“Yes,” said Andrew, “I realize that; and you may take it that I shall keep out of the way of cricket-balls in the future. Can I see what it is like, now?”
“You can,” replied the Professor, who still showed a tendency to dodge about from side to side of the chair and take ecstatic glances at the new nose from various points of view. “I am going to show it to you this instant.”
As he spoke, he wheeled away the swivel table, and in its place wheeled up an appliance somewhat like a reading-stand with a largish mirror in the position usually’ occupied by the book-rest. Deliberately, he trundled it up to the side of the chair, arranged the mirror at exactly the correct angle, and then swung the brass arm round so as to bring the glass precisely opposite the patient’s face. “Now,” said he triumphantly, “tell me what you think of the result.”
CHAPTER V
Black Magic
In response to the Professor’s invitation, Andrew sat up in the chair and looked into the mirror. But, as his eyes were still full of water, he got but a blurred impression of what was before him. Even so, he was aware that the face which confronted him was not the face to which he had of late years become accustomed—the face of the “man with the remarkably deformed nose.”
He took out his handkerchief and carefully and thoroughly wiped away the still-exuding tears, while the Professor hovered around, watching him in a transport of delighted expectancy. When he had dried his eyes as completely as was possible in the circumstances, he looked again into the mirror. And then he sustained yet another shock. It is impossible to guess what he had expected—if he had expected anything. But most assuredly he had not expected what he saw. For the face that looked out at him from the mirror was the face of his cousin Ronald.
He stared at it in blank amazement with a bewildered sense of being in a dream, or suffering some sort of hallucination, or being the subject of some kind of wizardry or enchantment. And the Professor, watching him eagerly, rubbed his hands and smiled.
The thing was astounding, incredible. It was no mere resemblance or similarity. The face was Ronald’s face, Doubtless, if Ronald had been there to furnish a comparison, some difference might have been discoverable. But Andrew could perceive none; and when he moved his head from side to side, exhibiting the half-profile with a view of the Roman nose, the effect was even more impressive. For that was the view of Ronald’s face that he had always found most striking and characteristic.
The Professor, watching him with an expectant smile, noted his astonishment and was deeply gratified. Well might the patient be astonished at the miracle that had been wrought in the space of a few minutes. But his kindly soul yearned for something more than astonishment; and the joy that he had looked for did not seem to be there. “Well,” he asked, at length, “what do you think of it? Will it do?”
Andrew pulled himself together with an effort and came back to the realities of the situation. “I beg your pardon,” said he; “but I was so amazed at the result of your skill that I could find no words to thank you. I can’t even now. When I look into the mirror, I can’t believe my eyes.”
“Your eyes are all right,” said the Professor, “or will be when they have done watering. Meanwhile, you can trust mine; and I tell you that you have got a nose that any man might be proud of. And, if you don’t mind me saying so—I’m talking business, not paying compliments—you are an uncommonly good-looking young man.”
The compliment, which his own eyesight confirmed, fell pleasantly on Andrew’s ears even in the midst of his confusion. Why not? His repulsive ugliness had been the haunting trouble of his later life, and he had known the satisfaction of conscious good looks in the golden past. It was pleasant to realize that he would have no more to sneak about in spectacles and hide himself from the common gaze. But, furthermore, and especially, the change assured him that his main purpose was achieved. The deadly peril that had encompassed him was dissipated. He was saved. That woman might now shout from the housetops her vivid description of the murderer. The more vivid and exact it was, the less would it apply to him. “The man with the remarkably deformed nose” had ceased to be. The police might search for him as they pleased; it was no concern of Andrew’s. “Naturally, I don’t mind your saying so,” he replied, “since the good looks—which I can see for myself—are your own creation. I only wish I could find words to thank you sufficiently. You can hardly imagine the misery of going about, an object of pity and disgust to every person whom one may meet, and the relief of having that disfigurement removed. I assure you that I am more grateful than I can tell you; and I do think it most generous of you to have put aside your own urgent affairs to render me this great service.”
“Not in the least,” said the Professor. “It has been a delight to me to exercise my art to such excellent purpose. We all like to succeed in what we try to do, and I feel that I have had a great success tonight, and I don’t mind admitting that I’m mighty pleased with myself.”
A less appreciative listener than Andrew might have felt a slight suspicion that the brilliant success was a somewhat novel experience for the Professor. But as the splendour of the achievement dawned on him by degrees and he realized its beneficent consequences, Andrew had no room in his mind for anything but gratitude. “You have reason to be,” he replied. “It must be a glorious thing to wield the power to change for the better the whole course of a fellow creature’s life. I shall be your debtor to my dying day, and I shall never forget what I owe you. Which reminds me that, apart from the debt of gratitude, which I can never repay, I am in your debt in a pecuniary sense. May I ask what the amount is? I know in advance that whatever your fee is, it is quite inadequate to the value of the benefit bestowed.”
Even as he uttered the words, he experienced a sudden pang of alarm. For in that moment he remembered that he was not wearing his own clothes. He had not yet searched the pockets of the suit that he had put on in error, but, as they were those of his thriftless and chronically impecunious cousin, it was quite conceivable that they might not contain the wherewith for him to pay even a modest fee. Hurriedly, he thrust his hand into the breast pocket of the coat and brought out the small wallet that he felt there. When he opened it he discovered, to his intense relief, that it contained two pound notes. They might not be enough, but they would be better than nothing.
As a matter of fact, they were more than enough; for the Professor, glancing at the wallet and possibly noting its scanty contents, held up his hand. “Put it away, sonny,” said he. “There isn’t any fee. It has been a labour of love, and I am not going to spoil it for myself by taking money for it. Let me have the luxury of giving you a free and willing service.”
Andrew was disposed to demur, but the Professor would listen to no protests, and, as he was obviously in earnest, Andrew refrained from pressing him any further. “Very well,” said he. “I am so much in your debt that a little more makes no difference. But it would give me very great pleasure if you would come as my guest and let us celebrate your triumph and my resurrection with a little dinner—or perhaps we might call it supper. You won’t refuse me, will you?”
The Professor reflected, with a gloating eye still fixed on his masterpiece. “I’d enjoy a little celebration,” he said, at length, “if only for the pleasure of looking at you. But it will have to be a short one as far as I am concerned, for I still have my packing to finish. Where did you propose to dine?”
“I leave that to you,” replied Andrew, “as you probably know the town better than I do.”
The Professor knew of a respectable Italian cafe in the High Street close by; and, when he had doffed his apron, turned down his shirt-sleeves and put on a coat and hat, they went forth together, the guest leading the way and the host submitting to be led and secretly hoping that the cafe would not turn out to be the one at which he had lunched with Ronald. Not that it mattered much, since he had then been wearing his spectacles. But he was still under the influence of the police bill and accordingly anxious
to avoid any connection with the man who was “wanted.”
It was not the same restaurant, but a more modest establishment of the familiar Italian type. It resembled the other, however, in one respect; its walls were lined with large mirrors, to the evident satisfaction of Professor Booley, who was thus enabled to inspect his masterpiece from several points of view; which he did with such persistence that he appeared to consume his food by a mere mechanical and half-conscious act of ingestion.
To Andrew that dinner was a most uncanny experience. His mind was still in a whirl of confusion from the crowding events and the repeated shocks that he had sustained, and, above all, from the glimpse of his cousin’s face looking out at him from the mirror. He had still the feeling of being in a dream or under some sort of spell of enchantment, of moving in a world of unrealities. The change that had been wrought in him had been too sudden and profound for complete realization. In the space of less than an hour he had become a different person. It was no mere matter of disguise. He was actually a different person. The Andrew Barton who had set forth from Fairfield that morning, had ceased to exist. In his place had been born an entirely new individual; and that individual was himself. It is not unnatural that an idea so opposed to all human experience should have been difficult to accept as a thing that had actually happened. It was not only amazing. It was incredible.
The sense of being in a dream or under some hallucination was intensified by the immediate circumstances. As he sat at the table he had a wall-mirror on either hand. By turning his head slightly in either direction, he was able to observe his cousin Ronald dining with Professor Booley. It was extremely uncanny. The first time he caught sight of that familiar figure, he started violently and looked away only to find that same apparition presented to his view in the mirror at his other hand. By degrees, however, his nervous tension relaxed and his mind became less confused, under the reviving influence of food and drink. He had, in fact, been badly in need of refreshment after his long walk, together with the repeated mental shocks finishing up with the severe pain of the operation; and though the latter had now subsided to a dull ache and a tenderness which made mastication slightly uncomfortable, he found distinct physical satisfaction in disposing of the carefully chosen dishes and the contents of a small bottle of claret.
He was but half-way through his meal when the Professor looked at his watch and stood up. “Don’t let me disturb you,” said he. “Make a good dinner and don’t eat too fast. But I must run away now and finish my packing. I am sorry that you did not come to me sooner, so that I could have seen a bit more of you. But I’m mighty glad that you came at last. I shall look back on this as a red-letter day. You’ve given me the greatest opportunity I ever had. No; don’t get up. Finish your dinner quietly, and, as I told you before, be careful how you handle that nose.”
The two men shook hands heartily, and, after cordial expressions of mutual good will, said a final “goodbye,” when the Professor bustled away, pausing only for an instant at the door for a last fond look at his masterpiece.
When he had gone, Andrew resumed his attack on the food with a growing sense of bodily well-being. He even ordered a coffee and liqueur, and, while these were being obtained, he stood up and stepped over to the mirror to view himself at close quarters; to the indulgent amusement of the elderly waiter, who wrote him down a vain young dog—but not without some excuse for his vanity.
He gazed long and earnestly at the tall handsome man who looked out at him from the mirror. But his original impression remained unshaken. The man was Ronald—and yet the man was himself. Well as he knew his cousin, he could see in the reflection not a single appreciable point of difference. He and Ronald had been as like as twins, excepting for their differently shaped noses. And now the wizardry of Professor Booley had extinguished even that difference.
He went back to his seat, and, as he sipped his coffee and the liqueur, lit one of Ronald’s cigarettes and set himself to consider the amazing situation, and his own course of action whereby to meet it. And, even then, he began to have some dawning perception of the complications that this situation might involve. But he was far from perceiving that the control of his future had passed out of his hands; that events were already shepherding him irresistibly in a particular direction without regard to his inclinations or desires. It was only by degrees, as he began to make his plans, that he realized how little choice he had; how completely he had become the creature of circumstance.
The first shock of discovery came to him when he essayed to settle his immediate proceedings. He had looked out the trains on the previous day and he knew that there was a train leaving Crompton at half-past nine. That would get him home about eleven. By that time Molly would have gone to bed, and, as he had no latch-key, he would have to knock her up. But the consideration that he had no latch-key—that his latch-key was in the clothes which were now, perhaps, washing about in the sea—brought him up against the realities of the situation. Suddenly, he realized that the Andrew who would appear at his door was not the Andrew who had left it in the morning. The figure that faced him in the mirror was the figure that would face Molly at the door. He would have to explain what had happened. But as the thought came to him, he put it away. The thing was impossible, absurd. Molly was not an intellectual woman, but she had a massive common sense. How would she react to the amazing story that he had to tell? He could not have a moment’s doubt. She would see, standing on the door-step, a man who, to all outward seeming, was cousin Ronald. She would hear him explain that he was her husband, strangely metamorphosed; that, having started for London, he had returned from Crompton; that he had, in error, put on another man’s clothes, and that he had, in the course of a few hours, grown a new nose. Whether she would ever listen to such a statement was an open question; but it was quite certain that she would not allow him to enter the house at eleven o’clock at night.
Such being the case, it was obviously useless to think of going home that night. He would have to stay at Crompton; and he would have to make some arrangements for the night’s lodging. As he debated this question, it suddenly occurred to him that Ronald’s lodgings were available. He would have to go there to retrieve his attache case; for that case contained a hundred pounds, and he began to perceive that he might want that hundred pounds rather badly in the course of the next few days. He felt in his pocket for the latch-key which he had seen Ronald use, and, having found it, took it out, inspected it curiously and returned it. But, simple as it seemed to enter this house and take his place as the tenant, he viewed the project a little apprehensively and considered it at some length. And all the time, as he sat there considering, the clock of Destiny was ticking on; the clock which no man can put back.
At last, when he had screwed up his courage to the sticking point, he beckoned to the waiter, and, having paid his bill, took up his hat and went out. He found his way easily back to Barleymow Street, and, entering that secluded thoroughfare, walked briskly towards the house. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he was not certain as to which rooms his cousin had occupied. When Ronald had run in with the attache case, he had been absent for but a few moments, and Andrew, looking in at the ground floor window, had thought that he saw someone moving within. But he was not quite certain; and the doubt gave him pause. It would be very awkward if he let himself into the house and then was unable to find his rooms.
He slowed down his pace to a saunter while he turned the problem over in his mind. As he passed Number 16 on the opposite side of the street, he looked across and noted a light moving about in a first-floor window. Otherwise, the house was in darkness. Still he could not bring himself to make the plunge; and, as he wandered on irresolutely, he came to the archway leading to the police station. The lamp still threw its light on the portentous bill, and he was moved, partly by curiosity and partly by a certain bravado, to stop and read it. He could do so now with perfect safety.
At this moment three men issued forth from the police station, one of
whom looked like a fisherman while the other two were policemen; and the latter carried between them a folded stretcher. They advanced together and came out of the archway, when the two stretcher-bearers halted, opened the stretcher, fixed its struts and deposited it on the pavement. Then the three men turned and looked up the street. “They ought to be here in a minute or two,” said the fisherman. “I left ’em coming into the High Street.” He stared into the gloom of the ill-lighted street for a few more seconds and then announced: “I think I hears ’em coming. Yes, here they are.”
As he spoke, Andrew became aware of a faint rumbling in the distance, which suddenly grew more distinct as a dark object accompanied by a moving light appeared at the end of the street. With a sudden suspicion as to what that dark object might be, Andrew turned away from the archway and began to saunter up the street. Very soon the dark shape resolved itself into a two-wheeled farm cart, of which the horse was being led by a labourer, while two men, apparently fishermen, one of whom carried a ship’s anchor-light, walked at the side.
As the rather funereal procession passed him, Andrew looked at it with a strangely detached interest. He could not see what was in the cart, but a few wisps of sea-wrack that clung to the spokes of the wheel told him that it was a seaweed-cart; on which, he turned once more and slowly retraced his steps.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 169
