had heard of a position as interpreter to a hotel at 
 Folkestone. 
 
 ' If I had money to face the first necessities,' he said, 
 swiftly turning over a collection of smeared papers with 
 his yellow fingers, as if searching for his own identity, 
 ' I'd leave to-day. This London blackens my spirit.' 
 
 ' Are you certain to get this place ?' asked Shelton. 
 
 ' I think so,' replied the young foreigner ; ' I've got 
 some good enough recommendations.' 
 
 For the hfe of him Shelton could not hide the 
 dubious character of the glance he cast at the papers in 
 Ferrand's hand. A hurt look passed on to the latter's 
 curly lips beneath the slender line of his nascent 
 moustache. 
 
 * You mean that to have false papers is as bad as 
 theft. No, no ; I shall never be a thief— I've had too 
 many opportunities,' said he, both proudly and bitterly. 
 
 125 
 
126 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' That's not in my character. I never do harm to any- 
 one. This ' — he fingered the documents — ' is not dehcate, 
 but it does harm to no one. If you have no money you 
 must have papers ; they stand between you and starva- 
 tion. Society has an excellent eye for the helpless, and 
 it never jumps on the head of people unless they are 
 really without defence.' 
 
 Shelton felt abashed, there was such a mixture 
 of shame, pride, injury, and of sheer subtlety in 
 Ferrand's face ; it was callous, and yet not callous, 
 like a thing with an inexplicable, remote heart to it, an 
 inexplicable, remote justification. ' You've made me 
 amongst you,' it seemed to say ; ' now make the best 
 of me.' 
 
 ' But there are always the workhouses,' he remarked 
 at last, with hesitation. 
 
 'Workhouses !' returned Ferrand sarcastically; 'cer- 
 tainly there are the workhouses — regular palaces. I 
 will tell you one thing : I've never been in places so 
 utterly discouraging as these workhouses of yours ; 
 they take your very heart out.' 
 
 ' I always understood,' said Shelton coldly, ' that our 
 system was better than that of other countries.' 
 
 Ferrand leaned over in his chair, with an elbow on 
 his knee, a favourite attitude of his when he was 
 particularly certain of his point. 
 
 ' Well,' he replied, ' it's always permissible to think 
 well of your own country. But, frankly, I've come out 
 of your palaces here with little strength and no heart at 
 all, and I can tell you why.' His lips lost their bitter- 
 ness, his eyes became less prominent ; over his whole 
 demeanour spread the alert expansion peculiar to him 
 when arriving at psychological deductions from his own 
 
POLE TO POLE 127 
 
 experiences. ' You spend your money freely, you have 
 fine buildings and self-respecting officials, but — you 
 lack the spirit of hospitality. And, excuse me, the 
 reason is plain enough : you have such a horror of the 
 needy. You invite us to come, and when we do come 
 you treat us justly enough, but as if we were numbers, 
 criminals, beneath contempt — as if we had inflicted a 
 personal injury on you ; and when we get out again, we 
 aie naturally degraded.' 
 Shelton bit his lips. 
 
 ' How much money will you want for your ticket 
 and to make a start ?' he asked. 
 
 The nervous gesture which escaped Ferrand at this 
 abrupt change of subject pathetically betrayed how far 
 the most independent thinkers are under the harrow 
 if they have no money in their pockets. He took the 
 note proffered to him. 
 
 ' A thousand thanks,' said he ; ' I shall never forget 
 what you have done for me;' and Shelton could not 
 help feeling that there was true emotion behind the 
 titter with which he took his departure. 
 
 He stood some time at the window watching Ferrand 
 adventuring into the world again ; then looked back at 
 his own comfortable room, with the infinite number of 
 articles that had accumulated there somehow — the 
 photographs of countless relations and friends, the 
 luxurious old armchairs, and the stock of coloured 
 pipes in the pipe-rack. A thrill of restlessness had 
 passed into him with the farewell clasp of the young 
 foreigner's damp hand. To wait about in London was 
 intolerable. 
 
 He took his hat, and, without heeding where he was 
 going, walked slowly towards the river. It was a 
 
128 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 peculiarly clear, bright day, but with a bleak wind that 
 brought up driving showers with surprising sudden- 
 ness. During one of these showers Shelton found 
 himself opposite the door of No. 3, Little Blank Street. 
 ' I wonder how the little Frenchman is getting on !' he 
 thought. And though on a fine day he would prob- 
 ably have passed by on the other side, he now entered 
 and tapped at the wicket. 
 
 No. 3, Little Blank Street had abated no jot 
 of its stone-flagged dreariness, and the same blowsy 
 woman answered his inquiry. Yes, Carolan was always 
 in ; you could never catch him out — seemed afraid 
 to go into the street ! To her call the little French 
 barber made his appearance as punctually as if he had 
 been a conjurer's rabbit. His face was yellow, quite 
 alarmingly so. 
 
 'Ah! it's you, monsieur!' he said, on recognising 
 Shelton. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Shelton ; ' and how are you ?' 
 
 ' It's five days since I came out of hospital,' muttered 
 the Frenchman, tapping his chest ; ' a crisis of this bad 
 atmosphere. I live here, shut up in a box ; it does me 
 harm, being from the South. If there's anything I can 
 do for you, monsieur, it will give me great pleasure.' 
 
 ' Nothing,' replied Shelton ; ' I was just passing, and 
 thought I should like to hear how you were getting 
 on. 
 
 ' Come into the kitchen, monsieur ; there is nobody 
 there. Brrr ! II fait un froid etonnant !' 
 
 ' What sort of customers have you just now ?' asked 
 Shelton, as they passed into the kitchen. 
 
 ' Always the same clientele,' replied the little man ; 
 ' not so numerous, of course, it being summer.' 
 
POLE TO POLE 129 
 
 ' Couldn't you find anything better than this to 
 do?' 
 
 The barber's crow's-feet were illumined by irony. 
 
 ' When I first came to London,' said he, ' I secured 
 an engagement at one of your public institutions. I 
 thought my fortune made. Imagine, monsieur, in that 
 sacred place I was obliged to shave at the rate of ten 
 for a penny ! Here, it's true, they don't pay me half 
 the time ; but when I am paid, I am paid. In this 
 climate, and being poitrinaire, one doesn't make experi- 
 ments. I shall finish my days here. Have you seen 
 that young man in whom you were interested ? There's 
 another ! He has spirit, as I had once — il fait de la 
 philosophie, as I do — and you will see, monsieur, he'll 
 finish like me. In this world what you want is to 
 have no spirit. Spirit ruins you.' 
 
 Shelton looked sideways at the little man with his 
 yellow, half-dead, sardonic face, and the incongruity of 
 the word ' spirit ' in his mouth struck him so sharply 
 that he smiled one of those smiles that have more pity 
 in them than tears have. 
 
 ' Shall we sit down ?' he said, offering the barber his 
 cigarette-case. 
 
 ' Merci, monsieur, it is always a pleasure to smoke a 
 good cigarette. You remember that old actor who 
 gave you one of his Jeremiads ? Well, he's dead. I was 
 the only one at his bedside; he died drunk, un vrai 
 drdle. He was another who had spirit. And you will 
 see, monsieur, that young man in whom you take an 
 interest, he'll die in a hospital, or in some hole or other, 
 or even on the highroad, having closed his eyes once 
 too often some cold night; and all because he has 
 something in him which will not accept things as they 
 
 9 
 
130 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 are, believing always that they ought to be better. II 
 n'y a Hen de plus tragique !' 
 
 ' According to you, then,' said Shelton, and the con- 
 versation seemed to him all of a sudden to have taken 
 a very personal turn, ' rebellion of any sort is fatal.' 
 
 ' Ah !' replied the little man, with the alacrity of one 
 whose true pleasure in life is to sit under the awning of 
 a cafe and talk the world upside down, 'you pose me a 
 great problem. If one makes rebellion, it is always 
 probable that one will do no good to anyone and harm 
 to one's self. The law of the majority regulates that. 
 But I would draw your attention to this ' — and he paused 
 to emphasize his remark, as if it were a real discovery, 
 by blowing smoke through his nose — ' if you rebel, it is 
 in all likelihood because you are forced by your nature 
 to rebel ; this is one of the most certain things in life. 
 In any case, it is necessary to avoid falling between 
 two stools^ which is unpardonable,' he ended, with a 
 certain complacence. 
 
 Shelton thought he had never seen a man who looked 
 more completely as if he had fallen between two stools, 
 and he had inspiration enough to feel that the little 
 barber's intellectual rebellion and the action logically 
 required by it had no more than a bowing acquaintance. 
 
 ' By nature,' went on the little Frenchman, ' I am an 
 optimist ; it is in consequence of this that I now make 
 my pessimism. I've always had ideals, and now that I 
 see myself cut off from them for ever, I must complain ; 
 to complain, monsieur, is very sweet !' 
 
 Shelton wondered what his ideals had been, but he 
 had no answer ready ; so he nodded, and again proffered 
 the barber his cigarettes, for, like a true Southerner, the 
 latter had thrown the first away, half smoked. 
 
POLE TO POLE 131 
 
 ' The greatest pleasure in life,' continued the French- 
 man, with a poHte bow, ' is to talk a little to a being 
 who is capable of understanding you. At present we 
 have no one here now that that old actor is dead. Ah ! 
 there was a man who was rebellion incarnate. He 
 made rebellion as other men make money, c'etait son 
 metier ; when he was no longer capable of an active 
 rebellion, he made it in getting drunk. At the last 
 this was his only way of protesting against Society. 
 An interesting personality, je le regvette beaucoup. But, 
 as you see, he died in the greatest distress, without 
 a soul to wave him farewell, because, as you can well 
 understand, monsieur, I don't count myself. He died 
 drunk. Ah ! c'etait un homme !' 
 
 Shelton, who during this speech had continued to 
 stare kindly at the little man, was about to reply, when 
 the barber hastily added : 
 
 ' It's difficult to make an end like that — one has 
 moments of weakness.' 
 
 ' Yes,' assented Shelton, with emphasis, * one has 
 indeed.' 
 
 The little barber looked at him with discreet cynicism. 
 
 ' Oh !' he said, ' it's to those who are destitute that 
 such matters are of importance. When one has money, 
 all these things are ' 
 
 He shrugged his round shoulders ; a smile had lodged 
 amongst his crow's-feet, and he waved his hand as 
 though to get rid of the subject. 
 
 A poignant sense of having been exposed as a 
 humbug came over Shelton. 
 
 ' You think, then,' said he, ' that discontent is con- 
 fined to the destitute ? 
 
 ' Monsieur,' replied the little barber, ' a plutocrat 
 
 9—2 
 
132 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 knows too well that if he mixes in that gaUre there's not 
 a dog in the streets more lost than he.' 
 
 Shelton rose. 
 
 ' The rain must be over,' he said. ' I hope you'll 
 soon be better ; perhaps you'll accept this in memory 
 of that old actor;' and he slipped a sovereign into the 
 Frenchman 's hand. 
 
 The latter bowed. 
 
 ' When you are passing, monsieur,' he said eagerly, 
 ' I shall always be delighted to see you.' 
 
 Shelton walked moodily away. ' " Not a dog in the 
 streets more lost," ' thought he ; ' now what did he 
 mean by that ?' 
 
 In truth, something of a ' lost dog ' feeling had 
 a grip just then of his spirit. He felt as if another 
 month of waiting in London would kill all the savour of 
 his anticipation, would even end by kiUing his love for 
 Antonia. In the over-excitement of his senses and 
 nerves caused by the strain of waiting, everything 
 assumed too vivid proportions — in other words, every- 
 thing was touched with exaggeration, like that which 
 differentiates Art from Life, and gives to the former the 
 significance of a truth too strong for everyday use, of a 
 truth unpopular amongst healthy people. Like the 
 bones of a worn face, the spirit underlying things was 
 too near the surface ; the meanness and intolerable 
 necessity of hard facts were too apparent. Some 
 craving for help, some instinct, must have driven him 
 into Kensington, for he found himself before his 
 mother's house. Providence seemed bent on flinging 
 him from pole to pole. 
 
 Mrs. Shelton was in town, and though it was the first of 
 June sat warming her feet before a fire ; her face, with its 
 
POLE TO POLE 133 
 
 pleasant colour, was crow's-footed like the little barber's, 
 but from optimism, and not rebellion. She smiled when 
 she saw Shelton, and the wrinkles round her affectionate 
 eyes twinkled with vitality. 
 
 ' Well, my dear boy,' she said, ' it's lovely to see you. 
 And how is that sweet 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. Come and sit down, and let's have 
 a cosy chat. Cheer up !' and Mrs. Shelton, with her 
 head a little on one side, gazed at her son with impera- 
 tive sympathy. 
 
 ' Mother,' said Shelton, who, confronted by her 
 optimism, had never since his period of probation 
 began felt so profoundly dejected, ' I can't go on wait- 
 ing like this.' 
 
 ' But, my dear boy, what is the matter ?' 
 
 ' Everything is all wrong !' burst out Shelton. 
 
 ' Wrong ?' cried Mrs. Shelton. ' Come, tell me all 
 about it !' 
 
 But Shelton shook his head. 
 
 ' You surely haven't had a quarrel ' 
 
 Mrs. Shelton stopped, for the question seemed to her 
 vulgar. 
 
 ' No,' said Shehon, and his answer sounded like a 
 groan. 
 
 ' You know, my dear old Dick,' murmured his mother 
 insinuatingly, ' it seems a little mad.' 
 
 ' I know it seems mad.' 
 
 ' Come !' said Mrs. Shelton, taking his hand between 
 her own ; ' you never used to be like this.' 
 
134 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' No,' said Shelton, with a laugh ; ' I never used to be 
 like this.' 
 
 Mrs. Shelton snuggled herself in her fine shawl. 
 
 ' Oh,' she said, with her readiest sympathy, ' I know 
 exactly how you feel !' 
 
 Shelton rested his head on his hands and stared into 
 the fire, which played and bubbled like his mother's 
 face. 
 
 ' But you're so fond of each other,' she began again, a 
 humorous grimace marring for a moment the perfection 
 of her sympathy. ' Such a sweet girl !' 
 
 ' You don't understand,' muttered Shelton gloomily ; 
 ' it's not her — it's nothing — it's ' 
 
 Mrs. Shelton again seized his hand, and this time 
 pressed it to her soft, warm cheek, that had lost the 
 elasticity of youth. 
 
 ' Oh !' she cried ; ' I quite understand. I know what 
 you're feeling.' But Shelton saw from the fixed beam 
 of her eyes that she had not an inkling. To do him 
 justice, he was not mad enough to attempt an explana- 
 tion. Again the humorous grimace appeared on his 
 mother's face. ' It would be so lovely,' she sighed, 
 ' if you could wake up to-morrow and think differently. 
 If I were you, my dear boy, I would go and have a 
 splendid long walk and a Turkish bath ; and then I 
 would just write her a long letter, and tell her all about 
 it, and you'll see how beautifully it '11 all come straight ;' 
 and in the enthusiasm of her advice Mrs. Shelton 
 actually rose from her sofa, and, with a faint stretch 
 of her tiny figure, which was still so young, clasped 
 her hands together, and said : ' Now do, that's a dear 
 old Dick ! You'll just see how lovely it '11 all be !' 
 Shelton smiled the ghost of a smile ; he had not 
 
POLE TO POLE 135 
 
 the heart to deny this vision. 'And give her my 
 warmest love,' cried his mother, ' and tell her I'm 
 longing for the wedding. Come, now, my dear boy, 
 promise me that's what you'll do.' 
 
 ' I'll think about it,' said Shelton, 
 
 Mrs. Shelton had taken up her stand with one foot 
 on the fender, in spite of her sciatica. 
 
 ' Cheer up !' she said suddenly ; and her eyes beamed 
 as if she were intoxicated by her own sympathy. 
 
 Certainly she was a wonderful woman. But the 
 uncomplicated optimism that carried her through good 
 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 little fingers 
 barely stirred to save himself from extinction, to his 
 own mother, whose intellect accepted anything pre- 
 sented with sufficient glow, but who, until she died, 
 would never be under the harrow. Poor Shelton ! 
 there was too much of them both in him. When he 
 reached his rooms, he took a resolution. 
 
 ' I can't wait about in London any longer ' (he wrote 
 to Antonia), ' so I am going down to Bideford to start 
 on a walking tour. I shall work gradually east towards 
 Oxford, and stay there till I may come to Holm Oaks. 
 Of course, I shall send you my address every day, so do 
 write as usual.' 
 
 He collected all the photographs he had of her — 
 mostly amateur groups, taken by Mrs. Dennant — and 
 packed them carefully in the breast - pocket of his 
 shooting-jacket. He was especially fond of one in 
 which she was leaning against the knees of her little 
 
136 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 brother, who was perched on the top of a wall. In 
 that photograph of her, with half-closed eyes, round 
 throat, and softly tilted chin, there was something cool 
 and watchful, as if she were protecting the ragamuffin 
 above her head. This he kept apart from the others 
 to be looked at daily, as a man says his prayers. 
 
PART II 
 
 THE COUNTRY 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE INDIAN CIVILIAN 
 
 Shelton fulfilled his intention of leaving London, and 
 at noon one morning about a week later found himself 
 looking at the walls of Princetown Prison. 
 
 He had often seen this lugubrious stone cage before. 
 But the fantastic magic of his early morning walk across 
 Dartmoor in a golden haze that had burned itself slowly 
 away till the blue of the sky was as clear and fresh 
 as the water of the streams, the sight of the tors with 
 their pagan forms, and the notes of the late cuckoos, 
 had produced in him a delight that received a rude 
 shock from the utter dreariness of the building. He 
 left the street, and, entering the fosse path, began 
 making a circuit, scanning the walls with a kind of 
 morbid fascination. 
 
 This, then, was the system by which human beings 
 enforced on each other the will of the majority, and it 
 was suddenly borne in upon him that all the ideas and 
 maxims which the inhabitants of his Christian country 
 believed themselves to be daily fulfilling were stultified 
 in every cell of the social honeycomb. Such teachings 
 as ' He that is without sin amongst you ' had been 
 rejected as utterly unpractical by peers, judges, bishops, 
 statesmen, merchants, and husbands— in fact, by every 
 truly Christian person in the country. 
 
 139 
 
140 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Yes,' thought Shelton, as if he had made a dis- 
 covery, ' the more Christian the nation, the less it has 
 to do with spirit.' 
 
 Society was an immense organization for giving 
 nothing for nothing, very httle for sixpence, and only 
 fear forced it to give anything at all ! 
 
 He took a seat on a wall, and began to watch a 
 warder who was slowly paring a last year's apple with 
 a long-bladed knife. The expression of his face, the 
 way he stood with his solid legs apart, his head poked 
 forward, and the lower jaw thrust out as if threatening 
 the apple, all seemed to make him a perfect pillar of 
 Society. He remained undisturbed under Shelton's 
 scrutiny, coldly watching the rind coil down below the 
 apple, quivering as the knife moved, until in a spring- 
 ing spiral it fell on the path and collapsed like a toy 
 rattlesnake. He then took a bite ; his teeth were 
 jagged, and he had an immense mouth. It was some- 
 how obvious that he considered himself superior to the 
 criminals of whom he was in charge. Shelton frowned, 
 got slowly down from the wall, and proceeded on 
 his way. 
 
 A very little way further down the hill he stopped 
 again to watch a group of convicts in a field, engaged 
 in what looked like a slow and mournful cotillon, while 
 behind the hedges on every side warders paraded with 
 guns, as if licensed to commit murder. Just such a 
 sight, substituting spears, could have been seen in the 
 days of the Romans. 
 
 While he thus stood looking at them, a man coming 
 rapidly from the direction of Princetown stopped be- 
 side him, and inquired the distance to Exeter. His 
 round visage, and long, brown eyes, sliding about under 
 
THE INDIAN CIVILIAN 141 
 
 their brows, his cropped hair and short neck, seemed 
 strangely famiHar to Shelton. 
 
 ' Why,' he said, ' surely your name is Crocker ?' 
 
 ' By Jove ! it's the Bird !' cried the traveller, put- 
 ting out his hand. ' I haven't seen you since I went 
 down.' 
 
 Shelton returned his handgrip. Crocker had occu- 
 pied the rooms above him at college, and had fre- 
 quently kept him awake half the night by playing on 
 the hautboy. 
 
 ' Where have you sprung from ?' he asked, with a 
 sudden return of the old spirit of comradeship. 
 
 ' India. I've got my long leave. I say, are you 
 going this way ? Let's go together.' 
 
 Shelton smiled quietly as his companion kept in- 
 creasing his stride. It was so characteristic. 
 
 ' Where on earth are you going to at this pace ?' he 
 asked. 
 
 ' London,' answered Crocker. 
 
 ' Oh ! only as far as London ?' 
 
 ' I've set myself to do it in a week,' replied the Indian 
 civilian. 
 
 ' In a week ! Are you in training ?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' You'll kill yourself.' 
 
 Crocker replied to the remark with a chuckle. 
 
 A desire to be ironical had sprung up within Shelton. 
 He had always felt hke that in the presence of Crocker, 
 with his simple absent-mindedness, his aspirations 
 chuckles, slyness, his deeds, and secret humour. 
 ' Yes,' he reflected, with an odd admiration, ' he was 
 always a little mad.' But he also remembered that 
 irony had always been wasted on him. His com- 
 
142 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 panion had begun unconsciously to walk him down, 
 and Shelton noticed with alarm the expression of that 
 sliding eye ; there was something lofty in it, a sort of 
 stubborn inspiration. ' Tchk, tchk ! He's still an 
 idealist !' and at this thought he felt vaguely disturbed. 
 ' Well,' he inquired at last, ' what sort of a time have 
 you had in India ?' 
 
 ' Oh,' said the Indian civilian absently, ' I've had the 
 plague.' 
 
 ' Had the plague ! Good God !' 
 
 Crocker smiled, and added in his grave matter-of- 
 fact way : 
 
 ' Caught it on famine duty.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Shelton reflectively ; ' plague and 
 famine ! I suppose you fellows really think you're 
 doing good out there ?' 
 
 His companion looked at him with surprise, and 
 modestly answered : 
 
 ' We get very good screws.' 
 
 ' That's the great thing,' replied Shelton. 
 
 After a moment's silence, however, Crocker, looking 
 straight in front of him, inquired : 
 
 ' 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 ; he slackened his 
 pace. 
 
 ' Why ?' he bluntly asked. 
 
 Shelton was not anxious to air his views, so he said 
 nothing. 
 
 His friend repeated his question : 
 
 ' Why don't you think we're doing good in India?' 
 
 ' \\'ell,' said Shelton gruffly, ' what / should like to 
 
THE INDIAN CIVILIAN 143 
 
 know is, how can progress be imposed on nations from 
 outside ?' 
 
 The Indian civilian proceeded some distance, then, 
 glancing at Shelton in an affectionate, dubious way, he 
 replied : 
 
 ' You haven't changed a bit, old chap.' 
 
 * No, no,' replied Shelton irritably, for Crocker was 
 walking faster than ever ; ' you're not going to get out 
 of it that way. Give me a single example of a nation, or 
 an individual, for the matter of that, who's ever done 
 any good without having worked up to it from within.' 
 
 Crocker grunted, and muttered something about 
 ' evils.' 
 
 ' That's it,' ejaculated Shelton, who had suddenly 
 become loquacious ; ' we take peoples entirely different 
 from our own, and stop their natural development by 
 substituting a civilization grown for our own use. 
 Suppose, looking at a tropical fern in a hothouse, you 
 were to say : " This heat's unhealthy for me ; therefore 
 it must be bad for the fern. I'll take it up and plant it 
 outside in the fresh air." ' 
 
 ' Do you know that means giving up India ?' said the 
 Indian civilian shrewdly. 
 
 ' I don't say that ; but to talk about doing good to 
 India is — h'm !' 
 
 Crocker knitted his brows ; there was something 
 pathetic in his anxiety. Shelton went on elaborating 
 his argument. 
 
 ' Come, now ! Should we go on administering India 
 if it were a dead loss to us ? No. Well, to talk about 
 administering the country for the purpose of pocketing 
 money is cynical, and there's generally some tru h in 
 cynicism ; but to talk about the administration of a 
 
144 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 country by which we profit, as if it were a great and 
 good thing, is cant. I hit you in the wind for the 
 benefit of myself — all right : law of Nature ; but to say 
 it does you good at the same time is beyond me.' 
 
 ' No, no,' returned Crocker, still grave and anxious ; 
 ' you can't persuade me that we're not doing good.' 
 
 ' Wait a bit,' said Shelton, on his mettle : ' The thing 
 is a question of horizons ; you look at it from too close. 
 Put the horizon further back. You hit India in the 
 wind, and say it's virtuous. Well, now let's see what 
 happens. Either the wind never comes back, and 
 India gasps to an untimely death, or the wind does 
 come back, and in the pant of reaction your blow — 
 that's to say your labour— is lost, I mean morally lost — 
 labour that you might have spent where it wouldn't 
 have been lost.' 
 
 ' Aren't you an Imperialist ?' asked Crocker, genuinely 
 surprised. 
 
 ' I may be, but I keep my mouth shut about the 
 benefits we're conferring on other people.' 
 
 ' Then you can't believe in justice or right ?' 
 
 ' What on earth have our ideas of justice or right got 
 to do with India?' 
 
 ' If I thought as you do,' sighed Crocker, almost 
 running, ' I should be all adrift.' 
 
 ' Quite so,' retorted Shelton. ' We always think our 
 standards of right and wrong best for the whole world. 
 It's a capital belief for us. Read the speeches of our 
 public men. Doesn't it strike you as amazing how 
 sure they are of being in the right ? It's so 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 man's poison. Look at Nature. But there it 
 
THE INDIAN CIVILIAN 145 
 
 is again ; in England we never look at Nature — there's 
 no necessity for it. Our National point of view fills our 
 pockets, which is all that matters.' 
 
 ' I say, old chap, that's awfully bitter,' remonstrated 
 Crocker, with a sort of wondering sadness. 
 
 ' It's enough to make anyone bitter the way we 
 Pharisees wax fat, and at the same time give ourselves 
 the airs of a moral balloon. You must stick a pin in 
 sometimes, for the pleasure of hearing the gas escape.' 
 Shelton was surprised at his own vehemence, and 
 for some strange reason thought of Antonia, who was 
 surely not connected with Pharisaism. 
 
 His companion strode on, and Shelton felt sorry for 
 the signs of disturbance on his visage. 
 
 ' To fill your pockets,' said Crocker at last, ' isn't the 
 main thing. One has just got to do things without 
 thinking of anything else.' 
 
 ' Do you ever see the other side to any question ?' 
 asked Shelton. ' I suppose not. You always begin to 
 act before you stop thinking, don't you ?' 
 
 Crocker grinned, and hit him a playful blow in the 
 side. 
 
 ' He's a Pharisee, too,' thought Shelton, ' without a 
 speck of the Pharisee's pride. Queer thing that !' 
 
 After walking some distance, as if thinking deeply, 
 Crocker chuckled out with a sly look : 
 
 ' You're not consistent ; you ought to be in favour of 
 giving up India, you know.' 
 
 Shelton did not reply for a minute, but smiled uneasily. 
 
 ' Why shouldn't we fill our pockets ?' he remarked. 
 ' I only object to the humbug we talk.' 
 
 The Indian civilian put his hand shyly through 
 
 Shelton's arm. 
 
 10 
 
146 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' If I thought like you,' he said, ' I couldn't stay 
 another day in India.' 
 Shelton made no reply. 
 
 The wind had now begun to drop, and something of 
 the morning's magic was stealing again over the moor. 
 They were nearing the outskirt fields of cultivation. It 
 was past five when they dropped from the level of the 
 tors into the sunny hollow of Monkland. 
 
 ' They say,' said Crocker, reading a paragraph from 
 a crimson guide-book he was continually drawing from 
 his pocket — ' they say this place occupies a position of 
 unique isolation.' 
 
 The two travellers, in tranquil solitude, took their 
 seats under an old yew-tree on the village green. The 
 smoke of their pipes, the sleepy air, the warmth from the 
 baked ground, the constant hum, made Shelton drowsy. 
 ' Do you remember,' his companion asked suddenly, 
 ' those "jaws " you used to have with Busgate and old 
 Halidome in my rooms on Sunday evenings ? How is 
 old Halidome ?' 
 
 ' Married,' replied Shelton. 
 
 Crocker sighed. ' And are you ?' he asked, with a 
 glance at once shrewd and bashful. 
 
 ' Not yet,' said Shelton grimly ; ' but I'm— engaged.' 
 Crocker took hold of his arm above the elbow, squeezed 
 it, and grunted. Shelton had not yet received con- 
 gratulations that pleased him more ; there was the spice 
 of envy in them. 
 
 ' I should Hke to get married while I'm at home,' 
 said the Indian civilian after a lengthy pause. His 
 legs were stretched apart, throwing shadows on the 
 green, his hands deep thrust into his pockets, his head 
 a little to one side. An absent-minded smile played 
 around his mouth. 
 
THE INDIAN CIVILIAN 147 
 
 The sun sank behind a tor, but the warmth still 
 sweated out of the village green, and the sweet-briar on 
 a cottage behind bathed them with its spicy perfume. 
 From the lane at the bottom figures passed now and 
 then, lounged across, stared at the strangers on the 
 bench, and, gossiping amongst themselves, vanished 
 into the row of cottages that headed the incline. The 
 church clock struck seven, and round the now shadow- 
 less yew-tree a cockchafer or some heavy insect com- 
 menced a series of booming rushes. All was marvel- 
 lously sane and slumbrous. Everything — the soft air, 
 the soft drawl, the shapes and murmurs, the rising 
 smell of wood-smoke from fresh kindled fires — was full 
 of the spirit of security and of home. The outside 
 world was barred off. Typical of some island nation 
 was this nest of refuge — complacency was born and 
 bred there ; men grew quietly tall, fattened, and with- 
 out fuss dropped off their perches ; ideals flourished 
 blandly, as sunflowers flourish in the sun, and, when the 
 sun goes in, fall asleep. 
 
 Crocker's cap slipped off; he was nodding, and 
 Shelton looked at him. From one of a thousand such 
 homes he had issued ; to one of a thousand such homes 
 he would find his way at last, untouched by his struggles 
 against famines or plagues, uninfected in any essential 
 jot of his fibre, his prejudices, or his principles, by 
 strange peoples, new conditions, odd feehngs, or queer 
 points of view ! 
 
 The chafer buzzed against the Indian civihan's sleeve 
 with a sounding smack, gathered way again slowly, 
 and boomed off. He roused himself, and, turning his 
 face, shy and amiable, jogged Shelton's arm. 
 
 ' What are you thinking about. Bird ?' he asked. 
 
 10 — 2 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A PARSON 
 
 Shelton continued to travel with the Indian civilian, 
 and on Wednesday night, four days after joining com- 
 pany, they arrived cold and wet at the village of 
 Dowdenhame. All day long the road had lain through 
 pastureland, where the very hedges breathed fertility, 
 the very trees opulence. Once or twice they had 
 broken its monotony by a stretch along the towing- 
 path of a canal, which, choked with water-lily plants 
 and the green of disuse, brooded sluggishly beside the 
 meadows. Nature, in one of her ironic moods, had 
 chosen to cast a gray, iron-hard cloak over all the 
 country's trimly bland luxuriance. From dawn till the 
 moment when darkness fell there had been no move- 
 ment in the remote, steely sky; a cold wind ruffled 
 across the hedge-tops, and sent shivers through the 
 early feathering on the stems of the elms. The cattle, 
 dappled, pied, bay, or white, continued their grazing 
 with an air of grumbling at their birthright. In a 
 meadow close to the canal the travellers saw five 
 magpies, and about five o'clock the rain began, a 
 steady, coldly-sneering rain, which Crocker, looking at 
 the sky and rubbing his round chin the wrong way, 
 declared was going to be over directly. But it was 7iot 
 
 148 
 
A PARSON 149 
 
 over directly, and as they got more and more drenched, 
 Shelton became more and more disgusted. He was 
 tired, and it annoyed him intensely that his companion, 
 who was tired also, should grow more and more cheer- 
 ful. His reflections kept harping on Ferrand. ' This,' 
 thought he, ' must be something like what he described 
 to me, tramping on and on when you're wet and dead- 
 beat, until you can cadge up a supper and a bed.' 
 And he ploughed sullenly through the mud with 
 sinister glances at Crocker, who had skinned one heel 
 and was limping horribly. It suddenly came home to 
 him that life for three-quarters of the world meant 
 physical exhaustion for every day in the year without 
 any possibility of escape, and that as soon as, for some 
 cause beyond their control, they failed to exhaust them- 
 selves, they became paupers, or starved. ' And then 
 we, who don't know the meaning of the word ex- 
 haustion, at once call them " idle scamps," ' he said 
 aloud. 
 
 It was past nine and pitch dark when they reached 
 Dowdenhame. The street seemed to yield no accom- 
 modation, and while debating where to look for an inn 
 they passed the church, with its dim, square tower, 
 and next to it a house which was manifestly the 
 parsonage. 
 
 ' Suppose,' said the Indian civilian, leaning his arms 
 dreamily on the gate, ' we ask him where to go for the 
 night;' and without waiting for Shelton 's answer, he 
 flung open the gate and rang the bell. 
 
 The door was opened by the parson himself, a blood- 
 less, clean-shaven man, whose hollow cheeks and bony 
 hands suggested a perpetual struggle. Ascetically 
 benevolent were his gray eyes as he invited them out 
 
150 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 of the rain. A smile, like the ghost of vitality, strayed 
 in and out of 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 glad to say ;' 
 and his eyes seemed to muse over the proper fold for 
 these damp sheep. ' Are you Oxford men, by any 
 chance ?' he asked, as if that might throw some light 
 upon the matter. ' Of Mary's ? Really ! I'm of St. Saul's 
 myself. Ladyman — Billington Ladyman ; you might 
 remember my youngest brother. I could give you a 
 room here if you could manage without sheets. My 
 housekeeper has two days' holiday, and she's foolishly 
 taken the keys.' 
 
 Shelton accepted gladly, feeling that the superior 
 intonation in the parson's voice was merely that which 
 is necessary to his calling, and not in the least intended 
 for patronage. 
 
 ' You're hungry, I expect, after your tramp. I'm 
 very much afraid there's — er— nothing in the house, but 
 I could boil you some water; hot lemonade is better 
 than nothing.' 
 
 Conducting them to the kitchen, he made a fire with 
 his bony hands, and put on a kettle ; and leaving them 
 to take off their soaking clothes, he returned shortly 
 with two ancient, greenish-black coats, some carpet 
 slippers, and a couple of blankets. Wrapped in these, 
 and carrying their glasses, the travellers followed him 
 to the study, where, by the light of a doubtful lamp, he 
 seemed, from the books scattered about the table, to 
 have been writing his sermon. 
 
 ' We're giving you a lot of trouble,' said Shelton ; 
 ' it's awfully good of you.' 
 
A PARSON 151 
 
 ' Not at all,' responded the parson ; ' I'm only sorry 
 the house is so empty.' 
 
 It was a truly dismal.contrast to the fatness of the 
 land they had been passing through all day, and what 
 was really pathetic was the owner's voice issuing, a 
 wraith of complacency, from bloodless lips that looked 
 as if they had an insufficiency to eat. Yes ; it was 
 most peculiar, that voice of his, which seemed to indi- 
 cate an intimate acquaintanceship with everything fat 
 and fine, to convey a sovereign contempt for the vulgar 
 n-eed of money, while all the time 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 just once in a way !' 
 
 Everything in the room had been bought for cheap- 
 ness ; luxuries there were none, and not enough neces- 
 saries. It was bleak, it was bare; the ceiling was 
 cracked and the wall-paper discoloured, and those 
 books — shining, prim books, with fat backs and arms 
 stamped upon them — almost glared in the surrounding 
 barrenness. 
 
 ' My predecessor,' said the parson, with pathetic 
 superiority, ' played rather havoc with the house. The 
 poor fellow had a dreadful struggle, I'm told. You 
 can, unfortunately, expect nothing else in these days, 
 when livings have come down so terribly in value ! He 
 was a married man with a large family !' 
 
 Crocker, who had drunk his steaming lemonade at a 
 draught, was smihng and already nodding in his chair ; 
 with a greenish-black garment buttoned closely below 
 his round visage, his long legs rolled in a blanket, and 
 stretched out towards the feeble flame of the newly- 
 lighted fire, he presented an appearance frightening in 
 
152 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 its incongruity. Shelton, on the other hand, had ceased 
 to feel tired ; the strangeness of his surroundings stimu- 
 lated an unusual activity in his brain ; he kept stealing 
 glances at the unspeakable scantiness around him, and 
 the room, the parson, the furniture, the very fire, all 
 gave him the feeling that is produced by the sight of a 
 pair of legs that have outgrown their trousers. He did 
 not know what to say. To express sympathy would 
 have been sheer bad taste ; besides, there was something 
 underlying the leanness of his host's figure, something 
 superior and academic, which defied sympathy. Yet 
 the parson's glance had the faculty of irritating his 
 nerves, and it was really pure nervousness which made 
 him say : 
 
 ' Ah ! why do they have such large families ?' 
 
 A faint red mounted into the parson's cheeks, and its 
 appearance there was startling. Crocker chuckled, as a 
 sleepy man chuckles who has not heard a remark, but 
 feels bound to show that he is awake. 
 
 ' It's very unfortunate,' murmured the parson, 'cer- 
 tainly, in many cases.' 
 
 In all probability Shelton would have changed the 
 subject, but at this moment the wretched Crocker 
 snored. Most men in his condition would have 
 temporized with their somnolence, but he, being a man 
 of action, had simply fallen asleep. 
 
 ' It seems to me,' said Shelton hurriedly, as he saw 
 the parson's eyebrows rising at the sound, ' almost what 
 }'ou might call wrong.' 
 
 ' Dear me !' replied the parson, reverting to Shelton ; 
 ' but how can it be wrong ?' 
 
 ' Oh, of course, I don't know,' said Shelton, feehng 
 that he must justify his unfortunate remark somehow. 
 
A PARSON 153 
 
 and floundering hopelessly, ' only one knows such a 
 lot of cases— clergymen's families ; I've got two uncles 
 myself ' 
 
 A new expression had gathered on the parson's face ; 
 his mouth tightened, so that the chin slightly receded. 
 ' Why, he's awfully like a mule !' thought Shelton. 
 His eyes, too, had grown harder, grayer, more parroty; 
 his lips were drawn in at the corners. The authority 
 which looked out of his face had an ill effect on his guest. 
 
 The parson smiled. 
 
 ' Perhaps you and I,' he answered, ' would not under- 
 stand each other on such matters.' 
 
 Shelton felt rather ashamed. 
 
 ' I should like to ask you a question in turn, how- 
 ever,' continued the parson, as if desirous of meeting 
 Shelton on his somewhat low ground : ' How do you 
 justify marriage if it is not to follow the edicts of 
 nature ?' 
 
 ' I can only tell what I feel personally.' 
 
 ' My dear sir, you forget that a woman's chief delight 
 is in her motherhood.' 
 
 ' I should have thought it a pleasure likely to pall 
 with repetition. Motherhood is motherhood, whether 
 of one or of a dozen.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid,' replied the parson, with a certain 
 impatience, though still keeping on Shelton's low 
 ground, 'that your theories are not calculated to 
 populate the world.' 
 
 ' Have you ever lived in London ?' asked Shelton. 
 ' It always makes me doubt whether we have any right 
 to have children at all.' 
 
 ' But surely,' queried the parson with wonderful 
 restraint, though the joints of his fingers cracked 
 
154 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 with the grip he had upon his chair, 'you're leaving 
 out the duty towards the country ; the national growth 
 is paramount !' 
 
 ' There are two ways of looking at that. It depends 
 on what you want your country to become.' 
 
 ' I didn't know,' said the parson — and a certain 
 fanaticism had crept into his smile — ' that there was 
 any doubt on such a subject.' 
 
 The more Shelton felt that he was being commanded, 
 the more controversial he became — quite apart from the 
 merits of the subject, to which he had hardly given a 
 thought in his life. 
 
 ' I dare say I'm wrong,' he said, fastening his eyes 
 on the stripes in the blanket in which his legs were 
 wrapped ; ' but it seems to me at least an open question 
 whether it's better for the country to be so well popu- 
 lated as to be absolutely incapable of supporting itself.' 
 
 ' Surely,' said the parson, whose face had regained its 
 pallor, ' you're not a Little Englander ?' 
 
 The phrase had a mysterious effect on Shelton, who 
 felt uneasy and insulted. In spite of a secret impulse 
 to try and discover what he really was, he hastened to 
 answer : 
 
 ' Of course not !' 
 
 The parson, with the magnanimity of the victorious, 
 instantly followed up his triumph, and, shifting the 
 discussion from Shelton's ground to his own, 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 the irritation aroused by 
 a sense of his own dishonesty, replied with some heat : 
 
A PARSON 155 
 
 'Why not say at once "hysterical and unhealthy"? 
 Any opinion which goes contrary to that of the majority 
 is always called so, I believe.' 
 
 ' Well,' repeated the parson, whose eyes and mouth 
 seemed trying to bind Shelton to his will, ' I must 
 say your ideas do seem to me both extravagant and 
 unhealthy. The propagation of children is the chief 
 object of marriage.' 
 
 Shelton bowed, and his host was too excited to smile 
 at the ludicrous figure he thereby cut. 
 
 ' We live in very dangerous times,' continued the 
 parson, ' and it grieves me when a man of your 
 standing and education subscribes to these notions.' 
 
 ' Excuse me, I can't help thinking it unreasonable 
 for people whom the shoe doesn't pinch to make a 
 rule of morality and thrust it on those whom it 
 does.' 
 
 The irony of his calling the parson ' a man whom the 
 shoe doesn't pinch ' quite escaped him. 
 
 ' The rule was never made,' said the parson ; ' it was 
 given us.' 
 
 • Oh !' said Shelton, ' I beg your pardon.' He felt so 
 intensely annoyed that he was in danger of forgetting 
 the delicate position he was in. ' He wants to ram his 
 notions down my throat,' he thought, staring ; and it 
 seemed to him that the parson's face had grown still 
 more Hke a mule's, his accent more superior, the glance 
 of his eyes more compelling. To be right in this 
 argument seemed now of the greatest importance, 
 whereas, in truth, it was of no importance at all. 
 What, however, was of importance was the fact that 
 neither could possibly have agreed with the other in 
 anything. 
 
156 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 Crocker suddenly ceased to snore ; his head had 
 fallen so low on his chest that the very snores were 
 strangled, and a peculiar whistling took their place. 
 Both Shelton and the parson looked at him, and 
 both seemed to become conscious of their heat. 
 
 ' Your friend seems very tired,' said the parson, 
 putting his hand to his brow. 
 
 Shelton forgot his annoyance, for his host again 
 seemed to him pathetic, with his baggy garments, 
 hollow cheeks, and the slightly red nose that some- 
 times comes from not drinking enough. What a kind 
 fellow he was ! 
 
 The kind fellow rose, and putting his hands in his 
 pockets, placed himself with his back to the fast- 
 blackening fire. Whole centuries of authority stood 
 behind him. It was but an accident that the mantel- 
 piece was chipped and rusty, the fire-irons bent and 
 worn, his linen frayed at the cuffs. 
 
 ' I have no wish to be dictatorial,' said he. ' Where 
 it seems to me that you are wholly in the wrong is, 
 that your ideas foster in women those lax views of 
 the family life that are so prevalent in Society now- 
 adays.' 
 
 The image of Antonia with her gray eyes, the touch 
 of freckling on her pink and white skin, the fair hair 
 severely gathered back, sprang before Shelton, and the 
 use of the word ' lax ' seemed ridiculous. And then 
 there were the women he was accustomed to see 
 dragging about the streets of London with two or three 
 children, women staggering under the weight of babies 
 they were unable to leave, women going to work with 
 babies still unborn, and aneemic-looking women and 
 moneyless mothers in his own class, with twelve or 
 
A PARSON 157 
 
 fourteen children, in fact, all the victims of the sanctity 
 of marriage, and again he felt the word ' lax ' to be 
 ridiculous. But he had, no doubt, a private sympathy 
 with the word 'lax' — a temperamental objection to 
 authority. 
 
 ' We are not put into the world to exercise our '— 
 Shelton insanely hoped he was going to say ' wits ' — 
 ' wanton wills,' remarked the parson tyrannically. 
 
 Shelton came out of his reverie. 
 
 ' It may have been all right for the last generation ; 
 the country is more crowded now. I can't see why we 
 shouldn't decide for ourselves.' 
 
 ' Such a view of morality,' said the parson, for some 
 reason looking down at Crocker with a ghostly smile, 
 * is unintelligible to me.' 
 
 The Indian civilian continued to whistle. 
 
 ' I tell you what I hate,' said Shelton, ' and that's 
 the way men decide what women are to bear, and then 
 call them hysterical, immoral, decadent, what you like, 
 if they don't fall in with their views.' 
 
 ' Mr. Shelton,' said the parson, ' I think you may 
 safely leave it in the hands of God.' 
 
 Shelton was silent. But his host was unable to 
 follow his own advice. 
 
 ' The questions of morality,' he said promptly, ' have 
 always lain through God in the hands of men, not of 
 women. We are the more reasonable sex.' 
 
 'I don't know about that,' was Shelton's stubborn 
 reply ; ' we're the greater humbugs, if that's the same 
 thing.' 
 
 ' This is too bad,' exclaimed the parson with some 
 heat. 
 
 ' I'm sorry, sir ; but how can you expect women nowa- 
 
158 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 days to have the same views as our grandmothers ? We 
 men, by our commercial enterprise, have brought about 
 a different state of affairs, and yet, for the sake of our 
 own comfort, we try to keep women where they were. 
 It's always those fellows who are most keen about their 
 own comfort ' — and again in his heat the sarcasm of using 
 the word ' comfort ' in that room was lost on him — 
 ' who are so ready to accuse women of deserting the 
 old morality.' 
 
 The parson's lips quivered with impatient irony. 
 ' Old morality ! new morality !' he said. ' These are 
 strange words.' 
 
 ' Forgive me,' explained Shelton ; ' we're talking of 
 working morality, I imagine. There's not a man in a 
 million fit to talk about true morality.' 
 The eyes of his host contracted. 
 ' I think,' he said — and his voice sounded more 
 precious, as if he had pinched it in the endeavour to 
 impress his listener — ' that any well-educated man who 
 honestly tries to serve his God has the right humbly— 
 I say humbly — to speak of morality.' 
 
 Shelton smiled. He was on the point of saying 
 something bitter, but checked himself ' Here am I,' 
 thought he, ' trying to get the last word, like any old 
 woman.' 
 
 At this moment a faint, piteous mewing was heard 
 through the window, and the parson went towards the 
 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 very wet cat in his arms. ' They will get out,' he 
 said to Shelton, with a vague, soft smile on his thin 
 face, suffused with the exertion of stooping. 
 
A PARSON 159 
 
 Absent-mindedly he stroked the dripping cat the 
 wrong way, while a drop of wet ran off his nose. 
 ' Poor pussy, poor pussy !' he kept saying. The cut- 
 and-dried sound of that ' Poor pussy, poor pussy !' hke 
 nothing human in its cracked superiority, the softness 
 of that smile, like the smile of humanity itself, haunted 
 Shelton till he fell asleep. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 ACADEMIC 
 
 The last sunlight was playing on the roofs of the 
 ' High ' when the travellers entered that street, so 
 grave and holy to Oxford men. The spirit hovering 
 over the spires was as different from its concretions in 
 cap and gown on the pavement as the spirit of Christ 
 from Church dogmas. 
 
 ' Shall we go into Grinnings' ?' asked Shelton, as they 
 passed the club. 
 
 Each looked down at his clothes, for two elegant 
 young men in straw hats and ilannel suits were just 
 coming out. 
 
 ' You go,' said Crocker, with a smirk. 
 
 Shelton shook his head. Never before had he felt 
 such a love for the old city. It was gone now out 
 of his life, and everything about it seemed good and 
 fine ; even its precious air of exclusiveness was not 
 ignoble. Clothed in the calm of history, the golden 
 web of glorious tradition, radiant with the alchemy of 
 memories, it bewitched him like the scent of a mistress's 
 dress. They stopped to idle at the entrance of a college, 
 and glance in at the cool gray patch of stone beyond, 
 and the single scarlet splash of a window flower-box — 
 a secluded, mysteriously calm glimpse, in narrow per- 
 
 i6o 
 
ACADEMIC i6l 
 
 spective, of the sacred past. Pale and trencher-capped, 
 a youth with a pimply face and random nose, grabbing 
 his torn-off gown to his hip, was gazing at the notice^ 
 board. The college porter, a large man with a fresh 
 face and small mouth, stood at the door of his lodge 
 in an attitude deferential and frank ; the image of 
 confidential routine, he looked like one engaged to 
 give an air of decorum to multitudes of peccadilloes. 
 His blue eyes rested inquiringly on the travellers. ' I 
 don't know you, sirs, but I shall be glad to hear any 
 observations you may have to make,' they seemed to 
 say. 
 
 Against the wall reposed a bicycle with a tennis- 
 racquet buckled to its handle. A bull-dog bitch, 
 straining on a strap, and working her queer snout from 
 side to side, snuffled continually ; the great iron-studded 
 door to which she was fastened remained immovable, 
 a symbol of permanency. Into the mould, through 
 this narrow mouth, human metal had been poured for 
 centuries — poured, moulded, and given back. 
 
 ' Come along,' said Shelton. 
 
 They entered the Bishop's Head, and dined in the 
 room where he had given his celebrated Derby dinner 
 to four-and-twenty youths of the best breeding ; opposite 
 him was the picture of a racehorse that the wineglass, 
 thrown by Toby Fossdyke, had missed when it hit the 
 waiter ; and there, serving Crocker with anchovy sauce, 
 was the same waiter. When he had dined, Shelton 
 experienced something of the old desire to rise from 
 the table with difficulty; the old necessity to patrol 
 the streets with his arm hooked in some other arm ; 
 the old eagerness to do something daring, heroic, and 
 unlawful; the old sense that he belonged to the best 
 
 II 
 
i62 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 set, in the best college, in the best country in the best 
 world. The streets, mellow and gravely unexpected, 
 seemed to applaud this after-dinner stroll ; and the 
 entrance quadrangle of his old college — spaciously 
 majestic, monastically modern, for years the heart of 
 his universe, the focus of all that had gone before it in 
 his life, and casting the shadow of its gray, exclusive 
 walls over all that had come after — brought him a 
 sensation of rest from conflict, an intoxicating belief 
 in his own important security. Even the sight of the 
 garden-gate, whose lofty spikes he had so often decorated 
 with empty soda-water bottles, failed to disturb him. 
 He had but a vague sense of remorse when they passed 
 a staircase down which he had committed the indelicacy 
 of flinging a leg of lamb after some other men's tutor, 
 who had been foolish enough to suppose that two in 
 the morning was not a time to eat oysters. Perched 
 up high on the next staircase were the rooms in which 
 he had crammed for his degree, upon the system by 
 which the scholar assimilates the dry bones of his 
 coach's knowledge, boils over at the moment of exami- 
 nation, and is an extinct volcano for ever afterwards. 
 The face of that gentleman recurred to him, a man 
 with thrusting eyes, who reeled off knowledge all the 
 week like a demoniacal machine, and on Saturday 
 evening disappeared to London. 
 
 They passed their tutor's staircase. 
 
 ' I wonder if little Turl would remember us ?' said 
 Crocker ; ' I should like to see him. Shall we go and 
 look him up ?' 
 
 ' Little Turl ?' said Shelton dreamily. 
 
 He was too happy to dissent, and, mounting, they 
 knocked on a solid door. 
 
ACADEMIC 163 
 
 * Come in,' said a somnolent voice. 
 
 A little fat man, with a pink face and very large 
 ears, was sitting in a magnificent chair, as if he had 
 been grown there. He got up at once with sleepy 
 alarm. 
 
 ' What do you want ?' he asked, blinking, 
 
 ' Don't you know me, sir ?' said the Indian civilian. 
 
 ' 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, passed his hand over his chin, and chuckled 
 feebly. 
 
 ' You remember Shelton, sir ?' he said. 
 
 ' Shelton ? Oh yes ! How do you do, Shelton ? 
 Sit down ; take a cigar ;' and the little gentleman again 
 took his seat in the large chair, and, crossing his fat 
 little legs, looked from one to the other with drowsy 
 interest, as who should say : 'Now, after all, you know, 
 why the deuce come and wake me up like this ?' 
 
 Shelton and Crocker took two other large chairs, 
 and they, too, looked at each other, as if thinking: 
 'Yes; why the deuce did we come and wake him up?' 
 Shelton, who could not answer this question, took 
 silent refuge in the cigar ; his eyes roamed over the 
 panelled walls covered with reproductions of the most 
 celebrated Greek and Roman remains ; the thick, soft 
 carpet on the floor was grateful to his tired feet ; the 
 backs of innumerable books gleamed richly in the light 
 of the oil lamps ; the sleepy culture and perfumed 
 smoke stole upon his senses ; he but vaguely compre- 
 hended Crocker's amiable and jerky attempts at con- 
 versation, but vaguely comprehended the replies of his 
 host, whose face, in the thickening atmosphere, blinking 
 
 II — 2 
 
i64 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 behind the bowl of a huge meerschaum, assumed to 
 his nodding facuhies some queer likeness to a moon. 
 He would, indeed, have been asleep in another minute 
 had not the door opened, and a tall, middle-aged 
 creature, whose eyes were large and brown, whose face 
 was pale and ironical, entered with disjointed, manly 
 strides. 
 
 ' Oh !' he said, looking round with his chin a little in 
 the air and a half-unseeing glance, ' am I in the way, 
 Turl ?' 
 
 The little host did not move, but, bhnking more than 
 ever, murmured : 
 
 ' Not at all, Berryman — not at all ; take a pew !' 
 
 The individual called Berryman sat down on the 
 arm of a chair, swung one of his long legs, and, smiling, 
 gazed now at the wall, now at the carpet, with those 
 fine eyes. 
 
 Shelton had a faint recollection of him as one of the 
 dons in his time, but the sense of detachment conveyed 
 by wine and good cigars was so strong that he offered 
 no recognition beyond a bow, and remained within the 
 fortress of his chair, once more, however, wide awake. 
 
 ' Is there still balm in Gilead ?' said the new-comer, 
 with his eyes on the whist table. ' Trimmer and Washer 
 were coming round;' and almost before the satire which 
 was too habitual to have any connection with his heart, 
 but seemed to belong exclusively to his head, had died 
 off his lips, the door opened to admit the two gentlemen 
 in question. Of about the same height, but very diiferent 
 in appearance, they bowed slightly ; their manner was 
 faintly jocular, faintly supercilious, as if they tolerated 
 the universe. The one whose name was Trimmer had 
 patches of red on his large cheek-bones, and below 
 
ACADEMIC 165 
 
 them a bluish tint on his cheeks, and rather full lips ; 
 some quite indescribable resemblance to a spider domi- 
 nated his face. Washer, who was thin and pale, came 
 in with a long stride and a jeering smile. 
 
 The little fat host moved the hand that held the 
 meerschaum. 
 
 ' Crocker, Shelton,' he said, vaguely introducing them 
 to the last arrivals. 
 
 An awkward silence prevailed. Shelton made a 
 desperate appeal to the more cultured portion of his wits ; 
 but so strong upon him was the sense that nothing 
 would be treated seriously that his faculties became 
 paralyzed, and he remained silent, staring bashfully at 
 the glowing tip of his cigar. The strange notion 
 possessed him that it was unfair, actually unfair, to 
 have intruded his society upon these gentlemen with- 
 out its having been made quite clear to them before- 
 hand who and what he was ; and he was on the point 
 of rising and taking leave, when the silence was broken 
 by Washer. 
 
 '"Madame Bovary!"' he announced quizzically, 
 reading the title of the book the little fat man had been 
 reading when Shelton and Crocker disturbed him ; and, 
 holding it close to his rather boiled-looking eyes, he 
 repeated, as though it were a bad joke : ' " Madame 
 Bovary !" ' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say, Turl, that you can stand that 
 stuff?' said Berryman. 
 
 The name of the book seemed to have galvanized him 
 into hfe, and, getting off his perch on the arm of the 
 chair, he strolled across to the book-case, took down a 
 volume at random, opened it, and began to read, 
 wandering in a desultory way about the room. 
 
i66 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Ha ! Berryman,' said a conciliatory bass voice be- 
 hind Shelton — it came from Trimmer, who had assumed 
 a position with his back to the hearth, and, leaning his 
 shoulders against the mantel-board, and bending his 
 head forward, grasped with either hand a fist-full of his 
 long gown — ' the book's a classic!' 
 
 ' Classic !' exclaimed Berryman ; and, suddenly stop- 
 ping, he transfixed Shelton, as if the latter had spoken. 
 ' The fellow ought to have been horsewhipped for writing 
 such putridity !' 
 
 Shelton felt unaccountably nervous, and yet a pecu- 
 liar sensation of hostility had sprung up in him ; he 
 looked at his little host, who, however, merely blinked. 
 
 ' Berryman only means,' explained Washer, a certain 
 malice in his smile, ' that the author isn't one of his 
 particular pets.' 
 
 ' For God's sake, you know, don't get Berryman on 
 his horse !' growled the little fat man suddenly. 
 
 Berryman returned his volume to the shelf and took 
 down another. There was something almost godhke 
 in this 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 ? Pah ! I hke a writer to be a sports- 
 man and a gentleman ;' and again he looked down over 
 his chin at Shelton, as though he expected him to con- 
 trovert the sentiment. 
 
 ' Don't you ' began the latter. 
 
 But Berryman's attention had wandered again to the 
 wall. 
 
 ' I really don't care,' said he, ' to know what a 
 woman feels when she is going to the dogs ; it doesn't 
 interest me.' 
 
ACADEMIC 167 
 
 The voice of Trimmer boomed ingratiatingly from 
 the hearth. 
 
 ' I gather,' he was saying, ' that it's a question of 
 moral standards.' 
 
 He had extended his legs till they looked like a pair 
 of compasses, and something in that attitude and the 
 way he grasped the wings of his gown supplied the sug- 
 gestion of a pair of scales. His lowering smile seemed 
 to embrace the room and deprecate the use of strong 
 expressions. ' After all,' he seemed to say, ' we are 
 men of the world ; we know there's not very much in 
 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 spicy book ?' asked Washer suddenly, 
 with his jeering smile ; and at this question the little fat 
 man sniggered, blinking tempestuously, as if to say : 
 ' Nothing pleasanter, don't you know, before a hot fire 
 in cold weather.' 
 
 Berryman paid no attention to this impertinent in- 
 quiry ; he continued to dip into his volume and to walk 
 up and down. 
 
 ' I've nothing to say,' he remarked, stopping before 
 Shelton, and looking down at him over his chin as if he 
 had suddenly become aware of his presence, ' to you 
 gentlemen who talk of j ustification through Art. I prefer 
 to call a spade a spade.' 
 
 Shelton did not know what to answer ; the awkward 
 thing was that he could not tell whether Berryman was 
 addressing him or merely the world at large ; his eyes 
 had again strayed to his book, a smile curled his lips, 
 and he went on : 
 
 ' Do we want to know about the feeUngs of a middle- 
 
i68 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 class woman \vith a taste for vice ? Tell me the point 
 of it. No man who was in the habit of taking baths 
 would choose such a subject.' 
 
 ' Ah ! now you come to the question of — ah — sub- 
 jects,' the voice of Trimmer buzzed genially — he had 
 gathered his garments across his back as tightly as 
 though a fire had been burning in the grate — ' but, my 
 dear fellow, Art, properly applied, justifies every subject.' 
 ' For Art,' squeaked Berryman, putting back his 
 second volume and taking down a third, ' you have 
 Homer, Cervantes, Shakespeare, and Ossian ; for garb- 
 age, a number of unwashed gentlemen.' 
 
 There was a general laugh, and Shelton could not 
 help looking round at all in turn. With the exception 
 of Crocker, however, who was half asleep and smiling 
 idiotically, they wore, one and all, an expression as if 
 by no possible chance could they consider any subject 
 fit to affect their hearts ; as if, one and all, they were 
 so profoundly anchored on the sea of life that no waves 
 could seem anything but impertinent. It may have 
 been some uncompromising glimmer in this glance of 
 Shelton's that brought Trimmer once more to the 
 rescue with a cosmopolitan air. 
 
 ' The French,' said he, ' have quite a different standard 
 to ourselves in literature, just as they have a different 
 standard in regard to honour. All this is purely arti- 
 ficial.' 
 
 What he meant by these words Shelton found it 
 impossible to divine. 
 
 ' Ah ! honour,' said Washer, ' Vhonmur, die Elite, 
 duelling, the unfaithful wife ' 
 
 He was going to add something, but it was lost ; for 
 the little fat man, taking the meerschaum with trembling 
 
ACADEMIC 169 
 
 fingers, and holding it within two inches of his chin, 
 murmured : 
 
 ' You fellows, Berryman's awf'ly strong on honour ; 
 he's death on duelling.' 
 
 Smiling, he blinked twice, and replaced the meer- 
 schaum between his lips. 
 
 Without returning the third volume to its shelf, 
 Berryman took down a fourth ; his chest was ex- 
 panded, and he looked like a man about to do dumb- 
 bells with the books in his hands. 
 
 ' Quite so,' began Trimmer; 'the change from duel- 
 ling to law courts is profoundly ' 
 
 But whether he were going to say ' insignificant ' or 
 ' significant,' in Shelton's private opinion he did not 
 know himself, and Berryman here broke in : 
 
 ' Law courts or not, when a man runs away with a 
 wife of mine, I shall punch his head !' 
 
 'Come, come!' said Trimmer, with a spasmodic 
 grasp of his two wings. 
 
 Shelton had a sudden gleam of inspiration. ' If your 
 wife deceived you,' he thought, looking at Trimmer's 
 eyes, 'you'd keep it quiet, and hold it over her.' 
 
 Washer had passed his hand over his pale chaps, but 
 his disillusioned smile never wavered ; he looked like 
 one lost in the composition of an epigram. 
 
 The author of the punching theory stretched his 
 semi-athletic body; holding the books level with the 
 tops of his shoulders, he might have been preparing to 
 stone somebody with his point of view. His pale face 
 grew paler, his fine eyes finer, his lips more ironical. 
 Almost painful about his tall figure was the combined 
 look of the ' strong ' man and of the student who was 
 bound to go to pieces if you hit him a smart blow. 
 
170 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 'As for forgiving unfaithful wives,' he said, 'and all 
 that sort of thing, I don't believe in latter-day senti- 
 mentalities.' 
 
 The words were so high-pitched and full of sarcastic 
 conviction that they seemed actually to rebound from 
 the wall. Shelton looked hastily round. All their faces 
 were complacent together. He grew red, and suddenly 
 remarked, in a soft, but clear voice : 
 
 ' I see !' 
 
 He was conscious that he had never before made such 
 an impression, and that he never would again. The 
 unanimous, cold hostility flashing out all round was 
 both singular and enlightening ; it instantly gave way 
 to the shades of polite or satirical indulgence peculiar 
 to highly-cultivated organizations. Crocker nervously 
 arose ; he seemed scared, and was clearly relieved when 
 Shelton, follo\\'ing his example, grasped the hand of the 
 little fat man, who bade them good-night in a voice 
 shaken by the fumes of tobacco. 
 
 ' Who are your unshaven friends ?' he heard as the 
 door closed behind them. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 AN INCIDENT 
 
 ' Eleven o'clock,' said Crocker, as they went out 
 through the lodge, where the night-porter, penetrating 
 the disguise of their beards, greeted them with an 
 inquisitive civility : 
 
 ' I don't feel a bit sleepy ; shall we take a turn down 
 the " High ?" ' 
 
 Shelton assented; he was too busy thinking of his 
 sudden encounter with the dons to heed the soreness 
 of his feet. And this, besides, was the last day of his 
 travels, for he had not altered his intention of waiting 
 at Oxford till July i. 
 
 ' We call this place the centre of knowledge,' he said, 
 as they passed a building presiding, white and silent, 
 over the darkness ; ' it seems to me as far from being 
 that as Society is from the centre of gentility.' 
 
 Crocker's answer was a grunt ; he was looking up at 
 the stars, as if calculating in how many days he could 
 walk to heaven. 
 
 'No,' sneered Shelton; 'we've too much common- 
 sense here to strain our minds. We know when it's 
 healthy to stop, and play cricket. We pile up news 
 about Papias and the undistributed middle, but as for 
 knowledge of life or one's self ! Real seekers after know- 
 
 171 
 
172 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ledge are mad. It's a fight in the dark — no quarter 
 given ; the trade of lunatics. 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 one of the buttons of his coat. His brown 
 eyes, like a dog's, slid a wistful look at him. It seemed as 
 though he wished to say something, but was afraid of 
 giving offence. 
 
 ' They tell you,' pursued Shelton, ' that we learn to 
 be gentlemen here. Now, my notion is you learn that 
 through a single incident that touches your heart better 
 than you learn it here in three years.' 
 
 ' Hum !' muttered Crocker, twisting strongly 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 ; ' / 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 
 ■ mad ' to belong to Shelton's ' set.' 
 
 ' You never were much like your " set," old chap,' he 
 broke in. 
 
 Shelton turned away, put his face between the high 
 railings, and sniffed the scent of the limes. Images 
 were crowding into his mind. The faces of his old 
 friends strangely mingled with those of people he had 
 met lately — the girl in the train, Ferrand, the lady with 
 the short, round, powdered face, the French barber, 
 and many others, and, floating detached, mysteriously 
 connected with them all, the face of Antonia. The 
 scent of the limes for a moment died away, then drifted 
 
AN INCIDENT 173 
 
 at him with the full magic of its sweetness. From the 
 street behind the footsteps of the passers-by sounded 
 muffled, yet exact, and on the puffs of the breeze came 
 the strains : ' 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.' 
 
 'You know, Bird/ murmured Crocker, 'I used to 
 think some of them had too much side on.' 
 
 He had lost his hold of Shelton's button, but still 
 wore the look of wishing to say something painful. 
 
 Shelton laughed. 
 
 ' The thing sickens me when I think of it,' said he — 
 ' the whole snobbish, selfish business. The place sickens 
 me, lined with cotton-wool — made so beastly com- 
 fortable.' 
 
 Crocker shook his head. 
 
 ' It's a splendid old place,' he said sadly ; his eyes 
 wandered, and fastened at last on Shelton's boots. 
 ' You know, old chap,' he stammered, ' I think you — you 
 ought to take care !' 
 
 ' Take care ?' replied Shelton ; ' what of?' 
 
 Crocker seized his arm and pressed it convulsively. 
 
 ' Don't be waxy, old boy,' he said : ' I mean that you 
 seem somehow — to be — to be losing yourself 
 
 'Losing myself!' said Shelton, surprised. 'Ha! 
 finding myself, you mean I' 
 
 Crocker did not reply ; over his face came a look ot 
 disappointment. What exactly he was thinking cannot 
 be told. In Shelton's heart there was a sort of bitter 
 pleasure in the consciousness that his friend was 
 uncomfortable on his account, a sort of contempt, 
 and a sort of aching. Crocker broke the silence at last. 
 
174 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' 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 ?' 
 
 There was a touch of anxiety in his voice, as though 
 Shelton were in danger of missing something good. 
 The latter grinned ; his feet instantly began to ache 
 and burn. 
 
 ' Not exactly,' he replied ; ' you know what I'm 
 staying for.' 
 
 ' I know, I know,' replied Crocker humbly ; ' 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 as tired as a rook.' 
 
 Crocker chuckled. 
 
 ' No,' he said, looking foolish ; ' I want to get on. I 
 shall see you in London. Good-bye!' and with a 
 painfully strong grip of 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 for a second in the darkness, and 
 the waving of his stick. 
 
 Shelton strolled slowly on in the same direction, 
 and, leaning over the bridge, watched the oily gleam of 
 the lamps on the dark water under the trees. He felt 
 relieved yet sorry, and withal a little sore at being 
 deserted. His thoughts were random, curious, half 
 sweet, half mutinous. That afternoon five years ago, 
 when he had walked back from the river with Antonia 
 across the Christchurch meadows, was vividly in his 
 mind ; the scent of that afternoon had never died 
 away with him — the aroma of love at first sight. Soon 
 
AN INCIDENT 175 
 
 she would be his wife — his wife ! The faces of the ^ur 
 dons sprang up before him. They had wives, perhaps 
 — fat, lean, satirical, compromising. What was it that 
 through all their diversity they had in common — a sort 
 of cultured intolerance ? Honour ! A queer subject 
 to discuss. Honour ! The honour that made a fuss, 
 and stood on its rights ! Shelton smiled. ' As if it were 
 a man's honour that suffered when he was injured!' 
 And slowly, still with that smile on his face, he walked 
 back up the echoing, empty street to his room at the 
 Bishop's Head. Next morning he received the follow- 
 ing wire : 
 
 ' Thirty miles left ; eighteen hours ; heel bad ; 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 
 in another world, was not conducive to rest. Every day, 
 as a forlorn hope, he took a sculling skiff, and pulled 
 down to the neighbourhood of Holm Oaks, on the 
 chance of her paying the river a visit ; but the house 
 was three 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 
 an inexplicable 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 in return. These letters of 
 his were the most amazing portion of that fortnight. 
 They were chiefly remarkable for failing to express any 
 single one of his real thoughts, but they were full of 
 sentiments, which were not in the least what he really 
 
176 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 felt ; and once when he set himself to analyze this, he 
 passed through such moments of delirium that he was 
 scared, even shocked, and quite unable to write any- 
 thing. 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 calm eyes and brilliant smile. All the world 
 was too deeply engaged in conspiring decency. 
 
 Absorbed by his longings, he but vaguely reahzed the 
 many-hued 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 a 
 consignment of 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 encoun- 
 tered that demon of misfortune which dogs my foot- 
 steps. 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 every- 
 thing, 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 
 
AN INCIDENT 177 
 
 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 aifectionately 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 so ashamed 
 that he sat down immediately and wrote the following 
 reply : 
 
 ' Bishop's 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 good 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 so nobly shakes off his responsibilities. 
 
 Three days before the first of July he met with one of 
 those disturbing incidents which never befall people 
 who attend quietly to the collection of property and 
 reputation. 
 
 The night was unbearably hot, and, strolling with 
 his cigar, he had wandered down the Corn Market, 
 turned off towards the theatre, and was coming back in 
 
 12 
 
178 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 the direction of the ' Broad,' when a woman came 
 sidhng across and spoke to him. He perceived her 
 to be one of those creatures fashioned by men into 
 mediums for their own pleasure, to feel sympathy with 
 whom he knew to be sentimental. Her face was 
 flushed, her whisper hoarse ; there was nothing attrac- 
 tive about her but the curves of her tawdry figure. 
 Shelton was repelled by the proprietary tone of her 
 voice, repelled by her blowzy face, by the scent of 
 patchouli. Her touch on his arm startled him, sending 
 a shiver through his marrow ; he almost leaped aside, 
 and increased his pace. But her breathing as she 
 followed sounded laboured, and it suddenly seemed to 
 him pitiful that a woman should have to pant after him 
 like that. 
 
 ' The least I can do,' he thought, ' is to speak to her 
 decently.' He stopped therefore, and, with an odd 
 mixture of hardness and compassion, said : ' It's im- 
 possible.' 
 
 In spite of her professional smile, he saw by the 
 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 happened to turn his 
 head. The woman was hurrying uneasily, and a police- 
 man coming from behind out of the shadow had put a 
 hand on her shoulder. 
 
 His heart began beating. ' Heavens !' he thought, 
 ' what am I to do now?' And his first impulse was to dive 
 down the lighted Corn Market and forget all about it — to 
 
AN INCIDENT 179 
 
 act, in fact, like any ordinary, decent person who did 
 not care to be mixed up in such an affair. 
 
 He retraced his steps, however, and halted half a 
 dozen paces from the two figures. 
 
 ' Ask the gentleman ! He spoke to me,' she was 
 saying in her brassy voice, through the emphasis of 
 which Shelton could detect all her fear. 
 
 ' That's all right,' returned the policeman; ' we know 
 all about that.' 
 
 ' You police !' cried the woman, with tears in 
 
 her voice ; ' I've got to get my living, haven't I, the same 
 as you ?' 
 
 Shelton hesitated again, caught the look in her eyes, 
 and stepped forward. The policeman turned, and at 
 the first sight of that heavy, pale face, cut by the cheek- 
 strap, and the bullying eyes looking down at him, he 
 felt both hate and fear, as if suddenly brought face to 
 face with the crystallization of all that he most loathed 
 and despised, yet strangely dreaded. The cold certainty 
 of law and order upholding the strong and treading 
 underfoot the weak, the smug front of an invincible 
 meanness that only the purest flame may attack, seemed 
 to be facing him. The odd thing was that the man 
 was actually doing his duty. Shelton moistened his lips. 
 
 ' You're not going to charge her ?' he said. 
 
 ' 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, am I ? 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.' ^ 
 
 12 — 2 
 
i8o THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Perhaps you'll come up to the court to-morrow 
 morning and repeat that,' replied the pohceman, with 
 cold incivility. 
 
 Shelton looked at him with all the force of which he 
 was capable. 
 
 ' You had better be careful, constable,' he said ; but 
 in the very act of uttering the words he thought how 
 pitiable they sounded. 
 
 ' We're not to be trifled with,' returned the pohce- 
 man in a menacing voice. 
 
 Shelton could think of nothing but to repeat those 
 pitiable words : 
 
 ' You had better be careful, constable.' 
 ' You're a gentleman,' replied the policeman, ' and 
 I'm only a policeman. You've got the riches, but I've 
 got the power.' 
 
 Grasping the woman's arm, he began to move her 
 along. The words had fallen on Shelton's ears like the 
 trumpet-note of his private distrust. 
 
 ' That'll do,' said he, and walked away in a rage. 
 He went to Grinnings' Club, and flung himself into a 
 chair. Oddly enough, his feeling was not one of pity 
 for the woman, nor of peculiar anger with the police- 
 man, but rather of dissatisfaction with himself. 
 
 'What ought I to have done?' he thought; 'the 
 beggar was within his rights.' 
 
 He stared gloomily at the Badminton series decorating 
 a bookcase, and a kind of disgust surged up in him. 
 
 ' One or other of us,' he reflected, ' makes 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 
 
AN INCIDENT i8i 
 
 good — excellent ! And here,' he went on, screwing 
 his back into the chair so as to get the full benefit of 
 the cushions, ' we sit and carp. But what do we do ? 
 Nothing! Our system is the most highly civilized 
 known. We get the benefit without soiling even the 
 hem of our reputation, and it's only the women that 
 suffer. And why shouldn't they — a weak, inferior 
 animal ?' 
 
 He lit a cigarette and ordered the waiter to bring 
 him a drink. 
 
 ' I'll go to the court, anyway,' he thought; but sud- 
 denly it occurred to him that the details would be in 
 the local papers, and he buried his face in his glass, 
 unwilling to confess to himself the return of his fears. 
 The press would never miss so lovely a little bit of 
 scandal — ' Gentleman v. Policeman !' It would cer- 
 tainly be in the local papers. And in his mind's eye he 
 had a vision of Antonia's father, a neighbouring and 
 conscientious magistrate, solemnly reading it. Some- 
 one, at all events, was bound to see his name and make 
 a point of mentioning it ; — too good to be missed ! — and 
 he suddenly saw with horror that to be of any use to 
 the woman he would have to repeat his assertion 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 his 
 dilemma. 
 
 ' But I didn't speak to her first,' he told himself ; 
 ' and if I go, I shall only be telling a lie, and they'll 
 make me swear it !' 
 
 He tried to persuade himself that this was against 
 his conscience, but at the bottom of his heart he knew 
 
i82 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 that he would have no hesitation in telling such a lie 
 if only guaranteed free from the consequences ; on the 
 contrary, it appeared to him the most obvious piece of 
 chivalry. 
 
 ' But why should / suffer ?' he thought ; ' Vve 
 done nothing. It's neither reasonable nor just.' 
 
 He hated the unhappy woman who was causing him 
 these horrors of indecision. Whenever he had decided 
 one way or the other, the policeman's face, with its cold, 
 muddy, tyrannical eyes, rose before him like a night- 
 mare, and forced him, as it were, to an opposite con- 
 viction. He fell asleep at last with the full determina- 
 tion to go and see what happened. 
 
 He woke with a dull sense of disturbance. ' I can 
 do no good by going,' he thought, remembering, and 
 lying very still ; ' they're certain to believe the police- 
 man. 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 would think, not 
 even the risk of perjury that mattered (all this he made 
 perfectly clear to himself) — it was Antonia. It was 
 not right to her to put himself in so false a position ; 
 in fact, not decent. All the same, he had better go 
 and see what happened. 
 
 He breakfasted. In the room were some Americans, 
 and the face of one, a young girl, reminded him a little 
 of Antonia. Fainter and fainter grew the incident of 
 the woman ; it seemed now in better proportion. 
 
 Two hours later he looked at the clock ; it was lunch 
 time. He had not gone, had not perjured himself; but 
 he wrote to a daily paper, pointing out the great danger 
 run by the community from the power which a univer- 
 sal and proper belief in their infallibility places in the 
 
AN INCIDENT 183 
 
 hands of the pohce — how, since they are the sworn 
 abettors of right and justice, their word is necessarily 
 taken as gospel ; how one and all they hang together, 
 from mingled motives of interest and esprit de corps ! 
 And 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 any reputation to lose ? 
 He ended by demonstrating that those who have in 
 their hands the sacred duties of selecting a practically 
 irresponsible body of men are bound, for the sake of 
 freedom and common humanity, to exercise those duties 
 with the utmost care and clear-sightedness. . . . 
 
 However true, none of this helped him to think any 
 better of himself at heart, and he was haunted by the 
 idea that a stout and honest bit of perjury was worth 
 more than a letter to a daily paper. 
 
 He never saw his letter in print, containing, as it did, 
 the germs of an unpalatable truth. 
 
 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 defeat of his 
 courage. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 HOLM OAKS 
 
 Holm Oaks stood back but a little way from the road — 
 an old manor-house, not set upon display, but dwelling 
 close to its barns, stables, and walled gardens, like a 
 good mother ; long, flat-roofed, and red, it had Queen 
 Anne windows, about whose white-framed diamond 
 panes the sunbeams were flashing brightly. 
 
 In front of it a fringe of elms, of all trees the tree of 
 established principles, bordered the stretch of turf be- 
 tween the yellow drive and the road ; and these elms 
 were the homes of rooks — of all birds the bird of con- 
 vention. A huge aspen — impressionable creature — 
 shivered and shook on the opposite side, never able to 
 do enough to apologize for its appearance among its 
 imperturbable surroundings. It was the haunt of a 
 cuckoo, who came once a year to hoot at the established 
 order of things, but seldom stayed long ; for boys threw 
 stones at it, exasperated, no doubt, by the unsoundness 
 of its principles. 
 
 The village which clustered in the dip of the road 
 had not yet lost its horror of motor cars. About this 
 group of flat-faced cottages with gabled roofs the scent 
 of hay, manure, and roses clung continually ; just now 
 there was something foreign to its sturd}' servility in 
 
 184 
 
HOLM OAKS 185 
 
 the troubling odour of the limes. Beyond the dip 
 again, a square-towered church kept within its gray 
 walls the record of the village flock, births, deaths, and 
 marriages — even the births of bastards, even the deaths 
 of suicides — and seemed to stretch an invisible hand 
 over the heads of the common people to grasp the hand 
 of the manor-house. There was something decent and 
 discreet in the way the two roofs caught the eye to the 
 exclusion of meaner dwellings, seeming to have entered 
 into a conspiracy to keep them out of sight. 
 
 The first sun of July had been hot on his face all the 
 way from Oxford, but Shelton was pale when he walked 
 up the drive and rang the bell. 
 
 ' Mrs. Dennant at home, Dobson ?' he asked of the 
 butler, who, old servant that he was, still wore coloured 
 trousers (for it was not yet twelve o'clock, and he re- 
 garded coloured trousers up to noon as a sacred distinc- 
 tion between himself and the footmen). 
 
 ' Mrs. Dennant,' replied this personage, raising his 
 round, pale, and hairless face, while upon his mouth 
 appeared the apologetic pout which comes of living 
 with the best families — ' Mrs. Dennant has gone into 
 the village, sir ; but Miss Antonia is in the boudoir.' 
 
 Abandoning to the butler his stick and straw hat, 
 Shelton crossed the oak - panelled, low - roofed hall, 
 through the far side of which the lawn could be seen, 
 a vision of serenity. He mounted six wide, shallow 
 steps, and stopped. From behind the closed door of 
 the boudoir came the sound of scales, and he stood 
 there, a prey to his emotions, the notes mingling pell- 
 mell in his ears with the beating of his heart. He 
 knocked, and softly turned the handle, a fixed smile 
 upon his lips. 
 
i86 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 Antonia was bending over the piano, her head bobbing 
 to the emphasis of her fingers, her white shoes rhyth- 
 mically pressing the pedals, and on those shoes Shelton's 
 eyes riveted themselves ; the monotonously moving, 
 slim feet were fascinating. She had evidently been 
 playing tennis, for a racquet and tam-o'-shanter were 
 flung down on the top of the piano, and she was dressed 
 in a blue skirt and a white blouse, fitting collarless 
 round the base of her slender throat, like a line of 
 marble in relief at the base of a column. Her face was 
 flushed and absorbed, with compressed lips and a slight 
 frown ; and as her fingers raced over the keys, her 
 neck swayed, and the silk clung and shivered on her 
 arms. 
 
 Shelton's eyes fastened on the silently-counting lips, 
 on the fair hair about her forehead, the darker eyebrows 
 slanting a little down towards the nose, the undimpled 
 cheeks with the faint finger-marks under the gray-blue 
 eyes, the softly pointed, undimpled chin, the whole 
 remote, suntouched, sweet, and glacial face. 
 
 She turned her head, and, springing up, cried : 
 
 'Dick! What fun!' And she gave him both her 
 hands, but her smiling face said very plainly, ' Oh, 
 don't let us be sentimental !' 
 
 ' Aren't you glad to see me ?' muttered Shelton. 
 
 ' Glad to see you ! You are funny, Dick ! — as if you 
 didn't know ! Why, you've shaved your beard ! Mother 
 and Sybil have gone down to the village to see old 
 Mrs. Hopkins. Shall we go out ? Thea and the boys 
 are playing tennis. It's so jolly that you've come!' 
 She caught up the tam-o'-shanter, and riveted it to 
 her knot of hair. Almost as tall as Shelton, she looked 
 taller, with arms raised and loose sleeves quivering like 
 
HOLM OAKS 187 
 
 wings to the movements of her quick fingers. ' We 
 might have a game before lunch ; you can have my 
 other racquet.' 
 
 ' I've got no things,' said Shelton blankly. 
 
 Her calm glance ran over his figure. 
 
 ' You can have some of old Bernard's ; he's got any 
 amount. I'll wait for you.' She swung her racquet, 
 looked at Shelton, cried, ' Be quick !' and vanished. 
 
 Shelton ran upstairs, and dressed in the undecided 
 way of a man assuming another person's clothes. She 
 was in the hall when he descended, humming a tune 
 and prodding at the toe of her shoe ; her smile showed 
 him all her pearly upper teeth. There seemed to Shelton 
 a sort of curiosity in her eyes, as if she saw in him an 
 element unexpected and disturbing ; it suggested even 
 something unhappy in her thoughts about him. He 
 caught hold of her sleeve and whispered : 
 
 ' Antonia !' 
 
 The colour rushed into her cheeks ; she looked back 
 across her shoulder. 
 
 'Come along, you old Dick !' she cried; and, flinging 
 open the glass-door, ran into the garden. 
 
 Shelton followed. 
 
 The tennis-ground was divided from a paddock by 
 netting ; a holm-oak shaded one corner, and its foliage, 
 thick and dark, made an unexpected blurr in the green 
 smoothness of the picture. On the farther court Bernard 
 and Thea stopped playing as Antonia and Shelton came 
 into sight ; his old schoolfellow came forward and 
 cordially grasped his hand. From the far side of the 
 net his opponent, a young girl in a shortish skirt, tossed 
 her straight fair hair back from her eyes, and warding 
 off the sun with her sleeve, came strolHng towards them. 
 
i88 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 The umpire, a small boy of twelve, was lying on his 
 stomach, squealing and tickling a collie. Shelton bent 
 over and prodded him in the back. 
 
 ' Hallo, Toddles ! you young ruffian !' he said. 
 
 One and all they stood round Shelton, and there was 
 something pitilessly frank and inquiring in their eyes, 
 in the angle of their noses something chaffing and 
 distrustful, as though there were about him some subtle 
 and poignant scent which excited their curiosity and 
 disapproval. 
 
 When the setts were over, and the girls resting in 
 the double hammock under the holm-oak, Shelton went 
 with Bernard into the paddock to hunt for lost balls. 
 
 ' I say, old chap,' said his future brother-in-law with 
 a dry smile, ' you're in for a bit of a wigging from the 
 Mater.' 
 
 'A wigging?' repeated Shelton. 
 
 ' I don't know much about it, but from something 
 she let drop it seems you've been saying some odd 
 things in your letters to Antonia ;' and again he looked 
 up at Shelton with his queer, dry smile. 
 
 ' Odd things ?' said the latter angrily. ' What d'you 
 mean ?' He stopped his search for the tennis-ball to 
 look Bernard in the face. 
 
 ' Oh, don't ask me,' said the latter ; ' the Mater 
 thinks she's in a bad way — unsettled, or what d'you 
 call it. You've been telling her that things are not 
 what they seem. That's bad, you know ;' and still 
 smiling, he shook his head. 
 
 Shelton dropped his eyes. 
 
 ' Well, they aren't !' he said. 
 
 ' Oh, that's all right ! But don't bring your philosophy 
 down here, old chap.' 
 
HOLM OAKS 189 
 
 ' Philosophy !' said Shelton, puzzled. 
 
 ' Well, leave us a prejudice or two sacred.' 
 
 ' Sacred !' said Shelton ; ' nothing's sacred, but ' 
 
 He did not, however, finish his remark. ' I don't under- 
 stand,' he concluded. 
 
 ' Ideals, and that sort of thing. You've been diving 
 below the line of "practical politics," that's about the 
 size of it, my boy ;' and, stooping suddenly, Bernard 
 picked up the last ball. ' There is the Mater !' he said ; 
 and Shelton saw Mrs. Dennant approaching the lawn 
 with Sybil, her second daughter. 
 
 By the time they reached the holm-oak the three girls 
 had departed towards the house, walking arm in arm, and 
 Mrs. Dennant was standing alone, in a gray dress, talking 
 to an under-gardener. Her hands, cased in tan gauntlets, 
 held a basket which warded off, as it were, the bearded 
 gardener in shirt-sleeves from the severe but ample lines 
 of her useful-looking skirt. The collie, erect on its 
 haunches, looked up at their faces, pricking his ears 
 in the endeavour to appreciate the distinction between 
 these two bipeds. 
 
 ' Thank you ; that '11 do, Bunyan,' she said. Her 
 face wore its usual expression of kindly and practical 
 benevolence. ' Ah, Dick ! It's charmin' to see you at 
 last !' 
 
 In his intercourse with Mrs. Dennant, Shelton never 
 failed to be impressed by the representative character 
 of her personality. It always seemed to him that he 
 had met so many other ladies like her. He felt that 
 her undoubtable quality had a sort of non-individual 
 flavour, as if she stood for a class, and would have con- 
 sidered it a little improper to stand for herself; yet 
 certainly she was full of character. Tall, with nose 
 
igo THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 a trifle beaked, a long, sloping chin, and an assured, 
 benevolent mouth, showing, perhaps, too much of her 
 teeth, she was thin, yet not unsubstantial. Her accent 
 in speaking always left on his mind the impression that 
 she had a peculiar heritage in the language ; it was a 
 species of drawl which disregarded the vulgar merits of 
 tone, leaned on some syllables, and despised the final g — 
 the peculiar accent, in fact, of the aristocracy, adding its 
 flat, deliberate joys to a life neither musical nor long. 
 
 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 earthenware pot of tea with a single 
 extra-toast biscuit, her pet dog, Tops, and the house- 
 keeper's book, till eleven o'clock at night, when she 
 lighted a wax candle in a silver candlestick, and with 
 this in one hand, and in the other a new novel, or, 
 better still, one of those charming volumes written by 
 great people about the still greater people they have 
 met, she said good-night to her guests and children. 
 No ! What with photography, the presidency of a 
 local league, visiting the rich, superintending the poor, 
 gardening, books, and keeping all her ideas tidy so that 
 no foreign notions might stray in, she was never idle. 
 The information she collected from all these sources 
 was both varied and vast, but he knew that she never 
 allowed it to flavour her opinions, which lacked sauce, 
 and were drawn from some sort of dish into which, with 
 all her class, she dipped her fingers. 
 
 He liked her. No one could help liking her. She 
 was so kind, and of such good quality, with a sugges- 
 tion about her appearance of thin, excellent, and useful 
 china ; and she was scented, too — not with verbena, 
 violets, or those essences in which women delight, but 
 
HOLM OAKS 191 
 
 with nothing at all, as if she had taken a stand against 
 meretricity. In her intercourse with persons not ' quite 
 the thing' (she excepted the vicar from this category, 
 though his father had been a haberdasher), her refine- 
 ment, gently, unobtrusively, and with great practical 
 good sense, seemed continually to murmur : ' I am, 
 and you — well, are you, don't you know ?' But there 
 was not an ounce of self-consciousness about this atti- 
 tude, for she was really not a common woman. He 
 supposed that she simply could not help it; all her 
 people had done it. Their nurses breathed over them 
 in their cradles something that, being inhaled into their 
 systems, ever afterwards prevented them from taking 
 a good, clear breath. And her manner ! Ah ! her 
 manner — that golden seal of good form which con- 
 cealed the inner woman so admirably as to leave doubt 
 of her existence ! 
 
 Shelton listened to the kindly briskness with which 
 she complained of the under-gardener. 
 
 ' Poor Bunyan 1 he lost his wife six months ago, and 
 was quite cheerful at first, but now he's really too 
 distressin'. I've done all I can to rouse him ; it's so 
 melancholy to see him mopin' about. And, my dear 
 Dick, 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 sympathized with the under- 
 gardener, or, rather, she firmly believed that he was 
 entitled to a modicum of wholesome grief, the loss of a 
 wife being one of the canonized and legitimate sources 
 of sorrow. But excesses 1 
 
 ' I've told him I'll raise his wages,' she sighed. ' He 
 used to be such a good gardener ! That reminds me, 
 
192 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 my dear Dick ; I want to have a talk with you. Shall 
 we go to in lunch ?' 
 
 Consulting the memorandum-book in which she had 
 been noting the case of old Mrs. Hopkins, she slightly 
 preceded Shelton towards the house. 
 
 It was somewhat late that afternoon when Shelton 
 received his ' wigging '; nor did it seem to him, hypno- 
 tized by the momentary absence of Antonia, such a very 
 serious affair. 
 
 ' Now, Dick,' the Honourable Mrs. Dennant began, in 
 her decisive drawl, ' I don't think it's right to put ideas 
 into Antonia's head.' 
 
 'Ideas!' murmured Shelton confusedly. 
 
 ' We all know,' continued his future mother-in-law, 
 ' that things are not always what they ought to be.' 
 
 Shelton looked at her ; she was seated at her writing- 
 table, addressing in her large, free handwriting a dinner 
 invitation to a reactionary Bishop. There was not the 
 faintest trace of embarrassment about her, yet Shelton 
 could not help feeling a slight shock. If she — she — did 
 not think things were what they ought to be, things 
 must indeed be in a bad way ! 
 
 'Things !' he muttered. 
 
 Mrs. Dennant looked at him firmly but kindly, with 
 the eyes that would remind him of a hare's. 
 
 ' She showed me some of your letters, you know. 
 Well, it's not a bit of use 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 would handle the under- 
 gardener— put them away like a sensible being as soon 
 as they ran to inconvenient extremes. 
 
 ' I can't help that,' he answered with a sulky smile. 
 
HOLM OAKS 193 
 
 ' Oh, my dear boy ! you'll never get on that way. 
 Now, I want you to promise me 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 go beyond the 
 word 'things' — to reduce it, for instance, to conventions, 
 doubts, or ideals — would really hurt her sense of ' good 
 form '; it would be cruel to force her even as far as 
 that below the surface ! 
 
 ' Ah !' he said ; ' yes, quite so !' 
 
 To his extreme surprise however, flushing the 
 peculiar and pathetic flush of women past their prime, 
 she said with an accentuation of her drawl : 
 
 ' About the poor — and criminals — and marriages — 
 there was that wedding you went to, you know.' 
 
 Shelton bowed his head. He felt sorry, for he saw 
 that motherhood had suddenly been too strong for her, 
 and in her maternal flutter she had actually committed 
 the solecism of touching in so many words on subjects 
 which were ' impossible.' 
 
 ' Yet,' he thought, assisting her sympathetically to 
 light the urn for afternoon tea, ' she doesn't really see 
 anything funny in one man dining off gold, and another 
 dining in the gutter ; or in two people living together in 
 perfect discord to encourage the others ; or in worship- 
 ping Jesus Christ and standing up for her rights at the 
 same time ; or in despising foreigners because they are 
 foreigners; or in war ; or in anything that is funny.' 
 But he did her a certain amount of justice by recognis- 
 ing that this was natural, since her whole life had been 
 passed in trying not to see the fun in these things. 
 
 Antonia had come back, and stood smiling in the 
 
 13 
 
194 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 doorway. How brilliant and gay she looked, and yet a 
 little resentful, as if she knew they had been talking 
 about her ! She sat down on the sofa by Shelton's side, 
 and, rocking her foot, began asking him about the 
 3'oung foreigner he had spoken of in his letters. Her 
 eyes, neither quite shocked nor quite eager, made him 
 doubt whether she, too, saw the fun that lay in one 
 human being patronizing another. 
 
 ' But I suppose he's really good,' she said — ' I mean, 
 all those things he told you about were only ' 
 
 ' Good !' he returned, fidgeting; ' I don't really know 
 what the word means.' 
 
 Her eyes clouded. ' Dick, how can you ?' they seemed 
 to say. 
 
 Shelton stroked her sleeve. 
 
 ' Tell us about Mr. Crocker,' she said, taking no 
 notice of his caress. 
 
 And Shelton was beset by a sudden impatience of his 
 old College friend. He knew she would understand the 
 practical idealism of his travelling companion too well, 
 and he was jealous. 
 
 'The old lunatic !' said he. 
 
 ' Lunatic ! Why, in your letters he was so splendid.' 
 
 'So he is,' said Shelton, 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 — ' Tom Crocker ? Ah, yes ! I knew his 
 mother ; she was a Springer.' 
 
 ' Did he do it in the week ?' said Thea, appearing 
 suddenly in the window with a kitten. 
 
 ' I don't know,' Shelton was obliged to answer. 
 
 Thea shook back her hair with uncompromising 
 frankness. 
 
HOLM OAKS 195 
 
 ' I call it awfully slack of you not to have found out,' 
 she said. 
 
 Antonia frowned. 
 
 ' You were very sweet to that young foreigner, you 
 know, Dick,' she murmured with a smile at Shelton. 
 ' I wish we could see him.' 
 
 But Shelton shook his head in distress. 
 
 ' It seems to me,' he muttered, ' that I did about as 
 little for him as I possibly could.' 
 
 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 futility and bafflement, an inner burning, made 
 him feel as though a flame were licking at his heart. 
 
 13—2 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ENGLISH 
 
 Just as Shelton was starting to walk back to Oxford 
 that evening, whence he was to return on the morrow 
 to stay, he met Mr. Dennant coming in from a ride. 
 Antonia's father was a spare, medium-sized man, with 
 a yellowish face, thin, gray moustache, ironical brows, 
 and a few tiny crow's-feet. In his old, short gray coat, 
 with little slits up the two back seams, his drab cord 
 breeches, ancient mahogany leggings, and carefully 
 blacked boots, he had a dry, threadbare quality not 
 without distinction. 
 
 'Ah, Shelton!' he said, in his quietly festive voice; 
 ' glad to see the pilgrim at last. You're not off already?' 
 and, laying his hand on Shelton's arm, he proposed to 
 walk a httle way with him across the fields. 
 
 It was the first time they had met since the engage- 
 ment, and Shelton began nerving himself for the effort 
 of saying something to express, however badly, his 
 adoration, his desire to protect and cherish Antonia. 
 He squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and looked 
 askance at Mr. Dennant. That gentleman was walking 
 stiffly, his cord breeches rubbing one against the other 
 with faint squeaks. He switched a yellow, jointed cane 
 constantly against his leggings, and after each blow 
 
 196 
 
ENGLISH 197 
 
 looked at his legs satirically. He himself was rather 
 like that yellow cane— pale, and slim, and jointed, with 
 features arching a little, like the arching of its handle. 
 
 ' They say it '11 be a bad year for fruit,' said Shelton 
 at last. 
 
 ' They ? My dear fellow, you don't know your 
 farmer, I'm afraid. We ought to hang a farmer or 
 two — do a world of good. Dear souls ! I've got 
 magnificent strawberries.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' chimed in Shelton, only too glad to post- 
 pone the evil moment, ' that in a climate like this a 
 man must grumble or die.' 
 
 ' Quite so,' replied Mr. Dennant : ' look at us poor 
 slaves of landowners ; if I couldn't abuse the farmers 
 I should be miserable. Did you ever see anything finer 
 than this pasture ? And they want me to lower their 
 rents !' 
 
 His glance wavered ironically, rested for a second on 
 Shelton, and whisked back to the ground, as though he 
 had seen something alarming. There was a pause. 
 
 ' Now for it !' thought the younger man. 
 
 Mr. Dennant had begun stealthily to gnaw a strand 
 of his moustache ; he kept his eyes fixed mockingly on 
 his boots. 
 
 ' If they'd said,' he remarked with sudden jocosity, 
 ' that the frost had nipped the young partridges, there'd 
 have been some sense in it ; but what can you expect ? 
 They've no consideration, dear souls !' 
 
 Shelton took a deep breath, and, with averted eyes, 
 hurriedly began : 
 
 ' It's awfully hard, sir, to ' 
 
 Mr. Dennant switched his cane smartly against his 
 shin. 
 
igS THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, ' it's awfully hard to put up with, 
 but what's a fellow to do ? * One must have farmers. 
 Why, if it wasn't for the farmers, there'd still be a hare 
 or two about the place !' 
 
 Shelton gave a spasmodic laugh, and again glanced 
 askance at his future father-in-law. What did the 
 waggling of his head mean, the deepening of his crow's- 
 feet, the odd contraction about the mouth ? And his 
 eye caught Mr. Dennant's eye; its expression was 
 queer above the fine, dry nose (one of the sort that 
 easily reddens in a wind). 
 
 ' I've never had much to do with farmers,' he said. 
 
 'Haven't you?' murmured Mr. Dennant; 'lucky 
 fellow ! The most — yes, quite the most trying portion 
 of the human species — next to daughters,' he concluded 
 dubiously. 
 
 ' 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 a ducking.' 
 
 A large black cloud covered the sun, and some heavy 
 drops were spattering on Mr. Dennant's hard felt hat. 
 
 Shelton welcomed the shower ; it appeared to him a 
 perfect intervention of Providence. He would have to 
 say something, but not now, later — some other day. 
 
 ' I'll go on,' he said; ' I don't mind the rain. But 
 you'd better get back as quick as you can, sir.' 
 
 ' Dear me ! there's a tenant of mine in this cottage,' 
 Mr. Dennant said, with his leisurely dryness — ' a capital 
 poacher. The least we can do is to ask him for shelter ; 
 what do you think ?' and smiling sarcastically, as though 
 deprecating his own desire not to get wet, he rapped on 
 the door of a neat and prosperous-looking cottage. 
 
ENGLISH 195 
 
 It was opened by a girl of much the same age and 
 height as Antonia. 
 
 ' Ah, Phoebe ! Your father in ?' 
 
 ' No,' replied the girl, fluttering and blushing ; 
 ' father's out, Mr. Dennant.' 
 
 ' So sorry ! Will you let us bide a bit out of the 
 rain ?' 
 
 The sweet - looking Phoebe hurriedly dusted them 
 two chairs in the parlour, and, curtseying, left them 
 alone. 
 
 ' What a pretty girl !' said Shelton. 
 
 ' Yes, she's a pretty girl ; half the young fellows are 
 after her, but she won't leave her father. Oh ! he's a 
 charming rascal, that fellow !' 
 
 This remark, from beneath Mr. Dennant's drooping 
 gray moustache, suddenly brought home to Shelton the 
 conviction that he was further than ever from avoiding 
 the necessity of speaking. To conceal his embarrass- 
 ment he walked to the window, beyond which the rain 
 was coming down with almost tropical fury, though a 
 golden line at the back of the sky promised the shower's 
 speedy end. ' For goodness' sake,' he thought, 'let me 
 say something, however idiotic, and get it over !' But in 
 spite of this, he did not turn round ; a kind of paralysis 
 had its grip on him. 
 
 'Tremendously heavy rain!' he observed at last; 
 * coming down like a waterspout !' 
 
 It would have been just as easy to say : ' I believe your 
 daughter to be the most exquisite thing on earth ; I love 
 her, and, please Heaven, I'm going to make her happy !' 
 Just as easy, just about the same amount of breath 
 required ; yet what he did say seemed wholesome and 
 decent, and what he did not say (though quite as true). 
 
200 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 false, indecent, perfectly damnable. His eyes, glued to 
 the pane, watched the rain stream and hiss against the 
 leaves and churn the dust on the parched road with 
 its insistent torrent ; and he noticed with a stupid 
 precision all the details of the process going on outside 
 — how the raindrops darted at the leaves like spears, and 
 how the leaves shook themselves free a thousand times 
 in a minute, while little runnels of water, ice-clear, 
 rolled over their edges, soft, regular, and quick. He 
 noticed, too, the lugubrious head of a sheltering cow on 
 the opposite side of the road remonstrating with the 
 whites of its eyes, and chewing pettishly the leaves of 
 the hedge. 
 
 Mr. Dennant had not replied to his remark about 
 the rain. And so disconcerting was this half minute 
 of silence that in pure desperation Shelton turned re- 
 solutely to offer a libation of his feelings to this spare, 
 satirical gentleman in mahogany leggings upon the 
 wooden chair. His future father-in-law was staring 
 at his well-blacked boots, bending forward over his 
 parted knees, and prodding at the carpet with the 
 end of his cane ; a half-glimpse at his face disturbed 
 Shelton's resolution. It was not forbidding, stern, irri- 
 tated, or discouraging — not in the least ; it had merely 
 for the moment ceased to look satirical. And this in 
 itself was so startling that Shelton lost his chance 
 of speaking. There actually seemed a heart to Mr. 
 Dennant's gravity ; it was almost pathetic, as though 
 he were looking grave because he felt grave. He 
 glanced up at Shelton, and at once the fine, dry 
 jocosity reappeared in his face. 
 
 ' Admirable !' said he. ' What a day for ducks !' atnd 
 again there were unmistakable signs of alarm in his 
 
ENGLISH 201 
 
 eye. Was it possible that he, too, dreaded something 
 as well as Shelton ? 
 
 ' I can't express ' began the latter hurriedly. 
 
 ' Yes, it's beastly to get wet,' said Mr. Dennant ; and, 
 rising from his seat, he began softly rubbing his hands, 
 and humming ' The Lincolnshire Poacher ': 
 
 ' " 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 get Mrs. Dennant to put 
 you between them — 
 
 ' " For it's my delight of a starry night." 
 
 The Bishop's a great anti-divorce man, and old Buck- 
 well's been in the court at least twice — 
 
 ' " In the season of the year !" ' 
 
 ' Will you please to take some tea, gentlemen ?' said 
 Phoebe, appearing in the doorway. 
 
 ' No, thank you, Phoebe,' replied Mr. Dennant. 
 ' That girl ought to get married,' he went on, as Phcebe 
 withdrew. A flush showed queerly on his sallow cheeks. 
 ' It's a shame to keep her tied to her father's apron- 
 strings — selfish beggar, that fellow !' He looked up 
 sharply, as if he had said something dangerous, and 
 resumed his humming : 
 
 " 'The keeper he was watching us, 
 For him we didn't care 1" ' 
 
 A flash of hght suddenly illumined Shelton's mind : 
 Antonia's father was as anxious to say something ex- 
 
202 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 pressive of his feelings as he was himself, and as unable 
 to get it out. What a queer business ! 
 
 ' You know, sir ' he began. 
 
 Mr. Dennant's eyebrows rose ever so little ; with a 
 tremor his crow's-feet twinkled ; all his contained, 
 satirical personality seemed to shrink together. 
 
 ' By Jove !' he said briskly, * it's stopped raining ! 
 Now's our chance! Come along, my dear fellow; 
 delays are dangerous !' and with the bantering courtesy 
 peculiar to him, he held the door open for Shelton to 
 pass out. ' I think we'll part here,' he said — ' I almost 
 think so. Good luck to you !' 
 
 He held out his dry, yellow hand. Shelton seized it, 
 wrung it hard, and muttered the word : 
 
 ' Grateful !' 
 
 Again Mr. Dennant's eyebrows quivered as if they 
 had been tweaked by an invisible check-string ; he saw 
 that he had been found out, and he disliked it. The 
 redness had quite died out of his cheeks ; they were 
 calm, wrinkled, dead-looking under the flattened, narrow 
 brim of his black hat ; his gray moustache drooped in a 
 thin, cynical line; the crow's-feet hardened in pencillings 
 about his eyes ; his nostrils were distended ; his face 
 wore the ghost of a smile : 
 
 'Gratitude!' he said; 'it's almost a vice, isn't it? 
 Good-night !' 
 
 Shelton's face quivered too ; he raised his hat, and, 
 turning as abruptly as his senior, proceeded on his way 
 towards Oxford. He recognised the fact that he had 
 played a part in a comedy that could only have been 
 played in England, and smiled as he went. He could 
 afford to smile at his past discomfort, having no longer 
 the sense of a duty unfulfilled. Everything had been 
 
ENGLISH 203 
 
 said that was right and proper to be said in the way that 
 was right and proper such things should be said. No 
 violence had been done to his instincts, and he could 
 afford to smile — smile at those instincts, smile at Mr. 
 Dennant, smile at to-morrow (for, once away from 
 Antonia's presence, all the strange misgivings of the 
 afternoon had vanished), smile at the sweet, clean 
 aroma of the earth after rain, the shy, unwilling sweet- 
 ness that only rain brings forth. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE COUNTRY HOUSE 
 
 The luncheon hour at Holm Oaks, as in many well- 
 bred country houses out of the shooting season, was the 
 hour of its soul. The ferment of the day's occupations 
 was then at full swing, and the clamour of that per- 
 petual country-house conversation about the weather, 
 dogs, horses, neighbours, cricket, and golf, was mingled 
 with an occasional literary murmur ; for the Dennants 
 were superior people, and it was not unfrequent to hear 
 at their table such a query as, ' Have you read that 
 charmin' thing of Boniface Poser's ?' or, ' Yes, I've got 
 the new edition of " Bablington "; delightfully bound 
 — so light.' And it was in July that Holm Oaks, as a 
 gathering-place of the elect, was seen at its best. For 
 in July it had become customary to welcome there 
 many of those poor people from London who arrived 
 exhausted after the season was over, and than whom no 
 seamstress in a two-pair back could better have earned 
 her holiday. The Dennants themselves never went to 
 London for the season. It was part of their creed not 
 to. A week or a fortnight at Brewer's Hotel satisfied 
 them. They had a radical weakness for fresh air, and 
 Antonia, after her presentation the season before, had 
 insisted on returning home, stigmatizing London balls 
 as ' stuffy things.' 
 
 204 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE 205 
 
 When Shelton arrived the stream had only just begun, 
 but every day brought fresh, or rather jaded, people to 
 occupy the old, dark, sweet-smelling bedrooms. In- 
 dividually he liked his fellow-guests very well, but he 
 found himself observing them. He knew that, if a man 
 judged people singly, almost all were as good, or better, 
 than himself; only when judged in the bulk were they 
 worthy of the sweeping criticisms he sometimes felt 
 inclined to pass upon them. He knew this just as he 
 knew that conventions, being invented to restrain people 
 from following their natural desires, were merely the 
 disapproving sums of innumerable private approvals, 
 or just as he recognised that everyone at heart sym- 
 pathized with the sinner. 
 
 It was in the bulk, then, that he found himself ob- 
 serving his fellow-guests. 
 
 With his amiability and dread of seeming conspicuous, 
 he remained to all appearance a perfectly well-bred, 
 docile creature, and his independent impressions were 
 naturally kept to himself. The plethoric state of the 
 household, which curtailed his opportunities of being 
 alone with Antonia, annoyed him, and assisted his 
 captiousness, while the state of emotional excitement 
 in which he was living rendered him impatient of 
 that plethoric state of the emotions known as ' good 
 form.' 
 
 In the matter of intellect he made a rough division 
 of the company into those who accepted things without 
 a murmur, and those who accepted them with a certain 
 jocular carping ; in the matter of morals he found that 
 they all accepted things without the semblance of a 
 kick. To show any signs of private moral judgment 
 was to be regarded as a lost soul, and a bit of an out- 
 
2o6 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 sider. This struck him forcibly, but he gathered the 
 knowledge by intuition rather than from conversation ; 
 for conversation naturally tabooed such questions, and 
 was carried on in the cheerful, loud, unashamed tones 
 peculiar to people of the best breeding. Shelton had 
 never been able to acquire this tone, and he could not 
 help feeling that the inability made him more or less 
 an object of suspicion. The atmosphere of sublime 
 contentment around struck him as it had never struck 
 him before, causing him at times to feel a doubt of his 
 own gentility. Could a man suifer from passion, heart- 
 searchings, misgivings of any kind, and remain a gentle- 
 man ? In view of the decisive urbanity which hemet 
 at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, it seemed improbable. 
 One of his fellow-guests, a man called Edgbaston, 
 small-eyed and semi-bald, with a dark moustache and 
 an air of distinguished meanness, disconcerted him one 
 day by a remark about an unknown person. ' He 
 looked at me,' said this gentleman, ' in the way, don't 
 you know, that an underbred person looks at one — a 
 sort of half-fear, don't you know.' 
 
 Shelton was visited by a horrid doubt. He glared 
 darkly at Edgbaston. 
 
 Everything seemed ringed off into classes, carefully 
 docketed and valued. For instance, a Briton was 
 worth more than a man, a wife than a woman, and so 
 on. Those things or phases of life with which people 
 had no personal acquaintance were regarded with a 
 faint amusement and a certain amount of disapproval. 
 The principles of the upper classes, in fact, were strictly 
 observed — those principles which had caused Shelton 
 himself, when visiting the Earl's Court Exhibition, to 
 spend half his time in remarking : ' What extraordinary 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE 207 
 
 people there are here ! So smart ! It's really rather 
 funny, isn't it ?' and similar flights of irony. 
 
 He was in that hypersensitive, nervously repressed 
 state favourable for recording the phases and character- 
 istics most foreign to itself. Things he had never noticed 
 before now had a profound effect, such as the tone 
 adopted by men in speaking of women — not precisely a 
 tone of hostility, nor exactly a tone of contempt — best 
 described, perhaps, as a peculiar, cultured jeering ; never 
 noticeable, of course, when a man spoke of his own 
 wife, mother, sisters, or those of his immediate friends, 
 but merely when he spoke of the rest of women. When 
 he came to reflect upon this he was surprised that he 
 had never remarked before that, amongst the upper 
 classes, each individual gentleman's property was holy, 
 while the rest of women were created to supply him 
 with gossip, jests, and spice. Another thing that struck 
 him was the way in which a war, then in progress, was 
 made into an affair of class. The view taken was that 
 it was a baddish business, because poor Jack Blank and 
 Peter Blank-Blank had lost their lives, and poor Teddy 
 had now one arm instead of two. Humanity in general 
 was omitted, but not the upper classes, nor, incidentally, 
 the country which belonged to them. They were as if 
 seated in a row, with their eyes fixed on the horizon of 
 their own lawns. 
 
 Late one evening, when billiards and music were 
 over and the ladies had gone, Shelton, with a flat 
 candlestick in his hand, returned from changing into 
 his smoking-suit, and dropped into one of the great 
 armchairs that even in summer made a respectful 
 semicircle round the high-fendered fireplace. Fresh 
 from the emotion of his good-night parting with Antonia, 
 
2o8 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 he sat perhaps ten minutes before he even began to 
 take in the figures in parti-coloured smoking-jackets, 
 cross-legged, with glasses in their hands and cigars 
 between their teeth. 
 
 The man in the next chair roused him by putting 
 down his tumbler with a smart tap, and seating himself 
 on the cushioned fender. Through the mist of smoke, 
 with his shoulders hunched, his elbows and knees rigidly 
 crooked out, his cigar protruding, beak-fashion, below 
 his nose, and the crimson collar of his smoking-jacket 
 buttoned close as plumage on his breast, he presented 
 the appearance of a gorgeous bird. 
 
 ' Yes, they do you awfully well there,' he said. 
 
 A voice from the chair on Shelton's right answered : 
 
 ' They do you better at Silverado's ;' and the speaker's 
 ascetic, clean-shaven cheeks resumed their greedy suck- 
 ing at a pipe. 
 
 ' What ! The Veau d'Or's the best place ; they give 
 you Turkish baths for nothing !' drawled a fat man with 
 a tiny mouth entirely occupied by a cigar. 
 
 The deliberate suavity of this pronouncement en- 
 veloped the company like a blessing. And at once, as 
 if by magic, in the old padded and oak-panelled room, 
 where the only noise was the sound of voices pitched 
 in the same flat key, the world fell naturally into its 
 proper departments : that where they do you well, 
 that where they do you better, and that where they 
 give you Turkish baths for nothing. 
 
 ' If you want Turkish baths,' said the voice of a tall 
 youth with a clean red face, who had just come into the 
 room, and stood filling his pipe, his mouth a little open 
 and long feet jutting with a sort of sweet helplessness 
 in front of him — ' if you want Turkish baths you should 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE 209 
 
 go, don't you know, to Buda Pesth ; they're most 
 awfully rippin' there.' 
 
 Shelton saw a subtle and indescribable appreciation 
 on every face, as though they had been offered truffles 
 or something equally delicious. 
 
 ' Oh yes ; we know all about that, Poodles,' said the 
 man seated on the fender, ' but a Johnnie I know tells 
 me they're nothing to Sofia.' And most quaint was the 
 expression of his countenance ; it had the peculiar 
 decency, the peculiar gloating safety, of a man who 
 enjoys vice by proxy. 
 
 ' Ah !' drawled the small-mouthed man — he laughed 
 fatly, and his large body stirred — ' there's nothing fit 
 to hold a candle to Baghda-ad,' 
 
 Once again his utterance enveloped the room as with 
 a blessing, and once again the world fell into its three 
 proper proportions : 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 than Baghdad ?' 
 
 He felt terribly insignificant. It seemed that he 
 never knew any of these delectable spots ; that he was 
 no good to his fellow-creatures, though privately he 
 was convinced that the speakers had no more knowledge 
 than himself, but found it warming to recall things 
 of this sort which they had been told, preserving on 
 the face the while that indescribable mingled look of 
 decency and relish. No ; he felt with a sense of 
 shame that he had no memory for those anecdotes 
 which constitute the prize merit of persons in society, 
 and acquire them the label of ' good chaps ' and 
 ' sportsmen.' 
 
 He looked round. 
 
 14 
 
210 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Have you ever been in Baghdad ?' he asked feebly. 
 
 But the fat man did not answer ; he had begun an 
 anecdote, and in the broad expanse of his face his tiny 
 mouth vi^rithed hke a caterpillar beneath his short nose. 
 It was a humorous anecdote. Nobody answered ; all 
 were too busy recalling anecdotes of their own. 
 
 With the exception of Antonia, he saw but little of 
 the ladies, for, following the well-known peculiarity 
 of country-house life, men and women avoided each 
 other carefully. They met at meals, it is true, and 
 occasionally played tennis and croquet together ; with 
 these exceptions there seemed a tacit agreement (almost 
 worthy of Orientals) that they were better apart. 
 
 But chancing one day to enter the drawing-room in 
 search of Antonia, he found himself suddenly in the 
 middle of a feminine discussion ; he would have beaten 
 a hasty retreat of course, but it seemed too obvious 
 that he was merely looking for his fiancee, so, sitting 
 down, he listened. 
 
 The Honourable Charlotte Penguin, still knitting a 
 red silk tie — the sixth since the one she had begun at 
 Hyeres — sat on the low window-seat close to a hydrangea 
 in a blue china receptacle, the petals of one round flower 
 almost kissing her sanguine cheek. Her eyes were fixed 
 with the languid aspiration characteristic of them upon 
 the lady who was speaking, a square woman of medium 
 height, with gray, scriggly hair brushed off her low 
 forehead, the expression of whose face was brisk, 
 energetic, and rather cross. This lady was standing 
 with a book in her hand, as if delivering a sermon. 
 Had she been a man she would have been best described 
 as a bright young man of business ; for though gray, she 
 could never be old, nor ever lose the power of forming 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE 211 
 
 quick decisions. Her features were nondescript, her 
 eyes prompt and slightly hard, tinged with a fanatical 
 belief in the justice of her own judgments, and she had 
 the peculiar fussy simplicity of dress which indicates 
 the right to meddle. Not red, not white, neither yellow 
 nor blue, her complexion was suffused with a certain 
 admixture of all these colours, adapted, as it were, to 
 the climate ; and her smile had a strange, sour sweet- 
 ness, like nothing but the flavour of an apple on the 
 turn. 
 
 ' I don't care what they tell you,' she was saying — 
 her voice grated, not offensively ; it seemed to imply 
 that she had not time to waste in mere pleasing — ' in 
 all my dealings with them I've found it best to treat 
 them like children.' 
 
 A third lady, with the Times newspaper in her hand, 
 smiled ; the expression of her mouth, and that, indeed, 
 of her whole handsome, hard-cut face, was wickedly 
 reminiscent of the expression of those dappled rocking- 
 horses which used to come from the Soho Bazaar. She 
 crossed her feet, and some rich and silken stuff rustled. 
 Her whole personality creaked as, without looking up, 
 she replied in a harsh voice : 
 
 ' / find the poor most delightful persons.' 
 
 Sybil Dennant, seated on the sofa, suddenly shot a 
 barking fox-terrier in the direction of Shelton. 
 
 'Here's Dick,' she said, with a feathery laugh. 
 * Well, Dick, wha.t's your opinion ?' 
 
 Shelton gave a scared glance around. They — that 
 is, the two elder ladies who had spoken — were looking 
 at him, and in their glances he read his utter insignifi- 
 cance. ' Expect a practical opinion from that young 
 man 1' they seemed to say. ' Now, come !' 
 
 14 — 2 
 
212 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Opinion,' he stammered, ' of the poor ? Good 
 g-gracious ! I haven't any.' 
 
 The lady on her feet, whose name was Mrs. Mattock, 
 paid no attention to this remark, but, directing her 
 pecuHar sweet-sour smile at the distinguished and hard- 
 featured lady with the Times, said : 
 
 ' Perhaps you've not had experience of them in 
 London, Lady Bonington ?' 
 
 Lady Bonington rustled the Times. 
 
 'Oh, do tell us about the slums, Mrs. Mattock!' 
 cried Sybil. ' Slumming must be splendid ! It's so 
 deadly here — nothing but flannel petticoats.' 
 
 ' The poor, my dear,' began Mrs. Mattock, ' are not 
 in the least what you think them ' 
 
 ' Oh, d'you know, I think they're rather nice !' broke 
 in Aunt Charlotte from beside the hydrangea. 
 
 'You think so ?' said Mrs. Mattock sharply. ' I find 
 they do nothing but grumble.' 
 
 ' They don't grumble at me ; they are delightful 
 persons ;' and Lady Bonington gave Shelton a grim 
 smile. 
 
 He could not help thinking that to grumble in the 
 presence of that rich and despotic personality would 
 require superhuman courage. 
 
 ' They're the most ungrateful people on the face 
 of the earth,' resumed Mrs. Mattock. ' Why, then,' 
 thought Shelton, ' does she try to do anything for 
 them ?' But he was conscious of the futility of the 
 question almost before she continued : ' One must do 
 them good, one must do one's duty, but as to expecting 
 thanks ' 
 
 Lady Bonington uttered a sardonic formula : 
 
 ' Poor things 1 they have a lot to bear ;' and Shelton 
 
THE COUNTRY HOUSE 213 
 
 could not determine whether or no she intended a 
 sarcasm, for Sybil Dennant again threw the fox-terrier 
 forward, who again barked. 
 
 ' The little children !' murmured Aunf Charlotte from 
 beside the hydrangea, her cheek flushing, her eyes 
 shining ; ' it's rather pathetic' 
 
 ' The children indeed!' said Mrs. Mattock. ' It puts 
 me out of all patience to see the way they neglect them. 
 People are so sentimental about the poor.' 
 
 Lady Bonington again rustled the Times. Her 
 splendid shoulders were firmly wedged into the arm- 
 chair; her fine hair, gleaming with silver, sprang 
 commandingly back on either side of her brow ; a ruby 
 bracelet glowed richly on the powerful wrist that held 
 the journal ; she rocked her bronze-slippered foot. She 
 did not appear exactly to lend herself to the charge of 
 sentimentalism. 
 
 ' I know they often have a very good time,' com- 
 mented Mrs. Mattock, as if someone had done her a 
 severe and unmerited injury. And Shelton saw, not 
 without pity, how her kind and squashed-up face had 
 been powdered by Fate with wrinkles ; how each tiny 
 furrow was eloquent of the best intentions thwarted by 
 the unpractical and discontented poor. ' Do what you 
 will,' she continued, ' I defy you to satisfy them ; they 
 only resent one's trying to help, or else take the help 
 and give you no thanks.' 
 
 'Oh!' murmured Aunt Charlotte, 'that's rather 
 hard.' 
 
 Shelton had been growing momentarily more un- 
 easy. He rose, and said abruptly : 
 
 ' I' should do the same if I were in their place.' 
 
 Mrs. Mattock's brown eyes at once flew at him with 
 
214 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 that decisive glance which seemed to docket the person 
 upon whom it rested. Lady Bonington's flat, harsh 
 voice spoke into the Times, while her ruby bracelet 
 jingled against a bangle : 
 
 ' Exactly ; we ought to put ourselves in their place.' 
 
 Shelton could not restrain a grin ; the notion of 
 Lady Bonington in the place of the poor was funny. 
 
 'Oh!' exclaimed Mrs. Mattock angrily, 'I do put 
 myself entirely in their place. I quite understand their 
 feelings. But ingratitude is a repulsive quality.' 
 
 ' They seem unable to put themselves in your place,' 
 murmured Shelton ; and in a fit of desperate courage 
 he took in the room and its occupants with a sweeping 
 glance. 
 
 That room had a remarkable and almost fatal con- 
 sistency, an air of perfectly fresh and thoroughly 
 characteristic second-handness, as if every picture that 
 hung on the walls, every piece of furniture, every 
 book, every lady present, had been made from patterns. 
 They were all different, had appearances widely dis- 
 similar, yet all (like objects of art one sees in some 
 exhibitions) had a look of having been turned out after 
 the designs of some original spirit. The whole room 
 had that chaste, restrained, derivative look, practical 
 and essentially comfortable, of an existence which 
 neither in virtue nor in work, neither in manner, 
 thought, appearance, nor in theory, could — give itself 
 away. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE STAINED-GLASS MAN 
 
 Continuing his search for Antonia, Shekon went up to 
 the morning -room. Thea Dennant and a girl friend 
 were seated in the window, talking. From the look 
 they gave him he saw that it would have been better 
 for him never to have been born ; he hastily with- 
 drew. Descending to the hall again, he surprised 
 Mr. Dennant crossing to his study, with a satirical 
 and blighted appearance and a handful of official- 
 looking papers. 
 
 'Ah, Shelton !' said he, 'you look a little lost. Is 
 the shrine invisible ?' 
 
 Shelton grinned spasmodically, said ' Yes,' and con- 
 tinued his search. But he was not fortunate. In the 
 dining-room sat Mrs. Dennant, making up her list of 
 library books. 
 
 ' Do give me your opinion, Dick,' she said. ' Every- 
 body's readin' this thing of Katherine Asterick's ; I 
 believe it's simply because she's got a title.' 
 
 ' One must read a book for some reason or other,' 
 replied Shelton. 
 
 ' Well,' returned Mrs. Dennant, ' I hate doin' things 
 just because other people do them, and I shan't get it.' 
 
 • Good !' said Shelton. 
 
 215 
 
2i6 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 Mrs. Dennant failed to perceive the irony in his tone ; 
 she was marking the catalogue. 
 
 ' Here's this new book of Linseed's, of course; though 
 I must say I don't care for him, I suppose we ought to 
 have that. And there's a thing out by Quality, " The 
 Splendid Diatribes" ; that's sure to be good, he's always 
 so refined. But what am I to do about Arthur Baal's 
 last ? It's the fashion to say he's a charlatan, but 
 everybody reads him, don't you know;' and over the 
 top of the catalogue those hare-like eyes gazed up at 
 Shelton, more hare-like than ever. 
 
 The decisive look of her face, with its arched nose 
 and slightly sloping chin, had vanished, blurred by 
 the fog of an unpractical subject, as though someone 
 had appealed to her all of a sudden to trust her own 
 instincts. It was pathetic. Still, there was always 
 the book's circulation to go by. 
 
 'I think I'd better mark it, don't you?' she said. 
 ' Were you lookin' for Antonia ? If you come across 
 Bunyan in the garden, Dick, do say that I want to see 
 him ; he's gettin' a perfect nuisance. I can understand 
 his feelin's, of course, but he's really carryin' it too far 
 altogether.' 
 
 Primed with this message to the under-gardener, 
 Shelton retired. Before prosecuting his search out of 
 doors, he took a despairing look at the billiard-room. 
 Antonia was not there. But instead a tall, fat-cheeked 
 gentleman with a neat little moustache, called Mabbey, 
 was practising the spot-stroke at the lower end of the 
 table. He paused as Shelton opened the door, and, 
 pouting like a large baby, asked in a somnolent voice : 
 
 ' Will you play me a hundred up ?' 
 
 Shelton advanced a step irresolutely, shook his head 
 
THE STAINED-GLASS MAN 217 
 
 stammered that he was sorry, and was about to 
 withdraw. 
 
 The gentleman called Mabbey, plaintively feeling the 
 spot where his moustache joined a pink and glossy 
 cheek, asked with an air of some surprise : 
 
 ' What's your general game, then ?' 
 
 Shelton felt annoyed. 
 
 ' I really don't know,' he said. 
 
 The gentleman called Mabbey chalked his cue, and, 
 moving his round, knock-kneed legs twice in their tight 
 trousers to take up position for his stroke, paused 
 for a second before holing the red. 
 
 ' I say, what price that ?' he remarked, as he 
 recovered the perpendicular, and his well-fed eyes 
 followed Shelton with sleepy curiosity. ' Curious dark 
 horse, Shelton,' they seemed to say. 
 
 Shelton hurried out into the garden, and was about to 
 run down to the lower lawn, when he was accosted by 
 another gentleman walking in the sunshine in front of 
 the house — a slight-built man in a turned-down collar, 
 with a thin, fair moustache, and a faint bluish tint on 
 one side of his high forehead, caused by a network of 
 tiny veins. His face had something of the youthful, 
 ironically optimistic, stained-glass look peculiar to the 
 refined English type. He walked buoyantly, yet with 
 trim precision, as if he had a nice taste in furniture and 
 churches, and he held in his hand the Spectator. 
 
 'Ah, Shelton!' he said in a high-toned, pleasant voice 
 — and pausing a second, he slightly bent his advanced 
 leg in such an easy attitude that it was impossible to 
 interrupt it : ' come out to take the air ?' 
 
 Shelton found himself pacing leisurely in his com- 
 pany. His brown face, nondescript nose, and the 
 
2i8 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 amiable doggedness of his chin contrasted curiously 
 with the clear features of the stained-glass man. 
 
 ' I hear from Halidome that you're going to stand 
 for Parliament,' said the latter. 
 
 Shelton was startled, but suddenly recalling Hali- 
 dome's urbane and autocratic manner of settling other 
 people's business, he smiled. 
 
 ' Do I look like it ?' he asked. 
 
 The stained-glass man's eyebrows quivered. It had 
 never occurred to him, perhaps, that to stand for 
 Parliament a man must look like it ; he really examined 
 Shelton with curiosity. 
 
 'Ah, well,' he said, 'now you mention it, perhaps 
 not.' The habitual gleam of carefully-trained irony in 
 his light-blue eyes inspired an idea of profound shallow- 
 ness, but in spite of their dissimilarity from the eyes of 
 the gentleman called Mabbey, they, too, seemed to ask 
 Shelton what sort of a dark horse he was. 
 
 ' You're still in the Domestic Office ?' said the latter. 
 
 The stained-glass man stopped to sniff at a rose-bush. 
 
 ' Yes,' he replied ; ' it suits me very well. I get lots 
 of time for my art work.' 
 
 ' That must be very interesting,' said Shelton, whose 
 glance was roving for signs of Antonia ; ' I never 
 managed to have a hobby myself.' 
 
 ' Never had a hobby !' said the stained-glass man, and 
 he brushed back his hair (he was walking without a 
 hat) ; ' why, what the deuce do you do with yourself?' 
 
 Shelton couldn't answer this question ; the idea had 
 never occurred to him. 
 
 ' I really don't know,' he said, embarrassed ; ' there's 
 always something going on, as far as I can make out.' 
 
 The stained-glass man returned his hands to his 
 
THE STAINED-GLASS MAN 219 
 
 pockets, and his bright glance swept inquisitively over 
 his companion. 
 
 'A fellow must have a hobby to give him an interest 
 in life,' said he. 
 
 ' An interest in life ?' returned Shelton rather grimly ; 
 ' life itself's good enough for me.' 
 
 A cold look passed on to the face of his companion, 
 as though he disapproved of the practice of regarding 
 life itself as interesting. 
 
 ' That's all very well,' he said, ' but you want some- 
 thing more than that. Why don't you take up wood- 
 carving ?' 
 
 'Wood-carving ?' repeated Shelton. 
 
 ' The moment I get fagged with office papers and 
 that sort of thing I take up my wood-carving ; it's as 
 good as a game of hockey.' 
 
 'No, thanks; I haven't the enthusiasm.' 
 
 The eyebrows of the stained-glass man arched ; he 
 twisted his moustache delicately; there was a repre- 
 hensible mordancy in Shelton's voice. 
 
 'You'll find it doesn't pay, not having a hobby,' he 
 said ; ' you'll get old, and then where '11 you be ?' 
 
 Shelton squinted at him ; it came somehow as a sur- 
 prise that the other should use the words 'it doesn't 
 pay,' for he had a kind of partially enamelled look, like 
 one of those pieces of modern jewellery which really 
 seem so modestly unconscious of their market value. 
 
 ' You've given up the Bar, haven't you ? Don't you 
 get awfully bored having nothing to do ?' abruptly 
 pursued the stained-glass man, stopping before an old 
 sundial and eyeing it carefully. 
 
 Shelton felt a delicacy, as a man naturally would, in 
 explaining that being in love was in itself a pursuit 
 
220 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 occupying more than all his time. He did not know 
 what to say. To have nothing to do is unworthy of a 
 man — he knew that. The odd thing was that he had 
 never felt as if he had nothing to do. He said nothing. 
 But his silence in no way disconcerted his acquaintance. 
 
 ' That's a nice old article of virtue,' he said, pointing 
 delicately with his chin at the sundial, as if it had 
 been an elderly maiden lady ; and walking round, he 
 examined it attentively from the other side. Its gray 
 profile cast a thin, shortening shadow on the turf; 
 tongues of moss were licking at its sides ; the daisies 
 clustered thick round its base, and it had acquired a 
 look of growing from the soil. ' I should like to get 
 hold of that,' said the stained-glass man ; ' I don't 
 know when I've seen a better specimen;' and he 
 walked round it a second time. 
 
 His eyebrows were still arched with their professional 
 irony, but below them his eyes had a curious look, 
 almost calculating, and below them, again, his mouth 
 had opened a little, and the lower lip had taken a curl. 
 A] person with a keener eye would have said that the 
 face looked greedy, and even Shelton was faintly 
 surprised, as though he had read in the Spectator a con- 
 fession of commercialism. 
 
 ' You couldn't root a thing like that up,' said he ; 'it 
 would lose all its charm.' 
 
 His companion half turned his eyes with a gleam of 
 impatient contempt, and his countenance looked all of 
 a sudden surprisingly genuine. 
 
 'Couldn't I ?' he said, stooping down. 'By Jove! 
 i6go ; I thought so. The best period.' He raised 
 himself, and ran his finger along the edge of the sun- 
 dial. ' What a splendid line ! — as clean as the day it 
 
THE STAINED-GLASS MAN 221 
 
 was made. You don't seem to care much about that 
 sort of thing ;' and once again, as though accustomed 
 to the indifference of Vandals, his face regained its 
 mask. 
 
 They strolled on in the direction of the kitchen 
 gardens, Shelton still busy sweeping every patch of 
 shade for Antonia. He had a longing to say ' I can't 
 stop,' and dash off on his search ; but there was some- 
 thing about the stained-glass man that, while stinging 
 and sharpening his feelings, made it peculiarly abhorrent 
 to him to show them. ' Feelings !' that personality 
 seemed to say, ' yes ; that's all very well, but you want 
 something more than that. Why not take up wood- 
 carving ? . . . Feelings ! I was born in England, and 
 educated at Cambridge.' 
 
 'Are you staying here long?' he asked of Shelton. 
 ' I go on to Halidome's to-morrow ; suppose I shan't 
 see you there ? What a good chap, old Halidome ! 
 Wonderful collection of etchings !' 
 
 ' No ; I'm staying on here,' replied Shelton. 
 
 'Ah!' said the stained-glass man, 'very charming 
 people, the Dennants!' 
 
 Shelton reddened slowly, turning his head away ; he 
 picked a gooseberry, and muttered ' Yes.' 
 
 ' The eldest girl especially ; there's no nonsense 
 about her. I thought she was a particularly nice girl.' 
 
 Shelton heard this praise of Antonia with a most odd 
 sensation ; it gave him the reverse of pleasure, as 
 though the words had cast a new light upon her. He 
 grunted hastily : 
 
 ' I suppose you know I'm engaged to her ?' 
 
 ' Really !' said the stained-glass man, and again his 
 bright, clear, non-committal glance swept inquisitively 
 
222 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 over Shelton — ' really ! I didn't know that. I congratu- 
 late you !' 
 
 It seemed to Shelton as if he were saying : ' H'm ! 
 you're a man of taste ; I should say she would go well 
 in almost any drawing-room !' His discomfort found 
 vent in so sardonic a grin that, at sight of it, the other 
 involuntarily threw up his hand, and brushed the hair 
 off his forehead. 
 
 ' Thanks,' said Shelton softly; 'there she is. If you'll 
 excuse me, I want to speak to her.' 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 PARADISE 
 
 Antonia, in a sunny angle of the old brick wall, amid 
 a forest of pinks and poppies, and cornflowers, was 
 humming a tune. Before Shelton reached her, he 
 turned to see that the stained-glass man was no longer 
 in sight, and, unobserved, he watched her plucking and 
 smelling at the flowers, caressing her face with each 
 flower in turn, now and then casting a spoiled blossom 
 to the ground, and all the time, like the bees around 
 her, humming. 
 
 It seemed so strange that in a couple of months all 
 barriers between him and this inscrutable young Eve 
 would be broken down ; that she would be a part of 
 him, and he a part of her ; that he would know all that 
 she thought, and she all that he thought ; that together 
 they would stand in the eyes of all respectable people 
 as one person ; that all respectable people would call 
 upon them as one, talk of them as one ; and that all this 
 would come about by their standing together for half 
 an hour in a church, by the gift of a ring, and the sign- 
 ing of their names. 
 
 The sun had burnished her hair, for she wore no hat, 
 flushed her cheeks, sweetened and made sensuous the 
 play of her limbs ; it had warmed her through and 
 
 223 
 
224 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 through, so that, like the flowers and the bees, the sun- 
 light and the air, she, too, was all motion, and light, 
 and colour, and perfume. 
 
 With her hands full she turned and saw Shelton 
 standing behind her. 
 
 'Oh, it's you, Dick!' she said: 'Lend me your 
 handkerchief to put these flowers in, there's a good 
 boy!' 
 
 Her fair and candid eyes, blue and unknowable as 
 the flowers in her hands, were like two little pieces of 
 clear ice, but in her smile was reflected the delicious 
 warmth and profusion of that corner ; all the sweetness 
 that had soaked into her was welling forth again. The 
 sight of her, with those sun-warmed cheeks, fingers 
 twining among the flower-stalks, pearly teeth, and hair 
 all fragrant, stole the reason out of Shelton. He stood 
 before her, weak about the knees, drunk on the evidence 
 of his senses. 
 
 ' I've found you at last,' he said. 
 
 Her neck curved back over her shoulder, she cried 
 ' Catch !' and with a sweep of both hands flung her 
 flowers into Shelton's arms. 
 
 His emotions were whipped by the rain of flowers, 
 all warm and odorous ; but, dropping on his knees, he 
 put them together, smelling solemnly at the pinks one 
 by one, and seeking by this mechanical device to hide 
 the violence of his feelings. Antonia went on picking 
 flowers, and every time that her hand was full she bent 
 down to Shelton and dropped them on his hat, or his 
 shoulder, or across his arms, and went on plucking 
 more ; and each time that she came near, her smile 
 gleamed, and in her face danced a little provoking devil 
 — one would have said she knew what he was suffering. 
 
PARADISE 225 
 
 And he began to have the feeling that she did know. 
 He felt ridiculous kneeling there, so hopelessly in her 
 power, and only restrained by a vague chivalry from 
 clasping her waist and holding her a prisoner. 
 
 'Are you tired?' she asked; 'there are heaps more 
 wanted. These are the bedroom flowers — fourteen lots. 
 I can't think how people can live without flowers, can 
 you?' and close above Shelton's head she buried her 
 nose in a bunch of pinks. 
 
 Shelton kept his eyes fixed on the growing mass of 
 the plucked flowers before him on the grass. He was 
 afraid, and forced himself to answer : 
 
 ' I think I can hold out.' 
 
 ' Poor old Dick !' He looked up, but she had stepped 
 back, and was stooping towards some mignonette. The 
 sun illumined the clear-cut profile of her cheek, and 
 shot gold into the curves of her blouse. ' Poor old 
 Dick ! Awfully hard luck, isn't it ?' Burdened with 
 mignonette, she came so close to him again that she 
 actually touched his shoulder, but Shelton did not look 
 up this time ; breathless, with his heart beating wildly, 
 he went on sullenly sorting the flowers. The dry seeds of 
 the mignonette rained down on his neck, and as she 
 let the blossoms fall, their perfume drifted into his 
 face. ' You needn't sort them,' she said. 
 
 She was enticing him ! He stole a look, and his 
 eyes, from being angry, grew steadfast and burning; 
 but she was gone again, swaying and sniffing amongst 
 the flowers. 
 
 ' I suppose I'm only hindering you,' he growled ; 
 ' I'd better go.' 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 ' Oh, I like to see you on your knees, you look so 
 
 15 
 
226 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 funny !' and as she spoke she flung a clove carnation at 
 him. ' Doesn't it smell good?' 
 
 ' Too good,' muttered Shelton. ' Oh, Antonia ! why 
 do you do it ?' 
 
 ' Why do I do what ?' she cried, with icy can- 
 dour ; and Shelton felt as if a cold douche had been 
 poured down his back. 
 
 ' Don't you know what you're doing ?' he mur- 
 mured. 
 
 ' Why, picking flowers !' and once more she was back, 
 bending and sniffing amongst the blossoms. 
 
 ' That's enough.' 
 
 ' Oh no,' she called ; ' it's not — not nearly enough. 
 Keep on sorting them, Dick, if you — love me.' 
 
 ' You know I love you,' answered Shelton, in a 
 smothered voice. 
 
 Antonia stopped her plucking for a moment, and 
 gazed at him across her shoulder ; there was something 
 inquiring and puzzled in her face. He shivered, per- 
 haps from the strain of remaining so long upon his 
 knees. 
 
 ' I'm not a bit like you, you know, Dick,' she said, 
 and began plucking sweet peas. ' What will you have 
 for your room ?' 
 
 ' Choose !' he answered. 
 
 ' Cornflowers and clove pinks. Poppies are too 
 frivolous, and white pinks are too — too ' 
 
 ' White,' said Shelton. 
 
 ' And mignonette too hard and ' 
 
 ' Sweet,' muttered Shelton. ' But why corn- 
 flowers ?' 
 
 Antonia stood before him with her hands flat against 
 her sides ; there was a touch of pathos in the slim. 
 
PARADISE 227 
 
 young figure, and a touch of uncertainty in her grave 
 face. 
 
 ' Because they're dark and deep.' 
 
 ' And why clove pinks ?' 
 
 But Antonia did not answer. 
 
 ' And why clove pinks ?' repeated Shelton, 
 
 ' Because,' said Antonia, flushing, and touching a bee 
 that had settled on her skirt, ' perhaps — because of 
 something in you that I don't understand.' 
 
 'Ah !' he said, burying his nose in the clove pink. 
 ' And what flowers shall I give you ?' 
 
 She put her hands behind her, and her upper teeth 
 showed in a smile. 
 
 ' There are all the other flowers for me.' 
 
 Shelton snatched up from the mass in front of him a 
 pink poppy with a straight stem and a curve in the 
 neck, banked it up with white pinks and sprigs of hard, 
 sweet mignonette, and struggling off his knees, held it 
 out to her. 
 
 ' There, I've got you !' he said. 
 
 But Antonia did not move. 
 
 ' Oh no, you haven't !' and behind her back her 
 fingers slowly crushed the petals of a blood-red poppy. 
 She shook her head, a brilliant smile on her lips ; then, 
 with eyes fixed on the flowers he was holding out, she 
 stood before him like a temptation. The blossoms fell 
 from his hand, he flung his arms round her, and kissed 
 her passionately on her smiling lips. 
 
 But the next moment his hands dropped to his sides, 
 and not fear exactly, nor exactly shame, overwhelmed 
 him. She had not resisted, but he had kissed the smile 
 off her lips ; he had kissed a strange, cold, frightened 
 look into her eyes. 
 
 15—2 
 
228 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' She didn't mean to tempt me,' he thought, in a 
 whirl of shame, surprise, and anger. ' What did she 
 mean ? I'm not made of cottonwool ;' and like a 
 scolded dog, he kept his intent and troubled watch upon 
 her face. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE RIDE 
 
 ' Where now ?' asked Antonia, as they turned their 
 horses round in the High Street of Oxford City. ' I 
 won't go back the same way, Dick !' 
 
 ' We could have a gallop on Port Meadow, cross the 
 Upper River twice, and get home that way ; but you'll 
 be tired.' 
 
 Antonia shook her head. She was riding a chestnut 
 mare. Aslant of her flushed cheek the brim of her 
 straw hat drew a curve of shade, and her ear glowed 
 transparent and rosy in the sun. 
 
 Since that kiss a strange difference had come in their 
 relations ; outwardly she was the same comrade-like 
 girl, with the same cool vitality and the same quick 
 decisions. But as before a change one feels the subtle 
 difference in the quality of a wind, so Shelton's percep- 
 tions were affected by the inner change in her. He 
 had scored a mark on her candid surface ; rubbed 
 it out with the most tender care, but left all the same 
 an ineffaceable roughness in the fibre of the parchment. 
 He had let himself go, and made an ineffaceable mark ; 
 and he knew that Antonia belonged to the most civilized 
 section of the most civilized nation in Europe, whose 
 creed was : ' Let us love and hate, marry and work, but 
 
 229 
 
230 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 not commit ourselves ; to commit ourselves is to leave 
 an ineffaceable mark, and that is beyond forgiveness. 
 Let our lives be like our faces, free from every kind of 
 wrinkle, even those of laughter ; in this way we shall be 
 saved.' 
 
 And he felt that she was ruffled by the vague dis- 
 comfort of an injury. That he should have committed 
 himself had made her wonder, but that he should give 
 her the feeling that she had committed herself was 
 clearly more serious altogether. 
 
 ' 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 very thin envelope was brought out to 
 him addressed ' Mr. Richard Shelton, Esq.,' in an 
 ornamental, passionately distinct handwriting, as though 
 the writer had put his soul into securing the delivery 
 of the letter. It was dated three days back, and, open- 
 ing it 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 better days. Indeed, I 
 have been so profoundly discouraged that if I had not 
 thought it my duty to let you know of my fortunes I 
 know not even now if I should have found the necessary 
 spirit. Les choses vont de mal en mal. From what I 
 hear there has never been such a bad season here. 
 Nothing going on. All the same, I am tormented by 
 an infinity of affairs which bring me not enough to 
 support life. I know not what I shall do, but one thing 
 
THE RIDE 231 
 
 is certain, in no case shall I return here another year. 
 The patron of this hotel, my good employer, is one of 
 those innumerable specimens who do not forge or steal 
 because they have no need, and if they had would lack 
 the courage ; who observe the marriage laws because 
 they have been brought up to believe in them, and know 
 that breaking them brings danger and loss of reputation ; 
 who do not gamble because they dare not ; do not 
 drink because it disagrees with them ; go to church 
 because of their neighbours, and to procure an appetite 
 for the mid-day meal ; commit no murder because, not 
 transgressing in any other fashion, they are not obliged. 
 What is there to respect in such persons ? And yet they 
 are highly esteemed, and form three-quarters of Society. 
 The rule with these gentlemen is to shut their eyes, 
 never use their thinking powers, and close the door on 
 all the dogs of life for fear they should get bitten.' 
 
 Shelton paused, for he had become conscious of 
 Antonia's eyes fixed on him with the unknowable gleam 
 that he had begun to dread. In that chilly questioning 
 of her spirit there was nothing really mysterious nor 
 anything really inquisitive — in fact, there was a 
 certain quality of obviousness. ' I am prepared to be 
 told things,' she seemed to be saying ; ' that is, useful 
 things— things that help one to believe without 
 thinking.' 
 
 He shifted the letter from one hand to the other. 
 
 ' It's from that young foreigner,' he said ; and went on 
 reading to himself. 
 
 ' 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 worth as much as free thought. Everything 
 
232 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 else they can take from you, on ne pent pas vous oter cela ! 
 I see no future for me here, and certainly should have 
 left long ago if I had had the money; but as I have 
 already told you, all that I can do barely suffices to 
 procure me de quoi vivre. Je me sens ecceure. Do not 
 pay too much attention to my Jeremiads ; you know 
 what a pessimist I am. Je ne perds pas courage. 
 
 ' Hoping that you are well, and cordially pressing 
 your hand, 
 
 ' Your very devoted 
 
 ' Louis Ferrand.' 
 
 He remained with the letter open in his hand, frown- 
 ing, resenting the curious turmoil which any intrusion 
 of Ferrand aroused. It was as though the young 
 foreigner had the power to twang within him a neglected 
 string, which gave forth a mutinous moan, like the tattoo 
 of the unemployed's drum. 
 
 ' Well, what does he say ?' asked Antonia. 
 
 Should he show it to her ? If he might not, what 
 should he do when they were married ? He held the 
 letter tightly. 
 
 ' I don't quite know,' he said at last ; ' it's not very 
 cheering.' 
 
 ' What is he like, Dick — I mean, to look at ? Like a 
 gentleman, or what?' 
 
 Shelton stifled an impulse to laugh. 
 
 ' He looks very well in a frock-coat,' he replied, ' and 
 his father was a wine merchant.' 
 
 Antonia flicked her skirt with her riding-whip. 
 
 ' Of course,' she murmured, 'I don't want to hear if 
 there's anything I ought not.' 
 
 Oddly enough, instead of allaying Shelton's discomfort 
 
THE RIDE 233 
 
 the words had the opposite effect. His temperament 
 disagreed with the conception of the ideal wife as 
 a person from whom the half of life must be excluded. 
 
 ' It's only,' he stammered again, ' that it's not very 
 cheerful.' 
 
 ' Oh, all right !' she cried, and, smartly touching her 
 horse, flew off in front. ' I hate dismal things.' 
 
 Shelton bit his hps. It was not his fault that the 
 world held a dark side. He knew that her words were 
 loosed against something in himself, and, as always at a 
 sign of her displeasure, he was afraid. He galloped after 
 her across the scorched turf of Port Meadow. 
 
 ' What is it ?' he said, as he came alongside. ' You're 
 angry with me !' 
 
 • Oh no !' 
 
 ' Darling, I can't help it if things are not cheerful. I 
 have eyes,' he added, unconsciously quoting from the 
 letter. 
 
 Antonia did not look at him, and again touched her 
 horse. 
 
 ' Well, I don't want to see gloomy things,' she said 
 breathlessly, ' and I can't see why you should. It's 
 wicked to be discontented ;' and she galloped off again. 
 
 He was ruffled. It was not his fault that there were 
 a thousand different kinds of human beings, a thousand 
 different points of view, outside the fence of her bring- 
 ing-up ! ' What business,' he thought, digging the 
 dummy rowels of his spurs into his horse's sides and 
 following, ' has our class to turn up its nose at the rest 
 of the world ? We're the only people who haven't an 
 idea what life really means.' But the chase began to 
 excite him ; chips of dried turf and dust came flying 
 back and stinging his face. He gained on her, drew 
 
234 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 almost within reach of her rein, then, as though she 
 had been playing with him, was hopelessly left behind. 
 
 She stopped under the far hedge, fanning herself with 
 a dock-leaf, and her face glowed with triumph. 
 
 'Aha, Dick!' she said, ' I knew you'd never catch me ;' 
 and she drew a gloved hand down the crest of the 
 chestnut mare, who turned her blowing muzzle with 
 good-humoured contempt towards Shelton's steed, while 
 her flanks heaved rapturously, and gradually darkened 
 with sweat. 
 
 ' No,' grunted Shelton, getting off and loosening his 
 girths ; ' we'd better take them steadily 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. If you take my advice, you'll go back 
 the way we came.' 
 
 Antonia dropped the reins, and straightened her back 
 hair. 
 
 ' There's no fun in that,' she said, looking straight 
 before her. ' Out and back again ; I hate a dog's walk.' 
 
 ' Very well,' said Shelton ; he would have her longer 
 to himself ! 
 
 The road led up an interminable hill, and from the top, 
 a vision of Saxonia, as unshakable and complacent as 
 the sides of a Berkshire pig, lay, wooded and fat, before 
 their eyes. Their way branched down into an ungated 
 glade, and Shelton sidled up till his knee touched the 
 mare's off-flank. 
 
 Antonia's profile had a quality that conjured delight- 
 ful visions. She was like a statue of Youth ; her*eyes 
 tantalized in their brilliant innocence, her cheeks 
 glowed, her brow was unruffled, but in the curve of her 
 
THE RIDE 235 
 
 smile and the set of her chin lurked something resolute 
 and mischievous. Shelton put his hand on the mare's 
 mane. 
 
 ' I can't think what made you promise to marry me,' 
 he said gently. 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 ' And what made_yoM ?' 
 
 ' I ?' cried Shelton. 
 
 She slipped her hand into his. 
 
 • Oh, Dick !' she said, ' I wish ' 
 
 ' I wish,' he stammered, taking the words out of her 
 mouth, ' to be everything to you. Do you think I 
 shall ?' 
 
 ' After we are married ?' she asked, and quickly, in 
 her clear voice, added : ' Of course !' 
 
 'Of course!' he repeated. The words seemed too 
 much or too little. 
 
 ' Dick,' she cried, looking straight before her, where 
 the river gleamed at the end of the glade in a curving 
 line of silver, ' there are such a lot of splendid things 
 we might do.' 
 
 Did she mean amongst those splendid things that 
 they might understand each other, or merely pretend 
 to, with that sacred and stately pretence time-honoured 
 with the best people ? 
 
 They crossed the river by the horse-ferry, and rode a 
 long time in silence, while the twilight slowly gathered 
 behind the aspens. To Shelton all the beauty of the 
 evening, with its restless leaves, grave young moon, and 
 lighted campion flowers, was but a part of her; the 
 scerts, the witchery and shadows, the quaint field 
 noises, a yokel's whistle, and the splash of water-fowl, 
 each seemed to him enchanted. The flighting bats, the 
 
236 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 dim hayricks, the spring of his horse beneath him, the 
 scent of the sweet-briar — she seemed to sum them all 
 up in herself. The finger-marks had deepened under 
 her eyes, a languor had come upon her, which only 
 made her the more youthful, the more precious, sweet, 
 and sane. To him her young shoulders bore upon them 
 the very image of our land — grave and aspiring, eager 
 yet contained — before there had come upon that land 
 the wrinkles of greed, the folds of wealth, dimples of 
 luxury, or the simper of content. Fair, unconscious, 
 and free ! He was silent, with straining eyes and 
 twitching hands, with a beating heart, and fierce long- 
 ing within it. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE BIRD OF PASSAGE 
 
 That night, after the ride, Shelton was taking the 
 things from his pockets before going to bed, when his 
 eyes fell on Ferrand's letter, and with a sleepy sense of 
 duty he began reading it a second time. In the dark- 
 panelled bedroom, his four-poster, with back of 
 crimson damask and dainty sheets, was lighted by the 
 candle glow; the copper pitcher of hot water in the 
 basin, the backs of his brushes, the line of his well- 
 polished boots, all shone tenderly, and Shelton's face 
 alone was gloomy, as he stared at the neat characters 
 on the yellowish paper in his hand. 
 
 'The poor beggar wants money, of course,' he 
 thought. Why should he go on helping a fellow who 
 had no claim on him, who was a hopeless case, an 
 incurable — one of those whom it was a duty to let sink 
 for the benefit of the community at large ? Ferrand's 
 vagabond refinement had beguiled him into charity that 
 would have been better bestowed on hospitals, or any 
 good work but missionaries. The notion of giving a 
 helping hand, a bit of himself, a ray of fellowship to a 
 fellow-being irrespective of claims, and merely because 
 he was down on his luck, was sentimental nonsense ! 
 The hne must be drawn ! But in the very muttering 
 
 237 
 
238 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 of this conclusion he was visited by a twinge of honesty. 
 ' You're a humbug !' he thought ; ' )'ou simply don't want 
 to part with your money !' 
 
 So he sat down in his shirt-sleeves at his writing- 
 table, and savagely penned the following 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 of luck. I hope by the time 
 you get this things will have changed for the better- 
 I should very much like to see you again and have a 
 talk, but shall be away some time longer, and doubt 
 even when I get back whether I should have time to 
 run down and look you up. Keep me au courant as to 
 your movements. 
 
 ' Yours sincerely, 
 
 ' Richard Shelton.' 
 
 He intended to enclose a cheque, but a moth flutter- 
 ing round the candle so distracted his attention that, 
 by the time he had caught it and put it out of the 
 window, he had forgotten not having enclosed the 
 cheque, and the letter, removed with his clothes before 
 he was awake, was posted in this empty condition. 
 
 One morning about a week later, while he was sitting 
 in the smoking-room in the company of the gentleman 
 called Mabbey — who was describing to him the number 
 of grouse he had killed on August 12 last year, and the 
 number he intended to kill this year — the door was softly 
 opened, and the butler entered the room, carrying his 
 head as though it were in possession of some fatal secret. 
 
 ' A young man is asking for you, sir,' said he to 
 
THE BIRD OF PASSAGE 239 
 
 Shelton, with a discreet bend : ' I don't know if you 
 would wish to see him, sir.' 
 
 ' A young man !' repeated Shelton ; ' what sort of 
 young man ?' 
 
 ' I should say a sort of foreigner, sir,' replied the 
 butler apologetically. ' He's wearing a frock-coat, but 
 he looks as if he might have been walking a good 
 deal, sir.' 
 
 Shelton rose hastily ; there was an ominous ring in 
 the description. 
 
 ' Where is he ?' he asked. 
 
 ' I put him in the young ladies' little room, sir.' 
 
 'All right,' said Shelton; 'I'll come and see him. 
 Now, what the deuce !' he thought, as he ran down the 
 stairs. 
 
 It was with a queer mixture of vexation and pleasure 
 that he opened the door of the little room consecrated 
 to the birds, beasts, racquets, golf-clubs, and general 
 litter of the young ladies, and found Ferrand standing 
 impassively beneath the cage of a canary, with his 
 hands folded on his pinched-up brown felt hat, and a 
 nervous smile on his lips. He was dressed in the frock- 
 coat Shelton had given him, tightly buttoned, and cut 
 a presentable figure but for the travel-worn look that 
 pervaded his nondescript personality. He wore a pair 
 of pince-nez, which somewhat veiled the cynicism in 
 his prominent eyes, and clashed with the pagan look 
 that never quite left him. In the midst of the strange 
 surroundings he still preserved that air of being intimate 
 with, and master of, his own fate which was his chief 
 attraction. 
 
 ' I'm glad to see you,' said Shelton, holding out his 
 hand. 
 
240 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Forgive me this liberty,' began Ferrand, ' but I 
 thought it due to you after all you've done for me not 
 to throw up my efforts to get employment in England 
 without letting you know. I'm entirely at the end of 
 my resources.' 
 
 The phrase seemed familiar. 
 
 ' But I wrote to you,' said Shelton ; ' didn't you 
 get my letter ?' 
 
 A flicker passed over Ferrand's face, and he drew the 
 letter out of his pocket. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, holding it out. 
 
 Shelton took the letter and stared at it. 
 
 ' But,' said he, ' surely I sent you a cheque ?' 
 
 Ferrand did not smile ; there was a look about him 
 as though Shelton had done him an injury in forgetting 
 the cheque. 
 
 Shelton could not repress a flash of suspicion. 
 
 ' Of course,' he said, ' I — I — meant to enclose a 
 cheque !' 
 
 Too subtle to speak, the curl of the young foreigner's 
 lip implied : ' I am capable of much, but not of that ;' 
 and at once Shelton felt guilty of meanness. 
 
 ' It was stupid of me,' he said, and was silent. 
 
 ' I had no intention of intruding myself here,' said 
 Ferrand ; ' I hoped to see you in the neighbourhood, 
 but I arrived exhausted with fatigue. I've eaten 
 nothing since yesterday at noon, and walked thirty 
 miles.' He shrugged his shoulders. ' You see, I had no 
 time to lose before assuring myself whether you were 
 here or not.' 
 
 ' Of course ' began Shelton, and again he did not 
 
 know how to go on. 
 
 ' I should very much like,' said the young foreigner, 
 
THE BIRD OF PASSAGE 24I 
 
 ' for one of your good legislators to find himself in these 
 country villages with a penny in his pocket. In other 
 countries bakers are obliged to sell you an equivalent 
 of bread for a penny; here they won't sell you as much as 
 a crust under twopence. You don't encourage poverty.' 
 
 ' What is your idea now ?' asked Shelton, with the 
 desire to gain time. 
 
 ' As I told you,' replied Ferrand, ' there's nothing to 
 be done at Folkestone, though I should have stayed 
 there if I had had the money to defray certain expenses ;' 
 and again his voice betrayed reproach at Shelton's 
 omission of the cheque. 'They say things will certainly 
 be better at the end of the month. Now that I know 
 English well, I thought perhaps you could procure me 
 a situation for teaching languages.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Shelton. 
 
 As a matter of fact he was far from seeing ; he 
 literally did not know what to do. He revolted some- 
 how against the brutality of giving Ferrand money and 
 asking him to clear out ; besides, it so happened that he 
 had no money in his pocket. 
 
 ' It needs some philosophy to support what I've gone 
 through this last week,' said Ferrand, with a shrug of 
 his shoulders. ' On Wednesday last, when I received 
 your letter, I had just eighteenpence, and at once made a 
 resolution to come and see you ; on that sum I've done 
 the journey. But I'm nearly at the end of my strength.' 
 
 Shelton caressed his chin ; the gesture was pecuhar 
 to him when thoroughly perplexed. 
 
 ' Well,' he had just begun, ' we must ' when he 
 
 saw by the expression of his visitor's face that some- 
 one had entered the room behind him. He turned, 
 and found Antonia in the doorway. ' Excuse me a 
 
 16 
 
242 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 moment,' he stammered, and going up to Antonia, drew 
 her out of the room. 
 
 ' Dick,' she said with a smile, ' it's the young foreigner ; 
 I'm certain it is ! What fun !' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Shelton slowly ; ' he's come over to 
 see me about getting some sort of tutorship. Do you 
 think your mother would mind if I took him up to 
 have awash ? He's had a — a longish walk. And might 
 he have some breakfast ? I fancy he must be hungry.' 
 
 ' Of course ! I'll tell Dobson. Shall I speak to 
 mother ? He looks nice, Dick.' 
 
 He gave her a grateful, rather furtive look, and went 
 back to his guest ; a snobbish impulse had made him 
 disguise from her the true state of the case. 
 
 Ferrand was standing where he had been left, and his 
 face had remained impassive, but the blankness of it 
 was more mordant than any expression of mortification ; 
 it had dignity. 
 
 ' Come up to my room !' said Shelton ; and while his 
 guest was ^vashing, brushing, and embellishing his 
 person, he stood thinking that Ferrand was really by no 
 means unpresentable, and he felt quite grateful to him. 
 
 He took an opportunity, when the young foreigner's 
 back was turned, of examining the counterfoils of his 
 cheque-book. Naturally, there was none drawn in 
 Ferrand's favour ! So that he felt more mean than ever. 
 
 A message came almost directly from Mrs. Dennant ; 
 he took the traveller downstairs to the dining-room and 
 left him there, while he went up to his future mother- 
 in-law. He met Antonia coming down. 
 
 ' How many days did you say he went without food 
 that time — you know ?' she asked in passing. 
 
 ' Four.' 
 
THE BIRD OF PASSAGE 243 
 
 ' He doesn't look a bit common, Dick.' 
 
 Shelton gazed at her dubiously. 
 
 ' Ah,' thought he, in spite of himself, ' they're surely 
 not going to make a show of him !' 
 
 Mrs. Dennant was writing, attired in a dark-blue dress 
 with white spots, and a fine lawn collar threaded with 
 black velvet. 
 
 ' Have you seen the new hybrid Algy's brought me 
 from Kidstone ?' she asked. ' Isn't it charmin' ?' and 
 she bent her face towards the specimen rose. ' They 
 say it's unique; I'm awfully interested to find out if 
 that's true. Anyway, I've told Algy I really must have 
 some.' 
 
 Shelton thought of the unique hybrid breakfasting 
 downstairs ; he wished, perhaps, that Mrs. Dennant 
 would manifest as much interest in him as in the rose. 
 But he secretly knew that this was absurd of him, for 
 at the sight of Mrs. Dennant and her rose, he felt some- 
 how all the force of that potent law of hobbies con- 
 trolling the upper classes, and forcing them to take 
 more interest in birds, roses, missionaries, or limited 
 editions of books (objects, in a word, governed by 
 Societies, and thoroughly exploited in print) than in the 
 untidy manifestations of mere life that came daily before 
 their eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, Dick, about that young Frenchman. Antonia 
 says he wants a tutorship ; now, can you really recom- 
 mend him ? There's Mrs. Robinson at the Gateways 
 wants someone to teach her boys languages ; and, if he 
 were quite satisfactory, it's really time Toddles had a 
 few lessons in French ; he goes to Eton next half.' 
 
 Shelton stared at the rose ; he had suddenly realized 
 why it was that people take more interest in roses than 
 
 16 — 2 
 
244 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 in human beings — one could do it with a quiet heart, 
 without incessant misgivings and shocks to one's senses 
 of propriety and of property. 
 
 ' He's not a Frenchman, you know,' he said to gain 
 time. 
 
 ' He's not a German, I hope,' replied Mrs. Dennant, 
 putting her fingers to the edge of one of the petals as 
 though to impress its shape on her brain ; ' I don't like 
 Germans. Isn't he the one you wrote about — come 
 down in the world ? Such a pity with a young fellow ! 
 His father was a merchant, I think you told us. Antonia 
 says he's quite refined lookin'.' 
 
 'Oh yes,' said Shelton, glad to be on safe ground; 
 ' he's refined enough looking.' 
 
 Mrs. Dennant took the rose from the vase and put it 
 to her nose. 
 
 'Delicious perfume!' she said. 'That was a very 
 touchin' story about his goin' without food in Paris. 
 Old Mrs. Hopkins has a room to let in her cottage ; I 
 should like to 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 John the foot- 
 man 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,' went on Mrs. Dennant, ' if, as you say, he's 
 such a clever young fellow. Seein' a little refined life 
 again might make a world of difference to him. It's so 
 sad when a young man loses his self-respect.' 
 
 As ever, Shelton was struck by the practical way she 
 looked at things. Restore his self-respect ! It seemed 
 a splendid idea ! He smiled, and began : 
 
THE BIRD OF PASSAGE 245 
 
 ' You're too kind. I- 
 
 ' I don't believe in doin' things by halves,' said Mrs. 
 Dennant ; ' he doesn't drink, does he ?' 
 
 ' Oh no,' said Shelton ; ' I'm afraid he's a bit of a 
 tobacco maniac, though.' 
 
 ' Well, that's a mercy ! You wouldn't believe the 
 trouble I've had vv^ith drink, especially cooks and coach- 
 men. And now Bunyan has taken to it.' 
 
 ' Oh, you'd have no trouble with Ferrand,' returned 
 Shelton ; ' you couldn't tell him from a gentleman as far 
 as manners go.' 
 
 Mrs. Dennant smiled one of her rather sweet, kindly 
 smiles. 
 
 ' My dear Dick,' she said, ' there's not much comfort 
 in that. Look at poor Bobby Surcingle, look at Oliver 
 Semples and Victor Medallion ; you couldn't have better 
 families. But if you're sure he doesn't drink ! Algy '11 
 laugh, of course, but that doesn't matter ; he laughs at 
 everything.' 
 
 Shelton began to feel guilty ; he had not been prepared 
 for so rapid an adoption of his client. 
 
 ' I really believe there's a lot of good in him,' he 
 stammered ; ' but, of course, I know very little, and from 
 what he tells me he's had a very curious hfe. I shouldn't 
 like ' 
 
 ' Where was he educated ?' inquired Mrs. Dennant. 
 ' They have no public schools in France, so I've been 
 told; but, of course, he can't help that, poor young 
 fellow ! Oh ! and, Dick, there's one thing ; has he a lot of 
 relations ? One has always to be so careful about that. 
 It's one thing to help a young fellow, but quite another 
 to help his family too. One sees so many cases of that 
 where men marry girls without money, don't you know.' 
 
246 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' He's told me,' said Shelton, ' that he has no relations 
 nearer than cousins, and they are rich people.' 
 
 Mrs. Dennant took out her handkerchief, and, bend- 
 ing over the rose, delicately removed a tiny insect. 
 
 ' These green-fly get everywhere,' she said. ' It seems 
 a very sad story ; can't they do anything for him ?' and 
 she pursued her researches into the heart of the rose. 
 
 ' I believe he's quarrelled with them,' said Shelton ; ' I 
 haven't liked to press him about that.' 
 
 ' No, of course not,' assented Mrs. Dennant absently — 
 she had found another green-fly — ' I always think it's 
 painful when a young man seems to be so friendless.' 
 
 Shelton was silent ; he was thinking deeply. Oddly 
 enough, he had never before felt so distrustful of 
 Ferrand. 
 
 ' I think,' he said at last, ' the best thing would be for 
 you to see him yourself.' 
 
 ' An excellent suggestion,' said Mrs. Dennant. ' I 
 should be so glad if you would tell him to come up. I 
 must say I do think that was a most touchin' story about 
 Paris. I wonder whether the light's strong enough now 
 for me to photograph this rose.' 
 
 Shelton withdrew and went downstairs. Ferrand 
 was still at breakfast. Antonia stood at the sideboard 
 carving cold beef for him, and in the window sat Thea 
 with her Persian kitten. 
 
 Both girls were following the traveller's movements 
 with an inscrutable curiosity in their blue eyes that sent 
 a shiver down Shelton's spine. To speak truth, he 
 cursed the arrival of the young foreigner, as though 
 somehow it affected his relations with Antonia. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 SUB ROSA 
 
 In the interview, which Shelton had the mixed dehght 
 of watching, between Ferrand and the Honourable Mrs. 
 Dennant, certain definite results were achieved, the 
 most notable of which was the permission accorded to 
 the young foreigner to occupy the room in the left wing 
 on the ground-floor which had formerly been tenanted 
 by John the footman. Shelton was lost in admiration 
 of Ferrand's manner throughout the palaver. The 
 subtle combination of deference and dignity in his voice 
 and attitudes was almost paralyzing; paralyzing, too, 
 the subterranean, as it were, smile on his lips. 
 
 ' A charmin' young man, Dick,' said Mrs. Dennant, 
 when Shelton lingered a moment at the close of the 
 interview with the intention of saying once more that 
 he knew very little about him : ' I shall send a note 
 round to Mrs. Robinson at once. They're rather 
 common, you know — the Robinsons. I think they'll 
 take anyone I recommend.' 
 
 ' I'm sure they will,' said Shelton ; ' that's why I think 
 you ought to know ' 
 
 But Mrs. Dennant's eyes were fixed hare-like and! 
 fervent on something beyond, and, turning, he saw the 
 rQse» whichj in a tall vase on a tall and spindly stool^ 
 
 HI 
 
248 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 seemed to nod condescendingly in the slanting sunshine 
 of the window. She dived her aquiline nose suddenly 
 towards the sighting-glass of her kodak. 
 
 ' The light's perfect now,' she said, in a muffled, 
 ecstatic voice. ' I feel sure that livin' with refined 
 people will do wonders for him. Of course, he under- 
 stands that his meals will be served apart.' 
 
 Shelton, who could no longer leave Ferrand at loose 
 ends upon the door-mat, retired. He was doubly 
 uneasy now that his efforts had succeeded in lodging 
 Ferrand in a position of trust, but fell back on his 
 faculty of believing the best of people ; and an instinct 
 assured him that, vagabond as the young foreigner was, 
 he had a large outlook, a curious self-respect, that would 
 always save him from the meaner sorts of ingratitude. 
 
 In fact, as Mrs. Dennant, who was by no means 
 devoid of practical sense, foresaw, the arrangement 
 worked very well. Ferrand entered upon his duties 
 as French tutor to the Robinson boys. In the Den- 
 nants' household he kept to his own room, which, day 
 and night, he perfumed with tobacco, emerging at noon 
 into the garden, or, if wet, into the study, to administer 
 a lesson to Toddles. After a time it became customary 
 for him to lunch with the house-party, partly through 
 a mistake of Toddles', who thought apparently that it 
 was natural, and partly through John Noble, one of 
 Shelton's friends, who was staying in the house, and 
 had discovered Ferrand to be a most awfully interesting 
 person — he was always discovering the most awfully 
 interesting persons. In his grave, toneless voice, passing 
 his hand over his brow, he descanted upon Ferrand 
 with an enthusiasm in which was mingled a species of 
 shocked toleration and a spasmodic laugh, as one should 
 
SUB ROSA 249 
 
 say : ' Of course, I know it's excessively odd, but really 
 he's a most awfully interesting person.' Shelton had 
 always held John Noble in affectionate neglect. He 
 was a politician, belonging to that small, kid-gloved 
 Peculiar party, the members of which, thoroughly in 
 earnest, of an honesty above suspicion, and always 
 extremely busy, are yet constitutionally averse to any- 
 thing peculiar for fear of finding that they have over- 
 stepped the limits of practical politics. As such he 
 inspired confidence, possessed a level head, desired 
 salvation — that is, did not care for things unless he saw 
 some practical benefit to be had out of them in this 
 world or the next — had no faculty whatever for leaving 
 things to take care of themselves, a perfect sense of 
 decency, and not enough imagination to cover his 
 thumbnails, which he bit. He got into the habit of 
 discussing all manner of subjects with Ferrand, and 
 on one occasion Shelton overheard them arguing on 
 Anarchism. 
 
 ' No Englishman approves of murder,' John Noble 
 said, in the gloomy voice that contrasted so strangely 
 with the optimistic cast of his fine head, ' but the main 
 principle is all right. Equalization of property is bound 
 to come. I sympathize with them, but not with their 
 methods.' 
 
 ' Forgive me,' struck in Ferrand ; ' do you know any 
 Anarchists ?' 
 
 ' No,' returned Noble ; ' I certainly don't.' 
 
 ' You say that you sympathize with them, but the 
 first time it comes to action ' 
 
 ' Well ?' 
 
 ' Oh, monsieur ! one doesn't make Anarchism with 
 the head.' 
 
250 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 Shelton perceived that he meant to add ' but with 
 the heart, and the lungs, and the Hver.' Taking no 
 interest in Anarchism, he drew a deeper and more 
 general meaning from the saying, and seemed to see, 
 issuing with the discoloured smoke from Ferrand's 
 curhng lips, the words : ' What do you, an English 
 gentleman, of excellent position, and with all the preju- 
 dices of your class, know about us who are outcasts ? 
 If you want to understand us you must be an outcast 
 yourself ; we are not playing at the game.' 
 
 This conversation took place upon the lawn, at the 
 conclusion of one of Toddles' lessons in French, and 
 Shelton left John Noble maintaining to the young 
 foreigner, with his reasonable stubbornness, that Anar- 
 chists and himself had much in common. He was 
 returning to the house, when someone called his name 
 from beneath the holm-oak. There, sitting Turkish 
 fashion on the grass, with a pipe between his teeth, he 
 found a man who had arrived the night before, and 
 impressed him by a taciturnity which, oddly enough, 
 had left an impression of friendly frankness. His name 
 was Whyddon, and someone had said that he was just 
 back from service in Central Africa. He had a brown 
 face and a large jaw, small but good and steady eyes, 
 and a strong, spare figure. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Shelton !' he said, 'I wondered if you could 
 tell me what sort of tips I ought to give the servants 
 here ; after ten years away I'm so out of it.' 
 
 Shelton smiled, and sat down beside him, uncon- 
 sciously also assuming a cross-legged attitude, which he 
 did not find comfortable. 
 
 ' I was listening,' said his new acquaintance, ' to the 
 little chap having his French. lesson> I've forgpttea 
 
SUB ROSA 251 
 
 all mine. One feels a hopeless duffer knowing no 
 languages.' 
 
 ' But I suppose you speak Arabic ?' said Shelton. 
 
 ' Oh, Arabic and a dialect or two ; they don't count.' 
 There was a most attractive simplicity in his voice. 
 Lighting his pipe, he went on : ' That tutor has a strange 
 face.' 
 
 ' Do you think so ?' said Shelton, interested. ' He's 
 had a strange life.' 
 
 Whyddon spread his hands, palms downwards, on the 
 grass, puffed smoke, and looked at Shelton with a smile 
 in his eyes. 
 
 ' I should put him down as a rolling stone,' he said. 
 ' It's an odd thing, I've seen white men in Central Africa 
 with a good deal of his look about them.' 
 
 ' That's very good diagnosis,' said Shelton, surprised, 
 ' as I happen to know.' 
 
 ' I'm always sorry for those fellows,' continued 
 Whyddon ; ' there's generally some good in them. 
 They are their own enemies. A bad business to be 
 unable to take pride 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 into words. Is it incurable ?' 
 
 'I think so,' returned Whyddon. 
 
 ' Do you understand why ?' 
 
 Whyddon pondered. 
 
 ' I rather think,' he said at last, ' it must be because 
 they have too much critical faculty. You can't teach a 
 man, I think, to be proud of his work ; that lies in his 
 blood ;' and, taking his pipe from his mouth, he folded his 
 arms across his breast and heaved a sigh. He looked 
 statuesque sitting there under the dark foliage, with his 
 
252 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 eyes on the bright sunshine outside — like a type of all 
 those Englishmen who wear out their bodies in the 
 dark places of hard work, keeping their souls burnished 
 with a splendid optimism. ' You can't think,' he said, 
 straightening his neck and showing his teeth in a smile, 
 ' how delightful it is to be at home ! You learn to love 
 the old country by being away from it.' 
 
 Shelton suddenly conceived for him a feeling of warm 
 liking and admiration, and after his departure, which 
 occurred on the following day, he often thought of his 
 brown face with the look of settled daring which was 
 bitten deep into it, and its sympathetic taciturnity. He 
 often thought, too, of his diagnosis of Ferrand, for he was 
 always stumbling on instances of that power of subtle 
 criticism which was the young foreigner's prime claim 
 to be considered ' a most awfully interesting ' and perhaps 
 rather shocking person. 
 
 There was an old schoolfellow of Shelton's staying in 
 the house whose wife was with him, and together they 
 provided a picture of complete and harmonious domestic 
 vacuity. Passionless, smiling, good, it was impossible 
 to imagine a difference arising bet\veen them. Shelton, 
 whose bedroom was next to theirs, could just hear 
 them in the mornings talking in exactly the tones they 
 used at lunch, and laughing with exactly the same laughs. 
 Their life seemed to accord them perfect satisfaction ; 
 they were supplied with their convictions by Society 
 just as, when at home, they were supplied with all the 
 other necessaries of life by the Army and Navy Stores. 
 Their fairly good-looking faces, with the fairly kind 
 expressions, quickly and carefully regulated by a due 
 and paramount sense of compromise, became so dis- 
 tasteful to him that when compelled to be in the same 
 
SUB ROSA 253 
 
 room he would even read to get away from the necessity 
 of looking at them. And yet they were kind — that is, 
 fairly kind, with an unoriginal kindness — and clean and 
 quiet in the house, except when they laughed, which 
 was often, and at things which made him want to howl, 
 as a dog howls at music. 
 
 ' Mr. Shelton,' said Ferrand one day, meeting him in 
 the road to the village, ' I'm not an amateur of marriage 
 — never had the chance, as you may suppose; but in any 
 case, you have some people in the house who would 
 make me mark time before I committed it. They seem 
 the ideal young married people — don't quarrel, have 
 perfect health, agree with everybody, go to church, and 
 have children — but I should very much like to be told 
 what is beautiful in their life. On the contrary ' — and 
 he contorted his mouth in a grimace — ' it seems to me 
 so ugly that I can only gasp. I would much rather 
 they ill-treated each other, just to show they had the 
 corner of a soul. If that is marriage, Dieu m'en garde !' 
 
 But Shelton did not reply ; he was thinking too 
 deeply. 
 
 The saying of John Noble's, ' He's really a most 
 awfully interesting person,' daily grew to be more on his 
 nerves, for it seemed to sum up an indescribable some- 
 thing in the attitude of all the Dennant family towards 
 the stranger within their gates. They treated him with 
 a sort of superior wonder on the ' don't touch ' system, 
 Hke an object in an exhibition. The restoration, how- 
 ever, of his self-respect proceeded with success. It is 
 true that the semblance of having outgrown Shelton's 
 clothes, his detached air, his vividly burnt face, and the 
 quick but carefully checked play of cynicism upon his 
 lips, introduced a suggestion of danger into the family 
 
254 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 circle ; but, on the whole, he did much credit to his 
 patrons. He had subdued his terror of using a razor, 
 and looked particularly well in a suit of Shelton's 
 flannels. After all, he had only been eight years exiled 
 from the frac and other implements of, at all events 
 middle-class, gentihty, and part of that time he had 
 been a waiter. None the less, Shelton wished him at 
 the devil. Not because of his manners — for he was 
 never tired of watching the subtlety with which the 
 young foreigner adapted himself to the point of view of 
 his hosts, while preserving always the flavour of non- 
 acceptance which distilled from his every movement — 
 but because that very non-acceptance, that very 
 subtlety, were constant spurs to his own vision, in- 
 ducing him to dissect the life into which he had been 
 born and was about to marry. The process was uncom- 
 fortable. He asked himself when it had commenced, 
 and he had to go back to the first moment of his 
 meeting with Ferrand on the journey from Dover to 
 London. 
 
 There was certainly kindness in a hospitality which 
 opened its doors to so strange a bird, but once he had 
 admitted the kindness, Shelton fell to analyzing it. 
 Surely to himself, to people of his class, the use of 
 kindness was a luxury, significant of no sacrifice, and 
 productive of a pleasant feeling in the heart, such 
 as massage will set up in the calves of the legs. 
 ' Besides,' he thought, ' everybody is kind. The 
 question is : What understanding is there, what real 
 sympathy ?' The attempt to solve this problem gave 
 him much food for thought. 
 
 The improvement which Mrs. Dennant not un- 
 frequently commented on, the triumphant conquest of 
 
SUB ROSA 255 
 
 his position by Ferrand, merely seemed to Shelton 
 signs that he was making the most of his sudden fall 
 into green pastures; under similar circumstances, 
 Shelton reflected, he himself would have done the same. 
 All this in the young foreigner he felt to be a con- 
 venient bow to property, and he had more respect for 
 the sarcastic smile which he suspected Ferrand to be 
 wearing at heart. 
 
 It was not long before a gradual yet sure change 
 came over the spirit of the situation, and more and 
 more Shelton grew conscious of a quaint uneasiness in 
 the very breathing of the household. 
 
 ' Curious fellow you've got hold of there, Shelton,' 
 said Mr. Dennant to him one day during a game of 
 croquet; ' he'll never do any good for himself, I'm afraid.' 
 ' In one sense I'm afraid not,' admitted Shelton. 
 ' Do you know his story ? I will bet you sixpence ' — 
 and Mr. Dennant paused to swing his mallet with 
 proper accuracy — 'that he's been in prison.' 
 ' Prison !' ejaculated Shelton. 
 
 ' I think,' said Mr. Dennant, with bent knees care- 
 fully measuring for his next shot, ' that you ought to 
 make inquiries — ah! missed it ! Awkward these hoops!' 
 he cocked a judicial eye at the hoop — ' one must draw 
 the line somewhere.' 
 
 ' I never could draw,' returned Shelton, nettled and 
 uneasy ; ' but I quite understand — I'll give him a 
 hint to go.' 
 
 ' Don't,' said Mr. Dennant, moving after his second 
 ball, which Shelton had despatched to the farther end 
 of the ground, ' be offended, my dear Shelton, and by 
 no means give him a hint ; he interests me very much — 
 a very nice quiet young fellow.' 
 
256 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 That this was not his private opinion Shelton in- 
 ferred from a study of Mr. Dennant's manner whenever 
 he found himself in the presence of his vagabond guest. 
 Underlying the well-bred banter of the tranquil voice, 
 the quiescent and quizzical mask of the pale brown face, 
 could be detected a throb of uneasiness, a suspicion that 
 he, Algernon Cuffe Dennant, J. P., accustomed to laugh 
 at other people, was being laughed at. What more 
 natural than that he should grope for the reason of 
 such a phenomenon ! A nondescript foreigner was 
 affecting the nerves of an English Justice of the Peace 
 — no small tribute to the biting and intrusive flavour of 
 Ferrand's personality. The latter would sit silent 
 throughout a lunch, and yet make what the novelists 
 call ' an effect.' He, the object of their kindness, 
 curiosity, education, and patronage, inspired — fear. 
 There was no longer any doubt ; it was'not of Ferrand 
 they were afraid, but of the ' unintelligible ' in him ; of 
 some horrid subtlety passing through the brain under 
 that long, straight, wet-looking hair; of something 
 bizarre and unconventional suddenly popping out from 
 the curving lips below that thin, lopsided nose. 
 
 But to Shelton in this, as in everything else, Antonia 
 was the crux of the matter. At first anxious to show 
 her faith in her lover, she seemed unable to do enough 
 for the young foreigner, as though she had set her 
 heart on his salvation ; but in watching her eyes when 
 they rested on Ferrand, Shelton was perpetually re- 
 minded of her remark on the first day of his visit to 
 Holm Oaks : ' I suppose he's really good — I mean all 
 those things you told me about were only. ..." 
 
 Curiosity never left her glance, nor that story of 
 his four days' starvation her mind ; a sentimental 
 
SUB ROSA 257 
 
 picturesqueness clung about that incident many times 
 more valuable than the mere human being with whom 
 she had so strangely come into contact. There was 
 tragedy in the way she watched Ferrand and in the way 
 Shelton watched her. If he had been told that he was 
 watching her, he would have denied it in good faith ; 
 but, as a matter of fact, it was too grimly interesting to 
 him to find out with what eyes she viewed this visitor 
 who embodied all the rebellious under-side of life, all 
 that was absent in herself, and he was bound to watch 
 her. 
 
 ' Dick,' she said to him one day, ' you never talk to 
 me about Monsieur Ferrand.' 
 
 ' Do you want to talk about him ?' replied Shelton. 
 
 ' Don't you think he's improved ?' 
 
 ' He's fatter.' 
 
 Antonia looked grave. 
 
 ' No, but really improved ?' 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Shelton ; ' I can't judge him.' 
 
 Antonia plucked at the edge of her blouse ; her face 
 was averted, but something in her attitude alarmed him. 
 
 ' He was once a sort of gentleman,' she said suddenly ; 
 ' why shouldn't he become one again ?' 
 
 Sitting on the low wall of the fruit garden, her head 
 was framed, as in an old ItaHan picture, by a halo of 
 golden plums. The light, low in the west, lay barred 
 behind the dense foliage of the holm-oak, but a little 
 patch filtering through a gap had rested in the heart of 
 the plum-tree Hke a crown to the girl's long-hmbed 
 figure, and the hues of her raiment, with the dark of 
 the leaves, the red of the wall, the gold of the plums, 
 and the passionate passing glow, were woven into a 
 deep block of pagan colour, whence her face was dis- 
 
 17 
 
258 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 engaged, meeting the eye, chaste and serene with its 
 steadfast profile, in the deep, sweet scentlessness of the 
 summer evening. A bird amongst the currant-bushes 
 kept a sensuous chant vibrating through the tree, till 
 all its shape and colour seemed alive. 
 
 ' Perhaps he doesn't want to become a gentleman,' 
 said Shelton. 
 
 Antonia swung her foot impatiently. 
 
 ' How can he help wanting to ?' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' He may have a different philosophy of life.' 
 
 Antonia was slow to answer this. 
 
 ' I don't know anything about philosophies of life,' 
 she said at last. 
 
 ' Well,' he answered coldly, ' everyone has a different 
 philosophy of life.' 
 
 With the falling sun-glow the charm had passed off 
 the tree. Chilled and harder, yet less deep, it was no 
 longer a block of woven colour, old and soft and im- 
 passive, like the careless warmth of a goddess ; it was 
 now only a northern tree, with a gray light through the 
 green of its leaves — the gray, cool light of Antonia's eyes. 
 
 ' I don't in the least understand,' she said ; ' everyone 
 wants to be good.' 
 
 ' And safe ?' queried Shelton gently. 
 
 Antonia stared. 
 
 ' Suppose,' he said — 'I don't pretend to know him; 
 I only say suppose — what Ferrand really cares for is 
 doing things differently from other people ? If you were 
 to load him with a character and give him plenty of 
 money on condition that he acted as we all act, do 
 you think he would observe your condition ?' 
 
 ' Why not ?' 
 
 ' Ah ! why isn't a cat a dog, or a pagan a Christian ?' 
 
SUB ROSA 259 
 
 Antonia slid from the wall. 
 
 ' You don't seem to think there's any use in trying,' 
 she said, turning away. 
 
 Shelton made a movement as if he would go after 
 her, and then stood still, watching her figure slowly 
 pass beside the wall, her head outlined in the sober 
 light above it, and her hands turned back on her narrow 
 hips. She halted a moment at the bend and looked 
 behind her; then, with an impatient gesture, disap- 
 peared. Antonia was slipping away from him. 
 
 A glimpse from a point outside himself would have 
 shown him that it was he who was moving, and she 
 standing still, like the figure of one standing by a 
 stream watching its inevitable passage with clear, 
 direct, and sullen eyes. 
 
 17 — a 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 One day towards the end of August Shelton took 
 Antonia alone upon the river — the river that, Hke soft 
 music, balances and soothes the land, where the reeds 
 and poplars, the silver swan-sails, sun and moon, 
 woods, and the white slumbrous clouds, have conspired 
 a poem ; where cuckoos, the wind, pigeons, and the 
 weirs are always singing or tuning for a song, and in 
 the flash of a naked body, the play of water-lily leaves, 
 queer goblin stumps, and the twilight face of Pan 
 through twisted tree-roots, shines the whole free world 
 that never existed, yet always will exist. 
 
 The reach down which Shelton paddled was innocent 
 of launches, champagne bottles, and loud laughter ; it 
 was an uncivilized reach, and seldom troubled by such 
 humanizing influences. He paddled slowly, silent and 
 absorbed, watching Antonia. An unaccustomed languor 
 clung about her ; her eyes had shadows, as though she 
 had not slept ; the colour glowed soft in her cheeks, 
 and the stuff of her white frock seemed alight with 
 golden radiance. She made Shelton pull into the reeds, 
 and plucked two of the rounded lilies saihng like ships 
 against the slow-moving water. On her lap in their 
 white and golden insularity they seemed emblems of the 
 spirit that hovered round her. 
 
 260 
 
THE RIVER 261 
 
 ' Pull into the shade, Dick,' she said ; 'it's too hot out 
 here.' 
 
 The brim of her linen hat kept the sun from her face, 
 but her head was drooping like the head of a flower at 
 noon. 
 
 Shelton saw that the heat really affected her, as too 
 hot a day will dim the clear iciness of a northern plant. 
 His sculls started ripples that leaped from the stroke, 
 and swam in grave diminuendo till they touched the 
 banks. 
 
 He shot the boat into a bushy cleft, and, shipping his 
 sculls, caught the branch of an overhanging tree. The 
 skiff, with a mutinous vibration, rested motionless, save 
 for the stir of balancing movement which gives to a boat 
 its likeness to a living thing. 
 
 ' I should hate to live in London,' said Antonia 
 suddenly ; ' the slums must be so awful. What a pity, 
 when there are places like this ! But it's no 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 went there one day with Miss True- 
 cote. The people won't help themselves. It's so 
 discouraging to help people who won't help them- 
 selves.' 
 
 She was leaning her elbows on her knees, and, with 
 her chin resting on her hands, gazed up at Shelton. 
 All around them hung a tent of green, thick and soft, 
 and below swam a mirror of water, dyed to its very 
 depth with green refraction. Willow boughs swaying 
 out over the boat caressed Antonia's arms and shoulders ; 
 her face and hair alone were free, and, hke those of an 
 
262 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 island spirit, ruled their environment, content, and 
 chaste, and unsubdued. 
 
 ' So discouraging,' she repeated. 
 
 ' It's all a mystery,' said Shelton. 
 
 Antonia neither spoke nor moved ; a silence, close as 
 the thicket of the leaves, enveloped them ; she seemed 
 thinking deeply. 
 
 ' Doubts don't help you,' she said suddenly ; ' how 
 can you get any good out of them ? The only thing is 
 to win victories.' 
 
 'Victories?' said Shelton. 'I'd rather understand 
 things and let them slide.' 
 
 He had risen to his feet, his brown fist grasping a 
 stunted branch, and canting the boat's nose deeper into 
 the bank. 
 
 ' How can you say that, Dick ? Let things slide ! It's 
 like Monsieur Ferrand.' 
 
 ' Have you such a bad opinion of him ?' asked Shelton. 
 He felt on the verge of some discovery. 
 
 Antonia thrust her chin deeper into her hands ; there 
 was the impatience in the movement that comes before 
 an attempt to free the mind. 
 
 'I hked him at first,' she said; 'I thought he 
 was different. I thought he couldn't really be ' 
 
 ' Really be what ?' asked Shelton eagerly. 
 
 But Antonia did not answer. 
 
 ' I don't know,' she said at last. ' I can't explain 
 what I mean. I thought ' 
 
 Shelton still stood holding the branch, and the oscilla- 
 tion of the boat freed a constant infinity of tiny ripples 
 that glided over the green mirage under the branches 
 towards the flowing water outside. I n spite of an instinct 
 to keep silence, he asked : 
 
THE RIVER 263 
 
 ' You thought— what ?' 
 
 He ought to have seen something pathetic in her 
 face as she looked up at him ; it had grown younger, 
 more childish, even timid. She said in a voice smooth 
 and round and young, as if touchingly she were liber- 
 ating her soul : 
 
 ' You know, Dick, I do think we ought to try. I 
 know I don't try half hard enough. It doesn't do any 
 good thinking ; when you think, everything seems so 
 mixed, as if there were nothing to lay hold of. I do so 
 hate to feel like that. It isn't as if we didn't know what 
 was right. Sometimes I think, and think, and it's all 
 no good, only a waste of time, and you feel at the end 
 as if you had been doing wrong.' 
 
 Shelton frowned. 
 
 ' What hasn't been through fire is no good,' he said 
 dully, and, letting go the branch, he sat down. The 
 boat, freed from restraint, edged out towards the cur- 
 rent. ' But what about Ferrand ?' 
 
 ' I lay awake last night wondering what it is makes 
 you like him? He is so bitter; he makes me feel 
 unhappy. He never seems contented 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 drifted along the bank, and gleams of sun- 
 light chased over their faces. Antonia went on : 
 
 * He seems to be always looking at dark things, or 
 else he looks as if— as if he could— enjoy himself too 
 much. I thought— I thought at first,' she stammered, 
 ' that we could do him good.' 
 
 ' Do him good ! Ha, ha !' 
 
 His laughter startled a rat that shot into the water, 
 
264 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 and went swimming for its life against the stream ; and 
 he suddenly saw that he had done what he should not 
 have done — had done an unpardonable thing : let her 
 with a jerk into a secret hitherto unacknowledged even 
 by himself — the secret that her eyes were not his, her 
 way of looking at things not his way of looking at them, 
 nor ever would be. He quickly muffled his laughter. 
 After one look Antonia had dropped her eyes ; her 
 figure had regained its indifferent languor, but the bosom 
 of her dress heaved, as though she were moved. Shelton 
 watched her, racking his brains to explain away that 
 fatal laugh, but he could not. It was one of those 
 clear brutalities that come from the heart, a little piece 
 of truth, and, as such, indelible. He paddled slowly on, 
 close to the bank, in one of the long silences of the river. 
 
 The breeze had died away, not a fish was rising, 
 and but for the lost music of the larks no birds were 
 piping ; alone, a single pigeon at brief intervals cooed 
 complacently from a 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 upon Ferrand in his 
 pince-nez, holding a cigarette between his fingers and 
 talking to a tramp, who was squatting on the bank and 
 also smoking a cigarette. The young foreigner recog- 
 nised them, and at once removed his hat. 
 
 ' There he is,' muttered Shelton, acknowledging the 
 salute. 
 
 Antonia bowed. 
 
 ' Oh !' she cried, when they were out of hearing, ' I 
 wish he'd go. I can't bear to see him ; it's like looking 
 at the dark.' 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 ON THE WING 
 
 That night, after he had gone up to his room, Shelton 
 filled his pipe for the unpleasant duty before him. He 
 had made up his mind to tell Ferrand to put an end to 
 his visit. He was still debating whether he should 
 write or go down to the young foreigner's room, when 
 there came a knock at the door, and the latter himself 
 appeared. 
 
 ' I should be sorry,' said Ferrand, breaking an awk- 
 ward silence, ' if you were to think me ungrateful, but I 
 don't see any future for me here. It would be better 
 for me to go. I should never be content to pass my 
 life teaching languages — ce n'estguere dans mon caractere.' 
 
 As soon as what he had been cudgelling his brains to 
 find a way of saying had thus been said for him, Shelton 
 experienced a sense of disapproval. 
 
 ' What do you expect to get that's better ?' said he 
 brutally, and avoiding the young foreigner's eyes. 
 
 ' Thanks to your kindness,' replied the latter, ' I find 
 myself restored, and feel that I ought to make some 
 good efforts to dominate my social position.' 
 
 ' 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 any courage languages are not 
 
 265 
 
266 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 a career ; and, though I've many defects, I still have 
 courage.' 
 
 Shelton put his pipe down in silence. The belief of 
 Ferrand in his career was pathetic ; it was not an 
 assumed belief, but neither was it, he felt, the true 
 motive of his departure. ' He's tired,' he thought ; 
 'that's it. He wants to be off.' And having the in- 
 stinctive conviction that nothing would keep Ferrand, 
 he redoubled his cautions. 
 
 ' I should have thought,' said he, ' that you would 
 have done better to have held on and saved a little 
 before going off to goodness knows where.' 
 
 'I've never been able to save,' replied Ferrand — 'that's 
 impossible for me — but, thanks to you and your good 
 friends, I've enough to make front to the first necessi- 
 ties. I'm in correspondence with a friend; it's of great 
 importance for me to reach Paris before all the world 
 returns. I've a chance to get a post in one of the West 
 African companies. One makes fortunes out there — 
 if one survives, and, as you know, I don't set much 
 store by my life.' 
 
 ' We have a proverb,' said Shelton : ' " A bird in the 
 hand is worth two in the bush !" ' 
 
 ' Like all proverbs,' returned Ferrand, ' that's a half- 
 truth. All these things are an affair of temperament. 
 It's not in my character to dandle one when I see two 
 waiting to be caught ; voyager, apprendre, c'est phis fort 
 que moi.' He paused, then, with a nervous goggle of the 
 eyes and an ironical smile, continued : ' Besides, my 
 dear Monsieur Shelton, it will be better for me to go. 
 I have never been one to rock myself with illusions, and 
 I see pretty clearly that my presence is hardly accept- 
 able in this house.' 
 
ON THE WING 267 
 
 ' What makes you say that ?' asked Shelton, feeling 
 that the murder was out. 
 
 ' My dear sir, all the world has not your understand- 
 ing and absence of prejudice, and though your friends 
 have been so extremely kind to me, I am in a false 
 position ; I cause them embarrassment, which is not 
 extraordinary when you reflect what I have been, and 
 that they know my history.' 
 
 ' Not through me,' said Shelton quickly, ' for I don't 
 know it myself.' 
 
 ' It's enough,' said the young foreigner, ' that they 
 feel I'm not a bird of their feather. They cannot 
 change, and I cannot change either ; I have never 
 wanted to remain where I'm not welcome.' 
 
 Shelton turned to the window, and, leaning his chin 
 on his hands, stared out into the darkness ; he would 
 never quite fathom this singular compound of delicacy 
 and cynicism, and he wondered whether or no Ferrand 
 had smothered the words : ' Why, even you won'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 in the morning. I think 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 wish.' 
 
 ' Then,' said Shelton, with a curious rush of relief, 
 and regret, and goodwill, ' I shan't see you again ?' 
 
 Ferrand passed his hand stealthily down his trousers 
 and held it out. 
 
 ' I shall never forget what you have done for me,' he 
 said. 
 
 ' Mind^you write,' said Shelton. 
 
268 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Yes, yes '—the young foreigner's face was oddly con- 
 torted — ' you don't know what a difference it makes to 
 have' a correspondent ; it gives one courage. I hope to 
 remain a long time in correspondence with you.' 
 
 ' I dare say you do,' thought Shelton grimly, but with 
 a certain queer emotion. 
 
 ' You will do me the justice to remember that I have 
 never asked you for anything,' said Ferrand. ' Thank 
 you a thousand times. Good-bye !' 
 
 He again wrung Shelton's hand in his damp grasp, 
 and, going out, left Shelton with a lump in his throat. 
 ' You will do me the justice to remember that I have 
 never asked you for anything.' The phrase exercised a 
 stupefying effect on him, and his mind flew back over 
 all his relations with the young foreigner. It was a 
 fact : from beginning to end he had never actually 
 asked Shelton for anything. Amazing ! He turned 
 away from the door, and, sitting on his bed, began to 
 read the letter Ferrand had left in his hand. It was 
 written, as usual, in French. 
 
 ' Dear Madame (it ran), 
 
 ' It will be insupportable to me, after your kind- 
 ness, if you take me for ungrateful. Unfortunately, a 
 crisis has arisen which plunges me into the necessity 
 of leaving your hospitality. In all lives, as you are 
 doubtless aware, there arise circumstances that one 
 cannot control, and I know you will pardon me that I 
 enter into no explanation on an event which gives me 
 great chagrin, and, above all, renders me subject to an 
 imputation of ingratitude, which, believe me, dear 
 Madame, by no means lies in my character. I know 
 well enough that it is a breach of politeness to leave 
 
ON THE WING 269 
 
 you without in person conveying the expression of my 
 profound reconnaissance, but if you consider how hard 
 it is for me to be compelled to abandon all that is so 
 distinguished in the domestic life, you will forgive my 
 weakness. People like me, who have gone through 
 existence with their eyes open, have been obliged to 
 remark that those who are endowed with riches have a 
 right to look down on such as are not by wealth and 
 breeding fitted to occupy the same position. I shall never 
 dispute a right so natural and salutary, seeing that with- 
 out this distinction, this superiority, which makes of the 
 well-born and the well-bred a race apart, the rest of the 
 world would have no standard by which to rule their 
 lives, no anchor to throw into the depths of that vast 
 sea of fortune and misfortune in which we others drive 
 before the wind. It is because of this, dear Madame, 
 that I regard myself so doubly fortunate to have been 
 able for a few minutes in this bitter pilgrimage called 
 life to sit beneath the tree of security. To have been 
 able, if only for an hour, to sit and see the pilgrims pass, 
 all the pilgrims with blistered feet and ragged garments, 
 and who yet, dear Madame, guard in their hearts a 
 certain joy in life, an illegitimate joy, unknown in 
 houses, like the desert air which travellers tell you fills 
 men as with wine — to be able thus to sit for an hour, 
 and with a complacent smile to watch them pass, lame 
 and blind, in all the rags of their deserved misfortunes, 
 can you not conceive, dear Madame, how that must be 
 for such as me a great pleasure ? Whatever one may 
 say, it is always sweet, from a position of security, to 
 watch the sufferings of others; it gives one a good 
 sensation in the heart. 
 
 ' In writing this, I remember that I myself once had 
 
270 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 the chance of passing all my life in this enviable security, 
 and as you may imagine, dear Madame, I curse myself 
 that I should ever have had the courage to step beyond 
 the boundaries of this fine tranquil existence. Certainly 
 there have been times during my life when I have asked 
 myself: " Is there really any difference between the 
 wealthy and us others, birds of the fields, who have 
 perhaps our own opinions, grown from the pains of 
 being a httle in want of bread, who see that the human 
 heart is not always an affair of figures, or of these good 
 maxims that one finds in copy-books — is there really any 
 difference ?" It is with shame that I confess to have 
 put to myself a question so heretical. But now, when 
 for these three or four weeks I have had the delight of 
 resting under your roof, I see how wrong I was to 
 entertain such doubts. It is a great happiness to me 
 to have decided this point, for it is not in my character 
 to pass through life uncertain — mistaken, perhaps — on 
 psychological matters such as these. No, Madame ; 
 you may rest happily assured that there is a great differ- 
 ence, which in the future will be sacred for me. For, 
 believe me, Madame, it would be a calamity for high 
 Society if by chance there should arise amongst them 
 any unfortunate understanding of all that side of life 
 which, vast as the plains, bitter as the sea, now black 
 as the ashes of a corpse, and sometimes more free than 
 the wings of a bird that flies away, is so justly beyond 
 the conception of their philosophy. Yes, believe me, 
 dear Madame, there is no danger in the world so much 
 to be dreaded as this by all the members of that circle, 
 most illustrious and respectable, which is called high 
 Society. 
 
 ' From what I have said you may imagine how hard 
 
ON THE WING 271 
 
 it is for me to take my flight. I shall always keep for 
 you the most distinguished sentiments. With the ex- 
 pression of my full regard for yourself and your good 
 family, and of a gratitude as sincere as it is badly ex- 
 pressed, 
 
 ' Believe me, dear Madame, 
 ' Your very devoted 
 
 ' Louis Ferrand.' 
 
 On finishing, Shelton's first impulse was to tear the 
 letter up; but he reflected that he had no right to do 
 this, and that Mrs. Dennant's French was orthodox. 
 He felt sure she would never understand the young 
 foreigner's subterranean innuendoes. He closed the 
 envelope and got into bed, still haunted by Ferrand's 
 parting look. 
 
 It was with no small feeling of embarrassment, how- 
 ever, that, having despatched the letter to its destina- 
 tion by an early footman, he made his appearance at 
 the breakfast-table on the following morning. From 
 behind an expensive Viennese coffee-urn, filled with 
 French coffee, Mrs. Dennant, who had just placed four 
 eggs in a German egg-boiler, looked round at him with 
 a kindly smile. 
 
 ' Dick, an egg ?' she said, holding up a fifth. 
 
 ' No, thank you,' replied Shelton, hastily greeting the 
 table and dropping into a seat. 
 
 He was a little late, and the babble of conversation 
 rose hilariously around him. 
 
 ' My dear,' continued Mr. Dennant, who was talking 
 to his youngest daughter, 'you'll have no chance 
 whatever against us — not the least little bit of 
 chance.' 
 
272 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Father, what nonsense ! You know we shall beat 
 your heads off!' 
 
 ' Before it's too late, then, I will eat a muffin. 
 Shelton, pass the muffins, that's a good fellow !' But 
 in making this request Mr. Dennant avoided his 
 guest's eye. 
 
 Shelton glanced at Antonia ; she, too, seemed to 
 avoid looking at him. She was talking to an Authority 
 on Art about supernatural appearances, and seemed in 
 the highest spirits. He rose, and, going to the side- 
 board, helped himself to cold grouse. 
 
 ' Who was the young man I saw yesterday on the 
 lawn ?' he heard the Authority on Art ask as he came 
 back to his place. ' He struck me as having an — er— 
 quite intelligent face.' 
 
 His own quite intelligent face, raised at a slight slant 
 so as to look with greater accuracy through his gold 
 nose-nippers, was the very pattern of ironical approval. 
 ' It's a curious thing how often one meets with inteUi- 
 gence,' it seemed to say. 
 
 Mrs. Dennant paused in the act of adding cream to 
 his cup, and Shelton fixed his eyes on her face ; its hare- 
 like superiority was unchanged. Thank goodness she 
 had smelt no rat in the letter ! He felt strangely dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 ' Oh, do you mean Monsieur Ferrand,' she said, 
 ' teachin' Toddles French ? Dobson, Professor Brayne's 
 
 cup.' 
 
 ' I hope I shall see him again,' cooed the Authority ; 
 ' he was quite interesting on the subject of young 
 German working men. It seems they tramp from place 
 to place to learn their trades. What nationality was he, 
 if I may ask ?' 
 
ON THE WING 273 
 
 Mr. Dennant, at whom this question was aimed, lifted 
 his quizzical brows, and said : 
 
 ' Ask Shelton.' 
 
 ' Half Dutch, half French,' muttered the latter. 
 
 ' Very interesting combination ; I hope I shall see 
 him again.' 
 
 • Well, you won't,' said Thea suddenly from her seat 
 next her father ; ' he's gone.' 
 
 Shelton saw that good breeding — good breeding 
 which was partly good breeding and partly superiority 
 to the consciousness of having feelings at all — alone 
 prevented them all from saying : ' Thank goodness !' 
 
 ' Gone ? Dear me ! it's very ' 
 
 ' Yes,' murmured Mr. Dennant, ' it's very sudden.' 
 
 ' Now, Algie,' said Mrs. Dennant, ' it's quite a charmin' 
 letter he wrote me.' 
 
 ' Oh, mother !' cried Antonia. 
 
 And Shelton felt his face go crimson. He had 
 suddenly remembered that her French was better than 
 her mother's. 
 
 ' He seems to have had some singular experiences,' 
 said the Authority on Art. 
 
 'Yes,' echoed Mr. Dennant ; 'he's had some singular 
 experiences. If you want to know all the details. 
 Professor, ask our friend Shelton ; it's quite a romance. 
 In the meantime, my dear, may I have another cup ?' 
 
 The Authority on Art, who was not devoid of a certain 
 absent-minded malice, spurred his curiosity to a further 
 effort, and, turning his well-defended eyes on Shelton, 
 murmured : 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Shelton, you are the historian, it seems.' 
 
 ' There is no history,' said Shelton, without look- 
 ing up. 
 
 18 
 
274 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Ah, that's very dull,' cooed the Authority on Art. 
 ' 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 
 full of malicious curiosity. Something within him flamed 
 
 up. ' I hate your d d superiority !' thought he, 
 
 staring the Authority on Art in the face. 
 
 'There's nothing,' said that gentleman, ' more interest- 
 ing than starvation. Come, Mr. Shelton.' 
 
 ' I can't tell stories,' said Shelton ; ' never could.' 
 
 At that moment he cared not a straw for Ferrand, his 
 coming, his going, or his history. His heart felt like 
 lead. 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE LADY FROM BEYOND 
 
 The morning was sultry, a brooding, steamy morning. 
 Antonia had gone to her music, and from the room 
 where Shelton endeavoured to fix his attention on a 
 book he could hear her practising scales with a cold 
 fury that had the power of casting additional dejection 
 on his spirit. He did not see her till lunch, and then 
 she again sat next to the Authority on Art. Her cheeks 
 were pale, there was something feverish in the way she 
 chattered to her neighbour, but she still refused to look 
 at Shelton. He felt very miserable. After lunch, when 
 most of the party had left the table, an uncanny pre- 
 lude occurred to an incident which befell later. 
 
 There had been a discussion upon the advantages of 
 having neighbours in the country. 
 
 ' Of course,' said Mrs. Dennant, ' there are the 
 Foliots ; but then nobody calls on them.' 
 
 'Ah!' murmured the Authority, 'the Foliots — the 
 Foliots — the people — er — who — quite so !' 
 
 ' It's really distressin', she looks so sweet ridin' 
 about. Many people with worse stories get called 
 upon,' continued Mrs. Dennant, with that large frank- 
 ness of intrusion upon doubtful subjects which may 
 always be made by the best people in a certain way : 
 
 275 18—2 
 
276 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' But, after all, one couldn't ask them to meet any- 
 body.' 
 
 ' Exactly,' assented the Authority. ' I used to know 
 Foliot. A thousand pities. They say she was a very 
 pretty woman.' 
 
 ' Oh, not pretty!' said Mrs. Dennant — ' more interest- 
 in' lookin', I should say.' 
 
 Shelton, who remembered the lady in question, 
 noticed that they spoke of her in the past tense. He 
 did not look at Antonia ; for though troubled at her 
 presence while such a subject was being discussed, he 
 hated his conviction that her face was as unruffled as 
 though the Foliots had been a separate species. There 
 was, in fact, a faint curiosity about her eyes, a faint 
 impatience about her lips ; she was rolling little crumbs 
 of bread, and suddenly yawning, she muttered some- 
 thing, and rose. Shelton intercepted her at the door. 
 
 ' Where are you going ?' he asked. 
 
 ' For a walk.' 
 
 ' Mayn't I come ?' 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 ' I'm going to take Toddles.' 
 
 Shelton held the door open for her, and returned to 
 his seat at the table. 
 
 ' Yes,' said the Authority, sipping his sherry, ' I'm 
 afraid it's all up with young Foliot.' 
 
 ' Such a pity !' murmured Mrs. Dennant, and her 
 kindly face looked disturbed. ' I've known him ever 
 since he was a boy. Of course, I think he made a great 
 mistake to bring her down here. Not even bein' able 
 to get married makes it so doubly awkward. Oh, I 
 think he made a great mistake.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said the Authority, ' but d'you suppose that 
 
THE LADY FROM BEYOND 277 
 
 makes much difference ? Even if What's-his-name gave 
 her a divorce, I don't think, you know, that ' 
 
 ' Oh, it does make a difference ! So many people 
 would be inclined to look over it in time. But as it is 
 it's quite hopeless. It's so very awkward for people, 
 too, meetin' them about. The Telfords and the 
 Butterwicks — by the way, they're comin' to dinner to- 
 night — live quite near them, you know.' 
 
 ' Did you ever meet her before — er — before — the 
 flood ?' asked the Authority ; his lips parting and un- 
 expectedly revealing his teeth gave him a shadowy — 
 ever so shadowy — resemblance to a goat. 
 
 ' Yes ; I |did ^meet her once at the Branksomes'. I 
 thought her quite a charmin' person.' 
 
 ' Poor fellow !' said the Authority vaguely ; ' they tell 
 me he was going to have taken the hounds.' 
 
 ' And there are those delightful coverts of his. Algie 
 often used to shoot there, and now they say he just has 
 his brother to shoot with him. Oh, it's really too 
 melancholy ! Did you know him, Dick ?' 
 
 ' Foliot?' replied Shelton absently. ' No; I never met 
 him. I've seen her, of course, once or twice at Ascot.' 
 
 Through the window he had caught sight of Antonia 
 in her scarlet tam-o'-shanter, swinging her stick, and 
 he got up with an appearance of unconcern, and went 
 to the window. Just then Toddles came running out 
 of the house, and bounded up against his sister. They 
 went off arm in arm. Shelton saw that she knew he 
 was at the window, yet she gave him no friendly glance ; 
 he felt more than ever miserable. He threw open the 
 French window and stepped out upon the drive ; there 
 was something lurid and gloomy in the upper air ; the 
 elms had a heavy blackness of outline, still and distinct ; 
 
278 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 the wonted rustle of the aspen-tree was gone, and even 
 the rooks were silent. A store of undischarged elec- 
 tricity lay heavy on the heart of Nature. He paced 
 slowly up and down, his pride forbidding him to go to 
 the gate and look after her, and presently sat down on 
 a stone seat under the house fronting the road. He 
 remained there a long while staring up at the elms, 
 asking himself what he had done and what he ought to 
 do. And somehow he was afraid. A sense of loneli- 
 ness was upon him, so real and painful that he shivered 
 in the sweltering heat. He was there, perhaps, an hour, 
 quite alone, and without seeing a soul pass along the 
 road, when there came the sound of a horse's hoofs, 
 and at the same moment he heard a motor-car 
 approaching from the opposite direction. The eques- 
 trian made her appearance first, riding a gray horse 
 with the high-set tail of an Arab. She was holding 
 him with difficulty, for the whirr of the approaching 
 car grew momentarily louder. Shelton rose from the 
 bench ; the car flashed by. He saw the horse stagger 
 and rear in the gateway, crushing, as it seemed, its 
 rider against the gate-post. 
 
 He started to run, but before he reached the gate the 
 lady was on foot, holding the plunging horse by the 
 bridle. 
 
 ' I hope you aren't hurt !' cried Shelton breathlessly, 
 and he, too, made a grab at the bridle : ' Those beastly 
 cars !' 
 
 ' I don't know,' she said. ' Please don't ; he won't let 
 a stranger touch him.' 
 
 Shelton let go, and, standing back, watched her coax 
 the horse to a standstill. She was rather tall, dressed 
 in a gray habit, with a gray Russian-shaped cap upon 
 
THE LADY FROM BEYOND 279 
 
 her head, and he suddenly recognised in her the Mrs. 
 FoHot of whom they had been speaking at lunch. 
 
 ' He'll be quiet now,' she said, ' if you wouldn't mind 
 holding him a minute.' 
 
 She gave him the reins, and leaned against the gate. 
 She was very pale. 
 
 ' I do hope he hasn't hurt you,' said Shelton. He 
 was not more than a couple of yards from her, and well 
 able to see her face — a curious face, with high cheek- 
 bones and a flattish moulding, listless, enigmatic, but 
 with something unexpectedly passionate in its paleness. 
 Her lips, compressed till they were lines of pallor, 
 smiled; pallid, too, were her gray, deep-set eyes with 
 greenish tints ; and, above all, pale was the ashy mass 
 of hair coiled under her gray cap. ' I do hope you're 
 not hurt,' he repeated. 
 
 'Th — thanks!' she said; 'I shall be all right in 
 a minute. Will you lead him into the road ? I'm 
 sorry to have made such a fuss.' 
 
 She continued to bite her lips and smile that 
 travesty of a smile. 
 
 ' I'm sure you're hurt ; do let me go for ' 
 
 stammered Shelton. ' I mean, I can easily get help.' 
 
 ' Help !' she said, with a little hard laugh ; ' oh no, 
 thanks !' 
 
 She turned away from the gate, and crossed the road 
 to where he was holding the horse. Shelton was 
 puzzled; to conceal his embarrassment he looked at 
 the horse's legs, and noticed that the gray was resting 
 one of them. He ran his hand down. 
 
 ' I'm afraid,' he said, ' your horse has knocked his off 
 knee ; it's swelling already.' 
 
 She smiled again. 
 
28o THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 'Then we're both cripples,' she said. 
 
 ' He'll be lame when he gets cold. Wouldn't you like 
 to put him up in the stables here ? I'm sure you ought 
 to drive home.' 
 
 ' No, thanks ; if I'm able to ride him he ought to be 
 able to carry me. Would you give me a hand up ?' 
 
 Her voice sounded harder, as though something had 
 offended her; and rising from his inspection of the 
 horse's leg, Shelton saw Antonia and Toddles close by. 
 They had come through a wicket-gate leading from the 
 fields. 
 
 The latter ran up to him at once. 
 
 ' We saw it,' he whispered — ' a jolly smash-up. Can't 
 I do something ?' 
 
 ' Hold his bridle,' answered Shelton, and he looked 
 from one lady to the other. 
 
 There are moments when faces and expressions fix 
 themselves on the mind with a painful distinctness, and 
 this was one of such moments to Shelton. Those two 
 faces close together, under their respective headgear of 
 scarlet and gray, presented a contrast almost cruelly 
 vivid — a contrast such as is only seen in those phases 
 of Nature where the human being has been at work. 
 Antonia was flushed with the haste she had made ; 
 her eyes had grown deep blue ; the flash of startled 
 uncertainty had passed and left her face interrogative. 
 
 ' Wouldn't you like to come in and wait ? We could 
 send you home in the brougham,' she said. 
 
 The lady called Mrs. Foliot stood with one arm across 
 the crupper of the saddle, biting her hps and still 
 smiling her enigmatic smile, and it was her visage that 
 remained most vividly on Shelton's mind, in its ashy 
 setting of hair, \vith its pallor, and its fixed, scornful eyes. 
 
THE LADY FROM BEYOND 281 
 
 ' Oh no, thanks !' she said ; ' you're very kind.' 
 
 The tone caused a complete change in the young 
 girl's face; the doubt, the confusion, the semi-friendliness, 
 the anxiety in it vanished, and were replaced by a mask 
 of hostility, and this expression seemed to embrace 
 Shelton too. After a long, cold look at them both she 
 turned away. Mrs. Foliot gave a little laugh, and 
 raised her foot for Shelton's assistance. He heard a 
 hiss of pain as he swung her into the saddle, but by 
 the time he stood upright she was smiling again. 
 
 ' Anyway,' he said impatiently, ' let me come and see 
 that you don't break down.' 
 
 ' No,' she answered ; ' it's only two miles. I'm not 
 made of sugar.' 
 
 ' Then I shall simply have to follow.' 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, and fixed a resolute look 
 on him. 
 
 ' Would that boy like to come ?' she asked. 
 
 Toddles left his post at the horse's head. 
 
 ' By Jove !' cried he, ' wouldn't I just !' 
 
 'Then,' she said, ' I think that '11 be best. You've 
 been awfully kind.' 
 
 She bowed, smiled once more her inscrutable smile, 
 touched the gray with her whip, and started with 
 Toddles trotting at her side. 
 
 Shelton was left with Antonia beneath the elms. A 
 puff of tepid air bathed their faces, as though it had 
 fallen from the bushy branches of the trees above, and 
 its breath seemed more than ever a warning of the 
 menace in the heavy purple of the heat clouds; low 
 rumbles of thunder travelled slowly from the horizon. 
 
 ' We're going to have a storm,' he hazarded. 
 
 Antonia nodded. The flush had left her; she was 
 
282 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 nearly as pale as the lady who had ridden away, and 
 her face still wore its look of cold offence. 
 
 ' I've got a headache,' she said. ' I shall go in and 
 lie down,' 
 
 Shelton tried to speak, but he could not ; something 
 kept him silent — a sort of perverse wonder, a submission 
 to something that was coming to pass, like the mute 
 submission of the fields and birds to the menace of the 
 storm. 
 
 He watched her into the house, and went back to the 
 stone seat. And the silence seemed to grow, the flowers 
 even ceased to exude fragrance ; they, too, were numbed 
 by the weight of the air. 
 
 All the long house behind him seemed asleep or 
 deserted. No noise came forth, no laughter, the sound 
 of no music, not even the ringing of a bell ; the heat 
 had wrapped it round with an impenetrable drowsiness. 
 And the silence began to add to the solitude and op- 
 pression within ^him. What an unlucky chance, that 
 woman's accident ! Designed by Providence to put 
 Antonia further away from him than ever ! Why was 
 not the world entirely composed of immaculate persons ? 
 He rose and began to pace up and down, tortured by a 
 dreadful heartache. 
 
 ' I must get rid of this,' he thought, ' at all costs. I'll 
 go for a good tramp, and chance getting caught in the 
 storm.' 
 
 As he left the drive he ran into Toddles returning 
 with a face as red as a turkey-cock. 
 
 ' I saw her home,' he crowed. ' I say, she's a ripper ! 
 She'll be as lame as a tree to-morrow ; so will the gee. 
 Jolly hot, isn't it ?' 
 
 This meeting showed Shelton that he had been an 
 
THE LADY FROM BEYOND 283 
 
 hour upon the stone seat ; he had thought it had been 
 about ten minutes, and the discovery alarmed him. It 
 seemed to bring the seriousness of his fear — his inex- 
 plicable, miserable fear — suddenly home to him. He 
 started with a swinging stride, keeping his eyes reso- 
 lutely fixed on the road, and unconscious of the per- 
 spiration streaming down his face. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE STORM 
 
 It was past seven when Shelton returned from his walk; 
 the storm had not yet broken, a few heat drops had 
 splashed heavily on the leaves, and the brooding silence 
 recommenced. The world seemed prisoned beneath 
 the purple firmament drawing ever more menacingly 
 close. 
 
 By rapid walking in the heat he had sweated away 
 his despond, and ran up to his room to dress for dinner 
 with the eagerness of a man who is to see his mistress 
 after a long estrangement. He took a cold bath, and, 
 straightening his tie-ends, smiled at himself in the glass. 
 He thought of his fear, unhappiness, and doubts as a 
 man thinks of a bad dream, with the comfortable cer- 
 tainty of how much worse off he would have been had 
 it all been true. 
 
 It was the night of a dinner-party, and when he 
 reached the drawing-room the guests were already 
 assembled, chattering of the expected storm. Antonia 
 was not yet down, and Shelton stood by the piano lost 
 in the anticipation of her entry. Red faces, spotless 
 shirt-fronts, angular elbows, and freshly-twisted hair 
 were all around him, but he had no consciousness of 
 the persons to whom they belonged. Someone handed 
 
 284 
 
THE STORM 285 
 
 him a buttonhole, a clove pink — one of those flowers 
 Antonia had declared suitable to him, and as he held it 
 absently to his nose she herself came in, breathless, as 
 though she had dressed hurriedly and rushed down- 
 stairs. Her cheeks, no longer languid and pale, glowed, 
 and her hand kept stealing to her throat. The fires 
 of the impending tempest seemed to have been lighted 
 within her beforehand, to be scorching her body, colour- 
 less in its white frock from head to foot, and as she 
 passed, so close that her skirt brushed his knee, her 
 fragrance burned his senses like a love-philtre. 
 
 She had never seemed to him so lovely. 
 
 Perhaps never again will Shelton breathe the perfume 
 of melons and pines without a sense of intoxication in 
 his blood. From where he sat at dinner he could not 
 see Antonia, and amidst the clatter of voices, the clink 
 of glass and silver, the sights and sounds and scents of 
 the feast, he kept thinking of the way he would go to her 
 and say that nothing in the world mattered but her love. 
 He paid little heed to the number of times the butler 
 filled his glass, but drank all he was given. The frosted, 
 pale-gold liquid of the champagne seemed Hke water, 
 after his walk. 
 
 The windows stood wide open in the heat, and the 
 world beyond was draped in a thick, soft blackness, 
 where only the trees could be discerned like blots of 
 pitch upon a blue-black curtain. Not a breath came 
 in, not a single candle-flame, tall above the flowers, 
 quivered, but two large moths, like creatures clinging 
 to hope, and fearful of the heavy dark, flew in and 
 began wheeling above the table between the lights over 
 the heads of the guests, whose necks they fanned with 
 their wings. One fell scorched into a dish of fruit, and 
 
286 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 was borne away ; but the other, eluding the swish of 
 napkins and the efforts of the footmen, continued to 
 make its soft, fluttering rushes at the flame of a centre 
 candle, till, at the request of his neighbour, Shelton 
 rose and caught it in his hand. He took it to the 
 window and threw it into the darkness, and he noticed 
 that the air was thick and tepid to his face, like 
 lukewarm water. At a sign from Mr. Dennant the 
 muslin curtains were drawn across the windows, and 
 in recognition, perhaps, of this protection, this frothy, 
 dainty barrier between them and the muffled terrors of 
 Nature, everyone broke out with a renewed vigour of 
 talk. It was such a night as comes sometimes after a 
 long spell of fine weather, frightening in its heat, and in 
 its silence broken by the intoning of distant thunder 
 that came travelling low along the ground like the 
 mutinous muttering of all the dark places of hfe — such 
 a night as seems, with its very breathlessness, to 
 smother light, with its menace of fate to justify 
 cowardice itself. 
 
 The ladies rose at last, and Shelton, who stood by 
 the door, scarcely breathed as Antonia passed. He 
 returned to the table. The circle of rosewood, divested 
 of its cloth, strewn with flowers and silver gilt, bore to 
 his fancy a resemblance to some autumn pool whose 
 brown depths of oily water gleam under the sunset 
 with red and yellow leaves, and above it in the heat the 
 smoke of cigarettes clung, like a mist to the top of water 
 when the sun goes down. A queer exaltation had come 
 over him, and he became involved in an argument with 
 his neighbour on the English character — of all subjects 
 to choose in an English country house. 
 
 ' In England we've mislaid the recipe of life,' he said 
 
THE STORM 287 
 
 slowly. ' Pleasure, you know, is a lost 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've got money, 
 but what's the good of money when we don't know how 
 to spend it ?' and, excited by the smile on his neigh- 
 bour's lips, he went on : ' And as to thought, we're so 
 occupied in thinking of what our neighbours are thinking 
 that we never think at all. Have you ever watched a 
 foreigner's eyes when he's listening to an Englishman ? 
 We're in the habit of despising foreigners, but, by Jove ! 
 the contempt we have for them is nothing to the 
 contempt they have for us. It worries me that we 
 should give them the chance. And they're perfectly 
 right ! Look at our taste : we haven't any. What's 
 the good of having possessions if we don't know how to 
 enjoy them ?' 
 
 ' That's rather new to me,' said his neighbour. ' It's 
 interesting ; there may be something in what you say. 
 Did you see that case in the papers the other day of old 
 Hornblower, who left the 1820 port that fetched a 
 guinea a bottle ? When the purchaser — poor feller !— 
 came to drink it he found eleven bottles out of twelve 
 completely uUaged— ha ! ha! Well, there's nothing 
 wrong with this ;' and he drained his glass. 
 
 ' No,' replied Shelton, relapsing into gloom. 
 
 When they rose to join the ladies he lingered. 
 Instead of leaving the room with the others, he parted 
 the curtains and went out on to the gravel terrace. 
 
 Black and breathless, the night seemed to envelop 
 him in a bath of heat. A heavy odour, sensual and 
 sinister in its mordant fascination, filled the air, as 
 from a sudden flowering of amorous shrubs. And he 
 stood drinking it in with greedy nostrils; he would have 
 
288 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 liked to fling himself on the turf and roll. Putting his 
 hand down, he felt the grass ; it was dry, and gave an 
 electric sensation to the palm of his hand. Close by, 
 glowing with pale candescence, were three or four lilies, 
 the authors of that intoxicating perfume. The blossoms 
 seemed to be rising at him through the darkness, as 
 though putting up faces to be kissed. He straightened 
 himself abruptly, and returned to the house, wiping his 
 flushed face. 
 
 The guests had nearly all gone when Shelton, who 
 was watching her, saw Antonia slip through the draw- 
 ing-room window into the garden. He could follow 
 the white glimmer of her frock across the lawn, but lost 
 it amongst the shadow of the trees, and, casting a 
 hasty look round to see that he was not observed, he 
 too slipped out. The blackness and the heat were 
 stifling, but he took great breaths of it as if it were the 
 purest mountain air, and, treading softly on the grass, 
 stole on towards the holm-oak. His lips were dry, and 
 his heart beat painfully. The mutter of distant thunder 
 had quite ceased, and suddenly waves of hot air came 
 wheeling against his face with a curious fanning, and in 
 their midst a sudden rush of cold ; and all this was 
 repeated twice or thrice. ' The storm's coming,' he 
 thought, and, bending almost double to hide the gleam 
 of his shirt-front, stole on towards the tree. She was 
 lying in the hammock, her figure a white blurr in the 
 very heart of the tree's shadow, rocking to a little 
 monotonous creak of the branch. Shelton held his 
 breath; she had not heard him. He crept closer behind 
 the trunk inch by inch, till he stood within touch of her. 
 ' I mustn't startle her,' he thought, and, clenching 
 his hands to steady his voice, he whispered : ' Antonia.' 
 
THE STORM 289 
 
 There was a faint stir in the hammock, but no 
 answer. He stood over her, but even then he could not 
 see her face ; he only had a sense of something breath- 
 ing, stirring, alive, within a yard of him — of something 
 warm and soft. He whispered again, ' Antonia !' but 
 again there came no answer, and a sort of fear and a 
 sort of frenzy seized upon him. He could no longer 
 hear her breathe ; the creaking of the branch had 
 ceased. What was passing in that silent, living creature 
 within a yard of him ? And then he heard again the 
 sound of her breathing, but different, quick and scared, 
 like the fluttering of a bird, and in a moment he was 
 staring in the dark at an empty hammock. 
 
 He stayed beside the empty hammock till he could 
 bear the uncertainty no longer. As he crossed the 
 lawn the sky was rent from end to end by a jagged 
 flash, a spurt of rain spattered him from head to foot, 
 and with a deafening crack the thunder broke. 
 
 He sought the smoking-room, but recoiled at the door, 
 and, going to his own room, threw himself on the bed. 
 The thunder groaned and sputtered in long volleys ; 
 livid gleams of lightning showed him the outline of 
 every single article in the room with a weird distinctness 
 that rent from them all likeness to the purpose for 
 which they were intended, and seemed to bereave them 
 of their utility, of their luxurious matter-of-factness, to 
 present them as skeletons, as abstractions, with some- 
 thing indecent in their appearance, hke the naked 
 nerves and sinews of a preserved leg in a museum. 
 The sound of the rain sluicing against the house was 
 bewildering, stunning, even to his powers of thought, 
 and he rose to shut his windows ; then, returning to his 
 bed, threw himself on it again, this time with his face 
 
 19 
 
290 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 down. He stayed there while the storm lasted, in a 
 kind of stupor ; but when it was over, and the boom of 
 retreating thunder grew every minute more distant, he 
 dragged himself up, and, lighting his candles, began to 
 undress. Then for the first time he saw something 
 white lying close to the door. 
 It was a note : 
 
 ' I have made a mistake. Please forgive me, and go 
 away. — Antonia.' 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 WILDERNESS 
 
 When he read this note Shelton was stunned. He 
 put it down on the dressing-table beside his gold sleeve- 
 links, stared at his face in the glass, and laughed. At 
 the end of the laugh his lips writhed ; he threw himself 
 on the bed, and pressed his face into the pillows. He 
 lay there half dressed during the rest of the night, and 
 when, soon after dawn, he got up, had not made up his 
 mind what he would do. The only thing 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 on his bed 
 again, and this time fell into a doze. 
 
 He woke with a start, dressed, and let himself quietly 
 out of the house. The similarity of his departure to that 
 of Ferrand struck him. ' Both outcasts,' he thought. 
 
 He tramped steadily on till noon without knowing 
 or caring where he was going ; then, entering a field, 
 walked along the hedge, threw himself down in the far 
 corner, and fell asleep. 
 
 291 19—2 
 
292 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 He was awakened by the whirr of a covey of partridges, 
 whose wings glistened in the sun as they strung over an 
 adjoining field of mustard. They soon settled in the 
 old-maidish fashion peculiar to partridges, and began 
 calling each other together again. 
 
 Some cattle had approached in his sleep, and a 
 beautiful bay cow, with her head turned sideways, was 
 snuffing at him gently, exhaling an overpowering sweet- 
 ness. Her legs and coat were as fine as a racehorse's, 
 a dribble ran from the corner of her black, moist lips, 
 and her eye was soft and cynical. Drowsily inhahng 
 the vague sweetness of the mustard field, and rubbing 
 the dry grass-stalks between his fingers, Shelton had a 
 moment's happiness — the happiness of the sun and sky, 
 of the eternal quiet, and untold movements of the fields. 
 He wondered why human beings could not leave their 
 troubles alone, as the cow in front of him left the 
 flies in the corner of her eye. He dozed off again, 
 and woke with a laugh, for this was what he had 
 dreamed : 
 
 He fancied himself in a room, at once hall and 
 drawing-room, of some country house. In the centre of 
 this room was standing a lady, blended of a number of 
 people he had known, who was looking at her face in 
 a hand-glass. The door, or passage, admitted an old 
 English garden with statues into his dream, and 
 through this door people kept passing without any 
 apparent object. 
 
 Detaching herself from amongst these people, he saw 
 his own mother advancing towards the lady with the 
 hand-glass, in whom he suddenly recognised Mrs. Fohot. 
 But as he looked his mother changed into Mrs. 
 Dennant, and began speaking in a voice that was 
 
WILDERNESS 293 
 
 neither his mother's nor Mrs. Dennant's, but a crystalli- 
 zation of all the refined voices he had ever heard. ' Je 
 fais de la phtlosophie,' it said ; ' I take the individual for 
 what she is worth. I never condemn ; and, above all, 
 one must have spirit !' But, to Shelton's grief — for he 
 had in some way identified himself with the success of 
 this meeting between the lady who was not exactly Mrs. 
 Dennant and the lady with the mirror — the latter 
 merely continued looking at herself in the glass ; and 
 though he could not see her face, he could see in the 
 hand-glass its reflection — pale, with greenish eyes, and a 
 smile like the image of scorn. And then, by a swift 
 transition, he found himself walking in the garden 
 amongst the statues and talking to Mrs. Dennant. 
 
 It was this conversation from which he awoke with 
 a laugh. ' My dear Dick,' she was saying, ' but I've 
 always been accustomed to classes. It was most 
 unkind of her not to receive me because I belong to a 
 " class." ' And her voice awakened pity in Shelton ; 
 it was like the voice of a frightened child. ' I don't 
 know what I shall do if I have to stand on my own 
 feet ; I wasn't brought up to it. But I suppose I can 
 try ; I'm not so very old. But how am I to go to work ? 
 One must be of a certain brand, otherwise people don't 
 think anything of you; not that I care much what 
 people think, but you know what it is— one feels happier 
 with a brand;' and she gave her skirts an unhappy 
 rustle. ' But, Dick dear, whatever you do ' — and the 
 voice was full of entreaty—' let Antonia stay in a 
 " class." Never mind about me — if I must come out of 
 it, I must— but let her stay ; any " class " so long as it is 
 a " class." It's dreadful to have to think for yourself 
 
 And so he awoke, with a laugh on his lips and 
 
294 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 actually tears in his eyes. His dream had had in it the 
 element called Art, for, in its grotesque absurdity, Mrs. 
 Dennant had said things which revealed the bottom of 
 her soul more fully than anything she would have said 
 in real life. 
 
 ' No,' said a voice quite close, from behind the hedge, 
 ' not many Frenchmen, thank God ! A few coveys of 
 Hungarians over from the Duke's. Sir James, some of 
 this pie ?' 
 
 Shelton raised himself with drowsy curiosity — he was 
 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 preparations for lunch. A game cart, 
 decorated with birds and hares, stood at a short distance ; 
 the tails of some dogs kept waving incessantly above the 
 long grass, and a valet was opening bottles. He had for- 
 gotten that it was the first of September, and anxiously 
 scrutinized the four faces, having little desire to be seen. 
 The host was a man with the trim figure of a soldier 
 and a freckled face ; an older man sat next him, square- 
 jawed, who had an absent-looking eye and a sharp nose; 
 nor did Shelton know the third, a bearded person whom 
 they addressed as the Commodore ; but in the fourth, 
 to his alarm and disgust, he recognised the gentleman 
 called Mabbey. It was really no matter of surprise to 
 meet him miles from his own place, for he was one of 
 those sportsmen who wander about with two guns and 
 a valet from the twelfth of August to the end of January, 
 and are supposed to go to Monte Carlo or to sleep for 
 the rest of the year. 
 
 ' Did you hear what a bag we made on the twelfth. 
 Sir James ?' he was saying. 
 
WILDERNESS 295 
 
 ' Ah ! yes ; what was that ? Have you sold your bay 
 horse, Glennie ?' 
 
 Shelton had not decided whether to turn his back on 
 the hedge or to sneak away, when the Commodore's 
 rather thick voice began : 
 
 ' My man tellsh me that Mrs. Foliot — haw — has 
 lamed her Arab. Does she mean to come out cubbing, 
 Glennie ?' 
 
 Shelton could not help observing the half-envious, 
 half-contemptuous smile that came over all their faces. 
 ' That lucky dog Foliot is paying for his good time now ; 
 what a donkey to get caught out !' it seemed to say. 
 He turned his back on the hedge and shut his eyes, but 
 could not help listening. 
 
 ' Cubbing ?' replied Glennie ; ' hardly !' 
 
 ' I never could shee anything wonderful in her looks,' 
 said the voice of the Commodore ; ' so quiet, you never 
 knew she was in the room. I remember sayin' to her 
 once : " Mrs. Lutheran, now what do you like besht 
 in 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 had licked his lips. 
 
 ' They say,' said the voice of the host, ' that he never 
 returns a greetin' now. He's a queer fish ; they say 
 she's devoted to him.' 
 
 Coming as it did upon his meeting with Mrs. Foliot, 
 and upon the dream from which he had just awakened, 
 this conversation exercised a sort of mesmeric effect on 
 Shelton. 
 
 ' Well, if he gives up his huntin' and his shootin', I 
 
295 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 don't see what the deuce he'll do with himself; he's 
 resigned his clubs, and as to his chance of Parlia- 
 ment ' said the voice of Mabbey. 
 
 ' A thousand pities,' said the voice of Sir James ; 
 ' still, he knew what to expect.' 
 
 ' Very queer fellows, those Foliots,' said the voice of 
 the Commodore. ' There was his father : he'd always 
 rather talk to any shcarecrow he came across than to 
 you or me. I wonder what he'll do with his horses ; I 
 should like to get hold of that chestnut.' 
 
 ' You can't tell what a fellow '11 do,' said the voice of 
 Mabbey — ' take to drink or writin' books. Old Charlie 
 Wayne got to gazin' at stars, and twice a week he used 
 to go and paddle round in the East End, teachin' pot- 
 hooks ' 
 
 ' Glennie,' interrupted the voice of Sir James, ' what's 
 become of Smollett, your old keeper ?' 
 
 ' Obliged to get rid of him.' Shelton again made an 
 effort to close his ears, but again ended in listening. 
 ' He was getting a bit too old ; lost me a lot of eggs last 
 season.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said the voice of the Commodore, ' when they 
 oncesh begin to lose eggsh ' 
 
 ' Well, as a matter of fact, his son — you remember 
 him, Sir James — used to load for you ? — got a girl into 
 trouble, and when her people gave her the chuck old 
 Smollett took her in ; beastly scandal about it. The 
 girl refused to marry young Smollett, and old Smollett 
 backed her up. Naturally, the parson and the whole 
 village cut up rough ; my vv'ife offered to get her into 
 one of those reformatory what-d'you-call-'ems, but the 
 old fellow said she shouldn't go if she didn't want to ! 
 Bad business altogether ; put him quite off his stroke. 
 
WILDERNESS 297 
 
 I only got five hundred pheasants last year instead of 
 a good thousand.' 
 
 There was a silence of horror. Shelton, raising him- 
 self again, peeped through the hedge. All were eat- 
 ing pie. 
 
 ' In W shire,' said the voice of the Commodore, 
 
 ' they always matry— haw — and live reshpectable ever 
 after.' 
 
 ' Quite so,' replied the voice of the host ; ' it was a bit 
 too thick. The girl said the fellow had taken advantage 
 of her.' 
 
 ' She's sorry by this time,' said the voice of Sir James; 
 ' lucky escape for young Smollett. Queer, the obstinacy 
 of some of these old fellows !' 
 
 ' What do we do after lunch ?' asked the voice of the 
 Commodore. 
 
 ' The next field,' said the voice of 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 towards 
 the gate. 
 
 'On the twelfth, shootin' in two parties,' followed 
 the voice of Mabbey from the distance. 
 
 He felt tired, and, whether from his walk or his 
 sleepless night, he seemed to ache in every limb; 
 but this gave him a kind of pleasure, and he continued 
 his tramp along the road. He was no nearer to a 
 decision as to what he should do. It was late in the 
 afternoon when he reached Maidenhead, and, after 
 -breaking his fast, got into a London train and went 
 to sleep. About ten o'clock that evening he walked 
 into St. James's Park and sat down. 
 
298 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 The lamp-light dappled athwart the tired foliage 
 on to those benches which have given rest to so 
 many vagrants. Darkness has ceased to be the lawful 
 cloak of the unhappy; but Mother Night was soft 
 and moonless, and man had not quite despoiled her 
 of her comfort. 
 
 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 beyond again, were dim 
 benches and dim figures sitting on them, as though life 
 and its institutions had shot them out in an endless 
 line of rubbish. 
 
 'Ah!' thought Shelton, in the inconsequential way 
 of very tired people, ' but the institutions are all right ; 
 it's only the spirit that's all ' 
 
 ' Wrong ?' said a voice behind him ; ' why, of course ! 
 You've taken the wrong turning, old man.' 
 
 He turned, and saw a policeman, with a red face 
 actually shining through the darkness, talking to a 
 strange old figure like some aged, dishevelled bird, 
 who had asked him a question. 
 
 ' Well,' said the old man, ' thank you, constable. 
 As I've come wrong I think I'll take a bit of a rest 
 here ;' and he came round to the seat on which Shelton 
 was sitting, but, chewing his gums, seemed to hesitate 
 to take the liberty of sitting down. 
 
 Shelton made room on the bench, and the old fellow 
 took the vacant place. 
 
 'You'll excuse me, I'm sure, sir,' he said in a shaky 
 voice, snatching at his battered hat ; ' I saw you was 
 a gentleman ' — he dwelt lovingly on the word — ' I 
 wouldn't disturb you for the world. I'm not very used 
 to being out at night, and the seats do get so full. Old 
 
WILDERNESS 299 
 
 age must lean against something; you'll excuse me, 
 I'm sure.' 
 
 ' Of course,' said Shelton gently. 
 
 ' I'm a respectable old man, really,' said his neigh- 
 bour; ' I never in my life took a liberty. But you know, 
 sir, at my age 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,' repeated the old 
 man, as Shelton turned to scrutinize him, struck by 
 the self-pity in his voice, ' a dreadful rough place !' 
 
 A slight movement of his head, which grew on a lean, 
 plucked neck, like that of an old fowl's, had brought his 
 face into the light. It was long, and run to seed, with 
 a large, red nose ; its thin, colourless lips were twisted 
 sideways and split apart, showing the semi-toothlessness 
 of his mouth ; and his eyes had the peculiar aged look 
 of eyes in which all the colour has run into a little, hard 
 rim round the iris, and over them kept coming a iilm 
 like the film that comes over the eyes of a parrot. He 
 was, or would properly have been, clean shaven. His 
 hair — for he had removed his hat to take out a clay 
 pipe — was thick and lank, of a dusty colour, and as far 
 as Shelton could see without a speck of gray ; the 
 scrupulous parting in the middle produced a laughable 
 incongruity with the rest of the visage. 
 
 ' But I can put up with that,' he began again. ' I 
 never interferes with nobody, and so nobody doesn't 
 interfere with me ; but what frightens me ' — and his 
 voice grew steady, as if terrified out of its shake — ' is 
 never knowin' from day to day what's to become of yer. 
 Oh, that's dreadful, that is !' 
 
 ' It must be,' said Shelton. 
 
300 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' Ah ! it is,' said the old fellow ; ' and the winter comin' 
 on. I never was much used to the 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 suddenly 
 cheerful. ' Sellin' papers is not what I been accustomed 
 to ; but the St. Paul, they tell me that's one of the most 
 respectable of the evenin' papers — in fact, I know it is. 
 And now I'm sure to get on ; I try hard.' 
 
 ' How did you get the job ?' asked Shelton. 
 
 ' I've got my character,' said the old fellow, making 
 a gesture with a skinny hand towards his chest, as if 
 he kept his character there like a piece of portable 
 property. 
 
 ' Thank God, nobody can't take that away ! I never 
 parts from that ;' and, fumbling, he produced a packet 
 of letters, holding first one, then another to the light, 
 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 that a gentleman gave me for holdin' 
 his horse. Now wouldn't you prosecute them ?' 
 
 ' 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 
 them, don't you, sir ?' 
 
 Shelton could barely restrain a smile. 
 
 'There!' said the old fellow, smoothing a piece of 
 paper and shakily holding it out, ' that's Sir James !' 
 and his withered finger-tip trembled on the middle of 
 the page : ' " Joshua Creed, in my service five years as 
 butler, during \\hich time I have found him all that a 
 
WILDERNESS 301 
 
 servant should be." And this 'ere,' he pursued, fumbhng 
 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 old butler, filling his clay 
 from Shelton's pouch, and laying it on the bench beside 
 him. He then took hold of a front tooth and began to 
 feel it tenderly, working it backvi^ards and forwards with 
 a sort of pride. 
 
 ' My teeth's a-comin' out now,' 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 think I'm a wonder for my 
 age, don't you, sir?' 
 
 Shelton, for all his pity, would have given the world 
 to laugh. 
 
 'Seventy-two!' he said; 'it's 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 wasn't 
 so much o' this here middle class then. There was more, 
 too, o' 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 
 what a change in the price of bread ! Oh dear ! why, it 
 isn't a quarter what it was then !' 
 
302 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' And are people happier now than they were ?' asked 
 Shelton. 
 
 The old butler sucked desperately at his pipe. 
 
 'No,' he continued, shaking his head; 'they've lost 
 the contented spirit. I see people runnin' here and 
 runnin' there, readin' books and findin' out things ; 
 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 volcano-full of smoke ; ' I 
 don't see as much happiness about, not the same look 
 on the faces. 'Tisn't likely. See these 'ere motor-cars, 
 too ; they say 'orses is goin' out altogether ;' and as if 
 dumfounded at his own conclusion, he sat silent for 
 some time, exclusively engaged in lighting and relighting 
 his pipe. 
 
 The girl at the far end of the seat stirred, cleared her 
 throat hoarsely, and settled down again ; her movement 
 disengaged an odour of frowsy clothes. The policeman 
 approached and scrutinized the three faces in turn ; his 
 broad visage wore an expression of jovial contempt, 
 which was instantly modified by curiosity when his 
 glance lighted on Shelton. 
 
 'There's good men in the police,' said the old butler, 
 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 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 ; 
 but I don't give them no chance to worry me. I keep 
 myself to myself, and speak civil to all the world. Oh, 
 you have to hold the candle to them ; for, oh dear ! if 
 they're crossed — some of them, they're a dreadful un- 
 scrupulous lot !' 
 
WILDERNESS 303 
 
 ' Are you going to spend the night here ?' 
 
 ' It's nice and warm to-night,' repHed the old butler. 
 ' I said to the man at that dreadful low place, I said : 
 " Don't you ever speak to me again," I said, " and don't 
 you come near me !" Straightforward and honest's 
 been my motto through life, and I don't want to have 
 nothing to say to them fellows ' — he made an annihi- 
 lating gesture — ' after the way they treated me, takin' 
 my things like that. To-morrow I shall get a room. I 
 can 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 can 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 was in dread of something. ' So long as I 
 can keep myself,' he repeated complacently, ' I shan't 
 need no workhouse, and I shan't lose my respectability.' 
 
 ' No workhouse,' thought Shelton ; and for some 
 time he sat without speaking. ' When you have 
 time,' he said at last, 'come and see me; here's my 
 card.' 
 
 The old butler returned to consciousness with a jerk, 
 for he had begun to nod. 
 
 '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 with the rest of his character. 
 Five minutes later he had again begun to nod. 
 
 Shelton, too, relapsed into reverie. Poor old chap ! 
 As naive and complacent as any Pharisee ! 
 
304 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 The policeman passed for the second time, and his 
 gaze seemed to say, ' Now, what is a gentleman doing 
 on that seat with those two rotters ?' 
 
 ' Ah !' thought Shelton, catching his eye ; ' exactly ! 
 You don't know what to make of me — a man of my 
 " class " sitting here ! Poor devil ! to spend your 
 days spying on your fellow-creatures ! Poor devil ! But 
 3'ou don't know that you're a poor devil, and so you're 
 not one.' 
 
 The man on the next bench sneezed — a shrill, dis- 
 approving sneeze. 
 
 ' Exactly,' thought Shelton. ' Why on earth did I pity 
 the bobby ?' 
 
 The policeman passed for the third time, and, once 
 more assuring himself that the two lower creatures were 
 harmlessly dozing, spoke to Shelton : 
 
 ' It's not very safe on these 'ere benches,' said he ; ' 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 
 
 excellent joke. 
 
 Shelton looked at him, and itched to say : ' Why 
 shouldn't I, bobby?' 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 passed through the gates to go to his rooms. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE END 
 
 He reached his rooms at midnight so exhausted 
 that, without waiting to light up, he dropped into a 
 chair in the dark sitting-room. The curtains and 
 bhnds had been removed for cleaning, and the tall 
 windows admitted the stare of the night outside. 
 Shelton fixed his eyes on it, as one lost man might fix 
 his eyes upon another. 
 
 An unaired, dusty odour clung about the room, but, 
 like one of those God-sent whiffs of grass or flowers 
 wafted to one sometimes in the streets, a perfume came 
 to his nostrils, the spice from the withered ragged car- 
 nation still clinging to his buttonhole ; and he suddenly 
 awoke once more to the fact that he had a decision to 
 make. He got up and lighted a candle ; the dust was 
 thick on everything he touched. ' Ugh !' he thought, 
 ' how wretched !' and the sensation of loneliness that 
 had seized him on the stone seat at Holm Oaks the day 
 before returned with redoubled force. 
 
 On his table, heaped indiscriminately, were a pile of 
 bills and circulars. He opened them, tearing at their 
 covers with the random haste of a man back from a 
 holiday. A single long envelope was placed apart from 
 the rest for forwarding. 
 
 305 20 
 
3o6 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 ' My dear Dick (he read), 
 
 ' I enclose you herewith the revised draft of your 
 marriage settlement. It is now shipshape. Return it 
 before the end of the week, and I will have it engrossed 
 for signature. I go to Scotland next Wednesday for a 
 month's holiday ; shall be back in good time for your 
 wedding. My love to your mother when you see 
 her. 
 
 ' Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 'Edmund Paramor.' 
 
 Shelton smiled, and took out the draft. 
 
 ' This Indenture made the day of , 189-, 
 
 between Richard Paramor Shelton ' 
 
 He put it down again and sank back in his chair, 
 the chair in which Ferrand had been wont to sit on 
 those mornings when he came to expound his philo- 
 sophy. 
 
 He did not stay there long, but in sheer unhappiness 
 got up, and, taking a candle, roamed about the rooms, 
 fingering those things that had not been put away, and 
 gazing in the mirror at his face, which seemed to him 
 repulsively wretched-looking. He went out at last into 
 the hall and opened the door, with the intention of 
 returning downstairs into the street ; but a sudden 
 appreciation of the fact that, street or house, town or 
 country, he would have to take his trouble along with 
 him, caused him to shut it abruptly. He felt in the 
 letter-box, drew forth a letter, and with this in his 
 hand went back to the sitting-room. 
 
 It was from Antonia. And such was his excitement 
 that he was obliged to take two or three turns between 
 the window and the wall opposite before he could read 
 
THE END 307 
 
 it ; then, with a heart beating so that he could barely 
 hold the paper, he commenced. 
 It began without a name : 
 
 ' I was wrong to ask you to go away. I see now 
 that it was breaking my promise, and I didn't mean 
 to do that. I don't know why things have come to 
 be so different. You never think as I do about any- 
 thing. 
 
 ' I had better tell you that that letter of Monsieur 
 Ferrand's to mother was impudent. Of course you 
 didn't know what was in it ; but when Professor Brayne 
 was asking you about him at breakfast, I felt that you 
 believed 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 as if 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 go away, and I want you to believe 
 that I will keep my promise ; I should feel that you and 
 everybody else had a right to condemn me. I was 
 awake all last night, and have a bad headache this 
 morning. I can't write any more. 
 
 ' Antonia.' 
 
 His first sensation on reading this letter was a sort 
 of stupefaction of relief that had in it an odd element of 
 anger. He was reprieved ! She would not break her 
 promise ; she considered herself bound ! But in the 
 midst of the feverish exaltation of this thought he 
 smiled, and the smile was not a success. 
 
 He read the letter again, and, like a judge criticising 
 a piece of evidence, began to weigh what she had said, 
 
 20 — 2 
 
3o8 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 the thoughts in her head when she was writing, and 
 the facts which had led up to this chmax. 
 
 That farewell document of the young foreigner had 
 done the business. True to his fatal gift of divesting 
 things of their clothing, Ferrand had not vanished with- 
 out showing up his benefactor in his true colours ; and 
 even to Shelton himself those colours were made plain. 
 Antonia instinctively felt that he was a traitor to her, 
 and sounding his heart even at that moment of stress 
 and indecision, he knew that this was true. 
 
 ' And then in the afternoon, when that woman hurt 
 
 her horse ' That woman ! ' It was as if you were 
 
 on her side !' 
 
 He saw Antonia's mind, the clear rigidity of it, its 
 intuitive perception of that with which it was not safe 
 to be sympathetic, its instinct for self-preservation, its 
 spontaneous contempt for those who had not that 
 instinct. And she had written those words considering 
 herself bound to him — a man capable of sentiment, of 
 rebellious sympathies, of a sort of untidiness of prin- 
 ciple ! Here was the answer to the question he had 
 been asking himself all day : ' How had things come to 
 this pass ?' and he began to feel compassion for her. 
 
 Poor child ! She could not jilt him ; there was some- 
 thing so vulgar in the word ! It should not be said that 
 Antonia Dennant had deliberately accepted a man and 
 deliberately thrown him over. These things were not 
 done ! They were impossible ! At the bottom of his 
 heart he had a deep and unconscious sympathy with 
 this impossibility. 
 
 A third time he read the letter, which seemed now to 
 be impregnated with a fresh meaning, and the anger 
 which had mingled with his first sensation of relief 
 
THE END 309 
 
 detached itself and grew in force. There was some- 
 thing tyrannous in that letter, a denial of his right to 
 think for himself. It was like a finger pointed at him 
 as an unsound person. And with a shock the convic- 
 tion was forced on him that in marrying her he would 
 be marrying not only her, but her class — his own class. 
 She would always be there to keep him up to the mark, 
 to force him to look upon her and himself, and all the 
 people they knew and all the things they did, with com- 
 placency; she would always be there to force him to 
 consider himself superior to everyone whose life was 
 not cast in their own moral mould. Ah yes ! to con- 
 sider himself superior, not blatantly, not consciously, 
 but with a sort of subconscious self-righteousness. 
 
 But this anger of his, which resembled the paroxysm 
 that two days before had made him mutter at the 
 
 Authority on Art, ' I hate your d d superiority,' 
 
 struck him all at once as impotent and ludicrous. 
 What was the good of being angry ? He was on the 
 point of losing her ! And the sheer physical anguish of 
 that thought, reacting on his anger, intensified it three- 
 fold. She was so certain of herself, so superior to her 
 emotions, to her natural impulses — superior to her very 
 desire to be free from him. But of that fact, at all 
 events, Shelton had no longer any doubt. It was 
 beyond doubt, beyond argument. She did not really 
 love him ; she wanted to be free of him ! 
 
 A photograph had hung in his bedroom at Holm 
 Oaks of a group round the hall door ; Mrs. Dennant, 
 the Honourable Charlotte Penguin, Lady Bonington, 
 Halidome, Mr. Dennant, the stained-glass man— all were 
 there ; and on the left-hand side, looking straight in 
 front of her, Antonia. Her face in its youthfulness. 
 
310 THE ISLAND PHARISEES 
 
 more than all those others, expressed their immutable 
 point of view. Behind those calm young eyes lay a 
 whole world of safety and tradition. ' I am not as 
 others,' they seemed to say. 
 
 He thought of that photograph, and Mr. and Mrs. 
 Dennant singled themselves out ; he could see their 
 faces as they talked over the situation — their faces with 
 a look on them of concern, a peculiar, uneasy, dis- 
 located look — and hear the ring of their voices, still 
 decisive, but a trifle acid, as if they had had a quarrel : 
 
 ' He's made an ass of himself!' 
 
 ' Ah ! it's too distressin' !' 
 
 He felt a deep wound— he had been inflicting himself 
 on them, too. They, too, thought him unsound, didn't 
 want him ; but to save the situation they would have 
 been glad to keep him. She didn't want him, but 
 she refused to forfeit her right to say : ' Commoner 
 girls may break their promises, but I will not !' 
 He sat down at the table between the candles with 
 his head on his hands. And the grief that was anger 
 and the anger that was grief grew and grew within him. 
 Her refusal to free herself had thrown that duty upon 
 him ! She was ready to marry him without love as a sort 
 of duty to her ideal of herself. 
 
 Ah ! no ! she hadn't, after all, the monopoly of pride ! 
 
 As if she actually stood before him, he could see the 
 shadows under her eyes that he had dreamed of kissing, 
 the eager movements of her lips. His throat contracted, 
 his eyes grew sore ; for several minutes he remained 
 without moving hand or limb. Then once more his 
 anger blazed up. She was going to sacrifice herself and 
 — him ! All the virility, all the manhood in him, scoffed 
 at such a sacrifice. That was not exactly what he wanted ! 
 
THE END 311 
 
 He went to the bureau, took paper and envelope, 
 and, sitting down once more at the table, wrote as 
 follows : 
 
 ' There never was, is not, and never would have been 
 any question of promise between us, I should be a cad 
 to trade on any such thing. You are absolutely free. 
 Our engagement is at an end by mutual consent. 
 
 ' Richard Shelton.' 
 
 He sealed it, and as he sat with his hands between 
 his knees, that imagined verdict of Mr. Dennant's rang 
 in his ears like a refrain. His forehead drooped lower 
 and lower to the table, till at last by some fate it 
 reposed on the long and legal document of his Marriage 
 Settlement. And he had a sensation of relief, like a 
 man who drops from fatigue at the end of a journey. 
 
 THE END 
 
 IILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD 
 
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