Quinneys 31

Quinneys 31

V*

 

Perhaps nobody was more surprised at the change in Posy than James

Miggott. Hitherto the young lady, home for the holidays, had ignored

him, not purposely—she was too kindhearted for that—but with a genuine

unconsciousness of giving offence. He was part and parcel of what she

least liked in her father’s house, the shop. Not for an instant was she

ashamed of being the daughter of a dealer in antiques, who owned a shop;

what exasperated her was the conviction that the shop owned him, that he

had become the slave of his business. The Honeybuns had rubbed into her

plastic mind that the unpardonable sin, the sin against the Holy Ghost,

the root-cause of ruin to nations and individuals, began and ended with

the lust of accumulating material things. Nothing moved Mrs. Honeybun to

more fervent and eloquent speech than the text: "Lay not up treasures

upon earth!" At Bexhill-on-Sea Posy had heard this same injunction upon

the lips of a local Chrysostom, to whom she listened enthusiastically

every Sunday morning. The text had a personal application, because she

never heard it, or a variant on it, without thinking of the sanctuary

and her father’s "gems," apostrophized by Susan as "sticks and stones."

Posy admired beautiful things, but if they were very costly she seemed

to have a curious fear of them. Before she was born, Susan had

experienced strongly the same fear of her Joe’s idols.

 

She was, however, discreet enough to conceal this from her father. He

took her to Christopher’s, where a miraculous piece of reticulated K’ang

He was on exhibition, prior to sale. It was an incense-box decorated

with figures of the eight Immortals in brilliant enamels.

Metaphorically, Quinney went down on his knees before it. Next day he

told Posy that it had fetched seven thousand guineas! He stared at her

sharply, because she showed no enthusiasm.

 

James Miggott beheld her as Aphrodite fresh from the sea. Poor Mabel

Dredge appeared sallow beside her, tired and spent after a hot July.

Posy glowed. She was not insensible to the homage of admiring glances,

and James, by the luck of things, happened to be the first good-looking

man with whom she was thrown into intimate contact. Propinquity! What

follies are committed in thy company!

 

She wondered why James’s handsome face and manly figure had never

impressed her before. She spoke to Susan about him with nonchalant

vivacity:

 

"James is a power in this house."

 

"Yes, dear; your father thinks the world of him. He is a very good young

man."

 

"Good? Now what do you mean by that?"

 

"Gracious! I hope you haven’t inherited father’s trick of asking

questions."

 

"Is James pious?"

 

"Pious? He goes to church; he does his duty; he is to be trusted; he’s

a hard worker, and from what your father tells me, a real artist."

 

"An artist? Does he work for the love of his work?"

 

"I think he does."

 

Then and there Posy decided to cultivate James Miggott. He had excited

the curiosity of an intelligent maiden. She found herself wondering

what he did with himself when his work was done. Did he read? Had he

any real friends? Was Miss Dredge a friend of his? What were his

ambitions? The more she thought of him, the sorrier she became for him.

Possibly he perceived this. Upon the rare occasions when they met, he

was careful to assume a captivating air of melancholy, preserving

conscientiously the right distance between them, scrupulously polite but

somewhat indifferent to her advances, thereby piquing her to bolder

efforts to bridge the distance. A woman of experience might have been

justified in assuming that a man who could play so careful a game was no

tyro at it.

 

This preliminary sparring lasted nearly two months.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XV*

 

*AT WEYMOUTH*

 

*I*

 

 

Only lookers-on at the human comedy can be consistently philosophical.

The drama is too exciting, too distracting to the players. When a man

is chasing his hat along a gusty thoroughfare, he takes little heed of

the headgear of others. Till now Posy’s outlook had been girlishly

critical. Her ideas and ideals were coloured or discoloured by the

persons with whom she came in contact, but she was modest and sensible

enough to realize that her experience of the big things of life was

negligible. She had never suffered sharp pain either of mind or body.

The death of her grandmother affected her subjectively. A familiar

figure had been removed from her small circle. A landmark had vanished

for ever. It was awful to reflect that her own mother might have been

taken. She remembered an incident at school, the summoning of a girl

about her own age, a chum, to the presence of the headmistress. The

girl, to the wonder of all, had not returned to the class-room, but Posy

saw her an hour later putting her things together for a long journey.

The girl’s face had changed terribly. In answer to the first eager

question, she had said, drearily: "My mother is dead."

 

Posy burst into tears; the girl’s eyes were dry. Then Posy stammered

out: "Did you love her very much?" and the other laughed, actually

laughed, as she replied: "Love her? She was all I had in the world!"

This glimpse of a grief beyond tears was a unique experience, something

which transcended imagination, and something, therefore, not fully

absorbed. For many nights Posy was haunted by the vision of that white,

drawn face, with its hungry, despairing __EXPRESSION__; then it slowly faded

away. By this time, also, she had almost forgotten the Honeybun stories

of the submerged tenth. Bexhill breezes had blown them out of her mind.

Somewhere in festering slums and alleys, men and women and children were

fighting desperately against disease, poverty, and vice. Teachers had

pointed out, with kindly common sense, that it would be morbid and

futile to allow the mind to dwell upon conditions which, for the moment,

a schoolgirl was powerless to ameliorate. With relief, Posy had purged

her thoughts of such horrors.

 

And now her father raised the question—What was to be done with this

fancy piece?

 

Posy answered that question after her own fashion. The Chrysostom

aforesaid—excellent, practical parson!—had indicated a task. Under his

teaching and preaching Posy had returned gladly enough to the fold of

the Church of England. She no longer thought of Omnipotence as a vague

essence permeating the universe. The Deity had become personal.

Chrysostom, however, was too sensible a man to fill the minds of

schoolgirls with doctrinal problems. He preached practical Christianity

with sincerity and eloquence. The nail he hammered home into youthful

pates was this: "Make the world a pleasanter place for others, and you

will find it more pleasant for yourselves." The girls at Posy’s school

indulged in mild chaff over this dictum. Sweet seventeen admonished

blushing sixteen to "Be a sunbeam!" Another catchword in frequent use

was: "Save a smile for mother!"

 

Fired by the conviction that the sunbeam business paid handsome

dividends, Posy returned to Soho Square. She intended to brighten the

lives of everybody in the house, including the tweenie. That, for the

moment, was to be her "job." She described the process as "binging ’em

up."

 

And the member of her father’s household who seemed to be most in need

of "binging" happened to be James Miggott.

 

 

*II*

 

In August—she had left school for good at the end of the summer

term—Posy and her mother went to Weymouth. Quinney did not accompany

them. He said, jocularly, that he got all the change he needed

travelling about the kingdom in search of "stuff." Business being at a

low ebb in August, he selected that month for a general stocktaking,

balancing of accounts, and the planning of an active autumn campaign.

Mabel Dredge remained with him, a most capable assistant; James Miggott

was told that he might spend three weeks wherever he pleased.

 

It will never be known whether or not James knew that Susan and Posy

were going to Weymouth. We do know that Posy met James on the pier, and

was much struck by his gentlemanly appearance. It is possible that the

young man planned this meeting; it is quite impossible to infer as much

from what passed between them. James raised a neat straw hat, and was

strolling on, when Posy waved her parasol.

 

"Are you thinking of cutting me?" she asked, holding out her hand.

"What an extraordinary coincidence your being here?"

 

"Is it?" asked James quietly. "I have been to Weymouth before, have

you?"

 

"No; this is our first visit. Did father tell you we were coming?"

 

"No." He laughed derisively, as he continued, "Mr. Quinney does not

talk to me about you. I can imagine that he might—er—object——"

 

He paused significantly.

 

"Object to what?"

 

"To this. I know my place, Miss Quinney."

 

He was as humble as Uriah Heep, but more prepossessing in appearance.

The sun and wind had tanned his cheeks, his brown hair curled crisply

beneath the brim of his smart hat. He wore white shoes and quiet grey

"flannels.

 

"Now that you are here," said Posy, "let us sit down and listen to the

band. Mother is writing to father. She writes every day, dear thing!

She will turn up presently."

 

Once more James hesitated, but he obeyed. The band played a popular

waltz; upon the beach below people were bathing; the sea displayed the

many twinkling smile as the breeze kissed the lips of the wavelets.

 

"Jolly, isn’t it?" said Posy.

 

"Very."

 

"But you don’t look jolly, Mr. Miggott. You never do look very jolly.

And I have wondered—why."

 

She looked straight into his eyes, smiling pleasantly, anxious to put

him at ease, anxious also to peer beneath an impassive surface, to find

out "things" concerning a good young man, whose goodness, apparently,

had not brought with it a very delirious happiness.

 

"Shall I tell you?" he asked, in a voice that trembled oddly. "Shall I

let myself go for once? Ought I?"

 

Posy glanced the length of the pier. Her mother was not in sight. She

might not appear for half an hour.

 

"Yes; please tell me."

 

He told his tale so fluently that the uncharitable might hazard the

conjecture that he had told it before, perhaps to Mabel Dredge. By

hinting at this we have somewhat prejudiced the effect on the reader,

who must bear in mind that Posy was too innocent and young to entertain

such suspicions.

 

"I don’t look jolly, Miss Quinney, because I don’t feel jolly. Perhaps

you think that a man ought to disguise his feelings when he’s with a

charming young lady. Well, I can’t. I’m too honest. It was a shock

just now meeting you, because you stand for everything I want and can’t

get."

 

The inflections of his voice far more than the actual words challenged

her interest. Obviously, he was capable of feeling, and she had deemed

him cold. He continued more calmly, subtly conveying to her the

impression that he was suppressing his emotions on her account.