quinneys 14

quinneys 14

He rose from his knees somewhat comforted, so true is it that sincere

prayer, if it accomplishes nothing else, is of real benefit to those who

pray. He remembered the faked specimen of Early Worcester, and his

resolution to sell it at the first opportunity. He rushed into the

sitting-room, seized the cup and saucer, and smashed them. The violence

of the action seemed to bind the bargain between himself and the Ruler

of the Universe. Standing erect this time, he swore that faked china as

well as faked oak was to be eternally repudiated. Let him perish,

instead of Susan, if he failed to keep his word!

 

By an odd coincidence, he had hardly registered these vows when he

realized that there was silence upstairs. Within a few minutes Maria

poked her head into the room to report a marked improvement in Mrs.

Biddlecombe.

 

"And your mistress?"

 

Maria shook her head.

 

"I know nothing about her, sir."

 

"Everything seems strangely quiet."

 

"Yes, sir; terribly so."

 

She dabbed at her eyes, inflamed already by much weeping, and withdrew.

Quinney went to the foot of the stairs, listening. The suspense became

excruciating, harder to endure than the anguished moaning of his wife.

He never knew afterwards how long he remained there, but presently the

door opened and the measured tread of both doctors was heard on the

landing. They came slowly downstairs till they perceived Quinney. Dr.

Ransome spoke, and his voice seemed to come from an immense distance:

 

"It’s all over! Your child is born."

 

"Thank God!" exclaimed Quinney. He added tremulously: "And my poor

wife?"

 

"She is very much exhausted. Presently you can go to her for a minute.

It has been a complicated case, but we anticipate no further

complications."

 

Quinney burst into tears.

 

Both doctors consoled him, taking him by the arm, patting his shoulder,

telling him that he was the father of a robust infant, that there was no

cause whatever for unreasonable anxiety. Not till they were on the

point of leaving the cottage did the distracted father remember the

decanter of port.

 

"Come in here, gentlemen, please."

 

They followed him into the dining-room, and three glasses were duly

charged.

 

"My son!" said Quinney, holding up his glass.

 

Dr. Ransome stared at him, then he smiled.

 

"Don’t you know? Didn’t we tell you?"

 

"Tell me what?"

 

"You are the father, my dear sir, of a ten-pound daughter!"

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER VII*

 

*JOSEPHINA*

 

*I*

 

 

He stole up to his wife’s room as soon as the doctors had gone. The

pale silvery light of early dawn seemed to steal up with him, making the

silence more impressive and mysterious. Upon a table on the landing the

lamp burned low. He had been told to expect the weak wail of the

newly-born. The nurse, indeed, as they walked together from her

cottage, had spoken of it as the most wonderful sound in all the world

when heard by a father for the first time. But he had not heard it.

 

He turned out the lamp, and noticed that his hand was trembling.

Exercising his will, which he knew to be strong, he endeavoured to stop

this strange twitching. He could not do so. Suddenly, he became

conscious of an immense weariness; hie limbs ached; his head was

throbbing; he felt like an overtired child. It even occurred to him

that it would be not altogether unpleasant to cry himself to sleep. An

odd fear of seeing Susan gripped him. What did she look like after the

rigours of this awful night? Was she lying insensible? Would she know

him? Would he break down before her, when he beheld the cruel ravages

of intense pain? For her sake he must pull himself together.

 

Thereupon a struggle for the mastery took place between spirit and

flesh. He was not able to analyse his emotions, but he divined somehow

that this was his labour, that something was being born out of him,

wrenched from his very vitals, a new self with a brighter intelligence,

a more vigorous sympathy. The pains of the spirit were upon him.

Presently an idea emerged; the conception which must take place in every

human soul, the quickening of a transcendent conviction that pain is

inevitable and inseparable from growth. It would be absurd to contend

that his writhing thoughts could twist themselves into the form to which

__EXPRESSION__ has been given here. He was very young, and, apart from a

special knowledge of his business, extremely ignorant; but it was

revealed to him at this moment, a babe and suckling in such matters,

that something had happened to him, that he could never be the same

again. Fatherhood, and, all it implied, had been paid for with tears

and agony.

 

The door of Susan’s room opened.

 

He saw the nurse, who beckoned. Her face had become normal; she smiled

gravely, as he passed her, and she closed the door softly, leaving

husband and wife together.

 

His first impression was that the room smelled very sweet, filled with

the fragrance of the flowers in the garden. The windows remained wide

open. The light was stronger than on the landing, but soft, for the sun

had not yet risen. Everything was in order. The habit of swift

observation enabled him to grasp all this in a flash, although, so far

as he knew, his eyes were fixed upon the bed. Susan lay upon her side

of it. Her face was milk-white, with purple lines beneath eyes which

seemed unduly sunken. Her pretty hair, done in two plaits, framed her

face. To Quinney she looked exactly like a child who had been

frightfully ill. It was impossible to think of her as a mother. Nor

did he do so. He had forgotten the baby altogether, his mind was

concentrated upon the Susan whom he loved, upon the Susan who appeared

to have returned from a long journey into an unknown land, a new and

strange Susan, for her lips never smiled at him, but in her tender eyes

he recognized his wife, his own little woman, his most priceless

possession, the soul of her shone steadily out of those eyes acclaiming

his soul as he acclaimed hers.

 

When he kissed her, she sighed. He slipped his hand beneath the

bedclothes, and took her hand, murmuring her name again and again. She

did not speak, and he did not wish her to speak. Her silence implied

far more than speech.

 

He felt the faint pressure of her hand, so small and weak within his

grasp. Then he laid his head upon her bosom. He could just hear her

heart, beating slowly and feebly. He lifted his head, putting his cheek

against hers. She sighed again—deliciously! He tried to believe that

his strength, which seemed to have returned on a spring-tide of

irresistible volume, could be infused into her. And it may have been

so, for presently she spoke, the words fluttering from her pale lips.

 

"You are not very disappointed?"

 

Disappointed!

 

He reassured her upon that point, so overmasteringly that she smiled,

and the pressure of her hand became stronger.

 

The nurse appeared, beckoning once more. Quinney followed her

obediently into the adjoining room, where an object that looked like a

wrinkled orange was affirmed to be his daughter’s head! Obviously the

nurse expected him to kiss this; and he did so without any uplifting

exultation, without a single compensating thrill! It occurred to him

vaguely that Susan and he had paid a thumping price for very little. He

was shown a hand like the hand of an anæmic doll. Into the tiny palm he

slipped, cautiously, his forefinger. To his amazement, the finger was

gripped unmistakably.

 

"Well, I’m damned!" he exclaimed. As the nurse raised her eyebrows in

silent protest, he added quickly: "I’ve been swearing all night; one

more little one don’t count!"

 

The nurse glanced professionally at his haggard face and dishevelled

hair.

 

"You go to bed at once!" she commanded.

 

He did so.

 

 

*II*

 

Susan’s recovery from her confinement was slow but unattended, as the

doctor had predicted, by complications. She was able, happily, to nurse

her child, but for many months she remained in cotton wool at the Dream

Cottage, recruiting her energies in the pleasant garden, and rarely

straying beyond it. The question of her returning to the shop was

settled drastically.

 

"Who’ll take care of the kid? Wouldn’t leave her to a nursemaid, would

you?

 

"N-n-no," faltered Susan, feeling more wife than mother. She qualified

the doubtful negative by murmuring: "I did love helping you."

 

"Lord bless you! You’re helping me at home—a woman’s right place. It’s

the biggest help a woman can give to a man. You run things fine! Yes,

you do!"—for she had shaken her head. "And the kid has the very best

nurse in all the world! Shop, indeed! I don’t want my wife demeaning

herself in a shop!"

 

He snorted with indignation, and Susan, with a suppressed sigh, let the