Part 35 (1/2)
”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 friends.h.i.+p 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 princ.i.p.al 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 impa.s.sivity, 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 dispa.s.sionate and impersonal.”
”Yes, he is astonis.h.i.+ngly 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 friends.h.i.+p? 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.