[Illustration:
THE
CORNHILL
MAGAZINE
No. 242
NEW SERIES
Price
ONE SHILLING
Net
No. 680
AUGUST
1916.
LONDON: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE.]
[_All rights, including the right of publishing Translations of
Articles in the Magazine are reserved._]
_Registered for Transmission to Canada and Newfoundland by
Magazine Post._
* * * * *
BY SPECIAL [Illustration] APPOINTMENT
ARTISTS’ COLOURMEN TO THEIR MAJESTIES THE KING AND QUEEN AND TO H.M.
QUEEN ALEXANDRA.
WINSOR & NEWTON, LIMITED,
=MANUFACTURERS OF ARTISTS’ OIL AND WATER COLOURS of the FINEST QUALITY.=
=THE ‘SCHOLARS’’ BOX of ARTISTS’ MOIST WATER COLOURS.=
Designed to provide an inexpensive box of Artists’ Colours with a range
of tint and covering power approximately equal to the ordinary Students’
Box.
‘_In developing the faculty of observation in children, Drawing and
Colour Work is most essential. The Drawing and Colour materials should
always be of good quality, and suitable for the purpose for which they
are intended._’
Scholars’ Box of Artists’ Water Colours =Price 3s. net.=
Containing 8 Pans and 2 Brushes.
Refills for Scholars’ Box =Series 1, 2s. 6d.; Series 2, 4s.;=
=Series 3, 6s.; Series 4, 8s. per doz. net.=
Offices RATHBONE PLACE, LONDON, W.
* * * * *
=Rowland’s Macassar Oil=
=FOR THE HAIR=
It is the most reliable and the best preparation for the hair you can
obtain. 120 years’ success proves this. It
PRESERVES THE HAIR,
restores it when thin or withered, prevents baldness, eradicates scurf,
is specially adapted for Ladies’ and Children’s Hair, and is also sold in
a GOLDEN COLOUR for fair or grey hair. Sizes: =3/6=, =7/-=, =10/6=. Sold
by Stores, Chemists, and
=ROWLANDS, 67 Hatton Garden, London.=
* * * * *
_=For GOD, KING & COUNTRY.=_
THE CHURCH ARMY
has several Hundred RECREATION HUTS, TENTS and CLUBS for giving Rest and
Comfort to the Brave MEN of BOTH SERVICES
in the Home Camps and in Flanders, France, Malta, Egypt, Salonica,
Mesopotamia, East Africa and India. More than SIXTY on the West Front are
actually
Under the ENEMY’S SHELL-FIRE.
MORE are urgently required. Huts cost £300; Tents £150; Equipment £100;
Week’s Working, £5 Abroad, £2 at Home.
Cheques crossed ‘Barclay’s, a/c Church Army,’ payable to Prebendary
Carlile, D D., Hon. Chief Sec., Headquarters, Bryanston Street, Marble
Arch, W.
THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE.
AUGUST 1916.
_THE TUTOR’S STORY._
BY THE LATE CHARLES KINGSLEY, REVISED AND COMPLETED BY HIS DAUGHTER,
LUCAS MALET.
Copyright by Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. in the United States of America.
CHAPTER XXVII.
I drew aside the curtain, unlatched the casement, and leaned out. Upon
the elms in the Fellows’ Garden, the lawns, and laurel shrubberies,
moonlight lay soft and white. But looking upward I saw, above the angle
of the parapet, a great column of smoke, dashed with fiery flakes,
surging into the wind-swept sky. I hurried into my dressing-room, which
overlooked the inner court, and there a strange scene met my eyes. A
red glare, jets of smoke and angry flame deformed the opposite façade;
while, over the grass plats and paved ways of the little quad and about
the fountain in the centre, dark shapes rushed to and fro, raised hands
and upturned faces showing unnaturally pale and distorted in the dreadful
light.—A living page torn from Dante’s Inferno, it seemed.
The fire was here, then, close at hand, within the precincts of the
College itself.
Shocked and alarmed, I searched for my keys—I was always a careful
and methodical person—that I might lock away Hartover’s letter in my
desk. But my study lamp had burned low, and, between agitation and the
semi-darkness, I failed to put my hand on them; so thrust the letter
between the pages of a big lexicon lying on the writing-table, and ran
out, dragging on my gown.
When I got on to the landing I found I had not brought my sporting key.
I would have gone back for it; but the noise increased below, while
men, racing down from the upper stories, shouted, in passing, that the
Master’s Lodge was alight and lives endangered. I remembered that Mrs.
Dynevor, the Master’s sister, and her daughters—the young lady who
had made herself so innocently pleasant to me at dinner—were still
his guests, and this added to my alarm. After all, who would think of
entering my rooms at such a moment as this? I ran on, leaving my outer
door unfastened.
The whole population of the College seemed to be congregated in the small
quadrangle, from vice-master and senior fellows—‘grave and reverend
signors,’ equally able and ready to appreciate good wine, a good dinner,
an apt Greek quotation or pawky Latin joke—to gyps, scullions and cooks.
Under the direction of the city fire brigade, a chain of willing workers
had been formed passing buckets from hand to hand from the fountain to
the side door of the Lodge. But it was only too evident the fire had firm
hold, and the means of arresting it were sadly inadequate.
Anxious to know if the ladies were in safety, I made my way towards
the Master, who, calm and dignified, tried to pacify a little group of
terrified women—among whom I gladly recognised Mrs. Dynevor and her
younger daughter—torn from their sleep only half-clothed, and wrapped in
shawls and coverlets. But just as I reached him a cry of horror went up
from the crowd.
The Lodge, sandwiched in between the Chapel on one side and Hall on
the other, is the oldest portion of the College buildings, dating from
pre-Reformation times. Looking up, now, at the low narrow windows of the
third floor, I saw, as others had just seen, in the light of a sudden
outburst of flame, a girl’s face, her arms outstretched in agonised
appeal between the heavy bars.
‘Alice,’ the Master cried aloud, for the moment losing his fine
composure. ‘Alice, left behind in the blue bedroom! I thought she was
here. And—merciful powers—the fire between us and her!’
Careless of the restraints of age and of his official position, he broke
away, almost roughly, from poor Mrs. Dynevor, who clung to him weeping,
and rushed towards the side door. A sudden energy seizing me—I was half
maddened already by pity and excitement—I kept pace with him.
‘Show me where? Tell me how to reach the blue room, sir,’ I cried;
and calling to the nearest fireman, we three went on into the burning
house—while awed silence fell upon the crowd without.
What a labyrinth of a place it was, all wainscotted and panelled too,
the woodwork like so much tinder from age and dry rot! We ran through
passages choked with acrid fumes, up stairs dripping with foul water,
past the doors of pleasant studious rooms where we heard the fire hissing
and crackling within; finally half-way down a long corridor—and there we
stopped short. Ahead of us stretched an apparently impenetrable barrier
of smoke; and beyond it, felt rather than seen, a redness of bellowing
flame.
Three times we pushed forward into the smoke, and thrice staggered back
half senseless. The third time I got far enough to find the floor burning
and crumbling beneath my feet. All ingress was cut off.
‘Ah! the poor child, the poor doomed child,’ the Master wailed, stirred
to the depths of his kindly and genial nature. ‘She must die—and, oh! my
God, what a death.’
‘Can they raise no ladder to the window from the court? I asked,
distracted by the sight of my old friend’s grief.
‘What use? You forget the bars.’
‘Can we break through no party-wall?—from a side room?’
‘Yes—a side room. The door is there—within the smoke—on the left, if you
can reach it. God bless you for the thought—and we may save her yet.’
‘Have you an axe?’ I cried to the fireman.
‘Trust me for that, sir,’ he answered.
And we again passed into the curtain of smoke, hand in hand, I foremost.
Choking, blinded, stifled, in a hideous light which yet was almost total
darkness, I groped along the wall for the door. It could not have been
more than five yards off, but those yards seemed to lengthen into miles.
The Master gave in, not from lack of courage or determination, but simply
from physical exhaustion—and, with a groan, fell fainting.
‘Carry him back,’ I panted, and feeling for the fireman’s hand snatched
the axe from it.
‘Come back, too, sir,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘or you’re a dead man.’
But nothing was further from my thoughts, or from my wishes, than
turning back. A strange exhilaration possessed me. The heavy weight of
trouble about the dear boy, of trouble about Nellie, was lifted off me.
I felt strong and free in the choking red darkness of the burning house,
almost as I felt strong and free when I saved the pack, under the open
sky, on the crest of the fells high above royal Hover. The student, the
man of thought and of books, had given place to the man of action, of
adventure and practical achievement. I knew full well that I took my
life in my hand. What did that matter? If I lived, I lived; if I died,
I died; and—equally in either case—might God have mercy on my soul!
But, honestly I can declare, I never felt more at peace, more happy,
than as—half-asphyxiated by nauseous vapours—I groped my way along the
smoke-hidden wall, found the handle, turned it, and, opening the door,
passed into a comparatively clear atmosphere.
Slamming the door to behind me, I crossed the room and thrusting
some furniture aside, began hewing at the wall, with a singular
light-heartedness of fury. Mercifully the wall was only lath and
plaster. In less than five minutes I cleared a way into the fateful blue
bed-chamber beyond.
Ah! what a cruel sight! On my right flames flickered up the half-burned
door. The plaster was dropping from the ceiling. Blue tongues of fire
ran along the skeleton uprights. All one side of the room glowed red in
hideous decay. The bed-hangings were just flashing into a blaze.
Where was she, the innocent friendly young girl, with whom I had
conversed and to whose simple singing I had listened, so far from all
hint of tragedy and danger, but a week or two ago?
Crouched below the window, faint whether from that agonised crying for
help, or from terror, she had curled her limbs together and laid her down
to burn piecemeal. There was nothing to be seen among the white robes but
a long tress of brown hair and her poor little bare feet, which quivered
convulsively as though in momentary expectation the flame would reach
them and the torture begin.
‘Alice—Miss Dynevor,’ I called, but she did not move.
I tore a blanket from the bed, wrapped her in it, lifted her up and bore
her back through the opening in the wall, rudely enough.
And then?—How to escape I knew not. The door I had entered by, almost
impossible then, must be wholly so by now. The window was useless; the
lights too narrow for a body to pass through, even had they not been
barred. We were trapped indeed—the horrible moment only postponed awhile,
and for two lives now instead of one. Still that strange exaltation held
me. Never had I felt, as just then, the worthlessness of mere earthly
life. What did it signify to the world, what did it signify to me,
whether I was what men call alive, or what men call dead! I had tried
for once to live for some purpose; and—as it seemed—had failed. I had
thought, in myself, that I could help God; but God had chosen to go His
own way—or let the devil go his—and do without me. Now all I knew was
that, although I was not necessary to God, God was more necessary to me
than ever before. Yes, though He slew me, would I trust in Him!
Nevertheless, burn this young girl should not if I could help it. I made
up my mind what to do—quickly enough, as was needful, for the room we had
just left was all aflame. I had cut through one wall. I would try to cut
through another; and, if I could not, I would wrap the blanket so closely
round her that she should smother rather than burn⸺
All this darted through my mind, as thoughts are said to through a
drowning man’s, in an instant of time. Not three minutes, indeed, had we
been together in that second room before I was hewing at the wall.
The first stroke jarred me to the shoulders. This was of brick, then.
And how thick?—How could I tell? My heart sank within me, I own. A
four-inch wall I might pierce. But a nine-inch, a fourteen-inch—and those
forefathers of ours stinted neither material nor labour. They built
solidly. Heaven help me—for my arms were aching and stiff already; and,
even had they not been, I dared not strike too hard lest I broke the
axe-handle, which was light and thin.
A brief space, which seemed infinite, while the flames crackled behind us
and the room filled with smoke.
Again a brief space, and a frightful thought crossed my mind. Even if
I succeeded, what was beyond? Might not the adjoining room be on fire
likewise?
For the strain became too great, too prolonged. Exhausted as I was by
violent exertion in that stifling atmosphere, reaction set in. It was,
I honestly believe, more physical than moral; but once more I felt that
cruel sinking of the heart, along with almost uncontrollable terror of
the bodily torment surely awaiting me. Trapped, hopeless, lost—my arms
dropped at my sides.
Shame, though, shame that I should turn craven now! So, praying as I had
never prayed before, I heaved up weary hands and struck a desperate blow,
which—cracked the axe-handle. But for this I could afford to care little,
since I had felt the whole structure shake and bulge under that blow. I
clutched the handle in both hands, and butted with the axe-head at the
wall, using every ounce of force left in me.
A full yard of bricks and rubble fell outward with a mighty crash; and
I, lurching forward, saw below me, touched by slanting rays of white
moonlight, the wet steps of a winding stone stair. For some seconds I was
too weak, from sheer thankfulness, to move.
Then, not without an effort—for I felt childishly fearful of losing sight
of those cool wet steps for however brief an interval—I turned and raised
Alice Dynevor from the ground, bidding her wake, telling her all was
well, that we were saved; and gathering her in my arms, I put her, feet
foremost, through the jagged, blessed cleft in the wall.
As I did so, my ears were greeted by a cheer, and a dozen gownsmen
swarmed up the slippery stairway, strong young hands outstretched to
help, eager young voices pouring forth rejoicing and generous praise.
How good it was, how beautiful, how sustaining after the vision of hell,
which I had met, battled with, and, God be thanked, overcome and left
behind!
They would have borne us away in triumph in their enthusiasm; but Alice
Dynevor stood up, shrinking and drawing the blanket closer round her.
‘No,’ she faltered. ‘Take me—you take me—I am frightened—let no one touch
me but you.’
So, not a little affected by her trust in me, I gathered her up once
more, staggered down, and out into the sweet clear open air, while the
young men held me right and left. She had twined her arms tight round my
neck, still quivering and trembling in every limb.
In the courtyard the crowd fell apart, cheering, as the Master came to
us. He was calm and collected; but his face worked with emotion as he
lifted Alice Dynevor off my shoulder. And as he did so, I felt upon my
cheek, upon my lips—was it my fancy?—surely not—a kiss, warm and ardent.
A living woman’s kiss—the first I had ever known since my mother’s kisses
in childhood, long years ago.
I was somewhat of a stoic—stoic by ill-health and cold blood; stoic by
long self-restraint; yet that kiss made me start and shudder, not with
pain. I could not forget it. The sensation of its impress remained with
me for many hours.
I ascertained that, although the Master’s Lodge was practically gutted,
a fair proportion of its contents in the way of books and furniture was
saved. The fire, successfully checked right and left, had spared both the
Chapel and Hall. With that assurance, worn out both in body and mind,
bruised, scorched, begrimed, a sorry enough sight, I managed to slip out
of the kindly and excited throng unobserved. Assuredly I had earned my
sleep to-night!
But another disquieting episode was in store for me before I got it.
For as, wearily and painfully, I climbed my staircase, I heard footsteps
coming out from my rooms. I hurried to the best of my power; but, ere I
reached the first landing, they travelled on cautiously to the second.
I followed thither. Doors stood open on to rooms, empty and dark, for
the men were still busy in the court below. But in one I saw a twinkling
light. I entered, without apology, to find friend Halidane, hastily
divesting himself of coat and waistcoat preparatory to going to bed.
‘My dear Brownlow!’ he exclaimed, with effusive cordiality, though, as I
fancied, some confusion. ‘What brings you here? What do you want? Alas!
I see you are hurt. Let me come down and dress your wounds.—Nay, nay,
do not deny me the christian joy of tending on a christian hero in his
suffering and distress.’
‘You were in my rooms just now, were you not?’ I asked bluntly.
‘I—why should I be in your rooms? Or rather, indeed, why should I not?
I looked in at your door, it being unfastened, hearing you had left the
quad, and longing to assist you after your fatigues. But, finding no
light, came upstairs at once. I assure you—Ah! do not deny me—let me help
you to prepare for rest.’
‘No, thank you,’ I said, convinced, from his very anxiety to allay my
suspicions, that he lied. Smug though his countenance was, he could not
hide an expression which spelled guilt—at least so I thought. As for his
not looking me in the face when he spoke, he never did so—hence nothing
could be inferred from that.
I turned to go, while he alternately bepraised my conduct and bemoaned
my sufferings—one as fulsomely as the other. He followed me to my door,
nervously, as I thought; but I sported him out firmly, if civilly,
leaving him in no doubt that I did not covet his presence. I lighted a
lamp, and then I hastened to examine the big book. I reasoned with my
alarm, for it was not possible that he knew Hartover’s letter lay hidden
in it. But alarm remained. I was constantly and radically distrustful of
the man. Tired out though I was, before all things I must make sure the
letter was safe.
Yes, it was safe enough. With a sigh of relief I locked it away in my
desk. But what was that on the shiny surface of the table?—A large drop
of tallow.
All my suspicions revived. I opened the lexicon again. I did not know at
what page I had put in the letter, but I found out only too soon. Inside
the leaf edges was a smear of tallow, which led me to notice a couple
more big drops badly defacing the text. Clumsy rogue! For surely there
was a candle on his chimney-piece when I saw him upstairs? Still, it
might have been the gyp or bed-maker. No; they would certainly be at the
fire, and what could they be doing in any man’s room at four o’clock in
the morning?
Blaming myself bitterly for my carelessness, I undressed; and lay
tossing, sleepless, till dawn, what with exhaustion, excitement, the
dread that prying hypocrite had learned my dear boy’s secret, and—must I
admit it?—the memory of Alice Dynevor’s kiss.