IX
IT was not until the evening that William returned from Tunbridge Wells. He had been to look at a picture which his master had seen already, but S. Gedge Antiques was wise enough to recognise that his assistant had an instinct for pictures far beyond his own. In the matter of bric-à-brac he would always trust his own judgment, but when it came to an oil painting he was very glad to have it fortified by the special and peculiar knowledge that William had now acquired. There was no doubt that in this sphere, which for his master was comparatively new and full of pitfalls, the young man had a remarkable gift. It was a gift, moreover, of which he had yet to learn the true value.
In “summer-time” September the days are long; and as supper was not until nine o’clock, there was light enough for William, on getting home, to spend a rare hour in the studio, delving for further beauties in that derelict canvas which already had far exceeded his hopes.
“I know where you are going,” whispered June, in the young man’s ear as he left the little sitting-room behind the shop, where sat Uncle Si, spectacles on nose, poring over the pages of Crowe and Cavalcaselle.
The young man glowed at this friendly interest on the part of Miss June; in fact, he was touched by it. She was the master’s niece; therefore she was on a plane of being superior to his own. And he had learned already that those who are above you in the world, are apt to turn their advantage to your detriment; but Miss June, for all that she was the master’s niece and had been one term at the Blackhampton High School, and was therefore a person of social weight, had been careful so far not to assert her status. And so his heart was open to her; besides this present keen interest in his labours was most encouraging.
“I’m coming up to look at it again, if I may,” whispered June, as she followed him out of the room.
“Please, please do,” he said, delightedly.
As she climbed the steep stairs, William in the seventh heaven, followed close upon her heels. What a pleasure to expound the merits of such a work to one so sympathetic! As for June, her quick mind was at work. Even before the coming of Foxy Face she had guessed, or some instinct had told her, that this picture was no ordinary one, and now that she had overheard that gentleman’s recent talk with Uncle Si she had been given furiously to think. To understand all its implications needed far more knowledge of a deep, not to say “tricky,” subject than she possessed, but one fact was clear: her opinion as to the picture’s value was fully confirmed. Here was a treasure whose real worth even William himself might not be able to guess.
Now was the moment, June shrewdly saw, for prompt and decisive action. Uncle Si had set his heart upon this rare thing; but if flesh and blood was equal to the task, she must take immediate steps to baulk him. Alas, she knew only too well that it was likely to prove an immensely difficult matter.
June stood in front of the easel, and set her head to one side quite in the manner of an expert.
“It seems to grow finer and finer,” she said, in a soft voice.
“Yes, it does,” said William, touching it here and there with loverly fingers. “If I can but manage to get the top off without hurting the fabric, I’m sure it’ll be a non-such.”
June fervently said that she hoped it would be.
“There’s the cloud I spoke to you about the other day.”
“Why, yes,” said June, screwing up her eyes, in unconscious imitation of Foxy Face. “I see it now. And it’s very beautiful indeed.”
“And the touch of sunlight in it. I hope you notice that!” As William spoke, it almost seemed to June that she could see the reflection of the sunlight in the eyes of this enthusiast.
“Yes, I do,” said June stoutly.
“A real painter has done that!” The young man’s voice took that dying fall she had learnt already to listen for. “This is a lovely thing, Miss June!” Pure cadence touched her heart with fire. “Do you know, I am beginning to think this little picture is the most perfect thing I have ever seen?”
“Very valuable, I dare say,” said June, bringing him to earth.
“I only know it’s good.”
“But surely if it’s good it’s valuable? What do you think it might be worth?”
“Miss June,”—the queer little tremble in his voice sounded divine—“don’t let us think of it as money.”
But at those hushed words, at the far-off look in the deep eyes, she felt once more a touch of pain.
“Uncle Si would call that sentiment. He believes that money is the most important thing there is; he believes it is the only thing that matters.”
She meant it as a facer for this Sawney, who had declared to her that Uncle Si could neither think wrong nor ensue it. A hit, shrewd and fair, but the Sawney was still in business.
“In a manner of speaking, it may be so. But I am sure the master will tell you there are things money can’t buy.”
“What are they?” June’s frown was the fiercer for the effort to repress it.
“Take this glint of sun striking through that wonderful cloud. All the money in the world couldn’t buy that.”
“Of course it could. And I don’t suppose it would take much to buy it either.”
He solemnly dissented. She asked why not.
“Because,” said he, “that bit of sunlight only exists in the eye that sees it.”
“That’s sentiment,” said June severely. “You might say the same of anything.”
“You might, of course. Nothing is, but thinking makes it so.”
Again June heard the queer little tremble in his voice, again she saw that strange look steal across his face.
“What you say sounds very deep, but if you talk in that way I’m quite sure you’ll never get on in the world.”
“I’ll be quite happy to live as I am, if only I’m allowed to see the wonderful things that are in it.”
June had a fierce desire to shake him, but he beamed upon her, and she became a lamb.
“On Saturday,” he said, “when we go to our little treasure house, you will see what I mean.”
“If you talk in this way,” said June once more severe, “I shall not go with you on Saturday to your little treasure house. Or on Sunday either. Or on any day of the week. If you were a millionaire, you could afford to be fanciful. Being what you are, and your salary less than half what it should be, I really think you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
She was a little astonished at her own vehemence. He seemed a little astonished at it also.
“Nothing is, but thinking makes it so,” said June, with fine scorn. “That’s what Mr. Boultby, the druggist at the bottom of our street at home, would call poppycock. It means you’ll be very lucky if some fine morning you don’t wake up and find yourself in the workhouse.”
One smile more he gave her out of his deep eyes.
“That sort of talk,” said June, with growing fierceness, “is just potty. It won’t find you tools and a place to work in, or three meals a day, and a bed at night.”
“But don’t you see what I mean?”
“No, I don’t. As I say, to my mind it’s potty. But now tell me, what do you think this picture’s worth if you were buying it for Uncle Si to sell again?”
“That is a very difficult question to answer. The master is so clever at selling things that he might get a big price for it in the market.”
“Even without the signature?” And June fixed the eye of a hawk on the young man’s face.
“I don’t say that. The signature might make a lot of difference to a dealer. But don’t let us talk of the price. There are things in this picture that money ought not to buy.”
An impatient “Poppycock!” all but escaped Mr. Boultby’s disciple. Yet of a sudden, in a fashion so unexpected as to verge upon drama, her own voice took that soft quick fall he had taught her the trick of.
“I can’t tell you how much I love it,” she said, dreamily. “I would give almost anything if it were mine.”
William’s limpid glance betrayed that he was only too happy to believe her.
“It is quite as beautiful to me as it is to you.” June plunged on, but she did not dare to look at him. “And I think it would be a terrible pity if it ever came to be sold by Uncle Si. I simply love it. Suppose you sell it to me?”
“To you, Miss June!”
“Yes—to me.” There was swift decision and the fixing of the will. “I like it so much that I’ll give you nineteen pounds for it, and that’s all I have in the world.”
William was astonished.
“I hadn’t realised,” he said, in charmed surprise, “that you admire it so much as all that.”
“Yes, I do admire it.” Her heart beat fast and high. “And I want it. I can’t tell you just what that picture means to me. But nineteen pounds is all I can pay.”
He shook his head in slow finality.
She did not try to conceal her disappointment.
“I couldn’t think of taking a penny of your money,” he said, shyly. “But as you love it so much, I hope you will allow me to give it you.”
She gave a little gasp. An act of such pure generosity was rather staggering.
“I hope you will, Miss June.” He spoke with a delicious embarrassment. “Loving it so much really makes it yours. To love a thing is to possess it. And I shall always have the happiness of feeling that it has made you happy.”
She turned away a face glowing with shame. She could never hope to feel about it in the way that he did, and it seemed almost wicked to deceive him. But a young man so poor as he could not afford to be so simple; and she soothed her conscience by telling herself what she was now doing was for his future good.
Conscience, however, was not to be put out of action that way. The part she was playing hurt like a scald on the hand. Both their tongues were tied by the pause which followed, and then she said in a weak, halting manner that was not like her: “You must have something in exchange for it, of course—not that I shall ever be able to offer anything near its true value.”
“I ask no more than what you have given me already.”
“What have I given you?”
“You have given me the wonderful look I see sometimes in your face, and the light that springs from your eyes and the glow of your hair. When you came to this house, you brought something with you that was never in it before.”
“How funny you are!” June’s cheek was a flame. But he spoke so impersonally, delicately weighing each word before a passion of sincerity gave it birth, that any effective form of rebuke was out of the question.
“Miss June,” this amazing fellow went on, speaking for all the world as if she were a picture whose signature he was looking for, “when you came here, you brought the sun of beauty. Colour and harmony and grace, you brought those too. If only I knew how to paint,”—he sighed gently,—“I could never rest until I had put you on canvas just as you stand at this moment.”
It was clear that he had forgotten completely that this was the niece of his employer. She also forgot that no young man had ventured yet to speak to her like that. This was William the wonderful who was addressing her, and his voice was music, his eyes slow fire, his whole being a golden web of poetry and romance.
“You oughtn’t to give away such a thing,” she persisted, but with none of her usual force. “It’s valuable; and I oughtn’t to take it.” The sound of her voice, she knew only too well, was thin and strange.
“Please, please take it, Miss June,” he quaintly entreated her. “It will give me more pleasure to know that you are caring for it, and that its beauty speaks to you than if I kept it all to myself. I love it, but you love it, too. If you’ll share the happiness it brings me, then I shall love it even more.”
Shadows of the evening were now in the room. His face was half hidden, and the wildness of her heart scarcely allowed his voice to be heard. She thought no longer of the worth of the gift, nor was she now concerned with the propriety of its acceptance. Her mind was in the grip of other things. Was it to herself he was speaking? Or was he speaking merely to a fellow worshipper of beauty? To such questions there could be no answer; she trembled at the daring which gave them birth.
His mere presence was a lure. She longed to touch his hand very gently, and would perhaps have done so, had she not been cruelly aware that even the hem of her sleeve would defile it. She was cheating him, she was cheating him outrageously. The only excuse she had was that it was all for his own good; such, at least, must now be her prayer, her hope, her faith.