UP A LADDER.
Now that his income had been doubled, now that he could afford to
keep his brougham, now that his position as chairman of the Brimley
Railroad Company, and his seats at the two other boards in London,
enabled him to fill up his time with so much pleasure and profit to
himself, it might reasonably have been expected that the Earl of
Loughton would settle down into the comfortably padded groove in which
he found himself, and tempt fortune no more. But such was not the
case. There was about him a restlessness of disposition, an uneasy
longing for something more than the present could give him, however
sunny that present might be. And yet, strange to say, this
restlessness and this longing had only developed themselves in him of
late. In his old days of poverty all ambition had been crushed out of
him by the hopelessness of his condition. The prospect of any change
for the better had seemed so infinitesimal that he had long ago made
up his mind, with a sort of dogged despair, to live and die, unknowing
and unknown, as plain John Fildew, of Hayfield Street, W. C.
But now, as if by a touch of a necromancer's wand, everything had been
changed, and that change had called into existence hopes and wishes
undreamed of before. A golden mirage glittered forever before his
eyes. Now that he had come to mix among financial circles, he saw
men on every side of him in the process of coining fortunes, and
either founding families for themselves, or allying themselves by
marriage--giving gold in exchange for position--to families already
made. What was a paltry twelve hundred a year for a man of his rank to
live on and keep up his station in the eyes of the world?--and even
that would die with him. His son would have a barren title, indeed,
unless he should be able to coax some heiress into becoming his wife.
Instead of resting satisfied with twelve hundred a year, it seemed to
the earl that he might just as well be in receipt of ten thousand a
year. A few lucky speculations would do that for him. But in order to
avail himself fully of such speculative opportunities he must have a
certain leverage of capital to work with; and was there not a splendid
lever ready to his hand in Miss Tebbuts's twenty thousand pounds? His
friend Wingfield would turn twenty thousand pounds into a hundred
thousand in a very short space of time. Why should not he, Lord
Loughton, do the same--with Wingfield's help?
Meanwhile the railway was rapidly approaching completion, and the
opening-day was already fixed. Every morning brought the earl a number
of applications for appointments of various kinds. The labor of
adjudicating on the merits of the different candidates was one that
suited him exactly. The power of patronage is sweet to all men, and
the earl was no exception to the rule. His popularity grew daily. The
new hotel that was being built near the station was to be called The
Loughton Arms, and the new street was to be Lorrimore Road, while the
joint names, John Marmaduke, became quite common sponsorial
appellations among the infantile population of Brimley. When his
lordship rode slowly through the town to his office at the
railway-station, bows and smiles greeted him on every side. Everybody
knew him even the lads in the streets used to shout to each other, as
soon as they caught sight of him, "Here comes the earl."
At length came the day appointed for the government inspector to go
over the line. A week later brought the opening-day. The ceremony
differed in nowise from that in vogue on various occasions of a
similar kind. The directors and their friends, the latter consisting
of several county magnates, with two or three M.P.'s, and their wives
and daughters, travelled over the line by the first train--a special
one--and after that the general public came with a rush. The stations
at Brimley and Highcliffe were gayly decorated, and enlivened by the
strains of two brass bands. There was a _déjeuner_ at Highcliffe, and
a dinner at the George at Brimley later on.
After dinner some of the gentlemen, of whom Lord Loughton was one,
sat rather late over their wine, so that it was close upon midnight
before they finally broke up. Their carriages were waiting for them at
the door, the earl's brougham among the number. Just as they were
lighting a last cigar on the steps of the hotel, and wishing each
other goodnight, they were struck by a sudden ruddy glare in the sky
no great distance away, and next minute a man rushed from a narrow
turning close by, crying "Fire! fire!" at the top of his voice.
"Let us go and see the fire," said Captain Van Loo, on whom the
champagne had not been without its effect.
The earl, who was probably the most sober of the party, and who had
seen many big fires in London in his time, was far more inclined for
going home to bed than for going anywhere else at that untimely hour;
but Mr. Plume, the great contractor, had already taken one of his arms
and Van Loo the other, and as the rest of the gentlemen seemed
desirous of going, the earl gave way and went with them, their
broughams being left in front of the hotel.
The gentlemen made rather a noisy party, but were not so far gone as
not to know what they were about. Following the flying feet of the
ever-growing crowd, they found themselves in a few minutes in one of
the lowest streets of the town, and close to the burning house. A
number of police were already there--Brimley could only boast about a
dozen men all told--together with the town engine, which was too small
to be of any real service in an emergency like the present one.
The sergeant on duty, recognizing the earl and his friends, made way
for them to pass into the inner ring, volunteering at the same time
the information that the burning house had been let out in floors to
different families, that a woman who took in mangling had rented the
ground floor, and that it was in one of her rooms that the fire had
originated. That the whole house was doomed any one could see at a
glance; indeed, the two lower floors were partly burned out already,
and every minute the exultant flames were climbing higher. It was a
house of four or five stories, and had evidently at one time been
inhabited by well-to-do people.
"Another half-hour and the roof will go," said Mr. Plume, regarding
the affair from a contractor's point of view. "Every misfortune brings
a blessing in its train. This place will have to be rebuilt by
somebody, and just now trade is anything but lively."
"I suppose there's no fear, constable, of any one having been left
inside the house?" queried the earl.
"Not much fear of that, my lord; the first thing we did after the
alarm was to rouse the people and get them all out."
Van Loo passed his cigar-case round. "Almost as good as a firework
night at the Palace," he remarked. "Another bottle or two of Heidsieck
would improve the occasion vastly."
"What squirts the fire-engines are in these provincial towns," said
Mr. Wingfield. "When once the flames get fairly hold they seem of no
use whatever."
Flames and smoke were now issuing from all the windows except those of
the top story, which peered out, like two black and sullen eyes,
heedless of everything that was happening below.
Suddenly a woman, who had made her way through the crowd by main
force, appeared on the scene. Haggard and wild-eyed, with streaming
hair, torn shawl, and bedraggled gown, she fell on her knees before
the constable, and, seizing him by the arm, cried, in a voice that was
hoarse with agony: "My child--where's my child? Has anybody seen her?
Has anybody got her out of the burning house? Oh, sir, tell me where
is she!"
"How old was your child, and in which room was she sleeping?" asked
the policeman.
"She's three years old, and she was in bed in the top back room. Oh,
sir, do tell me where she is!"
The constable called to another one, and the two held a brief
conference in whispers. Then, turning to the woman, he said, "No such
child as the one you speak of was found in the house. Are you sure she
was there?"
"Sure! Good heavens! didn't I put her to bed with my own hands at
eight o'clock, and the darling never wakes till morning! As soon as my
little one was in bed I set off for my sister's at the other end of
the town, who's ill, and there I've been ever since. Oh, sir, I must
have my child! God has taken them all from me but her. He can't intend
that she should be burned to death!"
The sergeant whispered to his companion again, who ran off to another
group of policemen a little distance away, but only to return next
minute, bringing word that no such child had been rescued from the
burning tenement. Meanwhile word had run through the crowd that Dinah
King's little girl was still in the house. The news thrilled all there
as if they had one pulse and one heart. One sharp-witted fellow,
calling to his friends, ran in search of a ladder. Fortunately he had
not far to go. In a very few minutes the ladder, borne on a dozen
stalwart shoulders, pierced the crowd, and was reared on end so that
its top rested against the sill of one of the upper windows. From the
windows in a line below that one came long, flickering tongues of
flame which strove to lick the ladder and wrap round its rungs as if
they would fain claim it also as their prey. The lower floor had
fallen in by this time, and the interior was like a glowing furnace,
but the strong beams of the upper stories still held their own,
although the flooring here and there was burned through, and thin
snakes of flame were coiling round the doors and window-sills.
Now that the ladder was in position there was a moment's hesitation
among the little crowd at the foot of it. In order to reach the
topmost window it was necessary to pass the two lower ones, which were
as open mouths to the furnace inside. "Let me have a try," said one of
the firemen, and next moment he was climbing the ladder with nimble
feet. Past the two windows he went without pause, although the heat
must have been all but unbearable, and was quickly perched on the sill
of the upper window and breaking away the framework with his axe. Then
from the throbbing crowd came a wild cheer of encouragement. But the
moment the framework was broken away dense volumes of black smoke came
swirling out, and it was then seen how fallacious was the hope that
the fire had not yet made its way as far as the upper rooms. Durham,
the fireman, plunged into the thick smoke, but only to struggle back
to the window next minute, blinded and half stifled. Another fireman
sprang to the assistance of his mate, and climbed the ladder like a
lamplighter. Again a ringing cheer burst from the crowd. As soon as
the second man had joined the first they disappeared together inside
the room. A brief, breathless interval, and then, as the smoke cleared
away a little, the two men could again be seen standing at the
window--but without the child.
"The staircase is on fire and we can do nothing," one of them shouted.
In the silence that followed the crackling of the burning rafters
could plainly be heard.
The mother had been on her knees all this time, her fingers pressed to
her eyes, praying audibly to Heaven to give her back her little one.
She now sprang to her feet and rushed to the foot of the ladder. "Let
me go!" she cried. "The fire sha'n't keep me back! She's the only one
I've left, and I can't lose her."
It was evident that the woman was half distraught. Up the ladder she
would have gone had not strong arms held her back.
"It's no use, mistress, not a bit," said the kindly sergeant. "If they
two can't reach the child nobody can. The poor thing's out of its
suffering by this time."
"No--no--no!" cried the woman, passionately. "The fire hasn't
reached the little room at the back yet. My pretty one's waiting
there--waiting for her mother to fetch her, and--O my God!--you won't
let me go!"
From the midst of the little crowd of gentlemen quietly smoking their
cigars Lord Loughton stepped forth and walked to the foot of the
ladder. "What-are you going to do, my lord?" asked Mr. Wingfield,
anxiously.
"I am going to see for myself whether the child cannot be got at,"
answered the earl, as he proceeded to turn up the collar of his
overcoat and to fix his glass in his eye.
"But it's madness--sheer madness!" urged Sir James Bence.
"If anybody could save the child the firemen could," said Mr. Plume.
"In any case I'll go and see for myself," persisted the earl.
"Let me beg of you, my lord, to listen to reason," said Mr. Wingfield,
laying a hand on the earl's arm.
"Only a washerwoman's brat," said Captain Van Loo, with a shrug. "The
world holds plenty more of the same breed."
The earl said no word more, but began to mount the ladder. Up he
went, slowly and carefully--being no longer so young as he once had
been--past the first window, past the second, with their greedy
tongues of fire that strained forth to sting him. An utter silence
fell upon the crowd. They all knew by this time who the third man was.
Nothing could be heard save the regular beat of the engine and the
subdued roar of the flames. Men's hearts throbbed faster, women's eyes
brimmed with tears. The poor despairing creature down on her knees
gripped fast hold of the policeman's hand as though it were an anchor
of hope, and prayed as she had never prayed before that the brave
gentleman might find her one pet lamb and bring it back alive to its
mother's arms.
The top was reached at last, and the firemen held out their hands and
helped the new-comer into the room. Of what passed among the three men
those below knew nothing, but a minute after the earl joined the
others they were all lost in the smoke that filled the room. It was a
time of slow agony to the waiting mother below. A thousand eyes were
fixed on the little window. First one dark figure and then another
could be dimly discerned for a moment, as they came for a breath of
air before plunging into the smoke again.
All at once a great shout rent the sky, and the mother knew without
looking up that her child was saved. "That's him in the middle--that's
the earl with the child in his arms?" she heard those round her say.
"Now he's given the young 'un to Jim Durham, and Jim's coming down
with it first of all. That's the earl following him, and that's Frank
Webber coming last."
Down they came, one after another, the foremost fireman with the child
in his arms. Nothing could now restrain the mob. They swept away the
thin barrier of police and crowded round the ladder, every one
pressing forward to shake hands with the earl.
But the earl could not shake bands with any one. While he was still
some five or six feet from the ground a veil seemed to drop suddenly
over his eyes, the strength went out of his hands and knees, and he
fell backward like one dead. A hundred arms were held out to catch
him. Then, and then only, it was seen how terribly he was burned.
"We must carry him to the George," said Mr. Wingfield, sadly "and let
some one hurry for the best doctor that can be had for love or money."