AFTER-EFFECTS AND CYRIL.
The whole place was in a tumult. The streets were thronged. Passionate
inquiries and greetings were passing from mouth to mouth. The chief
thing was to get the girls under cover as quickly as possible, out of
the hubbub all round the municipal buildings. The Bensons threw open
their house; the Cossarts did the same. Sheila soon found herself,
together with May Lawrence and Miss Adene, in her aunt’s drawing-room,
where Raby and Ray had preceded them, and they were received with the
warmest effusion by the company gathered there, for in the confusion
and alarm nobody was confidently reckoned to be safe till he or she had
been actually seen.
North came in a few minutes later.
“Effie has been taken straight home in our uncle’s carriage. We could
not get at you, Sheila, so Oscar is to take you back later on, when
the excitement is abated. Are the girls there? That’s all right. Yes,
mater, I am safe enough; but don’t keep me. There are frantic mothers
hunting up their children still. I believe no lives have been lost; but
I must go and do what I can to reassure them. We must find the waifs
and strays, and get them to their right owners!”
He kissed his mother and swung himself off; and then a little more
quiet fell upon the room, whilst those who had been eye-witnesses of
the catastrophe were eagerly called upon to relate their experiences.
Mrs. Cossart had not been at the hall that afternoon, being fatigued
by her exertions the two previous days; and her husband, having let
all the boys off, had had to keep to the office himself, and only came
hurrying home in alarm and consternation when the news reached him that
the Town Hall was on fire!
Sheila, listening breathlessly whilst some ladies who had been in the
lower hall related their experiences, thought that they had escaped
the worst of the terror by being in the upper room. Several of the
children’s frocks had caught fire, and it seemed at one time as though
the whole place and the hapless people would be in a blaze; but there
were plenty of exits, and the police at the doors kept their heads, and
passed the children out with great rapidity; and the firemen were on
the scene almost at once. The flames got firm hold upon the temporary
structures of stalls and so forth, but the building itself never took
fire, being of solid stone.
There had been fearful screams, and wild panic; but on the whole
the people had behaved exceedingly well, and though there was some
inevitable crushing, there had been no actual block, and it was
believed that no lives had been lost.
“The only man I saw who behaved really badly,” said one lady, who had
evidently been instrumental in saving several children, and whose dress
was much burnt in consequence, “was one of the actors from upstairs,
who came flying down, and pushed and fought his way out without heeding
anything or anybody. He overturned several little children, and one of
them would have been trampled to death had not a policeman snatched it
up. I was really glad to see another man—a fireman, I believe—give the
young man a sound cuff on the side of his head that sent him reeling
out into the open. I won’t say that nobody else hustled or pushed—at
a time like that one cannot observe everything—but I saw no one else
disgrace his manhood in that way.”
“Shameful,” said Mr. Tom sternly. “One of the actors, you say. One
ought to be able to find out who it was.”
“He had on a white satin suit—that made him the more conspicuous. I
suppose he had completely lost his head. One must not be too hard on
people who do that; but one rather hates to see it.”
At that moment the door opened and Cyril came airily in. His cheek was
very red, as though from some sort of injury, and his mother sprang
forward exclaiming—
“Oh, my boy, did you get burned?”
Cyril put up his hand and laughed.
“Did I? I did not notice. One has not time to think of that sort of
thing at such a time. Besides, I was out of it sooner than many. I was
afraid the people in the council room, which was the theatre, would be
cut off from help. I made a dash for it to get the fire-escape brought
round to them at the windows. One could not tell at the outset how
fast the fire would spread. I was horribly afraid they would all be
suffocated up there, whilst the energies of the rescuers were directed
to the larger hall. I’m afraid I was rather unceremonious in my flight,
but, at any rate, I accomplished my purpose, and that’s the great
thing.”
Sheila and May exchanged quick glances. Was that really Cyril’s motive
in making that wild bolt? Certainly it had not been the impression
produced upon those who had heard and seen him at the time. His father
looked at him steadily, and said—
“I hope you were not the man in white satin, who overturned little
children and pushed aside women and girls in his determination to get
out. Whatever your motive, nothing could excuse conduct like that.”
Cyril’s face flushed, but he answered airily—
“In such confusion I think nobody can quite say what it is that
happens. I am quite willing to bear any odium my townspeople like to
put upon me, so long as I know that I was in time to accomplish my
errand, and send the escape to the windows where my sisters and cousins
were waiting.”
Nobody spoke for a few minutes, and then Raby remarked slowly—
“It was Lionel Benson who went for the escape and brought it.”
“Yes; Lionel came up in time to escort it. I was hardly in the costume
for that part of the business. Well, he is quite welcome to the honour
and glory. So long as you are all safe, I care for nothing else.”
A carriage presently drew up at the door, and one of May’s brothers
came in, saying that the streets were getting quiet, and she could
drive back safely now. Miss Adene and May were now the only guests left
in the Cossarts’ drawing-room, and they bade a very warm adieu to their
entertainers, drawn together by that common bond of sympathy which an
experience such as had just been passed through quickly establishes.
“You must come and see us very soon,” said May to Sheila, “and tell us
how Effie is. I’m afraid she will feel the shock.”
Sheila kissed her and Miss Adene affectionately, promised to ride over
as soon as she could, and soon afterwards started off on foot with
Oscar for Cossart Place, he having leave from his uncle to remain there
over the Sunday if he were invited.
“For I don’t think any of you will be much good to-morrow,” said he,
with a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “It has been a bit of a shock to us
all. Take a day off, and come back like a giant refreshed on Monday.
Let us have word of poor little Effie. I hope it won’t throw her into a
fever.”
Brother and sister went off contentedly together, and they could not
but take a look into the open space round the Town Hall before starting
out into the country.
The crowd was still large about it, but it was known now that no
serious harm had been done to the building, and that there had been
no loss of life, though a few persons had been injured, and many were
suffering from the effects of fright and burns.
As they passed by the fire-station they saw the grimy face of the man
who had come with the escape, and he, recognising them, put up his hand
in salute, and said—
“The young lady none the worse, sir?”
“Not a bit,” answered Sheila, answering for herself; “you came and took
us away before there was any real danger. Who was it told you about us
up at the windows?”
“Mr. Benson, miss—Mr. Lionel, I should say. We might not have known
about it but for him. We thought as everybody had come down and were
getting out by the doors.”
“Was it not Mr. Cyril Cossart who first gave the alarm?”
The man grinned and shook his head.
“Bless you, miss, that young gentleman lost his head quite. They say
he fought his way out like a madman, and lots of people saw him flying
home in his white finery like a cat with a cinder on its back! No,
no, missie, it was Mr. Lionel as brought us news of the folks at the
windows. We musn’t be too hard on the people as loses their heads
at such a time; but we likes better to see them behaving themselves
rational like. It was fine the way the ladies in the hall behaved! They
thought nothing of themselves, but all was for getting the little ’uns
safely out. If they’d gone and lost their heads and made a rush, it
would have been a terrible nasty business, and some of ’em had bound to
be killed; but what with them behind and the police at the doors, it
all went off beautiful, one might say.”
They talked a little more to the man and then went their way.
Sheila’s face wore an indignant flush. She said in a low voice to Oscar—
“I think I could have forgiven him the panic; he mightn’t be able
to help that. But to tell that mean lie afterwards! Oh, I can never
respect him again.”
Oscar was silent a few minutes, and then said slowly—
“I think, Sheila, that we had better try to forget it, and not to say
anything to anybody else about it. It hurts people’s feelings if their
next-of-kin are proved unworthy, and Cyril has been thought so much of
at home. Perhaps in the confusion nobody will think much more about
it. You know it is often the nearest relatives who do not hear the
exact truth about a bit of a failure like that. We won’t be the people
to talk of it. Our uncle and aunt have been very kind to us. We must
remember that, and I think it would be a terrible trouble to Aunt Tom
if she were to think——”
Oscar did not complete his sentence, and Sheila said quickly—
“Isn’t it better for them to know the truth?”
“But perhaps it isn’t really the truth,” said Oscar, “I am not sure
that a man should be judged for what he does in a time of panic——”
“No, but the lie afterwards——”
“Yes, that was bad; but think of the temptation to make some excuse for
himself! Do you know I can fancy being tempted to it. He had always
been thought so much of at home and in the town. To be branded as a
coward! It would be almost unendurable.”
Sheila was silent; she felt that Cyril deserved the brand, and her
youthful clearness of judgment made compromise difficult.
“Well, I won’t say anything if you don’t think I ought, but I can never
like Cyril again. I shall always despise him.”
“We must not despise one another more than we can help,” said Oscar
soberly. “You know, Sheila, we have so many faults ourselves. We ought
to try and think of that.”
Sheila was accustomed to defer to Oscar’s judgment, and she was kindly
by nature, though frank and candid. She did not see much good in
hushing things up, but she promised not to speak herself of what the
fireman had said. She rather hoped it would come out to some of the
rest; she did not think that North would be easily deceived. He had
been very indignant about Cyril’s conduct.
But upon reaching home the current of her thoughts was soon turned in
another direction.
Effie was ill!
There was no gainsaying it this time. Fanciful she might be, and
others for her, but the shock and the fright of the fire had been too
much for her. She had lapsed into unconsciousness during the drive home
with her father, and now, though put to bed and with the doctor in
attendance, she had shown no signs of animation.
Sheila was not permitted to go up to the room, and glad was she that
Oscar was with her. Suppose Effie should die! The thought sent the
blood ebbing from Sheila’s cheeks.
“Oh, I wish I had cared more for her, I wish I had not been so selfish
so often. Oscar, I begin to be afraid I am selfish. I do think first
what I like myself, and then I try to invent reasons for doing it. I
have so often left Effie alone and gone out riding, or doing things
that amused me. Oh, I wish I hadn’t now!”
“I’m afraid we’re all rather like that,” answered Oscar. “I know I am.
Perhaps things like this—that fire, and now Effie—are sent to pull us
up and make us think. It came over me when for a moment one wondered
whether there would be any getting out, how little one had done with
one’s life. Perhaps it will help us to think more, Sheila. I’m sure I
need it.”
“If you do, I do much more,” said Sheila; and they sat clinging
together in the dusk, till at last the sound of steps and voices on the
staircase roused them, and Sheila started up crying—
“Oh, there is the doctor. Let us go and ask him.”
He was coming down with Mrs. Cossart; she was looking greatly upset,
but his face wore a look of grave cheerfulness, and they heard him say—
“Yes, she will want care—great care—for some time to come, but there
is nothing to agitate yourself about—no probability of a return of that
condition. Let her be kept perfectly quiet, and she will sleep right
away now. What I have given her will ensure that. I will look in first
thing to-morrow morning.”
Sheila stood trembling in the hall below, and hearing words which
proved to her that Effie was better, she suddenly burst into tears and
sobbed uncontrollably.
“Tut, tut,” said the doctor kindly, “what is the matter here?”
“She was upset to hear about her cousin’s illness,” said Oscar,
answering for her. “She was in the Town Hall too, and I think we all
got a fright, and coming home to hear of illness had upset her quite.”
“Send her to bed, send her to bed,” said the doctor kindly, “and keep
her there till I come to-morrow. I can’t stay now. I am wanted in all
directions at once. It has been a bad bit of business, but thank God
things are wonderfully better than we might have looked to see.”
And the doctor went off in haste, being wanted, as he said, in half
a dozen different directions, whilst Mrs. Cossart took Sheila in her
arms, in an almost motherly embrace, for her tears over Effie’s illness
had touched a chord of sympathy.
“Is dear Effie better?” sobbed Sheila.
“Yes, just a little; she’s come to herself, but he would not let her
talk, and gave her an injection of morphia which sent her off to sleep.
Perhaps she will wake up much better. And now, my dear, you must come
to bed and tell me all about it, for I have not been able to hear
anything, and I am all in a tremble still to think of you all—and my
precious child—in the midst of such terrible danger.”
“And I don’t feel as though I could do anything,” cried Sheila, “till I
have thanked God for saving us and for making Effie better.”
(_To be continued._)
VARIETIES.
THE DISHONEST SERVANT.
A well-known firm in Edinburgh consisted of two partners, and
to provide against dangers from fire and burglary it was made a
stipulation in the deed of partnership that one or other of the heads
of the firm should always sleep on the premises.
In the course of years this became rather an irksome restriction on
their liberty, and in order to free themselves from it they agreed
to take into partnership their manager, an old servant of the house,
on condition that he should occupy the bedroom and so fulfil the
requirements of the deed.
The old servant was naturally very much moved by this recognition of
his services, but pleaded that he had not the necessary capital to
qualify him for partnership. As to that it was only £500 that was
required, and that the firm had decided to give him.
And so the matter was settled. The trusty servant became a partner and
took possession of the room, and in it he was found dead next morning,
having committed suicide.
He left behind him a letter in which he explained that all those years
during which he had been so trusted by his employers, he had been
robbing them, and their great kindness had so filled him with remorse
that he could not live under it.
THE POWER OF MUSIC.
The late Dean Stanley was very fond of Jenny Lind, but when she stayed
at his father’s palace at Norwich, he always left the room when she
sang.
One evening Jenny Lind had been singing Handel’s “I know that my
Redeemer liveth.” Stanley, as usual, had left the room, but he came
back after the music was over, and went shyly up to the great singer.
“You know,” he said, “I dislike music. I don’t know what people mean in
admiring it. I am very stupid, tone-deaf, as others are colour-blind.
But,” he added, with some warmth, “to-night, when from a distance I
heard you singing that song, I had an inkling of what people mean by
music. Something came over me which I had never felt before; or, yes, I
have felt it once before in my life.”
Jenny Lind was all attention.
“Some years ago,” he continued, “I was at Vienna, and one evening there
was a tattoo before the palace performed by four hundred drummers. I
felt shaken, and to-night while listening to your singing, the same
feeling came over me. I felt deeply moved.”
“Dear man,” Jenny Lind used to say, when she told this story, “I know
he meant well, and a more honest compliment I never received in all my
life.”
BAD TEMPER.
“Of all bad things by which mankind are cursed
Their own bad temper surely is the worst.”
_Cumberland._
ANSWER TO DOUBLE ACROSTIC I. (p. 364).
1. O a s i S
2. B a l A
3. E lectri C
4. D u r b a R
5. I lluminat I (a)
6. E thelwol F (b)
7. N a n c I (c)
8. C ambri C (d)
9. E uphrosyn E (e)
Obedience. Sacrifice.
(a) A secret society founded in 1776 by Adam Weishaupt at Ingolstadt,
Bavaria, for mutual assistance in attaining higher morality and virtue.
It was suppressed by the Bavarian Government in 1784.
(b) The son of Egbert, and father of Alfred the Great.
(c) Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, besieged Nanci in 1476; but
he was defeated and killed.
(d) So called from being made first at Cambray.
(e) One of the three Graces, or Charities.
BOOKS BEFORE TRAVEL.
BY DORA DE BLAQUIÈRE.