Amongst our acquaintances at this great and brilliant feast are the worthy incumbent of Shayton and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Prigley. Whilst we were occupied with the graver matters which affected so seriously the history of Philip Stanburne, Lady Helena had been to Shayton and called upon Mrs. Prigley, and after that they had been invited to the great festivities at Wenderholme. It was kind of Lady Helena, when the house was so full that she hardly knew where to lodge more distinguished guests, to give the Prigleys one of her best bedrooms; but she did so, and treated them with perfect tact and delicacy, trying to make them feel like near relations with whom intercourse had never been suspended. Mrs. Prigley was the exact opposite of a woman of the world, having about as much experience of society as a girl of nine years old who is receiving a private education; yet her manners were very good, except so far as she was too deferential, and it was easy to see that she was a lady, though a lady who had led a very retired life. Mrs. Prigley had never travelled more than twenty miles from her two homes, Byfield and Shayton, since she was born; she had read nothing—she had no time for reading—and the wonder is how, under these circumstances, she could be so nice and lady-like as she was, so perfectly free from all taint of vulgarity. The greatest evil which attends ladies like Mrs. Prigley, when theydogo into society, is, that they sometimes feel obliged to tell white lies, and that these white lies occasionally lead them into embarrassment.Mrs. Prigley never frankly and simply avowed her ignorance when she thought it would not becomme il fautto be ignorant. For instance, if you asked her whether she had read some book, or heard some piece of music, shealwaysanswered with incredible temerity in the affirmative. If your subsequent remarks called for no further display of knowledge it was well—she felt that she had bravely acted her part, and not been behind the age; but if in your innocence or in your malice (for now and then a malicious person found her out and tormented her) you went into detail, asking what she thought, for instance, of Becky Sharp in "Vanity Fair," she might be ultimately compelled to avow that though she had read "Vanity Fair" she didn't remember Becky. Thus she placed herself in most uncomfortable situations, having the courage to run perpetual risks of detection, but not the courage to admit her ignorance of any thing which she imagined that a lady ought to know. When she had once affirmed her former knowledge of any thing, she stuck to it with astonishing hardihood, and accused the imperfection of her memory—one of her worst fibs, for her memory was excellent.
The conversation at a great banquet is never so pleasant as that at a table small enough for everybody to hear everybody else, and the only approach to a general exchange of opinion on any single topic which occurred on the present occasion was about the house in which the entertainment was given. The Duke had never been to Wenderholme before, and during a lull in the conversation his eye wandered over the wainscot opposite to him. It had been painted white, but the carved panels still left their designs clearly visible under the paint.
"What a noble room this is, Lady Helena!" he said; "but it is rather a pity—don't you think so?—that those beautiful panels should have been painted. It was done, no doubt, in the last century."
"Yes, we regret very much that the house should have been modernized. We have some intention of restoring it."
"Glad to hear that—very glad to hear that. I envy you the pleasure of seeing all these beautiful things come to light again. I wish I had a place to restore, Lady Helena; but those delights are over for me, and I can only hope to experience them afresh by taking an interest in the doings of my friends. I had a capital place for restoration formerly—an old Gothic house not much spoiled by the Renaissance, but overlaid by much incongruous modern work. So I determined to restore it, and for nearly four years it was the pleasantest hobby that a man could have. It turned out rather an expensive hobby, though, but I economized in some other directions, and did what seemed to be necessary."
"Does your Grace allude to Varolby Priory?" asked Mr. Prigley, timidly.
"Yes, certainly; yes. Do you know Varolby?"
"I have never been there, but I have seen the beautiful album of illustrations of the architectural details which was engraved by your directions."
Mrs. Prigley was within hearing, and thinking that it would be well not to be behind her husband, said, "Oh yes; what a beautiful book it was!" The Duke turned towards Mrs. Prigley, and made her a slight bow; then he asked in his innocence, and merely to say something, "whether the copy which Mrs. Prigley had seen was a colored one or a plain one?"
"Oh, it was colored," she answered, without hesitation—"beautifully colored!"
This was Mrs. Prigley's way—she waited for the suggestions of her interlocutor, and on hearing a thing which was as new to her as the kernel of a nut just cracked, assented to it with the tone of a person to whom it was already familiar. So clever had she become by practice in this artifice, that she conveyed the impression that nothingcouldbenew to her; and the people who talked with her had no idea that it was themselves who supplied,à mesure, all the information wherewith she met them, and kept up the conversation. She had never heard of Varolby Priory before—she had never heard of the album of engravings before—and therefore it is superfluous to add that, as to colored copies or plain ones, she was equally unacquainted with either. Mrs. Prigley had however gone a step too far in this instance, for the Duke immediately replied,—
"Ah, then, I know that you are a friend of my old friend, Sir Archibald. You wonder how I guessed it, perhaps? It's because there are only two colored copies of the album in existence—my own copy and his."
Mrs. Prigley tried to put on an agreeable expression of assent, intended to imply that she knew Sir Archibald (though as yet ignorant of Sir Archibald's surname), when her husband interposed. She made him feel anxious and fidgety. He always knew when she was telling her little fibs—he knew it by a certain facile suavity in her tone, which would not have been detected by a stranger.
"The old mural paintings must be very interesting," said the incumbent of Shayton, and by this skilful diversion saved his wife from imminent exposure.
"Most interesting—most interesting: they were found in a wonderful state of preservation under many layers of whitewash in the chapel. And do you know,aproposof your carved panels, Lady Helena, we found such glorious old wainscot round a room that had been lined with lath and plaster afterwards, and decorated with an abominably ugly paper. Not one panel was injured—really not one panel! and the designs carved upon them are so very elegant! That was one of the best finds we made."
"I should think it very probable," said Mr. Prigley, "that discoveries would be made at Wenderholme if a thorough restoration were undertaken."
"No doubt, no doubt," said the Duke, "and there is nothing so interesting. Even the workmen come to take an interest in all they bring to light. Our workmen were quite proud when they found any thing, and so careful not to injure what they found. Do induce your husband to restore Wenderholme, Lady Helena; it would make such a magnificent place!"
This talk about Wenderholme and restoration had gradually reached the other end of the table, and John Stanburne, feeling no doubt rather a richer and greater personage that evening than usual, being surrounded by more than common splendor, announced his positive resolution to restore the Hall thoroughly. "It was lamentable," he said, "perfectly lamentable, that the building should have been so metamorphosed by his grandfather. But it was not altogether past mending; and architects, you know, understand old Elizabethan buildings so much better than they used to do."
It was a delicious evening, soft and calm, without either the chills of earlier spring or the sultriness of the really hot weather. When the ladies had left the room, and the gentlemen had sat long enough to drink the moderate quantity of wine which men consume in these days of sobriety, the Colonel proposed that they should all go and smoke in the garden. There was a very large lawn, and there were a great many garden-chairs about, so the smokers soon formed themselves into a cluster of little groups. The whole lawn was as light as day, for the front of the Hall was illuminated, and hundreds of little glow-worm lamps lay scattered amongst the flowers. The Colonel had managed to organize a regimental band, which, being composed of tolerably good musicians from Shayton and Sootythorn (both musical places, but especially Shayton), had been rapidly brought into working order by an intelligent band-master. This band had been stationed somewhere in the garden, and began to fill the woods of Wenderholme with its martial strains.
"Upon my word, Colonel," said the Duke, stirring his cup of coffee, "you do things very admirably; I have seen many houses illuminated, but I think I never saw one illuminated so well as Wenderholme is to-night. Every feature of the building is brought into its due degree of prominence. All that rich central projection over the porch is splendid! A less intelligent illuminator would have sacrificed all those fine deep shadows in the recesses of the sculpture, which add so much to the effect."
"My wife has arranged all about these matters," said John Stanburne; "she has better taste than I have, and more knowledge. I always leave these things to her."
"Devilish clever woman that Lady Helena!" thought his Grace; but he did not say it exactly in that way.
"All these sash-windows must be very recent. Last century, probably—eighteenth century; very sad that eighteenth century—wish it had never existed, only don't see how we should have got into the nineteenth!"
The Colonel laughed. "Very difficult," he said, "to get into a nineteenth century without passing through an eighteenth century of some sort."
"Yes, of course, of course; but I don't mean merely in the sense of numbers, you know—in the arithmetical sense of eighteen and nineteen. I mean, that seeing how very curiously people's minds seem to be generally constituted, it does not seem probable that they could ever have reached the ideas of the nineteenth century without passing through the ideas of the eighteenth. But what a pity it is they were such destructive ideas! The people of the eighteenth century seem to have destroyed for the mere pleasure of destroying. Only fancy the barbarism of my forefathers at Varolby, who actually covered the most admirable old wainscot in the world, full of the most delicate, graceful, and exquisite work, with lath and plaster, and a hideous paper! They preferred the paper, you see, to the wainscot."
"Perhaps paper happened to be more in the fashion, and they did not care about either. My grandfather did not leave the wainscot, however, under the paper. At least, he must have removed a great deal of it. There is an immense lot of old carved work that he removed from the walls and rooms in a lumber-garret at the top of the house."
"Is there though, really?" said the Duke, with much eagerness; "then youmustlet me see it to-morrow—you must indeed; nothing would interest me more."
Just then a white stream of ladies issued from the illuminated porch, and flowed down the broad stairs. Their diamonds glittered in the light, flashing visibly to a considerable distance. They came slowly forward to the lawn.
"I think it is time to have the fireworks now," said Lady Helena to the Colonel.
The Colonel called the officers about him, whilst the other gentlemen began to talk to the ladies. "It would prevent confusion," he said, "if we were to muster the men properly to see the fireworks. I should like them to have good places; but there is some chance, you know, that they might damage things in the garden unless they come in military order. There are already great numbers of people in the park, and I think it would be better to keep our men separate from the crowd as much as possible." Horses were brought for the Colonel and other field-officers, and they rode to the camp, the others following on foot. Transparencies had been set up at different parts of the garden, with the numbers of the companies; and the arrangements had been so perfectly made, that in less than twenty minutes every company was at its appointed place.
No private individual in John Stanburne's position could afford a display of pyrotechnics sufficient to astonish such experienced people as his noble guests; but Lady Helena and the pyrotechnician, or "firework-man," as her ladyship more simply called him, had planned something quite sufficientlyeffective. He and his assistants were on the roof of the Hall, where temporary platforms and railings had been set up in different places for their accommodation; and the floods of fire that soon issued therefrom astonished many of the spectators, especially Mrs. Prigley. And yet when a perfectly novel device was displayed, which the "firework-man" had invented for the occasion, and Lady Helena asked Mrs. Prigley what she thought of it, that lady averred that she had seen it before, in some former state of existence, and had "always thought it very beautiful."
Suddenly these words, "The Fiery Niagara," shone in great burning letters along the front of the house, and then an immense cascade of fire poured over the roof in all directions, and hid Wenderholme Hall as completely as the rock is hidden where the real Niagara thunders into its abyss. At the same time trees of green fire burned on the sides of the flowing river, and their boughs seemed to dip in its rushing gold, as the boughs of the sycamores bend over the swift-flowing water. And behind the edge of the great cascade rose slowly a great round moon.
After the fiery cascade came the bouquet; and the fireworks ended with a prodigious sheaf of rockets, which made the country people think that the stars were falling.
Though the Hall was still illuminated, it looked poorer after the brilliant pyrotechnics; and as this diminution of its effect had been foreseen, arrangements had been made beforehand to cheer the minds of the guests at the critical moment by a compensation. The Venetian lanterns had been reserved till now, and the band had been silent during the fireworks. A large flat space on the lawn had been surrounded by masts with banners, and from mast to mast hung large festoons of greenery, and from the festoons hung the many-colored lanterns. A platform had been erected at one end for the band; and before the last rocket-constellation had burst into momentary splendor, and been extinguished as it fell towards the earth, the lanterns were all burning, and the band playing merrily. Before and during the fireworks the company had been considerably increased by arrivals from neighboring villages and the houses of the smaller gentry, so Lady Helena passed the word that there would be a dance in the space that was enclosed by the lanterns.
It had been part of our friend Philip Stanburne's duty to march to Wenderholme with his company, and to dine with the Colonel in the Hall; but in his present moody and melancholy temper he found it impossible to carry complaisance so far as to whirl about in a waltz with some young lady whomhe had never before seen. There was nobody there that he knew; and when Lady Helena kindly offered to introduce him to a partner, his refusal was so very decided that it seemed almost wanting in politeness. The Colonel had not mentioned Philip's love-affair to her ladyship, for reasons which the reader will scarcely need to have explained to him. People who have lived together for some years generally know pretty well what each will think and say about a subject before it has been the subject of open conversation between them; and since Philip Stanburne was now treated as a near relation at Wenderholme, it was clear that her ladyship would be a good deal put out if she heard of his intended misalliance. The Colonel himself was by no means democratic in his aboriginal instincts; but after his experience of married life, the one quality in Lady Helena which he would most willingly have done without was her rank, with its concomitant inconveniences. He did not now feel merely indifferent to rank, he positively disliked it; and with his present views, Alice Stedman's humble origin seemed a guarantee of immunity from many of the perils which were most dangerous to his own domestic peace. But Lady Helena (as he felt instinctively, without needing to give to his thought the consistency of words and phrases) was still in that state of mind which is natural to every one who is born with the advantages of rank—the state of mind which values rank too highly to sacrifice it willingly, or to see any relation sacrifice it without protesting against his folly. Hers would be the natural and rational view of the matter; the common-sense view; the view which in all classes who have rank of any sort to maintain (and what class has not?) has ever been recognized, has ever persisted and prevailed. The Colonel did not go so far as to wish that he had married some other person of humble provincial rank; but he often wished that Lady Helena herself had been the daughter of some small squire, or country clergyman, or cotton-spinner, if he had brought her up asnicely as Alice Stedman had been brought up. It was not to be expected that she could ever share this opinion about herself, or the opinion about Alice Stedman, which was merely a reflection of it.
Owing to Philip Stanburne's exile at Whittlecup, which had continued during the whole of the training, and to his natural shyness and timidity, which the extreme reclusion of his existence had allowed to become the permanent habit of his nature, he had made few acquaintances amongst the officers, and not one friend. There were several men in the regiment to know whom would have done Philip Stanburne a great deal of good, but he missed the opportunities which presented themselves. For instance, on the present occasion, though several of his brother officers, who, like himself, were not dancing, had gathered into a little group, Philip Stanburne avoided the group, and walked away by himself in the direction of the great dark wood. He felt the necessity for a little solitude; he had not been by himself during the whole day, and it was now nearly midnight. A man who is accustomed to be alone will steal out in that way from society to refresh himself in the loneliness which is his natural element—pour se remettre, as a Frenchman would express it. So he followed a narrow walk that led into the wood, and soon lost sight of the illuminations, whilst the music became gradually fainter, and at last was confined to such hints of the nature of the melody as could be gathered from the occasional fortissimo of a trumpet or the irregular booming of a drum.
There was, as the reader already knows, a ravine behind Wenderholme Hall, which was a gash in the great hill that divided Wenderholme from Shayton. All this ravine was filled with a thick wood, and a stream came down the middle of it from the moorland above—a little noisy stream that tumbled over a good many small rocks, and made some cascades which the inhabitants of Wenderholme showed to all their visitors, and which lady visitors often more or less successfullysketched. By an outlay of about a hundred pounds, John Stanburne's grandfather had dammed this stream up in one conveniently narrow place, and made a small pond there, and the walk which Philip Stanburne was now following skirted the stream till it came to the pond's edge. It turned round the upper end of the tiny lake, and crossed the stream where it entered by means of a picturesque wooden bridge. From this bridge the Hall might be distinctly seen in the day-time; and Philip, remembering this, or perhaps merely from the habit of looking down towards the Hall when he crossed the bridge, stopped and looked, as if in the darkness of the night he could hope to distinguish any thing at the back of the house, which, of course, was not illuminated.
Not illuminated! Why, the firework-men have applied a more effective device to the back of the house than the elaborate illumination of the front! They have invented a curling luminous cloud, these accomplished pyrotechnicians!
Philip Stanburne began to wonder how it was managed, and to speculate on the probable artifice. Was the smoke produced separately, and then lighted from below, or was it really luminous smoke? However produced, the effect was an admirable one, and Philip admired it accordingly. "But it is odd," he thought, "that I should be left to enjoy it (probably) by myself. It's not likely that they have left their dancing—I'm sure they haven't; I can hear the drum yet, and it's marking the time of a waltz." A gentle breeze came towards him, and rippled the surface of the dark water. It brought the sound of the trumpets and he recognized the air. "They are waltzing still, no doubt."
The luminous smoke still rose and curled. Then a red flash glared in it for an instant "Those are not fireworks," said Philip Stanburne, aloud; "Wenderholme Hall is on fire!"
"Why, Philip," said the Colonel, "I didn't know that you'd been dancing. You've been over-exerting yourself. You look tremendously hot, and very much out of breath."
"Young fellahs will dance, you know, Colonel," said the General with the ladders of clasps—"young fellahs will; I envy them!"
"Where is Edith—your daughter—little Edith?" Philip asked, with a scared and anxious face.
"In bed, of course, at this time of night. You don't want to dance withher, a small child like her?" Then fixing his eyes on Philip Stanburne's face, the Colonel exclaimed, grasping his arm so strongly as to cause pain. "Something is wrong, by Jove! out with it, out with it!"
"Where's Edith's room? the house is on fire!"
John Stanburne said nothing, but turned at once with swift steps towards the house. Philip followed him closely: they entered by the great doorway under the porch, and passed rapidly across the hall. It was quiet and empty, lighted by a few lamps suspended from the ceiling by long crimson cords—the portraits of the old fox-hunting Stanburnes looking down with their usual healthy self-possession. The door from the hall to the staircase was closed: when the Colonel opened it, a smell of burning became for the first time perceptible. He took four steps at a time. Edith's rooms were nearly at the top of the house. The nurseries had been upthere traditionally, because that situation kept noisy children well out of the way of guests.
Wenderholme was a lofty house, with a long lateral corridor on each story. As they ascended, the smell of burning strongly increased. The lower corridors were lighted—all the guests' rooms were there. But the uppermost corridor, where the servants' rooms and the nurseries were, was not permanently lighted, as the servants took their own bed-candlesticks from below. When the Colonel got there he could not see, and he could not breathe. Volumes of dense smoke rolled along the dark passages. He ran blindly in the direction of Edith's room. Philip tried to follow, but the suffocating atmosphere affected his more delicate organization with tenfold force, and he was compelled to draw back. He stood on the top of the great staircase, agitated by mortal anxiety.
But the Colonel himself, strong as he was, could not breathe that atmosphere for long. He came back out of the darkness, his hands over his face. Even on the staircase the air was stifling, but to him, who had breathed thick fire, it was comparative refreshment. He staggered forward to the banister, and grasped it. This for three or four seconds, then he ran down the stairs without uttering one word.
The two passed swiftly through a complicated set of passages on the ground-floor and reached one of the minor staircases, of which there were five or six at Wenderholme. This one led directly to the nurseries above, and was their most commonly used access. When they came to this, John Stanburne turned round, paused for an instant, and said, "Come with me, Philip; it's our last chance. Poor little Edith! O God, O God!"
In this narrow stair there was no light whatever. The Colonel ran up it, or leaped up it, in a series of wild bounds, like a hunted animal. Philip kept up with him as he could. As they rose higher and higher the temperature quicklyincreased: the walls were hot—it was the temperature of a heated oven. The Colonel tried to open a door, but the brass handle burnt his hand. Then he burst it open by pushing against it with his shoulder. A gust of air rushed up the staircase, and in an instant the room they were trying to enter was illuminated by a burst of flame. For a second the paper was visible—a pretty, gay paper, with tiny flowers, suitable for a young girl's room—and a few engravings on the walls, and the pink curtains of a little French bed.
Either by one of those unaccountable presentiments which sometimes hold us back at the moment of imminent danger, or else from horror at the probable fate of little Edith, the Colonel paused on the threshold of the burning room. Then the ceiling cracked from end to end, and fiery rafters, with heaps of other burning wood, came crashing down together. The heat was now absolutely intolerable—to remain on the threshold was death, and the two went down the stairs. There was a strong draught in the staircase, which revived them physically, and notwithstanding the extremity of his mental anguish, the Colonel descended with a steady step. When they came into the lighted hall he stood still, and then broke into stifled, passionate sobs. "Edith! little Edith!" he cried, "burnt to death! horrible! horrible!" Then he turned to his companion with such an expression on his white face as the other had never before seen there. "And, Philip, the people were dancing on the lawn!"
Then John Stanburne sat down in one of the chairs against the wall, and set his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with both his hands. So he sat, immovable. The house was burning above him—it might burn. What were all the treasures of Wenderholme to its master, who had lost the one treasure of his heart? What were the parchments and the seals in the charter-room—what were the records of the Stanburnes—what was that waggon-load of massive silver which had shone at the festival that night?
His anguish was not wild—he did not become frantic—and the shock had not produced any benumbing insensibility; for his health was absolutely sound and strong, and his nervous system perfectly whole and unimpaired. But the sound mind in the sound body is still capable of an exquisite intensity of suffering, though it will live through it without either madness or insensibility.
Philip Stanburne felt compelled to respect this bitter agony of his friend; but he was anxious to lose no more time in trying to save the house. So at last he said, "Colonel, the house is burning!"
John Stanburne looked up, and said, "It may burn now—it may burn now." Then suddenly seeming to recollect himself, he added, "God forgive me, Philip, I have not bestowed one thought on the poor girl that was burnt with Edith—Edith's maid! She brought my child to me to say good-night, just when the fireworks were over, and kiss me"—here his voice faltered—"and kiss me for the last time." This extension of his sympathy to another did John Stanburne good. "I wonder where her parents are; they must be told—God help them!"
"And the house, Colonel!—the house! can you give some orders?"
"No, Philip; not fit for that—not fit for that yet, you know, dear Philip. Ask Eureton, the Adjutant—ask Eureton."
Then he rose suddenly, and went towards the drawing-room. Some of the older ladies had come in, and were sitting here and there about the room, which was brilliantly lighted. On one of the walls hung a portrait of Edith Stanburne, by Millais—one of his most successful pictures of that class. The Colonel went straight to this picture, but could not politely get at it without begging two old ladies, who were sitting on acauseuseunder it, to get out of his way.
When a man who has just been brought face to face withone of the tragical realities of life comes into what is called "society" again, he is always out of tune with it, and it is difficult for him to accept thelégèretéof its manner without some degree of irritation. He appears brutal to the people in society, and the people in society seem exasperatingly frivolous to him. Thus, when the Colonel came amongst these bediamonded old ladies in the drawing-room, a conversation took place which he was not quite sufficiently master of himself to maintain in its original key.
"Ah, here is Colonel Stanburne! We were just saying how delightful your fireworks were; only they've left quite a strong smell of fire, even in the house itself. Don't you perceive it, Colonel Stanburne?"
"I want to get this picture—excuse me," and he began to put his foot on the white silk damask of thecauseuse, between the two great ladies. They rose immediately, much astonished, even visibly offended.
"Colonel Stanburne might have waited until we had left the room," said Lady Brabazon, aloud, "if he wished to change the hanging of his pictures."
"The house is on fire! My daughter is burnt to death! I want to save this. You ladies are still in time to save the originals ofyourportraits."
In an instant they were out upon the lawn, running about and calling out "Fire!" They had not time to take care of their dignity now.
Luckily Philip Stanburne was already with the Adjutant, who was giving his orders with perfect calm, and an authority that made itself obeyed. Lady Helena was not to be found.
Fyser had been summoned into the Adjutant's presence. "Fyser," he said, "what are the water supplies here?"
"Pump-water, sir, for drinking, and the stream behind the house for washing."
"No pipes of any sort in the upper rooms?"
"No, sir."
"Sergeant Maxwell, collect all the men who have served in the army. I don't want any others at present." Then, turning to Fyser, "Harness four horses to a carriage, and drive to the nearest station. Telegraph for fire-engines and a special locomotive. Whilst they are coming, collect more horses near the station. When they arrive, leave your carriage there, and harness your team to a fire-engine, and come here as fast as you can. Do you hear? Repeat what I have said to you. Very well."
Then he walked quickly towards the band, and made signs to the band-master to stop. The music ceased abruptly, and Captain Eureton ascended the platform. "I wish to be heard!" he said, in a loud voice. The dancers gave up their dancing, and came towards the orchestra, followed by the other guests.
"Excuse this interruption to your pleasures. You had better not go into the Hall."
At this instant the old ladies (as has just been narrated) came out of the hall-door shrieking, "Fire!" Their cry was taken up immediately, and wildly repeated amongst the crowd.
"Silence!" shouted Eureton, with authority. "Silence! I have something to say to you."
The people crowded round him. "The Colonel wishes me to act for him. Our only chance of saving the house is to set to work systematically. I forbid any one to enter it for the present."
"But my trunks," cried Lady Brabazon; "I will order my people to save my trunks!"
This raised a laugh; but Eureton's answer to it came in the shape of an order. "Sergeant Maxwell," he said, "if any one attempts to enter the house without leave, you will have him arrested."
"Yes, sir."
The sergeant was there with a body of about forty old soldiers.
"Captains of numbers one, two, three, four, and five companies!" shouted the Adjutant. They came forward. "You will form a cordon with your men round the front of the house, and prevent any unauthorized person from breaking it. All who enter the cordon will be considered as volunteers, and set to carry water. They will not be allowed to get out of it again, on any pretext."
"Now send me Colonel Stanburne's men-servants."
Several men presented themselves. "Fetch every thing you can lay your hands on in the out-houses that will hold water."
"Pray accept me as a volunteer, Captain Eureton," said the Duke.
"And I'm an old soldier," said the medalled General; "you'll have me, too, I suppose."
The cordon was by this time formed, and a quantity of buckets fetched from the out-houses.
A chain was very soon formed from the brink of the rivulet to the inside of the house, and the Adjutant went in with Philip Stanburne to reconnoitre. When he came out he walked to the middle of the space enclosed by the cordon of militia-men, and cried with a loud voice, "Volunteers for saving the furniture, come forward!"
Such numbers of men presented themselves (including the Colonel's guests), that it was necessary to close the cordon against many of them. Those who were admitted were told off by the Adjutant in parties of a dozen each, and each party placed under the command of a gentleman, with an old soldier for a help. It was Philip Stanburne's duty to guide and distribute the parties in the house—the Adjutant commanding outside. The Colonel, in his kind way, had shown Philip Stanburne over the house on his first visit to Wenderholme, so that he knew and remembered the arrangement of the rooms.
Though the house did not front precisely to the west, itwill best serve our present purposes to speak as if it had done so. Supposing, then, the principal front to be the west front, the back of the edifice, where Philip Stanburne first discovered the fire, was to the east, whilst the south and north fronts looked to the wood on each side the ravine, at the opening of which Wenderholme Hall was situated. The fire had been discovered towards the south-east corner of the edifice, where little Edith's apartments were. The great staircase was in the centre, immediately behind the entrance-hall; but there were five other staircases of much narrower dimensions, two of them winding stairs of stone, the other three modern stairs of deal wood, such as are commonly made for servants.
Acting under Captain Eureton's directions, Philip Stanburne distributed his parties according to the staircases, and other parties were stationed at the doors to receive the things they brought down, and carry them to places already decided upon by the Adjutant. The business of extinguishing or circumscribing the fire was altogether distinct from that of salvage. Two lines of men were stationed from the side of the rivulet to the top of the great staircase. One line passed full buckets from hand to hand, the other passed them down again as soon as they were empty. A special party, consisting of the gardeners belonging to Colonel Stanburne's establishment, a joiner, and one or two other men who were employed at Wenderholme, had been formed by the Adjutant for the purpose of collecting what might serve as buckets, the supply being limited. Various substitutes were found; amongst others, a number of old oyster-barrels, which were rapidly fitted with rope-handles.
Notwithstanding the number of men under his command, and the excellent order which was maintained, it became evident to Captain Eureton that it was beyond his power to save the south wing of the building. Even the northern end of the upper corridor was filled with dense smoke, andtowards Edith Stanburne's apartments there was a perfect furnace. By frequently changing places, the men were able to dispute the ground against the fire inch by inch; and the clouds of steam which rose as they deluged the hot walls had the effect of making the atmosphere more supportable. If the fire did not gain on them too rapidly, there seemed to be a fair chance of saving some considerable proportion of the mansion by means of the fire-engines, when they arrived.
Meanwhile the salvage of goods went forward with perfect regularity. The influence of Captain Eureton's coolness and method extended itself to every one, and the things were handed down as quietly as in an ordinary removal. Hardly any thing was broken or even injured; the rooms were emptied one by one, and the contents of each room placed together. Every thing was saved from the charter-room—Philip Stanburne took care to see to that.
What the Duke was most anxious to save was the contents of the lumber-garrets, where lay the dishonored remnants of the old wainscot and carved furniture of Elizabethan Wenderholme. But when he got up there with his party he found that it was not quite possible to breathe. A more serious discovery than the inevitable loss of the old oak was that the fire was rapidly spreading northwards in the garrets.
There was a little ledge round the roof outside, protected by a stone parapet, and broad enough for a man to walk along; so the chain of water-carriers was continued up to this ledge, and a hole was made in the slating through which a tolerably continuous stream was poured amongst the burning lumber inside. The uselessness of this, however, shortly became apparent; the water had little or no effect—it flowed along the floor, and the rafters had already caught fire. The slates were so hot that it was impossible to touch them. It was evident that the lead under the men's feet would soon begin to melt, and the men were withdrawn into the interior.
When Colonel Stanburne had removed Edith's picture, he carried it away into the darkness. He could not endure the idea of having to explain his action, and instinctively kept out of people's way. Still, he could not leave it out of doors; he dreaded some injury that might happen to it. Where could he put it? In one of the out-houses? A careless groom might injure it in the hurry and excitement of the night. No; it would be safe nowhere but at his mother's, and thither he would carry it.
There were two communications from the Hall to the cottage—a carriage-drive and a little footpath. The drive curved about a little under the old trees in the park, but the footpath was more direct, and went through a dense shrubbery. On his way to the cottage the Colonel met no one, but on his arrival there he met Lady Helena in the entrance. His mother was there too. Late as it was, she had not yet gone to bed.
The sight of the Colonel, bareheaded, and carrying a great oil-picture in his hands, greatly astonished both these ladies.
"Whatareyou doing with that picture, John?" said Lady Helena.
"I want it to be safe—it will be safe here;" and he reared it against the wall. Then he said, "No, not here; it will be safer in the drawing-room; open the door. Thank you."
When they got into the drawing-room, the Colonel deliberately took down a portrait of himself and hung Edith'sportrait in its place. His manner was very strange, both the ladies thought; his action most strange and eccentric. Lady Helena thought he had drunk too much wine; Mrs. Stanburne dreaded insanity.
With that humoring tone which is often adopted towards persons not in possession of their mental faculties, Mrs. Stanburne said, "Well, John, I shall be glad to take care of Edith's picture for you, if you think that it can be safer here than at the Hall."
"Yes, it will be safer—it will be safer."
This answer, and his strange wild look, confirmed poor old Mrs. Stanburne's fears. She began to tremble visibly. "Helena, Helena," she whispered, "poor John is—has"—
"No, mother, I'm not mad, and I'm not drunk either, Helena, but I've brought this picture here because it's more valuable to me now than it used to be, and—I don't want it to be burnt, you understand."
"No, I don't understand you at all," said her ladyship; "you are unintelligible to-night. Better come home, I think, and not drink any more wine. I never saw you like this before. It is disgraceful."
"Helena!" said the Colonel, in a very deep, hoarse voice, "Wenderholme Hall is on fire, and my daughter Edith is burnt to death!"
Just as he finished speaking, a lurid light filled the sky, and shone through the windows of the cottage. Lady Helena went suddenly to the window, then she left the room, left the house, and went swiftly along by the little path. John Stanburne was left alone with his mother.
She took him by the hand, and looked in his face anxiously. "My dear boy," she said, "it's a pity about the house, you know; but our little Edith"—
"What?"
"Is perfectly safe here, and fast asleep upstairs in her own little bed!"
John Stanburne did not quite realize this at first. When it became clear to him, he walked about the room in great agitation, not uttering a word. Then he stopped suddenly, and folded his mother in his arms, and kissed her. He kept her hand and knelt down before the sofa; she understood the action, and knelt with him. Edith's picture was hanging just above them, and as his lips moved in inaudible thanksgiving, his eyes rose towards it and contemplated its sweet and innocent beauty. He had had the courage to save it from the burning house, but not the courage to let his eyes dwell upon it thus. Fair hair that hast not been consumed in cruel flame! fair eyes that shall shine in the sunlight of to-morrow! sweet lips whose dear language shall yet be heard in your father's house!—your living beauty shall give him cheerfulness under this calamity!
When they rose, his mother said, "Come and see;" and she took him up to a little dainty room which Edith loved, and there, in a narrow bed curtained with pale blue silk, she lay in perfect peace. The night was warm, and there was a glow on the healthy cheek, and one little hand, frilled with delicate lace, lay trying to cool itself upon the counterpane.
"I'm afraid she's rather too warm," said her grandmother. But John Stanburne thought of the fiery chamber at Wenderholme.
Mrs. Stanburne's tender sympathy for her son's grief at the supposed loss of Edith, and participation in his gladness at the recovery of his treasure, had for a time restrained the expression of her anxiety about the fire at the Hall; but now that her son had seen little Edith, Mrs. Stanburne went to the window of the bedroom and looked out. The Hall was not visible from the lower rooms of the cottage, being hidden by the thick shrubbery which bounded the little lawn; but it was clearly visible from the upper windows, which looked in that direction.
No sooner had Mrs. Stanburne opened the curtains and drawn up the blind, than she uttered a cry of alarm. The fire having originated in the garret, the carpentry of the roof had been attacked early, and now a portion of it had given way. A column of sparks, loftier than the Victoria Tower at Westminster, shot up in the dark sky.
Mrs. Stanburne turned round in great agitation. "Let us go, John—let us go to the Hall; it will be burnt down. You will be wanted to give orders."
This recalled the Colonel to himself, and for the present he gave up thinking about his little Edith. "Eureton is in command, and he's a better officer than I am. He will do all that can be done. But come along, mother—come along; let us go there."
As they approached the Hall, it was evident to John Stanburne that the fire had made terrible progress. The wholeof the uppermost story was illuminated by the dread light of conflagration. At the south end, which had been burning longest, and where the roof had fallen in, sparks still rose in immense quantities, and terrible tongues of flame showed their points, darting angrily, above the lofty walls.
Eureton was in the centre of the open space still steadily guarded by the cordon of militia-men. He was looking at his watch, but on lifting his eyes from the dial, saw the Colonel and Mrs. Stanburne, and went to them at once. "I have been anxious to see you for some time, Colonel. Do you wish to take the men under your own orders?"
"My dear fellow, do oblige me by directing every thing just as you have done. You do it ten times better than I should—I know you do."
"I am sorry we have been unable to save the roof. I withdrew the men from it rather early, perhaps, but wished to avoid any sacrifice of life."
"Better let the whole place burn down than risk any of these good fellows' lives. Is there anybody in the house now?"
"Captain Stanburne has eight parties on the first floor removing furniture. He has removed every thing from the upper floors."
"But are they safe?" said Mrs. Stanburne.
"No floors have fallen in yet except part of the garret floor, and one or two in the south wing. We have drenched every room with water, after it was emptied; we have left the carpets on the floors purposely, because being thoroughly wetted, they will help to delay the progress of the fire. We have used all the blankets from the beds in the same way. Every thing else has been removed."
"I hope all the visitors' things will be safe. Some of those old ladies, you know, have wonderful lots of things in their portmanteaus. I believe that in point of mere money's worth, old Lady Brabazon's boxes are more valuable than all Wenderholme and its furniture too, by Jove!"
"I must ask the ladies to sleep at the cottage," said Mrs. Stanburne.
"They are at the summer-house, watching the fire," said the Adjutant. "I believe it amuses them."
"You are uncharitable," said Mrs. Stanburne; "nobody can help watching a fire, you know. A fire always fascinates people."
"I wouldn't let old Lady Brabazon have her boxes, and she's furiously angry with me."
"Well, but why wouldn't you?"
"If I let one, I must let another, and there would be no end to the confusion and breakage that would ensue. I have refused Lady Helena herself, but she took it very nicely and kindly. It's different with Lady Brabazon; she's in a rage."
"I'll go with my mother to the summer-house, and come back to you, Eureton, in ten minutes."
The summer-house in question presented rather a curious picture. It was not strictly a "house" at all, but simply a picturesque shed with a long bench under it, which people could sit down upon at noon, with their backs to the south, well sheltered from the summer sun by a roof and wall of excellent thatch, whilst the stream purled pleasantly at the foot of a steep slope, and seemed to cool the air by its mere sound. The back of the seat was towards the steep wooded hill, and the front of it looked towards the south wing of the house, including a very good view of the front. It was decidedly the best view of Wenderholme which could be had; and when artists drew Wenderholme for those well-known works, "Homes of the Landed Gentry," and "Dwellings of the English Aristocracy," and "Ancient Seats of Yorkshire," here they always rubbed their cakes of sepia and began.
The ladies were not playing the harp or the fiddle, as Nero is said to have done during the burning of Rome; but they were enjoying the spectacle as most people enjoy that which greatly interests and excites. Lady Adisham, John Stanburne'saugust mother-in-law, was not there; she was in close conference with her daughter, in a part of the grounds yet more private and remote. But Lady Brabazon was there, and some other splendidly adorned dames, who were passing an opera-glass from hand to hand.
As the Colonel and his mother approached, they had the pleasure of overhearing the following fragment of conversation.
"Quite a great fire; really magnificent! Don't you think so? We're safe here, I believe."
"Yes; Captain Eureton said we should be safe here."
"I wonder if Mr. Stanburne has insured his house. They say he's not at all rich. Pity his little daughter was burnt—really great pity; nice little girl!"
"Where are we to sleep to-night, do you think?"
"Really don't know.À la belle étoile, I suppose. That horrid man that's ordering the men about won't let us have our boxes. We shall take cold. I have nothing but this shawl."
Just then the Colonel presented himself:
"I am very sorry," he said, with some bitterness, "that my house should be burnt down, if the accident has caused you any inconvenience. Mrs. Stanburne is come to offer you some accommodation at Wenderholme Cottage."
Lady Brabazon was going to make a speech of condolence, but the Colonel prevented it by adding, "Pray excuse me—I ought to be amongst the men;" and bowing very deferentially, he disappeared.
John Stanburne left Eureton in command, and worked himself as a volunteer amongst the water-carriers within the building. The reaction from his despair about Edith made his other misfortunes light, and he worked with a cheerfulness and courage that did good to the men about him.
"This is hot work," he said to one of the volunteers; "have none of the men had any thing to drink?"
"Thank you, sir, we are doing pretty well for that. We take a little water from the buckets now and then."
"And the other fellows who are removing the furniture?"
"It must be dry work for them, sir."
On this the Colonel said he could be more useful elsewhere, and went to find out his old butler. This was very easy, since the Adjutant knew where every one was posted.
The Colonel, with a small party of trustworthy sober fellows, went down into the cellar, and returned with some dozens of bottled ale and other liquids. He made it his business to distribute refreshment amongst the men, giving the glass always with his own hand, and never without some kind expression of his personal gratitude for the exertions they had made. He took this office upon himself simply because he "thought the men must be thirsty," as he expressed it; but the deepest policy could not have suggested a better thing to do. It brought him into personal contact with every volunteer about the place, and in the most graceful way.
Captain Eureton was beginning to be anxious about the fire-engines, and had the road cleared, and kept clear, by a patrol. Fyser had been absent nearly three hours. The distance from Wenderholme to the little station (the same that Lady Helena had arrived at on her return from London) was ten miles. Supposing that Fyser drove at the rate of thirteen miles an hour, or thereabouts (which he would do on such an emergency), he would be at the station in forty-five minutes. He would have to seek the telegraphist in the village, and wake him up, and get him to the station—all that would consume twenty minutes. Then to get the engines from Bradford, over thirty miles of rail, a special locomotive running fifty miles an hour, thirty-six minutes. Time to get the engines in Bradford to the station and to start the train, say thirty minutes—total, a hundred and thirty-one minutes, or two hours and eleven minutes. Then the return to Wenderholme, forty-five minutes—say three hours. "Yes, three hours," said Captain Eureton to himself; "I believe I should have done better to send for the Sootythorn engines. Fyserwould have been there in an hour and a half, and there would have been no delays about the railway."
Just then a sound of furious galloping was heard in the distance, and the welcome exclamation, "The engines, the engines!" passed amongst the crowd. The gates being all open, and the road clear, the engines were soon in the avenue. The drivers galloped into the middle of the space enclosed by the cordon of militia-men, then they trotted a few yards and stopped. The horses were covered with foam and perspiration; the men leaped down from their seats and at once began to arrange the hose.
Captain Eureton went to the captain of the fire-brigade. "You have lost no time; I feared some delay on the railway."
"Railway, sir? there is no railway from Sootythorn to this place."
"But you come from Bradford."
"Beg pardon, sir, we are the Sootythorn brigade—we come from Sootythorn. You telegraphed for us—anyhow, a Mr. Fyser did."
"He did right. What do you think of the fire?"
The fireman looked up. "It's a bad one. Been burning three hours? We may save the first floor, and the ground-floor. Not very likely, though. Where's water?"
"Small stream here;" the Adjutant led the fireman to the rivulet.
"Very good, very good. House burns most at this end, I see."
The hose was soon laid. There were two engines, and the firemen, aided by volunteers, began to pump vigorously. Two powerful jets began to play upon the south wing, and it was a satisfaction to Captain Eureton to see them well at work, though with little immediate effect. There being no sign of Fyser, the Adjutant concluded that he was waiting for the Bradford engines.
The whole remaining mass of roof now fell in with a tremendouscrash, and the flames enveloped the gables, issuing from the windows of the uppermost story. The multitude was hushed by the grandeur of the spectacle. All the woods of Wenderholme, all its deep ravine, were lighted by the glare, and even at Shayton the glow of an unnatural dawn might be seen in the sky over the lofty moorland.
And the real dawn was approaching also, the true Aurora, ever fresh and pure, bathed in her silver dews. There are engines hurrying towards Wenderholme, through the beautiful quiet lanes and between the peaceful fields; and the gray early light shows the road to the eager drivers and their galloping steeds, and the breath of the pure morning fans the brows of the men who sit in dark uniforms, helmeted, perilously on those rocking chariots.
But the old house is past any help of theirs! The floors have fallen one after another. All the accumulated wood is burning together on the ground-floor now: in the hall, where Reginald Stanburne's portrait hung; in the dining-room, where, a few hours before, the brilliant guests had been sumptuously entertained; in the drawing-room, where the ladies sat after dinner in splendor of diamonds and fine lace. Every one of these rooms is a focus of ardent heat—a red furnace, terrible, unapproachable. The red embers will blacken in the daylight, under the unceasing streams from the fire-engines, and heaps of hissing charcoal will fill the halls of Wenderholme!
But the walls are standing yet—the brave old walls! Even the carving of the front is not injured. The house exists still, or the shell of it—the ghost of old Wenderholme, its appearance, its eidolon!
I know who laments this grievous misfortune most. It is not John Stanburne: ever since that child of his was known to be in safety, he has been as gay as if this too costly spectacle had been merely a continuation of the fireworks. It is not Lady Helena: she is very busy, has been very busy allnight, going this way and that, and plaguing the people with contradictory orders. She is much excited—even irritated—but she is not sad. Wenderholme was not much to her; she never really loved it. If a country house had not been a necessity of station, she would have exchanged Wenderholme for a small house in Belgravia, or a tiny hotel in Paris.
But old Mrs. Stanburne grieved for the dear old house that had been made sacred to her by a thousand interests and associations. There was more to her in the rooms as they had been, than there was either to Lady Helena or to the proprietor himself. She had dreaded in silence the proposed changes and restorations, and this terrible destruction came upon her like the blow of an eternal exclusion and separation. The rooms where her husband had lived with her, the room he died in, she could enter never more! So she sat alone in her sadness, looking on the ruin as it blackened gradually in the morning, and her spirits sank low within her, and the tears ran down her cheeks.
The fire at Wenderholme was known all over the country the same morning, so the people who had been asked to the presentation of colors stayed away. The colors were given almost without ceremony, and the men came back to Sootythorn.
Jacob Ogden had got as far as Sootythorn the evening before with the intention of going on to Wenderholme in the morning to see the ceremony, for he had been invited thereto by his brother Isaac. As matters turned out, however, he thought he would go to Whittlecup to fetch his mother back to Milend, for the house seemed to him very uncomfortable without her.
He called at Arkwright Lodge, and spent the day there. The day following, Mr. Anison was to give a small dinner-party composed of some of the leading manufacturers in that neighborhood, so he pressed Jacob Ogden to stay it over.
He stayed three days at Arkwright Lodge—three whole days away from the mill—from the mills, we may now say, for Jacob Ogden was already a pluralist in mills. The new one was rising rapidly out of the green earth, and a smooth, well-kept meadow was now trampled into mud and covered with heaps of stone and timber, and cast-iron columns and girders. And for three days had Jacob Ogden left this delightful, this enchanting scene! What a strong attraction there must have been at Whittlecup, to draw him from hisindustrial paradise! He felt bound to the unpoetical Shayton, as Hafiz was to his fair Persian valley when he sang—