IIMelchester was profoundly interested in the new premises, and the other dealers in genuine antiques went about, so Quinney affirmed, chattering with rage, and predicting ruin."They'll be ruined," said Quinney, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "Nobody will buy their muck, and they know it."He had very nice hands, with long slender fingers, manifestly fashioned to pick up egg-shell china. Also in spite of his accent, which time might reasonably be expected to improve, his voice held persuasive inflections, and the resonanttimbreof the enthusiast, likely to ring in the memories of too timid customers, the collectors who stare at bargains twice a day till they are snapped up by somebody else. Quinney despised these Laodiceans in his heart, but he told Susan that they did well enough to practise upon."You want to get the patter," he told his wife, "and the best and quickest way is to turn loose on thethink it overs. See?"It had long been arranged between them that Susan was to help in the shop and acquire at first hand intimate knowledge of a complex business. Quinney summed up the art of selling stuff in a few pregnant words."Find out what they want, and don't be too keen to sell to 'em. Most men, my pretty, and nearly all the women go dotty over the things hardest to get. Our best stuff will sell itself, if we go slow. Old silver is getting scarcer every day."Susan smiled at her Joe's words of wisdom. He continued fluently: "We've a lot to learn; something new every hour. And we shall make bloomin' errors, again and again. All dealers do. Tomlin was had to rights only last week over two Chippendale chairs; and he thinks he knows all about 'em. I've been done proper over that coffee-pot."He showed her a massive silver coffee-pot with finely defined marks upon it."A genuine George II bit, Susie, and worth its weight in gold if it hadn't been tampered with by some fool later on. All that repoussé work is George IV, and I never knew it. The worst fake is the half-genuine ones.""Gracious!" exclaimed his pupil."There are lots o' things I don't know, and don't understand, my girl; all the more reason to hold tight on to what I do know. And what I know I'll try to share with you, and what you know you'll try to share with me.""I'm stupid about things," said Susan.Quinney strolled across the room, and selected two jars more or less alike in shape and paste and colour."Can you tell t'other from which?" he asked. "Look at 'em, feel 'em inside and out."Susan obeyed, but after a minute she shook her head."Ain't they just alike, Joe?""Lord, no! One's the real old blue and white, hand-painted, and worth fifty pound. T'other is a reproduction, printed stuff, with a different glaze. Look again, my pretty!""This is the old one, Joe.""No, it ain't. Slip your hand inside. Which is the smoother and better finished inside?""Yes, I feel the difference, but I don't see it. I wish I could see it.""You will. I'm going to put a little chipped bit of the best on your toilet table. You just squint at it twenty times a day for one year, and you'll know something. That's what I'm doing with the earlier stuff, which is more difficult to be sure of, because it doesn't look so good. I wouldn't trust my judgment to buy it. That's Tomlin's job."Susan frowned."I don't like Mr. Tomlin, Joe.""Never asked you to like him, but we can learn a lot from Tomlin. See? He's an expert upon Chinese and Japanese porcelain and lac. We've got to suck his brains.""Ugh!" said Susan.During these first few weeks she displayed great aptitude as a saleswoman. Her face, so ingenuous in its expression, her soft voice, her pretty figure attracted customers. The price of every article in the shop was marked in letters which she could turn into figures. But this price was a "fancy one," what Quinney termed a "top-notcher." Susan was instructed to take a third less. Quinney trained her to answer awkward questions, to make a pretty picture of ignorance, to pose effectively as the inexperienced wife keeping the shop during the absence of her husband. He had said upon the morning of the grand opening ofQuinneys', "I don't want you to tell lies, Sue.""I wouldn't for the world," she replied.He pinched her chin, chuckling derisively. "I know you wouldn't; but I don't want you to tell all the truth neither.""What do you mean?""This oak now. Me and you know it's new, but if a customer tells you it's old, don't contradict him. 'Twouldn't be polite. All you know about it is this—your clever hubby picked it up in France, in Brittany. See?"She asked anxiously, "It won't be acting a lie, dear?""Not a bit of it! By Gum, Sue, I'm as proud of that conscience of yours as I am of that jar. Not a flaw in either."After this she played her part so artlessly that Joe chuckled half a dozen times a day. She tackled the Bishop—alone. Quinney saw the great man approaching and told Susan. She wished to bolt, but Quinney disappeared instead, listening to the duologue that followed. The Bishop stared at the fine wares from Tomlin's, whipped out his spectacles, and entered, smiling at Susan's blushing face."Good-morning, my lord!""Good-morning, Mrs. Quinney. May I look at some of these tempting things?"He looked at what was best amongst the porcelain sent down by Tomlin, displaying knowledge of the different periods. Then he said courteously, "As this is my first visit, I must buy something for luck. What is the price of that small jar with theprunusdecoration? If it is within my means——"He paused, gravely expectant, but Susan divined somehow what was flitting through his mind; the outrageous prices exacted by old Quinney. She perceived that this was a test purchase. The price of the jar was marked five pounds. Susan said demurely, "We can sell this to you, my lord, for three pounds ten.""I'll take it, Mrs. Quinney."He went away with his purchase in his hand. Quinney came back, not too well pleased."He'd have given a fiver for it. Why didn't you ask more than we was prepared to take?"Susan, knowing her own strength, answered decisively:"His lordship confirmed me, Joe.""What's that got to do with it?""He knows about china. He passed by the inferior stuff. I wanted him to tell his friends that our prices were very reasonable; and I wanted him to come again. He promised that he would. And I think the clergy, our own clergy, ought to be treated—generously.""By Gum, you're right!" said Quinney. "They'll tell the old women that our prices touch bottom, reg'lar bargains."She was equally successful with Mrs. Nish, a widow of ample means and an ardent collector. Mrs. Nish may have seen the Bishop's jar and have learned from him that it had been bought at a modest figure. She came in next day, richly rustling in black silk, a large, imposing woman, with a deportment that indicated opulence and a complexion heightened by good living. Mr. Nish had accumulated a fortune in Australia, sheep-farming, and had died—as so many such men do—when he retired from active business. His widow bought a large house standing in a small garden, just outside Melchester. The Close called upon her (not the County), because she subscribed generously to local charities. Her taste, however, was flamboyantly rococo; and on that account Quinney despised her, although he admitted to Susan that she might be educated. When he beheld her pair of prancing bays, he whispered to Susan, "Have a go at the old girl!" Then he retreated discreetly to his inner room. Mrs. Nish greeted Susan with much affability, and immediately mentioned the Bishop, "my lording" him with unction. The jar withprunusdecoration was spoken of as a little prune pot."I want one just like it.""I'm afraid," said Susan, "that you will not find another just like it.""As near as may be," said Mrs. Nish."The only other jar with similar decoration, and of the same period, is this."She displayed the finest jar in their possession, adding, "The price is fifty pounds."Mrs. Nish was tremendously impressed."It can't be worth all that," she protested."I think his lordship would tell you that it was. We don't expect to sell it. In fact it belongs to somebody else. We get a small commission if it is sold."Susan carefully replaced the jar, and picked up its counterfeit."This is modern, madam, a very clever production, made by the same factory in China. We ask five pounds for this.""I don't buy fakes.""Of course not, madam. My husband says Lord Mel has not a finer piece of blue and white than that."Mrs. Nish turned aside to examine the oak, but her eyes wandered now and again to the big jar. Susan knew that she was thinking how pleasant it would be to say carelessly, "Oh, yes; I paid fifty pounds for that."Quinney carried the jar to her house late that afternoon, and he told Susan that she was a clever dear."You like the work?" he asked.She hesitated."I like being with you, Joe.""Good! You can consider yourself permanently engaged, Mrs. Quinney.""Permanently?"His quick ear detected an odd inflection. He glanced at her sharply, and saw a faint blush. In silence they stared at each other. Then Quinney kissed her, pinched her cheek, pulled her small ear, as he said boisterously:"Ho! Another job in view?"She whispered:"I—I think so."CHAPTER VSUSAN PREPARESIWhen Susan left the shop and returned to her own house to make preparations for a visitor, she went unwillingly, postponing the hour that meant separation from the man she loved, making light of his anxiety, but secretly rejoicing in it. Her faithful heart dwelt with apprehension upon a future spent apart from Joe, apart from the excitements of the shop, a future of small things and small people. She tried to visualize herself as a mother and the vision was blurred. When she said rather timidly, "What will you do without me?" he had assured her with vain repetitions that he had more than enough to occupy his mind. The dolorous conclusion was inevitable. Joe could get along without a partner in the shop. But she could not conceive of life without him.During this period of intermittent joys and fears, chasing each other daily and nightly through her brain, Susan was humorously conscious that Joe regarded the coming baby as his rather than hers. He would say, chuckling, "Well, Mrs. Q., how ismybaby this morning? Any news of him?" The sex of the child was taken for granted. Susan had sufficient obstinacy and spirit to resent this cocksure attitude. From the first she maintained that it would be a girl. Mrs. Biddlecombe was much shocked at the intimate nature of conversations carried on before her. The good woman belonged to a generation which never mentioned babies till they lay in bassinettes, fit to be seen and worshipped by all the world. Quinney trampled upon these genteel sensibilities."The kidiscomin'—ain't it?""We hope so," replied his mother-in-law austerely."We know it, old dear. Why not talk about it? Joe Quinney, junior! There you are!""It sounds so—indelicate.""That be blowed for a tale! Lawsy, there's no saying what my son may not be. Think o' my brains and his dear little mother's looks." Worse followed. He began to call Susan "mother." Mrs. Biddlecombe protested in vain. Laburnum Row laughed openly. Everybody knew! One terrible morning, a disgusting small boy shouted after her, "Hullo, gran'ma!"Mrs. Biddlecombe, moreover, had no sympathy with Susan's ardent desire to remain near her husband, intimately connected with the things which interested him so tremendously. She lacked the quickness of wit to perceive what Susan instinctively recognized, the increasing and ever-absorbing love that this queer young man manifested for his business. In that business, in the unwearying quest for beautiful objects, the wife foreshadowed a rival, a rival the more to be feared because it was amorphous, senseless, chaotic. She took little pleasure in the beautiful furniture which filled the Dream Cottage, because she could never feel that it was hers. She would have chosen things which he despised as rubbish, but they would have been very dear to her. In a real sense Joe's furniture stood massively between husband and wife. Again and again when she was hungering for soft words and caresses, he would stand in front of the Chippendale china cabinet, and apostrophize it with ardour, calling upon Susan to share his enthusiasm, slightly irritable with her when she failed to perceive the beauty in what she summed up in her own mind as "sticks and stones." She hated to see him stroke fine specimens of porcelain. She came within an ace of smashing a small but valuable Ming jar because he kissed it. Her condition must be taken into account, but above and beyond any physical cause soared the conviction, that her Joe's business might become the greatest thing in his life, growing, as he predicted it would, to such enormous proportions that there would be no room for her. Once she prayed that his soaring ambitions might be clipped by a merciful Providence. She rose from her knees trembling at her audacity, telling herself that she was disloyal. And then she laughed, half hysterically, supremely sensible that her Joe would travel far upon the road he had chosen, and that it behoved her to quicken her steps, and not to lag behind, for it was certain that he would expect her to keep up.She had to pass some lonely hours. Mrs. Biddlecombe neglected no duties connected with her own house, and the work at the Dream Cottage was done meticulously by the competent servant whom Mrs. Biddlecombe had installed there, and over whom she exercised a never-flagging vigilance. Quinney issued orders that the mistress was to be spared. She was quite capable of doing many things which the robust Maria would not allow her to do. Even the delight of sewing upon minute garments was circumscribed. Quinney, after secret "colloguing" with Mrs. Biddlecombe, prepared a surprise. An amazing basket arrived from London, embellished with pale blue ribbon, and filled with a layette fit—so the advertisement said—for "a little lord."Quinney attached a label inscribed with the following legend:"To Joseph Quinney, Jr., Esq., care of Mother."Susan's feelings upon the receipt of this superb and complete outfit—I quote again from the advertisement—were of the bitterest—sweetest. She had set her heart upon making her child's clothes, and she sewed exquisitely. She had to pretend that she was overwhelmed with surprise and gratitude, and Joe's delight in her simulated delight partly compensated her for being so grossly deceitful. Wild plans entered her head for compassing the destruction of the layette. During one awful moment she experienced the monstrous thrills of a Nero, for the thought had come to her, "Why not burn the furniture and the basket together?" The cottage and furniture were handsomely insured! A mild perspiration broke upon her forehead, as she murmured to herself:"What a wicked, wicked girl I am!"IIShe distracted her mind by reading novels, and was mightily interested in the works of Rosa Nouchette Carey. In the middle of the day Joe would rush in, kiss her tenderly, inquire after Master Quinney, sit down to dinner, and chatter boisterously of his business. His solicitude for her comfort never failed, but its insistence became enervating. She had excellent health, and was happily free from the minor ills which afflict many women in her condition. But this sort of talk became exasperatingly monotonous:"Feelin' fine, are you?""Oh yes, Joe.""Any one bloomin' thing you fancy?""Nothing.""Not worriting? No stewin' in your own juice, hey?""No, no, no!""Good. Everything is going to be all right. Lucky little dear, you are, to have a hubby who looks after you properly, and Joe Quinney, junior, will be looked after also. Make no error about that. He's going to be a very remarkable young man! Chose his parents with rare right judgments he did. By Gum, when I read that little 'ad.' about his kit bein' fit for a lord, I says to myself, 'Why not? Why shouldn't my son be a lord one day?'""Joe, you are funny!""Funny? I'm dead serious, my girl. This stream," he tapped an inflated chest, "rose higher than its source. It began not far from the gutter, Susie. I'm not ashamed of it. Nothing of the snob about Joe Quinney! I'm a bit of a river. I'm marked on the map. I flow all over the shop; yes, I do. And my son may become a sort of Amazon. Do you know how many square miles the Amazon waters?""Gracious, no!""Useful bit of knowledge. Nigh upon three million square miles!""Mercy!""I see Joe Quinney, junior, percolatin' everywhere, bang from one end of the Empire to another.""She's not born yet, poor little dear!""She! There you go again.""I'm sure it will be a 'she.'""Not him. You trust my judgment. It's a gift with me. All great men have it. Bonyparte and Wellington and Julius Cæsar.""You do go it.""That's right. Do for a motto, that would. Go it! Keep a-moving! The people in this silly old town are standin' still, up to their knees in their graves already, poor souls!"Then he would kiss her again, and bolt off to the shop, chuckling and rubbing his hands.Susan would return to her novel, and bury hopes and fears in the mild adventures of a conventional and highly respectable pair of lovers. She had always liked sweets, but at this period she enjoyed a surfeit of them. The sentiment that exuded from every page of her favourite romances affected her tremendously, and may have affected her unborn child.IIIUpon the eve of the child's birth, nearly a year after her marriage, Susan wrote a letter to her husband. She had spent the day pottering about her bedroom, turning over certain clothes, notably her wedding-gown, and recalling vividly the events succeeding her marriage, the journey to France, all the pleasant incidents of the honeymoon. From a small desk which had belonged to her father, a solid rosewood box clamped with brass, she took certain "treasures," a bit of heather picked by Joe when they took a jaunt together to the New Forest, a trinket or two, a lock of Joe's hair, his letters tied up in pink ribbon and her birth certificate, solemnly thrust into her hand by Mrs. Biddlecombe upon the morning ol the wedding. Inside the desk remained a few sheets of the "fancy" notepaper which she had used as a maid. She selected a new nib, placed it in an ivory penholder, and began to write:"MY DARLING HUSBAND,"I want to tell you that the last year has been the happiest of my life. I don't believe that I can ever be quite so happy again. You have been sweet to me. When I have tried to tell you this, you have always laughed, and so I want to write it down."Your loving"SUSIE."P.S.—I hope you will marry again."She placed the letter in an envelope to match, addressed it, and wrote above it, "To be opened after my death." Then she shed a few tears, feeling lonely and frightened, peering into the gulf which yawned in front of her, knowing that the hour was almost at hand, when she must fall down, down, down into unplumbed abysses of terror and pain.She locked up the letter in the desk, put on a cloak, and crawled into the Cathedral, whose vastness always impressed her. The great nave was strangely familiar, yet unfamiliar. A soft, silvery light diffused itself. Susan noticed that she was alone, whereas she was accustomed to the Sunday crowd. The silence seemed to enfold her. It struck her suddenly that for many hours during each day and night the great church wherein she had worshipped since she was a child, was empty and silent, a mere sepulchre of the mighty dead, who, lying in their splendid tombs, awaited the Day of Resurrection.Did they ever come forth at night?What did it feel like to be dead?Such questions had never seriously presented themselves to her before, because she was normally healthy in mind and body. Death, indeed, had been acclaimed in Laburnum Row as a not unwelcome excitement for the living, an incident that loosened all tongues, which called for criticism, and a good deal of eating and drinking. Now, alone amongst the dead, Susan considered the inevitable change from the point of view, so to speak, of those who were "taken." She was accustomed to these odd middle-class euphuisms. This particular expression, invariably used by Mrs. Biddlecombe, indicated a certain selection upon the part of the Reaper, who "took" presumably those, whether young or old, who were ripe for the sickle.Susan shivered, praying fervently that she might be spared, that she might be deemed unripe. Her thoughts flitted hither and thither, not straying far from the austere figure with the sickle, settling now upon this hypothesis and now upon that. For example, the commonest form of condolence in Laburnum Row, leaping smugly from every matronly lip, was, "He (or she) has entered into rest." Or, with tearful conviction, "God's will be done." To doubt the truth of these statements would have seemed to Susan rank blasphemy. Even now, face to face with the awful possibility, her simple mind sucked comfort from them; they fortified her trembling body for the great ordeal. But, at the same time, she was conscious of a feeling of revolt, because life was so sweet, and her enchanting pilgrimage had just begun. It would be cruel to take her!And how would it affect Joe?He would have his business; he would absorb himself in that. If he did marry again he would choose some sensible woman, able to look after his house and his child. She could not bear the horrid thought that a second wife might be prettier than the first, that her Joe might forget her kisses upon the lips of another woman. She murmured to herself, "Joe can't do without me. I shall not be taken this time."She went back to the Dream Cottage, unlocked her desk, opened her letter, and added these words to the postscript:"Marry a nice sensible woman, not quite so pretty as I am, one who will be kind to my baby."She stared at this for some time, pursing up her lips. Then she carefully erased the possessive pronoun, and wrote "your" instead of "my."She was smiling when she locked the desk.IVTen days afterwards the child was born. Quinney was summoned at four in the afternoon by the breathless Maria, who gasped out that he was wanted. Somehow Quinney leapt to the conclusion that all was over."Is the baby born?" asked Quinney."No, nor likely to be till after midnight."She whisked off, leaving an astonished man vaguely wondering from what source Maria had received this positive information. He closed the shop, and then ran home. The doctor was leaving the cottage. Again Quinney stammered out:"Is it over?""Just begun," the doctor replied. Quinney hated him because he looked so blandly self-possessed and indifferent."Mrs. Biddlecombe is with her," continued the doctor, in the same suavely impassive tone. "They will send for me later. Good-afternoon!"Quinney wanted to reply, "Oh, you go to blazes! I shall send for somebody else; a man, not a machine," but he merely glared at the doctor, and nodded. Pelting upstairs, two steps at a time, he encountered Mrs. Biddlecombe upon the landing, with her forefinger on her lip."Not so much noise,please!" she commanded, with the air and deportment of an empress. It struck Quinney that she had expanded enormously. Also she was dressed for the part, wearing an imposing dressing-gown, and felt slippers. Quinney had an odd feeling that she was enjoying herself at Susie's expense. Secretly he was furious, because she seemed to block the entrance tohisroom. He tried to push past her."Where are you going, Joseph?"He was quite confounded, but from long habit he replied in his jerky, whimsical way:"Into my room o' course. Where did you think I was going? Into the coal cellar?"Mrs. Biddlecombe answered with majesty, not budging:"We"—Maria was indicated as an accomplice—"have got another room ready for you."Quinney said resolutely, "I'm a-going to stay with Susie till it's over.""No, you ain't!""Yes, I am!"She gripped his arm. Her voice was coolly contemptuous, but she spoke with authority."No, you ain't. 'Tisn't seemly.""That be damned!""Joseph Quinney! And an innocent unborn babe might hear you! Now, listen to me, and do just as I tell you. Men ain't wanted on these occasions. You can go in and see Susan for a few minutes, but, remember, out you go when I say the word. Try to be a help and not an hindrance. I sent for you because you may be wanted to run for the doctor.""Run from 'im more likely," said Quinney. "Cold-blooded beast.""He's just what a gentleman should be at such times. You take pattern by him! Now, go in, don't shout, say something cheerful, and leave the room when I nod."Throughout this speech Quinney was conscious that his will was ebbing from him. The mother-in-law triumphed by virtue of superior knowledge and experience. Quinney respected knowledge."But if Susie wants me to stay——?""She won't."He entered the room. Somehow he had expected to find his wife in bed, pale, frightened, passive. She was walking up and down. Her cheeks were red, her eyes were bright. And yet there was something about her, some hunted expression in the tender eyes, some nervous tension which moved the man tremendously. His eyes brimmed with tears, his voice broke, as he called her by name. For a moment they clung to each other, and he wondered at her strength. Mrs. Biddlecombe, frowned portentously. There were moments when she told herself that Susan had married a very common person."That'll do," she said. "We don't want any flustrations."Susan murmured:"Dear, dear Joe!"She pulled down his head and kissed the tears from his eyes. It was a moment of pure bliss for her. They sat down, holding each other's hands, oblivious of Mrs. Biddlecombe, who still stared at them, trying to remember how the late Mr. Biddlecombe had behaved when Susan was born, and vaguely mindful of his conspicuous absence, and the discovery later that he had assuaged his anxiety with strong waters.Meanwhile, Susan's tenderness had aroused in her husband the determination to vanquish his mother-in-law. The power to cope with her surged within."You want me to stay, Susie?""Oh yes, till the pain comes.""And after?""No, no!""But why, why?"She looked prettier and sweeter than he had ever seen her when she whispered:"I couldn't bear for you to see my face. It, it," her voice quivered, "it frightens me. Just now I looked in the glass, and I didn't recognize it as mine.""There!" exclaimed Mrs. Biddlecombe."I shall do as Susan wishes," said Quinney humbly."You will leave the room when I nod?""Please!" said Susan, with her arms about his neck.Presently Mrs. Biddlecombe nodded.CHAPTER VITHE VISITOR ARRIVESIQuinney went downstairs, whistling softly to hide a growing perturbation of spirit. He could not disguise from himself that he was terribly worried. Till now he had bolstered anxiety with the reflection that what was happening had happened before to millions and billions (he loved big figures) of women, but he had never realized that each and all of them had suffered cruel pain. When Susan spoke of her changed face, a spasm of agony twisted him. He resented fiercely the conviction that his wife must suffer, and he divined somehow, partly from Mrs. Biddlecombe and partly from Susan, that the pain was greater than he had supposed. He salved his quivering sensibilities with the balm applied by all husbands at such moments; she was young, healthy, and strong. She would pull through. And yet, the damnable thought that sometimes things did happen grew and grew.He descended into a modest cellar, and brought up a bottle of port, which he decanted carefully. It was the best wine that could be bought in Melchester, and he had secured a couple of dozen with the intention of drinking his son's health many times. He tasted it to satisfy himself that the wine was in prime condition. He held it to the light and marked its superb colour. Then he sat down to read the paper, as was his habit when the day's work was done. Pinker, the grocer, and other men of substance in Melchester, were too fond of boasting that they read the morning paper in the morning before attending to the paramount claims of their own business. This attitude of mind towards the affairs of the nation perplexed Quinney, who frankly considered his own affairs first. He belonged to that once immense majority of his fellow-countrymen—a majority much decreased of late years—who believe that certain altruists manage more or less successfully the business of the country. He was quite willing to allow these gentlemen, whose services were unpaid, a comparatively free hand upon the unexpressed condition that they did not bother him or interfere with the conduct of his private affairs. At that time the Tories were in power, coming to the end of a long tenure of office. Quinney passively approved of the Tories, and actively disliked Radicals, whom he stigmatized generally as mischief-makers. Under certain circumstances he would have been a red-hot Radical. During his father's lifetime, for instance, when he groaned in secret beneath the heel of oppression, he would have been eager—had the opportunity presented itself—to join any secret society organized for the overthrow of "tyrants."He read the paper through, criticizing nothing except the wording of certain advertisements. He meant to advertise his own wares some day, although Tomlin believed in more particular methods. In the early 'nineties, small tradesmen had no faith in Advertisements. They built up a small but solid connection, which they came to regard as unalienably theirs.Presently Quinney lit his pipe, and his thoughts with the smoke strayed upstairs. Mrs. Biddlecombe appeared."Smoking?"Quinney, conscious of implied censure, replied defiantly:"Generally called that, ain't it?""You can smoke outside.""I can, but I won't. How's Susie?"The inevitable answer distressed him terribly."Susan will be much worse before she's better. You can fetch the nurse, and finish your pipe while you are fetching her."He fetched the nurse, who lived not far away in a row of small jerry-built houses. She was a tall, thin woman, with a nice complexion, and hair prematurely white. Her invincible optimism much fortified our hero. And she possessed an immense reserve of small talk, and intimate knowledge of simple, elemental details connected with her profession. She captured Quinney's affection by saying, after the first glance at his face:"Now, don't you worry, Mr. Quinney, because there's nothing to worry about with Dr. Ransome and me in charge of the case. We never have any trouble with our patients. You'll be the proud father of a big fat baby-boy before you know where you are."She talked on very agreeably, but she managed to convey to her listener that, temporarily, he was an outsider, at the beck and call of women, and regarded by them as negligible. This impression became so strong that he knocked the ashes and half-consumed tobacco out of a second pipe before he entered the Dream Cottage. The nurse was greeted by Mrs. Biddlecombe with majestic courtesy and taken upstairs.Once more Quinney found himself alone.Feeling much more hopeful, he beguiled another hour in examining his furniture and china. It is worth mentioning that already he was able to discern flaws in these precious possessions, indicating an eye becoming more trained in its quest after perfection. None of these household gods were regarded as permanent. They would be sold to make room for finer specimens of craftsmanship. Amongst his china, he discovered a bogus bit. Hitherto he had believed it to be a fine specimen. He was half-distressed, half-pleased at the amazing discovery. He had paid five pounds for it. The paste was all right, but the decoration was unquestionably of a later period. Half of its value, actual and prospective, had vanished. Nevertheless, the gain was enormous. Unaided, he had detected the false decoration, the not quite pure quality of the gilding."I'm climbin'!" he muttered to himself.As he replaced the "fake" in the cabinet, consoling himself with the reflection that he could easily resell it at the price he had paid, he smelt fried fish. Extremely annoyed, he rushed into the kitchen, where Maria was caught, red-handed, in the astounding act of frying mackerel at six o'clock."What's the meaning o' this?"Maria answered tartly:"Meat tea for you and Mrs. Biddlecombe."She too, ordinarily the respectful menial, dared to glare at him, as if resenting his appearance in his own kitchen as an unpardonable intrusion. Quinney said violently, not sorry to let off steam:"What the hell d'ye mean? Meat tea? I eat my supper at seven, and you know it!"Maria tossed her head."You'll eat it at six to-night. Mrs. Biddlecombe's orders. I shall give notice if you swear at me."He fled—vanquished by another woman. At the door he fired a parting shot:"Smells all over Melchester. I believe that fish is bad.""I didn't buy it," replied Maria calmly.IIThe meat tea was served, and Mrs. Biddlecombe joined Quinney at table. He made no protests, but refused to touch the mackerel. When interrogated he said that he disliked stale fish."Stale fish, Joseph!""Did you buy it?""I did.""Did you choose it?"Mrs. Biddlecombe's ample cheeks turned a deeper damask."I did not. I instructed the fishmonger to send round some fresh fish.""Thought so!" said Quinney, as he attacked the cold beef.Unhappily, Mrs. Biddlecombe was beguiled into eating heartily of the mackerel, desiring to assert her faith in its freshness and her confidence in the fishmonger. Conversation languished. Presently, Quinney jumped to his feet and raced upstairs. He tapped at his wife's door. The nurse opened it, and as she did so the husband heard a faint moan."You can't come in now," said the nurse."I'm not coming in. You tell my wife, with my love, not to eat any mackerel, and don't you touch it yourself, if you want to be fit and well to-night."He returned to the dining-room feeling, for the first time, that he had been of practical service to omnipotent woman! But the faint moan had destroyed his appetite. He told Mrs. Biddlecombe that he intended to walk up and down the garden."You'll be within call?""Of course. Any notion when the doctor will be wanted?""He may be wanted at any minute.""You may want him before Susan does!"He shut the door before the astonished lady could reply.
II
Melchester was profoundly interested in the new premises, and the other dealers in genuine antiques went about, so Quinney affirmed, chattering with rage, and predicting ruin.
"They'll be ruined," said Quinney, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "Nobody will buy their muck, and they know it."
He had very nice hands, with long slender fingers, manifestly fashioned to pick up egg-shell china. Also in spite of his accent, which time might reasonably be expected to improve, his voice held persuasive inflections, and the resonanttimbreof the enthusiast, likely to ring in the memories of too timid customers, the collectors who stare at bargains twice a day till they are snapped up by somebody else. Quinney despised these Laodiceans in his heart, but he told Susan that they did well enough to practise upon.
"You want to get the patter," he told his wife, "and the best and quickest way is to turn loose on thethink it overs. See?"
It had long been arranged between them that Susan was to help in the shop and acquire at first hand intimate knowledge of a complex business. Quinney summed up the art of selling stuff in a few pregnant words.
"Find out what they want, and don't be too keen to sell to 'em. Most men, my pretty, and nearly all the women go dotty over the things hardest to get. Our best stuff will sell itself, if we go slow. Old silver is getting scarcer every day."
Susan smiled at her Joe's words of wisdom. He continued fluently: "We've a lot to learn; something new every hour. And we shall make bloomin' errors, again and again. All dealers do. Tomlin was had to rights only last week over two Chippendale chairs; and he thinks he knows all about 'em. I've been done proper over that coffee-pot."
He showed her a massive silver coffee-pot with finely defined marks upon it.
"A genuine George II bit, Susie, and worth its weight in gold if it hadn't been tampered with by some fool later on. All that repoussé work is George IV, and I never knew it. The worst fake is the half-genuine ones."
"Gracious!" exclaimed his pupil.
"There are lots o' things I don't know, and don't understand, my girl; all the more reason to hold tight on to what I do know. And what I know I'll try to share with you, and what you know you'll try to share with me."
"I'm stupid about things," said Susan.
Quinney strolled across the room, and selected two jars more or less alike in shape and paste and colour.
"Can you tell t'other from which?" he asked. "Look at 'em, feel 'em inside and out."
Susan obeyed, but after a minute she shook her head.
"Ain't they just alike, Joe?"
"Lord, no! One's the real old blue and white, hand-painted, and worth fifty pound. T'other is a reproduction, printed stuff, with a different glaze. Look again, my pretty!"
"This is the old one, Joe."
"No, it ain't. Slip your hand inside. Which is the smoother and better finished inside?"
"Yes, I feel the difference, but I don't see it. I wish I could see it."
"You will. I'm going to put a little chipped bit of the best on your toilet table. You just squint at it twenty times a day for one year, and you'll know something. That's what I'm doing with the earlier stuff, which is more difficult to be sure of, because it doesn't look so good. I wouldn't trust my judgment to buy it. That's Tomlin's job."
Susan frowned.
"I don't like Mr. Tomlin, Joe."
"Never asked you to like him, but we can learn a lot from Tomlin. See? He's an expert upon Chinese and Japanese porcelain and lac. We've got to suck his brains."
"Ugh!" said Susan.
During these first few weeks she displayed great aptitude as a saleswoman. Her face, so ingenuous in its expression, her soft voice, her pretty figure attracted customers. The price of every article in the shop was marked in letters which she could turn into figures. But this price was a "fancy one," what Quinney termed a "top-notcher." Susan was instructed to take a third less. Quinney trained her to answer awkward questions, to make a pretty picture of ignorance, to pose effectively as the inexperienced wife keeping the shop during the absence of her husband. He had said upon the morning of the grand opening ofQuinneys', "I don't want you to tell lies, Sue."
"I wouldn't for the world," she replied.
He pinched her chin, chuckling derisively. "I know you wouldn't; but I don't want you to tell all the truth neither."
"What do you mean?"
"This oak now. Me and you know it's new, but if a customer tells you it's old, don't contradict him. 'Twouldn't be polite. All you know about it is this—your clever hubby picked it up in France, in Brittany. See?"
She asked anxiously, "It won't be acting a lie, dear?"
"Not a bit of it! By Gum, Sue, I'm as proud of that conscience of yours as I am of that jar. Not a flaw in either."
After this she played her part so artlessly that Joe chuckled half a dozen times a day. She tackled the Bishop—alone. Quinney saw the great man approaching and told Susan. She wished to bolt, but Quinney disappeared instead, listening to the duologue that followed. The Bishop stared at the fine wares from Tomlin's, whipped out his spectacles, and entered, smiling at Susan's blushing face.
"Good-morning, my lord!"
"Good-morning, Mrs. Quinney. May I look at some of these tempting things?"
He looked at what was best amongst the porcelain sent down by Tomlin, displaying knowledge of the different periods. Then he said courteously, "As this is my first visit, I must buy something for luck. What is the price of that small jar with theprunusdecoration? If it is within my means——"
He paused, gravely expectant, but Susan divined somehow what was flitting through his mind; the outrageous prices exacted by old Quinney. She perceived that this was a test purchase. The price of the jar was marked five pounds. Susan said demurely, "We can sell this to you, my lord, for three pounds ten."
"I'll take it, Mrs. Quinney."
He went away with his purchase in his hand. Quinney came back, not too well pleased.
"He'd have given a fiver for it. Why didn't you ask more than we was prepared to take?"
Susan, knowing her own strength, answered decisively:
"His lordship confirmed me, Joe."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"He knows about china. He passed by the inferior stuff. I wanted him to tell his friends that our prices were very reasonable; and I wanted him to come again. He promised that he would. And I think the clergy, our own clergy, ought to be treated—generously."
"By Gum, you're right!" said Quinney. "They'll tell the old women that our prices touch bottom, reg'lar bargains."
She was equally successful with Mrs. Nish, a widow of ample means and an ardent collector. Mrs. Nish may have seen the Bishop's jar and have learned from him that it had been bought at a modest figure. She came in next day, richly rustling in black silk, a large, imposing woman, with a deportment that indicated opulence and a complexion heightened by good living. Mr. Nish had accumulated a fortune in Australia, sheep-farming, and had died—as so many such men do—when he retired from active business. His widow bought a large house standing in a small garden, just outside Melchester. The Close called upon her (not the County), because she subscribed generously to local charities. Her taste, however, was flamboyantly rococo; and on that account Quinney despised her, although he admitted to Susan that she might be educated. When he beheld her pair of prancing bays, he whispered to Susan, "Have a go at the old girl!" Then he retreated discreetly to his inner room. Mrs. Nish greeted Susan with much affability, and immediately mentioned the Bishop, "my lording" him with unction. The jar withprunusdecoration was spoken of as a little prune pot.
"I want one just like it."
"I'm afraid," said Susan, "that you will not find another just like it."
"As near as may be," said Mrs. Nish.
"The only other jar with similar decoration, and of the same period, is this."
She displayed the finest jar in their possession, adding, "The price is fifty pounds."
Mrs. Nish was tremendously impressed.
"It can't be worth all that," she protested.
"I think his lordship would tell you that it was. We don't expect to sell it. In fact it belongs to somebody else. We get a small commission if it is sold."
Susan carefully replaced the jar, and picked up its counterfeit.
"This is modern, madam, a very clever production, made by the same factory in China. We ask five pounds for this."
"I don't buy fakes."
"Of course not, madam. My husband says Lord Mel has not a finer piece of blue and white than that."
Mrs. Nish turned aside to examine the oak, but her eyes wandered now and again to the big jar. Susan knew that she was thinking how pleasant it would be to say carelessly, "Oh, yes; I paid fifty pounds for that."
Quinney carried the jar to her house late that afternoon, and he told Susan that she was a clever dear.
"You like the work?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"I like being with you, Joe."
"Good! You can consider yourself permanently engaged, Mrs. Quinney."
"Permanently?"
His quick ear detected an odd inflection. He glanced at her sharply, and saw a faint blush. In silence they stared at each other. Then Quinney kissed her, pinched her cheek, pulled her small ear, as he said boisterously:
"Ho! Another job in view?"
She whispered:
"I—I think so."
CHAPTER V
SUSAN PREPARES
I
When Susan left the shop and returned to her own house to make preparations for a visitor, she went unwillingly, postponing the hour that meant separation from the man she loved, making light of his anxiety, but secretly rejoicing in it. Her faithful heart dwelt with apprehension upon a future spent apart from Joe, apart from the excitements of the shop, a future of small things and small people. She tried to visualize herself as a mother and the vision was blurred. When she said rather timidly, "What will you do without me?" he had assured her with vain repetitions that he had more than enough to occupy his mind. The dolorous conclusion was inevitable. Joe could get along without a partner in the shop. But she could not conceive of life without him.
During this period of intermittent joys and fears, chasing each other daily and nightly through her brain, Susan was humorously conscious that Joe regarded the coming baby as his rather than hers. He would say, chuckling, "Well, Mrs. Q., how ismybaby this morning? Any news of him?" The sex of the child was taken for granted. Susan had sufficient obstinacy and spirit to resent this cocksure attitude. From the first she maintained that it would be a girl. Mrs. Biddlecombe was much shocked at the intimate nature of conversations carried on before her. The good woman belonged to a generation which never mentioned babies till they lay in bassinettes, fit to be seen and worshipped by all the world. Quinney trampled upon these genteel sensibilities.
"The kidiscomin'—ain't it?"
"We hope so," replied his mother-in-law austerely.
"We know it, old dear. Why not talk about it? Joe Quinney, junior! There you are!"
"It sounds so—indelicate."
"That be blowed for a tale! Lawsy, there's no saying what my son may not be. Think o' my brains and his dear little mother's looks." Worse followed. He began to call Susan "mother." Mrs. Biddlecombe protested in vain. Laburnum Row laughed openly. Everybody knew! One terrible morning, a disgusting small boy shouted after her, "Hullo, gran'ma!"
Mrs. Biddlecombe, moreover, had no sympathy with Susan's ardent desire to remain near her husband, intimately connected with the things which interested him so tremendously. She lacked the quickness of wit to perceive what Susan instinctively recognized, the increasing and ever-absorbing love that this queer young man manifested for his business. In that business, in the unwearying quest for beautiful objects, the wife foreshadowed a rival, a rival the more to be feared because it was amorphous, senseless, chaotic. She took little pleasure in the beautiful furniture which filled the Dream Cottage, because she could never feel that it was hers. She would have chosen things which he despised as rubbish, but they would have been very dear to her. In a real sense Joe's furniture stood massively between husband and wife. Again and again when she was hungering for soft words and caresses, he would stand in front of the Chippendale china cabinet, and apostrophize it with ardour, calling upon Susan to share his enthusiasm, slightly irritable with her when she failed to perceive the beauty in what she summed up in her own mind as "sticks and stones." She hated to see him stroke fine specimens of porcelain. She came within an ace of smashing a small but valuable Ming jar because he kissed it. Her condition must be taken into account, but above and beyond any physical cause soared the conviction, that her Joe's business might become the greatest thing in his life, growing, as he predicted it would, to such enormous proportions that there would be no room for her. Once she prayed that his soaring ambitions might be clipped by a merciful Providence. She rose from her knees trembling at her audacity, telling herself that she was disloyal. And then she laughed, half hysterically, supremely sensible that her Joe would travel far upon the road he had chosen, and that it behoved her to quicken her steps, and not to lag behind, for it was certain that he would expect her to keep up.
She had to pass some lonely hours. Mrs. Biddlecombe neglected no duties connected with her own house, and the work at the Dream Cottage was done meticulously by the competent servant whom Mrs. Biddlecombe had installed there, and over whom she exercised a never-flagging vigilance. Quinney issued orders that the mistress was to be spared. She was quite capable of doing many things which the robust Maria would not allow her to do. Even the delight of sewing upon minute garments was circumscribed. Quinney, after secret "colloguing" with Mrs. Biddlecombe, prepared a surprise. An amazing basket arrived from London, embellished with pale blue ribbon, and filled with a layette fit—so the advertisement said—for "a little lord."
Quinney attached a label inscribed with the following legend:
"To Joseph Quinney, Jr., Esq., care of Mother."
Susan's feelings upon the receipt of this superb and complete outfit—I quote again from the advertisement—were of the bitterest—sweetest. She had set her heart upon making her child's clothes, and she sewed exquisitely. She had to pretend that she was overwhelmed with surprise and gratitude, and Joe's delight in her simulated delight partly compensated her for being so grossly deceitful. Wild plans entered her head for compassing the destruction of the layette. During one awful moment she experienced the monstrous thrills of a Nero, for the thought had come to her, "Why not burn the furniture and the basket together?" The cottage and furniture were handsomely insured! A mild perspiration broke upon her forehead, as she murmured to herself:
"What a wicked, wicked girl I am!"
II
She distracted her mind by reading novels, and was mightily interested in the works of Rosa Nouchette Carey. In the middle of the day Joe would rush in, kiss her tenderly, inquire after Master Quinney, sit down to dinner, and chatter boisterously of his business. His solicitude for her comfort never failed, but its insistence became enervating. She had excellent health, and was happily free from the minor ills which afflict many women in her condition. But this sort of talk became exasperatingly monotonous:
"Feelin' fine, are you?"
"Oh yes, Joe."
"Any one bloomin' thing you fancy?"
"Nothing."
"Not worriting? No stewin' in your own juice, hey?"
"No, no, no!"
"Good. Everything is going to be all right. Lucky little dear, you are, to have a hubby who looks after you properly, and Joe Quinney, junior, will be looked after also. Make no error about that. He's going to be a very remarkable young man! Chose his parents with rare right judgments he did. By Gum, when I read that little 'ad.' about his kit bein' fit for a lord, I says to myself, 'Why not? Why shouldn't my son be a lord one day?'"
"Joe, you are funny!"
"Funny? I'm dead serious, my girl. This stream," he tapped an inflated chest, "rose higher than its source. It began not far from the gutter, Susie. I'm not ashamed of it. Nothing of the snob about Joe Quinney! I'm a bit of a river. I'm marked on the map. I flow all over the shop; yes, I do. And my son may become a sort of Amazon. Do you know how many square miles the Amazon waters?"
"Gracious, no!"
"Useful bit of knowledge. Nigh upon three million square miles!"
"Mercy!"
"I see Joe Quinney, junior, percolatin' everywhere, bang from one end of the Empire to another."
"She's not born yet, poor little dear!"
"She! There you go again."
"I'm sure it will be a 'she.'"
"Not him. You trust my judgment. It's a gift with me. All great men have it. Bonyparte and Wellington and Julius Cæsar."
"You do go it."
"That's right. Do for a motto, that would. Go it! Keep a-moving! The people in this silly old town are standin' still, up to their knees in their graves already, poor souls!"
Then he would kiss her again, and bolt off to the shop, chuckling and rubbing his hands.
Susan would return to her novel, and bury hopes and fears in the mild adventures of a conventional and highly respectable pair of lovers. She had always liked sweets, but at this period she enjoyed a surfeit of them. The sentiment that exuded from every page of her favourite romances affected her tremendously, and may have affected her unborn child.
III
Upon the eve of the child's birth, nearly a year after her marriage, Susan wrote a letter to her husband. She had spent the day pottering about her bedroom, turning over certain clothes, notably her wedding-gown, and recalling vividly the events succeeding her marriage, the journey to France, all the pleasant incidents of the honeymoon. From a small desk which had belonged to her father, a solid rosewood box clamped with brass, she took certain "treasures," a bit of heather picked by Joe when they took a jaunt together to the New Forest, a trinket or two, a lock of Joe's hair, his letters tied up in pink ribbon and her birth certificate, solemnly thrust into her hand by Mrs. Biddlecombe upon the morning ol the wedding. Inside the desk remained a few sheets of the "fancy" notepaper which she had used as a maid. She selected a new nib, placed it in an ivory penholder, and began to write:
"MY DARLING HUSBAND,
"I want to tell you that the last year has been the happiest of my life. I don't believe that I can ever be quite so happy again. You have been sweet to me. When I have tried to tell you this, you have always laughed, and so I want to write it down.
"SUSIE.
"P.S.—I hope you will marry again."
She placed the letter in an envelope to match, addressed it, and wrote above it, "To be opened after my death." Then she shed a few tears, feeling lonely and frightened, peering into the gulf which yawned in front of her, knowing that the hour was almost at hand, when she must fall down, down, down into unplumbed abysses of terror and pain.
She locked up the letter in the desk, put on a cloak, and crawled into the Cathedral, whose vastness always impressed her. The great nave was strangely familiar, yet unfamiliar. A soft, silvery light diffused itself. Susan noticed that she was alone, whereas she was accustomed to the Sunday crowd. The silence seemed to enfold her. It struck her suddenly that for many hours during each day and night the great church wherein she had worshipped since she was a child, was empty and silent, a mere sepulchre of the mighty dead, who, lying in their splendid tombs, awaited the Day of Resurrection.
Did they ever come forth at night?
What did it feel like to be dead?
Such questions had never seriously presented themselves to her before, because she was normally healthy in mind and body. Death, indeed, had been acclaimed in Laburnum Row as a not unwelcome excitement for the living, an incident that loosened all tongues, which called for criticism, and a good deal of eating and drinking. Now, alone amongst the dead, Susan considered the inevitable change from the point of view, so to speak, of those who were "taken." She was accustomed to these odd middle-class euphuisms. This particular expression, invariably used by Mrs. Biddlecombe, indicated a certain selection upon the part of the Reaper, who "took" presumably those, whether young or old, who were ripe for the sickle.
Susan shivered, praying fervently that she might be spared, that she might be deemed unripe. Her thoughts flitted hither and thither, not straying far from the austere figure with the sickle, settling now upon this hypothesis and now upon that. For example, the commonest form of condolence in Laburnum Row, leaping smugly from every matronly lip, was, "He (or she) has entered into rest." Or, with tearful conviction, "God's will be done." To doubt the truth of these statements would have seemed to Susan rank blasphemy. Even now, face to face with the awful possibility, her simple mind sucked comfort from them; they fortified her trembling body for the great ordeal. But, at the same time, she was conscious of a feeling of revolt, because life was so sweet, and her enchanting pilgrimage had just begun. It would be cruel to take her!
And how would it affect Joe?
He would have his business; he would absorb himself in that. If he did marry again he would choose some sensible woman, able to look after his house and his child. She could not bear the horrid thought that a second wife might be prettier than the first, that her Joe might forget her kisses upon the lips of another woman. She murmured to herself, "Joe can't do without me. I shall not be taken this time."
She went back to the Dream Cottage, unlocked her desk, opened her letter, and added these words to the postscript:
"Marry a nice sensible woman, not quite so pretty as I am, one who will be kind to my baby."
She stared at this for some time, pursing up her lips. Then she carefully erased the possessive pronoun, and wrote "your" instead of "my."
She was smiling when she locked the desk.
IV
Ten days afterwards the child was born. Quinney was summoned at four in the afternoon by the breathless Maria, who gasped out that he was wanted. Somehow Quinney leapt to the conclusion that all was over.
"Is the baby born?" asked Quinney.
"No, nor likely to be till after midnight."
She whisked off, leaving an astonished man vaguely wondering from what source Maria had received this positive information. He closed the shop, and then ran home. The doctor was leaving the cottage. Again Quinney stammered out:
"Is it over?"
"Just begun," the doctor replied. Quinney hated him because he looked so blandly self-possessed and indifferent.
"Mrs. Biddlecombe is with her," continued the doctor, in the same suavely impassive tone. "They will send for me later. Good-afternoon!"
Quinney wanted to reply, "Oh, you go to blazes! I shall send for somebody else; a man, not a machine," but he merely glared at the doctor, and nodded. Pelting upstairs, two steps at a time, he encountered Mrs. Biddlecombe upon the landing, with her forefinger on her lip.
"Not so much noise,please!" she commanded, with the air and deportment of an empress. It struck Quinney that she had expanded enormously. Also she was dressed for the part, wearing an imposing dressing-gown, and felt slippers. Quinney had an odd feeling that she was enjoying herself at Susie's expense. Secretly he was furious, because she seemed to block the entrance tohisroom. He tried to push past her.
"Where are you going, Joseph?"
He was quite confounded, but from long habit he replied in his jerky, whimsical way:
"Into my room o' course. Where did you think I was going? Into the coal cellar?"
Mrs. Biddlecombe answered with majesty, not budging:
"We"—Maria was indicated as an accomplice—"have got another room ready for you."
Quinney said resolutely, "I'm a-going to stay with Susie till it's over."
"No, you ain't!"
"Yes, I am!"
She gripped his arm. Her voice was coolly contemptuous, but she spoke with authority.
"No, you ain't. 'Tisn't seemly."
"That be damned!"
"Joseph Quinney! And an innocent unborn babe might hear you! Now, listen to me, and do just as I tell you. Men ain't wanted on these occasions. You can go in and see Susan for a few minutes, but, remember, out you go when I say the word. Try to be a help and not an hindrance. I sent for you because you may be wanted to run for the doctor."
"Run from 'im more likely," said Quinney. "Cold-blooded beast."
"He's just what a gentleman should be at such times. You take pattern by him! Now, go in, don't shout, say something cheerful, and leave the room when I nod."
Throughout this speech Quinney was conscious that his will was ebbing from him. The mother-in-law triumphed by virtue of superior knowledge and experience. Quinney respected knowledge.
"But if Susie wants me to stay——?"
"She won't."
He entered the room. Somehow he had expected to find his wife in bed, pale, frightened, passive. She was walking up and down. Her cheeks were red, her eyes were bright. And yet there was something about her, some hunted expression in the tender eyes, some nervous tension which moved the man tremendously. His eyes brimmed with tears, his voice broke, as he called her by name. For a moment they clung to each other, and he wondered at her strength. Mrs. Biddlecombe, frowned portentously. There were moments when she told herself that Susan had married a very common person.
"That'll do," she said. "We don't want any flustrations."
Susan murmured:
"Dear, dear Joe!"
She pulled down his head and kissed the tears from his eyes. It was a moment of pure bliss for her. They sat down, holding each other's hands, oblivious of Mrs. Biddlecombe, who still stared at them, trying to remember how the late Mr. Biddlecombe had behaved when Susan was born, and vaguely mindful of his conspicuous absence, and the discovery later that he had assuaged his anxiety with strong waters.
Meanwhile, Susan's tenderness had aroused in her husband the determination to vanquish his mother-in-law. The power to cope with her surged within.
"You want me to stay, Susie?"
"Oh yes, till the pain comes."
"And after?"
"No, no!"
"But why, why?"
She looked prettier and sweeter than he had ever seen her when she whispered:
"I couldn't bear for you to see my face. It, it," her voice quivered, "it frightens me. Just now I looked in the glass, and I didn't recognize it as mine."
"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Biddlecombe.
"I shall do as Susan wishes," said Quinney humbly.
"You will leave the room when I nod?"
"Please!" said Susan, with her arms about his neck.
Presently Mrs. Biddlecombe nodded.
CHAPTER VI
THE VISITOR ARRIVES
I
Quinney went downstairs, whistling softly to hide a growing perturbation of spirit. He could not disguise from himself that he was terribly worried. Till now he had bolstered anxiety with the reflection that what was happening had happened before to millions and billions (he loved big figures) of women, but he had never realized that each and all of them had suffered cruel pain. When Susan spoke of her changed face, a spasm of agony twisted him. He resented fiercely the conviction that his wife must suffer, and he divined somehow, partly from Mrs. Biddlecombe and partly from Susan, that the pain was greater than he had supposed. He salved his quivering sensibilities with the balm applied by all husbands at such moments; she was young, healthy, and strong. She would pull through. And yet, the damnable thought that sometimes things did happen grew and grew.
He descended into a modest cellar, and brought up a bottle of port, which he decanted carefully. It was the best wine that could be bought in Melchester, and he had secured a couple of dozen with the intention of drinking his son's health many times. He tasted it to satisfy himself that the wine was in prime condition. He held it to the light and marked its superb colour. Then he sat down to read the paper, as was his habit when the day's work was done. Pinker, the grocer, and other men of substance in Melchester, were too fond of boasting that they read the morning paper in the morning before attending to the paramount claims of their own business. This attitude of mind towards the affairs of the nation perplexed Quinney, who frankly considered his own affairs first. He belonged to that once immense majority of his fellow-countrymen—a majority much decreased of late years—who believe that certain altruists manage more or less successfully the business of the country. He was quite willing to allow these gentlemen, whose services were unpaid, a comparatively free hand upon the unexpressed condition that they did not bother him or interfere with the conduct of his private affairs. At that time the Tories were in power, coming to the end of a long tenure of office. Quinney passively approved of the Tories, and actively disliked Radicals, whom he stigmatized generally as mischief-makers. Under certain circumstances he would have been a red-hot Radical. During his father's lifetime, for instance, when he groaned in secret beneath the heel of oppression, he would have been eager—had the opportunity presented itself—to join any secret society organized for the overthrow of "tyrants."
He read the paper through, criticizing nothing except the wording of certain advertisements. He meant to advertise his own wares some day, although Tomlin believed in more particular methods. In the early 'nineties, small tradesmen had no faith in Advertisements. They built up a small but solid connection, which they came to regard as unalienably theirs.
Presently Quinney lit his pipe, and his thoughts with the smoke strayed upstairs. Mrs. Biddlecombe appeared.
"Smoking?"
Quinney, conscious of implied censure, replied defiantly:
"Generally called that, ain't it?"
"You can smoke outside."
"I can, but I won't. How's Susie?"
The inevitable answer distressed him terribly.
"Susan will be much worse before she's better. You can fetch the nurse, and finish your pipe while you are fetching her."
He fetched the nurse, who lived not far away in a row of small jerry-built houses. She was a tall, thin woman, with a nice complexion, and hair prematurely white. Her invincible optimism much fortified our hero. And she possessed an immense reserve of small talk, and intimate knowledge of simple, elemental details connected with her profession. She captured Quinney's affection by saying, after the first glance at his face:
"Now, don't you worry, Mr. Quinney, because there's nothing to worry about with Dr. Ransome and me in charge of the case. We never have any trouble with our patients. You'll be the proud father of a big fat baby-boy before you know where you are."
She talked on very agreeably, but she managed to convey to her listener that, temporarily, he was an outsider, at the beck and call of women, and regarded by them as negligible. This impression became so strong that he knocked the ashes and half-consumed tobacco out of a second pipe before he entered the Dream Cottage. The nurse was greeted by Mrs. Biddlecombe with majestic courtesy and taken upstairs.
Once more Quinney found himself alone.
Feeling much more hopeful, he beguiled another hour in examining his furniture and china. It is worth mentioning that already he was able to discern flaws in these precious possessions, indicating an eye becoming more trained in its quest after perfection. None of these household gods were regarded as permanent. They would be sold to make room for finer specimens of craftsmanship. Amongst his china, he discovered a bogus bit. Hitherto he had believed it to be a fine specimen. He was half-distressed, half-pleased at the amazing discovery. He had paid five pounds for it. The paste was all right, but the decoration was unquestionably of a later period. Half of its value, actual and prospective, had vanished. Nevertheless, the gain was enormous. Unaided, he had detected the false decoration, the not quite pure quality of the gilding.
"I'm climbin'!" he muttered to himself.
As he replaced the "fake" in the cabinet, consoling himself with the reflection that he could easily resell it at the price he had paid, he smelt fried fish. Extremely annoyed, he rushed into the kitchen, where Maria was caught, red-handed, in the astounding act of frying mackerel at six o'clock.
"What's the meaning o' this?"
Maria answered tartly:
"Meat tea for you and Mrs. Biddlecombe."
She too, ordinarily the respectful menial, dared to glare at him, as if resenting his appearance in his own kitchen as an unpardonable intrusion. Quinney said violently, not sorry to let off steam:
"What the hell d'ye mean? Meat tea? I eat my supper at seven, and you know it!"
Maria tossed her head.
"You'll eat it at six to-night. Mrs. Biddlecombe's orders. I shall give notice if you swear at me."
He fled—vanquished by another woman. At the door he fired a parting shot:
"Smells all over Melchester. I believe that fish is bad."
"I didn't buy it," replied Maria calmly.
II
The meat tea was served, and Mrs. Biddlecombe joined Quinney at table. He made no protests, but refused to touch the mackerel. When interrogated he said that he disliked stale fish.
"Stale fish, Joseph!"
"Did you buy it?"
"I did."
"Did you choose it?"
Mrs. Biddlecombe's ample cheeks turned a deeper damask.
"I did not. I instructed the fishmonger to send round some fresh fish."
"Thought so!" said Quinney, as he attacked the cold beef.
Unhappily, Mrs. Biddlecombe was beguiled into eating heartily of the mackerel, desiring to assert her faith in its freshness and her confidence in the fishmonger. Conversation languished. Presently, Quinney jumped to his feet and raced upstairs. He tapped at his wife's door. The nurse opened it, and as she did so the husband heard a faint moan.
"You can't come in now," said the nurse.
"I'm not coming in. You tell my wife, with my love, not to eat any mackerel, and don't you touch it yourself, if you want to be fit and well to-night."
He returned to the dining-room feeling, for the first time, that he had been of practical service to omnipotent woman! But the faint moan had destroyed his appetite. He told Mrs. Biddlecombe that he intended to walk up and down the garden.
"You'll be within call?"
"Of course. Any notion when the doctor will be wanted?"
"He may be wanted at any minute."
"You may want him before Susan does!"
He shut the door before the astonished lady could reply.