Who could have believed that an old and dirty thing which she had heard even Uncle Si describe as a daub, would turn out to be a fortune? Other fortunes were here to gaze upon, but why they were so precious would always be for June a mystery of mysteries. Even with William’s help it was a subject on which she could never be really wise. She had now a great desire to reach out after Culture; the “Mill on the Floss” was most stimulating to the mind; but just now she felt, in Blackhampton phrase, that already “she had bitten off more than she could chew.”
Perhaps it was the presence of William which had induced a mood of great complexity. Old unhappy things were flooding back. And as they walked slowly round the Gallery, an object at its extreme end suddenly sprang into view, which brought her up with an icy gasp. The Hoodoo was grinning at her.
In its new setting the monster was merely grotesque. Retrieved from the morose interior of Number Forty-six, New Cross Street, which it had darkened so long with its malice, it was no longer an active embodiment of evil. The force of its ugliness was less, yet for June, in a subtle way, the implication of its presence was more.
It was as if the Fates were saying to her: “We are watching you, my girl. This young man, whom now you dare to love, have you not tricked him out of his patrimony by your pretended worship of beauty? Share his ecstasy, if you please, of his Peter This and his Mathew That, but don’t forget that Our eye is still upon you. What you have already received you will long remember, but you may get another dose if you are not careful.”
Hearing words to this sinister effect in the secret places of her soul, June could only shiver. William, now as conscious of the invalid’s frailty as of the imperious challenge of beauty, led her at once to a seat without seeking the cause of her distress.
He saw she was still very weak and hastened therefore to set her down on a chair of the Empire, heedless of the fact that she was almost cheek by jowl with the Hoodoo.
“Mustn’t tire yourself,” he said in a voice of rare sympathy which did but add to the feeling of misery that crept upon her. “I’m afraid you’ve walked a bit too far.”
Again June shivered. The old unhappy things were threatening once more to submerge her. “How I wish That had not come here,” she said dismally. There was no need to point at the Image; she was sure that he knew what she meant.
But amazing young man that he was, this was trying him a little too highly.
“Oh, you mean the James,” he said pointing to a windmill opposite. “He isn’t a Mathew, is he? I’m so glad, Miss June, you think that too, because with you to back me, I may be able to break it to Sir Arthur, that this isn’t quite the place for him.”