quinneys 18

quinneys 18

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.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER IX*

 

*SALVAGE*

 

*I*

 

 

Quinney found Susan asleep. In the small dressing room next to their

bedroom, Posy also slumbered sweetly, although acrid smoke was filling

the house. When Susan understood that she was not the victim of some

hideous nightmare, Quinney imposed his commands.

 

"You’ve time to slip on warm clothes. Bolt on to the lawn with Posy.

Don’t try to save any of your rags. I’ll wake Maria—and then I’ve a lot

to do. The best stuff downstairs is not insured. The engine will be

here in two jiffs. You scoot out o’ this! Hear me?"

 

She nodded breathlessly, swept off her feet by his excitement. He

vanished, before she could answer him or remind him of a bedridden

mother-in-law.

 

Maria also was asleep. Quinney hauled her out of bed, and pointed to

the attic window.

 

"Look at that," he said grimly, "and scoot!"

 

Maria scooted.

 

Quinney leapt downstairs, cursing himself for a fool inasmuch as he had

neglected to increase his insurance. The "gems" had slowly accumulated

month after month. He breathed more easily when he reached the ground

floor, but he was well aware that the old house would burn like tinder.

The roof of thatch had begun to blaze; he could hear the crackle of the

flames overhead.

 

With profound regret it must be set down that he had quite forgotten

Mrs. Biddlecombe.

 

He worked methodically, beginning with the uninsured porcelain, the

Worcester, Chelsea, and Bow, which he carried tenderly into the garden.

He had removed the most valuable specimens before the engine arrived.

Maria, stout creature, half-dressed, bare-legged and bare-footed, joined

him. Together they hauled out the Chippendale chairs and china

cupboard.

 

"Seen your missus?" asked Quinney, when she first appeared.

 

"On the lawn," replied Maria.

 

Presently they heard the welcome rattle of the engine, and the Chief

strode in, followed by two firemen.

 

"Women all out?" he asked.

 

"You bet!" replied Quinney. At that moment he remembered Mrs.

Biddlecombe. "My God!" he exclaimed, gripping the Chief. "There’s Mrs.

Biddlecombe! Bedridden, by Gum!"

 

Maria burst into the riotous laughter of a Bacchante.

 

"The old lady," she spluttered, "was the first to scoot. She just ran

out like I did."

 

"Ran?" repeated Quinney.

 

"Like a rabbit!" said Maria, more calmly.

 

"We’ve about five more minutes," remarked the Chief.

 

During that brief period wonders were accomplished; but at the very last

Quinney narrowly escaped death in his determination to save a print in

colour which he had overlooked. A fireman grabbed him and held him as

the roof fell.

 

 

*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——"

 

He saw that she was deeply offended, and foolishly attempted to kiss

her. Susan repulsed him.

 

"What! Refuse to kiss your own hubby!"

 

"Mother might be lying dead; and you thinking only of sticks and

stones."

 

"Come off it!" said Quinney irritably.

 

Susan turned her back on him, and he returned to the shop. It was their first serious trouble.