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LOVE AMONG THE LIONS
A MATRIMONIAL EXPERIENCE
BY F. ANSTEY
AUTHOR OF "VICE VERSA," ETC.
LONDON
J. M. DENT & CO.
29 & 30 BEDFORD STREET, W.C.
List of Illustrations
Page
The exquisite face looking out over the wire blind 4
AEneas Polkinghorne 5
Still I persevered 9
The Introduction of Mr Blenkinsop to Miss
Lurana de Castro 12
"And whom should I marry, Mr Blenkinsop?" 18
"Let us be married in the Lion's Cage" 26
"Yes, papa, we are a little late" 31
"First-rate idea of yours, Blenkinsop" 33
"Well, if the lady's as game as she seems, and
the gentleman likewise, I don't see any
objection" 41
We were still chatting when Laurana returned 43
A Cleric of the broad-minded school 51
"If you go on like that I shall begin to think
you want to frighten me" 55
Mademoiselle 63
"A de Castro can never marry a Craven" 73
"If them two got together, there'd be the doose's
delight" 79
I was forlornly mopping when Niono returned 82
My wedding toilette was complete 87
It's a swindle 91
A kind of small procession entered the arena 95
Then he addressed the audience 101
"If only you had been firmer, Theodore" 113
Love among the Lions
PART I
In the following pages will be found the only authentic account of an
affair which provided London, and indeed all England, with material
for speculation and excitement for a period of at least nine days.
So many inaccurate versions have been circulated, so many ill-natured
and unjust aspersions have been freely cast, that it seemed advisable
for the sake of those principally concerned to make a plain
unvarnished statement of the actual facts. And when I mention that I
who write this am the Theodore Blenkinsop whose name was, not long
since, as familiar in the public mouth as household words, I venture
to think that I shall at once recall the matter to the shortest
memory, and establish my right to speak with authority on the
subject.
At the time I refer to I was--and for the matter of that still
am--employed at a lucrative salary as taster to a well-known firm of
tea-merchants in the City. I occupied furnished apartments, a
sitting-room and bedroom, over a dairy establishment in Tadmor
Terrace, near Baalbec Road, in the pleasant and salubrious district of
Highbury.
Arrived at the age of twenty-eight, I was still a bachelor and had
felt no serious inclination to change my condition until the memorable
afternoon on which the universe became transformed for me in the
course of a quiet stroll round Canonbury Square.
For the information of those who may be unacquainted with it, I may
state that Canonbury Square is in Islington; the houses, though
undeniably dingy as to their exteriors, are highly respectable, and
mostly tenanted by members of the medical, musical, or scholastic
professions; some have balconies and verandahs which make it
difficult to believe that one has not met them, like their occupiers,
at some watering place in the summer.
The square is divided into two by a road on which frequent tramcars
run to the City, and the two central enclosures are neatly laid out
with gravelled paths and garden seats; in the one there is a dovecot,
in the other there are large terra-cotta oil-jars, bringing
recollections of the Arabian Nights and the devoted Morgiana.
All this, I know, is not strictly to the point, but I am anxious to
make it clear that the locality, though not perhaps a chosen haunt of
Rank and Fashion, possesses compensations of its own.
Strolling round Canonbury Square, then, I happened to glance at a
certain ground floor window in which an art-pot, in the form of a
chipped egg hanging in gilded chains and enamelled shrimp-pink, gave a
note of femininity that softened the dusty severity of a wire blind.
Under the chipped egg, and above the top of the blind, gazing out with
an air of listless disdain and utter weariness, was a lovely vivid
face, which, with its hint of pent-up passion and tropical languor, I
mentally likened to a pomegranate flower; not that I have ever seen a
pomegranate flower, though I am more familiar with the fruit--which,
to my palate, has too much the flavour of firewood to be wholly
agreeable--but somehow it seemed the only appropriate comparison.
[Illustration: The exquisite face looking out over the wire blind.]
After that, few days passed on which I did not saunter at least once
round the square, and several times I was rewarded by the sight of
that same exquisite face, looking out over the wire blind, always
with the same look of intense boredom and haughty resentment of her
surroundings--a kind of modern Mariana, with an area to represent the
moat.
[Illustration: AEneas Polkinghorne.]
I was hopelessly in love from the very first; I thought of nothing but
how to obtain admission to her presence; as time went on, I fancied
that when I passed there was a gleam of recognition, of half-awakened
interest in her long-lashed eyes, but it was difficult to be certain.
On the railing by the door was a large brass plate, on which was
engraved: "AEneas Polkinghorne, Professor of Elocution. Prospectus
within." So I knew the name of my divinity. I can give no greater
indication of the extent of my passion, even at this stage, than by
saying that I found this surname musical, and lingered over each
syllable with delight.
But that brought me no nearer to her, and at last a plan occurred to
me by which the abyss of the area that separated us might possibly be
bridged over. Nothing could be simpler than my device--and yet there
was an audacity about it that rather startled me at first. It was
this: the brass plate said "Prospectus within." Very well, all I had
to do was to knock boldly and ask for one, which, after some natural
hesitation, I did.
Any wild hope of obtaining an interview with Miss Polkinghorne was
doomed to instant disappointment. I was received by the Professor
himself, a tall, stout, flabby person, with sandy hair combed back
over his brow and worn long behind, who showed a most sympathetic
interest in me, inquiring whether I wished to be prepared for the
Church, the Stage, or the Bar, or whether I had any idea of entering
Parliament. I fear I allowed him to suppose the latter, although I am
about as likely to get into Parliament as into an imperial pint
measure; but I had to say something to account for my visit, and the
tea-trade does not call for much in the way of oratorical skill from
its votaries.
Our interview was brief, but I came away, not only with a prospectus,
but with tickets, for which I paid cash, entitling me to a course of
six lessons in elocution.
This was rather more than I had calculated upon--but, at least, it
gave me the _entree_ to the house, and it might lead to something
more.
It did not seem as if it was going to lead to much; the Professor's
method of teaching was peculiar: he would post me in a study at the
back of the house, where I was instructed to declaim some celebrated
oration at the top of my voice while he retired upstairs to discover
how far my voice would carry.
After twenty minutes or so he would return with the information, which
I have no reason to disbelieve, that he had not heard a single word
above the first landing.
Still I persevered, sustained by the thought that, when I was
delivering the oration of Brutus over Caesar, or the famous passage
about the Queen of France and the "ten thousand swords leaping from
their scabbards," my words might perchance reach Miss Polkinghorne's
ear and excite in her a passing emotion.
But I came to the end of my tickets and still I was as far as ever
from my goal, while the exertion of shouting had rendered me painfully
husky.
[Illustration: Still I persevered.]
Yet I would not give in; I set myself to gain the Professor's good
opinion; I took more tickets. It was not till after I had run through
these that I ascertained, by an apparently careless inquiry, that
there was no such person as Miss Polkinghorne--the Professor was a
widower and had never had a daughter!
The thought that I had wasted so much time and money for nothing was
bitter at first, and I very nearly decided to discontinue my studies
there and then. But I conquered my feelings. Though the Professor was
no relation to this young lady, he must know her name, he must be able
to give me some information about her; a little judicious pumping
might render him communicative.
"My dear Sir," he said, after I had been beating about the bush for
some time with cautious delicacy, "I think I understand. You are
anxious to make this young lady's acquaintance with a view to paying
your addresses to her? Is not that so?"
I confessed that he had managed to penetrate my motives, though I
could not imagine how.
"You will not be the first who has sought to win Lurana's
affections," he said; "more than one of my pupils--but the child is
ambitious, difficult to please. Unfortunately, this is your final
lesson--otherwise I might, after preparing the ground, so to say, have
presented you to her, and I daresay she would have been pleased to
give you a cup of tea occasionally after your labours. Indeed, as Miss
Lurana de Castro's stepfather, I can answer for that--however, since
our acquaintance unhappily ceases here----"
It did not cease there; I took another dozen tickets at once, and if
even Polkinghorne had sounded sweetly to my enamoured ear, you may
conceive what enchanting melody lay in a name so romantic and so
euphonious as Lurana de Castro.
The Professor was as good as his word; at the end of the very next
lesson I was invited to follow him to the drawing-room, where I found
the owner of the brilliant face that had so possessed me seated at her
tea-table.
She gave me a cup of tea, and I can pay her witchery no higher
compliment when I state that it seemed to me as nectar, even though
my trained palate detected in it an inartistic and incongruous blend
of broken teas, utterly without either style or quality. I am not sure
that I did not ask for another.
[Illustration: The Introduction of Mr Blenkinsop to Miss Lurana de
Castro.]
She was astonishingly lovely; her Spanish descent was apparent in her
magnificent black tresses, lustrous eyes, and oval face of olive
tinted with richest carmine. As I afterwards learnt, she was the
daughter of a Spanish Government official of an ancient Castilian
family, who had left his widow in such straitened circumstances that
she was compelled to support herself by exhibiting performing mice and
canaries at juvenile parties, until she met and married the Professor,
who at that time was delivering recitations illustrated by an
oxy-hydrogen lantern.
The second marriage had not been altogether a success, and, now that
the Professor was a widower, I fancy that his relations with his
imperious stepdaughter were not invariably of the most cordial nature,
and that he would have been grateful to any one who succeeded in
winning her hand and freeing him from her sway.
I did not know that then, however, though I was struck by the
deferential politeness of his manner towards her, and the alacrity
with which, after he had refreshed himself, he shuffled out of the
room, leaving Lurana to entertain me single-handed.
That first evening with her was not unmixed joy. I had the
consciousness of being on trial. I knew that many had been tried and
found wanting before me. Lurana's attitude was languid, indifferent,
almost disdainful, and when I went away I had a forlorn conviction
that I should never again be asked to tea with her, and that the last
series of tickets represented money absolutely thrown away!
And yet I _was_ asked again--not only once, but many times, which was
favourable as far as it went, for I felt tolerably certain that the
Professor would never have ventured to bring me a second time into his
daughter's presence, unless he had been distinctly given to understand
that my society was very far from distasteful to her.
As I grew to know her better, I learnt the secret of her listlessness
and discontent with life. She was tormented by the unbounded ambitions
and the distinct limitations which embitter existence for so many
young girls of our day.
The admiration which her beauty excited gave her little satisfaction;
such social success as Highbury or Canonbury could offer left her cold
and unmoved. She was pining for some distinction which should travel
beyond her own narrow little world, and there did not seem to be any
obvious way of attaining it. She would not have minded being a popular
author or artist--only she could find nothing worth writing about, and
she did not know how to draw; she would have loved to be a great
actress--but unfortunately she had never been able to commit the
shortest part to memory, and the pride of a de Castro forbade her to
accept anything but leading _roles_.
No wonder that she was devoured by dulness, or that there were moments
when she beat her pinions like some captive wild bird against the cage
of her own incompetence. Even I, although fairly content with my lot,
would sometimes flap my own wings, so to speak, from sheer sympathy.
"It's maddening to be a nobody!" she would declare, as she threw
herself petulantly back in her chair, with her arms raised behind her
and her interlaced fingers forming a charming cradle for her head--a
favourite attitude of hers. "It does seem so stupid not to be
celebrated when almost everybody is! And to think that I have a friend
like Ruth Rakestraw, who knows ever so many editors and people, and
could make me famous with a few strokes of the pen--if only I did
something to give her the chance. But I never _do_!"
Miss Rakestraw, I should explain, was an enterprising young lady
journalist, who contributed society news and "on dits" to the leading
Islington and Holloway journals, and was understood to have had
"leaderettes" and "turnovers" accepted by periodicals of even greater
importance.
"If only," Lurana burst out on one of these occasions, "if only I
could do something once which would get my name into all the papers,
set everybody thinking of me, talking of me, staring after me wherever
I went, make editors write for my photograph, and interviewers beg for
my biography, I think I should be content."
I made the remark, which was true but not perhaps startling in its
originality, that fame of this kind was apt to be of brief duration.
"What should I care?" she cried; "I should have _had_ it. I could keep
the cuttings; they would always be there to remind me that once at
least--but what's the use of talking? I shall never see my name in all
the papers. I know I shan't!"
"There _is_ a way!" I ventured to observe; "you might have your name
in all the papers, if you married."
"As if I meant _that_!" she said, with a deliciously contemptuous
pout. "And whom should I marry, if you please, Mr Blenkinsop?"
"You might marry me!" I suggested humbly.
"You!" she retorted. "How would _that_ make me a celebrity. You are
not even one yourself."
[Illustration: "And whom should I marry, Mr Blenkinsop?"]
"I do not care to boast," I said, "but it is the simple fact that
nobody in the entire tea-trade has a palate approaching mine for
keenness and delicacy. Ask any one and they will tell you the same."
"You may be the best tea-taster in the world," she said, "but the
purity of your palate will never gain you a paragraph in a single
society paper. And even if it did, what should _I_ gain? At the best
a reflected glory. I want to be a somebody myself!"
"What's the use of trying to make ourselves what we are not?" I broke
out. "If Fate has made us wooden ninepins in the world's nursery, we
may batter our head against the walls as much as we like--but we can
never batter it into a profile!"
I thought this rather neatly put myself, but it did not appeal to Miss
de Castro, who retorted with some asperity that I was the best judge
of the material of my own head, but hers, at least, was not wooden,
while she had hitherto been under the impression that it already
possessed a profile--such as it was.
She could not be brought to understand that I was merely employing a
metaphor, and for the remainder of the evening her demeanour was so
crushingly chilling, that I left in the lowest spirits, persuaded that
my unlucky tongue had estranged me from Lurana for ever.
For some time I avoided Canonbury Square altogether, for I felt
unequal to facing an elocution lesson unrecompensed by tea with Miss
de Castro, and the halfhour or more of delightful solitude _a deux_
which followed the meal--for it had never occurred to the Professor to
provide his stepdaughter with a chaperon.
At last, when on the verge of despair, hope returned in the form of a
little note from Lurana, asking whether I was dead, and inviting me,
if still in existence, to join a small party to visit the World's Fair
at the Agricultural Hall the next evening, and return to supper
afterwards at Canonbury Square, an invitation which, need I say, I
joyfully accepted.
We were only four; Miss Rakestraw and her _fiance_, a smart young
solicitor's clerk, of the name of Archibald Chuck, whose employer had
lately presented him with his articles; myself, and Lurana. The
Professor was unable to accompany us, having an engagement to read
"Hiawatha" to a Young Men's Mutual Improvement Society that evening.
Part of the hall was taken up by various side-shows,
shooting-galleries, and steam merry-go-rounds, which produced a
discordant and deafening din until a certain hour of the evening, when
the noises subsided, and Wooker and Sawkins' World-renowned Circus
gave a performance in the arena, which occupied the centre.
Miss Rakestraw's connection with the Press procured us free passes to
the reserved seats close to the ring; my chair was next to Lurana's,
and she was graciously pleased to ignore our recent difference. The
entertainment was of the usual variety, I suppose; but, to tell the
truth, I was so absorbed in the bliss of being once more by her side
and watching her face, which looked more dazzling than ever through
the delicate meshes of her veil, that I have the vaguest recollection
of the earlier items of the programme.
But towards the close there came a performance which I have good
reason to remember.
An enormous elephant entered the circle, drawing a trolley, upon which
was an iron cage containing forest-bred African lions. After the
electric globes had been lowered, so as to illuminate the interior,
"Niono, the Lion King," a dapper, wellmade man, of very much my own
height and figure, so far as I could judge, went into the cage and put
the animals through various exercises. Niono was succeeded by Mlle.
Leonie, the "Circe of the Carnivora," a pretty Frenchwoman, who, as it
seemed to me, surpassed him in coolness and daring. There was nothing
disagreeably sensational about the exhibition; all the animals were
evidently under perfect control; the huge, black-maned lions leaped
through paper hoops and blazing circles without the slightest loss of
either temper or dignity; the females followed obediently. Only one
lioness showed any disposition to be offensive, and _she_ did not
venture to go beyond yawning ostentatiously whenever Mlle. Leonie's
eye was upon her.
Altogether it was, as I remarked to Lurana at the time, a wonderful
instance of the natural dominion of man over the animal world. She
enthusiastically commended the symmetry of Mr Niono's figure, which
did not strike me as so very much above the average; and to pique her,
I expressed equal admiration for Mlle. Leonie, and was gratified to
observe unmistakable signs of jealousy on Lurana's part. But we were
both agreed that the profession of lion-taming looked more dangerous
than it actually was, and Archibald Chuck mentioned that some townsman
in the provinces had, for a very trifling wager, entered a den of
lions in a travelling menagerie with perfect impunity. Miss Rakestraw
capped this by a case from America, in which a young couple had
actually chosen a lion's cage to be married in, though she admitted
that the story was possibly a fabrication.
I walked back with Lurana alone, as we somehow lost sight of Mr Chuck
and his _fiancee_ in the crush going out, and on the way home I could
not refrain from pleading my cause once more. I told her how I had
loved her at first sight, and how many elocution lessons I had endured
for her sake; I pointed out that I was already receiving a salary
sufficient to maintain a wife in comfort, if not luxury; and that her
married life could hardly be more monotonous and uncongenial than her
present existence.
She listened attentively, as if moved. Presently she said, "Theodore,
I will be perfectly frank. I do like you; I believe I could even love
you. But I have Spanish blood in my veins. I could never be satisfied
with a humdrum conventional marriage."
I was inexpressibly shocked. I had no idea that her views were so
emancipated.
"Lurana," I said, "believe me, never mind what the lady novelists say
against marriage; it may have its disadvantages, but, after all, as
society is constituted----"
"You don't understand," she said. "I am not opposed to marriage--with
a man who is willing to make some concession, some slight sacrifice,
to gratify me. But are you that _kind_ of man, Theodore, I wonder?"
I saw that she was already beginning to yield. "I would do
anything--anything in the world you bid me," I cried, "if only you
will be my wife, Lurana."
"I should ask you to do nothing that I am not perfectly prepared to do
myself," she said. "A temporary inconvenience, a risk which is the
merest trifle. Still, you may think it too much, Theodore."
"Name it," I replied. "The opportunities which the tea trade affords
for the cultivation of heroism are rare; but there are few risks that
I would shrink from running with you."
"It is only this," she said. "I don't want a commonplace wedding. I
want one that will be talked about and make a sensation. Will you let
me be married in my own way?"
I was rather relieved by what seemed so moderate a demand. "Certainly,
darling," I said; "we will be married in Westminster Abbey, by the
Archbishop of Canterbury, if you wish it, and it can be arranged. What
matter where or how the ceremony take place, or what it costs,
provided it makes you mine for ever?"
[Illustration: "Let us be married in the Lion's Cage."]
"Then, Theodore," she said, pressing my arm impulsively with her slim
fingers, while the rays of a street lamp in the square fell on her
upturned face and shining eyes, "let us be married at the Agricultural
Hall--in the Lions' Cage!"
I confess to being considerably startled. I had expected something
rather out of the common, but nothing in the least like this.
"In the lions' cage!" I repeated, blankly. "Wouldn't that be rather
_smelly_, Lurana? And, besides, the menagerie people would never lend
it for such a purpose. Where would they put the lions, you know?"
"Why, the lions would be _there_, of course," she said, "or else
there'd be nothing in it."
"If I am to be married in a lion-cage," I said, with a very feeble
attempt at levity, "I should very much prefer that there _was_ nothing
in it."
"Ah, you may laugh, Theodore!" she said, "but, after all your
professions, surely you won't refuse the very first indulgence I ask!
You may think it a mere whim, a girlish caprice; but understand
this--I am thoroughly in earnest about it. If you are willing to marry
me as I wish, the wedding may be as soon as ever you please. But if
not, tell me so plainly, and let us part for ever. Either I will be
married in my own way, or not at all."
What could I do? It was simply impossible to give her up now, the very
moment after she was won. And to lose her for such a mere punctilio;
for, of course, this condition of hers was too fantastic to be
practicable; the Professor would certainly refuse his consent to so
eccentric a ceremony; Lurana herself would probably realise before
long the absurdity of the idea. In the meantime, as her acknowledged
_fiance_, I should have the immense advantage of being on the spot
when she returned to a more reasonable frame of mind.
So I gave way, and assured her that I had no personal objection to
lions, and would as soon be married in their presence as elsewhere,
provided that we could obtain the necessary permission; and even if I
had thought this more probable than I did, I believe--so potent was
the witchery of Lurana's voice and eyes--I should have said precisely
the same.
"Dearest Theodore!" she murmured, "I never really doubted you. I felt
so sure that you would be nice and sympathetic about it. If we
couldn't agree about such a trifling thing as where we are to be
married, we _should_ be unsuited to one another, shouldn't we? Now we
will just walk round the square once more, and then go in and tell the
others what we have arranged."
They had sat down to supper when we entered, and the Professor cast a
glance of keen inquiry through his spectacles at us, over the cold
beef and pickles with which he was recruiting his energies after
"Hiawatha."
"Yes, papa," said Lurana, calmly, "we _are_ a little late; but
Theodore has been asking me to marry him, and I have said I would."
There was an outburst of congratulations from Miss Rakestraw and
Chuck. Old Polkinghorne thought fit to conceal his joy under a cloak
of stagey emotion. "Well, well," he said, "it is Nature's law; the
young birds spread their wings and quit the warm nest, and the old
ones are left to sit and brood over the past. I cannot blame you,
child. As for _you_, my boy," he added, extending a flabby hand to me,
"all I can say is, there is no one to whom I would so willingly
surrender her."
There was scarcely any one to whom, in my opinion, he would _not_
surrender her with the utmost alacrity, for, as I have already hinted,
Lurana, with all her irresistible fascination, had a temper of her
own, and was apt to make the parental nest a trifle _too_ warm for the
elder bird occasionally.
[Illustration: "Yes, papa, we are a little late."]
"And when am I to lose my sunbeam?" he asked. "Not _just_ yet?"
"Theodore wishes to have the marriage as soon as possible," said
Lurana, "by special licence."
"Have you settled where?" inquired Miss Rakestraw, with feminine
interest in such details.
"Well," said Lurana slowly, evidently enjoying the effect she was
producing, "Theodore and I have quite made up our minds to be married
at the Menagerie--in the den of lions."
"How splendid!" exclaimed the lady journalist. "It's never been done
over here. _What_ a sensation it will make! I'll do a full descriptive
report for all my papers!"
"That's what I call a real sporting way of getting spliced," said
Chuck. "Only wish I'd thought of it myself before I had our banns put
up, Ruth. First-rate idea of yours, Blenkinsop."
"Of course," I said, "if the Professor thinks it in the least
unsafe----"
[Illustration: "First-rate idea of yours, Blenkinsop."]
"Oh, it's safe enough," put in Chuck, who was a little too apt to
volunteer his opinion. "Why, we've seen the lions, Professor; they're
as quiet as lambs. And anyway, they'd have the lion-tamer in with
them, you know. _They'll_ be all right!"
"I think," said the Professor, "we may disregard the danger; but the
expense--have you thought what it will cost, Theodore?"
"I have not," I said, "not till you mentioned it. It will probably be
enormous, more than I could possibly afford--unless you are ready to
go halves?" I concluded, feeling perfectly certain that he was ready
to do nothing of the sort.
"But look here," said Chuck, "why should it cost you anything? If you
go the right way about it, you ought to get all your expenses paid by
the circus, and a share of the gate-money into the bargain."
"Oh, Mr Chuck!" cried Lurana, "_how_ clever of you to think of that!
_wasn't_ it, Theodore?"
I could have kicked Chuck, but I said it was a stroke of positive
genius.
"That's simple enough," he said. "The rock _I_ see ahead is getting
the special licence. You see, if you want to marry anywhere else than
in a certified place of worship or a registry office, you must first
satisfy the Archbishop of Canterbury, or the Surrogate, or whoever the
old Josser is at Doctors' Commons who looks after these things, that
it's a 'convenient place' within the Marriage Act of 1836. Now, the
point is, _will_ a cage of lions strike them as coming under that
description?"
If it should, the ecclesiastical notions of convenience must be more
than peculiar. For the first time I realised what an able fellow Chuck
was.
"My dear Chuck!" I said, "what a marvellous knowledge you have of law!
You've hit the weak spot. It would be perfectly hopeless to make such
an application. It's a pity, but we must give it up, that's all--we
must give it up."
"Then," said Lurana, "we must give up any marriage at all, for I
certainly don't intend to marry anywhere else."
"After all," said the irrepressible Chuck, "all you need apply for is
a licence to marry in the Agricultural Hall; they won't want to know
the exact spot. I tell you what, you go and talk it over with the
circus people and fix the day, and I'll go up to Doctors' Commons and
get round 'em somehow. You leave it to me."
"Do you know," said the Professor, beaming, "I really begin to think
this idea of yours can be carried out quite comfortably after all,
Theodore. It certainly has the attraction of novelty, besides being
safe, and even, it may be, remunerative. To a true lover, a lions'
cage may be as fit a temple of Hymen as any other structure, and their
roars be gentle as the ring-dove's coo. Go and see these people the
first thing tomorrow, and no doubt you will be able to come to terms
with them."
This I agreed to do, and Lurana insisted on coming with me. Miss
Rakestraw was in ecstasies over our proposal, and undertook to what
she called "boom the wedding for all it was worth" in every paper with
which she had any connection, and with other more influential organs
to which the possession of such exclusive intelligence as hers would
procure her the _entree_.
By the end of the evening she had completely turned Lurana's head, and
even I myself was not quite untouched by the general enthusiasm. It
seemed to me that being married in a den of lions might not be such
bad fun after all.
When I awoke next morning with the dawning recollection of what I was
in for, the glamour had in a great measure departed from the idea,
which seemed to me at best but a foolish piece of bravado. It had been
arranged that I should call for Lurana immediately after breakfast,
and interview the circus proprietors on my way to business, and I
rather expected to find that the night had borne counsel to her as
well as myself; but she was in exuberant spirits, and as keen about
the project as ever, so I thought it better not to betray that my own
ardour had abated.
But what, after all, were we going to request? That these people
should allow their lions to be inconvenienced, quite unnecessarily, by
a wedding in their cage between two perfect strangers who had all
London to choose from!
I believed that they would decline to entertain the suggestion for a
moment, and, if so, I could not blame them. I felt that they would
have both right and reason on their side.
On arriving at the Hall, we inquired for Mr Wooker or Mr Sawkins, and
were requested to wait, which we did in a draughty passage smelling
strongly of stables, while loud snorting and wheezing reached our ears
from the arena, where they seemed to be exercising the circus stud.
At last we were told that Mr Sawkins would see us (I don't know to
this day whether Mr Wooker had any real existence or not), and were
shown up to his office, which did not differ from any other office,
except that it had a gaudy circus poster and a bill announcing the
sale by auction of some rival menagerie pinned against the wall. As
for Mr Sawkins, he was a florid, jowly man, with the remnants of his
hair dyed and parted down the middle, a kind of amalgam of a country
job-master and the dignified person who bows customers into chairs in
a fashionable draper's establishment.
He heard Lurana, who acted as spokeswoman, with magisterial gravity,
and, to my surprise, without appearing to regard us as a pair of
morbid maniacs.
"There's no denying," he said, "that the thing would draw if properly
billed, always supposing, mind you, that it's capable of being done at
all. And the only person able to give an opinion about that is Mr
Onion, the gentleman," he explained, "who is our Lion King. He spells
his name 'Niono' professionally, which gives it more of an African
flavour, if you follow my meaning. I'll call down the tube for him."
I awaited Mr Onion's arrival with impatience. He presently made his
appearance in a short-braided tunic, with black lamb's wool round the
collar and cuffs. By daylight his countenance, though far from
ill-looking, was sallow and seamed; there was a glance of admiration
in his bold, dark eyes as they rested on Lurana's spirited face.
"Well," he decided, after the case had been explained to him, "if the
lady's as game as she seems, and the gentleman likewise, _I_ don't see
any objection. Along with _me_, there'll be no more danger than if it
was a cage of white mice--provided you've the nerve for it."
Lurana said proudly that her own mother had been an accomplished
animal trainer--she did not mention the kind of animals--and that she
herself was quite incapable of being afraid of a lion.
[Illustration: "Well, if the lady's as game as she seems, and the
gentleman likewise, I don't see any objection."]
"If you've _got_ nerve," said Mr Niono, "you're right enough, but you
can't _create_ it; it's a gift. Take _me_. I'm hardly ever away from
my animals. I get downright impatient for every performance. But if
ever I got the feeling that I was _afraid_ of them lions or they
weren't afraid o' me, do you think I'd trust myself inside that cage?
No fear! They've left their marks on me as it is--my 'trade marks,' as
I call 'em--see!" and here he bared his arm and exhibited some fearful
scars; "but that's affection, that is."
He then offered to introduce us to his pets, and I should have
accompanied Lurana to see the cage, only on the way we met Mlle.
Leonie, to whom Mr Sawkins presented me, and, naturally, I was
compelled to stop. She was a piquant-looking woman, not quite in her
first youth, perhaps, but still attractive, and with the
indescribable, airy grace of a Parisian, though I believe she came
from Belgium. Mademoiselle was charmed with our project, complimented
me upon my Britannic phlegm, and predicted that I should find the
little experience "all," as she put it, "that there was of the most
agreeable," which I devoutly hoped would be the case.
[Illustration: We were still chatting when Laurana returned.]
We were still chatting when Lurana returned, enraptured with the
lions, one of whom had actually allowed her to tickle him behind the
ear. Niono testified that _her_ nerve, at all events, was beyond
question. She was anxious that I should go and tickle the lion, too;
but this I declined, being occupied in talking to Mlle. Leonie at the
time.
"There's one thing," said Mr Sawkins later, as we were discussing the
arrangements, "we shouldn't object to paying for the special licence;
but where are you going to find a parson to marry you? You must have a
parson of _some_ sort, you know."
Again Fate seemed to have interposed an insurmountable barrier between
us and our desire. I had to admit that it would be difficult, if not
impossible, to find a clergyman courageous enough to enter the cage
with us.
"Well, there's no call for him to be _inside_ of it," said Mr Niono,
who was with us, heart and soul, by this time. "In fact, the lady and
yourself are about as many as I could undertake to be answerable for.
We could rig him up a perch outside to read the service from,
comfortable."
Even so, I said, I was afraid that it was hardly a service one could
ask any divine to perform.
"I know a party who'd jump at it," said Mr Niono, who was full of
resource. "The Reverend Skipworth. _You_ know who I mean, Sawkins.
Little chap in a check suit and goggles I introduced to you at the bar
the other evening--always dropping in, he is. He'd do it, just for the
lark of the thing. And he's a regular professional, you know," he
added for my benefit, "though he don't sport a white choker in his
off hours; likes to go about and see life for himself, and quite
right. You get the licence, sir, and I'll guarantee that the Reverend
Ninian Skipworth will do the job for you."
So we left the hall, delighted, especially Lurana, with the unexpected
ease with which our object had been attained. It had seemed at first
the wildest extravagance, and now there was apparently every prospect
that Lurana and I would really exchange our marriage vows in a den of
forest-bred lions, unless (which, of course, was a possibility that
had to be taken into account) the ecclesiastical authorities should
refuse to grant a special licence.
I was unable to apply in person at Doctors' Commons, for Lurana
insisted that I should leave the whole matter in Chuck's hands, but I
impressed upon him the necessity of absolute candour with the
officials.
Whether he told them all, whether they were remiss in making full
inquiry, or whether--as I would rather not think--he intentionally
deceived them, I cannot say, but at all events he came back
triumphantly with the special licence.
Wooker and Sawkins had fixed an early date, and wished the wedding to
take place at night, so as to figure in the evening programme, but the
Surrogate, or somebody at the office, had insisted that it must be in
the afternoon, which would, of course, oblige Mr Sawkins to introduce
it at a _matinee_ performance.
Miss Rakestraw proved herself a born journalist. She placed her news
at the disposal of an enterprising evening journal, whose bills that
very same evening came out with startling and alliterative headlines
such as:
LOVE LAUGHS AT LIONS!
_Canonbury Couple to Marry in Cageful of Carnivora._
and from that moment, as the reader will recollect, Lurana and I
became public characters.
There were portraits--quite unrecognisable--of us in several of the
illustrated weeklies, together with sketches of and interviews with us
both, contributed by Miss Ruth's facile stylograph, and an account of
the Professor, contributed by himself.
As for the daily papers there was scarcely one, from the _Times_
downwards, which did not contain a leader, a paragraph, or a letter on
the subject of our contemplated wedding. Some denounced me violently
for foolhardy rashness, others for the selfishness with which I was
encouraging an impressionable girl to risk her life to gratify my
masculine vanity. Several indignantly demanded whether it was true
that the Archbishop had sanctioned such a scandalous abuse of marriage
rites, and if so, what the Home Office were about?
There was a risk that all this publicity would end in the authorities
being compelled to interfere and countermand the ceremony, and yet I
cannot honestly say that I disliked the fuss that was made about it.
In the City, to be sure, I had to put up with a certain amount of
chaff; facetious inquiries as to whether I intended to present the
leonine bridesmaids with bones or pieces of raw meat, and the precise
locality in which my wife and I thought of spending our honeymoon. But
such _badinage_ covered a very genuine respect for my intrepidity, and
I was looked upon as a credit to the tea trade.
The appointed day was getting nearer and nearer, and still--so
wonderfully did Fortune befriend us--the authorities gave no sign of
any intention to interfere. Parliament had not yet reassembled, so no
one could rise and put a question in the House to the Home Secretary,
and if Government officials ever read the morning papers, it seemed
that they did not feel called upon to take cognisance of anything they
read there, unless compelled to do so by pressure from without.
Nor did the Archbishop take any steps. No doubt he may have been
unaware of the precise conditions under which the ceremony was to be
sanctioned, and the same remark applies to the Bishop of London. It is
true that their attention was drawn to the facts by more than one
postcard, as I have reason to know. But some people make a
practice--and it is not for me to condemn them--of taking no notice of
anonymous communications.
However, as the time drew on, I thought it would be only proper on my
part to go and call upon the Reverend Ninian Skipworth, the curate
with whom our energetic friend, Mr Niono, had now made all the
necessary arrangements, and find out, quietly, what his state of mind
was. He might be wavering, in which case I should have to strengthen
his resolution. Or he might not yet have realised all the possible
consequences of his good nature, and if so, I should not be acting
fairly towards him if I did not lay them before him, even though the
result should be that he withdrew from his engagement.
Niono had given me his address, and I looked in at the curate's
unpretentious lodgings one evening on my way home. I found him in, and
as soon as he learnt my name, he offered me whisky and soda and a
cigar with most unparsonical joviality.
[Illustration: A Cleric of the broad-minded school.]
The Reverend Ninian, I found, was a cleric of the broad-minded school
which scorns conventional restrictions; he held that if the Church
was to maintain its influence, it must follow the trend of modern
progress, and neglect no opportunity of winning the hearts of the
people. He was only sorry, he told me, that the prejudices of his
Bishop would prevent him from reading the service inside the cage.
I replied gratefully that I was sufficiently indebted to him as it
was, since if his connection with the affair reached the episcopal
ear, he would be in serious danger of being suspended, even if he did
not receive some still heavier punishment.
"Oh, don't you bother about that!" he said, cheerily; "it's awfully
good of you to trouble yourself on my account; but if the Bishop is
such an old stick-in-the-mud as to haul me up for a little thing like
this, I shall simply chuck up the Church altogether, that's all! In
fact, I've almost decided to do it in any case, for I believe I could
do more real good outside the Establishment than in. And I admire your
pluck, my dear fellow, and your manly straightforwardness in coming
here like this; and I'm hanged if I don't marry you and chance the
consequences, so don't say another word about it."
I didn't, though I need not say I was profoundly moved by the genuine
sympathy and assistance which our project seemed to inspire in the
most unexpected quarters.
My one anxiety now was about Lurana. Outwardly she appeared cheerful
and even gay, and thoroughly to enjoy her position as the heroine of
the hour; but how could I be sure that this was genuine and not a
highstrung hysterical self-repression which would be succeeded by a
violent reaction, it might be in the lions' cage itself?
From that at all hazards she must be saved. Earnestly, seriously, I
pointed out how much would depend on her maintaining perfect coolness
and composure during the ceremony, and implored her, if she felt the
slightest misgivings, the smallest tendency to shrink in secret from
the coming ordeal, not to allow any false pride to close her lips.
There was still time, I reminded her. If on second thoughts, she
preferred to be married in the old time-honoured way, instead of in a
Menagerie den, she had only to say so. Her happiness and comfort were
the chief things to consider.
"Withdraw now, Theodore?" she said, "after announcing it in all the
papers! Why, how _could_ we?"
"I would take all that upon myself," I told her; "I need only say that
you don't feel quite equal to facing lions."
"But I _do_, Theodore," she said, "the dear, ducky, pussy-faced old
things! Who could possibly be afraid of lions--especially with Mr
Niono to protect us?"
"If you knew more _about_ lions, Lurana," I said, "you would know how
liable they are to sudden rages, and how little even lion-tamers
themselves--"
"If you go on like that, Theodore," she said, "I shall begin to think
that you want to frighten me--and even that you are just a little
frightened yourself. But I'm not to be frightened. I should not be my
mother's daughter if I had any fear of animals. And once for all, you
will either marry me in the lions' cage or not at all!"
[Illustration: "If you go on like that I shall begin to think you want
to frighten me."]
I saw that I should only be exposing myself to further
misunderstanding if I pursued the subject. Lurana had that quality of
courage which springs from a total lack of imagination; she had never
seen a performing lion ramp and roar, and it was inconceivable to her
that one could ever indulge in such exercises. Still less did she
understand that there is another type of courage, which sees all the
difficulties and dangers beforehand, even exaggerated by distance, and
yet advances calmly and undauntedly to encounter them. My courage was
of that sort, and it is generally admitted that it belongs to a far
higher order than the other.
Now that the die was cast I found myself anticipating the eventful day
with philosophic equanimity. It was an uncomfortable method of
getting married, no doubt, but after all, what man ever _was_
comfortable at his own wedding?
And surely one crowded quarter-of-an-hour (for it would certainly be
crowded in that cage) of glorious life would be worth an age without
Lurana--who was not to be won by any other means.
PART II
It was now the eve of my wedding-day, and it was generally taken for
granted that Lurana and I would be allowed to enter the lion-cage
without opposition from any quarter.
Whether we should find it as easy to come out again was a point on
which opinions differed considerably, but the majority must have been
confident that the ceremony would pass off without any unpleasant
interruption--for the rush to obtain seats was tremendous.
I was just as tranquil and collected as ever; I could not detect that
my valour had "ullaged," as wine-merchants say, in the slightest
degree, though Lurana was perpetually questioning me as to whether I
was sure I would not rather withdraw.
Of course, I indignantly repudiated the very idea, but it is well
known that a perfectly sober person, if suddenly taxed with being
drunk, will seem and even feel so, and it is much the same with any
imputation of cowardice.
I began to think that constant tea tasting, even though the infusions
are not actually swallowed, probably has some subtle effect upon the
nervous system, and that it would brace me up and also show me how
little cause I had to be uneasy, if I dropped into the Agricultural
Hall once more and saw Niono put his lions through their performances.
So I left the City early that afternoon and paid for my admission to
the hall like an ordinary sightseer; I did not ask Lurana to accompany
me, because I knew she must have plenty to keep her at home just then.
I was just in time for the performing lions, and found a place in the
outer edge of the crowd; it was strange to stand there unrecognised
and hear myself being freely discussed by all around; strange and
decidedly exhilarating, too, to think that in another twenty-four
hours I should be, not a spectator of what was to take place in that
arena, but one of the principal performers, the centre of breathless
interest, the hero of the hour!
But with the appearance of the cage, this unnatural exhilaration
suddenly died down. It was not so much the lions, though they struck
me as larger and less easy-tempered than on the first occasion, while
the lioness was as nearly in open revolt as she dared. What troubled
me most was that the cage contained another inmate, one whom I did not
remember to have seen before--a magnificent specimen of the Bengal
tiger.
It seemed perfectly clear to me that the brute was only about
half-trained; he went through his tricks in a sullen perfunctory way,
with a savage, snurring snap every now and then, which, even at that
distance, made my flesh creep.
And, whenever he snapped, clouds of steam issued from his great jaws;
I could see, too, that the lioness was secretly egging him on to fresh
acts of defiance, and that he was only watching his opportunity to
crouch and spring as soon as Niono's back was turned.