Chance again led him to fix upon poor old Edward Jenkins, the gardener, who still worked for Mr Albert Herring, doing a man’s labour for a boy’s pay. The gardener could write and read and cipher; he was a man of some little intelligence, and, though a new comer, the working men regarded him as a kind of “scholar.” He was just the very man, for he was a man with a grievance. He very naturally resented what he considered the harsh treatment he had met with after so many years faithful service, and he equally resented the low pay which circumstances compelled him to put up with. Jenkins became the secretary of the branch, and this did not improve his relations with Albert Herring. Always a harsh and unjust man, his temper of late had been aroused by repeated losses—cattle had died, crops gone wrong; above all, an investment he had made of a thousand pounds of the money that should have been Violet’s, in some shares that promised well, had turned out an utter failure. He therefore felt the gradual rise in wages more severely than he would have done, and was particularly sore against the Union. He abused Jenkins right and left, and yet did not discharge him, for Jenkins was a cheap machine. His insults were so coarse and so frequent that the poor old man lost his temper, and so far forgot himself (as indeed he might very easily do) as to hope that the Almighty would punish his tormentor, and burn down, his home over his head.
Early in the spring the labourers struck, and the strike extended to Belthrop. The months passed on, the farmers were in difficulty, and meantime the wretched labourers were half-starved. Albert was furious, for he could not get his wheat sown, and upon that crop he depended to meet his engagements. Yet he was the one of all others, at a meeting which was called, to persuade the farmers to hold out; and above all he abused Jenkins, the secretary; called him a traitor, a firebrand, an incendiary. The meeting broke up without result; and it was on that very evening that Violet arrived. The third evening afterwards she was suddenly called out by gossiping old Hannah Bond, who rushed in, in a state of intense excitement—
“Farmer Herring’s ricks be all ablaze!”
Violet was dragged out by the old woman, and beheld a magnificent, and yet a sad sight. Eight and thirty ricks, placed in a double row, were on fire. About half had caught when she came out. As she stood watching, with the glare in the sky reflected upon her face, she saw the flames run along from one to another, till the whole rickyard was one mass of roaring fire. The outbuildings, the stables, and cow-houses, all thatched, caught soon after—finally the dwelling-house.
The farm being situated upon the Downs, the flames and sparks were seen for miles and miles in the darkness of the night, and the glare in the sky still farther. The whole countryside turned out in wonder and alarm; hundreds and hundreds trooped over Down and meadow to the spot. Efforts were made by scores of willing hands to stay the flames—efforts which seemed ridiculously futile before that fearful blast; for with the fire there rose a wind caused by the heated column of air ascending, and the draught was like that of a furnace. Nothing could have saved the place—not all the engines in London, even had there been water; and the soil being chalky, and the situation elevated, there was but one deep well. As it was, no engine reached the spot till long after the fire was practically over—Barnham engine came in the grey of the morning, having been raced over the hills fully fifteen miles. By that time, all that was left of that noble farmhouse and rickyard, was some two-score heaps of smoking ashes, smouldering and emitting intense heat.
Hundreds upon hundreds stood looking on, and among them there moved dark figures:—policemen—who had hastily gathered together.
And where was Albert Herring? Was he ruined? He at that moment recked nothing of the fire. He was stooping—in a lowly cottage at a little distance—over the form of his only son, a boy of ten. The family had easily escaped before the dwelling-house took fire, and were, to all intents and purposes, safe; but this lad slipped off, as a lad would do, to follow his father, and watch the flames. A burning beam from one of the outhouses struck him down. Albert heard a scream; turned, and saw his boy beneath the flaring, glowing timber. He shrieked—literally shrieked—and tore at the beam with his scorched hands till the flesh came off.
At last the on-lookers lifted the beam. The lad was fearfully burnt—one whole shoulder seemed injured—and the doctors gave no hope of his life. (As I cannot return to this matter, it may be as well to state that he did not die—he recovered slowly, but perfectly.) Yet what must the agony of that man’s mind have been while the child lay upon the bed in the lowly cottage? Let the fire roar and hiss, let roof-tree fall and ruin come—life, flickering life more precious than the whole world—only save him this one little life.
In the morning Albert turned like a wild beast at bay, shouting and crying for vengeance. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord;” but when did man ever hearken to that? He marked out Jenkins, the gardener; he pointed him out to all. That was the man—had they not heard him say he hoped Heaven would burn the farm over his head?
That was true; several had heard it. Jenkins had been the last to leave the premises that night.