"Not a bit of it! By Gum, Sue, I'm as proud of that conscience of yours
as I am of that jar. Not a flaw in either."
After this she played her part so artlessly that Joe chuckled half a
dozen times a day. She tackled the Bishop--alone. Quinney saw the
great man approaching and told Susan. She wished to bolt, but Quinney
disappeared instead, listening to the duologue that followed. The
Bishop stared at the fine wares from Tomlin's, whipped out his
spectacles, and entered, smiling at Susan's blushing face.
"Good-morning, my lord!"
"Good-morning, Mrs. Quinney. May I look at some of these tempting
things?"
He looked at what was best amongst the porcelain sent down by Tomlin,
displaying knowledge of the different periods. Then he said
courteously, "As this is my first visit, I must buy something for luck.
What is the price of that small jar with the _prunus_ decoration? If it
is within my means----"
He paused, gravely expectant, but Susan divined somehow what was
flitting through his mind; the outrageous prices exacted by old Quinney.
She perceived that this was a test purchase. The price of the jar was
marked five pounds. Susan said demurely, "We can sell this to you, my
lord, for three pounds ten."
"I'll take it, Mrs. Quinney."
He went away with his purchase in his hand. Quinney came back, not too
well pleased.
"He'd have given a fiver for it. Why didn't you ask more than we was
prepared to take?"
Susan, knowing her own strength, answered decisively:
"His lordship confirmed me, Joe."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"He knows about china. He passed by the inferior stuff. I wanted him
to tell his friends that our prices were very reasonable; and I wanted
him to come again. He promised that he would. And I think the clergy,
our own clergy, ought to be treated--generously."
"By Gum, you're right!" said Quinney. "They'll tell the old women that
our prices touch bottom, reg'lar bargains."
She was equally successful with Mrs. Nish, a widow of ample means and an
ardent collector. Mrs. Nish may have seen the Bishop's jar and have
learned from him that it had been bought at a modest figure. She came
in next day, richly rustling in black silk, a large, imposing woman,
with a deportment that indicated opulence and a complexion heightened by
good living. Mr. Nish had accumulated a fortune in Australia,
sheep-farming, and had died--as so many such men do--when he retired
from active business. His widow bought a large house standing in a
small garden, just outside Melchester. The Close called upon her (not
the County), because she subscribed generously to local charities. Her
taste, however, was flamboyantly rococo; and on that account Quinney
despised her, although he admitted to Susan that she might be educated.
When he beheld her pair of prancing bays, he whispered to Susan, "Have a
go at the old girl!" Then he retreated discreetly to his inner room.
Mrs. Nish greeted Susan with much affability, and immediately mentioned
the Bishop, "my lording" him with unction. The jar with _prunus_
decoration was spoken of as a little prune pot.
"I want one just like it."
"I'm afraid," said Susan, "that you will not find another just like it."
"As near as may be," said Mrs. Nish.
"The only other jar with similar decoration, and of the same period, is
this."
She displayed the finest jar in their possession, adding, "The price is
fifty pounds."
Mrs. Nish was tremendously impressed.
"It can't be worth all that," she protested.
"I think his lordship would tell you that it was. We don't expect to
sell it. In fact it belongs to somebody else. We get a small
commission if it is sold."
Susan carefully replaced the jar, and picked up its counterfeit.
"This is modern, madam, a very clever production, made by the same
factory in China. We ask five pounds for this."
"I don't buy fakes."
"Of course not, madam. My husband says Lord Mel has not a finer piece
of blue and white than that."
Mrs. Nish turned aside to examine the oak, but her eyes wandered now and
again to the big jar. Susan knew that she was thinking how pleasant it
would be to say carelessly, "Oh, yes; I paid fifty pounds for that."
Quinney carried the jar to her house late that afternoon, and he told
Susan that she was a clever dear.
"You like the work?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"I like being with you, Joe."
"Good! You can consider yourself permanently engaged, Mrs. Quinney."
"Permanently?"
His quick ear detected an odd inflection. He glanced at her sharply,
and saw a faint blush. In silence they stared at each other. Then
Quinney kissed her, pinched her cheek, pulled her small ear, as he said
boisterously:
"Ho! Another job in view?"
She whispered:
"I--I think so."
*CHAPTER V*
*SUSAN PREPARES*
*I*
When Susan left the shop and returned to her own house to make
preparations for a visitor, she went unwillingly, postponing the hour
that meant separation from the man she loved, making light of his
anxiety, but secretly rejoicing in it. Her faithful heart dwelt with
apprehension upon a future spent apart from Joe, apart from the
excitements of the shop, a future of small things and small people. She
tried to visualize herself as a mother and the vision was blurred. When
she said rather timidly, "What will you do without me?" he had assured
her with vain repetitions that he had more than enough to occupy his
mind. The dolorous conclusion was inevitable. Joe could get along
without a partner in the shop. But she could not conceive of life
without him.
During this period of intermittent joys and fears, chasing each other
daily and nightly through her brain, Susan was humorously conscious that
Joe regarded the coming baby as his rather than hers. He would say,
chuckling, "Well, Mrs. Q., how is _my_ baby this morning? Any news of
him?" The sex of the child was taken for granted. Susan had sufficient
obstinacy and spirit to resent this cocksure attitude. From the first
she maintained that it would be a girl. Mrs. Biddlecombe was much
shocked at the intimate nature of conversations carried on before her.
The good woman belonged to a generation which never mentioned babies
till they lay in bassinettes, fit to be seen and worshipped by all the
world. Quinney trampled upon these genteel sensibilities.
"The kid _is_ comin'--ain't it?"
"We hope so," replied his mother-in-law austerely.
"We know it, old dear. Why not talk about it? Joe Quinney, junior!
There you are!"
"It sounds so--indelicate."
"That be blowed for a tale! Lawsy, there's no saying what my son may
not be. Think o' my brains and his dear little mother's looks." Worse
followed. He began to call Susan "mother." Mrs. Biddlecombe protested
in vain. Laburnum Row laughed openly. Everybody knew! One terrible
morning, a disgusting small boy shouted after her, "Hullo, gran'ma!"
Mrs. Biddlecombe, moreover, had no sympathy with Susan's ardent desire
to remain near her husband, intimately connected with the things which
interested him so tremendously. She lacked the quickness of wit to
perceive what Susan instinctively recognized, the increasing and
ever-absorbing love that this queer young man manifested for his
business. In that business, in the unwearying quest for beautiful
objects, the wife foreshadowed a rival, a rival the more to be feared
because it was amorphous, senseless, chaotic. She took little pleasure
in the beautiful furniture which filled the Dream Cottage, because she
could never feel that it was hers. She would have chosen things which he
despised as rubbish, but they would have been very dear to her. In a
real sense Joe's furniture stood massively between husband and wife.
Again and again when she was hungering for soft words and caresses, he
would stand in front of the Chippendale china cabinet, and apostrophize
it with ardour, calling upon Susan to share his enthusiasm, slightly
irritable with her when she failed to perceive the beauty in what she
summed up in her own mind as "sticks and stones." She hated to see him
stroke fine specimens of porcelain. She came within an ace of smashing a
small but valuable Ming jar because he kissed it. Her condition must be
taken into account, but above and beyond any physical cause soared the
conviction, that her Joe's business might become the greatest thing in
his life, growing, as he predicted it would, to such enormous
proportions that there would be no room for her. Once she prayed that
his soaring ambitions might be clipped by a merciful Providence. She
rose from her knees trembling at her audacity, telling herself that she
was disloyal. And then she laughed, half hysterically, supremely
sensible that her Joe would travel far upon the road he had chosen, and
that it behoved her to quicken her steps, and not to lag behind, for it
was certain that he would expect her to keep up.
She had to pass some lonely hours. Mrs. Biddlecombe neglected no duties
connected with her own house, and the work at the Dream Cottage was done
meticulously by the competent servant whom Mrs. Biddlecombe had
installed there, and over whom she exercised a never-flagging vigilance.
Quinney issued orders that the mistress was to be spared. She was quite
capable of doing many things which the robust Maria would not allow her
to do. Even the delight of sewing upon minute garments was
circumscribed. Quinney, after secret "colloguing" with Mrs. Biddlecombe,
prepared a surprise. An amazing basket arrived from London, embellished
with pale blue ribbon, and filled with a layette fit--so the
advertisement said--for "a little lord."
Quinney attached a label inscribed with the following legend:
"To Joseph Quinney, Jr., Esq., care of Mother."
Susan's feelings upon the receipt of this superb and complete outfit--I
quote again from the advertisement--were of the bitterest--sweetest.
She had set her heart upon making her child's clothes, and she sewed
exquisitely. She had to pretend that she was overwhelmed with surprise
and gratitude, and Joe's delight in her simulated delight partly
compensated her for being so grossly deceitful. Wild plans entered her
head for compassing the destruction of the layette. During one awful
moment she experienced the monstrous thrills of a Nero, for the thought
had come to her, "Why not burn the furniture and the basket together?"
The cottage and furniture were handsomely insured! A mild perspiration
broke upon her forehead, as she murmured to herself:
"What a wicked, wicked girl I am!"
*II*
She distracted her mind by reading novels, and was mightily interested
in the works of Rosa Nouchette Carey. In the middle of the day Joe
would rush in, kiss her tenderly, inquire after Master Quinney, sit down
to dinner, and chatter boisterously of his business. His solicitude for
her comfort never failed, but its insistence became enervating. She had
excellent health, and was happily free from the minor ills which afflict
many women in her condition. But this sort of talk became exasperatingly
monotonous:
"Feelin' fine, are you?"
"Oh yes, Joe."
"Any one bloomin' thing you fancy?"
"Nothing."
"Not worriting? No stewin' in your own juice, hey?"
"No, no, no!"
"Good. Everything is going to be all right. Lucky little dear, you are,
to have a hubby who looks after you properly, and Joe Quinney, junior,
will be looked after also. Make no error about that. He's going to be
a very remarkable young man! Chose his parents with rare right
judgments he did. By Gum, when I read that little 'ad.' about his kit
bein' fit for a lord, I says to myself, 'Why not? Why shouldn't my son
be a lord one day?'"
"Joe, you are funny!"
"Funny? I'm dead serious, my girl. This stream," he tapped an inflated
chest, "rose higher than its source. It began not far from the gutter,
Susie. I'm not ashamed of it. Nothing of the snob about Joe Quinney!
I'm a bit of a river. I'm marked on the map. I flow all over the shop;
yes, I do. And my son may become a sort of Amazon. Do you know how
many square miles the Amazon waters?"
"Gracious, no!"
"Useful bit of knowledge. Nigh upon three million square miles!"
"Mercy!"
"I see Joe Quinney, junior, percolatin' everywhere, bang from one end of
the Empire to another."
"She's not born yet, poor little dear!"
"She! There you go again."
"I'm sure it will be a 'she.'"
"Not him. You trust my judgment. It's a gift with me. All great men
have it. Bonyparte and Wellington and Julius Caesar."
"You do go it."
"That's right. Do for a motto, that would. Go it! Keep a-moving! The
people in this silly old town are standin' still, up to their knees in
their graves already, poor souls!"
Then he would kiss her again, and bolt off to the shop, chuckling and
rubbing his hands.
Susan would return to her novel, and bury hopes and fears in the mild
adventures of a conventional and highly respectable pair of lovers. She
had always liked sweets, but at this period she enjoyed a surfeit of
them. The sentiment that exuded from every page of her favourite
romances affected her tremendously, and may have affected her unborn
child.
*III*
Upon the eve of the child's birth, nearly a year after her marriage,
Susan wrote a letter to her husband. She had spent the day pottering
about her bedroom, turning over certain clothes, notably her
wedding-gown, and recalling vividly the events succeeding her marriage,
the journey to France, all the pleasant incidents of the honeymoon.
From a small desk which had belonged to her father, a solid rosewood box
clamped with brass, she took certain "treasures," a bit of heather
picked by Joe when they took a jaunt together to the New Forest, a
trinket or two, a lock of Joe's hair, his letters tied up in pink ribbon
and her birth certificate, solemnly thrust into her hand by Mrs.
Biddlecombe upon the morning ol the wedding. Inside the desk remained a
few sheets of the "fancy" notepaper which she had used as a maid. She
selected a new nib, placed it in an ivory penholder, and began to write:
"MY DARLING HUSBAND,
"I want to tell you that the last year has been the happiest of my life.
I don't believe that I can ever be quite so happy again. You have been
sweet to me. When I have tried to tell you this, you have always
laughed, and so I want to write it down.
"Your loving
"SUSIE.
"P.S.--I hope you will marry again."
She placed the letter in an envelope to match, addressed it, and wrote
above it, "To be opened after my death." Then she shed a few tears,
feeling lonely and frightened, peering into the gulf which yawned in
front of her, knowing that the hour was almost at hand, when she must
fall down, down, down into unplumbed abysses of terror and pain.
She locked up the letter in the desk, put on a cloak, and crawled into
the Cathedral, whose vastness always impressed her. The great nave was
strangely familiar, yet unfamiliar. A soft, silvery light diffused
itself. Susan noticed that she was alone, whereas she was accustomed to
the Sunday crowd. The silence seemed to enfold her. It struck her
suddenly that for many hours during each day and night the great church
wherein she had worshipped since she was a child, was empty and silent,
a mere sepulchre of the mighty dead, who, lying in their splendid tombs,
awaited the Day of Resurrection.
Did they ever come forth at night?
What did it feel like to be dead?
Such questions had never seriously presented themselves to her before,
because she was normally healthy in mind and body. Death, indeed, had
been acclaimed in Laburnum Row as a not unwelcome excitement for the
living, an incident that loosened all tongues, which called for
criticism, and a good deal of eating and drinking. Now, alone amongst
the dead, Susan considered the inevitable change from the point of view,
so to speak, of those who were "taken." She was accustomed to these odd
middle-class euphuisms. This particular expression, invariably used by
Mrs. Biddlecombe, indicated a certain selection upon the part of the
Reaper, who "took" presumably those, whether young or old, who were ripe
for the sickle.
Susan shivered, praying fervently that she might be spared, that she
might be deemed unripe. Her thoughts flitted hither and thither, not
straying far from the austere figure with the sickle, settling now upon
this hypothesis and now upon that. For example, the commonest form of
condolence in Laburnum Row, leaping smugly from every matronly lip, was,
"He (or she) has entered into rest." Or, with tearful conviction,
"God's will be done." To doubt the truth of these statements would have
seemed to Susan rank blasphemy. Even now, face to face with the awful
possibility, her simple mind sucked comfort from them; they fortified
her trembling body for the great ordeal. But, at the same time, she was
conscious of a feeling of revolt, because life was so sweet, and her
enchanting pilgrimage had just begun. It would be cruel to take her!
And how would it affect Joe?
He would have his business; he would absorb himself in that. If he did
marry again he would choose some sensible woman, able to look after his
house and his child. She could not bear the horrid thought that a
second wife might be prettier than the first, that her Joe might forget
her kisses upon the lips of another woman. She murmured to herself,
"Joe can't do without me. I shall not be taken this time."
She went back to the Dream Cottage, unlocked her desk, opened her
letter, and added these words to the postscript:
"Marry a nice sensible woman, not quite so pretty as I am, one who will
be kind to my baby."
She stared at this for some time, pursing up her lips. Then she
carefully erased the possessive pronoun, and wrote "your" instead of
"my."
She was smiling when she locked the desk.
*IV*
Ten days afterwards the child was born. Quinney was summoned at four in
the afternoon by the breathless Maria, who gasped out that he was
wanted. Somehow Quinney leapt to the conclusion that all was over.
"Is the baby born?" asked Quinney.
"No, nor likely to be till after midnight."
She whisked off, leaving an astonished man vaguely wondering from what
source Maria had received this positive information. He closed the
shop, and then ran home. The doctor was leaving the cottage. Again
Quinney stammered out:
"Is it over?"
"Just begun," the doctor replied. Quinney hated him because he looked
so blandly self-possessed and indifferent.
"Mrs. Biddlecombe is with her," continued the doctor, in the same
suavely impassive tone. "They will send for me later. Good-afternoon!"
Quinney wanted to reply, "Oh, you go to blazes! I shall send for
somebody else; a man, not a machine," but he merely glared at the
doctor, and nodded. Pelting upstairs, two steps at a time, he
encountered Mrs. Biddlecombe upon the landing, with her forefinger on
her lip.
"Not so much noise, _please_!" she commanded, with the air and
deportment of an empress. It struck Quinney that she had expanded
enormously. Also she was dressed for the part, wearing an imposing
dressing-gown, and felt slippers. Quinney had an odd feeling that she
was enjoying herself at Susie's expense. Secretly he was furious,
because she seemed to block the entrance to _his_ room. He tried to
push past her.
"Where are you going, Joseph?"
He was quite confounded, but from long habit he replied in his jerky,
whimsical way:
"Into my room o' course. Where did you think I was going? Into the
coal cellar?"
Mrs. Biddlecombe answered with majesty, not budging:
"We"--Maria was indicated as an accomplice--"have got another room ready
for you."
Quinney said resolutely, "I'm a-going to stay with Susie till it's
over."
"No, you ain't!"
"Yes, I am!"
She gripped his arm. Her voice was coolly contemptuous, but she spoke
with authority.
"No, you ain't. 'Tisn't seemly."
"That be damned!"
"Joseph Quinney! And an innocent unborn babe might hear you! Now,
listen to me, and do just as I tell you. Men ain't wanted on these
occasions. You can go in and see Susan for a few minutes, but,
remember, out you go when I say the word. Try to be a help and not an
hindrance. I sent for you because you may be wanted to run for the
doctor."
"Run from 'im more likely," said Quinney. "Cold-blooded beast."
"He's just what a gentleman should be at such times. You take pattern
by him! Now, go in, don't shout, say something cheerful, and leave the
room when I nod."
Throughout this speech Quinney was conscious that his will was ebbing
from him. The mother-in-law triumphed by virtue of superior knowledge
and experience. Quinney respected knowledge.
"But if Susie wants me to stay----?"
"She won't."
He entered the room. Somehow he had expected to find his wife in bed,
pale, frightened, passive. She was walking up and down. Her cheeks
were red, her eyes were bright. And yet there was something about her,
some hunted expression in the tender eyes, some nervous tension which
moved the man tremendously. His eyes brimmed with tears, his voice
broke, as he called her by name. For a moment they clung to each other,
and he wondered at her strength. Mrs. Biddlecombe, frowned portentously.
There were moments when she told herself that Susan had married a very
common person.
"That'll do," she said. "We don't want any flustrations."
Susan murmured:
"Dear, dear Joe!"
She pulled down his head and kissed the tears from his eyes. It was a
moment of pure bliss for her. They sat down, holding each other's hands,
oblivious of Mrs. Biddlecombe, who still stared at them, trying to
remember how the late Mr. Biddlecombe had behaved when Susan was born,
and vaguely mindful of his conspicuous absence, and the discovery later
that he had assuaged his anxiety with strong waters.
Meanwhile, Susan's tenderness had aroused in her husband the
determination to vanquish his mother-in-law. The power to cope with her
surged within.
"You want me to stay, Susie?"
"Oh yes, till the pain comes."
"And after?"
"No, no!"
"But why, why?"
She looked prettier and sweeter than he had ever seen her when she
whispered:
"I couldn't bear for you to see my face. It, it," her voice quivered,
"it frightens me. Just now I looked in the glass, and I didn't
recognize it as mine."
"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Biddlecombe.
"I shall do as Susan wishes," said Quinney humbly.
"You will leave the room when I nod?"
"Please!" said Susan, with her arms about his neck.
Presently Mrs. Biddlecombe nodded.
*CHAPTER VI*
*THE VISITOR ARRIVES*
*I*
Quinney went downstairs, whistling softly to hide a growing perturbation
of spirit. He could not disguise from himself that he was terribly
worried. Till now he had bolstered anxiety with the reflection that
what was happening had happened before to millions and billions (he
loved big figures) of women, but he had never realized that each and all
of them had suffered cruel pain. When Susan spoke of her changed face,
a spasm of agony twisted him. He resented fiercely the conviction that
his wife must suffer, and he divined somehow, partly from Mrs.
Biddlecombe and partly from Susan, that the pain was greater than he had
supposed. He salved his quivering sensibilities with the balm applied
by all husbands at such moments; she was young, healthy, and strong. She
would pull through. And yet, the damnable thought that sometimes things
did happen grew and grew.
He descended into a modest cellar, and brought up a bottle of port,
which he decanted carefully. It was the best wine that could be bought
in Melchester, and he had secured a couple of dozen with the intention
of drinking his son's health many times. He tasted it to satisfy
himself that the wine was in prime condition. He held it to the light
and marked its superb colour. Then he sat down to read the paper, as
was his habit when the day's work was done. Pinker, the grocer, and
other men of substance in Melchester, were too fond of boasting that
they read the morning paper in the morning before attending to the
paramount claims of their own business. This attitude of mind towards
the affairs of the nation perplexed Quinney, who frankly considered his
own affairs first. He belonged to that once immense majority of his
fellow-countrymen--a majority much decreased of late years--who believe
that certain altruists manage more or less successfully the business of
the country. He was quite willing to allow these gentlemen, whose
services were unpaid, a comparatively free hand upon the unexpressed
condition that they did not bother him or interfere with the conduct of
his private affairs. At that time the Tories were in power, coming to
the end of a long tenure of office. Quinney passively approved of the
Tories, and actively disliked Radicals, whom he stigmatized generally as
mischief-makers. Under certain circumstances he would have been a
red-hot Radical. During his father's lifetime, for instance, when he
groaned in secret beneath the heel of oppression, he would have been
eager--had the opportunity presented itself--to join any secret society
organized for the overthrow of "tyrants."
He read the paper through, criticizing nothing except the wording of
certain advertisements. He meant to advertise his own wares some day,
although Tomlin believed in more particular methods. In the early
'nineties, small tradesmen had no faith in Advertisements. They built
up a small but solid connection, which they came to regard as
unalienably theirs.
Presently Quinney lit his pipe, and his thoughts with the smoke strayed
upstairs. Mrs. Biddlecombe appeared.
"Smoking?"
Quinney, conscious of implied censure, replied defiantly:
"Generally called that, ain't it?"
"You can smoke outside."
"I can, but I won't. How's Susie?"
The inevitable answer distressed him terribly.
"Susan will be much worse before she's better. You can fetch the nurse,
and finish your pipe while you are fetching her."
He fetched the nurse, who lived not far away in a row of small
jerry-built houses. She was a tall, thin woman, with a nice complexion,
and hair prematurely white. Her invincible optimism much fortified our
hero. And she possessed an immense reserve of small talk, and intimate
knowledge of simple, elemental details connected with her profession.
She captured Quinney's affection by saying, after the first glance at
his face:
"Now, don't you worry, Mr. Quinney, because there's nothing to worry
about with Dr. Ransome and me in charge of the case. We never have any
trouble with our patients. You'll be the proud father of a big fat
baby-boy before you know where you are."
She talked on very agreeably, but she managed to convey to her listener
that, temporarily, he was an outsider, at the beck and call of women,
and regarded by them as negligible. This impression became so strong
that he knocked the ashes and half-consumed tobacco out of a second pipe
before he entered the Dream Cottage. The nurse was greeted by Mrs.
Biddlecombe with majestic courtesy and taken upstairs.
Once more Quinney found himself alone.
Feeling much more hopeful, he beguiled another hour in examining his
furniture and china. It is worth mentioning that already he was able to
discern flaws in these precious possessions, indicating an eye becoming
more trained in its quest after perfection. None of these household gods
were regarded as permanent. They would be sold to make room for finer
specimens of craftsmanship. Amongst his china, he discovered a bogus
bit. Hitherto he had believed it to be a fine specimen. He was
half-distressed, half-pleased at the amazing discovery. He had paid
five pounds for it. The paste was all right, but the decoration was
unquestionably of a later period. Half of its value, actual and
prospective, had vanished. Nevertheless, the gain was enormous.
Unaided, he had detected the false decoration, the not quite pure
quality of the gilding.
"I'm climbin'!" he muttered to himself.
As he replaced the "fake" in the cabinet, consoling himself with the
reflection that he could easily resell it at the price he had paid, he
smelt fried fish. Extremely annoyed, he rushed into the kitchen, where
Maria was caught, red-handed, in the astounding act of frying mackerel
at six o'clock.
"What's the meaning o' this?"
Maria answered tartly:
"Meat tea for you and Mrs. Biddlecombe."
She too, ordinarily the respectful menial, dared to glare at him, as if
resenting his appearance in his own kitchen as an unpardonable
intrusion. Quinney said violently, not sorry to let off steam:
"What the hell d'ye mean? Meat tea? I eat my supper at seven, and you
know it!"
Maria tossed her head.
"You'll eat it at six to-night. Mrs. Biddlecombe's orders. I shall
give notice if you swear at me."
He fled--vanquished by another woman. At the door he fired a parting
shot:
"Smells all over Melchester. I believe that fish is bad."
"I didn't buy it," replied Maria calmly.
*II*
The meat tea was served, and Mrs. Biddlecombe joined Quinney at table.
He made no protests, but refused to touch the mackerel. When
interrogated he said that he disliked stale fish.
"Stale fish, Joseph!"
"Did you buy it?"
"I did."
"Did you choose it?"
Mrs. Biddlecombe's ample cheeks turned a deeper damask.
"I did not. I instructed the fishmonger to send round some fresh fish."
"Thought so!" said Quinney, as he attacked the cold beef.
Unhappily, Mrs. Biddlecombe was beguiled into eating heartily of the
mackerel, desiring to assert her faith in its freshness and her
confidence in the fishmonger. Conversation languished. Presently,
Quinney jumped to his feet and raced upstairs. He tapped at his wife's
door. The nurse opened it, and as she did so the husband heard a faint
moan.
"You can't come in now," said the nurse.
"I'm not coming in. You tell my wife, with my love, not to eat any
mackerel, and don't you touch it yourself, if you want to be fit and
well to-night."
He returned to the dining-room feeling, for the first time, that he had
been of practical service to omnipotent woman! But the faint moan had
destroyed his appetite. He told Mrs. Biddlecombe that he intended to
walk up and down the garden.
"You'll be within call?"
"Of course. Any notion when the doctor will be wanted?"
"He may be wanted at any minute."
"You may want him before Susan does!"
He shut the door before the astonished lady could reply.
*III*
Alone in the garden so dear to Susan, so carefully tended by her, his
torment began. The evening was warm, and the windows of Susan's room
were thrown wide open. All sounds floated out into the gathering
twilight. Quinney sat down on a bench, and listened, palsied with
misery.
The time passed. He would walk about, and then sit down again, lighting
his pipe and letting it go out half a dozen times before it was smoked.
Once he ventured into the kitchen, where the sight of his face softened
Maria. She was a spinster, but at least twenty-five years old. So
Quinney blurted out:
"Is it always like this?"
"First time--yes," replied Maria.
Finally, Mrs. Biddlecombe descended, and bade him fetch the doctor. She
was not an observant woman, but even she, with her prejudices against
all males, could not fail to mark the ravages of suffering.
"My God!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "I didn't know it was like this. I've
heard her!"
"I do not regret that!" replied Mrs. Biddlecombe, not unkindly, but with
emphasis. "If I had my way all men and all big boys, too, should know
what their mothers have suffered. They might be kinder to them."
Dr. Ransome was fetched. He lived near the Close, in a comfortable
red-brick house. It seemed to Quinney perfectly extraordinary that this
man of vast experience in suffering should be so leisurely in his
movements and speech. However, he managed to instil some of his
confidence into the unhappy husband, assuring him that the case
presented no untoward symptoms, and was likely to end happily in a few
hours.
A few hours!
As they passed the wicket gate Dr. Ransome paused.
"Mr. Quinney," he said gravely, "I advise you to go for a brisk walk.
You can do nothing more."
"But if my wife should want me?"
"She is not likely to want you. It might make it easier for her, if she
knew you were out of the way."
"I'll sit in the dining-room," said Quinney.
He did so, casting longing eyes at the decanter of port, sorely tempted
to drink and drink till he became drunk. He was learning much upon this
terrible night. Ever afterwards, when he encountered drunkards, he
forebore to condemn them, wondering what had first driven them to seek
oblivion, and thankful that the temptation to do so had never mastered
him.
Presently the nurse joined him, and he was struck by the change in her
pleasant, capable face. Upon being pressed, she admitted cautiously
that there were slight complications.
Worse followed!
At midnight, Quinney was dispatched for another doctor. And then what
he had predicted, half in jest, came to pass. Mrs. Biddlecombe was
seized with violent pains. Quinney had been right about the mackerel;
and the nurse was called upon to give undivided attention to the elder
woman. Quinney took refuge in the kitchen, where Maria was busy
preparing hot poultices and predicting two deaths in the house, if not
three, before morning. Never in his short life, not even in the throes
of nightmare, had Quinney imagined any concatenation of misery which
could compare with the realities of this night.
At three in the morning, once more alone in the dining-room, he went
down on his knees. In a wild, unreasoning fashion, dazed by what he had
experienced, he proposed to bargain with Omnipotence. Solemnly, he swore
that he would sell no more new oak as old, if his precious Susan was
spared. He renounced fervently all claim to Joseph Quinney, junior. If
choice had to be made, let the child be taken and the mother left!
He rose from his knees somewhat comforted, so true is it that sincere
prayer, if it accomplishes nothing else, is of real benefit to those who
pray. He remembered the faked specimen of Early Worcester, and his
resolution to sell it at the first opportunity. He rushed into the
sitting-room, seized the cup and saucer, and smashed them. The violence
of the action seemed to bind the bargain between himself and the Ruler
of the Universe. Standing erect this time, he swore that faked china as
well as faked oak was to be eternally repudiated. Let him perish,
instead of Susan, if he failed to keep his word!
By an odd coincidence, he had hardly registered these vows when he
realized that there was silence upstairs. Within a few minutes Maria
poked her head into the room to report a marked improvement in Mrs.
Biddlecombe.
"And your mistress?"
Maria shook her head.
"I know nothing about her, sir."
"Everything seems strangely quiet."
"Yes, sir; terribly so."
She dabbed at her eyes, inflamed already by much weeping, and withdrew.
Quinney went to the foot of the stairs, listening. The suspense became
excruciating, harder to endure than the anguished moaning of his wife.
He never knew afterwards how long he remained there, but presently the
door opened and the measured tread of both doctors was heard on the
landing. They came slowly downstairs till they perceived Quinney. Dr.
Ransome spoke, and his voice seemed to come from an immense distance:
"It's all over! Your child is born."
"Thank God!" exclaimed Quinney. He added tremulously: "And my poor
wife?"
"She is very much exhausted. Presently you can go to her for a minute.
It has been a complicated case, but we anticipate no further
complications."
Quinney burst into tears.
Both doctors consoled him, taking him by the arm, patting his shoulder,
telling him that he was the father of a robust infant, that there was no
cause whatever for unreasonable anxiety. Not till they were on the
point of leaving the cottage did the distracted father remember the
decanter of port.
"Come in here, gentlemen, please."
They followed him into the dining-room, and three glasses were duly
charged.
"My son!" said Quinney, holding up his glass.
Dr. Ransome stared at him, then he smiled.
"Don't you know? Didn't we tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"You are the father, my dear sir, of a ten-pound daughter!"
*CHAPTER VII*
*JOSEPHINA*
*I*
He stole up to his wife's room as soon as the doctors had gone. The
pale silvery light of early dawn seemed to steal up with him, making the
silence more impressive and mysterious. Upon a table on the landing the
lamp burned low. He had been told to expect the weak wail of the
newly-born. The nurse, indeed, as they walked together from her
cottage, had spoken of it as the most wonderful sound in all the world
when heard by a father for the first time. But he had not heard it.
He turned out the lamp, and noticed that his hand was trembling.
Exercising his will, which he knew to be strong, he endeavoured to stop
this strange twitching. He could not do so. Suddenly, he became
conscious of an immense weariness; hie limbs ached; his head was
throbbing; he felt like an overtired child. It even occurred to him
that it would be not altogether unpleasant to cry himself to sleep. An
odd fear of seeing Susan gripped him. What did she look like after the
rigours of this awful night? Was she lying insensible? Would she know
him? Would he break down before her, when he beheld the cruel ravages
of intense pain? For her sake he must pull himself together.
Thereupon a struggle for the mastery took place between spirit and
flesh. He was not able to analyse his emotions, but he divined somehow
that this was his labour, that something was being born out of him,
wrenched from his very vitals, a new self with a brighter intelligence,
a more vigorous sympathy. The pains of the spirit were upon him.
Presently an idea emerged; the conception which must take place in every
human soul, the quickening of a transcendent conviction that pain is
inevitable and inseparable from growth. It would be absurd to contend
that his writhing thoughts could twist themselves into the form to which
expression has been given here. He was very young, and, apart from a
special knowledge of his business, extremely ignorant; but it was
revealed to him at this moment, a babe and suckling in such matters,
that something had happened to him, that he could never be the same
again. Fatherhood, and, all it implied, had been paid for with tears
and agony.
The door of Susan's room opened.
He saw the nurse, who beckoned. Her face had become normal; she smiled
gravely, as he passed her, and she closed the door softly, leaving
husband and wife together.
His first impression was that the room smelled very sweet, filled with
the fragrance of the flowers in the garden. The windows remained wide
open. The light was stronger than on the landing, but soft, for the sun
had not yet risen. Everything was in order. The habit of swift
observation enabled him to grasp all this in a flash, although, so far
as he knew, his eyes were fixed upon the bed. Susan lay upon her side
of it. Her face was milk-white, with purple lines beneath eyes which
seemed unduly sunken. Her pretty hair, done in two plaits, framed her
face. To Quinney she looked exactly like a child who had been
frightfully ill. It was impossible to think of her as a mother. Nor
did he do so. He had forgotten the baby altogether, his mind was
concentrated upon the Susan whom he loved, upon the Susan who appeared
to have returned from a long journey into an unknown land, a new and
strange Susan, for her lips never smiled at him, but in her tender eyes
he recognized his wife, his own little woman, his most priceless
possession, the soul of her shone steadily out of those eyes acclaiming
his soul as he acclaimed hers.
When he kissed her, she sighed. He slipped his hand beneath the
bedclothes, and took her hand, murmuring her name again and again. She
did not speak, and he did not wish her to speak. Her silence implied
far more than speech.
He felt the faint pressure of her hand, so small and weak within his
grasp. Then he laid his head upon her bosom. He could just hear her
heart, beating slowly and feebly. He lifted his head, putting his cheek
against hers. She sighed again--deliciously! He tried to believe that
his strength, which seemed to have returned on a spring-tide of
irresistible volume, could be infused into her. And it may have been
so, for presently she spoke, the words fluttering from her pale lips.
"You are not very disappointed?"
Disappointed!
He reassured her upon that point, so overmasteringly that she smiled,
and the pressure of her hand became stronger.
The nurse appeared, beckoning once more. Quinney followed her
obediently into the adjoining room, where an object that looked like a
wrinkled orange was affirmed to be his daughter's head! Obviously the
nurse expected him to kiss this; and he did so without any uplifting
exultation, without a single compensating thrill! It occurred to him
vaguely that Susan and he had paid a thumping price for very little. He
was shown a hand like the hand of an anaemic doll. Into the tiny palm
he slipped, cautiously, his forefinger. To his amazement, the finger
was gripped unmistakably.
"Well, I'm damned!" he exclaimed. As the nurse raised her eyebrows in
silent protest, he added quickly: "I've been swearing all night; one
more little one don't count!"
The nurse glanced professionally at his haggard face and dishevelled
hair.
"You go to bed at once!" she commanded.
He did so.
*II*
Susan's recovery from her confinement was slow but unattended, as the
doctor had predicted, by complications. She was able, happily, to nurse
her child, but for many months she remained in cotton wool at the Dream
Cottage, recruiting her energies in the pleasant garden, and rarely
straying beyond it. The question of her returning to the shop was
settled drastically.
"Who'll take care of the kid? Wouldn't leave her to a nursemaid, would
you?
"N-n-no," faltered Susan, feeling more wife than mother. She qualified
the doubtful negative by murmuring: "I did love helping you."
"Lord bless you! You're helping me at home--a woman's right place.
It's the biggest help a woman can give to a man. You run things fine!
Yes, you do!"--for she had shaken her head. "And the kid has the very
best nurse in all the world! Shop, indeed! I don't want my wife
demeaning herself in a shop!"
He snorted with indignation, and Susan, with a suppressed sigh, let the
subject drop for ever.
Meanwhile he had told her of his solemn oath, which made a profound
impression upon a sensitive mind and conscience. The immediate
consequence, however, of a determination to renounce false gods was
absolutely unforeseen. Two days after the birth of the baby, when the
shattered little mother was still lying between life and death, Quinney
distracted his mind by putting on one side every doubtful piece of
_vertu_ in his possession, repricing faithfully, even at a loss to
himself, each particular fake. He was engrossed in this very
uncongenial task--for the old Adam was merely dazed and not dead within
him--when the Marquess of Mel entered the shop. He had heard from Dr.
Ransome a racy and humorous account of Quinney under stress, and had
been much moved thereby. As a grand seigneur of the old school he
deemed it a duty to call upon so remarkable a tenant, and if necessary,
hearten him up by the purchase of a bit of furniture or china.
Heretofore, the Quinneys, father and son, had dealt with the magnate's
agent. Lord Mel, so far as he knew, had never exchanged a single word
with the son of a man whom he accounted an old rascal.
Quinney received him without betraying any awe of his rank, listening
respectfully to his landlord's felicitations. He loved a lord, as all
true Britons do and must, but he had not yet recovered from a tremendous
shock, and his thoughts were entirely centred upon Susan. When Lord Mel
paused, Quinney replied:
"She's not out of the wood yet, my lord."
"I know how you feel--I have been through it. And now show me over your
premises. The Bishop tells me that you have some fine porcelain."
"I've a lot of poor stuff, too!" grumbled Quinney.
Lord Mel smiled. He enjoyed what he called "browsing" in curiosity
shops, but he had never heard so candid an admission before. He was
still more surprised at what followed. His own taste strayed pleasantly
in the eighteenth century, and he was not aware, of course, that this
was Quinney's beloved period. Nor did he know that the saloon at Mel
Court was nearly as familiar to Quinney as to himself. At first his
attention was challenged by the faked oak. The panels were really
beautiful, and inasmuch as they had deceived Quinney himself, it is not
very remarkable that they imposed themselves upon an amateur.
"Have you much of this oak?" he asked.
"Any amount of it!"
"Enough to panel a room?"
"Yes, I think so."
"What will you take for the lot? It happens that I can use it at Mel
Court. I am building a new billiard room, and my lady is rather tired
of mahogany."
Quinney's keen eyes sparkled. Lord Mel was too big a swell to bargain,
and he was obviously not a "think-it-over fellow." He would pay,
cheerfully, a big price for these panels and, as likely as not, ask no
questions about them. Then he thought of Susan, white and helpless in
the big bed. With a tremendous effort, and speaking abruptly, as man to
man, he said:
"It's all faked stuff."
"What! Impossible!"
"I can sell the lot, my lord, at a price that will surprise you." He
named the price, which included a modest profit to himself, wondering
what Tomlin would say when he heard the story. Tomlin, of course, owned
an undivided half-interest in the panels. Lord Mel was astounded. He
bought the panels, and stared at Quinney's whimsical face.
"The price does surprise me," he admitted.
"Perfectly wonderful!" said Quinney. "The real stuff--if you could have
found such a quantity--would have run into a couple of thousand."
"But, pardon me, aren't you doing business upon rather a novel plan?"
"That's as may be, my lord. I propose to keep the very best fakes and
to label 'em as such. I have the genuine stuff, too. Take Oriental
china. Look at those jars!"
He was fairly started, aglow with excitement and enthusiasm, oblivious
of himself and his visitor, pouring out a flow of intimate information,
unconsciously displaying himself rather than his wares, forcing his
queer personality upon a man of the world, a connoisseur of men as well
as porcelain. Inevitably, his genius--long afterwards recognized as
such--for beauty challenged the attention of his listener--himself a
lover of beauty. They met as equals upon the common ground of similar
tastes. Quinney let himself go. In his perfervid excitement he gestured
as he did before Susan; the floor was strewn with aitches; grammar
halted feebly behind his impassioned sentences. There were things, lots
o' things, that were just right--perfection; and one of 'em--one
bloomin' bit o' real stuff, one tiny cup, potted by a master, painted by
an artist, gilded by an honest man who used the purest gold, twenty-two
carat, by Gum!--was worth all the beastly rubbish in the world. He
ended upon the familiar note.
"I hate rubbish! Rubbish is wicked, rubbish is cruel, rubbish poisons
the world. I was brought up amongst it, and that's why I loathe it and
fear it."
When he finished Lord Mel held out his hand.
"Mr. Quinney," he said simply, "I am happy to make your acquaintance;
you are building even better than you know."
It is quite impossible to exaggerate the results that flowed directly
and indirectly from this memorable interview. In the first place,
Quinney secured a patron and friend who was all-powerful in a large
county. Lord Mel kept open house; he entertained the greatest men in
the kingdom. He sent his guests to the man whom he affirmed positively
to be the only honest dealer that he knew; he brought experts to whom
Quinney listened feverishly, sucking their special knowledge from them,
as a greedy child sucks an orange. He allowed our hero access to his
own collections, permitted him to make an inventory of them, and later
discarded upon his advice certain questionable specimens. In a word,
this oddly-assorted couple became friends, comrades, in their
indefatigable quest for beautiful objects. It was Lord Mel who
dispatched Quinney to Ireland--one of his richest hunting grounds. In
Ireland Quinney fell passionately in love with old cut-glass, at a time
when the commercial demand for it was almost negligible. In fine, Lord
Mel discovered Quinney and trained him to discover himself.
*III*
Picture to yourself Tomlin's amazement and disgust when he paid his next
visit to the ancient town some three weeks after the sale of the panels.
And it must be admitted that he had reason for complaint, and that his
first comment upon Quinney's astounding proceedings was justified.
"You don't seem to have thought of me!"
"I didn't," said Quinney, with admirable simplicity.
"I told you about that fellow in Brittany; I sent you to him; I provided
half the cash, and I was counting upon big profits. You've let me down
badly."
"Looks like it, to be sure!"
"Damned outrage, I call it!"
"So it is; but I was desperate. Susan was dying. I never thought of you
at all. Now, look here! Don't overheat yourself! You was counting upon
a fifty per cent. profit."
"Perhaps more."
"You do like to get your fore-feet into the trough. Any Jew blood in
your family? Keep cool! At first we got our big profit, and how much
stuff did we sell? Very little. Now I've orders coming in faster than
I can fill 'em, and your profit, small and quick, will knock endways the
big and slow. See?"
Eventually he made Tomlin see, and the London dealer had to admit that
Lord Mel, played by Quinney as a trump card, introduced a new element
into the game. The orders were coming in.
"It's silly to be dishonest," said Quinney, "because sooner or later a
feller is found out."
"Honest fakes," murmured Tomlin. The contradiction in terms upset him.
"That's it. And my fakes are goin' to be advertised as the best in the
world--really fine stuff, at a price which'll defy competition."
"You're an extraordinary man, Joe. There is something in it. Honest
fakes!"
"Rub this in as vaseline, old man. If we can sell honest fakes cheap,
we can sell the real Simon pure stuff at the top notch. Rich people
don't haggle over a few extra pounds if they know that they're not being
imposed upon. I'm going to offer to take back any bit I sell as genuine
which may be pronounced doubtful by the experts."
Tomlin shook his head mournfully, having no exalted faith in experts.
Also, he, was beginning to realize that Quinneys' as a sort of
dumping-ground for his surplus and inferior wares was now under a high
protective tariff. He growled out:
"If you think you know your own business----"
"Cocksure of it, old man!"
"I can only hope that Pride won't have a fall."
"You come with me and drink my daughter's health. Never saw such a kid
in all my life--and not a month old!"
Tomlin grinned, perceiving an opportunity of "landing" heavily.
"Daughter? Rather muddled things, haven't you? Thought you'd arranged
with your missis that it was to be a boy?"
"Did you? Well, being a better husband than you are, I let her 'ave her
own way in that."
*IV*
The daughter was duly christened Josephina Biddlecombe, and, for the
purposes of this narrative, we may skip a number of pet names, beginning
with Baby and ending with Josie-posie. Ultimately she was called Posy
and nothing else--a rechristening that took place in the distinguished
presence of the Bishop of Melchester. The child was nearly three years
old when that courtly prelate happened to drift into the shop. Susan
and the child had entered a few minutes before.
"And what is your name, my dear?" he asked.
"Josie-posie," she replied demurely. Even at that early age Quinney's
daughter was absolutely devoid of fear or shyness. She added
confidingly: "And I wear a macheese."
"What does she wear?" asked the Bishop of Susan.
Susan blushed.
"She means a--chemise, my lord."
The Bishop laughed heartily, inferring that hitherto she had worn some
other garment. Then he said in his pleasant voice: "Josie-posie is too
big a name for so tiny a maid. I like the second half of it better than
the first."
"So do I," said Susan.
"Yes, yes; Posy is a sweet, old-fashioned name, and it describes the
child admirably."
When he had taken leave of them, Quinney said with conviction:
"He's right. Posy she is, the little dear! And his lordship didn't
fail to notice, I'll be bound, that she smells as sweet as she looks."
After this incident the child was always called Posy.
It is not easy to describe the sprite, because she presented a baffling
combination of father and mother. Her native grace, her pretty
colouring and delicate features, were a sweet inheritance from Susan;
her quickness of wit, her powers of observation, her unmistakable sense
of beauty--for she shrank tremblingly from what was mean or ugly--came
from Quinney. Essentially she was a child of love, adored by both her
parents, and, up to a certain point, spoiled by them. Mrs. Biddlecombe
was fondly of the opinion that the child had taken from her parents what
was best in each, buttressing the assertion by calling attention to the
dash of red in the golden locks, and the peculiar alertness of the
mite's glance flashing hither and thither, searching for the things
which delighted her, and acclaiming them when found with joyous
chirruping and gestures.
"Reg'lar butterfly!" said Quinney. "Dotty about flowers! Picks out the
best, by Gum!"
The first three years passed without incident. The business prospered.
Quinney engaged a capable assistant, and began his travels. His
restlessness affected Susan, but she accepted it resignedly. He was
different from other men and not to be judged by ordinary standards.
Argument was wasted upon him. She expostulated vainly when he began to
change the furniture. The knowledge that each bit was more valuable and
beautiful than its predecessor did not appeal to her at all. She
beguiled him into talking about his business, feigning interest in its
growth, but became increasingly conscious that the details bored her.
The Dream Cottage, as she had pictured it, faded from memory. It had
become a sort of small pantechnicon, a storehouse of precious objects
which came and went, an annexe to the shop, to be kept swept and
garnished for the entertainment and instruction of collectors.
The garden, however, was her peculiar domain, diffusing its own
satisfactions and graces. The kitchen and nursery were hers also. She
was an excellent housewife, and made Posy's frocks, and some of her own,
despite the protests of Quinney, who babbled foolishly of satins and
brocades.
Undaunted by her awful experience, she hoped for another child. Upon
this point Mrs. Biddlecombe had something to say.
"I was an only child, you was an only child, your grandfather was an
only child. It's in the family. After what you went through----"
"Joe would like a son, mother."
"Has he hinted that to you?"
"No."
"You take it from me that he doesn't."
To Susan's astonishment, Joe confirmed what had seemed a ridiculous
assumption. After Josephina was weaned, Susan whispered to him one
night:
"I do miss my baby."
"Enjoyed bein' woke up--hey?"
"Yes."
"Like another, perhaps?" She detected the scorn in his voice.
"If--if you wanted it, Joe. A little son this time."
He caught hold of her, speaking vehemently, crushing her to him, as if
to remind her how nearly she had slipped from his keeping.
"Now look here, Susie, I ain't going to have another."
She laughed faintly, as she replied:
"It isn't you who will have it. Mother says she wishes that the men
could take turn and turn about."
"Ho! Said that, did she? You tell her from me that I suffered quite
enough with my first. Enough to last me all my life, and yours, too!"
Susan shook with laughter.
"Oh, Joe, you are a darling!"
"Silly name to call me! Red-headed and freckled! But no more nonsense
about little sons. When my daughter marries, her husband can take my
name. See?"
"I see," said Susan; "but I'm afraid baby's husband may not."
At the end of three years, a small cloud arose in their clear sky. Mrs.
Biddlecombe announced solemnly that she was seriously ill, and about to
meet her Maker.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*LIGHT OUT OF THE DARKNESS*
*I*
When Mrs. Biddlecombe made this solemn declaration it never occurred to
either Quinney or Susan to dispute the infallibility of such a
statement. The worthy lady belonged to a type rapidly becoming extinct
in this country, a type which has provoked the astonishment and humorous
criticism of foreigners. She had never questioned what she devoutly held
to be certain divinely-revealed truths. Persons who presumed to differ
from her, or perhaps it would be fairer to say, from the indiscriminate
mass of public opinion which she represented, were accounted beyond the
pale of Christian charity and toleration, _tout comprendre c'est tout
pardonner_ being an arrow which glances harmlessly against prejudice and
predilection. There was no joint in her armour of righteousness through
which it could penetrate. The type is still so common that comment upon
it would be tedious. Amongst other cherished beliefs was a conviction
that illness came direct from God. Had Susan, as a child, been struck
down with typhoid fever, Mrs. Biddlecombe would have accepted the blow
with resignation and tended the sufferer, under the direction of a
medical attendant, with exemplary tenderness and fortitude. She would
not have overhauled the system of drainage. Accordingly, when the Hand
of Providence--as she put it--was laid heavily upon her massive body,
she accepted the infirmity with pious resignation, and informed Laburnum
Row that it was the beginning of the end. Dr. Ransome diagnosed the
case, accurately enough, as cardiac weakness arising from chronic
dyspepsia. His patient was of a full habit, and took no exercise beyond
the common round of duties connected with her small house. A competent
servant "did" for her, perhaps in more senses than one. Ransome, of
course, reassured her again and again in regard to her symptoms. They
were such as could not be ignored at her age--fifty-five--but with care
and a less generous diet she might reasonably hope to live happily for
many years. Mrs. Biddlecombe refused to believe this. She made her
will, leaving everything she possessed to Susan, selected her last
resting-place in the Melchester cemetery, not too near the grave of her
second husband, the contractor and builder, and announced calmly that
she was "ready." Quinney, of course, had a private word with Dr.
Ransome, but that cautious diplomat had to admit that his patient might
go suddenly. Quinney told Susan what had passed between them, using his
own vernacular.
"Old Pomposity is hedgin'--see? Just like him! Comes to this, Susie.
You was at death's door, seemin'ly, but, by Gum! you pulled through
because you wouldn't leave me!"
Susan nodded, pressing his arm.
"Works t'other way round with your mother. She's made up her mind to
die, and the doctor can't argue her out of the notion. Her heart is
weak, and if it begins flutterin' it may stop for ever just because the
pore old dear won't will it to go on wigglin'. There y'are!"
Susan was much upset. She loved her mother, although the two women had
little in common, and the feminine instinct of ministration, root-pruned
by her husband, began to sprout vigorously. She paid long daily visits
to Laburnum Row, and Quinney soon noticed a falling off in the quality
of his food. Twice they were summoned in the middle of the night to say
good-bye to a woman who believed herself to be dying.
"A bit thick!" said Quinney.
"Joe!"
"But, isn't it? Let's face the facts. You spend a lot o' time away
from home, away from Posy. Losin' your nice fresh colour, you are! And
I'm losin' my appetite for the good meals I used to have."
"But mother wants me. And any moment----"
"So she thinks. Quite likely to make old bones yet. Now, look here,
I've a plan--the only plan. I simply won't have you trapesin' round to
Laburnum Row at all hours of the day and night. Tell your mother to
pack up and come to us."
Alas! poor Susan!
She was hoist with her own petard. Protest died on her lips. She
submitted, not daring to confess that a dying mother could be regarded
by a dutiful daughter as an unwelcome visitor.
Mrs. Biddlecombe, however, refused, at first, to budge. "Let me die
here, Joseph." Quinney used the clinching argument.
"You are not going to die, Mrs. B., but, if you did, just think of the
sad job we'd have gettin' you down them narrow stairs. And we never
could receive all your friends in such a small parlour."
"That's true," sighed Mrs. Biddlecombe. "There's a lot in what you say,
Joseph."
"There is, old dear! I'm uneducated, and I know it, but my talk is full
o' meat and gravy. It's nourishing!"
Accordingly, Mrs. Biddlecombe came to the Dream Cottage, and was
installed comfortably in the guest chamber. As time passed, the good
lady grew to like her room so well that she refused to leave it. She
became, in short, bedridden, and increasingly dependent upon Susan, who
never failed her. Quinney began to spend his evenings away from home.
He joined a club which met bi-weekly in a snug room at the Mitre. Susan
encouraged him to join his friends, because she was terrified lest he
should be bored at home. Also, his wanderings in search of furniture
and china became more extended, and when he returned triumphant,
exulting in wonderful bargains, she found it increasingly difficult to
share his enthusiasm, and to rejoice with him over a prosperity which
seemed to be driving them farther apart.
She told herself, on her knees, that she was a wicked, ungrateful woman.
Indeed, she was amazed at her own emotions, unable to analyse them,
conscious only that she was torn in two by circumstance and consequence.
Her Joe loved her faithfully; he grudged her nothing; he worked hard for
her and his child; he had none of the vices common to the husbands of
many women she knew; he was almost always in high health and spirits.
And Posy? What a darling! No cause for anxiety there. A sweet sprite,
budding rapidly into a pretty, intelligent girl. And she herself?
Healthy, the mistress of a charming little house filled with beautiful
things, but not happy.
Why--why--why?
Civil war raged beneath her placid bosom. War to the knife between
conjugal and maternal instincts. Her duty to child and mother stood
between what she desired more passionately than anything else--a renewal
of intimate intercourse with a husband who was drifting out of her life,
leaving her stranded upon barren rocks. She found herself wondering
whether his feeling for her was waxing lukewarm. She would cheerfully
have undergone the cruellest pangs to experience once more the ineffable
bliss of kissing tears from his eyes, of hearing his voice break when he
whispered her name, of knowing that he suffered abominably because she
suffered.
She began to pray for something to break the deadly monotony of her
life.
And her prayers were answered.
*II*
Quinney was returning one night from the club soberly conscious that he
had slightly exceeded his usual allowance of port wine. He was in that
mellow frame of mind, far removed from intoxication, which dwells
complacently upon the present without any qualms as to the future. For
instance, despite the extra glass or two, he knew that he would awaken
the next morning with a clear brain and a body fit to cope with any
imposed task. In fine, he was sober enough to congratulate himself upon
the self-control which had refused further indulgence, and at the same
time righteously glad that he had not drunk less. The colour of the
good wine encarmined his thoughts, the bottled sunshine irradiated his
soul.
He passed slowly through the Cathedral Close, pausing to admire the
spire soaring into a starlit sky, black against violet. He had left the
Mitre at half-past eleven, but few lights twinkled from the windows of
the houses encircling the Close. The good canons retired early and rose
rather late, thereby, perhaps, securing health without being encumbered
with the burden of wisdom. With rare exception all Melchester
slumbered.
Quinney, out of native obstinacy, felt astoundingly awake. He began to
compute the hours wasted in sleep. He had quaint theories on this
subject, which he aired at the club. It has been said that party
politics left him cold, although he grew warm and excited over his own
ideas. The Tories assured him that England was going behind, but their
reasons, taken from pamphlets and newspapers, were unconvincing, if you
happened to read--as Quinney did--the Radical counter-blasts. Ever
since his memorable trip to France Quinney posed as the travelled man.
The French, he contended, were prosperous because they saved money and
time. They rose earlier, worked harder for more hours out of the
twenty-four. Also, he had been much impressed by the French Sunday as a
day of recreation as well as rest. The French did not need a
half-holiday on Saturday, because they made a whole holiday of Sunday.
Susan was appalled at this view, but Quinney used the argument with
telling effect at the club. Pinker, the Radical grocer, was immensely
taken with it. If cricket and football could be played on Sunday the
British workman would earn another half-day's pay. Multiply that by
millions, and there you are!
He strolled on to the Mel, and paused again, staring at that placid
stream rolling so leisurely to the sea. He was rolling as leisurely
to--what? The question caught at him, insistently demanding an answer.
He realized, almost with a shock, that nearly seven years had passed
since he married Susan. During that seven years he had doubled his
capital. He was worth twenty thousand pounds at least, probably more,
and his best years were yet to come. Mrs. Biddlecombe, it is true, was
not so sanguine. According to her, prosperity in the present indicated
adversity in the near future.
"Joseph's luck will turn," she would say to Susan in her husband's
presence. Finally, Quinney retorted with some heat:
"Now, Granny, don't you go on barkin' your old knuckles over that. I
ain't superstitious, but long ago I had 'arf-a-crown's worth o'
fortune-tellin' from the Queen o' the Gipsies herself. I'm to live to
be seventy-six, and to bend the knee to my Sovereign."
"What did the foolish woman mean by that?"
"A queen, I tell you. She meant knighthood. Sir Joseph and Lady
Quinney! What ho!"
"Sir Humpty and Lady Dumpty more like!"
Perhaps the tart answer had spurred him to greater endeavour. He was
extremely sensitive under a skin toughened by paternal thwackings, and
well aware that his mother-in-law was inclined to sniff whenever his
name was mentioned. The poor old dear was a bit jealous! She had
fallen in the social scale; he was rising, soaring into the blue, like
the great spire of Melchester Cathedral.
During the past seven years he had hugged close his intention of leaving
Melchester for the wider sphere of London. The fact that Tomlin, Susan,
and Mrs. Biddlecombe were obstinately opposed to such a leap into the
unknown merely fortified his resolution. Tomlin, of course, nosed a
rival, for some of his customers knew Quinney. Susan hinted that Posy
would lose her bloom in London streets. Mrs. Biddlecombe pointed out,
with businesslike acumen, that he and his father had built up a big and
increasing country connection which would be greedily snapped up by some
Melchester dealer. And, lastly, the mighty Marquess of Mel had uttered
a word of warning:
"It would mean a big fight. You are not in the ring, my dear fellow."
Whenever his kind patron addressed him as a dear fellow Quinney's blood
warmed within him. And his keen eyes sparkled at the prospect of a
fight. He liked fights. As a boy he had fought to a finish other boys
bigger than himself; and the victory had not invariably been with them.
He remembered his victories, as he answered Lord Mel:
"I should get into the ring, my lord."
"Um! Would you! And"--his landlord laughed pleasantly--"I should lose
a good tenant."
"London's the best market for knowledge," said Quinney.
"Quite, quite! Can you attempt to compete with the experts?"
The question rankled, biting deep into his soul, inciting him to further
study of the things he loved. But such study grew more and more
difficult. He had become the expert of Melchester. On and about his
own "pitch" it was impossible to find a man with more technical
knowledge than his own. In London, he would be rubbing shoulders with
world-famous collectors and connoisseurs. They would "down" him at
first, rub his nose in the dust of the big auction rooms; but in the end
he would learn what they had learned, and triumph where they had
triumphed.
*III*
These thoughts were trickling through his mind as he gazed at the placid
Mel trickling also to troublous seas, where its clear waters would be
merged and lost. Quinney squirmed at the remote possibility of being
merged and lost. He muttered uneasily: "It fair furs my tongue to think
o' that." The extra glass of wine had not excited him to the
consideration of perilous enterprises. An extra pint might have done
so. No; the old port which had ripened in the Melchester cellars
exercised a benignant and restful influence. Its spirit, released at
last, seemed to hover about the ancient town, loath to leave it. We may
hazard the conjecture that the wine in the cellars of our universities
may be potent to lull the ambitions of restless scholars, and to keep
them willing prisoners in drowsy quadrangles.
Quinney lighted his pipe. He felt ripe for an important decision. For
some months the necessity of enlarging his present premises had bulked
large in his thoughts. A successful country dealer must carry an
immense amount of stock, because he dare not specialize. His hatred for
rubbish had become an obsession. More, his love of the finest specimens
of furniture and porcelain interfered with the sale of them. He placed
a price on these which eventually he got, but often he was constrained
to wait so long for the right customer that his profit was seriously
diminished. He sold quickly immense lines of moderately-priced
"stuff"--chairs, tables, chests of drawers, bureaux, bookcases,
bedsteads, and mantel-pieces. The "gems," as he called them, were taken
to the Dream Cottage, and only shown to the worthy few.
To enlarge his premises was no ha'penny affair. Lord Mel, it is true,
had offered to do so, but only on the condition that his tenant should
sign a long lease; and a long lease meant remaining in Melchester. Ten,
twenty years hence, he would be too old to begin again in London.
He smoked his pipe much too quickly.
To be candid, he was struggling desperately with the twin brethren, who,
whether good or bad, accompany each of us from the cradle to the grave.
He was at grips with heredity and environment. Afterwards he admitted
to himself and to Susan that two would have prevailed over one. He made
up his mind to write to Lord Mel's agent on the morrow, and he consoled
himself with the sound reflection that he was grasping substance, not
shadow. London might ruin him--he knew that, being no fool--and yet he
was in the mood to shed tears upon the grave of ambition. Never, never,
would he bend the knee before his Sovereign if he remained in
Melchester!
He sighed profoundly as he slipped his pipe into his pocket. By this
time he was lucidly himself. The decision to enlarge his premises, and
all that meant, would not be weakened, but strengthened, by a night's
sleep. Sleep! He smiled derisively. Sleep! Everybody in Melchester
was asleep. He beheld himself and Susan growing fat in this sleepy
town. Susan was already plumper. She would develop into just such a
fleshly tabernacle as her mother.
He exclaimed loudly and virulently:
"Damn!"
This was his acknowledgment of defeat. His "Vae victis." He writhed
impotently in the toils of circumstance, although the struggle was over.
The night seemed to have turned darker, the stars paled in the violet
sky, as he walked slowly towards the Dream Cottage, wherein his
wonderful dream would never come true. One would like to record that
thoughts of his pretty, loving wife, and thoughts of his
Posy--admittedly the gem of gems--stirred within him, pouring spikenard
upon his lacerated sensibilities. It was not so. They stood for poppy,
and mandragora, or, as he might have put it, old port and brown sherry
in cut-glass decanters. And every fibre of his small, sturdy body
clamoured for a fight in the London ring, a fight to a finish with the
experts of his trade.
At that dark moment he beheld light.
*IV*
The light came from Dream Cottage--a faint luminous glow, so strange, so
mysterious, that he stood still, straining his eyes to determine the
meaning of it till that meaning flared full upon him.
One of the chimneys was ablaze!
Instantly his dormant energies awoke to liveliest activity. He raced
back to a corner of the Close, where he had passed a policeman. The man
had wandered farther on his beat. He overtook him, gasping.
"My house is afire!"
The policeman recognized Quinney, and nodded owlishly.
"Your house afire?" he repeated.
"You bolt for the engine--see?"
He twirled round the massive figure, and pushed it vigorously. The
guardian of the night broke into a slow trot. Quinney shouted:
"Get a move on!" and sped back to the cottage. The light was no longer
faintly luminous. Flames--hungry tongues of destruction--were licking
the darkness.
*CHAPTER IX*
*SALVAGE*
*I*
Quinney found Susan asleep. In the small dressing room next to their
bedroom, Posy also slumbered sweetly, although acrid smoke was filling
the house. When Susan understood that she was not the victim of some
hideous nightmare, Quinney imposed his commands.
"You've time to slip on warm clothes. Bolt on to the lawn with Posy.
Don't try to save any of your rags. I'll wake Maria--and then I've a
lot to do. The best stuff downstairs is not insured. The engine will be
here in two jiffs. You scoot out o' this! Hear me?"
She nodded breathlessly, swept off her feet by his excitement. He
vanished, before she could answer him or remind him of a bedridden
mother-in-law.
Maria also was asleep. Quinney hauled her out of bed, and pointed to
the attic window.
"Look at that," he said grimly, "and scoot!"
Maria scooted.
Quinney leapt downstairs, cursing himself for a fool inasmuch as he had
neglected to increase his insurance. The "gems" had slowly accumulated
month after month. He breathed more easily when he reached the ground
floor, but he was well aware that the old house would burn like tinder.
The roof of thatch had begun to blaze; he could hear the crackle of the
flames overhead.
With profound regret it must be set down that he had quite forgotten
Mrs. Biddlecombe.
He worked methodically, beginning with the uninsured porcelain, the
Worcester, Chelsea, and Bow, which he carried tenderly into the garden.
He had removed the most valuable specimens before the engine arrived.
Maria, stout creature, half-dressed, bare-legged and bare-footed, joined
him. Together they hauled out the Chippendale chairs and china
cupboard.
"Seen your missus?" asked Quinney, when she first appeared.
"On the lawn," replied Maria.
Presently they heard the welcome rattle of the engine, and the Chief
strode in, followed by two firemen.
"Women all out?" he asked.
"You bet!" replied Quinney. At that moment he remembered Mrs.
Biddlecombe. "My God!" he exclaimed, gripping the Chief. "There's Mrs.
Biddlecombe! Bedridden, by Gum!"
Maria burst into the riotous laughter of a Bacchante.
"The old lady," she spluttered, "was the first to scoot. She just ran
out like I did."
"Ran?" repeated Quinney.
"Like a rabbit!" said Maria, more calmly.
"We've about five more minutes," remarked the Chief.
During that brief period wonders were accomplished; but at the very last
Quinney narrowly escaped death in his determination to save a print in
colour which he had overlooked. A fireman grabbed him and held him as
the roof fell.
*II*
Kindly neighbours sheltered the women for that night, while Quinney
mounted guard over his furniture and porcelain. He never left his
precious things till they were safely stored in a warehouse. When his
fellow-townsmen condoled with him he laughed in their solemn faces. The
sense of freedom which had so expanded his spirit upon the
never-to-be-forgotten occasion of his sire's funeral once more possessed
him. The fire had burnt to cinders the resolution to remain in
Melchester. He found himself wishing that the shop had burned too.
What a glorious clearance that would have been, to be sure!
Nevertheless, the sight of Susan's face dampened his rejoicings.
Obviously, she had swooped upon the truth. Mrs. Biddlecombe had been
forgotten, left to frizzle, while a madman, at the risk of his life, was
rescuing sticks and stones!
"You never thought of mother," said Susan. The small woman looked rather
pale, and Quinney marked for the first time the wrinkle between her
eyes. Mrs. Biddlecombe had the same vertical line, deeply cut. Also
there was an inflection in Susan's voice which he recognized regretfully
as an inheritance from the old lady. He was tempted to lie boldly, to
affirm with loud authority that he had left the care of the invalid
mother to a devoted daughter. Fortunately, he remembered the
Bacchanalian laughter of Maria. The baggage had peached. He replied
simply:
"I didn't."
Susan compressed her pretty lips, and the likeness to her mother became
startlingly strong.
Quinney tried a disarming smile as he murmured:
"She legged it out on to the lawn. Maria says she ran like a bloomin'
rabbit."
"If Maria said that I shall have to speak to her seriously."
"She didn't say 'blooming.' I'm sorry, Susie. It's awful, I know, but
you needn't glare at me as if I'd left the old lady to burn on purpose.
And out of evil comes good--hey? We know now that she's as spry as
ever. Almost looks as if firin' had cured her."
"If you mean to make a joke of it----"
He saw that she was deeply offended, and foolishly attempted to kiss
her. Susan repulsed him.
"What! Refuse to kiss your own hubby!"
"Mother might be lying dead; and you thinking only of sticks and
stones."
"Come off it!" said Quinney irritably.
Susan turned her back on him, and he returned to the shop. It was their
first serious trouble.
*III*
When they met again two hours afterwards the wrinkle had vanished; and
no allusion was made to this unhappy incident, either then or later.
Susan was busy moving into temporary lodgings and buying necessary
articles of clothing for herself and her mother. Quinney was thinking
of London, and fairly spoiling for the fight ahead. It would begin when
he tackled Susan and her mother, and he knew that this first encounter
would be no bloodless victory. Posy would be used as a weapon, an
Excalibur in the hands of a devoted mother.
After much pondering, he did an unwise thing--what might have been
expected from a man engrossed in his own business, and fully sensible
that he understood that business better than anyone else. He had always
despised futile argument. Mrs. Biddlecombe and Susan would argue for
hours, repeating themselves like silly parrots, and evading, like most
women, the real issues. He told himself that he would be quite unable
to listen patiently to their prattle about country air and old friends,
and rolling stones denuded of nice comfortable moss. Why not make his
arrangements without consulting them? Whatever they might say, he
intended to move from Melchester. He had nailed his flag to the mast
when the roof of Dream Cottage fell in. It streamed over his future, a
Blue Peter.
Accordingly, he slipped away to London some two days later, leaving two
women and an intelligent child in blissful ignorance of what was waving
above them. He told Susan that an interview with the fire insurance
people was imperative. She was quite ready to believe that, and speeded
him on his journey with smiles and kisses.
"While you are away," she said cheerfully, "I shall be looking out for
another Dream Cottage."
"You won't find it in Melchester," he replied curtly.
Upon arrival in London he set forth gallantly in search of a "pitch."
He wandered in and out of curiosity shops big and small. Some of the
dealers knew him slightly. Many of the older men used to deal with his
father. They were well aware that the son refused on principle to sell
to the trade. Tomlin had passed round that word long ago. Quinney
inspected their wares, and chuckled to himself whenever he encountered a
fake labelled as a genuine antique. The biggest men displayed stuff not
above suspicion. Indeed, the chuckling became audible when he
discovered a Minihy cabinet in a famous establishment in St. James's
Street.
"Guarantee that?" he asked of the rather supercilious young gentleman in
a frock coat who was doing the honours.
"Certainly."
It was then that Quinney chuckled. The young gentleman, quite unaware
that he was entertaining a provincial dealer, said loftily:
"It's French. Came out of a French chateau in Touraine."
"Signed?"
"I think not. It's signed all over as a bit of the finest Renaissance
craftsmanship."
Quinney bent down, still chuckling.
"It is signed," he said, with conviction.
"Really? Where, may I ask?"
Quinney indicated a small, much-battered piece of oak.
"Remove that," he observed quietly, "and you will find the signature
under it."
"Whose signature?"
"The signature of a great artist who lives near Treguier in Brittany."
"Lives? What do you mean?"
Quinney met the young gentleman's scornful eyes and held them.
"I mean, my lad, that your master has here a very clever copy, signed
where I say by the man who copied it, whom I know. I've not asked the
price, but I'll tell you this: if it's genuine, it's cheap at two
thousand; if it's a copy I can buy a dozen just like it at sixteen
pounds apiece. Good-morning."
After three days' hard walking, Quinney summed up results as follows:
There were three classes of dealers in London. The tip-toppers, with
establishments in fashionable thoroughfares, who sold the best stuff at
a fancy price; the men, whose name was Legion, who lived here, there,
and everywhere, selling wares good, bad, and indifferent at a small
profit; and the middle-men, who sold almost exclusively to the big
dealers.
"There is a place for me," said Quinney, with absolute conviction.
He said as much to Tomlin next day. They were lunching together in an
old-fashioned eating-house just off Fleet Street, sitting bolt upright
upon wooden benches, and inhaling an atmosphere which advertised
insistently cheese, onions, chump chops, and tobacco. Tomlin was the
host, and he had ordered steak-and-kidney pudding, a Welsh rarebit to
follow, and a bottle of port. He attacked these viands with such gusto
that Quinney said to himself:
"Never did see a man with a more unhealthy appetite!"
Warmed into candid speech by this fine old English food and drink,
Tomlin said thickly:
"A place for you, my tulip? Hope it won't be in the Bankruptcy
Court!"--and he chuckled grossly.
Tomlin's place, be it mentioned, was at the wrong end of the Fulham
Road, but he was talking of moving to Bond Street. Tomlin reckoned
himself to be one of the big dealers, and he talked in a full, throaty
voice:
"You're a fool to leave Melchester, Joe. I say it as a friend."
"There's a place for me in London," repeated Quinney.
"Where?"
"Well, somewhere between the Fulham Road and Long Acre."
"'Ow about rent?"
"'Tisn't the rent that worries me."
"Customers?"
"That's right--customers. The business will have to be built up slowly,
because I mean to specialize."
"In what?"
"Old English porcelain, glass, and the finest furniture."
"You'll starve."
"I mean to have one other department which may keep the pot boiling."
"Give it a name, Joe."
"Not yet."
"My first and last word to you is: Go back to Melchester and stay
there."
Tomlin repeated this till Quinney sickened of his company. But he
wanted the London man to predict disaster in his raucous tones. Success
would taste the sweeter when it came. Moreover, Susan hated Tomlin, to
such an extent, indeed, that she would flout his judgment. She had
never forgiven his tale of a table with a broken leg.
The men separated after smoking two cigars. Quinney walked to Soho
Square, lit a better cigar than Tomlin had given to him, and stared at
an ancient house with a pediment over the door, and a signboard upon
which were inscribed the exciting words, "To Let."
The mansion--for it was thus styled--had challenged his attention and
interest two days before. Tomlin would have ridiculed the idea of taking
such a house, and turning it into a shop, but Tomlin was a tradesman,
whereas Quinney believed himself to be an artist. The house was of the
right period--early Georgian from garret to cellar.
Quinney went over it.
It seemed to be the real right thing, so right that the little man, who
had unconsciously absorbed some of the Melchester sermons, told himself
that the guiding finger of Providence could be plainly discerned. There
were dry cellars for storing valuable woods, a back-yard, and a big
drawing-room, finely decorated in the Adam style, possibly by the hand
of the Master, which occupied the first floor, and looked out upon the
Square through three nobly-proportioned windows. Quinney decided
instantly to make this splendid room his "sanctuary," the
treasure-house, wherein his "gems" would be fittingly enshrined. The
ground floor would serve admirably as a shop. There were several
bedrooms and excellent offices.
In regard to the situation he came to this conclusion. The shops of the
groundlings in the trade were invariably small and ill-lighted; the
establishments of the big dealers commanded a rent beyond his means. In
any case, he would have to work up a clientele, and his customers, when
they did find their way to this ancient square, would behold his
beautiful wares under the happiest conditions of space and light.
The rent, including rates and taxes, came to less than three hundred a
year! A big rent, it is true, for a dealer with his capital, but much
less than Tomlin paid for large and inconvenient premises in the Fulham
Road.
He signed a long lease within twenty-four hours, and returned, exulting
in his strength, to Melchester and Susan.
*IV*
He did not tell her his wonderful news at once. A habit of secretiveness
concerning his business was forming itself. It must be recorded on his
behalf that Susan's indifference to "sticks and stones" exasperated him.
By this time he had recognized her inability to appreciate fine "stuff!"
As a saleswoman she had enchanted him, but even then, when she trotted
about the shop smiling sweetly at his customers, he knew that she would
never acquire a sense of values, that nice discrimination which detects
unerringly the good from the very good, and acclaims the genius of the
artist so subtly differentiated from the handicraft of the artisan.
Susan, artless soul! had news of her own to impart. She had found a
house just outside Melchester--a house with a bathroom, with hot and
cold water laid on, a labour-saving house quite up to date--a bargain!
The expression of his shrewd face, as he listened, warned Susan that he
was keeping something from her. Human paste she understood better than
he did. The animation died out of her voice as she faltered:
"You look so queer, Joe."
Then he told her.
To his surprise and satisfaction she acquiesced meekly. She was
thinking that her prayers had been answered; but she could not bring
herself to say so. Also she was cruelly hurt at his lack of confidence,
afraid to speak lest she should say too much, too proud to break down,
pathetically silent. Quinney went on floundering amongst the broken ice.
"I'm out for a big thing. I know that I can pull it off single-handed.
Results will justify this move, Susie. It's no use my hidin' from you
that I'm in for a fight. They'll down me if they can, but in the end I
shall come out on top, my girl. On top!"
"On top of what, Joe?"
He caught hold of her cold hands, gripping them tightly. He never
noticed how faintly the pressure was returned.
"Atop o' the heap. A big dealer. It's in me. Always knew it. Not a
dog's chance here. Why, even Primmer of Bath had to go to London. I
was in his Piccadilly place yesterday. And I can remember what his old
shop at Bath used to be."
"What does Mr. Tomlin say?"
"He's nasty, is Tom Tomlin. I wanted him to be nasty. By Gum! I egged
him on to call me a fool and an idiot."
"How I dislike that man!"
"He fairly wallowed in prophecies. It will be the same here. I can
hear Pinker goin' it."
"Have you asked Lord Mel's advice?"
Quinney glanced at her sharply.
"His lordship was very kind, but he's my landlord, and I'm a good
tenant. He may be offended. I must risk that."
Susan sighed as she said with finality:
"It's done?"
"Thank the Lord--yes!"
He suffered at the hands of Mrs. Biddlecombe, who, since the fire, had
become livelier in mind and body. She believed that a miracle had been
wrought upon her aged and infirm body, and regarded it as sanctified by
a Divine touch. Laburnum Row repeated with awe the old lady's solemn
words:
"When I woke to hear the roaring of the flames, I heard a Voice. It
seemed to say: 'Martha Biddlecombe, arise and walk.'"
A select party of friends was listening, but--weed your acquaintance how
you may--nettles will spring up unexpectedly. A thin, acidulous
spinster remarked drily:
"We heard you--ran."
"It is perfectly true," replied Mrs. Biddlecombe, with austere dignity.
"The hand of the Lord was upon me, and I ran."
According to her lights, she dealt faithfully with Joseph Quinney. As
his guest, helpless beneath his roof, she had curbed too sharp a tongue.
In her own lodgings, and mentally as well as physically "on her legs
again," she deemed it a duty to let that tongue wag freely. She
received her son-in-law seated upon a sofa, the hard, old-fashioned sofa
covered with black horse-hair. Above the mantelpiece was a framed print
in crude colour, a portrait of the Great White Queen, in all her
Imperial splendour handing a cheap edition of the Bible to a naked
savage. Underneath this work of art was inscribed: "This is the secret
of England's greatness." Upon a small marble-topped table near the sofa
was another Bible.
"Be seated, Joseph."
She had allowed him to kiss her cheek; and he guessed, as he saluted
her, that she was in happy ignorance of his monstrous offence. At her
request Susan was not present.
"You are going to London?"
"That's right."
"It is not right, Joseph. It is very far indeed from being right. It
would seem that right and wrong, as I interpret such plain words, have
no definite meaning to you."
"Pop away!"
"What?"
"I said 'Pop away.' I meant, go on firing."
"I beg to be allowed to finish without flippant interruption on your
part. Personally, the affairs of this world do not concern me any
longer. I am interested in them so far as they concern others, my own
flesh and blood. Susan was born in Melchester, and so were you."
"We couldn't help it. You might have chosen a livelier spot. Me and
Susan wasn't consulted. Children in a better managed world would be
consulted, but there you are."
"Do you think, Joseph, in your arrogance, that you could manage this
world better than it is managed?"
"Lord bless you, yes!"
"I trust that the Lord will bless me, young man. but He will assuredly
not bless you, unless you mend your ways and your manners."
"Keep it up!"
It enraged her to perceive that he was enjoying himself. She wondered
vaguely how the Bishop would deal with such a hardened offender.
"I, for one, refuse to accompany you to London."
"Sorry."
"Are you sorry? I doubt it. Susan will miss me"--she wiped away two
tears invisible to Quinney, and her voice trembled querulously as she
continued--"and Posy will be deprived of a grandmother at a time when
her mind and character are being made or marred. I understand, also,
that you are risking a fortune which is more than ample for a man in
your station of life. It would appear also that you have taken this
step in defiance of advice from the Marquess of Mel."
"I took it"--he drew in his breath sharply, speaking almost as solemnly
as his very upright judge--"because I had to take it. Melchester is too
small for me, too sleepy, too stoopid, too hide-bound. The most
wonderful thing in the whole town is just like me."
"To what do you allude?"
"To the spire of the Cathedral. It soars, don't it? Can you see it
laying flat on the ground? Can you fancy it asleep? It taught me to
soar. When I was a boy, crawlin' at the old man's heel, I used to say
to it: 'Gosh, you're well out of it!' And now"--he smiled
triumphantly--"I'm well out of it, for ever and ever, Amen!"
Mrs. Biddlecombe rallied her failing energies for a last charge.
Somehow she was impressed by this queer son-in-law. He confounded her.
She remarked slowly:
"It seems a strange thing to say, but I have heard of spires struck by
God's lightning."
"Maybe," said Quinney, rising; "but you can take it from me that this
spire won't be struck because it's fitted with a lightnin' conductor."
He retired, chuckling. Mrs. Biddlecombe shook her head. She was
utterly at a loss to determine whether Quinney was alluding to the
Cathedral spire or to himself. If to himself, who or what was his
lightning conductor?
*BOOK II*
*CHAPTER X*
*BLUDGEONINGS*
*I*
London exercised the influence that might be expected upon such a
character as Quinney's. The soot, so to speak, brought out the
chlorophyl. As he put it to Susan, with grim humour:
"Makes us feel a bit green, hey?"
He had supposed that the big dealers would ignore him; he had not
expected what he found--active hostility. His first fight, for example,
opened his eyes by closing one of them. A brief account of it must be
chronicled. He had kept out of the auction rooms, like Christopher's,
but he frequented small sales, and became a menace to a ring of Hebrew
dealers, who, hitherto, had managed such affairs with great executive
ability entirely in their own interests. Quinney was well aware of their
methods. At the sale proper prices were kept at the lowest possible
level. The real buying and selling took place afterwards in a private
room at some neighbouring tavern. Quinney, who was invited to join the
"ring," knew all about "knock-outs," and decided that he would not
identify himself with such an unsavoury crowd. Tomlin warned him.
"Leave those swine alone, Joe."
"I mean to, old man."
"But remember this, they won't leave you alone, the dirty dogs!"
They didn't.
Upon the eve of a small sale in the suburbs, held at the house of a
bankrupt merchant, who had bought, in the days of his prosperity, some
good bits of furniture, Quinney was "nosing round," as he called it, by
himself, jotting down in a notebook the prices he was prepared to pay on
the morrow. Suddenly there entered a truculent-looking young man of the
type that may be seen boxing at Wonderland, which is just off the
Whitechapel Road. He swaggered up to Quinney and said drawlingly:
"Buyin' against my crowd, you was, las' week?"
Quinney eyed him nervously, as he answered with spirit:
"Your crowd, hey?"
"I said my crowd. Want to join us?"
"No, my lad, I don't."
"Why not?"
"I'm rather careful about the company I keep, see?"
The young man glanced round. They were quite alone. Then he hit
Quinney hard. Our hero ducked ineffectively, and caught the blow on his
left eye. Instantly he realized that his antagonist was what is called a
"workman." Nevertheless he "set about him." In less than a minute the
fine old adage which sets forth that right is greater than might was
lamentably perverted. Quinney was left half senseless on a Turkey
carpet which bore stains of the encounter, and his aggressor fled. Next
day, Quinney remained at home, tended by Susan, who admitted that she
felt like Jael, the wife of Heber, the Kenite.
"Can't you prosecute?" she asked indignantly.
"Never saw the fellow before, never likely to see him again. Hired for
the job, he was--earned his money, too."
After this experience he kept out of third-class London sales, buying as
before from provincial dealers, making it worth their while to come to
him first. Your provincial man is not omniscient, and is prepared to
accept a small profit upon every article that passes through his hands.
Quinney secured some bargains, but he could not sell them, because he
had no customers.
His next experience was more serious. He had gone to Melshire to buy a
certain satin-wood commode with panels painted by Angelica Kauffman.
The owner of the commode, a fox-hunting squire, knew nothing of its
value, but he happened to know Quinney, and he offered the commode to
Quinney for fifty pounds. This incident illustrates nicely the sense of
honour which prevails among dealers in antiques. The commode had been
advertised as part of the contents of an ancient manor house. Other
Melshire dealers, many of them Quinney's friends, were attending the
sale. Immensely to the fox-hunting squire's surprise, Quinney pointed
out that it would not be fair to the other dealers to buy before-hand a
valuable bit of furniture already advertised in a printed catalogue. He
concluded:
"It'll fetch more than fifty pounds."
At the sale it fetched ninety-seven pounds. At the "knock-out"
afterwards, bidding against the other dealers, Quinney paid nine hundred
pounds for this "gem," and told himself, with many chucklings, that he
would double his money within a few weeks. He returned to London with
his prize, and recited the facts to Susan, whose sympathy ranged itself
upon the side of the Melchester squire.
"Seems to me that poor man was robbed. Ninety-seven pounds for a thing
that you say is worth two thousand. It's awful."
"Is it? Now, look ye here, Susie, I'm going to put you right on this
for ever and ever, see? I'm not in this business for my health. Like
every other merchant, I buy in the cheapest market, and sell in the
dearest. It's not my business to educate country gentlemen, who've had
twice my advantages. If the owners of good stuff don't take the trouble
to find out the value of what they've got, so much the worse for them,
the blooming idiots! I play the game, my girl. I might have bought
that commode for a level fifty. Think of it! Why didn't I? Because
I'm an honourable man. Because it wouldn't have been straight with the
others who were after that commode. Has it soaked in? I'll just add
this: It's we dealers who create values. Never thought o' that, did
you? Nor anyone else outside the profession. But it's gospel truth.
Dealers create the big prices, not the silly owners, who don't know
enough to keep their pictures in decent condition. I remember a country
parson who kept his umbrella in a big _famille verte_ jar. Tomlin
bought that jar for a few pounds, and sold it at Christopher's for
fifteen hundred. The parson made a fine hullabaloo, but it served him
jolly well right. We do the work, and we're entitled to the big
profits."
Susan felt crushed, but a leaven of her mother in her constrained her to
reply:
"I hope that commode is worth nine hundred pounds."
"It's worth a damn sight more than that, Susie!"
Tomlin came to see it next day. He examined it carefully, with his
sharp nose cocked at a critical angle. Finally, he said hesitatingly:
"Are you quite sure, Joe, that Angelica Kauffman painted them panels?"
"Just as sure, old man, as if I'd seen her at it."
Nevertheless, Tomlin's question rankled.
*II*
With many apologies, we present the reader to Messrs. Lark and Bundy, of
Oxford Street. Gustavus Lark is probably the best known of the London
art dealers. He is now an old man, and his sons and Bundy's sons manage
an immense business. Ten years ago he had not retired. Criticism of
him or his methods are irrelevant to this chronicle, but a side-light is
thrown upon them when we consider how he treated Joe Quinney, a young
man against whom he had no grudge whatever. Gustavus Lark heard, of
course, that a Melchester dealer, newly settled in Soho Square, had
bought a commode said to be painted by Angelica Kauffman for nine
hundred pounds. Immediately he sent for his eldest son, a true chip of
the old block.
"Why did we not hear of this?"
The son answered curtly:
"Because we can't hear of everything. There wasn't one big London
dealer at the sale; and the only thing worth having was this commode."
"Is it the goods?"
"I believe so."
"Do you know?"
"Well, yes--I know."
"I must send for Pressland."
Pressland deserves some little attention. England honours him as a
connoisseur of Old Masters. Upon pictures his word is often the first
and the last. We know that he "boomed" certain painters, long dead. To
quote Quinney, he "created" values. And he worked hand in hand with
just such men as Gustavus Lark. In appearance he might have been a
successful dentist. He wore a frock-coat and small side-whiskers. He
said "Please" in an ingratiating tone. His hands were scrupulously
clean, as if he had washed them often after dirty jobs. Out of a pale,
sallow face shone two small grey eyes, set too close together. He
contradicted other experts with an inimitable effrontery. "What is
this?" he would say, laying a lean forefinger upon a doubtful signature.
"A Velasquez? I think not. Why? Because, my dear sir, I know!"
Admittedly, he did know about Velasquez; and this knowledge was, so to
speak, on tap, at the service of anybody willing to pay a reasonable
fee. But his knowledge of furniture and porcelain was placed with
reserve at the disposition of dealers. He told many persons that he
made mistakes, and the public never guessed that such mistakes were paid
for munificently.
Gustavus Lark sent for Pressland. The men met in Lark's sanctum, an
austere little room, simply furnished. There is another room next to
it, and when Gustavus sends for a very particular visitor nobody enters
that ante-chamber except a member of the firm.
"Do you know this Soho Square man, Quinney?"
"I have met him."
"Has he come to stay?"
"Um! I think so."
Gustavus Lark stroked his beard. He looked very handsome and
prosperous, not unlike a genial monarch whom he was said by his clerks
to understudy.
"I want you," he said slowly, "to go to Soho Square this morning, and if
by any chance Quinney should ask your opinion of the commode, why"--he
laughed pleasantly--"in that case I shouldn't mind betting quite a
considerable sum that you would discover it to be--er--a clever
reproduction."
Pressland smiled.
"Probably."
"I mean to have a look at it myself later."
Pressland went his way. Part of his success in life may be assigned to
a praiseworthy habit of executing small and big commissions with
becoming promptitude. He strolled into Quinney's shop as if he were the
most idle man in town.
"Anything to show me?" he asked languidly.
Quinney was delighted to see him. He recognized Pressland at once.
"Happy and honoured to see you, sir."
Presently, he took him upstairs into the drawing-room, already spoken of
as the "sanctuary." In it were all his beloved treasures. He had done
up the room "regardless." Here stood his Chippendale cabinet, filled
with Early Worcester and Chelsea; here were his cherished prints in
colour, his finest specimens of Waterford glass, two or three beautiful
miniatures, and many other things. Pressland was astonished, but he
said little, nodding his head from time to time, and listening
attentively to Quinney. As soon as he entered the room he perceived the
satin-wood commode standing in the place of honour.
Pressland praised the Chippendale cabinet, and ignored the commode.
Quinney frowned. Finally he jerked out:
"What do you think of that, sir?"
"What?"
"That commode. Pedigree bit, out of an old Melshire manor house. Good
stuff, hey?"
Pressland adjusted his pince-nez, and stared hard and long at the
panels. Quinney began to fidget.
"Bit of all right--um?"
Pressland said slowly:
"I hope you didn't pay very much for it, Mr. Quinney."
"I paid a thumping big cheque for it. Never paid so much before for a
single bit."
Pressland murmured pensively:
"I thought you knew your furniture."
"Ain't it all right? There's no secret about what I paid. It's been
paragraphed--nine hundred pounds."
A soft whistle escaped from Pressland's thin lips. He said depressingly:
"I dare say you know more about those panels than I do."
Quinney protested vigorously:
"Don't play that on me, Mr. Pressland. If I knew one quarter of what
you know about pictures I'd be a proud man."
"A pedigree bit? What do you mean by that?"
"Owner said it had been in his family for more than a hundred years. He
said that the panels were painted by Angelica Kauffman."
"Are you quite sure he didn't say after Angelica Kauffman?"
Quinney shook his head. From every pore in his skin confidence was
oozing.
"Did he know the value of it?"
"No, he didn't."
"Ah! He must have been pleased with your cheque."
Quinney explained matters. Pressland's expression became acutely
melancholy; and his silence, as he turned away, was eloquent of a
commiseration too deep for words.
"Isn't it right, Mr. Pressland?"
"My opinion is worth little, Mr. Quinney."
"I'm prepared to pay for it if necessary."
"No, no, no! Not from you. Well, then, I am afraid you have been had.
Did the dealers at the 'knock-out' suspect that you wanted it badly?"
"Perhaps they did. I kept on bidding."
"Just so. It's a little way they have. Very, very jealous, some of
them. You have been successful. Success makes enemies. I have enemies.
There are men in London who accuse me of abominable, unmentionable
things." He smiled modestly, spreading out his hands.
"You can afford to laugh at 'em, Mr. Pressland."
"I do."
"Am I to take it from you, sir, that Angelica did not paint those
panels?"
Pressland shrugged his shoulders.
"I am of opinion, and I may well be mistaken, that those panels were
painted after Angelica Kauffman's death, probably by a clever pupil.
But please ask somebody else."
He drifted away, promising to call again, assuring Quinney that he would
send him customers.
*III*
Susan had the story red-hot from his trembling lips about ten minutes
later.
"I've been done--cooked to a crisp!" he wailed.
She kissed and consoled him tenderly, but he refused to be comforted.
She had applied raw steak to his injured eye. What balm could she pour
upon a bruised and bleeding heart?
"That man knows. He felt sorry for me. He hated to tell me. He
promised that he would tell nobody else--a good sort! What did your
mother say--Sir Humpty and Lady Dumpty. There you are!"
She kissed him again and stroked his face.
"I was so sure of my own judgment, Susie. The loss of the money is bad
enough, but everybody will find out that I've been had. That's what
tears me!"
"He may be mistaken."
"Not he. He knows. I've a mind to go outside and hire a strong man to
kick me."
Next morning there was a wholesome reaction. Susan and he stood in front
of the commode. The sun streamed upon it.
"By Gum! I do believe it's all right. If it isn't, I'd better go back
to Melchester and stay there." He caressed the lovely wood so tenderly
that Susan felt jealous. "Oh, you beauty!" he exclaimed passionately.
"I believe in you; yes, I do. An artist created you. An artist painted
those panels."
He recovered his cheerfulness, and assured Susan that he was prepared to
back his opinion against Tomlin, Pressland, and all other pessimists.
Upon the following Monday Gustavus presented himself. For a dizzy
moment our hero believed that the most illustrious male in the kingdom
had dropped in incognito. Gustavus wore a grey cut-away coat, with an
orchid in the lapel of it, and he was smoking an imposing cigar.
"I am Gustavus Lark," he said.
"Pleased to see you, Mr. Lark."
No man in England could make himself more agreeable than the great
dealer. Gossip had it that he had begun life as a "rapper." A rapper,
as the name signifies, is one who raps at all doors, seeking what he may
find behind them--a bit of porcelain, a valuable print, an old
chair--anything. A successful rapper must combine in one ingratiating
personality the qualities of a diplomat, a leader of forlorn hopes, a
high-class burglar, and an American book agent. When the door upon which
he has rapped opens, he must enter, and refuse to budge till he has
satisfied himself that there is nothing in his line worth the buying.
Tomlin had the following story to tell of Gustavus, as a rapper. You
must take it for what it's worth. Tomlin, we know, was a bit of a
rascal, and a liar of the first magnitude, but he affirmed solemnly that
the tale is true.
Behold Gustavus in the good old days of long ago, when prints in colours
were still to be found in cottages, rapping at the door of some humble
house. A widow opens it, and asks a good-looking young man what his
business may be. He enters audaciously, and states it. He is seeking
board and lodging. He is seeking, also, a set of the London "Cries."
But he does not mention that. He has heard--it is his business to hear
such gossip--that the widow possesses the complete set in colour, the
full baker's dozen. He arranges for a week's board and lodging, and he
satisfies himself that the prints are genuine specimens. In his satchel
he carries thirteen bogus prints, excellent reproductions. At dead of
night he takes from the frames the genuine prints and substitutes the
false ones. Three days afterwards he goes to London, and, later, sells
the prints for a sum sufficient to start him in business. But he does
not rest there, as a lesser man might well do. A rapper's hands, be it
noted, are against all men. He robs cheerfully the men of his own
trade--the small dealers. Gustavus, then, proceeds to pile Pelion upon
Ossa. He next visits a dealer of his acquaintance and tells him that he
has discovered a genuine set of "Cries," which can be bought cheap in
their original frames. The dealer, who is not an expert in colour
prints, is deceived by the frames and by the authentic yarn which the
widow spins. He does buy the prints cheap, and sells them as genuine to
one of the innumerable collectors with more money than brains. Gustavus
gets his commission and nets a double profit!
Quinney had heard this story from Tomlin and others, but the benevolent
appearance of his visitor put suspicion to flight, as it had done scores
of times before. It was quite impossible to believe that an old
gentleman, who bore such an amazing resemblance to one venerated as the
Lord's anointed, could have begun his career as a rapper!
"Anything of interest to show me?" asked Gustavus blandly. He treated
everybody, except his own understrappers, with distinguished courtesy.
He spoke to Quinney, whom he despised, exactly as he would have spoken
to a Grand Duke.
"Glad to take you round, Mr. Lark."
"I am told that you do not sell to dealers."
"That's as may be. I want to build up a business with private
customers."
"Quite right. My own methods."
He glanced round the shop, which was divided roughly into sections. In
the first were genuine bits; in the second were the best reproductions
conspicuously labelled as such. The reproductions were so superlatively
good that Lark recognized at once the character of the man who had so
audaciously exposed them. Then and there he made up his mind that
Quinney was to be reckoned with. He smiled as he waved a white hand
protestingly at a piece of tapestry which might have challenged the
interest of an expert. He had sold such tapestry as old Gobelins, and
he knew that the maker of it only dealt with a chosen few.
"Wonderful, isn't it?" said Quinney.
"You mean to sell first-class copies as such?"
"Yes. I guarantee what I sell, Mr. Lark, as--as you do."
"I don't sell fakes."
"Not necessary in your case. Will you come upstairs?"
"With pleasure."
Quinney was trembling with excitement. Gustavus noticed this, and went
on smiling. Pressland had prepared him. He praised and appraised many
things in the sanctuary, but he merely glanced at the commode.
"I want you to look at this, Mr. Lark."
"Bless me! Is that the commode which you bought in Melshire?"
"It is. What do you think of it?"
Gustavus protruded a large lower lip; his eyebrows, strongly marked,
expressed surprise, a twinkle in his left eye indicated discreet
amusement.
"Why isn't it downstairs with the others?"
"The others?"
"By the side of that piece of tapestry."
"It's the best bit I have," said Quinney defiantly.
"Surely not. I have bought such tapestry as yours before. I will admit
that I paid a big figure for it. We dealers are sadly done sometimes.
This commode is quite as good in its way as the Gobelins, but it ought
not to be next that cabinet."
"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lark, that you call it a fake?"
"A fake--no. A copy admirably executed--yes."
"Oh, Lord!"
He made no attempt to conceal his distress. Gustavus patted his shoulder
encouragingly.
"I may be mistaken. I am often mistaken."
"You?"
"Even I. Come, come, I see that I have upset you. But, as a friend, as
a brother dealer, I say this: Get rid of it. You are taking up a line
of your own. You mean to sell honest copies as such, and to guarantee
the genuine bits. A capital idea. Only don't mix up the two. To
succeed in London it is necessary to establish a reputation. My eldest
son tells me that you built up a substantial business in
Melchester--that your reputation there was above reproach. Excellent!
I rejoiced to hear it. In our business we want men like you. But, no
compromise! Sell that commode for what it is, a fine copy executed at
the end of the eighteenth century. As such it has a considerable value.
I have a customer, an American gentleman, who would buy it to-morrow for
what it is, and pay a handsome figure."
The unhappy Quinney moistened his lips with a feverish tongue.
"What do you call a handsome figure, Mr. Lark?"
"Five or six hundred."
"And I paid nine!"
"Well, well!"
Gustavus turned his broad back upon the commode, and examined the Early
Worcester in the Chippendale cabinet. There was a tea-set of the Dr.
Wall period, bearing the much-prized square mark, some thirty pieces of
scale-blue with flowers delicately painted in richly-gilded panels.
"Is that scale-blue for sale?"
"At a price, Mr. Lark. I have had it for three years. I'm waiting for
a customer who will give me two hundred pounds, not a penny less."
"Two hundred pounds? And you won't sell to the dealers who have
customers who write such big cheques. Now, look here, Mr. Quinney, I am
sorry for you. I know how you feel, because I have made, I repeat, sad
and costly blunders myself. You don't ask enough for that scale-blue."
"Not enough?"
"I could sell that set for three hundred this afternoon. To prove that
I am not boasting I will offer you two hundred guineas, cash on the
nail."
"Done!" said Quinney. He added excitedly: "I'm much obliged, Mr. Lark.
I wish you could send me the American gentleman."
Gustavus laughed. He looked at Quinney with quite a paternal air.