The Outcry
Lord Theign had during this speech kept his eyes on the ground; but he raised them to Mr. Crimble’s almost palpitating presence for the remark: “I’m bound to say that I hope you’ve some very good grounds!”
“I’ve three or four, Lord Theign; they seem to me of the best—as yet. They made me wonder and wonder—and then light splendidly broke.”
His lordship didn’t stint his attention. “Reflected, you mean, from other Mantovanos—that I don’t know?”
“I mean from those I know myself,” said Hugh; “and I mean from fine analogies with one in particular.”
“Analogies that in all these years, these centuries, have so remarkably not been noticed?”
“Well,” Hugh competently explained, “they’re a sort of thing the very sense of, the value and meaning of, are a highly modern—in fact a quite recent growth.”
Lord John at this professed with cordiality that he at least quite understood. “Oh, we know a lot more about our pictures and things than ever our ancestors did!”
“Well, I guess it’s enough for me,” Mr. Bender contributed, “that your ancestors knew enough to get ‘em!”
“Ah, that doesn’t go so far,” cried Hugh, “unless we ourselves know enough to keep ‘em!”
The words appeared to quicken in a manner Lord Theign’s view of the speaker. “Were your ancestors, Mr. Crimble, great collectors?”
Arrested, it might be, in his general assurance, Hugh wondered and smiled. “Mine—collectors? Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t any—to speak of. Only it has seemed to me for a long time,” he added, “that on that head we should all feel together.”
Lord Theign looked for a moment as if these were rather large presumptions; then he put them in their place a little curtly. “It’s one thing to keep our possessions for ourselves—it’s another to keep them for other people.”
“Well,” Hugh good-humouredly returned, “I’m perhaps not so absolutely sure of myself, if you press me, as that I sha’n’t be glad of a higher and wiser opinion—I mean than my own. It would be awfully interesting, if you’ll allow me to say so, to have the judgment of one or two of the great men.”
“You’re not yourself, Mr. Crimble, one of the great men?” his host asked with tempered irony.
“Well, I guess he’s going to be, anyhow,” Mr. Bender cordially struck in; “and this remarkable exhibition of intelligence may just let him loose on the world, mayn’t it?”
“Thank you, Mr. Bender!”—and Hugh obviously tried to look neither elated nor snubbed. “I’ve too much still to learn, but I’m learning every day, and I shall have learnt immensely this afternoon.”
“Pretty well at my expense, however,” Lord Theign laughed, “if you demolish a name we’ve held for generations so dear.”
“You may have held the name dear, my lord,” his young critic answered; “but my whole point is that, if I’m right, you’ve held the picture itself cheap.”
“Because a Mantovano,” said Lord John, “is so much greater a value?”
Hugh met his eyes a moment “Are you talking of values pecuniary?”
“What values are not pecuniary?”
Hugh might, during his hesitation, have been imagined to stand off a little from the question. “Well, some things have in a higher degree that one, and some have the associational or the factitious, and some the clear artistic.”
“And some,” Mr. Bender opined, “have them all—in the highest degree. But what you mean,” he went on, “is that a Mantovano would come higher under the hammer than a Moretto?”
“Why, sir,” the young man returned, “there aren’t any, as I’ve just stated, to ‘come.’ I account—or I easily can—for every one of the very small number.”
“Then do you consider that you account for this one?”
“I believe I shall if you’ll give me time.”
“Oh, time!” Mr. Bender impatiently sighed. “But we’ll give you all we’ve got—only I guess it isn’t much.” And he appeared freely to invite their companions to join in this estimate. They listened to him, however, they watched him, for the moment, but in silence, and with the next he had gone on: “How much higher—if your idea is correct about it—would Lord Theign’s picture come?”
Hugh turned to that nobleman. “Does Mr. Bender mean come to him, my lord?”
Lord Theign looked again hard at Hugh, and then harder than he had done yet at his other invader. “I don’t know what Mr. Bender means!” With which he turned off.
“Well, I guess I mean that it would come higher to me than to any one! But how much higher?” the American continued to Hugh.
“How much higher to you?”
“Oh, I can size that. How much higher as a Mantovano?”
Unmistakably—for us at least—our young man was gaining time; he had the instinct of circumspection and delay. “To any one?”
“To any one.”
“Than as a Moretto?” Hugh continued.
It even acted on Lord John’s nerves. “That’s what we’re talking about—really!”
But Hugh still took his ease; as if, with his eyes first on Bender and then on Lord Theign, whose back was practically presented, he were covertly studying signs. “Well,” he presently said, “in view of the very great interest combined with the very great rarity, more than—ah more than can be estimated off-hand.”
It made Lord Theign turn round. “But a fine Moretto has a very great rarity and a very great interest.”
“Yes—but not on the whole the same amount of either.”
“No, not on the whole the same amount of either!”—Mr. Bender judiciously echoed it. “But how,” he freely pursued, “are you going to find out?”
“Have I your permission, Lord Theign,” Hugh brightly asked, “to attempt to find out?”
The question produced on his lordship’s part a visible, a natural anxiety. “What would it be your idea then to do with my property?”
“Nothing at all here—it could all be done, I think, at Verona. What besets, what quite haunts me,” Hugh explained, “is the vivid image of a Mantovano—one of the glories of the short list—in a private collection in that place. The conviction grows in me that the two portraits must be of the same original. In fact I’ll bet my head,” the young man quite ardently wound up, “that the wonderful subject of the Verona picture, a very great person clearly, is none other than the very great person of yours.”
Lord Theign had listened with interest. “Mayn’t he be that and yet from another hand?”
“It isn’t another hand”—oh Hugh was quite positive. “It’s the hand of the very same painter.”
“How can you prove it’s the same?”
“Only by the most intimate internal evidence, I admit—and evidence that of course has to be estimated.”
“Then who,” Lord Theign asked, “is to estimate it?”
“Well,”—Hugh was all ready—“will you let Pap-pendick, one of the first authorities in Europe, a good friend of mine, in fact more or less my master, and who is generally to be found at Brussels? I happen to know he knows your picture—he once spoke to me of it; and he’ll go and look again at the Verona one, he’ll go and judge our issue, if I apply to him, in the light of certain new tips that I shall be able to give him.”
Lord Theign appeared to wonder. “If you ‘apply’ to him?”
“Like a shot, I believe, if I ask it of him—as a service.”
“A service to you? He’ll be very obliging,” his lordship smiled.
“Well, I’ve obliged him!” Hugh readily retorted.
“The obligation will be to we”—Lord Theign spoke more formally.
“Well, the satisfaction,” said Hugh, “will be to all of us. The things Pappendick has seen he intensely, ineffaceably keeps in mind, to every detail; so that he’ll tell me—as no one else really can—if the Verona man is your man.”
“But then,” asked Mr. Bender, “we’ve got to believe anyway what he says?”
“The market,” said Lord John with emphasis, “would have to believe it—that’s the point.”
“Oh,” Hugh returned lightly, “the market will have nothing to do with it, I hope; but I think you’ll feel when he has spoken that you really know where you are.”
Mr. Bender couldn’t doubt of that. “Oh, if he gives us a bigger thing we won’t complain. Only, how long will it take him to get there? I want him to start right away.”
“Well, as I’m sure he’ll be deeply interested–”
“We may”—Mr. Bender took it straight up—“get news next week?”
Hugh addressed his reply to Lord Theign; it was already a little too much as if he and the American between them were snatching the case from that possessor’s hands. “The day I hear from Pappendick you shall have a full report. And,” he conscientiously added, “if I’m proved to have been unfortunately wrong–!”
His lordship easily pointed the moral. “You’ll have caused me some inconvenience.”
“Of course I shall,” the young man unreservedly agreed—“like a wanton meddling ass!” His candour, his freedom had decidedly a note of their own. “But my conviction, after those moments with your picture, was too strong for me not to speak—and, since you allow it, I face the danger and risk the test.”
“I allow it of course in the form of business.” This produced in Hugh a certain blankness. “‘Business’?” “If I consent to the inquiry I pay for the inquiry.” Hugh demurred. “Even if I turn out mistaken?” “You make me in any event your proper charge.” The young man thought again, and then as for vague accommodation: “Oh, my charge won’t be high!”
“Ah,” Mr. Bender protested, “it ought to be handsome if the thing’s marked up!” After which he looked at his watch. “But I guess I’ve got to go, Lord Theign, though your lovely old Duchess—for it’s to her I’ve lost my heart—does cry out for me again.”
“You’ll find her then still there,” Lord John observed with emphasis, but with his eyes for the time on Lord Theign; “and if you want another look at her I’ll presently come and take one too.”
“I’ll order your car to the garden-front,” Lord Theign added to this; “you’ll reach it from the saloon, but I’ll see you again first.”
Mr. Bender glared as with the round full force of his pair of motor lamps. “Well, if you’re ready to talk about anything, I am. Good-bye, Mr. Crimble.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Bender.” But Hugh, addressing their host while his fellow-guest returned to the saloon, broke into the familiarity of confidence. “As if you could be ready to ‘talk’!”
This produced on the part of the others present a mute exchange that could only have denoted surprise at all the irrepressible young outsider thus projected upon them took for granted. “I’ve an idea,” said Lord John to his friend, “that you’re quite ready to talk with me.”
Hugh then, with his appetite so richly quickened, could but rejoice. “Lady Grace spoke to me of things in the library.”
“You’ll find it that way”—Lord Theign gave the indication.
“Thanks,” said Hugh elatedly, and hastened away.
Lord John, when he had gone, found relief in a quick comment. “Very sharp, no doubt—but he wants taking down.”
The master of Dedborough wouldn’t have put it so crudely, but the young expert did bring certain things home. “The people my daughters, in the exercise of a wild freedom, do pick up–!”
“Well, don’t you see that all you’ve got to do—on the question we’re dealing with—is to claim your very own wild freedom? Surely I’m right in feeling you,” Lord John further remarked, “to have jumped at once to my idea that Bender is heaven-sent—and at what they call the psychologic moment, don’t they?—to point that moral. Why look anywhere else for a sum of money that—smaller or greater—you can find with perfect ease in that extraordinarily bulging pocket?”
Lord Theign, slowly pacing the hall again, threw up his hands. “Ah, with ‘perfect ease’ can scarcely be said!”
“Why not?—when he absolutely thrusts his dirty dollars down your throat.”
“Oh, I’m not talking of ease to him,” Lord Theign returned—“I’m talking of ease to myself. I shall have to make a sacrifice.”
“Why not then—for so great a convenience—gallantly make it?”
“Ah, my dear chap, if you want me to sell my Sir Joshua–!”
But the horror in the words said enough, and Lord John felt its chill. “I don’t make a point of that—God forbid! But there are other things to which the objection wouldn’t apply.”
“You see how it applies—in the case of the Moret-to—for him. A mere Moretto,” said Lord Theign, “is too cheap—for a Yankee ‘on the spend.’”
“Then the Mantovano wouldn’t be.”
“It remains to be proved that it is a Mantovano.”
“Well,” said Lord John, “go into it.”
“Hanged if I won’t!” his friend broke out after a moment. “It would suit me. I mean”—the explanation came after a brief intensity of thought—“the possible size of his cheque would.”
“Oh,” said Lord John gaily, “I guess there’s no limit to the possible size of his cheque!”
“Yes, it would suit me, it would suit me!” the elder man, standing there, audibly mused. But his air changed and a lighter question came up to him as he saw his daughter reappear at the door from the terrace. “Well, the infant horde?” he immediately put to her.
Lady Grace came in, dutifully accounting for them. “They’ve marched off—in a huge procession.”
“Thank goodness! And our friends?”
“All playing tennis,” she said—“save those who are sitting it out.” To which she added, as to explain her return: “Mr. Crimble has gone?”
Lord John took upon him to say. “He’s in the library, to which you addressed him—making discoveries.”
“Not then, I hope,” she smiled, “to our disadvantage!”
“To your very great honour and glory.” Lord John clearly valued the effect he might produce.
“Your Moretto of Brescia—do you know what it really and spendidly is?” And then as the girl, in her surprise, but wondered: “A Mantovano, neither more nor less. Ever so much more swagger.”
“A Mantovano?” Lady Grace echoed. “Why, how tremendously jolly!”
Her father was struck. “Do you know the artist—of whom I had never heard?”
“Yes, something of the little that is known.” And she rejoiced as her knowledge came to her. “He’s a tremendous swell, because, great as he was, there are but seven proved examples–”
“With this of yours,” Lord John broke in, “there are eight.”
“Then why haven’t I known about him?” Lord Theign put it as if so many other people were guilty for this.
His daughter was the first to plead for the vague body. “Why, I suppose in order that you should have exactly this pleasure, father.”
“Oh, pleasures not desired are like acquaintances not sought—they rather bore one!” Lord Theign sighed. With which he moved away from her.
Her eyes followed him an instant—then she smiled at their guest. “Is he bored at having the higher prize—if you’re sure it is the higher?”
“Mr. Crimble is sure—because if he isn’t,” Lord John added, “he’s a wretch.”
“Well,” she returned, “as he’s certainly not a wretch it must be true. And fancy,” she exclaimed further, though as more particularly for herself, “our having suddenly incurred this immense debt to him!”
“Oh, I shall pay Mr. Crimble!” said her father, who had turned round.
The whole question appeared to have provoked in Lord John a rise of spirits and a flush of humour. “Don’t you let him stick it on.”
His host, however, bethinking himself, checked him. “Go you to Mr. Bender straight!”
Lord John saw the point. “Yes—till he leaves. But I shall find you here, shan’t I?” he asked with all earnestness of Lady Grace.
She had an hesitation, but after a look at her father she assented. “I’ll wait for you.”
“Then à tantôt!” It made him show for happy as, waving his hand at her, he proceeded to seek Mr. Bender in presence of the object that most excited that gentleman’s appetite—to say nothing of the effect involved on Lord John’s own.
IX
Lord Theign, when he had gone, revolved—it might have been nervously—about the place a little, but soon broke ground. “He’ll have told you, I understand, that I’ve promised to speak to you for him. But I understand also that he has found something to say for himself.”
“Yes, we talked—a while since,” the girl said. “At least he did.”
“Then if you listened I hope you listened with a good grace.”
“Oh, he speaks very well—and I’ve never disliked him.”
It pulled her father up. “Is that all—when I think so much of him?”
She seemed to say that she had, to her own mind, been liberal and gone far; but she waited a little. “Do you think very, very much?”
“Surely I’ve made my good opinion clear to you!”
Again she had a pause. “Oh yes, I’ve seen you like him and believe in him—and I’ve found him pleasant and clever.”
“He has never had,” Lord Theign more or less ingeniously explained, “what I call a real show.” But the character under discussion could after all be summed up without searching analysis. “I consider nevertheless that there’s plenty in him.”
It was a moderate claim, to which Lady Grace might assent. “He strikes me as naturally quick and—well, nice. But I agree with you than he hasn’t had a chance.”
“Then if you can see your way by sympathy and confidence to help him to one I dare say you’ll find your reward.”
For a third time she considered, as if a certain curtness in her companion’s manner rather hindered, in such a question, than helped. Didn’t he simplify too much, you would have felt her ask, and wasn’t his visible wish for brevity of debate a sign of his uncomfortable and indeed rather irritated sense of his not making a figure in it? “Do you desire it very particularly?” was, however, all she at last brought out.
“I should like it exceedingly—if you act from conviction. Then of course only; but of one thing I’m myself convinced—of what he thinks of yourself and feels for you.”
“Then would you mind my waiting a little?” she asked. “I mean to be absolutely sure of myself.” After which, on his delaying to agree, she added frankly, as to help her case: “Upon my word, father, I should like to do what would please you.”
But it determined in him a sharper impatience. “Ah, what would please me! Don’t put it off on ‘me’! Judge absolutely for yourself”—he slightly took himself up—“in the light of my having consented to do for him what I always hate to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take—in reason!—your time.”
“May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?”
He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.”
“Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.”
“Then I’ll send him to you.”
He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American—Mr. Bender—want?”
Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!”
“Well then Lord John’s.”
“He’s none of his either—more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally—to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell you, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.”
“No, father—certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.”
His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.”
“Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted.
“Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of yours?”
“Why, if we’ve a new treasure—which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano—haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is that exposed?” she asked.
Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?”
“He wants ours?” the girl gasped.
“At absolutely any price.”
“But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?”
He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her—then he handsomely chose. “My dear child, for what do you take me?” With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon.
She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals.
“What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.”
“You’ve seen everything as you wished?”
“Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.”
She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.”
“So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six—”
“Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm.
“‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.”
“It isn’t a Rubens?”
“No more than I’m a Ruskin.”
“Then you’ll brand us—expose us for it?”
“No, I’ll let you off—I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it in terrorem. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days—that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!”
She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano—hidden in the other thing?”
Hugh wondered—almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say you’ve had the idea of that?”
“No, but my father has told me.”
“And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?”
With her conscious eyes on him—her eyes could clearly be very conscious about her father—she considered a moment. “He always prefers old associations and appearances to new; but I’m sure he’ll resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.”
“Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.”
Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash—as dropping out of a chariot of fire—more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.”
“Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!” he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest—that’s to say the very useful information—who in the world was it brought me?”
She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.”
“I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy—little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at any rate I only know what has been.” She turned off for it, moving away from him as with a sense of mingled things that made for unrest; and he had the next moment grown graver under the impression. “But does anything in it all,” he asked, “trouble you?”
She faced about across the wider space, and there was a different note in what she brought out. “I don’t know what forces me so to tell you things.”
“‘Tell’ me?” he stared. “Why, you’ve told me nothing more monstrous than that I’ve been welcome!”
“Well, however that may be, what did you mean just now by the chance of our not ‘going straight’? When you said you’d expose our bad—or is it our false?—Rubens in the event of a certain danger.”
“Oh, in the event of your ever being bribed”—he laughed again as with relief. And then as her face seemed to challenge the word: “Why, to let anything—of your best!—ever leave Dedborough. By which I mean really of course leave the country.” She turned again on this, and something in her air made him wonder. “I hope you don’t feel there is such a danger? I understood from you half an hour ago that it was unthinkable.”
