Chapter VII Josephina
I
He stole up to his wife’s room as soon as the doctors had gone. The pale silvery light of early dawn seemed to steal up with him, making the silence more impressive and mysterious. Upon a table on the landing the lamp burned low. He had been told to expect the weak wail of the newly-born. The nurse, indeed, as they walked together from her cottage, had spoken of it as the most wonderful sound in all the world when heard by a father for the first time. But he had not heard it.
He turned out the lamp, and noticed that his hand was trembling. Exercising his will, which he knew to be strong, he endeavoured to stop this strange twitching. He could not do so. Suddenly, he became conscious of an immense weariness; hie limbs ached; his head was throbbing; he felt like an overtired child. It even occurred to him that it would be not altogether unpleasant to cry himself to sleep. An odd fear of seeing Susan gripped him. What did she look like after the rigours of this awful night? Was she lying insensible? Would she know him? Would he break down before her, when he beheld the cruel ravages of intense pain? For her sake he must pull himself together.
Thereupon a struggle for the mastery took place between spirit and flesh. He was not able to analyse his emotions, but he divined somehow that this was his labour, that something was being born out of him, wrenched from his very vitals, a new self with a brighter intelligence, a more vigorous sympathy. The pains of the spirit were upon him. Presently an idea emerged; the conception which must take place in every human soul, the quickening of a transcendent conviction that pain is inevitable and inseparable from growth. It would be absurd to contend that his writhing thoughts could twist themselves into the form to which expression has been given here. He was very young, and, apart from a special knowledge of his business, extremely ignorant; but it was revealed to him at this moment, a babe and suckling in such matters, that something had happened to him, that he could never be the same again. Fatherhood, and, all it implied, had been paid for with tears and agony.
The door of Susan’s room opened.
He saw the nurse, who beckoned. Her face had become normal; she smiled gravely, as he passed her, and she closed the door softly, leaving husband and wife together.
His first impression was that the room smelled very sweet, filled with the fragrance of the flowers in the garden. The windows remained wide open. The light was stronger than on the landing, but soft, for the sun had not yet risen. Everything was in order. The habit of swift observation enabled him to grasp all this in a flash, although, so far as he knew, his eyes were fixed upon the bed. Susan lay upon her side of it. Her face was milk-white, with purple lines beneath eyes which seemed unduly sunken. Her pretty hair, done in two plaits, framed her face. To Quinney she looked exactly like a child who had been frightfully ill. It was impossible to think of her as a mother. Nor did he do so. He had forgotten the baby altogether, his mind was concentrated upon the Susan whom he loved, upon the Susan who appeared to have returned from a long journey into an unknown land, a new and strange Susan, for her lips never smiled at him, but in her tender eyes he recognized his wife, his own little woman, his most priceless possession, the soul of her shone steadily out of those eyes acclaiming his soul as he acclaimed hers.
When he kissed her, she sighed. He slipped his hand beneath the bedclothes, and took her hand, murmuring her name again and again. She did not speak, and he did not wish her to speak. Her silence implied far more than speech.
He felt the faint pressure of her hand, so small and weak within his grasp. Then he laid his head upon her bosom. He could just hear her heart, beating slowly and feebly. He lifted his head, putting his cheek against hers. She sighed again—deliciously! He tried to believe that his strength, which seemed to have returned on a spring-tide of irresistible volume, could be infused into her. And it may have been so, for presently she spoke, the words fluttering from her pale lips.
“You are not very disappointed?”
Disappointed!
He reassured her upon that point, so overmasteringly that she smiled, and the pressure of her hand became stronger.
The nurse appeared, beckoning once more. Quinney followed her obediently into the adjoining room, where an object that looked like a wrinkled orange was affirmed to be his daughter’s head! Obviously the nurse expected him to kiss this; and he did so without any uplifting exultation, without a single compensating thrill! It occurred to him vaguely that Susan and he had paid a thumping price for very little. He was shown a hand like the hand of an anæmic doll. Into the tiny palm he slipped, cautiously, his forefinger. To his amazement, the finger was gripped unmistakably.
“Well, I’m damned!” he exclaimed. As the nurse raised her eyebrows in silent protest, he added quickly: “I’ve been swearing all night; one more little one don’t count!”
The nurse glanced professionally at his haggard face and dishevelled hair.
“You go to bed at once!” she commanded.
He did so.
II
Susan’s recovery from her confinement was slow but unattended, as the doctor had predicted, by complications. She was able, happily, to nurse her child, but for many months she remained in cotton wool at the Dream Cottage, recruiting her energies in the pleasant garden, and rarely straying beyond it. The question of her returning to the shop was settled drastically.
“Who’ll take care of the kid? Wouldn’t leave her to a nursemaid, would you?
“N-n-no,” faltered Susan, feeling more wife than mother. She qualified the doubtful negative by murmuring: “I did love helping you.”
“Lord bless you! You’re helping me at home—a woman’s right place. It’s the biggest help a woman can give to a man. You run things fine! Yes, you do!”—for she had shaken her head. “And the kid has the very best nurse in all the world! Shop, indeed! I don’t want my wife demeaning herself in a shop!”
He snorted with indignation, and Susan, with a suppressed sigh, let the subject drop for ever.
Meanwhile he had told her of his solemn oath, which made a profound impression upon a sensitive mind and conscience. The immediate consequence, however, of a determination to renounce false gods was absolutely unforeseen. Two days after the birth of the baby, when the shattered little mother was still lying between life and death, Quinney distracted his mind by putting on one side every doubtful piece of vertu in his possession, repricing faithfully, even at a loss to himself, each particular fake. He was engrossed in this very uncongenial task—for the old Adam was merely dazed and not dead within him—when the Marquess of Mel entered the shop. He had heard from Dr. Ransome a racy and humorous account of Quinney under stress, and had been much moved thereby. As a grand seigneur of the old school he deemed it a duty to call upon so remarkable a tenant, and if necessary, hearten him up by the purchase of a bit of furniture or china. Heretofore, the Quinneys, father and son, had dealt with the magnate’s agent. Lord Mel, so far as he knew, had never exchanged a single word with the son of a man whom he accounted an old rascal.
Quinney received him without betraying any awe of his rank, listening respectfully to his landlord’s felicitations. He loved a lord, as all true Britons do and must, but he had not yet recovered from a tremendous shock, and his thoughts were entirely centred upon Susan. When Lord Mel paused, Quinney replied:
“She’s not out of the wood yet, my lord.”
“I know how you feel—I have been through it. And now show me over your premises. The Bishop tells me that you have some fine porcelain.”
“I’ve a lot of poor stuff, too!” grumbled Quinney.
Lord Mel smiled. He enjoyed what he called “browsing” in curiosity shops, but he had never heard so candid an admission before. He was still more surprised at what followed. His own taste strayed pleasantly in the eighteenth century, and he was not aware, of course, that this was Quinney’s beloved period. Nor did he know that the saloon at Mel Court was nearly as familiar to Quinney as to himself. At first his attention was challenged by the faked oak. The panels were really beautiful, and inasmuch as they had deceived Quinney himself, it is not very remarkable that they imposed themselves upon an amateur.
“Have you much of this oak?” he asked.
“Any amount of it!”
“Enough to panel a room?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“What will you take for the lot? It happens that I can use it at Mel Court. I am building a new billiard room, and my lady is rather tired of mahogany.”
Quinney’s keen eyes sparkled. Lord Mel was too big a swell to bargain, and he was obviously not a “think-it-over fellow.” He would pay, cheerfully, a big price for these panels and, as likely as not, ask no questions about them. Then he thought of Susan, white and helpless in the big bed. With a tremendous effort, and speaking abruptly, as man to man, he said:
“It’s all faked stuff.”
“What! Impossible!”
“I can sell the lot, my lord, at a price that will surprise you.” He named the price, which included a modest profit to himself, wondering what Tomlin would say when he heard the story. Tomlin, of course, owned an undivided half-interest in the panels. Lord Mel was astounded. He bought the panels, and stared at Quinney’s whimsical face.
“The price does surprise me,” he admitted.
“Perfectly wonderful!” said Quinney. “The real stuff—if you could have found such a quantity—would have run into a couple of thousand.”
“But, pardon me, aren’t you doing business upon rather a novel plan?”
“That’s as may be, my lord. I propose to keep the very best fakes and to label ’em as such. I have the genuine stuff, too. Take Oriental china. Look at those jars!”
He was fairly started, aglow with excitement and enthusiasm, oblivious of himself and his visitor, pouring out a flow of intimate information, unconsciously displaying himself rather than his wares, forcing his queer personality upon a man of the world, a connoisseur of men as well as porcelain. Inevitably, his genius—long afterwards recognized as such—for beauty challenged the attention of his listener—himself a lover of beauty. They met as equals upon the common ground of similar tastes. Quinney let himself go. In his perfervid excitement he gestured as he did before Susan; the floor was strewn with aitches; grammar halted feebly behind his impassioned sentences. There were things, lots o’ things, that were just right—perfection; and one of ’em—one bloomin’ bit o’ real stuff, one tiny cup, potted by a master, painted by an artist, gilded by an honest man who used the purest gold, twenty-two carat, by Gum!—was worth all the beastly rubbish in the world. He ended upon the familiar note.
“I hate rubbish! Rubbish is wicked, rubbish is cruel, rubbish poisons the world. I was brought up amongst it, and that’s why I loathe it and fear it.”
When he finished Lord Mel held out his hand.
“Mr. Quinney,” he said simply, “I am happy to make your acquaintance; you are building even better than you know.”
It is quite impossible to exaggerate the results that flowed directly and indirectly from this memorable interview. In the first place, Quinney secured a patron and friend who was all-powerful in a large county. Lord Mel kept open house; he entertained the greatest men in the kingdom. He sent his guests to the man whom he affirmed positively to be the only honest dealer that he knew; he brought experts to whom Quinney listened feverishly, sucking their special knowledge from them, as a greedy child sucks an orange. He allowed our hero access to his own collections, permitted him to make an inventory of them, and later discarded upon his advice certain questionable specimens. In a word, this oddly-assorted couple became friends, comrades, in their indefatigable quest for beautiful objects. It was Lord Mel who dispatched Quinney to Ireland—one of his richest hunting grounds. In Ireland Quinney fell passionately in love with old cut-glass, at a time when the commercial demand for it was almost negligible. In fine, Lord Mel discovered Quinney and trained him to discover himself.
III
Picture to yourself Tomlin’s amazement and disgust when he paid his next visit to the ancient town some three weeks after the sale of the panels. And it must be admitted that he had reason for complaint, and that his first comment upon Quinney’s astounding proceedings was justified.
“You don’t seem to have thought of me!”
“I didn’t,” said Quinney, with admirable simplicity.
“I told you about that fellow in Brittany; I sent you to him; I provided half the cash, and I was counting upon big profits. You’ve let me down badly.”
“Looks like it, to be sure!”
“Damned outrage, I call it!”
“So it is; but I was desperate. Susan was dying. I never thought of you at all. Now, look here! Don’t overheat yourself! You was counting upon a fifty per cent. profit.”
“Perhaps more.”
“You do like to get your fore-feet into the trough. Any Jew blood in your family? Keep cool! At first we got our big profit, and how much stuff did we sell? Very little. Now I’ve orders coming in faster than I can fill ’em, and your profit, small and quick, will knock endways the big and slow. See?”
Eventually he made Tomlin see, and the London dealer had to admit that Lord Mel, played by Quinney as a trump card, introduced a new element into the game. The orders were coming in.
“It’s silly to be dishonest,” said Quinney, “because sooner or later a feller is found out.”
“Honest fakes,” murmured Tomlin. The contradiction in terms upset him.
“That’s it. And my fakes are goin’ to be advertised as the best in the world—really fine stuff, at a price which’ll defy competition.”
“You’re an extraordinary man, Joe. There is something in it. Honest fakes!”
“Rub this in as vaseline, old man. If we can sell honest fakes cheap, we can sell the real Simon pure stuff at the top notch. Rich people don’t haggle over a few extra pounds if they know that they’re not being imposed upon. I’m going to offer to take back any bit I sell as genuine which may be pronounced doubtful by the experts.”
Tomlin shook his head mournfully, having no exalted faith in experts. Also, he, was beginning to realize that Quinneys’ as a sort of dumping-ground for his surplus and inferior wares was now under a high protective tariff. He growled out:
“If you think you know your own business——”
“Cocksure of it, old man!”
“I can only hope that Pride won’t have a fall.”
“You come with me and drink my daughter’s health. Never saw such a kid in all my life—and not a month old!”
Tomlin grinned, perceiving an opportunity of “landing” heavily.
“Daughter? Rather muddled things, haven’t you? Thought you’d arranged with your missis that it was to be a boy?”
“Did you? Well, being a better husband than you are, I let her ’ave her own way in that.”
IV
The daughter was duly christened Josephina Biddlecombe, and, for the purposes of this narrative, we may skip a number of pet names, beginning with Baby and ending with Josie-posie. Ultimately she was called Posy and nothing else—a rechristening that took place in the distinguished presence of the Bishop of Melchester. The child was nearly three years old when that courtly prelate happened to drift into the shop. Susan and the child had entered a few minutes before.
“And what is your name, my dear?” he asked.
“Josie-posie,” she replied demurely. Even at that early age Quinney’s daughter was absolutely devoid of fear or shyness. She added confidingly: “And I wear a macheese.”
“What does she wear?” asked the Bishop of Susan.
Susan blushed.
“She means a—chemise, my lord.”
The Bishop laughed heartily, inferring that hitherto she had worn some other garment. Then he said in his pleasant voice: “Josie-posie is too big a name for so tiny a maid. I like the second half of it better than the first.”
“So do I,” said Susan.
“Yes, yes; Posy is a sweet, old-fashioned name, and it describes the child admirably.”
When he had taken leave of them, Quinney said with conviction:
“He’s right. Posy she is, the little dear! And his lordship didn’t fail to notice, I’ll be bound, that she smells as sweet as she looks.”
After this incident the child was always called Posy.
It is not easy to describe the sprite, because she presented a baffling combination of father and mother. Her native grace, her pretty colouring and delicate features, were a sweet inheritance from Susan; her quickness of wit, her powers of observation, her unmistakable sense of beauty—for she shrank tremblingly from what was mean or ugly—came from Quinney. Essentially she was a child of love, adored by both her parents, and, up to a certain point, spoiled by them. Mrs. Biddlecombe was fondly of the opinion that the child had taken from her parents what was best in each, buttressing the assertion by calling attention to the dash of red in the golden locks, and the peculiar alertness of the mite’s glance flashing hither and thither, searching for the things which delighted her, and acclaiming them when found with joyous chirruping and gestures.
“Reg’lar butterfly!” said Quinney. “Dotty about flowers! Picks out the best, by Gum!”
The first three years passed without incident. The business prospered. Quinney engaged a capable assistant, and began his travels. His restlessness affected Susan, but she accepted it resignedly. He was different from other men and not to be judged by ordinary standards. Argument was wasted upon him. She expostulated vainly when he began to change the furniture. The knowledge that each bit was more valuable and beautiful than its predecessor did not appeal to her at all. She beguiled him into talking about his business, feigning interest in its growth, but became increasingly conscious that the details bored her. The Dream Cottage, as she had pictured it, faded from memory. It had become a sort of small pantechnicon, a storehouse of precious objects which came and went, an annexe to the shop, to be kept swept and garnished for the entertainment and instruction of collectors.
The garden, however, was her peculiar domain, diffusing its own satisfactions and graces. The kitchen and nursery were hers also. She was an excellent housewife, and made Posy’s frocks, and some of her own, despite the protests of Quinney, who babbled foolishly of satins and brocades.
Undaunted by her awful experience, she hoped for another child. Upon this point Mrs. Biddlecombe had something to say.
“I was an only child, you was an only child, your grandfather was an only child. It’s in the family. After what you went through——”
“Joe would like a son, mother.”
“Has he hinted that to you?”
“No.”
“You take it from me that he doesn’t.”
To Susan’s astonishment, Joe confirmed what had seemed a ridiculous assumption. After Josephina was weaned, Susan whispered to him one night:
“I do miss my baby.”
“Enjoyed bein’ woke up—hey?”
“Yes.”
“Like another, perhaps?” She detected the scorn in his voice.
“If—if you wanted it, Joe. A little son this time.”
He caught hold of her, speaking vehemently, crushing her to him, as if to remind her how nearly she had slipped from his keeping.
“Now look here, Susie, I ain’t going to have another.”
She laughed faintly, as she replied:
“It isn’t you who will have it. Mother says she wishes that the men could take turn and turn about.”
“Ho! Said that, did she? You tell her from me that I suffered quite enough with my first. Enough to last me all my life, and yours, too!”
Susan shook with laughter.
“Oh, Joe, you are a darling!”
“Silly name to call me! Red-headed and freckled! But no more nonsense about little sons. When my daughter marries, her husband can take my name. See?”
“I see,” said Susan; “but I’m afraid baby’s husband may not.”
At the end of three years, a small cloud arose in their clear sky. Mrs. Biddlecombe announced solemnly that she was seriously ill, and about to meet her Maker.