It was a long hour that the Museum claimed from them.
“This is what always attracts me most of all,” said Mosscrop upon
entering. He turned to the left, and led the way into the little gallery
of the Roman portrait-busts. “Very often I never go any farther than
this. The modernness of these fellows is a perpetual marvel to me. It
is as if we met them every day. Look at Caracalla and Septimius Severus;
they are exactly like Irish members. And see Pertinax, here; I know at
least ten old farmers about Elgin who might be his own brothers. Observe
this man Hadrian. He is the absolute image of Francis the First. You
know the portraits of him at Hampton Court--what? never been there? Ah,
that’s a place we will go to together. There is one picture of Francis
there--he is very drunk, apparently, and has got hold of the hand of
the Duchess of Some-thing-or-other, and she is in her cups, too, and the
inane, leering, almost simian happiness of the two--oh, it is worth a
long journey just to see that one picture.”
“It doesn’t sound very inviting,” commented Vestalia. “Tipsy women are
repulsive, whether they are duchesses or not.”
Mosscrop chuckled. “Oh, but you must make allowances for the period. It
was the Renaissance, the joyful, exuberant, devil-may-care Renaissance.
If once you catch the inner spirit of it, you will feel that it was
the most glorious of periods. And Francis the First was the living,
breathing type of it. There was a man for you! He celebrated _his_
birthday all the year round. And in this particular instance, why, I
daresay it was the Duchess’s birthday too. I should have thought you
would take a more lenient view of such a pleasing double anniversary.”
Vestalia looked doubtfully at him. “I hope you don’t mean that _I_ am in
my cups, as you call it,” she said.
He laughed her suspicion down. “No, I won’t let you hint at such an
absurd thing. My dear friend, I must cultivate your sense of humour. The
roots exist, but the growth is choked by the weeds of Lambeth--or was it
Kennington? We must have them up.”
“But I don’t know _when_ you are joking,” she protested. “Besides, I
always understood that the Scotch were not a joking people.”
“Ah, you confuse two things. It is said of us, with some justice, that
we are slow to comprehend the jokes of others. But of the making of
jokes by ourselves there is no end. And--ah, here is Nero. I love Nero!”
“Is that a joke, too?”
“Ah, no,” he answered, more seriously. “It is in my nature to love all
the people whom history has picked out to condemn. If you knew the sort
of creatures who wrote the histories--the old chronicles and records
and so on--you would understand my point of view. They were full of
all meannesses and narrow bigotries; they calumniated everybody they
couldn’t blackmail. Take the case of Richard Lionheart and his brother
John, in your own English history. The former was a ferocious and
turbulent blackguard, who neglected all his duties of kingship without
shame, plundered his own subjects by torture and rapine, and was
altogether a curse to his own people and everybody else. The mere trick
of his having a taste for songs and music saved him. He buttered up the
bards, and they fastened him in history as a hero. It is precisely
the same thing that is done now by politicians who take pains to
make friends with the newspapers. On the other hand, John was a model
monarch, diligent, hardworking, extraordinarily attentive to his duties,
travelling for ever up and down the country to hold courts of justice,
and right the wrongs poor people suffered at the hands of the barons and
the abbots and other powerful ruffians. It is plain enough that the poor
people loved him; after all these centuries his name continues to be
the most popular baptismal name among them. But the bards and monkish
chroniclers were in the pay of the barons and abbots, and they paint
John for us as the most evil scoundrel in English history. That’s the
way it has always been done. I should like to have Nero’s side of his
story. I know he must have been a splendid fellow, to have got the
historians so violently against him. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was
really almost as fine as Richard the Third.”
“How amusing!” said Vestalia at this point, and Mosscrop was swift to
take the hint. They moved on through the Greek rooms, where the girl had
more of a chance. She had known a few of the students who are accustomed
on giving days to offer up sacrifices of time and crayons and good white
paper in front of the more fashionable statues, and this had provided
her with what seemed to her companion an exhaustive familiarity with
Hellenic art. This advantage followed and remained with her amid the
sombre and lofty fragments of the Mausoleum, and shone about her when
they confronted the frieze of the Parthenon.
“It is not my subject,” he remarked, delightedly. “This is a Hermes, you
say, and that a Winged Goddess of Victory. Ah, and this is a River God.
I don’t think I’ve ever been here before. It is charming--to come with
you. We supplement each other. Sure enough, I ought to have foreseen
that you would know about Greek art. It is just the field that would
attract a beautiful young woman. It fits you--it belongs to you.”
“How--now!” she admonished him, holding up a finger in playful protest.
“Oh,” he urged, “if I’m not to say that you are beautiful, we might
as well not have any birthday at all. That is its most elementary
fact--lying at the very foundation of everything. To ignore it would be
like trying to celebrate the Fifth of November without a guy.”
Again she shot a glance of dubiety at him. “I don’t know in the least
how to take that,” she confessed, with a quiver on her lip.
He laughed outright at this, and gaily patted her on the shoulder. “This
unnatural Attic levity of mine is all the fault of the frieze. I’m a cat
in a strange garret here. Hasten with me to the Assyrian rooms, if you
want to see the utmost height of solemnity it is given to mortals to
attain.”
He was not quite as good as his word, when they began loitering along
before the carved tablets from Nineveh and Khorsabad. Instruction he
could not help piling upon his companion, for this was _his_ subject,
but he found himself seasoning it with all sorts of sprightly
commentaries on the serious text. Of grave and sportive alike he had so
much to say that Vestalia took his arm, and leant upon it as they
made their slow progress through the long corridors. The contact was
exhilarating to him. He could not be sure that she was assimilating any
large proportion of his discourse, but her pretence of interest at least
was very pretty, and the touch of her arm in his was full of inspiration
to his tongue.
Down in the basement, or crypt, he stood before the lions of
Assur-Banipal, and talked at length. She said she had read Byron’s
“Sardanapalus,” and he told her how those detestable linguists, the
Greeks, had altered the name, and how the Assyrian legends of a great
warrior and sovereign had become twisted in the Hellenic after-version
to depict a sublimation of debauched effeminacy and luxury run mad. She
listened with her shoulder against his--but now he had other auditors as
well.
“Excuse me, sir,” the urgent and anxious voice of a stranger said close
behind him, “but you seem to be extraordinarily well posted indeed on
these sculptures here. I hope you will not object to my daughter and me
standing where we can hear your remarks.”
Mosscrop turned, and saw before him an elderly man, with a mild
expression, and hair and beard of extreme whiteness. He was soberly
attired, and carried in his hand a broad-brimmed hat of woven white
straw. He bowed courteously, and indicated by a gentle gesture the young
lady standing at his side.
“I should delight, sir, to have my daughter be privileged to profit by
your remarks,” he repeated, and bowed again.
The daughter was a dark, well-rounded girl, dressed with much elegance.
Her face was strikingly Oriental in type, with coal-black tresses
drawn low over the temples, and a skin of a uniform ivory hue. She said
nothing, but looked at Vestalia’s hair.
Mosscrop spoke somewhat abruptly. “You are certainly welcome, but it
happens that I have finished my remarks, as you call them.”
“That is too bad,” replied the stranger, with a sigh of resignation.
“I overheard enough to convince me that they were first-rate. It is our
misfortune, sir, mine and my daughter’s, to have arrived too late. I
presume, sir, that you have given special attention to this branch of
study?”
The Professor of Culdees nodded briefly.
“And may I take the liberty of inquiring, sir,” the old man persisted,
“whether you are professionally engaged in transmitting to others the
knowledge which you have thus acquired?”
A stormy grin began twitching at the corners of Mosscrop’s mouth. He
nodded again.
“My purpose in putting the question is not one of idle curiosity, sir,”
the other went on. “My life-long desire to visit Europe, and behold
its venerable ruins and its remarkable accumulations of objects of
historical and artistic interest, has attained fulfilment at a period,
unfortunately, when the burden of my years, while not incapacitating me
from the enjoyments of the mind, renders me less capable of searching
out new information than I should once have been. It also, I see only
too clearly, unfits me to act as a guide and interpreter, amid these
treasures of the storied past, to a young mind so much fresher and more
eager than my own. I recognise this, sir, frankly, and I should be glad
to discuss some possible arrangement, with the proper persons, by which
my deficiencies might be supplied in this connection.”
The elaborate and deferential courtesy with which the old gentleman
spoke made a curt answer impossible. Mosscrop looked from father to
daughter with a puzzled smile.
“You are Americans, I take it?”
“We are from Paris, sir.” He made haste to add, “From Paris, Kentucky.
I obtrude the explanation, because I find that among foreigners there is
frequently a tendency to confuse our city with the celebrated metropolis
on the Continent, which bears the same name, but is a place of an
entirely different character. To a scholar like yourself, however, I
might have realised that such an error would be impossible. I ask your
pardon, sir.”
“Oh, don’t mention it,” replied Mosscrop, lightly. He could not recall
ever having heard of such a place before, and for a moment was tempted
to say so. But there was an effect of sweet simplicity in the old man’s
face and manner which restrained his tongue. “Well,” he said instead,
“what is it that you wish? I am not sure that I have entirely caught
your idea. Do you want some one to go round with you and show you
things?”
“Not in the ordinary meaning which would attach to that description,”
the other answered. “We do not require to have things shown to us in the
literal sense of the word, but I had thought that if we were attended
in our inspection of the various objects of interest for which Europe
is justly famous, by some person of erudition and also of an exceptional
style of delivery, the experience would be of much greater practical
value to my daughter. Of course, sir, I am aware that professional
assistance of this high character is not to be obtained without
commensurate compensation, but that is a consideration which presents no
obstacles to my mind.”
David felt Vestalia’s hand trembling upon his arm.
“I can see,” he said, more amiably, “that such a relation might be
extremely welcome to many deserving and very capable men. But at the
moment I regret to say I can think of none to recommend to you. Besides,
you don’t know me from Adam; so how could I give a character to any one
else?”
“I beg your pardon sir,” rejoined the old gentleman, “but we took the
liberty of following close behind you all through the last two long
hallways. You were apparently so engrossed with your subject that our
proximity escaped your attention, but we have listened with the deepest
interest, and I may say improvement as well, to everything which has
fallen from your lips. I have thus, sir, been able to form an estimate
of your individual characteristics not less than of your acquirements.
I may add, sir, that I am especially impressed by the fact that my
daughter, from first to last, displayed an exceptional eagerness to
miss nothing of your discourse. As the principal object of my visit to
Europe, as, indeed, of my whole existence, is to provide the highest
forms of intellectual pleasure and edification for my daughter, I cannot
close my eyes to the discovery that your remarks upon Assyrian history
produced a much more profound impression upon her young mind than
anything which it has been within the scope of my own diminishing powers
to produce for her consideration. I have rarely seen her so absorbed,
even at our best lectures.”
David stifled a yawn, and made a little bow in which, as he turned, he
strove to include the young American lady whoso culture was the object
of so much solicitude. His movement surprised upon her countenance an
expression of scornful weariness, which seemed to render the whole face
alert and luminous with feeling. At sight of his eyes, her sultana-like
features composed themselves again to an almost stolid tranquillity. She
regarded him with indolence for an instant, then looked calmly away
at things in general. There was to be read in that transient glance a
challenge which stirred his blood.
“Well, what you say is, beyond doubt, flattering,” he remarked to the
father, in a slightly altered voice. “It might be that--that I could
find some one for you.”
The old gentleman bowed ceremoniously. “Permit me to say, sir, that I
have found the some one--a person possessing unique qualifications for
the position which I have outlined. I need nothing now but the power
to influence his decision in a manner favourable to my aspirations.” He
turned to Vestalia. “I am emboldened, madame, to crave your assistance
in reconciling your husband to my project.”
Vestalia’s hand fluttered sharply on David’s arm, and she parted her
lips to speak. At the moment, there was audible a derisive sniff from
the daughter.
“It is my rule never to interfere,” Vestalia answered with sudden
decision, and in a coldly distinct voice. “He is quite capable of
settling such matters for himself.” She looked from father to daughter
and back with an impressive eye.
Mosscrop laughed uneasily. “Well--I’m afraid you must take it that
this is settled--I scarcely see my way to avail myself of your very
complimentary offer.”
The American caught the note of hesitation in his voice. “Perhaps you
will turn it over in your mind,” he said, fumbling with a hand in his
inner breast-pocket. “Allow me, sir, to hand you my card. Adele, you
have a pencil? Thank you. I will inscribe upon it the name of the hotel
at which we are residing.”
Mosscrop took the card, glanced at it, and nodded. “In the extremely
improbable event of my changing my mind, I will let you know,” he said.
“Good day.”
As they were parting, the father seemed to read in the daughter’s eye
that he was forgetting something. He hesitated for a brief space; then
his kindly face brightened. “Excuse me, sir,” he observed, “but I have
neglected to inform myself as to your identity--if I may presume to that
extent.”
David felt vainly in his pocket. “I haven’t a card with me. My name is
David Mosscrop. The Barbary Club will find me. I will write it for you.”
The old man scrutinized the scrawl in his note-book, and then, after
more bows, led his daughter away. She walked after him in a proudly
indifferent fashion, with her head in the air, and something almost like
a swagger in the movements of her form.
Mosscrop watched them with a ruminating eye till they had left the
room. Then he glanced at the card, and gave a little laugh. “Mr. Laban
Skinner, Paris, Kentucky.--Savoy Hotel,” he read aloud.
“Skinner? Is their name Skinner?” demanded Vestalia with eagerness.
“None other. Why? It’s a good name for them, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes--good enough,” the girl replied, speaking now with exaggerated
nonchalance.
“Quaint people these Americans are!” commented Mosscrop. “If I were
to put that old chap’s speeches down literally in a book nobody would
credit them. Fancy the fate of a young woman condemned to be dragged
around the globe chained to a preposterous old phonograph like that! It
really wrings one’s heart to think of it. Mighty good-looking girl too.”
Vestalia withdrew her arm. “Perhaps,” she said, icily, “if you were to
make haste you might overtake them. I must insist on your not allowing
me to detain you, if you are so interested. I shall do quite well by
myself.” Mosscrop gathered her meaning slowly, after a grave scrutiny
of her flushed and perturbed face. When it came to him, he shouted his
merriment. A glance around the chamber showed him that they were alone
with the lions and carved effigies of Sardanapalus.
He thrust an arm about Vestalia’s waist, and gave it a boisterous though
fleeting squeeze.
“Why, you dear little canary-bird of a creature, do you suppose I’ve
been forgetting you?” he cried. “Haven’t I been thinking every minute of
the touch of your arm in mine? Haven’t I been cursing that old windbag
ceaselessly because he was interrupting our birthday? Look up at me!
Truly now, aren’t you ashamed?”
She suffered him to raise her face, his finger under her chin, and she
made a brave effort to smile hack at the glance he bent upon her. “If
it is truly--oh, ever so truly--still our birthday--the same as it was
before,” she made wistful answer.
“It is a hundred times more our birthday than ever!” he protested
stoutly.
An elderly keeper in uniform shuffled his way into the room.
“Well then,” whispered Vestalia, “let’s go somewhere else to celebrate
the rest of it. All these stone animals and images and mummies--I don’t
feel as if they brought me luck on my birthday.”
So they wandered forth into the sunshine again, and Mosscrop confessed
himself glad of the change. Where should they go? He found himself empty
of suggestion. Responsibility for the decorous entertainment of a young
lady in the daytime was a novel experience, and he said so.
“Oh, let us just stroll about,” she urged. “I love these old Bloomsbury
Squares. They are so stupid.”
Luncheon hour came, and presented itself to Mosscrop as a welcome
pretext to take a hansom. A certain formless apprehension of meeting
some one he knew--though why this should be dreaded he could not for
the life of him have told--had alloyed the pleasure of his ramble.
They drove to another restaurant, this time a larger place in a more
pretentious quarter--and though they had a little table to themselves,
the room was full of others.
David knew about luncheons as well as breakfasts. He gave the waiter
very minute instructions about having a grouse split and grilled, and
he ran his eye over the list of champagnes with the confident
discrimination of an expert. “I will give that number 34a one more
trial,” he said to the butler. “Cool it to 48, and we will see what it
is like then.”
Vestalia noted that he spoke to waiters in a soft, grave tone, with
shades of gentle melancholy and of affectionate authority subtly blended
in it, which he used to no one else. He produced the impression upon her
of being at his very best at a table. She particularly liked him when
he took the cork from the butler, and tenderly pinched with thumb and
finger as he scrutinised it, and then smiled courteous approbation to
the servant. This person wore a chain round his neck, and the bottle he
brought was swathed in starched napery--and the girl observed both with
the interest that attaches to novelty. But it was even more interesting
to see how perfectly her companion presided over everything.
She herself was much less at ease. David noticed that she kept her hands
in her lap under the table as much as possible during the meal, and that
there was an air of constraint in her general deportment which had been
lacking at breakfast. He put it down to her shyness among so many busy
people in the thronged apartment, and talked briskly at intervals to
re-assure her. Especially he charged himself with the duty of keeping
her glass filled, and he was almost peremptory in his tone with her
about the grouse. She ate her piece to the end with meek resolution
after that.
When they were again in the open, he rallied her upon the diffidence she
had displayed. “You mustn’t mind a lot of fellows being about,” he said
in a paternal way. “They go where there is the best kitchen, and it’s
the part of wisdom to go there too; besides, they’re only too pleased
to see a pretty face among them. Didn’t you feel how proud I was of you,
all the while?”
Outside she had quite regained her spirits and assurance. She smiled
with frank gaiety at him. “I’ll tell you how to be prouder still,” she
said. “I know you won’t mind my saying so--but I ought really to have
some gloves.”
“I’m a brute not to have thought of it,” Mosscrop reproached himself.
“Here’s a place, just at hand. I can come in, this time, I suppose,
without question.”
She held up a finger at him, in mock monition. Then, as they turned to
enter the shop, she whispered: “I saw that American girl looking with
all her eyes at my bare hands.”
“Oh, pshaw--lots of women don’t wear gloves. You mustn’t be so
suspicious of everybody that looks your way. A hundred to one they’re
thinking about themselves all the time.”
“Ah, but you don’t know women,” she halted midway in the entrance to
murmur. “I could read it in her eyes that she’d noticed I had no ring.”
“Well, and there too,” protested Mosscrop, “you exaggerate the
importance of the thing. Lots of women don’t wear rings, either--that
is, on ordinary occasions.”
She danced her eyes at him in merriment. “Perhaps you didn’t notice that
I was supposed to be a married lady,” she said, and then turned abruptly
to the counter.