He lay for the better part of that stifling August afternoon propped up within the shade of the brick wall. In spite of his earnest entreaties Jimmy Dodson could not be induced to forsake him. His mentor would climb up on to one of the neighbouring coigns of vantage, and standing on tiptoe would snatch a few brief, but inexpressibly sweet glimpses of the solemn ceremonial that was being enacted. But ever and anon he would return to see how his stricken companion was getting on.
Rest, and the mellower influences of the late afternoon served to place William Jordan on his legs once more; and although his brain roared as though it contained the waves of the sea, and his limbs ached, and his whole frame shook so violently that it was as if he had been smitten with a palsy, he declined to admit that he was other than restored completely to health and vigour. He was fearful lest he should wreck the plans of his mentor more completely than he had already done; therefore summoning every spark of resolution to his aid, he vowed, even if he were to perish in the effort, that he would accompany his kind friend to the restaurant; and thereafter to the Alcazar Theatre.
He dined in state at a gorgeous house of polite eating, yet it was scant justice he did to the sumptuous fare. Mr. James Dodson was frankly disappointed at this further manifestation of his companion’s shortcomings, yet he dissembled his feelings in an elegant preoccupation with six courses. To the repeated inquiries as to how he felt, Mr. William Jordan returned assurances which, if allowed to pass muster, could not in any sense be said to carry conviction. And at last Mr. Dodson was fain to exclaim, “Look here, my son, if you don’t eat something soon, you can’t possibly go to the Alcazar.” And although Mr. Jordan was not in the least desirous of going to the Alcazar, he made quite suddenly a superhuman attack on a banana in order to save himself the humiliation of being a source of further disappointment to his mentor.
The young man felt himself to be a little more resolute, and a trifle more composed by the time he found himself seated in a balcony of the Alcazar Theatre. In spite of the circumstance that the great garish building was thronged with many hundreds of street-persons, the majority of whom appeared to be emitting most acrid and penetrating fumes from their mouths, the air was much cooler there than it had been anywhere else that day.
The curtain was up, the band was playing, the stage was a blaze of light, and a lady of Amazonian proportions was singing a song, not a word of which was intelligible to William Jordan. But as he lay back in the purple velvet cushion of his fauteuil, reclining almost pleasantly, and looking up at the ceiling, upon which, in crude tints, somewhat obscured by the all-pervading fumes of tobacco, was a not particularly reticent presentment of the Muses. In a circle round these was painted in large and unmistakable letters the following names: Shakespeare, Jonson, Milton, Spenser, Dryden, Tupper, Wordsworth, Macready.
“We can hardly see John Dobbs from here,” said Mr. James Dodson, who reclined by the young man’s side. “He is the third chap playing the fiddle down there in the well, but I can only just catch the top of his head.”
William Jordan continued to recline in reasonable surcease from bodily pangs for several hours. Further, he was able to evade Mr. Dodson’s repeated and pressing invitations to accompany him to the refreshment buffet. And at last, towards the hour of ten, the chief event of the evening, the War and Peace Ballet, was heralded by a fanfare of trumpets and loud crashings of music.
“Now then, my son, sit tight,” said Mr. Dodson. “We are going to see Hermione.”
The curtain rose slowly to reveal Hera, the white-armed goddess. She was clad in dazzling robes of mail and a massive helmet, with ear-pieces dangling about her golden locks. William Jordan gave a gasp of bewilderment; pain and pleasure contending for mastery swelled his veins with intolerable pangs. This was the goddess, this was she. His eerie pilgrimage to the evening party flooded back into his thoughts. Yes, this was the goddess whose hand he had touched. And now, as she stood clothed in her robes of mail and bearing her sceptre, with wonderful lights playing around her majestical calm, she appeared to the young man’s rapt gaze the first of the goddesses, and, therefore, the most beautiful, the most chaste, the most exalted creature, of which fact or fable was cognizant.
“Ain’t she a stunner!” said the voice of Mr. Dodson, breaking upon his reverie. “If I hadn’t decided that all women are alike, as far as a rising man is concerned, I’m hanged if I wouldn’t have a cut at her myself. She is a bit of all right though, Luney. I think we’ll trot round to the stage-door and see her after the show.”