III
That evening at my club I had just succeeded in losing sight of Mrs.
Fontage in the fumes of an excellent cigar, when a voice at my elbow evoked
her harassing image.
"I want to talk to you," the speaker said, "about Mrs. Fontage's
Rembrandt."
"There isn't any," I was about to growl; but looking up I recognized the
confiding countenance of Mr. Jefferson Rose.
Mr. Rose was known to me chiefly as a young man suffused with a vague
enthusiasm for Virtue and my cousin Eleanor.
One glance at his glossy exterior conveyed the assurance that his morals
were as immaculate as his complexion and his linen. Goodness exuded from
his moist eye, his liquid voice, the warm damp pressure of his trustful
hand. He had always struck me as one of the most uncomplicated organisms
I had ever met. His ideas were as simple and inconsecutive as the
propositions in a primer, and he spoke slowly, with a kind of uniformity
of emphasis that made his words stand out like the raised type for the
blind. An obvious incapacity for abstract conceptions made him peculiarly
susceptible to the magic of generalization, and one felt he would have been
at the mercy of any Cause that spelled itself with a capital letter. It was
hard to explain how, with such a superabundance of merit, he managed to be
a good fellow: I can only say that he performed the astonishing feat as
naturally as he supported an invalid mother and two sisters on the slender
salary of a banker's clerk. He sat down beside me with an air of bright
expectancy.
"It's a remarkable picture, isn't it?" he said.
"You've seen it?"
"I've been so fortunate. Miss Copt was kind enough to get Mrs. Fontage's
permission; we went this afternoon." I inwardly wished that Eleanor
had selected another victim; unless indeed the visit were part of a
plan whereby some third person, better equipped for the cultivation of
delusions, was to be made to think the Rembrandt remarkable. Knowing the
limitations of Mr. Rose's resources I began to wonder if he had any rich
aunts.
"And her buying it in that way, too," he went on with his limpid smile,
"from that old Countess in Brussels, makes it all the more interesting,
doesn't it? Miss Copt tells me it's very seldom old pictures can be traced
back for more than a generation. I suppose the fact of Mrs. Fontage's
knowing its history must add a good deal to its value?"
Uncertain as to his drift, I said: "In her eyes it certainly appears to."
Implications are lost on Mr. Rose, who glowingly continued: "That's the
reason why I wanted to talk to you about it--to consult you. Miss Copt
tells me you value it at a thousand dollars."
There was no denying this, and I grunted a reluctant assent.
"Of course," he went on earnestly, "your valuation is based on the fact
that the picture isn't signed--Mrs. Fontage explained that; and it does
make a difference, certainly. But the thing is--if the picture's really
good--ought one to take advantage--? I mean--one can see that Mrs. Fontage
is in a tight place, and I wouldn't for the world--"
My astonished stare arrested him.
"_You_ wouldn't--?"
"I mean--you see, it's just this way"; he coughed and blushed: "I can't
give more than a thousand dollars myself--it's as big a sum as I can manage
to scrape together--but before I make the offer I want to be sure I'm not
standing in the way of her getting more money."
My astonishment lapsed to dismay. "You're going to buy the picture for a
thousand dollars?"
His blush deepened. "Why, yes. It sounds rather absurd, I suppose. It isn't
much in my line, of course. I can see the picture's very beautiful, but I'm
no judge--it isn't the kind of thing, naturally, that I could afford to go
in for; but in this case I'm very glad to do what I can; the circumstances
are so distressing; and knowing what you think of the picture I feel it's a
pretty safe investment--"
"I don't think!" I blurted out.
"You--?"
"I don't think the picture's worth a thousand dollars; I don't think it's
worth ten cents; I simply lied about it, that's all."
Mr. Rose looked as frightened as though I had charged him with the offense.
"Hang it, man, can't you see how it happened? I saw the poor woman's pride
and happiness hung on her faith in that picture. I tried to make her
understand that it was worthless--but she wouldn't; I tried to tell her
so--but I couldn't. I behaved like a maudlin ass, but you shan't pay for my
infernal bungling--you mustn't buy the picture!"
Mr. Rose sat silent, tapping one glossy boot-tip with another. Suddenly he
turned on me a glance of stored intelligence. "But you know," he said
good-humoredly, "I rather think I must."
"You haven't--already?"
"Oh, no; the offer's not made."
"Well, then--"
His look gathered a brighter significance.
"But if the picture's worth nothing, nobody will buy it--"
I groaned.
"Except," he continued, "some fellow like me, who doesn't know anything.
_I_ think it's lovely, you know; I mean to hang it in my mother's
sitting-room." He rose and clasped my hand in his adhesive pressure. "I'm
awfully obliged to you for telling me this; but perhaps you won't mind my
asking you not to mention our talk to Miss Copt? It might bother her, you
know, to think the picture isn't exactly up to the mark; and it won't make
a rap of difference to me."
