quinneys 12

quinneys 12

IV*

 

Ten days afterwards the child was born. Quinney was summoned at four in

the afternoon by the breathless Maria, who gasped out that he was

wanted. Somehow Quinney leapt to the conclusion that all was over.

 

"Is the baby born?" asked Quinney.

 

"No, nor likely to be till after midnight."

 

She whisked off, leaving an astonished man vaguely wondering from what

source Maria had received this positive information. He closed the

shop, and then ran home. The doctor was leaving the cottage. Again

Quinney stammered out:

 

"Is it over?"

 

"Just begun," the doctor replied. Quinney hated him because he looked

so blandly self-possessed and indifferent.

 

"Mrs. Biddlecombe is with her," continued the doctor, in the same

suavely impassive tone. "They will send for me later. Good-afternoon!"

 

Quinney wanted to reply, "Oh, you go to blazes! I shall send for

somebody else; a man, not a machine," but he merely glared at the

doctor, and nodded. Pelting upstairs, two steps at a time, he

encountered Mrs. Biddlecombe upon the landing, with her forefinger on

her lip.

 

"Not so much noise, _please_!" she commanded, with the air and

deportment of an empress. It struck Quinney that she had expanded

enormously. Also she was dressed for the part, wearing an imposing

dressing-gown, and felt slippers. Quinney had an odd feeling that she

was enjoying herself at Susie’s expense. Secretly he was furious,

because she seemed to block the entrance to _his_ room. He tried to

push past her.

 

"Where are you going, Joseph?"

 

He was quite confounded, but from long habit he replied in his jerky,

whimsical way:

 

"Into my room o’ course. Where did you think I was going? Into the

coal cellar?"

 

Mrs. Biddlecombe answered with majesty, not budging:

 

"We"—Maria was indicated as an accomplice—"have got another room ready

for you."

 

Quinney said resolutely, "I’m a-going to stay with Susie till it’s

over."

 

"No, you ain’t!"

 

"Yes, I am!"

 

She gripped his arm. Her voice was coolly contemptuous, but she spoke

with authority.

 

"No, you ain’t. ’Tisn’t seemly."

 

"That be damned!"

 

"Joseph Quinney! And an innocent unborn babe might hear you! Now,

listen to me, and do just as I tell you. Men ain’t wanted on these

occasions. You can go in and see Susan for a few minutes, but,

remember, out you go when I say the word. Try to be a help and not an

hindrance. I sent for you because you may be wanted to run for the

doctor."

 

"Run from ’im more likely," said Quinney. "Cold-blooded beast."

 

"He’s just what a gentleman should be at such times. You take pattern

by him! Now, go in, don’t shout, say something cheerful, and leave the

room when I nod."

 

Throughout this speech Quinney was conscious that his will was ebbing

from him. The mother-in-law triumphed by virtue of superior knowledge

and experience. Quinney respected knowledge.

 

"But if Susie wants me to stay——?"

 

"She won’t."

 

He entered the room. Somehow he had expected to find his wife in bed,

pale, frightened, passive. She was walking up and down. Her cheeks

were red, her eyes were bright. And yet there was something about her,

some hunted __EXPRESSION__ in the tender eyes, some nervous tension which

moved the man tremendously. His eyes brimmed with tears, his voice

broke, as he called her by name. For a moment they clung to each other,

and he wondered at her strength. Mrs. Biddlecombe, frowned portentously.

There were moments when she told herself that Susan had married a very

common person.

 

"That’ll do," she said. "We don’t want any flustrations."

 

Susan murmured:

 

"Dear, dear Joe!"

 

She pulled down his head and kissed the tears from his eyes. It was a

moment of pure bliss for her. They sat down, holding each other’s hands,

oblivious of Mrs. Biddlecombe, who still stared at them, trying to

remember how the late Mr. Biddlecombe had behaved when Susan was born,

and vaguely mindful of his conspicuous absence, and the discovery later

that he had assuaged his anxiety with strong waters.

 

Meanwhile, Susan’s tenderness had aroused in her husband the

determination to vanquish his mother-in-law. The power to cope with her

surged within.

 

"You want me to stay, Susie?"

 

"Oh yes, till the pain comes."

 

"And after?"

 

"No, no!"

 

"But why, why?"

 

She looked prettier and sweeter than he had ever seen her when she

whispered:

 

"I couldn’t bear for you to see my face. It, it," her voice quivered,

"it frightens me. Just now I looked in the glass, and I didn’t

recognize it as mine."

 

"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Biddlecombe.

 

"I shall do as Susan wishes," said Quinney humbly.

 

"You will leave the room when I nod?"

 

"Please!" said Susan, with her arms about his neck.

 

Presently Mrs. Biddlecombe nodded.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER VI*

 

*THE VISITOR ARRIVES*

 

*I*

 

 

Quinney went downstairs, whistling softly to hide a growing perturbation

of spirit. He could not disguise from himself that he was terribly

worried. Till now he had bolstered anxiety with the reflection that

what was happening had happened before to millions and billions (he

loved big figures) of women, but he had never realized that each and all

of them had suffered cruel pain. When Susan spoke of her changed face,

a spasm of agony twisted him. He resented fiercely the conviction that

his wife must suffer, and he divined somehow, partly from Mrs.

Biddlecombe and partly from Susan, that the pain was greater than he had

supposed. He salved his quivering sensibilities with the balm applied

by all husbands at such moments; she was young, healthy, and strong. She

would pull through. And yet, the damnable thought that sometimes things

did happen grew and grew.

 

He descended into a modest cellar, and brought up a bottle of port,

which he decanted carefully. It was the best wine that could be bought

in Melchester, and he had secured a couple of dozen with the intention

of drinking his son’s health many times. He tasted it to satisfy

himself that the wine was in prime condition. He held it to the light

and marked its superb colour. Then he sat down to read the paper, as

was his habit when the day’s work was done. Pinker, the grocer, and

other men of substance in Melchester, were too fond of boasting that

they read the morning paper in the morning before attending to the

paramount claims of their own business. This attitude of mind towards

the affairs of the nation perplexed Quinney, who frankly considered his

own affairs first. He belonged to that once immense majority of his

fellow-countrymen—a majority much decreased of late years—who believe

that certain altruists manage more or less successfully the business of

the country. He was quite willing to allow these gentlemen, whose

services were unpaid, a comparatively free hand upon the unexpressed

condition that they did not bother him or interfere with the conduct of

his private affairs. At that time the Tories were in power, coming to

the end of a long tenure of office. Quinney passively approved of the

Tories, and actively disliked Radicals, whom he stigmatized generally as

mischief-makers. Under certain circumstances he would have been a

red-hot Radical. During his father’s lifetime, for instance, when he

groaned in secret beneath the heel of oppression, he would have been

eager—had the opportunity presented itself—to join any secret society

organized for the overthrow of "tyrants."

 

He read the paper through, criticizing nothing except the wording of

certain advertisements. He meant to advertise his own wares some day,

although Tomlin believed in more particular methods. In the early

’nineties, small tradesmen had no faith in Advertisements. They built

up a small but solid connection, which they came to regard as

unalienably theirs.

 

Presently Quinney lit his pipe, and his thoughts with the smoke strayed

upstairs. Mrs. Biddlecombe appeared.