While the young folks had been enjoying themselves in the ballroom, their elders had found the time hang somewhat heavily on their hands. The evening had not been so interesting to them as to their juniors. Lady Darcy was tired with the preparations of the day, and the countess with her journey from town. Both were fain to yawn behind their fans from time to time, and were longing for the moment to come when they could retire to bed. If only those indefatigable children would say good-night and take themselves off! But the echo of the piano still sounded from the room, and seemed to go on and on, in endless repetition.
Everything comes to those who wait, however—even the conclusion of a ball to the weary chaperon. At long past midnight the strains died away, and in the hope of an early release the ladies roused themselves to fresh conversational effort. What they said was unimportant, and could never be remembered; but at one moment, as it seemed, they were smiling and exchanging their little commonplace amenities, two languid, fine ladies whose aim in life might have been to disguise their own feelings and hide the hearts that God had given them; the next the artificial smiles were wiped away, and they were clinging together, two terrified, cowering women, with a mother’s soul in their faces—a mother’s love and fear and dread! A piercing cry had sounded through the stillness, and another, and another, and, while they sat paralysed with fear, footsteps came tearing along the passage, the door was burst open, and a wild, dishevelled-looking figure rushed into the room. A curtain was wound round face and figure, but beneath its folds a long white arm gripped convulsively at the air, and two little feet staggered about in pink silk slippers.
Lady Darcy gave a cry of anguish; but her terror seemed to hold her rooted to the spot, and it was her husband who darted forward and caught the swaying figure in his arms. The heavy wrappings came loose in his grasp, and as they did so an unmistakable smell pervaded the room—the smell of singed and burning clothing. A cloud of blackened rags fluttered to the ground as the last fold of the curtain was unloosed, and among them—most pitiful sight of all—were stray gleams of gold where a severed lock of hair lay on the carpet, its end still turned in glistening curl.
“Rosalind! Rosalind!” gasped the poor mother, clutching the arms of her chair, and looking as if she were about to faint herself, as she gazed upon the pitiful figure of her child. The lower portion of Rosalind’s dress was practically uninjured, but the gauze skirt and all the frills and puffing round the neck hung in tatters, her hair was singed and roughened, and as the air touched her skin she screamed with pain, and held her hands up to her neck and face.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! I am burning! Cover me up! Cover me up! I shall die! Oh, mother, mother! The pain—the pain!”
She reeled as if about to faint, yet if anyone attempted to approach she beat them off with frantic hands, as if in terror of being touched.
One of the ladies ran forward with a shawl, and wrapped it forcibly round the poor scarred shoulders, while the gentlemen hurried out of the room to send for a doctor and make necessary arrangements. One of the number came back almost immediately, with the news that he had failed to discover the cause of the accident. There was no sign of fire upstairs, the ballroom was dark and deserted, the servants engaged in setting the entertaining rooms in order. For the present, at least, the cause of the accident remained a mystery, and the distracted father and mother occupied themselves in trying to pacify their child.
“I’ll carry you upstairs, my darling. We will put something on your skin which will take away the pain. Try to be quiet, and tell us how it happened. What were you doing to set yourself on fire?”
“Peggy! Peggy!” gasped Rosalind faintly. Her strength was failing by this time, and she could hardly speak; but Lady Darcy’s face stiffened into an awful anger at the sound of that name. She turned like a tigress to her husband, her face quivering with anger.
“That girl again! That wicked girl! It is the second time to-night! She has killed the child; but she shall be punished! I’ll have her punished! She shall not kill my child, and go free! I’ll—I’ll—”
“Hush, hush, Beatrice! Take care! You frighten Rosalind. We must get her to bed. There is not a moment to lose.”
Lord Darcy beckoned to one of the servants, who by this time were crowding in at the door, and between them they lifted poor, groaning Rosalind in their arms, and carried her up the staircase, down which she had tripped so gaily a few hours before. Tenderly as they held her, she moaned with every movement, and, when she was laid on her bed, it seemed for a moment as if consciousness were about to forsake her. Then suddenly a light sprung into her eyes. She lifted her hand and gasped out one word—just one word—repeated over and over again in a tone of agonised entreaty.
“Peggy! Peggy! Peggy!”
“Yes, darling, yes! I’ll go to her. Be quiet—only be quiet!”
Lady Darcy turned away with a shudder as the maid and an old family servant began the task of removing the clothes from Rosalind’s writhing limbs, and, seizing her husband by the arm, drew him out on the landing. Her face was white, but her eyes gleamed, and the words hissed as they fell from her lips.
“Find that girl, and turn her out of this house! I will not have her here another hour! Do you hear—not a minute! Send her away at once before I see her! Don’t let me see her! I can’t be responsible for what I would do!”
“Yes, yes, dear, I’ll send her away! Try to calm yourself. Remember you have work to do Rosalind will need you.”
The poor old lord went stooping away, his tired face looking aged and haggard with anxiety. His beautiful young daughter was scarcely less dear to him than to her mother, and the sound of her cries cut to his heart; yet in the midst of his anguish he had a pang of compassion for the poor child who, as he believed, was the thoughtless cause of the accident. What agony of remorse must be hers! What torture she would now be suffering!
The guests and servants were standing huddled together on the landing upstairs, or running to and fro to procure what was needed. Every thought was concentrated on Rosalind, and Rosalind alone, and the part of the house where the dance had been held was absolutely deserted.
He took his way along the gaily decorated hall, noted with absent eye the disordered condition of the “harem,” which had been pointed out so proudly at the beginning of the evening, and entered the empty room. The lights were out, except for a few candles scattered here and there among the flowers. He walked slowly forward, saw the silver candlestick on the floor before the fireplace, and stood gazing at it with a quick appreciation of what had happened. For some reason or other Rosalind had tried to reach the candle, and the light had caught her gauzy skirt, which had burst into flames. It was easy—terribly easy to imagine; but in what way had Peggy Saville been responsible for the accident, so that her name should sound so persistently on Rosalind’s lips,—and who had been the Good Samaritan who had come to the rescue with that thick curtain which had killed the flames before they had time to finish the work of destruction?
Lord Darcy peered curiously round. The oak floor stretched before him dark and still, save where its polished surface reflected the light overhead; but surely in the corner opposite to where he stood there was a darker mass—a shadow deeper than the rest?
He walked towards it, bending forward with straining eyes. Another curtain of the same pattern as that which had enveloped Rosalind—a curtain of rich Oriental hues with an unaccountable patch of white in the centre. What was it? It must be part of the fabric itself. Lord Darcy told himself that he had no doubt on the subject, yet the way across the room seemed unaccountably long, and his heart beat fast with apprehension. In another moment he stood in the corner, and knew too well the meaning of that patch of white, for Peggy Saville lay stretched upon the curtain, motionless, unconscious—to all appearance, dead!