IIIThese thoughts were trickling through his mind as he gazed at the placid Mel trickling also to troublous seas, where its clear waters would be merged and lost. Quinney squirmed at the remote possibility of being merged and lost. He muttered uneasily: "It fair furs my tongue to think o' that." The extra glass of wine had not excited him to the consideration of perilous enterprises. An extra pint might have done so. No; the old port which had ripened in the Melchester cellars exercised a benignant and restful influence. Its spirit, released at last, seemed to hover about the ancient town, loath to leave it. We may hazard the conjecture that the wine in the cellars of our universities may be potent to lull the ambitions of restless scholars, and to keep them willing prisoners in drowsy quadrangles.Quinney lighted his pipe. He felt ripe for an important decision. For some months the necessity of enlarging his present premises had bulked large in his thoughts. A successful country dealer must carry an immense amount of stock, because he dare not specialize. His hatred for rubbish had become an obsession. More, his love of the finest specimens of furniture and porcelain interfered with the sale of them. He placed a price on these which eventually he got, but often he was constrained to wait so long for the right customer that his profit was seriously diminished. He sold quickly immense lines of moderately-priced "stuff"—chairs, tables, chests of drawers, bureaux, bookcases, bedsteads, and mantel-pieces. The "gems," as he called them, were taken to the Dream Cottage, and only shown to the worthy few.To enlarge his premises was no ha'penny affair. Lord Mel, it is true, had offered to do so, but only on the condition that his tenant should sign a long lease; and a long lease meant remaining in Melchester. Ten, twenty years hence, he would be too old to begin again in London.He smoked his pipe much too quickly.To be candid, he was struggling desperately with the twin brethren, who, whether good or bad, accompany each of us from the cradle to the grave. He was at grips with heredity and environment. Afterwards he admitted to himself and to Susan that two would have prevailed over one. He made up his mind to write to Lord Mel's agent on the morrow, and he consoled himself with the sound reflection that he was grasping substance, not shadow. London might ruin him—he knew that, being no fool—and yet he was in the mood to shed tears upon the grave of ambition. Never, never, would he bend the knee before his Sovereign if he remained in Melchester!He sighed profoundly as he slipped his pipe into his pocket. By this time he was lucidly himself. The decision to enlarge his premises, and all that meant, would not be weakened, but strengthened, by a night's sleep. Sleep! He smiled derisively. Sleep! Everybody in Melchester was asleep. He beheld himself and Susan growing fat in this sleepy town. Susan was already plumper. She would develop into just such a fleshly tabernacle as her mother.He exclaimed loudly and virulently:"Damn!"This was his acknowledgment of defeat. His "Vae victis." He writhed impotently in the toils of circumstance, although the struggle was over. The night seemed to have turned darker, the stars paled in the violet sky, as he walked slowly towards the Dream Cottage, wherein his wonderful dream would never come true. One would like to record that thoughts of his pretty, loving wife, and thoughts of his Posy—admittedly the gem of gems—stirred within him, pouring spikenard upon his lacerated sensibilities. It was not so. They stood for poppy, and mandragora, or, as he might have put it, old port and brown sherry in cut-glass decanters. And every fibre of his small, sturdy body clamoured for a fight in the London ring, a fight to a finish with the experts of his trade.At that dark moment he beheld light.IVThe light came from Dream Cottage—a faint luminous glow, so strange, so mysterious, that he stood still, straining his eyes to determine the meaning of it till that meaning flared full upon him.One of the chimneys was ablaze!Instantly his dormant energies awoke to liveliest activity. He raced back to a corner of the Close, where he had passed a policeman. The man had wandered farther on his beat. He overtook him, gasping."My house is afire!"The policeman recognized Quinney, and nodded owlishly."Your house afire?" he repeated."You bolt for the engine—see?"He twirled round the massive figure, and pushed it vigorously. The guardian of the night broke into a slow trot. Quinney shouted:"Get a move on!" and sped back to the cottage. The light was no longer faintly luminous. Flames—hungry tongues of destruction—were licking the darkness.CHAPTER IXSALVAGEIQuinney found Susan asleep. In the small dressing room next to their bedroom, Posy also slumbered sweetly, although acrid smoke was filling the house. When Susan understood that she was not the victim of some hideous nightmare, Quinney imposed his commands."You've time to slip on warm clothes. Bolt on to the lawn with Posy. Don't try to save any of your rags. I'll wake Maria—and then I've a lot to do. The best stuff downstairs is not insured. The engine will be here in two jiffs. You scoot out o' this! Hear me?"She nodded breathlessly, swept off her feet by his excitement. He vanished, before she could answer him or remind him of a bedridden mother-in-law.Maria also was asleep. Quinney hauled her out of bed, and pointed to the attic window."Look at that," he said grimly, "and scoot!"Maria scooted.Quinney leapt downstairs, cursing himself for a fool inasmuch as he had neglected to increase his insurance. The "gems" had slowly accumulated month after month. He breathed more easily when he reached the ground floor, but he was well aware that the old house would burn like tinder. The roof of thatch had begun to blaze; he could hear the crackle of the flames overhead.With profound regret it must be set down that he had quite forgotten Mrs. Biddlecombe.He worked methodically, beginning with the uninsured porcelain, the Worcester, Chelsea, and Bow, which he carried tenderly into the garden. He had removed the most valuable specimens before the engine arrived. Maria, stout creature, half-dressed, bare-legged and bare-footed, joined him. Together they hauled out the Chippendale chairs and china cupboard."Seen your missus?" asked Quinney, when she first appeared."On the lawn," replied Maria.Presently they heard the welcome rattle of the engine, and the Chief strode in, followed by two firemen."Women all out?" he asked."You bet!" replied Quinney. At that moment he remembered Mrs. Biddlecombe. "My God!" he exclaimed, gripping the Chief. "There's Mrs. Biddlecombe! Bedridden, by Gum!"Maria burst into the riotous laughter of a Bacchante."The old lady," she spluttered, "was the first to scoot. She just ran out like I did.""Ran?" repeated Quinney."Like a rabbit!" said Maria, more calmly."We've about five more minutes," remarked the Chief.During that brief period wonders were accomplished; but at the very last Quinney narrowly escaped death in his determination to save a print in colour which he had overlooked. A fireman grabbed him and held him as the roof fell.IIKindly neighbours sheltered the women for that night, while Quinney mounted guard over his furniture and porcelain. He never left his precious things till they were safely stored in a warehouse. When his fellow-townsmen condoled with him he laughed in their solemn faces. The sense of freedom which had so expanded his spirit upon the never-to-be-forgotten occasion of his sire's funeral once more possessed him. The fire had burnt to cinders the resolution to remain in Melchester. He found himself wishing that the shop had burned too. What a glorious clearance that would have been, to be sure! Nevertheless, the sight of Susan's face dampened his rejoicings. Obviously, she had swooped upon the truth. Mrs. Biddlecombe had been forgotten, left to frizzle, while a madman, at the risk of his life, was rescuing sticks and stones!"You never thought of mother," said Susan. The small woman looked rather pale, and Quinney marked for the first time the wrinkle between her eyes. Mrs. Biddlecombe had the same vertical line, deeply cut. Also there was an inflection in Susan's voice which he recognized regretfully as an inheritance from the old lady. He was tempted to lie boldly, to affirm with loud authority that he had left the care of the invalid mother to a devoted daughter. Fortunately, he remembered the Bacchanalian laughter of Maria. The baggage had peached. He replied simply:"I didn't."Susan compressed her pretty lips, and the likeness to her mother became startlingly strong.Quinney tried a disarming smile as he murmured:"She legged it out on to the lawn. Maria says she ran like a bloomin' rabbit.""If Maria said that I shall have to speak to her seriously.""She didn't say 'blooming.' I'm sorry, Susie. It's awful, I know, but you needn't glare at me as if I'd left the old lady to burn on purpose. And out of evil comes good—hey? We know now that she's as spry as ever. Almost looks as if firin' had cured her.""If you mean to make a joke of it——"He saw that she was deeply offended, and foolishly attempted to kiss her. Susan repulsed him."What! Refuse to kiss your own hubby!""Mother might be lying dead; and you thinking only of sticks and stones.""Come off it!" said Quinney irritably.Susan turned her back on him, and he returned to the shop. It was their first serious trouble.IIIWhen they met again two hours afterwards the wrinkle had vanished; and no allusion was made to this unhappy incident, either then or later. Susan was busy moving into temporary lodgings and buying necessary articles of clothing for herself and her mother. Quinney was thinking of London, and fairly spoiling for the fight ahead. It would begin when he tackled Susan and her mother, and he knew that this first encounter would be no bloodless victory. Posy would be used as a weapon, an Excalibur in the hands of a devoted mother.After much pondering, he did an unwise thing—what might have been expected from a man engrossed in his own business, and fully sensible that he understood that business better than anyone else. He had always despised futile argument. Mrs. Biddlecombe and Susan would argue for hours, repeating themselves like silly parrots, and evading, like most women, the real issues. He told himself that he would be quite unable to listen patiently to their prattle about country air and old friends, and rolling stones denuded of nice comfortable moss. Why not make his arrangements without consulting them? Whatever they might say, he intended to move from Melchester. He had nailed his flag to the mast when the roof of Dream Cottage fell in. It streamed over his future, a Blue Peter.Accordingly, he slipped away to London some two days later, leaving two women and an intelligent child in blissful ignorance of what was waving above them. He told Susan that an interview with the fire insurance people was imperative. She was quite ready to believe that, and speeded him on his journey with smiles and kisses."While you are away," she said cheerfully, "I shall be looking out for another Dream Cottage.""You won't find it in Melchester," he replied curtly.Upon arrival in London he set forth gallantly in search of a "pitch." He wandered in and out of curiosity shops big and small. Some of the dealers knew him slightly. Many of the older men used to deal with his father. They were well aware that the son refused on principle to sell to the trade. Tomlin had passed round that word long ago. Quinney inspected their wares, and chuckled to himself whenever he encountered a fake labelled as a genuine antique. The biggest men displayed stuff not above suspicion. Indeed, the chuckling became audible when he discovered a Minihy cabinet in a famous establishment in St. James's Street."Guarantee that?" he asked of the rather supercilious young gentleman in a frock coat who was doing the honours."Certainly."It was then that Quinney chuckled. The young gentleman, quite unaware that he was entertaining a provincial dealer, said loftily:"It's French. Came out of a French château in Touraine.""Signed?""I think not. It's signed all over as a bit of the finest Renaissance craftsmanship."Quinney bent down, still chuckling."It is signed," he said, with conviction."Really? Where, may I ask?"Quinney indicated a small, much-battered piece of oak."Remove that," he observed quietly, "and you will find the signature under it.""Whose signature?""The signature of a great artist who lives near Treguier in Brittany.""Lives? What do you mean?"Quinney met the young gentleman's scornful eyes and held them."I mean, my lad, that your master has here a very clever copy, signed where I say by the man who copied it, whom I know. I've not asked the price, but I'll tell you this: if it's genuine, it's cheap at two thousand; if it's a copy I can buy a dozen just like it at sixteen pounds apiece. Good-morning."After three days' hard walking, Quinney summed up results as follows: There were three classes of dealers in London. The tip-toppers, with establishments in fashionable thoroughfares, who sold the best stuff at a fancy price; the men, whose name was Legion, who lived here, there, and everywhere, selling wares good, bad, and indifferent at a small profit; and the middle-men, who sold almost exclusively to the big dealers."There is a place for me," said Quinney, with absolute conviction.He said as much to Tomlin next day. They were lunching together in an old-fashioned eating-house just off Fleet Street, sitting bolt upright upon wooden benches, and inhaling an atmosphere which advertised insistently cheese, onions, chump chops, and tobacco. Tomlin was the host, and he had ordered steak-and-kidney pudding, a Welsh rarebit to follow, and a bottle of port. He attacked these viands with such gusto that Quinney said to himself:"Never did see a man with a more unhealthy appetite!"Warmed into candid speech by this fine old English food and drink, Tomlin said thickly:"A place for you, my tulip? Hope it won't be in the Bankruptcy Court!"—and he chuckled grossly.Tomlin's place, be it mentioned, was at the wrong end of the Fulham Road, but he was talking of moving to Bond Street. Tomlin reckoned himself to be one of the big dealers, and he talked in a full, throaty voice:"You're a fool to leave Melchester, Joe. I say it as a friend.""There's a place for me in London," repeated Quinney."Where?""Well, somewhere between the Fulham Road and Long Acre.""'Ow about rent?""'Tisn't the rent that worries me.""Customers?""That's right—customers. The business will have to be built up slowly, because I mean to specialize.""In what?""Old English porcelain, glass, and the finest furniture.""You'll starve.""I mean to have one other department which may keep the pot boiling.""Give it a name, Joe.""Not yet.""My first and last word to you is: Go back to Melchester and stay there."Tomlin repeated this till Quinney sickened of his company. But he wanted the London man to predict disaster in his raucous tones. Success would taste the sweeter when it came. Moreover, Susan hated Tomlin, to such an extent, indeed, that she would flout his judgment. She had never forgiven his tale of a table with a broken leg.The men separated after smoking two cigars. Quinney walked to Soho Square, lit a better cigar than Tomlin had given to him, and stared at an ancient house with a pediment over the door, and a signboard upon which were inscribed the exciting words, "To Let."The mansion—for it was thus styled—had challenged his attention and interest two days before. Tomlin would have ridiculed the idea of taking such a house, and turning it into a shop, but Tomlin was a tradesman, whereas Quinney believed himself to be an artist. The house was of the right period—early Georgian from garret to cellar.Quinney went over it.It seemed to be the real right thing, so right that the little man, who had unconsciously absorbed some of the Melchester sermons, told himself that the guiding finger of Providence could be plainly discerned. There were dry cellars for storing valuable woods, a back-yard, and a big drawing-room, finely decorated in the Adam style, possibly by the hand of the Master, which occupied the first floor, and looked out upon the Square through three nobly-proportioned windows. Quinney decided instantly to make this splendid room his "sanctuary," the treasure-house, wherein his "gems" would be fittingly enshrined. The ground floor would serve admirably as a shop. There were several bedrooms and excellent offices.In regard to the situation he came to this conclusion. The shops of the groundlings in the trade were invariably small and ill-lighted; the establishments of the big dealers commanded a rent beyond his means. In any case, he would have to work up a clientele, and his customers, when they did find their way to this ancient square, would behold his beautiful wares under the happiest conditions of space and light.The rent, including rates and taxes, came to less than three hundred a year! A big rent, it is true, for a dealer with his capital, but much less than Tomlin paid for large and inconvenient premises in the Fulham Road.He signed a long lease within twenty-four hours, and returned, exulting in his strength, to Melchester and Susan.IVHe did not tell her his wonderful news at once. A habit of secretiveness concerning his business was forming itself. It must be recorded on his behalf that Susan's indifference to "sticks and stones" exasperated him. By this time he had recognized her inability to appreciate fine "stuff!" As a saleswoman she had enchanted him, but even then, when she trotted about the shop smiling sweetly at his customers, he knew that she would never acquire a sense of values, that nice discrimination which detects unerringly the good from the very good, and acclaims the genius of the artist so subtly differentiated from the handicraft of the artisan.Susan, artless soul! had news of her own to impart. She had found a house just outside Melchester—a house with a bathroom, with hot and cold water laid on, a labour-saving house quite up to date—a bargain!The expression of his shrewd face, as he listened, warned Susan that he was keeping something from her. Human paste she understood better than he did. The animation died out of her voice as she faltered:"You look so queer, Joe."Then he told her.To his surprise and satisfaction she acquiesced meekly. She was thinking that her prayers had been answered; but she could not bring herself to say so. Also she was cruelly hurt at his lack of confidence, afraid to speak lest she should say too much, too proud to break down, pathetically silent. Quinney went on floundering amongst the broken ice."I'm out for a big thing. I know that I can pull it off single-handed. Results will justify this move, Susie. It's no use my hidin' from you that I'm in for a fight. They'll down me if they can, but in the end I shall come out on top, my girl. On top!""On top of what, Joe?"He caught hold of her cold hands, gripping them tightly. He never noticed how faintly the pressure was returned."Atop o' the heap. A big dealer. It's in me. Always knew it. Not a dog's chance here. Why, even Primmer of Bath had to go to London. I was in his Piccadilly place yesterday. And I can remember what his old shop at Bath used to be.""What does Mr. Tomlin say?""He's nasty, is Tom Tomlin. I wanted him to be nasty. By Gum! I egged him on to call me a fool and an idiot.""How I dislike that man!""He fairly wallowed in prophecies. It will be the same here. I can hear Pinker goin' it.""Have you asked Lord Mel's advice?"Quinney glanced at her sharply."His lordship was very kind, but he's my landlord, and I'm a good tenant. He may be offended. I must risk that."Susan sighed as she said with finality:"It's done?""Thank the Lord—yes!"He suffered at the hands of Mrs. Biddlecombe, who, since the fire, had become livelier in mind and body. She believed that a miracle had been wrought upon her aged and infirm body, and regarded it as sanctified by a Divine touch. Laburnum Row repeated with awe the old lady's solemn words:"When I woke to hear the roaring of the flames, I heard a Voice. It seemed to say: 'Martha Biddlecombe, arise and walk.'"A select party of friends was listening, but—weed your acquaintance how you may—nettles will spring up unexpectedly. A thin, acidulous spinster remarked drily:"We heard you—ran.""It is perfectly true," replied Mrs. Biddlecombe, with austere dignity. "The hand of the Lord was upon me, and I ran."According to her lights, she dealt faithfully with Joseph Quinney. As his guest, helpless beneath his roof, she had curbed too sharp a tongue. In her own lodgings, and mentally as well as physically "on her legs again," she deemed it a duty to let that tongue wag freely. She received her son-in-law seated upon a sofa, the hard, old-fashioned sofa covered with black horse-hair. Above the mantelpiece was a framed print in crude colour, a portrait of the Great White Queen, in all her Imperial splendour handing a cheap edition of the Bible to a naked savage. Underneath this work of art was inscribed: "This is the secret of England's greatness." Upon a small marble-topped table near the sofa was another Bible."Be seated, Joseph."She had allowed him to kiss her cheek; and he guessed, as he saluted her, that she was in happy ignorance of his monstrous offence. At her request Susan was not present."You are going to London?""That's right.""It is not right, Joseph. It is very far indeed from being right. It would seem that right and wrong, as I interpret such plain words, have no definite meaning to you.""Pop away!""What?""I said 'Pop away.' I meant, go on firing.""I beg to be allowed to finish without flippant interruption on your part. Personally, the affairs of this world do not concern me any longer. I am interested in them so far as they concern others, my own flesh and blood. Susan was born in Melchester, and so were you.""We couldn't help it. You might have chosen a livelier spot. Me and Susan wasn't consulted. Children in a better managed world would be consulted, but there you are.""Do you think, Joseph, in your arrogance, that you could manage this world better than it is managed?""Lord bless you, yes!""I trust that the Lord will bless me, young man. but He will assuredly not bless you, unless you mend your ways and your manners.""Keep it up!"It enraged her to perceive that he was enjoying himself. She wondered vaguely how the Bishop would deal with such a hardened offender."I, for one, refuse to accompany you to London.""Sorry.""Are you sorry? I doubt it. Susan will miss me"—she wiped away two tears invisible to Quinney, and her voice trembled querulously as she continued—"and Posy will be deprived of a grandmother at a time when her mind and character are being made or marred. I understand, also, that you are risking a fortune which is more than ample for a man in your station of life. It would appear also that you have taken this step in defiance of advice from the Marquess of Mel.""I took it"—he drew in his breath sharply, speaking almost as solemnly as his very upright judge—"because I had to take it. Melchester is too small for me, too sleepy, too stoopid, too hide-bound. The most wonderful thing in the whole town is just like me.""To what do you allude?""To the spire of the Cathedral. It soars, don't it? Can you see it laying flat on the ground? Can you fancy it asleep? It taught me to soar. When I was a boy, crawlin' at the old man's heel, I used to say to it: 'Gosh, you're well out of it!' And now"—he smiled triumphantly—"I'm well out of it, for ever and ever, Amen!"Mrs. Biddlecombe rallied her failing energies for a last charge. Somehow she was impressed by this queer son-in-law. He confounded her. She remarked slowly:"It seems a strange thing to say, but I have heard of spires struck by God's lightning.""Maybe," said Quinney, rising; "but you can take it from me that this spire won't be struck because it's fitted with a lightnin' conductor."He retired, chuckling. Mrs. Biddlecombe shook her head. She was utterly at a loss to determine whether Quinney was alluding to the Cathedral spire or to himself. If to himself, who or what was his lightning conductor?BOOK IICHAPTER XBLUDGEONINGSILondon exercised the influence that might be expected upon such a character as Quinney's. The soot, so to speak, brought out the chlorophyl. As he put it to Susan, with grim humour:"Makes us feel a bit green, hey?"He had supposed that the big dealers would ignore him; he had not expected what he found—active hostility. His first fight, for example, opened his eyes by closing one of them. A brief account of it must be chronicled. He had kept out of the auction rooms, like Christopher's, but he frequented small sales, and became a menace to a ring of Hebrew dealers, who, hitherto, had managed such affairs with great executive ability entirely in their own interests. Quinney was well aware of their methods. At the sale proper prices were kept at the lowest possible level. The real buying and selling took place afterwards in a private room at some neighbouring tavern. Quinney, who was invited to join the "ring," knew all about "knock-outs," and decided that he would not identify himself with such an unsavoury crowd. Tomlin warned him."Leave those swine alone, Joe.""I mean to, old man.""But remember this, they won't leave you alone, the dirty dogs!"They didn't.Upon the eve of a small sale in the suburbs, held at the house of a bankrupt merchant, who had bought, in the days of his prosperity, some good bits of furniture, Quinney was "nosing round," as he called it, by himself, jotting down in a notebook the prices he was prepared to pay on the morrow. Suddenly there entered a truculent-looking young man of the type that may be seen boxing at Wonderland, which is just off the Whitechapel Road. He swaggered up to Quinney and said drawlingly:"Buyin' against my crowd, you was, las' week?"Quinney eyed him nervously, as he answered with spirit:"Your crowd, hey?""I said my crowd. Want to join us?""No, my lad, I don't.""Why not?""I'm rather careful about the company I keep, see?"The young man glanced round. They were quite alone. Then he hit Quinney hard. Our hero ducked ineffectively, and caught the blow on his left eye. Instantly he realized that his antagonist was what is called a "workman." Nevertheless he "set about him." In less than a minute the fine old adage which sets forth that right is greater than might was lamentably perverted. Quinney was left half senseless on a Turkey carpet which bore stains of the encounter, and his aggressor fled. Next day, Quinney remained at home, tended by Susan, who admitted that she felt like Jael, the wife of Heber, the Kenite."Can't you prosecute?" she asked indignantly."Never saw the fellow before, never likely to see him again. Hired for the job, he was—earned his money, too."After this experience he kept out of third-class London sales, buying as before from provincial dealers, making it worth their while to come to him first. Your provincial man is not omniscient, and is prepared to accept a small profit upon every article that passes through his hands. Quinney secured some bargains, but he could not sell them, because he had no customers.His next experience was more serious. He had gone to Melshire to buy a certain satin-wood commode with panels painted by Angelica Kauffman. The owner of the commode, a fox-hunting squire, knew nothing of its value, but he happened to know Quinney, and he offered the commode to Quinney for fifty pounds. This incident illustrates nicely the sense of honour which prevails among dealers in antiques. The commode had been advertised as part of the contents of an ancient manor house. Other Melshire dealers, many of them Quinney's friends, were attending the sale. Immensely to the fox-hunting squire's surprise, Quinney pointed out that it would not be fair to the other dealers to buy before-hand a valuable bit of furniture already advertised in a printed catalogue. He concluded:"It'll fetch more than fifty pounds."At the sale it fetched ninety-seven pounds. At the "knock-out" afterwards, bidding against the other dealers, Quinney paid nine hundred pounds for this "gem," and told himself, with many chucklings, that he would double his money within a few weeks. He returned to London with his prize, and recited the facts to Susan, whose sympathy ranged itself upon the side of the Melchester squire."Seems to me that poor man was robbed. Ninety-seven pounds for a thing that you say is worth two thousand. It's awful.""Is it? Now, look ye here, Susie, I'm going to put you right on this for ever and ever, see? I'm not in this business for my health. Like every other merchant, I buy in the cheapest market, and sell in the dearest. It's not my business to educate country gentlemen, who've had twice my advantages. If the owners of good stuff don't take the trouble to find out the value of what they've got, so much the worse for them, the blooming idiots! I play the game, my girl. I might have bought that commode for a level fifty. Think of it! Why didn't I? Because I'm an honourable man. Because it wouldn't have been straight with the others who were after that commode. Has it soaked in? I'll just add this: It's we dealers who create values. Never thought o' that, did you? Nor anyone else outside the profession. But it's gospel truth. Dealers create the big prices, not the silly owners, who don't know enough to keep their pictures in decent condition. I remember a country parson who kept his umbrella in a bigfamille vertejar. Tomlin bought that jar for a few pounds, and sold it at Christopher's for fifteen hundred. The parson made a fine hullabaloo, but it served him jolly well right. We do the work, and we're entitled to the big profits."Susan felt crushed, but a leaven of her mother in her constrained her to reply:"I hope that commode is worth nine hundred pounds.""It's worth a damn sight more than that, Susie!"Tomlin came to see it next day. He examined it carefully, with his sharp nose cocked at a critical angle. Finally, he said hesitatingly:"Are you quite sure, Joe, that Angelica Kauffman painted them panels?""Just as sure, old man, as if I'd seen her at it."Nevertheless, Tomlin's question rankled.IIWith many apologies, we present the reader to Messrs. Lark and Bundy, of Oxford Street. Gustavus Lark is probably the best known of the London art dealers. He is now an old man, and his sons and Bundy's sons manage an immense business. Ten years ago he had not retired. Criticism of him or his methods are irrelevant to this chronicle, but a side-light is thrown upon them when we consider how he treated Joe Quinney, a young man against whom he had no grudge whatever. Gustavus Lark heard, of course, that a Melchester dealer, newly settled in Soho Square, had bought a commode said to be painted by Angelica Kauffman for nine hundred pounds. Immediately he sent for his eldest son, a true chip of the old block."Why did we not hear of this?"The son answered curtly:"Because we can't hear of everything. There wasn't one big London dealer at the sale; and the only thing worth having was this commode.""Is it the goods?""I believe so.""Do you know?""Well, yes—I know.""I must send for Pressland."Pressland deserves some little attention. England honours him as a connoisseur of Old Masters. Upon pictures his word is often the first and the last. We know that he "boomed" certain painters, long dead. To quote Quinney, he "created" values. And he worked hand in hand with just such men as Gustavus Lark. In appearance he might have been a successful dentist. He wore a frock-coat and small side-whiskers. He said "Please" in an ingratiating tone. His hands were scrupulously clean, as if he had washed them often after dirty jobs. Out of a pale, sallow face shone two small grey eyes, set too close together. He contradicted other experts with an inimitable effrontery. "What is this?" he would say, laying a lean forefinger upon a doubtful signature. "A Velasquez? I think not. Why? Because, my dear sir, I know!"Admittedly, he did know about Velasquez; and this knowledge was, so to speak, on tap, at the service of anybody willing to pay a reasonable fee. But his knowledge of furniture and porcelain was placed with reserve at the disposition of dealers. He told many persons that he made mistakes, and the public never guessed that such mistakes were paid for munificently.Gustavus Lark sent for Pressland. The men met in Lark's sanctum, an austere little room, simply furnished. There is another room next to it, and when Gustavus sends for a very particular visitor nobody enters that ante-chamber except a member of the firm."Do you know this Soho Square man, Quinney?""I have met him.""Has he come to stay?""Um! I think so."Gustavus Lark stroked his beard. He looked very handsome and prosperous, not unlike a genial monarch whom he was said by his clerks to understudy."I want you," he said slowly, "to go to Soho Square this morning, and if by any chance Quinney should ask your opinion of the commode, why"—he laughed pleasantly—"in that case I shouldn't mind betting quite a considerable sum that you would discover it to be—er—a clever reproduction."Pressland smiled."Probably.""I mean to have a look at it myself later."Pressland went his way. Part of his success in life may be assigned to a praiseworthy habit of executing small and big commissions with becoming promptitude. He strolled into Quinney's shop as if he were the most idle man in town."Anything to show me?" he asked languidly.Quinney was delighted to see him. He recognized Pressland at once."Happy and honoured to see you, sir."Presently, he took him upstairs into the drawing-room, already spoken of as the "sanctuary." In it were all his beloved treasures. He had done up the room "regardless." Here stood his Chippendale cabinet, filled with Early Worcester and Chelsea; here were his cherished prints in colour, his finest specimens of Waterford glass, two or three beautiful miniatures, and many other things. Pressland was astonished, but he said little, nodding his head from time to time, and listening attentively to Quinney. As soon as he entered the room he perceived the satin-wood commode standing in the place of honour.Pressland praised the Chippendale cabinet, and ignored the commode. Quinney frowned. Finally he jerked out:"What do you think of that, sir?""What?""That commode. Pedigree bit, out of an old Melshire manor house. Good stuff, hey?"Pressland adjusted his pince-nez, and stared hard and long at the panels. Quinney began to fidget."Bit of all right—um?"Pressland said slowly:"I hope you didn't pay very much for it, Mr. Quinney.""I paid a thumping big cheque for it. Never paid so much before for a single bit."Pressland murmured pensively:"I thought you knew your furniture.""Ain't it all right? There's no secret about what I paid. It's been paragraphed—nine hundred pounds."A soft whistle escaped from Pressland's thin lips. He said depressingly:"I dare say you know more about those panels than I do."Quinney protested vigorously:"Don't play that on me, Mr. Pressland. If I knew one quarter of what you know about pictures I'd be a proud man.""A pedigree bit? What do you mean by that?""Owner said it had been in his family for more than a hundred years. He said that the panels were painted by Angelica Kauffman.""Are you quite sure he didn't say after Angelica Kauffman?"Quinney shook his head. From every pore in his skin confidence was oozing."Did he know the value of it?""No, he didn't.""Ah! He must have been pleased with your cheque."Quinney explained matters. Pressland's expression became acutely melancholy; and his silence, as he turned away, was eloquent of a commiseration too deep for words."Isn't it right, Mr. Pressland?""My opinion is worth little, Mr. Quinney.""I'm prepared to pay for it if necessary.""No, no, no! Not from you. Well, then, I am afraid you have been had. Did the dealers at the 'knock-out' suspect that you wanted it badly?""Perhaps they did. I kept on bidding.""Just so. It's a little way they have. Very, very jealous, some of them. You have been successful. Success makes enemies. I have enemies. There are men in London who accuse me of abominable, unmentionable things." He smiled modestly, spreading out his hands."You can afford to laugh at 'em, Mr. Pressland.""I do.""Am I to take it from you, sir, that Angelica did not paint those panels?"Pressland shrugged his shoulders."I am of opinion, and I may well be mistaken, that those panels were painted after Angelica Kauffman's death, probably by a clever pupil. But please ask somebody else."He drifted away, promising to call again, assuring Quinney that he would send him customers.
III
These thoughts were trickling through his mind as he gazed at the placid Mel trickling also to troublous seas, where its clear waters would be merged and lost. Quinney squirmed at the remote possibility of being merged and lost. He muttered uneasily: "It fair furs my tongue to think o' that." The extra glass of wine had not excited him to the consideration of perilous enterprises. An extra pint might have done so. No; the old port which had ripened in the Melchester cellars exercised a benignant and restful influence. Its spirit, released at last, seemed to hover about the ancient town, loath to leave it. We may hazard the conjecture that the wine in the cellars of our universities may be potent to lull the ambitions of restless scholars, and to keep them willing prisoners in drowsy quadrangles.
Quinney lighted his pipe. He felt ripe for an important decision. For some months the necessity of enlarging his present premises had bulked large in his thoughts. A successful country dealer must carry an immense amount of stock, because he dare not specialize. His hatred for rubbish had become an obsession. More, his love of the finest specimens of furniture and porcelain interfered with the sale of them. He placed a price on these which eventually he got, but often he was constrained to wait so long for the right customer that his profit was seriously diminished. He sold quickly immense lines of moderately-priced "stuff"—chairs, tables, chests of drawers, bureaux, bookcases, bedsteads, and mantel-pieces. The "gems," as he called them, were taken to the Dream Cottage, and only shown to the worthy few.
To enlarge his premises was no ha'penny affair. Lord Mel, it is true, had offered to do so, but only on the condition that his tenant should sign a long lease; and a long lease meant remaining in Melchester. Ten, twenty years hence, he would be too old to begin again in London.
He smoked his pipe much too quickly.
To be candid, he was struggling desperately with the twin brethren, who, whether good or bad, accompany each of us from the cradle to the grave. He was at grips with heredity and environment. Afterwards he admitted to himself and to Susan that two would have prevailed over one. He made up his mind to write to Lord Mel's agent on the morrow, and he consoled himself with the sound reflection that he was grasping substance, not shadow. London might ruin him—he knew that, being no fool—and yet he was in the mood to shed tears upon the grave of ambition. Never, never, would he bend the knee before his Sovereign if he remained in Melchester!
He sighed profoundly as he slipped his pipe into his pocket. By this time he was lucidly himself. The decision to enlarge his premises, and all that meant, would not be weakened, but strengthened, by a night's sleep. Sleep! He smiled derisively. Sleep! Everybody in Melchester was asleep. He beheld himself and Susan growing fat in this sleepy town. Susan was already plumper. She would develop into just such a fleshly tabernacle as her mother.
He exclaimed loudly and virulently:
"Damn!"
This was his acknowledgment of defeat. His "Vae victis." He writhed impotently in the toils of circumstance, although the struggle was over. The night seemed to have turned darker, the stars paled in the violet sky, as he walked slowly towards the Dream Cottage, wherein his wonderful dream would never come true. One would like to record that thoughts of his pretty, loving wife, and thoughts of his Posy—admittedly the gem of gems—stirred within him, pouring spikenard upon his lacerated sensibilities. It was not so. They stood for poppy, and mandragora, or, as he might have put it, old port and brown sherry in cut-glass decanters. And every fibre of his small, sturdy body clamoured for a fight in the London ring, a fight to a finish with the experts of his trade.
At that dark moment he beheld light.
IV
The light came from Dream Cottage—a faint luminous glow, so strange, so mysterious, that he stood still, straining his eyes to determine the meaning of it till that meaning flared full upon him.
One of the chimneys was ablaze!
Instantly his dormant energies awoke to liveliest activity. He raced back to a corner of the Close, where he had passed a policeman. The man had wandered farther on his beat. He overtook him, gasping.
"My house is afire!"
The policeman recognized Quinney, and nodded owlishly.
"Your house afire?" he repeated.
"You bolt for the engine—see?"
He twirled round the massive figure, and pushed it vigorously. The guardian of the night broke into a slow trot. Quinney shouted:
"Get a move on!" and sped back to the cottage. The light was no longer faintly luminous. Flames—hungry tongues of destruction—were licking the darkness.
CHAPTER IX
SALVAGE
I
Quinney found Susan asleep. In the small dressing room next to their bedroom, Posy also slumbered sweetly, although acrid smoke was filling the house. When Susan understood that she was not the victim of some hideous nightmare, Quinney imposed his commands.
"You've time to slip on warm clothes. Bolt on to the lawn with Posy. Don't try to save any of your rags. I'll wake Maria—and then I've a lot to do. The best stuff downstairs is not insured. The engine will be here in two jiffs. You scoot out o' this! Hear me?"
She nodded breathlessly, swept off her feet by his excitement. He vanished, before she could answer him or remind him of a bedridden mother-in-law.
Maria also was asleep. Quinney hauled her out of bed, and pointed to the attic window.
"Look at that," he said grimly, "and scoot!"
Maria scooted.
Quinney leapt downstairs, cursing himself for a fool inasmuch as he had neglected to increase his insurance. The "gems" had slowly accumulated month after month. He breathed more easily when he reached the ground floor, but he was well aware that the old house would burn like tinder. The roof of thatch had begun to blaze; he could hear the crackle of the flames overhead.
With profound regret it must be set down that he had quite forgotten Mrs. Biddlecombe.
He worked methodically, beginning with the uninsured porcelain, the Worcester, Chelsea, and Bow, which he carried tenderly into the garden. He had removed the most valuable specimens before the engine arrived. Maria, stout creature, half-dressed, bare-legged and bare-footed, joined him. Together they hauled out the Chippendale chairs and china cupboard.
"Seen your missus?" asked Quinney, when she first appeared.
"On the lawn," replied Maria.
Presently they heard the welcome rattle of the engine, and the Chief strode in, followed by two firemen.
"Women all out?" he asked.
"You bet!" replied Quinney. At that moment he remembered Mrs. Biddlecombe. "My God!" he exclaimed, gripping the Chief. "There's Mrs. Biddlecombe! Bedridden, by Gum!"
Maria burst into the riotous laughter of a Bacchante.
"The old lady," she spluttered, "was the first to scoot. She just ran out like I did."
"Ran?" repeated Quinney.
"Like a rabbit!" said Maria, more calmly.
"We've about five more minutes," remarked the Chief.
During that brief period wonders were accomplished; but at the very last Quinney narrowly escaped death in his determination to save a print in colour which he had overlooked. A fireman grabbed him and held him as the roof fell.
II
Kindly neighbours sheltered the women for that night, while Quinney mounted guard over his furniture and porcelain. He never left his precious things till they were safely stored in a warehouse. When his fellow-townsmen condoled with him he laughed in their solemn faces. The sense of freedom which had so expanded his spirit upon the never-to-be-forgotten occasion of his sire's funeral once more possessed him. The fire had burnt to cinders the resolution to remain in Melchester. He found himself wishing that the shop had burned too. What a glorious clearance that would have been, to be sure! Nevertheless, the sight of Susan's face dampened his rejoicings. Obviously, she had swooped upon the truth. Mrs. Biddlecombe had been forgotten, left to frizzle, while a madman, at the risk of his life, was rescuing sticks and stones!
"You never thought of mother," said Susan. The small woman looked rather pale, and Quinney marked for the first time the wrinkle between her eyes. Mrs. Biddlecombe had the same vertical line, deeply cut. Also there was an inflection in Susan's voice which he recognized regretfully as an inheritance from the old lady. He was tempted to lie boldly, to affirm with loud authority that he had left the care of the invalid mother to a devoted daughter. Fortunately, he remembered the Bacchanalian laughter of Maria. The baggage had peached. He replied simply:
"I didn't."
Susan compressed her pretty lips, and the likeness to her mother became startlingly strong.
Quinney tried a disarming smile as he murmured:
"She legged it out on to the lawn. Maria says she ran like a bloomin' rabbit."
"If Maria said that I shall have to speak to her seriously."
"She didn't say 'blooming.' I'm sorry, Susie. It's awful, I know, but you needn't glare at me as if I'd left the old lady to burn on purpose. And out of evil comes good—hey? We know now that she's as spry as ever. Almost looks as if firin' had cured her."
"If you mean to make a joke of it——"
He saw that she was deeply offended, and foolishly attempted to kiss her. Susan repulsed him.
"What! Refuse to kiss your own hubby!"
"Mother might be lying dead; and you thinking only of sticks and stones."
"Come off it!" said Quinney irritably.
Susan turned her back on him, and he returned to the shop. It was their first serious trouble.
III
When they met again two hours afterwards the wrinkle had vanished; and no allusion was made to this unhappy incident, either then or later. Susan was busy moving into temporary lodgings and buying necessary articles of clothing for herself and her mother. Quinney was thinking of London, and fairly spoiling for the fight ahead. It would begin when he tackled Susan and her mother, and he knew that this first encounter would be no bloodless victory. Posy would be used as a weapon, an Excalibur in the hands of a devoted mother.
After much pondering, he did an unwise thing—what might have been expected from a man engrossed in his own business, and fully sensible that he understood that business better than anyone else. He had always despised futile argument. Mrs. Biddlecombe and Susan would argue for hours, repeating themselves like silly parrots, and evading, like most women, the real issues. He told himself that he would be quite unable to listen patiently to their prattle about country air and old friends, and rolling stones denuded of nice comfortable moss. Why not make his arrangements without consulting them? Whatever they might say, he intended to move from Melchester. He had nailed his flag to the mast when the roof of Dream Cottage fell in. It streamed over his future, a Blue Peter.
Accordingly, he slipped away to London some two days later, leaving two women and an intelligent child in blissful ignorance of what was waving above them. He told Susan that an interview with the fire insurance people was imperative. She was quite ready to believe that, and speeded him on his journey with smiles and kisses.
"While you are away," she said cheerfully, "I shall be looking out for another Dream Cottage."
"You won't find it in Melchester," he replied curtly.
Upon arrival in London he set forth gallantly in search of a "pitch." He wandered in and out of curiosity shops big and small. Some of the dealers knew him slightly. Many of the older men used to deal with his father. They were well aware that the son refused on principle to sell to the trade. Tomlin had passed round that word long ago. Quinney inspected their wares, and chuckled to himself whenever he encountered a fake labelled as a genuine antique. The biggest men displayed stuff not above suspicion. Indeed, the chuckling became audible when he discovered a Minihy cabinet in a famous establishment in St. James's Street.
"Guarantee that?" he asked of the rather supercilious young gentleman in a frock coat who was doing the honours.
"Certainly."
It was then that Quinney chuckled. The young gentleman, quite unaware that he was entertaining a provincial dealer, said loftily:
"It's French. Came out of a French château in Touraine."
"Signed?"
"I think not. It's signed all over as a bit of the finest Renaissance craftsmanship."
Quinney bent down, still chuckling.
"It is signed," he said, with conviction.
"Really? Where, may I ask?"
Quinney indicated a small, much-battered piece of oak.
"Remove that," he observed quietly, "and you will find the signature under it."
"Whose signature?"
"The signature of a great artist who lives near Treguier in Brittany."
"Lives? What do you mean?"
Quinney met the young gentleman's scornful eyes and held them.
"I mean, my lad, that your master has here a very clever copy, signed where I say by the man who copied it, whom I know. I've not asked the price, but I'll tell you this: if it's genuine, it's cheap at two thousand; if it's a copy I can buy a dozen just like it at sixteen pounds apiece. Good-morning."
After three days' hard walking, Quinney summed up results as follows: There were three classes of dealers in London. The tip-toppers, with establishments in fashionable thoroughfares, who sold the best stuff at a fancy price; the men, whose name was Legion, who lived here, there, and everywhere, selling wares good, bad, and indifferent at a small profit; and the middle-men, who sold almost exclusively to the big dealers.
"There is a place for me," said Quinney, with absolute conviction.
He said as much to Tomlin next day. They were lunching together in an old-fashioned eating-house just off Fleet Street, sitting bolt upright upon wooden benches, and inhaling an atmosphere which advertised insistently cheese, onions, chump chops, and tobacco. Tomlin was the host, and he had ordered steak-and-kidney pudding, a Welsh rarebit to follow, and a bottle of port. He attacked these viands with such gusto that Quinney said to himself:
"Never did see a man with a more unhealthy appetite!"
Warmed into candid speech by this fine old English food and drink, Tomlin said thickly:
"A place for you, my tulip? Hope it won't be in the Bankruptcy Court!"—and he chuckled grossly.
Tomlin's place, be it mentioned, was at the wrong end of the Fulham Road, but he was talking of moving to Bond Street. Tomlin reckoned himself to be one of the big dealers, and he talked in a full, throaty voice:
"You're a fool to leave Melchester, Joe. I say it as a friend."
"There's a place for me in London," repeated Quinney.
"Where?"
"Well, somewhere between the Fulham Road and Long Acre."
"'Ow about rent?"
"'Tisn't the rent that worries me."
"Customers?"
"That's right—customers. The business will have to be built up slowly, because I mean to specialize."
"In what?"
"Old English porcelain, glass, and the finest furniture."
"You'll starve."
"I mean to have one other department which may keep the pot boiling."
"Give it a name, Joe."
"Not yet."
"My first and last word to you is: Go back to Melchester and stay there."
Tomlin repeated this till Quinney sickened of his company. But he wanted the London man to predict disaster in his raucous tones. Success would taste the sweeter when it came. Moreover, Susan hated Tomlin, to such an extent, indeed, that she would flout his judgment. She had never forgiven his tale of a table with a broken leg.
The men separated after smoking two cigars. Quinney walked to Soho Square, lit a better cigar than Tomlin had given to him, and stared at an ancient house with a pediment over the door, and a signboard upon which were inscribed the exciting words, "To Let."
The mansion—for it was thus styled—had challenged his attention and interest two days before. Tomlin would have ridiculed the idea of taking such a house, and turning it into a shop, but Tomlin was a tradesman, whereas Quinney believed himself to be an artist. The house was of the right period—early Georgian from garret to cellar.
Quinney went over it.
It seemed to be the real right thing, so right that the little man, who had unconsciously absorbed some of the Melchester sermons, told himself that the guiding finger of Providence could be plainly discerned. There were dry cellars for storing valuable woods, a back-yard, and a big drawing-room, finely decorated in the Adam style, possibly by the hand of the Master, which occupied the first floor, and looked out upon the Square through three nobly-proportioned windows. Quinney decided instantly to make this splendid room his "sanctuary," the treasure-house, wherein his "gems" would be fittingly enshrined. The ground floor would serve admirably as a shop. There were several bedrooms and excellent offices.
In regard to the situation he came to this conclusion. The shops of the groundlings in the trade were invariably small and ill-lighted; the establishments of the big dealers commanded a rent beyond his means. In any case, he would have to work up a clientele, and his customers, when they did find their way to this ancient square, would behold his beautiful wares under the happiest conditions of space and light.
The rent, including rates and taxes, came to less than three hundred a year! A big rent, it is true, for a dealer with his capital, but much less than Tomlin paid for large and inconvenient premises in the Fulham Road.
He signed a long lease within twenty-four hours, and returned, exulting in his strength, to Melchester and Susan.
IV
He did not tell her his wonderful news at once. A habit of secretiveness concerning his business was forming itself. It must be recorded on his behalf that Susan's indifference to "sticks and stones" exasperated him. By this time he had recognized her inability to appreciate fine "stuff!" As a saleswoman she had enchanted him, but even then, when she trotted about the shop smiling sweetly at his customers, he knew that she would never acquire a sense of values, that nice discrimination which detects unerringly the good from the very good, and acclaims the genius of the artist so subtly differentiated from the handicraft of the artisan.
Susan, artless soul! had news of her own to impart. She had found a house just outside Melchester—a house with a bathroom, with hot and cold water laid on, a labour-saving house quite up to date—a bargain!
The expression of his shrewd face, as he listened, warned Susan that he was keeping something from her. Human paste she understood better than he did. The animation died out of her voice as she faltered:
"You look so queer, Joe."
Then he told her.
To his surprise and satisfaction she acquiesced meekly. She was thinking that her prayers had been answered; but she could not bring herself to say so. Also she was cruelly hurt at his lack of confidence, afraid to speak lest she should say too much, too proud to break down, pathetically silent. Quinney went on floundering amongst the broken ice.
"I'm out for a big thing. I know that I can pull it off single-handed. Results will justify this move, Susie. It's no use my hidin' from you that I'm in for a fight. They'll down me if they can, but in the end I shall come out on top, my girl. On top!"
"On top of what, Joe?"
He caught hold of her cold hands, gripping them tightly. He never noticed how faintly the pressure was returned.
"Atop o' the heap. A big dealer. It's in me. Always knew it. Not a dog's chance here. Why, even Primmer of Bath had to go to London. I was in his Piccadilly place yesterday. And I can remember what his old shop at Bath used to be."
"What does Mr. Tomlin say?"
"He's nasty, is Tom Tomlin. I wanted him to be nasty. By Gum! I egged him on to call me a fool and an idiot."
"How I dislike that man!"
"He fairly wallowed in prophecies. It will be the same here. I can hear Pinker goin' it."
"Have you asked Lord Mel's advice?"
Quinney glanced at her sharply.
"His lordship was very kind, but he's my landlord, and I'm a good tenant. He may be offended. I must risk that."
Susan sighed as she said with finality:
"It's done?"
"Thank the Lord—yes!"
He suffered at the hands of Mrs. Biddlecombe, who, since the fire, had become livelier in mind and body. She believed that a miracle had been wrought upon her aged and infirm body, and regarded it as sanctified by a Divine touch. Laburnum Row repeated with awe the old lady's solemn words:
"When I woke to hear the roaring of the flames, I heard a Voice. It seemed to say: 'Martha Biddlecombe, arise and walk.'"
A select party of friends was listening, but—weed your acquaintance how you may—nettles will spring up unexpectedly. A thin, acidulous spinster remarked drily:
"We heard you—ran."
"It is perfectly true," replied Mrs. Biddlecombe, with austere dignity. "The hand of the Lord was upon me, and I ran."
According to her lights, she dealt faithfully with Joseph Quinney. As his guest, helpless beneath his roof, she had curbed too sharp a tongue. In her own lodgings, and mentally as well as physically "on her legs again," she deemed it a duty to let that tongue wag freely. She received her son-in-law seated upon a sofa, the hard, old-fashioned sofa covered with black horse-hair. Above the mantelpiece was a framed print in crude colour, a portrait of the Great White Queen, in all her Imperial splendour handing a cheap edition of the Bible to a naked savage. Underneath this work of art was inscribed: "This is the secret of England's greatness." Upon a small marble-topped table near the sofa was another Bible.
"Be seated, Joseph."
She had allowed him to kiss her cheek; and he guessed, as he saluted her, that she was in happy ignorance of his monstrous offence. At her request Susan was not present.
"You are going to London?"
"That's right."
"It is not right, Joseph. It is very far indeed from being right. It would seem that right and wrong, as I interpret such plain words, have no definite meaning to you."
"Pop away!"
"What?"
"I said 'Pop away.' I meant, go on firing."
"I beg to be allowed to finish without flippant interruption on your part. Personally, the affairs of this world do not concern me any longer. I am interested in them so far as they concern others, my own flesh and blood. Susan was born in Melchester, and so were you."
"We couldn't help it. You might have chosen a livelier spot. Me and Susan wasn't consulted. Children in a better managed world would be consulted, but there you are."
"Do you think, Joseph, in your arrogance, that you could manage this world better than it is managed?"
"Lord bless you, yes!"
"I trust that the Lord will bless me, young man. but He will assuredly not bless you, unless you mend your ways and your manners."
"Keep it up!"
It enraged her to perceive that he was enjoying himself. She wondered vaguely how the Bishop would deal with such a hardened offender.
"I, for one, refuse to accompany you to London."
"Sorry."
"Are you sorry? I doubt it. Susan will miss me"—she wiped away two tears invisible to Quinney, and her voice trembled querulously as she continued—"and Posy will be deprived of a grandmother at a time when her mind and character are being made or marred. I understand, also, that you are risking a fortune which is more than ample for a man in your station of life. It would appear also that you have taken this step in defiance of advice from the Marquess of Mel."
"I took it"—he drew in his breath sharply, speaking almost as solemnly as his very upright judge—"because I had to take it. Melchester is too small for me, too sleepy, too stoopid, too hide-bound. The most wonderful thing in the whole town is just like me."
"To what do you allude?"
"To the spire of the Cathedral. It soars, don't it? Can you see it laying flat on the ground? Can you fancy it asleep? It taught me to soar. When I was a boy, crawlin' at the old man's heel, I used to say to it: 'Gosh, you're well out of it!' And now"—he smiled triumphantly—"I'm well out of it, for ever and ever, Amen!"
Mrs. Biddlecombe rallied her failing energies for a last charge. Somehow she was impressed by this queer son-in-law. He confounded her. She remarked slowly:
"It seems a strange thing to say, but I have heard of spires struck by God's lightning."
"Maybe," said Quinney, rising; "but you can take it from me that this spire won't be struck because it's fitted with a lightnin' conductor."
He retired, chuckling. Mrs. Biddlecombe shook her head. She was utterly at a loss to determine whether Quinney was alluding to the Cathedral spire or to himself. If to himself, who or what was his lightning conductor?
BOOK II
CHAPTER X
BLUDGEONINGS
I
London exercised the influence that might be expected upon such a character as Quinney's. The soot, so to speak, brought out the chlorophyl. As he put it to Susan, with grim humour:
"Makes us feel a bit green, hey?"
He had supposed that the big dealers would ignore him; he had not expected what he found—active hostility. His first fight, for example, opened his eyes by closing one of them. A brief account of it must be chronicled. He had kept out of the auction rooms, like Christopher's, but he frequented small sales, and became a menace to a ring of Hebrew dealers, who, hitherto, had managed such affairs with great executive ability entirely in their own interests. Quinney was well aware of their methods. At the sale proper prices were kept at the lowest possible level. The real buying and selling took place afterwards in a private room at some neighbouring tavern. Quinney, who was invited to join the "ring," knew all about "knock-outs," and decided that he would not identify himself with such an unsavoury crowd. Tomlin warned him.
"Leave those swine alone, Joe."
"I mean to, old man."
"But remember this, they won't leave you alone, the dirty dogs!"
They didn't.
Upon the eve of a small sale in the suburbs, held at the house of a bankrupt merchant, who had bought, in the days of his prosperity, some good bits of furniture, Quinney was "nosing round," as he called it, by himself, jotting down in a notebook the prices he was prepared to pay on the morrow. Suddenly there entered a truculent-looking young man of the type that may be seen boxing at Wonderland, which is just off the Whitechapel Road. He swaggered up to Quinney and said drawlingly:
"Buyin' against my crowd, you was, las' week?"
Quinney eyed him nervously, as he answered with spirit:
"Your crowd, hey?"
"I said my crowd. Want to join us?"
"No, my lad, I don't."
"Why not?"
"I'm rather careful about the company I keep, see?"
The young man glanced round. They were quite alone. Then he hit Quinney hard. Our hero ducked ineffectively, and caught the blow on his left eye. Instantly he realized that his antagonist was what is called a "workman." Nevertheless he "set about him." In less than a minute the fine old adage which sets forth that right is greater than might was lamentably perverted. Quinney was left half senseless on a Turkey carpet which bore stains of the encounter, and his aggressor fled. Next day, Quinney remained at home, tended by Susan, who admitted that she felt like Jael, the wife of Heber, the Kenite.
"Can't you prosecute?" she asked indignantly.
"Never saw the fellow before, never likely to see him again. Hired for the job, he was—earned his money, too."
After this experience he kept out of third-class London sales, buying as before from provincial dealers, making it worth their while to come to him first. Your provincial man is not omniscient, and is prepared to accept a small profit upon every article that passes through his hands. Quinney secured some bargains, but he could not sell them, because he had no customers.
His next experience was more serious. He had gone to Melshire to buy a certain satin-wood commode with panels painted by Angelica Kauffman. The owner of the commode, a fox-hunting squire, knew nothing of its value, but he happened to know Quinney, and he offered the commode to Quinney for fifty pounds. This incident illustrates nicely the sense of honour which prevails among dealers in antiques. The commode had been advertised as part of the contents of an ancient manor house. Other Melshire dealers, many of them Quinney's friends, were attending the sale. Immensely to the fox-hunting squire's surprise, Quinney pointed out that it would not be fair to the other dealers to buy before-hand a valuable bit of furniture already advertised in a printed catalogue. He concluded:
"It'll fetch more than fifty pounds."
At the sale it fetched ninety-seven pounds. At the "knock-out" afterwards, bidding against the other dealers, Quinney paid nine hundred pounds for this "gem," and told himself, with many chucklings, that he would double his money within a few weeks. He returned to London with his prize, and recited the facts to Susan, whose sympathy ranged itself upon the side of the Melchester squire.
"Seems to me that poor man was robbed. Ninety-seven pounds for a thing that you say is worth two thousand. It's awful."
"Is it? Now, look ye here, Susie, I'm going to put you right on this for ever and ever, see? I'm not in this business for my health. Like every other merchant, I buy in the cheapest market, and sell in the dearest. It's not my business to educate country gentlemen, who've had twice my advantages. If the owners of good stuff don't take the trouble to find out the value of what they've got, so much the worse for them, the blooming idiots! I play the game, my girl. I might have bought that commode for a level fifty. Think of it! Why didn't I? Because I'm an honourable man. Because it wouldn't have been straight with the others who were after that commode. Has it soaked in? I'll just add this: It's we dealers who create values. Never thought o' that, did you? Nor anyone else outside the profession. But it's gospel truth. Dealers create the big prices, not the silly owners, who don't know enough to keep their pictures in decent condition. I remember a country parson who kept his umbrella in a bigfamille vertejar. Tomlin bought that jar for a few pounds, and sold it at Christopher's for fifteen hundred. The parson made a fine hullabaloo, but it served him jolly well right. We do the work, and we're entitled to the big profits."
Susan felt crushed, but a leaven of her mother in her constrained her to reply:
"I hope that commode is worth nine hundred pounds."
"It's worth a damn sight more than that, Susie!"
Tomlin came to see it next day. He examined it carefully, with his sharp nose cocked at a critical angle. Finally, he said hesitatingly:
"Are you quite sure, Joe, that Angelica Kauffman painted them panels?"
"Just as sure, old man, as if I'd seen her at it."
Nevertheless, Tomlin's question rankled.
II
With many apologies, we present the reader to Messrs. Lark and Bundy, of Oxford Street. Gustavus Lark is probably the best known of the London art dealers. He is now an old man, and his sons and Bundy's sons manage an immense business. Ten years ago he had not retired. Criticism of him or his methods are irrelevant to this chronicle, but a side-light is thrown upon them when we consider how he treated Joe Quinney, a young man against whom he had no grudge whatever. Gustavus Lark heard, of course, that a Melchester dealer, newly settled in Soho Square, had bought a commode said to be painted by Angelica Kauffman for nine hundred pounds. Immediately he sent for his eldest son, a true chip of the old block.
"Why did we not hear of this?"
The son answered curtly:
"Because we can't hear of everything. There wasn't one big London dealer at the sale; and the only thing worth having was this commode."
"Is it the goods?"
"I believe so."
"Do you know?"
"Well, yes—I know."
"I must send for Pressland."
Pressland deserves some little attention. England honours him as a connoisseur of Old Masters. Upon pictures his word is often the first and the last. We know that he "boomed" certain painters, long dead. To quote Quinney, he "created" values. And he worked hand in hand with just such men as Gustavus Lark. In appearance he might have been a successful dentist. He wore a frock-coat and small side-whiskers. He said "Please" in an ingratiating tone. His hands were scrupulously clean, as if he had washed them often after dirty jobs. Out of a pale, sallow face shone two small grey eyes, set too close together. He contradicted other experts with an inimitable effrontery. "What is this?" he would say, laying a lean forefinger upon a doubtful signature. "A Velasquez? I think not. Why? Because, my dear sir, I know!"
Admittedly, he did know about Velasquez; and this knowledge was, so to speak, on tap, at the service of anybody willing to pay a reasonable fee. But his knowledge of furniture and porcelain was placed with reserve at the disposition of dealers. He told many persons that he made mistakes, and the public never guessed that such mistakes were paid for munificently.
Gustavus Lark sent for Pressland. The men met in Lark's sanctum, an austere little room, simply furnished. There is another room next to it, and when Gustavus sends for a very particular visitor nobody enters that ante-chamber except a member of the firm.
"Do you know this Soho Square man, Quinney?"
"I have met him."
"Has he come to stay?"
"Um! I think so."
Gustavus Lark stroked his beard. He looked very handsome and prosperous, not unlike a genial monarch whom he was said by his clerks to understudy.
"I want you," he said slowly, "to go to Soho Square this morning, and if by any chance Quinney should ask your opinion of the commode, why"—he laughed pleasantly—"in that case I shouldn't mind betting quite a considerable sum that you would discover it to be—er—a clever reproduction."
Pressland smiled.
"Probably."
"I mean to have a look at it myself later."
Pressland went his way. Part of his success in life may be assigned to a praiseworthy habit of executing small and big commissions with becoming promptitude. He strolled into Quinney's shop as if he were the most idle man in town.
"Anything to show me?" he asked languidly.
Quinney was delighted to see him. He recognized Pressland at once.
"Happy and honoured to see you, sir."
Presently, he took him upstairs into the drawing-room, already spoken of as the "sanctuary." In it were all his beloved treasures. He had done up the room "regardless." Here stood his Chippendale cabinet, filled with Early Worcester and Chelsea; here were his cherished prints in colour, his finest specimens of Waterford glass, two or three beautiful miniatures, and many other things. Pressland was astonished, but he said little, nodding his head from time to time, and listening attentively to Quinney. As soon as he entered the room he perceived the satin-wood commode standing in the place of honour.
Pressland praised the Chippendale cabinet, and ignored the commode. Quinney frowned. Finally he jerked out:
"What do you think of that, sir?"
"What?"
"That commode. Pedigree bit, out of an old Melshire manor house. Good stuff, hey?"
Pressland adjusted his pince-nez, and stared hard and long at the panels. Quinney began to fidget.
"Bit of all right—um?"
Pressland said slowly:
"I hope you didn't pay very much for it, Mr. Quinney."
"I paid a thumping big cheque for it. Never paid so much before for a single bit."
Pressland murmured pensively:
"I thought you knew your furniture."
"Ain't it all right? There's no secret about what I paid. It's been paragraphed—nine hundred pounds."
A soft whistle escaped from Pressland's thin lips. He said depressingly:
"I dare say you know more about those panels than I do."
Quinney protested vigorously:
"Don't play that on me, Mr. Pressland. If I knew one quarter of what you know about pictures I'd be a proud man."
"A pedigree bit? What do you mean by that?"
"Owner said it had been in his family for more than a hundred years. He said that the panels were painted by Angelica Kauffman."
"Are you quite sure he didn't say after Angelica Kauffman?"
Quinney shook his head. From every pore in his skin confidence was oozing.
"Did he know the value of it?"
"No, he didn't."
"Ah! He must have been pleased with your cheque."
Quinney explained matters. Pressland's expression became acutely melancholy; and his silence, as he turned away, was eloquent of a commiseration too deep for words.
"Isn't it right, Mr. Pressland?"
"My opinion is worth little, Mr. Quinney."
"I'm prepared to pay for it if necessary."
"No, no, no! Not from you. Well, then, I am afraid you have been had. Did the dealers at the 'knock-out' suspect that you wanted it badly?"
"Perhaps they did. I kept on bidding."
"Just so. It's a little way they have. Very, very jealous, some of them. You have been successful. Success makes enemies. I have enemies. There are men in London who accuse me of abominable, unmentionable things." He smiled modestly, spreading out his hands.
"You can afford to laugh at 'em, Mr. Pressland."
"I do."
"Am I to take it from you, sir, that Angelica did not paint those panels?"
Pressland shrugged his shoulders.
"I am of opinion, and I may well be mistaken, that those panels were painted after Angelica Kauffman's death, probably by a clever pupil. But please ask somebody else."
He drifted away, promising to call again, assuring Quinney that he would send him customers.