But, there was not much time to think, the passage in which he waited began to feel intolerably warm, and the air gradually thickened with smoke.
He then called eagerly to Mrs. Lesly, and once again entering the room where poor Betsy was sobbing with alarm, he hastily finished her preparations, by taking up an immense cloak which lay on the floor, and wrapping it round the poor invalid, who was coughing violently from the exertion of dressing, he hurried her from the room, and down stairs to the open air.
Here he was rejoiced to see the faithful gardener.
"Put missis in here," he said, dragging the chair forward, which he had provided for her—"for I don't know which'll do her most harm, the fire or the air."
"That's right," said Clair, placing her in it, and as he did so, stooping down kindly, to sooth her anxiety for her children, and covering her up from the night air, which blew chilly upon her, for she had not left her bed for several weeks.
Hiding her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, she turned away at once from the terrific scene before her, and the many cherished objects of her home, soon, perhaps, to be the spoil of the raging fire. A thousand recollections crowded upon her mind, which was too sensitive, and too delicately framed for the struggles of common life. The acuteness of her feelings, added bitterness to every trial, by representing them to her in the most touching, and even poetical light, till her heart was entirely overcome by the sufferings she was too skilled in describing to herself. In vain Clair endeavoured to comfort her, as he accompanied her a little way on the road to the Manor House, when, finding his presence of little service, he left her in the hands of her careful servant, and hastened back to afford any assistance he could offer to the sisters.
During his absence, the stranger had not been idle; assured of Mrs. Lesly's safety by the promise which Clair had given him; he turned to another door, and, too impatient to summon its owner, he opened it gently. Here, too, a lamp was burning, and the light that it spread around, was quite sufficient for his rapid gaze. He turned to the bed where lay the beautiful, delicately shaped child; her countenance still wet with tears, yet serene and happy as if her dreams were not of earth. Mabel's head lay upon the same pillow; the little hand in hers, and the rich curls of her chestnut hair, half concealing her face; she seemed, in her motionless slumber, like some trusting child, who knows that watchful eyes guard her from danger—yet sorrow in many shapes, had been, and was still around her.
He paused—the hasty call which would have wakened both, died upon his lips; and he stood, as if entranced, and forgetful of the danger which every moment's delay increased. He bent forward, and earnestly contemplated the sleepers, and, as he did so, a smile passed over Mabel's face, and she murmured something which made him listen still more earnestly.
But, now she starts, her bosom heaves as if something troubled her. Again, she sleeps—but only to start again—her hand unclasps, she turns as if in pain—then, leaping to her feet—she suddenly stands before him—yet scarcely roused from the dream which had awakened her.
Light, brighter than the moon, and more glowing than the sunshine, streamed in upon the room, and rendered the stranger's face clearly visible; Mabel's eyes fixed upon him with something between terror and surprise; she tried to speak, but her lips trembled so convulsively, that she could not utter a sound—she tried to advance, but she felt that his eye quelled every movement; and what did that dark look mean, with which he regarded her; and why, as it grew more dark, did Mabel's form become more erect, while her lips curled, her cheeks flushed crimson, and her eye also fixed on his, flashed with a fiery pride, which but seldom showed itself upon her face. Yet, this was but for a moment, for the stranger taking the cloak which he had brought for the purpose, he threw it round her, and raising her almost from the ground with the rapidity of his movements, he hurried her from the room, and down the stairs. When they reached the garden, he loosened his hold, and suffered the cloak, which had entirely covered her face and head, to fall back. Mabel looked wildly round; a busy crowd was about the house; the sickly smell of fire was in the air, and, as she gazed back, she saw flames bursting from the lower windows of their cottage. In an instant she had freed herself, and springing past him with a wild cry of terror and agony, she entered the house, and through the smoke and sparks scattered about her, she was once again by Amy's side, who was awake, and greatly terrified; and, as Mabel threw herself upon her knees beside her, she cried:—