LXIV
Junealways maintained that the Idea was William’s. He, on the other hand, always maintained that the Idea was hers. But whatever the truth of the matter in its centrality, there was really no doubt that it was Miss Babraham who thought of the car. To her alone belonged that minor yet still substantial glory. As for the luncheon basket, although that honour was claimed for her as well, it may have owed something to Sir Arthur, for June and William were agreed that the weighty and practical genius of that man of the world was visible in this important detail.
It was just after nine on as promising a morning of early May as the much and justly derided climate of Britain was able to produce for a signal occasion, when Mr. Mitchell the chauffeur in his livery of Robin Hood green, with buff collar and cuffs, arrived at Mrs. Chrystal’s door with Sir Arthur’s touring car. Inside, as if to the manner born, sat William in a fleecy grey ulster which June had no idea he possessed—and for that matter it was Sir Arthur who possessed it—and almost the last word in hats, which if you happened to catch its wearer in profile, as June chanced to do at the moment the car drew up, made him look uncommonly distinguished.
But so much depends, don’t you know, in these little matters upon the angle—etc.
“What time do you expect to be back, Mr. Mitchell?”asked Mrs. Chrystal from her doorstep, as that hero, a wisdom-bitten veteran of the Great War, which had ended before William began—that is to say Class 1920 was never called up—ushered June into the chariot with rare solemnity.
“Back did you say, ma’am?” said Mr. Mitchell closing the door gently upon the travellers. “There you have me. We’ve to go as fur as the heart o’ Suffolk and back again.”
Mrs. Chrystal knew that. Hence the question.
“Accordin’ to this map,” Mr. Mitchell pointed to the canvas back of Road Guide Number 6, Series 14, which was on the vacant seat beside his own, “Crowdham Market may take a bit o’ findin’. Still if the roads are all right, I dessay we’ll be home by the risin’ o’ the moon.”
“My reason for asking is that I’m wondering about the young lady’s supper. However, I’ll expect you when I see you, because as you say Crowdham Market may be a funny place to get at.”
In the opinion of June, who heard this conversation, Mrs. Chrystal was fully justified in thinking so. They were about to start on a journey to Cloud Cuckoo Land.
A very romantic journey it was. Up hill and down dale they went, by devious lanes and unsuspected ways across a noble sweep of country. Zephyrs played gently upon their faces; the sun shone, the birds sang; the smooth-gliding car made little dust and less noise; they sat side by side; it was a royal progress.
The Idea itself was William’s, June always maintained, that they should go to Crowdham Market and find the poor old woman who kept the tumbledownshop, where perhaps as much out of pity as anything, he had given five shillings for the Van Roon. They could well afford to make her comfortable for life with an annuity, the precise amount of which Sir Arthur might be asked to fix if they could not themselves agree upon it. Indeed the whole question of the Van Roon’s fabulous proceeds was still vexed. Neither would move an inch. June still vowed she would not touch the money. William vowed that he would not touch it either, but he had gone so far as to suggest that he should buy the thing back from her with a part of the property her uncle had left him. To this property he somehow felt he had no lawful claim; yet by means of it he would be able to add, free gratis and for nothing, one masterpiece the more to “his treasure house” in Trafalgar Square.
June, with the frankness for which she was famous, did not hesitate to denounce the scheme as crazy. Even the Sir Arthur Babrahams of the world, who were simply rolling in money, thought twice about giving fortunes away. What did he suppose was going to become of his career as an artist if he stripped himself of the means of pursuing it?
That, of course, was where she had him. And as they sat side by side on this golden journey to East Anglia, they divided the forenoon between admiring the scenery and discussing the problem in all its aspects.
“You talk of France and Spain and Italy.” The note of scorn was mellowed considerably by the romance of the occasion. “You talk of studying the pictures in the Louvre and the Prado and the Uffizi Gallery.” She had really got to grips with Culture now. With an indomitable will, an inflexible ambition anda brand new course of memory training to help her; she was not only learning to remember outlandish words, but how and when and in what order to use them. “You talk of Rembrandt and Titian and Velasky, but I’m thinking those foreign landladies’ll get your size before you can say Knife. My opinion is you’ll need somebodyalwayswith you to see that they don’t take it off you.”
“Take what off me, Miss June?” inquired His Innocence.
There was a question!
“Your pram, of course, your teddy bear, and your feeding bottle.” She added the opprobrious term “You Gaby!” not however for the ear of this Dreamer, but for the benefit of the pleasant town of Malden, on whose outskirts they were already.
“When you get to Paris and find yourself in the Prado studying Paul Very-uneasy, you’ll be lucky if you get away with as much as a bootlace. Mr. Boultby used to say French landladies were awful.”
“Did he,” said the Dreamer; and then with a sudden animation: “Do you see that water wagtail on the lip of that pool?”
June pointedly ignored the water wagtail.
“You ought to have somebody to look after you when you go to Paris—somebody who understands the value of money.”
“The less value money has for an artist the better,” said William the sententious.
“Mr. Boultby would call that poppycock,” said June, equally sententious.
What William really meant to say was that the less an artist thought about money the better for his art,that an artist painted better for love than for filthy lucre and so on, that the great masters were born poor as a rule and often died poor and that nothing was so likely as money to distract the mind from the quest of beauty.
These, to be sure, were not his exact words. His thoughts were clothed more neatly in the William way. But such was the sum and substance of what they came down to, and June was so pained by his line of argument that the contents of the luncheon basket on the opposite seat were needed to sustain her.
After patiently reasoning with such wrong-headedness, she looked at her watch and found it was one o’clock. As there was never a sign at present of Crowdham Market, they decided to begin on what the gods had provided. Egg and tomato sandwiches were at the top of the basket with a layer of ham underneath, and below that a most authentic cake with almonds in it; all of which were delicious.
The meal, if anything, was even better than the conversation, though that also was on an extremely high level. They were very honourable in their dealings with the luncheon basket. Share and share alike was the order of the day, with a third share of everything religiously laid by for Mr. Mitchell whenever he might feel justified in slowing up to eat it. Even a full third of the basket’s crowning glory was laid by for Mr. Mitchell—to wit, a large vacuum flask of coffee, piping hot.
It was a few minutes after two when they reached Crowdham Market and drew up at the Unicorn Inn. Here, six months ago, William had discussed the great drought with Miss Ferris, the landlady’s daughter, oneof those high-coloured girls who June could see at a glance was a minx.
Promising to be back in an hour, which was all that Mr. Mitchell could allow if they were to be home before the rising of the moon, June and William, feeling more romantic than ever before in their lives, set out on a pilgrimage up the High Street. It was the only street in the town which aspired to a sense of importance; the point in fact towards which all meaner streets converged. One of these it was they had now to find.
Alas, from the outset there was a grave doubt in the mind of William in the matter of his bearings. To the best of his recollection the old woman’s shop was either the second or third turning up, then to the left, then across, and then to the left again into an obscure alley of which he had forgotten the name. That was like him. In June’s private opinion, it was also like him, althoughlèse-majestéof course, to let him know it, to take her to look for a serendipity shop in a bottle of hay.
William knew neither the name of the old woman, nor the byway that had contained her, and in the course of half an hour’s meandering it grew clear to the practical mind of June that she was in serious danger of having to go without her annuity. Having come so far it would be humiliating to return with a tale of total defeat; yet up till now these emotions had been held in check by the romance of the case.
Mr. Mitchell’s hour was all but sped, when William stopped abruptly. Light had come. He had hit the trail.
At the corner of the lane into which for the third time they had penetrated, was an enticing little shopcalled Middleton’s Dairy. The sight of it brought back to William’s mind a recollection. Immediately the picture had been acquired, he went into that shop to get a bun and a glass of milk. Pausing a moment to wrestle with his sense of locality, he gazed down the street. The old woman’s store would be just opposite.
Only a glance was needed to show that the old woman’s store was not just opposite. The housebreakers had been recently at work and the decrepit block of which her premises formed a part was razed to the ground.
Faced by the problem of what had happened to the old woman the only thing now was to enter Middleton’s Dairy and enquire. They were cordially received by a girl who in June’s opinion showed too many teeth when she smiled to be really good looking; who, also, in June’s opinion, wore corsets that didn’t suit her figure, and whose hair would have looked better had it been bobbed.
Like Miss Ferris, the landlady’s daughter, this girl seemed to remember William quite well, which was rather odd June felt, since he had only been once in the town previously and then for but a few hours. The inference to be drawn from the fact was that William was William, and that in an outlandish one-horse place like Crowdham Market, young men of his quality were necessarily at a premium.
But at the moment that was neither here nor there. And with equal truth the formula applied to the old woman. However, in regard to her it seemed, they were now in the way of getting information.
After William, with a certain particularity had described the old creature and her shop to the girl whokept on showing her teeth while he did so, he was informed that she was known among the neighbours as Mother Stark. And the poor old thing, the girl understood, had been turned out of house and home because she could no longer pay her rates and taxes.
“Half her side of the Lane’s pulled down,” said June, who now came into the conversation on a note of slight asperity.
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Smiler, to William rather than to June, “the site has been bought by a company.”
“Putting a museum on it I suppose,” said June.
“No, not a museum,” said Miss Smiler in a level voice ignoring June’s irony either because she did not see it, or because she did, which in any case perhaps was just as well for her.
“A chicken run?” June surmised with a disdainful eye upon a nice basket of new laid eggs, five for a shilling.
No, the site had not been acquired for a chicken run. Miss Smiler understood they were going to build a picture house.
June gazed solemnly at William. And her gaze was frankly and faithfully returned. A picture house on the spot where a Van Roon had lain hidden and unknown for who knew how many years!
What a world it was! Could Mother Stark but have guessed she would not have needed a Company to take over her premises.
“What’s become of her? Can you tell us?” said June.
“Had to go to the Workhouse, I believe, poor soul,” said the girl, who had a good heart.
June looked at William. William looked at June.
“Is the Workhouse far from here—please can you tell us?” It was William who asked the question.
The Workhouse, it seemed, was not far. In fact it was quite near. To get there you had only to go to the end of the lane, turn to the left, cross the recreation ground and the footbridge over the canal, and keep on bearing to the left and you couldn’t miss it.
“Will it take long?” The question was June’s. And a glance at her wrist accompanied it.
“Not more than five minutes.”
“Thank you very much indeed. We are greatly obliged to you.” William it was who brought the conversation to a climax with a lift of the hat.