Chapter XVII Introduces Cyrus P. Hunsaker
I
Some three weeks later the “restored” Chippendale chairs were sold on a by-day at Christopher’s famous auction rooms, and, as the public prints set forth, were secured after spirited competition for nine hundred pounds by Mr. Joseph Quinney, of Soho Square. There had been, according to the reporters, a duel à outrance between Quinney and Tomlin for the possession of these magnificent chairs.
Upon the following morning Posy was alone in the sanctuary. Her father had installed recently a speaking-tube, communicating with James Miggott’s room, which was just behind the shop. Posy used this whenever the chance presented itself to exchange a few whispered words with her lover. She had just informed him that a billet had been popped into the lac cabinet. Also she had exchanged kisses through the tube, and perhaps on that account her eyes were sparkling more brightly than usual. She was hanging up the tube when Susan entered.
“Thought I heard you talking just before I came in,” said Susan.
Posy, the hardened young sinner, never blushed as she answered lightly:
“I was asking Jim through the tube where father was.”
Susan stared at her pensively.
“Your dear father would be very much displeased if he heard you speaking of James Miggott as Jim. It’s too familiar.”
“Why?”
“I’m not going to bandy words with you, Posy, because you do get the best of me, thanks to your fine schooling.”
Posy frowned. She was hearing too often of her “advantages.” She said protestingly:
“Mumsie, dear, don’t rub that in. I’m fed up with such vain repetitions from father. I didn’t ask him to send me to an expensive boarding-school. I believe he did it to annoy the Tomlins.”
This, we know, was not the reason, but there was some truth in it. Tom Tomlin had considered a governess at forty-five pounds per annum quite good enough to educate his three daughters. Susan laughed. Posy amused her when she talked with entire frankness.
“Dear heart, what things you do say, to be sure! You were sent to Bexhill because there was too much Honeybunning. But it did annoy the Tomlins. I remember when your grandmother bought a small piano for me. We lived in a semi-detached. How the neighbours did tear their hair with envy and jealousy.”
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.”
“Yes,” Quinney replied, with equal gravity, “this is my private collection, Mr. Hunsaker; everything I value most in the world, including my wife and daughter. Lordy! How I hate rubbish! Rubbish is beastly!” He pointed to the lacquer cabinet, purposely distracting the young man’s attention from the chairs. “Now a cabinet like that makes me think of heaven. I can say my prayers to it!”
Susan said, with a touch of her mother’s majesty:
“Joe, how you do go on!”
“Yes, my dear, I go on and up! We’d be stewin’ in our own juice in a silly old sleepy town if it hadn’t been for me. On and—up! What a motter for a Christmas cracker! Married the right woman, too, a perfect lady!”
“Joe—please!”
Hunsaker was much amused. He had liked the little man at first sight; he was quite as delighted with his family. Quinney continued in high good humour:
“I chose her”—he pointed at Susan, who blushed. “And the result,” he pointed at Posy, who did not blush, “justifies my choice—hey?”
“You bet it does,” said Hunsaker. “Miss Quinney is by all odds the most precious object in this wonderful room—the gem, if I may say so, of your remarkable collection.”
Quinney gazed fondly at his daughter. He had almost forgotten the chairs.
“Just like a bit of Chelsea, Mr. Hunsaker. The real soft paste, and as good as she’s pretty; the apple of her father’s eye. Plays the pianner and the mandoline! Sings like a canary!”
Posy expostulated.
“Father! Please!” She put her finger to her pretty lips.
Hunsaker, feeling that he had known these pleasant people all his life, said significantly:
“You won’t keep her long, sir.”
“What?”
“Not if there are any spry young men about.”
Quinney betrayed real uneasiness. It flashed upon him suddenly that this abominable loss was inevitable. He consoled himself with the reflection that no spry young men had been about. Then he said with unction:
“I’m going to hang on tight to my little girl. She is the gem of my collection. Cost me more than money, too.” He sank his voice confidentially. “Nearly cost me her pore dear mother. By Gum! I remember swearing that I’d give up selling imitation oak as the real stuff, if my old Dutch pulled through.”
“And did you?” Hunsaker asked.
“I did. More, I tore up a big card that used to live in our front window—‘Genuine Antiques!’ Yes; never sold faked stuff after that, unless labelled as such. Lordy! I’m wastin’ your valuable time.”
“Not at all.”
“Posy, show Mr. Hunsaker that case o’ miniatures. I’ve a Samuel Cooper, two Englehearts, a Plimer, and half a dozen Cosways.”
Hunsaker shook his head.
“I know nothing about miniatures. There’s a daisy of a china cabinet!”
“It is. Delighted to show you stuff, Mr. Hunsaker. You’ve the collector’s eye. Take a squint at those blue and white jars on the mantelpiece.”
“I’d sooner look at your chairs.”
Quinney said lightly:
“You can look, at anything you like, Mr. Hunsaker, but I understood from Mr. Tomlin that you had all the mahogany you wanted.”
“More than I want,” replied Hunsaker grimly. “I’ve been much imposed upon, Mr. Quinney, with mahogany.”
Susan flitted quietly from the room. Posy began to rub the lacquer of the Chinese cabinet. She heard her father saying:
“Dear, dear! I’ve been done, too—crisp as a biscuit! Everybody’s done, hey?”
“I’m never done twice by the same man.” He bent down to examine the carving of the chairs. “These are immense—the finest I’ve ever seen.”
“By Gum! I wish you could have seen the settee which I sold to the Grand Duke of Roosia.”
Hunsaker hardly heard him. He was becoming absorbed in the chairs.
“The papers report you as having paid nine hundred pounds for the set.”
Quinney chuckled, nodding his head.
“That’s right! I’d had two glasses of old brown sherry after lunch. My tip to all and sundry is: Buy before lunch, unless you’re a blooming vegetarian and teetotaler.”
Hunsaker prided himself upon the directness of his business methods. He said tentatively:
“Would you take a handsome profit on these chairs?”
“You look at that lac cabinet, and you won’t want to buy chairs.”
Hunsaker did look at the lac cabinet, and the girl beside it, softly rubbing its polished surface. He crossed to her, smiling.
“On a Charles the Second stand,” added Quinney. “The inside is as beautiful as the outside—more so. I’ll show it to you. Where’s the key?”
He addressed Posy, but she pretended not to hear him.
“Where’s the key?” he repeated.
“I saw it yesterday,” said Posy quietly. Her heart began to beat uncomfortably, as she thought of her letter in the middle drawer.
“Can you see it now, missie? Is it on the floor?”
Hunsaker interrupted:
“Please don’t trouble. Is that screen Chinese?”
“Yes; incised lacquer. They wanted that for the South Kensington Museum. Hits you bang in the eye, don’t it?”
Hunsaker examined it as Quinney expatiated upon the enamelling and colour. His enthusiasm, his accurate knowledge, his love of precious objects for their beauty of design and craftsmanship, impressed the young man tremendously. He remembered what Tomlin had said: “You’ll find Quinney a character. What he tells you is right is right! That’s how he’s built up a thumping big business.” Hunsaker had not been vastly impressed by Tomlin, but he was quite certain that he had spoken the truth about Quinney. His heart warmed to the little man. When Quinney paused he said gratefully:
“I’m much obliged; it’s an education to see such treasures.”
“The only education I’ve had, Mr. Hunsaker.”
“I only wish that I could tempt you to part with one of them—this cabinet, for instance.”
“It’s not for sale. I’d like to oblige you. Is there anything else you particularly fancy?”
Hunsaker’s roving eye was captivated by the K’ang He mirror-black bottle, standing alone in its glory upon the top of the cabinet.
“I like that black and gold jar.”
“Um! It’s not bad, but there ought to be two of ’em.”
Posy wiped her pretty forehead. At the mention of the K’ang He jar, in which lay snug the key of the cabinet, she had trembled with apprehension. Hunsaker said quickly:
“I’d like the chairs best of all. You bought them yesterday for nine hundred. Will you take eleven hundred?”
“Yes,” said Quinney, “I will.”
He pulled out a pocket-book and extracted a slip of paper from it.
“You can have this, Mr. Hunsaker. Don’t destroy it! Keep it in your safe.”
Hunsaker took it.
“Christopher’s receipt for my cheque. It proves that the chairs fetched the price named at public auction.”
“Thank you.”
“And now, to sweeten our first deal, I’ll make you a little present. You fancied that K’ang He bottle. It’s yours.”
He advanced towards the bottle. Posy said hurriedly:
“Shall I go and clean it, father?”
“Clean it? It’s as clean as you are, my pretty.”
“You are very generous,” said Hunsaker.
Quinney winked and chuckled joyously.
“Biz! There are other things downstairs, Mr. Hunsaker. Are you buying these chairs for yourself?”
As he spoke he held the bottle in both his hands, caressing it softly.
“Why, certainly. Have them cased, please, and consigned to my agents in New York, who will see them through the Custom House. Any marks on that jar, Mr. Quinney?”
Quinney handed to him the bottle.
“I don’t think so; they never marked them bottles. It’s marked all over.”
Hunsaker turned it upside down, and the key of the cabinet fell out.
“The missing key,” said Quinney. “Now what fool stuffed it in there?”
He replaced it in the lock of the cabinet.
“Like to see the inside?” he asked.
Posy was in torment. In desperation she blurted out:
“Father, dear, Mr. Hunsaker may have other engagements.”
“I have,” said Hunsaker. “Important ones, too. Thank you, Miss Quinney.” He turned to her father. “May I call to-morrow at eleven, and have another look round?”
“Glad to see you any time.”
As he was speaking, Susan drifted back. Hunsaker went up to her, speaking cordially:
“This has been a very pleasant and informal visit, Mrs. Quinney. Do you ever go to the play?”
“Sometimes,” said Susan.
“Often,” added Posy. Her face was sparkling with smiles. Her cheeks were delicately flushed. Hunsaker said gaily:
“Will you three nice people dine and do a play with me?”
“You must leave me out,” said Quinney.
Posy answered for her mother and herself:
“We shall be delighted, Mr. Hunsaker.”
The young man shook hands. He seemed to hold Posy’s hand a thought longer than was necessary. Quinney chuckled, because he was thinking that if his Posy were to be taken away by some enterprising young man she might well be captured by Cyrus P. Hunsaker, of Hunsaker. Inspired by this thought he enjoined his daughter to accompany the visitor as far as the shop. Characteristically, he blurted out what was in his mind, as soon as he found himself alone with Susan.
“He’s taken a shine to our girl, Susie.”
“Fiddle!” said Susan, for the second time.
“Stoopid expression! You must break yourself of that. I tell you it’s true. Couldn’t ask for nothing better. Fine upstanding young chap.”
“A foreigner!”
“Nonsense. They could spend half their time over here. You might give the child a hint. Tell her to play up.”
“What an idea!”
“I have ideas, Susie. We can’t expect to keep her; and the best in this country won’t marry a tradesman’s daughter. He’s as good as any in his country. See?”
“I see a large mare’s nest,” replied Susan.
Posy returned, brimming with the determination to retrieve her letter. Quinney beckoned to her.
“Come you here, my girl.” He took her head between his hands, and gazed at her proudly. “Did that young fellow squeeze your hand just now?”
“Father!”
“None o’ your sauce! Did he?”
“Well, yes, he did.”
Quinney winked triumphantly at Susan. He kissed Posy, and said superbly:
“You’ve got a daddy with ambitions, a kind, loving, clever old daddy! Lordy! Sometimes I fair wonder at myself, I do. Because I’ve climbed so high. But you’re a-going higher—bang up! Good looks, I’ll admit you got them from mother, and good brains, same as mine. Quick wits, God bless you! You made a hit with young Hunsaker! A bull’s-eye! Now scoot, both of you! I’ve a lot of business.”
“I haven’t finished dusting, daddy.”
“Yes, you have, when I say so. Scoot!”
Unhappily, there was nothing else to do.