The garden of resurrection

by E. Temple Thurston

I don't know why it should have struck me so strangely that morning, for I am used to it by now. I have known it so long. In any case, it is not a thing to talk about. You have it there in that nursery maid's eyes. I am an ugly devil, not even with that ugliness which pleads a charm to many a woman's heart. I am an ugly devil, and that is all there is about it. The only creatures who have ever gazed at me as though I were the image of God were my mother and my dog. The one is dead. I have only to stretch down my hand from my chair and the other will gaze at me in such fashion now. He sat upon a chair next to me that morning and, as I paid his penny to the collector, he gave me a glance from his brown eyes which I chose to take for gratitude. He thanked me—why not? He had not got any pennies with him. There are times when I am that way myself.

Now, when the nursery maid's eyes had passed me over, they looked at Dandy and her whole expression changed. I caught the sign of friendliness, the gentle come-hitherly glance which I know is the first step in those little adventures leading to chance acquaintanceship. For that look he would have spoken to her had he been a man—by reason of that look, had he been a man, she would have answered him. As it was, only his tail wagged; but she did not see that. And so she passed on while Dandy and I sat gazing after her.

I will not depart into reasons as to why I called him Dandy. This incident alone will serve to tell you why. He was a dandy and so much better-looking than I, wherefore I gave him that name—an unnecessary yet unconscious criticism of myself.

It was a moment or two after this that my electrician strolled by and I began to envy him. Dandy and I both turned our heads to watch him out of sight, and then it was that I coveted most of all those things which were his. For this was what happened. When she had reached the end of the path, had stood a moment to watch the horses as they turned and started their canter once more down the Row, the little nursery maid wheeled round her pram and began retracing her steps.

"Dandy," said I, and his eyes shot round to mine, "they're going to meet."

We watched them closely as they passed.

"I wonder how she looked at him," I muttered. "If he turns, we shall see. Will he turn? Will he turn?"

Dandy's tail wagged, and he turned.

But that was not all; for, as he looked over his shoulder, the little nursery maid whipped round as well, and in the electrician's eyes I saw a smile. When then she turned her head about, I saw a smile there too. Twice they looked back over their shoulders, after which the electrician's steps grew slow. I settled myself back in my chair, so that they should not guess I had seen; for I was really interested by this. The premises of that firm in Bond Street were getting further away with every step he took in their direction. Another hesitating stride or two and they had vanished out of sight altogether. He had turned and was coming back.

For the third time the little nursery maid looked over her shoulder. Oh, you should not say she was leading him on. Such a thought as that never enters a woman's head. She is only curious to see what will happen. When, for instance, as in such a case as this, a woman looks back at you when you have passed, it is not to encourage you to look back at her, it is only to see if you are. But no woman will ever persuade a man to learn that; what is more, no woman would ever be so foolish as to try. It is a man's mistaken ideas about women—or it is love, if you like that better—which makes the world go round.