quinneys 19
III*
When they met again two hours afterwards the wrinkle had vanished; and
no allusion was made to this unhappy incident, either then or later.
Susan was busy moving into temporary lodgings and buying necessary
articles of clothing for herself and her mother. Quinney was thinking
of London, and fairly spoiling for the fight ahead. It would begin when
he tackled Susan and her mother, and he knew that this first encounter
would be no bloodless victory. Posy would be used as a weapon, an
Excalibur in the hands of a devoted mother.
After much pondering, he did an unwise thing—what might have been
expected from a man engrossed in his own business, and fully sensible
that he understood that business better than anyone else. He had always
despised futile argument. Mrs. Biddlecombe and Susan would argue for
hours, repeating themselves like silly parrots, and evading, like most
women, the real issues. He told himself that he would be quite unable
to listen patiently to their prattle about country air and old friends,
and rolling stones denuded of nice comfortable moss. Why not make his
arrangements without consulting them? Whatever they might say, he
intended to move from Melchester. He had nailed his flag to the mast
when the roof of Dream Cottage fell in. It streamed over his future, a
Blue Peter.
Accordingly, he slipped away to London some two days later, leaving two
women and an intelligent child in blissful ignorance of what was waving
above them. He told Susan that an interview with the fire insurance
people was imperative. She was quite ready to believe that, and speeded
him on his journey with smiles and kisses.
"While you are away," she said cheerfully, "I shall be looking out for
another Dream Cottage."
"You won’t find it in Melchester," he replied curtly.
Upon arrival in London he set forth gallantly in search of a "pitch."
He wandered in and out of curiosity shops big and small. Some of the
dealers knew him slightly. Many of the older men used to deal with his
father. They were well aware that the son refused on principle to sell
to the trade. Tomlin had passed round that word long ago. Quinney
inspected their wares, and chuckled to himself whenever he encountered a
fake labelled as a genuine antique. The biggest men displayed stuff not
above suspicion. Indeed, the chuckling became audible when he
discovered a Minihy cabinet in a famous establishment in St. James’s
Street.
"Guarantee that?" he asked of the rather supercilious young gentleman in
a frock coat who was doing the honours.
"Certainly."
It was then that Quinney chuckled. The young gentleman, quite unaware
that he was entertaining a provincial dealer, said loftily:
"It’s French. Came out of a French château in Touraine."
"Signed?"
"I think not. It’s signed all over as a bit of the finest Renaissance
craftsmanship."
Quinney bent down, still chuckling.
"It is signed," he said, with conviction.
"Really? Where, may I ask?"
Quinney indicated a small, much-battered piece of oak.
"Remove that," he observed quietly, "and you will find the signature
under it."
"Whose signature?"
"The signature of a great artist who lives near Treguier in Brittany."
"Lives? What do you mean?"
Quinney met the young gentleman’s scornful eyes and held them.
"I mean, my lad, that your master has here a very clever copy, signed
where I say by the man who copied it, whom I know. I’ve not asked the
price, but I’ll tell you this: if it’s genuine, it’s cheap at two
thousand; if it’s a copy I can buy a dozen just like it at sixteen
pounds apiece. Good-morning."
After three days’ hard walking, Quinney summed up results as follows:
There were three classes of dealers in London. The tip-toppers, with
establishments in fashionable thoroughfares, who sold the best stuff at
a fancy price; the men, whose name was Legion, who lived here, there,
and everywhere, selling wares good, bad, and indifferent at a small
profit; and the middle-men, who sold almost exclusively to the big
dealers.
"There is a place for me," said Quinney, with absolute conviction.
He said as much to Tomlin next day. They were lunching together in an
old-fashioned eating-house just off Fleet Street, sitting bolt upright
upon wooden benches, and inhaling an atmosphere which advertised
insistently cheese, onions, chump chops, and tobacco. Tomlin was the
host, and he had ordered steak-and-kidney pudding, a Welsh rarebit to
follow, and a bottle of port. He attacked these viands with such gusto
that Quinney said to himself:
"Never did see a man with a more unhealthy appetite!"
Warmed into candid speech by this fine old English food and drink,
Tomlin said thickly:
"A place for you, my tulip? Hope it won’t be in the Bankruptcy
Court!"—and he chuckled grossly.
Tomlin’s place, be it mentioned, was at the wrong end of the Fulham
Road, but he was talking of moving to Bond Street. Tomlin reckoned
himself to be one of the big dealers, and he talked in a full, throaty
voice:
"You’re a fool to leave Melchester, Joe. I say it as a friend."
"There’s a place for me in London," repeated Quinney.
"Where?"
"Well, somewhere between the Fulham Road and Long Acre."
"’Ow about rent?"
"’Tisn’t the rent that worries me."
"Customers?"
"That’s right—customers. The business will have to be built up slowly,
because I mean to specialize."
"In what?"
"Old English porcelain, glass, and the finest furniture."
"You’ll starve."
"I mean to have one other department which may keep the pot boiling."
"Give it a name, Joe."
"Not yet."
"My first and last word to you is: Go back to Melchester and stay
there."
Tomlin repeated this till Quinney sickened of his company. But he
wanted the London man to predict disaster in his raucous tones. Success
would taste the sweeter when it came. Moreover, Susan hated Tomlin, to
such an extent, indeed, that she would flout his judgment. She had
never forgiven his tale of a table with a broken leg.
The men separated after smoking two cigars. Quinney walked to Soho
Square, lit a better cigar than Tomlin had given to him, and stared at
an ancient house with a pediment over the door, and a signboard upon
which were inscribed the exciting words, "To Let."
The mansion—for it was thus styled—had challenged his attention and
interest two days before. Tomlin would have ridiculed the idea of taking
such a house, and turning it into a shop, but Tomlin was a tradesman,
whereas Quinney believed himself to be an artist. The house was of the
right period—early Georgian from garret to cellar.
Quinney went over it.
It seemed to be the real right thing, so right that the little man, who
had unconsciously absorbed some of the Melchester sermons, told himself
that the guiding finger of Providence could be plainly discerned. There
were dry cellars for storing valuable woods, a back-yard, and a big
drawing-room, finely decorated in the Adam style, possibly by the hand
of the Master, which occupied the first floor, and looked out upon the
Square through three nobly-proportioned windows. Quinney decided
instantly to make this splendid room his "sanctuary," the
treasure-house, wherein his "gems" would be fittingly enshrined. The
ground floor would serve admirably as a shop. There were several
bedrooms and excellent offices.
In regard to the situation he came to this conclusion. The shops of the
groundlings in the trade were invariably small and ill-lighted; the
establishments of the big dealers commanded a rent beyond his means. In
any case, he would have to work up a clientele, and his customers, when
they did find their way to this ancient square, would behold his
beautiful wares under the happiest conditions of space and light.
The rent, including rates and taxes, came to less than three hundred a
year! A big rent, it is true, for a dealer with his capital, but much
less than Tomlin paid for large and inconvenient premises in the Fulham
Road.
He signed a long lease within twenty-four hours, and returned, exulting
in his strength, to Melchester and Susan.
*IV*
He did not tell her his wonderful news at once. A habit of secretiveness
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