Chapter VIII Light Out of the Darkness
I
When Mrs. Biddlecombe made this solemn declaration it never occurred to either Quinney or Susan to dispute the infallibility of such a statement. The worthy lady belonged to a type rapidly becoming extinct in this country, a type which has provoked the astonishment and humorous criticism of foreigners. She had never questioned what she devoutly held to be certain divinely-revealed truths. Persons who presumed to differ from her, or perhaps it would be fairer to say, from the indiscriminate mass of public opinion which she represented, were accounted beyond the pale of Christian charity and toleration, tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner being an arrow which glances harmlessly against prejudice and predilection. There was no joint in her armour of righteousness through which it could penetrate. The type is still so common that comment upon it would be tedious. Amongst other cherished beliefs was a conviction that illness came direct from God. Had Susan, as a child, been struck down with typhoid fever, Mrs. Biddlecombe would have accepted the blow with resignation and tended the sufferer, under the direction of a medical attendant, with exemplary tenderness and fortitude. She would not have overhauled the system of drainage. Accordingly, when the Hand of Providence—as she put it—was laid heavily upon her massive body, she accepted the infirmity with pious resignation, and informed Laburnum Row that it was the beginning of the end. Dr. Ransome diagnosed the case, accurately enough, as cardiac weakness arising from chronic dyspepsia. His patient was of a full habit, and took no exercise beyond the common round of duties connected with her small house. A competent servant “did” for her, perhaps in more senses than one. Ransome, of course, reassured her again and again in regard to her symptoms. They were such as could not be ignored at her age—fifty-five—but with care and a less generous diet she might reasonably hope to live happily for many years. Mrs. Biddlecombe refused to believe this. She made her will, leaving everything she possessed to Susan, selected her last resting-place in the Melchester cemetery, not too near the grave of her second husband, the contractor and builder, and announced calmly that she was “ready.” Quinney, of course, had a private word with Dr. Ransome, but that cautious diplomat had to admit that his patient might go suddenly. Quinney told Susan what had passed between them, using his own vernacular.
“Old Pomposity is hedgin’—see? Just like him! Comes to this, Susie. You was at death’s door, seemin’ly, but, by Gum! you pulled through because you wouldn’t leave me!”
Susan nodded, pressing his arm.
“Works t’other way round with your mother. She’s made up her mind to die, and the doctor can’t argue her out of the notion. Her heart is weak, and if it begins flutterin’ it may stop for ever just because the pore old dear won’t will it to go on wigglin’. There y’are!”
Susan was much upset. She loved her mother, although the two women had little in common, and the feminine instinct of ministration, root-pruned by her husband, began to sprout vigorously. She paid long daily visits to Laburnum Row, and Quinney soon noticed a falling off in the quality of his food. Twice they were summoned in the middle of the night to say good-bye to a woman who believed herself to be dying.
“A bit thick!” said Quinney.
“Joe!”
“But, isn’t it? Let’s face the facts. You spend a lot o’ time away from home, away from Posy. Losin’ your nice fresh colour, you are! And I’m losin’ my appetite for the good meals I used to have.”
“But mother wants me. And any moment——”
“So she thinks. Quite likely to make old bones yet. Now, look here, I’ve a plan—the only plan. I simply won’t have you trapesin’ round to Laburnum Row at all hours of the day and night. Tell your mother to pack up and come to us.”
Alas! poor Susan!
She was hoist with her own petard. Protest died on her lips. She submitted, not daring to confess that a dying mother could be regarded by a dutiful daughter as an unwelcome visitor.
Mrs. Biddlecombe, however, refused, at first, to budge. “Let me die here, Joseph.” Quinney used the clinching argument.
“You are not going to die, Mrs. B., but, if you did, just think of the sad job we’d have gettin’ you down them narrow stairs. And we never could receive all your friends in such a small parlour.”
“That’s true,” sighed Mrs. Biddlecombe. “There’s a lot in what you say, Joseph.”
“There is, old dear! I’m uneducated, and I know it, but my talk is full o’ meat and gravy. It’s nourishing!”
Accordingly, Mrs. Biddlecombe came to the Dream Cottage, and was installed comfortably in the guest chamber. As time passed, the good lady grew to like her room so well that she refused to leave it. She became, in short, bedridden, and increasingly dependent upon Susan, who never failed her. Quinney began to spend his evenings away from home. He joined a club which met bi-weekly in a snug room at the Mitre. Susan encouraged him to join his friends, because she was terrified lest he should be bored at home. Also, his wanderings in search of furniture and china became more extended, and when he returned triumphant, exulting in wonderful bargains, she found it increasingly difficult to share his enthusiasm, and to rejoice with him over a prosperity which seemed to be driving them farther apart.
She told herself, on her knees, that she was a wicked, ungrateful woman. Indeed, she was amazed at her own emotions, unable to analyse them, conscious only that she was torn in two by circumstance and consequence. Her Joe loved her faithfully; he grudged her nothing; he worked hard for her and his child; he had none of the vices common to the husbands of many women she knew; he was almost always in high health and spirits. And Posy? What a darling! No cause for anxiety there. A sweet sprite, budding rapidly into a pretty, intelligent girl. And she herself? Healthy, the mistress of a charming little house filled with beautiful things, but not happy.
Why—why—why?
Civil war raged beneath her placid bosom. War to the knife between conjugal and maternal instincts. Her duty to child and mother stood between what she desired more passionately than anything else—a renewal of intimate intercourse with a husband who was drifting out of her life, leaving her stranded upon barren rocks. She found herself wondering whether his feeling for her was waxing lukewarm. She would cheerfully have undergone the cruellest pangs to experience once more the ineffable bliss of kissing tears from his eyes, of hearing his voice break when he whispered her name, of knowing that he suffered abominably because she suffered.
She began to pray for something to break the deadly monotony of her life.
And her prayers were answered.
II
Quinney was returning one night from the club soberly conscious that he had slightly exceeded his usual allowance of port wine. He was in that mellow frame of mind, far removed from intoxication, which dwells complacently upon the present without any qualms as to the future. For instance, despite the extra glass or two, he knew that he would awaken the next morning with a clear brain and a body fit to cope with any imposed task. In fine, he was sober enough to congratulate himself upon the self-control which had refused further indulgence, and at the same time righteously glad that he had not drunk less. The colour of the good wine encarmined his thoughts, the bottled sunshine irradiated his soul.
He passed slowly through the Cathedral Close, pausing to admire the spire soaring into a starlit sky, black against violet. He had left the Mitre at half-past eleven, but few lights twinkled from the windows of the houses encircling the Close. The good canons retired early and rose rather late, thereby, perhaps, securing health without being encumbered with the burden of wisdom. With rare exception all Melchester slumbered.
Quinney, out of native obstinacy, felt astoundingly awake. He began to compute the hours wasted in sleep. He had quaint theories on this subject, which he aired at the club. It has been said that party politics left him cold, although he grew warm and excited over his own ideas. The Tories assured him that England was going behind, but their reasons, taken from pamphlets and newspapers, were unconvincing, if you happened to read—as Quinney did—the Radical counter-blasts. Ever since his memorable trip to France Quinney posed as the travelled man. The French, he contended, were prosperous because they saved money and time. They rose earlier, worked harder for more hours out of the twenty-four. Also, he had been much impressed by the French Sunday as a day of recreation as well as rest. The French did not need a half-holiday on Saturday, because they made a whole holiday of Sunday. Susan was appalled at this view, but Quinney used the argument with telling effect at the club. Pinker, the Radical grocer, was immensely taken with it. If cricket and football could be played on Sunday the British workman would earn another half-day’s pay. Multiply that by millions, and there you are!
He strolled on to the Mel, and paused again, staring at that placid stream rolling so leisurely to the sea. He was rolling as leisurely to—what? The question caught at him, insistently demanding an answer. He realized, almost with a shock, that nearly seven years had passed since he married Susan. During that seven years he had doubled his capital. He was worth twenty thousand pounds at least, probably more, and his best years were yet to come. Mrs. Biddlecombe, it is true, was not so sanguine. According to her, prosperity in the present indicated adversity in the near future.
“Joseph’s luck will turn,” she would say to Susan in her husband’s presence. Finally, Quinney retorted with some heat:
“Now, Granny, don’t you go on barkin’ your old knuckles over that. I ain’t superstitious, but long ago I had ’arf-a-crown’s worth o’ fortune-tellin’ from the Queen o’ the Gipsies herself. I’m to live to be seventy-six, and to bend the knee to my Sovereign.”
“What did the foolish woman mean by that?”
“A queen, I tell you. She meant knighthood. Sir Joseph and Lady Quinney! What ho!”
“Sir Humpty and Lady Dumpty more like!”
Perhaps the tart answer had spurred him to greater endeavour. He was extremely sensitive under a skin toughened by paternal thwackings, and well aware that his mother-in-law was inclined to sniff whenever his name was mentioned. The poor old dear was a bit jealous! She had fallen in the social scale; he was rising, soaring into the blue, like the great spire of Melchester Cathedral.
During the past seven years he had hugged close his intention of leaving Melchester for the wider sphere of London. The fact that Tomlin, Susan, and Mrs. Biddlecombe were obstinately opposed to such a leap into the unknown merely fortified his resolution. Tomlin, of course, nosed a rival, for some of his customers knew Quinney. Susan hinted that Posy would lose her bloom in London streets. Mrs. Biddlecombe pointed out, with businesslike acumen, that he and his father had built up a big and increasing country connection which would be greedily snapped up by some Melchester dealer. And, lastly, the mighty Marquess of Mel had uttered a word of warning:
“It would mean a big fight. You are not in the ring, my dear fellow.”
Whenever his kind patron addressed him as a dear fellow Quinney’s blood warmed within him. And his keen eyes sparkled at the prospect of a fight. He liked fights. As a boy he had fought to a finish other boys bigger than himself; and the victory had not invariably been with them. He remembered his victories, as he answered Lord Mel:
“I should get into the ring, my lord.”
“Um! Would you! And”—his landlord laughed pleasantly—“I should lose a good tenant.”
“London’s the best market for knowledge,” said Quinney.
“Quite, quite! Can you attempt to compete with the experts?”
The question rankled, biting deep into his soul, inciting him to further study of the things he loved. But such study grew more and more difficult. He had become the expert of Melchester. On and about his own “pitch” it was impossible to find a man with more technical knowledge than his own. In London, he would be rubbing shoulders with world-famous collectors and connoisseurs. They would “down” him at first, rub his nose in the dust of the big auction rooms; but in the end he would learn what they had learned, and triumph where they had triumphed.
III
These thoughts were trickling through his mind as he gazed at the placid Mel trickling also to troublous seas, where its clear waters would be merged and lost. Quinney squirmed at the remote possibility of being merged and lost. He muttered uneasily: “It fair furs my tongue to think o’ that.” The extra glass of wine had not excited him to the consideration of perilous enterprises. An extra pint might have done so. No; the old port which had ripened in the Melchester cellars exercised a benignant and restful influence. Its spirit, released at last, seemed to hover about the ancient town, loath to leave it. We may hazard the conjecture that the wine in the cellars of our universities may be potent to lull the ambitions of restless scholars, and to keep them willing prisoners in drowsy quadrangles.
Quinney lighted his pipe. He felt ripe for an important decision. For some months the necessity of enlarging his present premises had bulked large in his thoughts. A successful country dealer must carry an immense amount of stock, because he dare not specialize. His hatred for rubbish had become an obsession. More, his love of the finest specimens of furniture and porcelain interfered with the sale of them. He placed a price on these which eventually he got, but often he was constrained to wait so long for the right customer that his profit was seriously diminished. He sold quickly immense lines of moderately-priced “stuff”—chairs, tables, chests of drawers, bureaux, bookcases, bedsteads, and mantel-pieces. The “gems,” as he called them, were taken to the Dream Cottage, and only shown to the worthy few.
To enlarge his premises was no ha’penny affair. Lord Mel, it is true, had offered to do so, but only on the condition that his tenant should sign a long lease; and a long lease meant remaining in Melchester. Ten, twenty years hence, he would be too old to begin again in London.
He smoked his pipe much too quickly.
To be candid, he was struggling desperately with the twin brethren, who, whether good or bad, accompany each of us from the cradle to the grave. He was at grips with heredity and environment. Afterwards he admitted to himself and to Susan that two would have prevailed over one. He made up his mind to write to Lord Mel’s agent on the morrow, and he consoled himself with the sound reflection that he was grasping substance, not shadow. London might ruin him—he knew that, being no fool—and yet he was in the mood to shed tears upon the grave of ambition. Never, never, would he bend the knee before his Sovereign if he remained in Melchester!
He sighed profoundly as he slipped his pipe into his pocket. By this time he was lucidly himself. The decision to enlarge his premises, and all that meant, would not be weakened, but strengthened, by a night’s sleep. Sleep! He smiled derisively. Sleep! Everybody in Melchester was asleep. He beheld himself and Susan growing fat in this sleepy town. Susan was already plumper. She would develop into just such a fleshly tabernacle as her mother.
He exclaimed loudly and virulently:
“Damn!”
This was his acknowledgment of defeat. His “Vae victis.” He writhed impotently in the toils of circumstance, although the struggle was over. The night seemed to have turned darker, the stars paled in the violet sky, as he walked slowly towards the Dream Cottage, wherein his wonderful dream would never come true. One would like to record that thoughts of his pretty, loving wife, and thoughts of his Posy—admittedly the gem of gems—stirred within him, pouring spikenard upon his lacerated sensibilities. It was not so. They stood for poppy, and mandragora, or, as he might have put it, old port and brown sherry in cut-glass decanters. And every fibre of his small, sturdy body clamoured for a fight in the London ring, a fight to a finish with the experts of his trade.
At that dark moment he beheld light.
IV
The light came from Dream Cottage—a faint luminous glow, so strange, so mysterious, that he stood still, straining his eyes to determine the meaning of it till that meaning flared full upon him.
One of the chimneys was ablaze!
Instantly his dormant energies awoke to liveliest activity. He raced back to a corner of the Close, where he had passed a policeman. The man had wandered farther on his beat. He overtook him, gasping.
“My house is afire!”
The policeman recognized Quinney, and nodded owlishly.
“Your house afire?” he repeated.
“You bolt for the engine—see?”
He twirled round the massive figure, and pushed it vigorously. The guardian of the night broke into a slow trot. Quinney shouted:
“Get a move on!” and sped back to the cottage. The light was no longer faintly luminous. Flames—hungry tongues of destruction—were licking the darkness.