Quinneys 3

Quinneys 3

"Abroad?"

 

"To France, ma’am.";

 

Mrs. Biddlecombe frowned. France was a godless country, where

tempestuous petticoats abounded. She hoped that Susan was arraying

herself in the blue gown. Blue suited the child’s milk and roses

complexion. In blue she might provoke comparison with the audacious

hussies across the Channel. She was clever enough to murmur

sympathetically, "You need a holiday, to be sure."

 

At this Quinney laughed.

 

"It’s business. I’m after old oak. Want to work up a connection—hey?"

 

"Do you speak French?"

 

"Me? Do I speak Chocktaw? Do I speak English properly? Do I, now? O’

course you parleyvoo like a native?"

 

"Not quite, Mr. Quinney."

 

"And Susie—you learned her French, and the pi-anner?"

 

"I did my best."

 

"Angels can do no more," said Quinney admiringly. "Upset yer

neighbours, too."

 

He smiled maliciously, having suffered long and patiently at the hands

of neighbours. Mrs. Biddlecombe feigned ignorance of his meaning, when

Quinney laughed again, almost indecorously.

 

"Lord bless you, I know all about that. You pinched to get that piano,"

he indicated an ancient instrument, "because it was the only one in the

row. And French! By Gum! Is there a girl except Susie who parleyvoos

in this part of the town? Not one! The whole row gnashes its teeth over

that."

 

His pride in Susan’s accomplishments touched the mother’s heart. Her

voice rang out clearly and triumphantly:

 

"It’s perfectly true."

 

At this moment Susan Biddlecombe entered the parlour, and Quinney sprang

to his feet to greet her. She was just eighteen, and very pretty and

refined, with small hands and feet, and delicately-cut features. The

mother boasted that she looked a gentlewoman, and for the purposes of

this narrative, it is far more important to add that she was innately

gentle and womanly, with no tainting tincture of the ogling, smirking,

provincial coquette.

 

Quinney kissed her!

 

Mrs. Biddlecombe blushed scarlet. Susan smiled, hesitated, and then

kissed Quinney.

 

Mrs. Biddlecombe ejaculated "Gracious!"

 

"Give us yer blessin’," said Quinney, quite riotously. Then,

masterfully, he kissed the girl again, turning to confront the

astonished mother.

 

"Settled between us three months ago," he explained fluently. "We

dassen’t tell a soul, not even you, because of the old man. He was

capable of leavin’ every bob to an orsepital for dogs. He said to me

once, ’Don’t let me hear anything of goings on between you and that

there Biddlecombe girl!’ By Gum, I obeyed him! He never did hear

anything. Me and Susie took jolly good care o’ that. I only hope as he

knows now."

 

At this Susan murmured:

 

"Joe, dear, please don’t!"

 

Then mother and daughter solemnly embraced.

 

"I hated not to tell you," whispered Susan, "but Joe would have his

way."

 

"The old ’un told me I might look high with my prospects, but he never

did know quality. Quantity was what he’d go for. Lord! How he fairly

wallowed in job lots! Well, all that’s over."

 

He began to walk up and down the small room, telling the two women his

plans for the future. They listened with shadows of perplexity in their

brown eyes, and presently Mrs. Biddlecombe carefully cleaned and put on

her spectacles, peering at her future son-in-law with eyes just dimmed

by happy tears.

 

Presently he spoke of the sign, making a rough drawing. Mrs.

Biddlecombe laughed slily as she pointed out the apostrophe in

"Quinney’s."

 

"Isn’t Susie going to help?" she asked. "Why not ’Quinneys’?"

 

"By Gum, you’re right. Of course she’s going to help. Make a rare

saleswoman, too."

 

"I should love to help!" said Susan eagerly. "You’d soon teach me, Joe."

 

"All the tricks in the trade, Susie, and perhaps one or two of our own."

 

The girl opened wider her honest eyes. "Must there be tricks?" she

asked, and a finer ear than Quinney’s might have detected a note of

anxiety.

 

"Bless your innocent heart—yes! Dessay I shall learn a bit from you.

Course o’ Shakespeare now, to improve one’s powers o’ speech."

 

He laughed so hilariously that Mrs. Biddlecombe held up a restraining

finger.

 

"We’re semi-detached, you know."

 

"I’m rich enough not to care what Laburnum Row thinks or says," he

declared. "What day will suit you to get married, Susie?"

 

"Oh, Joe—this is sudden."

 

"Sudden? I was tellin’ your mother that I had to go to France on biz,

but I want you to come along, too, to do the parleyvooin’. Can you get

ready in a month?"

 

Mrs. Biddlecombe frowned, shaking her head.

 

"You must wait longer than that."

 

"Why?"

 

"It’s customary."

 

"Blow that! I want Susie, and while we’re in France the shop can be

overhauled. You’ll keep an eye on it—hey?"

 

"I wash my hands of any marriage entered upon in undue haste."

 

Finally, he agreed to wait two months, not a moment longer.

 

"But I shall order the sign to-morrow—’Quinneys’’—with letters cuddling

up against each other. It’ll be made in London, quite regardless. Next

Sunday and you, Susie, will take a little walk in and about Melchester.

I shan’t ask you to pig it over the shop."

 

"I shouldn’t mind that a bit."

 

"But I should. I’m marrying a lady, one of the best, and I’ll start the

thing in style, just bang up."

 

"A semi-detached?"

 

"Lord, no! Wouldn’t hurt your mother’s feelin’s for worlds, but a

semi-detached ain’t private enough for me. The neighbours might hear me

yellin’ when Susie pulls my hair."

 

Mrs. Biddlecombe rose majestically.

 

"I’m going to open a bottle of my ginger cordial," she said solemnly.

 

As the door closed behind her, Quinney exclaimed, "Now, Susie, you jump

on my knee. I want to tell you that I’m the happiest man on earth."

 

He spoke in a tone of absolute conviction.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER II*

 

*THE DREAM COTTAGE*

 

*I*

 

 

Melchester, although urban in the strict sense of the word, was sweetly

fragrant of the country. Mel Street, except on Sundays, was always more

or less blocked with country wagons and carts loaded with Melshire

cheeses and butter and cream and eggs. Melshire bacon is famous the

world over. There were no factories; and admittedly the town depended

upon the surrounding country, which included wind-swept downs, and

pleasant valleys, and many woods full of pheasants, and languid streams

full of coarse fish. Essentially a country town which had fallen asleep

in the Middle Ages, and went on slumbering, like a hale old man who has

dined well. The curates and minor canons struggled against this

somnolence. Vice might be found in many of the back streets, vice

half-drunk, passive, Laodicean, hardly ever rampageous, save on such

rare occasions as when the military were camping just outside the

moss-grown walls.

 

The townfolk, generally, were content with themselves and the conditions

under which they strolled from the cradle to the grave. Susan

Biddlecombe, for instance, thanked God morning and evening because her

lines were cast in pleasant places. Till she met Quinney, her mind had

dwelt placidly in the immediate present. He hurled it into the future

with a breathless phrase adumbrating incredible possibilities. But that

was later, after the death of his father, who might have lived another

twenty years. Before that great piece of good fortune Joe indulged in

talk that was very small indeed; and the one excitement incidental to

her engagement was its secrecy. Being a pretty girl, and half a lady,

she had visualized marriage as a tremendous change, possibly for the

better, quite possibly for the worse. But during these dreams she

beheld herself as herself, never reckoning that her ideas and ideals

might make another woman of her under conditions and conventions other

than what she so thoroughly understood.

 

She was romantic; but who dares to define romance. What does it mean to

a girl like Susan Biddlecombe? Adventure? Yes. She was thrilled to the

core when Quinney kissed her for the first time behind the parlour door;

and her heart beat delightfully fast whenever she approached their

trysting-place in a secluded corner of the Close. Romance inspired her

with the happy thought of corresponding with her lover in cypher. The

engagement ring became a treasure indeed, because she dared not wear it

except at night. From the first she had gallantly faced the fact that

her Joe did not look romantic, but there was a flavour of the bold

buccaneer about his speech, and a sparkle in his eye quite captivating.

His firm, masterful grip of a girl’s waist was most satisfying, although

it provoked protest. She had murmured, "Please—don’t!" And to this he

replied tempestuously, "Sue, darling, you like it; you know you like it.

What’s the use of trying to flimflam me?" He was not to be silenced

till she whispered blushing that she did like it. Awfully?

Yes—awfully. The man pressed the point, asking astounding questions.

What ought to be the tale of kisses, for example? Could a maid stand

five hundred of ’em? Why not try the experiment at the first opportunity?