“Allow me!” a deep hollow stage voice.
She halted surprised. He was close by her side, his hat replaced with a flourishing movement that released from his person the thick odour of stale smoke, the permanent smell of the ground floor. The grotesque figure, now crouching, all dilapidated cape and battered sombrero, over the keyhole, was the owner of the windowful of stone and marble.
“Enter madam,” he declaimed, flinging open the door. Thanking him, she moved into the passage and was going on towards the stairs, but the hollow tones broke forth again, reverberating in the narrow space made dark by the closing of the door:
“I am greatly honoured,” he was saying, “by this event.”
She turned perforce. He was again profoundly bowing. She could just discern the dim outlines, the cape winged out by his deep obsequiousness.
“You will, I trust,” the voice was meditative, suggesting words ahead to be delivered with care: “not deem me intrewsive in expressing in your gracious presence,” indeed, Miriam felt, her presence was gracious compared to this exhalation of concentrated odours stifling and making her long to be away and up the stairs, “my respect and furthermore the great and happy en’ancement arriving upon this house by your coming, with your lady friend, also most gracious, to abide beneath the roof that shelters my spouse and myself.”
“We like being here,” said Miriam, politely, smiling into the darkness.
“Lady, I thank you for your graciousness.”
“Not at all,” she said, and felt him silent for an instant before an evidently unexpected lapse from gracious ladyhood.
This was all most dreadful. His tone had been deep and broken; touching. Behind his bombast was something genuine, making high demands upon her, including her with Miss Holland, crowning her as a châtelaine. She had undeceived him, spoken brusquely, revealed her different state.
“I am glad,” she added quickly, in Miss Holland’s most stately manner, reflecting that a gracious aloofness was an excellent protection, “that you find us pleasant neighbours.”
“More than that,” came the low broken voice, and her eyes, used now to the dim light, saw that he bowed more deeply than ever. “No poor words of mine could avail to express the felicity experienced in the presence of beauty and graciousness. I would have you to know:” he reared his head and spoke upwards to the staircase, “that I am a repairer of statoos.”
Ah, here was the secret, the real origin of the attack. But it was interesting. A queer trade.
“You have made all those things in your window,” she said to encourage him, and standing a little nearer to the stairs composed herself to endure and listen.
“I am a repairer of statoos. But let not that mislead you. These hands,” he upheld and waved them in the air, “recall to pristine loveliness only the classic. In preference, the Greek.” He was breathing quickly, angrily. Poor man, without an audience. In his whole circumstances, no audience. Her interest in his work changed to a desire to give him freedom from minding.
“It would be dreadful to waste your time repairing rubbish,” she said quickly and added, suddenly feeling that he was strong enough for an attempted truth, “only people sometimes love rubbish very much. For them it is not rubbish.”
“Let them love their rubbish, gracious lady, let them love—mistake me not. I have no quarrel with love. The love of the Saviour, the greatest of all lovers, redeems the statoo badly made to honour it. But not to Perrance, not to Perrance let them come if their rubbish be broken. The classical, the Greek, that alone of the work of man’s hands can command the love of Perrance.
“So great a love that he has,” he drew a deep breath, “it may surprise you but it is nevertheless trew, he has mastered the characters of the Greek tongue itself.”
“Greek is very difficult,” said Miriam.
“He can, in the rendering of an account for ’Ermes repaired, equally as well use the original Greek.” He threw open the door leading to his little shop, but with no air of inviting her to enter. He wanted to provide a clearer light for her contemplation of the marvel he represented?
The light revealed weakness. Large watery eyes fierce with self-conceit, grown old in unchallenged self-conceit. An angry mouth, tremulous beneath branching buccaneer moustachios. He was waiting for responsive wonder, ready the moment it should be spoken to break forth again. His violence calmed her pity. He was proof against the whole world. Determined to escape she smiled approval and remarked in the voice of departure on the amount of industry represented by the house as a whole.
“Stay,” he cried, “yet one moment,” and disappeared into the shop, to return in an instant with some small object clasped, hidden by his cape, to his breast.
“I have here,” he patted his breast with a free hand, “a small work, a work of my own hands, dedicated as is seeming and suitable, to womankind. Deign, gracious lady, to accept the same as a token of gratitude and esteem for your presence under this roof.” With a deft movement he flung back the cape and presented the hidden object. It was the alabaster finger.
“Oh, no!” Miriam cried. “You must not give me that.” But he was embarrassed, holding it forth, his head bent, his voice once more low and broken.
“Take, take,” he said, “I will not sell it and I shall find no recipient more worthy. Take, I beg you.”
The heavy little block came into her hands. She gazed at it murmuring appreciations, trying to thank him in the way he wanted to be thanked. His eloquence was at an end. He bowed silently at each phrase, saying only, when at last she turned to go, “Lady, I thank you.”
He had said his say.
But what of the future chance meetings? What could she
