The Flower Brides (61 page)

It looked to MacCarroll as if it had been a slow fire, perhaps started by a match or cigarette, smoldering through rags or rubbish in the cellar until it gained a footing. Then, creeping upward, it must have made a passage for itself and had only now begun to leap upward.

But there was no time for thought. Gordon dashed out of the tool house dragging the garden hose then searched blindly through the smoke, which was becoming dense now, for the outlet. Finally he succeeded in locating it, screwed on the hose, and turned on the water.

But it was such an inadequate little stream that poured out after he had done all he could. He turned it to its utmost and played it upon the house, but even in the minute it had taken to get the water started, the fire seemed to have gained the ascendancy. It had crept underneath and roared up the wall of a small annex, perhaps a laundry or out-kitchen, and now the flames were feathering upward from the roof, cutting it in half, and roaring in triumph. It would not take long to reduce the annex to ashes if this could not be stopped. And meantime, the main house was in grave danger. The flames were shooting out now through one corner of the roof. Would the fire company never get here?

There was another water outlet the other side of the back porch. Gordon wished there were two of him. There was a large bucket standing under it. He could draw water and throw it on where it would prevent the spread of the fire, if he could only fix up something to hold this hose so that it could work while he was working elsewhere.

But even while he was casting about in his mind what to do his mother appeared and took the hose from him.

“I’ll hold this, Gordon. Do you see what else is to be done? The fire company is on the way, and I’ve telephoned the neighbors. Here’s the ax, too, I though you might need it.”

So the two worked valiantly, breathlessly, on the fire that had now leaped up into a mighty conflagration, threatening to devastate the whole house.

Neighbors came running across the fields now, and cars dashed up the drive and parked on the lawn to make room for the fire engine. And then the fire company arrived, with chemicals and a big hose running back down the drive to a hydrant in the street.

A neighbor volunteered to try to reach the owner by telephone. The police arrived and took a hand also, and the fire roared high and reached forth arms of flame greedy to envelop the whole back of the house and one end, licking out now and then tentatively around the corner to the beautiful white front with its fine lacework of vines.

As soon as the firemen arrived, Mrs. MacCarroll went home and made coffee in a large white preserving kettle. It was near dinnertime, and the chances were that some of the men would be working there for hours yet. Some of them, at least, would have to stay around and be sure that all was safe, even if they succeeded in saving the main part of the house. So she went to work quietly to help in the only way she could see herself of any use. She spread bread and sliced ham and made a lot of nice sandwiches, and putting them in wax paper in a basket, she packed another basket with cups and saucers. Then taking the kettle of coffee herself, she got a couple of boys from the rabble drifting up the drive to carry the baskets, and so she established refreshments for the firemen over by the tool house.

Gordon MacCarroll was in the thick of the fight all the way through. It was a volunteer fire company, and they were glad to get such efficient help, though everyone was so busy during the worst of it that no one had time to question who was working and who was not. So it happened that when the fire was finally under control, it was Gordon who climbed down into the cellar first, stepping knee deep in water. He was in utter darkness except for his flashlight, which peered through the smoke and murk sending a sharp, inadequate ray cutting the gloom and locating stairs, chimneys, and charred doors to storerooms and preserve closets. It was Gordon who lifted a dripping something floating on the water, turned his flashlight on it for a brief second, and then flung it far up the cellar stairs into the corner of the top landing out of sight. He came up out of the cellar window a few minutes later with a thoughtful look upon his face and his lips closed firmly.

“All safe below!” he said cryptically. He didn’t mention what he suspected. There wouldn’t be an investigation until the water had gone out.

That night, quite late, he came home and took a bath and ate his supper. His mother hovered around and saw that he had all that was needful and a good deal that was not. She did not talk. She was a wise woman and noticed how tired his eyes looked, how his cheek was bruised where the big hose had hit him when it was flung out by a careless amateur, and how his hands were torn and bleeding. He had worked hard and been in dangerous places, she knew, but she was too well trained to notice a little thing like that. Only one question she asked when he came in. “Is it all safe for the night now, or will you have to go back?”

“All safe!” he answered. “They’ve left a couple of watchmen there for the night.”

Then she brought his dinner, hot and tasty, and he fell to eating. But when he had reached the cherry pie he took one bite then looked up. “Mother, what color did you say that bag was? Blue? With gold stampings?”

“Yes!” said his mother, with a startled look on her face. “Gordon! You’ve found it!” It was rather a statement than a question.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t answer.

“It was down in the cellar!” his mother said with conviction. “That means—” She shut her lips on the rest of the sentence.

Then after another silence he answered that half question. “Not necessarily, Mother.”

The next silence was longer until she asked, “Did anybody else see it, Son?”

He shook his head.

“And did you—leave it—put it
—hide
it?”

“No,” he said, “I wasn’t sure I should. I flung it to the top of the stairs. It won’t mean much there. Perhaps—in the morning—But there may be no opportunity. There wasn’t time then to do more than I did. Perhaps, after all, it may not be significant.”

Mr. Disston did not get the word until he reached his office the next morning, where he had gone very early, before Helen had shown any sign of being awake. He did not wish to wait around to be scorned and scoffed at. Helen must understand that he meant what he said. There was no point in repeating his words or in staying to argue further. There was a point at which dignity must stand. If he had been at home, it would have been different. In his own place he could speak with more force, but this was not his home. So he went down to his office.

The elevator boy was just going on when he arrived.

“Did they get you last night?” he asked.

“Get me?” asked Stephen Disston in a weary voice. Something had got him very badly. Was there more?

“Yeah. They said your phone rang an’ rang, and your secretary was wild to know if you was in the building, but I told ’em I took you down. Then a lawyer man called and wanted to talk to me. He asked did I know just what time it was you left and whether you come back last night at all, and I said you hadn’t when I quit at six o’clock.”

A sudden thought came of Diana. Perhaps it had been Diana. Perhaps something had happened to Diana. Then all the other worries suddenly melted away and Diana became the only anxiety in the world. Oh, if he could only find Diana and know she was safe!

It was after nine when word finally came over the phone about the house being on fire, and his heart seemed so heavy he could hardly drag himself up out of his chair after he hung up the receiver.

“It’s all out, that is, some’s smoking yet,” said the fireman who called, “but you better come out and see whatcha want done. We had a watchman on the job all night, but the burned place oughtta be closed up for safety if you ain’t comin’ home to stay. Yep, we got on the job right soon, but if it hadn’t been for the party that lives in that there stone house at the gate she woulda gone up in smoke before we ever heard. Yep. That’s him, tall, curly hair! He helped plenty. All by his lonesome till we got there! An’ he done good work, too. Yep! You better come out soon as you can. So long!”

When Stephen Disston arrived at his home he found Gordon MacCarroll just starting up the drive. He had gone early to his own office and then driven back by way of home to make sure that all was well at the scene of the fire. He looked relieved when he saw the man of the house coming behind him.

“Oh, I’m glad you’ve come, Mr. Disston,” he said, turning around and walking up with him. “I felt as if I ought to hang around and see that there was an adequate guard until you were here to give orders. You see, the house is practically open to the public, and it seems impossible to keep the rabble away. The children have been swarming all around. I got in and locked a few doors so they can’t get in far, but I certainly am glad you’ve come. Here are the keys I took. This one fits the door where the most damage has been done, servants’ dining room, perhaps, and that opens into the hall.”

Disston thanked him gravely and took the keys. “They tell me you rendered swift and marvelous assistance. The fire chief said you practically saved the house.”

“Oh, I did very little,” said Gordon lightly. “I’m only sorry I didn’t get home sooner. Mother had been smelling smoke for an hour. By the time I got here there was a glow in some of the windows. I found her out in the driveway looking up toward the house. She didn’t know whether anybody was at home or not. She said your wife went in about noon, but didn’t stay long.”

“Oh!” said the master of the house, turning startled eyes on his tenant. And then a forced, “Oh yes. She—we—were away—last night!” But his face wore a confused, troubled look. “How—do you think—that is, what is your opinion of how—where—the fire started?”

“In the cellar,” said Gordon quickly. “It almost looked as if it had been
started
, though you can’t tell surely till the water subsides. Had you any servants you had reason to distrust?”

Stephen Disston turned his tired eyes on the young man.

“Yes,” he said, “there were some new servants. We didn’t keep them long, but I don’t see what object they would have in setting fire to the house. They were quite adequately paid. They knew we were going away for a time—” He walked on thoughtfully, his eyes upon the ground as if he were studying it over.

“What made you think it was started?”

“Well, there seemed to be a pile of debris over in the corner where the fire raged the hottest, as if things had been piled up there, and there were a few rags floating on the water that evidently had been too far away to ignite and were soaked in kerosene. But the corner looked as if combustibles had been piled up where the flame would easily reach the beams of the first floor. That was what actually happened, I think; the fire evidently was a slow one, but by the time it reached the corner it had gathered force enough to eat through the floor and run right up the wall.”

The master of the house turned another startled gaze upon Gordon and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

“We’ll go in the front door,” said Disston as they reached the terrace. “I’d rather see the worst before I face the rabble out there.”

“Shall I just wait outside?” offered Gordon.

“No! Come! I’m glad to have you with me!”

Gordon thought to himself that he had often hoped to see the inside of the great house sometime but had not expected to enter under such circumstances.

Disston unlocked the door, and they stepped into the beautiful hallway with its wide staircase and lovely vistas of rooms on either side.

“Oh, I’m glad this part didn’t get hurt!” he said with quick eager exclamation.

“Yes!” sighed Disston, as if the sight of it were very dear indeed.

They walked through to the kitchen, and the master went to the cellar door and fitted in the key. Then Gordon remembered the blue bag and wished he had left it in a corner of the cellar. But perhaps it would not be noticed!

Disston unlocked the door and swung it wide, and the morning sun from a big window over the kitchen sink flooded across the landing. There lay the blue kid bag, its lovely gold tooling stained and spotted with water and grime from the fire! Disston saw it and stared as if he had seen a ghost.

Gordon tried to look away, but he caught a glimpse of the man’s face, and it was pale as death. His eyes were staring wildly.

“What is that?” he asked huskily. “How—how did that—get here?” He was too distraught to realize that he was showing his emotion before this stranger.

“It was floating on the top of the water,” explained Gordon, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact way, as if he saw nothing out of the ordinary in the occurrence. Perhaps this was, after all, the best way to let Mr. Disston know without making it appear that it had any particular significance to him. He had been so troubled whether he should tell about finding the bag or not, and now here it was made plain and easy for him.

Stephen Disston stooped and picked up the bag by its dripping leather strings and held it a moment looking at it closely. Then, as if his conscience drove him and he were not in the least aware of the presence of another, he felt it then turned out upon the floor what it contained and stood there staring at it. Gordon could not help seeing what was there.