CHAPTER IX
"THE WILDERNESS," WIMBLEDON COMMON
The little estate on Wimbledon Common, which had been in ProfessorMarmion's family for three generations, was called "The Wilderness." Thehouse was of distinctly composite structure. Tradition said that it hadbeen a royal hunting lodge in the days when Barnes and Putney andWimbledon were tiny hamlets and the Thames flowed silver-clear through avast, wild region of forest and gorse and heather, and the ancestors ofthe deer in Richmond Park browsed in the shade of ancient oaks and elmsand beeches, and antler-crowned monarchs sent their hoarse challengesbellowing across the open spaces which separated their jealously guardeddomains.
Generation by generation it had grown with the wealth and importance ofits owners, as befits a house that is really a home and not merely aplace to live in, until it had become a quaint medley of various stylesof architecture from the Elizabethan to the later Georgian. Thus it hadcome to possess a charm that was all its own, a charm that can neverbelong to a house that has only been built, and has not grown. Itsinterior was an embodiment in stone and oak and plaster of cosy comfortand dignified repose, and, though it contained every "modernimprovement," all was in such perfect taste and harmony that even theelectric light might have been installed in the days of the first James.
The Professor inhabited the northern wing, reputed to have been theoriginal lodge in which kings and queens and great soldiers andstatesmen had held revel after the chase, and tradition had endowed itwith a quite authentic ghost: which was that of a fair maiden who hadbeen decoyed thither to become the victim of royal passion, and who,strangely enough, poisoned herself in her despair, instead of gettingherself made a duchess and founding the honours of a noble family on herown dishonour.
Although, as I have said, quite authentic, for the Professor had seenher so often that he had come to regard her with respectful friendship,the Lady Alicia was not quite an orthodox ghost. She did not come atmidnight and wail in distressing fashion over the scene of her sad andshameful death. She seemed to come when and where she listed, whether inthe glimpses of the moon or the full sunlight of mid-day. She neverpassed beyond the limits of the old lodge, and never broke the silenceof her coming and goings. None of the present inhabitants of "TheWilderness" had seen her save the Professor, but Nitocris had oftenshivered with a sudden chill when she chanced to be in her invisiblepresence, and at such times she would often say to her father:
"There is something cold in the room, Dad. I suppose your friend theLady Alicia is paying you a visit. I _do_ wish she would allow me tomake her acquaintance."
And to this he would sometimes reply with perfect gravity:
"Yes, she has just come in: she is standing by the window yonder." Andthis had happened so often that Nitocris, like her father, had come toregard the wraith, or astral body, as the Professor deemed it, of theunhappy lady almost as a member of the family. Of course, after he hadpassed the border into the realm of N4, Franklin Marmion speedily cameto look upon her visits as the merest commonplaces.
But as the unhappy Lady Alicia will have no part to play in the actionof this narrative, her little story must be accepted as a perhapsexcusable digression.
There were about four acres of comfortably wooded land about the house,of which nearly an acre had formed the pleasaunce of the old lodge. Thiswas now a beautifully-kept modern garden, with a broad, gently-slopinglawn, whose turf had been growing more and more velvety year by year forover three centuries, and divided from it by a low box-hedge wasanother, levelled up and devoted to tennis and new-style croquet. TheOld Lawn, as it was called, sloped away from a broad verandah which ranthe whole length of the central wing and formed the approach to the bigdrawing-room and dining-room, and a cosy breakfast-room of earlyGeorgian style, and these, with her study and "snuggery" and bedroom onthe next floor, formed the peculiar domain of Miss Nitocris.
She and the Professor were just sitting down to an early breakfast onthe morning of the garden-party, which had been arranged for the day butone after the arrival of the Huysmans, when the post came in. There werea good many letters for both, for each had many interests in life. TheProfessor only ran his eye over the envelopes and then put the bundleaside for consideration in the solitude of his own den. Nitocris did thesame, picked one out and left the others for similar treatment after shehad interviewed the cook about lunch and refreshments for the afternoon,and the butler on the subject of cooling drinks, for it promised to be aperfect English day in June--which is, of course, the most delicious daythat you may find under any skies between the Poles.
She opened the one she had selected and skimmed its contents. Then hereyelids lifted, and she said:
"Oh!"
"What is the matter, Niti?" asked her father, looking up from hiscutlet. "Nothing gone wrong with your arrangements, I hope."
"Oh dear, no," she replied, with something like exultation in her voice,"quite the reverse, Dad. This is from Brenda, and Brenda is an angeldisguised in petticoats and picture hats. Listen."
Then she began to read:
"MY DEAREST NITI,--I am going to take what I'm afraid English people would think a great liberty. The trouble is this: When the Professor (mine, I mean) was making his tour of the Russian Universities two years ago, he received a great deal of courtesy and help from no less a person than the celebrated Prince Oscar Oscarovitch--the modern Skobeleff, you know--who was very interested in Poppa's work, and took a lot of trouble to smooth things out for him. Well, the Prince, as of course you know, is in London now. He called yesterday, and when I mentioned your party, he said he was very sorry he had not the honour of your father's acquaintance as well as mine. The grammar's a bit wrong there, but you know what I mean. That, of course, meant that he wants to come; and, to be candid, I should like to bring him, for even an American girl here doesn't always get a Prince, and a famous man as well, to take around, so, as the time is so short, may we include him in our party? If you have forgiven me and are going to say 'yes,' I must tell you that the Prince would like to compensate for his intrusion--that's the way he puts it--by helping entertain your guests. It seems that he has met with a man who can work miracles, an Egyptian----"
At this point Professor Marmion looked up again suddenly with an almostimperceptible start, and, for the first time, took an interest in MissHuysman's letter.
"----named Phadrig. The Prince assures me that he is not a conjurer in the professional sense, and would be deeply insulted to be called one; also that no amount of money would induce him to give a display of his powers just _for_ money. He will come to-day, if you like, and do wonderful things, which, from what the Prince says, will astonish and perhaps frighten us a bit, but only because the Prince once saved his life and got him out of a very bad place he had got into with a Turkish Pascha. Now, that is my little story. Please 'phone me as soon as you can so that I can let the Prince know. It will be just too sweet of you and the Professor to say 'yes.'
--Your devoted chum, BRENDA."
"Well, Dad," she asked, as she put the letter down, "what do you say?"
"Just what you want to say, my dear Niti," he replied, carefullyspreading some marmalade on a triangle of toast "Personally, I mustconfess that I should rather like to see some of this so-calledmagician's alleged magic. I know that some of these fellows areextraordinarily clever, and I have no doubt that he will show ussomething interesting, if you care to see it."
"Then that settles it," said Nitocris, rising; "I will go and ring upthe Savoy at once. Perhaps the Egyptian gentleman might be able to helpyou with that Forty-Seventh Proposition problem of Professor Hartley's."
"Perhaps," answered Franklin Marmion drily, and went on with hisbreakfast.
The Mummy and Miss Nitocris: A Phantasy of the Fourth Dimension Page 10