quinneys 11

quinneys 11

She had to pass some lonely hours. Mrs. Biddlecombe neglected no duties

connected with her own house, and the work at the Dream Cottage was done

meticulously by the competent servant whom Mrs. Biddlecombe had

installed there, and over whom she exercised a never-flagging vigilance.

Quinney issued orders that the mistress was to be spared. She was quite

capable of doing many things which the robust Maria would not allow her

to do. Even the delight of sewing upon minute garments was

circumscribed. Quinney, after secret "colloguing" with Mrs. Biddlecombe,

prepared a surprise. An amazing basket arrived from London, embellished

with pale blue ribbon, and filled with a layette fit—so the

advertisement said—for "a little lord."

 

Quinney attached a label inscribed with the following legend:

 

"To Joseph Quinney, Jr., Esq., care of Mother."

 

Susan’s feelings upon the receipt of this superb and complete outfit—I

quote again from the advertisement—were of the bitterest—sweetest. She

had set her heart upon making her child’s clothes, and she sewed

exquisitely. She had to pretend that she was overwhelmed with surprise

and gratitude, and Joe’s delight in her simulated delight partly

compensated her for being so grossly deceitful. Wild plans entered her

head for compassing the destruction of the layette. During one awful

moment she experienced the monstrous thrills of a Nero, for the thought

had come to her, "Why not burn the furniture and the basket together?"

The cottage and furniture were handsomely insured! A mild perspiration

broke upon her forehead, as she murmured to herself:

 

"What a wicked, wicked girl I am!"

 

 

*II*

 

She distracted her mind by reading novels, and was mightily interested

in the works of Rosa Nouchette Carey. In the middle of the day Joe

would rush in, kiss her tenderly, inquire after Master Quinney, sit down

to dinner, and chatter boisterously of his business. His solicitude for

her comfort never failed, but its insistence became enervating. She had

excellent health, and was happily free from the minor ills which afflict

many women in her condition. But this sort of talk became exasperatingly

monotonous:

 

"Feelin’ fine, are you?"

 

"Oh yes, Joe."

 

"Any one bloomin’ thing you fancy?"

 

"Nothing."

 

"Not worriting? No stewin’ in your own juice, hey?"

 

"No, no, no!"

 

"Good. Everything is going to be all right. Lucky little dear, you are,

to have a hubby who looks after you properly, and Joe Quinney, junior,

will be looked after also. Make no error about that. He’s going to be

a very remarkable young man! Chose his parents with rare right

judgments he did. By Gum, when I read that little ’ad.’ about his kit

bein’ fit for a lord, I says to myself, ’Why not? Why shouldn’t my son

be a lord one day?’"

 

"Joe, you are funny!"

 

"Funny? I’m dead serious, my girl. This stream," he tapped an inflated

chest, "rose higher than its source. It began not far from the gutter,

Susie. I’m not ashamed of it. Nothing of the snob about Joe Quinney!

I’m a bit of a river. I’m marked on the map. I flow all over the shop;

yes, I do. And my son may become a sort of Amazon. Do you know how

many square miles the Amazon waters?"

 

"Gracious, no!"

 

"Useful bit of knowledge. Nigh upon three million square miles!"

 

"Mercy!"

 

"I see Joe Quinney, junior, percolatin’ everywhere, bang from one end of

the Empire to another."

 

"She’s not born yet, poor little dear!"

 

"She! There you go again."

 

"I’m sure it will be a ’she.’"

 

"Not him. You trust my judgment. It’s a gift with me. All great men

have it. Bonyparte and Wellington and Julius Cæsar."

 

"You do go it."

 

"That’s right. Do for a motto, that would. Go it! Keep a-moving! The

people in this silly old town are standin’ still, up to their knees in

their graves already, poor souls!"

 

Then he would kiss her again, and bolt off to the shop, chuckling and

rubbing his hands.

 

Susan would return to her novel, and bury hopes and fears in the mild

adventures of a conventional and highly respectable pair of lovers. She

had always liked sweets, but at this period she enjoyed a surfeit of

them. The sentiment that exuded from every page of her favourite

romances affected her tremendously, and may have affected her unborn

child.

 

 

*III*

 

Upon the eve of the child’s birth, nearly a year after her marriage,

Susan wrote a letter to her husband. She had spent the day pottering

about her bedroom, turning over certain clothes, notably her

wedding-gown, and recalling vividly the events succeeding her marriage,

the journey to France, all the pleasant incidents of the honeymoon.

From a small desk which had belonged to her father, a solid rosewood box

clamped with brass, she took certain "treasures," a bit of heather

picked by Joe when they took a jaunt together to the New Forest, a

trinket or two, a lock of Joe’s hair, his letters tied up in pink ribbon

and her birth certificate, solemnly thrust into her hand by Mrs.

Biddlecombe upon the morning ol the wedding. Inside the desk remained a

few sheets of the "fancy" notepaper which she had used as a maid. She

selected a new nib, placed it in an ivory penholder, and began to write:

 

 

"MY DARLING HUSBAND,

 

"I want to tell you that the last year has been the happiest of my life.

I don’t believe that I can ever be quite so happy again. You have been

sweet to me. When I have tried to tell you this, you have always

laughed, and so I want to write it down.

 

"Your loving

"SUSIE.

 

"P.S.—I hope you will marry again."

 

 

She placed the letter in an envelope to match, addressed it, and wrote

above it, "To be opened after my death." Then she shed a few tears,

feeling lonely and frightened, peering into the gulf which yawned in

front of her, knowing that the hour was almost at hand, when she must

fall down, down, down into unplumbed abysses of terror and pain.

 

She locked up the letter in the desk, put on a cloak, and crawled into

the Cathedral, whose vastness always impressed her. The great nave was

strangely familiar, yet unfamiliar. A soft, silvery light diffused

itself. Susan noticed that she was alone, whereas she was accustomed to

the Sunday crowd. The silence seemed to enfold her. It struck her

suddenly that for many hours during each day and night the great church

wherein she had worshipped since she was a child, was empty and silent,

a mere sepulchre of the mighty dead, who, lying in their splendid tombs,

awaited the Day of Resurrection.

 

Did they ever come forth at night?

 

What did it feel like to be dead?

 

Such questions had never seriously presented themselves to her before,

because she was normally healthy in mind and body. Death, indeed, had

been acclaimed in Laburnum Row as a not unwelcome excitement for the

living, an incident that loosened all tongues, which called for

criticism, and a good deal of eating and drinking. Now, alone amongst

the dead, Susan considered the inevitable change from the point of view,

so to speak, of those who were "taken." She was accustomed to these odd

middle-class euphuisms. This particular __EXPRESSION__, invariably used by

Mrs. Biddlecombe, indicated a certain selection upon the part of the

Reaper, who "took" presumably those, whether young or old, who were ripe

for the sickle.

 

Susan shivered, praying fervently that she might be spared, that she

might be deemed unripe. Her thoughts flitted hither and thither, not

straying far from the austere figure with the sickle, settling now upon

this hypothesis and now upon that. For example, the commonest form of

condolence in Laburnum Row, leaping smugly from every matronly lip, was,

"He (or she) has entered into rest." Or, with tearful conviction,

"God’s will be done." To doubt the truth of these statements would have

seemed to Susan rank blasphemy. Even now, face to face with the awful

possibility, her simple mind sucked comfort from them; they fortified

her trembling body for the great ordeal. But, at the same time, she was

conscious of a feeling of revolt, because life was so sweet, and her

enchanting pilgrimage had just begun. It would be cruel to take her!

 

And how would it affect Joe?

 

He would have his business; he would absorb himself in that. If he did

marry again he would choose some sensible woman, able to look after his

house and his child. She could not bear the horrid thought that a

second wife might be prettier than the first, that her Joe might forget

her kisses upon the lips of another woman. She murmured to herself,

"Joe can’t do without me. I shall not be taken this time."

 

She went back to the Dream Cottage, unlocked her desk, opened her

letter, and added these words to the postscript:

 

"Marry a nice sensible woman, not quite so pretty as I am, one who will