The struggle with the flames had been very unequal.
The long tongues soon reached the roof of the large
barn, which was filled with straw, nor could the
flakes of burning thatch be kept from the stable,
while the water of the pond was soon reduced to mud.
Helpers began to flock in, but who could tell which
were trustworthy? and all were uncomprehending.
There was so little hope of saving the house that
the removal of everything valuable was begun under
my father’s superintendence. Frank Fordyce
was here, there, and everywhere; while Griffith, like
a gallant general, fought the foe with very helpless
unmanageable forces. Villagers, male and female,
had emerged and stood gaping round; but, let him
rage and storm as he might, they would not go and
collect pails and buckets and form a line to the brook.
Still less would they assist in overthrowing and
carrying away the faggots of a big wood-pile so as
to cut off the communication with the offices.
Only Chapman and one other man gave any help in this;
and presently the stack caught, and Griff, on the
top, was in great peril of the faggots rolling down
with him into the middle, and imprisoning him in
the blazing pile. ‘I never felt so like
Dido,’ said Griff.
That woodstack gave fearful aliment to the roaring
flame, which came on so fast that the destruction
of the adjoining buildings quickly followed.
The Wattlesea engine had come, but the yard well was
unattainable, and all that could be done was to saturate
the house with water from its own well, and cover
the side with wet blankets; but these reeked with
steam, and then shrivelled away in the intense glow
of heat.
However, by this time the Eastwood Yeomanry, together
with some reasonable men, had arrived. A raid
was made on the cottages for buckets, a chain formed
to the river, and at last the fire was got under,
having made a wreck of everything out-of-doors, and
consumed one whole wing of the house, though the
older and more esteemed portion was saved.
CHAPTER XVIII—THE PORTRAIT
’When day was gone and night was come,
And all men fast asleep,
There came the spirit of fair Marg’ret
And stood at William’s feet.’
Scotch Ballad.
When I emerged from my room the next morning the phaeton
was at the door to take the two clergymen to reconnoitre
their abode before going to church. Miss Fordyce
went with them, and my father was for once about
to leave his parish church to give them his sympathy,
and join in their thanksgiving that neither life
nor limb had been injured. He afterwards said
that nothing could have been more touching than old
Mr. Fordyce’s manner of mentioning this special
cause for gratitude before the General Thanksgiving;
and Frank Fordyce, having had all his sermons burnt,
gave a short address extempore (a very rare and almost
shocking thing at that date), reducing half the congregation
Copyrights
Chantry House from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
