CHAPTER VIII
A MUSEUM IDYLL
Whether it was that practice revived a forgotten skill on my part, orthat Miss Bellingham had over-estimated the amount of work to be done, Iam unable to say. But whichever may have been the explanation, the factis that the fourth afternoon saw our task so nearly completed that I wasfain to plead that a small remainder might be left over to form anexcuse for yet one more visit to the reading-room.
Short, however, as had been the period of our collaboration, it had beenlong enough to produce a great change in our relations to one another.For there is no friendship so intimate and satisfying as that engenderedby community of work, and none--between man and woman, at any rate--sofrank and wholesome.
Every day I had arrived to find a pile of books with the places dulymarked and the blue covered quarto note-books in readiness. Every day wehad worked steadily at the allotted task, had then handed in the booksand gone forth together to enjoy a most companionable tea in themilk-shop; thereafter to walk home by way of Queen Square, talking overthe day's work and discussing the state of the world in the far-off dayswhen Ahkhenaten was king and the Tell el Amarna tablets were a-writing.
It had been a pleasant time, so pleasant, that as I handed in the booksfor the last time, I sighed to think that it was over; that not onlywas the task finished, but that the recovery of my fair patient's hand,from which I had that morning removed the splint, had put an end to theneed of my help.
"What shall we do?" I asked, as we came out into the central hall; "itis too early for tea. Shall we go and look at some of the galleries?"
"Why not?" she answered. "We might look over some of the thingsconnected with what we have been doing. For instance, there is a reliefof Ahkhenaten upstairs in the Third Egyptian Room; we might go and lookat that."
I fell in eagerly with the suggestion, placing myself under herexperienced guidance, and we started by way of the Roman Gallery, pastthe long row of extremely commonplace and modern-looking Roman Emperors.
"I don't know," she said, pausing for a moment opposite a bust labelled"Trajan" (but obviously a portrait of Phil May), "how I am ever even tothank you for all that you have done? to say nothing of repayment."
"There is no need to do either," I replied. "I have enjoyed working withyou, so I have had my reward. But still," I added, "if you want to do mea great kindness, you have it in your power."
"How?"
"In connection with my friend Doctor Thorndyke. I told you he was anenthusiast. Now he is, for some reason, most keenly interested ineverything relating to your uncle, and I happen to know that, if anylegal proceedings should take place, he would very much like to keep afriendly eye on the case."
"And what do you want me to do?"
"I want you, if an opportunity should occur for him to give your fatheradvice or help of any kind, to use your influence with your father infavour of, rather than in opposition to, his accepting it--alwaysassuming that you have no real feeling against his doing so."
Miss Bellingham looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments, and thenlaughed softly.
"So the great kindness that I am to do you is to let you do me a furtherkindness through your friend!"
"No," I protested; "that is where you are quite mistaken. It isn'tbenevolence on Doctor Thorndyke's part; it is professional enthusiasm."
She smiled sceptically.
"You don't believe in it," I said; "but consider other cases. Why does asurgeon get out of bed on a winter's night to do an emergency operationat a hospital? He doesn't get paid for it. Do you think it is altruism?"
"Yes, of course. Isn't it?"
"Certainly not. He does it because it is his job, because it is hisbusiness to fight with disease--and win."
"I don't see much difference," she said. "It is work done for loveinstead of for payment. However, I will do what you ask if theopportunity arises; but I shan't suppose that I am repaying yourkindness to me."
"I don't mind, so long as you do it," I said, and we walked on for sometime in silence.
"Isn't it odd," she said presently, "how our talk always seems to comeback to my uncle? Oh, and that reminds me that the things he gave to theMuseum are in the same room as the Ahkhenaten relief. Would you like tosee them?"
"Of course I should."
"Then we will go and look at them first." She paused, and then, rathershyly and with a rising colour, she continued: "And I think I shouldlike to introduce you to a very dear friend of mine--with yourpermission, of course."
This last addition she made hastily, seeing, I suppose, that I lookedrather glum at the suggestion. Inwardly I consigned her friend to thedevil, especially if of the masculine gender; outwardly I expressed myfelicity at making the acquaintance of any person whom she should honourwith her friendship. Whereat, to my discomfiture, she laughedenigmatically; a very soft laugh, low-pitched and musical, like thecooing of a glorified pigeon.
I strolled on by her side, speculating a little anxiously on the comingintroduction. Was I being conducted to the lair of one of the savantsattached to the establishment? and would he add a superfluous third toour little party of two, so complete and companionable, _solus cumsola_, in this populated wilderness? Above all, would he turn out to bea comely young man, and bring my aerial castles tumbling about my ears?The shy look and the blush with which she had suggested the introductionwere ominous indications, upon which I mused gloomily as we ascended thestairs and passed through the wide doorway. I glanced apprehensively atmy companion, and met a quiet, inscrutable smile; and at that moment shehalted outside a wall-case and faced me.
"This is my friend," she said. "Let me present you to Artemidorus, lateof the Fayyum. Oh, don't smile!" she pleaded. "I am quite serious. Haveyou never heard of pious Catholics who cherish a devotion to somelong-departed saint? That is my feeling towards Artemidorus, and if youonly knew what comfort he has shed into the heart of a lonely woman;what a quiet, unobtrusive friend he has been to me in my solitary,friendless days, always ready with a kindly greeting on his gentle,thoughtful face, you would like him for that alone. And I want you tolike him and to share our silent friendship. Am I very silly, verysentimental?"
A wave of relief had swept over me, and the mercury of my emotionalthermometer, which had shrunk almost into the bulb, leaped up to summerheat. How charming it was of her and how sweetly intimate, to wish toshare this mystical friendship with me! And what a pretty conceit itwas, too, and how like this strange, inscrutable maiden, to come hereand hold silent converse with this long-departed Greek. And the pathosof it all touched me deeply amidst the joy of this newborn intimacy.
"Are you scornful?" she asked, with a shade of disappointment, as I madeno reply.
"No, indeed I am not," I answered earnestly. "I want to make you awareof my sympathy and my appreciation without offending you by seeming toexaggerate, and I don't know how to express it."
"Oh, never mind about the expression, so long as you feel it. I thoughtyou would understand," and she gave me a smile that made me tingle to myfinger-tips.
We stood awhile gazing in silence at the mummy--for such, indeed, washer friend Artemidorus. But not an ordinary mummy. Egyptian in form, itwas entirely Greek in feeling; and brightly coloured as it was, inaccordance with the racial love of colour, the tasteful refinement withwhich the decoration of the case was treated made those around lookgarish and barbaric. But the most striking feature was a charming panelportrait which occupied the place of the usual mask. This painting was arevelation to me. Except that it was executed in tempera instead of oil,it differed in no respect from modern work. There was nothing archaic oreven ancient about it. With its freedom of handling and its correctrendering of light and shade, it might have been painted yesterday;indeed, enclosed in an ordinary gilt frame, it might have passed withoutremark in an exhibition of modern portraits.
Miss Bellingham observed my admiration and smiled approvingly.
"It is a charming little portrait, isn't it?" she said; "and such asweet
face, too; so thoughtful and human with just a shade ofmelancholy. But the whole thing is full of charm. I fell in love with itthe first time I saw it. And it is so Greek!"
"Yes, it is, in spite of the Egyptian gods and symbols."
"Rather because of them, I think," said she. "There we have the typicalGreek attitude, the genial, cultivated eclecticism that appreciated thefitness of even the most alien forms of art. There is Anubis standingbeside the bier; there are Isis and Nephthys, and there below, Horus andTahuti. But we can't suppose that Artemidorus worshipped or believed inthose gods. They are there because they are splendid decoration andperfectly appropriate in character. The real feeling of those who lovedthe dead man breaks out in the inscription." She pointed to a band belowthe pectoral, where, in gilt capital letters, was written the two words,"[Greek: ARTEMIDORE EUPsUChI]."
"Yes," I said, "it is very dignified and very human."
"And so sincere and full of real emotion," she added. "I find itunspeakably touching. 'O Artemidorus, farewell!' There is the real noteof human grief, the sorrow of eternal parting. How much finer it is thanthe vulgar boastfulness of the Semitic epitaphs, or our own miserable,insincere make-believe of the 'Not lost but gone before' type. He wasgone from them for ever; they would look on his face and hear his voiceno more; they realised that this was their last farewell. Oh, there is aworld of love and sorrow in those two simple words!"
For some time neither of us spoke. The glamour of this touching memorialof a long-buried grief had stolen over me, and I was content to standsilent by my beloved companion and revive, with a certain pensivepleasure, the ghosts of human emotions over which so many centuries hadrolled. Presently she turned to me with a frank smile. "You have beenweighed in the balance of friendship," she said, "and not found wanting.You have the gift of sympathy, even with a woman's sentimental fancies."
I suspected that a good many men would have developed this preciousquality under the circumstances, but I refrained from saying so. Thereis no use in crying down one's own wares. I was glad enough to haveearned her good opinion so easily, and when she at length turned awayfrom the case and passed through into the adjoining room, it was a verycomplacent young man who bore her company.
"Here is Ahkhenaten--or Khu-en-aten, as the authorities here render thehieroglyphics." She indicated a fragment of a coloured relief labelled:"Portion of a painted stone tablet with a portrait figure of Amen-hetepIV," and we stopped to look at the frail, effeminate figure of the greatking, with his large cranium, his queer, pointed chin and the Aten raysstretching out their weird hands as if caressing him.
"We mustn't stay here if you want to see my uncle's gift, because thisroom closes at four to-day." With this admonition she moved on to theother end of the room, where she halted before a large floor-casecontaining a mummy and a large number of other objects. A black labelwith white lettering set forth the various contents with a briefexplanation as follows:
"Mummy of Sebek-hotep, a scribe of the twenty-second dynasty, togetherwith the objects found in the tomb. These include the four Canopic jars,in which the internal organs were deposited, the Ushabti figures, tombprovisions and various articles that had belonged to the deceased; hisfavourite chair, his head-rest, his ink-palette, inscribed with his nameand the name of the king, Osorkon I, in whose reign he lived, and othersmaller articles. Presented by John Bellingham, Esq."
"They have put all the objects together in one case," Miss Bellinghamexplained, "to show the contents of an ordinary tomb of the betterclass. You see that the dead man was provided with all his ordinarycomforts: provisions, furniture, the ink-palette that he had beenaccustomed to use in writing on papyri, and a staff of servants to waiton him."
"Where are the servants?" I asked.
"The little Ushabti figures," she answered; "they were the attendants ofthe dead, you know, his servants in the under-world. It was a quaintidea, wasn't it? But it was all very complete and consistent, and quitereasonable, too, if once one accepts the belief in the persistence ofthe individual apart from the body."
"Yes," I agreed, "and that is the only fair way to judge a religioussystem, by taking the main beliefs for granted. But what a business itmust have been, bringing all these things from Egypt to London."
"It was worth the trouble, though, for it is a fine and instructivecollection. And the work is all very good of its kind. You notice thatthe Ushabti figures and the heads that form the stoppers of the Canopicjars are quite finely modelled. The mummy itself, too, is ratherhandsome, though that coat of bitumen on the back doesn't improve it.But Sebek-hotep must have been a fine-looking man."
"The mask on the case is a portrait, I suppose?"
"Yes; in fact, it is rather more. To some extent it is the actual faceof the man himself. This mummy is enclosed in what is called acartonnage, that is a case moulded on the figure. The cartonnage, wasformed of a number of layers of linen or papyrus united by glue orcement, and when the case had been fitted to the mummy it was moulded tothe body, so that the general form of the features and limbs was oftenapparent. After the cement was dry the case was covered with a thinlayer of stucco and the face modelled more completely, and then thedecorations and inscriptions were painted on. So that, you see, in acartonnage, the body was sealed up like a nut in its shell, unlike themore ancient forms in which the mummy was merely rolled up and enclosedin a wooden coffin."
At this moment there smote upon our ears a politely protesting voiceannouncing in sing-song tones that it was closing time; andsimultaneously a desire for tea suggested the hospitable milk-shop. Withleisurely dignity that ignored the official who shepherded us along thegalleries, we made our way to the entrance, still immersed inconversation on matters sepulchral.
It was rather earlier than our usual hour for leaving the Museum and,moreover, it was our last day--for the present. Wherefore we lingeredover our tea to an extent that caused the milk-shop lady to view us withsome disfavour, and when at length we started homeward, we took so manyshort cuts that six o'clock found us no nearer our destination thanLincoln's Inn Fields; whither we had journeyed by a slightly indirectroute that traversed (among other places) Russell Square, Red LionSquare, with the quaint passage of the same name, Bedford Row, Jockey'sFields, Hand Court, and Great Turnstile.
It was in the latter thoroughfare that our attention was attracted by aflaming poster outside a newsvendor's bearing the startling inscription:
"MORE MEMENTOES OF MURDERED MAN."
Miss Bellingham glanced at the poster and shuddered.
"Horrible! Isn't it?" she said. "Have you read about them?"
"I haven't been noticing the papers the last few, days," I replied.
"No, of course you haven't. You've been slaving at those wretched notes.We don't very often see the papers, at least we don't take them in, butMiss Oman has kept us supplied during the last day or two. She is aperfect little ghoul; she delights in horrors of every kind, and themore horrible the better."
"But," I asked, "what is it that they have found?"
"Oh, they are the remains of some poor creature who seems to have beenmurdered and cut in pieces. It is dreadful. It made me shudder to readof it, for I couldn't help thinking of poor Uncle John, and, as for myfather, he was really quite upset."
"Are these the bones that were found in a watercress-bed at Sidcup?"
"Yes. But they have found several more. The police have been mostenergetic. They seem to have been making a systematic search, and theresult has been that they have discovered several portions of the body,scattered about in very widely separated places--Sidcup, Lee, St. MaryCray; and yesterday it was reported that an arm had been found in one ofthe ponds called 'the Cuckoo Pits,' close to our old home."
"What! in Essex?" I exclaimed.
"Yes, in Epping Forest, quite near Woodford. Isn't it dreadful to thinkof it? They were probably hidden when we were living there. I think itwas that that horrified my father so much. When he read it he was soupset that he gathered up the whole bundle of newsp
apers and tossed themout of the window; and they blew over the wall, and poor Miss Oman hadto rush out and pursue them up the court."
"Do you think he suspects that these remains may be those of youruncle?"
"I think so, though he has said nothing to that effect, and, of course,I have not made any such suggestion to him. We always preserve thefiction between ourselves of believing that Uncle John is still alive."
"But you don't think he is, do you?"
"No, I am afraid I don't; and I feel pretty sure that my father doesn'tthink so either, but he doesn't like to admit it to me."
"Do you happen to remember what bones have been found?"
"No, I don't. I know that an arm was found in the Cuckoo Pits, and Ithink a thigh-bone was dredged up out of a pond near St. Mary Cray. ButMiss Oman will be able to tell you all about it, if you are interested.She will be delighted to meet a kindred spirit," Miss Bellingham added,with a smile.
"I don't know that I want to claim spiritual kinship with a ghoul," saidI; "especially such a very sharp-tempered ghoul."
"Oh, don't disparage her, Doctor Berkeley!" Miss Bellingham pleaded."She isn't really bad-tempered; only a little prickly on the surface. Ioughtn't to have called her a ghoul; she is just the sweetest, mostaffectionate, most unselfish little angelic human hedgehog that youcould find if you travelled the wide world through. Do you know that shehas been working her fingers to the bone making an old dress of minepresentable because she is so anxious that I shall look nice at yourlittle supper-party."
"You are sure to do that, in any case," I said; "but I withdraw myremark as to her temper unreservedly. And I really didn't mean it, youknow; I have always liked the little lady."
"That's right; and now won't you come in and have a few minutes' chatwith my father? We are quite early, in spite of the short cuts."
I assented readily, and the more so inasmuch as I wanted a few wordswith Miss Oman on the subject of catering and did not want to discuss itbefore my friends. Accordingly I went in and gossiped with Mr.Bellingham, chiefly about the work that we had done at the Museum, untilit was time for me to return to the surgery.
Having taken my leave, I walked down the stairs with reflective slownessand as much creaking of my boots as I could manage; with the result,hopefully anticipated, that as I approached the door of Miss Oman's roomit opened and the lady's head protruded.
"I'd change my cobbler if I were you," she said.
I thought of the "angelic human hedgehog," and nearly sniggered in herface.
"I am sure you would, Miss Oman, instantly; though, mind you, the poorfellow can't help his looks."
"You are a very flippant young man," she said severely. Whereat Igrinned, and she regarded me silently with a baleful glare. Suddenly Iremembered my mission and became serious and sober.
"Miss Oman," I said, "I very much want to take your advice on a matterof some importance--to me, at least." (That ought to fetch her, Ithought.) The "advice fly"--strangely neglected by Izaak Walton--isguaranteed to kill in any weather. And it did fetch her. She rose in aflash and gorged it, cock's feathers, worsted body and all.
"What is it about?" she asked eagerly. "But don't stand out there whereeverybody can hear but me. Come in and sit down."
Now, I didn't want to discuss the matter here, and, besides, there wasnot time. I therefore assumed an air of mystery.
"I can't, Miss Oman. I'm due at the surgery now. But if you should bepassing and should have a few minutes to spare, I should be greatlyobliged if you would look in. I really don't quite know how to act."
"No, I expect not. Men very seldom do. But you're better than most, foryou know when you are in difficulties and have the sense to consult awoman. But what is it about? Perhaps I might be thinking it over."
"Well, you know," I began evasively, "it's a simple matter, but I can'tvery well--no, by Jove!" I added, looking at my watch, "I must run, or Ishall keep the multitude waiting." And with this I bustled away, leavingher literally dancing with curiosity.