“THE MONSTER”
For a considerable time Mrs. Malone sat, stroking her long nose with
her long forefinger and thinking profoundly; there fell, in
consequence, an unusual silence. At last this was broken by the old
lady, who exclaimed with an air of triumph:
“Douglas, my boy, I do believe I have got hold of a bright idea!”
“That’s nothing new,” he rejoined with a smile.
“Come now, none of your blarney! You know the queer little monster you
brought me some time ago. You see him there grinning at us out of the
cabinet? Well, a friend of mine noticed him yesterday—she is a bit of a
connoisseur, and she said that, if genuine, that diabolical object had
considerable value! To-morrow, I will take it round to a shop in ‘the
Grove,’ and get an opinion; let us hear what the expert says, and if
the object is good and marketable, I’ll sell him—and you shall have the
money. Now,” raising a hand authoritatively, “I warn you not to say
‘No’ to me again, for if you do, I’ll just take the poker and smash the
deformity into a thousand atoms!”
“Oh, well, I suppose that puts the lid on,” said Douglas, “but I ask
you, if anything in the whole world can be meaner than to give a
present and to take it back? However, I’ll consent to commit that
outrage to save the monster. I don’t believe he is worth a sovereign!”
“Stop! I hear them moving in the drawing-room, so, my dear boy, fly up
to your roost at once. You know how it vexes your mother to see you
spending your time with me. Good night, my dear child,” and rising, she
laid her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.
The very next evening, shortly before dinner, Mrs. Malone sent for her
favourite boarder.
“I’ve grand news for you!” she announced. “I’ve had the ugly figure
valued and a man has offered me a hundred and ten pounds.”
“A hundred and ten pounds!” repeated Shafto. “Come, this is one of your
good old Irish jokes!”
Alas! it must be here recorded that warm-hearted Mrs. Malone was not
joking—but lying. She had never been to any expert. The hundred and ten
pounds were to come out of her own lean pocket; this had been her
“bright idea,” when she contemplated the monster in the cabinet. She
was sincerely fond of Shafto; during the time he had been under her
roof she had never known him to do a mean or ungentlemanly action; he
was considerate, unselfish, and generous—poor as he was; also he opened
doors, handed chairs, treated age with deference, and in short
conducted himself like the people among whom she had lived most of her
life.
Richard Hutton was of the same type, so were the two Japanese; but
Levison, her most valuable guest, Larcher, and other young boarders
had, in her opinion, no manners at all. They smoked where and how they
pleased (barring the drawing-room), left cigarette stumps all over the
house, kicked off their boots in the hall, were late for meals, loud in
talk, arguments and complaints, and supremely indifferent to the
comfort of their companions.
In some extraordinary and inexplicable manner the story of the monster
had leaked out—at any rate, it was in the air. Perhaps the monster
himself had blazoned forth the fact of his own value, or Michael, the
handy man, had caught a whisper from Maggie (Mrs. Malone’s right hand)?
However it was, Mrs. Malone was not a little startled when Mr. Levison,
in his loud resonant voice, shouted at her down the dinner table:
“So I hear you’ve come in for a wonderful find, ma’am—a Chinese figure
valued at a handsome sum! Do you know I’m something of a judge of such
stuff—old porcelain is rather in my line—and I’d like to have a look at
the prize after dinner, if you don’t object, and if the bargain is not
clinched perhaps I might go one better.”
Mrs. Malone coloured like a young girl—or was it the blush of guilt?
Would her sin find her out? No; no matter what the dealer said, she
determined to stick to her story; she would not allow him to see the
figure. She knew Manasseh Levison to be a persistent, over-bearing sort
of man; nevertheless, she was resolved to defeat him. If the worst came
to the worst, she would go to bed, and either take the figure with her,
or hide it up the chimney. But alas for her plans! Manasseh, scenting a
good thing, immediately after his cigar was finished, boldly followed
the old lady into forbidden ground—her sitting-room—and did not even
knock, but just turned the handle of the door and walked in. He
discovered his hostess and young Shafto, evidently holding a weighty
conference—with the figure on the table between them.
“Mr. Levison,” she exclaimed, “are you aware that this is my private
apartment, and that such an intrusion is unwelcome?”
Levison, not the least abashed, had snatched up the figure and
critically examined it, glass in eye. For an appreciable time he stood
silent and transfixed, obviously gloating over the article in his
grasp—yes, gloating, with the absorbed expression of a devotee! At last
he spoke, raising his voice almost to a shout:
“And are _you_ aware, madam; that this—this piece in my hand, is a most
glorious specimen of old ‘Kang He’? An altar vessel, too; a most
perfect, complete, and unique specimen of Chinese enamelled porcelain,
dating from the Kang dynasty? By George!” handling it and turning it
about with tender loving care, “what an astonishing find! I’ve never
come across such a piece, and I’ve seen a good few in my time. How did
you get hold of it?”
“Mr. Shafto gave it to me,” replied Mrs. Malone, in her stiffest
manner.
“And I picked it off a stall in the Caledonian Market,” supplemented
Shafto.
“What luck; what incredible luck!” exclaimed the dealer, nodding his
big head; “well, Mrs. Malone, will you please inform your other
customer that I will pay you three hundred pounds down for this
piece—that rather snuffs him out, eh? I’ll give you a cheque in the
morning,” and carrying the monster as reverently as if it were some
holy relic, Manasseh Levison, expert and connoisseur, marched out of
the room in triumph.