Chapter XVI A Business Proposition
I
“The covers are perfectly beautiful,” said Quinney, “the very finest needlework, all of ’em worked by the same hand, and all of ’em different in pattern.”
He was staring at a set of eight chairs which had arrived that morning from a town in Essex. James had just unpacked them, and was regarding them gloomily, for he cared nothing about needlework covers, and the chairs themselves were of walnut, very old, very worm-eaten, and carved by a prentice hand. He said so presently. Quinney snorted.
“Do you think, my lad, I’d ask you to waste your time and talents tinkering with those? Rip off the covers carefully, and put them aside. Save the nails and the backing. Don’t show ’em to anybody. They need cleaning, but I shan’t send ’em to a reg’lar cleaner’s. You can try your hand on ’em.”
“Not much in my line,” said James.
“Liver out o’ whack this morning?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Well, try to look more cheerful. It pays.”
He scuttled off, chuckling to himself, and thinking what fools other dealers were, for these chairs had been bought cheap from a dealer who, like James Miggott, knew nothing of the value of eighteenth-century needlework.
By the luck of things, that same morning Tom Tomlin telephoned from Bond Street, asking him to drop in at his earliest convenience. Quinney went at once, well aware that procrastination loses many a bit of business. He found his friend in much excitement.
“Got something to show you,” said Tomlin.
“Got something to show you,” retorted Quinney.
“What?”
“The finest set of old needlework chair-covers I’ve seen for many a long day.”
Tomlin exhibited enthusiasm.
“That beats the band!” he exclaimed. “Looks as if it was fairly meant.”
“What d’ye mean, Tom?”
“You come along with me, and see.”
Quinney followed him, conscious of a rising excitement, for Tomlin reserved enthusiasm for memorable occasions. The pair walked together down Bond Street and into Oxford Street. In a few minutes they were passing Lark and Bundy’s establishment. Tomlin paused at the great plate-glass window.
“Look at them chairs, Joe.”
Quinney flattened his nose against the glass, being slightly short-sighted. The chairs were magnificent.
“Nice lot—hey?”
“And a nice price Bundy paid for ’em. You wasn’t at Christopher’s the day before yesterday?”
“By Gum! Tom, you don’t mean to say that those are the Pevensey chairs?”
“Yes, bang out of Pevensey Court, sold with Chippendale’s receipt for ’em. Sixteen hundred guineas, my tulip!”
They went on in silence. Presently Quinney growled out: “It’s a cruel price.”
“They’re the goods, Joe. Hall-marked! Bundy can place ’em at a big profit with Dupont Jordan. Did you notice the carving?”
“Did I? Never saw a finer set, never!”
They walked on towards the Circus, and presently turned sharp to the right. By this time they were approaching Soho Square.
“Come out of our way a bit, haven’t we?”
Tomlin replied solemnly. “I wanted you to have a squint at those chairs first. Here we are.”
They paused opposite a mean house, entered an open door, and ascended a rickety, evil-smelling staircase. Tomlin pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked a door upon the second floor, and ushered Quinney into a biggish room filled with odds and ends of furniture. Quinney had been here before. It was one of Tomlin’s many small warehouses. The centre of the floor had been cleared, and in this cleared space stood four chairs.
“Thunder and Mars!”
“Thought you’d be surprised,” muttered Tomlin, pulling up a dirty blind.
The four chairs were carved like the chairs from Pevensey Court. They had horsehair seats much dilapidated, and the mahogany had been mercilessly treated, but to a connoisseur such as Quinney there was not a scintilla of doubt that they were carved by the same master hand which had designed and executed the set in Lark and Bundy’s window.
“Where are the other four?” asked Quinney, on his knees before the chairs, running his hands over them, caressing them with tender touches.
“Where? Oh, where?” said Tomlin. Then he spoke curtly and to the point:
“Them four came out of Ireland. I paid fifty pound for ’em.”
“You do have the devil’s own luck, Tom.”
“Not so fast. I can’t find out anything about them. If I tried to sell ’em, as they are, Lark would see to it that fellows like Pressland crabbed ’em, as he did that commode o’ yours.”
Quinney gnashed his teeth. The history of that unhappy transaction was now known to him. He knew where the commode was, and what price had been paid for it.
“With luck,” continued Tomlin thoughtfully, “I might sell these chairs for fifty apiece. One is an armchair. Your covers would go nicely on ’em, eh?”
“By Gum, the very thing.”
“And you’ve eight covers?”
“Eight of the best.”
Tomlin stared hard at the little man.
“Let’s have a look at the covers,” he said slowly.
They returned to Soho Square. Somewhat to Quinney’s astonishment he found Posy in James’s room. Her presence, however, was easily and glibly explained. James, obeying orders, had asked his employer’s daughter for some cleaning fluid. She had just brought him some. That was all. Quinney frowned, and signified with a gesture that Posy could “scoot.” She did so, after exchanging greetings with Tomlin.
“Dev’lish fine gal!” said Tomlin. “Glad to see she’s not above helpin’ in the business.”
“Don’t want her help!” growled Quinney. He turned savagely to James:
“Didn’t I tell you not to show them covers to nobody?”
“Sorry,” replied James carelessly. “I supposed Miss Quinney would be considered an exception.” He added, with mild derision, “She took no interest in the covers at all.”
“She saw them?” snapped Quinney.
“Possibly,” said James.
Tomlin examined them carefully, nodding his big head, getting redder than usual as he bent down. James had removed one cover.
“They’re a bit of all right,” pronounced Tomlin.
Quinney led the way upstairs into the sanctuary. Posy was there, cleaning some beautiful glass lustres. Her father addressed her snappishly:
“Look ye here, young woman, I don’t want you nosin’ about downstairs. See?”
Posy tossed her head, furious with her father because he rebuked her before Tomlin. She replied coldly:
“I thought I could go where I liked in our own house.”
“It’s my house. See? You run along to mother like a good girl.”
With immense dignity Posy moved to the door. If she wanted to impress upon her father that she was now a woman grown, she succeeded admirably. As the door closed behind her, Tomlin said:
“Bit short with her, wasn’t you?”
“Do her good. I won’t have no tête-à-têtin’ between her and James Miggott.”
I
They sat down. Quinney pushed a box of cigars across his desk. It annoyed him slightly that Tomlin selected one with unflattering suspicion, smelling it, and putting it to his ear.
“It’s all right, Tom: I only smoke the best in this room.”
Tomlin lit the cigar, inhaled the smoke, and nodded approvingly:
“Must admit, Joe, that you know a bit about most things. Come on surprisingly, you have.”
At this Quinney smiled complacently. Tomlin continued, eyeing his companion shrewdly and genially:
“I’ve a proposition to lay before you, Joe.”
“Go ahead.”
Tomlin rose, walked to the door, and opened it. He closed it softly and came back.
“Whatever are you up to, old man?”
Tomlin grinned.
“My women,” he remarked pensively, “listen at doors.”
Quinney exploded.
“And you dare to think that——?”
“Tch! Tch! Nothing like making cocksure. What I have to say is not for other ears. Now, ain’t it a pity that we haven’t eight o’ them Chippendale chairs on which we could fit them eight fine covers?”
“Pity? It’s a sinful shame.”
“Almost a dooty we owe to society to turn them four into eight?”
“Hey?”
“James could do it.”
“Are you mad, Tom? We know what James can do. I ain’t denyin’ that he’s a wonder, but he can’t copy them chairs so that you and I, not to mention the rest of ’em, wouldn’t know the difference if the new four was shoved alongside o’ the old four.”
“Right!”
“Then what the ’ell are you at?”
Sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, and leaning forward across the desk, the great Tomlin unfolded his scheme.
“I propose this,” he said deliberately. “James can make eight chairs out of them four by breaking up the four, half and half, half of the old in each.”
“Um!” said Quinney.
“If the worst came to the worst,” continued Tomlin, “if any of ’em did drop on to the fact that the set of eight had been very considerably restored, what of it?”
“Um!” repeated Quinney.
“A set of eight chairs, slightly restored, with your covers on ’em, the dead spit of the Pevensey chairs, would excite attention?”
“More than we might want. I don’t see Bundy a biddin’ for our set without askin’ a lot of questions. He’d spot the repairs.”
“Right again. I put these questions, Joe, to have the pleasure of hearin’ you answer them as I would myself. In a sort o’ friendly fashion I look upon you, my boy, as my pupil.”
“Go on!”
Tomlin’s large face brightened till it shone like a harvest moon. He had feared that his pupil would withhold those cheering progressive words.
“Do you want to get back some o’ your hard-earned savings which you lost over that commode?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Follow me close. James goes to work on the quiet with my chairs; he works alone in my room back o’ Wardour Street; he puts your covers on; and then we pass judgment on the completed set. If we’re satisfied, really satisfied, I don’t think we need to worry much about Bundy and Pressland. Lark—thank the Lord!—is losin’ his eyesight. When the chairs have passed our examination, they’ll go to Christopher’s. You can leave all that to me. Nobody will know that you and I have ever seen the chairs.”
“Nobody? How about James?”
“Exactly. James must be squared. It’s time you raised his salary. I shall make him a handsome present. Remember, you’ll lend James to me for this little job. It don’t concern you.”
“You take James for a fool?”
“Not me. James is a bit of a knave, but he knows which side his bread is buttered. If he was a fool I wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole. I’m afraid o’ fools. Now, we’ve got the chairs to Christopher’s, and we’ll choose a small day for the sale, some day when the big men are elsewhere.”
“Then who’ll bid for ’em?”
“Me and you, my lad.”
He lay back in his chair, winked triumphantly, and laughed. Quinney was still puzzled.
“Bid for our own chairs? Pay a thumpin’ commission to find ’em on our hands? Funny business!”
“Joe, you ain’t quite as sharp as I thought you was. We two, and anybody else as likes, bid for the chairs. We bid up to nine hundred pounds. Christopher’s commission would be ninety o’ that. The chairs cost me fifty. What do you value them covers at?”
“Five-and-twenty—thirty.”
“Call it thirty. Put James’s work at another thirty. That makes a round two hundred quid. What have we got to show for that? A set of eight chairs which have fetched nine hundred pounds at Christopher’s, with Christopher’s receipt to prove that the money was paid down for ’em. Christopher returns that nine hundred, less their com., to my agent, that is to us. You see to it that the buyin’ of the chairs by you is properly paragraphed. You have them on exhibition in this very room, and I bring a customer to whom you show Christopher’s receipt. Everything square and simple. My customer offers you eleven hundred. We share and share alike just nine hundred pounds. Four hundred and fifty each. No risks!”
“Um!” said Quinney, for the third time. Tomlin rose with alacrity considering his weight.
“You think it over. Take your time.”
“Don’t like it!” growled the little man.
“I call it a perfectly legitimate transaction.”
“Come off it, Tom!”
“Are you thinkin’ o’ your inside or your outside? Yer skin or yer conscience? If it’s conscience——”
“Well——?”
“I’ll make this remark. One way and t’other I’ve paid you more than a thousand pounds for ’restoration’ work done by James Miggott during the past four years or more. Don’t forget that! So long!”
Quinney heard him chuckling as he made his way downstairs.
III
He became a party to the projected fraud, but not without perturbations of spirit and rumblings of conscience. Ultimately he salved the latter with the soothing reflection that he was much more honest than Tomlin or Lark or Bundy. It is affirmed, with what truth I know not, that gluttons who happen to be total abstainers are peculiarly virulent against drunkards. Quinney, poor fellow, son of a dishonest father, dishonest himself during his earlier manhood, reflected joyously that he was an admirable husband and father. He said to Susan, who was in blissful ignorance of his dealings with Tom Tomlin:
“Old Tomlin, hoary-headed sinner, went to Blackpool for the last week-end, and he didn’t go alone, nor with Mrs. T., neither. He’s a moral idiot is Tom. What would you say, Susie, if I went larkin’ off to Brighton with Mabel Dredge—hey?”
He pinched her still blooming cheek, staring into her faithful eyes.
Susan replied artlessly:
“Joe, dear, it would break my heart.”
“Gosh, I believe it would. Well, mother, your loving heart won’t be broken that way.”
Susan knew that this was true, and smiled delightfully.
“I’m a good hubby,” said Quinney complacently, “and the very best of fathers, by Gum!”
Whenever he “swanked” (we quote Posy) like this, Susan regarded him anxiously.
James Miggott undertook his new job without protest, but there was an expression upon his handsome face which puzzled his employer. He summed up James as “downy.” When he raised the young man’s salary to four pounds a week, that derisive smile of which mention has been made, played about James’s too thin lips. Quinney said sharply:
“You don’t seem bustin’ with joy and gladness. Four quid a week ain’t to be sneezed at.”
“Don’t I earn it, sir?”
His tone was perfectly respectful, with a faint sub-acid inflection.
When the four chairs were turned into eight, and duly covered with the precious needlework, Tomlin and Quinney inspected them with huge satisfaction. Certainly James had done himself justice. The restorations were subjected to microscopic scrutiny. Tomlin smacked his gross lips.
“You leave the rest to me,” he said.
IV
The time has come to explain James’s smile. We must attempt what French dramatic critics term the “scène obligatoire.”
He had captured Posy.
He achieved this easily, because he happened to be the first good-looking man to make love to a healthy young woman of lively sensibilities and affections. Here again the uncharitable may be justified in hinting at that practice which makes the game of love perfect. If Youth but knew! This youth did know many things which he kept to himself discreetly; saliently amongst them may be reckoned the art of striking hard when the iron is hot. Posy grew very hot, when her sire rebuked her for wandering downstairs into James’s room. James perceived this. Let us say this for him in partial excuse of what follows. He had fallen in love with a blooming girl, whose bloom contrasted so agreeably with the too-white cheeks of Miss Mabel Dredge, whose high spirits were strong enough to raise to their level his somewhat gloomy thoughts. Truth being the essence of this chronicle, we are constrained to add that the hope of being admitted to partnership with a prospective father-in-law had been another lever towards this mental exaltation. Nor did James forget that Posy was possessed, under Mrs. Biddlecombe’s will, of some three thousand pounds which became hers absolutely when she attained her majority.
The pair talked together very seldom after Quinney’s injunction, but they passed each other half a dozen times a day, preserving a silence which is perhaps the most barbed dart in Dan Cupid’s quiver! Each began to study facial expression, and the finer shades of common salutation. The mere words, “Good-morning,” admit infinite variety of inflection. The pronouncing of a name, even such a name as Quinney, may be made lyrical, almost hymeneal. James showed himself to be a master of these simple arts. His appearance at such moments indicated suffering nobly controlled. Posy began to lie awake at night wondering if James also was a martyr to insomnia. You may be sure that she encountered James in those pleasant suburbs of slumber frequented by lovers, the vias tenebrosas where Dante and Beatrice, Petrarch and Laura, Francesca and Paolo, must have wandered hand in hand. Here, in sequestered peace Posy talked to James without any exasperating restrictions save those which maidenly modesty imposed. Imaginary conversations have won many hearts.
And then one day occurred the coup de foudre.
Quinney and Susan happened to be out. Posy, as usual, was dusting the china in the sanctuary. James entered the room.
“Good-morning, Mr. Miggott!”
“Good-morning, Miss—Posy!”
He had never called her Posy before. But she divined from the tenderness of his tone that her name must have passed his lips a thousand times.
They looked at each other diffidently. Posy stretched out her hand. She felt that this was due to an artist who might reasonably infer that he was not held in the highest esteem by his master’s daughter. James hesitated for one moment only. Then he kissed her hand. She quivered. He ran his hungry lips along her slender wrist. She thrilled and sighed. He took her into his arms and kissed her masterfully, feeling her heart throbbing beneath his own.
Presently they discussed the future, although loath indeed to leave the present.
“What will father say?”
“Darling, you must let me deal with your father.”
“Can you?”
“I think so. I am sure of it. We must be patient and very, very careful.”
“I should like to tell mother.”
“No, no! Believe me that would be a blunder. She would tell him. For the moment we must love secretly.”
She sighed deliciously.
“It does sound exciting and romantic. Of course you know best.”
“I do!” he replied grimly. “I know that I shall have to fight for you. I mean to fight. You’ll see. But we must be extra careful. A look——! We can write to each other.”
Her smooth forehead puckered.
“Can we? Father always deals out the letters. He would think nothing of opening mine if he suspected.”
“I have a plan.”
“What! You have made plans? You were sure of me?”
“No, no! Never sure. Torn in two, I was, between hope and fear, but I made plans all the same. Look here, we can use that lac cabinet as a pillar-box.”
“Father’s precious cabinet?”
“He never opens it; the drawers are empty; the key is in the lock.”
Together they approached the cabinet, one of the “gems.” Upon the top of it stood the K’ang He mirror-black jar much beloved by Quinney. James opened the cabinet, almost more beautiful within than without. He indicated a drawer.
“Pop your letters into that. Then lock the cabinet and hide the key in the mirror-black bottle.”
“What a splendid idea!”
“Isn’t it? If he misses the key, you will be asked to find it, and you will find it. Then we can choose another pillar-box. You will post your letters, dearest, in the morning, when you are dusting here. In the middle of the day, while you are lunching, I shall get your letter and post one of my own. That way we run no risks at all.”
“You are quite wonderful!”
Susan had used the same words to her Joe twenty years before.