The Tigress Part 37

In his ears was the roar of a thing more ferocious, more devouring than any beast of the jungle. And mingled with the roar was the crackling sound of havoc.

For what seemed like hours the thing was ever at his heels, gaining--gaining. Weird, horrid monsters appeared to rise out of the murk to threaten and affright.

But with aching chest, gripping his blanket closer against a rain of sparks that showered on him as he fled, he flogged his flagging soul to fresh and stronger effort.

Again and again he stumbled and fell--only to recover himself and plunge waveringly, staggeringly onward.

And then, all at once, he was conscious of a cooler breath on his brow and cheeks. The smoke thinned. His nostrils sucked in greedily a refreshing, life-giving damp.

He had reached an open window and was stretching far out into the grateful mist and sea-scented air of G.o.d's wide, unconfined world.

A tongue of flame licked his blanket and ran up and out around his neck, scorching his hair. The fire was on him. It had caught up. It was reaching for him to drag him back.

He felt its withering hand clutch at his shoulder. Its fingers seared through the lamb's-wool that cloaked them--through the silken mesh of his pajama coat beneath.

Death chanted a victorious paean in his ears, as with open arms it waited at his back. And before him something beckoned that would not be denied.

Out there in the dark it stood with wooing finger and cool, sweet breath, waiting, too. But whether it was death's other self--or whether it was life--he could not know.

His blanket dropped--a flag of flame behind him. And he pitched forward, turning and returning, as his body dropped downward into the blackness below.

And, oddly enough, as he fell there was before him a woman's face--but not that of Nina Darling. It was younger, frailer, less trained by experience, and no less beautiful--the face of Rosamond Veynol.

He fell on his back upon a slanting slate roof, jarring his briefly recovered breath quite out of him for the moment. And then he rolled, over and over and over--three times--to drop again. This time into a ma.s.s of tall dahlia bushes and the soft, spongy mold beneath.

"Not a scratch on you, by Jove!" It was the Honorable Julian who exclaimed it, in unqualified, exuberant delight, as two of the grooms who had heard the fall and hurried to pick up the fallen object, having led him into the glow of the pyre that had once been Carfen House, rubbed their trained hands over bones, joints, muscles, and sinews without eliciting a single protesting cry.

"A miracle! Thank G.o.d! Thank G.o.d!"

But Carleigh was not so sure about the scratches. He had certainly hit his back a resounding thump on that slate roof, and though he didn't feel it now--who ever did feel anything in the relief of regaining life after having calmly, or not calmly, said good-by to it--what might he not feel to-morrow?

In point of fact he was still dazed, as he might well be. He stood gaping, mute, an almost hideous figure with blackened face, singed hair, and rent and soil-stained garments.

An excited, questioning group pressed about him. Every one seemed talking at once, but the only words that made any impression were Archdeacon's "Not a scratch," and his fervent "Thank G.o.ds!"

The rescued--every one had been got out in some shape or other--were gathered on the edge of a wood at some distance from the conflagration and to windward of it.

The main building was doomed. Even now, it was little more than a sh.e.l.l enclosing a furnace at white heat.

The garages, stables, and kennels were never in danger; but the head gardener's cottage had gone up in a puff after catching from a rain of sparks wind-hurled against its thatched roof.

Some one thrust Carleigh into a great coat. He found he was wearing one an hour later, but remembered nothing of how he came by it. And he had been provided with slippers as well.

He was sitting on a damp, moss-grown boulder, and a stout woman, with strands of gray hair falling limply and dankly about her face, was addressing him in piteous tones.

The reflection from the fire made the night three times as bright as the ordinary English fine day, and he noted that his companion was wearing a bath-towel pinned about her in lieu of a skirt.

Her adipose shoulders were draped in a velour table-cover, and her right hand pressed against her ample bosom a framed photograph, with the gla.s.s-side outward. In general terms she was picturesque in the extreme.

"I do hope you can oblige me with a cigarette, dear Sir Caryll!"

They were the first words he remembered since Julian's repeated "Thank G.o.d!" The voice sounded more or less familiar, yet he couldn't place it, and the picture the lady presented failed to help him.

It was at that instant that he became conscious of the great coat. In the hope of possibility to provide he ran his hands through its pockets.

All he discovered was a soiled handkerchief and a bit of string.

"Sorry," he said, "but I fear I left my case in my room. You see, I came away in something of a hurry."

He didn't in the least mean to be funny, and the stout woman took him quite seriously.

"You're the tenth man I've asked," she said, "and they've all said the same thing."

"Perhaps some of the ladies--" suggested Carleigh.

"No," came the reply. "There's not a cigarette among them. But they seem to have everything else, from jewels to tooth-brushes. Mrs. Blythe, I hear, saved her manicure set and left behind a ma.n.u.script poem that would have made lasting fame for her. It's really too bad."

Carleigh, still perplexed, looked at her again. There was something suggestive of--But no, that couldn't be. The Marchioness of Highshire had the most beautiful golden-bronze hair in the kingdom.

Then he stole a look at the framed photograph. Perhaps that would help.

The glare from what was left of Carfen House made it stand out as though spotted by a calcium. It was of a small, wizened old man with gray whiskers. Certainly not Mr. Telborn.

She caught him stealing the look and turned the photograph over.

"It's the only thing I saved," she explained.

"Fancy!" murmured Sir Caryll.

"It's the marquis, you know. It's my most valuable possession. Mr.

Telborn adores me for my devotion to dear Highshire's memory." Marvel of marvels, it was the marchioness, then! "He says it shows the true woman.

He'll gladly replace everything I've lost twice over." She sighed deeply. "But I'd be tempted to give the photograph for a cigarette at this minute," she added disconsolately.

"Let me try for you," said Carleigh, dropping off his mossy boulder.

"Did you ask Mrs. Darling?"

The Marchioness of Highshire lifted her hands, the photograph with them.

"Then you don't know?" she asked in surprise.

"Don't know?" he echoed with sinking heart. "Don't know what?" Her tone had filled him with a sudden terror. Could it be--

"She's burned--very badly burned. They've taken her over to Cross Saddle Hall."

"Nina burned!" he gasped. "Good G.o.d!"

"Yes, isn't it awful? I thought every one knew. They can't say how serious it is. They fear she inhaled flames, and in that case, of course--"

"Oh, no, no!" he cried. "I won't believe it."

The eyes of the marchioness lighted. Sir Caryll was so delightfully ingenuous.