From the interview, which Shelton had the mixed delight of watching, between Ferrand and the Honourable Mrs. Dennant, certain definite results accrued, the chief of which was the permission accorded the young wanderer to occupy the room which had formerly been tenanted by the footman John. Shelton was lost in admiration of Ferrand's manner in this scene.. Its subtle combination of deference and dignity was almost paralysing; paralysing, too, the subterranean smile upon his lips. “Charmin' young man, Dick,” said Mrs. Dennant, when Shelton lingered to say once more that he knew but very little of 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, fervent, hare-like, were fixed on something far away; turning, he saw the rose in a tall vase on a tall and spindly stool. It seemed to nod towards them in the sunshine. Mrs. Dennant dived her nose towards her camera.
“The light's perfect now,” she said, in a voice muffled by the cloth. “I feel sure that livin' with decent people will do wonders for him. Of course, he understands that his meals will be served to him apart.”
Shelton, doubly anxious, now that his efforts had lodged his client in a place of trust, fell, back on hoping for the best; his instinct told him that, vagabond as Ferrand was, he had a curious self-respect, that would save him from a mean ingratitude.
In fact, as Mrs. Dennant, who was by no means void of common-sense, foresaw, the arrangement worked all right. Ferrand entered on his duties as French tutor to the little Robinsons. In the Dennants' household he kept himself 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 teach young Toddles French. After a time it became customary for him to lunch with the house-party, partly through a mistake of Toddles, who seemed to think that it was natural, and partly through John Noble, one of Shelton's friends, who had come to stay, and discovered Ferrand to be a most awfully interesting person he was always, indeed, discovering the most awfully interesting persons. In his grave and toneless voice, brushing his hair from off his brow, he descanted upon Ferrand with enthusiasm, to which was joined a kind of shocked amusement, as who should say, “Of course, I know it's very odd, but really he 's such an awfully interesting person.” For John Noble was a politician, belonging to one of those two Peculiar parties, which, thoroughly in earnest, of an honesty above suspicion, and always very busy, are constitutionally averse to anything peculiar for fear of finding they have overstepped the limit of what is practical in politics. As such he inspired confidence, not caring for things unless he saw some immediate benefit to be had from them, having a perfect sense of decency, and a small imagination. He discussed all sorts of things with Ferrand; on one occasion Shelton overheard them arguing on anarchism.
“No Englishman approves of murder,” Noble was saying, in the gloomy voice that contrasted with the optimistic cast of his fine head, “but the main principle is right. Equalisation of property is bound to come. I sympathise with then, not with their methods.”
“Forgive me,” struck in Ferrand; “do you know any anarchists?”
“No,” returned Noble; “I certainly do not.”
“You say you sympathise with them, but the first time it comes to action—”
“Well?”
“Oh, monsieur! one doesn't make anarchism with the head.”
Shelton perceived that he had meant to add, “but with the heart, the lungs, the liver.” He drew a deeper meaning from the saying, and seemed to see, curling with the smoke from Ferrand's lips, the words: “What do you, an English gentleman, of excellent position, and all the prejudices of your class, know about us outcasts? If you want to understand us you must be an outcast too; we are not playing at the game.”
This talk took place upon the lawn, at the end of one of Toddles's French lessons, and Shelton left John Noble maintaining to the youthful foreigner, with stubborn logic, that he, John Noble, and the anarchists had much, in common. He was returning to the house, when someone called his name from underneath the holm oak. There, sitting Turkish fashion on the grass, a pipe between his teeth, he found a man who had arrived the night before, and impressed him by his friendly taciturnity. His name was Whyddon, and he had just returned from Central Africa; a brown-faced, large-jawed man, with small but good and steady eyes, and strong, spare figure.
“Oh, Mr. Shelton!” he said, “I wondered if you could tell me what tips I ought to give the servants here; after ten years away I 've forgotten all about that sort of thing.”
Shelton sat down beside him; unconsciously assuming, too, a cross-legged attitude, which caused him much discomfort.
“I was listening,” said his new acquaintance, “to the little chap learning his French. I've forgotten mine. One feels a hopeless duffer knowing no, languages.”
“I suppose you speak Arabic?” said Shelton.
“Oh, Arabic, and a dialect or two; they don't count. That tutor has a curious face.”
“You think so?” said Shelton, interested. “He's had a curious life.”
The traveller spread his hands, palms downwards, on the grass and looked at Shelton with, a smile.
“I should say he was a rolling stone,” he said. “It 's odd, I' ve seen white men in Central Africa with a good deal of his look about them.
“Your diagnosis is a good one,” answered Shelton.
“I 'm always sorry for those fellows. There's generally some good 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.”
“Can you tell me why?”
Whyddon pondered.
“I rather think,” he said at last, “it must be because they have too strong a faculty of criticism. You can't teach a man to be proud of his own work; that lies in his blood “; folding his arms across his breast, he heaved a sigh. Under the dark foliage, his eyes on the sunlight, he was the type of all those Englishmen who keep their spirits bright and wear their bodies out in the dark places of hard work. “You can't think,” he said, showing his teeth in a smile, “how delightful it is to be at home! You learn to love the old country when you're away from it.”
Shelton often thought, afterwards; of this diagnosis of the vagabond, for he was always stumbling on instances of that power of subtle criticism which was the young foreigner's prime claim to be “a most awfully interesting” and perhaps a rather shocking person.
An old school-fellow of Shelton's and his wife were staying in the house, who offered to the eye the picture of a perfect domesticity. Passionless and smiling, it was impossible to imagine they could ever have a difference. Shelton, whose bedroom was next to theirs, could hear them in the mornings talking in exactly the tones they used at lunch, and laughing 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 some co-operative stores. Their fairly handsome faces, with the fairly kind expressions, quickly and carefully regulated by a sense of compromise, began to worry him so much that when in the same room he would even read to avoid the need of looking at them. And yet they were kind—that is, fairly kind—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,” Ferrand said one day, “I 'm not an amateur of marriage—never had the chance, as you may well suppose; but, in any case, you have some people in the house who would make me mark time before I went committing it. They seem the ideal young married people—don't quarrel, have perfect health, agree with everybody, go to church, have children—but I should like to hear what is beautiful in their life,&rdqu............