Mind you hit the blanket. Stir your stumps!”
He, too, stirred his stumps, watching the discouraged flames regaining their lost ground. The two of them ran breathless to the wall, wrenched, ran back to the window, and back again–and the flames gained all the time.
“That top one,” said Soames; “I must have that! Get on that chair. Quick! No, I’ll do it. Lift me! – I can’t reach!”
Uplifted in the grip of that fellow, Soames detached his James Maris, bought the very day the whole world broke into flames. “Murder of the Archduke!” he could hear them at it now. A fine day; the sunlight coming in at the window of his cab, and he lighthearted, with that bargain on his knee. And there it went, pitching down! Ah! What a way to treat pictures!
“Come on!” he gasped.
“Better go down, sir! It’s gettin’ too thick now.”
“No!” said Soames. “Come on!”
Three more pictures saived.
“If you don’t go down, sir, I’ll have to carry you–you been up ’ere too long.”
“Nonsense!” gasped Soames. “Come on!”
“‘Ooray! The engines!”
Soames stood still; besides the pumping of his heart and lungs he could hear another sound. Riggs seized his arm.
“Come along, sir; when they begin to play there’ll be a proper smother.”
Soames pointed through the smoke.
“I must have that one,” he gasped. “Help me. It’s heavy.”
The “Vendimia” copy stood on an easel.
Soames staggered up to it. Half carrying and half dragging, he bore that Spanish effigy of Fleur towards the window.
“Now lift!” They lifted till it balanced on the sill.
“Come away there!” called a voice from the doorway.
“Tip!” gasped Soames, but arms seized him, he was carried to the door, down the stairs, into the air half-conscious. He came to himself in a chair on the verandah. He could see the helmets of firemen and hear a hissing sound. His lungs hurt him, his eyes smarted terribly, and his hands were scorched, but he felt drugged and drowsy and triumphant in spite of his aches and smarting.
The grass, the trees, the cool river under the moon! What a nightmare it had been up there among his pictures–his poor pictures! But he had saved them! The cigarette ash! The waste paper basket! Fleur! No doubt about the cause! What on earth had induced him to put his pictures into her head that evening of all others, when she didn’t know what she was doing? What awful luck! Mustn’t let her know–unless–unless she did know? The shock–however! The shock might do her good! His Degas! The Harpignies! He closed his eyes to listen to the hissing of the water. Good! A good noise! They’d save the rest! It might have been worse! Something cold was thrust against his drooped hand. A dog’s nose. They shouldn’t have let him out. And, suddenly, it seemed to Soames that he must see to things again. They’d go the wrong way to work with all that water! He staggered to his feet. He could see better now. Fleur! Ah! There she was, standing by herself–too near the house! And what a mess on the lawn–firemen–engines–maids, that fellow Riggs–the hose laid to the river–plenty of water, anyway! They mustn’t hurt the pictures with that water! Fools! He knew it! Why! They were squirting the untouched wall. Squirting through both windows. There was no need of that? The right hand window only–only! He stumbled up to the fireman.
“Not that wall! Not that! That wall’s all right. You’ll spoil my pictures! Shoot at the centre!” The fireman shifted the angle of his arm, and Soames saw the jet strike the right-hand corner of the sill. The Vendimia! There went its precious–! Dislodged by the stream of water, it was tilting forward! And Fleur! Good God! Standing right under, looking up. She must see it, and she wasn’t moving! It flashed through Soames that she wanted to be killed.
“It’s falling!” he cried. “Look out! Look out!” And, just as if he had seen her about to throw herself under a car, he darted forward, pushed her with his outstretched arms, and fell.
The thing had struck him to the earth.
Chapter XIV.
HUSH
Old Gradman, off the Poultry, eating his daily chop, took up the early edition of the evening paper, brought to him with that collation:
“FIRE IN A PICTURE GALLERY.”
“WELL-KNOWN CONNOISSEUR SEVERELY INJURED.”
“A fire, the cause of which is unknown, broke out last night in the picture gallery of Mr. Soames Forsyte’s house at Mapledurham. It was extinguished by fire engines from Reading, and most of the valuable pictures were saved. Mr. Forsyte, who was in residence, fought the fire before the firemen were on the spot, and, single-handed, rescued many of the pictures, throwing them out of the window of the gallery into a blanket which was held stretched out on the lawn below. Unfortunately, after the engines had arrived, he was struck on the head by the frame of a picture falling from the window of the gallery, which is on the second floor, and rendered unconscious. In view of his age and his exertions during the fire, very little hope is entertained of his recovery. Nobody else was injured, and no other part of the mansion was reached by the flames.”
Laying down his fork, old Gradman took his napkin, and passed it over a brow which had grown damp. Replacing it on the table, he pushed away his chop, and took up the paper again. You never knew what to believe, nowadays, but the paragraph was uncommonly sober; and he dropped it with a gesture singularly like the wringing of hands.
‘Mr. Soames,’ he thought. ‘Mr. Soames!’ His two wives, his daughter, his grandson, the Forsyte family, himself! He stood up, grasping the table. An accidental thing like that! Mr. Soames! Why–he was a young man, comparatively! But perhaps they’d got hold of the wrong stick! Mechanically he went to the telephone. He found the number with difficulty, his eyes being misty.
“Is that Mrs. Dartie’s–Gradman speaking. Is it true, ma’am… Not ‘opeless, I do trust? Aow! Saving Miss Fleur’s life? You don’t say! You’re goin’ down? I think I’d better, too. Everything’s in order, but he might want something, if he comes to… Dear, dear!… Ah! I’m sure… Dreadful shock–dreadful!” He hung up the receiver, and stood quite still. Who would look after things now? There wasn’t one of the family with any sense of business, compared with Mr. Soames, not one who remembered the old days, and could handle house property as they used to, then. No, he couldn’t relish any more chop–that was flat! Miss Fleur! Saving her life? Well, what a thing! She’d always been first with him. What must she be feelin’! He remembered her as a little girl; yes, and at her wedding. To think of it. She’d be a rich woman now. He took his hat. Must go home first and get some things–might have to wait there days! But for a full three minutes he still stood, as if stunned–a thick-set figure with a puggy face, in a round grey beard–confirming his uneasy grief. If the Bank of England had gone he couldn’t have felt it more. That he couldn’t.
When he reached “The Shelter” in a station fly, with a bag full of night things and papers, it was getting on for six o’clock. He was met in the hall by that young man, Mr. Michael Mont, whom he remembered as making jokes about serious things–it was to be hoped he wouldn’t do it now!
“Ah! Mr. Gradman; so good of you to come! No! They hardly expect him to recover consciousness; it was a terrible knock. But if he does, he’s sure to want to see you, even if he can’t speak. We’ve got your room ready. Will you have some tea?”
Yes, he could relish a cup of tea–he could indeed! “Miss Fleur?”
The young man shook his head, his eyes looked distressed.
“He saved her life.”
Gradman nodded. “So they say. Tt, tt! To think that he–! His father lived to be ninety, and Mr. Soames was always careful. Dear, dear!”
He had drunk a nice hot cup of tea when he saw a figure in the doorway–Miss Fleur herself. Why! What a face! She came forward and took his hand. And, almost unconsciously, old Gradman lifted his other hand and imprisoned hers between his two.
“My dear,” he said, “I feel for you. I remember you as a little girl.”
She only answered: “Yes, Mr. Gradman,” and it seemed to him funny. She took him to his room, and left him there. He had never been in such a pleasant bedroom, with flowers and a nice smell, and a bathroom all to himself–really quite unnecessary. And to think that two doors off Mr. Soames was lying as good as gone!
“Just breathing,” she had said, passing the door. “They daren’t operate. My mother’s there.”
What a face she had on her–so white, so hurt-looking–poor young thing! He stood at the open window, gazing out. It was warm–very warm for the end of September. A pleasant air–a smell of grass. It must be the river down there. Peaceful–and to think–! Moisture blurred the river out; he winked it away. Only the other day they’d been talking about something happening; and now it hadn’t happened to him, but to Mr. Soames himself. The ways of Providence! For Jesus Christ’s sake–Our Lord! Dear, dear! To think of it! He would cut up a very warm man. Richer than his father. There were some birds out there on the water–geese or swans or something–ye-es! Swans! What a lot! In a row, floating along. He hadn’t seen a swan since he took Mrs. G. to Golder’s Hill Park the year after the war. And they said–hopeless! A dreadful thing–sudden like that, with no time to say your prayers. Lucky the Will was quite straightforward. Annuity to Mrs. F., and the rest to his daughter for life, remainder to her children in equal shares. Only one child at present, but there’d be others, no doubt, with all that money. Dear! What a sight of money there was in the family altogether, and yet, of the present generation, Mr. Soames was the only warm man. It was all divided up now, and none of the young ones seemed to make any. He would have to keep a tight hand on the estates, or they’d be wanting their capital out, and Mr. Soames wouldn’t approve of that! To think of outliving Mr. Soames! And something incorruptibly faithful within that puggy face and thick figure, something that for two generations had served and never expected more than it had got, so moved old Graham that he subsided on the window seat with the words: “I’m quite upset!”
He was still sitting there with his head on his hand, and darkness thickening outside, when, with a knock on the door, that young man said:
“Mr. Gradman, will you come down for dinner, or would you like it up here?”
“Up here, if it’s all the same to you. Cold beef and pickles or anything there is, and a glass of stout, if it’s quite convenient.”
The young man drew nearer.
“You must feel it awfully, Mr. Gradman, having known him so long. Not an easy man to know, but one felt–”
Something gave way in Gradman and he spoke:
“Ah! I knew him from a little boy–took him to his first school–taught him how to draw a lease–never knew him to do a shady thing; very reserved man, Mr. Soames, but no better judge of an investment, except his uncle Nicholas. He had his troubles, but he never said anything of them; good son to his father–good brother to his sisters–good father to his child, as you know, young man.”
“Yes, indeed! And very good to me.”
“Not much of a church-goer, I’m afraid, but straight as a die. Never one to wear his ’eart on his sleeve; a little uncomfortable sometimes, maybe, but you could depend on him. I’m sorry for your young wife, young man–I am that! ‘Ow did it ‘appen?”
“She was standing below the window when the picture fell, and didn’t seem to realise. He pushed her out of the way, and it hit him instead.
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He, too, stirred his stumps, watching the discouraged flames regaining their lost ground. The two of them ran breathless to the wall, wrenched, ran back to the window, and back again–and the flames gained all the time.
“That top one,” said Soames; “I must have that! Get on that chair. Quick! No, I’ll do it. Lift me! – I can’t reach!”
Uplifted in the grip of that fellow, Soames detached his James Maris, bought the very day the whole world broke into flames. “Murder of the Archduke!” he could hear them at it now. A fine day; the sunlight coming in at the window of his cab, and he lighthearted, with that bargain on his knee. And there it went, pitching down! Ah! What a way to treat pictures!
“Come on!” he gasped.
“Better go down, sir! It’s gettin’ too thick now.”
“No!” said Soames. “Come on!”
Three more pictures saived.
“If you don’t go down, sir, I’ll have to carry you–you been up ’ere too long.”
“Nonsense!” gasped Soames. “Come on!”
“‘Ooray! The engines!”
Soames stood still; besides the pumping of his heart and lungs he could hear another sound. Riggs seized his arm.
“Come along, sir; when they begin to play there’ll be a proper smother.”
Soames pointed through the smoke.
“I must have that one,” he gasped. “Help me. It’s heavy.”
The “Vendimia” copy stood on an easel.
Soames staggered up to it. Half carrying and half dragging, he bore that Spanish effigy of Fleur towards the window.
“Now lift!” They lifted till it balanced on the sill.
“Come away there!” called a voice from the doorway.
“Tip!” gasped Soames, but arms seized him, he was carried to the door, down the stairs, into the air half-conscious. He came to himself in a chair on the verandah. He could see the helmets of firemen and hear a hissing sound. His lungs hurt him, his eyes smarted terribly, and his hands were scorched, but he felt drugged and drowsy and triumphant in spite of his aches and smarting.
The grass, the trees, the cool river under the moon! What a nightmare it had been up there among his pictures–his poor pictures! But he had saved them! The cigarette ash! The waste paper basket! Fleur! No doubt about the cause! What on earth had induced him to put his pictures into her head that evening of all others, when she didn’t know what she was doing? What awful luck! Mustn’t let her know–unless–unless she did know? The shock–however! The shock might do her good! His Degas! The Harpignies! He closed his eyes to listen to the hissing of the water. Good! A good noise! They’d save the rest! It might have been worse! Something cold was thrust against his drooped hand. A dog’s nose. They shouldn’t have let him out. And, suddenly, it seemed to Soames that he must see to things again. They’d go the wrong way to work with all that water! He staggered to his feet. He could see better now. Fleur! Ah! There she was, standing by herself–too near the house! And what a mess on the lawn–firemen–engines–maids, that fellow Riggs–the hose laid to the river–plenty of water, anyway! They mustn’t hurt the pictures with that water! Fools! He knew it! Why! They were squirting the untouched wall. Squirting through both windows. There was no need of that? The right hand window only–only! He stumbled up to the fireman.
“Not that wall! Not that! That wall’s all right. You’ll spoil my pictures! Shoot at the centre!” The fireman shifted the angle of his arm, and Soames saw the jet strike the right-hand corner of the sill. The Vendimia! There went its precious–! Dislodged by the stream of water, it was tilting forward! And Fleur! Good God! Standing right under, looking up. She must see it, and she wasn’t moving! It flashed through Soames that she wanted to be killed.
“It’s falling!” he cried. “Look out! Look out!” And, just as if he had seen her about to throw herself under a car, he darted forward, pushed her with his outstretched arms, and fell.
The thing had struck him to the earth.
Chapter XIV.
HUSH
Old Gradman, off the Poultry, eating his daily chop, took up the early edition of the evening paper, brought to him with that collation:
“FIRE IN A PICTURE GALLERY.”
“WELL-KNOWN CONNOISSEUR SEVERELY INJURED.”
“A fire, the cause of which is unknown, broke out last night in the picture gallery of Mr. Soames Forsyte’s house at Mapledurham. It was extinguished by fire engines from Reading, and most of the valuable pictures were saved. Mr. Forsyte, who was in residence, fought the fire before the firemen were on the spot, and, single-handed, rescued many of the pictures, throwing them out of the window of the gallery into a blanket which was held stretched out on the lawn below. Unfortunately, after the engines had arrived, he was struck on the head by the frame of a picture falling from the window of the gallery, which is on the second floor, and rendered unconscious. In view of his age and his exertions during the fire, very little hope is entertained of his recovery. Nobody else was injured, and no other part of the mansion was reached by the flames.”
Laying down his fork, old Gradman took his napkin, and passed it over a brow which had grown damp. Replacing it on the table, he pushed away his chop, and took up the paper again. You never knew what to believe, nowadays, but the paragraph was uncommonly sober; and he dropped it with a gesture singularly like the wringing of hands.
‘Mr. Soames,’ he thought. ‘Mr. Soames!’ His two wives, his daughter, his grandson, the Forsyte family, himself! He stood up, grasping the table. An accidental thing like that! Mr. Soames! Why–he was a young man, comparatively! But perhaps they’d got hold of the wrong stick! Mechanically he went to the telephone. He found the number with difficulty, his eyes being misty.
“Is that Mrs. Dartie’s–Gradman speaking. Is it true, ma’am… Not ‘opeless, I do trust? Aow! Saving Miss Fleur’s life? You don’t say! You’re goin’ down? I think I’d better, too. Everything’s in order, but he might want something, if he comes to… Dear, dear!… Ah! I’m sure… Dreadful shock–dreadful!” He hung up the receiver, and stood quite still. Who would look after things now? There wasn’t one of the family with any sense of business, compared with Mr. Soames, not one who remembered the old days, and could handle house property as they used to, then. No, he couldn’t relish any more chop–that was flat! Miss Fleur! Saving her life? Well, what a thing! She’d always been first with him. What must she be feelin’! He remembered her as a little girl; yes, and at her wedding. To think of it. She’d be a rich woman now. He took his hat. Must go home first and get some things–might have to wait there days! But for a full three minutes he still stood, as if stunned–a thick-set figure with a puggy face, in a round grey beard–confirming his uneasy grief. If the Bank of England had gone he couldn’t have felt it more. That he couldn’t.
When he reached “The Shelter” in a station fly, with a bag full of night things and papers, it was getting on for six o’clock. He was met in the hall by that young man, Mr. Michael Mont, whom he remembered as making jokes about serious things–it was to be hoped he wouldn’t do it now!
“Ah! Mr. Gradman; so good of you to come! No! They hardly expect him to recover consciousness; it was a terrible knock. But if he does, he’s sure to want to see you, even if he can’t speak. We’ve got your room ready. Will you have some tea?”
Yes, he could relish a cup of tea–he could indeed! “Miss Fleur?”
The young man shook his head, his eyes looked distressed.
“He saved her life.”
Gradman nodded. “So they say. Tt, tt! To think that he–! His father lived to be ninety, and Mr. Soames was always careful. Dear, dear!”
He had drunk a nice hot cup of tea when he saw a figure in the doorway–Miss Fleur herself. Why! What a face! She came forward and took his hand. And, almost unconsciously, old Gradman lifted his other hand and imprisoned hers between his two.
“My dear,” he said, “I feel for you. I remember you as a little girl.”
She only answered: “Yes, Mr. Gradman,” and it seemed to him funny. She took him to his room, and left him there. He had never been in such a pleasant bedroom, with flowers and a nice smell, and a bathroom all to himself–really quite unnecessary. And to think that two doors off Mr. Soames was lying as good as gone!
“Just breathing,” she had said, passing the door. “They daren’t operate. My mother’s there.”
What a face she had on her–so white, so hurt-looking–poor young thing! He stood at the open window, gazing out. It was warm–very warm for the end of September. A pleasant air–a smell of grass. It must be the river down there. Peaceful–and to think–! Moisture blurred the river out; he winked it away. Only the other day they’d been talking about something happening; and now it hadn’t happened to him, but to Mr. Soames himself. The ways of Providence! For Jesus Christ’s sake–Our Lord! Dear, dear! To think of it! He would cut up a very warm man. Richer than his father. There were some birds out there on the water–geese or swans or something–ye-es! Swans! What a lot! In a row, floating along. He hadn’t seen a swan since he took Mrs. G. to Golder’s Hill Park the year after the war. And they said–hopeless! A dreadful thing–sudden like that, with no time to say your prayers. Lucky the Will was quite straightforward. Annuity to Mrs. F., and the rest to his daughter for life, remainder to her children in equal shares. Only one child at present, but there’d be others, no doubt, with all that money. Dear! What a sight of money there was in the family altogether, and yet, of the present generation, Mr. Soames was the only warm man. It was all divided up now, and none of the young ones seemed to make any. He would have to keep a tight hand on the estates, or they’d be wanting their capital out, and Mr. Soames wouldn’t approve of that! To think of outliving Mr. Soames! And something incorruptibly faithful within that puggy face and thick figure, something that for two generations had served and never expected more than it had got, so moved old Graham that he subsided on the window seat with the words: “I’m quite upset!”
He was still sitting there with his head on his hand, and darkness thickening outside, when, with a knock on the door, that young man said:
“Mr. Gradman, will you come down for dinner, or would you like it up here?”
“Up here, if it’s all the same to you. Cold beef and pickles or anything there is, and a glass of stout, if it’s quite convenient.”
The young man drew nearer.
“You must feel it awfully, Mr. Gradman, having known him so long. Not an easy man to know, but one felt–”
Something gave way in Gradman and he spoke:
“Ah! I knew him from a little boy–took him to his first school–taught him how to draw a lease–never knew him to do a shady thing; very reserved man, Mr. Soames, but no better judge of an investment, except his uncle Nicholas. He had his troubles, but he never said anything of them; good son to his father–good brother to his sisters–good father to his child, as you know, young man.”
“Yes, indeed! And very good to me.”
“Not much of a church-goer, I’m afraid, but straight as a die. Never one to wear his ’eart on his sleeve; a little uncomfortable sometimes, maybe, but you could depend on him. I’m sorry for your young wife, young man–I am that! ‘Ow did it ‘appen?”
“She was standing below the window when the picture fell, and didn’t seem to realise. He pushed her out of the way, and it hit him instead.
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