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quinneys 16

"So do I," said Susan.

 

"Yes, yes; Posy is a sweet, old-fashioned name, and it describes the

child admirably."

 

When he had taken leave of them, Quinney said with conviction:

 

"He’s right. Posy she is, the little dear! And his lordship didn’t

fail to notice, I’ll be bound, that she smells as sweet as she looks."

 

After this incident the child was always called Posy.

 

It is not easy to describe the sprite, because she presented a baffling

combination of father and mother. Her native grace, her pretty

colouring and delicate features, were a sweet inheritance from Susan;

her quickness of wit, her powers of observation, her unmistakable sense

of beauty—for she shrank tremblingly from what was mean or ugly—came

from Quinney. Essentially she was a child of love, adored by both her

parents, and, up to a certain point, spoiled by them. Mrs. Biddlecombe

was fondly of the opinion that the child had taken from her parents what

was best in each, buttressing the assertion by calling attention to the

dash of red in the golden locks, and the peculiar alertness of the

mite’s glance flashing hither and thither, searching for the things

which delighted her, and acclaiming them when found with joyous

chirruping and gestures.

 

"Reg’lar butterfly!" said Quinney. "Dotty about flowers! Picks out the

best, by Gum!"

 

The first three years passed without incident. The business prospered.

Quinney engaged a capable assistant, and began his travels. His

restlessness affected Susan, but she accepted it resignedly. He was

different from other men and not to be judged by ordinary standards.

Argument was wasted upon him. She expostulated vainly when he began to

change the furniture. The knowledge that each bit was more valuable and

beautiful than its predecessor did not appeal to her at all. She

beguiled him into talking about his business, feigning interest in its

growth, but became increasingly conscious that the details bored her.

The Dream Cottage, as she had pictured it, faded from memory. It had

become a sort of small pantechnicon, a storehouse of precious objects

which came and went, an annexe to the shop, to be kept swept and

garnished for the entertainment and instruction of collectors.

 

The garden, however, was her peculiar domain, diffusing its own

satisfactions and graces. The kitchen and nursery were hers also. She

was an excellent housewife, and made Posy’s frocks, and some of her own,

despite the protests of Quinney, who babbled foolishly of satins and

brocades.

 

Undaunted by her awful experience, she hoped for another child. Upon

this point Mrs. Biddlecombe had something to say.

 

"I was an only child, you was an only child, your grandfather was an

only child. It’s in the family. After what you went through——"

 

"Joe would like a son, mother."

 

"Has he hinted that to you?"

 

"No."

 

"You take it from me that he doesn’t."

 

To Susan’s astonishment, Joe confirmed what had seemed a ridiculous

assumption. After Josephina was weaned, Susan whispered to him one

night:

 

"I do miss my baby."

 

"Enjoyed bein’ woke up—hey?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Like another, perhaps?" She detected the scorn in his voice.

 

"If—if you wanted it, Joe. A little son this time."

 

He caught hold of her, speaking vehemently, crushing her to him, as if

to remind her how nearly she had slipped from his keeping.

 

"Now look here, Susie, I ain’t going to have another."

 

She laughed faintly, as she replied:

 

"It isn’t you who will have it. Mother says she wishes that the men

could take turn and turn about."

 

"Ho! Said that, did she? You tell her from me that I suffered quite

enough with my first. Enough to last me all my life, and yours, too!"

 

Susan shook with laughter.

 

"Oh, Joe, you are a darling!"

 

"Silly name to call me! Red-headed and freckled! But no more nonsense

about little sons. When my daughter marries, her husband can take my

name. See?"

 

"I see," said Susan; "but I’m afraid baby’s husband may not."

 

At the end of three years, a small cloud arose in their clear sky. Mrs.

Biddlecombe announced solemnly that she was seriously ill, and about to

meet her Maker.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER VIII*

 

*LIGHT OUT OF THE DARKNESS*

 

*I*

 

 

When Mrs. Biddlecombe made this solemn declaration it never occurred to

either Quinney or Susan to dispute the infallibility of such a

statement. The worthy lady belonged to a type rapidly becoming extinct

in this country, a type which has provoked the astonishment and humorous

criticism of foreigners. She had never questioned what she devoutly held

to be certain divinely-revealed truths. Persons who presumed to differ

from her, or perhaps it would be fairer to say, from the indiscriminate

mass of public opinion which she represented, were accounted beyond the

pale of Christian charity and toleration, _tout comprendre c’est tout

pardonner_ being an arrow which glances harmlessly against prejudice and

predilection. There was no joint in her armour of righteousness through

which it could penetrate. The type is still so common that comment upon

it would be tedious. Amongst other cherished beliefs was a conviction

that illness came direct from God. Had Susan, as a child, been struck

down with typhoid fever, Mrs. Biddlecombe would have accepted the blow

with resignation and tended the sufferer, under the direction of a

medical attendant, with exemplary tenderness and fortitude. She would

not have overhauled the system of drainage. Accordingly, when the Hand

of Providence—as she put it—was laid heavily upon her massive body, she

accepted the infirmity with pious resignation, and informed Laburnum Row

that it was the beginning of the end. Dr. Ransome diagnosed the case,

accurately enough, as cardiac weakness arising from chronic dyspepsia.

His patient was of a full habit, and took no exercise beyond the common

round of duties connected with her small house. A competent servant

"did" for her, perhaps in more senses than one. Ransome, of course,

reassured her again and again in regard to her symptoms. They were such

as could not be ignored at her age—fifty-five—but with care and a less

generous diet she might reasonably hope to live happily for many years.

Mrs. Biddlecombe refused to believe this. She made her will, leaving

everything she possessed to Susan, selected her last resting-place in

the Melchester cemetery, not too near the grave of her second husband,

the contractor and builder, and announced calmly that she was "ready."

Quinney, of course, had a private word with Dr. Ransome, but that

cautious diplomat had to admit that his patient might go suddenly.

Quinney told Susan what had passed between them, using his own

vernacular.

 

"Old Pomposity is hedgin’—see? Just like him! Comes to this, Susie.

You was at death’s door, seemin’ly, but, by Gum! you pulled through

because you wouldn’t leave me!"

 

Susan nodded, pressing his arm.

 

"Works t’other way round with your mother. She’s made up her mind to

die, and the doctor can’t argue her out of the notion. Her heart is

weak, and if it begins flutterin’ it may stop for ever just because the

pore old dear won’t will it to go on wigglin’. There y’are!"

 

Susan was much upset. She loved her mother, although the two women had

little in common, and the feminine instinct of ministration, root-pruned

by her husband, began to sprout vigorously. She paid long daily visits

to Laburnum Row, and Quinney soon noticed a falling off in the quality

of his food. Twice they were summoned in the middle of the night to say

good-bye to a woman who believed herself to be dying.

 

"A bit thick!" said Quinney.

 

"Joe!"

 

"But, isn’t it? Let’s face the facts. You spend a lot o’ time away

from home, away from Posy. Losin’ your nice fresh colour, you are! And

I’m losin’ my appetite for the good meals I used to have."

 

"But mother wants me. And any moment——"

 

"So she thinks. Quite likely to make old bones yet. Now, look here,

I’ve a plan—the only plan. I simply won’t have you trapesin’ round to

Laburnum Row at all hours of the day and night. Tell your mother to

pack up and come to us."

 

Alas! poor Susan!

 

She was hoist with her own petard. Protest died on her lips. She submitted, not daring to confess that a dying mother could be regarded by a dutiful daughter as an unwelcome visitor.