The British Barbarians Page 3

  II

  Next day was (not unnaturally) Sunday. At half-past ten in the morning,according to his wont, Philip Christy was seated in the drawing-room athis sister's house, smooth silk hat in gloved hand, waiting for Fridaand her husband, Robert Monteith, to go to church with him. As he satthere, twiddling his thumbs, or beating the devil's tattoo on the redJapanese table, the housemaid entered. "A gentleman to see you, sir,"she said, handing Philip a card. The young man glanced at it curiously.A visitor to call at such an early hour!--and on Sunday morning too! Howextremely odd! This was really most irregular!

  So he looked down at the card with a certain vague sense of inarticulatedisapproval. But he noticed at the same time it was finer and clearerand more delicately engraved than any other card he had ever yet comeacross. It bore in simple unobtrusive letters the unknown name, "Mr.Bertram Ingledew."

  Though he had never heard it before, name and engraving both tended tomollify Philip's nascent dislike. "Show the gentleman in, Martha," hesaid in his most grandiose tone; and the gentleman entered.

  Philip started at sight of him. It was his friend the Alien. Philipwas quite surprised to see his madman of last night; and what was moredisconcerting still, in the self-same grey tweed home-spun suit he hadworn last evening. Now, nothing can be more gentlemanly, don't you know,than a grey home-spun, IN its proper place; but its proper place PhilipChristy felt was certainly NOT in a respectable suburb on a Sundaymorning.

  "I beg your pardon," he said frigidly, rising from his seat with hissternest official air--the air he was wont to assume in the anteroom atthe office when outsiders called and wished to interview his chief"on important public business." "To what may I owe the honour of thisvisit?" For he did not care to be hunted up in his sister's house ata moment's notice by a most casual acquaintance, whom he suspected ofbeing an escaped lunatic.

  Bertram Ingledew, for his part, however, advanced towards his companionof last night with the frank smile and easy bearing of a cultivatedgentleman. He was blissfully unaware of the slight he was putting uponthe respectability of Brackenhurst by appearing on Sunday in his greytweed suit; so he only held out his hand as to an ordinary friend, withthe simple words, "You were so extremely kind to me last night, Mr.Christy, that as I happen to know nobody here in England, I venturedto come round and ask your advice in unexpected circumstances that havesince arisen."

  When Bertram Ingledew looked at him, Philip once more relented. Theman's eye was so captivating. To say the truth, there was somethingtaking about the mysterious stranger--a curious air of unconscioussuperiority--so that, the moment he came near, Philip felt himselffascinated. He only answered, therefore, in as polite a tone as he couldeasily muster, "Why, how did you get to know my name, or to trace me tomy sister's?"

  "Oh, Miss Blake told me who you were and where you lived," Bertramreplied most innocently: his tone was pure candour; "and when I wentround to your lodgings just now, they explained that you were out, butthat I should probably find you at Mrs. Monteith's; so of course I cameon here."

  Philip denied the applicability of that naive "of course" in his inmostsoul: but it was no use being angry with Mr. Bertram Ingledew. So muchhe saw at once; the man was so simple-minded, so transparently natural,one could not be angry with him. One could only smile at him, a superiorcynical London-bred smile, for an unsophisticated foreigner. So theCivil Servant asked with a condescending air, "Well, what's yourdifficulty? I'll see if peradventure I can help you out of it." For hereflected to himself in a flash that as Ingledew had apparently a goodround sum in gold and notes in his pocket yesterday, he was not likelyto come borrowing money this morning.

  "It's like this, you see," the Alien answered with charming simplicity,"I haven't got any luggage."

  "Not got any luggage!" Philip repeated, awestruck, letting his jaw fallshort, and stroking his clean-shaven chin with one hand. He was moredoubtful than ever now as to the man's sanity or respectability. Ifhe was not a lunatic, then surely he must be this celebrated Perpignanmurderer, whom everybody was talking about, and whom the French policewere just then engaged in hunting down for extradition.

  "No; I brought none with me on purpose," Mr. Ingledew replied, asinnocently as ever. "I didn't feel quite sure about the ways, or thecustoms, or the taboos of England. So I had just this one suit ofclothes made, after an English pattern of the present fashion, which Iwas lucky enough to secure from a collector at home; and I thought I'dbuy everything else I wanted when I got to London. I brought nothing atall in the way of luggage with me."

  "Not even brush and comb?" Philip interposed, horrified.

  "Oh, yes, naturally, just the few things one always takes in avade-mecum," Bertram Ingledew answered, with a gracefully deprecatorywave of the hand, which Philip thought pretty enough, but extremelyforeign. "Beyond that, nothing. I felt it would be best, you see, to setoneself up in things of the country in the country itself. One's surerthen of getting exactly what's worn in the society one mixes in."

  For the first and only time, as he said those words, the stranger strucka chord that was familiar to Philip. "Oh, of course," the Civil Servantanswered, with brisk acquiescence, "if you want to be really up todate in your dress, you must go to first-rate houses in London foreverything. Nobody anywhere can cut like a good London tailor."

  Bertram Ingledew bowed his head. It was the acquiescent bow of the utteroutsider who gives no opinion at all on the subject under discussion,because he does not possess any. As he probably came, in spite of hisdisclaimer, from America or the colonies, which are belated places,toiling in vain far in the rear of Bond Street, Philip thought this anexceedingly proper display of bashfulness, especially in a man who hadonly landed in England yesterday. But Bertram went on half-musingly."And you had told me," he said, "I'm sure not meaning to misleadme, there were no formalities or taboos of any kind on entering intolodgings. However, I found, as soon as I'd arranged to take the roomsand pay four guineas a week for them, which was a guinea more than sheasked me, Miss Blake would hardly let me come in at all unless I couldat once produce my luggage." He looked comically puzzled. "I thoughtat first," he continued, gazing earnestly at Philip, "the good lady wasafraid I wouldn't pay her what I'd agreed, and would go away and leaveher in the lurch without a penny,--which was naturally a very painfulimputation. But when I offered to let her have three weeks' rent inadvance, I saw that wasn't all: there was a taboo as well; she couldn'tlet me in without luggage, she said, because it would imperil some luckor talisman to which she frequently alluded as the Respectability of herLodgings. This Respectability seems a very great fetich. I was obligedat last, in order to ensure a night's lodging of any sort, to appeaseit by promising I'd go up to London by the first train to-day, and fetchdown my luggage."

  "Then you've things at Charing Cross, in the cloak-room perhaps?" Philipsuggested, somewhat relieved; for he felt sure Bertram Ingledew musthave told Miss Blake it was HE who had recommended him to HeathercliffHouse for furnished apartments.

  "Oh, dear, no; nothing," Bertram responded cheerfully. "Not a sack tomy back. I've only what I stand up in. And I called this morning just toask as I passed if you could kindly direct me to an emporium in Londonwhere I could set myself up in all that's necessary."

  "A WHAT?" Philip interposed, catching quick at the unfamiliar word withblank English astonishment, and more than ever convinced, in spite ofdenial, that the stranger was an American.

  "An emporium," Bertram answered, in the most matter-of-fact voice: "amagazine, don't you know; a place where they supply things in returnfor money. I want to go up to London at once this morning and buy what Irequire there."

  "Oh, A SHOP, you mean," Philip replied, putting on at once his mostrespectable British sabbatarian air. "I can tell you of the very besttailor in London, whose cut is perfect; a fine flower of tailors: butNOT to-day. You forget you're in England, and this is Sunday. On theContinent, it's different: but you'll find no decent shops here opento-day in town or country."

  Bertra
m Ingledew drew one hand over his high white brow with a strangelypuzzled air. "No more I will," he said slowly, like one who by degreeshalf recalls with an effort some forgotten fact from dim depths of hismemory. "I ought to have remembered, of course. Why, I knew that,long ago. I read it in a book on the habits and manners of the Englishpeople. But somehow, one never recollects these taboo days, whereverone may be, till one's pulled up short by them in the course of one'stravels. Now, what on earth am I to do? A box, it seems, is the Open,Sesame of the situation. Some mystic value is attached to it as a moralamulet. I don't believe that excellent Miss Blake would consent totake me in for a second night without the guarantee of a portmanteau torespectablise me."

  We all have moments of weakness, even the most irreproachable Philistineamong us; and as Bertram said those words in rather a piteous voice,it occurred to Philip Christy that the loan of a portmanteau would be aChristian act which might perhaps simplify matters for the handsomeand engaging stranger. Besides, he was sure, after all--mystery or nomystery--Bertram Ingledew was Somebody. That nameless charm of dignityand distinction impressed him more and more the longer he talked withthe Alien. "Well, I think, perhaps, I could help you," he hazardedafter a moment, in a dubious tone; though to be sure, if he lent theportmanteau, it would be like cementing the friendship for good or forevil; which Philip, being a prudent young man, felt to be in some ways atrifle dangerous; for who borrows a portmanteau must needs bring itback again--which opens the door to endless contingencies. "I MIGHT beable--"

  At that moment, their colloquy was suddenly interrupted by the entryof a lady who immediately riveted Bertram Ingledew's attention. She wastall and dark, a beautiful woman, of that riper and truer beauty in faceand form that only declares itself as character develops. Her featureswere clear cut, rather delicate than regular; her eyes were large andlustrous; her lips not too thin, but rich and tempting; her brow washigh, and surmounted by a luscious wealth of glossy black hair whichBertram never remembered to have seen equalled before for its silkinessof texture and its strange blue sheen, like a plate of steel, or thegrass of the prairies. Gliding grace distinguished her when she walked.Her motion was equable. As once the sons of God saw the daughters ofmen that they were fair, and straightway coveted them, even so BertramIngledew looked on Frida Monteith, and saw at the first glance she was awoman to be desired, a soul high-throned, very calm and beautiful.

  She stood there for a moment and faced him, half in doubt, in herflowing Oriental or Mauresque robe (for she dressed, as Philip wouldhave said, "artistically"), waiting to be introduced the while, andtaking good heed, as she waited, of the handsome stranger. As forPhilip, he hesitated, not quite certain in his own mind on the pointof etiquette--say rather of morals--whether one ought or ought not tointroduce "the ladies of one's family" to a casual stranger picked upin the street, who confesses he has come on a visit to England withouta letter of introduction or even that irreducible minimum ofrespectability--a portmanteau. Frida, however, had no such scruples. Shesaw the young man was good-looking and gentlemanly, and she turned toPhilip with the hasty sort of glance that says as plainly as words couldsay it, "Now, then! introduce me."

  Thus mutely exhorted, though with a visible effort, Philip murmured halfinarticulately, in a stifled undertone, "My sister, Mrs. Monteith--Mr.Bertram Ingledew," and then trembled inwardly.

  It was a surprise to Bertram that the beautiful woman with the soul inher eyes should turn out to be the sister of the very commonplace youngman with the boiled-fish expression he had met by the corner; but hedisguised his astonishment, and only interjected, as if it were the mostnatural remark in the world: "I'm pleased to meet you. What a lovelygown! and how admirably it becomes you!"

  Philip opened his eyes aghast. But Frida glanced down at the dress witha glance of approbation. The stranger's frankness, though quaint, wasreally refreshing.

  "I'm so glad you like it," she said, taking the compliment with quietdignity, as simply as it was intended. "It's all my own taste; I chosethe stuff and designed the make of it. And I know who this is, Phil,without your troubling to tell me; it's the gentleman you met in thestreet last night, and were talking about at dinner."

  "You're quite right," Philip answered, with a deprecating look (as whoshould say, aside, "I really couldn't help it"). "He--he's rather in adifficulty." And then he went on to explain in a few hurried wordsto Frida, with sundry shrugs and nods of profoundest import, that thesupposed lunatic or murderer or foreigner or fool had gone to MissBlake's without luggage of any sort; and that, "Perhaps"--verydubitatively--"a portmanteau or bag might help him out of his temporarydifficulties."

  "Why, of course," Frida cried impulsively, with prompt decision;"Robert's Gladstone bag and my little brown trunk would be the verythings for him. I could lend them to him at once, if only we can get aSunday cab to take them."

  "NOT before service, surely," Philip interposed, scandalised. "If hewere to take them now, you know, he'd meet all the church-people."

  "Is it taboo, then, to face the clergy with a Gladstone bag?" Bertramasked quite seriously, in that childlike tone of simple inquiry thatPhilip had noticed more than once before in him. "Your bonzes object tomeet a man with luggage? They think it unlucky?"

  Frida and Philip looked at one another with quick glances, and laughed.

  "Well, it's not exactly tabooed," Frida answered gently; "and it'snot so much the rector himself, you know, as the feelings of one'sneighbours. This is a very respectable neighbourhood--oh, quitedreadfully respectable--and people in the houses about might make a talkof it if a cab drove away from the door as they were passing. Ithink, Phil, you're right. He'd better wait till the church-people arefinished."

  "Respectability seems to be a very great object of worship in yourvillage," Bertram suggested in perfect good faith. "Is it a local cult,or is it general in England?"

  Frida glanced at him, half puzzled. "Oh, I think it's pretty general,"she answered, with a happy smile. "But perhaps the disease is a littlemore epidemic about here than elsewhere. It affects the suburbs: and mybrother's got it just as badly as any one."

  "As badly as any one!" Bertram repeated with a puzzled air. "Then youdon't belong to that creed yourself? You don't bend the knee to thisembodied abstraction?--it's your brother who worships her, I suppose,for the family?"

  "Yes; he's more of a devotee than I am," Frida went on, quite frankly,but not a little surprised at so much freedom in a stranger. "Thoughwe're all of us tarred with the same brush, no doubt. It's a catchingcomplaint, I suppose, respectability."

  Bertram gazed at her dubiously. A complaint, did she say? Was sheserious or joking? He hardly understood her. But further discussion wascut short for the moment by Frida good-humouredly running upstairsto see after the Gladstone bag and brown portmanteau, into whichshe crammed a few useless books and other heavy things, to serve asmake-weights for Miss Blake's injured feelings.

  "You'd better wait a quarter of an hour after we go to church," shesaid, as the servant brought these necessaries into the roomwhere Bertram and Philip were seated. "By that time nearly all thechurch-people will be safe in their seats; and Phil's conscience willbe satisfied. You can tell Miss Blake you've brought a little of yourluggage to do for to-day, and the rest will follow from town to-morrowmorning."

  "Oh, how very kind you are!" Bertram exclaimed, looking down at hergratefully. "I'm sure I don't know what I should ever have done in thiscrisis without you."

  He said it with a warmth which was certainly unconventional. Fridacoloured and looked embarrassed. There was no denying he was certainly amost strange and untrammelled person.

  "And if I might venture on a hint," Philip put in, with a hasty glanceat his companion's extremely unsabbatical costume, "it would be thatyou shouldn't try to go out much to-day in that suit you're wearing; itlooks peculiar, don't you know, and might attract attention."

  "Oh, is that a taboo too?" the stranger put in quickly, with an anxiousair. "Now, that's awfully kind of you. But
it's curious, as well; fortwo or three people passed my window last night, all Englishmen, asI judged, and all with suits almost exactly like this one--which wascopied, as I told you, from an English model."

  "Last night; oh, yes," Philip answered. "Last night was Saturday;that makes all the difference. The suit's right enough in its way, ofcourse,--very neat and gentlemanly; but NOT for Sunday. You're expectedon Sundays to put on a black coat and waistcoat, you know, like the onesI'm wearing."

  Bertram's countenance fell. "And if I'm seen in the street like this,"he asked, "will they do anything to me? Will the guardians of thepeace--the police, I mean--arrest me?"

  Frida laughed a bright little laugh of genuine amusement.

  "Oh, dear, no," she said merrily; "it isn't an affair of police at all;not so serious as that: it's only a matter of respectability."

  "I see," Bertram answered. "Respectability's a religious or popular, notan official or governmental, taboo. I quite understand you. But thoseare often the most dangerous sort. Will the people in the street, whoadore Respectability, be likely to attack me or mob me for disrespect totheir fetich?"

  "Certainly not," Frida replied, flushing up. He seemed to be carryinga joke too far. "This is a free country. Everybody wears and eats anddrinks just what he pleases."

  "Well, that's all very interesting to me," the Alien went on with acharming smile, that disarmed her indignation; "for I've come here onpurpose to collect facts and notes about English taboos and similarobservances. I'm Secretary of a Nomological Society at home, which isinterested in pagodas, topes, and joss-houses; and I've been travellingin Africa and in the South Sea Islands for a long time past, working atmaterials for a History of Taboo, from its earliest beginnings in thesavage stage to its fully developed European complexity; so of courseall you say comes home to me greatly. Your taboos, I foresee, will provea most valuable and illustrative study."

  "I beg your pardon," Philip interposed stiffly, now put upon his mettle."We have NO taboos at all in England. You're misled, no doubt, by a mereplayful facon de parler, which society indulges in. England, you mustremember, is a civilised country, and taboos are institutions thatbelong to the lowest and most degraded savages."

  But Bertram Ingledew gazed at him in the blankest astonishment. "Notaboos!" he exclaimed, taken aback. "Why, I've read of hundreds. Amongnomological students, England has always been regarded with the greatestinterest as the home and centre of the highest and most evolved taboodevelopment. And you yourself," he added with a courteous little bow,"have already supplied me with quite half a dozen. But perhaps you callthem by some other name among yourselves; though in origin and essence,of course, they're precisely the same as the other taboos I've beenexamining so long in Asia and Africa. However, I'm afraid I'm detainingyou from the function of your joss-house. You wish, no doubt, to makeyour genuflexions in the Temple of Respectability."

  And he reflected silently on the curious fact that the Englishgive themselves by law fifty-two weekly holidays a year, and compelthemselves by custom to waste them entirely in ceremonial observances.