XIV
JUNE, preparing for dinner a Yorkshire pudding, brought an acute mind to bear on the still graver problem before it. What would happen when Uncle Si found out that William had been persuaded to give her the picture? It was a question she was bound to ask, yet she dare not foretell the answer. William and she were completely in his power. Wholly dependent upon the food and lodging the old man provided and the few shillings a week with which he grudgingly supplemented them, they could not afford to come to an open breach with him; at the same time to June’s practical mind, it would be an act of sheer madness to give up the rare thing that fortune had put into their hands.
Her need just then was the advice of some able and disinterested friend. There was only her power of putting two and two together to tell her that the picture might be worth a large sum. And even that did not allow her to know for certain; she must find a means of making sure. Unhappily, there was not one person in the world to whom she could turn for advice, unless it was William himself; and in plain matters of business he seemed so hopelessly at sea—if they involved dealings with his master at all events—that June was convinced he would be no use at all.
Beating up an egg for the Yorkshire pudding, she felt a deep concern for what was now taking place up that second pair of stairs in the garret next the tiles. Vainly she wished that she had had the sense to ask William to keep back as long as possible the fact that he had given the picture to her. But the mere request would have opened the door to another anxiety. If the picture was what he thought it was, could such a gift, made in such circumstances, be regarded as irrevocable? That must be left to the giver himself to decide: assuming the simpleton had enough strength of mind to prevent Uncle Si deciding it for him.
The pudding was just ready for the oven when she heard Uncle Si come downstairs. He went into the parlour, where every Sunday morning, with the help of the Exchange and Mart and half an ounce of shag, he spent an hour in meditation. As soon as the door closed upon the old man, June ran attic-wards to confer with William.
There was no beating about the bush. Bursting in upon him breathlessly, she cried: “I hope you have not told Uncle Si the picture is mine. I had meant to warn you not to do so on any account—not for the present, at least.”
William looked up from the treasure with his absorbed air; but it appeared that as yet he had not let the cat out of the bag.
“I am very glad.” June breathed freely again.
“I thought,” said William sadly, “it would be best not to tell the master until after his dinner. But I fear that whenever he knows it will upset him terribly.”
“Why should it?”
“It’s like this, Miss June—the master is fairly setting his heart upon this picture.”
“Then he’d better unset it,” said June harshly.
Trouble came unmistakably into the expressive face of the picture’s late owner.
“I am afraid it will be quite a blow to him if he doesn’t get this beautiful thing,” he said, gazing affectionately at what he held in his hand.
“And yet he thinks so little of it?”
“Oh no! Not now. This morning after a careful examination he’s changed his mind.”
June was not impressed by this face-about on the part of S. Gedge Antiques. “If you ask me,” she declared scornfully, “he changed his mind some time ago. But he’s a bit too artful to let you know that.”
“But why?” said William perplexedly.
“Don’t you see that he thinks the more he cheapens it the easier it will be to get it from you?”
William could not bring himself to take so harsh a view.
“What does he offer for it now?” the new owner of the Van Roon sternly inquired.
“You are not fair to the dear old master, believe me, Miss June.” The young man spoke with charming earnestness. “He has such a reverence for beauty that he cannot reckon it in terms of money. This morning I have brought him to see with my eyes.” Pride and affection deepened in the voice of the simpleton. “He has now such a regard for this lovely thing that he will not be happy until he possesses it, and I shall not be happy until you have given it to him.”
June was simply aghast.
“But—but it was given to me!”
“I know—I know.” The giver was pink with confusion. “But you see, Miss June, your uncle has quite set his heart on it. And I am wondering if you will return it to me, so that I may offer it to him, as a token of my love. No one could have had a better or kinder master. I owe everything to him.” Suddenly, however, the young man was aware of her dismay. “I do hope you will not mind too much,” he said, anxiously. “If you will allow me, I will give you something else.”
June averted her eyes. “You gave me this. And you can’t believe how much it means to me.”
“Yes, I know you have a great feeling for it. To part with it will hurt you, I can see that. But please think of the dear old master’s disappointment if he doesn’t get it.”
“He merely wants it to sell again.”
“You are unjust to yourself, Miss June, in thinking so. Money does not enter into your feeling about this beautiful thing; it doesn’t enter into mine. Why should it enter into the master’s, whose love of art is so intense?”
“Because his love of money is intenser. It’s his ruling passion. Where are your eyes that they can’t see a thing as plain as that?”
She must be as gentle as she could with this absurd fellow, yet she feared that such words must cause a wound. And the wound was wilfully dealt. It was so important that he should be made to see the whole thing as really and truly it was. But her hope was slight that he would ever be brought to do so.
“I beg you,” he said, almost with passion, “to let me have it back, so that I may give it to the dear old master.”
“It is madness,” said June bitterly. “He has no true feeling for the picture at all.”
She saw that her words were unwise. They made her own position worse. But faced by such an appeal she had to do her best on the spur of the moment.
“I know how much it means to you.” Pain was clouding the eyes of this dreamer. “I know your love for it is equal to mine, but that will make our joy in giving it to your uncle so much the greater.”
“But why to Uncle Si—of all people?”
“He wants it.” William’s voice was low and solemn. “At this moment, I believe he wants it more than anything else in the world.”
June said with scorn: “He wants it as much as he wants a thousand pounds. And he doesn’t want it more. I believe money is his god. Think of the fifteen shilling he pays you a week. It makes my blood boil.”
A quick flush sprang to the young man’s cheek. “Money has nothing to do with this, Miss June.”
“It has to do with everything.”
Delicately he ventured to contradict. “Where love is, money doesn’t come in. I simply want to offer this priceless thing to the old master out of a full heart, as you might say.”
“Then you shouldn’t have parted with it.” She hated herself for her words, but she was not in a mood to soften them. “You have already had the pleasure of giving it to me, therefore it is only right that you should now deny yourself the pleasure of giving it to Uncle Si. It is like eating your cake and having it.”
William was not apt in argument, and this was cogent reasoning. He lacked the wit to meet it, yet he stuck tenaciously to his guns. “When you realize what this rare treasure means to the old man, I’m sure you’ll change your mind.”
June shook her head. Secretly, however, she felt like weakening a bit. In the wistful voice was a note that hurt. But she could not afford to yield; there was far too much at stake. “I shall have to think the matter over very carefully,” she temporised. “And, in the meantime, not a word to Uncle Si that the picture’s mine.”
She mustered the force of will to exact a promise. Bewildered, sad, a little incredulous, he gave it.
“I hope he doesn’t hate me half as much as I hate myself,” was the swift and sickening thought that annihilated June, as she ran from the studio, having recollected with a pang of dismay that she had not put in the pudding for dinner.