"Well," said Ada, not too consistently, "I never said it mightn't!"
"Excuse me," said he, "but you said it would be too large for her; and,
if you'll believe me, it's as much as I can do to get it off her finger,
it fits that close."
"Well, make haste and get it off, Mr. Tweddle, do," said Ada,
impatiently. "I've stayed out quite long enough."
"In one moment," he replied; "it's quite a job, I declare, quite a job!"
"Oh, you men are so clumsy!" cried Ada. "Let _me_ try."
"No, no!" he said, rather irritably; "I can manage it," and he continued
to fumble.
At last he looked over his shoulder and said, "It's a singler
succumstance, but I can't get the ring past the bend of the finger."
Ada was cruel enough to burst out laughing. "It's a judgment upon you,
Mr. Tweddle!" she cried.
"You dared me to it!" he retorted. "It isn't friendly of you, I must
say, Miss Parkinson, to set there enjoying of it--it's bad taste!"
"Well, then, I'm very sorry, Mr. Tweddle; I won't laugh any more; but,
for goodness' sake, take me back to the Hall now."
"It's coming!" he said; "I'm working it over the joint now--it's coming
quite easily."
"But I can't wait here while it comes," she said. "Do you want me to go
back alone? You're not very polite to me this evening, I must say."
"What am I to do?" he said distractedly. "This ring is my engagement
ring; it's valuable. I can't go away without it!"
"The statue won't run away--you can come back again, by-and-by. You
don't expect me to spend the rest of the evening out here? I never
thought you could be rude to a lady, Mr. Tweddle."
"No more I can," he said. "Your wishes, Miss Ada, are equivocal to
commands; allow me the honour of reconducting you to the Baronial Hall."
He offered his arm in his best manner; she took it, and together they
passed out of the enclosure, leaving the statue in undisturbed
possession of the ring.
PLEASURE IN PURSUIT
II.
"And you, great sculptor, so you gave
A score of years to Art, her slave,
And that's your Venus, whence we turn
To yonder girl----"
Another waltz had just begun as they re-entered the Baronial Hall, and
Ada glanced up at her companion from her daring brown eyes. "What would
you say if I told you you might have this dance with me?" she inquired.
The hairdresser hesitated for just one moment. He had meant to leave her
there and go back for his ring; but the waltz they were playing was a
very enticing one. Ada was looking uncommonly pretty just then; he could
get the ring equally well a few minutes later.
"I should take it very kind of you," he said, gratefully, at length.
"Ask for it, then," said Ada; and he did ask for it.
He forgot Matilda and his engagement for the moment; he sacrificed all
his scruples about dancing in public; but he somehow failed to enjoy
this pleasure, illicit though it was.
For one thing, he could not long keep Matilda out of his thoughts. He
was doing nothing positively wrong; still, it was undeniable that she
would not approve of his being there at all, still less if she knew
that the gold ring given to him by his aunt for the purposes of his
betrothal had been left on the finger of a foreign statue, and exposed
to the mercy of any passer-by, while he waltzed with a bonnet-maker's
assistant.
And his conscience was awakened still further by the discovery that Ada
was a somewhat disappointing partner. "She's not so light as she used to
be," he thought, "and then she jumps. I'd forgotten she jumped."
Before the waltz was nearly over he led her back to a chair, alleging as
his excuse that he was afraid to abandon his ring any longer, and
hastened away to the spot where it was to be found.
He went along the same path, and soon came to an enclosure; but no
sooner had he entered it than he saw that he must have mistaken his way;
this was not the right place. There was no statue in the middle.
He was about to turn away, when he saw something that made him start; it
was a low pedestal in the centre, with the same characters upon it that
he had read with Ada. It was the place, after all; yes, he could not be
mistaken; he knew it now.
Where was the statue which had so lately occupied that pedestal? Had it
fallen over amongst the bushes? He felt about for it in vain. It must
have been removed for some purpose while he had been dancing; but by
whom, and why?
The best way to find out would be to ask some one in authority. The
manager was in the Baronial Hall, officiating as M.C.; he would go and
inquire whether the removal had been by his orders.
He was fortunate enough to catch him as he was coming out of the hall,
and he seized him by the arm with nervous haste. "Mister," he began,
"if you've found one of your plaster figures with a gold ring on, it's
mine. I--I put it on in a joking kind of way, and I had to leave it for
awhile; and now, when I come back for it, it's gone!"
"I'm sorry to hear it, sir," returned the manager; "but really, if you
will leave gold rings on our statues, we can't be responsible, you
know."
"But you'll excuse me," pursued Leander; "I don't think you quite
understood me. It isn't only the ring that's gone--it's the statue; and
if you've had it put up anywhere else----"
"Nonsense!" said the manager; "we don't move our statues about like
chessmen; you've forgotten where you left it, that's all. What was the
statue like?"
Leander described it as well as he could, and the manager, with a
somewhat altered manner, made him point out the spot where he believed
it to have stood, and they entered the grove together.
The man gave one rapid glance at the vacant pedestal, and then gripped
Leander by the shoulder, and looked at him long and hard by the feeble
light. "Answer me," he said, roughly; "is this some lark of yours?"
[Illustration: "ANSWER ME," HE SAID ROUGHLY; "IS THIS SOME LARK OF
YOURS?"]
"I look larky, don't I?" said poor Tweedle, dolefully. "I thought you'd
be sure to know where it was."
"I wish to heaven I did!" cried the manager, passionately; "it's those
impudent blackguards.... They've done it under my very nose!"
"If it's any of your men," suggested Leander, "can't you make them put
it back again?"
"It's not any of my men. I was warned, and, like a fool, I wouldn't
believe it could be done at a time like this; and now it's too late, and
what am I to say to the inspector? I wouldn't have had this happen for
a thousand pounds!"
"Well, it's kind of you to feel so put out about it," said Leander. "You
see, what makes the ring so valuable to me----"
The manager was pacing up and down impatiently, entirely ignoring his
presence.
"I say," Tweddle repeated, "the reason why that ring's of partickler
importance----"
"Oh, don't bother _me_!" said the other, shaking him off. "I don't want
to be uncivil, but I've got to think this out.... Infernal rascals!" he
went on muttering.
"Have the goodness to hear what I've got to say, though," persisted
Leander. "I'm mixed up in this, whether you like it or not. You seem to
know who's got this figure, and I've a right to be told too. I won't go
till I get that ring back; so now you understand me!"
"Confound you and your ring!" said the manager. "What's the good of
coming bully-ragging me about your ring? _I_ can't get you your ring!
You shouldn't have been fool enough to put it on one of our statues. You
make me talk to you like this, coming bothering when I've enough on my
mind as it is! Hang it! Can't you see I'm as anxious to get that statue
again as ever you can be? If I don't get it, I may be a ruined man, for
all I know; ain't that enough for you? Look here, take my advice, and
leave me alone before we have words over this. You give me your name and
address, and you may rely on hearing from me as soon as anything turns
up. You can do no good to yourself or any one else by making a row; so
go away quiet like a sensible chap!"
Leander felt stunned by the blow; evidently there was nothing to be done
but follow the manager's advice. He went to the office with him, and
gave his name and address in full, and then turned back alone to the
dancing-hall.
He had lost his ring--no ordinary trinket which he could purchase
anywhere, but one for which he would have to account--and to whom? To
his aunt and Matilda. How could he tell, when there was even a chance of
seeing it again?
If only he had not allowed himself that waltz; if only he had insisted
upon remaining by the statue until his ring was removed; if only he had
not been such an idiot as to put it on! None of these acts were wrong
exactly; but between them they had brought him to this.
And the chief person responsible was Miss Ada Parkinson, whom he dared
not reproach; for he was naturally unwilling that this last stage of the
affair should become known. He would have to dissemble, and he rejoined
his party with what he intended for a jaunty air.
"We've been waiting for you to go away," said Bella. "Where have you
been all this time?"
He saw with relief that Ada did not appear to have mentioned the statue,
and so he said he had been "strolling about."
"And Ada left to take care of herself!" said Bella, spitefully. "You are
polite, Mr. Tweddle, I must say!"
"I haven't complained, Bella, that I know of," said Ada. "And Mr.
Tweddle and I quite understand each other, don't we?"
"Oh!" said Bella, with an altered manner and a side-glance at James, "I
didn't know. I'm very glad to hear it, I'm sure."
And then they left the gardens, and, after a substantial meal at a
riverside hotel, started on the homeward journey, with the sense that
their expedition had not been precisely a success.
As before, they had a railway compartment to themselves. Bella declined
to talk, and lay back in her corner with closed eyes and an expression
of undeserved suffering, whilst the unfortunate Jauncy sat silent and
miserable opposite.
Leander would have liked to be silent too, and think out his position;
but Ada would not hear of this. Her jealous resentment had apparently
vanished, and she was extremely lively and playful in her sallies.
This reached a pitch when she bent forward, and, in a whisper, which she
did not, perhaps, intend to be quite confidential, said, "Oh, Mr.
Tweddle, you never told me what became of the ring! Is it off at last?"
"Off? yes!" he said irritably, very nearly adding, "and the statue too."
"Weren't you very glad!" said she.
"Uncommonly," he replied grimly.
"Let me see it again, now you've got it back," she pleaded.
"You'll excuse me," he said; "but after what has taken place, I can't
show that ring to anybody."
"Then you're a cross thing!" said Ada, pouting.
"What's the matter with you two, over there?" asked Bella, sleepily.
Ada's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Let me tell them; it is too awfully
funny. I _must_!" she whispered to Leander. "It's all about a ring," she
began, and enjoyed poor Tweddle's evident discomfort.
"A ring?" cried Bella, waking up. "Don't keep all the fun to yourselves;
we've not had so much of it this evening."
"Miss Ada," said Leander, in great agitation, "I ask you, as a lady, to
treat what has happened this evening in the strictest confidence for the
present!"
"Secrets, Ada?" cried her sister; "upon my word!"
"Why, where's the harm, Mr. Tweddle, now it's all settled?" exclaimed
Ada. "Bella, it was only this: he went and put a ring (now do wait till
I've done, Mr. Tweddle!) on a certain person's finger out in those
Rosherwich Gardens (you see, I've not said _whose_ finger)."
"Hullo, Tweddle!" cried Jauncy, in some bewilderment.
Leander could only cast a look of miserable appeal at him.
"Shall I tell them any more, Mr. Tweddle?" said Ada, persistently.
"I don't think there's any necessity," he pleaded.
"No more do I," put in Bella, archly. "I think we can guess the rest."
Ada did not absolutely make any further disclosures that evening; but
for the rest of the journey she amused herself by keeping the
hairdresser in perpetual torment by her pretended revelations, until he
was thoroughly disgusted.
No longer could he admire her liveliness; he could not even see that she
was good-looking now. "She's nothing but chaff, chaff, chaff!" he
thought. "Thank goodness, Matilda isn't given that way. Chaff before
marriage means nagging after!"
They reached the terminus at last, when he willingly said farewell to
the other three.
"Good-bye, Mr. Tweddle," said Bella, in rather a more cordial tone; "I
needn't hope _you_'ve enjoyed yourself!"
"You needn't!" he replied, almost savagely.
"Good night," said Ada; and added in a whisper, "Don't go and dream of
your statue-woman!"
"If I dream to-night at all," he said, between his teeth, "it will be a
nightmare!"
"I suppose, Tweddle, old chap," said Jauncy, as he shook hands, "you
know your own affairs best; but, if you meant what you told me coming
down, you've been going it, haven't you?"
He left Leander wondering impatiently what he meant. Did he know the
truth? Well, everybody might know it before long; there would probably
be a fuss about it all, and the best thing he could do would be to tell
Matilda at once, and throw himself upon her mercy. After all, it was
innocent enough--if she could only be brought to believe it.
He did not look forward to telling her; and by the time he reached the
Bank and got into an omnibus, he was in a highly nervous state, as the
following incident may serve to show.
He had taken one of those uncomfortable private omnibuses, where the
passengers are left in unlightened gloom. He sat by the door, and,
occupied as he was by his own misfortunes, paid little attention to his
surroundings.
But by-and-by, he became aware that the conductor, in collecting the
fares, was trying to attract the notice of some one who sat in the
further corner of the vehicle. "Where are you for, lady, please?" he
asked repeatedly, and at last, "_Will_ somebody ask the lady up the end
where I'm to set her down?" to all of which the eccentric person
addressed returned no reply whatever.
Leander's attention was thus directed to her; but, although in the
obscurity he could make out nothing but a dim form of grey, his nerves
were so unsettled that he felt a curiously uneasy fancy that eyes were
being fixed upon him in the darkness.
This continued until a moment when some electric lights suddenly flashed
into the omnibus as it passed, and lit up the whole interior with a
ghastly glare, in which the grey female became distinctly visible.
He caught his breath and shrank into the corner; for in that moment his
excited imagination had traced a strange resemblance to the figure he
had left in Rosherwich Gardens. The inherent improbability of finding a
classical statue seated in an omnibus did not occur to him, in the state
his mind was in just then. He sat there fascinated, until lights shone
in once more, and he saw, or thought he saw, the figure slowly raise her
hand and beckon to him.
That was enough; he started up with a smothered cry, thrust a coin into
the conductor's hand, and, without waiting for change, flung himself
from the omnibus in full motion.
When its varnished sides had ceased to gleam in the light of the lamps,
and its lumbering form had been swallowed up in the autumn haze, he
began to feel what a coward his imagination had made of him.
"My nightmare's begun already," he thought. "Still, she was so
surprisingly like, it did give me a turn. They oughtn't to let such
crazy females into public conveyances!"
Fortunately his panic had not seized him until he was within a short
distance from Bloomsbury, and it did not take him long to reach Queen
Square and his shop in the passage. He let himself in, and went up to a
little room on an upper floor, which he used as his sitting-room. The
person who "looked after him" did not sleep on the premises; but she
had laid a fire and left out his tea-things. "I'll have some tea," he
thought, as he lit the gas and saw them there. "I feel as if I want
cheering up, and it can't make me any more shaky than I am."
And when his fire was crackling and blazing up, and his kettle beginning
to sing, he felt more cheerful already. What, after all, if it did take
some time to get his ring again? He must make some excuse or other; and,
should the worst come to the worst, "I suppose," he thought, "I could
get another made like it--though, when I come to think of it, I'll be
shot if I remember exactly what it was like, or what the words inside it
were, to be sure about them; still, very likely old Vidler would
recollect, and I dessay it won't turn out to be necessa----What the
devil's that?"
He had the house to himself after nightfall, and he remembered that his
private door could not be opened now without a special key; yet he could
not help a fancy that some one was groping his way up the staircase
outside.
"It's only the boards creaking, or the pipes leaking through," he
thought. "I must have the place done up. But I'm as nervous as a cat
to-night."
The steps were nearer and nearer--they stopped at the door--there was a
loud commanding blow on the panels.
"Who's here at this time of night?" cried Leander, aloud. "Come in, if
you want to!"
But the door remained shut, and there came another rap, even more
imperious.
"I shall go mad if this goes on!" he muttered, and making a desperate
rush to the door, threw it wide open, and then staggered back
panic-stricken.
Upon the threshold stood a tall figure in classical drapery. His eyes
might have deceived him in the omnibus; but here, in the crude gaslight,
he could not be mistaken. It was the statue he had last seen in
Rosherwich Gardens--now, in some strange and wondrous way,
moving--alive!
A DISTINGUISHED STRANGER
III.
"How could it be a dream? Yet there
She stood, the moveless image fair!"
_The Earthly Paradise._
With slow and stately tread the statue advanced towards the centre of
the hairdresser's humble sitting-room, and stood there awhile, gazing
about her with something of scornful wonder in her calm cold face. As
she turned her head, the wide, deeply-cut sockets seemed the home of
shadowy eyes; her face, her bared arms, and the long straight folds of
her robe were all of the same greyish-yellow hue; the boards creaked
under her sandalled feet, and Leander felt that he had never heard of a
more appallingly massive ghost--if ghost indeed she were.
He had retired step by step before her to the hearthrug, where he now
stood shivering, with the fire hot at his back, and his kettle still
singing on undismayed. He made no attempt to account for her presence
there on any rationalistic theory. A statue had suddenly come to life,
and chosen to pay him a nocturnal visit; he knew no more than that,
except that he would have given worlds for courage to show it the door.
The spectral eyes were bent upon him, as if in expectation that he
would begin the conversation, and, at last, with a very unmanageable
tongue, he managed to observe--
"Did you want to see me on--on business, mum?"
[Illustration: "DID YOU WANT TO SEE ME ON--ON BUSINESS, MUM?"]
But the statue only relaxed her lips in a haughty smile.
"For goodness' sake, say something!" he cried wildly; "unless you want
me to jump out of the winder! What is it you've come about?"
It seemed to him that in some way a veil had lifted from the stone face,
leaving it illumined by a strange light, and from the lips came a voice
which addressed him in solemn far-away tones, as of one talking in
sleep. He could not have said with certainty that the language was his
own, though somehow he understood her perfectly.
"You know me not?" she said, with a kind of sad indifference.
"Well," Leander admitted, as politely as his terror would allow, "you
certingly have the advantage of me for the moment, mum."
"I am Aphrodite the foam-born, the matchless seed of Ægis-bearing Zeus.
Many names have I amongst the sons of men, and many temples, and I sway
the hearts of all lovers; and gods--yea, and mortals--have burned for
me, a goddess, with an unconsuming, unquenchable fire!"
"Lor!" said Leander. If he had not been so much flurried, he might have
found a remark worthier of the occasion, but the announcement that she
was a goddess took his breath away. He had quite believed that goddesses
were long since "gone out."
"You know wherefore I am come hither?" she said.
"Not at this minute, I don't," he replied. "You'll excuse me, but you
can't be the statue out of those gardens? You reelly are so surprisingly
like, that I couldn't help asking you."
"I am Aphrodite, and no statue. Long--how long I know not--have I lain
entranced in slumber in my sea-girt isle of Cyprus, and now again has
the living touch of a mortal hand upon one of my sacred images called me
from my rest, and given me power to animate this marble shell. Some hand
has placed this ring upon my finger. Tell me, was it yours?"
Leander was almost reassured; after all, he could forgive her for
terrifying him so much, since she had come on so good-natured an errand.
"Quite correct, mum--miss!" (he wished he knew the proper form for
addressing a goddess) "that ring is my property. I'm sure it's very
civil and friendly of you to come all this way about it," and he held
out his hand for it eagerly.
"And think you it was for this that I have visited the face of the earth
and the haunts of men, and followed your footsteps hither by roads
strange and unknown to me? You are too modest, youth."
"I don't know what there is modest in expecting you to behave honest!"
he said, rather wondering at his own audacity.
"How are you called?" she inquired suddenly on this; and after hearing
the answer, remarked that the name was known to her as that of a goodly
and noble youth who had perished for the sake of Hero.
"The gentleman may have been a connection of mine, for all I know," he
said; "the Tweddles have always kep' themselves respectable. But I'm not
a hero myself, I'm a hairdresser."
She repeated the word thoughtfully, though she did not seem to quite
comprehend it; and indeed it is likely enough that, however intelligible
she was to Leander, the understanding was far from being entirely
reciprocal.
She extended her hand to him, smiling not ungraciously. "Leander," she
said, "cease to tremble, for a great happiness is yours. Bold have you
been; yet am I not angered, for I come. Cast, then, away all fear, and
know that Aphrodite disdains not to accept a mortal's plighted troth!"
Leander entrenched himself promptly behind the armchair. "I don't know
what you're talking about!" he said. "How can I help fearing, with you
coming down on me like this? Ask yourself."
"Can you not understand that your prayer is heard?" she demanded.
"_What_ prayer?" cried Leander.
"Crass and gross-witted has the world grown!" said she; "a Greek swain
would have needed but few words to divine his bliss. Know, then, that
your suit is accepted; never yet has Aphrodite turned the humblest from
her shrine. By this symbol," and she lightly touched the ring, "you have
given yourself to me. I accept the offering--you are mine!"
Leander was stupefied by such an unlooked-for misconception. He could
scarcely believe his ears; but he hastened to set himself right at once.
"If you mean that you were under the impression that I meant anything in
particular by putting that ring on, it was all a mistake, mum," he said.
"I shouldn't have presumed to it!"
"Were you the lowliest of men, I care not," she replied; "to you I owe
the power I now enjoy of life and vision, nor shall you find me
ungrateful. But forbear this false humility; I like it not. Come, then,
Leander, at the bidding of Cypris; come, and fear nothing!"
But he feared very much, for he had seen the operas of _Don Giovanni_
and _Zampa_, and knew that any familiarity with statuary was likely to
have unpleasant consequences. He merely strengthened his defences with a
chair.
"You must excuse me, mum, you must indeed," he faltered; "I can't come!"
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I've other engagements," he replied.
"I remember," she said slowly, "in the grove, when light met my eyes
once more, there was a maid with you, one who laughed and was merry.
Answer--is she your love?"
"No, she isn't," he said shortly. "What if she was?"
"If she were," observed the goddess, with the air of one who mentioned
an ordinary fact, "I should crush her!"
"Lord bless me!" cried Leander, in his horror. "What for?"
"Would not she be in my path? and shall any mortal maid stand between me
and my desire?"
This was a discovery. She was a jealous and vengeful goddess; she would
require to be sedulously humoured, or harm would come.
"Well, well," he said soothingly, "there's nothing of that sort about
her, I do assure you."
"Then I spare her," said the goddess. "But how, then, if this be truly
so, do you still shrink from the honour before you?"
Leander felt a natural unwillingness to explain that it was because he
was engaged to a young lady who kept the accounts at a florist's.
"Well, the fact is," he said awkwardly, "there's difficulties in the
way."
"Difficulties? I can remove them all!" she said.
"Not _these_ you can't, mum. It's like this: You and me, we don't start,
so to speak, from the same basin. I don't mean it as any reproach to
you, but you can't deny you're an Eathen, and, worse than that, an
Eathen goddess. Now all my family have been brought up as chapel folk,
Primitive Methodists, and I've been trained to have a horror of
superstition and idolatries, and see the folly of it. So you can see for
yourself that we shouldn't be likely to get on together!"
"You talk words," she said impatiently; "but empty are they, and
meaningless to my ears. One thing I learn from them--that you seek to
escape me!"
"That's putting it too harsh, mum," he protested. "I'm sure I feel the
honour of such a call; and, by the way, do you mind telling me how you
got my address--how you found me out, I mean?"
"No one remains long hid from the searching eye of the high gods," she
replied.
"So I should be inclined to say," agreed Leander. "But only tell me
this, wasn't it you in the omnibus? We call our public conveyances
omnibuses, as perhaps you mayn't know."
"I, sea-born Aphrodite, _I_ in a public conveyance, an omnibus? There is
an impiety in such a question!"
"Well, I only thought it might have been," he stammered, rather relieved
upon the whole that it was not the goddess who had seen his precipitate
bolt from the vehicle. Who the female in the corner really was, he never
knew; though a man of science might account for the resemblance she bore
to the statue by ascribing it to one of those preparatory impressions
projected occasionally by a strong personality upon a weak one. But
Leander was content to leave the matter unexplained.
"Let it suffice you," she said, "that I am here; and once more, Leander,
are you prepared to fulfil the troth you have plighted?"
"I--I can't say I am," he said. "Not that I don't feel thankful for
having had the refusal of so very 'igh-class an opportunity; but, as I'm
situated at present--what with the state of trade, and unbelief so
rampant, and all--I'm obliged to decline with respectful thanks."
He trusted that after this she would see the propriety of going.
"Have a care!" she said; "you are young and not uncomely, and my heart
pities you. Do nothing rash. Pause, ere you rouse the implacable ire of
Aphrodite!"
"Thank you," said Leander; "if you'll allow me, I will. I don't want any
ill-feeling, I'm sure. It's my wish to live peaceable with all men."
"I leave you, then. Use the time before you till I come again in
thinking well whether he acts wisely who spurns the proffered hand of
Idalian Aphrodite. For the present, farewell, Leander!"
He was overjoyed at his coming deliverance. "Good evening, mum," he
said, as he ran to the door and held it open. "If you'll allow me, I'll
light you down the staircase--it's rather dark, I'm afraid."
"_Fool!_,'" she said with scorn, and without stirring from her place;
and, as she spoke the word, the veil seemed to descend over her face
again, the light faded out, and, with a slight shudder, the figure
imperceptibly resumed its normal attitude, the drapery stiffened once
more into chiselled folds, and the statue was soulless as are statues
generally.
FROM BAD TO WORSE
IV.
"And the shadow flits and fleets,
And will not let me be,
And I loathe the squares and streets!"
_Maud._
For some time after the statue had ceased to give signs of life, the
hairdresser remained gaping, incapable of thought or action. At last he
ventured to approach cautiously, and on touching the figure, found it
perfectly cold and hard. The animating principle had plainly departed,
and left the statue a stone.
"She's gone," he said, "and left her statue behind her! Well, of all the
_goes_----She's come out without her pedestal, too! To be sure, it would
have been in her way, walking."
Seating himself in his shabby old armchair, he tried to collect his
scattered wits. He scarcely realised, even yet, what had happened; but,
unless he had dreamed it all, he had been honoured by the marked
attentions of a marble statue, instigated by a heathen goddess, who
insisted that his affections were pledged to her.
Perhaps there was a spice of flattery in such a situation--for it cannot
fall to the lot of many hairdressers to be thus distinguished--but
Leander was far too much alarmed to appreciate it. There had been
suggestions of menace in the statue's remarks which made him shudder
when he recalled them, and he started violently once or twice when some
wavering of the light gave a play of life to the marble mask. "She's
coming back!" he thought. "Oh, I do wish she wouldn't!" But Aphrodite
continued immovable, and at last he concluded that, as he put it, she
"had done for the evening."
His first reflection was--what had best be done? The wisest course
seemed to be to send for the manager of the gardens, and restore the
statue while its animation was suspended. The people at the gardens
would take care that it did not get loose again.
But there was the ring; he must get that off first. Here was an
unhoped-for opportunity of accomplishing this in privacy, and at his
leisure. Again approaching the figure, he tried to draw off the
compromising circle; but it seemed tighter than ever, and he drew out a
pair of scissors and, after a little hesitation, respectfully inserted
it under the hoop and set to work to prize it off, with the result of
snapping both the points, and leaving the ring entirely unaffected. He
glanced at the face; it wore the same dreamy smile, with a touch of
gentle contempt in it. "She don't seem to mind," he said aloud; "to be
sure, she ain't inside of it now, as far as I make it out. I've got all
night before me to get the confounded thing off, and I'll go on till
I've done it!"
But he laboured on with the disabled scissors, and only succeeded in
scratching the smooth marble a little; he stopped to pant. "There's only
way," he told himself desperately; "a little diamond cement would make
it all right again; and you expect cracks in a statue."
Then, after a furtive glance around, he fetched the poker from the
fireplace. He felt horribly brutal, as if he were going to mutilate and
maltreat a creature that could feel; but he nerved himself to tap the
back of Aphrodite's hand at the dimpled base of the third finger. The
shock ran up to his elbow, and gave him acute "pins and needles," but
the stone hand was still intact. He struck again--this time with all his
force--and the poker flew from his grasp, and his arm dropped paralyzed
by his side.
He could scarcely lift it again for some minutes, and the warning made
him refrain from any further violence. "It's no good," he groaned. "If I
go on, I don't know what may happen to me. I must wait till she comes
to, and then ask her for the ring, very polite and civil, and try if I
can't get round her that way."
He was determined that he would never give her up to the gardens while
she wore his ring; but, in the mean time, he could scarcely leave the
statue standing in the middle of his sitting-room, where it would most
assuredly attract the charwoman's attention.
He had little cupboards on each side of his fireplace: one of these had
no shelves, and served for storing firewood and bottles of various
kinds. From this he removed the contents, and lifting the statue, which,
possibly because its substance had been affected in some subtle and
inexplicable manner by the vital principle that had so lately permeated
it, proved less ponderous than might have been reasonably expected, he
pushed it well into the recess, and turned the key on it.
Then he went trembling to bed, and, after an interval of muddled,
anxious thinking, fell into a heavy sleep, which lasted until far into
the morning.
He woke with the recollection that something unpleasant was hanging over
him, and by degrees he remembered what that something was; but it looked
so extravagant in the morning light that he had great hopes all would
turn out to be a mere dream.
It was a mild Sunday morning, and there were church bells ringing all
around him; it seemed impossible that he could really be harbouring an
animated antique. But to remove all doubt, he stole down, half dressed,
to his small sitting-room, which he found looking as usual--the fire
burning dull and dusty in the sunlight that struck in through the open
window, and his breakfast laid out on the table.
Almost reassured, he went to the cupboard and unlocked the door. Alas!
it held its skeleton--the statue was there, preserving the attitude of
queenly command in which he had seen it first. Sharply he shut the door
again, and turned the key with a heavy heart.
He swallowed his breakfast with very little appetite, after which he
felt he could not remain in the house. "To sit here with _that_ in the
cupboard is more than I'm equal to all Sunday," he decided.
If Matilda had been at his aunt's, with whom she lodged, he would have
gone to chapel with her; but Matilda did not return from her holiday
till late that night. He thought of going to his friend and asking his
advice on his case. James, as a barrister's clerk, would presumably be
able to give a sound legal opinion on an emergency.
James, however, lived "out Camden Town way," and was certain on so fine
a morning to be away on some Sunday expedition with his betrothed: it
was hopeless to go in search of him now. If he went to see his aunt, who
lived close by in Millman Street, she might ask him about the ring, and
there would be a fuss. He was in no humour for attending any place of
public worship, and so he spent some hours in aimless wandering about
the streets, which, as foreigners are fond of reminding us, are not
exhilarating even on the brightest Sabbath, and did not raise his
spirits then.
At last hunger drove him back to the passage in Southampton Row, the
more quickly as it began to occur to him that the statue might possibly
have revived, and be creating a disturbance in the cupboard.
He had passed the narrow posts, and was just taking out his latchkey,
when some one behind touched his shoulder and made him give a guilty
jump. He dreaded to find the goddess at his elbow; however, to his
relief, he found a male stranger, plainly and respectably dressed.
"You Mr. Tweddle the hairdresser?" the stranger inquired.
Leander felt a wild impulse to deny it, and declare that he was his own
friend, and had come to see himself on business, for he was in no social
mood just then; but he ended by admitting that he supposed he was Mr.
Tweddle.
"So did I. Well, I want a little private talk with you, Mr. Tweddle.
I've been hanging about for some time; but though I knocked and rang, I
couldn't make a soul hear."
"There isn't a soul inside," protested Tweddle, with unnecessary warmth;
"not a solitary soul! You wanted to talk with me. Suppose we take a turn
round the square?"
"No, no. I won't keep you out; I'll come in with you!"
Inwardly wondering what his visitor wanted, Leander led him in and lit
the gas in his hair-cutting saloon. "We shall be cosier here," he said;
for he dared not take the stranger up in the room where the statue was
concealed, for fear of accidents.
The man sat down in the operating-chair and crossed his legs. "I dare
say you're wondering what I've come about like this on a Sunday
afternoon?" he began.
"Not at all," said Leander. "Anything I can have the pleasure of doing
for you----"
"It's only to answer a few questions. I understand you lost a ring at
the Rosherwich Gardens yesterday evening: that's so, isn't it?"
He was a military looking person, as Leander now perceived, and he had a
close-trimmed iron-grey beard, a high colour, quick eyes, and a stiff
hard-lipped mouth--not at all the kind of man to trifle with. And yet
Leander felt no inclination to tell him his story; the stranger might be
a reporter, and his adventure would "get into the papers"--perhaps reach
Matilda's eyes.
"I--I dropped a ring last night, certainly," he said; "it may have been
in the gardens, for what I know."
"Now, now," said the stranger, "don't you _know_ it was in the gardens?
Tell me all about it."
"Begging your pardon," said Leander, "I should like to know first what call you have to _be_ told." |
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