IIISusan had the story red-hot from his trembling lips about ten minutes later."I've been done—cooked to a crisp!" he wailed.She kissed and consoled him tenderly, but he refused to be comforted. She had applied raw steak to his injured eye. What balm could she pour upon a bruised and bleeding heart?"That man knows. He felt sorry for me. He hated to tell me. He promised that he would tell nobody else—a good sort! What did your mother say—Sir Humpty and Lady Dumpty. There you are!"She kissed him again and stroked his face."I was so sure of my own judgment, Susie. The loss of the money is bad enough, but everybody will find out that I've been had. That's what tears me!""He may be mistaken.""Not he. He knows. I've a mind to go outside and hire a strong man to kick me."Next morning there was a wholesome reaction. Susan and he stood in front of the commode. The sun streamed upon it."By Gum! I do believe it's all right. If it isn't, I'd better go back to Melchester and stay there." He caressed the lovely wood so tenderly that Susan felt jealous. "Oh, you beauty!" he exclaimed passionately. "I believe in you; yes, I do. An artist created you. An artist painted those panels."He recovered his cheerfulness, and assured Susan that he was prepared to back his opinion against Tomlin, Pressland, and all other pessimists.Upon the following Monday Gustavus presented himself. For a dizzy moment our hero believed that the most illustrious male in the kingdom had dropped in incognito. Gustavus wore a grey cut-away coat, with an orchid in the lapel of it, and he was smoking an imposing cigar."I am Gustavus Lark," he said."Pleased to see you, Mr. Lark."No man in England could make himself more agreeable than the great dealer. Gossip had it that he had begun life as a "rapper." A rapper, as the name signifies, is one who raps at all doors, seeking what he may find behind them—a bit of porcelain, a valuable print, an old chair—anything. A successful rapper must combine in one ingratiating personality the qualities of a diplomat, a leader of forlorn hopes, a high-class burglar, and an American book agent. When the door upon which he has rapped opens, he must enter, and refuse to budge till he has satisfied himself that there is nothing in his line worth the buying.Tomlin had the following story to tell of Gustavus, as a rapper. You must take it for what it's worth. Tomlin, we know, was a bit of a rascal, and a liar of the first magnitude, but he affirmed solemnly that the tale is true.Behold Gustavus in the good old days of long ago, when prints in colours were still to be found in cottages, rapping at the door of some humble house. A widow opens it, and asks a good-looking young man what his business may be. He enters audaciously, and states it. He is seeking board and lodging. He is seeking, also, a set of the London "Cries." But he does not mention that. He has heard—it is his business to hear such gossip—that the widow possesses the complete set in colour, the full baker's dozen. He arranges for a week's board and lodging, and he satisfies himself that the prints are genuine specimens. In his satchel he carries thirteen bogus prints, excellent reproductions. At dead of night he takes from the frames the genuine prints and substitutes the false ones. Three days afterwards he goes to London, and, later, sells the prints for a sum sufficient to start him in business. But he does not rest there, as a lesser man might well do. A rapper's hands, be it noted, are against all men. He robs cheerfully the men of his own trade—the small dealers. Gustavus, then, proceeds to pile Pelion upon Ossa. He next visits a dealer of his acquaintance and tells him that he has discovered a genuine set of "Cries," which can be bought cheap in their original frames. The dealer, who is not an expert in colour prints, is deceived by the frames and by the authentic yarn which the widow spins. He does buy the prints cheap, and sells them as genuine to one of the innumerable collectors with more money than brains. Gustavus gets his commission and nets a double profit!Quinney had heard this story from Tomlin and others, but the benevolent appearance of his visitor put suspicion to flight, as it had done scores of times before. It was quite impossible to believe that an old gentleman, who bore such an amazing resemblance to one venerated as the Lord's anointed, could have begun his career as a rapper!"Anything of interest to show me?" asked Gustavus blandly. He treated everybody, except his own understrappers, with distinguished courtesy. He spoke to Quinney, whom he despised, exactly as he would have spoken to a Grand Duke."Glad to take you round, Mr. Lark.""I am told that you do not sell to dealers.""That's as may be. I want to build up a business with private customers.""Quite right. My own methods."He glanced round the shop, which was divided roughly into sections. In the first were genuine bits; in the second were the best reproductions conspicuously labelled as such. The reproductions were so superlatively good that Lark recognized at once the character of the man who had so audaciously exposed them. Then and there he made up his mind that Quinney was to be reckoned with. He smiled as he waved a white hand protestingly at a piece of tapestry which might have challenged the interest of an expert. He had sold such tapestry as old Gobelins, and he knew that the maker of it only dealt with a chosen few."Wonderful, isn't it?" said Quinney."You mean to sell first-class copies as such?""Yes. I guarantee what I sell, Mr. Lark, as—as you do.""I don't sell fakes.""Not necessary in your case. Will you come upstairs?""With pleasure."Quinney was trembling with excitement. Gustavus noticed this, and went on smiling. Pressland had prepared him. He praised and appraised many things in the sanctuary, but he merely glanced at the commode."I want you to look at this, Mr. Lark.""Bless me! Is that the commode which you bought in Melshire?""It is. What do you think of it?"Gustavus protruded a large lower lip; his eyebrows, strongly marked, expressed surprise, a twinkle in his left eye indicated discreet amusement."Why isn't it downstairs with the others?""The others?""By the side of that piece of tapestry.""It's the best bit I have," said Quinney defiantly."Surely not. I have bought such tapestry as yours before. I will admit that I paid a big figure for it. We dealers are sadly done sometimes. This commode is quite as good in its way as the Gobelins, but it ought not to be next that cabinet.""Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lark, that you call it a fake?""A fake—no. A copy admirably executed—yes.""Oh, Lord!"He made no attempt to conceal his distress. Gustavus patted his shoulder encouragingly."I may be mistaken. I am often mistaken.""You?""Even I. Come, come, I see that I have upset you. But, as a friend, as a brother dealer, I say this: Get rid of it. You are taking up a line of your own. You mean to sell honest copies as such, and to guarantee the genuine bits. A capital idea. Only don't mix up the two. To succeed in London it is necessary to establish a reputation. My eldest son tells me that you built up a substantial business in Melchester—that your reputation there was above reproach. Excellent! I rejoiced to hear it. In our business we want men like you. But, no compromise! Sell that commode for what it is, a fine copy executed at the end of the eighteenth century. As such it has a considerable value. I have a customer, an American gentleman, who would buy it to-morrow for what it is, and pay a handsome figure."The unhappy Quinney moistened his lips with a feverish tongue."What do you call a handsome figure, Mr. Lark?""Five or six hundred.""And I paid nine!""Well, well!"Gustavus turned his broad back upon the commode, and examined the Early Worcester in the Chippendale cabinet. There was a tea-set of the Dr. Wall period, bearing the much-prized square mark, some thirty pieces of scale-blue with flowers delicately painted in richly-gilded panels."Is that scale-blue for sale?""At a price, Mr. Lark. I have had it for three years. I'm waiting for a customer who will give me two hundred pounds, not a penny less.""Two hundred pounds? And you won't sell to the dealers who have customers who write such big cheques. Now, look here, Mr. Quinney, I am sorry for you. I know how you feel, because I have made, I repeat, sad and costly blunders myself. You don't ask enough for that scale-blue.""Not enough?""I could sell that set for three hundred this afternoon. To prove that I am not boasting I will offer you two hundred guineas, cash on the nail.""Done!" said Quinney. He added excitedly: "I'm much obliged, Mr. Lark. I wish you could send me the American gentleman."Gustavus laughed. He looked at Quinney with quite a paternal air."Come, come, isn't that asking too much?""I beg pardon, of course it is, but what am I to do about that commode?""I repeat—sell it.""You know that I haven't a dog's chance of selling it now. Don't flimflam me, Mr. Lark! You're too big a man, too good a sort. You've treated me handsomely over that scale-blue. Now help me out of this hole, if you can."Lark nodded impressively. He went back to the commode, and examined it meticulously, opening and shutting the doors, looking at the back, scraping the paint of the panels with the point of a penknife. Then the oracle spoke portentously:"I never haggle with dealers, Mr. Quinney, and I don't want that commode; but, to oblige you, I'll give you five hundred for it, and chance making a hundred profit.""Make it six hundred, Mr. Lark.""I repeat—I never haggle.""Damn it! I must cut a loss.""Always the wise thing to do. My offer holds good for twenty-four hours. Isn't Tomlin a friend of yours?""We've had many dealings together.""He might pay more.""Not he. I'll accept your offer, Mr. Lark, with many thanks. I'll not forget this."Gustavus returned to Oxford Street. He sold the commode to an American millionaire for two thousand five hundred pounds, but Quinney, fortunately for his peace of mind, never discovered this till some years had passed.He told Tom Tomlin that Lark was a perfect gentleman, and that the story of the Rapper and the London "Cries" was a malicious lie on the face of it.Tomlin sniffed.CHAPTER XIMORE BLUDGEONINGSIThe loss of four hundred pounds stimulated our hero to greater efforts. Deep down in his heart, moreover, lay the desire to rehabilitate himself. Susan had spared him exasperating reproaches, but he perceived, so he fancied, pity in her faithful eyes. Her ministrations recalled that humiliating Channel crossing, when his superiority as a male had been buried in a basin! Let us admit that he wanted to play the god with Susan, to shake the sphere of home with his Olympian nod, to hear her soft ejaculation: "Joe, dear, you are wonderful!"At this crisis in his fortunes he found himself, for the first time in his life, with time on his hands. His premises were overstocked to such an extent that he dared not run the temptation of attending sales. To succeed greatly, he only needed customers, and they shunned him as if Soho Square were an infected district.It began to strike him that he had embarked upon a highly speculative business. Tomlin was clear upon this point."It's a gamble if you go for big things. Buying that commode was a gamble. You can't escape from it. That's what makes it interesting. Win a tidy bit here, lose a tidy bit there, and it's all the same a hundred years hence."This familiar philosophy percolated through Quinney's mind. It never occurred to him that he could be called a gambler, and yet something in him thrilled at the name. He heard Tomlin's platitudes, and wondered why he had never thought of them before."Farming's gambling—a mug's game! Sooner put my money on to a horse than into the ground! Marriage! The biggest gamble of all! You struck a winner, my lad—I didn't.""I suppose," said Quinney, staring hard at Tomlin, "that you don't gamble outside your business?""Yes, I do, when I get a gilt-edged tip.""Race-horses?""Stock Exchange. Customers tell me things. I'm fairly in the know, I am. Make a little bit, lose a little bit! It binges me up when I feel blue.""I'd like to get back a slice o' that lost four hundred quid.""Maybe I can help you to do it. A customer of mine is in the Kaffir Market.""Kaffir Market! What's that?"It has been said that Quinney was grossly ignorant of things outside his own business."If you ain't as innocent as Moses in the bulrushes! African Mines, you greenhorn! He tells me of things. Never let me down—not once. He says a boom is just due.""Do you risk much, Tom?""Lord bless you, no! I buy a few likely shares on margin, and carry 'em over. A man must have some excitement.""Yes," said Quinney thoughtfully, "he must."He did not mention this talk to Susan, but as he kicked his heels waiting for customers, the necessity of excitement—any excitement—gripped at his vitals. Meanwhile, let it be placed to his credit that he resisted the daily temptation to sell stuff to dealers. He could have sold his treasures to Lark at a fine profit, but he remained true to the principle: keep your best things to attract private customers. He hoped that his kind patron, Lord Mel, would come to see him. Possibly his lordship was offended, because his advice had been spurned. Then he heard that Lord Mel was abroad, and not likely to return to England for several months. He missed the bi-weekly meetings at the Mitre, and he did not dare to tell his Susan that he was depressed and dull, because he dreaded the inevitable "I told you so." Susan missed her few friends, and Quinney strained his powers of deception in the attempt to cheer her up by affirming that he had bettered his position by leaving Melchester.Many wise persons contend that if you want anything inordinately, you get it. Excitement came to Quinney when he least expected it.IIHitherto adventurers of the first flight had left him alone. Small imposters are easily detected. Nobody could deal with the baser sort of trickster more drastically than Quinney. Rappers, for example, rapped in vain at his door. If he opened it, they never crossed the threshold. But when a provincial pigeon, preening his wings, is discovered within a stone's throw of the Greek quarter in London, some fancier is likely to make an attempt to bag the bird. Such a one entered Quinney's establishment some three months after the lamentable sale of the commode. He appeared to be a quiet, well-dressed man, and he wore a single pearl in his cravat, which inspired confidence. He asked Quinney if he ever attended sales as an agent, to buy things on the usual commission. Quinney had acted as agent for Lord Mel upon several occasions, and we may pardon him for mentioning the fact to the stranger, who seemed mildly impressed. He remarked casually that he knew Lord Mel, and had shot some high pheasants at Mel Court. Quinney, in his turn, was impressed by this information, for he knew that Lord Mel was nice in his selection of guests. Eventually Quinney consented to attend a certain sale, and to bid for two Dutch pictures which the stranger had marked in a catalogue."This is my card," said the stranger. "I shall be happy to give you a banker's reference." He named a well-known bank, but Quinney was quite satisfied with the name and address on the card. His visitor was an army officer, a Major Fraser, and he belonged to a famous Service Club.Somewhat to his disappointment, the two Dutch pictures fetched a price beyond the limit imposed by the Major, who dropped in next day and expressed his regrets. He was so civil and genial that Quinney hoped to have the honour of serving him on some future occasion. The Major glanced at the sanctuary and before leaving paid ten pounds for a small Bow figure, and ordered it to be sent to the Savoy Hotel. After he had gone, Quinney found a letter addressed to Major Archibald Fraser, of Loch Tarvie, Inverness, N.B. He sent back the letter with the Bow figure, and he was curious enough to look up Major Archibald Fraser in Kelly'sHandbook to the Titled, Landed, and Official Classes. He discovered, to his satisfaction, that the Major owned two properties in Scotland, and was a Justice of the Peace. He had married the daughter of a well-known Scotch magnate. Quinney chuckled and rubbed his hands. The right sort were finding their way to Soho Square at last. After this the Major dropped in again and again, always in search of knowledge, which Quinney supplied with increasing pleasure. In a word, the pigeon was ready for plucking.During his next visit the Major spoke with enthusiasm of a picture he had discovered in Dorset. He assured Quinney that the picture was a genuine Murillo. Then he pulled a bundle of notes out of his pocket, handed twenty pounds to Quinney, and delivered the following speech:"I must go to Inverness to-night," he said regretfully. "My factor has wired for me about the letting of a forest of mine. Take this money on account of expenses, go to Dorchester, do yourself well—there is an excellent inn there, and a few bottles left of some '68 port. To-morrow there will be a sale at a small auction mart in the town. This picture will be offered. Here's a photograph of it. Buy it for me. In three days I shall be back in town."He was hurrying away when Quinney stopped him. Queer notions of business these army gentlemen had, to be sure!"What am I to bid for the picture, Major?""I'll go to fifteen hundred. I shouldn't be furious if you paid a hundred more. Wire to Loch Tarvie! Bye-bye!"He was away before Quinney could get in another word."Thruster, and no error!" murmured Quinney to himself.He travelled to Dorchester that afternoon and paid a visit to the auction mart before dinner. The auctioneer knew him, and expressed surprise at seeing him, for he was selling only job lots."Nothing to interest you, Mr. Quinney.""Perhaps not. I'll have a squint round as I am here."The auctioneer accompanied him, and Quinney soon found his picture, which was very dirty and inconspicuous. Old masters were not in his line, but he recognized the frame at once as being genuine—a fine specimen of carved wood, although much battered. The auctioneer said carelessly:"I had a gentleman staring at that picture this morning. You're after the frame, I dare say."Quinney made no reply. He saw that a small portion of the dirty canvas had been rubbed."Might look quite different if it was cleaned," said the auctioneer. "The other fellow did that with his handkerchief and a small bottle of stuff he carried in his pocket. I didn't like to object. Colour comes out nicely!""Who does it belong to?""A stranger to me. I take everything as it comes. I'm in a small way of business, as you know, Mr. Quinney; but some nice stuff has passed through my hands."He plunged into an ocean of reminiscences, punctuating his remarks with lamentations of ignorance."If I really knew. Suppose it's a gift. You have it, Mr. Quinney. I have a sort of general knowledge of values, but it's the special knowledge that picks up the big bargains."Quinney returned to his hotel.At the auction next day two or three country dealers, small men, with whom he had a nodding acquaintance, were bidding. The gentleman who was interested in the picture was present also, languidly indifferent to the proceedings. However, he became animated when the picture was put up as "a valuable Madonna and Child, the work of an old master." The gentleman bid a hundred for it, apparently to the surprise of the small dealers."One hundred and twenty-five," said Quinney.The gentleman bent down to whisper a word to a man who stood next him, and then he stared hard at Quinney, with a slight frown upon his smooth forehead."One hundred and fifty," he said quietly.Finally Quinney secured the picture for eleven hundred pounds, well pleased at having secured it so cheap. The rival bidder led him aside."You are the famous dealer, Joseph Quinney?"Quinney smiled complacently. The gentleman continued in a whisper:"I expected to get that picture for a hundred pounds. You have fairly outbidden me, and I could not bid a farthing more to-day; but will you kindly tell me what you will take for your bargain?""Sorry," said Quinney; "but I bought it on a commission for a well-known collector.""There is no more to be said," replied the other.He nodded pleasantly and vanished. Quinney never saw him again. Nor did he see Major Archibald Fraser. Quinney paid the auctioneer with a cheque, and returned to London, after wiring the Major that the treasure was his. Three days later, not hearing a word from his client, he became slightly uneasy. His cheque had been cashed; the picture was in his possession. The abominable truth leaked out slowly. Major Archibald Fraser, of Loch Tarvie, had been impersonated by achevalier d'industrie. The picture was worth, perhaps, forty pounds, and the frame another five-and-twenty!The pigeon from the country had been plucked.IIIThe poor fellow sobbed out the facts to his Susan in a passion of self-abasement. The loss of the money was serious enough, but what ground him to powder was the fact that he had become the laughing-stock of the London dealers. Every man jack of them knew. He could not show his face in an auction room without provoking spasms of raucous laughter. The Dorchester auctioneer, called upon to prove his innocence (which he did), made the tale public. It was acclaimed as "copy" by scores of newspapers. And salt was rubbed into his wounds by the reporters whose sympathy seemed to lie with the two scoundrels who had devised so clever a scheme, and escaped with the swag! There was a cruel headline: "A Biter Bit.""Whom have I bit?" he demanded of Susan.The little woman mingled her tears with his, but no words of hers could assuage his misery or stem the torrent of self-accusation."Nice sort of fool you've married! A mug of mugs! You was right. Ought to have remained in Melchester! Ought to have remained in swaddling clothes! Ought never to have been born!"He apostrophized Posy, now a child of ten."Nice sort of father you've got! Look at him! Why didn't you choose somebody else, hey? Picked a wrong'un, you did!"Posy lifted her young voice and wept with her parents. And then Susan, almost hysterical, said with unconscious humour:"Gracious! Isn't this a rainy afternoon!"IVAfter a few days the sun shone again. Lord Mel, who had returned to England, called upon his former tenant, and listened with sympathy to the tale of thwackings. Quinney added details which he had kept from Susan. Fired by Tomlin, he had ventured into the Kaffir Market, where the bears had mauled him. His losses, fortunately, were inconsiderable; but once again he had been "downed" by Londoners. He was too proud to whine before Lord Mel, and from long habit he expressed himself whimsically."Not fit to cross the road without a policeman. Time I advertised for a nurse or a keeper!""Are you thinking of going back to Melchester?"At this Quinney exploded."My lord, I couldn't face Pinker, and Mrs. Biddlecombe would cackle and nag at me till I wrung her neck. She wrote to Susan to say that she was sorry to hear that the Lord had seen fit to afflict me grievously. In her heart she's glad.""You don't blame the Lord?""I blame myself. I've been a silly daw, strutting about like a peacock. I wanted a fight, and I've had it; but I can't go back to Melchester. I must stick it out here, win or lose, customers or no customers. If the worst comes to the worst, I can sell to dealers. It means slavery.""But you have some customers?""Very few—the wrong sort. Mostly women, who don't value their own time or mine. They look at my stuff, and call it 'rather nice'; they try to pick up a few wrinkles about glass and porcelain, and then they drift out, promising to call again.""We must try to alter this.""It does me good to see your lordship's face again."Lord Mel bought a table and some Irish glass. He shook Quinney's hand at parting genially."You've had a dose. Perhaps your system needed it. Pay my respects to Mrs. Quinney, and tell her not to worry."Quinney ran upstairs to Susan."Lord Mel's been in. Sent his respects to you. You're not to worry—see?""I am not worrying much, Joe. Nobody escapes hard times.""His lordship has faith in me. He ain't offended. Just the same as ever. I told him everything—more than I told you.""More than you told me?""I lost a few hundreds dabbling in mines. All that foolishness is over and done with. I mean to stick to what I know, and the people I know who'll stick to me. I shall give my undivided attention to business. I mean to work harder than ever, so as to win back what I've lost.""How much have you lost, dear?""I'm not speakin' of money, Susie. I've lost my self-respect, and I don't stand with you just where I did.""You do—you know you do!"He shook his head obstinately."I know I don't. You ain't suffering from a crick in the neck along of lookin' up at me. I ain't been soaring lately. Wriggling like a crushed worm about fits me.""Joe, dear, you've never quite understood me.""Hey?""I married you for better or worse."He stared at her amazedly."Lawsy! It never entered into your pretty head that it could be for worse?""I should love you just the same if it were.""No, no, that ain't sense, Susie. It won't wash. You loved me because I was Joe Quinney—a feller with ambitions, a worker, a man with brains in his head. If I failed you, I should expect you to despise me. I should feel that I'd had you under false pretences."Susan smiled very faintly. Her voice was curiously incisive:"You have a lot to learn yet, Joe, about persons."CHAPTER XIIPOSYILord Mel sent many customers to Soho Square. He felt sincerely sorry for the little man, and told everybody that he was a fighter and a striver, and "straight." Within a few months Quinney became the Quinney of old, full of enthusiasm and swagger, exuding energy, quite confident that he was soaring and likely to become a spire! An American millionaire one morning made a clean sweep of half the treasures in the sanctuary. Orders to furnish rooms in a given style with first-class reproductions came joyously to hand, and were executed promptly and at a reasonable price.In due time, also, he became a member of the inner ring of big dealers. They tried to "freeze him out" by inflating prices, often at a serious loss to themselves, but eventually they were constrained to admit that the Melchester man was too shrewd for them, with a knowledge of values which seemed to have fallen upon him like the dew from heaven. At any moment he might stop bidding with an abruptness very disconcerting to the older men, leaving them with thelapinwhich they were trying to impose upon him.In those early days he found the Caledonian market a happy hunting-ground, securing immense quantities of Georgian steel fire-irons, fenders, and dog-grates, at that time in no demand. He stored them in his immense cellars, covering them with a villainous preparation of his own which defied rust."Good stuff to lay down," he remarked.Afterwards the big dealers asked him how he had contrived to foresee the coming demand for old cut glass. Of this he had bought immense quantities also. He answered them in his own fashion."Can you tell me why one breed of dog noses out truffles?"He bought innumerable spinets, good, bad, and indifferent, with reckless confidence. Even Tomlin remonstrated."What are you going to do with them?""You'll see," said Quinney.One more blunder—and the use to which he turned it—must be chronicled. By this time he was recognized as an expert on eighteenth-century furniture. But he admitted that there were one or two who knew more than he. Tomlin, for example, who would drop in at least once a week for a chat and a glass of brown sherry. Upon one of these visits he found Quinney in a state of enthusiasm over a Chippendale armchair, unearthed in a small provincial town. Tomlin examined it carefully, and pronounced it a fake.Quinney refused to believe this; but ultimately conviction that he had been "had" once more was forced upon him."Bar none, it's the best copy I ever saw," remarked Tomlin.Quinney accepted his old friend's chaff with some chucklings. Next day, he returned to the provincial town, and discovered the young cabinet-maker who had made the fake. He returned to Soho in triumph, bringing the cabinet-maker with him. His name was James Miggott, and he entered into a contract to serve Quinney for three years at a salary of two pounds a week."Seems a lot," said Susan."He was earning twenty-five bob. I shall turn him loose on those spinets."Most people know something about Quinney's spinets transformed by the hand of the skilful James into writing-desks, sideboards, and dressing-tables. The spinets brought many customers to Soho Square."Stock booming?" said Tomlin."It is," said Quinney. He added reflectively: "I sold a spinet to-day, for which I gave fifteen shillings, for just the same number o' pounds. James put in just one week on it. That's all, by Gum!"Some dealers maintain that Quinney made his reputation with spinets, inasmuch as he sold more of them for a couple of years than the trade put together. But he himself believes that his Waterford glass brought the right customers—the famous collectors who buy little, but talk and write much. They liked Quinney because he was so keen; and he never grudged the time spent in showing his wares to non-buyers."They tell others," he observed to Susan. "No 'ad.' can beat that."He had other dodges to capture trade. It became known that he charged nothing for giving his opinion upon specimens submitted to him. And he had an endearing habit of writing to purchasers of the spinets within a few months or weeks of the deal, offering an advance on the price paid, a "nice little profit," invariably refused."Bless 'em! It warms their hearts to think they've made a sound investment.""How surprised and disappointed you'd be, Joe, if they accepted your offer!""Right you are, Susie; but there's little fear of that, my girl."When a new customer entered the shop, Quinney would adopt an air of guileless indifference, which was likely to provoke the remark:"Where is Mr. Quinney?""I'm Quinney. Like to have a look round? You may see something you fancy.""That's a nice pie-crust table.""It's a gem. Cheap, too."Then he would give a low whistle, a clear, flute-like note. James would appear from below."Where's the receipted bill for this table?"The bill was produced and shown to the stranger."See? Paid four pounds seventeen for it, just five weeks ago. Look at the date. You shall have it for six pounds, and, by Gum! I'll make you this offer. You can return it to me any day you like within a year, and I'll give you five pound ten for it. How's that, as between man and man?"These seemingly artless methods captivated the "think-it-overs" and the "rather-nicers," who frequent curiosity shops in ever-increasing numbers. Mothers brought daughters to Soho Square to acquire historical information. Quinney refused to sell a Jacobean armchair because it was so useful an object-lesson to young and inquiring minds."Look at that, madam," he would say. Perhaps the lady would murmur softly: "It is rather nice, isn't it?" And the flapper would exclaim enthusiastically: "Mumsie, it's perfectly lovely!""Much more than that!" Quinney would add, with mysterious chucklings. "See that rose? It's a Stuart rose. And that crown on the front splat is an emblem of loyalty to the Merry Monarch.""Dear me! You hear that, Kitty!""Pay particular attention to the legs, ladies. Ball and paw, the lion's paw, with hair above them, indicatin' the strength of the Constitootion after the Restoration. Chapter of English history, that chair."He could embellish such simple themes according to fancy, and with due regard for the patience of his listener. To Susan he spoke of these intellectual exercises as "my little song and dance."IIMeanwhile, Posy was growing up, becoming a tall, slender, pretty girl. She attended a day-school in Orchard Street—a select seminary for young ladies. Susan accompanied her to and from Orchard Street. By this time she had accepted, with a serenity largely temperamental, the fate allotted to her. Once more Quinney was absorbed in his business. Adversity had brought husband and wife together, prosperity sundered them. Very rarely does it happen that a successful man can spare time to spend on his wife. The charming slackers make the most congenial mates. Compensation has thus ordained it, wherein lie tragedy and comedy. Many women, to the end of their lives, are incapable of realizing this elementary fact. They want their husbands to climb high—the higher the better; they understand, perhaps more clearly than men, what can be seen and enjoyed from the tops; they pluck, often as a matter of course, and gobble up the grapes of Eschol, but they refuse to accept the inevitable penalties of supreme endeavour. Their husbands return to them almost foundered, fit only to eat and sleep. In the strenuous competition of to-day what else is possible?Susan did not complain, but then she belonged to the generation who accepted with pious resignation life as it is. Indeed, she accounted herself singularly fortunate, and whenever the present seemed dreary she fortified herself by thinking of a rosy past, or projected herself into an enchanted future, when he and she, Darby and Joan, would wander hand in hand to some garden of sleep, some drowsy country churchyard, where they would lie down together to await an ampler and happier intercourse in the life beyond.Her interest in persons as opposed to things quickened with the growth of her child. Posy became to her what a Chelsea shepherdess modelled by Roubillac was to Quinney—a bit of wonderful porcelain to be enshrined, a museum piece! The maternal instincts budded and bloomed the more bravely because conjugal emotion was denied full expression. She faced unflinchingly the conviction that Posy must marry and leave her. By that time Joe might be more ready to enjoy the fruits of labour. For the moment, then, her husband was pigeon-holed. He remained at the back of her mind, at the bottom of her heart, masked by that sprightly creature, his daughter.Posy accepted Susan's love as a matter of course.
III
Susan had the story red-hot from his trembling lips about ten minutes later.
"I've been done—cooked to a crisp!" he wailed.
She kissed and consoled him tenderly, but he refused to be comforted. She had applied raw steak to his injured eye. What balm could she pour upon a bruised and bleeding heart?
"That man knows. He felt sorry for me. He hated to tell me. He promised that he would tell nobody else—a good sort! What did your mother say—Sir Humpty and Lady Dumpty. There you are!"
She kissed him again and stroked his face.
"I was so sure of my own judgment, Susie. The loss of the money is bad enough, but everybody will find out that I've been had. That's what tears me!"
"He may be mistaken."
"Not he. He knows. I've a mind to go outside and hire a strong man to kick me."
Next morning there was a wholesome reaction. Susan and he stood in front of the commode. The sun streamed upon it.
"By Gum! I do believe it's all right. If it isn't, I'd better go back to Melchester and stay there." He caressed the lovely wood so tenderly that Susan felt jealous. "Oh, you beauty!" he exclaimed passionately. "I believe in you; yes, I do. An artist created you. An artist painted those panels."
He recovered his cheerfulness, and assured Susan that he was prepared to back his opinion against Tomlin, Pressland, and all other pessimists.
Upon the following Monday Gustavus presented himself. For a dizzy moment our hero believed that the most illustrious male in the kingdom had dropped in incognito. Gustavus wore a grey cut-away coat, with an orchid in the lapel of it, and he was smoking an imposing cigar.
"I am Gustavus Lark," he said.
"Pleased to see you, Mr. Lark."
No man in England could make himself more agreeable than the great dealer. Gossip had it that he had begun life as a "rapper." A rapper, as the name signifies, is one who raps at all doors, seeking what he may find behind them—a bit of porcelain, a valuable print, an old chair—anything. A successful rapper must combine in one ingratiating personality the qualities of a diplomat, a leader of forlorn hopes, a high-class burglar, and an American book agent. When the door upon which he has rapped opens, he must enter, and refuse to budge till he has satisfied himself that there is nothing in his line worth the buying.
Tomlin had the following story to tell of Gustavus, as a rapper. You must take it for what it's worth. Tomlin, we know, was a bit of a rascal, and a liar of the first magnitude, but he affirmed solemnly that the tale is true.
Behold Gustavus in the good old days of long ago, when prints in colours were still to be found in cottages, rapping at the door of some humble house. A widow opens it, and asks a good-looking young man what his business may be. He enters audaciously, and states it. He is seeking board and lodging. He is seeking, also, a set of the London "Cries." But he does not mention that. He has heard—it is his business to hear such gossip—that the widow possesses the complete set in colour, the full baker's dozen. He arranges for a week's board and lodging, and he satisfies himself that the prints are genuine specimens. In his satchel he carries thirteen bogus prints, excellent reproductions. At dead of night he takes from the frames the genuine prints and substitutes the false ones. Three days afterwards he goes to London, and, later, sells the prints for a sum sufficient to start him in business. But he does not rest there, as a lesser man might well do. A rapper's hands, be it noted, are against all men. He robs cheerfully the men of his own trade—the small dealers. Gustavus, then, proceeds to pile Pelion upon Ossa. He next visits a dealer of his acquaintance and tells him that he has discovered a genuine set of "Cries," which can be bought cheap in their original frames. The dealer, who is not an expert in colour prints, is deceived by the frames and by the authentic yarn which the widow spins. He does buy the prints cheap, and sells them as genuine to one of the innumerable collectors with more money than brains. Gustavus gets his commission and nets a double profit!
Quinney had heard this story from Tomlin and others, but the benevolent appearance of his visitor put suspicion to flight, as it had done scores of times before. It was quite impossible to believe that an old gentleman, who bore such an amazing resemblance to one venerated as the Lord's anointed, could have begun his career as a rapper!
"Anything of interest to show me?" asked Gustavus blandly. He treated everybody, except his own understrappers, with distinguished courtesy. He spoke to Quinney, whom he despised, exactly as he would have spoken to a Grand Duke.
"Glad to take you round, Mr. Lark."
"I am told that you do not sell to dealers."
"That's as may be. I want to build up a business with private customers."
"Quite right. My own methods."
He glanced round the shop, which was divided roughly into sections. In the first were genuine bits; in the second were the best reproductions conspicuously labelled as such. The reproductions were so superlatively good that Lark recognized at once the character of the man who had so audaciously exposed them. Then and there he made up his mind that Quinney was to be reckoned with. He smiled as he waved a white hand protestingly at a piece of tapestry which might have challenged the interest of an expert. He had sold such tapestry as old Gobelins, and he knew that the maker of it only dealt with a chosen few.
"Wonderful, isn't it?" said Quinney.
"You mean to sell first-class copies as such?"
"Yes. I guarantee what I sell, Mr. Lark, as—as you do."
"I don't sell fakes."
"Not necessary in your case. Will you come upstairs?"
"With pleasure."
Quinney was trembling with excitement. Gustavus noticed this, and went on smiling. Pressland had prepared him. He praised and appraised many things in the sanctuary, but he merely glanced at the commode.
"I want you to look at this, Mr. Lark."
"Bless me! Is that the commode which you bought in Melshire?"
"It is. What do you think of it?"
Gustavus protruded a large lower lip; his eyebrows, strongly marked, expressed surprise, a twinkle in his left eye indicated discreet amusement.
"Why isn't it downstairs with the others?"
"The others?"
"By the side of that piece of tapestry."
"It's the best bit I have," said Quinney defiantly.
"Surely not. I have bought such tapestry as yours before. I will admit that I paid a big figure for it. We dealers are sadly done sometimes. This commode is quite as good in its way as the Gobelins, but it ought not to be next that cabinet."
"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lark, that you call it a fake?"
"A fake—no. A copy admirably executed—yes."
"Oh, Lord!"
He made no attempt to conceal his distress. Gustavus patted his shoulder encouragingly.
"I may be mistaken. I am often mistaken."
"You?"
"Even I. Come, come, I see that I have upset you. But, as a friend, as a brother dealer, I say this: Get rid of it. You are taking up a line of your own. You mean to sell honest copies as such, and to guarantee the genuine bits. A capital idea. Only don't mix up the two. To succeed in London it is necessary to establish a reputation. My eldest son tells me that you built up a substantial business in Melchester—that your reputation there was above reproach. Excellent! I rejoiced to hear it. In our business we want men like you. But, no compromise! Sell that commode for what it is, a fine copy executed at the end of the eighteenth century. As such it has a considerable value. I have a customer, an American gentleman, who would buy it to-morrow for what it is, and pay a handsome figure."
The unhappy Quinney moistened his lips with a feverish tongue.
"What do you call a handsome figure, Mr. Lark?"
"Five or six hundred."
"And I paid nine!"
"Well, well!"
Gustavus turned his broad back upon the commode, and examined the Early Worcester in the Chippendale cabinet. There was a tea-set of the Dr. Wall period, bearing the much-prized square mark, some thirty pieces of scale-blue with flowers delicately painted in richly-gilded panels.
"Is that scale-blue for sale?"
"At a price, Mr. Lark. I have had it for three years. I'm waiting for a customer who will give me two hundred pounds, not a penny less."
"Two hundred pounds? And you won't sell to the dealers who have customers who write such big cheques. Now, look here, Mr. Quinney, I am sorry for you. I know how you feel, because I have made, I repeat, sad and costly blunders myself. You don't ask enough for that scale-blue."
"Not enough?"
"I could sell that set for three hundred this afternoon. To prove that I am not boasting I will offer you two hundred guineas, cash on the nail."
"Done!" said Quinney. He added excitedly: "I'm much obliged, Mr. Lark. I wish you could send me the American gentleman."
Gustavus laughed. He looked at Quinney with quite a paternal air.
"Come, come, isn't that asking too much?"
"I beg pardon, of course it is, but what am I to do about that commode?"
"I repeat—sell it."
"You know that I haven't a dog's chance of selling it now. Don't flimflam me, Mr. Lark! You're too big a man, too good a sort. You've treated me handsomely over that scale-blue. Now help me out of this hole, if you can."
Lark nodded impressively. He went back to the commode, and examined it meticulously, opening and shutting the doors, looking at the back, scraping the paint of the panels with the point of a penknife. Then the oracle spoke portentously:
"I never haggle with dealers, Mr. Quinney, and I don't want that commode; but, to oblige you, I'll give you five hundred for it, and chance making a hundred profit."
"Make it six hundred, Mr. Lark."
"I repeat—I never haggle."
"Damn it! I must cut a loss."
"Always the wise thing to do. My offer holds good for twenty-four hours. Isn't Tomlin a friend of yours?"
"We've had many dealings together."
"He might pay more."
"Not he. I'll accept your offer, Mr. Lark, with many thanks. I'll not forget this."
Gustavus returned to Oxford Street. He sold the commode to an American millionaire for two thousand five hundred pounds, but Quinney, fortunately for his peace of mind, never discovered this till some years had passed.
He told Tom Tomlin that Lark was a perfect gentleman, and that the story of the Rapper and the London "Cries" was a malicious lie on the face of it.
Tomlin sniffed.
CHAPTER XI
MORE BLUDGEONINGS
I
The loss of four hundred pounds stimulated our hero to greater efforts. Deep down in his heart, moreover, lay the desire to rehabilitate himself. Susan had spared him exasperating reproaches, but he perceived, so he fancied, pity in her faithful eyes. Her ministrations recalled that humiliating Channel crossing, when his superiority as a male had been buried in a basin! Let us admit that he wanted to play the god with Susan, to shake the sphere of home with his Olympian nod, to hear her soft ejaculation: "Joe, dear, you are wonderful!"
At this crisis in his fortunes he found himself, for the first time in his life, with time on his hands. His premises were overstocked to such an extent that he dared not run the temptation of attending sales. To succeed greatly, he only needed customers, and they shunned him as if Soho Square were an infected district.
It began to strike him that he had embarked upon a highly speculative business. Tomlin was clear upon this point.
"It's a gamble if you go for big things. Buying that commode was a gamble. You can't escape from it. That's what makes it interesting. Win a tidy bit here, lose a tidy bit there, and it's all the same a hundred years hence."
This familiar philosophy percolated through Quinney's mind. It never occurred to him that he could be called a gambler, and yet something in him thrilled at the name. He heard Tomlin's platitudes, and wondered why he had never thought of them before.
"Farming's gambling—a mug's game! Sooner put my money on to a horse than into the ground! Marriage! The biggest gamble of all! You struck a winner, my lad—I didn't."
"I suppose," said Quinney, staring hard at Tomlin, "that you don't gamble outside your business?"
"Yes, I do, when I get a gilt-edged tip."
"Race-horses?"
"Stock Exchange. Customers tell me things. I'm fairly in the know, I am. Make a little bit, lose a little bit! It binges me up when I feel blue."
"I'd like to get back a slice o' that lost four hundred quid."
"Maybe I can help you to do it. A customer of mine is in the Kaffir Market."
"Kaffir Market! What's that?"
It has been said that Quinney was grossly ignorant of things outside his own business.
"If you ain't as innocent as Moses in the bulrushes! African Mines, you greenhorn! He tells me of things. Never let me down—not once. He says a boom is just due."
"Do you risk much, Tom?"
"Lord bless you, no! I buy a few likely shares on margin, and carry 'em over. A man must have some excitement."
"Yes," said Quinney thoughtfully, "he must."
He did not mention this talk to Susan, but as he kicked his heels waiting for customers, the necessity of excitement—any excitement—gripped at his vitals. Meanwhile, let it be placed to his credit that he resisted the daily temptation to sell stuff to dealers. He could have sold his treasures to Lark at a fine profit, but he remained true to the principle: keep your best things to attract private customers. He hoped that his kind patron, Lord Mel, would come to see him. Possibly his lordship was offended, because his advice had been spurned. Then he heard that Lord Mel was abroad, and not likely to return to England for several months. He missed the bi-weekly meetings at the Mitre, and he did not dare to tell his Susan that he was depressed and dull, because he dreaded the inevitable "I told you so." Susan missed her few friends, and Quinney strained his powers of deception in the attempt to cheer her up by affirming that he had bettered his position by leaving Melchester.
Many wise persons contend that if you want anything inordinately, you get it. Excitement came to Quinney when he least expected it.
II
Hitherto adventurers of the first flight had left him alone. Small imposters are easily detected. Nobody could deal with the baser sort of trickster more drastically than Quinney. Rappers, for example, rapped in vain at his door. If he opened it, they never crossed the threshold. But when a provincial pigeon, preening his wings, is discovered within a stone's throw of the Greek quarter in London, some fancier is likely to make an attempt to bag the bird. Such a one entered Quinney's establishment some three months after the lamentable sale of the commode. He appeared to be a quiet, well-dressed man, and he wore a single pearl in his cravat, which inspired confidence. He asked Quinney if he ever attended sales as an agent, to buy things on the usual commission. Quinney had acted as agent for Lord Mel upon several occasions, and we may pardon him for mentioning the fact to the stranger, who seemed mildly impressed. He remarked casually that he knew Lord Mel, and had shot some high pheasants at Mel Court. Quinney, in his turn, was impressed by this information, for he knew that Lord Mel was nice in his selection of guests. Eventually Quinney consented to attend a certain sale, and to bid for two Dutch pictures which the stranger had marked in a catalogue.
"This is my card," said the stranger. "I shall be happy to give you a banker's reference." He named a well-known bank, but Quinney was quite satisfied with the name and address on the card. His visitor was an army officer, a Major Fraser, and he belonged to a famous Service Club.
Somewhat to his disappointment, the two Dutch pictures fetched a price beyond the limit imposed by the Major, who dropped in next day and expressed his regrets. He was so civil and genial that Quinney hoped to have the honour of serving him on some future occasion. The Major glanced at the sanctuary and before leaving paid ten pounds for a small Bow figure, and ordered it to be sent to the Savoy Hotel. After he had gone, Quinney found a letter addressed to Major Archibald Fraser, of Loch Tarvie, Inverness, N.B. He sent back the letter with the Bow figure, and he was curious enough to look up Major Archibald Fraser in Kelly'sHandbook to the Titled, Landed, and Official Classes. He discovered, to his satisfaction, that the Major owned two properties in Scotland, and was a Justice of the Peace. He had married the daughter of a well-known Scotch magnate. Quinney chuckled and rubbed his hands. The right sort were finding their way to Soho Square at last. After this the Major dropped in again and again, always in search of knowledge, which Quinney supplied with increasing pleasure. In a word, the pigeon was ready for plucking.
During his next visit the Major spoke with enthusiasm of a picture he had discovered in Dorset. He assured Quinney that the picture was a genuine Murillo. Then he pulled a bundle of notes out of his pocket, handed twenty pounds to Quinney, and delivered the following speech:
"I must go to Inverness to-night," he said regretfully. "My factor has wired for me about the letting of a forest of mine. Take this money on account of expenses, go to Dorchester, do yourself well—there is an excellent inn there, and a few bottles left of some '68 port. To-morrow there will be a sale at a small auction mart in the town. This picture will be offered. Here's a photograph of it. Buy it for me. In three days I shall be back in town."
He was hurrying away when Quinney stopped him. Queer notions of business these army gentlemen had, to be sure!
"What am I to bid for the picture, Major?"
"I'll go to fifteen hundred. I shouldn't be furious if you paid a hundred more. Wire to Loch Tarvie! Bye-bye!"
He was away before Quinney could get in another word.
"Thruster, and no error!" murmured Quinney to himself.
He travelled to Dorchester that afternoon and paid a visit to the auction mart before dinner. The auctioneer knew him, and expressed surprise at seeing him, for he was selling only job lots.
"Nothing to interest you, Mr. Quinney."
"Perhaps not. I'll have a squint round as I am here."
The auctioneer accompanied him, and Quinney soon found his picture, which was very dirty and inconspicuous. Old masters were not in his line, but he recognized the frame at once as being genuine—a fine specimen of carved wood, although much battered. The auctioneer said carelessly:
"I had a gentleman staring at that picture this morning. You're after the frame, I dare say."
Quinney made no reply. He saw that a small portion of the dirty canvas had been rubbed.
"Might look quite different if it was cleaned," said the auctioneer. "The other fellow did that with his handkerchief and a small bottle of stuff he carried in his pocket. I didn't like to object. Colour comes out nicely!"
"Who does it belong to?"
"A stranger to me. I take everything as it comes. I'm in a small way of business, as you know, Mr. Quinney; but some nice stuff has passed through my hands."
He plunged into an ocean of reminiscences, punctuating his remarks with lamentations of ignorance.
"If I really knew. Suppose it's a gift. You have it, Mr. Quinney. I have a sort of general knowledge of values, but it's the special knowledge that picks up the big bargains."
Quinney returned to his hotel.
At the auction next day two or three country dealers, small men, with whom he had a nodding acquaintance, were bidding. The gentleman who was interested in the picture was present also, languidly indifferent to the proceedings. However, he became animated when the picture was put up as "a valuable Madonna and Child, the work of an old master." The gentleman bid a hundred for it, apparently to the surprise of the small dealers.
"One hundred and twenty-five," said Quinney.
The gentleman bent down to whisper a word to a man who stood next him, and then he stared hard at Quinney, with a slight frown upon his smooth forehead.
"One hundred and fifty," he said quietly.
Finally Quinney secured the picture for eleven hundred pounds, well pleased at having secured it so cheap. The rival bidder led him aside.
"You are the famous dealer, Joseph Quinney?"
Quinney smiled complacently. The gentleman continued in a whisper:
"I expected to get that picture for a hundred pounds. You have fairly outbidden me, and I could not bid a farthing more to-day; but will you kindly tell me what you will take for your bargain?"
"Sorry," said Quinney; "but I bought it on a commission for a well-known collector."
"There is no more to be said," replied the other.
He nodded pleasantly and vanished. Quinney never saw him again. Nor did he see Major Archibald Fraser. Quinney paid the auctioneer with a cheque, and returned to London, after wiring the Major that the treasure was his. Three days later, not hearing a word from his client, he became slightly uneasy. His cheque had been cashed; the picture was in his possession. The abominable truth leaked out slowly. Major Archibald Fraser, of Loch Tarvie, had been impersonated by achevalier d'industrie. The picture was worth, perhaps, forty pounds, and the frame another five-and-twenty!
The pigeon from the country had been plucked.
III
The poor fellow sobbed out the facts to his Susan in a passion of self-abasement. The loss of the money was serious enough, but what ground him to powder was the fact that he had become the laughing-stock of the London dealers. Every man jack of them knew. He could not show his face in an auction room without provoking spasms of raucous laughter. The Dorchester auctioneer, called upon to prove his innocence (which he did), made the tale public. It was acclaimed as "copy" by scores of newspapers. And salt was rubbed into his wounds by the reporters whose sympathy seemed to lie with the two scoundrels who had devised so clever a scheme, and escaped with the swag! There was a cruel headline: "A Biter Bit."
"Whom have I bit?" he demanded of Susan.
The little woman mingled her tears with his, but no words of hers could assuage his misery or stem the torrent of self-accusation.
"Nice sort of fool you've married! A mug of mugs! You was right. Ought to have remained in Melchester! Ought to have remained in swaddling clothes! Ought never to have been born!"
He apostrophized Posy, now a child of ten.
"Nice sort of father you've got! Look at him! Why didn't you choose somebody else, hey? Picked a wrong'un, you did!"
Posy lifted her young voice and wept with her parents. And then Susan, almost hysterical, said with unconscious humour:
"Gracious! Isn't this a rainy afternoon!"
IV
After a few days the sun shone again. Lord Mel, who had returned to England, called upon his former tenant, and listened with sympathy to the tale of thwackings. Quinney added details which he had kept from Susan. Fired by Tomlin, he had ventured into the Kaffir Market, where the bears had mauled him. His losses, fortunately, were inconsiderable; but once again he had been "downed" by Londoners. He was too proud to whine before Lord Mel, and from long habit he expressed himself whimsically.
"Not fit to cross the road without a policeman. Time I advertised for a nurse or a keeper!"
"Are you thinking of going back to Melchester?"
At this Quinney exploded.
"My lord, I couldn't face Pinker, and Mrs. Biddlecombe would cackle and nag at me till I wrung her neck. She wrote to Susan to say that she was sorry to hear that the Lord had seen fit to afflict me grievously. In her heart she's glad."
"You don't blame the Lord?"
"I blame myself. I've been a silly daw, strutting about like a peacock. I wanted a fight, and I've had it; but I can't go back to Melchester. I must stick it out here, win or lose, customers or no customers. If the worst comes to the worst, I can sell to dealers. It means slavery."
"But you have some customers?"
"Very few—the wrong sort. Mostly women, who don't value their own time or mine. They look at my stuff, and call it 'rather nice'; they try to pick up a few wrinkles about glass and porcelain, and then they drift out, promising to call again."
"We must try to alter this."
"It does me good to see your lordship's face again."
Lord Mel bought a table and some Irish glass. He shook Quinney's hand at parting genially.
"You've had a dose. Perhaps your system needed it. Pay my respects to Mrs. Quinney, and tell her not to worry."
Quinney ran upstairs to Susan.
"Lord Mel's been in. Sent his respects to you. You're not to worry—see?"
"I am not worrying much, Joe. Nobody escapes hard times."
"His lordship has faith in me. He ain't offended. Just the same as ever. I told him everything—more than I told you."
"More than you told me?"
"I lost a few hundreds dabbling in mines. All that foolishness is over and done with. I mean to stick to what I know, and the people I know who'll stick to me. I shall give my undivided attention to business. I mean to work harder than ever, so as to win back what I've lost."
"How much have you lost, dear?"
"I'm not speakin' of money, Susie. I've lost my self-respect, and I don't stand with you just where I did."
"You do—you know you do!"
He shook his head obstinately.
"I know I don't. You ain't suffering from a crick in the neck along of lookin' up at me. I ain't been soaring lately. Wriggling like a crushed worm about fits me."
"Joe, dear, you've never quite understood me."
"Hey?"
"I married you for better or worse."
He stared at her amazedly.
"Lawsy! It never entered into your pretty head that it could be for worse?"
"I should love you just the same if it were."
"No, no, that ain't sense, Susie. It won't wash. You loved me because I was Joe Quinney—a feller with ambitions, a worker, a man with brains in his head. If I failed you, I should expect you to despise me. I should feel that I'd had you under false pretences."
Susan smiled very faintly. Her voice was curiously incisive:
"You have a lot to learn yet, Joe, about persons."
CHAPTER XII
POSY
I
Lord Mel sent many customers to Soho Square. He felt sincerely sorry for the little man, and told everybody that he was a fighter and a striver, and "straight." Within a few months Quinney became the Quinney of old, full of enthusiasm and swagger, exuding energy, quite confident that he was soaring and likely to become a spire! An American millionaire one morning made a clean sweep of half the treasures in the sanctuary. Orders to furnish rooms in a given style with first-class reproductions came joyously to hand, and were executed promptly and at a reasonable price.
In due time, also, he became a member of the inner ring of big dealers. They tried to "freeze him out" by inflating prices, often at a serious loss to themselves, but eventually they were constrained to admit that the Melchester man was too shrewd for them, with a knowledge of values which seemed to have fallen upon him like the dew from heaven. At any moment he might stop bidding with an abruptness very disconcerting to the older men, leaving them with thelapinwhich they were trying to impose upon him.
In those early days he found the Caledonian market a happy hunting-ground, securing immense quantities of Georgian steel fire-irons, fenders, and dog-grates, at that time in no demand. He stored them in his immense cellars, covering them with a villainous preparation of his own which defied rust.
"Good stuff to lay down," he remarked.
Afterwards the big dealers asked him how he had contrived to foresee the coming demand for old cut glass. Of this he had bought immense quantities also. He answered them in his own fashion.
"Can you tell me why one breed of dog noses out truffles?"
He bought innumerable spinets, good, bad, and indifferent, with reckless confidence. Even Tomlin remonstrated.
"What are you going to do with them?"
"You'll see," said Quinney.
One more blunder—and the use to which he turned it—must be chronicled. By this time he was recognized as an expert on eighteenth-century furniture. But he admitted that there were one or two who knew more than he. Tomlin, for example, who would drop in at least once a week for a chat and a glass of brown sherry. Upon one of these visits he found Quinney in a state of enthusiasm over a Chippendale armchair, unearthed in a small provincial town. Tomlin examined it carefully, and pronounced it a fake.
Quinney refused to believe this; but ultimately conviction that he had been "had" once more was forced upon him.
"Bar none, it's the best copy I ever saw," remarked Tomlin.
Quinney accepted his old friend's chaff with some chucklings. Next day, he returned to the provincial town, and discovered the young cabinet-maker who had made the fake. He returned to Soho in triumph, bringing the cabinet-maker with him. His name was James Miggott, and he entered into a contract to serve Quinney for three years at a salary of two pounds a week.
"Seems a lot," said Susan.
"He was earning twenty-five bob. I shall turn him loose on those spinets."
Most people know something about Quinney's spinets transformed by the hand of the skilful James into writing-desks, sideboards, and dressing-tables. The spinets brought many customers to Soho Square.
"Stock booming?" said Tomlin.
"It is," said Quinney. He added reflectively: "I sold a spinet to-day, for which I gave fifteen shillings, for just the same number o' pounds. James put in just one week on it. That's all, by Gum!"
Some dealers maintain that Quinney made his reputation with spinets, inasmuch as he sold more of them for a couple of years than the trade put together. But he himself believes that his Waterford glass brought the right customers—the famous collectors who buy little, but talk and write much. They liked Quinney because he was so keen; and he never grudged the time spent in showing his wares to non-buyers.
"They tell others," he observed to Susan. "No 'ad.' can beat that."
He had other dodges to capture trade. It became known that he charged nothing for giving his opinion upon specimens submitted to him. And he had an endearing habit of writing to purchasers of the spinets within a few months or weeks of the deal, offering an advance on the price paid, a "nice little profit," invariably refused.
"Bless 'em! It warms their hearts to think they've made a sound investment."
"How surprised and disappointed you'd be, Joe, if they accepted your offer!"
"Right you are, Susie; but there's little fear of that, my girl."
When a new customer entered the shop, Quinney would adopt an air of guileless indifference, which was likely to provoke the remark:
"Where is Mr. Quinney?"
"I'm Quinney. Like to have a look round? You may see something you fancy."
"That's a nice pie-crust table."
"It's a gem. Cheap, too."
Then he would give a low whistle, a clear, flute-like note. James would appear from below.
"Where's the receipted bill for this table?"
The bill was produced and shown to the stranger.
"See? Paid four pounds seventeen for it, just five weeks ago. Look at the date. You shall have it for six pounds, and, by Gum! I'll make you this offer. You can return it to me any day you like within a year, and I'll give you five pound ten for it. How's that, as between man and man?"
These seemingly artless methods captivated the "think-it-overs" and the "rather-nicers," who frequent curiosity shops in ever-increasing numbers. Mothers brought daughters to Soho Square to acquire historical information. Quinney refused to sell a Jacobean armchair because it was so useful an object-lesson to young and inquiring minds.
"Look at that, madam," he would say. Perhaps the lady would murmur softly: "It is rather nice, isn't it?" And the flapper would exclaim enthusiastically: "Mumsie, it's perfectly lovely!"
"Much more than that!" Quinney would add, with mysterious chucklings. "See that rose? It's a Stuart rose. And that crown on the front splat is an emblem of loyalty to the Merry Monarch."
"Dear me! You hear that, Kitty!"
"Pay particular attention to the legs, ladies. Ball and paw, the lion's paw, with hair above them, indicatin' the strength of the Constitootion after the Restoration. Chapter of English history, that chair."
He could embellish such simple themes according to fancy, and with due regard for the patience of his listener. To Susan he spoke of these intellectual exercises as "my little song and dance."
II
Meanwhile, Posy was growing up, becoming a tall, slender, pretty girl. She attended a day-school in Orchard Street—a select seminary for young ladies. Susan accompanied her to and from Orchard Street. By this time she had accepted, with a serenity largely temperamental, the fate allotted to her. Once more Quinney was absorbed in his business. Adversity had brought husband and wife together, prosperity sundered them. Very rarely does it happen that a successful man can spare time to spend on his wife. The charming slackers make the most congenial mates. Compensation has thus ordained it, wherein lie tragedy and comedy. Many women, to the end of their lives, are incapable of realizing this elementary fact. They want their husbands to climb high—the higher the better; they understand, perhaps more clearly than men, what can be seen and enjoyed from the tops; they pluck, often as a matter of course, and gobble up the grapes of Eschol, but they refuse to accept the inevitable penalties of supreme endeavour. Their husbands return to them almost foundered, fit only to eat and sleep. In the strenuous competition of to-day what else is possible?
Susan did not complain, but then she belonged to the generation who accepted with pious resignation life as it is. Indeed, she accounted herself singularly fortunate, and whenever the present seemed dreary she fortified herself by thinking of a rosy past, or projected herself into an enchanted future, when he and she, Darby and Joan, would wander hand in hand to some garden of sleep, some drowsy country churchyard, where they would lie down together to await an ampler and happier intercourse in the life beyond.
Her interest in persons as opposed to things quickened with the growth of her child. Posy became to her what a Chelsea shepherdess modelled by Roubillac was to Quinney—a bit of wonderful porcelain to be enshrined, a museum piece! The maternal instincts budded and bloomed the more bravely because conjugal emotion was denied full expression. She faced unflinchingly the conviction that Posy must marry and leave her. By that time Joe might be more ready to enjoy the fruits of labour. For the moment, then, her husband was pigeon-holed. He remained at the back of her mind, at the bottom of her heart, masked by that sprightly creature, his daughter.
Posy accepted Susan's love as a matter of course.