The Juryman by John Galsworthy
"Don't you see, brother, I was reading yesterday the Gospel
about Christ, the little Father; how He suffered, how He walked
on the earth. I suppose you have heard about it?"
"Indeed, I have," replied Stepanuitch; "but we are people in
darkness; we can't read."--TOLSTOI.
Mr. Henry Bosengate, of the London Stock Exchange, seated himself in
his car that morning during the great war with a sense of injury.
Major in a Volunteer Corps; member of all the local committees;
lending this very car to the neighbouring hospital, at times even
driving it himself for their benefit; subscribing to funds, so far as
his diminished income permitted--he was conscious of being an asset
to the country, and one whose time could not be wasted with impunity.
To be summoned to sit on a jury at the local assizes, and not even
the grand jury at that! It was in the nature of an outrage.
Strong and upright, with hazel eyes and dark eyebrows, pinkish-brown
cheeks, a forehead white, well-shaped, and getting high, with greyish
hair glossy and well-brushed, and a trim moustache, he might have
been taken for that colonel of Volunteers which indeed he was in a
fair way of becoming.
His wife had followed him out under the porch, and stood bracing her
supple body clothed in lilac linen. Red rambler roses formed a sort
of crown to her dark head; her ivory-coloured face had in it just a
suggestion of the Japanese.
Mr. Bosengate spoke through the whirr of the engine:
"I don't expect to be late, dear. This business is ridiculous.
There oughtn't to be any crime in these days."
His wife--her name was Kathleen--smiled. She looked very pretty and
cool, Mr. Bosengate thought. To him bound on this dull and stuffy
business everything he owned seemed pleasant--the geranium beds
beside the gravel drive, his long, red-brick house mellowing
decorously in its creepers and ivy, the little clock-tower over
stables now converted to a garage, the dovecote, masking at the other
end the conservatory which adjoined the billiard-room. Close to the
red-brick lodge his two children, Kate and Harry, ran out from under
the acacia trees, and waved to him, scrambling bare-legged on to the
low, red, ivy-covered wall which guarded his domain of eleven acres.
Mr. Bosengate waved back, thinking: 'Jolly couple--by Jove, they
are!' Above their heads, through the trees, he could see right away
to some Downs, faint in the July heat haze. And he thought: 'Pretty
a spot as one could have got, so close to Town!'
Despite the war he had enjoyed these last two years more than any of
the ten since he built "Charmleigh" and settled down to semi-rural
domesticity with his young wife. There had been a certain piquancy,
a savour added to existence, by the country's peril, and all the
public service and sacrifice it demanded. His chauffeur was gone,
and one gardener did the work of three. He enjoyed-positively
enjoyed, his committee work; even the serious decline of business and
increase of taxation had not much worried one continually conscious
of the national crisis and his own part therein. The country had
wanted waking up, wanted a lesson in effort and economy; and the
feeling that he had not spared himself in these strenuous times, had
given a zest to those quiet pleasures of bed and board which, at his
age, even the most patriotic could retain with a good conscience. He
had denied himself many things--new clothes, presents for Kathleen
and the children, travel, and that pine-apple house which he had been
on the point of building when the war broke out; new wine, too, and
cigars, and membership of the two Clubs which he had never used in
the old days. The hours had seemed fuller and longer, sleep better
earned--wonderful, the things one could do without when put to it!
He turned the car into the high road, driving dreamily for he was in
plenty of time. The war was going pretty well now; he was no fool
optimist, but now that conscription was in force, one might
reasonably hope for its end within a year. Then there would be a
boom, and one might let oneself go a little. Visions of theatres and
supper with his wife at the Savoy afterwards, and cosy night drives
back into the sweet-smelling country behind your own chauffeur once
more teased a fancy which even now did not soar beyond the confines
of domestic pleasures. He pictured his wife in new dresses by Jay--
she was fifteen years younger than himself, and "paid for dressing"
as they said. He had always delighted--as men older than their wives
will--in the admiration she excited from others not privileged to
enjoy her charms. Her rather queer and ironical beauty, her cool
irreproachable wifeliness, was a constant balm to him. They would
give dinner parties again, have their friends down from town, and he
would once more enjoy sitting at the foot of the dinner table while
Kathleen sat at the head, with the light soft on her ivory shoulders,
behind flowers she had arranged in that original way of hers, and
fruit which he had grown in his hot-houses; once more he would take
legitimate interest in the wine he offered to his guests--once more
stock that Chinese cabinet wherein he kept cigars. Yes--there was a
certain satisfaction in these days of privation, if only from the
anticipation they created.
The sprinkling of villas had become continuous on either side of the
high road; and women going out to shop, tradesmen's boys delivering
victuals, young men in khaki, began to abound. Now and then a
limping or bandaged form would pass--some bit of human wreckage; and
Mr. Bosengate would think mechanically: 'Another of those poor
devils! Wonder if we've had his case before us!'
Running his car into the best hotel garage of the little town, he
made his way leisurely over to the court. It stood back from the
market-place, and was already lapped by a sea of persons having, as
in the outer ring at race meetings, an air of business at which one
must not be caught out, together with a soaked or flushed appearance.
Mr. Bosengate could not resist putting his handkerchief to his nose.
He had carefully drenched it with lavender water, and to this fact
owed, perhaps, his immunity from the post of foreman on the jury--
for, say what you will about the English, they have a deep instinct
He found himself second in the front row of the jury box, and through
the odour of "Sanitas" gazed at the judge's face expressionless up
there, for all the world like a bewigged bust. His fellows in the
box had that appearance of falling between two classes characteristic
of jurymen. Mr. Bosengate was not impressed. On one side of him the
foreman sat, a prominent upholsterer, known in the town as "Gentleman
Fox." His dark and beautifully brushed and oiled hair and moustache,
his radiant linen, gold watch and chain, the white piping to his
waistcoat, and a habit of never saying "Sir" had long marked him out
from commoner men; he undertook to bury people too, to save them
trouble; and was altogether superior. On the other side Mr.
Bosengate had one of those men, who, except when they sit on juries,
are never seen without a little brown bag, and the appearance of
having been interrupted in a drink. Pale and shiny, with large loose
eyes shifting from side to side, he had an underdone voice and uneasy
flabby hands. Mr. Bosengate disliked sitting next to him. Beyond
this commercial traveller sat a dark pale young man with spectacles;
beyond him again, a short old man with grey moustache, mutton chops,
and innumerable wrinkles; and the front row was completed by a
chemist. The three immediately behind, Mr. Bosengate did not
thoroughly master; but the three at the end of the second row he
learned in their order of an oldish man in a grey suit, given to
winking; an inanimate person with the mouth of a moustachioed cod-
fish, over whose long bald crown three wisps of damp hair were
carefully arranged; and a dried, dapperish, clean-shorn man, whose
mouth seemed terrified lest it should be surprised without a smile.
Their first and second verdicts were recorded without the necessity
for withdrawal, and Mr. Bosengate was already sleepy when the third
case was called. The sight of khaki revived his drooping attention.
But what a weedy-looking specimen! This prisoner had a truly
nerveless pitiable dejected air. If he had ever had a military
bearing it had shrunk into him during his confinement. His ill-
shaped brown tunic, whose little brass buttons seemed trying to keep
smiling, struck Mr. Bosengate as ridiculously short, used though he
was to such things. 'Absurd,' he thought--'Lumbago! Just where they
ought to be covered!' Then the officer and gentleman stirred in him,
and he added to himself: 'Still, there must be some distinction
made!' The little soldier's visage had once perhaps been tanned, but
was now the colour of dark dough; his large brown eyes with white
showing below the iris, as so often in the eyes of very nervous
people--wandered from face to face, of judge, counsel, jury, and
public. There were hollows in his cheeks, his dark hair looked damp;
around his neck he wore a bandage. The commercial traveller on Mr.
Bosengate's left turned, and whispered: "Felo de se! My hat! what a
guy!" Mr. Bosengate pretended not to hear--he could not bear that
fellow!--and slowly wrote on a bit of paper: "Owen Lewis." Welsh!
Well, he looked it--not at all an English face. Attempted suicide--
not at all an English crime! Suicide implied surrender, a putting-up
of hands to Fate--to say nothing of the religious aspect of the
matter. And suicide in khaki seemed to Mr. Bosengate particularly
abhorrent; like turning tail in face of the enemy; almost meriting
the fate of a deserter. He looked at the prisoner, trying not to
give way to this prejudice. And the prisoner seemed to look at him,
though this, perhaps, was fancy.
The Counsel for the prosecution, a little, alert, grey, decided man,
above military age, began detailing the circumstances of the crime.
Mr. Bosengate, though not particularly sensitive to atmosphere, could
perceive a sort of current running through the Court. It was as if
jury and public were thinking rhythmically in obedience to the same
unexpressed prejudice of which he himself was conscious. Even the
Caesar-like pale face up there, presiding, seemed in its ironic
serenity responding to that current.
"Gentlemen of the jury, before I call my evidence, I direct your
attention to the bandage the accused is still wearing. He gave
himself this wound with his Army razor, adding, if I may say so,
insult to the injury he was inflicting on his country. He pleads not
guilty; and before the magistrates he said that absence from his wife
was preying on his mind"--the advocate's close lips widened--"Well,
gentlemen, if such an excuse is to weigh with us in these days, I'm
sure I don't know what's to happen to the Empire."
'No, by George!' thought Mr. Bosengate.
The evidence of the first witness, a room-mate who had caught the
prisoner's hand, and of the sergeant, who had at once been summoned,
was conclusive and he began to cherish a hope that they would get
through without withdrawing, and he would be home before five. But
then a hitch occurred. The regimental doctor failed to respond when
his name was called; and the judge having for the first time that day
showed himself capable of human emotion, intimated that he would
adjourn until the morrow.
Mr. Bosengate received the announcement with equanimity. He would be
home even earlier! And gathering up the sheets of paper he had
scribbled on, he put them in his pocket and got up. The would-be
suicide was being taken out of the court--a shambling drab figure
with shoulders hunched. What good were men like that in these days!
What good! The prisoner looked up. Mr. Bosengate encountered in
full the gaze of those large brown eyes, with the white showing
underneath. What a suffering, wretched, pitiful face! A man had no
business to give you a look like that! The prisoner passed on down
the stairs, and vanished. Mr. Bosengate went out and across the
market place to the garage of the hotel where he had left his car.
The sun shone fiercely and he thought: 'I must do some watering in
the garden.' He brought the car out, and was about to start the
engine, when someone passing said: 'Good evenin'. Seedy-lookin'
beggar that last prisoner, ain't he? We don't want men of that
stamp." It was his neighbour on the jury, the commercial traveller,
in a straw hat, with a little brown bag already in his hand and the
froth of an interrupted drink on his moustache. Answering curtly:
"Good evening!" and thinking: 'Nor of yours, my friend!' Mr.
Bosengate started the car with unnecessary clamour. But as if
brought back to life by the commercial traveller's remark, the
prisoner's figure seemed to speed along too, turning up at Mr.
Bosengate his pitifully unhappy eyes. Want of his wife!--queer
excuse that for trying to put it out of his power ever to see her
again! Why! Half a loaf, even a slice, was better than no bread.
Not many of that neurotic type in the Army--thank Heaven! The
lugubrious figure vanished, and Mr. Bosengate pictured instead the
form of his own wife bending over her "G3oire de Dijon roses" in the
rosery, where she generally worked a little before tea now that they
were short of gardeners. He saw her, as often he had seen her, raise
herself and stand, head to one side, a gloved hand on her slender
hip, gazing as it were ironically from under drooped lids at buds
which did not come out fast enough. And the word 'Caline,' for he
was something of a French scholar, shot through his mind: 'Kath3een-
Caline!' If he found her there when he got in, he would steal up on
the grass and--ah! but with great care not to crease her dress or
disturb her hair! 'If only she weren't quite so self-contained,' he
thought; 'It's like a cat you can't get near, not really near!'
The car, returning faster than it had come down that morning, had
already passed the outskirt villas, and was breasting the hill to
where, among fields and the old trees, Charm3eigh lay apart from
commoner life. Turning into his drive, Mr. Bosengate thought with a
certain surprise: 'I wonder what she does think of! I wonder!' He
put his gloves and hat down in the outer hall and went into the
lavatory, to dip his face in cool water and wash it with sweet-
smelling soap--delicious revenge on the unclean atmosphere in which
he had been stewing so many hours. He came out again into the hall
dazed by soap and the mellowed light, and a voice from half-way up
the stairs said: "Daddy! Look!" His little daughter was standing up
there with one hand on the banisters. She scrambled on to them and
came sliding down, her frock up to her eyes, and her holland knickers
to her middle. Mr. Bosengate said mildly:
"Well, that's elegant!"
"Tea's in the summer-house. Mummy's waiting. Come on!"
With her hand in his, Mr. Bosengate went on, through the drawing-
room, long and cool, with sun-blinds down, through the billiard-room,
high and cool, through the conservatory, green and sweet-smelling,
out on to the terrace and the upper lawn. He had never felt such
sheer exhilarated joy in his home surroundings, so cool, glistening
and green under the July sun; and he said:
"Well, Kit, what have you all been doing?"
"I've fed my rabbits and Harry's; and we've been in the attic; Harry
got his leg through the skylight."
Mr. Bosengate drew in his breath with a hiss.
"It's all right, Daddy; we got it out again, it's only grazed the
skin. And we've been making swabs--I made seventeen, Mummy made
thirty-three, and then she went to the hospital. Did you put many
men in prison?"
Mr. Bosengate cleared his throat. The question seemed to him
"What's it like in prison, Daddy?"
Mr. Bosengate, who had no more knowledge than his little daughter,
replied in an absent voice:
"Not very nice."
They were passing under a young oak tree, where the path wound round
to the rosery and summer-house. Something shot down and clawed Mr.
Bosengate's neck. His little daughter began to hop and suffocate
"Oh, Daddy! Aren't you caught! I led you on purpose!"
Looking up, Mr. Bosengate saw his small son lying along a low branch
above him--like the leopard he was declaring himself to be (for fear
of error), and thought blithely: 'What an active little chap it is!'
"Let me drop on your shoulders, Daddy--like they do on the deer."
"Oh, yes! Do be a deer, Daddy!"
Mr. Bosengate did not see being a deer; his hair had just been
brushed. But he entered the rosery buoyantly between his offspring.
His wife was standing precisely as he had imagined her, in a pale
blue frock open at the neck, with a narrow black band round the
waist, and little accordion pleats below. She looked her coolest.
Her smile, when she turned her head, hardly seemed to take Mr.
Bosengate seriously enough. He placed his lips below one of her
half-drooped eyelids. She even smelled of roses. His children began
to dance round their mother, and Mr. Bosengate,--firmly held between
them, was also compelled to do this, until she said:
"When you've quite done, let's have tea!"
It was not the greeting he had imagined coming along in the car.
Earwigs were plentiful in the summer-house--used perhaps twice a
year, but indispensable to every country residence--and Mr. Bosengate
was not sorry for the excuse to get out again. Though all was so
pleasant, he felt oddly restless, rather suffocated; and lighting his
pipe, began to move about among the roses, blowing tobacco at the
greenfly; in war-time one was never quite idle! And suddenly he
"We're trying a wretched Tommy at the assizes."
His wife looked up from a rose.
"Why did he?"
"Can't stand the separation from his wife."
She looked at him, gave a low laugh, and said:
Mr. Bosengate was puzzled. Why did she laugh? He looked round, saw
that the children were gone, took his pipe from his mouth, and
"You look very pretty," he said. "Give me a kiss!"
His wife bent her body forward from the waist, and pushed her lips
out till they touched his moustache. Mr. Bosengate felt a sensation
as if he had arisen from breakfast, without having eaten marmalade.
He mastered it, and said:
"That jury are a rum lot."
His wife's eyelids flickered. "I wish women sat on juries."
"It would be an experience."
Not the first time she had used that curious expression! Yet her
life was far from dull, so far as he could see; with the new
interests created by the war, and the constant calls on her time made
by the perfection of their home life, she had a useful and busy
existence. Again the random thought passed through him: 'But she
never tells me anything!' And suddenly that lugubrious khaki-clad
figure started up among the rose bushes. "We've got a lot to be
thankful for!" he said abruptly. "I must go to work!" His wife,
raising one eyebrow, smiled. "And I to weep!" Mr. Bosengate
laughed--she had a pretty wit! And stroking his comely moustache
where it had been kissed, he moved out into the sunshine. All the
evening, throughout his labours, not inconsiderable, for this jury
business had put him behind time, he was afflicted by that restless
pleasure in his surroundings; would break off in mowing the lower
lawn to look at the house through the trees; would leave his study
and committee papers, to cross into the drawing-room and sniff its
dainty fragrance; paid a special good-night visit to the children
having supper in the schoolroom; pottered in and out from his
dressing room to admire his wife while she was changing for dinner;
dined with his mind perpetually on the next course; talked volubly of
the war; and in the billiard room afterwards, smoking the pipe which
had taken the place of his cigar, could not keep still, but roamed
about, now in conservatory, now in the drawing-room, where his wife
and the governess were still making swabs. It seemed to him that he
could not have enough of anything. About eleven o'clock he strolled
out beautiful night, only just dark enough--under the new arrangement
with Time--and went down to the little round fountain below the
terrace. His wife was playing the piano. Mr. Bosengate looked at
the water and the flat dark water lily leaves which floated there;
looked up at the house, where only narrow chinks of light showed,
because of the Lighting Order. The dreamy music drifted out; there
was a scent of heliotrope. He moved a few steps back, and sat in the
children's swing under an old lime tree. Jolly--blissful--in the
warm, bloomy dark! Of all hours of the day, this before going to bed
was perhaps the pleasantest. He saw the light go up in his wife's
bed room, unscreened for a full minute, and thought: 'Aha! If I did
my duty as a special, I should "strafe" her for that.' She came to
the window, her figure lighted, hands up to the back of her head, so
that her bare arms gleamed. Mr. Bosengate wafted her a kiss, knowing
he could not be seen. 'Lucky chap!' he mused; 'she's a great joy!'
Up went her arm, down came the blind the house was dark again. He
drew a long breath. 'Another ten minutes,' he thought, 'then I'll go
in and shut up. By Jove! The limes are beginning to smell already!'
And, the better to take in that acme of his well-being, he tilted the
swing, lifted his feet from the ground, and swung himself toward the
scented blossoms. He wanted to whelm his senses in their perfume,
and closed his eyes. But instead of the domestic vision he expected,
the face of the little Welsh soldier, hare-eyed, shadowy, pinched and
dark and pitiful, started up with such disturbing vividness that he
opened his eyes again at once. Curse! The fellow almost haunted
one! Where would he be now poor little devil!--lying in his cell,
thinking--thinking of his wife! Feeling suddenly morbid, Mr.
Bosengate arrested the swing and stood up. Absurd!--all his well-
being and mood of warm anticipation had deserted him! 'A d---d
world!' he thought. 'Such a lot of misery! Why should I have to sit
in judgment on that poor beggar, and condemn him?' He moved up on to
the terrace and walked briskly, to rid himself of this disturbance
before going in. 'That commercial traveller chap,' he thought, 'the
rest of those fellows--they see nothing!' And, abruptly turning up
the three stone steps, he entered the conservatory, locked it, passed
into the billiard room, and drank his barley water. One of the
pictures was hanging crooked; he went up to put it straight. Still
life. Grapes and apples, and--lobsters! They struck him as odd for
the first time. Why lobsters? The whole picture seemed dead and
oily. He turned off the light, and went upstairs, passed his wife's
door, into his own room, and undressed. Clothed in his pyjamas he
opened the door between the rooms. By the light coming from his own
he could see her dark head on the pillow. Was she asleep? No--not
asleep, certainly. The moment of fruition had come; the crowning of
his pride and pleasure in his home. But he continued to stand there.
He had suddenly no pride, no pleasure, no desire; nothing but a sort
of dull resentment against everything. He turned back; shut the
door, and slipping between the heavy curtains and his open window,
stood looking out at the night. 'Full of misery!' he thought. 'Full
of d---d misery!'
Filing into the jury box next morning, Mr. Bosengate collided
slightly with a short juryman, whose square figure and square head of
stiff yellow-red hair he had only vaguely noticed the day before.
The man looked angry, and Mr. Bosengate thought: 'An ill-bred dog,
He sat down quickly, and, to avoid further recognition of his
fellows, gazed in front of him. His appearance on Saturdays was
always military, by reason of the route march of his Volunteer Corps
in the afternoon. Gentleman Fox, who belonged to the corps too, was
also looking square; but that commercial traveller on his other side
seemed more louche, and as if surprised in immorality, than ever;
only the proximity of Gentleman Fox on the other side kept Mr.
Bosengate from shrinking. Then he saw the prisoner being brought in,
shadowy and dark behind the brightness of his buttons, and he
experienced a sort of shock, this figure was so exactly that which
had several times started up in his mind. Somehow he had expected a
fresh sight of the fellow to dispel and disprove what had been
haunting him, had expected to find him just an outside phenomenon,
not, as it were, a part of his own life. And he gazed at the carven
immobility of the judge's face, trying to steady himself, as a
drunken man will, by looking at a light. The regimental doctor,
unabashed by the judge's comment on his absence the day before, gave
his evidence like a man who had better things to do, and the case for
the prosecution was forthwith rounded in by a little speech from
counsel. The matter--he said--was clear as daylight. Those who wore
His Majesty's uniform, charged with the responsibility and privilege
of defending their country, were no more entitled to desert their
regiments by taking their own lives than they were entitled to desert
in any other way. He asked for a conviction. Mr. Bosengate felt a
sympathetic shuffle passing through all feet; the judge was speaking:
"Prisoner, you can either go into the witness box and make your
statement on oath, in which case you may be cross-examined on it; or
you can make your statement there from the dock, in which case you
will not be cross-examined. Which do you elect to do?"
"From here, my lord."
Seeing him now full face, and, as it might be, come to life in the
effort to convey his feelings, Mr. Bosengate had suddenly a quite
different impression of the fellow. It was as if his khaki had
fallen off, and he had stepped out of his own shadow, a live and
quivering creature. His pinched clean-shaven face seemed to have an
irregular, wilder, hairier look, his large nervous brown eyes
darkened and glowed; he jerked his shoulders, his arms, his whole
body, like a man suddenly freed from cramp or a suit of armour.
He spoke, too, in a quick, crisp, rather high voice, pinching his
consonants a little, sharpening his vowels, like a true Welshman.
"My lord and misters the jury," he said: "I was a hairdresser when
the call came on me to join the army. I had a little home and a
wife. I never thought what it would be like to be away from them, I
surely never did; and I'm ashamed to be speaking it out like this--
how it can squeeze and squeeze a man, how it can prey on your mind,
when you're nervous like I am. 'Tis not everyone that cares for his
home--there's lots o' them never wants to see their wives again. But
for me 'tis like being shut up in a cage, it is!" Mr. Bosengate saw
daylight between the skinny fingers of the man's hand thrown out with
a jerk. "I cannot bear it shut up away from wife and home like what
you are in the army. So when I took my razor that morning I was
wild--an' I wouldn't be here now but for that man catching my hand.
There was no reason in it, I'm willing to confess. It was foolish;
but wait till you get feeling like what I was, and see how it draws
you. Misters the jury, don't send me back to prison; it is worse
still there. If you have wives you will know what it is like for
lots of us; only some is more nervous than others. I swear to you,
sirs, I could not help it---?' Again the little man flung out his
hand, his whole thin body shook and Mr. Bosengate felt the same
sensation as when he drove his car over a dog--"Misters the jury, I
hope you may never in your lives feel as I've been feeling."
The little man ceased, his eyes shrank back into their sockets, his
figure back into its mask of shadowy brown and gleaming buttons, and
Mr. Bosengate was conscious that the judge was making a series of
remarks; and, very soon, of being seated at a mahogany table in the
jury's withdrawing room, hearing the, voice of the man with hair like
an Irish terrier's saying: "Didn't he talk through his hat, that
little blighter!" Conscious, too, of the commercial traveller, still
on his left--always on his left!--mopping his brow, and muttering:
"Phew! It's hot in there to-day!" while an effluvium, as of an
inside accustomed to whisky came from him. Then the man with the
underlip and the three plastered wisps of hair said:
"Don't know why we withdrew, Mr. Foreman!"
Mr. Bosengate looked round to where, at the head of the table,
Gentleman Fox sat, in defensive gentility and the little white piping
to his waistcoat saying blandly:
"I shall be happy to take the sense of the jury."
There was a short silence, then the chemist murmured:
"I should say he must have what they call claustrophobia."
"Clauster fiddlesticks! The feller's a shirker, that's all. Missed
his wife--pretty excuse! Indecent, I call it!"
The speaker was the little wire-haired man; and emotion, deep and
angry, stirred in Mr. Bosengate. That ill-bred little cur! He
gripped the edge of the table with both hands.
"I think it's d-----d natural!" he muttered. But almost before the
words had left his lips he felt dismay. What had he said--he, nearly
a colonel of volunteers--endorsing such a want of patriotism! And
hearing the commercial traveller murmuring: "'Ear, 'ear!" he
The wire-headed man said roughly:
"There's too many of these blighted shirkers, and too much pampering
The turmoil in Mr. Bosengate increased; he remarked in an icy voice:
"I agree to no verdict that'll send the man back to prison."
At this a real tremor seemed to go round the table, as if they all
saw themselves sitting there through lunch time. Then the large
grey-haired man given to winking, said:
"Oh! Come, sir--after what the judge said! Come, sir! What do you
say, Mr. Foreman?"
Gentleman Fox--as who should say 'This is excellent value, but I
don't wish to press it on you!'--answered:
"We are only concerned with the facts. Did he or did he not try to
shorten his life?"
"Of course he did--said so himself," Mr. Bosengate heard the wire-
haired man snap out, and from the following murmur of assent he alone
abstained. Guilty! Well--yes! There was no way out of admitting
that, but his feelings revolted against handing "that poor little
beggar" over to the tender mercy of his country's law. His whole
soul rose in arms against agreeing with that ill-bred little cur, and
the rest of this job-lot. He had an impulse to get up and walk out,
saying: "Settle it your own way. Good morning."
"It seems, sir," Gentleman Fox was saying, "that we're all agreed to
guilty, except yourself. If you will allow me, I don't see how you
can go behind what the prisoner himself admitted."
Thus brought up to the very guns, Mr. Bosengate, red in the face,
thrust his hands deep into the side pockets of his tunic, and,
staring straight before him, said:
"Very well; on condition we recommend him to mercy."
"What do you say, gentlemen; shall we recommend him to mercy?"
"'Ear, 'ear!" burst from the commercial traveller, and from the
chemist came the murmur:
"No harm in that."
"Well, I think there is. They shoot deserters at the front, and we
let this fellow off. I'd hang the cur."
Mr. Bosengate stared at that little wire-haired brute. "Haven't you
any feeling for others?" he wanted to say. "Can't you see that this
poor devil suffers tortures?" But the sheer impossibility of doing
this before ten other men brought a slight sweat out on his face and
hands; and in agitation he smote the table a blow with his fist. The
effect was instantaneous. Everybody looked at the wire-haired man,
as if saying: "Yes, you've gone a bit too far there!" The "little
brute" stood it for a moment, then muttered surlily:
"Well, commend 'im to mercy if you like; I don't care."
"That's right; they never pay any attention to it," said the grey-
haired man, winking heartily. And Mr. Bosengate filed back with the
others into court.
But when from the jury box his eyes fell once more on the hare-eyed
figure in the dock, he had his worst moment yet. Why should this
poor wretch suffer so--for no fault, no fault; while he, and these
others, and that snapping counsel, and the Caesar-like judge up
there, went off to their women and their homes, blithe as bees, and
probably never thought of him again? And suddenly he was conscious
of the judge's voice:
"You will go back to your regiment, and endeavour to serve your
country with better spirit. You may thank the jury that you are not
sent to prison, and your good fortune that you were not at the front
when you tried to commit this cowardly act. You are lucky to be
A policeman pulled the little soldier by the arm; his drab figure
with eyes fixed and lustreless, passed down and away. From his very
soul Mr. Bosengate wanted to lean out and say: "Cheer up, cheer up!
It was nearly ten o'clock that evening before he reached home,
motoring back from the route march. His physical tiredness was
abated, for he had partaken of a snack and a whisky and soda at the
hotel; but mentally he was in a curious mood. His body felt
appeased, his spirit hungry. Tonight he had a yearning, not for his
wife's kisses, but for her understanding. He wanted to go to her and
say: "I've learnt a lot to-day-found out things I never thought of.
Life's a wonderful thing, Kate, a thing one can't live all to
oneself; a thing one shares with everybody, so that when another
suffers, one suffers too. It's come to me that what one has doesn't
matter a bit--it's what one does, and how one sympathises with other
people. It came to me in the most extraordinary vivid way, when I
was on that jury, watching that poor little rat of a soldier in his
trap; it's the first time I've ever felt--the--the spirit of Christ,
you know. It's a wonderful thing, Kate--wonderful! We haven't been
close--really close, you and I, so that we each understand what the
other is feeling. It's all in that, you know; understanding--
sympathy--it's priceless. When I saw that poor little devil taken
down and sent back to his regiment to begin his sorrows all over
again--wanting his wife, thinking and thinking of her just as you
know I would be thinking and wanting you, I felt what an awful
outside sort of life we lead, never telling each other what we really
think and feel, never being really close. I daresay that little chap
and his wife keep nothing from each other--live each other's lives.
That's what we ought to do. Let's get to feeling that what really
matters is--understanding and loving, and not only just saying it as
we all do, those fellows on the jury, and even that poor devil of a
judge--what an awful life judging one's fellow-creatures
When I left that poor little Tommy this morning, and ever since, I've
longed to get back here quietly to you and tell you about it, and
make a beginning. There's something wonderful in this, and I want
you to feel it as I do, because you mean such a lot to me."
This was what he wanted to say to his wife, not touching, or kissing
her, just looking into her eyes, watching them soften and glow as
they surely must, catching the infection of his new ardour. And he
felt unsteady, fearfully unsteady with the desire to say it all as it
should be said: swiftly, quietly, with the truth and fervour of his
The hall was not lit up, for daylight still lingered under the new
arrangement. He went towards the drawing-room, but from the very
door shied off to his study and stood irresolute under the picture of
a "Man catching a flea" (Dutch school), which had come down to him
from his father. The governess would be in there with his wife! He
must wait. Essential to go straight to Kathleen and pour it all out,
or he would never do it. He felt as nervous as an undergraduate
going up for his viva' voce. This thing was so big, so astoundingly
and unexpectedly important. He was suddenly afraid of his wife,
afraid of her coolness and her grace, and that something Japanese
about her--of all those attributes he had been accustomed to admire
most; afraid, as it were, of her attraction. He felt young to-night,
almost boyish; would she see that he was not really fifteen years
older than herself, and she not really a part of his collection, of
all the admirable appointments of his home; but a companion spirit to
one who wanted a companion badly. In this agitation of his soul he
could keep still no more than he could last night in the agitation of
his senses; and he wandered into the dining-room. A dainty supper
was set out there, sandwiches, and cake, whisky and the cigarettes-
even an early peach. Mr. Bosengate looked at this peach with sorrow
rather than disgust. The perfection of it was of a piece with all
that had gone before this new and sudden feeling. Its delicious
bloom seemed to heighten his perception of the hedge around him, that
hedge of the things he so enjoyed, carefully planted and tended these
many years. He passed it by uneaten, and went to the window. Out
there all was darkening, the fountain, the lime tree, the flower-
beds, and the fields below, with the Jersey cows who would come to
your call; darkening slowly, losing form, blurring into soft
blackness, vanishing, but there none the less--all there--the hedge
of his possessions. He heard the door of the drawing-room open, the
voices of his wife and the governess in the hall, going up to bed.
If only they didn't look in here! If only! The voices ceased. He
was safe now--had but to follow in a few minutes, to make sure of
Kathleen alone. He turned round and stared down the length of the
dark dining-room, over the rosewood table, to where in the mirror
above the sideboard at the far end, his figure bathed, a stain, a
mere blurred shadow; he made his way down to it along the table edge,
and stood before himself as close as he could get. His throat and
the roof of his mouth felt dry with nervousness; he put out his
finger and touched his face in the glass. 'You're an ass!' he
thought. 'Pull yourself together, and get it over. She will see; of
course she will!' He swallowed, smoothed his moustache, and walked
out. Going up the stairs, his heart beat painfully; but he was in
for it now, and marched straight into her room.
Dressed only in a loose blue wrapper, she was brushing her dark hair
before the glass. Mr. Bosengate went up to her and stood there
silent, looking down. The words he had thought of were like a swarm
of bees buzzing in his head, yet not one would fly from between his
lips. His wife went on brushing her hair under the light which shone
on her polished elbows. She looked up at him from beneath one lifted
With a sort of vehemence the single word "No" passed out. A faint, a
quizzical smile flitted over her face; she shrugged her shoulders
ever so gently. That gesture--he had seen it before! And in
desperate desire to make her understand, he put his hand on her
"Kathleen, stop--listen to me!" His fingers tightened in his
agitation and eagerness to make his great discovery known. But
before he could get out a word he became conscious of that cool round
arm, conscious of her eyes half-closed, sliding round at him, of her
half-smiling lips, of her neck under the wrapper. And he stammered:
"I want--I must--Kathleen, I---"
She lifted her shoulders again in that little shrug. "Yes--I know;
A wave of heat and shame, and of God knows what came over Mr.
Bosengate; he fell on his knees and pressed his forehead to her arm;
and he was silent, more silent than the grave. Nothing--nothing came
from him but two long sighs. Suddenly he felt her hand stroke his
cheek--compassionately, it seemed to him. She made a little movement
towards him; her lips met his, and he remembered nothing but that....
In his own room Mr. Bosengate sat at his wide open window, smoking a
cigarette; there was no light. Moths went past, the moon was
creeping up. He sat very calm, puffing the smoke out in to the night
air. Curious thing-life! Curious world! Curious forces in it--
making one do the opposite of what one wished; always--always making
one do the opposite, it seemed! The furtive light from that creeping
moon was getting hold of things down there, stealing in among the
boughs of the trees. 'There's something ironical,' he thought,
'which walks about. Things don't come off as you think they will. I
meant, I tried but one doesn't change like that all of a sudden, it
seems. Fact is, life's too big a thing for one! All the same, I'm
not the man I was yesterday--not quite!' He closed his eyes, and in
one of those flashes of vision which come when the senses are at
rest, he saw himself as it were far down below--down on the floor of
a street narrow as a grave, high as a mountain, a deep dark slit of a
street walking down there, a black midget of a fellow, among other
black midgets--his wife, and the little soldier, the judge, and those
jury chaps--fantoches straight up on their tiny feet, wandering down
there in that dark, infinitely tall, and narrow street. 'Too much
for one!' he thought; 'Too high for one--no getting on top of it.
We've got to be kind, and help one another, and not expect too much,
and not think too much. That's--all!' And, squeezing out his
cigarette, he took six deep breaths of the night air, and got into