I
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.