Chapter VI: Book II (6)

It will never be known whether or not James knew that Susan and Posy were going to Weymouth. We do know that Posy met James on the pier, and was much struck by his gentlemanly appearance. It is possible that the young man planned this meeting; it is quite impossible to infer as much from what passed between them. James raised a neat straw hat, and was strolling on, when Posy waved her parasol.

"Are you thinking of cutting me?" she asked, holding out her hand. "What an extraordinary coincidence your being here?"

"Is it?" asked James quietly. "I have been to Weymouth before, have you?"

"No; this is our first visit. Did father tell you we were coming?"

"No." He laughed derisively, as he continued, "Mr. Quinney does not talk to me about you. I can imagine that he might--er--object----"

He paused significantly.

"Object to what?"

"To this. I know my place, Miss Quinney."

He was as humble as Uriah Heep, but more prepossessing in appearance. The sun and wind had tanned his cheeks, his brown hair curled crisply beneath the brim of his smart hat. He wore white shoes and quiet grey "flannels.

"Now that you are here," said Posy, "let us sit down and listen to the band. Mother is writing to father. She writes every day, dear thing! She will turn up presently."

Once more James hesitated, but he obeyed. The band played a popular waltz; upon the beach below people were bathing; the sea displayed the many twinkling smile as the breeze kissed the lips of the wavelets.

"Jolly, isn't it?" said Posy.

"Very."

"But you don't look jolly, Mr. Miggott. You never do look very jolly. And I have wondered--why."

She looked straight into his eyes, smiling pleasantly, anxious to put him at ease, anxious also to peer beneath an impassive surface, to find out "things" concerning a good young man, whose goodness, apparently, had not brought with it a very delirious happiness.

"Shall I tell you?" he asked, in a voice that trembled oddly. "Shall I let myself go for once? Ought I?"

Posy glanced the length of the pier. Her mother was not in sight. She might not appear for half an hour.

"Yes; please tell me."

He told his tale so fluently that the uncharitable might hazard the conjecture that he had told it before, perhaps to Mabel Dredge. By hinting at this we have somewhat prejudiced the effect on the reader, who must bear in mind that Posy was too innocent and young to entertain such suspicions.

"I don't look jolly, Miss Quinney, because I don't feel jolly. Perhaps you think that a man ought to disguise his feelings when he's with a charming young lady. Well, I can't. I'm too honest. It was a shock just now meeting you, because you stand for everything I want and can't get."

The inflections of his voice far more than the actual words challenged her interest. Obviously, he was capable of feeling, and she had deemed him cold. He continued more calmly, subtly conveying to her the impression that he was suppressing his emotions on her account.

"I am your father's foreman, and I earn three pounds a week. Lark and Bundy, Tomlin, any of the big dealers would pay me five pounds a week, but I can't leave Soho Square."

Posy said hastily:

"I'm sure father couldn't spare you."

"I am useful to him. I'm not such a fool as to underrate my services. He is generous. He will raise my salary, but I shall remain downstairs. I repeat, I know my place. I am fully aware that I ought not to be talking to you like this. Mr. Quinney would be angry."

"Really, that is absurd."

"Do you know your father as well as I know him?"

She evaded his eyes.

"Perhaps not, but there's nothing of the snob about daddy; he never pretends to be better than he is. He rose from the ranks, and he's proud of it. I'm proud of it. I admire men who rise. I have no use for slackers who owe everything to others. Why shouldn't you rise higher than father? You are better educated and a greater artist."

"What! You have thought of me as an artist?"

"I have been told that you are an artist. Father says so, and Mr. Tomlin. It interested me enormously. You love your work for your work's sake. That is fine. And yet you tell me that you are unhappy, that it gives you a shock to meet me, because I stand for everything you want and can't get. What do you want?"

"Freedom for one thing."

"Mustn't freedom be earned? I have been taught so. You are serving, I suppose, your apprenticeship. The work you love may be a small part of that, and the rest drudgery. I used to loathe playing scales, but I tried to be jolly."

"Your position is assured."

"If you're the right sort, yours will be."

"I shall be jolly when it is. You ought to know all the truth, Miss Quinney, if my stupid affairs don't bore you too utterly?

"Can't you see how interested I am?"

"You are divinely kind. I can't express what your sympathy means to me. Well, you spoke of my rising. That's just where the shoe pinches. I have not risen; I have fallen."

"Fallen from--what?"

"My people were gentlepeople."

"Oh!"

She drew in her breath sharply. James could see that his last shaft had transfixed her. He was very clever, and he guessed exactly how she felt about gentlepeople, using the word in its widest sense. Quinney's money had made her a gentlewoman.

"My father was an officer in the Army." (It was true that James's father had once held a second lieutenant's commission in the Militia.) "My mother was the daughter of a West Country parson. They died when I was a boy. There was practically nothing for me. I was educated at a charitable institution. Charity apprenticed me to a cabinet-maker at Exeter. Charity nearly buried me--twice. I have known what it is, Miss Quinney, to be without food, and without money, and to wake morning after morning wishing that I had died in the night!"

*III*

This was the part of the tale which James told so fluently. Admittedly, that last long sentence smacked of rhetorical effect. It could hardly have been entirely impromptu. Nevertheless, it rolled Posy in the dust. She became horribly conscious of rushing in where angels might fear to tread. Indeed, that hackneyed quotation occurred to her. She ejaculated, "Oh!" for the second time, and blushed piteously. James rose to his feet. He spoke politely:

"I see that I have distressed you, and I am very sorry; but you asked me."

"I, too, am sorry," said Posy earnestly. "I am most awfully sorry. I wish I could say the right thing, but I feel rather a fool."

"The right thing for me to say, Miss Quinney, is good-bye. I shall go to Lulworth this afternoon."

"But why should you go? I don't understand. Are you going on our account?"

"On my own."

Another transfixing shaft. Posy was too honest to misinterpret this calm statement. Secretly she was thrilled by it; delicious shivers crept up and down her spine. For the first time she became supremely conscious of her power over a man. At that moment she turned from a jolly girl into a woman. It touched her to fine issues. In a low, tremulous voice she faltered:

"You know best."

James raised his hat and went.

*IV*

Half an hour later Susan had the story, with reserves, from Posy's lips. Are we to blame the girl because she left out the climax? At any rate, her conscience remained clear. She could not betray a sacred confidence.

Susan was not vastly interested, as a wiser mother might have been. She accepted James's departure with a certain smug satisfaction which exasperated her daughter. She was sure that father would approve. Posy said sharply:

"But, mummie, daddy couldn't object to our being decently civil to Mr. Miggott?"

"He might."

"But why--why?"

"Father is so ambitious for you, child. Any gallivanting about with his foreman----"

"Gallivanting! Who spoke of gallivanting? Mr. Miggott is a gentleman. You like him and respect him. So do I. The word 'gallivanting' sounds so housemaidy, so merry-go-roundy."

"Oh, well, my dear, I'm glad the young man has gone, that's all."

The subject remained closed for the rest of the Weymouth visit. Mother and daughter returned to London a month later. James was at work downstairs. When Posy and he met, she could hardly believe that he was the same James who had sat beside her on the pier. His dignified salutation, "Good-afternoon, Miss Quinney!" seemed ludicrously inadequate, but what else could the poor fellow have said? Posy could find no answer to this insistent question, and yet she had expected a different greeting. He had not offered to shake hands, nor had she. Ought she to have held out her hand first? Was he offended because she hadn't? When she woke next morning she wondered whether James was wishing that he had died in the night. The determination to brighten his life, within reasonable limits, imposed itself upon her while she was dressing. More, it inspired her to choose a clean, lilac-coloured frock, which became her admirably. Putting up her hair she was careful to arrange it artistically, because an artist might look at it with deep-set, melancholy eyes. If you had told her that she was romantic she would have been furious.

At breakfast Quinney said briskly:

"I've a job for you, my girl."

"Certainly, daddy."

"I'm going to turn over to you the dusting of my china, and the cleaning of the Waterford glass. You used to do it nicely before you went to boarding-school."

"I shall just love it."

Quinney was much gratified. Posy, he reflected, was his own dear daughter; no nonsense about her, no highfalutin airs and graces, first and last a perfect lady. He smacked his lips with satisfaction.

"You must teach me values, daddy."

"By Gum, I will. You'll learn, too, mighty quick. Did the girls at your school ever throw it up to you that you was a tradesman's daughter?"

"No, I told them that you were the honestest dealer in England."

"So I am, my pretty, the honestest in the world. It pays to be honest."

"That's not why you're honest?"

"No, missie, it ain't. I swore solemn never to sell fakes except as such the night you was born."

"What a funny time to choose!"

Susan made a sign to him, but he went on:

"Funny? Never could make out why people use that word in such a silly way. Funny? Your dear mother nearly died the night you came to us."

Susan interfered nervously.

"Now, Joe, you ain't going into that, are you?"

"Yes, I am. Why not? It's high time, speakin' of values, that young Posy should know just what she cost us. I say it's part of her education, the part she couldn't learn at school. She's eighteen. She knows, I take it, that she didn't drop from heaven into the middle of a gooseberry bush?"

At this Susan, not Posy, blushed. It was the girl who said, calmly:

"You are quite right, father. I ought to know what I've cost both of you." She looked at her mother tenderly, and spoke in a softer voice: "Is it true that you nearly died?"

"Yes."

"And so did I," said Quinney.

Posy's eyes filled with tears.

"I shall always remember that," she murmured.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*A BUSINESS PROPOSITION*

*I*

"The covers are perfectly beautiful," said Quinney, "the very finest needlework, all of 'em worked by the same hand, and all of 'em different in pattern."

He was staring at a set of eight chairs which had arrived that morning from a town in Essex. James had just unpacked them, and was regarding them gloomily, for he cared nothing about needlework covers, and the chairs themselves were of walnut, very old, very worm-eaten, and carved by a prentice hand. He said so presently. Quinney snorted.

"Do you think, my lad, I'd ask you to waste your time and talents tinkering with those? Rip off the covers carefully, and put them aside. Save the nails and the backing. Don't show 'em to anybody. They need cleaning, but I shan't send 'em to a reg'lar cleaner's. You can try your hand on 'em."

"Not much in my line," said James.

"Liver out o' whack this morning?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Well, try to look more cheerful. It pays."

He scuttled off, chuckling to himself, and thinking what fools other dealers were, for these chairs had been bought cheap from a dealer who, like James Miggott, knew nothing of the value of eighteenth-century needlework.

By the luck of things, that same morning Tom Tomlin telephoned from Bond Street, asking him to drop in at his earliest convenience. Quinney went at once, well aware that procrastination loses many a bit of business. He found his friend in much excitement.

"Got something to show you," said Tomlin.

"Got something to show _you_," retorted Quinney.

"What?"

"The finest set of old needlework chair-covers I've seen for many a long day."

Tomlin exhibited enthusiasm.

"That beats the band!" he exclaimed. "Looks as if it was fairly meant."

"What d'ye mean, Tom?"

"You come along with me, and see."

Quinney followed him, conscious of a rising excitement, for Tomlin reserved enthusiasm for memorable occasions. The pair walked together down Bond Street and into Oxford Street. In a few minutes they were passing Lark and Bundy's establishment. Tomlin paused at the great plate-glass window.

"Look at them chairs, Joe."

Quinney flattened his nose against the glass, being slightly short-sighted. The chairs were magnificent.

"Nice lot--hey?"

"And a nice price Bundy paid for 'em. You wasn't at Christopher's the day before yesterday?"

"By Gum! Tom, you don't mean to say that those are the Pevensey chairs?"

"Yes, bang out of Pevensey Court, sold with Chippendale's receipt for 'em. Sixteen hundred guineas, my tulip!"

They went on in silence. Presently Quinney growled out: "It's a cruel price."

"They're the goods, Joe. Hall-marked! Bundy can place 'em at a big profit with Dupont Jordan. Did you notice the carving?"

"Did I? Never saw a finer set, never!"

They walked on towards the Circus, and presently turned sharp to the right. By this time they were approaching Soho Square.

"Come out of our way a bit, haven't we?"

Tomlin replied solemnly. "I wanted you to have a squint at those chairs first. Here we are."

They paused opposite a mean house, entered an open door, and ascended a rickety, evil-smelling staircase. Tomlin pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked a door upon the second floor, and ushered Quinney into a biggish room filled with odds and ends of furniture. Quinney had been here before. It was one of Tomlin's many small warehouses. The centre of the floor had been cleared, and in this cleared space stood four chairs.

"Thunder and Mars!"

"Thought you'd be surprised," muttered Tomlin, pulling up a dirty blind.

The four chairs were carved like the chairs from Pevensey Court. They had horsehair seats much dilapidated, and the mahogany had been mercilessly treated, but to a connoisseur such as Quinney there was not a scintilla of doubt that they were carved by the same master hand which had designed and executed the set in Lark and Bundy's window.

"Where are the other four?" asked Quinney, on his knees before the chairs, running his hands over them, caressing them with tender touches.

"Where? Oh, where?" said Tomlin. Then he spoke curtly and to the point:

"Them four came out of Ireland. I paid fifty pound for 'em."

"You do have the devil's own luck, Tom."

"Not so fast. I can't find out anything about them. If I tried to sell 'em, as they are, Lark would see to it that fellows like Pressland crabbed 'em, as he did that commode o' yours."

Quinney gnashed his teeth. The history of that unhappy transaction was now known to him. He knew where the commode was, and what price had been paid for it.

"With luck," continued Tomlin thoughtfully, "I might sell these chairs for fifty apiece. One is an armchair. Your covers would go nicely on 'em, eh?"

"By Gum, the very thing."

"And you've eight covers?"

"Eight of the best."

Tomlin stared hard at the little man.

"Let's have a look at the covers," he said slowly.

They returned to Soho Square. Somewhat to Quinney's astonishment he found Posy in James's room. Her presence, however, was easily and glibly explained. James, obeying orders, had asked his employer's daughter for some cleaning fluid. She had just brought him some. That was all. Quinney frowned, and signified with a gesture that Posy could "scoot." She did so, after exchanging greetings with Tomlin.

"Dev'lish fine gal!" said Tomlin. "Glad to see she's not above helpin' in the business."

"Don't want her help!" growled Quinney. He turned savagely to James:

"Didn't I tell you not to show them covers to nobody?"

"Sorry," replied James carelessly. "I supposed Miss Quinney would be considered an exception." He added, with mild derision, "She took no interest in the covers at all."

"She saw them?" snapped Quinney.

"Possibly," said James.

Tomlin examined them carefully, nodding his big head, getting redder than usual as he bent down. James had removed one cover.

"They're a bit of all right," pronounced Tomlin.

Quinney led the way upstairs into the sanctuary. Posy was there, cleaning some beautiful glass lustres. Her father addressed her snappishly:

"Look ye here, young woman, I don't want you nosin' about downstairs. See?"

Posy tossed her head, furious with her father because he rebuked her before Tomlin. She replied coldly:

"I thought I could go where I liked in our own house."

"It's my house. See? You run along to mother like a good girl."

With immense dignity Posy moved to the door. If she wanted to impress upon her father that she was now a woman grown, she succeeded admirably. As the door closed behind her, Tomlin said:

"Bit short with her, wasn't you?"

"Do her good. I won't have no _tete-a-tetin'_ between her and James Miggott."

*I*

They sat down. Quinney pushed a box of cigars across his desk. It annoyed him slightly that Tomlin selected one with unflattering suspicion, smelling it, and putting it to his ear.

"It's all right, Tom: I only smoke the best in this room."

Tomlin lit the cigar, inhaled the smoke, and nodded approvingly:

"Must admit, Joe, that you know a bit about most things. Come on surprisingly, you have."

At this Quinney smiled complacently. Tomlin continued, eyeing his companion shrewdly and genially:

"I've a proposition to lay before you, Joe."

"Go ahead."

Tomlin rose, walked to the door, and opened it. He closed it softly and came back.

"Whatever are you up to, old man?"

Tomlin grinned.

"My women," he remarked pensively, "listen at doors."

Quinney exploded.

"And you dare to think that----?"

"Tch! Tch! Nothing like making cocksure. What I have to say is not for other ears. Now, ain't it a pity that we haven't eight o' them Chippendale chairs on which we could fit them eight fine covers?"

"Pity? It's a sinful shame."

"Almost a dooty we owe to society to turn them four into eight?"

"Hey?"

"James could do it."

"Are you mad, Tom? We know what James can do. I ain't denyin' that he's a wonder, but he can't copy them chairs so that you and I, not to mention the rest of 'em, wouldn't know the difference if the new four was shoved alongside o' the old four."

"Right!"

"Then what the 'ell are you at?"

Sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, and leaning forward across the desk, the great Tomlin unfolded his scheme.

"I propose this," he said deliberately. "James can make eight chairs out of them four by breaking up the four, half and half, half of the old in each."

"Um!" said Quinney.

"If the worst came to the worst," continued Tomlin, "if any of 'em did drop on to the fact that the set of eight had been very considerably restored, what of it?"

"Um!" repeated Quinney.

"A set of eight chairs, slightly restored, with your covers on 'em, the dead spit of the Pevensey chairs, would excite attention?"

"More than we might want. I don't see Bundy a biddin' for our set without askin' a lot of questions. He'd spot the repairs."

"Right again. I put these questions, Joe, to have the pleasure of hearin' you answer them as I would myself. In a sort o' friendly fashion I look upon you, my boy, as my pupil."

"Go on!"

Tomlin's large face brightened till it shone like a harvest moon. He had feared that his pupil would withhold those cheering progressive words.

"Do you want to get back some o' your hard-earned savings which you lost over that commode?"

"Yes, I do."

"Follow me close. James goes to work on the quiet with my chairs; he works alone in my room back o' Wardour Street; he puts your covers on; and then we pass judgment on the completed set. If we're satisfied, really satisfied, I don't think we need to worry much about Bundy and Pressland. Lark--thank the Lord!--is losin' his eyesight. When the chairs have passed our examination, they'll go to Christopher's. You can leave all that to me. Nobody will know that you and I have ever seen the chairs."

"Nobody? How about James?"

"Exactly. James must be squared. It's time you raised his salary. I shall make him a handsome present. Remember, you'll lend James to me for this little job. It don't concern you."

"You take James for a fool?"

"Not me. James is a bit of a knave, but he knows which side his bread is buttered. If he was a fool I wouldn't touch him with a bargepole. I'm afraid o' fools. Now, we've got the chairs to Christopher's, and we'll choose a small day for the sale, some day when the big men are elsewhere."

"Then who'll bid for 'em?"

"Me and you, my lad."

He lay back in his chair, winked triumphantly, and laughed. Quinney was still puzzled.

"Bid for our own chairs? Pay a thumpin' commission to find 'em on our hands? Funny business!"

"Joe, you ain't quite as sharp as I thought you was. We two, and anybody else as likes, bid for the chairs. We bid up to nine hundred pounds. Christopher's commission would be ninety o' that. The chairs cost me fifty. What do you value them covers at?"

"Five-and-twenty--thirty."

"Call it thirty. Put James's work at another thirty. That makes a round two hundred quid. What have we got to show for that? A set of eight chairs which have fetched nine hundred pounds at Christopher's, with Christopher's receipt to prove that the money was paid down for 'em. Christopher returns that nine hundred, less their com., to my agent, that is to us. You see to it that the buyin' of the chairs by you is properly paragraphed. You have them on exhibition in this very room, and I bring a customer to whom you show Christopher's receipt. Everything square and simple. My customer offers you eleven hundred. We share and share alike just nine hundred pounds. Four hundred and fifty each. No risks!"

"Um!" said Quinney, for the third time. Tomlin rose with alacrity considering his weight.

"You think it over. Take your time."

"Don't like it!" growled the little man.

"I call it a perfectly legitimate transaction."

"Come off it, Tom!"

"Are you thinkin' o' your inside or your outside? Yer skin or yer conscience? If it's conscience----"

"Well----?"

"I'll make this remark. One way and t'other I've paid you more than a thousand pounds for 'restoration' work done by James Miggott during the past four years or more. Don't forget that! So long!"

Quinney heard him chuckling as he made his way downstairs.

*III*

He became a party to the projected fraud, but not without perturbations of spirit and rumblings of conscience. Ultimately he salved the latter with the soothing reflection that he was much more honest than Tomlin or Lark or Bundy. It is affirmed, with what truth I know not, that gluttons who happen to be total abstainers are peculiarly virulent against drunkards. Quinney, poor fellow, son of a dishonest father, dishonest himself during his earlier manhood, reflected joyously that he was an admirable husband and father. He said to Susan, who was in blissful ignorance of his dealings with Tom Tomlin:

"Old Tomlin, hoary-headed sinner, went to Blackpool for the last week-end, and he didn't go alone, nor with Mrs. T., neither. He's a moral idiot is Tom. What would you say, Susie, if I went larkin' off to Brighton with Mabel Dredge--hey?"

He pinched her still blooming cheek, staring into her faithful eyes.

Susan replied artlessly:

"Joe, dear, it would break my heart."

"Gosh, I believe it would. Well, mother, your loving heart won't be broken that way."

Susan knew that this was true, and smiled delightfully.

"I'm a good hubby," said Quinney complacently, "and the very best of fathers, by Gum!"

Whenever he "swanked" (we quote Posy) like this, Susan regarded him anxiously.

James Miggott undertook his new job without protest, but there was an expression upon his handsome face which puzzled his employer. He summed up James as "downy." When he raised the young man's salary to four pounds a week, that derisive smile of which mention has been made, played about James's too thin lips. Quinney said sharply:

"You don't seem bustin' with joy and gladness. Four quid a week ain't to be sneezed at."

"Don't I earn it, sir?"

His tone was perfectly respectful, with a faint sub-acid inflection.

When the four chairs were turned into eight, and duly covered with the precious needlework, Tomlin and Quinney inspected them with huge satisfaction. Certainly James had done himself justice. The restorations were subjected to microscopic scrutiny. Tomlin smacked his gross lips.

"You leave the rest to me," he said.

*IV*

The time has come to explain James's smile. We must attempt what French dramatic critics term the "_scene obligatoire_."

He had captured Posy.

He achieved this easily, because he happened to be the first good-looking man to make love to a healthy young woman of lively sensibilities and affections. Here again the uncharitable may be justified in hinting at that practice which makes the game of love perfect. If Youth but knew! This youth did know many things which he kept to himself discreetly; saliently amongst them may be reckoned the art of striking hard when the iron is hot. Posy grew very hot, when her sire rebuked her for wandering downstairs into James's room. James perceived this. Let us say this for him in partial excuse of what follows. He had fallen in love with a blooming girl, whose bloom contrasted so agreeably with the too-white cheeks of Miss Mabel Dredge, whose high spirits were strong enough to raise to their level his somewhat gloomy thoughts. Truth being the essence of this chronicle, we are constrained to add that the hope of being admitted to partnership with a prospective father-in-law had been another lever towards this mental exaltation. Nor did James forget that Posy was possessed, under Mrs. Biddlecombe's will, of some three thousand pounds which became hers absolutely when she attained her majority.

The pair talked together very seldom after Quinney's injunction, but they passed each other half a dozen times a day, preserving a silence which is perhaps the most barbed dart in Dan Cupid's quiver! Each began to study facial expression, and the finer shades of common salutation. The mere words, "Good-morning," admit infinite variety of inflection. The pronouncing of a name, even such a name as Quinney, may be made lyrical, almost hymeneal. James showed himself to be a master of these simple arts. His appearance at such moments indicated suffering nobly controlled. Posy began to lie awake at night wondering if James also was a martyr to insomnia. You may be sure that she encountered James in those pleasant suburbs of slumber frequented by lovers, the _vias tenebrosas_ where Dante and Beatrice, Petrarch and Laura, Francesca and Paolo, must have wandered hand in hand. Here, in sequestered peace Posy talked to James without any exasperating restrictions save those which maidenly modesty imposed. Imaginary conversations have won many hearts.

And then one day occurred the _coup de foudre_.

Quinney and Susan happened to be out. Posy, as usual, was dusting the china in the sanctuary. James entered the room.

"Good-morning, Mr. Miggott!"

"Good-morning, Miss--Posy!"

He had never called her Posy before. But she divined from the tenderness of his tone that her name must have passed his lips a thousand times.

They looked at each other diffidently. Posy stretched out her hand. She felt that this was due to an artist who might reasonably infer that he was not held in the highest esteem by his master's daughter. James hesitated for one moment only. Then he kissed her hand. She quivered. He ran his hungry lips along her slender wrist. She thrilled and sighed. He took her into his arms and kissed her masterfully, feeling her heart throbbing beneath his own.

Presently they discussed the future, although loath indeed to leave the present.

"What will father say?"

"Darling, you must let me deal with your father."

"Can you?"

"I think so. I am sure of it. We must be patient and very, very careful."

"I should like to tell mother."

"No, no! Believe me that would be a blunder. She would tell him. For the moment we must love secretly."

She sighed deliciously.

"It does sound exciting and romantic. Of course you know best."

"I do!" he replied grimly. "I know that I shall have to fight for you. I mean to fight. You'll see. But we must be extra careful. A look----! We can write to each other."

Her smooth forehead puckered.

"Can we? Father always deals out the letters. He would think nothing of opening mine if he suspected."

"I have a plan."

"What! You have made plans? You were sure of me?"

"No, no! Never sure. Torn in two, I was, between hope and fear, but I made plans all the same. Look here, we can use that lac cabinet as a pillar-box."

"Father's precious cabinet?"

"He never opens it; the drawers are empty; the key is in the lock."

Together they approached the cabinet, one of the "gems." Upon the top of it stood the K'ang He mirror-black jar much beloved by Quinney. James opened the cabinet, almost more beautiful within than without. He indicated a drawer.

"Pop your letters into that. Then lock the cabinet and hide the key in the mirror-black bottle."

"What a splendid idea!"

"Isn't it? If he misses the key, you will be asked to find it, and you will find it. Then we can choose another pillar-box. You will post your letters, dearest, in the morning, when you are dusting here. In the middle of the day, while you are lunching, I shall get your letter and post one of my own. That way we run no risks at all."

"You are quite wonderful!"

Susan had used the same words to her Joe twenty years before.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*INTRODUCES CYRUS P. HUNSAKER*

*I*

Some three weeks later the "restored" Chippendale chairs were sold on a by-day at Christopher's famous auction rooms, and, as the public prints set forth, were secured after spirited competition for nine hundred pounds by Mr. Joseph Quinney, of Soho Square. There had been, according to the reporters, a duel _a outrance_ between Quinney and Tomlin for the possession of these magnificent chairs.

Upon the following morning Posy was alone in the sanctuary. Her father had installed recently a speaking-tube, communicating with James Miggott's room, which was just behind the shop. Posy used this whenever the chance presented itself to exchange a few whispered words with her lover. She had just informed him that a billet had been popped into the lac cabinet. Also she had exchanged kisses through the tube, and perhaps on that account her eyes were sparkling more brightly than usual. She was hanging up the tube when Susan entered.

"Thought I heard you talking just before I came in," said Susan.

Posy, the hardened young sinner, never blushed as she answered lightly:

"I was asking Jim through the tube where father was."

Susan stared at her pensively.

"Your dear father would be very much displeased if he heard you speaking of James Miggott as Jim. It's too familiar."

"Why?"

"I'm not going to bandy words with you, Posy, because you do get the best of me, thanks to your fine schooling."

Posy frowned. She was hearing too often of her "advantages." She said protestingly:

"Mumsie, dear, don't rub that in. I'm fed up with such vain repetitions from father. I didn't ask him to send me to an expensive boarding-school. I believe he did it to annoy the Tomlins."

This, we know, was not the reason, but there was some truth in it. Tom Tomlin had considered a governess at forty-five pounds per annum quite good enough to educate his three daughters. Susan laughed. Posy amused her when she talked with entire frankness.

"Dear heart, what things you do say, to be sure! You were sent to Bexhill because there was too much Honeybunning. But it did annoy the Tomlins. I remember when your grandmother bought a small piano for me. We lived in a semi-detached. How the neighbours did tear their hair with envy and jealousy."

Posy, clad in a neat pinafore, was rubbing the lacquer cabinet. Mrs. Quinney watched her fondly, thinking how young and vigorous the girl was.

"Rub the lacquer gently, child. Coax the polish back."

"Right O," said Posy.

"Your poor father thinks the world of that cabinet."

"So do I," said Posy demurely.

Susan opened her eyes wider than usual, detecting real warmth in her daughter's voice.

"Do you? That's your father cropping out in you. I'm beginning to believe that he prefers things to persons; so you'd better be warned in time. The beauty of this world ain't to be found in sticks or stones."

"Cheer up, mumsie! I shan't devote my young life to either a stick or a stone."

She laughed softly as Mabel Dredge came quietly in. Susan looked at her husband's typist not too pleasantly. She was not jealous of the young woman, but it exasperated her to reflect that Mabel spent two hours at least every day with Quinney. She said crisply:

"Mr. Quinney is out, Miss Dredge."

"I know. The chairs from Christopher's have just come."

Posy exclaimed excitedly: "I'm dying to see them." Susan sighed. Nine hundred pounds would have bought another Dream Cottage, with a small garden. Miss Dredge continued in her monotonous voice:

"Mr. Quinney left orders that they were to be brought up here."

"Very good," said Susan. "Tell Mr. Miggott to bring them up."

"Yes, madam."

The typist moved slowly towards the door. Susan glanced at her keenly, contrasting her with Posy. In her usual kind voice she murmured:

"You don't look very well, Miss Dredge."

"I am perfectly well, thank you, madam."

She went out, closing the door. Susan said reflectively:

"Crossed in love, I dare say."

"Poor dear, I hope not."

"Six months ago I did think that she and James Miggott might make a match of it."

"What?"

"Why shouldn't they? Very suitable, I'm sure."

"Oh yes," Posy murmured hastily. Changing the subject briskly, she went on: "If the Christopher chairs are to be placed in this room, I suppose that father means to keep them."

"Till he gets a big price."

Presently James appeared, followed by two men carrying the chairs. They were arranged side by side in a double row. Posy examined them with the keenest interest. Susan glanced at them and sniffed:

"Fancy paying nine hundred pounds for those!"

"They're simply lovely,"'said Posy. She stroked the needlework and glanced at James's impassive face. "It's funny, but there's something familiar about them to me. I must have seen them before."

"Quite impossible," said James. "They came out of an old house in Ireland. They're almost replicas of the famous Pevensey set, which Lark and Bundy bought."

Susan had moved to one of the windows overlooking the dingy square. She never beheld the trees and grass without thinking of her beloved flower-garden in Melchester. The sight of the chairs annoyed her tremendously. More false gods! Would the day ever conic when her Joe, with his keen love of beauty, would turn his eyes and heart to what grew, to what was alive? She heard Posy saying:

"It's the needlework I seem to recognize."

"Bother the needlework!" exclaimed Susan.

"Why, mumsie, what is it?"

"It worries me to see you kneeling and gloating over stupid old furniture, that's all. Here's your father coming. Good-looking young fellow with him, too. Much better worth looking at than them chairs."

James retired. Posy joined her mother at the window. Just below stood her father and a tall stranger. Quinney was pointing out the pediment, and expatiating volubly upon the solid qualities of Georgian houses.

"Father is swanking," said Posy.

The two men entered the shop below.

*II*

Presently, Quinney came upstairs, betraying some excitement, easily accounted for by Susan. A big buyer was below, the sort of customer who might spend hundreds without turning a hair. Quinney was rubbing his hands together and chuckling. He informed the ladies that a rich American was in the shop, and wanted to see the chairs.

"They're here," said Susan.

Quinney frowned very slightly. It annoyed him when his wife made futile remarks, a habit which she seemed to have acquired recently, or was he becoming more critical?

"Where did you think I thought they was?" he inquired, hovering about them, but not gloating over them, somewhat to Susan's surprise.

"Want us out of the way?" asked Susan.

"Certainly not. Isn't this your drawing-room, old dear?"

"Fiddle!" said Susan tartly.

She could not have explained why she was feeling irritable, but of late, since Posy's return from school, she had lost something of her normal serenity. Possibly she resented being made a fool of before her daughter. The sanctuary was not her room, and never had been or could be anything but Quinney's room, filled to overflowing with his things. Also, she was aware that her husband used her as a stalking horse. No doubt he had just said to this young American: "I'll ask my wife if I can show you her room." What nonsense!

Quinney, however, was not disturbed by her exclamation. He glanced at Posy, and told her to take off a brown holland pinafore. Then he scuttled off, still chuckling. He reappeared, ushering in the stranger, presenting him as Mr. Cyrus P. Hunsaker, of Hunsaker.

Mr. Hunsaker bowed politely. Posy perceived that he was very nice-looking, an out-of-doors man, bronzed by wind and sun, a typical Westerner, probably a rider of bucking bronchos, a man of flocks and herds. He was quite at his ease with the two women, and--unlike young Englishmen of his age (he looked about thirty)--able to appreciate what he saw in words culled from a copious vocabulary. Quinney was delighted with him. He liked most Americans because they were strivers and pushers, and free with their dollars. He saw, too, that Posy had made an immense impression. Hunsaker stared at her with flattering intensity. Posy, equally at ease, asked him if the town of Hunsaker was called after him. This mightily pleased her father, because it established the right atmosphere at once. The "shop" was downstairs. From beginning to end the little comedy about to be played had been rehearsed between Tomlin and Quinney. Tomlin had found Hunsaker and introduced Quinney to him, as the proud owner of the chairs which he, Tomlin, had wanted to secure. Tomlin had said sorrowfully: "They're just what you're after, Mr. Hunsaker, but this Quinney, queer little cuss!--bought 'em, I do believe, for himself. He won't part with his very best things. He's quite potty about it!" This had challenged Hunsaker's interest. Quinney, seemingly, was a man after his own heart. He, too, hated to part with certain possessions. He did not as yet know much about articles of _vertu_, but he wanted to know. An unslakable thirst for such knowledge consumed many dollars. He answered Posy breezily--one had a whiff of the prairie, of the Wild West.

"Shall I tell you, Miss Quinney, how that great and growing town came to be called by my name?"

"Please."

"Well, most of the towns and villages in New Mexico used to be called after the names of saints and saintesses. When it came to christening this particular village the boys wanted to name it San Clement, but my father was of opinion that we were fed up with saints, so he said: 'Hold hard, why not call this little burg by the name of a sinner!' And, the drinks were on the old man, for then and there they called it Hunsaker."

"Was your father a sinner?" asked Posy demurely.

Hunsaker laughed.

"He was a tough old nut when up against the wrong crowd. Ah! the chairs!"

"Yes," said Quinney carelessly.

"Elegant!" He glanced at the beautiful room with enthusiasm. It made inordinate demands upon his vocabulary. He racked his brains for the right words which came. Very solemnly, he observed:

"You have here, Mr. Quinney, an incomparable reservation."

"Yes," Quinney replied, with equal gravity, "this is my private collection, Mr. Hunsaker; everything I value most in the world, including my wife and daughter. Lordy! How I hate rubbish! Rubbish is beastly!" He pointed to the lacquer cabinet, purposely distracting the young man's attention from the chairs. "Now a cabinet like that makes me think of heaven. I can say my prayers to it!"

Susan said, with a touch of her mother's majesty:

"Joe, how you do go on!"

"Yes, my dear, I go on and _up_! We'd be stewin' in our own juice in a silly old sleepy town if it hadn't been for me. On and--up! What a motter for a Christmas cracker! Married the right woman, too, a perfect lady!"

"Joe--please!"

Hunsaker was much amused. He had liked the little man at first sight; he was quite as delighted with his family. Quinney continued in high good humour:

"I chose her"--he pointed at Susan, who blushed. "And the result," he pointed at Posy, who did not blush, "justifies my choice--hey?"

"You bet it does," said Hunsaker. "Miss Quinney is by all odds the most precious object in this wonderful room--the gem, if I may say so, of your remarkable collection."

Quinney gazed fondly at his daughter. He had almost forgotten the chairs.

"Just like a bit of Chelsea, Mr. Hunsaker. The real soft paste, and as good as she's pretty; the apple of her father's eye. Plays the pianner and the mandoline! Sings like a canary!"

Posy expostulated.

"Father! Please!" She put her finger to her pretty lips.

Hunsaker, feeling that he had known these pleasant people all his life, said significantly:

"You won't keep her long, sir."

"What?"

"Not if there are any spry young men about."

Quinney betrayed real uneasiness. It flashed upon him suddenly that this abominable loss was inevitable. He consoled himself with the reflection that no spry young men had been about. Then he said with unction:

"I'm going to hang on tight to my little girl. She is the gem of my collection. Cost me more than money, too." He sank his voice confidentially. "Nearly cost me her pore dear mother. By Gum! I remember swearing that I'd give up selling imitation oak as the real stuff, if my old Dutch pulled through."

"And did you?" Hunsaker asked.

"I did. More, I tore up a big card that used to live in our front window--'_Genuine Antiques!_' Yes; never sold faked stuff after that, unless labelled as such. Lordy! I'm wastin' your valuable time."

"Not at all."

"Posy, show Mr. Hunsaker that case o' miniatures. I've a Samuel Cooper, two Englehearts, a Plimer, and half a dozen Cosways."

Hunsaker shook his head.

"I know nothing about miniatures. There's a daisy of a china cabinet!"

"It is. Delighted to show you stuff, Mr. Hunsaker. You've the collector's eye. Take a squint at those blue and white jars on the mantelpiece."

"I'd sooner look at your chairs."

Quinney said lightly:

"You can look, at anything you like, Mr. Hunsaker, but I understood from Mr. Tomlin that you had all the mahogany you wanted."

"More than I want," replied Hunsaker grimly. "I've been much imposed upon, Mr. Quinney, with mahogany."

Susan flitted quietly from the room. Posy began to rub the lacquer of the Chinese cabinet. She heard her father saying:

"Dear, dear! I've been done, too--crisp as a biscuit! Everybody's done, hey?"

"I'm never done twice by the same man." He bent down to examine the carving of the chairs. "These are immense--the finest I've ever seen."

"By Gum! I wish you could have seen the settee which I sold to the Grand Duke of Roosia."

Hunsaker hardly heard him. He was becoming absorbed in the chairs.

"The papers report you as having paid nine hundred pounds for the set."

Quinney chuckled, nodding his head.

"That's right! I'd had two glasses of old brown sherry after lunch. My tip to all and sundry is: Buy before lunch, unless you're a blooming vegetarian and teetotaler."

Hunsaker prided himself upon the directness of his business methods. He said tentatively:

"Would you take a handsome profit on these chairs?"

"You look at that lac cabinet, and you won't want to buy chairs."

Hunsaker did look at the lac cabinet, and the girl beside it, softly rubbing its polished surface. He crossed to her, smiling.

"On a Charles the Second stand," added Quinney. "The inside is as beautiful as the outside--more so. I'll show it to you. Where's the key?"

He addressed Posy, but she pretended not to hear him.

"Where's the key?" he repeated.

"I saw it yesterday," said Posy quietly. Her heart began to beat uncomfortably, as she thought of her letter in the middle drawer.

"Can you see it now, missie? Is it on the floor?"

Hunsaker interrupted:

"Please don't trouble. Is that screen Chinese?"

"Yes; incised lacquer. They wanted that for the South Kensington Museum. Hits you bang in the eye, don't it?"

Hunsaker examined it as Quinney expatiated upon the enamelling and colour. His enthusiasm, his accurate knowledge, his love of precious objects for their beauty of design and craftsmanship, impressed the young man tremendously. He remembered what Tomlin had said: "You'll find Quinney a character. What he tells you is right is right! That's how he's built up a thumping big business." Hunsaker had not been vastly impressed by Tomlin, but he was quite certain that he had spoken the truth about Quinney. His heart warmed to the little man. When Quinney paused he said gratefully:

"I'm much obliged; it's an education to see such treasures."

"The only education I've had, Mr. Hunsaker."

"I only wish that I could tempt you to part with one of them--this cabinet, for instance."

"It's not for sale. I'd like to oblige you. Is there anything else you particularly fancy?"

Hunsaker's roving eye was captivated by the K'ang He mirror-black bottle, standing alone in its glory upon the top of the cabinet.

"I like that black and gold jar."

"Um! It's not bad, but there ought to be two of 'em."

Posy wiped her pretty forehead. At the mention of the K'ang He jar, in which lay snug the key of the cabinet, she had trembled with apprehension. Hunsaker said quickly:

"I'd like the chairs best of all. You bought them yesterday for nine hundred. Will you take eleven hundred?"

"Yes," said Quinney, "I will."

He pulled out a pocket-book and extracted a slip of paper from it.

"You can have this, Mr. Hunsaker. Don't destroy it! Keep it in your safe."

Hunsaker took it.

"Christopher's receipt for my cheque. It proves that the chairs fetched the price named at public auction."

"Thank you."

"And now, to sweeten our first deal, I'll make you a little present. You fancied that K'ang He bottle. It's yours."

He advanced towards the bottle. Posy said hurriedly:

"Shall I go and clean it, father?"

"Clean it? It's as clean as you are, my pretty."

"You are very generous," said Hunsaker.

Quinney winked and chuckled joyously.

"Biz! There are other things downstairs, Mr. Hunsaker. Are you buying these chairs for yourself?"

As he spoke he held the bottle in both his hands, caressing it softly.

"Why, certainly. Have them cased, please, and consigned to my agents in New York, who will see them through the Custom House. Any marks on that jar, Mr. Quinney?"

Quinney handed to him the bottle.

"I don't think so; they never marked them bottles. It's marked all over."

Hunsaker turned it upside down, and the key of the cabinet fell out.

"The missing key," said Quinney. "Now what fool stuffed it in there?"

He replaced it in the lock of the cabinet.

"Like to see the inside?" he asked.

Posy was in torment. In desperation she blurted out:

"Father, dear, Mr. Hunsaker may have other engagements."

"I have," said Hunsaker. "Important ones, too. Thank you, Miss Quinney." He turned to her father. "May I call to-morrow at eleven, and have another look round?"

"Glad to see you any time."

As he was speaking, Susan drifted back. Hunsaker went up to her, speaking cordially:

"This has been a very pleasant and informal visit, Mrs. Quinney. Do you ever go to the play?"

"Sometimes," said Susan.

"Often," added Posy. Her face was sparkling with smiles. Her cheeks were delicately flushed. Hunsaker said gaily:

"Will you three nice people dine and do a play with me?"

"You must leave me out," said Quinney.

Posy answered for her mother and herself:

"We shall be delighted, Mr. Hunsaker."

The young man shook hands. He seemed to hold Posy's hand a thought longer than was necessary. Quinney chuckled, because he was thinking that if his Posy were to be taken away by some enterprising young man she might well be captured by Cyrus P. Hunsaker, of Hunsaker. Inspired by this thought he enjoined his daughter to accompany the visitor as far as the shop. Characteristically, he blurted out what was in his mind, as soon as he found himself alone with Susan.

"He's taken a shine to our girl, Susie."

"Fiddle!" said Susan, for the second time.

"Stoopid expression! You must break yourself of that. I tell you it's true. Couldn't ask for nothing better. Fine upstanding young chap."

"A foreigner!"

"Nonsense. They could spend half their time over here. You might give the child a hint. Tell her to play up."

"What an idea!"

"I have ideas, Susie. We can't expect to keep her; and the best in this country won't marry a tradesman's daughter. He's as good as any in his country. See?"

"I see a large mare's nest," replied Susan.

Posy returned, brimming with the determination to retrieve her letter. Quinney beckoned to her.

"Come you here, my girl." He took her head between his hands, and gazed at her proudly. "Did that young fellow squeeze your hand just now?"

"Father!"

"None o' your sauce! Did he?"

"Well, yes, he did."

Quinney winked triumphantly at Susan. He kissed Posy, and said superbly:

"You've got a daddy with ambitions, a kind, loving, clever old daddy! Lordy! Sometimes I fair wonder at myself, I do. Because I've climbed so high. But you're a-going higher--bang up! Good looks, I'll admit you got them from mother, and good brains, same as mine. Quick wits, God bless you! You made a hit with young Hunsaker! A bull's-eye! Now scoot, both of you! I've a lot of business."

"I haven't finished dusting, daddy."

"Yes, you have, when I say so. Scoot!"

Unhappily, there was nothing else to do.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*EXPLOSIONS*

*I*

"I've sold the chairs, James. Take 'em away. Pack 'em up at once! Nail down the cases. See?"

"Yes, sir. I congratulate you, sir."

"Pack up extra carefully that K'ang He bottle."

"The K'ang He bottle?"

Something in his tone arrested Quinney's attention. It brought to mind what, for the moment, he had forgotten--the loss of the key and its tumbling out of the bottle. James, perhaps unconsciously, had glanced at the cabinet, and Quinney's alert eyes had intercepted the somewhat furtive, shifting glance. He said sharply:

"The key of the cabinet was in that bottle. Did you put it there?"

James hesitated and was lost. Had he replied promptly, either in the affirmative or negative, his employer doubtless would have dismissed the incident from his mind. James, unhappily, was constrained to determine swiftly the expediency of saying "Yes."

"I may have done so," he replied. He went on fluently: "The key fits badly, tumbles out of the lock sometimes. I meant to tell you."