Within three weeks a tremulous note from Mrs. Fontage requested the favor
of another visit. If the writing was tremulous, however, the writer’s tone
was firm. She named her own day and hour, without the conventional
reference to her visitor’s convenience.
My first impulse was to turn the note over to Eleanor. I had acquitted
myself of my share in the ungrateful business of coming to Mrs. Fontage’s
aid, and if, as her letter denoted, she had now yielded to the closer
pressure of need, the business of finding a purchaser for the Rembrandt
might well be left to my cousin’s ingenuity. But here conscience put in
the uncomfortable reminder that it was I who, in putting a price on the
picture, had raised the real obstacle in the way of Mrs. Fontage’s rescue.
No one would give a thousand dollars for the Rembrandt; but to tell
Mrs. Fontage so had become as unthinkable as murder. I had, in fact, on
returning from my first inspection of the picture, refrained from imparting
to Eleanor my opinion of its value. Eleanor is porous, and I knew that
sooner or later the unnecessary truth would exude through the loose texture
of her dissimulation. Not infrequently she thus creates the misery she
alleviates; and I have sometimes suspected her of paining people in order
that she might be sorry for them. I had, at all events, cut off retreat in
Eleanor’s direction; and the remaining alternative carried me straight to
Mrs. Fontage.
She received me with the same commanding sweetness. The room was even barer
than before--I believe the carpet was gone--but her manner built up about
her a palace to which I was welcomed with high state; and it was as a mere
incident of the ceremony that I was presently made aware of her decision to
sell the Rembrandt. My previous unsuccess in planning how to deal with Mrs.
Fontage had warned me to leave my farther course to chance; and I listened
to her explanation with complete detachment. She had resolved to travel for
her health; her doctor advised it, and as her absence might be indefinitely
prolonged she had reluctantly decided to part with the picture in order
to avoid the expense of storage and insurance. Her voice drooped at the
admission, and she hurried on, detailing the vague itinerary of a journey
that was to combine long-promised visits to impatient friends with various
“interesting opportunities” less definitely specified. The poor lady’s
skill in rearing a screen of verbiage about her enforced avowal had
distracted me from my own share in the situation, and it was with dismay
that I suddenly caught the drift of her assumptions. She expected me to
buy the Rembrandt for the Museum; she had taken my previous valuation as a
tentative bid, and when I came to my senses she was in the act of accepting
my offer.
Had I had a thousand dollars of my own to dispose of, the bargain would
have been concluded on the spot; but I was in the impossible position of
being materially unable to buy the picture and morally unable to tell her
that it was not worth acquiring for the Museum.
I dashed into the first evasion in sight. I had no authority, I explained,
to purchase pictures for the Museum without the consent of the committee.
Mrs. Fontage coped for a moment in silence with the incredible fact
that I had rejected her offer; then she ventured, with a kind of pale
precipitation: “But I understood--Miss Copt tells me that you practically
decide such matters for the committee.” I could guess what the effort had
cost her.
“My cousin is given to generalizations. My opinion may have some weight
with the committee--“
“Well, then--“ she timidly prompted.
“For that very reason I can’t buy the picture.”
She said, with a drooping note, “I don’t understand.”
“Yet you told me,” I reminded her, “that you knew museums didn’t buy
unsigned pictures.”
“Not for what they are worth! Every one knows that. But I--I
understood--the price you named--“ Her pride shuddered back from the
abasement. “It’s a misunderstanding then,” she faltered.
To avoid looking at her, I glanced desperately at the Rembrandt. Could
I--? But reason rejected the possibility. Even if the committee had been
blind--and they all _were_ but Crozier--I simply shouldn’t have dared
to do it. I stood up, feeling that to cut the matter short was the only
alleviation within reach.
Mrs. Fontage had summoned her indomitable smile; but its brilliancy
dropped, as I opened the door, like a candle blown out by a draught.
“If there’s any one else--if you knew any one who would care to see the
picture, I should be most happy--“ She kept her eyes on me, and I saw that,
in her case, it hurt less than to look at the Rembrandt. “I shall have to
leave here, you know,” she panted, “if nobody cares to have it--“