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.