quinneys 17
Mrs. Biddlecombe, however, refused, at first, to budge. "Let me die
here, Joseph." Quinney used the clinching argument.
"You are not going to die, Mrs. B., but, if you did, just think of the
sad job we’d have gettin’ you down them narrow stairs. And we never
could receive all your friends in such a small parlour."
"That’s true," sighed Mrs. Biddlecombe. "There’s a lot in what you say,
Joseph."
"There is, old dear! I’m uneducated, and I know it, but my talk is full
o’ meat and gravy. It’s nourishing!"
Accordingly, Mrs. Biddlecombe came to the Dream Cottage, and was
installed comfortably in the guest chamber. As time passed, the good
lady grew to like her room so well that she refused to leave it. She
became, in short, bedridden, and increasingly dependent upon Susan, who
never failed her. Quinney began to spend his evenings away from home.
He joined a club which met bi-weekly in a snug room at the Mitre. Susan
encouraged him to join his friends, because she was terrified lest he
should be bored at home. Also, his wanderings in search of furniture
and china became more extended, and when he returned triumphant,
exulting in wonderful bargains, she found it increasingly difficult to
share his enthusiasm, and to rejoice with him over a prosperity which
seemed to be driving them farther apart.
She told herself, on her knees, that she was a wicked, ungrateful woman.
Indeed, she was amazed at her own emotions, unable to analyse them,
conscious only that she was torn in two by circumstance and consequence.
Her Joe loved her faithfully; he grudged her nothing; he worked hard for
her and his child; he had none of the vices common to the husbands of
many women she knew; he was almost always in high health and spirits.
And Posy? What a darling! No cause for anxiety there. A sweet sprite,
budding rapidly into a pretty, intelligent girl. And she herself?
Healthy, the mistress of a charming little house filled with beautiful
things, but not happy.
Why—why—why?
Civil war raged beneath her placid bosom. War to the knife between
conjugal and maternal instincts. Her duty to child and mother stood
between what she desired more passionately than anything else—a renewal
of intimate intercourse with a husband who was drifting out of her life,
leaving her stranded upon barren rocks. She found herself wondering
whether his feeling for her was waxing lukewarm. She would cheerfully
have undergone the cruellest pangs to experience once more the ineffable
bliss of kissing tears from his eyes, of hearing his voice break when he
whispered her name, of knowing that he suffered abominably because she
suffered.
She began to pray for something to break the deadly monotony of her
life.
And her prayers were answered.
*II*
Quinney was returning one night from the club soberly conscious that he
had slightly exceeded his usual allowance of port wine. He was in that
mellow frame of mind, far removed from intoxication, which dwells
complacently upon the present without any qualms as to the future. For
instance, despite the extra glass or two, he knew that he would awaken
the next morning with a clear brain and a body fit to cope with any
imposed task. In fine, he was sober enough to congratulate himself upon
the self-control which had refused further indulgence, and at the same
time righteously glad that he had not drunk less. The colour of the
good wine encarmined his thoughts, the bottled sunshine irradiated his
soul.
He passed slowly through the Cathedral Close, pausing to admire the
spire soaring into a starlit sky, black against violet. He had left the
Mitre at half-past eleven, but few lights twinkled from the windows of
the houses encircling the Close. The good canons retired early and rose
rather late, thereby, perhaps, securing health without being encumbered
with the burden of wisdom. With rare exception all Melchester
slumbered.
Quinney, out of native obstinacy, felt astoundingly awake. He began to
compute the hours wasted in sleep. He had quaint theories on this
subject, which he aired at the club. It has been said that party
politics left him cold, although he grew warm and excited over his own
ideas. The Tories assured him that England was going behind, but their
reasons, taken from pamphlets and newspapers, were unconvincing, if you
happened to read—as Quinney did—the Radical counter-blasts. Ever since
his memorable trip to France Quinney posed as the travelled man. The
French, he contended, were prosperous because they saved money and time.
They rose earlier, worked harder for more hours out of the twenty-four.
Also, he had been much impressed by the French Sunday as a day of
recreation as well as rest. The French did not need a half-holiday on
Saturday, because they made a whole holiday of Sunday. Susan was
appalled at this view, but Quinney used the argument with telling effect
at the club. Pinker, the Radical grocer, was immensely taken with it.
If cricket and football could be played on Sunday the British workman
would earn another half-day’s pay. Multiply that by millions, and there
you are!
He strolled on to the Mel, and paused again, staring at that placid
stream rolling so leisurely to the sea. He was rolling as leisurely
to—what? The question caught at him, insistently demanding an answer.
He realized, almost with a shock, that nearly seven years had passed
since he married Susan. During that seven years he had doubled his
capital. He was worth twenty thousand pounds at least, probably more,
and his best years were yet to come. Mrs. Biddlecombe, it is true, was
not so sanguine. According to her, prosperity in the present indicated
adversity in the near future.
"Joseph’s luck will turn," she would say to Susan in her husband’s
presence. Finally, Quinney retorted with some heat:
"Now, Granny, don’t you go on barkin’ your old knuckles over that. I
ain’t superstitious, but long ago I had ’arf-a-crown’s worth o’
fortune-tellin’ from the Queen o’ the Gipsies herself. I’m to live to
be seventy-six, and to bend the knee to my Sovereign."
"What did the foolish woman mean by that?"
"A queen, I tell you. She meant knighthood. Sir Joseph and Lady
Quinney! What ho!"
"Sir Humpty and Lady Dumpty more like!"
Perhaps the tart answer had spurred him to greater endeavour. He was
extremely sensitive under a skin toughened by paternal thwackings, and
well aware that his mother-in-law was inclined to sniff whenever his
name was mentioned. The poor old dear was a bit jealous! She had
fallen in the social scale; he was rising, soaring into the blue, like
the great spire of Melchester Cathedral.
During the past seven years he had hugged close his intention of leaving
Melchester for the wider sphere of London. The fact that Tomlin, Susan,
and Mrs. Biddlecombe were obstinately opposed to such a leap into the
unknown merely fortified his resolution. Tomlin, of course, nosed a
rival, for some of his customers knew Quinney. Susan hinted that Posy
would lose her bloom in London streets. Mrs. Biddlecombe pointed out,
with businesslike acumen, that he and his father had built up a big and
increasing country connection which would be greedily snapped up by some
Melchester dealer. And, lastly, the mighty Marquess of Mel had uttered
a word of warning:
"It would mean a big fight. You are not in the ring, my dear fellow."
Whenever his kind patron addressed him as a dear fellow Quinney’s blood
warmed within him. And his keen eyes sparkled at the prospect of a
fight. He liked fights. As a boy he had fought to a finish other boys
bigger than himself; and the victory had not invariably been with them.
He remembered his victories, as he answered Lord Mel:
"I should get into the ring, my lord."
"Um! Would you! And"—his landlord laughed pleasantly—"I should lose a
good tenant."
"London’s the best market for knowledge," said Quinney.
"Quite, quite! Can you attempt to compete with the experts?"
The question rankled, biting deep into his soul, inciting him to further
study of the things he loved. But such study grew more and more
difficult. He had become the expert of Melchester. On and about his
own "pitch" it was impossible to find a man with more technical
knowledge than his own. In London, he would be rubbing shoulders with
world-famous collectors and connoisseurs. They would "down" him at
first, rub his nose in the dust of the big auction rooms; but in the end
he would learn what they had learned, and triumph where they had
triumphed.
*III*
These thoughts were trickling through his mind as he gazed at the placid
Mel trickling also to troublous seas, where its clear waters would be
merged and lost. Quinney squirmed at the remote possibility of being
merged and lost. He muttered uneasily: "It fair furs my tongue to think
o’ that." The extra glass of wine had not excited him to the
consideration of perilous enterprises. An extra pint might have done
so. No; the old port which had ripened in the Melchester cellars
exercised a benignant and restful influence. Its spirit, released at
last, seemed to hover about the ancient town, loath to leave it. We may
hazard the conjecture that the wine in the cellars of our universities
may be potent to lull the ambitions of restless scholars, and to keep
them willing prisoners in drowsy quadrangles.
Quinney lighted his pipe. He felt ripe for an important decision. For
some months the necessity of enlarging his present premises had bulked
large in his thoughts. A successful country dealer must carry an
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