The Oldest Flame (3 page)

“It’s nothing serious, I hope?” said Mrs.
Lansbury, looking up at him with subtle questioning in her eyes
that seemed to ask more than she would say before all the room.

Lansbury shook his head. Mrs. Meade thought
he looked rather tired and harried, as though whatever business he
had in hand at the moment was weighing on him more than he liked.
“No. I just feel I can be more persuasive about this investment
business in person than I can by telegraph. There’s no sense in
letting him turn me down just because I didn’t make an opportunity
to speak to him.”

“I see. How long will you be gone?”

“Not more than a few days, if all goes well.
We could possibly be back by the day after tomorrow.”

Mark, in the corner, was leaning against the
bookcase with a restive air, casting uneasy glances toward the
French window as if he was trying to make up his mind to do
something. Mrs. Meade knew it was only a matter of time before he
followed Rose. With this thought, she stood up. It would be
regrettable for the already uncomfortable evening to end with some
sort of scene, which was a distinct possibility if Mark were to go
out by himself and join the two in the garden while in this mood.
So Mrs. Meade essayed a spiking of guns.

“Will you walk outside with me, Mark?” she
said. “I would very much like to go round the garden again, and see
it in the evening.”

A bit reluctantly, she thought, but evidently
knowing there was no way to refuse without her knowing why, Mark
came forward and opened the window the rest of the way for Mrs.
Meade to pass through. They went out and down the few shallow steps
from the terrace, and Mrs. Meade took Mark’s arm as they turned to
walk along the level lawn to the right. It was an unspoken
agreement that they should go that way.

It was a beautiful evening. The setting sun
cast streams of gold light over the smooth green lawn and lit up
the flowers that stood against its rays like translucent jewels.
Away to the left, the valley was falling into shadows of muted
color with occasional spangles of light on the tops of the trees,
and the clouds above it on the western skyline were a white and
gold glory almost too bright to look at. Mrs. Meade, knowing full
well that nothing she said was of any consequence, talked on gently
about the loveliness of the flowers and about the sunset, while
Mark, his eyes searching ahead, murmured an occasional indistinct
word of agreement without even hearing what it was he was
answering.

At last they rounded a clump of shrubs that
brought them in sight of the curving stone wall that bounded this
end of the garden. The wall was higher than a man’s head, but
served only an ornamental purpose, for it joined to nothing on
either end. It was overgrown with a tangle of climbing roses that
had crept down and overtaken the flowerbeds at its base and thrown
flower-hung grapples across into the trees that stood near it, a
fairylike tapestry draped on the rough-hewn stone. The sun struck
over the wall and made the corner a pool of light, and Rose Grey
and Steven Emery were standing here facing one another, a little
apart, with Rose the nearest to the wall. As Mrs. Meade and Mark
came into view of them Steven Emery spoke, and his voice carried
clearly to their ears. “This is the perfect background for you,
Rose,” he said. He was leaning back slightly as if to take in to
its fullest effect the picture that she made. “It must have been
something more than chance that went into giving you your name,
because these flowers are your very own.”

Rose at this instant became aware of the
observers, and her face flooded with color. She turned with
slightly overdone carelessness toward the wall, and touched the
petals of a half-blown pink rose with her fingertips as if the
flowers, and not her companion, were her primary interest at the
moment. “Oh, no,” she said. “I’m just the shadow—these are the real
thing. You could never find anything lovelier than—that, for
instance.” She pointed to a deep crimson rose, opened to full
velvety perfection, which hung just on the edge of the wall above
their heads.

She looked over her shoulder at Steven Emery,
and smiled a little. “The best ones are always out of reach, aren’t
they.”

“Nothing is ever completely out of reach,”
said Steven Emery gallantly, and stepping into the flowerbed, he
found a foothold on the projecting edge of a stone, reached up to
grasp one of the sturdiest vines and pulled himself up to where he
could stretch out his hand and pluck the crimson rose. Mrs. Meade,
who had released Mark’s arm, came to stand beside Rose as they
watched Emery twist the flower from the vine and then descend. He
stepped out of the bed, and held the flower out to Rose. It was
very simply done, and yet the moment somehow seemed to have a great
weight.

“Thank you,” said Rose. She was looking down
at the flower, and spoke in a level, somewhat constrained
voice—perhaps because she knew that Mark, standing a few feet apart
with his hands in his pockets, was watching her, and knew what sort
of expression was on his face. “You didn’t have to do that, Mr.
Emery.”

“It’s nothing,” said Steven Emery quietly.
“Any man would be willing to do—a great deal more for you, Miss
Grey, and not call it a hardship.”

And Mrs. Meade, observing the look in his
eyes as he spoke, judged from it that whatever else he might be
thinking, he was at least serious in his intentions toward
Rose.

* * *

Mrs. Meade had not found time to unpack her
satchel after her arrival the evening before. On this night, as she
was preparing for bed, she gave the bag a speculative look, and
then decided it could just as well be left till morning. She sighed
as she concluded this. She felt unaccountably tired. The day had
contained no real physical exertion, but mental strain can make one
more unpleasantly tired than a simple hard day’s work, and the
consciousness that things are not right with the people around us
thus affects a perceptive mind.

Mrs. Meade was thinking again of others’
problems as she brushed out her thick graying hair before the
bureau mirror, in her dressing-gown, by the light of a single
candle. Had it been only a dinner-party, she thought, things would
have been different—certain tensions might have been diffused at
least for the time being by the parting of the people whose
presence affected each other. But the Lansburys’ guests were due to
stay here in the same house for at least a week. Mrs. Meade sighed
again. She thought of the look of frustrated misery Mark had worn
all evening. It must be hard to see a rival successfully winning
away the object of your affections under your own roof. She only
hoped it would not result in further unhappiness before the week
was out.

She finished braiding her hair, and blew out
the candle. The night was still warm, so her window was open a few
inches. Mrs. Meade raised the sash further and pushed back the
curtains to admit the breeze, and then went to bed.

She woke suddenly several hours later. The
room was darker, but the house was not silent—she was conscious at
once of a commotion below. The vibration of a slamming door,
running footsteps and a man’s voice shouting. It took her a few
seconds to comprehend the words, and then the sense of them came
all at once as she recognized the strong smell of smoke: “Fire!
fire! Get up—the house is on fire!”

Hastily Mrs. Meade climbed out of bed and
reached for her dressing-gown. With one arm into the sleeve she
bent over to put on her slippers. As she straightened up, her eyes
fell on the open window, with her satchel sitting on a chair just
beneath it. It was the work of an instant to seize the bag and
throw it through the window, and in another instant she had opened
her bedroom door and was outside in the hall, tying the sash of her
dressing-gown as she went. The hall was smoky, and an uneven
flaring light was coming up from the staircase, accompanied by the
muffled sound of women’s shrieks. Mrs. Meade turned the other way.
Miss Parrish’s room was just round the corner of the hall from
hers, and the door was shut. Mrs. Meade beat on the door and called
out, “Miss Parrish! Miss Parrish, wake up!—fire!”

There was no response. Mrs. Meade tried the
door, but it was locked. “Miss Parrish!” she called again. She
glanced about her. The smoke was growing thicker; it was dangerous
to stay even a moment longer. Mrs. Meade turned and hurried back
down the hall, coughing, her hand over her mouth. She descended the
stairs to the first-floor landing. Over the banister she caught a
glimpse of Mrs. Grey and Rose, her long, loose golden plait of hair
streaming over her shoulder, hurrying down the next set of stairs
to the ground floor.

As she reached the landing, where the smoke
was not so bad, Mark Lansbury came running out of the opposite
corridor, disheveled and wide-eyed with alarm, and nearly collided
with her. “Where’s Rose?” he cried.

Instead of answering Mrs. Meade seized his
arm and pointed back up the stairs she had come down. “Miss Parrish
is locked in her room and doesn’t answer! You’ll have to try and
break in the door—hurry!”

“All right—I’ll—” For an instant Mark seemed
to hesitate, cast one distraught glance around and then bolted up
the stairs. Mrs. Meade hurried on downward. The lower hall was
filled with smoke, and the doorways of the various rooms were
blazing. The front door was open, and a cluster of women clad in
nightgowns and shawls and dressing-gowns were milling on the lawn
just outside—the cook, two maids, Mrs. Grey and her daughter. Mrs.
Lansbury was there, white-faced but composed, and at the edge of
the agitated group was the tall, reassuring figure of Steven Emery,
his resolute voice rising above the clamor and restoring some
measure of order. “Nobody’s hurt? Good—is everyone here?”

Mrs. Meade pushed her way through the group
with some difficulty until she was near enough to Emery to make
herself heard. “Mr. Emery—Mr. Emery, Mark is still inside, and Miss
Parrish. She was shut in her room, and I sent him up to help
her.”

Emery sent a swift glance through the doorway
of the burning house, up the staircase that was now glowing with
fierce orange light. There was a crack and then a splintering sound
from one of the downstairs rooms, and a tongue of flame flashed
through its doorway and retreated. “I’d better help him. Keep them
away—” He raised his voice. “All of you—get well away from the
house, and stay away! The butler’s gone for help.” He put the women
out of his way and ducked through the front door into the house, as
another crash sounded from somewhere inside.

All the windows on the ground floor were
bright with that terrible orange radiance as the group of women
made their way across the lawn, picking their steps over the
dew-wet grass in the wavering light the fire threw, and huddled
together near the flower border on the far side. Mrs. Grey wilted
to the ground sobbing hysterically, and beside her Mrs. Lansbury’s
little maid was shivering and crying more quietly, while Rose,
strung up to a pitch of fear and excitement, distractedly tried to
calm them both. Mrs. Meade, standing with one hand at her throat,
was watching the unnatural light grow slowly in the upper windows,
her lips moving in silent prayer for those still inside. The
minutes seemed to stretch out endlessly, while the fire raged on
without opposition. Would the whole house be consumed before
anything could be done to stop it?

Then from down the hill came a faint shout,
and Mrs. Meade looked back to see several bobbing points of light
coming along the dark road, lanterns in the hands of neighbors
responding to the butler’s summons for help. Mrs. Lansbury left the
group and hurried down the lawn to meet them.

In the same moment the cook and the other
maid both uttered a dismayed cry. Mrs. Meade turned—a figure
lurched from the smoking front door of the house, a man bent under
a heavy burden. There was a rush of flames against the glass of the
nearest window, and their bright light fell upon him. Rose
screamed. It was Steven Emery, with Mark Lansbury over his
shoulder.

Her heart in her throat, Mrs. Meade moved
forward stiffly to meet him. When he had got within ten feet of the
group on the lawn Emery swayed to a halt, overbalanced and went to
one knee, tumbling the unconscious Mark into the grass. He got back
to his feet as Mrs. Meade reached them and knelt beside Mark. She
felt Rose’s hand clutch tightly at her shoulder from behind.

“He isn’t hurt,” said Emery hoarsely. “The
smoke overcame him. He’ll be all right in a moment.”

“But Miss Parrish!” cried Mrs. Meade.

“I’m going back after her.” He turned and ran
back toward the house.

Mrs. Meade loosened Mark’s collar, noting,
with the ironic clarity with which inconsequent details stand out
in moments of chaos, that his shirt had been misbuttoned, and moved
his head to an easier position in the grass. Rose, after watching
for a few seconds, cast an anguished look at the blazing house and
then fled back to her mother, stumbling over the ruffled hem of her
dressing-gown as she went. The men whom the butler had brought were
at work now, bringing buckets of water from the pump by the stables
in through the front door and rushing out with the empty ones in a
swirl of smoke.

Out on the lawn, the only sounds beside the
crackle of the flames and an occasional distant shout from one of
the workers were Mrs. Grey’s and the little maid’s sobs, and Rose
gasping and whispering as she knelt by her mother’s side, one arm
around her—whether prayers or comfort for her mother or both. Mrs.
Meade fanned Mark steadily with the little maid’s nightcap, the
only thing handy, her attention divided between him and the upper
corner of the house, from which foreboding wreaths of smoke were
now ascending, ghostly grey against the black ceiling of the night.
Steven Emery had not yet reappeared.