CHAPTER XXXIV

A FLARE-UP AND ITS SEQUELÆ

LITTLE more was seen of Giles that afternoon. But distressed though he was, he could not be called hopeless; for at least he knew with almost certainty that his love was returned. The obstacle, whatever it was, might be cleared away. He was unable to regard Phyllys' refusal as decisive.

Meeting her alone an hour later he said gravely—

"May we go on as before—no marked change. I will not worry you. But we are cousins still—friends, perhaps?"

She gave him a grieved glance, for it was hard to have to check him, and acquiesced.

Mrs. Keith was in one of her highly-strung conditions, unable to keep still. Phyllys wondered if something fresh had occurred. She was incessantly getting up to pace the room, to gaze out of the window. Even when the autumn day had drawn in, she still kept pulling aside the heavy curtain, looking into the dusk.

So strange was her manner that Phyllys was fain to question anew—"'Could' she be right in her brain, or had long trouble upset the mind's balance?"

Colin had been all day invisible. Not fleeing from the pain of seeing Phyllys; that was not his mode. He would have met her this day as the day before, would have talked and made himself agreeable, without a sign of what it meant to himself.

But he had in trouble a resource denied to less fortunate mortals. For weeks he had gone without power to model. Now, suddenly, in the thick of victorious strife, a "new idea" had come with its flash of compelling force. In the silence of night it declared itself, taking him captive.

Phyllys or no Phyllys, the new idea would not be denied. Sadness fled before it. In the absorption of shaping his vision through plastic clay, all else was forgotten or was remembered as a dream. From early morning till five in the afternoon he scarcely left his modelling-stool. Food was brought, and he swallowed or put it aside; messages were disregarded; friends wishing to see him were sent away. Nothing on earth mattered but to put into form, while the power lasted, this coinage of his imagination.

Hours flew as he worked, and when he stopped it was not from mental inability, but from physical exhaustion.

Resisting the impulse to fling himself on the sofa, he went to the drawing-room, wondering what others had been after. Their existence looked tame compared with his own. Still, he did remember Phyllys, and even murmured to himself, with an odd smile, that though she could never be his, he would have "this" still.

"All alone," he said as he went in.

Phyllys answered composedly. "Yes; Mrs. Keith had something to do upstairs. How tired you are!"

"Where's Giles?"

"He had to go out."

One swift glance deciphered her.

She poured out tea and brought it to him. It had been an endless day with her, not flying on wings as with him. She was glad to have anything to do.

Colin thanked her, refused eatables, drank the tea, and leant back, passing a hand over his face.

"Are you wise to work so hard?" she asked.

"It's the essence of wisdom."

"Not—really!"

"If one doesn't capture notions when they come, they—go!" he said tersely.

"I suppose I mustn't ask what the notion is."

"Something in low relief—historic. Too early a stage yet for words."

"But you see it yourself?"

"Yes."

"It's in the clay. You only have to set it free for other people."

"That's my aim."

"It always seems to me—ought you to talk?"

"It seems to you—?"

"Art with you is such a reality."

"It 'is' a reality."

She would have liked to carry on the subject, but it was kinder to leave him quiet, and she went to the window in Mrs. Keith's fashion. An exclamation all but left her lips at the sight of Giles under a great cedar near. It was Giles; she made out the lines of his solid figure, and pity welled in her heart. She knew how miserable he was, and it was she who had to make him so. If she might but comfort him! Tears came, and she stayed where she was, seeing nothing through the mist. When it cleared, he was gone.

Colin divined that she was in trouble, but he asked no questions, and when she returned, he did not seem to notice her face.

"Giles is there," she remarked. "I suppose he is coming in."

Mrs. Keith's voice sounded faintly in a long scream, shrill and drawn out like that of some wild animal in a trap. Colin was on his feet and in the hall before a word could be spoken, Phyllys flying after him. From the floor above came cries of fire and a smell of burning. Thither rushed the two, followed by butler and footman. Through the shut door of Mrs. Keith's bedroom issued low moaning.

The door was locked—a strong door, not easy to burst open. Colin flung himself against it, without success. He beckoned to the men; but before they could act in concert, the key was turned from within, and a big man emerged. Wreaths of smoke poured out, and darting flames were visible. He carried the helpless form of Mrs. Keith, having flung a wet towel round her face.

"Giles!" whispered Phyllys.

He must have gone to the front of the house, and have climbed in at the bedroom window over the porch. As this explanation flashed up, she recalled having seen there a light ladder.

"Take her—sharp!" He thrust the limp lady into her son's arms. "Not burnt—frightened. Water, quick—plenty of it!" in peremptory accents. "Keep this door shut, or you'll have the house in a blaze. Hurry, men; not a moment to lose!"

He banged the door to, and could be heard tearing down curtains within, while butler and footman rushed for cans of water, and Colin half dragged his mother to another room. Phyllys followed, disturbed by fears for Giles. Colin delayed a few seconds to assure himself that Mrs. Keith was not burnt, then asked, "Will you look after her? I must go. Send for Dr. Wallace if needful."

"Yes; don't wait. Giles may want you."

She found plenty to do, even with the efficient help of Mrs. Keith's maid. For some time the rescued lady was only half conscious, and when she revived, nervous terror overpowered her, causing renewed faintness.

Then Colin again made his appearance, used up and white.

"Do sit down," urged Phyllys. "Is the fire out?"

"Yes." He leant against the chimney-piece. "Much wrong?" with a glance towards the sofa.

"Only upset. Is anything burnt? Anybody hurt?"

"No one, luckily. Good many things burnt. We have been within an ace of something much worse."

"How did it happen?"

"There was an open box between bed and window, and a pile of clothes on the floor, which had caught first. They made a bonfire, and the breeze from the window must have carried the curtains within reach. Bedding pretty well destroyed—and all drapery in ashes. Two minutes more and the woodwork would have been in flames. I don't understand why she didn't give the alarm earlier."

"Is Giles there still?"

"Can't say. I've been filling cans at the cistern—sending the men to and fro. The room is swamped; more damage from water than even from fire, I suspect."

He made his way to the sofa, and asked—

"Better now?"

Mrs. Keith caught his hand.

"Colin, will you please attend to me? I can't get anybody to listen," she said fretfully. "Where is Giles? I want to see him. They tell me I must not go to my room, and I must go."

"Not yet. Keep quiet for a time."

He took a chair by her side, and inquired, "How did it happen?"

"I'm sure I don't know. How can I tell? It was all horrible confusion. I had put a candle on the floor, just for a moment—and the things must have caught. I was arranging—something—in the box. I didn't notice anything wrong, till there was a roar, and the whole pile had blazed up. I just rushed to the door, and it wouldn't open—and I forgot I had turned the key, and thought I was locked in and should be burnt to death. I must have lost my senses, and when I came to, I was on the floor, and the room seemed full of smoke and flames. I don't know whether I screamed. It was all horrible. I seemed to be going off again, and then somebody lifted me, and I heard Giles speak. But I don't feel sure of anything except those flames everywhere." She shuddered.

"Was it that box in your cupboard, ma'am?" asked the maid, evidently curious.

She bit her lip. "Yes, I—it was something I wanted to find. You asked me if you could get a ruffle out."

"Yes, ma'am, and you said the key was lost."

"Yes, but last night I found it again—and I had a fancy—" She broke off. "Colin, I don't want people to meddle with that box. I won't have it. There are things of my own in it—things I don't choose to have pulled about. I must go and see."

She was starting up, but the light touch of his hand restrained her. "Not now. You must keep quiet, and the room is not in a state for you at present. I'll see to anything."

"The box is to be put back into the cupboard 'immediately'—just as it is—nothing in it moved or taken out. I won't have it meddled with."

"That is easily done." He would not suggest that the contents probably existed no longer.

Phyllys made her escape, and they went together to the once pretty bedroom, now a scene of desolation. The smell of fire was strong; curtains and cretonne coverings had vanished; blackened remains of burnt material lay about; and water had been flung in streams over walls, floor, and furniture. In the centre stood Mr. Dugdale, surveying the wreck.

"'You' look considerably the worse!" he remarked to Colin.

Colin paid no heed. He was shoving an open and fire-blackened box into the cupboard. But it was empty.

"Everything burnt, I suppose," he said to Phyllys. "No need to say so yet—only excite her."

"What has become of the fellow who rescued your mother?" demanded Mr. Dugdale.

"What fellow? Giles carried her out of the room."

"Giles was not here till later. Says so himself. I'm told it was a stranger—on his way to call. By the time anybody had leisure to notice him, he was like a sweep, and he went off to make himself presentable—told John he would come later. One or two seem to have mistaken him for Giles."

"Oddly enough I did—but it was a mere glimpse."

"His voice was like," murmured Phyllys.

Colin left the room, and Mr. Dugdale, moving to examine the carved bedstead, a valuable piece of furniture, badly charred, uttered an exclamation.

"My goodness!" Then—"Didn't I say so?"

He stooped to lift a framed picture, which seemed to have been put aside, leaning against the wall. He held it up, gazing hard, and Phyllys waited.

"It's—IT!" He turned towards her a black-framed antique portrait in oils. She saw a fine delicate face, with familiar blue eyes.

"'Well!'" uttered Mr. Dugdale, as if words failed him.

Phyllys put a grave question. "Is that the lost picture?"

"Yes."

It was also the concealed painting, declared by Mrs. Keith to represent her only brother, Jock Reeves.