Chapter XXI Mabel Dredge
I
Quinney telephoned early the next morning to Tom Tomlin, asking him to come to Soho Square before ten. Posy did not descend to breakfast, and during that meal Susan preserved an obstinate silence. Quinney gobbled up his bacon, drank three cups of tea, and hurried to the sanctuary, where a pile of letters left unanswered the day before awaited him. Mabel Dredge, notebook in hand, greeted him perfunctorily. Quinney, lacerated by his own anxieties, noted a dreary tone in the girl’s voice. Many excellent persons never recognize trouble in others till they are suffering from trouble of their own. Of such was our hero. He had passed a wretched night, and, as he shaved, was constrained to perceive its ravages upon his face. Upon Mabel’s face, also, he seemed to catch a glimpse of faint lines and shadows, as if the spider Insomnia had woven a web across it.
“Anything wrong?” he inquired.
“Nothing,” replied Mabel tartly.
He sat down at his desk, glancing at the morning’s letters, arranged by Mabel in a neat little pile. The topmost letter contained Hunsaker’s cheque for eleven hundred pounds, and a few cordial lines reminding his dear sir that he hoped to call at eleven, and that he might bring a friend with him, an expert of Chippendale furniture. Quinney frowned, resenting the introduction of an expert. But he reflected comfortably that the chairs were already cased. He opened the other letters, and then began to deal faithfully with each correspondent in turn. He dictated these letters after his own fashion. It was Mabel’s task to adjust grammatical errors and to eliminate slang. He had grown fond of Mabel because she was competent and tactful.
“I think that will do, my dear.”
Mabel rose quietly, shutting her notebook. She used a small room, where she kept her machine and a copying-press and other paraphernalia appertaining to secretarial duties. Unconsciously, she sighed.
“Lookin’ peaky, you are,” said her employer.
Mabel retorted indifferently:
“Weather affects me. Seems even to have affected you, sir.”
“Ho! Observant young miss! But you’re wrong. Weather don’t affect me; and it oughtn’t to affect a healthy young woman like you. Sleep badly?”
“Ye-es.”
“Same here.”
The need of sympathy gripped him. He was so sorry for himself that he felt sorry for this white-faced typist, whom hitherto he had regarded as a machine.
“Beastly, ain’t it?” She nodded, and he continued, speaking rather to himself than to her: “To toss about, tinglin’ all over, with one’s thoughts in a ferment! Perfectly disgustin’!”
Mabel smiled faintly.
“I’ve a lot on my mind just now,” he went on, “a bigger load than I care to carry—immense responsibilities, see?”
She opened her eyes, wondering what had evoked this amazing confidence, little guessing that the habit of years was behind it. He had always talked to Susan about his affairs, poured them into ears now deaf in the hour of sorest need.
“Sit down,” he commanded. “There’s no hurry. I’m expecting Mr. Tomlin.”
“I beg your pardon; I forgot to mention it. I have a message from Mr. Miggott. His respects, and he wants to see you if you can spare a few minutes.”
“Ho! Well, I can’t see him yet. He must wait my convenience. Sit you down!”
Mabel obeyed, blushing slightly, because Quinney’s eyes were so piercing. She was quite unaware that she had betrayed herself in the pronunciation of a name. At no other time, probably, would Quinney have leapt to the conclusion that James was behind her trouble as certainly as he was behind his own. He hated James. It hurt him to hear his name softly murmured.
“Any of your people ill, my dear?”
“No.”
“Not in debt, are you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Not sufferin’ from neuralgia, or toothache, or anything of that sort?”
“I am in excellent health, sir.”
“Then, my girl, you’re in love.”
Her confusion answered him. She was angry, indignant, scornful; but she could not prevent the red blood rushing into her cheeks. She retorted sharply:
“That’s none of your business, sir!”
Quinney chuckled. A ray of light flashed across his dark horizon.
“Don’t be too sure o’ that, my dear. Perhaps it is my business; anyway, I’m going to make it my business, because I take a fatherly interest in you.”
“I can manage my own affairs, Mr. Quinney.”
“No, you can’t. Look ye here. I’m a wonderful guesser—always was. You like James Miggott. Nothing to be ashamed of in that. I’ll be bound he likes you!”
Mabel fidgeted. Quinney’s voice was kind. It rang true. The desire to confide in this odd little man, so masterful, so persuasive when he chose, grew as swiftly as Jack the Giant Killer’s beanstalk.
“Doesn’t he like you?” he asked insistently.
“He used to like me,” she answered mournfully.
“Ah! Now, Mabel, there are just as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.”
“And what time have I to catch fish?”
“S’pose you was my daughter, I shouldn’t like you to marry James. This is on the strict Q.T., just between me and you, James was a faker of old furniture till he came to me.”
“He’s no better, I dare say, and no worse, than other men in his trade!”
“Tch! tch! He’s lucky to have a nice girl to stick up for him. Now, my dear”—his voice became very soft and confidential—“you say that James used to like you. Why has he cooled off, hey?”
She answered miserably:
“I don’t know.”
“Cheer up! Maybe I can help you. Lordy! Don’t cry! Answer me this—straight. Do you still want him?”
“Ye-es.”
It was a doleful, long-drawn-out monosyllable, eloquent of much left unsaid. Quinney nodded sympathetically, although his small eyes were sparkling.
“At one time, I take it, you thought he was yours?”
She was too overcome to utter a word.
“Do you believe that he likes somebody else?” He paused, waiting for an answer. She twisted her fingers, refused to meet his eyes, moved restlessly. He went on, playing upon her emotions:
“Do you know who that somebody is? Come, be square with me, my dear. Is it a young lady who shall remain nameless—a young lady lately returned from school; a young lady whom James Miggott will never marry—never?”
His suppressed excitement communicated itself to her. She was clever enough to understand exactly what he wished to convey. She glanced up and nodded. Quinney drew in his breath sharply; his manner changed.
“And you still want him?”
“Yes.”
“Queer creatures you women are, to be sure!”
“We can’t pick and choose like men.”
“If you want him, you shall have him.”
She shook her head dubiously.
“You don’t know James, sir.”
“Ho! Don’t I? Better than you know him, better than he knows himself. I’ll help you, my girl, but you must help me.”
“How?”
He got up and stood beside her. She watched him with a certain fascination, curiously sensible of his power over her and others. The native confidence that he had in himself percolated slowly through her.
“Tell me truly what has passed between you and this young man.”
She was expecting any question except this. The audacity of it overwhelmed her, as he had foreseen that it would. She broke down, sobbing bitterly, hiding her face from the keen eyes looking down into her very soul. Quinney laid his hand upon her head tenderly. For the moment this strangely-assorted pair, linked together by an interest common to each, yet antagonistic to each, stood together upon a plane high above that on which they moved habitually.
“I ain’t no saint,” said Quinney solemnly. “And I tell you this, Mabel Dredge, I’ve been through hell during the past twelve hours; and I’m not out of it yet. Stand up, you poor dear! Look me in the face, for then you’ll know that you can trust me. Give me your hand—so! It’s a nice little hand. Ought there to be a wedding-ring on it?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
II
Susan came in shortly after Mabel had gone. Her face was very troubled, but obstinacy sat enthroned upon a head carried at a higher angle than usual. Quinney said facetiously:
“Come to throw yourself at my feet and ask forgiveness?”
“Certainly not.”
“Meant all you said last night?”
“Every word of it.”
“What is Posy doing?”
“Crying her eyes out, I dare say.”
“Sounds sloppy.”
“Mr. Tomlin is here. Hateful man! I suppose he’ll side with you!”
“That remains to be seen. I doubt it. Ask Tom to step up.”
Susan went out with dignity.
Tomlin had been to a banquet the night before, and bore the signs of intemperance in eating and drinking upon his large mottled face. He greeted Quinney sulkily, unable to purge his mind of the conviction that Soho Square ought to come to Bond Street. He asked thickly:
“Ever suffer from indigestion?”
“Never.”
“I do,” said Tomlin gloomily. He added with finality: “Port, even the best, atop o’ bubbly wine is a mistake after fifty. What you want me for, young Joe?”
“Glad I look young, Tom. I don’t feel it this morning.”
Tomlin stared at him.
“Blest if you ain’t made a night of it, too.”
“Here’s something to cheer us up.”
He pushed across the desk Hunsaker’s cheque for eleven hundred pounds. Tomlin’s heavy features relaxed into a smile. Quinney scribbled some figures on a memorandum pad, and invited his colleague to verify them. The sum represented the exact amount due to Tomlin as his share of the plunder.
“Quite O.K., Joe.”
“Like your bit o’ ready now?”
“Never refuse cash, my lad.”
Quinney wrote out a cheque, and a receipt. Tomlin accepted the cheque, placing it in a bulky pocket-book. He glared askance at the receipt, which set forth that the sum just paid was a commission upon the sale of eight chairs to Cyrus P. Hunsaker, of Hunsaker.
“Why this receipt, Joe? Ain’t a cheque a receipt?”
Quinney answered curtly:
“A cheque don’t show what money is paid for. My way of doin’ business.”
“No complaints.”
He chuckled fatly, raising his thick eyebrows when Quinney observed lightly:
“What we done the day before yesterday was a leetle bit dangerous, old man. Sailin’ too near the reefs—um?”
Tomlin replied pompously:
“Skilled navigators, my lad, do sail near the reefs. I wouldn’t assume such risks with another man.”
“But you did!”
“What do you mean, Joe?”
“James Miggott is in the know.”
“Of course, but he’s had his little bit.”
“Yes; but he wants more!”
“The swine!” He stared at Quinney, beholding upon the whimsical face of his pupil writing which he could not read. “What’s up?” he spluttered.
“I am,” said Quinney, rising; “and stripped for the fight of my life.”
Tomlin stirred uneasily.
“A fight, Joe? Who with?”
Quinney answered fiercely:
“That dirty dog, James Miggott. He wants more than what we gave him. See? He wants my Posy.”
Tomlin exhibited marked relief.
“Your Posy? Don’t blame him for wanting her.”
“You hold hard! Young Posy wants him.”
“Gawd bless my soul! She’s not the judge o’ quality he is.”
“And Susan backs ’em up. That fairly tears it.”
Tomlin looked puzzled, unable to account for the younger man’s excitement. He considered that Joe, unlike himself, was incapable of managing his womenfolk.
“Between ’em, Tom, they’ve got a strangle hold on us.”
“Us? What have I to do with your fam’ly matters?”
“I sent for you to tell you. Now, first and last, they’ll never have my consent, never! But, by thunder! I refuse my consent, not because the dog’s my servant, but because he isn’t straight. He’s no better than you and me.”
Tomlin glared at his former pupil, who stood over him, waving a denunciatory hand.
“You speak for yourself, young man.”
“I ain’t young. We’re both of us old enough to know better and do better, but we’ve had to make our way. Maybe I’ve been honester than you, maybe I haven’t. I ain’t whining, least of all to you. We’re in a deep hole of our own making. And we must get out of it. I told this James Miggott last night that we was pots, just common pots, sailin’ down the stream with other pots. But my little Posy’s porcelain, the finest paste, the gem o’ my collection. Susan accuses me of caring for things, these things. So I do; so do you; that’s why we’ve struggled to the front. And this son of a gun loves things, and what they stand for. He’s after my things, but he’s clever enough to have bluffed two innercent females into believin’ that he wants my Posy without ’em.”
Tomlin blinked and nodded, stupefied by the terrific feeling displayed by Quinney. His headache had come back, that humiliating sense of “unfitness” which clouded his judgment, leaving him dazed and irritable. Nor, as yet, had he grasped the situation, or measured the depth of the hole to which Quinney alluded. The little man went on:
“I’ve called his bluff, if it is bluff. I’ve told him that he can take Posy, march her out of this house as she is.”
“What did he say to that?”
“I should have downed him, but, by Gum, the old lady butted in. Swore solemn she’d leave my house, if I turned Posy out. She means it, too!”
“A good riddance,” snarled Tomlin.
Quinney exploded, shaking his clenched fist in front of the huge, red face.
“What? I’d have you to know, Tom Tomlin, that my Susan and me have stuck together through thick and thin. I think the world of her, but she’s without guile, bless her, and as obstinate as Balaam’s ass!”
“S’pose you tell me where I come in?”
“Here and now, by the back-door! This dirty dog threatens to down me with the true story of them chairs. And he’ll do it, too. Now, let this soak in together with all that port and champagne you swallered last night. If he downs me, he downs you! Got it?”
Assuredly Tomlin had “got it.” He began to shake with impotent rage, growling out:
“Threatens to split? I’d like to tell that young man exactly what I think of him.”
“You can,” said Quinney derisively; “but it will do you more good than him, I reckon. We’ll send for him in a jiffy. Ever notice my typist and stenographer, Miss Dredge?”
“Yes, many a time. Nice-lookin’ gal.”
“This maggot of a Miggott has been eatin’ into her young affections, see?”
“Has he? The young man has taste, Joe. Reg’lar lady-killer!”
Quinney lowered his voice:
“It’s a weapon, but I don’t rely on it. I can’t use it, in fairness to Mabel, till we stand in the last ditch.”
“Why not? Got to think of ourselves, ain’t we?”
Tomlin pulled out an immense silk bandana, and mopped a heated brow.
“It’s two-edged, Tom. You ain’t yourself this morning, or you’d see, with your knowledge of the fair sex, that Posy might be keener on gettin’ this scamp, if she learned that another woman was after him. We’ll try to handle Master Miggott first.”
He crossed to the speaking-tube, and summoned James to the sanctuary. Then he sat down, very erect and austere, at his desk.
III
Presently James entered, carrying his head at the angle affected by Susan, looking very bland and self-confident.
“Good-morning, Mr. Tomlin! Good-morning, Mr. Quinney!”
Quinney acknowledged this salutation with a derisive grin.
“Mornin’, Mr. Chesty! Bin usin’ a Sandow’s exerciser?”
“No, sir; Indian clubs. Am I to state my case before Mr. Tomlin?”
“Yes. Go ahead and state it. Don’t waste my time, or his, or your own.”
James addressed himself suavely to Tomlin, selecting his words carefully, speaking slowly, with the utmost respect.
“Last night, Mr. Quinney threatened to turn his daughter into the street, because she’s engaged to be married to me.”
“My hand was forced, my lad. Go on.”
“I can support a wife, and Miss Quinney is ready to marry me by special licence this afternoon.”
“Quite sure o’ that?”
“Ab—solutely. Unhappily, I’m not yet in a financial position to support two ladies.”
“Two ladies?” echoed Quinney, thinking of Mabel Dredge.
“I allude, sir, to Mrs. Quinney. She insists upon leaving you, if her child is turned out. That rather complicates matters.”
“It does,” said Quinney grimly.
“Under these circumstances, gentlemen, I feel justified in bringing pressure to bear. Mr. Hunsaker, who bought certain chairs yesterday, will call again this morning. He is naturally interested in the history of the chairs; and he might make trouble if he knew all the facts about them as known to you, Mr. Tomlin, to Mr. Quinney, and to me. I may add that my responsibility in the affair is negligible.”
“Slick talker,” muttered Quinney. He could see that Tomlin was much impressed by James’s manner. The big fellow grunted uneasily:
“What do you propose?”
“A compromise, Mr. Tomlin.”
Quinney lost something of his dignity, when he jerked out:
“He’s compromised my Posy, and many another pore girl, I’ll be bound!”
“Pardon me, sir. That sort of talk before a witness is libellous.”
The last rag of Quinney’s dignity fluttered away.
“I’ll down you, my lad; yes, I will!”
“Self-preservation being the first law, sir, I must—sorely against the grain—down you first. Excuse plain speaking.”
Quinney jumped up.
“I like plain speaking! I was weaned on it, short-coated on it! By Gum! my father damned me before I was born!”
“Easy all,” murmured Tomlin nervously. He addressed James with a civility which the young man acknowledged with a faint smile. “Do I understand that you threaten to down your master because he refuses to sanction an engagement between you and his daughter?”
James shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s a case of ‘pull, devil—pull, baker!’ I mean to pull for all I’m worth.”
Quinney interrupted furiously:
“And what are you worth, Lord Rothschild?”
Tomlin held up a large hand, not too clean, upon which sparkled a diamond ring.
“You spoke of compromise, James?”
“Yes, sir. I suggest that my engagement to Miss Quinney should be sanctioned and recognized. I will stay on here, and demonstrate to Mr. Quinney my claims to be taken on later as a junior partner. Unless Miss Quinney of her own will cancels the engagement, the marriage will take place——”
“Never!” shouted Quinney.
James smiled deprecatingly.
“Shall I retire, gentlemen? You have time to talk things over. Mr. Hunsaker will not be here for another hour yet.”
Tomlin nodded portentously:
“Yes, yes; leave us.”
IV
Tomlin was the first to break an ominous silence:
“The long and short of it is, Joe, that this young feller can ruin us, rob us of our hard-earned reputations. We must square him.”
“Money? He wants money and Posy!”
Tomlin stroked his chin pensively. It occurred to him that so sharp a practitioner as James Miggott would never come to grief. As a suitor for one of his three daughters, he would not consider him too rashly as ineligible.
“Posy might do worse,” he muttered.
“Ho! That’s it. Sidin’ with them? Thought you might!”
“Face the music, Joe! We’re hanged, high as Haman, unless the ladies come to the rescue. It’s a bit thick his threatenin’ you. How does Posy take that—um?”
“How can I tell her what he’s threatening to do? James knows that, the dog!”
“You can hint at unpleasantness. Posy ought to know that her young man is buckin’ about ruining you.”
“Maybe you’d like to talk to Susan and Posy?”
“I should. I understand women; you don’t.”
“You shall talk to ’em.”
He hurried to the door, and through it on to the landing.
“Susan!—Su—san!”
Susan’s voice was heard descending from above:
“Is that you calling, Joe?”
“Who did yer think it was? The Archbishop o’ Canterbury or the First Lord of the Admiralty? Come you down quick, and bring Posy with you.”
He stumped back into the sanctuary to confront Tomlin’s scornful face.
“That the way you talk to an angry woman? Had any words with Mrs. Quinney this morning?”
“I’ve been talking to her and at her, off and on, ever since breakfast.”
“Pore, dear soul!” ejaculated Tomlin.