Henry was awakened, having gone to bed early, tired, like the rest of
the world, and, like the rest, impatient for morning, by the sound of
the workmen’s bell.
“I seem only just to have gone to sleep,” he thought, yawning, and
turning his head to rest again. “Oh! Roberts!” as the bell rang on and
on, “you will crack our ears. Do be still!” and he put his head under
the clothes.
But the bell rang on, and Henry, now thoroughly awakened, looked out
into the room--it was quite dark.
“Why, what can the matter be?” he cried, darting out and opening the
shutters; and then stood for one moment transfixed and amazed with
horror. The night was day with the great flame that went up from Nora’s
house.
His clothes were on in one second, and he flew along till he reached the
spot, pausing only at a house where several workmen lodged to shout
“Fire! fire!”
He was almost the first on the spot. The bell had been rung by a
watchman when he discovered the fire, and the few who had assembled
seemed bewildered. Henry had to collect his scattered senses, and
organize an effective mode of overcoming the flames. Mrs. Ratcliffe and
all the inmates of that portion of the house were safe, and, as the
wind set in an opposite direction, the only danger to the old part was
from the sparks and bits of timber that flew about. But in the new
building the fire had got the upper hand. The roof was cracking, and the
flames were blazing all down the front of the house at least, and it
required violent action to over-master the conflagration.
James Field arrived shortly after Henry, and, being more experienced,
and having attended many fires in London, was more useful. Some
preparations in the possibility of such an event had been made, and when
once the arrangements were organized, it was soon apparent that the
flames would be got under. Long before morning dawned the worst was
over; but the first rays of light disclosed the mere shell of a house.
The work of so many months was destroyed.
When all danger was over, sore, bruised, burnt and black, Henry returned
to his lodgings to wash and dress; and then, ordering his horse, rode
off to Mr. Powderham, who lived about seven miles from Riddlemere.
He was broken-hearted. No one seemed to have any idea when or how the
fire had broken out. He could not blame himself for any negligence, but
he felt that the building was under his charge, and that under his
charge this misfortune had occurred. He would not indulge himself by
making an inquiry under his own auspices; he thought it his duty to go
first and inform Mr. Powderham of the event, and then act under his
authority.
Had he not been, as usual, hasty in his actions and decisions, he would
have found that James Field had already despatched a messenger to Mr.
Powderham; and before Henry, riding hard across country, had reached his
house, that gentleman, driving much more leisurely along the high road,
had arrived at Riddlemere.
His first step was an inquiry into the cause of the fire. As he trotted
along the road, although shocked, certainly very much shocked at the
accident, he could not refrain from an exultant “Ah! who was right? I
knew how it would be!” And the ardent desire that this firm conviction
might prove the right one, made him set about the inquiry in a spirit of
opposition to Henry. He was so sure he had been negligent that he
wished him to have been so.
James Field suggested the inquiry the moment he arrived. He gave a very
good reason.
“People have not yet had time to think. You will hear the truth if you
take them before they have puzzled themselves with thought.”
Mr. Powderham agreed, and sat down at once in Mrs. Ratcliffe’s little
private room to hear the evidences that could be given.
Henry was absent. This was James Field’s reason for hurrying it on. His
real conscious reason. Mr. Powderham had no such conscious reason. He
really did not wish or mean to be unfair; but owing to the state of his
mind regarding Henry, he did say to himself, “We shall get at the truth
better in his absence. He is too excitable for calm inquiry.”
Mr. Powderham sat down, and James Field stood behind him. A very few
words from the watchman who had discovered the fire having proved that
it originated in or near the new drawing-room, Mrs. Ratcliffe was
called. Mrs. Brook, however, said her aunt had been so tired with her
exertions all night, that she had persuaded her to rest; she could give
information equally well.
“Who, as far as you know, Mrs. Brook,” asked Mr. Powderham, “was the
last person that went into the new drawing-room?” “I believe, sir, it
was me myself; and yet, sir, I am very sure I did no mischief, for I
went in when it was broad day.”
“Do you mean that you shut the shutters in broad daylight?”
“I did not shut the shutters, sir, but I shut up the room. It was a
little before seven. I will tell you, sir, how it was. My aunt put off
our tea till after Miss Smith should come. When she did not come we were
too much disappointed to be in a hurry to take it, and we did not have
it till just upon seven; meaning, as we felt tired like, to go early to
bed.”
“And you shut the shutters of the rooms before tea?”
“Not the shutters, sir; but I went round the rooms and shut them up,
shut the doors, and drew down the blinds, and made sure that all was
right before we sat down to our tea.”
“And do you never shut the shutters at night?”
“Yes, sir, in a general way; but for the last week Mr. Devereux ordered
the windows to be kept wide open all night. He fancied there was a smell
of paint and plaster, and he said that was the best way to get rid of
it.”
Mr. Powderham put up his eyebrows.
“I should have thought Mrs. Ratcliffe was the best judge of that. It
seems a curious order to give. Supposing it came on to rain in the
night, what then?”
“Oh! sir, there was the watchman. He had particular orders to see to it;
and Mr. Devereux gave him sixpence a night additional all these nights
past, to be on at nine instead of half-past ten. But, indeed, sir, there
has been no fear of rain for ten days, or more.”
“And was the watchman on at nine last night?”
“Well, sir, I am afraid he was not. When Miss Smith was to come, Mr.
Devereux told him he need not be on till the usual time. When she did
not come, Jenkins says he went down to him to tell him to come up here
as before, and Jenkins said he would; but he had a little engagement,
and he called in to a friend on his way up, and he did not get here till
past ten. He owned it to me himself; but he knew, he says, there would
be no rain, and he never thought of any damage.”
“And when Jenkins came up he saw no appearance of fire--that is what I
think he said--but saw it later?”
“Yes, sir. He told me he walked about as usual, and he saw a bright
light in the new drawing-room, and he thought to himself that Miss Smith
was come after all. Now, sir, a person like him has no business to
think, not in a general way, and so I told him.”
“I quite agree with you,” observed Mr. Powderham, with a dry smile.
“And then, sir, he sat down facing the road, and took his pipe as usual;
and then he smelt a smell; and then he looked up and saw sparks; and
then he ran round, and the front of the house, sir, he said, was the
most beautiful sight, all the windows like a fairy palace. It was too
late then; the flames had got the masters; and he ran under our windows
and shouted ‘Fire! fire!’ And my aunt jumped up as quick as thought and
called ‘Ring the bell!’ And that, sir, is how it all was.”
“Very good, Mrs. Brook. But now the question arises, did anybody go into
those rooms after nightfall? Who have you in the house besides yourself
and Mrs. Ratcliffe?”
“Only Hannah, sir, an under-housemaid, and my little girl. Miss Smith
was particularly anxious to have everything quiet, and no great bother
of servants, till she had looked about her; and we said we could do very
well, and indeed better in a general way, without further help, except,
indeed, a charwoman, which----”
Mrs. Brook, in her regard for Nora’s honour, was hurrying to explain all
the ins and outs of the case, but was brought back by Mr. Powderham.
“Never mind about that. You say there was Hannah and your little girl.
Where is Hannah?”
“Here, sir,” said a voice; for Hannah, on the tiptoe of curiosity, had
stationed herself outside.
“Very well. And your little girl; call her. She is the most likely
person to have been in fault.”
“She can’t have been in fault, sir, for she was sitting at tea with Mrs.
Ratcliffe and me, and she went early to bed. She’s asleep, sir, just
now, for she was terribly upset by the night we had; but I’ll wake her,
sir, if you think proper.”
“No need to wake Sophy,” said Hannah. “I saw a person go into the rooms
after you shut them up, mum.”
There was a universal cry of curiosity from within and without the room,
and a “Speak out, girl,” from Mr. Powderham.
“Yes, sir. It was Mr. Devereux,” said Hannah. “I saw him go in, and shut
the doors after him.”
“Indeed!” cried Mr. Powderham, surprised. “And at what time was this?”
“About seven, sir. Just upon getting dark. And I daresay he took his
cigar in with him, and one of them nasty sparks getting about, may have
done all the mischief.”
“Certainly they may,” Mr. Powderham said, very gravely. “Go and see,
Field, if Mr. Devereux has returned. Say I should be glad to speak with
him.”
This supposition of Hannah’s was a perfectly gratuitous piece of
ill-nature, for she certainly had seen no cigar, nor could have done so,
as Henry never smoked. But Hannah, though not an ill-natured girl in
general, had a grudge against Henry, and could not resist the
opportunity of showing it. The reason of her grudge was this: She had a
lover among the workmen; one, at least, whose attentions she was for
the present admitting. This lover of hers had been caught by Henry in a
small act of dishonesty. As the man bore a good character in general,
Henry had been very lenient; had forgiven him, and concealed his
offence; but he had spoken sharply, as was his wont, and had threatened
instant dismissal if there should be a second offence. The man, who was
of a sullen disposition and did not forgive, was one of the few who
disliked Henry, and he poured his griefs into Hannah’s breast. Hannah,
hearing the case through her lover’s medium, called Henry “a meddlesome
upstart, and she’d tell him so to his face some day.” With singular
delight she therefore threw out her fact and her supposition.
Heated and vexed, Henry, just returned from his fruitless ride, was
found by James Field, and the message was delivered.
“Immediately,” James Field said irritatingly, as Henry paused a moment
to look with pity at the state of the horse from which he had just
dismounted.
He made no reply, but tossed the bridle to a man who stood near, and
saying “Look to him,” walked off. He did not speak, but a storm was
swelling in his breast. He felt ill-used, though he hardly knew why.
Mr. Powderham bowed coldly. “I want to ask you a few questions, Mr.
Devereux. It appears, from the inquiries I have made, you were the last
person who went into the new drawing-room last night.”
Henry looked thunderstruck. “Who says I was?” he asked quickly.
Mr. Powderham told him what had been said by Mrs. Brook and Hannah; and
then added, “Now, if you please, collect yourself, and endeavour to
speak quietly. I wish to ascertain a few facts. It has been suggested
that you may have taken a cigar with you.”
“And who on earth can have made so ridiculous a suggestion!” exclaimed
Henry with heat. “Anyone who knows me, and there are plenty who do, may
know that I never smoke. I hate it; it makes me sick. And if,” he added,
his voice rising--for the poor youth was losing his command of
himself--“I smoked a thousand cigars a day, does anyone in his senses
suppose that I should go and smoke it in Miss Smith’s drawing-room.”
“Compose yourself,” said Mr. Powderham with that kind of manner which is
like throwing water on a fire. “I simply said it had been suggested. One
word of denial was enough. But now, will you be so good as to collect
yourself and tell us what passed when you were in the drawing-room.”
“I wrote a letter,” he said; his heart sinking as he felt, however
certain he might be that he had done no injury, that he should never
convey this certainty to others--“wrote it and sealed it.” The sinking
of his heart had stilled him. He spoke quietly now.
“Wrote a letter and sealed it, sir. Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs.
Brook. “Did you light a candle, then!”
“Don’t interrupt us, good woman,” said Mr. Powderham. “But you hear the
question, Mr. Devereux, and I repeat it. Did you light a candle?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Mrs. Elliott desired me to let her know if Miss
Smith did not arrive. I forgot this till it was nearly post time. I
remembered it when I saw Miss Smith’s writing-table. I sat down and
wrote, but could find no envelope. I therefore lit the little taper and
sealed my letter. I then blew out the candle; and not only blew it out,
but I remember looking particularly to see if it was well out and all
safe. I am always afraid of fire. I have had an especial terror of it
upon me for ten days past. The watchman knows how I have spoken to him
on the subject.” He said all this calmly.
“And what happened to the lucifer-match?” asked James Field, breaking a
pause that followed Henry’s explanation.
“Ah! yes--what happened to the lucifer-match?” Mr. Powderham repeated.
“The lucifer-match,” cried Henry, excited again. “I am sure I forget. I
tossed it out of the window, I think. What can a lucifer-match do when
all the fire is out of it.”
“I am sorry to say, Mr. Devereux, that I think your explanation very
unsatisfactory--I mean so far as to exculpating yourself. I am afraid
there can be no doubt that a spark was left smouldering, which spark has
caused all this mischief. I am extremely sorry to say it, but I fear we
must conclude you are the author of the ill.”
“Of course, sir,” Henry said, not so respectfully as he ought, “if you
say it was my spark, I cannot help myself. I suppose it is
possible--just possible. I have no proof, nor can have, to gainsay you
except my assurance, and therefore the blame must lie on my shoulders. I
may think it hard, but I must submit.”
“I do not think it hard, Mr. Devereux. It appears to me that in many
ways you have shewn great negligence; but we need not discuss them
here. This matter may be considered as settled.”
Henry deigned to say no more. He turned round with a swelling heart, and
walked off.
While Mr. Powderham was saying a few words to James Field, Mrs.
Ratcliffe entered. Sophy followed her, looking pale and scared from the
terrors of the night. Mrs. Ratcliffe had only just discovered what was
going on, and was extremely angry with her niece for the care which had
prevented her from taking a part in the inquiries. She was also much
vexed at the turn those inquiries had taken, and she expressed a few
words of doubt on the matter.
Mr. Powderham, having now made up his mind, was not going to stand a
doubt; and very forcibly, and in very good plain language, he stated
the case as he supposed it to have taken place. He thought a spark had
fallen somewhere in the matting, and had smouldered there for a
time--burning, not blazing; that it had reached at last the muslin
curtains, which had blazed up and then died out, leaving a smouldering
fire in the light wooden rods, which, until the room was finished, had
been put up for the support of the curtains-rings; this in course of
time had communicated with the roof, where the fire had principally
raged, and finally all had been burnt.
Mrs. Ratcliffe was awestruck, and Sophy listened with wide open eyes.
“Poor, poor young gentleman!” was, however, Mrs. Ratcliffe’s pitying
observation; “to think of his having got himself into such a scrape!”
Sophy began to cry.
“What is the matter, little girl?” said Mr. Powderham, paying his
tribute to beauty by an attention he would never have paid to an ugly
girl.
“She is very fond of Mr. Devereux, sir,” explained Mrs. Ratcliffe. “She
is sorry for him, and I could cry myself, too, to think of it.”
“I am sorry for him also, but it was a terrible piece of negligence; and
what the cost of it all will be it is impossible to say. But I think,
Mrs. Ratcliffe, instead of being sorry for Mr. Devereux, we ought to be
thankful to Providence that the event was no worse. You might have been
burnt in your beds. Think of that, little girl. It is dreadful to see
what carelessness may do.” He spoke very awfully.
“That is true, sir. Don’t cry, Sophy; we ought to be very grateful to be
alive.”
But Sophy still cried bitterly, and Mr. Powderham, offended at her
reception of his notice, paid no further attention. He settled with Mrs.
Ratcliffe how the remaining rooms should be arranged for Miss Smith, and
the conferences broke up.