She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;Apart she sighed; alone she shed the tear.Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gaveFresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.Crabbe.
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;Apart she sighed; alone she shed the tear.Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gaveFresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
Crabbe.
On the night which followed Lucy's departure the cottage seemed singularly lonely. The wayward girl could not but be missed in so small a household. Her very waywardness, indeed, had caused excitement, which slightly roused Mabel's thoughts from present and coming evils.
It was night—how strange is its power over us? Can it be more than fancy that thespirits of darkness have freer power to wander unseen upon our earth? Why else should we start with such vague terror, at the slightest sound which breaks the stillness? Why should we often feel almost a childish desire for companionship?
Mabel had stolen to her mother's room to persuade herself that she slept, and stood for a moment watching her. The feeble light of the night lamp shone upon her features, and she trembled when she marked the sunken cheeks, and the countenance deeply traced and drawn down by care and pain. It seemed as if, in that moment, the conviction which she had so long defied, forced itself upon her mind, and she felt that that loved parent must die. Those only who have experienced that sudden belief can tell of the bitterness with which it comes. And it is sudden, for we may speak of death as possible, nay, even probable, with calmness; but this is not belief, not the feeling which comes when the varying color, the emaciated hand, or the hollow eye attracts our attention,and we feel the truth striking coldly on our hearts. Then, almost for the first time, the full power of fear and love is known. We long to arrest the hand of death by the vehemence of our passion; and, though we know such efforts are vain, yet how difficult is it to be resigned.
Mabel turned from her mother's room with the choking sensation, of tears, that will not be suppressed. The cold, loud wind beat against the cottage, tossing dry leaves and broken sticks against the casement, then howling round, as if in derision of her grief. Amy was sleeping, the sweet, gentle, exhausted sleep, that sometimes follows pain; but Mabel knew that in a short while she would awake, and require refreshment, and she did not care to lie down, till she had made her comfortable.
There was a letter lying upon the dressing-table, placed so as to catch her eye; the sight of it was a relief to her, and she took it and broke the seal, then shading the light from her sister, she sat down and read as follows:—
"Dear Miss Lesly,"I will trust that you will forgive me the liberty I take in addressing you by letter; for your unwearied attention to those who now claim your care, gives me little hope of speaking to you without interruption. I might not have time to tell you that the remembrance of my share in the late unhappy accident renders me miserable when I am compelled to watch your patient suffering, without the power to afford you the least redress or comfort. It is impossible to remember the last few happy weeks, without contrasting them, but too painfully with the present. I cannot forbear continually reproaching myself with the change, nor shall I cease to be unhappy till I may, in some way alleviate your sufferings. Let me entreat you, then, to forgive my presumption, in seeking a remedy in the gratification of the fondest hopes of my life. I needed some acquaintance with you, to remove the prejudices which I have been led to form, through the too thoughtless behaviourof some ladies, it needed, I may say, even the last bitter trial, to shew me the nature of your character, and the refinement to which sorrow could bring it. How else could I have been aware of the existence of such uncommon resignation, and such sweet forgiveness. They have inspired me with a feeling, which, while hope remains, softens the pain I feel; they lead me to aspire with boldness, which may surprise you, but I am a soldier, and though too accustomed to feign sentiment which does not exist, I am only capable of bluntness where my heart is really touched; and, therefore, at once, most boldly, but most respectfully do I ask you to be my wife."The fortune with which I am blessed, renders my profession more an amusement than a necessity, and it would be amply sufficient to secure your sweet sister all the comforts which may alleviate pain, and all the medical advice which may help to remove it. Only give me the power to protect you from the cold blasts of the world, and the right to aid you intaking charge of one, whose helplessness has been caused by my fault, and I will shew you that a husband's tenderest love and a brother's most watchful care will ever be ready to protect you both. One word more. Though with the most jealous hand I would guard you from all pain, I must, though but for a moment, inflict it in alluding to past events. I am aware of much, if not all, of your early history, and know that I cannot be the first object of your affections; yet would I rather have your second love, or even your friendship, than the warmest attachment of any other woman living."Do not then turn away from me without consideration, think of your sister—of me—and of yourself, unprotected in a world of strangers, and, if you can, accept the love of"Your most devoted and respectful"Arthur Clair.""The Rectory,"Friday Evening."
"Dear Miss Lesly,
"I will trust that you will forgive me the liberty I take in addressing you by letter; for your unwearied attention to those who now claim your care, gives me little hope of speaking to you without interruption. I might not have time to tell you that the remembrance of my share in the late unhappy accident renders me miserable when I am compelled to watch your patient suffering, without the power to afford you the least redress or comfort. It is impossible to remember the last few happy weeks, without contrasting them, but too painfully with the present. I cannot forbear continually reproaching myself with the change, nor shall I cease to be unhappy till I may, in some way alleviate your sufferings. Let me entreat you, then, to forgive my presumption, in seeking a remedy in the gratification of the fondest hopes of my life. I needed some acquaintance with you, to remove the prejudices which I have been led to form, through the too thoughtless behaviourof some ladies, it needed, I may say, even the last bitter trial, to shew me the nature of your character, and the refinement to which sorrow could bring it. How else could I have been aware of the existence of such uncommon resignation, and such sweet forgiveness. They have inspired me with a feeling, which, while hope remains, softens the pain I feel; they lead me to aspire with boldness, which may surprise you, but I am a soldier, and though too accustomed to feign sentiment which does not exist, I am only capable of bluntness where my heart is really touched; and, therefore, at once, most boldly, but most respectfully do I ask you to be my wife.
"The fortune with which I am blessed, renders my profession more an amusement than a necessity, and it would be amply sufficient to secure your sweet sister all the comforts which may alleviate pain, and all the medical advice which may help to remove it. Only give me the power to protect you from the cold blasts of the world, and the right to aid you intaking charge of one, whose helplessness has been caused by my fault, and I will shew you that a husband's tenderest love and a brother's most watchful care will ever be ready to protect you both. One word more. Though with the most jealous hand I would guard you from all pain, I must, though but for a moment, inflict it in alluding to past events. I am aware of much, if not all, of your early history, and know that I cannot be the first object of your affections; yet would I rather have your second love, or even your friendship, than the warmest attachment of any other woman living.
"Do not then turn away from me without consideration, think of your sister—of me—and of yourself, unprotected in a world of strangers, and, if you can, accept the love of
"Your most devoted and respectful
"Arthur Clair."
"The Rectory,
"Friday Evening."
Mabel was troubled, not only by the generous tone of the letter, but because it brought to view, subjects which she had not allowed herself to think upon; for her real strength consisted in a knowledge of her weakness, and she knew that she should be quite incapable of acting, if, to present pain, she added the contemplation of future trials. But now, Clair, in offering her a provision for the future had forced her to think of it. Perhaps generously to save her from the imputation of accepting him, only when pressed by circumstances, as she might be, in but a few weeks.
Now the letter as it lay before her would have her think. She had but a few minutes before left her mother's room with the saddest conviction; and now, crowding on her remembrance came a thousand little speeches, that told her, how earnestly, that dear mother had tried to warn her of her approaching death. Speeches which then appeared but the result of nervous weakness, now occurred to her as truths, which no reasoning could controvert.Some of their little property she knew rested in the hands of an improvident and extravagant aunt, and the remainder of their income would fail altogether when her mother's pension dropped.
And Amy, whose precarious health rendered her now unable to be even moved from room to room, she on whom she had lavished all the comforts which affluence can invent, how could she bear the trials of poverty? How could she suffer the privations to which they would inevitably be reduced; she who could scarcely hear the sound of a heavy footfall without pain, or be moved, without the greatest agony, from the couch on which she constantly lay. Not that she wavered with regard to Clair, but his letter made her uneasy. Poverty, death, and even that place where "all that's wretched paves the way to death," she would have preferred to marriage, if she could but have endured them alone. But who would be her companion? She turned her eyes to the bed where, with cheeks flushed and eyes thatscarcely closed, lay the little sufferer, her small, wasted hand tightly compressed as if with pain. At this moment she slightly moved, and Mabel was instantly by her side. Her eyes glistening bright with fever were now opened wide, and gazing anxiously on poor Mabel's tell-tale face.
"Mabel," said she in a low, sweet but peculiar voice, "sit down by me, for I must talk to you to-night, as my pain is all gone."
Mabel seated herself by her, and took the little hand in hers.
"You will not be frightened, Mabel dear," said the child, "if I talk about strange things, and about going away."
"No, sweet one, no," replied her sister, "talk of anything you like; but where are you going?"
"Mabel, dear," she returned softly, "I suffer such pain that I do not think it will be much longer—I must die soon, and then I hope I am going to that beautiful country we have talked of so often in the church-yard. Iwish you could come with me, Mabel dear, for I dream so often that papa is waiting for me, and it is all so beautiful."
A quiet pressure of her hand was the only answer.
"But I cannot help thinking of you, love," continued Amy, "and what you will do without me when I am gone; but yet, Mabel dear, think how strange it would be to me to lie here always; and, if I grew big like this, you would only cry over me, as you do when you think I am asleep; so, Mabel dear, let me go to heaven."
The last words were spoken in the coaxing tone with which she used so often to carry her point in some little argument, and, finding no answer, she pat her hand under Mabel's head, which was bent down, and raised it gently, her face was very pale, and tears were streaming from her eyes.
"Mabel, dear, dear Mabel," cried Amy, "I, who have been such a trouble to you all mylife, are you so sorry to part from me, your naughty child. But now, I know it was very good in you to correct me sometimes, or I never should have been as happy as I am, and now, I feel it to be all right that I should be in such pain. Will you not rejoice too, darling? Look at me, there are no tears in my eyes though I am talking of leaving you."
But the moment the sisters' eyes met, Amy's were filled with tears, and her head sunk back exhausted. Mabel could not trust herself to say anything; but, gently smoothing her pillow, she suffered her own head to sink upon it, and, fatigued alike by grief and want of rest, she closed her eyes, and fell asleep.
"Tired nature's sweet restorer balmy sleep,"
Of what untold comfort are you to the mourner. Cares, that bow the head to the earth at night, seem lighter to the waking thoughts, refreshed, perhaps, by good angels while we sleep. Were there no such sweet forgetfulness of sorrow, could we bear to look upon it long?
But oh! to him whose self-accusing thoughtWhispers: ''twashethat desolation wrought.'Hemans.
But oh! to him whose self-accusing thoughtWhispers: ''twashethat desolation wrought.'
Hemans.
"Fire! fire?" Who starts not at that terrible cry?
The terrified women had scarcely told their tale, before all the men in the "Hargrave Arms" were on their feet, starting into the open air. They soon perceived cause for alarm. Proceeding from that quarter of the village where the houses lay closest together, rose a column of smoke and flame, blown hither and thither by the boisterous wind, which wasspreading the red sparks in every direction, tossing them high in the air, and then suffering them to fall on some distant cottage, whose thatched roof rendered it a ready prey.
So rapidly had the fire spread, that several cottages were already burning, and the men ran hither and thither from one to the other in consternation, and uncertain what course to pursue to save their property. All seemed at stake—wives, children, the sick, household furniture, the cherished articles purchased, perhaps, by long and mutual saving before marriage, and therefore doubly dear—and these thoughts occurring to each, confused the movements of all.
But, in the midst of these sudden difficulties, the coolness of the stranger did not desert him. He had followed his companions from the inn, to ascertain the cause of alarm, and he was almost immediately after seen leading his horse. Arresting the attention of old Giles, he enquired—
"Where shall we send for fire engines?"
"There is not one to be had nearer than Cheltenham," was the reply.
"Now then," cried he, seizing a young man, who was hurrying about, scarcely knowing what he did, "do you know the road to Cheltenham?"
Being answered in the affirmative, he bade him mount his horse, and ride as fast as possible in search of engines. Well he knew his own good steed would die rather than give up the journey, and, though he sighed as he thought how long the way would be, he dared not reckon his horse's life against those of his fellow creatures.
His next effort was to bring the scattered crowd a little into order, for the purpose of checking the rapid spread of the fire. Nothing secures obedience to a command so much as the decision and coolness with which it is given; and all were soon engaged in pulling down, at his suggestion, the cottage which lay nearest to those already burning.
But the futility of the attempt was soon perceived by the sparks leaping over and catching the roof of a more distant tenement. As soon as the fire touched it, an up-stair lattice-window was thrown open, and a woman leaning out, and raising her hands wildly in the air, cried aloud for help.
"Come down," said the stranger, in a voice distinctly heard above the tempest, and the confused noises around him, "come down, and you are safe—nothing hinders you."
"My father!" screamed the woman, "I cannot move him—come up, in mercy, come to me. Help! help!—we are all on fire!"
The stranger, followed closely by Clair, who, on hearing the tumult had hurried to the scene, accompanied by his uncle, hastened into the house, and soon reached the upper room, from which the woman had called for assistance. The strong fire-light gleaming on all around, disclosed to their view a room, which made the stranger shudder. A low bedstead, scarcely raised from the ground, with a box in onecorner, on which an old coat was lying, formed the only furniture of the room; while thin holes in the lath and plaister wall, let in the cruel blast. On the floor was lying an old man, with some bed-clothes huddled round him. It seemed that his daughter had dragged him from the bed; but had been unable to get him farther than the door.
"Father's been bed-ridden these two years," said the woman, hastily, "he cannot crawl down stairs, and I cannot carry him."
"You are safe now," said the stranger, in a re-assuring voice. "Follow us;" and he took the old man up in his powerful arms. "Why do you stay?" he said, turning at the door. "Could there be anything worth saving," thought he, "in this wretched hovel—anything but life?"
The woman soon joined them, bearing in her arms, a small geranium-pot, and an old Bible.
The stranger turned aside his head, and theold man wondered to see a tear in his fearless eye.
Gently placing his burden on the ground, he returned to the house, and, leaning his shoulder against the door, forced its rusty hinges to give way, then, throwing the scanty mattress upon it, he lifted up the old man, and placed him securely on this hastily formed litter, which had been constructed before the woman had time to think of her deliverance. He then called to two or three able-bodied men,
"For the love of mercy," cried he, "carry this poor man to Aston Manor, and tell the house-keeper to see to his comfort."
"She'll never open the doors," growled the men in surprise.
"I tell you she will," cried he, as quickly roused by opposition as a spoilt child, "take him along with you."
Thus urged, the men took up the rude litter, and, attended by the woman bearing hercherished treasures in her arms, they made as much haste as could be, to the Manor House, leaving the burning village behind them. They needed neither moon nor stars to help them on their way, for the sky was red with light, and the hills around reflected back the fire—many times had they to rest, and often, as they did so, they turned their eyes back—where sometimes the attempts of the villagers would give a temporary check, or, the falling in of some roof, would damp the flame, and give a moment's hope, till, presently, it would again burst forth with wilder fury than before.
Then, urged with the desire to get back, or the curiosity to know whether they would really be admitted beyond the closely shut door of the Manor House, they moved on more quickly up the narrow pathway which lay most directly in a line with it. Presently, they perceived a man hurrying towards them, with a frightened and bewildered air. On coming closer, they recognised the hated bailiff Rogers—he was onewhose manners, though smooth and oily to his superiors, were, to his inferiors, blustering and loud; not indeed the off-hand manner which often accompanies and conceals a good and kindly heart, but rather a studied recklessness of wounding the feelings of others, a total forgetfulness of the circumstances and tempers of those dependent on him, to whom a kind word would have cost him nothing. Alas, since our feelings are so finely tuned, why are we not more careful how we play on those of others. But Rogers found that this deliberate carelessness of offence, was, with the timid, a skilful weapon, for it made them fear him, and he rejoiced in the influence this fear gave to him. He forgot in the day of power, how little substance it possesses, or that the sway of tyranny bears in itself the elements of decay, and must crumble away before the force of circumstances.
He was evidently at that moment feeling at a disadvantage. His thin, lanky figure hastily attired, looked not half so important as usual,and he was trembling within with agitation or cold.
The whole party stopped; and the eldest of the young men, whose countenance was very far from prepossessing, drawing the bailiff aside, said, with a low, chuckling kind of laugh—
"Are you going down to the village, sir?"
"Yes," replied Rogers, "I have not come from it very long, and only just stepped back to the Manor. But why do you ask?"
"Because, if you take my advice, you'll keep as clear of it as you can, for the men are hot, and you know, sir," he added, with a low laugh, "they aint all on em very particlar friends o'yourn. I heard words spoke to-night, as may be you would not like."
"I must go, however," replied Rogers, with a shaky attempt to look swaggering, "and I should like to see what the cowards dare do."
"I tell you ye'd better not," said the young man, decisively, "but I've given my warning,I heard some one say, it was very hard if one life was not lost in the bustle to-night—though I do not like peaching, but I owe you a good turn for sending Sally Lyn and her old sick father out of their cottage, that cold Christmas night, at my asking," he added, with a bitter laugh.
Rogers did not look particularly obliged by this grateful reminder, that he had once lent himself to his revenge at an easy bribe. As the mingled smoke and flame rose in columns of awful majesty, like the workings of a supernatural power, till he felt sickened at the sight, he would have given a great deal could the young man have recalled one single act of disinterested mercy.
"Yet I must go," he said, at length, "I cannot help it."
"Well, then, be careful, that is all," replied his companion.
Rogers smiled nervously, and passed slowly on towards the village, leaving him to join theothers, who, anxious to complete their task, were waiting impatiently for him.
They had not much further to go, and soon entered a side gate from which a narrow pathway led through a shrubbery of evergreens, round to the back entrance. Here two or three dogs began to greet them with a loud bark, giving no very pleasing indications of welcome; and, as they carried their living burden up the court-yard, they felt half inclined to turn back or to leave the sick man at the door to speak for himself; but the woman hastily prevented them by ringing loudly at the bell, which sounded through the building, making her heart sink. There was rather a lengthened pause, and, tired with waiting for the unexpected welcome, and anxious to shift the responsibility from themselves, the men laid down their burden, and, spite of the woman's entreaties, left them to their fate. They had scarcely passed the court-yard before they heard the sound of doors unbolting, but they did not stop to enquire further, and hurriedback to the village, glad to escape from an office of which they were heartily tired.
On their return, they found the place full of confusion; women and children, endangered by the falling sparks, were running in all directions; Mr. Ware, with a bottle of brandy and a glass, was moving about, giving enough to the fainting men to keep up their strength, and to encourage them to continue the labour of carrying water to throw upon the flames.
"We must save the Manor House and the rectory, at least," said the stranger, to a group of men who thronged around him in despair at the failure of every effort; "but I see no hope for the thatched cottages."
"And the church," said Mr. Ware; "but that stands alone, and, I hope, is safe."
"I would not raise my hand," said a sullen voice, which all recognized as that of Martin the poacher—"I would not raise a hand to save the Manor House, if I were to die for it."
"Shame on you," said the stranger; "if it be necessary, I will make you."
"I should like to see how," said Martin, scowling on him; "there is not many as can make me do as I don't like. And I say, if the master leaves us to starve, he may take care of his house himself. Share and share alike. We owe him little enough."
And he turned his eyes towards the fire, and pointed to his own cottage which was smouldering in ruins.
The stranger fixed his quick eye upon him for a moment, and then turned to Rogers, who, making his way through the crowd, came up, and whispered for a few moments in his ear. He bent his head to listen, and then looking at those around him, he said, as he fixed his keen eye on Martin.
"I have received a message, which tells me, friends, that Aston Manor is now open, for the women and children who may like to take refuge in it; and you may put any of your furniture, which you can save, in the stables; there it will be in safety. I understand that there are many fine pictures, statues, and ornamentsof every kind there, and I need not ask you to take care of them."
Every one listened with surprise to this unusual news; but he bade them hasten to send their wives and children away. "We shall be able to act better when they are gone, sir," he said, bowing, for the first time, to Mr. Ware, who failed not to applaud a measure, at once humane and judicious, since it gave an object, to the discontented, to protect the mansion should it be necessary.
In a short time, all the children had left the scene; but most of the women remained, employed in dragging the furniture from the fire, either laying it in heaps, or carrying it towards the stables.
Suddenly a frightful yell burst upon every ear.
"Some poor creature is in danger," said the stranger, who was the first to speak—"I thought you had searched the burning houses. Come all of you."
So saying, he sprang to the nearest cottage,whose blazing roof threatened every moment to fall in.
Clair followed him closely, crying aloud—
"Do not venture, the roof is coming down—I have searched that place myself."
But, as he said so, another yell sounded upon their ears.
"The door is tied here," said the stranger, tearing at a well-knotted cord with impatient violence—but it would not give way. "Help me then," he said to Clair; and, leaning his shoulder against the door, the hinge snapped, though the cord remained firm.
The apartment, on which they thus entered, was bare of anything, save one living object. Both started, as they beheld the wretched Rogers, tied round the waist, by a thick cord, to a strong piece of wood which ran up the side to the ceiling. His eyes were glaring and distended—his face filled with death-like anguish. Blood was gushing from his mouth and nostrils, for he had ruptured a blood vesselin his attempts to free his hands and mouth from the bandages, which appeared to have been tied over them.
"Wretched man, repent before it is too late," said the stranger, as he hastened to undo the cords which bound him.
It was not an easy matter, and every moment seemed an age of peril to the three.
Rogers opened his eyes, wide with horror, upon the stranger, for a moment, and then turned aside his head and fainted. The room was heated to suffocation, and fast filling with smoke. Clair felt sick with horror; but the stranger, whose thought seemed action, raised Rogers in his arms. With his head laid carefully on his shoulder, and his own hands and garments dripping in his blood, he bore him out, assisted by Clair. Scarcely had they cleared the threshold, when the roof fell in, and the cottage was in ruins.
A shout, from those who had feared to follow, welcomed them as they appeared; and the stranger staggered through the ruins spreadaround him, to the group who anxiously waited them. He singled out Mr. Ware, and laid his fainting burden at his feet, then, bending his knee in Eastern fashion before him, he said—
"Father, judge who hath done this, for he is a brother, though a sinful one."
A murmur of horror passed through the crowd; and Mr. Ware, kneeling by the side of the hated Rogers, tried to reanimate him.
"He is not dead, sir," said he, in a low voice; "he will live, I trust, if we can once revive him."
"He will have time to repent, I hope," said old Giles; "bring some water to moisten his lips, and let us clear the blood from his mouth."
"Will you watch by him, sir?" said the stranger, again addressing Mr. Ware, "he is too sinful to die; and if he wakes, you can give him comfort."
"I will," said he, "I will take care of him."
The stranger covered his face with his hands, as if anxious either to shut out the scenes which had terrified him, or to collect his thoughts.
Then rose a hasty cry, "Widow Dacre's—the fire has taken it—there are sparks on the roof."
He started, as if with sudden pain, and then ran wildly towards the hill, at the bottom of which lay the widow's cottage. On its height the church looked down in its holy stillness, and between both lay the picturesque thatched cottage belonging to Mrs. Lesly.
But when I see the fair wide browHalf shaded by the silken hair,That never looked so fair as nowWhen life and health were laughing there,I wonder not that grief should swellSo wildly upward in the breast,And that strong passion once rebelThat need not, cannot be suppressed.
But when I see the fair wide browHalf shaded by the silken hair,That never looked so fair as nowWhen life and health were laughing there,I wonder not that grief should swellSo wildly upward in the breast,And that strong passion once rebelThat need not, cannot be suppressed.
All hands were now directed to save the small cottage belonging to the Widow Dacre, but with very little effect, for the wind which came down from the hills with furious blasts seemed to mock at every effort to extinguish the fire,while it fanned the faintest spark into a flame, and then spread it with wonderful rapidity. But it was not for the sake of the tiny cottage, which its owner had long since vacated, they all labored so zealously, but because it now seemed a link between the ruined village and the dwelling which all looked upon with interest. Romance seemed to have cast a kind of charm round the little family, to which Mabel belonged.
Upon whose threshold had Mabel's light step been unwelcome? And who was not ready to protect the roof that sheltered her from danger?
Now, as all eyes watched the building, it was, for the first time, perceived, that no one stirred within; the shutters were fast closed, and there was not the slightest sign that the general alarm had reached it.
"Is it possible," said the stranger, turning to Clair, "that amidst all this din and confusion they should sleep on and hear nothing?"
"I will go and try to get in," said Clair.
"And I," said the stranger, as they walked both together to the door and rung the bell, at first gently, but more loudly as they heard no one moving.
Presently a shuffling step was heard, and a somewhat sulky "Who's there?" from within.
"It is I," said Clair, "open the door, for the village is on fire."
The door was immediately thrown open and old John the gardener staggered back as he perceived the red sky, which glared above him on all sides.
"The ladies!—" he exclaimed.
"We will take care of them, only go and dress, and then come and help us," said Clair.
John speedily availed himself of this permission, and then, with considerable coolness, he hurried to the stable after his mistress's Bath chair, which had not seen the light for many a month.
Meanwhile, the two gentleman hurried up stairs; they had, however, scarcely reached thelanding-place, when they heard a shout from the outside, which made the stranger spring back down the stairs to ascertain the cause, begging Clair to remain. The latter, accordingly, began to search for the bed-rooms inhabited by Mrs. Lesly and her daughter. Having hastily tapped at one, and receiving no answer, he did not hesitate to open it. Here a night lamp was dimly burning, and, when he looked at the heavy oak shutters, and the closely drawn curtains, and perceived the stillness within, he no longer wondered that they slept. This was Mrs. Lesly's room, and, on a bed at her feet, reposed the faithful servant Betsy, and so soundly that Clair had to shake her with some little violence before he could awaken her. Her expressions of terror soon roused Mrs. Lesly, to whom Clair explained as much as he thought proper, begging her to get up and allow him to take her from the house, should it be necessary, saying he would wait for her on the outside.
She needed no second bidding, but suffered the affrighted Betsy to assist her to rise. Clair left the room with the intention of conveying the same warning to Mabel, but, before he could do so, the stranger hurried to him, and, seizing him by the hand, he wrung it wildly, saying,
"That shout told that the back part of the house is already burning. Will you take care of Mrs. Lesly and her maid? promise me not to leave them till they are safe, and I hope I can manage the rest."
There was one other duty which Clair would willingly have chosen, but there was now no time for parley, and the eager pressure of the hand, which the stranger returned for his promise, made him no longer regret it. But, as he leant against the wall of the passage, waiting for Mrs. Lesly, his countenance became more and more haggard in appearance, and his bloodless lips and heavy eyes rather spoke of mental pain than the fatigue of bodily exertion.
But, there was not much time to think, the passage in which he waited began to feel intolerably warm, and the air gradually thickened with smoke.
He then called eagerly to Mrs. Lesly, and once again entering the room where poor Betsy was sobbing with alarm, he hastily finished her preparations, by taking up an immense cloak which lay on the floor, and wrapping it round the poor invalid, who was coughing violently from the exertion of dressing, he hurried her from the room, and down stairs to the open air.
Here he was rejoiced to see the faithful gardener.
"Put missis in here," he said, dragging the chair forward, which he had provided for her—"for I don't know which'll do her most harm, the fire or the air."
"That's right," said Clair, placing her in it, and as he did so, stooping down kindly, to sooth her anxiety for her children, and covering her upfrom the night air, which blew chilly upon her, for she had not left her bed for several weeks.
Hiding her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, she turned away at once from the terrific scene before her, and the many cherished objects of her home, soon, perhaps, to be the spoil of the raging fire. A thousand recollections crowded upon her mind, which was too sensitive, and too delicately framed for the struggles of common life. The acuteness of her feelings, added bitterness to every trial, by representing them to her in the most touching, and even poetical light, till her heart was entirely overcome by the sufferings she was too skilled in describing to herself. In vain Clair endeavoured to comfort her, as he accompanied her a little way on the road to the Manor House, when, finding his presence of little service, he left her in the hands of her careful servant, and hastened back to afford any assistance he could offer to the sisters.
During his absence, the stranger had not been idle; assured of Mrs. Lesly's safety by thepromise which Clair had given him; he turned to another door, and, too impatient to summon its owner, he opened it gently. Here, too, a lamp was burning, and the light that it spread around, was quite sufficient for his rapid gaze. He turned to the bed where lay the beautiful, delicately shaped child; her countenance still wet with tears, yet serene and happy as if her dreams were not of earth. Mabel's head lay upon the same pillow; the little hand in hers, and the rich curls of her chestnut hair, half concealing her face; she seemed, in her motionless slumber, like some trusting child, who knows that watchful eyes guard her from danger—yet sorrow in many shapes, had been, and was still around her.
He paused—the hasty call which would have wakened both, died upon his lips; and he stood, as if entranced, and forgetful of the danger which every moment's delay increased. He bent forward, and earnestly contemplated the sleepers, and, as he did so, a smile passedover Mabel's face, and she murmured something which made him listen still more earnestly.
But, now she starts, her bosom heaves as if something troubled her. Again, she sleeps—but only to start again—her hand unclasps, she turns as if in pain—then, leaping to her feet—she suddenly stands before him—yet scarcely roused from the dream which had awakened her.
Light, brighter than the moon, and more glowing than the sunshine, streamed in upon the room, and rendered the stranger's face clearly visible; Mabel's eyes fixed upon him with something between terror and surprise; she tried to speak, but her lips trembled so convulsively, that she could not utter a sound—she tried to advance, but she felt that his eye quelled every movement; and what did that dark look mean, with which he regarded her; and why, as it grew more dark, did Mabel's form become more erect, while herlips curled, her cheeks flushed crimson, and her eye also fixed on his, flashed with a fiery pride, which but seldom showed itself upon her face. Yet, this was but for a moment, for the stranger taking the cloak which he had brought for the purpose, he threw it round her, and raising her almost from the ground with the rapidity of his movements, he hurried her from the room, and down the stairs. When they reached the garden, he loosened his hold, and suffered the cloak, which had entirely covered her face and head, to fall back. Mabel looked wildly round; a busy crowd was about the house; the sickly smell of fire was in the air, and, as she gazed back, she saw flames bursting from the lower windows of their cottage. In an instant she had freed herself, and springing past him with a wild cry of terror and agony, she entered the house, and through the smoke and sparks scattered about her, she was once again by Amy's side, who was awake, and greatly terrified; and, as Mabelthrew herself upon her knees beside her, she cried:—
"Do not leave me, Mabel dear—I shall die if you do."
"Leave you, my darling," cried Mabel, "nothing but death shall part us."
"If you had waited but a moment, I would have brought her to you," said the stranger.
"Oh, why did you think of me first," cried Mabel.
"'Twas wrong, perhaps," said the stranger; "but it made only the difference of a few moments. Come, my child," said he, stooping to lift her from her couch.
"No, no," said Mabel, "you must take couch and all. Oh!" said she, wringing her hands, "will no one come and help you?"
"I am not afraid of fire," said a gruff voice, and Martin entered; "I'll help, but you must make haste."
"But my Mamma, where is she?" exclaimed Mabel.
"She is safe, and the two servants are with her."
"Oh then, dear Amy, let us go to them," she said; and, in a quick but concise manner, she explained how the springs of the couch might be altered, so as to render the carriage of it more easy.
The counterpane was then laid closely over, and a shawl placed over Amy's face, and the stranger and Martin, carrying the couch, proceeded carefully to leave the house—Mabel, bending over her sister, and soothing her at every step, while she placed herself in the way of anything which was blowing towards them, seemingly forgetful of her own safety; but, though nothing shielded her, she passed through the fire entirely uninjured.
Occupied as all were, each with his separate interests, few could resist a feeling of admiration for the beautiful girl, who, in her own simple neighbourhood, had won so much of the love of those around her.
Bending over the couch, which the stranger and Martin bore between them, her hair blown in wild disorder about her face, which shewed a thousand mingled feelings, as she sometimes turned, shrinking, from the terrible scene around her, to which she had so suddenly awakened—sometimes, looking up in strange bewilderment, but always, with out-stretched hands, placing her unprotected figure between the loved child, and the sparks and timbers, which were repeatedly blown across the road; she looked like some wild and beautiful spirit of the storm, which it had no power to harm. The uneasy motion gave the greatest anguish to poor Amy, who, though usually so patient, uttered shriek after shriek of agony, which pierced the hearts of those who hurried round in the vain hope of affording assistance. At every turn they took, fresh torturing cries broke from the little sufferer, who, agonised with pain, and terrified at thescene around her, lost every power of self-control.
Entirely overcome by the cries, of the poor little sufferer, Mabel entreated them to stop, and rather to lay her on the road side, than take her further; Martin, who, though a bold, and not an over humane man, looked pale and sick with the duty he had undertaken, readily suggested that they might place her in the lodge, which had long been deserted by its owner—an old woman—who had taken refuge with the children at the Manor House.
To this the stranger consented; and, after some little difficulty, they contrived to lay her in the old woman's room.
"It is the hardest night's work I've ever had," said Martin, as he turned away. "I'll go and send some one to her, sir, as will do more good than I can."
Poor Amy's shrieks had been heart-rending when they laid her down; but shortly afterwards, they subsided into a low moaning sound.
"Though there's plenty of fire," said Martin, "I don't think there's a candle left in all the place; but I'll find one if I can."
He then went away, and the stranger alone remained, for no one else had followed so far but Clair, who had now gone to call his aunt.
"Can I do anything more for you?" said the stranger, in a voice trembling with emotion.
Mabel raised her eyes, and as they met his for an instant, a warm blush overspread her pale countenance.
"Bless you for what you have done," she murmured, despairingly.
"Water?" said Amy, opening her eyes.
Mabel turned entreatingly to the stranger, who, without another word, left the room.
Martin soon afterwards returned with a light, and placed it on the floor, and Mabel again entreated for water to moisten Amy's parched lips; but it was more difficult to obtain than she imagined, for the whole furniture of thehouse had been long since removed, and the empty cupboard looked comfortless indeed.
But, in a short while, the stranger returned, and presented her with a cup of pure water, which she eagerly gave to Amy.
"Thank you, sir," said Amy, gently, "and thank you for carrying me. Did you mind my crying? I felt very ill, and could not help it," she looked at him timidly. "Sir," she continued, rousing herself with an energy which surprised him, "Mabel will soon be alone. Do you think any one will comfort her, and take care of her?"
"May I," said he, to Mabel, suddenly moving towards them, "may I speak to her alone?"
"Yes, yes," said Amy, eagerly, "let him speak to me."
"Her time is precious;" said Mabel, rising reluctantly, "do not keep me from her long."
"No, I will not, but a few minutes," said the stranger, hurriedly, and Mabel leaving theroom went into the open air, and, leaning against the door way, she tried to tranquillize her thoughts. The village was shut out by the tall trees which surrounded the entrances to the Manor House, and the low sighing of the wind, which was now beginning to sink, was the only sound which met her ear, while the busy clouds, dimly lighted by the occasional appearance of the moon, traced their way across the heavens. There were wild thoughts in her own mind, which made her heart beat tumultuously. With a sudden burst of anguish, she threw herself upon her knees, and laid her forehead upon the cold earth in the bitterness of her soul.
She only rose when she heard the stranger's step, and then, passing him quickly, for she dared not trust herself to speak, she re-entered the room.
Amy's cheeks were flushed, and the look of pain seemed entirely to have passed away. Her eyes were bright, "as if gazing onvisions of ecstasy," while over her white countenance was spread a halo, at once so childlike and so serene that Mabel stepped more softly and knelt in silence by her side.
Amy put out her hand, and fondly stroked her cheeks and smoothed her hair.
"You are very beautiful, Mabel dear," she said, with gentle pride, as if she spoke to her own thoughts, "and you look more and more beautiful because you are so good, and what pretty hair," she said, still speaking to herself, while her sister blushed unconsciously at her praises.
"Oh, it is a dear, good Mabel," said Amy, fondly; then changing her tone, and dropping her hands upon her bosom with simple devotion, she said, softly—
"Sing me to sleep."
Mabel made a strong effort to overcome her emotion.
"I hear old John outside," said Amy, suddenly, though her sister could hear nothing,"but I cannot see him," and her eyes filled with tears, "but will you tell him to let no one else come, for I want to be alone a little while, I feel better with you. Ah, poor mamma," she added, thoughtfully, "but I cannot see her either, to-night."
Old John was at the door as Amy had said, and Mabel telling him to keep any one from coming in, as Amy was going to sleep, returned to her and then began the evening hymn. Sweetly did those beautiful lines sound, breathed in low and trembling melody, but she had scarcely finished the third verse when sobs stopped her utterance, she was, however, trying to go on, but Amy laid her hand upon her lips.
"Don't go on, Mabel, dear, I shall soon hear angels' music. They are waiting for me now, but I must go alone," she said, "and your dear voice is the last sound I wished to hear on earth. Do not leave me," she added, seeing her attempt to rise, "you have done all thatcan be done for me, and you must not go away now."
Mabel saw indeed that it was too late to call for assistance, and she scarcely breathed, lest a word might escape her ear.
"You have been very kind to me," murmured Amy, in faint accents, "and it is very hard to part, but listen, listen," said she, holding up her tiny hand; then, as if the sound were dying away, her hand fell softly down, and all was over. A holy stillness stole over the chamber of death, unbroken by a sound, for Mabel's anguish was too great for tears.
The old gardener had seated himself on the door step, and tears chased each other down his weather beaten cheeks, as he listened to Mabel's low singing, and remembered how often the voices of both had mingled in gay and thrilling merriment, which had made his old heart dance, when he had pretended not even to hear them.
"Ah," thought he, "let the old house burnsince they that made it glad are going or gone." But then came thoughts of the sunny garden, made more pleasant by the cheerful faces and glad voices now hushed by death or sorrow, his grief burst out afresh, and, burying his head in, his knees, he gave himself up to old recollections, heedless of every thing about him.
END OF VOL. I.
T. C. Newby, Printer, 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square.