Chapter III: Book II (3)

"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?"