V.

The castle to-night was as gloomy as the meads. As Havill had explained,

the habitable rooms were just now undergoing a scour, and the main block

of buildings was empty even of the few servants who had been retained,

they having for comfort’s sake taken up their quarters in the detached

rooms adjoining the entrance archway. Hence not a single light shone

from the lonely windows, at which ivy leaves tapped like woodpeckers,

moved by gusts that were numerous and contrary rather than violent.

Within the walls all was silence, chaos, and obscurity, till towards

eleven o’clock, when the thick immovable cloud that had dulled the

daytime broke into a scudding fleece, through which the moon forded her

way as a nebulous spot of watery white, sending light enough, though

of a rayless kind, into the castle chambers to show the confusion that

reigned there.

At this time an eye might have noticed a figure flitting in and about

those draughty apartments, and making no more noise in so doing than a

puff of wind. Its motion hither and thither was rapid, but methodical,

its bearing absorbed, yet cautious. Though it ran more or less through

all the principal rooms, the chief scene of its operations was the Long

Gallery overlooking the Pleasance, which was covered by an ornamental

wood-and-plaster roof, and contained a whole throng of family portraits,

besides heavy old cabinets and the like. The portraits which were of

value as works of art were smaller than these, and hung in adjoining

rooms.

The manifest occupation of the figure was that of removing these small

and valuable pictures from other chambers to the gallery in which the

rest were hung, and piling them in a heap in the midst. Included in the

group were nine by Sir Peter Lely, five by Vandyck, four by Cornelius

Jansen, one by Salvator Rosa (remarkable as being among the few English

portraits ever painted by that master), many by Kneller, and two

by Romney. Apparently by accident, the light being insufficient to

distinguish them from portraits, the figure also brought a Raffaelle

Virgin-and-Child, a magnificent Tintoretto, a Titian, and a Giorgione.

On these was laid a large collection of enamelled miniature portraits

of the same illustrious line; afterwards tapestries and cushions

embroidered with the initials ‘De S.’; and next the cradle presented by

Charles the First to the contemporary De Stancy mother, till at length

there arose in the middle of the floor a huge heap containing most of

what had been personal and peculiar to members of the De Stancy family

as distinct from general furniture.

Then the figure went from door to door, and threw open each that was

unfastened. It next proceeded to a room on the ground floor, at present

fitted up as a carpenter’s shop, and knee-deep in shavings. An armful of

these was added to the pile of objects in the gallery; a window at each

end of the gallery was opened, causing a brisk draught along the walls;

and then the activity of the figure ceased, and it was seen no more.

Five minutes afterwards a light shone upon the lawn from the windows of

the Long Gallery, which glowed with more brilliancy than it had known in

the meridian of its Caroline splendours. Thereupon the framed gentleman

in the lace collar seemed to open his eyes more widely; he with the

flowing locks and turn-up mustachios to part his lips; he in the armour,

who was so much like Captain De Stancy, to shake the plates of his

mail with suppressed laughter; the lady with the three-stringed pearl

necklace, and vast expanse of neck, to nod with satisfaction and

triumphantly signify to her adjoining husband that this was a meet and

glorious end.

The flame increased, and blown upon by the wind roared round the

pictures, the tapestries, and the cradle, up to the plaster ceiling and

through it into the forest of oak timbers above.

The best sitting-room at the Lord-Quantock-Arms in Markton was as cosy

this evening as a room can be that lacks the minuter furniture on which

cosiness so largely depends. By the fire sat Paula and Somerset, the

former with a shawl round her shoulders to keep off the draught which,

despite the curtains, forced its way in on this gusty night through the

windows opening upon the balcony. Paula held a letter in her hand, the

contents of which formed the subject of their conversation. Happy as she

was in her general situation, there was for the nonce a tear in her eye.

‘MY EVER DEAR PAULA (ran the letter),--Your last letter has just reached

me, and I have followed your account of your travels and intentions with

more interest than I can tell. You, who know me, need no assurance of

this. At the present moment, however, I am in the whirl of a change that

has resulted from a resolution taken some time ago, but concealed from

almost everybody till now. Why? Well, I will own--from cowardice--fear

lest I should be reasoned out of my plan. I am going to steal from the

world, Paula, from the social world, for whose gaieties and ambitions

I never had much liking, and whose circles I have not the ability to

grace. My home, and resting-place till the great rest comes, is with the

Protestant Sisterhood at -----. Whatever shortcomings may be found in

such a community, I believe that I shall be happier there than in any

other place.

‘Whatever you may think of my judgment in taking this step, I can assure

you that I have not done it without consideration. My reasons are good,

and my determination is unalterable. But, my own very best friend,

and more than sister, don’t think that I mean to leave my love and

friendship for you behind me. No, Paula, you will ALWAYS be with me,

and I believe that if an increase in what I already feel for you be

possible, it will be furthered by the retirement and meditation I shall

enjoy in my secluded home. My heart is very full, dear--too full to

write more. God bless you, and your husband. You must come and see me

there; I have not so many friends that I can afford to lose you who have

been so kind. I write this with the fellow-pen to yours, that you gave

me when we went to Budmouth together. Good-bye!--Ever your own sister,

CHARLOTTE.’

Paula had first read this through silently, and now in reading it a

second time aloud to Somerset her voice faltered, and she wept outright.

‘I had been expecting her to live with us always,’ she said through her

tears, ‘and to think she should have decided to do this!’

‘It is a pity certainly,’ said Somerset gently. ‘She was genuine, if

anybody ever was; and simple as she was true.’

‘I am the more sorry,’ Paula presently resumed, ‘because of a little

plan I had been thinking of with regard to her. You know that the

pictures and curiosities of the castle are not included in the things I

cannot touch, or impeach, or whatever it is. They are our own to do

what we like with. My father felt in devising the estate that, however

interesting to the De Stancys those objects might be, they did not

concern us--were indeed rather in the way, having been come by so

strangely, through Mr. Wilkins, though too valuable to be treated

lightly. Now I was going to suggest that we would not sell them--indeed

I could not bear to do such a thing with what had belonged to

Charlotte’s forefathers--but to hand them over to her as a gift, either

to keep for herself, or to pass on to her brother, as she should choose.

Now I fear there is no hope of it: and yet I shall never like to see

them in the house.’

‘It can be done still, I should think. She can accept them for her

brother when he settles, without absolutely taking them into her own

possession.’

‘It would be a kind of generosity which hardly amounts to more than

justice (although they were purchased) from a recusant usurper to a dear

friend--not that I am a usurper exactly; well, from a representative of

the new aristocracy of internationality to a representative of the old

aristocracy of exclusiveness.’

‘What do you call yourself, Paula, since you are not of your father’s

creed?’

‘I suppose I am what poor Mr. Woodwell said--by the way, we must call

and see him--something or other that’s in Revelation, neither cold nor

hot. But of course that’s a sub-species--I may be a lukewarm anything.

What I really am, as far as I know, is one of that body to whom

lukewarmth is not an accident but a provisional necessity, till they see

a little more clearly.’ She had crossed over to his side, and pulling

his head towards her whispered a name in his ear.

‘Why, Mr. Woodwell said you were that too! You carry your beliefs very

comfortably. I shall be glad when enthusiasm is come again.’

‘I am going to revise and correct my beliefs one of these days when I

have thought a little further.’ She suddenly breathed a sigh and

added, ‘How transitory our best emotions are! In talking of myself I am

heartlessly forgetting Charlotte, and becoming happy again. I won’t be

happy to-night for her sake!’

A few minutes after this their attention was attracted by a noise of

footsteps running along the street; then a heavy tramp of horses, and

lumbering of wheels. Other feet were heard scampering at intervals, and

soon somebody ascended the staircase and approached their door. The head

waiter appeared.

‘Ma’am, Stancy Castle is all afire!’ said the waiter breathlessly.

Somerset jumped up, drew aside the curtains, and stepped into the

bow-window. Right before him rose a blaze. The window looked upon the

street and along the turnpike road to the very hill on which the castle

stood, the keep being visible in the daytime above the trees. Here

rose the light, which appeared little further off than a stone’s throw

instead of nearly three miles. Every curl of the smoke and every wave

of the flame was distinct, and Somerset fancied he could hear the

crackling.

Paula had risen from her seat and joined him in the window, where she

heard some people in the street saying that the servants were all safe;

after which she gave her mind more fully to the material aspects of the

catastrophe.

The whole town was now rushing off to the scene of the conflagration,

which, shining straight along the street, showed the burgesses’ running

figures distinctly upon the illumined road. Paula was quite ready to act

upon Somerset’s suggestion that they too should hasten to the spot, and

a fly was got ready in a few minutes. With lapse of time Paula evinced

more anxiety as to the fate of her castle, and when they had driven as

near as it was prudent to do, they dismounted, and went on foot into

the throng of people which was rapidly gathering from the town and

surrounding villages. Among the faces they recognized Mr. Woodwell,

Havill the architect, the rector of the parish, the curate, and many

others known to them by sight. These, as soon as they saw the young

couple, came forward with words of condolence, imagining them to have

been burnt out of bed, and vied with each other in offering them a

lodging. Somerset explained where they were staying and that they

required no accommodation, Paula interrupting with ‘O my poor horses,

what has become of them?’

‘The fire is not near the stables,’ said Mr. Woodwell. ‘It broke out

in the body of the building. The horses, however, are driven into the

field.’

‘I can assure you, you need not be alarmed, madam,’ said Havill. ‘The

chief constable is here, and the two town engines, and I am doing all I

can. The castle engine unfortunately is out of repair.’

Somerset and Paula then went on to another point of view near the

gymnasium, where they could not be seen by the crowd. Three-quarters of

a mile off, on their left hand, the powerful irradiation fell upon the

brick chapel in which Somerset had first seen the woman who now

stood beside him as his wife. It was the only object visible in that

direction, the dull hills and trees behind failing to catch the light.

She significantly pointed it out to Somerset, who knew her meaning, and

they turned again to the more serious matter.

It had long been apparent that in the face of such a wind all the pigmy

appliances that the populace could bring to act upon such a mass of

combustion would be unavailing. As much as could burn that night was

burnt, while some of that which would not burn crumbled and fell as

a formless heap, whence new flames towered up, and inclined to the

north-east so far as to singe the trees of the park. The thicker walls

of Norman date remained unmoved, partly because of their thickness, and

partly because in them stone vaults took the place of wood floors.

The tower clock kept manfully going till it had struck one, its face

smiling out from the smoke as if nothing were the matter, after which

hour something fell down inside, and it went no more.

Cunningham Haze, with his body of men, was devoted in his attention, and

came up to say a word to our two spectators from time to time. Towards

four o’clock the flames diminished, and feeling thoroughly weary,

Somerset and Paula remained no longer, returning to Markton as they had

come.

On their journey they pondered and discussed what course it would be

best to pursue in the circumstances, gradually deciding not to attempt

rebuilding the castle unless they were absolutely compelled. True,

the main walls were still standing as firmly as ever; but there was

a feeling common to both of them that it would be well to make an

opportunity of a misfortune, and leaving the edifice in ruins start

their married life in a mansion of independent construction hard by the

old one, unencumbered with the ghosts of an unfortunate line.

‘We will build a new house from the ground, eclectic in style. We will

remove the ashes, charred wood, and so on from the ruin, and plant more

ivy. The winter rains will soon wash the unsightly smoke from the walls,

and Stancy Castle will be beautiful in its decay. You, Paula, will be

yourself again, and recover, if you have not already, from the warp

given to your mind (according to Woodwell) by the mediaevalism of that

place.’

‘And be a perfect representative of “the modern spirit”?’ she inquired;

‘representing neither the senses and understanding, nor the heart and

imagination; but what a finished writer calls “the imaginative reason”?’

‘Yes; for since it is rather in your line you may as well keep straight

on.’

‘Very well, I’ll keep straight on; and we’ll build a new house beside

the ruin, and show the modern spirit for evermore.... But, George, I

wish--’ And Paula repressed a sigh.

‘Well?’

‘I wish my castle wasn’t burnt; and I wish you were a De Stancy!’