Fire
For the third and last time that evening Philip stepped upon the stage;
he knew his audience now, and they knew him, and settled back to enjoy
the treat which surely awaited them; and they were not disappointed.
The boy threw his whole soul into his music, and the vast building
might almost have been empty, so silent was the listening crowd. And
then there came a moment’s pause between the movements in the music,
and Philip threw back his head for an instant in a way he had; as he
did so he saw something which drove the blood to his heart, for high
above his head a corner of light drapery had been blown against a
lighted gas-jet, and a little curling tongue of flame had just started
on its way along the edge of the curtain. Philip went on at once with
his playing, but as he played he stepped, almost unperceived, nearer
to one side of the stage, where he knew the manager was standing, and
whispered:
“Look, above your head,” and the sweet, unfaltering melody flowed
smoothly on; but soon the little tongue of flame had crept around to
the front of the curtain, and suddenly a strange agitation seemed to
possess the audience. The people rose to their feet in evident alarm,
frightened cries were heard, and some rushed from their seats into
the aisles, while from some quarter came the terrible cry of “Fire!”
The manager came to the front of the stage and implored the people to
be calm and avoid the crowding and crushing that would result unless
they left the building in an orderly way, for which he assured them
there was abundant time if they would avoid a panic. For a moment they
listened to his exhortation and seemed to obey, but even as he spoke
the flames began to dart through the billow-like rolls of smoke that
curled around the wall upon one side. Then there was an instant’s hush
of dismay as the fire caught the end of some hanging drapery, and
followed its festoonings, in a wild, blazing wreath, around the room,
catching in its mad rush the light varnished wood trimmings, that
burned like tinder. The crowd became ungovernable then, and a frightful
scene of confusion ensued as they fought their way toward the entrance,
defeating, in their frantic haste, the efforts of those who were cool
enough to direct their movements.
Philip, while the manager was speaking, had stood with calm
self-possession, revolving in his mind what was best to be done. It
would have been very easy to have retreated at once through the back of
the stage, but of this he did not think for an instant, and he turned
towards the box where the young Nortons were sitting. It was only a few
feet above the stage, and he sprang towards it, holding out his hands.
“Come,” he said, “come quickly! It is but a step; jump upon the stage
and we will get out through the dressing-room. I know the way, and it
is the only thing to do--the corridors are already blocked.”
Miss Acton helped the girls over the edge of the box and down upon the
stage, following herself with Philip’s assistance.
“Where are the others?” he asked.
“Safe, I am sure,” replied Miss Acton, speaking quickly. “There’s a
staircase near the entrance of their box.”
“Then come with me,” said Philip.
They remembered afterwards how calm he was, and that he looked back
and smiled encouragement over his shoulder as he rapidly led the way
towards the back of the stage; but the flames had made great headway
in the short time since they were first discovered, and the narrow
passageways behind the wings were filled with smoke. For an instant
Philip hesitated, but glancing back he saw that there was no hope of
escape through the house, which was filled with a pushing, struggling
mass of terrified men and women. He turned again, bidding the others
follow him, and they obeyed; but when he had led them to the back of
the stage, in the very direction in which the fire was approaching,
Marion shrank back and refused to follow.
“But you will die if you stay,” exclaimed Philip, seizing her arm and
drawing her forcibly along, and at the same time calling to the others
to follow, which they did, pale and trembling, but never attempting to
question his wisdom in leading them through a door at which the flames
were already darting.
“I cannot go there, I cannot!” screamed Marion, pulling back and
looking toward the auditorium, where the struggling people were packed
closer and closer about the door, and where terrible cries of anguish
told that the bitterness of death was coming to some upon whom the
stronger and fiercer trampled, without waiting for the flames they were
fleeing from.
There was no hope there, and Philip knew there was no time to be
lost, so he half lifted, half dragged Marion through the door, still
resisting, but half fainting with terror. There was a long lobby to
go through, then another door to open, and they found themselves in a
small triangular room in which was one window and another door opening
upon a narrow staircase, which led directly to one of the outer doors.
To this door Philip sprang as they entered the little apartment, but,
alas! it was securely locked and the key withdrawn; he made one mad
effort to force the door, but it offered the firmest resistance. Then
he remembered that at rehearsal the manager had given him a key, that
he might leave the building by that door after his last piece should be
played, if he chose not to wait for the end of the concert. Unhappily,
instead of putting the key in his pocket, he had carried it to his
dressing-room, and now he remembered distinctly having thrown it upon
the table.
There was one appalling moment of dismay for them all, then Lillie said
solemnly:
“Go and try to save yourself, Philip; perhaps you can find a way out if
you have not us to take care of.”
“I will save you yet,” said Philip with quiet determination. “I will
go for the key,” and he rushed away from them through the narrow
passage toward the stage, where the fire now roared and thundered with
a fury indescribable. His dressing-room could be reached by a short
hallway behind the stage. It was chokingly full of thick, black smoke,
but, holding his breath, he dashed through it and gained the place he
sought. The dressing-room was also full of smoke, but he seized the
key and rushed again to the passage. In that instant of time fire had
taken the place of smoke, and it seemed as if to attempt to go through
it would be to court certain and swift destruction. There was another
door, and it led, as Philip knew, to the large back stairway in that
part of the building as yet unattacked by the flames. To open the door
and fly down those stairs meant escape from a fiery death; but to go
would be to leave his friends to perish miserably in the little room to
which he had taken them. He hesitated only long enough to tear off his
coat and drench it in a basin of water; then wrapping it over his head,
he plunged into the gulf of fire. What the horror and agony of that
passage was, no one will ever know; but he reached his cousins, who
were already driven, by smoke and approaching flames, into the remotest
corner of the little room. He threw them the key as he fell to the
floor, unable to take another step.
They opened the door, and between them dragged him into the purer air
and supported him down the stairs to the street, where he was at once
taken care of by the crowd who were gathered to look on and assist if
possible.
The panic in the front of the house soon subsided, for the fire-engines
which came from all over London quickly put out the flames, and the
greatest damage caused by the fire had been behind the stage. But many
had been trampled on and injured in the stampede of the audience for
the doors, and the police and ambulance surgeons had all that they
could possibly do. Philip was carried immediately into a small shop in
the neighborhood, where half a dozen sympathizing strangers promised to
care for him and the girls, who were half unconscious from the smoke
which they had inhaled, while Miss Acton went to look for the remainder
of the party, who she knew would be frantic with anxiety as to the
fate of the children.
She did at last succeed in finding Lord Ashden and Dr. Norton, who had
sent the ladies home in a cab, while they returned to search for Philip
and Miss Acton’s party, whom they had seen clambering over the box,
and who they supposed had escaped without difficulty through the back
way. When Miss Acton told them as quietly as she could that Philip had
been hurt, although she hoped not seriously so, Lord Ashden staggered
and would have fallen had not Dr. Norton supported him, and when they
entered the dingy back room in the little shop where Philip lay, white
and unconscious, on the sofa, his guardian sank upon the floor beside
him and covered his face with his hands.
“My boy, my boy!” he moaned. But in an instant he recovered himself
and made arrangements to have the whole party taken home as quickly as
possible.
The surgeon, whose services had at last been secured, did what he
could to restore Philip to consciousness, but without success. “He is
suffering from shock,” he said, “and may remain insensible for several
hours. Get him home and to bed as quickly as possible; I do not think
his burns are serious.”
And he hurried away to relieve the sufferings of a lady who had been
trampled on by the crowd.
It was a sad party which drove back to Kensington; the sisters were
only half aroused from the sort of stupor which seemed to have fallen
upon them, and they lay back in the carriage, while upon the other seat
sat Lord Ashden, supporting the unconscious Philip in his arms, and
keeping his eyes fixed upon the boy’s face with an expression of silent
agony.
Miss Acton and Dr. Norton, who had driven home more rapidly, reached
the house in time to prepare the minds of Mrs. Norton and Aunt Delia,
and to get rooms and beds in readiness for the sufferers, and despatch
messengers for medical aid.
The physician who examined Philip shook his head and looked grave,
although he spoke encouragingly. The patient was suffering principally
from shock and from the effects of the smoke which he had inhaled in
such quantities. His burns were not serious, however, though they
would doubtless be painful and require careful nursing; he proposed,
nevertheless, to spend the night with his patient, and asked that a
trained nurse be sent for at once, while, for the present at least,
everybody must be excluded from the sick-room but Aunt Delia and
himself.
And so, after the poor burned hands had been tenderly dressed and the
little sufferer made as clean and comfortable as possible, the silence
which had been so imperatively ordered settled down upon the sick-room,
and there was no sound but the quick, irregular breathing of the
patient and the ticking of the clock on the mantel.