Part 28 (2/2)

”I wish to say that he is not responsible. I--”

”Silence! Silence, sir! Sit down!”

Felix saw his nephew waver, and Sheila pulling at his sleeve; then, to his infinite relief, the boy sat down. His sallow face was red; his thin lips compressed to a white line. And slowly under the eyes of the whole court he grew deadly pale.

Distracted by fear that the boy might make another scene, Felix followed the proceedings vaguely. They were over soon enough: Tryst committed, defence reserved, bail refused--all as Mr. Pogram had predicted.

Derek and Sheila had vanished, and in the street outside, idle at this hour of a working-day, were only the cars of the four magistrates; two or three little knots of those who had been in court, talking of the case; and in the very centre of the street, an old, dark-whiskered man, lame, and leaning on a stick.

”Very nearly being awkward,” said the voice of Mr. Pogram in his ear. ”I say, do you think--no hand himself, surely no real hand himself?”

Felix shook his head violently. If the thought had once or twice occurred to him, he repudiated it with all his force when shaped by another's mouth--and such a mouth, so wide and rubbery!

”No, no! Strange boy! Extravagant sense of honour--too sensitive, that's all!”

”Quite so,” murmured Mr. Pogram soothingly. ”These young people! We live in a queer age, Mr. Freeland. All sorts of ideas about, nowadays. Young men like that--better in the army--safe in the army. No ideas there!”

”What happens now?” said Felix.

”Wait!” said Mr. Pogram. ”Nothing else for it--wait. Three months--twiddle his thumbs. Bad system! Rotten!”

”And suppose in the end he's proved innocent?”

Mr. Pogram shook his little round head, whose ears were very red.

”Ah!” he said: ”Often say to my wife: 'Wish I weren't a humanitarian!'

Heart of india-rubber--excellent thing--the greatest blessing. Well, good-morning! Anything you want to say at any time, let me know!” And exhaling an overpowering whiff of gutta-percha, he grasped Felix's hand and pa.s.sed into a house on the door of which was printed in brazen letters: ”Edward Pogram, James Collet. Solicitors. Agents.”

On leaving the little humanitarian, Felix drifted back toward the court.

The cars were gone, the groups dispersed; alone, leaning on his stick, the old, dark-whiskered man stood like a jackdaw with a broken wing.

Yearning, at that moment, for human intercourse, Felix went up to him.

”Fine day,” he said.

”Yes, sir, 'tis fine enough.” And they stood silent, side by side. The gulf fixed by cla.s.s and habit between soul and human soul yawned before Felix as it had never before. Stirred and troubled, he longed to open his heart to this old, ragged, dark-eyed, whiskered creature with the game leg, who looked as if he had pa.s.sed through all the thorns and thickets of hard and primitive existence; he longed that the old fellow should lay bare to him his heart. And for the life of him he could not think of any mortal words which might bridge the unreal gulf between them. At last he said:

”You a native here?”

”No, sir. From over Malvern way. Livin' here with my darter, owin' to my leg. Her 'usband works in this here factory.”

”And I'm from London,” Felix said.

”Thart you were. Fine place, London, they say!”

Felix shook his head. ”Not so fine as this Worcesters.h.i.+re of yours.”

The old man turned his quick, dark gaze. ”Aye!” he said, ”people'll be a bit nervy-like in towns, nowadays. The country be a good place for a healthy man, too; I don't want no better place than the country--never could abide bein' shut in.”

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