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!_"
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE 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 with _her_, 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 pa.s.sed 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 up there 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 pa.s.sages. 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 pa.s.sed swiftly through a complicated set of pa.s.sages 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 G.o.d, O G.o.d!"
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 quickly increased: the walls were hot--it was the temperature of a heated oven. The Colonel tried to open a door, but the bra.s.s 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, pa.s.sionate 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 ma.s.sive 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, "G.o.d 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--G.o.d 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 cla.s.s. The Colonel went straight to this picture, but could not politely get at it without begging two old ladies, who were sitting on a _causeuse_ under it, to get out of his way.
When a man who has just been brought face to face with one 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 the _legerete_ of 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 the _causeuse_, 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 of _your_ portraits."
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."