The Tinted Venus A Farcical Romance
BY F. ANSTEY
AUTHOR OF
"THE GIANT'S ROBE," "VICE VERSÂ," ETC.
"To you,
Free and ingenious spirits, he doth now
In me, present his service, with his vow
He hath done his best; and, though he cannot glory
In his invention (this work being a story
Of reverend antiquity), he doth hope
In the proportion of it, and the scope,
You may observe some pieces drawn like one
Of a steadfast hand; and with the whiter stone
To be marked in your fair censures. More than this
I am forbid to promise."
MASSINGER.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. IN PURSUIT OF PLEASURE 3
II. PLEASURE IN PURSUIT 27
III. A DISTINGUISHED STRANGER 43
IV. FROM BAD TO WORSE 55
V. AN EXPERIMENT 77
VI. TWO ARE COMPANY 93
VII. A FURTHER PREDICAMENT 109
VIII. BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA 127
IX. AT LAST! 151
X. DAMOCLES DINES OUT 169
XI. DENOUNCED 189
XII. AN APPEAL 207
XIII. THE LAST STRAW 227
XIV. THE THIRTEENTH TRUMP 241
XV. THE ODD TRICK 263
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
"THERE," HE SAID TRIUMPHANTLY, "IT MIGHT HAVE
BEEN MADE FOR HER!" 25
"ANSWER ME," HE SAID ROUGHLY; "IS THIS SOME LARK
OF YOURS?" 32
"DID YOU WANT TO SEE ME ON--ON BUSINESS, MUM?" 47
"WHAT WOULD BE DONE TO HIM?" ASKED THE HAIRDRESSER,
WITH A QUITE UNPLEASANT INTERNAL
SENSATION 67
"KEEP OFF! TELL HER TO DROP IT, TWEDDLE!" 86
"IT IS A MISERABLE THING," HE WAS THINKING, "FOR
A MAN ... TO HAVE A FEMALE STATUE TROTTING
AFTER HIM LIKE A GREAT DORG" 104
SHE WAS STANDING BEFORE THE LOW CHIMNEY-GLASS,
REGARDING HERSELF INTENTLY 119
"FOR 'ARF A PINT I'D KNOCK YOUR BLOOMIN' 'ED IN!" 140
"WHY DID YOU NOT KNEEL TO ME BEFORE?" 161
SHE STRUCK A NAMELESS FEAR INTO LEANDER'S SOUL 177
HER HANDS WERE UNSTEADY WITH PASSION AS SHE TIED
HER BONNET-STRINGS 199
LEANDER WENT DOWN ON ALL FOURS ON THE HEARTH-RUG 220
"STOP WHERE YOU ARE!... FOR MERCY'S SAKE, DON'T COME IN!" 238
"LEANDER!" SHE CRIED, ... "I DON'T BELIEVE SHE
CAN DO IT!" 255
HE THREW HIMSELF DOWN BY HER CHAIR, AND DREW
DOWN THE HANDS IN WHICH SHE HAD HIDDEN HER
FACE 276
IN PURSUIT OF PLEASURE
I.
"Ther hopped Hawkyn,
Ther daunsed Dawkyn,
Ther trumped Tomkyn...."
_The Tournament of Tottenham._
In Southampton Row, Bloomsbury, there is a small alley or passage
leading into Queen Square, and rendered inaccessible to all but foot
passengers by some iron posts. The shops in this passage are of a
subdued exterior, and are overshadowed by a dingy old edifice dedicated
to St. George the Martyr, which seems to have begun its existence as a
rather handsome chapel, and to have improved itself, by a sort of
evolution, into a singularly ugly church.
Into this alley, one Saturday afternoon late in October, came a short
stout young man, with sandy hair, and a perpetual grin denoting
anticipation rather than enjoyment. Opposite the church he stopped at a
hairdresser's shop, which bore the name of Tweddle. The display in the
window was chastely severe; the conventional half-lady revolving slowly
in fatuous self-satisfaction, and the gentleman bearing a piebald beard
with waxen resignation, were not to be found in this shop-front, which
exhibited nothing but a small pile of toilet remedies and a few lengths
of hair of graduated tints. It was doubtful, perhaps, whether such
self-restraint on the part of its proprietor was the result of a
distaste for empty show, or a conviction that the neighbourhood did not
expect it.
Inside the shop there was nobody but a small boy, corking and labelling
bottles; but before he could answer any question as to the whereabouts
of his employer, that artist made his appearance. Leander Tweddle was
about thirty, of middle height, with a luxuriant head of brown hair, and
carefully-trimmed whiskers that curled round towards his upper lip,
where they spent themselves in a faint moustache. His eyes were rather
small, and his nose had a decided upward tendency; but, with his
pink-and-white complexion and compact well-made figure, he was far from
ill-looking, though he thought himself even farther.
"Well, Jauncy," he said, after the first greetings, "so you haven't
forgot our appointment?"
"Why, no," explained his friend; "but I never thought I should get away
in time to keep it. We've been in court all the morning with motions and
short causes, and the old Vice sat on till past three; and when we did
get back to chambers, Splitter kep' me there discussing an opinion of
his I couldn't agree with, and I was ever so long before I got him to
alter it my way."
For he was clerk to a barrister in good practice, and it was Jauncy's
pride to discover an occasional verbal slip in some of his employer's
more hastily written opinions on cases, and suggest improvements.
"Well, James," said the hairdresser, "I don't know that I could have got
away myself any earlier. I've been so absorbed in the laborrit'ry, what
with three rejuvenators and an elixir all on the simmer together, I
almost gave way under the strain of it; but they're set to cool now, and
I'm ready to go as soon as you please."
"Now," said Jauncy, briskly, as they left the shop together, "if we're
to get up to Rosherwich Gardens to-night, we mustn't dawdle."
"I just want to look in here a minute," said Tweddle, stopping before
the window of a working-jeweller, who sat there in a narrow partition
facing the light, with a great horn lens protruding from one of his eyes
like a monstrous growth. "I left something there to be altered, and I
may as well see if it's done."
Apparently it was done, for he came out almost immediately, thrusting a
small cardboard box into his pocket as he rejoined his friend. "Now we'd
better take a cab up to Fenchurch Street," said Jauncy. "Can't keep
those girls standing about on the platform."
As they drove along, Tweddle observed, "I didn't understand that our
party was to include the fair sect, James?"
"Didn't you? I thought my letter said so plain enough. I'm an engaged
man now, you know, Tweddle. It wouldn't do if I went out to enjoy myself
and left my young lady at home!"
"No," agreed Leander Tweddle, with a moral twinge, "no, James. I'd
forgot you were engaged. What's the lady's name, by-the-by?"
"Parkinson; Bella Parkinson," was the answer.
Leander had turned a deeper colour. "Did you say," he asked, looking out
of the window on his side of the hansom, "that there was another lady
going down?"
"Only Bella's sister, Ada. She's a regular jolly girl, Ada is,
you'll----Hullo!"
For Tweddle had suddenly thrust his stick up the trap and stopped the
cab. "I'm very sorry, James," he said, preparing to get out, "but--but
you'll have to excuse me being of your company."
"Do you mean that my Bella and her sister are not good enough company
for you?" demanded Jauncy. "You were a shop-assistant yourself, Tweddle,
only a short while ago!"
"I know that, James, I know; and it isn't that--far from it. I'm sure
they are two as respectable girls, and quite the ladies in every
respect, as I'd wish to meet. Only the fact is----"
The driver was listening through the trap, and before Leander would say
more he told him to drive on till further orders, after which he
continued--
"The fact is--we haven't met for so long that I dare say you're unaware
of it--but _I'm_ engaged, James, too!"
"Wish you joy with all my heart, Tweddle; but what then?"
"Why," exclaimed Leander, "my Matilda (that's _her_ name) is the dearest
girl, James; but she's most uncommon partickler, and I don't think she'd
like my going to a place of open-air entertainment where there's
dancing--and I'll get out here, please!"
"Gammon!" said Jauncy. "That isn't it, Tweddle; don't try and humbug me.
You were ready enough to go just now. You've a better reason than that!"
"James, I'll tell you the truth; I have. In earlier days, James, I used
constantly to be meeting Miss Parkinson and her sister in serciety, and
I dare say I made myself so pleasant and agreeable (you know what a way
that is of mine), that Miss Ada (not _your_ lady, of course) may have
thought I meant something special by it, and there's no saying but what
it might have come in time to our keeping company, only I happened just
then to see Matilda, and--and I haven't been near the Parkinsons ever
since. So you can see for yourself that a meeting might be awkward for
all parties concerned; and I really must get out, James!"
Jauncy forced him back. "It's all nonsense, Tweddle," he said, "you
can't back out of it now! Don't make a fuss about nothing. Ada don't
look as if she'd been breaking her heart for you!"
"You never can tell with women," said the hairdresser, sententiously;
"and meeting me sudden, and learning it could never be--no one can say
how she mightn't take it!"
"I call it too bad!" exclaimed Jauncy. "Here have I been counting on you
to make the ladies enjoy themselves--for I haven't your gift of
entertaining conversation, and don't pretend to it--and you go and leave
me in the lurch, and spoil their evening for them!"
"If I thought I was doing that----" said Leander, hesitating.
"You are, you know you are!" persisted Jauncy, who was naturally anxious
to avoid the reduction of his party to so inconvenient a number as
three.
"And see here, Tweddle, you needn't say anything of your engagement
unless you like. I give you my word I won't, not even to Bella, if
you'll only come! As to Ada, she can take care of herself, unless I'm
very much mistaken in her. So come along, like a good chap!"
"I give in, James; I give in," said Leander. "A promise is a promise,
and yet I feel somehow I'm doing wrong to go, and as if no good would
come of it. I do indeed!"
And so he did not stop the cab a second time, and allowed himself to be
taken without further protest to Fenchurch Street Station, on the
platform of which they found the Misses Parkinson waiting for them.
Miss Bella Parkinson, the elder of the two, who was employed in a large
toy and fancy goods establishment in the neighbourhood of Westbourne
Grove, was tall and slim, with pale eyes and auburn hair. She had some
claims to good looks, in spite of a slightly pasty complexion, and a
large and decidedly unamiable mouth.
Her sister Ada was the more pleasing in appearance and manner, a
brunette with large brown eyes, an impertinent little nose, and a
brilliant healthy colour. She was an assistant to a milliner and
bonnet-maker in the Edgware Road.
Both these young ladies, when in the fulfilment of their daily duties,
were models of deportment; in their hours of ease, the elder's cold
dignity was rather apt to turn to peevishness, while the younger sister,
relieved from the restraints of the showroom, betrayed a lively and even
frivolous disposition.
It was this liveliness and frivolity that had fascinated the hairdresser
in days that had gone by; but if he had felt any self-distrust now in
venturing within their influence, such apprehensions vanished with the
first sight of the charms which had been counteracted before they had
time to prevail.
She was well enough, this Miss Ada Parkinson, he thought now; a
nice-looking girl in her way, and stylishly dressed. But his Matilda
looked twice the lady she ever could, and a vision of his betrothed (at
that time taking a week's rest in the country) rose before him, as if to
justify and confirm his preference.
The luckless James had to undergo some amount of scolding from Miss
Bella for his want of punctuality, a scolding which merely supplied an
object to his grin; and during her remarks, Ada had ample time to rally
Leander Tweddle upon his long neglect, and used it to the best
advantage.
Perhaps he would have been better pleased by a little less
insensibility, a touch of surprise and pleasure on her part at meeting
him again, as he allowed himself to show in a remark that his absence
did not seem to have affected her to any great extent.
"I don't know what you expected, Mr. Tweddle," she replied. "Ought I to
have cried both my eyes out? You haven't cried out either of yours, you
know!"
"'Men must work, and women must weep,' as Shakspeare says," he observed,
with a vague idea that he was making rather an apt quotation. But his
companion pointed out that this only applied to cases where the women
had something to weep about.
The party had a compartment to themselves, and Leander, who sat at one
end opposite to Ada, found his spirits rising under the influence of her
lively sallies.
"That's the only thing Matilda wants," he thought, "a little more
liveliness and go about her. I like a little chaff myself, now and then,
I must say."
At the other end of the carriage, Bella had been suggesting that the
gardens might be closed so late in the year, and regretting that they
had not chosen the new melodrama at the Adelphi instead; which caused
Jauncy to draw glowing pictures of the attractions of Rosherwich
Gardens.
"I was there a year ago last summer," he said, "and it was first-rate:
open-air dancing, summer theatre, rope-walking, fireworks, and supper
out under the trees. You'll enjoy yourself, Bella, right enough when you
get there!"
"If that isn't enough for you, Bella," cried her sister, "you must be
difficult to please! I'm sure I'm quite looking forward to it; aren't
you, Mr. Tweddle?"
The poor man was cursed by the fatal desire of pleasing, and
unconsciously threw an altogether unnecessary degree of _empressement_
into his voice as he replied, "In the company I am at present, I should
look forward to it, if it was a wilderness with a funeral in it."
"Oh dear me, Mr. Tweddle, that _is_ a pretty speech!" said Ada, and she
blushed in a manner which appalled the conscience-stricken hairdresser.
"There I go again," he thought remorsefully, "putting things in the poor
girl's head--it ain't right. I'm making myself too pleasant!"
And then it struck him that it would be only prudent to make his
position clearly understood, and, carefully lowering his voice, he began
a speech with that excellent intention. "Miss Parkinson," he said
huskily, "there's something I have to tell you about myself, very
particular. Since I last enjoyed the pleasure of meeting with you my
prospects have greatly altered, I am no longer----"
But she cut him short with a little gesture of entreaty. "Oh, not here,
please, Mr. Tweddle," she said; "tell me about it in the gardens!"
"Very well," he said, relieved; "remind me when we get there--in case I
forget, you know."
"Remind you!" cried Ada; "the _idea_, Mr. Tweddle! I certainly shan't do
any such thing."
"She thinks I am going to propose to her!" he thought ruefully; "it will
be a delicate business undeceiving her. I wish it was over and done
with!"
It was quite dark by the time they had crossed the river by the ferry,
and made their way up to the entrance to the pleasure gardens, imposing
enough, with its white colonnade, its sphinxes, and lines of coloured
lamps.
But no one else had crossed with them; and, as they stood at the
turnstiles, all they could see of the grounds beyond seemed so dark and
silent that they began to have involuntary misgivings. "I suppose,"
said Jauncy to the man at the ticket-hole, "the gardens are open--eh?"
"Oh yes," he said gruffly, "_they're_ open--they're _open_; though there
ain't much going on out-of-doors, being the last night of the season."
Bella again wished that they had selected the Adelphi for their
evening's pleasure, and remarked that Jauncy "might have known."
"Well," said the latter to the party generally, "what do you say--shall
we go in, or get back by the first train home?"
"Don't be so ridiculous, James!" said Bella, peevishly. "What's the good
of going back, to be too late for everything. The mischief's done now."
"Oh, let's go in!" advised Ada; "the amusements and things will be just
as nice indoors--nicer on a chilly evening like this;" and Leander
seconded her heartily.
So they went in; Jauncy leading the way with the still complaining
Bella, and Leander Tweddle bringing up the rear with Ada. They picked
their way as well as they could in the darkness, caused by the closely
planted trees and shrubs, down a winding path, where the sopped leaves
gave a slippery foothold, and the branches flicked moisture insultingly
in their faces as they pushed them aside.
A dead silence reigned everywhere, broken only by the wind as it rustled
amongst the bare twigs, or the whistling of a flaring gas-torch
protruding from some convenient tree.
Jauncy occasionally shouted back some desperate essay at jocularity, at
which Ada laughed with some perseverance, until even she could no longer
resist the influence of the surroundings.
On a hot summer's evening those grounds, brilliantly illuminated and
crowded by holiday-makers, have been the delight of thousands of honest
Londoners, and will be so again; but it was undeniable that on this
particular occasion they were pervaded by a decent melancholy.
Ada had slipped a hand, clad in crimson silk, through Leander's arm as
they groped through the gloom together, and shrank to his side now and
then in an alarm which was only half pretended. But if her light
pressure upon his arm made his heart beat at all the faster, it was only
at the fancy that the trusting hand was his Matilda's, or so at least
did he account for it to himself afterwards.
They followed on, down a broad promenade, where the ground glistened
with autumn damps, and the unlighted lamps looked wan and spectral.
There was a bear-pit hard by, over the railings of which Ada leaned and
shouted a defiant "Boo;" but the bears had turned in for the night, and
the stone re-echoed her voice with a hollow ring. Indistinct bird forms
were roosting in cages; but her umbrella had no effect upon them.
Jauncy was waiting for them to come up, perhaps as a protection against
his _fiancée's_ reproaches. "In another hour," he said, with an implied
apology, "you'll see how different this place looks. We--we're come a
little too early. Suppose we fill up the time by a nice little dinner at
the Restorong--eh, Ada? What do you think, Tweddle?"
The suggestion was received favourably, and Jauncy, thankful to retrieve
his reputation as leader, took them towards the spot where food was to
be had.
Presently they saw lights twinkling through the trees, and came to a
place which was clearly the focus of festivity. There was the open-air
theatre, its drop-scene lowered, its proscenium lost in the gloom;
there was the circle for _al-fresco_ dancing, but it was bare, and the
clustered lights were dead; there was the restaurant, dark and silent
like all else.
Jauncy stood there and rubbed his chin. "This is where I dined when we
were here last," he said, at length; "and a capital little dinner they
gave us too!"
"What _I_ should like to know," said the elder Miss Parkinson, "is,
where are we to dine to-night?"
"Yes," said Jauncy, encouragingly; "don't you fret yourself, Bella.
Here's an old party sweeping up leaves, we'll ask him."
They did so, and were referred to a large building, in the Gothic style,
with a Tudor doorway, known as the "Baronial All," where lights shone
behind the painted windows.
Inside, a few of the lamps around the pillars were lighted, and the body
of the floor was roped in as if for dancing; but the hall was empty,
save for a barmaid, assisted by a sharp little girl, behind the long bar
on one of its sides.
Jauncy led his dejected little party up to this, and again put his
inquiry with less hopefulness. When he found that the only available
form of refreshment that evening was bitter ale and captain's biscuits,
mitigated by occasional caraway seeds, he became a truly pitiable
object.
"They--they don't keep this place up on the same scale in the autumn,
you see," he explained weakly. "It's very different in summer; what they
call 'an endless round of amusements.'"
"There's an endless round of amusement now," observed Ada; "but it's a
naught!"
"Oh, there'll be something going on by-and-by, never fear," said Jauncy,
determined to be sanguine; "or else they wouldn't be open."
"There'll be dancing here this evening," the barmaid informed him. "That
is all we open for at this time of year; and this is the last night of
the season."
"Oh!" said Jauncy, cheerfully; "you see we only came just in time,
Bella; and I suppose you'll have a good many down here to-night--eh,
miss?"
"How much did we take last Saturday, Jenny?" said the barmaid to the
sharp little girl.
"Seven and fourpence 'ap'ny--most of it beer," said the child.
"Margaret, I may count the money again to-night, mayn't I?"
The barmaid made some mental calculation, after which she replied to
Jauncy's question. "We may have some fifteen couples or so down
to-night," she said; "but that won't be for half an hour yet."
"The question is," said Jauncy, trying to bear up under this last blow;
"the question is, How are we to amuse ourselves till the dancing
begins?"
"I don't know what others are going to do," Bella announced; "but I
shall stay here, James, and keep warm--if I can!" and once more she
uttered her regret that they had not gone to the Adelphi.
Her sister declined to follow her example. "I mean to see all there is
to be seen," she declared, "since we are here; and perhaps Mr. Tweddle
will come and take care of me. Will you, Mr. Tweddle?"
He was not sorry to comply, and they wandered out together through the
grounds, which offered considerable variety. There were alleys lined
with pale plaster statues, and a grove dedicated to the master minds of
the world, represented by huge busts, with more or less appropriate
quotations. There were alcoves, too, and neatly ruined castles.
Ada talked almost the whole time in a sprightly manner, which gave
Leander no opportunity of introducing the subject of his engagement, and
this continued until they had reached a small battlemented platform on
some rising ground; below were the black masses of trees, with a faint
fringe of light here and there; beyond lay the Thames, in which red and
white reflections quivered, and from whose distant bends and reaches
came the dull roar of fog-horns and the pantings of tugs.
Ada stood here in silence for some time; at last she said, "After all,
I'm not sorry we came--are _you_?"
"If I don't take care what I say, I _may_ be!" he thought, and answered
guardedly, "On the contrary, I'm glad, for it gives me the opportunity
of telling you something I--I think you ought to know."
"What was he going to say next?" she thought. Was a declaration coming,
and if so, should she accept him? She was not sure; he had behaved very
badly in keeping so long away from her, and a proposal would be a very
suitable form of apology; but there was the gentleman who travelled for
a certain firm in the Edgware Road, he had been very "particular" in his
attentions of late. Well, she would see how she felt when Leander had
spoken; he was beginning to speak now.
"I don't want to put it too abrupt," he said; "I'll come to it
gradually. There's a young lady that I'm now looking forward to spending
the whole of my future life with."
"And what is she called?" asked Ada. ("He's rather a nice little man,
after all!" she was thinking.)
"Matilda," he said; and the answer came like a blow in the face. For the
moment she hated him as bitterly as if he had been all the world to
her; but she carried off her mortification by a rather hysterical laugh.
"Fancy you being engaged!" she said, by way of explanation of her
merriment; "and to any one with the name of Matilda--it's such a stupid
sounding sort of name!"
"It ain't at all; it all depends how you say it. If you pronounce it
like I do, _Matilda_, it has rather a pretty sound. You try now."
"Well, we won't quarrel about it, Mr. Tweddle; I'm glad it isn't my
name, that's all. And now tell me all about your young lady. What's her
other name, and is she very good-looking?"
"She's a Miss Matilda Collum," said he; "she is considered handsome by
competent judges, and she keeps the books at a florist's in the vicinity
of Bayswater."
"And, if it isn't a rude question, why didn't you bring her with you
this evening?"
"Because she's away for a short holiday, and isn't coming back till the
last thing to-morrow night."
"And I suppose you've been wishing I was Matilda all the time?" she said
audaciously; for Miss Ada Parkinson was not an over-scrupulous young
person, and did not recognize in the fact of her friend's engagement any
reason why she should not attempt to reclaim his vagrant admiration.
Leander _had_ been guilty of this wish once or twice; but though he was
not absolutely overflowing with tact, he did refrain from admitting the
impeachment.
"Well, you see," he said, in not very happy evasion, "Matilda doesn't
care about this kind of thing; she's rather particular, Matilda is."
"And I'm not!" said Ada. "I see; thank you, Mr. Tweddle!"
"You do take one up so!" he complained. "I never intended nothing of the
sort--far from it."
"Well, then, I forgive you; we can't all be Matildas, I suppose. And
now, suppose we go back; they will be beginning to dance by now!"
"With pleasure," he said; "only you must excuse me dancing, because, as
an engaged man, I have had to renounce (except with one person) the
charms of Terpsy-chore. I mean," he explained condescendingly, "that I
can't dance in public save with my intended."
"Ah, well," said Ada, "perhaps Terpsy-chore will get over it; still I
should like to see the Terpsy-choring, if you have no objection."
And they returned to the Baronial Hall, which by this time presented a
more cheerful appearance. The lamps round the mirror-lined pillars were
all lit, and the musicians were just striking up the opening bars of the
Lancers; upon which several gentlemen amongst the assembly, which now
numbered about forty, ran out into the open and took up positions, like
colour-sergeants at drill, to be presently joined, in some bashfulness,
by such ladies as desired partners.
The Lancers were performed with extreme conscientiousness; and when it
was over, every gentleman with any _savoir faire_ to speak of presented
his partner with a glass of beer.
Then came a waltz, to which Ada beat time impatiently with her foot, and
bit her lip, as she had to look on by Leander's side.
"There's Bella and James going round," she said; "I've never had to sit
out a waltz before!"
He felt the implied reproach, and thought whether there could be any
harm, after all, in taking a turn or two; it would be only polite. But,
before he could recant in words, a soldier came up, a medium-sized
warrior with a large nose and round little eyes, who had been very funny
during the Lancers in directing all the figures by words of military
command.
"Will you allow me the honour, miss, of just one round?" he said to Ada,
respectfully enough.
The etiquette of this ballroom was not of the strictest; but she would
not have consented but for the desire of showing Leander that she was
not dependent upon him for her amusement. As it was, she accepted the
corporal's arm a little defiantly.
Leander watched them round the hall with an odd sensation, almost of
jealousy--it was quite ridiculous, because he could have danced with Ada
himself had he cared to do so; and besides, it was not she, but Matilda,
whom he adored.
But, as he began to notice, Ada was looking remarkably pretty that
evening, and really was a partner who would bring any one credit; and
her corporal danced villainously, revolving with stiff and wooden jerks,
like a toy soldier. Now Leander flattered himself he could waltz--having
had considerable practice in bygone days in a select assembly, where the
tickets were two shillings each, and the gentlemen, as the notices said
ambiguously enough, "were restricted to wearing gloves."
So he felt indignantly that Ada was not having justice done to her.
"I've a good mind to give her a turn," he thought, "and show them all
what waltzing is!"
Just then the pair happened to come to a halt close to him. "Shockin'
time they're playing this waltz in," he heard the soldier exclaim with
humorous vivacity (he was apparently the funny man of the regiment, and
had brought a silent but appreciative comrade with him as audience),
"abominable! excruciatin'! comic!! 'orrible!!!"
Leander seized the opportunity. "Excuse me," he said politely, "but if
you don't like the music, perhaps you wouldn't mind giving up this young
lady to me?"
"Oh come, I say!" said the man of war, running his fingers through his
short curly hair; "my good feller, you'd better see what the lady says
to that!" (He evidently had no doubt himself.)
"I'm very well content as I am, thank you all the same, Mr. Tweddle,"
said Ada, unkindly adding in a lower tone, "If you're so anxious to
dance, dance with Terpsy-chore!"
And again he was left to watch the whirling couples with melancholy
eyes. The corporal's brother-in-arms was wheeling round with a plain
young person, apparently in domestic service, whose face was overspread
by a large red smile of satiated ambition. James and Bella flitted by,
dancing vigorously, and Bella's discontent seemed to have vanished for
the time. There were jigging couples and prancing couples; couples that
bounced round like imprisoned bees, and couples that glided past in calm
and conscious superiority. He alone stood apart, excluded from the happy
throng, and he began to have a pathetic sense of injury.
But the music stopped at last, and Ada, dismissing her partner, came
towards him. "You don't seem to be enjoying yourself, Mr. Tweddle," she
said maliciously.
"Don't I?" he replied. "Well, so long as you are, it don't matter, Miss
Parkinson--it don't matter."
"But I'm not--at least, I didn't that dance," she said. "That soldier
man did talk such rubbish, and he trod on my feet twice. I'm so hot! I
wonder if it's cooler outside?"
"Will you come and see?" he suggested, and this time she did not disdain
his arm, and they strolled out together.
Following a path they had hitherto left unexplored, they came to a
little enclosure surrounded by tall shrubs; in the centre, upon a low
pedestal, stood a female statue, upon which a gas lamp, some paces off,
cast a flickering gleam athwart the foliage.
The exceptional grace and beauty of the figure would have been apparent
to any lover of art. She stood there, her right arm raised, partly in
gracious invitation, partly in queenly command, her left hand extended,
palm downwards, as if to be reverentially saluted. The hair was parted
in boldly indicated waves over the broad low brow, and confined by a
fillet in a large loose knot at the back. She was clad in a long chiton,
which lapped in soft zig-zag folds over the girdle and fell to the feet
in straight parallel lines, and a chlamys hanging from her shoulders
concealed the left arm to the elbow, while it left the right arm free.
In the uncertain light one could easily fancy soft eyes swimming in
those wide blank sockets, and the ripe lips were curved by a dreamy
smile, at once tender and disdainful.
Leander Tweddle and Miss Ada Parkinson, however, stood before the statue
in an unmoved, not to say critical, mood.
"Who's she supposed to be, I wonder?" asked the young lady, rather as if
the sculptor were a harmless lunatic whose delusions took a marble shape
occasionally. This, by the way, is a question which may frequently be
heard in picture galleries, and implies an enlightened tolerance.
"I don't know," said Leander; "a foreign female, I fancy--that's
Russian on the pedestal." He inferred this from a resemblance to the
characters on certain packets of cigarettes.
"But there's some English underneath," said Ada; "I can just make it
out. Ap--Apro--Aprodyte. What a funny name!"
"You haven't prenounced it quite correckly," he said; "out there they
sound the ph like a f, and give all the syllables--Afroddity." He felt a
kind of intuition that this was nearer the correct rendering.
"Well," observed Ada, "she's got a silly look, don't you think?"
Leander was less narrow, and gave it as his opinion that she had been
"done from a fine woman."
Ada remarked that she herself would never consent to be taken in so
unbecoming a costume. "One might as well have no figure at all in things
hanging down for all the world like a sack," she said.
Proceeding to details, she was struck by the smallness of the hands; and
it must be admitted that, although the statue as a whole was slightly
above the average female height, the arms from the elbow downwards, and
particularly the hands, were by no means in proportion, and almost
justified Miss Parkinson's objection, that "no woman could have hands so
small as that."
"I know some one who has--quite as small," said he softly.
Ada instantly drew off one of the crimson gloves and held out her hand
beside the statue's. It was a well-shaped hand, as she very well knew,
but it was decidedly larger than the one with which she compared it. "I
_said_ so," she observed; "now are you satisfied, Mr. Tweddle?"
But he had been thinking of a hand more slender and dainty than hers,
and allowed himself to admit as much. "I--I wasn't meaning you at all,"
he said bluntly.
She laughed a little jarring laugh. "Oh, Matilda, of course! Nobody is
like Matilda now! But come, Mr. Tweddle, you're not going to stand there
and tell me that this wonderful Matilda of yours has hands no bigger
than those?"
"She has been endowed with quite remarkable small hands," said he; "you
wouldn't believe it without seeing. It so happens," he added suddenly,
"that I can give you a very fair ideer of the size they are, for I've
got a ring of hers in my pocket at this moment. It came about this way:
my aunt (the same that used to let her second floor to James, and that
Matilda lodges with at present), my aunt, as soon as she heard of our
being engaged, nothing would do but I must give Matilda an old ring with
a posy inside it, that was in our family, and we soon found the ring was
too large to keep on, and I left it with old Vidler, near my place of
business, to be made tighter, and called for it on my way here this very
afternoon, and fortunately enough it was ready."
He took out the ring from its bed of pink cotton wool, and offered it to
Miss Parkinson.
"You see if you can get it on," he said; "try the little finger!"
She drew back, offended. "_I_ don't want to try it, thank you," she said
(she felt as if she might fling it into the bushes if she allowed
herself to touch it). "If you _must_ try it on somebody, there's the
statue! You'll find no difficulty in getting it on any of her
fingers--or thumbs," she added.
"You shall see," said Leander. "My belief is, it's too small for her, if
anything."
He was a true lover; anxious to vindicate his lady's perfections before
all the world, and perhaps to convince himself that his estimate was not
exaggerated. The proof was so easy, the statue's left hand hung
temptingly within his reach; he accepted the challenge, and slipped the
ring up the third finger, that was slightly raised as if to receive it.
The hand struck no chill, so moist and mild was the evening, but felt
warm and almost soft in his grasp.
"There," he said triumphantly, "it might have been made for her!" |
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