Part 23 (2/2)
”Niece, you do not know what you say,” remarked Lady Mabel, turning herself about.
”Allow me, my lady,” said the parson. ”What I have said is fact, is it not?”
”Most certainly,” replied all. Lady Mabel said: ”I suppose it is.”
”Then,” pursued the parson, ”the situation is this: Have you secured the dramatisation of your novel?”
”I never gave it a thought,” said Joseph.
”In that case, as there is no prospect of our being so accommodated, the position is this: We shall have to haunt you night and day, mainly at night, till you have accommodated us with bodies; we cannot remain as phantom creations of a highly imaginative soul such as is yours, Mr.
Leveridge. If you have your rights, so have we. And we insist on ours, and will insist till we are satisfied.”
At once all vanished.
Joseph Leveridge felt that he had got himself into a worse hobble than before. From his former difficulties he had escaped by flight. But there was, he feared, no flying from these seven impatient creations all clamouring for bodies, and to provide them with such was beyond his powers. All his delight in the publication of his new novel was spent.
It had brought with it care and perplexity.
He went to bed.
During the night, he was troubled with his characters; they peeped in at him. Poppy got a peac.o.c.k's feather and tickled his nose just as he was dropping asleep. ”You bounder!” she said; ”I shall give you no peace till you have settled me into a body--but oh! get me on to the stage if you can.”
”Poppy, come away,” called Lady Mabel. ”Don't be improper. Mr. Leveridge will do his best. I want a body quite as much as do you, but I know how to ask for it properly.”
”And I,” said the parson, ”should like to have mine before Easter, but have one I must.”
Mr. Leveridge's state now was worse than the first. One or other of his creatures was ever watching him. His every movement was spied on. There was no escaping their vigilance. Sometimes they attended him in groups of two or three; sometimes they were all around him.
At meals not one was missing, and they eyed every mouthful of his food as he raised it to his lips. His mother saw nothing--the creations were invisible to all eyes save those of their creator.
If he went out for a country walk, they trotted forth with him, some before, looking round at every turn to see which way he purposed going, some following. Poppy and the skittish widow managed to attach themselves to him, one on each side. ”I hate that little woman,” said Poppy. ”Why did you call her into being?”
[Ill.u.s.tration: IF HE WENT OUT FOR A WALK THEY TROTTED FORTH WITH HIM, SOME BEFORE, SOME FOLLOWING.]
”I never dreamed that things would come to this pa.s.s.”
”I am convinced, creator dear, that there is a vein of wickedness in your composition, or you would never have imagined such a minx, good and amiable and b.u.t.ter-won't-melt-in-your-mouth though you may look. And there must be a frolicsome devil in your heart, or I should never have become.”
”Indeed, Poppy, I am very glad that I gave you being. But one may have too much even of a good thing, and there are moments when I could dispense with your presence.”
”I know, when you want to carry on with the widow. She is always casting sheep's eyes at you.”
”But, Poppy, you forget my hero, whom I created on purpose for you.”
”All my attention is now engrossed in you, and will be till you provide me with a body.”
When Leveridge was in his room reading, if he raised his eyes from his book they met the stare of one of his characters. If he went up to his bedroom, he was followed. If he sat with his mother, one kept guard.
This was become so intolerable, that one evening he protested to the stockbroker, who was then in attendance. ”Do, I entreat you, leave me to myself. You treat me as if I were a lunatic and about to commit _felo de se_, and you were my warders.”
”We watch you, sir,” said the stockbroker, ”in our own interest. We cannot suffer you to give us the slip. We are all expectant and impatient for the completion of what you have begun.”
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