The Vanishing Man

  CHAPTER XVI

  "O! ARTEMIDORUS, FAREWELL!"

  Whether or not Mr. Jellicoe was surprised to see us, it is impossible tosay. His countenance (which served the ordinary purposes of a face,inasmuch as it contained the principal organs of special sense, with theinlets to the alimentary and respiratory tracts) was, as an apparatusfor the expression of the emotions, a total failure. To a thought-readerit would have been about as helpful as the face carved upon the handleof an umbrella; a comparison suggested, perhaps, by a certainresemblance to such an object. He advanced, holding his open note-bookand pencil, and having saluted us with a stiff bow and an old-fashionedflourish of his hat, shook hands rheumatically and waited for us tospeak.

  "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 thesame day."

  "A coincidence, certainly," he admitted; "and if we had all happened notto come--which must have occurred frequently--that also would have beena coincidence."

  "I suppose it would," said she, "but I hope we are not interruptingyou."

  "Thank you, no. I had just finished when I had the pleasure ofperceiving you."

  "You were making some notes in reference to the case, I imagine," saidI. It was an impertinent question, put with malice aforethought for themere pleasure of hearing him evade it.

  "The case?" he repeated. "You are referring, perhaps, to Stevens versusthe 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 dimplingabout 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 bepleased to remember. As a matter of fact," he continued, after a briefpause, "I was just refreshing my memory as to the wording of theinscriptions on these stones, especially that of your grandfather,Francis Bellingham. It has occurred to me that if it should appear bythe finding of the coroner's jury that your uncle is deceased, it wouldbe proper and decorous that some memorial should be placed here. But, asthe burial-ground is closed, there might be some difficulty abouterecting a new monument, whereas there would probably be none in addingan inscription to one already existing. Hence these investigations. Forif the inscription on your grandfather's stone had set forth that 'hererests the body of Francis Bellingham,' it would have been manifestlyimproper to add 'also that of John Bellingham, son of the above.'Fortunately the inscription was more discreetly drafted, merelyrecording the fact that this monument is 'sacred to the memory of thesaid Francis,' and not committing itself as to the whereabouts of theremains. But perhaps I am interrupting you?"

  "No, not at all," replied Miss Bellingham (which was grossly untrue; hewas interrupting _me_ most intolerably); "we were going to the BritishMuseum 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: "Shallwe 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 usto walk abreast, I proceeded to indemnify myself for the lawyer'sunwelcome company by leading the conversation back to the subject of themissing man.

  "Was there anything, Mr. Jellicoe, in Mr. John Bellingham's state ofhealth that would make it probable that he might die suddenly?"

  The lawyer looked at me suspiciously for a few moments and thenremarked:

  "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 isof 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 havesuffered from some affection, such as heart disease, aneurism, orarterial degeneration, likely to produce sudden death, that fact willsurely be highly material to the question as to whether he is probablydead or alive."

  "No doubt you are right," said Mr. Jellicoe. "I have little knowledge ofmedical affairs, but doubtless you are right. As to the question itself,I am Mr. Bellingham's lawyer, not his doctor. His health is a matterthat 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 wonderthey did not call his doctor and settle it definitely. My own impressionis that he was--or is--rather a strong and sound man. He certainlyrecovered 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 withus. He slipped from a high kerb and broke one of the bones of the leftankle--somebody's fracture--"

  "Pott's?"

  "Yes, that was the name--Pott's fracture; and he broke both hisknee-caps as well. Sir Morgan Bennet had to perform an operation, or hewould have been a cripple for life. As it was, he was about again in afew weeks, apparently none the worse excepting for a slight weakness ofthe 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, andthat Sir Morgan seemed quite pleased with him for doing it."

  "That sounds rather libellous; but I expect he was pleased with theresult of the operation. He might well be."

  Here there was a brief lull in the conversation, and, even as I wastrying to think of a poser for Mr. Jellicoe, that gentleman took theopportunity 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 ofthe seventeenth century. I don't know whether you would call thatancient or modern."

  "Neither do I," said Mr. Jellicoe. "Antiquity and modernity are termsthat have no fixed connotation. They are purely relative and theirapplication in a particular instance has to be determined by a sort ofsliding scale. To a furniture collector, a Tudor chair or a Jacobeanchest is ancient; to an architect, their period is modern, whereas aneleventh-century church is ancient; but to an Egyptologist, accustomedto remains of a vast antiquity, both are products of modern periodsseparated by an insignificant interval. And, I suppose," he added,reflectively, "that to a geologist, the traces of the very earliest dawnof human history appertain only to the recent period. Conceptions oftime, 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 believedhim.

  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 andentertaining that I refrained from baiting him, and permitted him todiscuss his favourite topic unhindered, especially since my companionlistened with lively interest. Nor, when we entered the great hall, didhe relinquish possession of us, and we followed submissively, as he ledthe 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 thebirth of my friendship with Ruth Bellingham.

  "Before I leave you," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I should like
to show you thatmummy that we were discussing the other evening; the one, you remember,that my friend, John Bellingham, presented to the Museum a little timebefore his disappearance. The point that I mentioned is only a trivialone, but it may become of interest hereafter if any plausibleexplanation should be forthcoming." He led us along the room until wearrived at the case containing John Bellingham's gift, where he haltedand gazed in at the mummy with the affectionate reflectiveness of theconnoisseur.

  "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 speculativeinterest to the specimen. You notice that the black coating leaves theprincipal decoration and the whole of the inscription untouched, whichis precisely the part that one would expect to find covered up; whereasthe feet and the back, which probably bore no writing, are quite thicklyencrusted. If you stoop down, you can see that the bitumen was daubedfreely into the lacings of the back, where it served no purpose, so thateven the strings are embedded." He stooped, as he spoke, and peered upinquisitively at the back of the mummy, where it was visible between thesupports.

  "Has Doctor Norbury any explanation to offer?" asked Miss Bellingham.

  "None whatever," replied Mr. Jellicoe. "He finds it as great a mysteryas I do. But he thinks that we may get some suggestion from the Directorwhen he comes back. He is a very great authority, as you know, and apractical excavator of great experience too. But I mustn't stay heretalking of these things, and keeping you from your pottery. Perhaps Ihave stayed too long already. If I have I ask your pardon, and I willnow wish you a very good afternoon." With a sudden return to hiscustomary wooden impassivity, he shook hands with us, bowed stiffly, andtook himself off towards the curator's office.

  "What a strange man that is," said Miss Bellingham, as Mr. Jellicoedisappeared through the doorway at the end of the room, "or perhaps Ishould say, a strange being, for I can hardly think of him as a man. Ihave 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, soremote and aloof from all mundane concerns. He moves among ordinary menand women, but as a mere presence, an unmoved spectator of theiractions, 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 atmosphereof his own, like Marley's ghost. But he is lively and human enough assoon as the subject of Egyptian antiquities is broached."

  "Lively, but not human. He is always, to me, quite unhuman. Even when heis most interested, and even enthusiastic, he is a mere personificationof knowledge. Nature ought to have furnished him with an ibis' head likeTahuti; then he would have looked his part."

  "He would have made a rare sensation in Lincoln's Inn if she had," saidI; and we both laughed heartily at the imaginary picture of TahutiJellicoe, slender-beaked and top-hatted, going about his business inLincoln'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 greyeyes bent dreamily on the face that looked out at us. I watched her withreverent admiration. How charming she looked as she stood with hersweet, grave face turned so earnestly to the object of her mysticalaffection! 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 hersince 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-facedwoman, weary, solemn, enigmatic, almost gloomy, with a bitter, ironichumour and a bearing distant and cold. Now she was only maidenly andsweet; tinged, it is true, with a certain seriousness, but frank andgracious and wholly lovable.

  Could the change be due to our growing friendship? As I asked myself thequestion, my heart leaped with a new-born hope. I yearned to tell herall that she was to me--all that I hoped we might be to one another inthe 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 lookedfrankly into mine. "I was wondering," said she, "if he was jealous of mynew 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. Ihave never had a man-friend before--except my father--and no reallyintimate friend at all. And I was very lonely in those days, after ourtroubles had befallen. I am naturally solitary, but still, I am only agirl; I am not a philosopher. So when I felt very lonely, I used to comehere and look at Artemidorus and make believe that he knew all thesadness 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 thisbeautiful memorial tells us; and it was wise and good of you to sweetenthe bitterness of your life with the fragrance of this human love thatblossoms in the dust after the lapse of centuries. No, you were notsilly, and Artemidorus is not jealous of your new friend."

  "Are you sure?" She still smiled as she asked the question, but herglance was soft--almost tender--and there was a note of whimsicalanxiety in her voice.

  "Quite sure. I give you my confident assurance."

  She laughed gaily. "Then," said she, "I am satisfied, for I am sure youknow. But here is a mighty telepathist who can read the thoughts even ofa 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 youremember?"

  "Yes, I remember," she answered, softly. "It was when you were sosympathetic with my foolish whim that I felt we were really friends."

  "And I, when you confided your pretty fancy to me, thanked you for thegift 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, andcast down her eyes. Then, after a few moments' almost embarrassedsilence, as if to bring our talk back to a less emotional plane, shesaid:

  "Do you notice the curious way in which this memorial divides itself upinto 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 partthat is expressive or emotional. You notice that the general design andscheme of decoration, although really Greek in feeling, follows rigidlythe Egyptian conventions. But the portrait is entirely in the Greekmanner, and when they came to that pathetic farewell, it had to bespoken in their own tongue, written in their own familiar characters."

  "Yes. I have noticed that and admired the taste with which they havekept the inscription so inconspicuous as not to clash with thedecoration. An obtrusive inscription in Greek characters would havespoiled the consistency of the whole scheme."

  "Yes, it would." She assented absently as if she were thinking ofsomething else, and once more gazed thoughtfully at the mummy. I watchedher with deep content: noted the lovely contour of her cheek, the softmasses of hair that strayed away so gracefully from her brow, andthought 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 arather silly, childish sort of make-believe, and I wouldn't have toldanyone else for the world; not even my father. How did I know that youwould sympathise and understand?"

  She asked the question in all simplicity with her serious, grey eyeslooking 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 wasbecause 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 deathlypale. And now she looked at me wildly, almost with terror.

  "Have I shocked you, Ruth, dearest?" I exclaimed penitently, "have Ispoken too soon? If I have, forgive me. But I had to tell you. I havebeen eating my heart out for love of you for I don't know how long. Ithink I have loved you from the first day we met. Perhaps I shouldn'thave spoken yet, but, Ruth, dear, if you only knew what a sweet girl youare, you wouldn't blame me."

  "I don't blame you," she said, almost in a whisper; "I blame myself. Ihave 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 saywhat you want me to say. We can never be anything more to one anotherthan friends."

  A cold hand seemed to grasp my heart--a horrible fear that I had lostall that I cared for--all that made life desirable.

  "Why can't we?" I asked. "Do you mean that--that the gods have beengracious to some other man?"

  "No, no," she answered, hastily--almost indignantly, "of course I don'tmean that."

  "Then it is only that you don't love me yet. Of course you don't. Whyshould you? But you will, dear, some day. And I will wait patientlyuntil that day comes and not trouble you with entreaties. I will waitfor you as Jacob waited for Rachel; and as the long years seemed to himbut as a few days because of the love he bore her, so it shall be withme, if only you will not send me away quite without hope."

  She was looking down, white-faced, with a hardening of the lips as ifshe were in bodily pain. "You don't understand," she whispered. "Itcan'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 becomepossible some day? Can it not be made possible? I can wait, but I can'tgive you up. Is there no chance whatever that this obstacle may beremoved?"

  "Very little, I fear. Hardly any. No, Paul; it is hopeless, and I can'tbear to talk about it. Let me go now. Let us say good-bye here and seeone another no more for a while. Perhaps we may be friends again someday--when you have forgiven me."

  "Forgiven you, dearest!" I exclaimed. "There is nothing to forgive. Andwe are friends, Ruth. Whatever happens, you are the dearest friend Ihave on earth, or can ever have."

  "Thank you, Paul," she said faintly. "You are very good to me. But letme go, please. I must go. I must be alone."

  She held out a trembling hand, and, as I took it, I was shocked to seehow 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 wantto be alone. Good-bye!"

  "Before I let you go, Ruth--if you must go--I must have a solemn promisefrom you."

  Her sad grey eyes met mine and her lips quivered with an unspokenquestion.

  "You must promise me," I went on, "that if ever this barrier that partsus should be removed, you will let me know instantly. Remember that Ilove you always, and that I am waiting for you always on this side ofthe 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 againand was gone; and, as I gazed at the empty doorway through which she hadpassed, I caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass case on thelanding, 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 headquickly; and yet I was conscious of a certain selfish satisfaction inthe sweet sympathy that her grief bespoke.

  But now that she was gone a horrible sense of desolation descended onme. Only now, by the consciousness of irreparable loss, did I begin torealise the meaning of this passion of love that had stolen unawaresinto my life. How it had glorified the present and spread a glamour ofdelight over the dimly considered future: how all pleasures and desires,all hopes and ambitions, had converged upon it as a focus; how it hadstood out as the one great reality behind which the other circumstancesof life were as a background, shimmering, half seen, immaterial, andunreal. And now it was gone--lost, as it seemed, beyond hope; and thatwhich was left to me was but the empty frame from which the picture hadvanished.

  I have no idea how long I stood rooted to the spot where she had leftme, wrapped in a dull consciousness of pain, immersed in a half-numbreverie. Recent events flitted, dream-like, through my mind; our happylabours in the reading-room; our first visit to the Museum; and thispresent 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 weremostly empty that day--gazed inquisitively at my motionless figure, andwent their way. And still the dull, intolerable ache in my breast wenton, 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 asthough 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 asubtle consolation, like the faint scent of old rose leaves, seemed toexhale from that friendly face that had looked on the birth of myhappiness and had seen it wither and fade. I turned away, at last, witha silent farewell; and when I looked back, he seemed to speed me on myway with gentle valediction.