Quinneys 2

Quinneys 2

"What?"

 

"I should say that I’m keepin’ ’em for a party I know."

 

"Anything else to show me?" grunted Tomlin, caressing the Bow glaze with

a dirty but loving finger. "Your father mentioned a mirror-black jar,

K’ang He period."

 

"Keepin’ that too," replied Quinney quietly.

 

"Sold it?"

 

"Not yet."

 

Quinney smiled mysteriously.

 

"Then what’s up? Ain’t my money as good as the next man’s?"

 

"If you want a plain answer, Mr. Tomlin, it ain’t—to me."

 

"Ho! What d’ye mean?"

 

"Just that. It don’t pay to deal with the trade. If I pick up a good

thing, you get the credit; you claim all the credit. Our name is never

mentioned, not a line. In this town we have the reputation of selling

rubbish. I’m going to change all that."

 

"Are you?" Tomlin was visibly impressed and distressed. "Well, look ye

here, take my advice, and walk in the old man’s footsteps. He done

well."

 

"I shall do better."

 

Tomlin stared at the speaker, who spoke with an odd air of conviction.

Quinney continued in the same quiet drawl, "If you want to buy any of

this," he waved a contemptuous hand, "it’s yours—cheap!"

 

"Rubbish!"

 

"Just so."

 

Tomlin sat down and wiped his forehead. He was feeling warm, and the

sight of young Quinney so exasperatingly cool and smug in his black

clothes made him warmer.

 

"Ho! That’s the game, is it?" As Quinney nodded, he continued: "Me and

you can do business together."

 

"Together?"

 

"I say—together. How would a trip abroad suit you?"

 

Quinney lifted his eyebrows; the first indication of interest in his

visitor.

 

"A trip—abroad?"

 

"To France. I’ve heard of a man in Brittany—a wonder. His line is old

oak; mostly copies of famous pieces. He’s the greatest faker in the

world, and an artist. No blunders! Would you like to go into a deal

with me? You know old oak when you see it?"

 

"I think so."

 

"You go over there and buy five hundred pounds’ worth and put it into

this shop, after you’ve cleared out the rubbish. I’ll go halves. It’s

a dead cert, and this is the right place for the stuff. My pitch

wouldn’t do, and I haven’t the room. I’ll send you customers."

 

"It’s a go," said Quinney.

 

"You mean to make things hum? And I can help you. Never gave you

credit for being so sharp."

 

Details were then discussed, not worth recording; but during this

memorable interview, which led to so much, Quinney was sensible of an

ever-increasing exaltation and powers of speech which amazed him as much

as the older man. He announced curtly his intention of getting rid of

the rubbish, repainting and redecorating the premises, and dealing for

the future in the best, whether fakes or genuine antiques.

 

"Never could persuade the old man that the ’Genuine Antiques’ card was a

dead give-away."

 

Fired with enthusiasm, he seized the card and tore it up there and then,

while Tomlin applauded generously.

 

"You’re yer father without any moss on you," he remarked, as he took his

leave, promising to return on the morrow. Upon the threshold he asked,

"Doin’ anything particular this evening?"

 

"Yes," said Quinney.

 

Tomlin went out, but returned immediately.

 

"You ought to have a sign."

 

"I mean to."

 

"Thought of that already?"

 

"Thousands and thousands o’ times. It’ll be a hangin’ sign of

wrought-iron; the best; painted black, with ’Quinney’s’ in gold. It’ll

cost twenty pounds."

 

"That’s going it."

 

"I mean to go it."

 

 

*III*

 

Quinney supped simply at seven, and then he walked across the Cathedral

Close, down a small street, known as Laburnum Row, and knocked at the

door of a genteel, semi-detached cottage. The very respectable woman

who opened the door drew down the corners of a pleasant mouth when she

beheld the visitor. A note of melancholy informed her voice as she

greeted him, but her sharp, brown eyes sparkled joyously as she said:

 

"Never expected to see you this evening, Mr. Quinney."

 

"I’m tired of doing the things that are expected," was the surprising

reply. Then, with a flush, he blurted out, "Susan in?"

 

"Yes," said Mrs. Biddlecombe, leading the way into the parlour. "The

child’s upstairs."

 

Mother and daughter had seen Quinney approaching, whereupon Mrs.

Biddlecombe had remarked, "It’s all right. You smooth your hair, dear,

and slip on your blue gown."

 

Meanwhile, Quinney took the most comfortable chair, and stared with

appraising eye at the furniture. Above the mantelpiece hung the portrait

in water-colour of a handsome woman, obviously a lady, as the word was

interpreted by the grandmothers of the present generation. This was

Mrs. Biddlecombe’s mother, the wife of a doctor, who had been

bear-leader to a sprig of nobility, accomplishing with him the Grand

Tour. In her turn, Mrs. Biddlecombe had married a medical gentleman

(her word), who, unhappily, was called from the exercise of his

profession in a promising suburb to a place invariably designated by

Mrs. Biddlecombe as his last home. Later, the widow, left in very

humble circumstances, had married beneath her rightful station in life a

certain George Biddlecombe, a small builder and contractor, of

Melchester, who, failing in business when Susan was some five years old,

had died of disgust. Since this second bereavement, Mrs. Biddlecombe

supported herself and her daughter by taking in lodgers, cleaning lace

and fancy work. She was a stout, energetic creature, not much the worse

for the wear and tear of a never-ending struggle to raise herself to the

position which she had adorned before her second disastrous marriage.

 

"The funeral was well attended," she remarked.

 

"The old man was hardly what one might call popular," replied Quinney.

 

"He’ll be missed in Melchester."

 

"Missed, but not regretted," the son replied grimly.

 

"Ah!" murmured Mrs. Biddlecombe, thinking of the builder and contractor.

 

Quinney pulled himself together, sitting upright in the arm-chair and

speaking firmly.

 

"I ain’t here to talk about him. Less said on that subject the better.

I’m my own master now, ma’am, able to please myself. Lord! How he

hated my coming here!"

 

"I know, I know!"

 

"Never appreciated Susan, neither. Dessay you think I ought to be at

home, mourning. Well, he knocked all that out o’ me long ago. Plain

talk is best. As a matter of business, with an eye on some of our

customers in this stoopid old town, I shall do what is expected in the

way of a tombstone, and I shall try not to sing and dance in High

Street, but between you and me it’s a riddance."

 

Mrs. Biddlecombe smiled uneasily, but she said honestly:

 

"I’ve been through it, Mr. Quinney."

 

"You’ve had the doose of a time, ma’am—and a born lady, too."

 

Mrs. Biddlecombe put her handkerchief to her eyes, and dabbed them

gently. She did not quite understand her visitor, who was presenting

himself in a new and startling light, but she was comfortably aware that

his own inclination and nothing else had brought him to Laburnum Row.

For a moment her mind was a welter of confused excitements and

speculations. Would her Susie rise to this momentous occasion? Would

she clasp opportunity to her pretty bosom? And if so, what might not be

done with such clay as Quinney, plastic to the hand of an experienced

potter. Nevertheless, the young man’s too brutal declaration of

independence shocked cherished conventions. She beheld him shrinkingly

as an iconoclast, a shatterer of the sacred Fifth Commandment.

 

"Are you thinking of leaving Melchester?" she asked.

  "Not yet, although I am goin’ abroad."