CHAPTER XXXVII

THE ANSWER OF CAIN

The accommodation of the little inn was not extensive, so Pasco had to be put into the same room with the lawyer, and Kitty slept with the innkeeper’s daughter.

Pasco would have greatly preferred a room to himself. He was in a condition of unrest. As it was not possible for him to return to Coombe Cellars that night, he was in ferment of mind, uncertain whether it were advisable that he should return there that week, whether he should not go with Mr. Squire to Tavistock to make provision for the burial of his uncle, and to see after his estate. He had added crime to crime to save his credit as a man of substance, and all had been in vain. The succession to his uncle’s estate supplied him with what he required. Why had not the old man died a day earlier? Why, but that fate had impelled him into crime only then to mock him. If fate could play such malicious tricks with him, might it not pursue its grim joke further, lift the veil, disclose what he had done, and just as the property of his relative came to him, just as the money from the insurance company was due–strike him down, drive him into penal servitude, if not send him to the gallows? He tossed on his bed; he could not sleep.

At one moment he resolved to go with the solicitor to Tavistock, and remain there till the funeral, or till he received news of what had taken place at home. But a devouring desire to know what had happened, what was the extent of his crime, to know whether Jason had escaped, whether the fire had been put out, what his wife thought, what was the general opinion relative to the fire,–all this drew him homewards.

Moreover, his sprained ankle and arm were painful, and he could lie on one side only. In the night he put out his hand for his coat, drew it to him, and groped for the box of lucifer matches. He desired to light a candle, rise, and bind a wet towel round his foot.

But the box was missing.

Alarmed, he started from bed and explored the pockets of his trousers and of his waistcoat, and then again went through all those of his coat, but in vain. He had lost the box.

Here was fresh cause for uneasiness. Where had he lost it? Surely not at Coombe Cellars. With a sigh of relief, he recalled having struck a light in the linhay in Miller Ash’s field, and that it had excited the interest of Kate. He had then slipped it back into his pocket, as he believed. In all likelihood it had fallen out when he was thrown from the cart on the moor.

Towards morning he dropped into broken sleep, from which he started every few moments in terror, imagining that a constable was laying hold of him, or that he saw Jason Quarm leaping upon him enveloped in flames.

When he woke, he saw the lawyer dressing himself and shaving. His face was lathered about chin and neck and upper lip. He turned towards Pepperill and said, “You are a nice fellow to have as a comrade in a bedroom.”

“Am I? Well, I daresay I am,” answered Pasco, always prepared for a recognition of his merits.

“I was speaking ironically, man,” said Mr. Squire. “By George! how you did toss and tumble in the night. If I had had an uneasy conscience, you would have kept me awake. What was the matter with you?”

“With me? Nothing. I never slept sounder.”

“Then you must give your wife bad nights at home. I thought it might have been your spill.”

“Oh yes, to be sure it was that. I suffered in my arm and foot; and look, I’m all black and yellow this morning. I shall go back at once to Coombe Cellars.”

“You will? Why, man alive, we want you at Tavistock. There is your poor uncle’s funeral, you know, to see to. I say, if we are to travel together, you won’t cry over-much, will you? I love tears, but in moderation.”

“I must return to the Cellars, if only for an hour. I wish to tell Zerah’that’s my wife’our piece of good fortune’I mean, our sad bereavement. And I must put together my black clothes and get my hat.”

“If it must be, it must. I wish you had been communicated with earlier.”

“Earlier? Was that possible?”

“Of course it was; the old gentleman died two days ago.”

“Two days ago? Why, to-day is Wednesday.”

“Well, his decease took place at five in the morning of Monday.”

“Why did you not tell me at once?” almost shrieked Pasco, swinging from his bed, and then collapsing on his crippled foot.

“Bless you, man, it was not my place to do so. I knew nothing of you; the housekeeper was the person he trusted. I came to know of it, as I managed your uncle’s affairs. When I inquired about relatives, then I heard of you, or rather got your address, and came off. You see, as he died on Monday, it won’t do for you to be away long. The housekeeper has instructions, and is a sensible woman, but you are the proper person to be on the spot.”

“Is she honest? Will she make away with things?”

Mr. Squire shrugged his shoulders.

“I will run to Coombe; we will go in the chaise, and return to Tavistock directly I have been there. Kitty shall be driven by the boy to Brimpts in my trap.”

Pasco would not have his niece at Coombe for some time if he could help it.

As soon as he was dressed he was impatient to be off. He hurried breakfast, and hardly ate anything himself. He gave instructions that Kate was to be sent on at once, and was not content till he had seen her off. He had not deemed it prudent to warn her again not to speak of his return to the Cellars after leaving Coombe. To do so might excite her suspicions. Besides, she would be at Brimpts, where there was no one interested in the affairs of Coombe’no one who belonged to it. It would suffice to caution her when she came back to the Cellars, and that return he would delay on one excuse or another.

When Pasco seated himself in the chaise beside the solicitor, an expression of satisfaction came over his face. He was returning to Coombe as a man of consequence, and in good society. How the villagers would stare to see him in a carriage drawn by post-horses. An April weather reigned in his heart, now darkening with apprehension, then brightening with pride and self-satisfaction.

Ever and anon the ghastly figure of his brother-in-law in the sack, burning, rose before his mind’s eye, but he put it from him.

As the chaise entered Ashburton, Pepperill said to his companion’“Will you accommodate me with a sum of money till I come in for my inheritance?”

“With the greatest pleasure, but I have not much loose cash about me.”

“You have your cheque-book. The circumstances are these’I owe money for wool to a fellow named Coaker, and gave him a bill’unfortunately, I could not meet it, the bank returned it, only a few days ago, and this has made me very angry. I should like to show the bank and Coaker that I am not the moneyless chap that they choose to consider me.”

“I shall be happy to assist you. Let us go to the bank at once; I’ll settle that little matter with them. Shall I do it for you?”

“I shall be obliged, but I think I must go also.”

It was possible that the tidings of what had taken place might have reached Ashburton’possible, though hardly probable.

His uneasiness was relieved when he entered the bank. No allusion was made to any fire. The banker was profuse in his apologies. He could not help himself. There were certain rules in his affairs that he was bound to follow. He had no doubt it was an oversight of Mr. Pepperill not to pay in the sum required, but a man so full of business as he was reputed to be was liable to such slips of memory. The banker knew Mr. Squire by reputation, was quite sure all was as it should be. He would at once communicate with Coaker’indeed, Coaker was sure to be in Ashburton that day, and let him have the money of the bill.

For some distance Pasco held up his head, and talked boastfully. He had taught that banker what he really was. Everyone else knew he was a man of his word and a man of substance. The solicitor was glad of this change in his companion’s mood, and talked chirpily.

But the change in Pepperill’s manner did not last long. As he neared Newton, he leaned back in the carriage. He did not desire to be recognised and saluted with the news of the fire. The chaise drew up for the horses to be watered at the inn which had been rebuilt after a fire.

“Will you have a drop of something?” asked the solicitor. “I shall descend for a minute. I suppose we have not got far to go now?”

He left the chaise, and left the door open. Pasco closed it, and being affected with sneezing, opened his pocket-handkerchief and buried his face in the napkin, as the landlord came to the door.

He did not lower the kerchief, he listened from behind it to the host conversing with Mr. Squire.

“Fine morning, sir’come from far?”

“No, nothing very great to-day. Off the moor and through Ashburton.”

“Going on to Teignmouth, sir?”

“No, only to a place called Coombe.”

“Coombe-in-Teignhead? You haven’t many miles more. Nice place. Just heard there has been a fire there.”

“Indeed. Insured?”

“Can’t say, sir. My little place was burnt down. A tramp slept in the tallat over the pigs and set it ablaze with his pipe. Happily, I was insured, and now I have a very respectable house over my head. What will you please to take, sir?”

“Some rum and milk, I think.”

Then Mr. Squire and the landlord went within, and Pasco lowered his kerchief. He wished he had heard more’that the man had entered into particulars, and yet he dared not inquire.

Presently the lawyer stepped into the carriage. The host attended him, and in shutting the door, caught sight of Pasco.

“Halloo!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Pepperill, have you heard the news?”

“News’what news?”

“Why, rather bad for you. There’s been a terrible fire at your place.”

“The house?”

“I really don’t know particulars. They say it’s been dreadful. I’m sorry to have to say it, but I hope there’s no lives lost, and that you are insured.”

“Drive on!” shouted Pasco to the postilion. “Drive on’lose no time. There is a fire at my house.”

The horses whirled away, and Pasco no longer disguised his nervousness. It was natural that he should be uneasy.

“You needn’t trouble yourself,” said Mr. Squire. “If lives had been lost you would have heard, and if you are insured to full value, well”’

On reaching the summit of the hill whence Coombe was visible, a sickly scented smoke was wafted into the carriage windows.

“By George, I can smell it!” exclaimed the solicitor. “It is a sort of concentrated essence of burnt wool.”

“Then my stores are gone!” cried Pepperill. “And all the fleeces for which I have just borrowed two hundred pounds of you to pay’all lost. I’m a ruined man.”

“Not a bit,” answered the lawyer. “You are insured.”

The postilion needed no urging; he cracked his whip, and the horses flew down hill, the chaise rattled through the village, past the church and the inn, whence the host came out to see whether a distinguished guest was coming, and drew up at the entrance to the paddock before the Cellars.

A crowd of villagers, men, women, and children, was assembled round the wreck of the storehouse, from which volumes of smoke still ascended. Every now and then stones and bricks exploded, and the children shouted or screamed if a hot cinder flew out and fell near them.

Pasco burst out of the carriage and rushed towards his house, pushed his way through the assembled crowd, and ran to his door.

There stood Zerah, ghastly in her pallor, her usually well-ordered hair dishevelled, with clenched hands held to her breast, a look of despair in her face. Directly she saw her husband, she shrank from him, and when he put out his hands to her, she thrust him away, with an expression of horror.

“I will not be touched by you,” she said hoarsely. “Where is Jason?”

“Jason? Am I his keeper?”

“The answer of Cain,” retorted Zerah. “This is your doing. I knew it would come, when you insured. And you have destroyed my brother also. O my God! my God! Would that I had never seen this day!”