Produced by David Clarke, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
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 anaffair which provided London, and indeed all England, with materialfor speculation and excitement for a period of at least nine days.
So many inaccurate versions have been circulated, so many ill-naturedand unjust aspersions have been freely cast, that it seemed advisablefor the sake of those principally concerned to make a plainunvarnished statement of the actual facts. And when I mention that Iwho write this am the Theodore Blenkinsop whose name was, not longsince, as familiar in the public mouth as household words, I ventureto think that I shall at once recall the matter to the shortestmemory, and establish my right to speak with authority on thesubject.
At the time I refer to I was--and for the matter of that stillam--employed at a lucrative salary as taster to a well-known firm oftea-merchants in the City. I occupied furnished apartments, asitting-room and bedroom, over a dairy establishment in TadmorTerrace, near Baalbec Road, in the pleasant and salubrious district ofHighbury.
Arrived at the age of twenty-eight, I was still a bachelor and hadfelt no serious inclination to change my condition until the memorableafternoon on which the universe became transformed for me in thecourse of a quiet stroll round Canonbury Square.
For the information of those who may be unacquainted with it, I maystate that Canonbury Square is in Islington; the houses, thoughundeniably dingy as to their exteriors, are highly respectable, andmostly tenanted by members of the medical, musical, or scholasticprofessions; some have balconies and verandahs which make itdifficult 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 tramcarsrun to the City, and the two central enclosures are neatly laid outwith gravelled paths and garden seats; in the one there is a dovecot,in the other there are large terra-cotta oil-jars, bringingrecollections of the Arabian Nights and the devoted Morgiana.
All this, I know, is not strictly to the point, but I am anxious tomake it clear that the locality, though not perhaps a chosen haunt ofRank and Fashion, possesses compensations of its own.
Strolling round Canonbury Square, then, I happened to glance at acertain ground floor window in which an art-pot, in the form of achipped egg hanging in gilded chains and enamelled shrimp-pink, gave anote of femininity that softened the dusty severity of a wire blind.
Under the chipped egg, and above the top of the blind, gazing out withan air of listless disdain and utter weariness, was a lovely vividface, which, with its hint of pent-up passion and tropical languor, Imentally likened to a pomegranate flower; not that I have ever seen apomegranate flower, though I am more familiar with the fruit--which,to my palate, has too much the flavour of firewood to be whollyagreeable--but somehow it seemed the only appropriate comparison.
The exquisite face looking out over the wire blind.]
After that, few days passed on which I did not saunter at least onceround the square, and several times I was rewarded by the sight ofthat same exquisite face, looking out over the wire blind, alwayswith the same look of intense boredom and haughty resentment of hersurroundings--a kind of modern Mariana, with an area to represent themoat.
AEneas Polkinghorne.]
I was hopelessly in love from the very first; I thought of nothing buthow to obtain admission to her presence; as time went on, I fanciedthat when I passed there was a gleam of recognition, of half-awakenedinterest 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 wasengraved: "AEneas Polkinghorne, Professor of Elocution. Prospectuswithin." So I knew the name of my divinity. I can give no greaterindication of the extent of my passion, even at this stage, than bysaying that I found this surname musical, and lingered over eachsyllable with delight.
But that brought me no nearer to her, and at last a plan occurred tome by which the abyss of the area that separated us might possibly bebridged over. Nothing could be simpler than my device--and yet therewas an audacity about it that rather startled me at first. It wasthis: the brass plate said "Prospectus within." Very well, all I hadto do was to knock boldly and ask for one, which, after some naturalhesitation, I did.
Any wild hope of obtaining an interview with Miss Polkinghorne wasdoomed to instant disappointment. I was received by the Professorhimself, a tall, stout, flabby person, with sandy hair combed backover his brow and worn long behind, who showed a most sympatheticinterest in me, inquiring whether I wished to be prepared for theChurch, the Stage, or the Bar, or whether I had any idea of enteringParliament. I fear I allowed him to suppose the latter, although I amabout as likely to get into Parliament as into an imperial pintmeasure; but I had to say something to account for my visit, and thetea-trade does not call for much in the way of oratorical skill fromits 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 ofsix lessons in elocution.
This was rather more than I had calculated upon--but, at least, itgave me the _entree_ to the house, and it might lead to somethingmore.
It did not seem as if it was going to lead to much; the Professor'smethod of teaching was peculiar: he would post me in a study at theback of the house, where I was instructed to declaim some celebratedoration at th
e top of my voice while he retired upstairs to discoverhow far my voice would carry.
After twenty minutes or so he would return with the information, whichI have no reason to disbelieve, that he had not heard a single wordabove the first landing.
Still I persevered, sustained by the thought that, when I wasdelivering the oration of Brutus over Caesar, or the famous passageabout the Queen of France and the "ten thousand swords leaping fromtheir scabbards," my words might perchance reach Miss Polkinghorne'sear and excite in her a passing emotion.
But I came to the end of my tickets and still I was as far as everfrom my goal, while the exertion of shouting had rendered me painfullyhusky.
Still I persevered.]
Yet I would not give in; I set myself to gain the Professor's goodopinion; I took more tickets. It was not till after I had run throughthese that I ascertained, by an apparently careless inquiry, thatthere was no such person as Miss Polkinghorne--the Professor was awidower and had never had a daughter!
The thought that I had