Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 3. Watson William Davy
exulted in them.
But many of the country-folks, aroused by the emissaries who escaped from the hall at the first alarm, had thronged to render assistance in subduing the flames. They were, however, disconcerted at finding themselves intercepted by a mob, whose intentions were precisely the reverse of their own. Coming singly or in small knots, without any community of action, they were unable to make any impression upon the banded ruffians, and they either departed to seek further aid, or became passive spectators of the ruin that was befalling Pendarrel.
There was one, however, of a different mood. Edward Owen, although he had attended the meeting at Castle Dinas, and accompanied the mob, shuddered at the devastation before him. So soon did he experience the truth of Randolph's words. Recoiling too late, but desirous to atone if possible for what was past, he hovered on the skirts of the crowd, and soon collected a tolerably formidable body of the well-disposed, with which to repress further outrage. They made their first show of prowess in rescuing the fugitive family: but beyond this their efforts were unavailing: the fire had obtained too great a head to be withstood.
The main fury of the storm had now passed; the rain had nearly ceased, and the wind had fallen; the lightning still flashed, and the thunder muttered in the east, while the western sky was once more becoming clear. But the flashes were too faint to be seen, and the muttering too low to be heard, in the bright glare and loud crackling of the flames that were devouring Pendarrel Hall. All the centre of the mansion, containing the great stairs and principal apartments, was in full conflagration. From window after window, as the glass flew under the heat, a long stream of fire shot forth, joining the ruddy blaze that broke from the roof. Once, a human form appeared in the midst of such a torrent, flinging its arms about in wild supplication for a few moments, and disappearing, either within or without. Above the house curled vast volumes of smoke, black, white, and yellow, filled with sparkling fragments, and glowing in the light of the flames. A flock of pigeons fled to and fro over the bright vapour, and every now and then a bird dashed into it, and dropped as if shot. Round about, on all sides, as near as the heat permitted, rushed the incendiaries, exulting in the destruction they had accomplished, and hailing every fresh burst of fire with frantic acclamations. Behind, at a little distance, the trees, still streaming with the recent rain, reflected the red glare from every branch. Farther off, a cottage window or a white wall, lighted more dimly, might denote the rising ground of the neighbourhood. And over all, were the dark clouds of the retreating tempest, the fury of which had that night caused no catastrophe so disastrous as was here wrought by the hand of man.
The family, so rudely driven from their home, succeeded in reaching the lodge designated by Esther for their rendezvous. Faint with excitement—even Mrs. Pendarrel's spirit failed her when she was safe from immediate peril—exhausted by their flight, deluged with the rain, they met together in a small room of the cottage, round a window which looked towards their late abode. With a sort of vacant despair they watched the flames which rose above the intervening trees, and showed the progress of ruin. The hall itself they could not see. Mildred sat, leaning upon her mother's shoulder, and holding her hand, while Mr. Pendarrel rested against the side of the casement. Not a word was spoken; and the only sounds that broke the silence of the lodge, were the subdued noise of the flames, and the shouts of the marauders.
But Mr. Pendarrel, with his ear against the wall, has now caught another sound; regular, rhythmical, advancing along the road. Nearer it came, and nearer, and before the listener had changed his position, a squadron of dragoons passed the lodge on a hand-gallop, and were followed by fire-engines. Alas! why came they no sooner?
The messengers who had made their way from the hall at the first discovery of the fire, sped fast away to Helston, looking back at intervals towards the light in the sky. The distance was about five miles; the road was slippery with the wet; the flood of rain was almost blinding: a full hour had elapsed before the first of the runners shouted "fire" in the deserted streets of the little borough. The inhabitants were at rest, but few were asleep, the din of the storm preventing slumber. Night-capped heads peeped timidly from windows, and demanded—where? The messenger learned the officers' quarters. There was some little demur. False alarms had been given before. But the bugle soon sounded to horse. The drowsy firemen equipped their engines; and when once the cavalcade had started, rattling over the stony street, a very short space sufficed to bring it to the gates of Pendarrel.
The greater portion of the marauders, struck with consternation at the sight of the soldiery, fled among the trees of the park, to be denounced, perhaps, at a future day, by informing comrades. But a few, maddened by intoxication and excitement, offered a futile resistance, and were captured on the spot, to answer for their ruffianism, not improbably with their lives.
As for the engines, they could effect nothing. The well-disposed of the country people, who were by this time assembled in great numbers, assisted in bringing them into play, and water was obtained from an ornamental reservoir in the garden; but fire was master of the hall. To save a small quantity of furniture from the lower rooms in the eastern wing, and to collect articles which lay scattered on the lawns, was all that the utmost exertion could accomplish. The whole of the mansion had fallen in, and the burning would continue as long as there remained anything to furnish fuel. Blackened walls, open to the sky, containing nothing but smoking and smouldering ruin, would be all the morning sun would shine upon of Pendarrel Hall.
CHAPTER III
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, Without fire, without bed— I must weep awhile, and then be silent. The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, Without fire, without candle— Except God doth, who will endue me with patience?
The destruction of Pendarrel Hall was the crowning outrage of the riotous. It was a crime for which a severe retribution was certain to be exacted. On information, given partly by the prisoners taken at the fire, partly by volunteers who hoped to screen themselves, the civil and military authorities swept the country far and wide, and arrested numbers of suspected individuals. The hamlet of Trevethlan felt the visitation, and among its accused was the unfortunate Edward Owen. Many people, shuddering at the consciousness of guilt, fled for shelter to the wild moors and desolate carns, or lurked in the caverns of the sea-shore, obtaining a scanty and precarious nourishment from venturous friends or kindred. The prime mover of all the mischief, Gabriel Denis, had been captured on the spot; and there was scarcely a cottage between the two seas, which did not miss from the family circle some son or brother now lying in prison or lurking in the waste.
On the night of the disaster, the Pendarrels were at last persuaded to seek repose in such accommodation as was afforded by the lodge; but sleep was out of the question. Jaded and sad, they met in the morning, and went forth to survey the ruins of their home. Melancholy enough was the mere destruction of the edifice, yet that was the least among their sorrows. Wealth might restore the house to all its former splendour, but other losses were irreparable. All the relics of bygone days; the pledges of friendship and of love, the trinkets associated with old personal reminiscences, the memorials of travel and adventure, the rarities collected with their own hands, the family heir-looms, the toys of one childhood laid by to amuse another, the books of early lessons and early leisure, the sketches and drawings, the portraits and miniatures of the dead,—all of these had perished, and could never be replaced; for Pendarrel was their home, their old familiar dwelling-place, the storehouse of all things dear,—their cradle and their grave. Other houses they had, but none like Pendarrel.
Even the stern pride of Esther might bend a little under so great a calamity. Only the morning before she had been exulting over the humiliation of Trevethlan, and now her own hearth was desolate. In the terror of the night she had been surprised into an unusual display of tenderness towards her daughter. But any such feelings were merely transitory. Tale-bearers soon brought to her ear the shouts of "Hurrah for Trevethlan," which had been heard among the rioters. She thought of the scornful silence with which her invitation of yesterday had been received at the Castle, and permitted herself to suspect that the night's outrage might have had more than empty sympathy from its inmates.
She