"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.
CHAPTER IV
THE OWNER OF THE BLUE DAFFODIL
Vrouw Snieder, the notary's wife, sat by her window at work on a long strip of red crochet lace. From her place she could see all who came up the street, and, there being a piece of looking-glass set outside, at right angles to the pane, also most who came down it. This, though doubtless very informing, did not help the progress of the lace; but that was of no consequence, Mevrouw always had some red lace in making, and it might as well be one piece as another. With her, were her two daughters, Denah and Anna, though Anna had no business there, being supposed just then to be preparing vegetables for dinner. She had only come into the room to fetch keys, but a remark from her mother brought her to the window.
"There goes Vrouw Van Heigen's English miss," the old lady said, and both her daughters looked at once.