GOOD-BYE TO BALMORAL.
It is always the unexpected which happens. Here was Mrs Clay taking the
destruction of her cherished possessions quite calmly, and only praying
silently, as Sarah saw, that her husband and son might be saved. And here
was Sarah getting angrier and angrier as she watched the fire spreading,
apparently unchecked, and swallowing up not only the costly treasures for
which she did not much care, but her own personal treasures, for which
she cared more than she expected.
Naomi made matters worse by her lamentations. 'To think of all the
beautiful carpets and curtains ruined; and, oh, Miss Sarah! all your
dresses, and that picture in your boudoir that you are so fond of, some
Italian view or something! Oh dear! oh dear! the more I think of it the
worse it seems. It's wicked, is this morning's work!'
'It's a fine morning for a fire--the sun shining, and just a nice breeze
blowing to fan the flames,' observed Sarah sarcastically.
But Naomi did not perceive the sarcasm; and after a wondering and rather
reproachful glance at her young mistress, she remarked, 'It's what I call
a bad morning; but, then, I suppose you're glad, because you want to be
poor; though how you can stand there quiet-like, and see all your poor ma
and pa's things burnt up, let alone everything you can call your own,
passes me--it does.'
A smile flitted over Sarah's face as she thought how far out Naomi was in
her judgment; but it passed speedily as she saw a huge tongue of flame
dart up and blaze high above the trees.
'It's the garage! The petrol has taken fire!' said Naomi. 'Whatever could
they have been thinking of to leave it there? Surely they've never left
those beautiful cars to burn themselves up?'
'They don't seem to have done anything to stop the fire. If Uncle Howroyd
hadn't been there himself, and if they had not been his hands, I should
have said they had helped it, like the men the other day,' remarked
Sarah.
'No fear of that. Mr William's men will stand by him and do what he says,
for his sake. It's not been their fault that Barmoral's burnt to the
ground, I'll lay,' declared Naomi with vehemence.
'No, I'm sure of that,' said Sarah, who felt a pang which surprised her
at the words, 'Barmoral's burnt to the ground.' Not that they were quite
true, for Balmoral was still burning furiously; but they soon would be.
Suddenly Naomi made a terrible suggestion. 'Miss Sarah, suppose anybody
is in the house?' she cried.
Sarah turned on her quite angrily. 'Who should there be in the house? Of
course there's no one in it. The fire began at the top, and it's not
likely any one would stay up there to be burnt,' she cried, for this
thought had never struck her; she had taken it for granted that the
servants would have escaped at once. After the first fright she added
more calmly, 'Of course they are safe. Balmoral is only three stories
high, and the top story is only attics and storerooms and servants'
bedrooms, and they are not likely to be up there at this time of the day.
But, pray, don't go suggesting horrors of that kind to mother, or you
will make her quite ill.'
'I'm sorry if I upset you, and I know you've a feeling heart, though you
don't care about the house burning, so I'll say no more and hope for the
best,' said Naomi.
Sarah felt as if she could shake her for her determined pessimism.
However, she said nothing, but stood and watched the flames in silence
till they seemed to be dying down a little, and then she reluctantly
turned from the absorbing sight, and went downstairs to give her mother
the news.
'I think they've got the flames under, mother,' she said; but Mrs Clay
took little notice. 'Mother, don't you hear? They've got the flames under
at last.'
'Yes, my dear, I 'ear, an' I'm glad of it; but it's your father I'm
thinkin' about. I do 'ope an' pray 'e's safe,' she replied.
'Why shouldn't he be? The mills are all right,' said Sarah.
'Yes; but I don't know if 'e's there. I keep ringin' 'im up, an' there's
no answer, so 'e's not in the mills, for they always call 'im for the
telephone.'
'The old hands would; but, you see, everything is different now. Let me
try,' observed Sarah, taking up the receiver, and ringing, at intervals,
for some minutes. 'They are all looking at the fire from the lookout,'
she remarked at length, as she put the receiver down.
Mrs Clay shook her head. 'It isn't like your father to stand an' watch
'is property burn; 'e'll be up an' doin' somew'ere,' she declared.
'Would you like me to go and see if he is still there?' suggested Sarah.
Not that she supposed for a minute that her mother would allow her to go,
for she objected to her walking through Ousebank on ordinary occasions
when the mill-hands were out, so she was still less likely to let her go
to-day when the town was in a state of excitement never known before,
and, to crown all, their mills in a state of siege and their family so
unpopular.
But Sarah was mistaken. Her mother said gratefully, 'If you would just
run to the mills, dear, I should be very glad. Even if they won't let you
through, they'll tell you, or some one will tell you, if your father 'as
come out.'
Sarah was just starting for her room to fetch her hat, when she
remembered that she had no hat. She had come down with a shawl over her
head like the mill-lasses, for whom she hoped to be mistaken; and Naomi
had not thought of bringing one with the other necessaries which she had
made into a bundle.
'And I don't suppose you've got a hat to your name now, Miss Sarah,' the
maid observed gloomily when consulted on the subject.
Sarah gave her hair a brush, and remarked lightly, 'Well I must go
bareheaded. Perhaps it will please those people to see the state of
poverty they have reduced me to.' And off she started, regardless of
Naomi's protests and offers to go and get a hat somewhere.
'Eh, but she's a proud lass, is yon!' said more than one whom she
passed, her head high and her eyes looking straight ahead of her, not
seeing or noticing the groups through which she passed.
'Ay, she counts us the dust under her feet,' said another, and the group
agreed; while one of the number observed, 'Perhaps she'll think
differently when she sees her property laid in the dust;' and a younger
man laughed, though the others said, 'Nay, 'tis nought to laugh at. Clays
are no friends of mine; but I was always agin that. 'Tis a wicked deed
they've done up at Balmoral, and tricks with air-ships isn't a Yorkshire
way of fighting, though 'tis a dirty trick he've played us with his
foreigners.'
But Sarah had not the satisfaction of hearing any of the remarks
disapproving of the fire, and her heart swelled as she thought that all
Ousebank was glad of their loss; for no one--not even an acquaintance,
herself the wife of a mill-owner--stopped her to condole with her. Sarah
had no idea that it was her own repellent bearing that prevented them,
nor that this same lady went home and said to her family, with tears in
her eyes, 'It made my heart ache to see her walking alone through all
those crowds, with her head bare and face so grave. I'd have been glad to
take her hands and say how sorry I was; but she wouldn't look at me, but
passed me as if I was quite beneath her. I didn't dare to stop her.'
Nor, apparently, did the pickets dare--or care--to do so either, as Sarah
came straight up to the chief gate and knocked at it.
A cautious face appeared at the other side of a little window, and a
moment afterwards the little postern-gate was opened wide enough to let
her slip in, and speedily shut to with a clang by two men who were
posted there in case any one should attempt to enter with her.
'Thank you. Will you take me to my father?' she said to the men, whom she
recognised as old hands.
'He's in the dye-house, miss. They 're making a beautiful new colour, and
the master's rare and pleased about it,' replied the elder man.
'But the fire? Doesn't he mind about the fire?' inquired the girl.
The man looked at her, not understanding. The fire's all right, miss;
they made it a bit too hot this morning, but it's all right now. We've
got proper stokers and all,' he assured her, evidently thinking she was
afraid the engine was not being properly attended to, and alluded to
that.
It flashed across Sarah that they did not know of the fire at Balmoral.
Then her father did not know, and she would have to tell him! She went
very slowly towards the dye-house. This possibility had never struck her.
Even though they could not see Balmoral from Clay's Mills, there was the
telephone, and the pickets outside; but then Sarah remembered that for
some reason or other the telephone had been abandoned, and naturally the
pickets would not for obvious reasons choose to give the news.
She found her father and George in the dye-room as she had been told, the
former jubilant over the new shade, and George standing by apparently as
interested as his father.
'What! Sally? There's a brave girl to come and see the prisoners! But
it's an ill wind that blows no one any good. Here's George showing
himself quite a business man, with the makings of a fine wool-merchant
in him, and I never knew it. So that's all the strike has done--got them
two Clays to fight instead of one,' cried Mr Clay, and Sarah was struck
by her father's pride in George.
She did not answer, but stood looking appealingly at her brother.
Mr Clay misunderstood her, and said, 'You don't like the idea of a
merchant-brother; but you'll have to get used to it. I don't mean to let
him go back to college. He knows a lot of useful stuff, and these are
ticklish times.'
George understood his sister better, and, answering her look, said,
'What's the matter, Sarah? Is mother ill?'
Mr Clay looked anxiously at her. In his egotism he had not thought of his
timid little wife, whom all this might well have made ill; but that he
was not devoid of regard for her Sarah saw by his face.
'No, it's not mother; it's Balmoral.--Father, I thought you knew,' she
stammered.
'Knew what? Speak out, girl. What's happened there. Nothing short of an
earthquake could harm it; it's well enough protected.'
'It's burning, father,' Sarah blurted out.
The mill-owner looked at her unbelievingly, and laughed his boisterous
laugh. 'Burning! Nonsense! They couldn't get near it to damage it. Why,
there's fifty police up there guarding it, and a pretty penny it's
costing me--a pretty penny all this.'
Sarah looked pitifully at her father. 'They dropped fire from an
air-ship, father; but Uncle Howroyd and all his hands have gone up there
to try to put it out,' she hastened to add, for her father's face
terrified her.
He took no more notice of her; but turning to George, on whom he seemed
all of a sudden to rely, he said,' What does the girl mean with her
cock-and-bull story of an air-ship setting my house on fire? Why should
an air-ship'----He paused. 'How could they get an air-ship?' he
continued.
'Perhaps I'd better go to the lookout, father,' said George.--Come,
Sarah;' and he took his sister by the hand and hastened along the
dye-yard towards the spiral staircase to the lookout.
The mill-owner let them go without a word, not attempting to follow them,
for it was an arduous climb to the lookout, and the mill-owner was a
stout and heavy-built man, and had not been up there for years. He stood
for a little as if puzzled, then went to the entrance-yard to the porter,
and asked, 'Have you seen or heard aught of any fire at Balmoral?'
'No, sir; not except what Miss Clay said,' he replied.
Meanwhile Sarah was breathlessly hastening up the stairs, and telling
George all that had happened.
'Why didn't you tell us before?' he demanded.
'Because we never imagined you didn't know. I thought every one in the
town knew, and mother did try to telephone to you, but she couldn't make
any one hear,' explained Sarah.
George groaned, but made no more reproaches, and soon they came out on
the lookout.
The flames were still raging, though not so high. Evidently the petrol
had burnt out; but not so the fire, alas!
'It will burn to the ground,' George remarked, as he stood there with
glasses to his eyes. 'They are trying to save the west wing, but I doubt
if they will.'
'Oh George, let me look! I never thought of using glasses! Why, you can
see the people running about with buckets!' cried Sarah.
'It feels like a bit of myself gone; but you don't care, of course,' he
remarked, as he reluctantly tore himself away to go down and tell his
father.
'I do care. And, oh George, I'm awfully sorry for father! What will he do
or say?' cried his sister.
'I don't know. But how did mother take it?' he asked.
'She said it was God's will. Somehow, I don't think it surprised her; she
seemed to expect a disaster as soon as she knew about these foreigners
being brought in, and I don't think she'll care if only father is safe,'
said Sarah.
'Poor mother; she doesn't think of herself at all. Still, I know the
place is heavily insured. Father is too cautious a man not to see to
that, though he'll never get those pictures or their value back again,
nor his plate. I must try to break it to him; but it isn't a thing one
can break,' said George.
'Well, boy, what's this story? Any truth in it? More trees burnt?' asked
Mr Clay.
'They've done worse this time, father; they have managed to set fire to
the house. But Uncle Howroyd is working for all he's worth, and so are
his men, so let us hope they'll save the valuables,' said George.
He spoke so calmly and collectedly that his father failed to grasp the
extent of the calamity.
'I don't rightly understand. Is it the house that's on fire, and which
part?' he demanded. Evidently he only imagined that it was some small
outbreak which would soon be got under.
George hesitated. 'It's got a good hold of the house, sir--the fire, I
mean; but we can build it up again.'
'Build it up again? Build up Balmoral again? You don't know what you're
talking about. There's a million sunk in that house,' he cried angrily,
and yet he did not believe them till he saw George's pitying look.
'It's not really bad, my lad?' he asked.
'Yes, father, it's pretty bad; but the house is insured.'
The millionaire gave a yell of rage. 'If they've done it, by heaven they
shall pay for it!' And he made a dash for the front entrance.