quinneys 15

quinneys 15

Quinney received him without betraying any awe of his rank, listening

respectfully to his landlord’s felicitations. He loved a lord, as all

true Britons do and must, but he had not yet recovered from a tremendous

shock, and his thoughts were entirely centred upon Susan. When Lord Mel

paused, Quinney replied:

 

"She’s not out of the wood yet, my lord."

 

"I know how you feel—I have been through it. And now show me over your

premises. The Bishop tells me that you have some fine porcelain."

 

"I’ve a lot of poor stuff, too!" grumbled Quinney.

 

Lord Mel smiled. He enjoyed what he called "browsing" in curiosity

shops, but he had never heard so candid an admission before. He was

still more surprised at what followed. His own taste strayed pleasantly

in the eighteenth century, and he was not aware, of course, that this

was Quinney’s beloved period. Nor did he know that the saloon at Mel

Court was nearly as familiar to Quinney as to himself. At first his

attention was challenged by the faked oak. The panels were really

beautiful, and inasmuch as they had deceived Quinney himself, it is not

very remarkable that they imposed themselves upon an amateur.

 

"Have you much of this oak?" he asked.

 

"Any amount of it!"

 

"Enough to panel a room?"

 

"Yes, I think so."

 

"What will you take for the lot? It happens that I can use it at Mel

Court. I am building a new billiard room, and my lady is rather tired

of mahogany."

 

Quinney’s keen eyes sparkled. Lord Mel was too big a swell to bargain,

and he was obviously not a "think-it-over fellow." He would pay,

cheerfully, a big price for these panels and, as likely as not, ask no

questions about them. Then he thought of Susan, white and helpless in

the big bed. With a tremendous effort, and speaking abruptly, as man to

man, he said:

 

"It’s all faked stuff."

 

"What! Impossible!"

 

"I can sell the lot, my lord, at a price that will surprise you." He

named the price, which included a modest profit to himself, wondering

what Tomlin would say when he heard the story. Tomlin, of course, owned

an undivided half-interest in the panels. Lord Mel was astounded. He

bought the panels, and stared at Quinney’s whimsical face.

 

"The price does surprise me," he admitted.

 

"Perfectly wonderful!" said Quinney. "The real stuff—if you could have

found such a quantity—would have run into a couple of thousand."

 

"But, pardon me, aren’t you doing business upon rather a novel plan?"

 

"That’s as may be, my lord. I propose to keep the very best fakes and

to label ’em as such. I have the genuine stuff, too. Take Oriental

china. Look at those jars!"

 

He was fairly started, aglow with excitement and enthusiasm, oblivious

of himself and his visitor, pouring out a flow of intimate information,

unconsciously displaying himself rather than his wares, forcing his

queer personality upon a man of the world, a connoisseur of men as well

as porcelain. Inevitably, his genius—long afterwards recognized as

such—for beauty challenged the attention of his listener—himself a lover

of beauty. They met as equals upon the common ground of similar tastes.

Quinney let himself go. In his perfervid excitement he gestured as he

did before Susan; the floor was strewn with aitches; grammar halted

feebly behind his impassioned sentences. There were things, lots o’

things, that were just right—perfection; and one of ’em—one bloomin’ bit

o’ real stuff, one tiny cup, potted by a master, painted by an artist,

gilded by an honest man who used the purest gold, twenty-two carat, by

Gum!—was worth all the beastly rubbish in the world. He ended upon the

familiar note.

 

"I hate rubbish! Rubbish is wicked, rubbish is cruel, rubbish poisons

the world. I was brought up amongst it, and that’s why I loathe it and

fear it."

 

When he finished Lord Mel held out his hand.

 

"Mr. Quinney," he said simply, "I am happy to make your acquaintance;

you are building even better than you know."

 

It is quite impossible to exaggerate the results that flowed directly

and indirectly from this memorable interview. In the first place,

Quinney secured a patron and friend who was all-powerful in a large

county. Lord Mel kept open house; he entertained the greatest men in

the kingdom. He sent his guests to the man whom he affirmed positively

to be the only honest dealer that he knew; he brought experts to whom

Quinney listened feverishly, sucking their special knowledge from them,

as a greedy child sucks an orange. He allowed our hero access to his

own collections, permitted him to make an inventory of them, and later

discarded upon his advice certain questionable specimens. In a word,

this oddly-assorted couple became friends, comrades, in their

indefatigable quest for beautiful objects. It was Lord Mel who

dispatched Quinney to Ireland—one of his richest hunting grounds. In

Ireland Quinney fell passionately in love with old cut-glass, at a time

when the commercial demand for it was almost negligible. In fine, Lord

Mel discovered Quinney and trained him to discover himself.

 

 

*III*

 

Picture to yourself Tomlin’s amazement and disgust when he paid his next

visit to the ancient town some three weeks after the sale of the panels.

And it must be admitted that he had reason for complaint, and that his

first comment upon Quinney’s astounding proceedings was justified.

 

"You don’t seem to have thought of me!"

 

"I didn’t," said Quinney, with admirable simplicity.

 

"I told you about that fellow in Brittany; I sent you to him; I provided

half the cash, and I was counting upon big profits. You’ve let me down

badly."

 

"Looks like it, to be sure!"

 

"Damned outrage, I call it!"

 

"So it is; but I was desperate. Susan was dying. I never thought of you

at all. Now, look here! Don’t overheat yourself! You was counting upon

a fifty per cent. profit."

 

"Perhaps more."

 

"You do like to get your fore-feet into the trough. Any Jew blood in

your family? Keep cool! At first we got our big profit, and how much

stuff did we sell? Very little. Now I’ve orders coming in faster than

I can fill ’em, and your profit, small and quick, will knock endways the

big and slow. See?"

 

Eventually he made Tomlin see, and the London dealer had to admit that

Lord Mel, played by Quinney as a trump card, introduced a new element

into the game. The orders were coming in.

 

"It’s silly to be dishonest," said Quinney, "because sooner or later a

feller is found out."

 

"Honest fakes," murmured Tomlin. The contradiction in terms upset him.

 

"That’s it. And my fakes are goin’ to be advertised as the best in the

world—really fine stuff, at a price which’ll defy competition."

 

"You’re an extraordinary man, Joe. There is something in it. Honest

fakes!"

 

"Rub this in as vaseline, old man. If we can sell honest fakes cheap,

we can sell the real Simon pure stuff at the top notch. Rich people

don’t haggle over a few extra pounds if they know that they’re not being

imposed upon. I’m going to offer to take back any bit I sell as genuine

which may be pronounced doubtful by the experts."

 

Tomlin shook his head mournfully, having no exalted faith in experts.

Also, he, was beginning to realize that Quinneys’ as a sort of

dumping-ground for his surplus and inferior wares was now under a high

protective tariff. He growled out:

 

"If you think you know your own business——"

 

"Cocksure of it, old man!"

 

"I can only hope that Pride won’t have a fall."

 

"You come with me and drink my daughter’s health. Never saw such a kid

in all my life—and not a month old!"

 

Tomlin grinned, perceiving an opportunity of "landing" heavily.

 

"Daughter? Rather muddled things, haven’t you? Thought you’d arranged

with your missis that it was to be a boy?"

 

"Did you? Well, being a better husband than you are, I let her ’ave her

own way in that."

 

 

*IV*

 

The daughter was duly christened Josephina Biddlecombe, and, for the

purposes of this narrative, we may skip a number of pet names, beginning

with Baby and ending with Josie-posie. Ultimately she was called Posy

and nothing else—a rechristening that took place in the distinguished

presence of the Bishop of Melchester. The child was nearly three years

old when that courtly prelate happened to drift into the shop. Susan