The London footman was rolling out the dressing-gong as if he had been
apprenticed to a bronze, when Ned Blackborough returned from his sick
friend at the Seaview Hotel; but he took no heed to its warning, and
turning down a side passage sought a room in the older part of the
house where, as a rule, his uncle was to be found.
And sure enough, there he was, seated at his so-called writing-table,
and turning round a trifle startled, pen in hand, at the sound of the
opening door. But Ned's quick eye detected neither paper nor ink. The
pen, then, was a mere shelter against the unlooked-for visitor.
It was a quaint room, full from floor to ceiling of the man and
his immediate forbears, that succession of Sir Richards and Sir
Geoffreys who had inherited the ever-lessening estate of Pentreath for
the last two hundred years. Fishing-rods, guns, hunting-horns, and
dueling-pistols testified to their amusements, a tin box labelled
"Pentreath Estate Records," to their occupation, and a complete set of
the _Annual Register_ and _Gentleman's Magazine_ to their literary
tastes. There was a weighing-machine also, and in a glass case the
sword presented to the then Sir Richard by Prince Charlie; for the
Pentreaths were always on the losing side in everything. Yet they had
always held their heads high in the past.
But now Sir Geoffrey's haggard face looked as if it had been seeking
refuge in the hands, one of which he held out in kindly greeting.
"So it's you, Ned!--like old times. I'm glad to see you back again, my
boy."
"And I'm glad to be back, sir," he replied, paused, and then feeling
there was no good in beating about the bush, made a plunge.
"I've got something to say to you, sir. We are leaving to-morrow
morning, and I may not have another opportunity----" he paused again.
"Not much time before dinner," said Sir Geoffrey, consulting his
watch. "But fire away. Going to get married?--eh?"
"Perhaps," said Ned coolly, "but this is about the hotel."
"Damn the hotel! What's up now?" Never was curse more heartily or more
hopelessly given. "Well--go on."
"I don't know who is responsible for installing the electric light,
but it isn't safe. The wires are always fusing. They keep it very
dark, but my friend--who is a bit of an electrical engineer
himself--found out when he was awake last night----"
Sir Geoffrey's face was hidden by his hand again as he interrupted Ned
with a short laugh.
"Oh! that's it--why, they always 'krab' each other's work--always!
And--and your money's safe enough now; the place is insured."
"I wasn't thinking of the money, sir," cried Ned outraged. "I was
thinking of all those women and children."
Sir Geoffrey's face came up from his hand full of such passionate
resentment that Ned was fairly startled. "By Gad, sir!" he cried, "and
what right have you to suppose I don't think of them? night and day,
sir--day and night!" Then his eyes finding Ned's, he stretched out his
hand towards him in almost childish helplessness. "Oh, Ned! Ned!" he
said, "you can't think what a relief it is to talk of this with--with
one of ourselves--with--with a gentleman instead of a cursed money
grubber--though I will say this for Hirsch, he isn't a cad."
"Then you've known of this before, sir," said Ned slowly. "I see----"
"Known! My God! Ned, what haven't I known since the devil entered into
me to start this thing! I wouldn't tell you, Ned, for I knew you'd be
like Helen; but I told the heir, and he liked it. All he wants is
money. And I--all I wanted was to make something--just something for
Helen after poor old Jeff--went. He'd have looked after her, you
see--the Pentreaths have always kept our women well--always cared for
them. But he died! Ay!"--here his trembling lip stiffened itself,
"died as a Pentreath should for his Queen and his country."
In the pause that ensued Ned thought bitterly that he had died in an
attempt to hold the yeomanry of England from showing the road to the
rear. That was the truth, and behind that truth what a record of
ignorance, ineptitude, greed of gain. Nothing for nothing, not even
patriotism, was the modern motto; a cheap loaf and a disintegrated
empire--_caveat emptor_ even in the face of war.
"You can't believe it all, Ned," went on Sir Geoffrey, speaking now
with less passion but more eagerness, as if his memories brimmed over,
"until you've been through with it. I meant it all to be above board,
but it wasn't. The jobbery was awful. Every man just clamouring for
money. A gentleman oughtn't to touch a thing like that--it's pitch,
Ned. He has to keep in with builders and masons and plumbers--Oh, my
God!--the plumbers!--all thinking of nothing but 'pay, pay, pay.' Ah!
Kipling knew the game when he wrote that refrain for England's
heroism, her patriotism. It will go down to the ages, Ned, as one
man's insight into what we English are becoming." He was walking up
and down the room now, restlessly. "They were all bad, but Jenkin was
the worst--and he ought to have known. It was his nephew who put in
the electric plant. You'll say I ought to have struck, Ned, and so I
ought, but your money was gone, Ned, and their's too, poor devils!--a
lot of the farmers and people only put in a few pounds because it was
my idea, you see. It had to go on. And what did I know about sea-sand
and second-class putty. It isn't gentleman's work and that's a fact.
But the jolly old Atlantic knew sharp enough and sent salt through the
plaster and sea-spray through the concrete.... Then, when we were in a
bad way, and Jenkin--pettifogging tradesman!--all for saving every
penny, I met Hirsch. Between ourselves, Ned, he began by fancying
Helen, and I--I--well! He isn't a cad, you know, and half those men
one meets are; yet their wives don't--don't seem to mind."
He paused and looked at Ned Blackborough appealingly, but he was
inexorable.
"Hardly the man I should have thought you'd have chosen, sir, as the
father of your grandchildren."
Sir Geoffrey took it full in the face without flinching. "No," he said
simply, "I suppose not. But I've gone down, Ned, gone down terribly. I
sometimes wonder if she--if your aunt, I mean, would know me again
if--if I saw her."
He took a turn or two without speaking, then gave an afterthought
excuse which made Ned smile, and yet feel inclined to curse.
"But there mightn't be any children, you know. What good would they
be--the old place has gone from the Pentreaths--gone utterly. Let me
see--where was I? Oh yes! Hirsch came and saw it, and said it was the
finest site in Britain. And so it is. There's not a better for health
or beauty than Cam's point. So he put us on our feet again, and spent
an awful lot on what he called 'colour wash.' At least it seems an
awful lot to me, and Jenkin was wild. But we had to run it, or the new
company wouldn't have caught on--we have to make it fizz, you see--but
I wish to God I'd never begun,--I wish to God I'd never begun----"
He was still walking up and down muttering to himself.
"And meanwhile," asked Ned, in spite of his supreme pity, "what is to
be done? The wires may fuse any moment--so Charteris thinks----"
Sir Geoffrey caught at the doubt--"It's not so bad as that--I don't
think it's so bad. When the season's over and the new company secure,
we shall put a new plant in and insure the place properly. And
meanwhile we are awfully careful. I was two hours there to-day myself,
seeing what the workmen had done; and it was quite a little thing--put
out in a moment."
"But you don't know anything about electricity, do you, sir?" asked
Ned quietly, "and I thought you said it was insured."
Sir Geoffrey's face reddened. "Yes, in a way. Hirsch insured when he
came in. He wouldn't put his money in without it."
"Would he put his wife and children in, I wonder?" asked Ned bitterly.
"But I still don't quite understand about the insurance----"
Sir Geoffrey fidgeted. "I'll get Hirsch to explain. It's all right, I
believe, though. But they'll insure anything nowadays, if you pay a
decent premium--any mortal thing." He paused and stood the image of
hopeless perplexity; and then--rather to his relief--the dinner gong
sounded. "Good Lord! And I'm not dressed," he muttered, "we'd better
go."
But as he reached the stairs where they divided, he held out that
friendly, welcoming, family hand again, saying:--"Thanks, Ned, it's
been such an awful relief not to be thinking of money. I suppose when
one comes into so much as you have, that--that you don't think of it
any more?"
Was it so, Ned Blackborough wondered. Hardly; for Mr. Hirsch had
millions and still thought of more. No! he personally had been tired
of money for some time. _Caveat emptor_ was an excellent legal if not
absolutely moral axiom; but when men allowed your millions to confuse
the issue in their treatment of you, then--then one could wish the
millions were not in the equation!
And of late--ever, in fact, since he had left the floating deposit and
had seen Aura--he smiled at the remembrance of her standing framed in
scarlet and white, handing back the sovereign with that peremptory
"Take it please!"
Why should not he and she go forth in the wilderness in their
sandalled feet to forget--and to remember? That was life. To forget so
much, and to remember so much that one had forgotten.
He pulled himself up after a time from the unaccustomed line of
thought or reverie, telling himself it was all nonsense--sheer
nonsense. Yet it was attractive.
Suddenly the words "Go! sell all that thou hast," recurred to him,
making him wonder if it were a hard saying or no. For the moment he
felt inclined to obey it literally.
They were halfway through dinner ere Lord Blackborough appeared at the
table. To begin with he had wired to his valet for dress clothes, and,
accustomed to the routine of good service, had expected to find them
in his room. They were not, however, and only by the help of a tearful
little Cornish maiden at whom all the racketty job servants from
London were swearing profusely as she fled about trying to do
everything at once, did he discover his suit-case in the servants'
hall, where two lordly _chauffeurs_ accosted him scornfully as some
one's belated valet. He escaped from them--and from the cook who,
solemnly drunk, was using inconceivable language to the _entree_ she
was dishing up--only to find that his man had forgotten to put the
studs in his shirt. Whereupon he also cursed as he broke his
finger-nails over the job. And yet all the time at the back of his
brain, the thought of Aura lingered, and in the front of it his
uncle's face, so foolishly, childishly, helplessly wanting money.
What else had the old man expected but chicanery when he dabbled in
the Pool. It was nothing but a clutching whirlpool of hands trying to
grasp at a golden sovereign in the centre! Every one clutched, he as
much as any one. Then with a jar, his mind reverted to the shade of
many a tree he had seen in India, where men lived, and apparently
lived happily, possessed of nothing but their souls, devoid of all
things save the inevitable garment of flesh.
The shade of a Bo-tree!
This certainly was not it, he thought, as with a smiling apology he
slipped into the empty place and found himself in the battle-ground of
a heated discussion.
A trifle dazzling surely, these lights and flowers and fair women.
Helen looked well in white at the head of the table between Mr. Hirsch
and Dr. Ramsay; and, thank Heaven! she had left off weepers in the
evening. What a difference there was between lace and stiff crimped
muslin; and how young she looked.
The rapidity of thought is immeasurable, the velocity of its vibration
untranslatable in terms of mere human flesh and blood. These thoughts
and millions of others suggested by the whole _entourage_ which in a
second became part of Ned Blackborough's life-experience, passed into
his mind and left him free at once to listen to his cousin's gay--
"Here's Ned! I'll appeal to him! Do you think it fair that we women
shouldn't have votes?"
"We shall have to settle our terminology first, Helen," he replied in
the same tone. "What is fair? I presume what Mrs. Tressilian considers
to be right."
"_That_ isn't fair if you like," she retorted. "Fair is"--she paused.
"Exactly so!" laughed Peter Ramsay. "Is there an outside standard or
is there not? That is the question."
Mr. Hirsch, who always wore white waistcoats in the evening (they were
not so becoming as black ones) answered it.
"Of course there is a standard--the general consensus of opinion."
"Made up of units?" suggested Dr. Ramsay.
"Quite so!" retorted the financier, "but it gives the limit of safety.
Between certain lines you can negotiate--even on the Stock Exchange,
ha, ha!" His laugh was curiously explosive and shook him from head to
foot.
"But surely there _is_ a standard," said Helen softly.
"There is a standard which, collectively, we accept, Helen. It comes
back in the end to our personal verdict, I'm afraid," said her cousin,
"and it is curious how that verdict varies," he continued addressing
Mr. Hirsch. "You, I expect, believe in the law of supply and demand.
Now, I feel, somehow, that if I were to charge a thousand pounds for a
glass of water which a distracted husband wanted for his dying wife, I
should be doing a detestably mean thing, even though the man was quite
willing and able to pay for it." There was a pause.
"That is rather a stiff example," said Ted Cruttenden; "but
theoretically, a man surely has the right to get the best price he can
for his wares; without that axiom commerce would come to an end."
"What would the world be without it, I wonder?" remarked Dr. Ramsay.
"Supposing it was made penal for any one to take more than ten per
cent. profit----"
"I should be a pauper," laughed Mr. Hirsch, his bright eyes dancing.
"That would not suit me at all. Why, I should have nothing over to
give away, and my charities cover my sins. Imagine it, a world where
there was no '_coup_,' where your brains were of no use to you. Pah!"
He poured himself out a glass of water abstractedly, and drank it as
if to take away the taste.
He was in great form that night, the rebuff of Helen's refusal to
drive home with him having acted on his abundant vitality much as the
attempt of a rival on the Stock Exchange to limit his freedom of
action would have done, that is, it stimulated his determination to do
as he chose.
And the others seemed in high spirits also, so that even Ned forgot
the very existence of the Seaview Hotel, until some one said
laughingly that there must be electricity in the air, or magnetism, or
hypnotism, and suggested a _seance_ of some kind.
"No," cried Lady Wrexham, who posed as being well in with the
Psychical Research Society. "Let us crystal gaze--or stay, a magic
mirror. Only a little ink in the palm of the hand, Mrs. Tresillian. It
so often comes off when I'm in the room, and I'm sure you could
'scry,' I see it in your eyes."
Helen's caught Dr. Ramsay's instantly, almost resentfully, but he was
silent.
"Perhaps I'm a witch also, who knows?" she said, speaking at him. "Old
Betty Cam was an ancestress of ours, wasn't she, father? and she was
the devil's own warlock. But you shan't be disappointed, Lady Wrexham.
There is a real magical crystal that came from Thibet somewhere in the
house. I will find it for you to-morrow, or rather to-day, for it is
past twelve o'clock. Time for every one who isn't a witch to be in her
bed, surely."
There was a decision about the remark which would not be gainsaid, so
the ladies, some with, some without lights, dawdled upstairs like wise
and foolish virgins, calling down jokes and good-nights to the men on
their way to the billiard-room, while Ned Blackborough, seizing his
opportunity, waylaid Mr. Hirsch and begged for five minutes in Sir
Geoffrey's den.
"About the hotel," echoed Mr. Hirsch when Ned broached the subject.
"_Pardon!_ But excuse me if I change my cigarette for a cigar. There
is always so much to be said concerning that business."
He spoke with a smile, but his face had hardened at once, and Ned,
listening, could not but admire his companion's uncompromising
directness. He was aware of course, he said, that the money Sir
Geoffrey had invested was a loan from Lord Blackborough, and therefore
he treated him, as a shareholder, a large shareholder, with absolute
freedom.
Well! Mr. Hirsch had found Sir Geoffrey in difficulties, and had
helped him. Why? Because, having a great _penchant_ for Mrs.
Tressilian, he was glad to be of use. The hotel would practically have
to be rebuilt. At present its condition would disgrace a jerry-built
villa near London. And they had perpetrated this inconceivable sham in
full face of the Atlantic.
But it was always the way when such schemes were not properly floated
at first. There never was enough money to allow for the inevitable
leakage. Then little men had little ways, and the methods of a
tuppenny--ha' penny ring, like this had been, were simply horrible.
But the site was gigantic, absolutely gigantic, and if you could only
get rid of that bloated mechanic Jenkin and his gang, you could make
anything of it. But they were incurably vulgar--they had wanted a
gramaphone in the hall, they allowed one in the steward's room.
The words reminded Ned that, as he walked up to the hotel, lost in
admiration of that marvellous sea surging against the sheer cliff, he
had been greeted by shrieks of laughter and the sound of a double
shuffle done to the latest music hall "catch on." And he smiled.
Hirsch was right. It was incurably vulgar. Who was it who said that,
since nowadays he had to choose between solitude and vulgarity, he
chose the former?
Mr. Hirsch's cigar had actually gone out in his irritation, but he was
alight again and went on.
Regarding the insurance? Yes. He had made a temporary arrangement to
secure his own money and Sir Geoffrey's, and a little over; you could
secure anything nowadays by a high enough premium. In fact, the best
thing that could happen now, if he might be excused for saying so,
was--was a fresh start--without Jenkin! The hotel would practically
have to be rebuilt anyhow at the end of the season. Meanwhile,
regarding the electric light. It was bad--that was Jenkin again--but
they were exercising extreme care, and could do no more.
"But supposing," began Ned.
"My dear Lord Blackborough," said Mr. Hirsch, with a curious smile as
he arose and pulled down his white waistcoat, "I never deal in
suppositions. As a business man, I can't afford it. I know this has
been worrying Sir Geoffrey, who has old-fashioned ideas of
responsibility, but--ah! here he comes. I was just saying, sir, how
disturbed you were this morning about the slight alarm at the Seaview
last night. But, as I told you, it really lessens the odds of its
occurring again. To make any fuss just at present, when you need to
get all the money you can in order to start the thing fair, would be
suicidal. I don't, in fact, see that we are bound to do any more than
we are doing. There is a certain risk in all large buildings as badly
supplied with water as this one is. But surely one must credit people
with eyes. _Caveat Emptor!_ Lord Blackborough, _Caveat Emptor!_ That
immoral but comfortable piece of wisdom is the backbone of all
reasonable speculation. Good-night. If I may, I'll have some whisky
and water in the billiard room on my way upstairs."
Ned came back from the door and looked at his uncle.
"Well, sir," he said, "what is to be done?"
Sir Geoffrey's face was a study of irresolution. "Let's leave it till
to-morrow, Ned," he said at last; "the night will bring wisdom. But I
expect Hirsch is right. He has a wonderfully clear head; and I only
wish that Helen----"
"I would leave Helen out of the business if I were you, sir,"
interrupted Ned angrily.
It was intolerable to think of her as possible part payment. As he lit
his candle and made his way to the old wing, "among the ruins," as she
called it, he told himself that he had half a mind to buy out all
other interests and spend an extra thousand or two in throwing the
whole gim-crack building over the cliffs. And it was all so useless!
Helen didn't want the money; she was craving to live on an hospital
nurse's pay.
"Ned," said a voice at the door, just as he had taken off his coat,
"let me in, please, I must see you."
It was Helen herself. Her eyes were blazing bright, her face was pale.
She had flung a white shawl over her bare shoulders, yet she shivered.
"Ned," she said swiftly, "thank God you're here! You must come with
me--you will, won't you? Put on your thick shoes and come as you are.
It is quite warm--there is only a fog."
"Come," he echoed, "come where?"
She seemed a trifle confused, and passed her hand over her forehead.
"Down to the point, of course; they must be warned----"
"Warned of what? What have you heard?"
"I didn't hear, I saw. Ah! do come quick, I ought to be there, you
know, showing a light."
She spoke in curiously even tones, and for an instant Ned thought she
was sleep-walking or dreaming. One of those deadly dreams of excessive
hurry in which, no matter what you do, thought leaves the labouring
body far behind.
"You saw it! But where, and what?"
She was silent for a second, looking at him half-dazed, then she spoke
quite naturally. "It was in the crystal--the one they brought from
Thibet. He said I could, and so I saw----"
Suddenly her whole bearing changed.
"Fire! fire! fire!" The cry, loud and clear, came as she turned and
fled, he after her down the dark passage, led by the glimmer of her
white gown.
Had she gone mad, or had she really seen something?
There was a little outside door, once the postern gate of the old
Keep, which opened at the angle of the wing and the main part of the
house. He followed her through that, losing her almost immediately in
the dense white fog which clung to the damp walls. The windows of Sir
Geoffrey's study were open, and as he ran past them, following the
path, he heard something which sent the blood in a wild leap through
his veins. It was a furious insistent ringing of the telephone call
bell, which Sir Geoffrey, in his first delight with his new toy on the
point, had put in so that he might be constantly in touch with the
workmen.
Then something _was_ wrong. What? As he spurted ahead towards Helen's
ghost-like figure seen in the clearer atmosphere beyond, he asked
himself how she could have known.
"Where are you going?" he called breathlessly, "that isn't the way to
the hotel."
She turned for a moment, then ran on, her voice coming back to him,
"It is the light--the light on Betty Cam's chair--the light for the
ship."
"Helen! Helen! go back, what good can you do? Let me go and see," he
called, striving desperately to overtake her; but she was as swift as
a hare, and so dimly seen, too, dodging about among those huge
boulders. And everywhere the sea-fog hung thick. "Helen! Helen!" His
cry came back to him, but no other sound did he hear save the rising
roar of the waves as he neared the cliff.
Right ahead of him rose Betty Cam's chair. Well! if she was going
there he would catch her up then; and he would see--yes! he would see
from there if anything was wrong.
For a moment he saw her above him,--on the sky-line was it? And, if
so, why was the sky so clear? Was there a glow? Great God! there was!
a glow in the sky and at her feet.
"Helen! Helen!" he cried as he sped on. "Tell me, what is it?"
There was no answer, but the next instant he had gained the crest, and
could see. It was fire, but fire seen through fog. The strangest
sight--a huge vignette, a magic-lantern slide, sharp in the centre,
fading to an aureole. Close as they were, he could see nothing save
dim shadows in the blaze of light.
"The ship! the ship! It is coming so fast--oh! so fast," said a
monotonous voice beside him. Helen--Good God! how ill she looked, all
unlike herself--was seated on Betty Cam's chair, pointing with her
right hand far out to sea.
"Nell!" he said swiftly, "Come! I can't leave you here, and I must get
down at once, the road's just below us, they will need all the
help----"
As he spoke he knew some was coming, for a live spark showed swift
curving through the white fog where the road should be, racing like a
great fuse to the heart of a mine. It must be a motor--Hirsch's most
likely--Thank Heaven he was at least a man of action! Yes, that was
his voice coining back as the light flashed, raced, disappeared.
"For God's sake, be calm, sir, we've done all we could, we'll do all
we can!"
Not true! not true! except the last. "Helen!" he cried roughly, "your
father--come!"
Did she smile? He did not wait to make certain, but leaving her,
dashed down the hill. Halfway he turned doubtfully, hoping she had
followed him; but, already almost lost in the mist, he saw the lonely
figure with the faint glow about it still seated on Betty Cam's chair.
As he dashed on again a curious shuddering boom rolled through the
fog. He wondered vaguely what it was, but his whole mind was set on
that nebulous circle of flaming light. He was nearer now, the
vignetting grew sharper, towers and balconies began to loom luridly,
beset by tongues of flame. It must be all on fire--a wide sweep from
end to end.
Again that shuddering boom--what was it? My God! Could Helen be right
again, and was it a ship in distress? As he ran, he counted ten,
twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, fifty-five, sixty. A ship! a ship,
indeed! Was there to be no ending or horrors? He was on the upward
rise now. The aureole had gone. He could see the flames leaping while
the crowd stood still.
A large crowd, thank God! so they must be all out surely!
He met a man running back, calling as he ran, "A ship in distress on
the rocks--the life-boat--more help needed there, come!"
"Are they all out?" he shouted, and the man nodded as he ran.
A relief, indeed!
He slackened speed, as more fisher-folk ran past him back to _their_
work, _their_ trade.
All out! my God! what a relief! No! by Heaven! There was a sudden stir
in the crowd, and high upon the furthermost seaword balcony, as yet
untouched by the flames, a little white figure showed bending over the
balustrade, and calling to some one below.
The answer reached him, making him leap forward--
"All right, little lady! I'm coming!"
There was a struggle ahead of him, a tall figure breaking loose from
hands that would have held it back; and then his uncle----
"For God's sake," he shouted as he ran--"think of Helen!"
The voice arrested Sir Geoffrey for a second, and Ned never forgot the
look of that scared, kindly, distraught face he saw for a moment.
"I am thinking of her," came the answer. Then the pause ended.
Ned was after him without a moment's consideration; life seemed so
small a thing to him that he could not stop to think of it; but Ted
Cruttenden sprang forward, also, to hold him back. The Fates did that,
however, for as he would have plunged into the burning house, the
upper hinge of one of the wide hall doors gave way, and as it swung
inwards with a crash, just touched Ned's forearm, and snapped it like
a bulrush.
As he staggered, Ted had hold of him. "You can't," he said. "He knows
every turn, and may do it yet if the stairs stand. It's madness for
you. And my God! there's Mrs. Tresillian. Why did they let her come?
we didn't tell her on purpose----"
Ned, dazed with a pain he had hardly located, had only time to wonder
stupidly how she had managed to change her dress--she wore a coat and
skirt--before she was beside him clinging to his unhurt arm.
"Father!" she said. "Ned, where is father?"
He shook his head. "Doing his duty, I suppose," he muttered; "I tried
to follow, but got hurt. Try to keep calm if you can, Nell, there's a
chance still."
Yes! a chance, if the fire-proof stairs were fire-proof. She stood
quiet, silent; only once he heard her say to herself, "Why did I
wait--oh! why didn't I come at once?"
So the minutes passed, and the crowds of Camhaven fisherfolk giving up
hope of more excitement here tonight, sought it elsewhere, though
already a murmur had come out of the fog that there was no immediate
danger; a big ship was on the sunken rocks, and had established
communication with the shore. That was all.
And still the minutes passed, and Ned stood holding Helen's hand in
his.
Yet there was no sign of returning feet upon the fireproof stair.
A little breeze springing up had drifted the smoke south-west,
obscuring the balcony so they could see nothing.
Those who knew her began to look at her with pitying eyes. Then in an
instant something in which all else was forgotten--a sharp sound like
the crack of a rifle, a quick upburst of sparks, then a great crash,
and for a few moments silence and darkness.
The roof had fallen in.
"I'll take her home, Lord Blackborough," said Peter Ramsay, for all
her height lifting her easily. "You will be wanted here. Mr. Hirsch, I
may use your motor?"
"Broken," replied Mr. Hirsch, who was as white as a sheet, the tears
almost running down his cheeks. "I drove it myself, and I didn't
understand, but the Wrexham's is here. My God! what a frightful
thing--_shrecklich! schrecklich!_" His voice shook; these things were
not in the bond.
Yet one bond had been kept, for in an hour's time, when the flames had
eaten their full of the frail thing which had dared to usurp Cam's
point, they found Sir Geoffrey half-way down the stair caught in a
trap between two gaps in what had been scheduled as a fire-proof
staircase.
He held the child in his arms, her head, wrapped in his coat to
preserve her from the smoke, nestled close upon his breast.
"For ever never an-naye!" That promise anyhow had been kept as a
Pentreath should have kept it!