The blanket dipped with the weight, but held.
“Hold it tighter!” he shouted. “Look out!” And over went the Gauguin South Sea Girl. Picture after picture, they took them from the blanket, and laid them on the grass. When he had tipped them all, he turned to take the situation in. The flames had caught the floor now, in the corner, and were spreading fast along the beams.
The engines would be in time to save the right hand wall. The left hand wall was hopeless, but most of the pictures there he’d saved. It was the long wall where the flames were beginning to get hold; he must go for that now. He ran as near to the corner as he dared, and seized the Morland. It was hot to his touch, but he got it–six hundred pounds’ worth of white pony. He had promised it a good home! He tipped it from the window and saw it pitch headlong into the blanket.
“My word!”
Behind him, in the doorway, that fellow Riggs at last, in shirt and trousers, with two extinguishers, and an open mouth!
“Shut your mouth!” he gasped, “and spray that wall!”
He watched the stream and the flames recoiling from it. How he hated those inexorable red tongues. Ah! That was giving them pause!
“Now the other! Save the Courbet! Sharp!”
Again the stream spurted and the flames recoiled. Soames dashed for the Courbet. The glass had gone, but the picture was not harmed yet; he wrenched it away.
“That’s the last of the bloomin’ extinguishers, sir,” he heard Riggs mutter.
“Here, then!” he called. “Pull the pictures off that wall and tip them out of the window one by one. 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.
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