The Van Roon E-Book

John Collis Snaith

• Herausgeber: Word Well Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Description: “A remarkable novel, human to its very core, which tells of how a painting by an old master, newly discovered, became a cause of love and hate among a curious and delightful group of characters.”

Review: The Bookman, October 1922: Mr. Snaith in playful and amusing mood. To the old curiosity shop kept by the ancient miser, Gedge, comes practical country June, his niece. Gedge and his boy William run the shop; William is a wonderful assistant, with a flair for picking up valuable things for nothing. Shortly after June arrives, William, who is a divinely gentle and credulous being, in spite of his cleverness about things artistic, brings in a small picture which he has picked up for five shillings at Crowdham market. Interest centre round this apparently worthless thing; as it is clean, it reveals an increasing beauty, and finally is proved to be a genuine Van Roon, worth thousands of pounds. Then of course everybody wants to possess it. Gedge himself makes various cunning attempts, and William’s faith and love for his old master take a deal of shaking. June falls in love with William, and also, at one time, gets hold of the picture. Very delicately does Mr. Snaith paint the love between the couple, the dreamy, beauty-loving boy, the strenuous, matter-of-fact girl. A pretty piece of work, conceived in no spirit of sombreness.

John Collis Snaith (1876-1936) was an English first-class cricketer who played for Nottinghamshire. He was born in Nottingham, died in Hampstead. He was also a novelist, writing as J.C. Snaith, and played in the Authors Cricket Club alongside fellow authors A.A. Milne and P.G. Wodehouse among others. His novel “The Van Roon” was published in the United States in 1922.

 

Leseprobe

THE VAN ROON

JOHN COLLIS SNAITH

Originally published in 1922 in the United States

This text is in the public domain

Copyright © 2022 by Word Well Books

The publishers have made all reasonable efforts to ensure this book is indeed in the Public Domain in any and all territories it has been published.

Created with Vellum

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

1

North of the Strand, east of the National Gallery, a narrow street winds a devious course towards Long Acre. To the casual eye it is no more than a mean and dingy thoroughfare without charm or interest, but for the connoisseur it has its legend. Here Swinburne came upon his famous copy of “The Faerie Queene”; here more than one collection has been enriched by a Crome, a Morland, a choice miniature, a first proof or some rare unsuspected article of bigotry and virtue.

On the right, going from Charing Cross, halfway up the street, a shop, outwardly inconspicuous, bears on its front in plain gilt letters the name S. Gedge, Antiques.

A regard for the mot juste could omit the final letter. S. Gedge Antique was nearer the fact. To look at, the proprietor of the business was an antique of the most genuine kind, whose age, before he was dressed for the day, might have been anything. When, however, he had “tidied himself up” to sit at the receipt of a custom, a process involving a shave, the putting on of collar and dickey, prehistoric frock coat, new perhaps for the Prince Consort’s funeral, and a pair of jemimas that also were “of the period,” his years, in spite of a yellow parchment countenance of an incredible cunning, could at conservative estimate be reckoned as seventy.

On a certain morning of September, the years of the proprietor of S. Gedge Antiques, whatever they might be, sat heavily upon him. Tall, sombre, gaunt, a cross between a hop-pole and a moulting vulture, his tattered dressing gown and chessboard slippers lent a touch of fantasy to his look of eld, while the collar and dickey of commerce still adorned the back kitchen dresser.

Philosophers say that to find a reason for everything is only a question of looking. The reason for the undress of S. Gedge Antiques so late as eleven o’clock in the morning was not far to seek. His right hand man and sole assistant, who answered to the name of William, and who was never known or called by any other, had been away for an annual holiday of one week, which this year he had spent in Suffolk. He was due back in the course of that day and his master would raise a pæan on his return. In the absence of William the indispensable S. Gedge Antiques was like a windjammer on a lee shore.

There was a further reason for his lost air. He was “at outs” with Mrs. Runciman, his charwoman, a state of affairs which had long threatened to become chronic. An old, and in her own opinion, an undervalued retainer, the suspension of diplomatic relations between Mrs. Runciman and her employer could always be traced to one cause. S. Gedge attributed it to the phases of the moon and their effect on the human female, but the real root of the mischief was Mrs. Runciman’s demand for “a raise in her celery.” For many years past the lady had held that her services were worth more than “half a crown a day and her grub.” The invariable reply of her master was that he had never paid more to a char all the time he had been in trade and that if she wanted more she could keep away. This Thursday morning, according to precedent when matters came to a head, Mrs. Runciman had taken him at his word. The old man knew, however, that her absence would only be temporary. A single day off would vindicate the rights of woman. As sure as the sun rose on the morrow Mrs. R. would return impenitent but in better fettle for charring. But as he made a point of telling her, she would play the trick once too often.

Char-less for the time being, assistant-less also, this morning S. Gedge was not only looking his age, he was feeling it; but he had already begun to examine the contents of a large packing case from Ipswich which Messrs. Carter Paterson had delivered half an hour ago at the back of the premises by the side entry. Handicapped as S. Gedge Antiques at the moment was, he could well have deferred these labours until later in the day. Human curiosity, however, had claimed him as a victim.

By a side wind he had heard of a sale at a small and rather inaccessible house in the country where a few things might be going cheap. As this was to take place in the course of William’s holiday, the young man had been given a few pounds to invest, provided that in his opinion “the goods were full value.” By trusting William to carry out an operation of such delicacy, his master whose name in trade circles was that of “a very keen buyer” was really paying him the highest compliment in his power. For the god of S. Gedge Antiques was money. In the art of “picking things up,” however, William had a lucky touch. His master could depend as a rule on turning over a few shillings on each of the young man’s purchases; indeed there were occasions when the few shillings had been many. The truth was that William’s flair for a good thing was almost uncanny.

Adroit use of a screwdriver prised the lid off the packing case. A top layer of shavings was removed. With the air of a dévot the old man dug out William’s first purchase and held it up to the light of New Cross Street, or to as much of that dubious commodity as could filter down the side entry.

Purchase the first proved to be a copy of an engraving by P. Bartolozzi: the Mrs. Lumley and Her Children of Sir Joshua Reynolds. An expert eye priced it at once a safe thirty shillings in the window of the front shop, although William had been told not to exceed a third of that sum at Loseby Grange, Saxmundham. So far so good. With a feeling of satisfaction S. Gedge laid the engraving upon a chair of ornate appearance but doubtful authenticity, and proceeded to remove more straw from the packing case. Before, however, he could deal with William’s second purchase, whatever it might be, he was interrupted.

A voice came from the front shop.

“Uncle Si! Uncle Si! Where are you?”

The voice was feminine. S. Gedge Antiques, crusted bachelor and confirmed hater of women, felt a sudden pang of dismay.

“Where are you, Uncle Si?”

“Com-ming!” A low roar boomed from the interior of the packing case. It failed, however, to get beyond the door of the lumber room.

“That girl of Abe’s” ruminated the old man deep in straw. In the stress of affairs, he had almost forgotten that the only child of a half brother many years his junior, was coming to London by the morning train.

“Uncle Si!”

With a hiss of disgust worthy of an elderly cobra he writhed his head free of the straw. “Confound her, turning up like this. Why couldn’t she come this afternoon when the boy’d be home? But that’s a woman. They’re born as cross as Christmas.”

A third time his name was called.

S. Gedge Antiques, unshaven, beslippered, bespectacled, slowly emerged from the decent obscurity of the back premises into the fierce publicity of the front shop. He was greeted by a sight of which his every instinct profoundly disapproved.

The sight was youthful, smiling, fresh complexioned. In a weak moment, for which mentally he had been kicking himself round the shop ever since, he had been so unwise as to offer to adopt this girl who had lost her father some years ago and had lately buried her mother. Carter Paterson had delivered her trunk along with the packing case from Ipswich, a fact he now recalled.

Had S. Gedge had an eye for anything but antiques, he must have seen at once that his niece was by way of being a decidedly attractive young woman. She was nineteen, and she wore a neat well-fitting black dress and a plain black hat in which cunning and good taste were mingled. Inclined to be tall she was slender and straight and carried herself well. Her eyes were clear, shrewd and smiling. In fact they appeared to smile quite considerably at the slow emergence from the back premises of S. Gedge Antiques.

In the girl’s hand was a pilgrim basket, which she put carefully on a gate-legged table, marked “£4.19.6, a great bargain” and then very fearlessly embraced its owner.

“How are you, niece?” gasped the old man who felt that an affront had been offered to the dignity of the human male.

“Thank you, Uncle Si, I’m first rate,” said the girl trying for the sake of good manners not to smile too broadly.

“Had a comfortable journey?”

“Oh, yes, thank you.”

“Didn’t expect you so soon. However, your box has come. By the way, what’s your name? I’ve forgotten it.”

“June.”

“June, eh? One of these new fangled affairs,” S. Gedge spoke aggrievedly. “Why not call yourself December and have done with it?”

“I will if you like,” said June obligingly. “But it seems rather long. Do you care for De, Cem, or Ber for short?”

“It don’t matter. What’s in a name? I only thought it sounded a bit sloppy and new fangled.”

The eyes of June continued to regard S. Gedge Antiques with a demure smile. He did not see the smile. He only saw her and she was a matter for grave reflection.

2

S. Gedge Antiques peered dubiously at his niece. He had a dislike of women and more than any other kind he disliked young women. But one fact was already clear; he had let himself in for it. Frowning at this bitter thought he cast his mind back in search of a reason. Knowing himself so well he was sure that a reason there must be and a good one for so grave an indiscretion. Suddenly he remembered the charwoman and his brow cleared a little.

“Let me have a look at you, niece.” As a hawk might gaze at a wren he gazed at June through his spectacles. “Tall and strong seemingly. I hope you’re not afraid of hard work.”

“I’m not afraid of anything, Uncle Si,” said June with calm precision.

“No answers,” said S. Gedge curtly. “If you intend to stay here you’ve got to mind your p’s and q’s and you’ve got to earn your keep.” He sighed and impatiently plucked the spectacles from his nose. “Thought so,” he snarled. “I’m looking at you with my selling spectacles. For this job I’ll need my buying ones.”

Delving into the capacious pockets of his dressing gown, the old man was able to produce a second pair of glasses. He adjusted them grimly. “Now I can begin to see you. Favour your father seemingly. And he was never a mucher—wasn’t your father.”

“Dad is dead, Uncle Si.” There was reproof in June’s strong voice. “And he was a very good man. There was never a better father than Dad.”

“Must have been a good man. He hardly left you and your mother the price of his funeral.”

“It wasn’t Dad’s fault that he was unlucky in business.”

“Unlucky.” S. Gedge Antiques gave a sharp tilt to his “buying” spectacles. “I don’t believe in luck myself.”

“Don’t you?” said June, with a touch of defiance.

“No answers.” Uncle Si held up a finger of warning. “Your luck is you’re not afraid of work. If you stop here you’ll have to stir yourself.”

June confessed a modest willingness to do her best.

S. Gedge continued to gaze at her. It was clear that he had undertaken an immense responsibility. A live sharp girl, nineteen years of age, one of these modern hussies, with opinions of her own, was going to alter things. It was no use burking the fact, but a wise man would have looked it in the face a little sooner.

“The char is taking a day off,” he said, breaking this reverie. “So I’d better give you a hand with your box. You can then change your frock and come and tidy up. If you give your mind to your job I daresay I’ll be able to do without the char altogether. The woman’s a nuisance, as all women are. But she’s the worst kind of a nuisance, and I’ve been trying to be quit of her any time this ten years.”

In silence June followed Uncle Si kitchenwards, slowly removing a pair of black kid gloves as she did so. He helped her to carry a trunk containing all her worldly possessions up a steep, narrow, twisty flight of uncarpeted stairs to a tiny attic, divided by a wooden partition from a larger one, and lit by a grimy window in the roof. It was provided with a bedstead, a mattress, a chest of drawers, a washing stand and a crazy looking-glass.

“When the boy comes, he’ll find you a couple o’ blankets, I daresay. Meantime you can fall to as soon as you like.”

June lost no time in unpacking. She then exchanged her new mourning for an old dress in which to begin work. As she did so her depression was terrible. The death of her mother, a month ago, had meant the loss of everything she valued in the world. There was no one else, no other thing that mattered. But she had promised that she would be a brave girl and face life with a stout heart, and she was going to be as good as her word.

For that reason she did not allow herself to spend much time over the changing of her dress. She would have liked to sit on the edge of the small bed in that dismal room and weep. The future was an abyss. Her prospects were nil. She had ambition, but she lacked the kind of education and training that could get her out of the rut; and all the money she had in the world, something less than twenty pounds, was in her purse in a roll of notes, together with a few odd shillings and coppers. Nothing more remained of the sum that had been realized by the sale of her home, which her mother and she had striven so hard to keep together. And when this was gone she would have to live on the charity of her Uncle Si, who was said to be a very hard man and for whom she had already conceived an odd dislike, or go out and find something to do.

Such an outlook was grim. But as June put on an old house frock she shut her lips tight and determined not to think about to-morrow. Uncle Si had told her to clean out the grate in the back kitchen. She flattered herself that she could clean out a grate with anybody. Merely to stop the cruel ache at the back of her brain she would just think of her task, and nothing else.

In about ten minutes June came down the attic stairs, fully equipped even to an overall which she had been undecided whether to pack in her box but had prudently done so.

“Where are the brushes and dust pan, Uncle Si?”

“In the cupboard under the scullery sink.” A growl emerged from the packing case, followed by a gargoyle head. “And when you are through with the kitchen grate you can come and clear up this litter, and then you can cook a few potatoes for dinner—that’s if you know how.”

“Of course I know how,” said June.

“Your mother seems to have brought you up properly. If you give your mind to your job and you’re not above soiling your hands I quite expect we’ll be able to do without the char.”

June, her large eyes fixed on Uncle Si, did not flinch from the prospect. She went boldly, head high, in the direction of the scullery sink while S. Gedge Antiques proceeded to burrow deeper and deeper into the packing case.

Presently he dug out a bowl of Lowestoft china, which he tapped with a finger nail and held up to the light.

“It’s a good piece,” he reflected. “There’s one thing to be said for that boy—he don’t often make mistakes. I wonder what he paid for this. However, I shall know presently,” and S. Gedge placed the bowl on a chair opposite the engraving “after” P. Bartolozzi.

His researches continued, but there was not much to follow. Still, that was to be expected. William had only been given twenty pounds and the bowl alone was a safe fiver. The old man was rather sorry that William had not been given more to invest. However, there was a copper coal-scuttle that might be polished up to fetch three pounds, and a set of fire irons and other odds and ends, not of much account in themselves, but all going to show that good use had been made of the money.

“Niece,” called Uncle Si when at last the packing case was empty, “come and give a hand here.”

With bright and prompt efficiency June helped to clear up the débris and to haul the packing case into the backyard.

The old man said at the successful conclusion of these operations:

“Now see what you can do with those potatoes. Boil ’em in their skins. There’s less waste that way and there’s more flavour.”

“What time is dinner, Uncle Si?”

“One o’clock sharp.”

S. Gedge Antiques, having put on his collar, and discarded his dressing gown for the frock coat of commerce, shambled forward into the front shop with the air of a man who has no time to waste upon trivialities. So far things were all right. The girl seemed willing and capable and he hoped she would continue to be respectful. The times were against it, certainly. In the present era of short skirts, open-work stockings, fancy shoes and bare necks, it was hard, even for experts like himself, to say what the world was coming to. Girls of the new generation were terribly independent. They would sauce you as soon as look at you, and there was no doubt they knew far more than their grandmothers. In taking under his roof the only child of a half-brother who had died worth precious little, S. Gedge Antiques was simply asking for trouble. At the same time there was no need to deny that June had begun well, and if at eight o’clock the next morning he was in a position to say, “Mrs. R. you can take another day off and get yourself a better billet,” he would feel a happier man.

A voice with a ring in it came from the shop threshold. “Uncle Si, how many potatoes shall I cook?”

“Three middling size. One for me, one for you, one for William if he comes. And if he don’t come, he can have it cold for his supper.”

“Or I can fry it,” said the voice from the threshold.

“You can fry it?” S. Gedge peered towards the voice over the top of his “buying” spectacles. “Before we go in for fancy work let us see what sort of a job you make of a plain bilin’. Pigs mustn’t begin to fly too early—not in the West Central postal district.”

“I don’t know much about pigs,” said June, calmly, “but I’ll boil a potato with anyone.”

“And eat one too I expect,” said S. Gedge severely closuring the incident.

The axiom he had just laid down applied to young female pigs particularly.

3

S. Gedge Antiques, feather duster in hand, began to flick pensively a number of articles of bigotry and virtue. The occupation amused him. It was not that he had any great regard for the things he sold, but each was registered in his mind as having been bought for so much at So-and-So’s sale. A thoroughly competent man he understood his trade. He had first set up in business in the year 1879. That was a long time ago, but it was his proud boast that he had yet to make his first serious mistake. Like everyone else, he had made mistakes, but it pleased him to think that he had never been badly “let in.” His simple rule was not to pay a high price for anything. Sometimes he missed a bargain by not taking chances, but banking on certainties brought peace of mind and a steady growth of capital.

Perhaps the worst shot he had ever made was the queer article to which he now applied the duster. A huge black jar, about six feet high and so fantastically hideous in design as to suggest the familiar of a Caribbean witch doctor or the joss of a barbarous king, held a position of sufficient prominence on the shop floor for his folly to be ever before him. Years ago he had taken this grinning, wide-mouthed monster, shaped and featured like Moloch, in exchange for a bad debt, hoping that in the course of time he would be able to trade it away. As yet he had not succeeded. Few people apparently had a use for such an evil-looking thing which took up so much house room. S. Gedge Antiques was loth to write it off a dead loss, but he had now come to regard it as “a hoodoo.” He was not a superstitious man but he declared it brought bad luck. On several occasions when a chance seemed to arise of parting with it to advantage, something had happened to the intending purchaser; indeed it would have called for no great effort of the imagination to believe that a curse was upon it.

By an association of ideas, as the feathers flicked that surface of black lacquer, the mind of S. Gedge reverted to his niece. She, too, was a speculation, a leap in the dark. You never knew where you were with women. Now that the fools in Parliament had given females a vote the whole sex was demoralised. He had been terribly rash; and he could tell by the look of the girl that she had a large appetite. Still if he could do without “that woman” it would be something.

The picture, however, was not all dark. A flick of the feathers emphasised its brighter side as William recurred suddenly to his mind. Taking all things into account, he was ready to own that the able youth was the best bargain he had ever made. Some years ago, William, a needy lad of unknown origin, had been engaged at a very small wage to run errands and to make himself of general use. Finding him extremely intelligent and possessed of real aptitude, his master with an eye to the future, had taught him the trade. And he had now become so knowledgeable that for some little time past he had been promoted to an active part in the business.

If William had a fault it was that in his master’s opinion he was almost too honest. Had it been humanly possible for S. Gedge Antiques to trust any man with a thousand pounds, William undoubtedly would have been that man. Besides, he had grown so expert that his employer was learning to rely more and more upon his judgment. The time had come when S. Gedge Antiques had need of young eyes in the most delicate art of choosing the right thing to buy; and this absolutely dependable young man had now taken rank in his master’s mind, perhaps in a higher degree than that master recognised, as an asset of priceless value. Sooner or later, if William went on in his present way, the long-deferred rise in his wages would have to enter the region of practical politics. For example, there was this packing case from Ipswich. Without indulgence in flagrant optimism—and the old man was seldom guilty of that—there was a clear profit already in sight. The bowl of Lowestoft might fetch anything up to ten pounds and even then it would be “a great bargain at clearance sale prices.” Then there was the engraving. William had a nose for such things; indeed his master often wondered how a young chap with no education to speak of could have come by it.

At this point there was heard a quiet and respectful: “Good morning, sir.”

S. Gedge, standing with his back to the shop door, the china bowl again in hand, was taken by surprise. William was not expected before the afternoon.

That young man was rather tall and rather slight; he was decidedly brown from the sun of East Anglia; and some people might have considered him handsome. In his left hand he carried a small gladstone bag. And beneath his right arm was an article wrapped in brown paper.

“Ah, that’s the bowl,” said William eagerly. “A nice piece, sir, isn’t it?”

“I may be able to tell you more about that,” the cautious answer, “when I know what you gave for it.”

William had given thirty shillings.

S. Gedge Antiques tapped the bowl appraisingly. “Thirty shillings! But that’s money.”

“I’m sure it’s a good piece, sir.”

“Well, you may be right,” said S. Gedge grudgingly. “Lowestoft is fetching fair prices just now. What’s that under your arm?”

“It’s something I’ve bought for myself, sir.”

“Out of the money I gave you?” said the old man as keen as a goshawk.

“No, sir,” said William with great simplicity. “Your money was all in the packing case. I’ll give you an account of every penny.”

“Well, what’s the thing you’ve bought for yourself,” said the master sternly.

“It’s a small picture I happened to come across in an old shop at Crowdham Market.”

“Picture, eh?” S. Gedge Antiques dubiously scratched a scrub of whisker with the nail of his forefinger. “Don’t fancy pictures myself. Chancey things are pictures. Never brought me much luck. However, I’ll have a look at it. Take off the paper.”

William took off the paper and handed to his master the article it had contained. With a frown of petulant disgust the old man held an ancient and dilapidated daub up to the light. So black it was with grime and age that to his failing eyes not so much as a hint of the subject was visible.

“Nothing to write home about anyhow,” was the sour comment. “Worth nothing beyond the price of the frame. And I should put that”—S. Gedge pursed a mouth of professional knowledge—“at five shillings.”

“Five shillings, sir, is what I paid for it.”

“Not worth bringing home.” S. Gedge shook a dour head. Somehow he resented his assistant making a private purchase, but that may have been because there was nothing in the purchase when made. “Why buy a thing like that?”

William took the picture gravely from his master and held it near the window.

“I have an idea, sir, there may be a subject underneath.”

“Don’t believe in ideas myself,” snapped S. Gedge, taking a microscope from the counter. After a brief use of it he added, “There may be a bit o’ badly painted still life, but what’s the good o’ that.”

“I’ve a feeling, sir, there’s something below it.”

“Rubbish anyhow. It’ll be a fortnight’s job to get the top off and then like as not you’ll have wasted your time. Why buy a pig in a poke when you might have invested your five shillings in a bit more china? However, it’s no affair of mine.”

“There’s something there, sir, under those flowers, I feel sure,” said the young man taking up the microscope and gazing earnestly at the picture. “But what it is I can’t say.”

“Nor can anyone else. However, as I say, it’s your funeral. In our trade there’s such a thing as being too speculative, and don’t forget it, boy.”

“I might find a thing worth having, sir,” William ventured to say.

“Pigs might fly,” snapped S. Gedge Antiques, his favourite formula for clinching an argument.

The mention of pigs, no doubt again by an association of ideas, enabled S. Gedge to notice, which he might have done any time for two minutes past, that his niece had emerged from the back premises, and that she was regarding William and the picture with frank curiosity.

“Well, niece,” said the old man sharply. “What do you want now?”

“Is the cold mutton in the larder for dinner, Uncle Si?” said June with a slight but becoming blush at being called upon to speak in the presence of such a very nice looking young man.

“What else do you think we are going to have? Truffles in aspic or patty de four grass?”

“No, Uncle Si,” said June gravely.

“Very well then,” growled S. Gedge Antiques.

4

It was not until the evening, after tea, when S. Gedge Antiques had gone by bus to Clerkenwell in order to buy a Queen Anne sofa from a dealer in difficulties that William and June really became known to one another. Before then, however, their respective presences had already charged the atmosphere of No. 46 New Cross Street with a rare and subtle quality.

William, even at a first glance, had been intrigued more than a little by the appearance of the niece. To begin with she was a great contrast to Mrs. Runciman. She looked as clean and bright as a new pin, she had beautiful teeth, her hair was of the kind that artists want to paint and her way of doing it was cunning. Moreover, she was as straight as a willow, her movements had charm and grace, and her eyes were grey. And beyond all else her smile was full of friendship.

As for June, her first thought had been, when she had unexpectedly come upon William holding up to the light the picture he had bought at Crowdham Market, that the young man had an air at once very gentle and very nice. And in the first talk they had together in the course of that evening, during the providential absence of Uncle Si, this view of William was fully confirmed.

He was very gentle and he was very nice.

The conversation began shortly after seven o’clock when William had put up the shutters and locked the door of the shop. It was he who opened the ball.

“You’ve come to stay, Miss Gedge, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” said June, “if I can make myself useful to Uncle Si.”

“But aren’t you adopted? The master said a fortnight ago he was going to adopt you.”

“Uncle Si says I’m half and half at present,” said June demurely. “I’m a month on trial. If I suit his ways he says I can stay, but if I don’t I must get after a job.”

“I hope you will stay,” said William with obvious sincerity.

There was enough Woman in the heart of the niece of S. Gedge Antiques to cause her to smile to herself. This was a perfect Simple Simon of a fellow, yet she could not deny that there was something about him which gave her quite a thrill.

“Why do you hope so?” asked Woman, with seeming innocence.

“I don’t know why I do, unless it is that you are so perfectly nice to talk to.” And the Simpleton grew suddenly red at his own immoderation.

Woman in her cardinal aspect might have said “Really” in a tone of ice; she might even have been tempted to ridicule such a statement made by such a young man; but Woman in the shrewdly perceptive person of June was now aware that this air of quaint sincerity was a thing with which no girl truly wise would dare to trifle. William was William and must be treated accordingly.

“Aren’t you very clever?”

She knew he was clever, but for a reason she couldn’t divine she was anxious to let him know that she knew it.

“I don’t think I am at all.”

“But you are,” said June. “You must be very clever indeed to go about the country buying rare things cheap for Uncle Si to sell.”

“Oh, anybody can pick up a few odds and ends now and again if one has been given the money to buy them.”

“Anybody couldn’t. I couldn’t for one.”

“Isn’t that because you’ve not been brought up to the business?”

“It’s more than that,” said June shrewdly. “You must have a special gift for picking up things of value.”

“I may have,” the young man modestly allowed. “The master trusts me as a rule to tell whether a thing is genuine.”

June pinned him with her eyes. “Then tell me this.” Her suddenness took him completely by surprise. “Is he genuine?”

“Who? The master!”

“Yes—Uncle Si.”

The answer came without an instant’s hesitation. “Yes, Miss June, he is. The master is a genuine piece.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said June with a slight frown.

“Yes, the master is genuine.” Depth and conviction were in the young man’s tone. “In fact,” he added slowly, “you might say he is a museum piece.”

At this solemnity June smiled.

“He’s a very good man.” A warmth of affection fused the simple words. “Why he took me from down there as you might say.” William pointed to the ground. “And now I’m his assistant.”

“At how much a week,” said the practical June, “if the question isn’t rude?”

“I get fifteen shillings.”

“A week?”

“Yes. And board and lodging.”

She looked the young man steadily in the eyes. “You are worth more.”

“If the master thinks I’m worth more, he’ll give it to me.”

June pursed her lips and shook a dubious head. Evidently she was not convinced.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure he will. In fact, he’s promised to raise my wages half a crown from the first of the new year.”

“I should just think so!” said June looking him still in the eyes.

“Of course I always get everything found.”

“What about your clothes?”

With an air of apology he had to own that clothes were not included; yet to offset this reluctant admission he laid stress on the fact that his master had taught him all that he knew.

June could not resist a frown. Nice as he was, she would not have minded shaking him a little. No Simon had a right to be quite so simple as this one.

A pause followed. And then the young man suddenly said: “Miss June would you care to see something I bought the other day at Crowdham Market?”

“I’d love to,” said the gracious Miss June. She had seen ‘the something’ already but just now she was by no means averse from having another look at it.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind coming up to the studio.” William laughed shyly. “I call it that, although of course it isn’t a studio really. And I only call it that to myself you know,” he added naïvely.

“Then why did you call it ‘the studio’ to me?” archly demanded Woman in the person of the niece of S. Gedge Antiques.

“I don’t know why, I’m sure. It was silly.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Woman. “Rather nice of you, I think.”

The simpleton flushed to the roots of his thick and waving chestnut hair which was brushed back from a high forehead in a most becoming manner; and then with rare presence of mind, in order to give his confusion a chance, he showed the way up the two flights of stairs which led direct to June’s attic. Next to it, with only a thin wall dividing them, was a kind of extension of her own private cubicle, a fairly large and well lit room, which its occupant had immodestly called “a studio.” A bed, a washing stand, and a chest of drawers were tucked away in a far corner, as if they didn’t belong.

“The master lets me have this all to myself for the sake of the light,” said the young man in a happy voice as he threw open the door. “One needs a good light to work by.”

With the air of a Leonardo receiving a lady of the Colonnas he ushered her in.

A feminine eye embraced all at a glance. The walls of bare whitewash bathed in the glories of an autumn sunset, the clean skylight, the two easels with rather dilapidated objects upon them, a litter of tools and canvases and frames, a pervading odour of turpentine, and a look of rapture upon the young man’s face.

“But it is a studio,” said June. Somehow she felt greatly impressed by it. “I’ve never seen one before, but it’s just like what one reads about in books.”

“Oh, no, a studio is where pictures are painted. Here they are only cleaned and restored.”

“One day perhaps you’ll paint them.”

“Perhaps I will; I don’t know.” He sighed a little, too shy to confess his dream. “But that day’s a long way off.”

“It mayn’t be, you know.”

He had begun already to try, but as yet it was a secret from the world. “Ars est celare artem,” he said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Life is short, art eternal. It is the motto of the old man who teaches me how to clean and renovate these things. He says it keeps him up to his work.”

“You go to an art school?”

“I should hardly call it that. But the master wants me to learn as much as I can of the practical side of the trade, so he’s having me taught. And the more I can pick up about pictures, the better it will be for the business. You see, the master doesn’t pretend to know much about pictures himself. His line is furniture.”

“Didn’t I say you were clever?” June could not help feeling a little proud of her own perception.

“You wouldn’t say that”—the young man’s tone was sad—“if you really knew how little I know. But allow me to show you what I bought at Crowdham Market. There it is.” He pointed to the old picture on the smaller easel, which now divorced from its frame seemed to June a mere daub, black, dilapidated, old and worthless.

She could not conceal her disappointment. “I don’t call that anything.”

“No!” He could not conceal his disappointment either. “Take this glass.” A microscope was handed to her. “Please look at it ve-ry ve-ry closely while I hold it for you in the light.”

June gave the canvas a most rigorous scrutiny, but she had to own at last that the only thing she could see was dirt.

“Can’t you see water?”

“Where?”

With his finger nail the young man found water.

“No,” said June stoutly. “I don’t see a single drop. And that’s a pity, because in my opinion, it would be none the worse for a good wash.”

This was a facer but he met it valiantly.

“Don’t you see trees?”

“Where are the trees?”

The young man disclosed trees with his finger nail.

“I can’t see a twig.”

“But you can see a cloud.” With his finger nail he traced a cloud.

“I only see dirt and smudge,” said June the downright. “To my mind this isn’t a picture at all.”

“Surely, you can see a windmill?”

“A windmill! Why there’s not a sign of one.”

“Wait till it’s really clean,” said William with the optimism of genius. He took up a knife and began delicately to scrape that dark surface from which already he had half removed a top layer of paint that some inferior artist had placed there.

June shook her head. There was a lovely fall in the young man’s voice but it would take more than that to convince her. She believed her eyes to be as good as most people’s, but even with a microscope and William’s finger to help them they could see never a sign of a cloud or so much as a hint of water. As for a tree!... and a windmill!... either this handsome young man ... he really was handsome ... had a sense that ordinary people had not ... or ... or...!

5

June suddenly remembered that she must go and lay the supper.

William modestly asked to be allowed to help.

“Can you lay supper?” Polite the tone, but June was inclined to think that here was the limit to William’s cleverness.

“Oh, yes, Miss June, I lay it nearly always. It’s part of my work.”

“Glad of your help, of course.” The tone was gracious. “But I daresay you’d like to go on looking for a windmill.”

“Yes, I think perhaps I would.” It was not quite the answer of diplomacy, but behind it was a weight of sincerity that took away the sting.

“Thought so,” said June, with a dark smile. It would have been pleasant to have had the help of this accomplished young man, but above all things she was practical and so understood that the time of such a one must be of great value.

“But I’m thinking you’ll have to look some while for that windmill,” she said, trying not to be satirical.

“The windmill I’ll not swear to, but I’m sure there’s water and trees; although, of course, it may take some time to find them.” William took up a piece of cotton wool. “But we’ll see.”

He moistened the wool with a solvent, which he kept in a bottle, a mysterious compound of vegetable oils and mineral water; and then, not too hard, he began to rub the surface of the picture.

“I hope we shall,” said June, doubtfully. And she went downstairs with an air of scepticism she was unable to hide.

Supper, in the main, was an affair of bread and cheese and a jug of beer, drawn from the barrel in the larder. It was not taken until a quarter past nine when S. Gedge Antiques had returned from Clerkenwell. The old man was in quite a good humour; in fact, it might be said, to verge upon the expansive. He had managed to buy the Queen Anne sofa for four pounds.

“You’ve got a bargain, sir,” said William. It was William who had discovered the sofa, and had strongly advised its purchase.

“That remains to be seen,” said his master, who would have been vastly disappointed had there been reason to think that he had not got a bargain.

After supper, when the old man had put on his slippers and an ancient smoking cap that made him look like a Turkish pasha, he took from the chimneypiece a pipe and a jar of tobacco, drew the easy chair to the fire, and began to read the evening paper.

“By the way, boy,” he remarked, quizzingly, “have you started yet on that marvellous thing you were clever enough to buy at Ipswich?”

“Crowdham Market, sir.”

“Crowdham Market, was it? Well, my father used to say that fools and money soon part company.”

June, who was clearing the table, could not forbear from darting at the young man a gleam of triumph. It was clear that Uncle Si believed no more in the windmill, not to mention the trees and the water than did she.

A start had been made, but William confessed to a fear that it might be a long job to get it clean.

“And when you get it clean,” said his master, “what do you expect to find, eh?—that’s if you’re lucky enough to find anything.”

“I don’t quite know,” said William frankly.

“Neither do I,” S. Gedge Antiques scratched a cheek of rather humorous cynicism. And then in sheer expansion of mood, he went to the length of winking at his niece. “Perhaps, boy,” he said, “you’ll find that Van Roon that was cut out of its frame at the Louvre in the Nineties, and has never been seen or heard of since.”

“Was there one, sir?” asked William, interested and alert.

The old man took up the evening paper, and began to read. “Canvas sixteen inches by twelve—just about your size, eh? One of the world’s masterpieces. Large reward for recovery been on offer for more than twenty-five years by French Government—but not claimed yet seemingly. Said to be finest Van Roon in existence. Now’s your chance, boy.” A second time S. Gedge Antiques winked at his niece; and then folding back the page of the Evening News, he handed it to William, with the air of a very sly dog indeed. “See for yourself. Special article. Mystery of Famous Missing Picture. When you find the signature of Mynheer Van Roon in the corner of this masterpiece of yours, I shouldn’t wonder if you’re able to set up in business for yourself.”

Allowing Fancy a loose rein in this benign hour, the old man, for the third time honoured his niece with a solemn wink.