white over the trees? Smoke!Why, Walton, the barn-yards are all on fire!"
Almost at the same moment Branson rushed upon the scene.
"Glad you're up, gentlemen," he gasped. "Wake the Squire. The servantsare all astir. We must save the beasts, come of everything else whatwill."
The farm-steading of Burley was built in the usual square formationround a centre straw-yard, which even in winter was always kept so wellfilled that beasts might lie out all night. To the north were thestacks, and it was here the fire originated, and unluckily the wind blewfrom that direction. It was by no means high; but fire makes its ownwind, and in less than half an hour the whole yard was ablaze andburning fiercely, while the byres, stables, and barns had all caught.From the very first these latter had been enveloped in dense rollingclouds of smoke, and sparks as thick as falling snowflakes, so that tosave any of the live stock seemed almost an impossibility.
With all his mania for machinery, and for improvements of every kindpossible to apply to agriculture, it is indeed a wonder that the Squirehad not established a fire brigade on his farm. But fire was aneventuality which he had entirely left out of his reckoning, and nowthere was really no means of checking the terrible conflagration.
As soon as the alarm was given every one did what he could to save thelive stock; but the smoke was blinding, maddening, and little could bedone save taking the doors off their hinges.
Who knows what prodigies of valour were performed that night by thehumble cowmen even, in their attempts to drive the oxen and cows out,and away to a place of safety? In some instances, when they had nearlysucceeded, the cattle blocked the doorways, or, having got out to thestraw-yard, charged madly back again, and prevented the exit of theirfellows. Thus several servants ran terrible risks to their lives.
They were more successful in saving the horses, and this was greatlyowing to Archie's presence of mind. He had dashed madly into the stablefor his pet Scallowa. The Shetland pony had never looked more wildbefore. He sniffed the danger, he snorted and reared. All at once itoccurred to Archie to mount and ride him out. No sooner had he got onhis back than he came forth like a lamb. He took him to a field and lethim free, and as he was hurrying back he met little Peter.
"Come, Peter, come," he cried; "we can save the horses."
The two of them rushed to the stable, and horse after horse was bridledand mounted by little Peter and ridden out.
But a fearful hitch occurred. Tell, the Squire's hunter, backed againstthe stable door and closed it, thus imprisoning Archie, who found itimpossible to open the door.
The roof had already caught. The horses were screaming in terror, andrearing wildly against the walls.
Peter rushed away to seek assistance. He met Branson, and in a word ortwo told him what had happened.
Luckily axes were at hand, and sturdy volunteers speedily smashed thedoor in, and poor Archie, more dead than alive, with torn clothes andbleeding face, was dragged through.
The scene after this must be left to imagination. But the Squirereverently and fervently thanked God when the shrieks of thosefire-imprisoned cattle were hushed in death, and nothing was to be heardsave the crackle and roar of the flames.
The fire had lit up the countryside for miles around. The moonlightitself was bright, but within a certain radius the blazing farm castshadows against it.
Next morning stackyards, barn-yards, farm-steading, machinery-house, andeverything pertaining to Burley Old Farm, presented but a smouldering,blackened heap of ruins.
Squire Broadbent entertained his poor, frightened people to an earlybreakfast in the servants' hall, and the most cheerful face there wasthat of the Squire. Here is his little speech:
"My good folks, sit down and eat; and let us be thankful we're all here,and that no human lives are lost. My good kinswoman Kate here will tellyou that there never yet was an ill but there might be a worse. Let uspray the worse may never come."
CHAPTER TEN.
"AFTER ALL, IT DOESN'T TAKE MUCH TO MAKE A MAN HAPPY."
For weeks to come neither Uncle Ramsay nor Walton had the heart to addanother sorrow to the Squire's cup of misery. They knew that the firehad but brought on a little sooner a catastrophe which was alreadyfulling; they knew that Squire Broadbent was virtually a ruined man.
All the machinery had been rendered useless; the most of the cattle weredead; the stacks were gone; and yet, strange to say, the Squire hopedon. Those horses and cattle which had been saved were housed now inrudely-built sheds, among the fire-blackened ruins of their formerwholesome stables and byres.
One day Branson, who had always been a confidential servant, sent Maryin to say he wished to speak to the Squire. His master came out atonce.
"Nothing else, Branson," he said. "You carry a long face, man."
"The wet weather and the cold have done their work, sir. Will you walkdown with me to the cattle-sheds?"
Arrived there, he pointed to a splendid fat ox, who stood in his stallbefore his untouched turnips with hanging head and dry, parched nose.His hot breath was visible when he threw his head now and then uneasilyround towards his loin, as if in pain. There was a visible swelling onthe rump. Branson placed a hand on it, and the Squire could hear it"bog" and crackle.
"What is that, Branson? Has he been hurt?"
"No, sir, worse. I'll show you."
He took out his sharp hunting-knife.
"It won't hurt the poor beast," he said.
Then he cut deep into the swelling. The animal never moved. No bloodfollowed the incision, but the gaping wound was black, and filled withair-bubbles.
"The quarter-ill," said the cowman, who stood mournfully by.
That ox was dead in a few hours. Another died next day, two the next,and so on, though not in an increasing ratio; but in a month there washardly an animal alive about the place except the horses.
It was time now the Squire should know all, and he did. He looked achastened man when he came out from that interview with his brother andWalton. But he put a right cheery face on matters when he told hiswife.
"We'll have to retrench," he said. "It'll be a struggle for a time, butwe'll get over it right enough."
Present money, however, was wanted, and raised it must be.
And now came the hardest blow the Squire had yet received. It was astaggering one, though he met it boldly. There was then at Burley OldMansion a long picture gallery. It was a room in an upper story, andextended the whole length of the house--a hall in fact, and one thatmore than one Squire Broadbent had entertained his friends right royallyin. From the walls not only did portraits of ancestors bold and gay,smile or frown down, but there hung there also many a splendid landscapeand seascape by old masters.
Most of the latter had to be sold, and the gallery was closed, for thesimple reason that Squire Broadbent, courageous though he was, could notlook upon its bare and desecrated walls without a feeling of sorrow.
Pictures even from the drawing-room had to go also, and that room toowas closed. But the breakfast-room, which opened to the lawn and rosegardens, where the wild birds sang so sweetly in summer, was leftintact; so was the dining-room, and that cosy, wee green parlour inwhich the family delighted to assemble around the fire in the winter'sevenings.
Squire Broadbent had been always a favourite in the county--somewhat ofan upstart and iconoclast though he was--so the sympathy he received wasuniversal.
Iconoclast? Yes, he had delighted in shivering the humble idols ofothers, and now his own were cast down. Nobody, however, deserted him.Farmers and Squires might have said among themselves that they alwaysknew Broadbent was "going the pace," and that his new-fangled Americannotions were poorly suited to England, but in his presence they did allthey could to cheer him.
When the ploughing time came round they gave him what is called in thefar North "a love-darg." Men with teams of horses came from every farmfor miles around and tilled his ground. They had luncheon in a marquee,but they would not hear o
f stopping to dinner. They were indeedthoughtful and kind.
The parson of the parish and the doctor were particular friends of theSquire. They often dropped in of an evening to talk of old times withthe family by the fireside.
"I'm right glad," the doctor said one evening, "to see that you don'tlose heart, Squire."
"Bless me, sir, why should I? To be sure we're poor now, but God hasleft us a deal of comfort, doctor, and, after all, _it doesn't take muchto make a man happy_."
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Boys will be boys. Yes, we all know that. But there comes a time inthe life of every right-thinking lad when another truth strikes home tohim, that boys will be men.
I rather think that the sooner a boy becomes cognisant of this fact thebetter. Life is not all a dream; it must sooner or later become a sternreality.
From Squire to Squatter: A Tale of the Old Land and the New Page 13