THE landlord of the inn of the Green Dragon watched his two English
visitors ride away up the steep road that led to Beirnfels with
unquestionable regret.
They had been lodging at the Green Dragon for the past fortnight, and he
had discovered that English milords, whatever else they might be, were
not niggardly with their money. They required a good deal of attention,
it is true, and had a strange, outlandish predilection for innumerable
baths, demanding a quite unheard-of quantity of water for the same. And
at all unlikely hours of the day, too--when returning from a ride or
before going up to the castle to dine, mark you!
Still, they made no difficulty about paying--and paying handsomely--for
all they wanted, and if a man chooses to spend his money upon the
superfluous scrubbing of his epidermis, it is, after all, his own
affair!
And now the two English milords were taking their departure from the
Green Dragon and, so the landlord understood, proposed to stay at the
castle itself until their return to England.
It appeared that their lady-mother--who, it was rumoured in the village,
was the daughter of an English archduke, no less!--was coming to
Beirnfels and there was much talk amongst the village girls of weddings
and the like. Apparently the Green Dragon’s two eccentric visitors, not
withstanding their altogether abnormal liking for soap and water, were
much as most men in other respects and had lost their hearts to the two
pretty English ladies living at the castle.
So, no doubt, the “daughter of an English archduke, no less” was
coming from England post haste to enquire into the suitability of the
brides-elect--and also into the important point of the amount of the
dowry each might be expected to bring her future husband.
There was no question that Lady Anne was certainly coming post haste--in
reply to a series of joyful and imperative telegrams demanding that
she should pack up and come to Beirnfels immediately--“for we are all
enjoying ourselves far too much to return to England at present,” as
Nick wired her with an iniquitous disregard for the cost per word of
foreign telegrams. And Lady Anne, who always considered money
well-spent if it purchased happiness, proceeded to wire back with equal
extravagance that she was delighted to hear it and that she and her maid
would start at once.
It was a very happy party that gathered round the table in the great
dining-hall at Beirnfels on the night of Lady Anne’s arrival, and
beneath all the surface laughter and gaiety lay the deep, quiet
thanksgiving that only comes to those who have emerged out of the night
of darkness and sorrow into a glorious sunlight of happiness and hope.
After dinner, in the soft, candle-lit dusk--for Peterson had never
introduced the garish anomaly of electric light into the ancient
castle--Jean sang to them in that quaintly appealing, husky voice of
hers, simple tender folk-songs of the country-side, and finally, at a
murmured request from Blaise, she gave them _The House of Dreams_.
“It’s a strange road leads to the House of Dreams,
To the House of Dreams-Come-True,
Its hills are steep and its valleys deep,
And salt with tears the Wayfarers weep,
The Wayfarers--I and you.
“But there’s sure a way to the House of Dreams,
To the House of Dreams-Come-True.
We shall find it yet, ere the sun has set,
If we fare straight on, come fine, come wet,
Wayfarers--I and you.”
As the last words died away into silence, she looked up and met Blaise’s
eyes. He was leaning against the piano, looking down at her with a
tranquil happiness in his gaze.
“_Our_ House of Dreams-Come-True, Jean, at last,” he said softly.
She met his glance with one of utter trust.
“And we needn’t ever fear, now, that it will tumble down. But oh!
Blaise, if we had built on a rotten foundation, we should never have
felt safe--not safe like this!”
“No. You were right, belovedest--as you always have been, always will
be.” Then, very low, so that none but she should hear: “Thank God for
you, my sweet!”
*****
It was ultimately settled that the whole party should remain at
Beirnfels until the latter end of June, when they would all return
to England together and the two weddings should take place as soon as
possible afterwards.
“But we won’t have a double wedding,” declared Jean. “It’s always
supposed to be unlucky.”
“Do you believe in good and bad luck, then?” asked Lady Anne, smiling.
“I don’t know,” Jean answered seriously. “But it’s always just as
well to be on the safe side. Anyway, we won’t tempt Fate by running
unnecessary risks!”
“Besides, madonna,” added Nick, “in the excitement of the moment we
might get mixed and the parson hitch us up to the wrong people. The
average nerve-strain attendant upon the rôle of bridegroom will be
quite sufficient for me, thank you, without the added uncertainty as to
whether I’m getting tied up to the right woman or not.”
So spring lengthened out into summer, and, as the heat increased,
boating and swimming on the big lake that nestled in a basin of the
hills were added to the long rides and excursions with which they whiled
away the pleasant, sunshiny days.
Ever afterwards, the memory of those tranquil months at Beirnfels would
linger in the minds of those who shared them as something rare and
precious. It was as though for this little span of time, passed so far
away from the noise and bustle of the big world, they had pulled their
barque out of the busy fairway of the river and moored it in some quiet,
shady backwater. Then, when they were rested and refreshed, they would
be ready to face anew, with fresh strength and courage, the difficulties
and dangers of midstream.
“I’m sorry it’s so nearly over--this long, long holiday of ours,” said
Jean regretfully. “The only thing that reconciles me to the fact is that
after we’re married Blaise and I propose to spend at least six months
out of every year at Beirnfels.”
She was lying on her back in the shady wood whither they had ridden out
to lunch that day, staring up at the bits of blue sky overhead which
showed between the interlacing branches of the trees. The remainder of
the party were grouped around her, reclining in various attitudes of a
_dolce far niente_ nature, while from a little distance away, where the
horses were picketed in charge of a groom, came the drowsy, rhythmic
sound of the munching of corn, punctuated by an occasional stamp of an
impatient hoof.
“Yes, it’s been good,” agreed Lady Anne. “I shall never settle down
again properly as a dowager at the Dower House!” And she laughed
gleefully.
To her, it had been almost like a return to the days of her youth, for
“her four children”--as she called them--had insisted on her sharing in
all their active pursuits, and Lady Anne, who in her girlhood and
early married life had been a first-class horsewoman and a magnificent
swimmer, had consented _con amore_.
Blaise pulled himself lazily up into a sitting posture and glanced
toward the crimson glow of westering sun where it struck athwart the
tall trunks of the trees.
“You’ll none of you live to go back to England. Instead, you’ll be
dying of pneumonia and a few other complaints--if we don’t get a move
on soon,” he observed. “It’s almost sunset, and after that it grows
abominably chilly in this eastern paradise of Jean’s. Besides, I fancy
it’s going to blow great guns before long.”
It was true. Already a little chill whisper of wind was shaking the
tops of the trees, and before the party was fairly mounted and away, the
whisper had changed to a shrill whistling, heralding the big gale which
drove along behind the innocent seeming breeze which at first had barely
rocked the topmost branches.
It was a longish ride back to Beirnfels, and the sun had dipped below
the horizon in a sullen splendour of purple and red before the shoulder
of the hill, upon the further side of which the castle stood, came into
sight.
Now and again the moon peered out between the racing, wind-driven
clouds, clearly limning the bold, black curve of the hill against a
background of lowering sky.
Jean and Blaise were riding abreast, a little in advance of the rest,
engrossed by the difficulties of carrying on an animated conversation in
a high wind. As they swung round the bend in the road which brought the
hill’s great shoulder into view, Jean threw back her head and stared at
the sky above it with a puzzled frown on her face.
“Why... how queer!” she ejaculated. “The sun set nearly half an hour
ago and yet there’s still quite a brilliant red glow in the sky. Look,
Blaise--just above where Beirnfels stands.”
Blaise glanced up casually in the direction indicated, then suddenly
reigned in his horse and half-rose in the stirrups, staring at the red
glow deepening in the sky ahead.
“That’s no sunset!” he exclaimed sharply. “It’s--Great heavens, Jean!
Beirnfels is _on fire!_”
Even as he spoke a tongue of flame, mocking the dull glow with its
gleaming blaze, shot up like a thin red knife into the sky and sank
again.
A shout came from behind. The others had seen it, also, and recognised
its deadly import. The next moment the clatter of galloping hoofs echoed
along the road as the whole party urged their horses on towards home as
fast as they could cover the ground.
Soon they struck off from the road, taking a bridle-path which slanted
through the woods clothing the base of the hill, and as they emerged on
to the broad plateau where Beirnfels had stood sentinel through wind
and weather for so many years, the whole extent of the catastrophe was
revealed.
By this time the angry glow in the sky had turned dusk into day, while
from the doors and windows of the castle fire vomited forth as from a
furnace--upward in long, sinuous tongues of flame, licking the blackened
walls, downward in spangled showers of sparks that drifted towards the
earth like flights of golden butterflies.
Little groups of men and women, helpless as ants to stay the fire,
rushed futilely hither and thither with hosepipe and engine, while on
the smooth sward which fronted the castle lay piled enormous quantities
of household stuff a medley of fine old furniture, torn tapestry wrenched
from its place against the walls, pictures, mirrors--anything and
everything that could be dragged out into the open by eager hands and
willing arms.
The major-domo, an elderly, grey-haired man who had been born and reared
upon the estate and who had taken service with Glyn Peterson on the
day when he had first brought Jacqueline, a bride, to Beirnfels, caught
sight of the riding-party returned and came hurrying to Jean’s side.
The tears were running down his wrinkled face as he recounted the
discovery of the fire, which must have started either just before or
during the servants’ dinner-hour, when few people, of course, were about
the castle, and which had obtained a firm hold before it was detected.
The household staff, practised to a limited extent,--a fire drill had
been held once a month in Peterson’s time--had done their hest to cope
with the flames, but vainly. The high wind which had arisen had thwarted
their utmost efforts, and finally giving up all hope of saving the
interior from being gutted, they had confined themselves to rescuing
such valuables as could be easily removed.
There was the usual mystery as to how the fire had originated, and
several stories circulated amongst the chattering throng which hurried
hither and thither, momentarily augmented by the peasants who, at sight
of the castle in flames, had come trooping up the hill from the village
below.
The most likely story, and the one to which Blaise inclined to give most
credence, was that the child of a woman who worked daily at the castle,
escaping from its mother’s care and launched on an independent voyage
of discovery through the rooms, had knocked over a burning lamp. Then,
terrified at the immediate consequences--the sudden flaring of some
ancient tapestry, dry as tinder with the summer heat, near which the
lamp had fallen--he had bolted away, out of the castle and so home, too
scared to tell anyone of the accident.
But, as Jean commented mournfully, what did it matter how it happened?
Except from the prosaic viewpoint of the fire insurance company,
who would probably desire to know: all kinds of details that it was
impossible to supply!
For her, nothing mattered except that Beirnfels, her home from childhood
and the place where she and Blaise had proposed to spend a great part of
their married life, was a furnace of flames.
It was a splendid but very terrible sight The great, grim walls of the
castle stood four-square against the sky, charred and blackened but
defiantly impervious to the flames that were licking covetously against
the solid stone which fashioned them. Sentinel to the very end, they
reared themselves unvanquished, guardians still, though all that they
had sheltered through their centuries of watch and ward lay consumed
within their very heart.
Jean, standing beside Blaise and watching the upward tossing flames and
the crimson banner of the lowering heavens, spoke suddenly:
“‘And the sky as red as blood above it.’ Blaise, the last of Keturah
Stanley’s prophecies has come true!”
An hour later help was forthcoming from the distant town to which a
messenger had been despatched post haste as soon as it was realised
that the household staff, even with assistance from the village, was
hopelessly inadequate to cope with a fire of such magnitude. But it was
already too late to accomplish very much in the way of salvage. All that
remained possible was to quench that inferno of fire as soon as might be
and so, perhaps, save some of the outbuildings.
Hour after hour through the night, human endeavour fought with the
flames--subduing them again and again only to find them kindling into
fresh life at the gusty bidding of the wind, leaping redly from the
lambent heart of the conflagration, which glowed and pulsed and heaved
like some living monster intent upon destruction.
It was not until dawn was breaking that, with the dying down of the
wind, the flickering crimson light faded finally from the sky; and half
an hour later, when the fire had been at last extinguished, the village
folk, gathered about the scene of the catastrophe, had dispersed to
their homes.
Lady Anne, accompanied by Nick and Claire, started for the inn of the
Green Dragon, whither the landlord had hurried on ahead to prepare
temporary quarters for the now homeless little company from the castle.
But Jean and Blaise still lingered by the deserted ruins, loth to say
farewell to the place that had meant so much to them.
Beneath the misty azure of the summer morning sky, fanned by little
vagrant zephyrs--rearguard of the hurricane which had passed--stood all
that remained of Beirnfels--blackened, naked walls, stark against that
tender blue, brooding above a mass of cooling wreckage.
Jean’s mouth quivered a little as her glance took in the scene of utter
desolation.
“My House of Dreams,” she whispered brokenly.
She was silent for a few moments, her eyes embracing all that had once
been Beirnfels in a gaze which held both farewell and retrospect. And
something more--some vision of the future. In the dawn-light pearling
the sky above she recognised the eternal promise of Him Who “commanded
the light to shine out of darkness.”
Her House of Dreams! The inner meaning of the song had grown suddenly
clear to her.
When she turned again to Blaise, her expression was serene and tranquil.
Touched with regret perhaps, but bravely confident.
“I don’t think it matters, Blaise,” she said simply. “Beirnfels was only
a symbol, after all. My House of Dreams-Come-True isn’t built of stones
and mortar. No one’s is. It’s just--where love is.”
End of Project Gutenberg's The House Of Dreams-Come-True, by Margaret Pedler