“They don’t,” replied Miss Durward promptly. “They go up and up and up. This canteen is going to send them soaring to the skies.”
“How?” asked Guy.
“Oh, I was just ragging,” she replied. “The canteen can’t make very much difference except that when people are well fed in a pleasant place it increases their efficiency; but you must let us keep the illusion that we’re helping production. . . . Hallo, d’you hear that?”
Guy listened, and far away in the distance he heard a siren, the eerie wailing sound of the alert. He also heard a faint popping noise which he knew to be distant gunfire. “Jerry seems to be in the neighbourhood,” said Guy.
She nodded. “That’s Truckford siren, and those are the Truckford batteries. You’ll hear our own siren in a few moments. I think I’ll make for home.”
“Hadn’t you better wait?”
She shook her head. “I want to get home. I must have some sleep before to-morrow. Cheerio. Frances won’t be long now—she always locks up the place herself.”
Guy sat on. The room was in darkness except for one electric lamp on the table where he was sitting and one light above the door which led into the hall. It was such an enormous room that the other end of it was in darkness . . . what a huge shadowy cavern of a room! To-morrow it would spring to life; it would be full of men and women snatching hasty meals between their periods of work.
The Manburgh siren was wailing now—Guy hated the sound. He wondered why it was necessary to have such a dismaying noise as a warning that the enemy was approaching. Wouldn’t it be better (for psychological reasons) to have an enlivening call to arms, the note of a bugle or a drum, instead of that distressful yowling that froze the marrow in one’s bones? The gunfire had come nearer ... that barking was obviously the Manburgh A.A. guns . . . and that was a stick of bombs—three explosions, one after another, not very loud but loud enough to make the windows rattle—and now, quite distinctly, he could hear the sound of planes.
Guy wondered where Frances was. He wished she would come. There must be a lot of stuff falling round about, shell splinters from our own guns if nothing else. The noise was increasing every moment, the bark of guns and the roar of the planes. Guy rose to his feet with the subconscious urge to go and look for Frances and just at that moment the door into the hall opened and Frances was there. She stood in the doorway with the light shining on her hair and turning it to gold.
“Guy!” said Frances in amazement.
Guy was stricken dumb. He could not begin his carefully prepared explanations; he could not even say her name. He gazed at her in absolute silence.
It was then, at that moment, while he was still staring at Frances, that Guy heard the bomb coming. He had heard bombs coming before—-that curious, quite unmistakable squealing sound with a background like the rending of coarse calico—he had heard it in France at a village where he was billeted, he had heard it in Belgium and again at Dunkirk, and he was aware that when you heard that sound there was one only thing to do and you hadn’t much time. . . . Guy leapt at Frances, seized her in his arms, flung her on the floor, rolled her under the big, solid refectory table and spread himself on the top of her . . . the bomb burst.
For a moment or two Guy was absolutely stunned by the crash of the explosion . . . it was an appalling crash . . . it was the loudest and most devastating noise he had ever experienced . . . the whole place rocked upon its foundations like an earthquake. After the explosion came the crash and clatter of falling masonry, the rending, tearing sound of tortured timbers . . . the air was filled with the stench of cordite . . .
There was silence for a moment, and then another avalanche of masonry, stones and rubble poured down from the walls and the roof; they clattered down and stopped, and then clattered down again . . . every now and then there was a louder crash as the beams and stones were loosened from their places and a larger chunk of wall tottered and fell.
After a few minutes, the avalanche of stones ceased to fall, and Guy opened his eyes and sat up. His ears were singing, but he was unhurt, and as Frances had been underneath him, he had every reason to believe that she had escaped injury. He saw that she had fainted—perhaps that was just as well. He looked round the room upon the most extraordinary scene he had ever beheld. The bomb had fallen on the outer wall, shearing away the wall and part of the room . . . through the large gap bright moonlight was pouring in, flooding the scene with silvery light. The floor was a mass of huge, jagged stones and beams and rubble. Clouds of dust and plaster filled the air eddying, floating, falling and settling inches deep upon everything. Beams, torn and lacerated, jagged and splintered, stuck out from the walls—they looked to Guy as if they had been clawed out of the walls by a giant with a pickaxe. While Guy looked, another piece of wall began to sway and totter . . . the next moment it fell with another crash and the stones bounded on the other stones which were heaped on the floor and were flung in all directions.
His first idea had been to get Frances out of the place as quickly as he could, but now he changed his mind, for he noticed that the outer wall, where the gap was, had been cracked from top to bottom and a huge piece of masonry which had been torn from its moorings was balanced on one end of a beam in a most precarious fashion . . . Frances was safer where she was. The table was solid and the wall behind the table was solid too—it was the inner wall of the house and seemed more or less secure. To get Frances out he would have to carry her across the room to the gap, he would have to scramble over the heaps of fallen stones. It would be better to wait until a rescue party arrived—people who knew what to do. He had heard no more bombs, so perhaps the raiders had been driven off . . . it was to be hoped that the factory had escaped destruction.
“Guy,” said Frances, faintly.
He looked at her and saw that her eyes were open. “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.
“I thought I was dead. The noise . . .”
“Yes, it was some noise. You aren’t hurt, are you?”
“No,” she replied. She sat up and shook back her hair—it was full of dust and plaster—her eyes widened with horror and amazement as she looked round. “Oh, the poor house!” she said. “Oh, the poor, poor house—it was so beautiful, Guy.”
Guy did not reply. He was looking round with an anxious expression on his face . . . he smelt fire . . . where was it? Was it just a waft of burning wood from some other bomb—an incendiary—near by, or was it here? A tongue of flame shot out from the door at the other end of the room, a red and yellow flag of danger. . . .
“We’ll have to move,” said Guy, rising to his feet.
Frances had seen it too. She crawled out from under the table and stood up beside him.
“Frances,” said Guy quickly. “We’re going to get out of here safely—of course we are—but just in case—Frances, it’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s all right, Guy.”
“You’ll marry me, Frances?”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
He looked at her and saw that she was looking up at him—and smiling. “Aren’t you ever frightened of anything?” he asked.
“Only of mice,” she replied.
Guy knew it wasn’t true. She was frightened (of course she was frightened), but that didn’t matter. It was the gesture that mattered—the brave gesture—he loved her for it. He held out his hand and she puts her into it . . . together they began to climb over the huddle of stones and rubble to the gap in the wall*
The stones crumbled beneath their feet; there was glass everywhere; there were jagged beams with nails in them; there were huge chunks of stone which had fallen from the vaulted roof. The fire was spreading with incredible rapidity—little tongues of flame were advancing towards them, licking up the wood, dry as tinder, which lay among the debris on the floor. The place was filled with a red glow and with acrid smoke which made them cough. They struggled on and all the time Guy kept looking at the wall . . . the cracked wall. It was totterin
g and the beam that supported it was swaying . . . they reached the gap now, and Guy climbed out. He turned and held out his arms and Frances flung herself into them . . . at that moment the wall fell with a crash. It fell inwards, but a small avalanche of rubble and dust poured down from the roof, knocking them over and half burying them.
Guy rose. He was dazed and bruised but apparently sound. He picked Frances up in his arms and went down to meet the rescue party which was coming up the drive.
CHAPTER XXXV
“Thank God you’re safe!” exclaimed Mr. Fleming. “Is there anybody else in the place? Miss Durward? No . . . that’s good. Put her down here. The grass is dry as a bone. Where’s the doctor?”
Guy laid Frances on the grass, and an elderly man came forward and knelt down beside her. Guy watched him anxiously as he ran his hands over her in a competent manner. They were alone now—the three of them—for Mr. Fleming and the rest of the party had gone on to the house with the fire-fighters.
“Is she—badly hurt?” asked Guy, moistening his dry lips with his tongue.
“No,” replied the doctor. “I can’t find anything except a simple fracture of the arm—”
“But why is she unconscious,” asked Guy, bending over and gazing at her white face and closed eyes.
“Shock probably,” replied the doctor, “or perhaps slight concussion. We’ll get her off to the hospital. What about yourself?”
“I’m perfectly fit. Are you sure she’s all right? No internal injuries or—or anything?”
“I can’t be sure, of course,” replied the doctor, looking up at Guy; “but I don’t think there’s much wrong. Are you related to her?”
“We’re engaged to be married,” said Guy.
“I see. Well, I don’t think you need worry unduly. Do you want to go with her to the hospital?”
Guy hesitated. He looked at Frances and then he looked at the house. Flames were leaping up and shooting through the windows. The fire-fighters were running out their hoses; Mr. Fleming was standing on the terrace waving his arms and calling out directions to the men.
*“I think I ought to help them,” said Guy at last.
“It would be good of you,” nodded the doctor. “Fleming is rather worried in case the fire spreads to the factory. The wind is in that direction.”
“You’ll look after Miss Field?”
“Yes, I’ll get her off to the hospital at once.”
Guy looked at Frances again. Her dead white face and hurried breathing terrified him, but apparently the doctor was not anxious about her . . . and he, himself, was powerless to help her. He felt that his duty lay in the other direction . . . he could do something useful there. He delayed no longer, but strode off towards the house to join in the battle of the flames.
It was the most amazing night that Guy had ever spent. It was a night of terror and excitement and gruelling work. The roar of the flames, the crash of falling stones, the hiss and splutter of the hoses filled his ears. He worked with the men, dark figures so blackened with smoke that it was impossible to know them apart. Mr. Fleming was the only one amongst them that was recognisable; he was in the forefront; he seemed to be everywhere at once, giving help where help was most needed, and shouting encouragement in a hoarse, cracked voice. After they had been working for some time Guy began to feel as if the fire were possessed of devilish intelligence and malignity. No sooner had they managed to get it under control at one place than it burst out with renewed fury at another place. Guy was singed, he was soaked to the skin and then singed again. His clothes were blackened and charred, he was choked by smoke, and his hands were scorched and lacerated. The fire was in the rafters now and the dry beams, which had supported the roof for hundreds of years, were blazing furiously . . . and then the roof fell in and the flames shot upwards until they seemed to touch the sky.
“It’s a fine beacon for Jerry,” said a man who was working beside Guy.
“But Jerry’s gone home with his tail between his legs,” said another man . . . they both laughed.
“Trust our lads to chase them off,” said the first man with pride and satisfaction in his voice.
“What about the works?” asked Guy.
The second man glanced in his direction, and replied: “They’re safe. This was the only bomb in the place.”
“There’s a Jerry down at Truckford,” said another. “Tom says—”
“Here, mister! Look out!” cried the first man, leaping at Guy and pushing him backwards with such force that Guy lost his footing and fell. Guy was about to expostulate when there was a terrific crash and a blazing beam descended upon the exact spot where he had been standing . . . he realised that the man had saved his life. He looked about him to see where the man was, to thank him, but they had separated now and Guy did not see him again. To tell the truth, Guy was doubtful whether or not he would have recognised the man, for they were all like sweeps, their teeth shining whitely in their blackened faces. This was just one of the many incidents which occurred during that amazing night. There was another incident of a somewhat different nature in which Guy was the principal actor. After the roof fell, there was still one corner of the building which remained standing, blazing like a furnace and sending out sparks in all directions. The sparks were flying towards the nearest factory building, and this was what they were trying to prevent. . . . Guy seized a ladder and reared it against a crumbling wall and started to mount with his hose. He had placed his foot on the first rung when he felt a hand on his arm and, turning his head, found himself face to face with Mr. Fleming.
“The wall’s crumbling,” said Mr. Fleming in a croaky voice. “It’s not safe.”
“It’s all right,” replied Guy. “And it’s the only way to get a hose near enough—” and with that he threw off Mr. Fleming’s detaining grasp and mounted.
Fortunately the wall was solidly built and remained firm, and Guy was able to direct the jet of water into the heart of the blaze.
Soon after that the walls began to fall. They tottered and fell one after another, scattering showers of sparks and burning wood, which set fire to dry grass and palings and to a stack of fuel which was piled up in a yard; but these fires were not serious and were quickly stamped out. Daylight came and by now the flames were dying down. The hoses were still playing upon the glowing heap of stones, but the chief danger was past, the fire was under control.
Guy saw that he was not needed now, and as he was very weary and his hands were somewhat painful, he withdrew from the battle and climbed a bank and sat down. He looked at the place—it was incredible that a few hours ago a splendid mansion had stood there. It was incredibly sad. He felt that something had died, something beautiful and fine, something that could never be replaced . . . the stones, the timber; the magnificent workmanship which had gone to the making of Belton Park were irreplaceable. Guy tried to “see” the house as he had seen it before. He tried to erect it in his imagination out of the blackened heap of ruins which was all that remained of it . . . suddenly he found Mr. Fleming standing beside him.
“What a night!” Mr. Fleming said.
“I wish we could have saved it,” said Guy.
“The house was doomed from the first,” declared Mr. Fleming in his hoarse croak. “The timbers were old and dry. We’ve saved the works.”
Guy nodded.
“Wonderful,” continued Mr. Fleming. “Grand work. I was sorely afraid at one time that the fire would spread, but we kept the flames in check. I don’t know how to thank you for your help.”
“I didn’t do more than you or the other men.”
“You did as much as any two of us put together,” said Mr. Fleming firmly. “My heart was in my mouth when you went up that ladder—”
“It was nothing. The wall was perfectly sound.”
“I saw you rush in just as the roof was falling and drag one of my men to safety.”
“They’d have done the same,” replied Guy.
Mr. Fleming hesitated and looked
round. “We can do no more here,” he said. “You’ll be wanting to go over to the hospital. I’ll take you.”
CHAPTER XXXVI
Elise was sitting in the lounge at the Bordale Arms Hotel having tea. She was feeling somewhat blue. For one thing the weather had broken and the rain was coming down in sheets—soft warm rain falling with such persistency that it gave one the impression that it would go on falling for months—and for another thing Ned had told her that he would be over at tea-time, and he had not turned up. Elise ought to have been used to disappointments of this nature caused by the exigencies of the Service, but she was not and never would be—it was quite useless to try not to expect Ned; there was something inside her which strained and yearned for Ned without ceasing. He would come, of course; he might be here any minute, for he had not phoned to say that he could not get away. Something had happened to delay him at the last minute—he would come when he could. Colonel Thynne had now returned from London and resumed command of the battalion, but Guy was still away and his absence entailed extra work for Ned. Nothing had been heard from Guy since his departure, but he was expected back on Monday, so perhaps he had thought it not worth while to write. (Elise wondered whether his quest for Frances had been successful; in her heart of hearts she was of the opinion that it was a wild-goose chase.) Once Guy was back and had settled down properly, perhaps Ned would be able to get a few days’ leave. His leave was long overdue. Elise sighed and poured out a cup of tea, and at that moment Annie came in with a sheaf of letters.
“They’re late again,” said Annie apologetically. “It was the van this time. It broke down between here and Rithie, and Mr. Walker’s saying they’ll need to get a new van. It’s an awful ramshackle affair and that’s the truth.” She put the letters on the table and added: “They’re not such important letters today, so you’ll not mind them being late so much.”
Elise could not help smiling. She knew that Annie took a tremendous interest in her correspondence. “How do you know they aren’t important?” she inquired.
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