Chapter IX

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.