“I think it is a strong possibility. I went to see the rector. He has records which indicate that parts of the furnishings must have gone into retirement with the last prior, and some very interesting sketches and notes of his own, collected from many scattered sources. He holds that the angel with the scroll is the angel of the Magnificat, he has contemporary and later references to the painting which enable one to form a fairly detailed picture, and I’m bound to say there’s every reason to feel hopeful that your panel is the Virgin from the same altar-piece. The master who painted it is not known by name, but various examples of his work have been identified, including some illuminations. One of them has an initial strongly resembling your Madonna.”
“Including the laugh?” asked Jean in a low voice.
“Including the laugh. Altogether the evidence is so strong that I don’t anticipate much difficulty in establishing the authenticity of your fragment. The rector has seen it. If I am cautiously prepared to pronounce it genuine, he is absolutely convinced. He had made a careful reconstruction from the various references of what the lost Madonna should be. It bore an unmistakable resemblance to your panel. He has since made another sketch from the panel in its present form and from his previous sources, to show what we should uncover.”
He slapped his briefcase open on the table, and drew out a wad of documents and papers, spreading them out before him with a satisfied smile.
“I’ve brought you his notes and drawings to examine over the weekend, if you’d like to. And here is his latest sketch. There she is. As she was, and as she will be.”
It was quite small, smaller than a quarto sheet of paper; they drew close together to look at it. The Joyful Woman had put off her muslin fichu and corkscrew curls and the Toby frills from round her wrists, and stood in all her early English simplicity and subtlety, draped in a blue mantle over a saffron robe, all her hair drawn back austerely under a white veil. She leaned back to balance the burden she carried, clasping her body with those hands feeble as lilies, and the symbolic image of the unborn son stood upright in her crossed palms. She looked up and laughed for joy. There was no one else in the picture with her, there was no one else in the world; she was complete and alone, herself a world.
Leslie felt Jean’s stillness as acutely as if she had never before been still. He moistened his lips, and asked what would inevitably sound the wrong question at this moment; but he had to know the answer. He had to know what he was doing, or there was no virtue in it.
“Have you any idea how much she’s likely to fetch if I sell her? Always supposing we’re right about her?”
“It’s a matter of chance. But the master’s work is known and respected, and there are few examples, possibly none to be compared with this. And there’s a local antiquarian interest to be reckoned with. I think, putting it at the lowest, even if you sell quickly, you should still realise probably between seven and eight thousand pounds.”
Desperately quiet now, their sleeves just touching, Jean and Leslie stood looking at the promise of fortune.
“And the rector, would he be in the market? He must want it terribly, if he’s so sure, , , “
“He’d give his eyes for it, of course. You’ve stopped him sleeping or eating since he’s seen this. But he’s already appealing for twenty thousand to keep his poor old rotting church together, there’s no possibility whatever of earmarking any funds for buying Madonnas.”
“Not even to bring them home,” said Leslie. He moved a little away from Jean because he wanted to see her face, buts he kept it averted, looking at the little drawing. He wondered if she knew that she’d folded her own hands under her breasts upon the immemorial wonder, in the same ceremonially possessive gesture.
“Not even to bring them home. But there’ll be other bidders. If you wait and collect enough publicity before you sell you may get double what I’ve suggested.” Professor Lucas closed his briefcase and pushed back his chair. The boy was obviously in need of money, small blame to him for relishing it in advance.
“I can’t afford to pay for all the work that will have to be done on the panel,” said Leslie, his voice slightly shaky with the intensity of his resolution. “Would your laboratory be prepared to stand that, if I give the thing back to Charnock?”
Lucas straightened up to look at him intently, and came to his feet slowly. “My dear boy, you realise what you’re saying?”
Yes, he realised, and he had to say it quickly and firmly and finally, so that there should be no possibility of withdrawing. Panic surged into his throat, trying to choke the words into incoherence. He was afraid to look at Jean now, he knew he’d done something she could never understand or forgive, but he’d had to do it, he couldn’t have lived with himself if he’d let the moment go by.
“It isn’t mine,” he said, “only by the last of a long series of ugly accidents, and I don’t like that. It ought to go back where it belongs. And it isn’t because it’s the church, either,” he said almost angrily, in case he should be misconstrued. “I should feel the same if it was a secular thing and as fine as that. It was made for a certain place and purpose, and I’d rather it went back. Only it would be a bit rough if I gave it back to the rector and then he couldn’t get the necessary work done on it for want of money.”
“If you mean what you’ve just said that point needn’t worry you. I would be prepared to undertake the work in our workshop, certainly. Indeed I should be very unwilling to let it go to anyone else. But you spend the weekend thinking it over, my boy,” said the professor cheerfully, pounding him on the shoulder, “before you make up your mind to part with it. I’ll leave all this stuff with you, better see how good our case is before you decide.”
“I have decided, but I should like to read all this, of course. It isn’t that I want to cut a figure,” he said carefully, “though I shall probably enjoy that, too. But supposing I just took the highest offer and she went to America, or into some private collection here that does no good to anybody? I should never stop feeling mean about it. I want her to go back into her proper place, and if they can’t pay for her they can’t, and anyhow I have a sort of feeling they ought not to have to. Where she’s going she’ll belong to everybody who likes to look at her, and they’ll see her the way they were meant to see her, or as near as we can get to it. Then I might really feel she’s mine. I don’t feel it now.”
“I’m not trying to dissuade you, my boy, you don’t have to out-argue me. I just don’t want you to rush matters and then regret it. You make up your own mind and then do what you really want to do. Call me in a few days’ time, will you, and we’ll meet again, probably at the gallery if you can make it. I shall have to go now.” He tucked his flattened briefcase under his arm. “Good night, Mrs. Armiger! Thank you for the coffee, it was excellent.”
Jean came out of her daze to add her thanks and farewells to those Leslie was already expressing. When Leslie came back from seeing his visitor out she was standing by the table, her face fixed in a grave, pale wonderment, staring at the rector’s sketch.
He closed the door gently behind him, waiting for her to speak, or at least to look up at him, and when she did
