Quinneys 39

Quinneys 39

"One who’ll work hard in your house, while you’re working hard in mine.

There are young fellows in your position, my lad, who make fools o’

theirselves by falling in love with young ladies. Useless creatures!

It would hurt me to see you doin’ that, James."

 

"I’m sure it would. Much obliged, sir."

 

"Not at all. Never so happy as when I’m thinking for others."

 

James removed the chairs.

 

 

*II*

 

Once more alone, Quinney thought of sending for Mabel Dredge, but he lit

a cigar instead, and took stock of his treasures, wondering whether he

could screw himself up to part with the lacquer cabinet. Hunsaker would

buy it. He would pay gladly a thumping price. Quinney approached it,

puffing leisurely at his excellent cigar. As he did so the mysterious

hiding of the key recurred to him. He stared at the cabinet, frowning.

 

Then he opened it.

 

Always, on such occasions, the hidden beauties of this miracle of

craftsmanship appealed to him with ever-increasing strength. The

lacquer inside was as softly fresh as upon the day when the last coat

was lovingly applied. So soft, and yet so hard, that it could not be

scratched with the nail.

 

He gloated over it.

 

At this moment he was absolutely at peace with himself and the world.

He would not willingly have changed places with the mighty Marquess of

Mel. If there was a fly in his precious ointment, it might be considered

so tiny as to be negligible. The most illustrious of the Chinese

craftsmen, artists to their finger tips, lacked one small knack common

to the English artisan. The drawers in these seventeenth-century

cabinets did not, alas, slide in and out with the beautiful smoothness

characteristic of the best English specimens. Quinney pulled out two or

three of them.

 

In one he perceived a letter. He examined it. It was addressed:

 

"To my own Blue Bird."

 

 

*III*

 

The writing was Posy’s.

 

Quinney stared at it, palsied with amazement. Then he read it, and

re-read it, till the full meaning of what it meant had percolated

through and through his mind. His cigar went out. He sat at his desk

with the letter in his hand, dazed for the moment, breathing hard, very

red in the face. The fingers which held the sheet of notepaper

twitched. He noticed a faint fragrance of lavender, a perfume much

affected by Posy, and he remembered vividly a certain afternoon, long

ago, when Susan had sat in the garden of the Dream Cottage filling small

muslin bags with lavender to place between the baby linen of their tiny

daughter.

 

Slowly, a dull anger and rancour grew in him. What did this shameless

baggage mean by deceiving him and Susan? He included Susan. Physically

he was overwhelmed, eviscerated, almost faint with impotent rage, but he

found himself wondering what Susan would say. Suppose—his heart grew

cold—suppose she knew! What! His faithful wife a party to this

abominable fraud on him? Impossible!

 

He rose up wearily, and walked with unsteady steps to the door.

 

"Susan!" he cried querulously.

 

Posy appeared, wreathed in smiles. With a terrific effort her father

smiled frozenly at her.

 

"Send your mother to me!" he said stiffly. "I want to see her at once on

a small matter of business."

 

"Right O!" replied Posy.

 

He returned to his desk. When Susan, came in she perceived at once the

change in him.

 

"Gracious, Joe, is this house afire?"

 

"No. I am. Shut the door."

 

She did so, and then approached him.

 

"Whatever is the matter?"

 

He held up the billet and said hoarsely, "Listen. I found this in the

lacquer cabinet five minutes ago. It’s in Posy’s writin’. And it’s

addressed ’To my own Blue Bird.’"

 

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

 

The sight of her weakness strengthened him, but he exclaimed testily:

"Don’t make them stoopid noises. They sound like a mind out of whack.

Sit tight! I’m a-going to read this precious letter bang through, a

letter written by your daughter."

 

Susan, wriggling on the edge of a chair, protested feebly:

 

"My daughter? Ain’t she yours, too?"

 

"I’m beginning to doubt it." He read aloud, "’My own Blue Bird——’"

 

"Who is her Blue Bird, Joe?"

 

"We’ll come to that soon enough. I may mention that there was a play

called ’The Blue Bird’! to which you took Posy twice, and you jawed for

three days of nothing else. A damn blue bird, accordin’ to you, stands

for happiness—hey?"

 

"Yes."

 

He went on reading, "’It was splendidly clever of you to think of using

that silly old cabinet——’ Silly old cabinet! Hear that? And I’ve

refused a thousand guineas for it!"

 

"Go on, dear!"

 

"I’m going on if you’ll kindly stop wigglin’ your leg. I’m going bang

to the outside edge of this. Pay partic’lar attention. ’It was

splendidly clever of you to think of using that silly old cabinet as a

pillar box, and the fact that we are corresponding under the nose of

father makes the whole affair deliriously exciting and romantic. I

should like to see his funny face——’ Is my face funny? Is it?"

 

"Not now, Joe. Is there any more?"

 

"Is there any more, Mrs. Ask-Another? D’ye think a girl educated at no

expense spared ends a sentence in the middle of it? Keep that leg

still, and I’ll finish. ’I should like to see his funny face if he

could read this.’"

 

"My!"

 

"She shall see it, by Gum! ’We’ve got to be most awfully careful,

because if he caught me talking to you except about his dull old

business he would simply chatter with rage. But we must have a long

talk together, and as soon as possible. Why not to-night? Father and

mother are always fast asleep by eleven. At half-past eleven to the

minute I shall slip down to the sanctuary. You be ready downstairs.

I’ll whistle softly through the tube; then you nip up, and we’ll have a

perfectly lovely talk. Your own POSY.’"

 

"But, Joe, who is her Blue Bird?"

 

"He’ll be black and blue when I’ve man-handled him. It’s that dog,

James Miggott."

 

Susan grew pale and trembled. She had never seen her Joe so moved to

fury, not even when he had been "downed" by the pseudo Major Archibald

Fraser. She faltered out:

 

"Joe, dear, James is much bigger than you."

 

To this Quinney replied ironically:

 

"After all these years o’ church goin’ I thought you believed that Right

was stronger than Might. Has it all soaked in? Did you mark that word

’dull’ applied to my business? Do you know what the contents o’ this

room would fetch at Christopher’s, if the right men were biddin’?"

 

"Indeed, indeed, I don’t."

 

"Nobody knows what my collection would fetch. The Quinney Collection!

S’pose I leave everything to the nation—hey?"

 

Susan sat bowed and silent before the storm.

 

 

*IV*

 

Quinney did not look at her. Her attitude, her troubled face were

sufficient alone to acquit her of any possible complicity in this

abominable affair. The more he considered it as a tremendous fact in

their lives, the more incredible, the more irrational it became to him.

His Posy, the Wonder Child, the gem of the Quinney Collection, writing

love-letters to an obscure faker of furniture, a "downy" cove, a rather

sullen hireling, who earned four quid a week! Had his child been born

and educated "regardless" for—this? Had Susan and he suffered pangs

unforgettable in order that their child should forsake them for this

maggot of a Miggott?

Never!