Quinneys 36

Quinneys 36

Posy, clad in a neat pinafore, was rubbing the lacquer cabinet. Mrs.

Quinney watched her fondly, thinking how young and vigorous the girl

was.

 

"Rub the lacquer gently, child. Coax the polish back."

 

"Right O," said Posy.

 

"Your poor father thinks the world of that cabinet."

 

"So do I," said Posy demurely.

 

Susan opened her eyes wider than usual, detecting real warmth in her

daughter’s voice.

 

"Do you? That’s your father cropping out in you. I’m beginning to

believe that he prefers things to persons; so you’d better be warned in

time. The beauty of this world ain’t to be found in sticks or stones."

 

"Cheer up, mumsie! I shan’t devote my young life to either a stick or a

stone."

 

She laughed softly as Mabel Dredge came quietly in. Susan looked at her

husband’s typist not too pleasantly. She was not jealous of the young

woman, but it exasperated her to reflect that Mabel spent two hours at

least every day with Quinney. She said crisply:

 

"Mr. Quinney is out, Miss Dredge."

 

"I know. The chairs from Christopher’s have just come."

 

Posy exclaimed excitedly: "I’m dying to see them." Susan sighed. Nine

hundred pounds would have bought another Dream Cottage, with a small

garden. Miss Dredge continued in her monotonous voice:

 

"Mr. Quinney left orders that they were to be brought up here."

 

"Very good," said Susan. "Tell Mr. Miggott to bring them up."

 

"Yes, madam."

 

The typist moved slowly towards the door. Susan glanced at her keenly,

contrasting her with Posy. In her usual kind voice she murmured:

 

"You don’t look very well, Miss Dredge."

 

"I am perfectly well, thank you, madam."

 

She went out, closing the door. Susan said reflectively:

 

"Crossed in love, I dare say."

 

"Poor dear, I hope not."

 

"Six months ago I did think that she and James Miggott might make a

match of it."

 

"What?"

 

"Why shouldn’t they? Very suitable, I’m sure."

 

"Oh yes," Posy murmured hastily. Changing the subject briskly, she went

on: "If the Christopher chairs are to be placed in this room, I suppose

that father means to keep them."

 

"Till he gets a big price."

 

Presently James appeared, followed by two men carrying the chairs. They

were arranged side by side in a double row. Posy examined them with the

keenest interest. Susan glanced at them and sniffed:

 

"Fancy paying nine hundred pounds for those!"

 

"They’re simply lovely,"’said Posy. She stroked the needlework and

glanced at James’s impassive face. "It’s funny, but there’s something

familiar about them to me. I must have seen them before."

 

"Quite impossible," said James. "They came out of an old house in

Ireland. They’re almost replicas of the famous Pevensey set, which Lark

and Bundy bought."

 

Susan had moved to one of the windows overlooking the dingy square. She

never beheld the trees and grass without thinking of her beloved

flower-garden in Melchester. The sight of the chairs annoyed her

tremendously. More false gods! Would the day ever conic when her Joe,

with his keen love of beauty, would turn his eyes and heart to what

grew, to what was alive? She heard Posy saying:

 

"It’s the needlework I seem to recognize."

 

"Bother the needlework!" exclaimed Susan.

 

"Why, mumsie, what is it?"

 

"It worries me to see you kneeling and gloating over stupid old

furniture, that’s all. Here’s your father coming. Good-looking young

fellow with him, too. Much better worth looking at than them chairs."

 

James retired. Posy joined her mother at the window. Just below stood

her father and a tall stranger. Quinney was pointing out the pediment,

and expatiating volubly upon the solid qualities of Georgian houses.

 

"Father is swanking," said Posy.

 

The two men entered the shop below.

 

 

*II*

 

Presently, Quinney came upstairs, betraying some excitement, easily

accounted for by Susan. A big buyer was below, the sort of customer who

might spend hundreds without turning a hair. Quinney was rubbing his

hands together and chuckling. He informed the ladies that a rich

American was in the shop, and wanted to see the chairs.

 

"They’re here," said Susan.

 

Quinney frowned very slightly. It annoyed him when his wife made futile

remarks, a habit which she seemed to have acquired recently, or was he

becoming more critical?

 

"Where did you think I thought they was?" he inquired, hovering about

them, but not gloating over them, somewhat to Susan’s surprise.

 

"Want us out of the way?" asked Susan.

 

"Certainly not. Isn’t this your drawing-room, old dear?"

 

"Fiddle!" said Susan tartly.

 

She could not have explained why she was feeling irritable, but of late,

since Posy’s return from school, she had lost something of her normal

serenity. Possibly she resented being made a fool of before her

daughter. The sanctuary was not her room, and never had been or could

be anything but Quinney’s room, filled to overflowing with his things.

Also, she was aware that her husband used her as a stalking horse. No

doubt he had just said to this young American: "I’ll ask my wife if I

can show you her room." What nonsense!

 

Quinney, however, was not disturbed by her exclamation. He glanced at

Posy, and told her to take off a brown holland pinafore. Then he

scuttled off, still chuckling. He reappeared, ushering in the stranger,

presenting him as Mr. Cyrus P. Hunsaker, of Hunsaker.

 

Mr. Hunsaker bowed politely. Posy perceived that he was very

nice-looking, an out-of-doors man, bronzed by wind and sun, a typical

Westerner, probably a rider of bucking bronchos, a man of flocks and

herds. He was quite at his ease with the two women, and—unlike young

Englishmen of his age (he looked about thirty)—able to appreciate what

he saw in words culled from a copious vocabulary. Quinney was delighted

with him. He liked most Americans because they were strivers and

pushers, and free with their dollars. He saw, too, that Posy had made

an immense impression. Hunsaker stared at her with flattering

intensity. Posy, equally at ease, asked him if the town of Hunsaker was

called after him. This mightily pleased her father, because it

established the right atmosphere at once. The "shop" was downstairs.

From beginning to end the little comedy about to be played had been

rehearsed between Tomlin and Quinney. Tomlin had found Hunsaker and

introduced Quinney to him, as the proud owner of the chairs which he,

Tomlin, had wanted to secure. Tomlin had said sorrowfully: "They’re

just what you’re after, Mr. Hunsaker, but this Quinney, queer little

cuss!—bought ’em, I do believe, for himself. He won’t part with his

very best things. He’s quite potty about it!" This had challenged

Hunsaker’s interest. Quinney, seemingly, was a man after his own heart.

He, too, hated to part with certain possessions. He did not as yet know

much about articles of _vertu_, but he wanted to know. An unslakable

thirst for such knowledge consumed many dollars. He answered Posy

breezily—one had a whiff of the prairie, of the Wild West.

 

"Shall I tell you, Miss Quinney, how that great and growing town came to

be called by my name?"

 

"Please."

 

"Well, most of the towns and villages in New Mexico used to be called

after the names of saints and saintesses. When it came to christening

this particular village the boys wanted to name it San Clement, but my

father was of opinion that we were fed up with saints, so he said: ’Hold

hard, why not call this little burg by the name of a sinner!’ And, the

drinks were on the old man, for then and there they called it Hunsaker."

 

"Was your father a sinner?" asked Posy demurely.

 

Hunsaker laughed.

 

"He was a tough old nut when up against the wrong crowd. Ah! the

chairs!"

 

"Yes," said Quinney carelessly.

 

"Elegant!" He glanced at the beautiful room with enthusiasm. It made

inordinate demands upon his vocabulary. He racked his brains for the

right words which came. Very solemnly, he observed:

 

"You have here, Mr. Quinney, an incomparable reservation."