NARCISSUS TRIANDRUS AZUREUM
The _élite_ called to congratulate Mrs. Polkington on her daughter's
engagement. All manner of pleasant things were said by them and by
Mrs. Polkington in an atmosphere of social sunshine. She thought it so
nice of them to come so soon, she told them so severally; she knew
that they--"you all," "you, at least," "you, my oldest friend,"
according to circumstances--would be pleased to hear about it. She
gave sundry little hints of future plans and hopes, among other things
mentioned that it really was hard for poor Violet to have to go and
cheer an invalid cousin just now.
"And the worst of it is," so Mrs. Polkington said, "she may have to be
away some time. There really seems no one else to go, and one could
not leave the poor dear alone at this dull time of the year; and,
after all, Bath is not very far off; some of Richard's people live
there, too. I should not be surprised if the young people contrive to
see a good deal of each other in spite of everything. Indeed, had I
not thought so, I think I should have insisted on Chèrie's going
instead of Violet, although she would have had to give up her winter
abroad."
Here the visitor usually made polite inquiries about this same winter
abroad, and heard of a delightful prospect of several months to be
spent in the south of France, unnecessary and unpleasant details all
omitted.
"You do agree with me?" Mrs. Polkington would then ask rather
anxiously, as if her hearer's opinion was the one that really mattered
to her. "You do think it wrong to allow Chèrie to refuse this
invitation for Violet's sake? I am very glad you think so. I had quite
a difficulty in persuading her; but, as I told her, it was not a
chance she was likely to have again. So she is going, and Violet will
have to spend her winter in Bath. Julia? Oh, Julia was not asked in
either case; she will be staying at home with me."
From all of which it is clear that part of Julia's plan was to be
adopted. The other part must have found favour, too, for soon it
became known that the Polkingtons were without a servant. Mrs.
Polkington made inquiries among her friends, but could not hear of any
one suitable; she said it was very tiresome, especially as they had
taken advantage of the girl's empty room to invite an old Anglo-Indian
friend of her husband's to stay.
Thus was the difficulty tided over, and with so good a face that few
in Marbridge had any idea that it existed. Certainly none knew of the
pinching and screwing and retrenching which went on indoors at No. 27.
One or two tradesmen could have told of long accounts unpaid, and some
relations living at a distance were troubled by appeals for help, a
form of begging which, at this date of their history did not hurt the
Polkingtons' sensibility much.
Mrs. Polkington suffered in body, if not in mind, during this hard
time, though fortunately she was able to be away a month. The Captain
suffered a good deal more, which was perhaps only just; and Johnny
Gillat suffered with him, which was not just, though that did not seem
to occur to him. As for Julia, she minded least of any one, though in
some ways she had the most to put up with; but the plan was hers, and
consequently she was too interested in its success to trouble about
the inevitable discomforts of the working out.
There was one matter which did trouble her, however--the debt to
Rawson-Clew. She had no money, and no possibility of raising any; yet
it must and should be paid, for her father's name could not otherwise
be cleared. She turned over in her own mind how she could earn enough,
but there was little hope of that; it seemed rather a large sum for a
girl to earn, and any sum was impossible to her; she had no gifts to
take to market, no ability for any of the arts, not enough education
for teaching, no training for commerce. The only field open to her was
that of a nursery-governess or companion; neither was likely to enable
her to pay this debt of honour quickly. Once, nearly a year ago, she
had had a sort of half-offer of the post of companion. It was while
she was staying with a friend; during the visit there had come to the
house an old Dutchman of the name of Van Heigen, a business
acquaintance of her host. He had stayed nearly a week, and in that
time taken a great fancy to her.
In those first bad days after the Captain's leaving the army, the
Polkingtons had lived, or perhaps more accurately, drifted about, a
good deal abroad. It was then that Julia picked up her only
accomplishment, a working knowledge of several languages. She had also
acquired one other thing, perhaps not an accomplishment, a rather
unusual knowledge of divers men and divers ways. It may have been that
these qualities made her more attractive to the old Dutchman than the
purely English game-expert daughters of the house. Or it may have been
her admirable cooking; the cook was ill during the greater part of her
visit, and her offer to help was gladly accepted and duly
appreciated. Something, at all events, pleased the old man, so that
before he left he asked her, half in fun, if she would come and live
with his wife. This lady, it seemed, had bad health, and no daughters;
she always had a companion of some sort, and was never satisfied with
the one she had. In Holland, as in England, it seemed posts were not
easy to fill satisfactorily, for those often in want of employment
were also constitutionally inefficient.
At the time Julia had laughingly refused the offer, now she recalled
it, and thought seriously about it. It would not be very nice, a
mixture of upper servant and lady help; the Van Heigens were bulb
growers, old-fashioned people, the lady a thorough _huisvrouw_,
nothing more probably. Still that did not matter; such things need not
be considered if the end could be attained that way. But unfortunately
it did not look very likely; the Van Heigens would pay less to a
companion than English people would, not enough to buy clothes; there
was practically nothing to be made out of it. Julia was obliged to
admit the fact to herself, and reluctantly to dismiss the Dutchman and
his offer from her thoughts.
But curiously enough, they were brought to her mind again before long;
not later, indeed, than that evening, when she went to a dance at a
neighbour's house. At this dance she met a Mr. Alexander Cross. He was
not a native of Marbridge, not at all like any of them; it is quite
possible that they would have rather looked down upon him; Julia
recognised that he barely came up to her mother's standard of a
gentleman. He seemed to be a keen business man of the energetic new
sort; he also seemed to deal in most things, flowers among them. He
told Julia something about that part of his business, for he and it
interested her so much that she asked him leading questions. He
explained how the beautiful orchid he wore in his coat had decreased
in value lately. A few years ago, when there had been but one specimen
with just that marking in all the world, the plant had sold for £900;
now that it had been multiplied it was worth only £25, nothing
practically.
"It was a novelty then," he explained; "some novelties are worth a
great deal. There's one I know of now I could do some good business
with if I could get hold of it. But I can't; the old fool that's got
it won't sell it for any price, and he can't half work it himself.
It's a blue daffodil--Narcissus Triandrus Azureum he calls it; or
rather, to give it its full title, Narcissus Triandrus Azureum Vrouw
Van Heigen; so called, I believe, in honour of his wife, or his
mother."
Julia wondered if the Van Heigen who owned the precious flower was the
old Dutchman of her acquaintance. "Is he a bulb grower?" she asked,
though without giving any reason for her question.
"Yes," Cross answered, "a Dutch bulb grower; that's why he won't make
the profit he might; he comes of generations of growers, and they
venerate their bulbs. He has cranky notions of how things ought to be
done, and no other way will do for him."
"How did he get a blue daffodil? Do you think it is real? It seems
very unusual."
"It is unusual; that's where the value comes in; but it's real fast
enough, though I don't believe he grew the first, as he says, in his
own garden. It's my opinion that one of his collectors sent him the
first bulb; he has collectors all over the world, you know, looking
for new things."
"What is he going to do with it?" Julia asked.
"He is multiplying it at present; at first he had only one, now, of
course, he has a few more; when he has got enough he will hybridise.
You don't know what that is. Cross-breed with it; use the blue with
the old yellow daffodil as parents to new varieties. That's ticklish
work; growers can't afford to do it till they have a fair number of
the new sort; but, of course, they occasionally get something good
that way."
Julia listened, much interested, though, to tell the truth, the money
value of the thing fascinated her more than anything else.
"Will he never sell any of his blue bulbs?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, in time," Cross answered; "but not while they are worth
anything much to the growers."
"What are they worth? I mean, what would it be worth if there was only
one?"
"I don't know; I dare say I could get £400 for the single bulb."
"But if there were more they would not be worth so much? If there were
five, what would they be worth?"
"Pretty well as much, very likely £300 for one bulb. Van Heigen would
give a written guarantee with it not to sell another bulb to another
grower."
"But he could keep the others himself?" Julia asked. "That would be
eating his cake and having it too. Tell me," she said, feeling she was
imitating the Patriarch when he was pleading for Sodom and Gomorrah,
"if there were ten bulbs, what could you get for one."
Cross was amused by her interest. "A hundred pounds, I dare say," he
said; "but I shall never have the chance. The trade will never touch
those blue daffodils while they are worth having. When the old man
does begin to sell them--when they are worth very little to the
growers--he will sell to collectors, cranky old connoisseurs, from
choice. That's what I mean when I say he doesn't understand business
as business; he would rather sell his precious blue daffodils where
they were what he calls 'appreciated.' He would sooner they went for a
moderate price to people who would worship them, than make an enormous
profit out of them."
"But the connoisseurs could sell them," Julia objected. "If I were a
connoisseur and bought one when they were for sale, I could sell it to
you if I liked."
"Yes, but you wouldn't," Cross said; "if you were a connoisseur you
would not dream of parting with your bulb. You wouldn't have the
slightest wish to make a hundred per cent. on your purchase, or two or
three hundred either. Also I shouldn't buy."
"Why not?"
"I couldn't afford to have my name mixed up with the business."
Julia looked at him critically. "You could afford that the business
should be done without your name?" she suggested.
He laughed. "I could introduce the seller, did such an impossible
person exist, to some one who could buy."
It was Julia's turn to laugh, that soundless laugh of hers which gave
the feeling of a joke only half shared. "For a consideration, of
course," she said.
"Something would naturally stick to my fingers," Cross answered,
amused rather than offended.
He was a good deal amused by his partner, finding her more interesting
than most of the girls he met that evening; afterwards he forgot her,
for two days later he left the place, and thought no more either about
Miss Polkington or the talk he had had with her.
As for her, it was not clear what she thought, but the next day she
wrote to London for a second-hand Dutch dictionary, and then went to
call at the house with the largest library that she knew. When she
came away from there she carried with her a book she had borrowed, a
Dutch version of _Gil Blas_, which she remembered to have once seen
tucked away in a corner. Shortly afterwards, as soon as the dictionary
came, she set to reading the edifying work, and found it easier than
she expected. What one learns from necessity in childhood stays in the
memory, and a good knowledge of German and a smallish one of Dutch
will carry one through greater difficulties than _Gil Blas_.
Before her mother and sisters came back to Marbridge, Julia had
written to the old Dutchman.
When Mrs. Polkington heard Julia wanted to go to Holland and live in a
Dutch family she was surprised. This news was not given to her till
the spring had fairly set in, for it was not till then that Julia had
been able to get everything arranged. It is no use telling people your
plans unless you are quite sure of carrying them out, and you are
never sure of that long before starting; at least, that was Julia's
opinion. It was also her opinion that it was quite unnecessary to tell
all details. She said she was tired of being at Marbridge, and wanted
a complete change; also that when there were three grown-up sisters at
home it seemed rather desirable that one should go away, for a time at
least. When Violet suggested that it was odd to have chosen Holland in
preference to France or Germany, she replied truthfully that the one
was possible to her, the others were not.
Mrs. Polkington, who quite approved of the plan, saw no objection to
Holland, adding as a recommendation, "It is so much more original to
go there." She did not fail to remark on the originality when she
embroidered Julia's going to her friends and acquaintances.
Captain Polkington was the only member of the family who regretted
this going. He had always regarded Julia as something between an ally
and a tolerant go-between; and since she had wrung from him the
confession of his difficulties, and helped in the arrangement of them,
his feeling for her had leaned more and more towards the former. He
had even come to feel a certain protectiveness in her presence, which
made him really sorry she was going. Johnny Gillat was sorrier still.
Johnny had gone back to dismal lodgings in town now; he only heard of
the plan by letter, and the Captain's letters were very prolix, and
not informing. Mr. Gillat's own letters were even worse, for if they
lacked the prolixity, they lacked the little information also. On
receipt of the Captain's information he merely wrote to ask when Julia
was going, and what time she would be in London, as he would like to
give himself the pleasure of meeting her train.
He did give himself that pleasure; he was at the station half an hour
and ten minutes before the train, so as to be sure of being in time.
He was on the platform when the train came in; Julia saw him, a rather
ridiculous figure, his shabby coat tremendously brushed and tightly
buttoned, a gay tie displayed to the uttermost to hide a ragged shirt
front, his round, pink face, with its little grizzled moustache,
wearing a look of melancholy which made it appear more than ordinarily
foolish. He was standing where the part of the train which came from
Marbridge could not possibly stop, much in the way of porters and
trucks; Julia had to find him and find her luggage too, but he seemed
to think he was of much service. Julia's hard young heart smote her
when he gave twopence to her porter.
"Johnny," she said, as he took her ticket on the District Railway, "I
am going to pay for my ticket."
It was only threepence, but there are people who have to consider the
threepences; if Julia was one, she knew that Mr. Gillat was another,
and she had allowed for this threepence, and he probably had not. He
demurred, but she insisted. "Then I won't let you come with me;" and
he gave way.
They were alone in a compartment, and he shouted above the rattle of
the train something about her being missed at Marbridge.
"Oh, no," she said, "mother and the girls think it is a good thing I
am going."
"Your father and I will miss you," Johnny told her.
"You?"
"Yes; I'll miss you very much--we both shall; we shall sit
down-stairs, each side of the fire-place, and think how you used to
come there sometimes. And when I wait in the dining-room when your
father's not at home, I'll remember how you used to come down there
and chat. We had many a chat, didn't we?--you and me, and Bouquet
burning between us--there was nobody could trim Bouquet like you. But
perhaps you'll be back before winter comes round again?"
"I don't know when I shall be back," was all Julia could find to say.
The idea of being missed like this was new and strange to her; the
Polkingtons' feelings were so much guided by what was advisable, or
expedient, that there was not usually much room for simple emotions.
She felt somehow grateful to Johnny for caring a little that she was
going, though at the same time she was unpleasantly convinced that she
did not deserve it.
"It won't be at all the same at No. 27," Mr. Gillat was saying. "Your
mother--she's a wonderful woman, a wonderful woman, and Miss Violet's
a fine girl, so's the other, handsome both of them; but they're in
the drawing-room, you know, and you--you used to come down-stairs."
It did not sound very explicit, but Julia understood what he meant.
Just then the train stopped at a station, and other passengers got in,
so they had little more talk.
In time they reached Mark Lane, from whence it is no great walk to the
Tower Stairs. There is a cheap way of going to Holland from there for
those who do not mind spending twenty-four hours on the journey; Julia
did not mind. When she and Johnny Gillat arrived at the Tower Stairs
they saw the steamer lying in the river, a small Dutch boat, still
taking in cargo from loaded lighters alongside. A waterman put them on
board, or, rather, took them to the nearest waiting lighter, from
whence they scrambled on board, Mr. Gillat very unhandily. A Dutch
steward received them, and taking Johnny for a father come to see his
daughter off, assured them in bad English that she would be quite
safe, and well taken care of.
"She shall haf one cabin to herself, a bed clean. Yes, yes; there is
no passenger but one, a Holland gentleman; he will not speak with the
miss, he is friend of captain."
Johnny nodded a great many times, though he did not quite follow what
was said. Then Julia told him he had better go, and not keep the
waterman any longer.
He agreed, and began fumbling in his pocket, from whence he pulled out
one of his badly-tied parcels.
"A keepsake," he said, putting it into her hand; then, without waiting
to say good-bye, he scrambled over the side in such a hurry that he as
nearly as possible fell into the river.
Julia ran to the side in some anxiety; some one shouted, "Look out,"
and some one else, "Hold up," and a third something less
complimentary. Then a man laid hold of Mr. Gillat's legs and guided
him safely on to the bobbing lighter. There he turned and waved his
hat to Julia before he got into the waiting boat.
"Good-bye," he called.
"Good-bye," she answered. "Oh, do be careful!"
He was not careful, but the waterman had him now, and took him ashore.
She watched him, his round face was suffused with smiles; he waved his
hat once more just as he reached the stairs. He slipped once getting
up them, but he was up now, and turned to wave once before he started
down the street.
It was not till then that Julia became aware of a small sound close at
hand; there was a good deal of noise going on, shouting, the rattling
of cranes, and the thud of shifting bales, with now and then the hoot
of a steamer and the escape of steam, and under all, the restless
lapping of the water. But through it all she now heard a much smaller
sound quite close, a regular _tick_, _tick_. She glanced at the parcel
she had forgotten, then in an instant, as a sudden idea occurred to
her, she had the paper off. Yes, it was. It was Johnny's great
old-fashioned gold watch, with the fetter chain dangling at the end.
She stood quite still with the thing in her hand, her mouth set
straight, and her eyes growing glitteringly bright. The round gilded
face stared up at her, reminding her in some grotesque way of Johnny;
poor, generous, honest, foolish old Johnny! She looked away quickly, a
sudden desire not to go with this moon-faced companion took possession
of her--a desire not to go at all, a horrible new-born doubt about it.
But feelings for abstract right and wrong, like personal likes and
dislikes, do not grow strongly where expediency and advisability and
advantage have to rule; she was only going to do what she must in
Holland; the debt must be paid, honour demanded no less; the blue
daffodil was the only hope of paying it. She was not going to steal a
bulb exactly; she was going to get it somehow, as a gift, perhaps,
opportunity must show how; and when it was hers, she could do with it
as she pleased, there was no wrong in that. She must go; she must do
it; the thing was so necessary as to be unavoidable, and not open to
question. She looked down, and her eye fell on the watch again; it
stared up at her in the same vacant way as Johnny had done that day
when he wanted to sell it and his other things to help them out of
their justly earned, sordid difficulties. With shame she had prevented
that, feeling the cause unworthy of the sacrifice. But this sacrifice,
for a still more unworthy cause, she was too late to prevent. Johnny
had gone. She looked earnestly to see if he was among those who
loitered about the stairs, or those in the more distant street. But
she could not see him, he was gone clean from sight; there was only
the busy, unfamiliar life of the river around; yellow, sunlit water;
the crowded craft, and the great stately wonder of the Tower Bridge
silently raising and parting its solid roadway to let some boat go, as
she would soon go down to the sea.