Chapter II: Book II (2)

The Pardon is not held at Treguier, nor at Minihy, but on the other side of the Jaudy, upon a hill near Porz-Bihan. Here, in former times, stood a chapel, now in ruins; only the ossuary is left, in which may still be found an image of the great Saint, very old, very crudely fashioned, but supremely interesting by reason of the veneration with which it is regarded by the peasants. The Quinneys watched the pilgrims coming and going in a never-ending procession. Each offered prayers and oblations in copper to the Saint, who stared down upon them with that vague, impersonal regard which would seem to indicate indifference or lassitude. Upon an altar were ranged other saints, rude images of painted wood, saints never canonized, and looking as if they resented the unique honour paid to Yves le Veridique. Many of the pilgrims muttered some formula in Breton, which afterwards Mademoiselle Yannik translated for Susan. It ran: "If theirs be the right, condemn us. If ours be the right, condemn them." For this is the patron saint of lawyers, and of the poor oppressed by the law. The procession of _Miserables_ followed. An Englishman told the tale of the Miracle of the Soup to Susan. He described vividly a farm hard by filled with outcasts upon the eve of the Pardon. And so bitter had been the weather that the farmer had made small provision for his guests, assured that only a few would demand his hospitality. The _pot-au-feu_ hung upon its hook, but there was hardly soup enough in it to feed half a dozen, and scores were arriving. And then suddenly a stranger appeared, approached the hearth, and affirmed that there would be enough for all. Having said this, he vanished, and, lo, a miracle! The crowds were abundantly fed. The stranger was the Saint himself, the blessed Yves. Susan was thrilled, but Joe whispered to her, "Do you believe that yarn, Sue?" and she whispered back, "Yes." He squeezed her arm as he replied, "Lawsy, you are a blessed little fool!"

But the great impression remained of poverty and pain parading before a comparatively prosperous and healthy crowd, who regarded the unfortunate with kindly and compassionate eyes. Susan was melted to tears, but Joe said emphatically:

"What do you make of this show?"

She replied hesitatingly, "They recognize that the poor must be always with them."

Joe persisted.

"How does this apply to you and me?"

"We must help when we can, dear."

"We have to help, Sue. Rates and taxes. By Gum, I've never seen such a lot of wretched devils in all my life. And the sight o' their misery just hits a particular nail of mine bang on the head. Drives it home, like. Me and you must never be poor. We must pull together against the remotest chance o' poverty."

"They can't help it, Joe."

"Perhaps not, but we can."

They returned in a chastened mood to the excellent dinner provided at the inn.

*IV*

Next day they paid a visit to the great artist, who reproduced so wonderfully pieces of old furniture. Fortunately for the Quinneys, the Englishman, whom they had met at the Pardon, accompanied them. He happened to be staying at the same inn, and knew _le pays Tregorrois_ as well as, indeed much better than, Quinney knew Melshire. Also he spoke French fluently, and could make himself understood in Breton. Lastly, he was something of a collector of Breton _faience_ and old oak, a buyer in a small way of chests and panelling. The Quinneys interested him enormously. Joe was evidently an original, and Susan, as evidently, the reverse, and the more attractive on that account in masculine eyes. He swooped upon the immense differences in the characters of bride and groom, having the instinct of the explorer, and promised himself some amusement in studying them. Joe had been as frank with him as he was with Mrs. Biddlecombe.

"I've powers within me," he explained, over a matutinal pipe. "They push me on--see?"

George Le Marchant nodded, smiling pleasantly.

"Pushed you across the Channel?" he suggested.

"Just so. Beastly crossin'--humiliatin'. Felt like a scoured worm!"

Susan interrupted. She saw that Le Marchant, although he wore shabby clothes, was a gentleman.

"That'll do, Joe."

"Nearly did 'do' for me. The wife"--he liked this expression, having heard Pinker use it--"the wife fairly wallered in it. Blue water, wind and waves--ugh!"

"It would have been just lovely," Susan admitted, "if Mr. Quinney----"

"Hadn't 'ad his bloomin' head in a basin. No, I ain't going to say another word. Disgusting about fits it. Well, I was saying it was something stronger than meself drove me out of good old England."

"Mr. Tomlin," put in Susan. She added for the benefit of the stranger, "He's a big London dealer."

Joe snorted.

"Tomlin ain't stronger than me, Susan. He's bigger in the trade, that's all, and come to his full growth, too. I'm sorter speak sproutin'. Do you know Tomlin, of the Fulham Road?"

"Oh yes."

Le Marchant smiled faintly. Quinney, intent upon his own glorification, missed a derisive expression, but Susan was sharper. She decided instantly that there had been "dealings" between the great Tomlin and this nice gentleman, and that they had not been entirely satisfactory. Joe continued, warming to his work:

"Tomlin told me about this faker of old oak."

"But he's not a faker. Really, you must purge your mind of that. He's an artist. Dealers, of course, buy his reproductions and sell them again as authentic antiques, but he sells them at a moderate price for what they are--superb copies. They are so masterly in every detail that you won't know the copy from the original when you see both together."

"Oh, won't I?" said Quinney. "I've a lot to learn, and I'm learning something every day, but old oak is my hobby. I've handled it since I was a baby, and I shall know."

"We'll see," said Le Marchant, smiling. "What did you think of the Pardon yesterday?"

He addressed Susan, but Joe answered, taking it for granted that his opinion was worth something.

"Rum show! Very--French, hey? Praying hard all the morning didn't prevent 'em from getting jolly tight in the afternoon."

Le Marchant laughed.

"These are Bretons, Mr. Quinney. Celts, not Latins."

He began to explain, talking very pleasantly, with a knowledge of his subject which challenged Susan's attention. She liked to hear about people so different from herself; their quaint superstitions, their ardent beliefs, and the primitive simplicity of their lives appealed to her strangely. But she was quick to perceive that Joe was bored. His shrewd face wore an expression gradually becoming familiar to her. Later he would say that there was nothing "in" such talk. It didn't lead anywhere; at any rate not in the directions whither Susan and he were steering. Why couldn't Le Marchant talk about that Quimper pottery, those jolly old figures of the Saints and Saintesses. A man might pick up a wrinkle or two worth something listening to _that_. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose to his feet.

"Ain't we wastin' valuable time?" he asked.

*V*

The establishment of the master copyist much impressed Quinney on account of its size. The visitors were shown everything, and the proprietor said to Mrs. Quinney:

"Vous voyez, madame, je ne cache pas mon jeu, moi."

"What's he sayin'?" asked Joe.

Le Marchant answered.

"He assures us that he's not a faker."

They beheld tanks of acid in which new ironwork was placed. In a few hours or days the corroding acid achieved the work of years. There were piles of wood, new and old, awaiting treatment. Quinney asked if there was a worm-holing machine. He had heard that one had been patented. The proprietor laughed.

"The worms themselves do the work here, monsieur."

Then he placed in Joe's hands two wooden candle-sticks.

"One of these," said he, "is genuine, and worth its weight in gold, a fine specimen of the sixteenth century. The other was made here within a year. Which is which?"

"Lawsy!" said Quinney. "I ought to know."

He examined them very carefully, and guessed wrong.

Le Marchant smiled, well pleased, because he had predicted truly. The proprietor pointed to a bureau of oak, exquisitely carved.

"Is that old or new, monsieur?"

Quinney spent five minutes in examining the specimen, feeling the "patine," scraping it with his nail, staring through his glass at the marks of the chisels.

"It's old," said he at last.

"It's quite new, monsieur."

"I'm fairly done," said Joe. "This beats the world, this does."

"That piece," said the proprietor, "is signed by me here," and he showed Quinney two interlaced initials, cleverly concealed. "The original is in the Cluny, and valued by experts at four thousand pounds. I can sell it for sixteen pounds."

"Mark it 'sold,'" said Joe.

He bought chests old and new, panelling, tables and chairs, desks and wardrobes. The proprietor smiled, rubbing his hands together.

"Obviously, monsieur is in the business?"

"I am," replied Quinney, "and, by Gum, I thought I knew my business till I met you."

Le Marchant acted as interpreter. The three returned to Treguier and breakfasted upon the small terrace overlooking the Jaudy. Quinney was in the highest spirits. But to Susan's dismay, he talked of returning to England and finishing their honeymoon in a country where a man could make himself understood. What about Weymouth? What price nice sands? He assured Le Marchant that his Susan liked paddling, because she could show a neat pair of ankles. Also they could nip over to Dorchester. Rare place that for old stuff! Inevitably he returned to his business with an enthusiasm which indicated that he found it more engrossing than ordinary honeymooning. Susan listened with a tiny wrinkle between her smooth brows. When Quinney rushed upstairs to fill his pouch with English tobacco, Le Marchant said thoughtfully:

"Wonderfully keen, isn't he?"

The swiftness of her answer surprised him.

"Do you think he's too keen?"

He evaded the eager question.

"As for that, Mrs. Quinney, one can hardly be too keen in business nowadays."

"I meant--is he too keen for his own happiness?"

He hesitated. On the morrow he would go his way, and, humanly speaking, there was little probability of his meeting this particular couple again. He wondered vaguely what the future held for them. Then he shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

"His keenness might make for his happiness. I divide the people I know into two classes, those who care for things and those who care for persons."

"Surely a man can care for both?"

"One must be the dominant interest."

"You think it's bad to care too much for things?"

"You are very sharp. However, in this case there isn't much cause for serious alarm."

"Why not?"

He stared pensively at her charming face, thinking that Quinney was indeed a lucky fellow to have captured and captivated so sweet a creature.

"Well, you stand between him and false gods."

"False gods! What a good way of describing faked Chelsea figures!"

*CHAPTER IV*

*THE INSTALLATION*

*I*

Mrs. Biddlecombe welcomed the homing couple when they returned to the Dream Cottage, but she positively refused to forsake the semi-detached in Laburnum Row, although Quinney, for his part, was willing to entertain a mother-in-law indefinitely, if Susan wished it. Susan, rather to his surprise, did not wish it. And the obvious fact that her husband considered the matter of small importance slightly distressed her, as indicating an abnormal indifference to _persons_ which contrasted oddly with his absorption in _things_ of wood and stone, graven images, let us call them, which the almighty Tomlin had set up in the freshly decorated and enlarged premises in Mel Street. Tomlin, indeed, had sent down a lot of stuff, and some of it was very good. Joe could hardly tear himself from the porcelain, and gloated over the blue and white, so Susan affirmed, as if he wished to kiss it.

The London dealer followed his crates.

He expressed unqualified approval of what Joe had bought in Brittany, taking, however, most of the credit to himself, inasmuch as he had dispatched Quinney to Treguier. The younger man grinned, wondering what Tomlin would say when he beheld the Dream Cottage and its furniture. He arranged that Mrs. Biddlecombe should be present upon that memorable occasion, for he was well aware that the good soul did not share his enthusiasm for mahogany, and that she resented his criticism of her burked schemes of decoration.

Need it be recorded that Quinney triumphed? Tomlin was so impressed that he said gaspingly, "I'll take the lot off your hands, Joe, at a twenty-five per cent. advance."

"No, you won't!" replied Joe. "Our furniture is not for sale, old man. Not yet, by Gum!"

"You are a wonder!" said Tomlin generously.

"Isn't he?" exclaimed Susan.

It was a great moment.

Late dinner followed, a _partie carree_. Joe provided champagne, and port in a cut-glass decanter. Warmed by this splendid hospitality, Tomlin became anecdotal. Perhaps he wanted to astonish the ladies. Unquestionably he succeeded in doing so. One story will suffice to illustrate Tomlin's methods, and it was told, be it remembered, with exuberant chucklings within two hundred yards of the Cathedral Close.

"It's becoming harder every day, ma'am," he addressed Mrs. Biddlecombe, "to get hold of the right stuff--cheap. I have agents everywhere. Old Mr. Quinney was one. And now and again they hear of a real bargain. Often as not the people who 'ave it won't part. They would part, ma'am, if they was offered the right price, but that wouldn't be business. No. Well, only the other day, I got hold of the sweetest table, genuine Adam, and _hand-painted_! Paid a fiver for it!"

"Really, did you now?" murmured Mrs. Biddlecombe For all she knew a "fiver" might be a large or a small price. Tomlin continued:

"Yes, ma'am, a fi' pun note. It was this way. The table belonged to a decayed gentlewoman, who'd seen better days, and needed money."

Mrs. Biddlecombe sighed; the anecdote had become almost personal, and therefore the more interesting.

"That may happen to any of us," she murmured.

"She had inherited this table from her grandma," continued Tomlin, "and my agent heard of it, and saw it. He offered the old lady four pun ten, and she wouldn't deal. Obstinate as a mule she was!"

"Sensible old dear, I call her," said Quinney.

"My agent was fairly boiled, and then inspiration struck him. He never went near the old gal for a couple of months. Then he called with a friend, a stout, red-faced man, bit of an amateur actor. My agent introduced him as a collector of choice bits. Asked if he might show him the little table. Old lady was willing enough, and of course the low comedy feller crabbed it."

"Stale dodge that," remarked Quinney.

"Wait a bit. After crabbin' it, he pretended to be interested in other things; and then he began to act queer. He'd slipped a bit o' soap into his mouth, so as to froth proper."

"Gracious me! Why!" asked Mrs. Biddlecombe.

"Then he went into a regular fit, fell down, and as he fell grabbed the little table, and broke off one of its pretty spindle legs. When he come out of his fit, my agent said that the least thing a gentleman could do was to buy the table he'd spoiled. The old lady took a fiver as compensation, and jolly glad she was to get it. I sold that table to an American millionaire for one hundred and twenty-five--guineas!"

Mrs. Biddlecombe rose majestically. She saw that her son-in-law was laughing.

"Come, Susan, let us leave these _gentlemen_ to their wine."

Susan followed her out of the room. When the door was shut behind them, Quinney said:

"Old man, that yarn was a bit too thick for 'em. See?"

Tomlin laughed boisterously.

"One more glass of port," he replied, "and I'll tell you another."

He told several; and when the men returned to the small drawing-room, Susan said timidly that her mother had gone back to Laburnum Row. Later, when she was alone with her husband, she asked a sharp question:

"Joe, dear, you wouldn't have done what Mr. Tomlin did, would you?"

"About what, Sue?"

"About that table. Mother and I thought it was horrid of him to take advantage of a poor old lady."

Joe evaded the question cleverly:

"Look ye here, my girl, Tomlin is--well, Tomlin. Don't you mix him up with me."

"But, Joe, you are mixed up with him--in business."

"Temporary arrangement, my pretty, nothing more."

He kissed her, murmuring, "Blessed little saint you are!"

*II*

Melchester was profoundly interested in the new premises, and the other dealers in genuine antiques went about, so Quinney affirmed, chattering with rage, and predicting ruin.

"They'll be ruined," said Quinney, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "Nobody will buy their muck, and they know it."

He had very nice hands, with long slender fingers, manifestly fashioned to pick up egg-shell china. Also in spite of his accent, which time might reasonably be expected to improve, his voice held persuasive inflections, and the resonant _timbre_ of the enthusiast, likely to ring in the memories of too timid customers, the collectors who stare at bargains twice a day till they are snapped up by somebody else. Quinney despised these Laodiceans in his heart, but he told Susan that they did well enough to practise upon.

"You want to get the patter," he told his wife, "and the best and quickest way is to turn loose on the _think it overs_. See?"

It had long been arranged between them that Susan was to help in the shop and acquire at first hand intimate knowledge of a complex business. Quinney summed up the art of selling stuff in a few pregnant words.

"Find out what they want, and don't be too keen to sell to 'em. Most men, my pretty, and nearly all the women go dotty over the things hardest to get. Our best stuff will sell itself, if we go slow. Old silver is getting scarcer every day."

Susan smiled at her Joe's words of wisdom. He continued fluently: "We've a lot to learn; something new every hour. And we shall make bloomin' errors, again and again. All dealers do. Tomlin was had to rights only last week over two Chippendale chairs; and he thinks he knows all about 'em. I've been done proper over that coffee-pot."

He showed her a massive silver coffee-pot with finely defined marks upon it.

"A genuine George II bit, Susie, and worth its weight in gold if it hadn't been tampered with by some fool later on. All that repousse work is George IV, and I never knew it. The worst fake is the half-genuine ones."

"Gracious!" exclaimed his pupil.

"There are lots o' things I don't know, and don't understand, my girl; all the more reason to hold tight on to what I do know. And what I know I'll try to share with you, and what you know you'll try to share with me."

"I'm stupid about things," said Susan.

Quinney strolled across the room, and selected two jars more or less alike in shape and paste and colour.

"Can you tell t'other from which?" he asked. "Look at 'em, feel 'em inside and out."

Susan obeyed, but after a minute she shook her head.

"Ain't they just alike, Joe?"

"Lord, no! One's the real old blue and white, hand-painted, and worth fifty pound. T'other is a reproduction, printed stuff, with a different glaze. Look again, my pretty!"

"This is the old one, Joe."

"No, it ain't. Slip your hand inside. Which is the smoother and better finished inside?"

"Yes, I feel the difference, but I don't see it. I wish I could see it."

"You will. I'm going to put a little chipped bit of the best on your toilet table. You just squint at it twenty times a day for one year, and you'll know something. That's what I'm doing with the earlier stuff, which is more difficult to be sure of, because it doesn't look so good. I wouldn't trust my judgment to buy it. That's Tomlin's job."

Susan frowned.

"I don't like Mr. Tomlin, Joe."

"Never asked you to like him, but we can learn a lot from Tomlin. See? He's an expert upon Chinese and Japanese porcelain and lac. We've got to suck his brains."

"Ugh!" said Susan.

During these first few weeks she displayed great aptitude as a saleswoman. Her face, so ingenuous in its expression, her soft voice, her pretty figure attracted customers. The price of every article in the shop was marked in letters which she could turn into figures. But this price was a "fancy one," what Quinney termed a "top-notcher." Susan was instructed to take a third less. Quinney trained her to answer awkward questions, to make a pretty picture of ignorance, to pose effectively as the inexperienced wife keeping the shop during the absence of her husband. He had said upon the morning of the grand opening of _Quinneys'_, "I don't want you to tell lies, Sue."

"I wouldn't for the world," she replied.

He pinched her chin, chuckling derisively. "I know you wouldn't; but I don't want you to tell all the truth neither."

"What do you mean?"

"This oak now. Me and you know it's new, but if a customer tells you it's old, don't contradict him. 'Twouldn't be polite. All you know about it is this--your clever hubby picked it up in France, in Brittany. See?"

She asked anxiously, "It won't be acting a lie, dear?"

"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!"