"O! ARTEMIDORUS, FAREWELL!"
Whether or not Mr. Jellicoe was surprised to see us, it is impossible to
say. His countenance (which served the ordinary purposes of a face,
inasmuch as it contained the principal organs of special sense, with the
inlets to the alimentary and respiratory tracts) was, as an apparatus
for the expression of the emotions, a total failure. To a thought-reader
it would have been about as helpful as the face carved upon the handle
of an umbrella; a comparison suggested, perhaps, by a certain
resemblance to such an object. He advanced, holding his open note-book
and pencil, and having saluted us with a stiff bow and an old-fashioned
flourish of his hat, shook hands rheumatically and waited for us to
speak.
"This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Jellicoe," said Miss Bellingham.
"It is very good of you to say so," he replied.
"And quite a coincidence--that we should all happen to come here on the
same day."
"A coincidence, certainly," he admitted; "and if we had all happened not
to come--which must have occurred frequently--that also would have been
a coincidence."
"I suppose it would," said she, "but I hope we are not interrupting
you."
"Thank you, no. I had just finished when I had the pleasure of
perceiving you."
"You were making some notes in reference to the case, I imagine," said
I. It was an impertinent question, put with malice aforethought for the
mere pleasure of hearing him evade it.
"The case?" he repeated. "You are referring, perhaps, to Stevens versus
the Parish Council?"
"I think Doctor Berkeley was referring to the case of my uncle's will,"
Miss Bellingham said quite gravely, though with a suspicious dimpling
about the corners of her mouth.
"Indeed," said Mr. Jellicoe. "There is a case, is there; a suit?"
"I mean the proceedings instituted by Mr. Hurst."
"Oh, but that was merely an application to the Court, and is, moreover,
finished and done with. At least, so I understand. I speak, of course,
subject to correction; I am not acting for Mr. Hurst, you will be
pleased to remember. As a matter of fact," he continued, after a brief
pause, "I was just refreshing my memory as to the wording of the
inscriptions on these stones, especially that of your grandfather,
Francis Bellingham. It has occurred to me that if it should appear by
the finding of the coroner's jury that your uncle is deceased, it would
be proper and decorous that some memorial should be placed here. But, as
the burial-ground is closed, there might be some difficulty about
erecting a new monument, whereas there would probably be none in adding
an inscription to one already existing. Hence these investigations. For
if the inscription on your grandfather's stone had set forth that 'here
rests the body of Francis Bellingham,' it would have been manifestly
improper to add 'also that of John Bellingham, son of the above.'
Fortunately the inscription was more discreetly drafted, merely
recording the fact that this monument is 'sacred to the memory of the
said Francis,' and not committing itself as to the whereabouts of the
remains. But perhaps I am interrupting you?"
"No, not at all," replied Miss Bellingham (which was grossly untrue; he
was interrupting _me_ most intolerably); "we were going to the British
Museum and just looked in here on our way."
"Ha," said Mr. Jellicoe, "now, I happen to be going to the Museum too,
to see Doctor Norbury. I suppose that is another coincidence?"
"Certainly it is," Miss Bellingham replied; and then she asked: "Shall
we walk there together?" and the old curmudgeon actually said
"yes"--confound him!
We returned to the Gray's Inn Road, where, as there was now room for us
to walk abreast, I proceeded to indemnify myself for the lawyer's
unwelcome company by leading the conversation back to the subject of the
missing man.
"Was there anything, Mr. Jellicoe, in Mr. John Bellingham's state of
health that would make it probable that he might die suddenly?"
The lawyer looked at me suspiciously for a few moments and then
remarked:
"You seem to be greatly interested in John Bellingham and his affairs."
"I am. My friends are deeply concerned in them, and the case itself is
of more than common interest from a professional point of view."
"And what is the bearing of this particular question?"
"Surely it is obvious," said I. "If a missing man is known to have
suffered from some affection, such as heart disease, aneurism, or
arterial degeneration, likely to produce sudden death, that fact will
surely be highly material to the question as to whether he is probably
dead or alive."
"No doubt you are right," said Mr. Jellicoe. "I have little knowledge of
medical affairs, but doubtless you are right. As to the question itself,
I am Mr. Bellingham's lawyer, not his doctor. His health is a matter
that lies outside my jurisdiction. But you heard my evidence in Court,
to the effect that the testator appeared, to my untutored observation,
to be a healthy man. I can say no more now."
"If the question is of any importance," said Miss Bellingham, "I wonder
they did not call his doctor and settle it definitely. My own impression
is that he was--or is--rather a strong and sound man. He certainly
recovered very quickly and completely after his accident."
"What accident was that?" I asked.
"Oh, hasn't my father told you? It occurred while he was staying with
us. He slipped from a high kerb and broke one of the bones of the left
ankle--somebody's fracture--"
"Pott's?"
"Yes, that was the name--Pott's fracture; and he broke both his
knee-caps as well. Sir Morgan Bennet had to perform an operation, or he
would have been a cripple for life. As it was, he was about again in a
few weeks, apparently none the worse excepting for a slight weakness of
the left ankle."
"Could he walk upstairs?" I asked.
"Oh, yes; and play golf and ride a bicycle."
"You are sure he broke both knee-caps?"
"Quite sure. I remember that it was mentioned as an uncommon injury, and
that Sir Morgan seemed quite pleased with him for doing it."
"That sounds rather libellous; but I expect he was pleased with the
result of the operation. He might well be."
Here there was a brief lull in the conversation, and, even as I was
trying to think of a poser for Mr. Jellicoe, that gentleman took the
opportunity to change the subject.
"Are you going to the Egyptian Rooms?" he asked.
"No," replied Miss Bellingham; "we are going to look at the pottery."
"Ancient or modern?"
"The old Fulham ware is what chiefly interests us at present; that of
the seventeenth century. I don't know whether you would call that
ancient or modern."
"Neither do I," said Mr. Jellicoe. "Antiquity and modernity are terms
that have no fixed connotation. They are purely relative and their
application in a particular instance has to be determined by a sort of
sliding scale. To a furniture collector, a Tudor chair or a Jacobean
chest is ancient; to an architect, their period is modern, whereas an
eleventh-century church is ancient; but to an Egyptologist, accustomed
to remains of a vast antiquity, both are products of modern periods
separated by an insignificant interval. And, I suppose," he added,
reflectively, "that to a geologist, the traces of the very earliest dawn
of human history appertain only to the recent period. Conceptions of
time, like all other conceptions, are relative."
"You appear to be a disciple of Herbert Spencer," I remarked.
"I am a disciple of Arthur Jellicoe, sir," he retorted. And I believed
him.
By the time we had reached the Museum he had become almost genial; and,
if less amusing in this frame, he was so much more instructive and
entertaining that I refrained from baiting him, and permitted him to
discuss his favourite topic unhindered, especially since my companion
listened with lively interest. Nor, when we entered the great hall, did
he relinquish possession of us, and we followed submissively, as he led
the way past the winged bulls of Nineveh and the great seated statues,
until we found ourselves, almost without the exercise of our volition,
in the upper room amidst the glaring mummy cases that had witnessed the
birth of my friendship with Ruth Bellingham.
"Before I leave you," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I should like to show you that
mummy that we were discussing the other evening; the one, you remember,
that my friend, John Bellingham, presented to the Museum a little time
before his disappearance. The point that I mentioned is only a trivial
one, but it may become of interest hereafter if any plausible
explanation should be forthcoming." He led us along the room until we
arrived at the case containing John Bellingham's gift, where he halted
and gazed in at the mummy with the affectionate reflectiveness of the
connoisseur.
"The bitumen coating was what we were discussing, Miss Bellingham,"
said he. "You have seen it, of course."
"Yes," she answered. "It is a dreadful disfigurement, isn't it?"
"Aesthetically it is to be deplored, but it adds a certain speculative
interest to the specimen. You notice that the black coating leaves the
principal decoration and the whole of the inscription untouched, which
is precisely the part that one would expect to find covered up; whereas
the feet and the back, which probably bore no writing, are quite thickly
encrusted. If you stoop down, you can see that the bitumen was daubed
freely into the lacings of the back, where it served no purpose, so that
even the strings are embedded." He stooped, as he spoke, and peered up
inquisitively at the back of the mummy, where it was visible between the
supports.
"Has Doctor Norbury any explanation to offer?" asked Miss Bellingham.
"None whatever," replied Mr. Jellicoe. "He finds it as great a mystery
as I do. But he thinks that we may get some suggestion from the Director
when he comes back. He is a very great authority, as you know, and a
practical excavator of great experience too. But I mustn't stay here
talking of these things, and keeping you from your pottery. Perhaps I
have stayed too long already. If I have I ask your pardon, and I will
now wish you a very good afternoon." With a sudden return to his
customary wooden impassivity, he shook hands with us, bowed stiffly, and
took himself off towards the curator's office.
"What a strange man that is," said Miss Bellingham, as Mr. Jellicoe
disappeared through the doorway at the end of the room, "or perhaps I
should say, a strange being, for I can hardly think of him as a man. I
have never met any other human creature at all like him."
"He is certainly a queer old fogey," I agreed.
"Yes, but there is something more than that. He is so emotionless, so
remote and aloof from all mundane concerns. He moves among ordinary men
and women, but as a mere presence, an unmoved spectator of their
actions, quite dispassionate and impersonal."
"Yes, he is astonishingly self-contained; in fact, he seems, as you say,
to go to and fro among men, enveloped in a sort of infernal atmosphere
of his own, like Marley's ghost. But he is lively and human enough as
soon as the subject of Egyptian antiquities is broached."
"Lively, but not human. He is always, to me, quite unhuman. Even when he
is most interested, and even enthusiastic, he is a mere personification
of knowledge. Nature ought to have furnished him with an ibis' head like
Tahuti; then he would have looked his part."
"He would have made a rare sensation in Lincoln's Inn if she had," said
I; and we both laughed heartily at the imaginary picture of Tahuti
Jellicoe, slender-beaked and top-hatted, going about his business in
Lincoln's Inn and the Law Courts.
Insensibly, as we talked, we had drawn near to the mummy of Artemidorus,
and now my companion halted before the case with her thoughtful grey
eyes bent dreamily on the face that looked out at us. I watched her with
reverent admiration. How charming she looked as she stood with her
sweet, grave face turned so earnestly to the object of her mystical
affection! How dainty and full of womanly dignity and grace! And then,
suddenly, it was borne in upon me that a great change had come over her
since the day of our first meeting. She had grown younger, more girlish,
and more gentle. At first she had seemed much older than I; a sad-faced
woman, weary, solemn, enigmatic, almost gloomy, with a bitter, ironic
humour and a bearing distant and cold. Now she was only maidenly and
sweet; tinged, it is true, with a certain seriousness, but frank and
gracious and wholly lovable.
Could the change be due to our growing friendship? As I asked myself the
question, my heart leaped with a new-born hope. I yearned to tell her
all that she was to me--all that I hoped we might be to one another in
the years to come.
At length I ventured to break in upon her reverie.
"What are you thinking about so earnestly, fair lady?"
She turned quickly with a bright smile and sparkling eyes that looked
frankly into mine. "I was wondering," said she, "if he was jealous of my
new friend. But what a baby I am to talk such nonsense!"
She laughed softly and happily with just an adorable hint of shyness.
"Why should he be jealous?" I asked.
"Well, you see, before--we were friends, he had me all to himself. I
have never had a man-friend before--except my father--and no really
intimate friend at all. And I was very lonely in those days, after our
troubles had befallen. I am naturally solitary, but still, I am only a
girl; I am not a philosopher. So when I felt very lonely, I used to come
here and look at Artemidorus and make believe that he knew all the
sadness of my life and sympathised with me. It was very silly, I know,
but yet, somehow it was a real comfort to me."
"It was not silly of you at all. He must have been a good man, a gentle,
sweet-faced man who had won the love of those who knew him, as this
beautiful memorial tells us; and it was wise and good of you to sweeten
the bitterness of your life with the fragrance of this human love that
blossoms in the dust after the lapse of centuries. No, you were not
silly, and Artemidorus is not jealous of your new friend."
"Are you sure?" She still smiled as she asked the question, but her
glance was soft--almost tender--and there was a note of whimsical
anxiety in her voice.
"Quite sure. I give you my confident assurance."
She laughed gaily. "Then," said she, "I am satisfied, for I am sure you
know. But here is a mighty telepathist who can read the thoughts even of
a mummy. A most formidable companion. But tell me how you know."
"I know, because it is he who gave you to me to be my friend. Don't you
remember?"
"Yes, I remember," she answered, softly. "It was when you were so
sympathetic with my foolish whim that I felt we were really friends."
"And I, when you confided your pretty fancy to me, thanked you for the
gift of your friendship, and treasured it, and do still treasure it,
above everything on earth."
She looked at me quickly with a sort of nervousness in her manner, and
cast down her eyes. Then, after a few moments' almost embarrassed
silence, as if to bring our talk back to a less emotional plane, she
said:
"Do you notice the curious way in which this memorial divides itself up
into two distinct parts?"
"How do you mean?" I asked, a little disconcerted by the sudden descent.
"I mean that there is a part of it that is purely decorative and a part
that is expressive or emotional. You notice that the general design and
scheme of decoration, although really Greek in feeling, follows rigidly
the Egyptian conventions. But the portrait is entirely in the Greek
manner, and when they came to that pathetic farewell, it had to be
spoken in their own tongue, written in their own familiar characters."
"Yes. I have noticed that and admired the taste with which they have
kept the inscription so inconspicuous as not to clash with the
decoration. An obtrusive inscription in Greek characters would have
spoiled the consistency of the whole scheme."
"Yes, it would." She assented absently as if she were thinking of
something else, and once more gazed thoughtfully at the mummy. I watched
her with deep content: noted the lovely contour of her cheek, the soft
masses of hair that strayed away so gracefully from her brow, and
thought her the most wonderful creature that had ever trod the earth.
Suddenly she looked at me reflectively.
"I wonder," she said, "what made me tell you about Artemidorus. It was a
rather silly, childish sort of make-believe, and I wouldn't have told
anyone else for the world; not even my father. How did I know that you
would sympathise and understand?"
She asked the question in all simplicity with her serious, grey eyes
looking inquiringly into mine. And the answer came to me in a flash,
with the beating of my own heart.
"I will tell you how you knew, Ruth," I whispered passionately. "It was
because I loved you more than anyone in the world has ever loved you,
and you felt my love in your heart and called it sympathy."
I stopped short, for she had blushed scarlet and then turned deathly
pale. And now she looked at me wildly, almost with terror.
"Have I shocked you, Ruth, dearest?" I exclaimed penitently, "have I
spoken too soon? If I have, forgive me. But I had to tell you. I have
been eating my heart out for love of you for I don't know how long. I
think I have loved you from the first day we met. Perhaps I shouldn't
have spoken yet, but, Ruth, dear, if you only knew what a sweet girl you
are, you wouldn't blame me."
"I don't blame you," she said, almost in a whisper; "I blame myself. I
have been a bad friend to you, who have been so loyal and loving to me.
I ought not to have let this happen. For it can't be, Paul; I can't say
what you want me to say. We can never be anything more to one another
than friends."
A cold hand seemed to grasp my heart--a horrible fear that I had lost
all that I cared for--all that made life desirable.
"Why can't we?" I asked. "Do you mean that--that the gods have been
gracious to some other man?"
"No, no," she answered, hastily--almost indignantly, "of course I don't
mean that."
"Then it is only that you don't love me yet. Of course you don't. Why
should you? But you will, dear, some day. And I will wait patiently
until that day comes and not trouble you with entreaties. I will wait
for you as Jacob waited for Rachel; and as the long years seemed to him
but as a few days because of the love he bore her, so it shall be with
me, if only you will not send me away quite without hope."
She was looking down, white-faced, with a hardening of the lips as if
she were in bodily pain. "You don't understand," she whispered. "It
can't be--it can never be. There is something that makes it impossible,
now and always. I can't tell you more than that."
"But, Ruth, dearest," I pleaded despairingly, "may it not become
possible some day? Can it not be made possible? I can wait, but I can't
give you up. Is there no chance whatever that this obstacle may be
removed?"
"Very little, I fear. Hardly any. No, Paul; it is hopeless, and I can't
bear to talk about it. Let me go now. Let us say good-bye here and see
one another no more for a while. Perhaps we may be friends again some
day--when you have forgiven me."
"Forgiven you, dearest!" I exclaimed. "There is nothing to forgive. And
we are friends, Ruth. Whatever happens, you are the dearest friend I
have on earth, or can ever have."
"Thank you, Paul," she said faintly. "You are very good to me. But let
me go, please. I must go. I must be alone."
She held out a trembling hand, and, as I took it, I was shocked to see
how terribly agitated and ill she looked.
"May I not come with you, dear?" I pleaded.
"No, no!" she exclaimed breathlessly; "I must go away by myself. I want
to be alone. Good-bye!"
"Before I let you go, Ruth--if you must go--I must have a solemn promise
from you."
Her sad grey eyes met mine and her lips quivered with an unspoken
question.
"You must promise me," I went on, "that if ever this barrier that parts
us should be removed, you will let me know instantly. Remember that I
love you always, and that I am waiting for you always on this side of
the grave."
She caught her breath in a little quick sob, and pressed my hand.
"Yes," she whispered: "I promise. Good-bye." She pressed my hand again
and was gone; and, as I gazed at the empty doorway through which she had
passed, I caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass case on the
landing, where she had paused for a moment to wipe her eyes. I felt it,
in a manner, indelicate to have seen her, and turned away my head
quickly; and yet I was conscious of a certain selfish satisfaction in
the sweet sympathy that her grief bespoke.
But now that she was gone a horrible sense of desolation descended on
me. Only now, by the consciousness of irreparable loss, did I begin to
realise the meaning of this passion of love that had stolen unawares
into my life. How it had glorified the present and spread a glamour of
delight over the dimly considered future: how all pleasures and desires,
all hopes and ambitions, had converged upon it as a focus; how it had
stood out as the one great reality behind which the other circumstances
of life were as a background, shimmering, half seen, immaterial, and
unreal. And now it was gone--lost, as it seemed, beyond hope; and that
which was left to me was but the empty frame from which the picture had
vanished.
I have no idea how long I stood rooted to the spot where she had left
me, wrapped in a dull consciousness of pain, immersed in a half-numb
reverie. Recent events flitted, dream-like, through my mind; our happy
labours in the reading-room; our first visit to the Museum; and this
present day that had opened so brightly and with such joyous promise.
One by one these phantoms of a vanished happiness came and went.
Occasional visitors sauntered into the room--but the galleries were
mostly empty that day--gazed inquisitively at my motionless figure, and
went their way. And still the dull, intolerable ache in my breast went
on, the only vivid consciousness that was left to me.
Presently I raised my eyes and met those of the portrait. The sweet,
pensive face of the old Greek settler looked out at me wistfully as
though he would offer comfort; as though he would tell me that he, too,
had known sorrow when he lived his life in the sunny Fayyum. And a
subtle consolation, like the faint scent of old rose leaves, seemed to
exhale from that friendly face that had looked on the birth of my
happiness and had seen it wither and fade. I turned away, at last, with
a silent farewell; and when I looked back, he seemed to speed me on my
way with gentle valediction.