Quin
Copyright© 2025 by Alice Caldwell Hegan Rice
Chapter 19
Notwithstanding the fact that the sale of the Martels’ house was averted and Rose’s affair with Harold Phipps successfully terminated, catastrophe, which was evidently due the family, arrived before the summer had fairly begun. The irrepressible Claude had no sooner weighed the anchor of responsibility than he set sail for New York to embark once more on dramatic waters. He had secured a small part in a summer stock company which would leave him ample time to work on “Phantom Love,” which he confidently counted upon to retrieve his fortunes. The withdrawal of even his slender contribution to the household expenses made a difference, especially as Edwin came down with the measles early in July. Before the boy had got the green shade off his afflicted eyes, Cass was laid low with typhoid fever.
No other event in the family could have wrought such disastrous results. Rose was compelled to give up her position to nurse him, and while the income ceased the expenses piled up enormously.
Nothing was more natural than that Quinby Graham should fling himself into the breach. His intimacy with Cass had begun on the transport going to France, and continued with unabated zeal until he was wounded in the summer of 1918. For six months he had lost sight of him, only to find him again in the hospital at Camp Zachary Taylor. He was not one to share the privileges of Cass’s home without also sharing its hardships.
“It’s a shame we’ve got to take help from you,” said Rose; “just when you are beginning to get ahead, too!”
“You cut that out,” said Quin. “I’d like to know if you didn’t take me in and treat me like one of the family? Ain’t Cass the best friend a man ever had? And wouldn’t he do as much and more for me?”
But even Quin’s salary failed to meet the emergency. Doctor’s bills, drug bills, grocery bills, became more and more formidable. One day Rose was reduced to selling two of Papa Claude’s autographed photographs.
“I wouldn’t do that—yet,” said Quin, who had begun to walk to the factory to save carfare. “Those old boys and girls are his friends; we can’t sell them. I can see him now talking to ‘em through his pipe smoke. I ought to have some junk we can soak. Let’s go see.”
The investigation resulted in the conversion of a pair of new wing-toed dancing-shoes and a silver cigarette-case into an ice-bag and an electric fan.
“I could stand everything else,” said Rose, “if we could just get the children out of the house. Edwin is still as weak as a kitten, and Myrna looks as if she might come down with the fever any day.”
Quin had a brilliant idea. “Why not ship ‘em both to the country? Ed could come to town to work every day, and Myrna could help somebody around the house.”
“That sounds mighty fine; but who is going to take two children to board for nothing?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Quin; “that’s what I’ve got to find out.”
That night he went out to Valley Mead and put the matter squarely up to Mr. and Mrs. Ranny.
“We’re up against it at our house,” he said; “I want to borrow something from you two good people.”
“You can have anything we’ve got!” said Mr. Ranny rashly.
“Well, I want to borrow some fresh air for a couple of sick kids. I want you to ask ‘em out here for a week.”
Mr. and Mrs. Ranny looked aghast at the preposterous suggestion, but Quin gave them no time to demur. He plunged into explanation, and clinched his argument by saying:
“Ed would only be here at night, and Myrna could help around the house. They are bully youngsters. No end of fun, and they wouldn’t give you a bit of trouble.”
“But I have only one maid!” protested Mrs. Ranny.
“What of that?” said Quin. “Myrna’s used to working at home; she’d be glad to help you.”
“If it was anybody on earth but the Martels,” Mr. Ranny objected, with contracted brow. “The families have been at daggers’ points for years. Why, the very name of Martel makes mother see red.”
“Well, the children aren’t responsible for that!” Quin broke in impatiently; then he pulled himself up. “However, if you don’t want to do ‘em a good turn, that settles it.”
“But it doesn’t settle it,” said Mr. Ranny. “What are you going to do with them?”
“Hanged if I know,” said Quin; “but you bet I’ll do something.”
The conversation then wandered off to Eleanor, and Quin listened with vague misgivings to accounts of her good times—yachting parties, tennis tournaments, rock teas, shore dinners—all of which suggested to him an appallingly unfamiliar world.
“I tell you who was up there for a week,” said Mr. Ranny. “Harold Phipps. You remember meeting him at our apartment last spring?”
“What’s he doing there?” Quin demanded with such vehemence that they both laughed.
“Probably making life miserable for Mother Bartlett,” said Mrs. Ranny. “I can’t imagine how she ever consented to have him come, or how he ever had the nerve to go, after the way they’ve treated him.”
“Harold’s not concerned with the feelings of the family,” said Mr. Ranny; “he is after Nell.”
But Mrs. Ranny scorned the idea. “He looks upon her as a perfect child,” she insisted; “besides, he’s too lazy and conceited to be in love with anybody but himself.”
“That may be, but Nell’s got him going all right.”
Then the conversation veered back to the Martels, with the result that an hour later Quin was on his way home bearing a gracefully worded note from Mrs. Ranny inviting the children to spend the following week at Valley Mead. But, in spite of the success of his mission, he sat with a box of fresh eggs in his lap and a huge bunch of flowers in his hand, his hat rammed over his eyes, staring gloomily out of the car window into the starless night.
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