Shut Out (Anstey)

by F. Anstey

SHUT OUT

By F. Anstey

Author of "Vice Versâ," "A Fallen Idol," etc.

IT is towards the end of an afternoon in December, and Wilfred Rolleston is walking along a crowded London street with his face turned westward. A few moments ago and he was scarcely conscious of where he was or where he meant to go; he was walking on mechanically in a heavy stupor, through which there stole a haunting sense of degradation and despair that tortured him dully. And suddenly, as if by magic, this has vanished; he seems to himself to have waked from a miserable day dream to the buoyant consciousness of youth and hope. Temperaments which are subject to fits of heavy and causeless depression have their compensations sometimes in the reaction which follows; the infesting cares, as in Longfellow's poem, "fold their tents, like the Arabs, and as silently steal away," and with their retreat comes an exquisite exhilaration which more equable dispositions can never experience.

Is this so with Rolleston now? He only knows that the cloud has lifted from his brain, and that in the clear sunshine which bursts upon him now he can look his sorrows in the face and know that there is nothing so terrible in them after all.

It is true that he is not happy at the big City day-school which he has just left. How should he be? He is dull and crabbed and uncouth, and knows too well that he is an object of general dislike; no one there cares to associate with him, and he makes no attempt to overcome their prejudices, being perfectly aware that they are different from him, and hating them for it, but hating himself, perhaps, the most.

And though all his evenings are silent at home, there is little rest for him even there, for the work for the next day must be prepared; and he sits over it till late, sometimes with desperate efforts to master the difficulties, but more often staring at the page before him with eyes that are almost willfully vacant

All this has been and is enough in itself to account for the gloomy state into which he had sunk. But—and how could he have forgotten it?—it is over for the present.

To-night he will not have to sit up struggling with the tasks which will only cover him with fresh disgrace on the morrow; for a whole month he need not think of them, nor of the classes in which the hand of every one is against him. For the holidays have begun; to-day has been the last of the term. Is there no reason for joy and thankfulness in that? What a fool he has been to let those black thoughts gain such a hold over him!

Slowly, more as if it had all happened a long time ago instead of quite recently, the incidents of the morning come back to him, vivid and clear once more—morning chapel and the Doctor's sermon, and afterwards the pretence of work and relaxed discipline in the class-rooms, when the results of the examinations had been read out, with the names of the boys who had gained prizes and their remove to the form above. He had come out last, of course, but no one expected anything else from him; a laugh had gone round the desks when his humble total closed the list, and he had joined in it to show them he didn't care. And then the class had been dismissed, and there had been friendly good-bys, arrangements for walking home in company or for meeting during the holidays—for all but him: he had gone out alone—and the dull blankness had come over him from which he has only just recovered.

But, for the present, at all events, he has got rid of it completely; he is going home, where at least he is not despised, where he will find a sanctuary from gibes and jostlings and impositions; and the longer he thinks of this the higher his spirits rise, and he steps briskly, with a kind of exultation, until the people he passes in the streets turn and look at him, struck by his expression. "They can see how jolly I'm feeling," he thinks with a smile.

The dusk is falling, and the shops he passes are brilliant with lights and decorations,, but he does not stop to look at any of them; his mind is busy with settling how he shall employ himself on this the first evening of his liberty, the first for so long on which he could feel his own master.

At first he decides to read. Is there not some book he had begun and meant to finish, so many days ago now that he has even forgotten what it was all about, and only remembers that it was excising?

And yet he thinks, he won't read to-night—not on the very first night of the holidays. Quite lately—yesterday or the day before—his mother had spoken to him, gently but very seriously, about what she called the morose and savage fits which would bring misery upon him if he did not set himself earnestly to overcome them.

And there were times, he knew, when it seemed as if a demon possessed him and drove him to wound even those who loved im and whom he loved—times when their affection only roused in him some hideous spirit of sullen contradiction.

He feels softened now somehow, and has a new longing for the love he has so often harshly repulsed. He will overcome this sulkiness of his; he will begin this very evening; as soon as he gets home he will tell his mother that he is sorry, that he does love her really, only that when these fits come on him he hardly knows what he says or does.

And she will forgive him, only too gladly; and his mind will be quite at ease again. No, not quite; there is still something he must do before that; he has a vague recollection of a long-standing coolness between himself and his younger brother, Lionel. They never have got on very well together; Lionel is so different—much cleverer even already, for one thing; better looking, too, and better tempered. Whatever they quarreled about, Wilfred was very sure that he was the offender; Lionel never begins that kind of thing. But he will put himself in the right at once, and ask Lionel to make friends again; he will consent readily enough—he always does.

And then he has a bright idea: he will take his brother some little present to prove that he really wishes to behave decently for the future. What shall he buy?

He finds himself near a large toy-shop at the time, and in the window are displayed several regiments of brightly colored tin warriors—the very thing! Lionel is still young enough to delight in them.

Feeling in his pocket, Rolleston discovers more loose silver than he thought he possessed, and so he goes into the shop and asks for one of the boxes of soldiers. He is served by one of two neatly dressed female assistants, who stare and giggle at one another at his first words, finding it odd. perhaps, that a fellow of his age should buy toys—as if, he thinks indignantly, they couldn't see that it was not for himself he wanted the things.

But he goes on, feeling happier after his purchase. They will see now that he is not so bad after all. It is long since he has felt such a craving to be thought well of by somebody.

A little farther on he comes to a row of people, mostly women and tradesmen's boys, standing on the curbstone opposite a man who is seated on a little wooden box on wheels, drawn up close to the pavement. He is paralytic and blind, with a pinched, white face, framed in an old-fashioned fur cap with big ear-lappets; he seems to be preaching or reading, and Rolleston stops idly enough to listen for a few moments, the women making room for him with alacrity, and the boys staring curiously round at the new arrival with a grin.

He hardly pays much attention to this; he is listening to the poem which the man in the box is reciting with a nasal and metallic snuffle in his voice:

 

There's a harp and a crown,
For you and for me,
Hanging on the boughs
Of that Christmas tree!

 

He hears, and then hurries on again, repeating the stanza mechanically to himself, without seeing anything particularly ludicrous about it. The words have reminded him of that Christmas party at the Gordons' next door. Did not Ethel Gordon ask him particularly to come, and did he not refuse her sullenly? What a brute he was to treat her like that! If she were to ask him again, he thinks he would not say no, though he does hate parties.

Ethel is a dear girl, and never seems to think him good-for-nothing, as most people do. Perhaps it is sham, though—no, he can't think that when he remembers how patiently and kindly she has borne with his senseless fits of temper and tried to laugh away his gloom.

Not every girl as pretty as Ethel is would care to notice him, and persist in it in spite of everything; yet he has sulked with her of late. Was it because she had favored Lionel? He is ashamed to think that this may have been the reason.

Never mind, that is all over now; he will start clear with everybody. He will ask Ethel, too, to forgive him. Is there nothing he can do to please her? Yes; some time ago she had asked him to draw something for her. (He detests drawing lessons, but he has rather a taste for drawing things out of his own head.) He had told her, not too civilly, that he had work enough without doing drawings for girls. He will paint her something to-night as a surprise; he will begin as soon as tea is cleared away; it will be more sociable than reading a book.

And then already he sees a vision of the warm little paneled room, and himself getting out his color-box and sitting down to paint by lamp-light—for any lit does for his kind of coloring—while his mother sits opposite and Lionel watches the picture growing under his hand.

What shall he draw? He gets quite absorbed in thinking over this; his own tastes run in a gory direction, but perhaps Ethel, being a girl, may not care for battles or desperate duels. A compromise strikes him; he will draw a pirate ship—that will be first-rate—with the black flag flying on the mainmast, and the pirate captain on the poop scouring the ocean with a big glass in search of merchantmen; all about the deck and rigging he can put the crew, with red caps, and belts stuck full of pistols and daggers.

And on the right there shall be a bit of the pirate island, with a mast and another black flag—he knows he will enjoy picking out the skull and cross-bones in thick Chinese white—and then, if there is room, he will add a cannon, and perhaps a palm-tree. A pirate island always has palm-trees.

He is so full of this projected picture of his that he is quite surprised to find that he is very near the square where he lives; but here, just in front of him, at the end of the narrow lane, is the public-house with the coach and four engraved on the ground-glass of the lower part of the window, and above it the bottles full of colored water.

And here is the greengrocer's. How long is it since it was a barber's?—surely a very little time. And there is the bootmaker's with its outside display of dangling shoes, and the row of naked gas jets blown to pale blue specks and whistling red tongues by turns as a gust sweeps across them.

This is his home, this little, dingy, old-fashioned red-brick house at an angle of the square, with a small paved space railed in before it. He pushes open the old gate with the iron arch above, where an oil-lamp used to hang, and hurries up to the door with the heavy shell-shaped porch, impatient to get to the warmth and light which await him within.

The bell has got out of order, for only a faint jangle comes from below as he rings; he waits a little and then pulls the handle again, more sharply this time, and still no one comes.

When Betty does think proper to come up and open the door he will tell her that it is too bad keeping a fellow standing out here, in the fog and cold, all this time. … She is coming at last—no, it was fancy; it seems as if Betty had slipped out for something, and perhaps the cook is upstairs, and his mother may be dozing by the fire, as she has begun to do of late.

Losing all patience, he gropes for the knocker, and, groping in vain, begins to hammer with bare fists on the door, louder and louder, until he is interrupted by a rough voice from the railings behind him.

"Now, then, what are you up to there, eh?" says the voice, which belongs to a burly policeman who has stopped suspiciously on the pavement.

"Why," says Rolleston, "I want to get in, and I can't make them hear me. I wish you'd try what you can do, will you?"

The policeman comes slowly in to the gate. "I dessay," he says jocularly. "Is there anythink else? Come, suppose you move on."

A curious kind of dread of he knows not what begins to creep over Wilfred at this.

"Move on?" he cries, "why should I move on? This is my house; don't you see? I live here."

"Now look 'ere, my joker, I don't want a job over this," says the constable stolidly. "You'll bring a crowd round in another minute if you keep on that 'ammering."

"Mind your own business," says the other, with growing excitement.

"That's what you'll make me do if you don't look out," is the retort. "Will you move on before I make you?"

"But, I say," protests Rolleston, "I'm not joking; I give you my word I'm not. I do live here. Why, I've just come back from school, and I can't get in."

"Pretty school you come from!" growls the policeman; "'andles on to your lesson books, if I knows anything. 'Ere, out you go!"

Rolleston's fear increases. "I won't! I won't!" he cries frantically, and rushing back to the door beats upon it wildly. On the other side of it are love and shelter, and it will not open to him. He is cold and hungry and tired after his walk. Why do they keep him out like this?

"Mother!" he calls hoarsely. "Can't you hear me, mother? It's Wilfred. Let me in."

The other takes him, not roughly, by the shoulder. "Now you take my advice," he says. "You ain't quite yourself; you're making a mistake. I don't want to get you in trouble if you don't force me to it. Drop this 'ere tomfool game and go home quiet to wherever it is you do live."

"I tell you I live here, you fool!" shrieks Wilfred, in deadly terror lest he should be forced away before the door is opened.

"And I tell you you don't do nothing of the sort," says the policeman, beginning to lose his temper. "No one don't live 'ere, nor ain't done not since I've bin on the beat. Use your eyes if you're not too far gone."

For the first time Rolleston seems to see things plainly as they are. He glances round the square—that is just as it always is on foggy winter evenings, with its central enclosure a shadowy black patch against a reddish glimmer, beyond which the lighted windows of the houses make yellow bars of varying length and tint.

But this house, his own—why, it is all shuttered and dark. Some of the window-panes are broken; there is a pale gray patch in one that looks like a dingy bill; the knocker has been unscrewed from the door, and on its scraped panels some one has scribbled words and rough caricatures that were surely not there when he left that morning.

Can anything—any frightful disaster—have come in that short time? No, he will not think of it. He will not let himself be terrified, all for nothing.

"Now, are you goin'?" says the policeman after a pause.

Rolleston puts his back against the door and clings to the sides. "No!" he shouts. "I don't care what you say; I don't believe you; they are all in there—they are, I tell you, they are—they are!"

In a second he is in the constable's strong grasp and being dragged, struggling violently, to the gate, when a soft voice, a woman's, intercedes for him.

"What is the matter? Oh, don't—don't be so rough with him, poor creature!" it cries pitifully.

"I'm only exercisin' my duty, mum," says the officer; "he wants to create a disturbance 'ere."

"No," cries Wilfred, "he lies! I only want to get into my own house, and no one seems to hear me. You don't think anything is the matter, do you?"

It is a lady who has been pleading for him; as he wrests himself from his captor and comes forward she sees his face, and her own grows white and startled.

"Wilfred!" she exclaims.

"Why, you know my name!" he says. "Then you can tell him it's all right. Do I know you? You speak like—is it—Ethel?"

"Yes," she says, and her voice is low and trembling, "I am Ethel."

He is silent for an instant; then he says slowly, "You are not the same—nothing is the same, it is all changed—changed—and oh, my God, what am I?"

Slowly the truth is borne in upon his brain, muddled and disordered by long excess, and the last shred of the illusion which had possessed him, drifts away.

He knows now that his boyhood, with such possibilities of happiness as it had ever held, has gone forever. He has been knocking at a door which will open for him never again, and the mother, by whose side his evening was to have been passed, died long, long years ago.

The past, blotted out completely for an hour by some freak of the memory, comes back to him, and he sees his sullen, morbid boyhood changing into something worse still, until by slow degrees he became what he is now—dissipated, degraded, lost.

At first the shock, the awful loneliness he awakes to, and the shame of being found thus by the woman for whom he had felt the only pure love he had known, overwhelm him utterly, and he leans his head upon his arms as he clutches the railings, and sobs with a grief that is terrible in its utter abandonment.

The very policeman is silent and awed by what he feels to be a scene from the human tragedy, though he may not be able to describe it to himself by any more suitable phrase than "a rum start."

"You can go now, policeman," says the lady, putting money in his hand. "You see I know this—this gentleman. Leave him to me; he will give you no trouble now."

And the constable goes, taking care, however, to keep an eye occasionally on the corner where this has taken place. He has not gone long before Rolleston raises his head with a husky laugh; his manner has changed now; he is no longer the boy in thought and expression that he was a short time before, and speaks as might be expected from his appearance.

"I remember it all now," he says. "You are Ethel Gordon, of course you are, and you wouldn't have anything to do with me—and quite right, too—and then you married my brother Lionel. You see I'm as clear as a bell again now. So you came up and found me battering at the old door, eh? Do you know, I got the fancy I was a boy again and coming home to—bah, what does all that matter? Odd sort of fancy, though, wasn't it? Drink is always playing me some cursed trick now. A pretty fool I must have made of myself!"

She says nothing, and he thrusts his hands deep in his ragged pockets. "Hallo! what's this I've got?" he says, as he feels something at the bottom of one of them; and, bringing out the box of soldiers he had bought half an hour before, he holds it up with a harsh laugh which has the ring of despair in it.

"Do you see this?" he says to her. "You'll laugh when I tell you it's a toy I bought just now for—guess whom—for your dear husband! Must have been pretty bad, mustn't I? Shall I give it to you to take to him—no? Well, perhaps he has outgrown such things now, so here goes!" and he pitches the box over the railings, and it falls with a shiver of broken glass as the pieces of painted tin rattle out upon the flagstones.

"And now I'll wish you good-evening," he says, sweeping off his battered hat with mock courtesy.

She tries to keep him back. "No, Wilfred, no; you must not go like that. We live here still, Lionel and I, in the same old house," and she indicates the house next door; "he will be home very soon. Will you" (she cannot help a little shudder at the thought of such a guest)—"will you come in and wait for him?"

"Throw myself into his arms, eh?" he says. "How delighted he would be! I'm just the sort of brother to be a credit to a highly respectable young barrister like him' You really think he'd like it? No; it's all right, Ethel; don't be alarmed; I was only joking. I shall never come in your way, I promise you. I'm just going to take myself off."

"Don't say that," she says (in spite of herself she feels relieved); "tell me—is there nothing we can do—no help we can give you?"

"Nothing," he answers, fiercely; "I don't want your pity. Do you think I can't see that you wouldn't touch me with the tongs if you could help it? It's too late to snivel over me now, and I'm well enough as I am. You leave me alone to go to the devil my own way; it's all I ask of you. Good-by. It's Christmas, isn't it? I haven't dreamed that at all events. Well, I wish you and Lionel as merry a Christmas as I mean to have. I can't say more than that in the way of enjoyment."

He turns on his heel at the last words and slouches off down the narrow lane by which he had come.

Ethel Rolleston stands for a while, looking after his receding form till the fog closes round it and she can see it no more.

She feels as if she had seen a ghost; and for her at least the enclosure before the deserted house next door will be haunted evermore—haunted by a forlorn and homeless figure sobbing there by the railings.

As for the man, he goes on his way until he finds a door which—alas!—is not closed against him.