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.
Then Stephen Disston came awake and looked up in consternation at his companion.
But Gordon stooped and picked them up.
A piece of tinder, a wire coil, a couple of candles, and a box of matches! And the whole smelled unmistakably of kerosene.
He put them carefully into the bag as if he were not noticing what they were and handed the bag over to the master of the house.
“You’ll want to put those away out of sight, won’t you? At least for the present? No need to have reporters poking around trying to find leads for headlines.”
He tried to say it carelessly, as if it were not a thing that mattered so much. Then his eyes met the unhappy eyes of Disston, and he saw the other fully understood. His face was still very white.
“Thank you,” said Disston. “I’ll take your advice—for the present—at least until I understand what this means.”
A newspaper lay on the kitchen table, and Gordon proffered it.
“Wrap it in that and put it away somewhere till things clear up a little.”
“You’re being very kind,” said Disston, visibly getting his emotions in hand.
“Not at all,” said Gordon. “I wish there was something really worthwhile that I could do for you.”
“You have done a great deal,” said Disston slowly, “and—I shall not forget it.”
Their eyes met, and a smile of friendliness flashed between them. Then Disston silently unlocked the door that led to the scene of ruin, and they stood for a few minutes studying the probably course of the fire.
“This wall ought to be closed up at once,” said Gordon. “When the police leave it will be practically impossible to keep out the swarm of small boys and curious people.”
“Yes,” sighed Mr. Disston, looking around with a hopeless sadness in his eyes. “I suppose I ought to send for a carpenter at once.”
“I was going to suggest,” said Gordon thoughtfully, “that there are some boards out there in the tool house. If you are willing, I could bring them in and nail them up over the largest break in the wall. That would do temporarily until you have time to get your mind on what should be done.”
“Oh, I couldn’t think of troubling you anymore,” protested Disston.
“Nonsense,” said Gordon eagerly. “We’re neighbors, you know, and besides, my mother and I have taken a deep interest in our landlord’s house.” He smiled a deep, warm smile that comforted the heart of the sorrowful landlord. “You’d do the same for me, I’ll warrant, if I were in trouble.”
“I’m not sure I would know how,” said the elder man humbly. “But where is this lumber you speak of? I ought to know, of course, but I’ve never had much time to look after the details about the house. If I could just get this place closed to curious eyes for the time being, it certainly would be a great help.”
They went together to the tool house and brought back planks, Gordon handling them capably and taking the heavier part of the labor.
“Now,” he said, when they had enough of the planks to cover the large gap in the wall that the fire had made, “I wonder if you happen to be able to locate a hammer and some nails? I think I saw a ladder in the cellar stairway. It won’t take long to make this secure.”
He went capably to work, and in a very short time the room that had been gutted by fire was closed to the eyes of the countryside, who continued to straggle about all day to look and wonder and say who they thought had done it or how it had caught on fire.
“Now,” said Gordon, coming down from the ladder after driving the last nail, “you’ll come down to the cottage and have a bite of lunch with me, won’t you? You look white and tired. I’m sure you need it. Yes, come, I’m sure Mother will have something ready.”
So, comforted by the friendly smile and the insistent hand upon his arm, Stephen Disston walked down to the stone cottage with his tenant and they had lunch together. Such a comfortable, quite lunch in that sweet little home wherein there seemed to be no perplexities nor hates nor problems. Such a home as he used to have before Marilla went away. Yes, and even afterward when he and Diana comforted one another together. Would life ever unsnarl itself and things go right again? Who had started that fire? And was that bag Helen’s? Could that be the one he had seen lying across the end of the couch the night before last in the hotel? Or wait—wasn’t it really Diana’s, the one that someone sent her from abroad? How had Helen gotten it? And where, oh, where was Diana?
“Your daughter is not at home just now?” Mrs. MacCarroll was asking him pleasantly. “I thought she was such a sweet girl. I miss her going by.”
Diana’s father looked up with a heavy sigh.
“No, she is not at home!” he said with infinite sadness in his eyes and voice.
Where, oh, where was Diana? If he could only find Diana!
Chapter 21
Diana had been working hard in her restaurant, day after day. Sometimes it seemed to her that she had been there a year serving uncouth people. Sometimes it seemed to her as if almost all of them were animals, just animals feeding, with no resemblance to humanity at all, at least not to the lovely refined humanity that she knew. She shuddered as she crept wearily into her bed at night at the thought of another day that would rush upon her oh-so speedily in the midst of
her heavy sleep and drag her back to her duties again.
And her pay was so pitifully small, her tips so trifling and scarce. People of the sort she served had not much to spare for tips, greedy, hard-eyed people, all but those few who appraised her eyes, her hair, her smile, her figure, and gave only when they could win her notice. From those she shrank most of all. Some were half drunk when they came in. How she loathed them! It was only through trying to remember that God must care for them, too, that Christ died for them, that she could make herself wait upon them.
How the days loomed ahead of her, each one worse than the last! How she dreaded each one as she went forth and came home so deadly tired that she could take no comfort in the quietness and peace of even that little third-story back.
The only oasis in the dreariness of her life was the box of carnations. Twice they had come on Saturday nights. Would they come again? The hope of them made one little sweet thing to look forward to. Somehow her heart rested down on those mystery flowers as if they were part of her religion, and as if they came fresh each week from God to let her know He cared. Her faith grew little by little as she breathed in their spicy breath. They were such frail, lovely things, and yet so sturdy and healthy and long-lived. For each installment had lived and glowed and been beautiful until the next arrived. And it comforted her sometimes on her hardest days to think of them back there in her little high, lonely room glowing and waiting for her, a rosy breath of love and sympathy, from someone, whom she would probably never know except vaguely as God’s messenger.
It had been a hard day, harder than usual, because it was a holiday and Saturday again. There had been a tougher lot of people in the restaurant than usual. The place had been crowded from early morning on, and Diana had been greatly rushed. Moreover, some of the other girls, who had never really recovered from their resentment at her finer ways, had made it more than usually uncomfortable for her, maliciously upsetting her tray when it was all ready to take to a customer in a hurry, spilling a glass of water over the food she had prepared to take to another, tripping her as she passed with a heavy tray lifted high above her head and almost bringing her down among broken dishes. It was not their fault that she had been able to avert the catastrophe by an almost superhuman effort and recover her balance with only a broken plate and the loss of an order—which, of course, she would have to pay for. She discovered as the day went on that she had also wrenched her back, and her head was throbbing wildly. By three o’clock in the afternoon she suddenly began to feel that she actually could not go on any longer. Her feet were aching in sympathy with her back and head, and a great despair was surging over her soul. She was being beaten, beaten by this job. She could not go on any longer. Yet she knew she must or give up utterly. Because if she lost this job, where would she turn for another? Beaten! What could she do? Would she go home? Never! The thought of Helen still loomed as a positive barrier. There was no relief there. And if she gave up her job and was sick in the bargain, where would she go? Who would take care of her? Suppose she had a fever? She was burning up now. It probably was a fever. Would they take her to a charity hospital? Well, there might be even worse fates than that. Perhaps she would die, and then she would be out of it all. If God cared for her, then she would go to be with Him!
The Flower Brides Page 47