II
Kindly neighbours sheltered the women for that night, while Quinney mounted guard over his furniture and porcelain. He never left his precious things till they were safely stored in a warehouse. When his fellow-townsmen condoled with him he laughed in their solemn faces. The sense of freedom which had so expanded his spirit upon the never-to-be-forgotten occasion of his sire's funeral once more possessed him. The fire had burnt to cinders the resolution to remain in Melchester. He found himself wishing that the shop had burned too. What a glorious clearance that would have been, to be sure! Nevertheless, the sight of Susan's face dampened his rejoicings. Obviously, she had swooped upon the truth. Mrs. Biddlecombe had been forgotten, left to frizzle, while a madman, at the risk of his life, was rescuing sticks and stones!
"You never thought of mother," said Susan. The small woman looked rather pale, and Quinney marked for the first time the wrinkle between her eyes. Mrs. Biddlecombe had the same vertical line, deeply cut. Also there was an inflection in Susan's voice which he recognized regretfully as an inheritance from the old lady. He was tempted to lie boldly, to affirm with loud authority that he had left the care of the invalid mother to a devoted daughter. Fortunately, he remembered the Bacchanalian laughter of Maria. The baggage had peached. He replied simply:
"I didn't."
Susan compressed her pretty lips, and the likeness to her mother became startlingly strong.
Quinney tried a disarming smile as he murmured:
"She legged it out on to the lawn. Maria says she ran like a bloomin' rabbit."
"If Maria said that I shall have to speak to her seriously."
"She didn't say 'blooming.' I'm sorry, Susie. It's awful, I know, but you needn't glare at me as if I'd left the old lady to burn on purpose. And out of evil comes good—hey? We know now that she's as spry as ever. Almost looks as if firin' had cured her."
"If you mean to make a joke of it——"