Chapter V Susan Prepares
I
When Susan left the shop and returned to her own house to make preparations for a visitor, she went unwillingly, postponing the hour that meant separation from the man she loved, making light of his anxiety, but secretly rejoicing in it. Her faithful heart dwelt with apprehension upon a future spent apart from Joe, apart from the excitements of the shop, a future of small things and small people. She tried to visualize herself as a mother and the vision was blurred. When she said rather timidly, “What will you do without me?” he had assured her with vain repetitions that he had more than enough to occupy his mind. The dolorous conclusion was inevitable. Joe could get along without a partner in the shop. But she could not conceive of life without him.
During this period of intermittent joys and fears, chasing each other daily and nightly through her brain, Susan was humorously conscious that Joe regarded the coming baby as his rather than hers. He would say, chuckling, “Well, Mrs. Q., how is my baby this morning? Any news of him?” The sex of the child was taken for granted. Susan had sufficient obstinacy and spirit to resent this cocksure attitude. From the first she maintained that it would be a girl. Mrs. Biddlecombe was much shocked at the intimate nature of conversations carried on before her. The good woman belonged to a generation which never mentioned babies till they lay in bassinettes, fit to be seen and worshipped by all the world. Quinney trampled upon these genteel sensibilities.
“The kid is comin’—ain’t it?”
“We hope so,” replied his mother-in-law austerely.
“We know it, old dear. Why not talk about it? Joe Quinney, junior! There you are!”
“It sounds so—indelicate.”
“That be blowed for a tale! Lawsy, there’s no saying what my son may not be. Think o’ my brains and his dear little mother’s looks.” Worse followed. He began to call Susan “mother.” Mrs. Biddlecombe protested in vain. Laburnum Row laughed openly. Everybody knew! One terrible morning, a disgusting small boy shouted after her, “Hullo, gran’ma!”
Mrs. Biddlecombe, moreover, had no sympathy with Susan’s ardent desire to remain near her husband, intimately connected with the things which interested him so tremendously. She lacked the quickness of wit to perceive what Susan instinctively recognized, the increasing and ever-absorbing love that this queer young man manifested for his business. In that business, in the unwearying quest for beautiful objects, the wife foreshadowed a rival, a rival the more to be feared because it was amorphous, senseless, chaotic. She took little pleasure in the beautiful furniture which filled the Dream Cottage, because she could never feel that it was hers. She would have chosen things which he despised as rubbish, but they would have been very dear to her. In a real sense Joe’s furniture stood massively between husband and wife. Again and again when she was hungering for soft words and caresses, he would stand in front of the Chippendale china cabinet, and apostrophize it with ardour, calling upon Susan to share his enthusiasm, slightly irritable with her when she failed to perceive the beauty in what she summed up in her own mind as “sticks and stones.” She hated to see him stroke fine specimens of porcelain. She came within an ace of smashing a small but valuable Ming jar because he kissed it. Her condition must be taken into account, but above and beyond any physical cause soared the conviction, that her Joe’s business might become the greatest thing in his life, growing, as he predicted it would, to such enormous proportions that there would be no room for her. Once she prayed that his soaring ambitions might be clipped by a merciful Providence. She rose from her knees trembling at her audacity, telling herself that she was disloyal. And then she laughed, half hysterically, supremely sensible that her Joe would travel far upon the road he had chosen, and that it behoved her to quicken her steps, and not to lag behind, for it was certain that he would expect her to keep up.
She had to pass some lonely hours. Mrs. Biddlecombe neglected no duties connected with her own house, and the work at the Dream Cottage was done meticulously by the competent servant whom Mrs. Biddlecombe had installed there, and over whom she exercised a never-flagging vigilance. Quinney issued orders that the mistress was to be spared. She was quite capable of doing many things which the robust Maria would not allow her to do. Even the delight of sewing upon minute garments was circumscribed. Quinney, after secret “colloguing” with Mrs. Biddlecombe, prepared a surprise. An amazing basket arrived from London, embellished with pale blue ribbon, and filled with a layette fit—so the advertisement said—for “a little lord.”
Quinney attached a label inscribed with the following legend:
“To Joseph Quinney, Jr., Esq., care of Mother.”
Susan’s feelings upon the receipt of this superb and complete outfit—I quote again from the advertisement—were of the bitterest—sweetest. She had set her heart upon making her child’s clothes, and she sewed exquisitely. She had to pretend that she was overwhelmed with surprise and gratitude, and Joe’s delight in her simulated delight partly compensated her for being so grossly deceitful. Wild plans entered her head for compassing the destruction of the layette. During one awful moment she experienced the monstrous thrills of a Nero, for the thought had come to her, “Why not burn the furniture and the basket together?” The cottage and furniture were handsomely insured! A mild perspiration broke upon her forehead, as she murmured to herself:
“What a wicked, wicked girl I am!”
II
She distracted her mind by reading novels, and was mightily interested in the works of Rosa Nouchette Carey. In the middle of the day Joe would rush in, kiss her tenderly, inquire after Master Quinney, sit down to dinner, and chatter boisterously of his business. His solicitude for her comfort never failed, but its insistence became enervating. She had excellent health, and was happily free from the minor ills which afflict many women in her condition. But this sort of talk became exasperatingly monotonous:
“Feelin’ fine, are you?”
“Oh yes, Joe.”
“Any one bloomin’ thing you fancy?”
“Nothing.”
“Not worriting? No stewin’ in your own juice, hey?”
“No, no, no!”
“Good. Everything is going to be all right. Lucky little dear, you are, to have a hubby who looks after you properly, and Joe Quinney, junior, will be looked after also. Make no error about that. He’s going to be a very remarkable young man! Chose his parents with rare right judgments he did. By Gum, when I read that little ’ad.’ about his kit bein’ fit for a lord, I says to myself, ‘Why not? Why shouldn’t my son be a lord one day?’”
“Joe, you are funny!”
“Funny? I’m dead serious, my girl. This stream,” he tapped an inflated chest, “rose higher than its source. It began not far from the gutter, Susie. I’m not ashamed of it. Nothing of the snob about Joe Quinney! I’m a bit of a river. I’m marked on the map. I flow all over the shop; yes, I do. And my son may become a sort of Amazon. Do you know how many square miles the Amazon waters?”
“Gracious, no!”
“Useful bit of knowledge. Nigh upon three million square miles!”
“Mercy!”
“I see Joe Quinney, junior, percolatin’ everywhere, bang from one end of the Empire to another.”
“She’s not born yet, poor little dear!”
“She! There you go again.”
“I’m sure it will be a ‘she.’”
“Not him. You trust my judgment. It’s a gift with me. All great men have it. Bonyparte and Wellington and Julius Cæsar.”
“You do go it.”
“That’s right. Do for a motto, that would. Go it! Keep a-moving! The people in this silly old town are standin’ still, up to their knees in their graves already, poor souls!”
Then he would kiss her again, and bolt off to the shop, chuckling and rubbing his hands.
Susan would return to her novel, and bury hopes and fears in the mild adventures of a conventional and highly respectable pair of lovers. She had always liked sweets, but at this period she enjoyed a surfeit of them. The sentiment that exuded from every page of her favourite romances affected her tremendously, and may have affected her unborn child.
III
Upon the eve of the child’s birth, nearly a year after her marriage, Susan wrote a letter to her husband. She had spent the day pottering about her bedroom, turning over certain clothes, notably her wedding-gown, and recalling vividly the events succeeding her marriage, the journey to France, all the pleasant incidents of the honeymoon. From a small desk which had belonged to her father, a solid rosewood box clamped with brass, she took certain “treasures,” a bit of heather picked by Joe when they took a jaunt together to the New Forest, a trinket or two, a lock of Joe’s hair, his letters tied up in pink ribbon and her birth certificate, solemnly thrust into her hand by Mrs. Biddlecombe upon the morning ol the wedding. Inside the desk remained a few sheets of the “fancy” notepaper which she had used as a maid. She selected a new nib, placed it in an ivory penholder, and began to write:
“MY DARLING HUSBAND,
“I want to tell you that the last year has been the happiest of my life. I don’t believe that I can ever be quite so happy again. You have been sweet to me. When I have tried to tell you this, you have always laughed, and so I want to write it down.
“Your loving “SUSIE.
“P.S.—I hope you will marry again.”
She placed the letter in an envelope to match, addressed it, and wrote above it, “To be opened after my death.” Then she shed a few tears, feeling lonely and frightened, peering into the gulf which yawned in front of her, knowing that the hour was almost at hand, when she must fall down, down, down into unplumbed abysses of terror and pain.
She locked up the letter in the desk, put on a cloak, and crawled into the Cathedral, whose vastness always impressed her. The great nave was strangely familiar, yet unfamiliar. A soft, silvery light diffused itself. Susan noticed that she was alone, whereas she was accustomed to the Sunday crowd. The silence seemed to enfold her. It struck her suddenly that for many hours during each day and night the great church wherein she had worshipped since she was a child, was empty and silent, a mere sepulchre of the mighty dead, who, lying in their splendid tombs, awaited the Day of Resurrection.
Did they ever come forth at night?
What did it feel like to be dead?
Such questions had never seriously presented themselves to her before, because she was normally healthy in mind and body. Death, indeed, had been acclaimed in Laburnum Row as a not unwelcome excitement for the living, an incident that loosened all tongues, which called for criticism, and a good deal of eating and drinking. Now, alone amongst the dead, Susan considered the inevitable change from the point of view, so to speak, of those who were “taken.” She was accustomed to these odd middle-class euphuisms. This particular expression, invariably used by Mrs. Biddlecombe, indicated a certain selection upon the part of the Reaper, who “took” presumably those, whether young or old, who were ripe for the sickle.
Susan shivered, praying fervently that she might be spared, that she might be deemed unripe. Her thoughts flitted hither and thither, not straying far from the austere figure with the sickle, settling now upon this hypothesis and now upon that. For example, the commonest form of condolence in Laburnum Row, leaping smugly from every matronly lip, was, “He (or she) has entered into rest.” Or, with tearful conviction, “God’s will be done.” To doubt the truth of these statements would have seemed to Susan rank blasphemy. Even now, face to face with the awful possibility, her simple mind sucked comfort from them; they fortified her trembling body for the great ordeal. But, at the same time, she was conscious of a feeling of revolt, because life was so sweet, and her enchanting pilgrimage had just begun. It would be cruel to take her!
And how would it affect Joe?
He would have his business; he would absorb himself in that. If he did marry again he would choose some sensible woman, able to look after his house and his child. She could not bear the horrid thought that a second wife might be prettier than the first, that her Joe might forget her kisses upon the lips of another woman. She murmured to herself, “Joe can’t do without me. I shall not be taken this time.”
She went back to the Dream Cottage, unlocked her desk, opened her letter, and added these words to the postscript:
“Marry a nice sensible woman, not quite so pretty as I am, one who will be kind to my baby.”
She stared at this for some time, pursing up her lips. Then she carefully erased the possessive pronoun, and wrote “your” instead of “my.”
She was smiling when she locked the desk.
IV
Ten days afterwards the child was born. Quinney was summoned at four in the afternoon by the breathless Maria, who gasped out that he was wanted. Somehow Quinney leapt to the conclusion that all was over.
“Is the baby born?” asked Quinney.
“No, nor likely to be till after midnight.”
She whisked off, leaving an astonished man vaguely wondering from what source Maria had received this positive information. He closed the shop, and then ran home. The doctor was leaving the cottage. Again Quinney stammered out:
“Is it over?”
“Just begun,” the doctor replied. Quinney hated him because he looked so blandly self-possessed and indifferent.
“Mrs. Biddlecombe is with her,” continued the doctor, in the same suavely impassive tone. “They will send for me later. Good-afternoon!”
Quinney wanted to reply, “Oh, you go to blazes! I shall send for somebody else; a man, not a machine,” but he merely glared at the doctor, and nodded. Pelting upstairs, two steps at a time, he encountered Mrs. Biddlecombe upon the landing, with her forefinger on her lip.
“Not so much noise, please!” she commanded, with the air and deportment of an empress. It struck Quinney that she had expanded enormously. Also she was dressed for the part, wearing an imposing dressing-gown, and felt slippers. Quinney had an odd feeling that she was enjoying herself at Susie’s expense. Secretly he was furious, because she seemed to block the entrance to his room. He tried to push past her.
“Where are you going, Joseph?”
He was quite confounded, but from long habit he replied in his jerky, whimsical way:
“Into my room o’ course. Where did you think I was going? Into the coal cellar?”
Mrs. Biddlecombe answered with majesty, not budging:
“We”—Maria was indicated as an accomplice—“have got another room ready for you.”
Quinney said resolutely, “I’m a-going to stay with Susie till it’s over.”
“No, you ain’t!”
“Yes, I am!”
She gripped his arm. Her voice was coolly contemptuous, but she spoke with authority.
“No, you ain’t. ’Tisn’t seemly.”
“That be damned!”
“Joseph Quinney! And an innocent unborn babe might hear you! Now, listen to me, and do just as I tell you. Men ain’t wanted on these occasions. You can go in and see Susan for a few minutes, but, remember, out you go when I say the word. Try to be a help and not an hindrance. I sent for you because you may be wanted to run for the doctor.”
“Run from ’im more likely,” said Quinney. “Cold-blooded beast.”
“He’s just what a gentleman should be at such times. You take pattern by him! Now, go in, don’t shout, say something cheerful, and leave the room when I nod.”
Throughout this speech Quinney was conscious that his will was ebbing from him. The mother-in-law triumphed by virtue of superior knowledge and experience. Quinney respected knowledge.
“But if Susie wants me to stay——?”
“She won’t.”
He entered the room. Somehow he had expected to find his wife in bed, pale, frightened, passive. She was walking up and down. Her cheeks were red, her eyes were bright. And yet there was something about her, some hunted expression in the tender eyes, some nervous tension which moved the man tremendously. His eyes brimmed with tears, his voice broke, as he called her by name. For a moment they clung to each other, and he wondered at her strength. Mrs. Biddlecombe, frowned portentously. There were moments when she told herself that Susan had married a very common person.
“That’ll do,” she said. “We don’t want any flustrations.”
Susan murmured:
“Dear, dear Joe!”
She pulled down his head and kissed the tears from his eyes. It was a moment of pure bliss for her. They sat down, holding each other’s hands, oblivious of Mrs. Biddlecombe, who still stared at them, trying to remember how the late Mr. Biddlecombe had behaved when Susan was born, and vaguely mindful of his conspicuous absence, and the discovery later that he had assuaged his anxiety with strong waters.
Meanwhile, Susan’s tenderness had aroused in her husband the determination to vanquish his mother-in-law. The power to cope with her surged within.
“You want me to stay, Susie?”
“Oh yes, till the pain comes.”
“And after?”
“No, no!”
“But why, why?”
She looked prettier and sweeter than he had ever seen her when she whispered:
“I couldn’t bear for you to see my face. It, it,” her voice quivered, “it frightens me. Just now I looked in the glass, and I didn’t recognize it as mine.”
“There!” exclaimed Mrs. Biddlecombe.
“I shall do as Susan wishes,” said Quinney humbly.
“You will leave the room when I nod?”
“Please!” said Susan, with her arms about his neck.
Presently Mrs. Biddlecombe nodded.