The idea of a fire—of a fire in one’s own house, darkly raging in the
silence of the night, threatening death to helpless sleepers in their
beds—is too overwhelming at first to allow the minds of the startled
sufferers in ordinary circumstances to enter into details. Mary, for her
part, found so many things to be grateful for,—first, she was so
thankful that all were safe—second, so glad to find that even the house
was not injured to any serious degree,—and, third, so proud of the
energy and zeal of her husband,—that the real loss was a long time of
becoming fairly visible to her. Before it dawned upon his mother,
Charley, worn out as he was by his exertions, had realised what it was;
and had felt, with a strange momentary thrill and shock through his
whole frame, that the foundations of the world were crumbling under his
feet, and that he dared no longer boast of the morrow. Loo too, who had
been almost enthusiastic about her stepfather in that first hour of his
heroism, had fallen back again, and was paler than ever, and looked more
wistfully out of her background with those great brown eyes. But still
Mary continued to kiss little Alf, who was rather impatient of the
process, and rejoice over her children. “If it had broken out anywhere
else,” she said, “we might all have been burned in our beds. Was it not
a wonderful interposition of Providence, Tom, when there was to be a
fire, to think it should be there? We had not even any associations with
the west wing—except you, dear—I am sure I beg your pardon—but you
rather enjoyed building the study, and you must make another one. I
shall always think it a special Providence the fire was there.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Mary,” said her husband; “it was not
Providence, it was that confounded old——Oh, Mr Gateshead! are you in the
least aware how this happened? Did you drop your candle, or a match, or
anything? or were you burning any of your papers? It is a horrible
misfortune to have happened just now.”
“But really, Tom, the house is so little injured it won’t matter for
to-morrow,” said Mary; “things can go on just as before.”
“Oh!” said her husband, with a little groan, “don’t talk so lightly; you
don’t know what’s happened. Gateshead, why on earth didn’t you go at
once to bed?”
“Mr Summerhayes, I’ll thank you to leave off that sort of thing,” said
the old lawyer, divided between fear and indignation. “I am not stupid,
sir, as you try to make people believe, though I am older than you are.
It’s a very strange circumstance, but if Providence has not done it, as
you say, neither have I. But I’ll tell you what is your duty, Mr
Summerhayes. Before I leave here, which shall be to-day, I’ll draw out a
draught-deed to correspond with this one that is unfortunately burnt——”
“What deed do you mean? burnt?” cried Mary, in dismay; “not _that_
deed——”
“Yes, Mrs Clifford—I beg your pardon, Mrs Summerhayes—exactly _that_
deed,” said the solicitor; “and you should not lose a moment in
executing it over again—not a moment, especially considering that
Charley is just of age.”
“_That_ deed!” cried Mary; “oh Tom!” She turned to him in simple
distress and lamentation; but he met her eyes with such a strange
defiance, and the colour rose so perceptibly in his cheek, that Mary
stopped short petrified. What did it mean? She turned round alarmed, and
met the curious eyes of old Gateshead, who was studying her looks, with
something like confusion. For the moment her heart, as she thought,
stopped beating in poor Mary’s troubled breast.
“You should not lose a moment—it ought to be done over again,” said the
old man, “while I am here, to prevent any informality. It ought at once
to be done over again.”
“Mrs Summerhayes unfortunately has no power to do anything,” said her
husband. “No such unfortunate chance was calculated upon at our
marriage. No right was reserved to her of making any settlement. You
know that well enough, Gateshead.”
“That can be obviated by your joining with her,” said the lawyer. “You
could do that, at least, till there’s time to take advice on the
subject; for burning only revokes where there’s an intention of
revoking, as you’re aware, Mr Summerhayes—and so long as we can prove
what was the general purport——”
“In that case, there’s no need for doing anything further,” said the
master of Fontanel.
“But the matter is too important to be left on a chance,” said the old
lawyer, anxiously; “nobody can ever tell what may happen. For Charley’s
sake you ought not to lose an hour. I’ll draw up a draft——”
“Oh, Tom, listen to Mr Gateshead!” cried poor Mary, trying to smile,
though her heart felt as if it were breaking, as she laid a timid,
beseeching hand on his arm.
Her husband threw her hand lightly off, and turned away. “There is no
reason in the world why we should rush into fresh documents,” he said.
“Stuff! we are not going to die to-day; and if we did die to-day, why,
Mary, your heirs are as safe as ever they were. I’ll think it over,
Gateshead, and see Courtenay about it. There is no hurry; and, upon my
word, whatever you may think on the subject, I have had about enough of
excitement for one day.”
“Does your head ache, Tom?” said Mrs Summerhayes.
“Abominably; and look here,” said her husband, exhibiting his hands,
which were considerably burned, “if I am to be made fit for presentation
to-morrow, you’ll have to nurse me, Mary. Come along, I have a great
deal to talk to you about. I beg your pardon, Gateshead, but now that
everything is safe, considering what I have before me to-morrow, I must
get a little rest.”
“Then I am to understand that you refuse to do anything in place of the
deed that has been burned,” said the old lawyer.
“Refuse! certainly not; I’ll think of it, and see Courtenay about it. We
can talk it over at dinner,” said Mr Summerhayes, walking away calmly
towards the house with his wife.
This conversation had taken place at the gardener’s cottage, within
hearing of Loo, who had all this time been standing at the window. When
Mary and her husband went away, the old lawyer uttered a furious and
profane exclamation. “He’ll speak to Courtenay. I’m not to be trusted, I
suppose; confound the upstart!” cried old Gateshead; “but I shan’t stay
here to be insulted by Tom Summerhayes. Lord bless us! what’s the
matter, my dear?”
This question was addressed to Loo, who came suddenly up to him,
overwhelming the old man with the gaze of her great brown eyes. “Tell me
only one thing—is Charley disinherited?” said Loo, grasping with her
slight but firm fingers the lawyer’s arm.
“My dear, you don’t understand it,” said Mr Gateshead.
“I understand it perfectly; is Charley disinherited?” asked the anxious
girl.
“Well, my dear, it depends on circumstances,” said the lawyer; “don’t
look at me so fiercely, it is not my doing. The deeds are
destroyed—that’s all. I daresay it won’t make any difference. We can
prove——Don’t cry, my dear child; _I_‘ll stand by you if he tries to do
anything—and you can tell your brother so. It shan’t make any difference
if I can help it—don’t cry.”
“I don’t mean to cry,” said Loo, with indignation; “is this why the fire
was?” The words seemed to drop from her lips before she was aware; then
a violent blush rushed over poor Loo’s pale face; she shrank back, and
took her hand from his arm, and turned her face away. “I did not mean to
say that; I meant to say—I understand,” said Loo, slowly. It was a very
woe-begone despairing face that she turned upon him when she looked
round again. The old man, who had known her all her life, patted her on
the head as if she had been still a child.
“Don’t be afraid, my dear, things will come straight; though your
stepfather has been rude to me, I will not go away for your sakes,” said
Mr Gateshead; but such a conversation as this could not be carried on.
The lawyer returned to the house to be present at the investigation into
the cause of the fire which Mr Summerhayes was already making; and Loo,
for her part, sick at heart, and in a state of the profoundest despair,
went out to seek her brother. It was just as well for both that they did
not meet that morning; for neither of the two in their hearts had any
doubt upon the subject. As for their mother, she kept by her husband’s
side, in a state of mind not to be described; taking hope by times;
listening with eager anxiety to hear any explanation that could be
offered; trying to believe that he only hesitated to replace the
destroyed deed because he had no confidence in old Gateshead, and
preferred to consult Courtenay; but in her heart feeling, like Charley,
that total shipwreck had happened, and that the foundations of the earth
were giving way.