Chapter XIV.

Jasper Davenant

The silence that had fallen between me and my companion remained

unbroken (with one exception, when he briefly drew my attention to the

old stone name-tablet, inscribed “Wardour Streete 1686”) until we came

opposite a church, standing back from the road, and distinguished by a

sort of tumour--containing a clock--on its spire. Here Mr. Davenant

halted, and looking up at the tower, remarked:

“A quaint-looking church, this; odd and ugly, but yet not without a

certain character and picturesqueness. Quite an aristocratic church,

too, for it is the burial place of a king.”

“Indeed,” said I. “Which of the kings is buried there?”

“He was but a shabby little king--Theodore of Corsica--and he has the

shabbiest little moralizing monument. But he was a somewhat original

monarch in his way, for, being in acute financial difficulties, he

conceived the brilliant idea of making over his kingdom to his

creditors. Would you care to see the monument?”

I assented, without enthusiasm, and we mounted the steps to the grimy

churchyard, where presently, against the wall of the church, we found

the monument. And still, as we deciphered the weathered inscription, I

debated the question whether I should or should not tell him; and

still I reached no conclusion.

“By the way,” my companion said, suddenly, “I am acting the showman on

the assumption that you are the complete and perfect country bumpkin.

But perhaps you are, by now, a fully acclimatized Londoner. How long

have you been living in town?”

“About a month.”

“Then the hay-seed is still in your hair, so to speak. I still address

a country cousin, and have not presumed unduly; though, no doubt, you

are beginning to learn the rudiments. I heard Mr. Campbell speak of

Wellclose Square, for instance, as a region known to you.”

“Yes. That is where I live.”

As I caught his look of astonishment my heart began to race; for I

knew that the inevitable question was coming.

“I suppose your husband is connected with the docks?”

“No,” I replied. “And he doesn’t live at Wellclose Square. I am not

living with my husband, Mr. Davenant. I never have lived with him, and

it is not my intention ever to live with him.”

The deed was done. The murder was out. And though I knew that I had

taken the wrong course, I drew a deep breath of relief. As to Mr.

Davenant, he was, for a few moments, too much taken aback to make any

comment. At length he said, somewhat gloomily:

“I am sorry to hear this, Mrs. Otway. Very sorry. It sounds as if your

domestic affairs were not very comfortable.”

“They are not,” I answered. “But, as I have told you so much, I should

like to tell you what the position really is. Would you mind?”

“Mind!” he exclaimed. “Of course I want to know, if you are willing to

tell me. Aren’t we old friends? I am most concerned about you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Davenant. I _should_ like to tell you how this

extraordinary position has come about. Shall we sit down? This place

is quieter than the street.”

He dusted the wooden bench with his handkerchief, and we sat down just

below the shabby monument of the poor, little, bankrupt king. And

there I told once again that tragic story of cross-purposes and

well-meant blundering. I had intended to give him but a bare outline

of the catastrophe; but it could not be. For the bald fact was that I

had sold myself to Mr. Otway for money; and my womanly pride and

self-respect would not be satisfied with anything short of a complete

justification such as might be accepted by a scrupulous, high-minded

man. And as I poured out my miserable history, glancing at him from

time to time, I was surprised and almost alarmed at the change that

came over him. He was a sunny-natured man, buoyant, high-spirited,

playful and humorous, though all in a quiet way. But now, as he

listened to my story, the genial face grew rigid, the humorous mouth

set hard and stern, and the short, sharp questions that he put from

time to time, came in a voice that was strange to me.

“So now,” said I, when I had come to the end of my recital, “you will

understand why I refuse to recognize this marriage; and why I elect to

live the life of a spinster, though without a spinster’s privileges.”

In a moment his face softened, and his clear, hazel eyes looked into

mine with grave tenderness.

“Yes,” he said; “I understand. I wish I could say more. I wish I could

tell you adequately how I grieve for you--for all the sorrow that you

have had to endure and for the maimed life that lies before you. But

words are poor instruments.” He laid his hand on mine for an instant,

and added: “Yet I hope you will feel what I want to express in these

threadbare phrases.”

I thanked him for the sympathy, which he had indeed made very clearly

evident, and for a time neither of us spoke. Nevertheless, I could see

that he was cogitating something. Once or twice he seemed about to

speak, for he looked at me, but then again bent his gaze reflectively

on the ground. At length, with some hesitation, he said:

“I hope you won’t think me inquisitive or impertinent, but I feel

rather anxious as to--as to how you are placed. I gather that this man

Otway does not--er--contribute----”

“He is quite willing to. But I can’t allow him to maintain me if I

repudiate the marriage.”

“No; at least I think you are quite wise not to. But--you don’t mind

my asking, do you? Are you properly provided for? I’m really not----”

“Of course, you’re not,” I interrupted, smiling at his diffidence. “As

to my means--well, I don’t quite know what they will be eventually,

but at present I am living in a reasonable state of comfort. I am not

anxious about the future.”

My answer did not seem to satisfy him completely, for he continued to

cogitate rather uneasily. But, now that I had the key, I could read

pretty clearly, without the aid of any magic crystal, what was passing

in his mind. He knew that I lived in a squalid east-end neighbourhood.

He had seen me at the dealers, and evidently surmised that I was not

there as a buyer; that I was in straitened circumstances--perhaps in a

state of actual poverty--and that I was disposing of my jewellery and

valuables to enable me to live. That, I had no doubt, was what he

suspected; and the question that he was debating so earnestly was

whether he could, without impertinence, extract any further

information and whether our friendship was intimate enough to allow of

his making any kind of offer of help.

I should have liked to set his mind at rest, but, in truth, I was none

too confident about my future. That depended largely on the nature of

Mr. Campbell’s offer; on my ability to earn a reasonable livelihood.

“Well,” Mr. Davenant said, at length, “I hope your confidence is

justified. But in any case, I suppose you have friends?”

“There’s no need for you to worry about me,” I replied, evasively--for

I had no near relatives from whom I could claim assistance. “I am in

quite comfortable circumstances at present. And now let us put away my

bothersome affairs and talk of something more pleasant.”

“Very well,” said he. “Let us choose an agreeable topic and discuss it

in all its bearings as we used to do.” He drew his watch from his

pocket, and, glancing at it, continued: “It is now nearly one o’clock.

What do you say to the question of lunch as an agreeable topic for our

debate?”

I admitted that the subject was not without its attractions.

“Then,” said he, “I will suggest that a club is an appropriate place

in which to consume it, and that a mixed club satisfies the most

extreme proprieties.”

“I should hardly have suspected you of a mixed club.”

“In strict confidence,” he replied, “between you and me and our friend

Theodore of insolvent memory, I have another--unmixed--for normal club

purposes. This one is my lunch club. It is quite near to my chambers,

and is quieter and more pleasant than a restaurant. And it has a

special character of its own, as is indicated by its name. It is

called the ‘Magpies’ Club.”

“That sounds rather ominous.”

“Doesn’t it? But it isn’t a burglars’ club. Its members are collectors

and connoisseurs--furniture and china maniacs and so forth; and the

main function of the club is to enable them to show their specimens to

one another and to exchange or sell duplicate pieces. May I take it

that you consent to honour the ‘Magpies’?”

I accepted the invitation gladly, for a month’s residence in the East

End had made me decidedly appreciative of the amenities of the more

civilized regions. We decided to walk to Essex Street, in which the

club had its premises, and to go by way of the side streets for

greater quiet and ease of conversation.

“You spoke just now of your chambers,” said I. “Does that mean that

you are in practice now?”

“Yes. But not in the law. I finished my legal studies and got called,

but then I decided to give up the Bench and the Woolsack, though they

shouted for me never so loudly, and return to an old love. I am now an

architect.”

“Is a barrister allowed to practice as an architect?”

“On that I am not quite clear; but it really doesn’t matter to me. It

is a question for the benchers or other authorities.”

“Have you been in practice long?”

“Exactly three weeks to-day. And when I tell you that I have already

received a commission to design and erect a greenhouse no less than

twelve feet by eight in plan, you will realize that I am mounting the

ladder of professional success, with the speed of an eagle with a

balloon attachment. My client, by the way, is a member of the club.”

Thus gossiping, we made our way by devious routes through the less

frequented streets, by Garrick Street, Covent Garden and Drury Lane,

until, by the Law Courts, we emerged into the Strand, crossed to Essex

Street, and presently arrived at the roomy, old-fashioned house in

which the Magpies had their meeting-place.

It was a pleasant, homely club, and certainly there could be no

question as to its eminent respectability, for the aspect of the

members--mostly middle-aged and many of them elderly--bordered on the

frumpish. The room in which we selected our table was a large, oblong

apartment, quietly furnished and decorated and provided with a glazed

museum case, which occupied the centre; while a sort of daïs at one

end was devoted to the display of pieces of furniture exhibited by the

members. I noticed, too, that the walls were occupied by pictures,

each of which bore a written descriptive label.

“Are you interested in ancient ivories?” Mr. Davenant asked, as we

looked into the glass case, in which a collection of very brown and

cracked specimens were exhibited by a Mr. Udimore-Jones. “For my part,

I find it difficult to develop great enthusiasm over the dental

arrangements of superannuated elephants, carved into funny shapes by

piously-facetious middle-agers. Look out! Here comes my client. Let us

sneak off to our table. Aha! Too late! She’s seen us.”

“Which is your client?” I asked, looking round furtively.

“The elderly damsel with the smile--a Miss Tallboy-Smith. There! She

has caught my eye now. Did you ever see such a set of teeth? She had

better be careful or Udimore-Jones will have her.”

We were edging away towards our table, with a feeble hope of escape,

when she caught us.

“Now, I don’t believe you’ve seen my cup,” she exclaimed, with an

engaging smile. “You must see it. It is not only genuine Nantgarw, but

the roses on it are unquestionable Billingsleys.”

“Observe,” said Mr. Davenant, “the pride of the inveterate collector.

You’d think she had painted those roses herself.”

“Indeed, you wouldn’t,” retorted Miss Tallboy-Smith; “not if you had

seen them and knew anything about ceramic painting. And as to pride,

isn’t it something to be proud of? Nantgarw porcelain is rare, and

roses painted by Billingsley are rare; and when you have them both in

a single piece, why then, you see, you----”

“Then,” said Mr. Davenant, “you multiply the rarity of the one by the

rarity of the other, and the product of the multiplication is the

rarity of the piece as a whole.”

“Isn’t he absurd?” she simpered, treating me to a complete private

view of the “ancient ivories.” “Perfectly incorrigible. Don’t you

agree with me, Miss--Mrs----”

“Otway,” said I.

“Oh, really! Now I wonder--my brother knew a Mr. ----. Oh but he was a

money-lender. That wouldn’t be--but won’t you come and look at my

cup?”

We returned to the glass case, of which Miss Tallboy-Smith opened a

door and lifted from its shelf a dainty porcelain teacup.

“Just feel how thin and light it is,” she said, holding it out to me.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Mr. Davenant. “This Nantgarw stuff

crumbles like a baked egg-shell; and it’s hideously valuable.”

“Don’t take any notice of him,” said Miss Tallboy-Smith. “Just feel

it--it’s positively delicious to touch; and look at the lovely roses;

no one but William Billingsley could have painted those roses. And, if

there could be any doubt, you have only to turn the piece up and look

at the bottom. There is Billingsley’s personal mark--the Number 7.

That’s infallible.”

I took from her hand the delicate, translucent cup, and was admiring

the freedom and softness of the flower-painting when she drew nearer

and said in a warning whisper:

“Here comes Major Dewham-Brown. If he tries to sell you anything,

don’t buy it. He only brings his bad bargains here.”

She had barely uttered her warning when a brassy voice behind me

exclaimed: “How d’you do, Miss Tallboy-Smith? and how are you,

Davenant?” and a tall, smart, rather stupid-looking man with a large

nose--which seemed to have been produced at the expense of his eyes

and chin--sailed into my field of vision.

“Ha!” said he. “Pretty cup, that. Worth a pot of money, too, I expect,

though I don’t know much about ’em. And that reminds me that I’ve got

rather an interesting thing that I picked up the other day; bit of old

church plate; seventeenth century, if not earlier. Like to see it?”

Without waiting for a reply, he fished out of a “poacher’s” pocket a

flat object wrapped in a silk handkerchief.

“Curious piece, this: interested me very much. The repoussé-work on

it is remarkably fine.” He unfolded the handkerchief as he spoke, and

at length extracted, with a sort of conjuror’s flourish, a small,

circular, silver platter--apparently a paten, to judge by its size.

This he handed to Miss Tallboy-Smith, who grinned at it indulgently

and passed it to Mr. Davenant, who, having looked it over without

enthusiasm, handed it to me. A very brief inspection, with the piece

in my hand, was enough to make Miss Tallboy-Smith’s warning

unnecessary; for, apart from the unsuitability of the ornament--if it

was really meant for a paten--it was an obvious electrotype, which

had, however, been pickled, polished and sulphured with intent to

deceive. Having noted this fact, I returned the piece to its owner

with a few words of polite and colourless commendation of the design;

and the Major, chilled by the lack of enthusiasm, invested his

treasure once more in its silken wrapping and went off in search of a

more appreciative audience. Under cover of his parting courtesies to

Miss Tallboy-Smith, Mr. Davenant and I retreated to our table.

“That antique of the Major’s looked to me rather like a fake,” said my

companion, when we had ordered our lunch. “It was so very venerable.”

“It is an electrotype, sulphured to give an appearance of age,” said

I.

“Is it, by Jove? Now, how did you spot it as an electrotype?”

“It was the disagreement between the back and the face that first

attracted my attention. The face was repoussé--pretty coarse too--but

there was not a vestige of a toolmark on the back, where, of course,

most of the punch-marks would be; nothing but the smooth surface of

the deposited metal.”

Mr. Davenant chuckled. “I seem to have imported an expert Magpie. Oh!

But I remember now that you and your father used to do all sorts of

wonderful works in metal. Ha, ha! Poor old Dewham-Brown! He little

suspected that he was dealing with a practical artificer.”

Here the advent of food put a temporary stop to conversation, for we

were both pretty sharp-set; but during the progress of the meal I

looked about me and was vastly entertained by the proceedings of the

Magpies. The glass case was the centre of interest, around which a

small crowd of enthusiasts gathered, eagerly discussing the exhibits,

which the proud owners expounded, with their noses flattened against

the glass, or tenderly lifted out for closer inspection. And now and

again a new exhibitor would arrive with a bag or attaché case, from

which fresh treasures were disgorged into the glazed sanctuary.

“I suppose,” said I, “your members will have nothing to do with any

but antique works?”

“Not as a rule,” Mr. Davenant replied. “The collector is usually a

lover of old things. But there are exceptions. A good many of the

pictures shown here are modern; some, I suspect, are shown by the

artists themselves. Then we have one member who collects modern

pottery exclusively--not commercial stuff, of course, but the work of

modern artist-potters, like De Morgan, the Martin Brothers and other

individual workers. Fine stuff it is, too. I have a few pieces myself.

And, talk of the old gentleman--there he is. I’ll fetch him over and

make him show us what he has got in that bag.”

He rose from the table, and crossed the room, and I saw him accost a

very tall, pleasant-looking young man who was bearing down on the

glass case with a good-sized hand-bag, but readily allowed himself to

be led over our table.

“Now, Hawkesley,” said Mr. Davenant, “my guest wants to see what

really high-class modern pottery is like. What have you got?”

“I have only three pieces with me,” replied Mr. Hawkesley, “and they

are all of the same type; what I call ‘mystery-ware.’”

“What is the mystery about it?” Mr. Davenant asked.

“The mystery is, who makes it? As far as I know, there is only one

dealer who has it, and he absolutely refuses to say where he gets it.

I have never seen any of it exhibited--excepting here--and nobody can

tell me the name of the potter or anything about it beyond the fact

that it seems to be the exclusive monopoly of this one dealer, and

that he has very little of it, and charges accordingly. But it is

wonderful stuff.” He lifted out of his bag a couple of jars and a

bowl--handling them with that curious delicacy that one often notices

in persons with large, strong, supple hands--and placed them carefully

on the table.

“You see,” he continued, “there are two methods of treatment, which

are sometimes combined, as on this jar; and these two styles are based

on two very different types of old work--the old English slip-ware,

such as the Wrotham and Staffordshire and Toft-ware, and the old

French Henri Deux, or Oiron ware. In the one, the ornament is produced

by laying on pipes or threads of coloured slip--that is, clay in the

semi-liquid state; in the other by inlaying coloured paste or enamel

in cavities in the body, which seems to be made with tools like those

used by bookbinders. This covered jar--which looks almost like a piece

of fine Japanese cloisonné--and this bowl show the inlay method, and

this other jar is an example of the slip decoration, but with one or

two spots of enamel inlay.”

“I think I prefer the pure inlay,” said Mr. Davenant.

“So do I,” said Mr. Hawkesley, “and so, I think, does the artist. All

his finest work is done by the inlay method, though he uses the slip

decoration with such skill and taste that it is virtually a new

method. The old Wrotham and Toft-ware looks very primitive by the side

of this scholarly, refined work.”

I turned the three pieces of pottery over in my hands and warmly

commended the judgment of the collector. No modern work that I had

ever seen approached it for perfection of finish or grace of design;

while the colour-scheme combined richness, delicacy and restraint in a

truly marvellous manner. It seemed to unite the brilliancy of enamel

to the sober beauty of old tapestry. And even the little blue bird,

inlaid on the bottom of each piece to form the potter’s mark, was

finished with care and taste.

“May one inquire as to the local habitation and name of the dealer?”

Mr. Davenant asked.

“You may,” was the reply. “His name is Maurice Goldstein, and he is to

be found at Number 56, Hand Court, Holborn. And I should like to wring

his neck.”

We both laughed at the vindictive tone in which this benevolent wish

was uttered, and at the sudden ferocity of aspect that swept over the

usually good-humoured, kindly face.

“Why this homicidal craving?” Mr. Davenant asked.

“Don’t you see,” the other demanded, indignantly, “that this infernal

Goldswine--I beg your pardon----”

“You needn’t,” said I.

“That this miserable huckster is grinding the face of some poor

artist; that he is not only devouring the earnings of this

industrious, painstaking worker, but--for his own paltry profit--he is

robbing that artist of the credit--of the fame--to which his genius

and his enthusiasm entitle him. Look at this lovely jar! I gave that

mean worm ten guineas for it. How much do you suppose he gave the

potter?”

“Ten shillings, perhaps,” suggested Mr. Davenant.

“Probably not much more, though there is getting on for a week’s work

in it.”

“Still,” I said, with a mischievous desire to stir up his indignation

afresh, “the potter probably enjoys making these beautiful things. The

work is its own reward.”

“I can’t agree to that,” Mr. Hawkesley rejoined, warmly. “He doesn’t

enjoy being hard up and having to work for a pittance. Besides, it

isn’t just. This man makes a jar that is going to give me a life-long

pleasure. I want to pay him for that pleasure. I want to know who he

is, to shake his hand and thank him and tell him that he is the salt

of the earth. And this Shylock hides him away and just feeds on him

like the beastly parasite that he is.”

He gathered up the treasured masterpieces, and having wished us adieu,

with a sudden return to his customary geniality, crossed to the glass

case to find a vacant niche for his samples of “mystery ware.”

“I like Jack Hawkesley,” said my companion, as we watched him.

“So do I,” I agreed warmly. “He takes a human interest in the artist.

I wish more collectors were like him.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Davenant. “He is a good type of rich man. Would that

there were more Hawkesleys.” He poured out the coffee which the

waitress had just brought and then asked: “What do you think of this

club--as a feeding and resting place, I mean?”

“It seems a comfortable, homely place, and the members and their

exhibits are quite interesting.”

“I find it so. You wouldn’t care to join, I suppose? It is cheap, as

clubs go: five guineas a year and no entrance fee. I should think you

would find it a great convenience, living so far from the centre of

town.”

“It _would_ be a great convenience. But should I be eligible? I am not

a collector, you know.”

“No, but you are something of an expert. At any rate, Hawkesley and I

would manage the formalities. Think it over, and if you decide to

honour us, drop me a line. This is my address--56, Clifford’s Inn.”

He handed me his card, and when he had made a note of my address, I

prepared to depart.

“I have wasted a fearful amount of your time, Mr. Davenant,” said I;

“but it has been a very pleasant interlude for me.”

“Has it really? I hope it has. For my part, I have enjoyed myself just

as I did in the old days when you used to let me wag a philosophic

chin at you, and I am reluctant to let you go so soon. Mayn’t I see

you to the station, or wherever you are going?”

“I thought of walking back to get myself acquainted with London.”

“Then let me put you on the right road and show you some of the short

cuts.”

“But what about your work?”

He regarded me with that quaint, humorous smile that I had always

found so attractive. “My work is, at present, of a somewhat

intermittent type. This is one of the intermissions. Let us fare forth

and study the architectural beauties of the Metropolis.”

And we fared forth accordingly.

The short cuts discovered by my companion did not in the least conform

to Euclid’s definition of a straight line; and their brevity was

relieved by sundry excursions into alleys and by-streets and

incursions into churches and other ancient buildings. They led us by

way of the Temple and its old round church, Mitre Court, Fetter Lane,

Nevill’s Court, Gough Square, and so to St. Paul’s Churchyard and into

the Cathedral; thence by Paul’s Alley, Paternoster Row, Cheapside and

Lombard Street, dropping into one or two churches on our way, until we

came out on Great Tower Hill, and drifted slowly down Royal Mint

Street. And all the while we gossiped pleasantly of this wonderful

city and its wonderful, inexhaustible past; and my guide expounded,

with all his old gaiety and brightness--and with astonishing knowledge

of his subject--until I had almost forgotten Wellclose Square and the

sinister shadow that hung over my life, and seemed to be back in the

untroubled days of my girlhood.

But not quite. For, even as I talked--or more often listened--with the

liveliest interest and pleasure, a project was maturing in my mind. I

had, in fact, conceived a brilliant idea. Mr. Davenant’s suggestion

that I should join the club had started a train of thought that ran as

an under-current--in the subconscious mind, perhaps, as Lilith would

have said. It had begun vaguely when I saw the modern pictures on the

walls, and the modern works in the glass case and the Major hawking

round his little platter. Here was a place in which the work of the

unknown artist could be shown and perhaps sold; my own work, Lilith’s

work, the Titmouse’s, Philibar’s, even Miss Polton’s. For five guineas

a year I could open this emporium, not only to myself, but to my

fellow-workers; could slip past the dealer and secure his profits for

us all. I say it was a brilliant idea--at least, it appeared so to me;

and throughout that long peregrination, made delightful by the

sympathetic companionship of my newly-recovered friend it germinated

and grew until, as we halted to say good-bye at the corner of Cable

Street, it had grown to full maturity.

“I have been thinking,” said I, “of your suggestion--about joining the

club, you know. It would be nice to have a place to go to for a rest

or a meal, in the centre of town. And I shall often want such a

place.”

His face brightened perceptibly--perhaps at the implied assurance that

I could afford to spend five guineas.

“Then, may I put your name up for election?”

“Will you be so kind?”

“Won’t I? It will be jolly, and we shan’t lose sight of one another

again; though that was my fault for not writing. I was often on the

point of sending you a letter, and then I felt a silly

diffidence--thought that you might consider I was presuming on a mere

acquaintanceship. However, I will propose you for membership at once,

and in about a week’s time you will be a full-blown Magpie. Then I

will send you a line, though, of course, you will get the official

notification.”

He handed me my bag, and with a hearty hand-shake, we said “Good-bye,”

and went our respective ways.

It was but a few minutes’ walk to Wellclose Square, and I took it

slowly; for now that my companion was gone and I was bereft of his

buoyancy and vitality, I was suddenly aware of intense bodily fatigue.

Moreover, I felt a certain reluctance to bring to a definite close

what had been an interval of quiet but perfect happiness. And so, in

spite of my fatigue, I sauntered on, loitering awhile in St. George’s

churchyard and stopping to look up at the quaint stone name-tablet at

the corner of Chigwell Lane, until weariness and growing hunger drove

me homewards. And even then, it was not without regret that I pulled

the brass bell-knob and, as it were, wrote “Finis” to this pleasant

and eventful chapter.