Quinneys 5

Quinneys 5

"There’ll be none o’ that, my girl."

 

She laughed gaily, but her face was pensive as she returned to Laburnum

Row.

 

 

*III*

 

Next Sunday happened to be an exceptionally fine day. Quinney

accompanied Susan and her mother to the Cathedral, but after the service

Mrs. Biddlecombe returned to Laburnum Row, leaving the lovers in the

elm-encircled Close. Quinney, whose eyes were sparkling even more than

usual, strolled across the Mel, and presently he paused opposite the

Dream Cottage. Susan pinched his arm.

 

"How horrid of you to bring me here," she whispered. "I hate the sight

of it now."

 

"But why? Queer things girls are, to be sure."

 

"If it’s queer not to stare at what one can’t have, I’m queer," said the

young lady rather shortly. "I was never one to flatten my nose against

the window of a hat-shop when I’d no money to buy hats."

 

"You’re a sensible little dear! But I brought you here because the

place is sold. I knew that would cure you. Now oughtn’t we to have a

squint at the first?"

 

"It would make me squint to look at it now."

 

"It’s nicer than a tent."

 

"A tent?"

 

"You said you would live happily in a tent with me."

 

"Men don’t understand women."

 

"That’s a horrid thought with our two lives to live out together."

 

He looked so sorry because he couldn’t understand women that Susan

kissed him, having satisfied herself that nobody was in sight. She said

softly:

 

"Well, Joe, it is really my fault because I did disguise my

disappointment very cleverly, didn’t I?"

 

Quinney chuckled.

 

"Disguise it? Bless your simple heart! I saw two fat tears rolling

down your cheeks. I was the one who disguised my disappointment."

 

Whereat Susan protested stoutly that she had never seen any man look so

disgusted as her Joe, when the agent mentioned the price of the Dream

Cottage. She concluded on a high note of assurance.

 

"Desperate diseases require desperate remedies. Now that we’re here,

we’ll go in, and I’ll let it soak in that the place is really and truly

sold." Quinney nodded, and Miss Biddlecombe continued fluently, "After

I’ve seen it once more I shall never give it another thought."

 

"Don’t be too cocksure about that!"

 

"I tell you I shan’t, and besides, the river is certainly dangerous."

 

"Dangerous to us?"

 

She blushed delightfully, pressing his arm, but saying nothing.

Quinney, divining her thoughts, fell more in love with her than ever.

She went on artlessly, "I expect the house is damp in winter."

 

"Dry as a bone. I asked about that."

 

"When did you ask?"

 

"I suppose when we looked at it."

 

"I never heard you ask. I’m feeling quite happy about it now. I wonder

whether the people who have bought it have moved in?"

 

He was able to assure her that they hadn’t. But she asked immediately

how he had come to know of the sale.

 

"The agent told me."

 

"When?"

 

"When I wrote to him."

 

"Why did you write to him?"

 

"To make inquiries about other cottages, of course."

 

They passed through a wicket-gate into a small garden gay in summer with

larkspurs, hollyhocks, and what children call "red-hot pokers." A path

of flagged stones wandered round the house.

 

"Cosy, ain’t it?" he said. And as he spoke she noticed that his voice

trembled. She tried to interpret the __EXPRESSION__ upon his shrewd

whimsical face, and failed.

 

"Are you so tremendously sorry that this lovely place is sold?"

 

"I’m tremendously glad," he replied.

 

"I can’t screw myself up to say that, Joe. I wonder who is coming to

live here?"

 

"A childless couple."

 

"A childless couple!" Her face softened. "I’m sorry they’re childless.

I can see children running about this garden."

 

"And tumbling into the river!"

 

"I was only joking about that. But perhaps——"

 

"Exactly. They may have a dozen yet."

 

She sighed as she surveyed the pleasance. Nothing, she decided, could

ever be so exactly right again. Then Quinney said abruptly

 

"We can’t keep your poor mother waiting for dinner."

 

"Bother dinner. I want to have a long, last lingering look."

 

"But you may come again, because you happen to know the man who has

bought it."

 

The note of triumph in his voice was illuminating.

 

"Joe!" she exclaimed. "It’s you!"

 

"Yes; it’s me. Now ain’t I a regular old rag-bag o’ surprises?"

 

 

*IV*

 

The furnishing of the Dream Cottage occupied them very agreeably during

the two pleasant months that elapsed before their marriage, but there

were moments when Susan became exasperatingly conscious of immense

differences between herself—as she was beginning to know herself—and the

man she loved. Mrs. Biddlecombe and she, for instance, had nourished the

conviction that the home being the true sphere of woman, it would be

their privilege and pleasure to arrange it according to the lights,

farthing dips, perhaps, vouchsafed to the middle class in Victorian

days. But the Man of Many Surprises, as Susan called him, dealt

drastically with this conviction, dispatching it swiftly to the limbo of

unrealized ambitions and broken hopes. In those days, it may be

remembered, popular fancy strayed wantonly amongst ebonized

super-mantels, and cabinets with gilded panels upon which exotic birds

and flowers were crudely painted. Aspinall’s Enamel entered generously

into most schemes of decoration. Fireplaces were filled with Japanese

umbrellas. Japanese fans were arranged upon bilious-looking

wall-papers, and Japanese bric-à-brac, cheap bronzes, cheap porcelain,

everything cheap, became a raging pestilence.

 

Quinney’s taste soared high above this rubbish so dear to the hearts of

Susan and her mother. Afterwards he marvelled at the sure instinct

which had guided him aright. Where did it come from? Why, without

either knowledge or experience, did he swoop unerringly upon what was

really beautiful and enduring, and at that time more or less despised?

 

Mrs. Biddlecombe had bought a book entitled, _How to Furnish the Home

with One Hundred Pounds_. She read aloud certain passages to Quinney,

who listened patiently for half an hour, and then snorted.

 

"You’ve taken cold," said the anxious Susan.

 

"That rot would make any man choke," said Quinney. "Makes me perfectly

sick," he continued, warming to his work, as he encountered the amazed

stare of the women, "makes me want to smash things! Silly rot, and

written by a woman, I’ll be bound."

 

"It’s written by a lady," observed Mrs. Biddlecombe, "an authoress,

too."

 

"It’s written by a fool!" snapped Quinney. "We’ve Solomon’s word for it

that there’s nothing so irksome as a female fool. This particular brand

o’ fool don’t know, and never will know, the very first principles o’

furnishing, whether for rich or poor. Buy good solid stuff. Don’t touch

rubbish! Rubbish is beastly. Rubbish is wicked. I’ve had enough of

rubbish. Me and Susan is going to start right. And as for cost," he

paused to deliver a slashing blow, "I’m going to put one thousand pounds’ worth of stuff into my house!"