Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 3. Watson William Davy
he usurped authority's just place,
And dared to look his master in the face,
Liberty blushed, and hung her drooping head,
Beheld his progress with the deepest dread,
Blushed that effects like these she should produce,
Worse than the deeds of galley-slaves let loose:
She loses in such scenes her very name,
And fierce licentiousness must bear the blame.
"What can make the dogs bark in this manner?" exclaimed Mrs. Pendarrel to her husband and daughter. "Surely not the thunder."
"I cannot tell what it is, my dear," answered her spouse, who was nearly asleep after his return from Bodmin, in spite of the external uproar. "I wish they and the thunder would both be quiet."
Mildred went behind the curtains of a window. Thick as they were, the flashes of lightning had yet gleamed through them.
"What a tremendous night!" she exclaimed.
"Come from the window, Mildred," said Mrs. Pendarrel; "it is dangerous to stand there."
"Ha!" cried the daughter, "there is fire. It cannot be the lightning! Mamma! Papa!"
The urgency of her tone brought them both to the window. A red glare streamed over the lawn, and shone bright upon the dripping trees. Fire was there indeed.
Gabriel Denis, by this time wild with passion and excitement, had soon discovered the means of gratifying his turbulent desires. A range of farming offices, with some ricks, stretched to the west, and therefore to windward, of the hall. Let these be once kindled, and inactivity would soon give way to riot and confusion. The smuggler had not forgotten his tinder-box. He crept down into the homestead, found a convenient nook, and soon lighted a flame, which nothing but the speediest and most energetic exertion could hinder the furious wind from converting into a great conflagration.
Unhappily the tempest, closing doors and fastening shutters, prevented an immediate discovery of the blaze, and the heavy rain was powerless to check its progress under the fanning of the gale. The interior of the corn-stack, fired by Gabriel, rapidly became a furnace, while volumes of steam and smoke rolled from the wetted thatch, and were shortly followed by jets of flame bursting from the inside. Then masses of burning straw were lifted aloft by the wind and cast on the neighbouring ricks and wooden barns, and in scarcely more time than is occupied by this description, the homestead was evidently doomed to destruction, and the safety of the hall was become very problematical.
It was just then that Mildred summoned her father and mother to the window.
"Hark!" she said, "Was not that a shout? See, there are people running across the lawn, and under the trees. But, oh, what a light!"
Terrified domestics rushed into the parlour.
"The house is beset—hundreds of men—What can be done? What can be done?"
These exclamations were mingled with loud cries of "fire," from within and without the mansion. In the confusion, Esther Pendarrel seemed alone to preserve her presence of mind.
"Done!" she said. "The engine! The horses! Ride! Run! To Helston, and to Marazione! Raise the people! Bring down the soldiers! Away with you; and let us see where the fire is. And you, sir, look to your arms. Beset! Nonsense!"
So saying, Esther proceeded to the wing of the hall next to the farm offices, which could not be seen from the living rooms, while her husband hurriedly distributed his fire-arms among the few servants who remained, when their fellows had departed to endeavour to fulfil the injunctions of their mistress.
Mildred accompanied her mother. "Fie," said the latter, seizing by the wrist one of a group of maids who were crying in terror, "fie, girl! Be silent; let us have no confusion. We want all our nerve."
One glance from the window to which she went showed Esther the full extent of the calamity. Long tongues of fire, bending and quivering in the fierce wind, were licking the roof of a low range of outhouses which connected the farm-yard with the hall. Esther remembered that there was a door of communication between these buildings and the house itself. Unless they could be pulled down, and that instantly, the mansion would be in imminent peril. And besides, behind them were the ricks and barns, vomiting a perfect sea of fire, from which large flakes were ever and anon borne by the gale over the hall. One such struck the window where Mrs. Pendarrel stood with her daughter, and made them start back for a moment. And what hope was there of help? By the red glare they could see men clustered about, either gazing on the flames with indifference, or exhibiting exultation in their gestures and movements. Amidst the crackling of the fire and the thunder of the storm, they could hear the savage hurrahs of the incendiaries. Whence, then, could come help?
"We are lost, my child!" Esther said quietly. "But I presume they do not intend to burn us as well as the hall. Courage, dear."
She threw her arm round Mildred's waist, and led her back to the main stairs. There they found Mr. Pendarrel, and two or three men-servants, armed, but undetermined what to do.
"Husband," Esther whispered, "in five minutes all the west wing will be in flames. Nothing can save us, unless the troops arrive in time. Where are the girls? They must all be here."
The last words were spoken aloud.
"I will call them, mother," Mildred said; and she ran back to the offices.
"We have no chance," Esther continued as before, "unless the ruffians should turn–Hush! Hark!"
There was a clatter of steps to the door of the hall, succeeded by a loud knocking.
"Be ready," said Esther. "Let us not be outraged."
"Shall we not escape?" her husband asked. "By the back windows–"
"Are the maids all here? Where's Mildred?"
"I am here, dear mother," was the breathless reply, "and so are they."
"Then let us go," said Esther sadly. "Go through the drawing-rooms. To meet at the chief lodge. And you, my friends, will guard us as best you may. But for the fire, we might do more. All now would be in vain."
Bare-headed, the little party went out into the storm. Esther stoutly maintained her own heart, but she had much ado to keep up the courage of her companions. With quick but faltering steps they made their way through the shrubbery, in the direction Mrs. Pendarrel had indicated; looking back with hasty glances, and perceiving that the flames were now flying over the roof of the mansion, the west wing having already become their spoil. A little more delay, and perhaps escape had been impossible. And there were other dangers besides the fire.
The fugitives had just turned round the corner of a thick clump of laurels, when they found themselves in the presence of a crowd of men, who immediately surrounded them, preventing their further progress, insulting them both with words and gestures. Mr. Pendarrel, bewildered, fired a pistol, and the rabble rushed in upon him and those with him, incensed and excited beyond all control. It was a moment of despair. Esther pressed her daughter to her breast, and opposed herself to the assailants. Her husband, also, and the men-servants maintained a manful struggle. But numbers were prevailing, when the ruffians were themselves attacked in the rear. A throng of country people, apparently acting in concert, charged them suddenly, and with the first attack, drove them clear of their intended victims.
"Fly, madam," then said a voice beside Mrs. Pendarrel. "Fly. There are none now but friends in the way. And remember Edward Owen."
And Esther acted instantly on the advice, knowing that, whether true or false, it afforded the only hope for safety.
In the mean time, the hall-door had yielded to its assailants, and ruffianism triumphed through the mansion. Some fellows made their way to the cellars, and drank desperately, while others rioted through the various apartments in search of more valuable booty. Not a few quarrels arose for the possession of some portable trinket, upon which two of the marauders might have seized at once. Shouts and screams, and execrations resounded on all sides. And above them all rose the crackle of the advancing flames, not unlikely to inflict a well-merited doom upon some