XXIV
NEXT morning at the breakfast table, June looked for developments. To her surprise, however, things went their accustomed way, except that if anything Uncle Si was a little more amiable than usual. He made no reference to the Van Roon; but it was referred to in his manner, inasmuch that he bore bacon and coffee to his lips with the air of a known good man deeply wounded in his private feelings. Not a feather of this by-play was lost upon his niece; and no doubt what was of more importance, it was not lost upon William. But its impact was very different in the two cases. While June simply longed to hit the Old Crocodile upon his long and wicked nose, William seemed hard set to refrain from tears.
About midday, however, while June was in the back kitchen preparing a meal, Uncle Si came to her.
“Niece,” he said, in the new voice, whose softness June found so formidable, “you remember the other day I told you to look for a job?”
June nodded.
“Have you got one?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, Mrs. R. is coming back on Monday, so the sooner you get fixed up the better. Your best plan, I think, is to go this afternoon and have your name put down at a registry office as a cook-general. Cook-generals earn good money, and they live all found. Your cooking won’t be the Carlton or the Ritz, of course”—a gleam of frosty humour played upon that subtle face—“but you seem strong and willing, and you know how to boil a potato, and no doubt you’ll improve with experience.”
June was inclined to curtsey. The old wretch plainly felt that he was giving her a handsome testimonial. But at the back of her mind was anger and contempt, and it was as much as she could do to prevent their peeping out.
After dinner, as soon as the table was clear, and the pots washed, she proceeded to take Uncle Si at his word. She decided to go out at once and look for a place which, however, except as a last resort, should not be domestic service. To begin with, she would try the shops, or perhaps the dressmakers, as her mother always said she was handy with her needle; or, failing these, she might consider the exciting proposal of becoming an artist’s model.
Fixing her hat before the crazy looking glass the thought of Mr. Keller recurred to her mind. Had the day only been Thursday she could have taken the picture to him there and then, and had his opinion upon it. Not that such a course would have been altogether wise. She knew nothing about this new and rather mysterious acquaintance, beyond the fact that if speech and manner meant anything he was a gentleman. Certainly, to talk to he was most agreeable.
Before setting out on her pilgrimage, she had to make up her mind as to whether it would not be advisable to take the Van Roon with her, and put it in a place of safety. So long as it remained under that roof it was in jeopardy. Uncle Si was not to be trusted an inch. The fact, however, that she had nowhere to take the treasure decided her finally to let it stay where it was until the next day.
Anyway, it was under lock and key. That was something to be thankful for; yet as she came downstairs and passed through the shop into New Cross Street, drawing on her neat black gloves with a sinking heart, instinct told her that she was taking a grave risk in leaving the picture behind.
No, S. Gedge Antiques was not to be trusted for a moment. Of that she was quite sure. By the time she had gone twenty yards along the street this feeling of insecurity took such a hold upon her that she stopped abruptly, and faced about. To go back? Or not to go back? Indecision was unlike her, but never was it so hard to make up her mind. Could it be that Uncle Si was as wicked as she thought? Perhaps she had now become the prey of her own guilty conscience. In any case, she knew of nowhere just then in which to place the precious thing; and this fact it was that turned the scale and finally settled the question.
She went down to the Strand, and took a bus to Oxford Circus. That Mecca, alas, did not prove nearly so stimulating as the previous afternoon. As soon as she came really to grips with that most daunting of all tasks, “the looking for a job,” her hopes and her courage were woefully dashed. Real pluck was needed to enter such a palace as David Jones Limited, to go up without faltering to some haughty overseer in a frock coat and spats and ask if an assistant was wanted.
Three times, in various shops, she screwed herself to the heroic pitch of asking that difficult question. Three times she met with a chilling response. And the only gleam of hope was on the last occasion.
“There is one vacancy, I believe,” said Olympian Zeus. “But all applicants must apply by letter for a personal interview with the manager.”
Sooner than renew the attempt just then, June felt she would prefer to die. A girl from the provinces, new to London and its ways, without credentials or friends, or knowledge of “the ropes” must not expect to be taken on, at any rate in Oxford Street.
Much cast down she returned to her teashop of yesterday. Seated at the same table, her mind went back to the fascinating acquaintance she had made there. Was it possible that a career had been offered her? Or was the suggestion of this new friend merely the outcome of a keen interest in the picture?
It could not be so entirely, because she clearly remembered that Mr. Keller had proposed her sitting to him as a model before she had mentioned the picture at all.
She went back to New Cross Street in a state of gloom; her mind was dominated by a sense of being “up against it.” And this unhappy feeling was not softened by the discovery she made as soon as she entered that cold and uninviting garret. In her absence the lock of her trunk had been forced and the picture taken away.
The tragedy was exactly what she had foreseen. But faced by the bitter fact she was swept by a tempest of rage. It could only be the work of one person. Her fear and dislike of Uncle Si rose to hatred now.
In a surge of anger she went downstairs and in the presence of William charged Uncle Si.
“You’ve been at my box,” she stormed.
He looked at her with a kind of calm pensiveness over the top of his spectacles.
“If you lock away things, my girl, that don’t belong to you, I’m afraid you’ll have to stand the racket.” So lofty, so severe was the old man’s tone that for the moment June was staggered.
“It’s stealing,” she cried, returning hectic to the attack.
Uncle Si waggled a magisterial finger in her face. “Niece,” he said, with a quietude which put her at a disadvantage, “I must ask you not to make an exhibition of yourself. Have the goodness to hold your tongue.”
June maintained the charge. “The picture’s mine. William gave it me. You’ve broken open my box and stolen it.”
S. Gedge Antiques, after a mild side glance in the direction of William, proceeded to fix a glacial eye upon his niece. “What I have to say is this.” His tone was more magisterial than ever. “At present, my girl, you are under age, and as long as you live with me the law regards me as your guardian. And, as I have told William already, in my opinion you are not a fit and proper person to have the care of a thing so valuable as this picture may prove to be. Mind you,”—the old fox gave William a meaningful look—“I don’t go so far as to say that it is valuable, but I say that it might be. And, in that case, I can’t allow a mere ignorant girl from the country who, in a manner of speaking, doesn’t know the letter A from a pig’s foot to accept it from you, my boy. It’s very generous of you, and I hope she’s thanked you properly, but if I allow her to take it, some unscrupulous dealer is sure to bamboozle her out of it. That’s assuming it’s valuable, which, of course, I don’t go so far as to say that it is.”
“Thief!” stormed June. “Wicked thief!”
However, she knew well enough that it was a real pity to let her feelings get the better of her; it enabled the Old Crocodile to shine so much by comparison. He addressed himself to William in his most sanctimonious manner. For the good of all concerned, such a bee-yew-ti-ful thing—it sickened June to see the old humbug lift his eyes to heaven—must be cared for by him personally. An uneducated mawkin could not hope to appreciate a work of art of that quality, and if anything happened to it, as in such hands something inevitably must, William’s master would never be able to forgive himself, he wouldn’t really!
The old man spoke so gently and so plausibly and hovered at times so near to tears, that William would have been less than human not to have been moved by his words. Uncle Si had not the least difficulty in making clear to his assistant that he was swayed by the highest motives. His own private regard for the picture, which, of course, William must know was intense, did not enter into the case at all; but wisdom and experience declared that until Monsieur Duponnet of Paris had seen the picture it must remain in responsible hands.
“But I tell you the picture’s mine, mine, mine!” cried June.
No, the picture was William’s. That outstanding fact was emphasized again in his master’s kindly voice. Was he not William’s guardian also in the eyes of the law? Not for a moment could he think of allowing the young man in a fit of weak generosity to give away a thing that might prove to be a real work of art.
June was a little disappointed by William’s attitude in the matter. The way in which he submitted to Uncle Si did him no credit. Surely the picture was his to do with as he chose; yet to judge by Uncle Si’s handling of the affair the young man had no right to dispose of it. June deplored this lack of spirit. He should have fought for his own. At the same time, her mind was tormented by the unpleasant thought that he really wanted to revoke his gift.
The more she considered the position, the less she liked it. She could not rid herself of a feeling that she was playing an unworthy part. It was all very well to regard her actions as strictly in William’s interest. But were they? She was haunted by a sense of having descended perilously near to the level of Uncle Si himself.
Anyhow, she had tried her best to outwit S. Gedge Antiques. And he had outwitted her. There was no disguising it. Both were playing the same game, the same crooked game, and it seemed that Uncle Si, as was only to be expected, was able to play it much better than could she. The artful old fox had bested her with her own weapons. Were they not equally unscrupulous? Was not William the toy of both?