And then no one seemed to know how it happened; people never do see, somehow.
There was music going on. Agatha Chudleigh—the Chudleighs were Aunt Philippa's belongings—was playing the piano, and her brother Clarence was accompanying her on the violoncello. There was a little group round the piano. Jill was beating time, standing with her back to a small inlaid table with a lamp on it. Mr. Tudor was beside her. Jill made a backward movement in her forgetfulness and enthusiasm. The next moment the music stopped with a crash. There was a cry of horror, the lamp seemed falling, glass smashed, liquid fire was pouring down Jill's unfortunate dress. If Mr. Tudor had not caught it, they said afterwards, with all that lace drapery, the room must have been in flames; but he had jerked it back in its place, and, snatching up a bear-skin rug that lay under the piano, had wrapped it round Jill. He was so strong and prompt, there was not a moment lost.
We had all crowded round in a moment, but no one dared to interfere with Mr. Tudor. We could hear Aunt Philippa sobbing with terror. Clarence Chudleigh extinguished the lamp, some one else flung an Indian blanket and a striped rug at Jill's feet. For one instant I could see the girl's face, white and rigid as a statue, as the young man's powerful arms enveloped her. Then the danger was over, and Jill was standing among us unhurt, with her muslin gown hanging in blackened shreds, and with bruises on her round white arms from the rough grip that had saved her life.
One instant's delay, and the fiery fluid must have covered her from head to foot; if Lawrence had not caught the falling lamp, if he had lost one moment in smothering the lighted gown, she must have perished in agony before our eyes; but he was strong as a young Hercules, and, half suffocated and bruised as she was, Jill knew from what he had saved her.
As the scorched bear-skin dropped to the floor, Lawrence picked up the Indian blanket and flung it over Jill's tattered gown. 'Go up to your room, Miss Jocelyn,' he whispered: 'you are all right now.' And she obeyed without a word. Miss Gillespie and I followed. I think Aunt Philippa was faint or had palpitations, for I heard Uncle Brian calling loudly to some one to open the windows. Jill was hysterical as soon as she reached her room. She was quite unnerved, and clung to me, shaking with sobs, while Miss Gillespie mixed some sal-volatile. I could not help crying a little with her from joy and thankfulness; but we got her quiet after a time, and took off the poor gown, and Jill showed us her bruises, and cheered up when we told her how brave and quiet she had been; and then she sat for some minutes with her face hidden in my lap, while I stroked her hair silently and thanked God in my heart for sparing our Jill.
Miss Gillespie had gone downstairs to carry a good report to Aunt Philippa. Directly she had gone, Jill jumped up, still shaking a little, and went to her wardrobe.
'I must go downstairs,' she said, a little feverishly. 'I have never thanked Mr. Tudor for saving my life. Help me to be quick, Ursie dear, for I feel so queer and tottery.' And nothing I could say would prevail on her to remain quietly in her room. While I was arguing with her, she had dragged out her ruby velveteen and was trying to fasten it with her trembling fingers.
'Oh, you are obstinate, Jill: you ought to be good on this night of all nights.' But she made no answer to this, and, seeing her bent on her own way, I brought her a brooch, and would have smoothed her hair, but she pushed me away.
'It does not matter how I look. I am only going down for a few minutes. He is going away, and I want to say good-night to him, and thank him.' And Jill walked downstairs rather unsteadily.
Mr. Tudor was just crossing the hall. When he saw Jill, he hurried up to her at once.