The Children of the New Forest, Frederick Marryat [best non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

room—it increased every moment—and he saw the figure of a female rush past it, and attempt to open the window—the drawing of the curtains showed him that the room was on fire. A moment’s thought, and he ran for the ladder by which he had ascended to the loft, and placed it against the window. The flames were less bright, and he could not see the female who had been at the window when lie went for the ladder. He ascended quickly, and burst open the casement—the smoke poured out in such volumes that it neatly suffocated him, but he went in; and as soon as he was inside, he stumbled against the body of the person who had attempted to open the window, but who had fallen down senseless. As he raised the body, the fire, which had been smothered from want of air when all the windows and doors were closed, now burst out, and he was scorched before he could get on the ladder again, with the body in his arms; but he succeeded in getting it down safe. Perceiving that the clothes were on fire, he held them till they were extinguished, and then for the first time discovered that he had brought down the daughter of the intendant of the forest. There was no time to be lost, so Edward carried her into the stable and left her there, still insensible, upon the straw, in a spare stall, while he hastened to alarm the house. The watering-butt for the horses was outside the stable; Edward caught up the pail, filled it, and hastening up the ladder, threw it into the room, and then descended for more.

By this time Edward’s continual calls of “Fire! fire!” had aroused the people of the house, and also of the cottages adjacent. Mr. Heatherstone came out half dressed, and with horror on his countenance. Phoebe followed screaming, and the other people now hastened from the cottages.

“Save her! my daughter is in the room!” exclaimed Mr. Heatherstone. “Oh, save her, or let me do so!” cried the poor man, in agony; but the fire burst out of the window in such force, that any attempt would have been in vain.

“Oswald,” cried Edward to him, “let the people pass the water up to me as fast as possible. They can do no good looking on.”

Oswald set the men to work, and Edward was now supplied with water so fast that the fire began to diminish. The window was now approachable, and a few more buckets enabled him to put one foot into the room, and then every moment the flames and smoke decreased.

Meanwhile it would be impossible to describe the agony of the intendant, who would have rushed up the ladder into the flames, had he not been held by some of the men. “My daughter! my child!—burned— burned to death!” exclaimed he, clasping his hands.

At that moment a voice in the crowd called out, “There were four burned at Arnwood!”

“God of Heaven!” exclaimed Mr. Heatherstone, falling down in a swoon, in which state he was carried to a neighboring cottage.

Meanwhile the supply of water enabled Edward to put out the fire altogether: the furniture of the room was burned, but the fire had extended no farther; and when Edward was satisfied that there was no more danger, he descended the ladder, and left it to others to see that all was safe. He then called Oswald to him, and desired that he would accompany him to the stable.

“Oh, sir,” replied Oswald, “this is dreadful! and such a sweet young lady too.”

“She is safe and well,” replied Edward, “I think so, at least. I brought her down the ladder, and put her in the stable before I attempted to put out the fire. See, there she is; she has not recovered yet from her swoon. Bring some water. She breathes! thank God! There, that will do, Oswald, she is recovering. Now let us cover her up in your cloak, and carry her to your cottage. We will recover her there.”

Oswald folded up the still unconscious girl in his cloak, and earned her away in his arms, followed by Edward.

As soon as they arrived at the cottage, the inmates of which were all busy at the keeper’s lodge, they put her on a bed, and very soon restored her to consciousness.

“Where is my father?” cried Patience, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered.

“He is safe and well, miss,” replied Oswald.

“Is the house burned down?”

“No. The fire is all out again.”

“Who saved me? tell me.”

“Young Armitage, miss.”

“Who is he? oh, I recollect now; but I must go to my father. Where is he?”

“In the other cottage, miss.”

Patience attempted to stand, but found that she was too much exhausted, and she fell back again on the bed. “I can’t stand,” said she. “Bring my father to me.”

“I will, miss,” replied Oswald. “Will you stay here, Edward?”

“Yes,” replied Edward. He went out of the cottage door, and remained there while Oswald went to Mr. Heatherstone.

Oswald found him sensible, but in deep distress, as may be imagined. “The fire is all out, sir,” said Oswald.

“I care not for that. My poor, poor child!”

“Your child is safe, sir,” replied Oswald.

“Safe, did you say?” cried Mr. Heatherstone, starting up. “Safe! where’?”

“In my cottage. She has sent me for you.”

Mr. Heatherstone rushed out, passed by Edward, who was standing at the door of the other cottage, and was in his daughter’s arms. Oswald came out to Edward, who then detailed to mm the way in which he had saved the girl.

“Had it not been for the ill-nature of that woman Phoebe, in sending me to sleep where there was no straw, they would all have been burned,” observed Edward.

“She gave you an opportunity of rewarding good for evil,” observed Oswald.

“Yes, but I am burned very much in my arm,” said Edward. “Have you any thing that will be good for it?”

“Yes, I think I have: wait a moment.”

Oswald went into the cottage and returned with some salve, with which he dressed Edward’s arm, which proved to be very severely burned.

“How grateful the intendant ought to be—and will be, I have no doubt!” observed Oswald.

“And for that very reason I shall saddle my pony and ride home as fast as I can; and, do you hear, Oswald, do not show him where I live.”

“I hardly know how I can refuse him, if he requires it.”

“But you must not. He will be offering me a situation in the forest, by way of showing his gratitude, and I will accept of none. I have no objection to save his daughter, as I would save the daughter of my worst enemy, or my worst enemy himself, from such a dreadful death; but I do not want their thanks or offers of service. I will accept nothing from a Roundhead; and as for the venison in the forest, it belongs to the king, and I shall help myself whenever I think proper. Good-by, Oswald, you will call and see us when you have time?”

“I will be with you before the week is out, depend upon it,” replied Oswald.

Edward then asked Oswald to saddle his pony for him, as his arm prevented him from doing it himself, and, as soon as it was done, he rode away from the cottage.

Edward rode fast, for he was anxious to get home and ascertain the state of poor old Jacob; and, moreover, his burned arm was very painful. He was met by Humphrey about a mile from the cottage, who told him that he did not think that the old man could last many hours, and that he was very anxious to see him. As the pony was quite tired with the fast pace that Edward had ridden, Edward pulled up to a walk, and as they went along acquainted Humphrey with what had passed.

“Is your arm very painful?”

“Yes, it is, indeed,” replied Edward; “but it can’t be helped.”

“No, of course not, but it may be made more easy. I know what will do it some good; for I recollect, when Benjamin burned his hand at Arnwood, what they applied to it, and it gave him great relief.”

“Yes, very likely; but I am not aware that we have any drugs or medicine in the cottage. But here we are: will you take Billy to the stable, while I go on to old Jacob?

“Thank God that you are come, Edward,” said the old forester, “for I was anxious to see you before I die; and something tells me that I have but a short time to remain here.”

“Why should you say so! Do you fed very ill?”

“No, not ill; but I feel that I am sinking fast. Recollect that I am an old man, Edward.”

“Not so very old, Jacob; Oswald said that you were not more than sixty years old.”

“Oswald knows nothing about it. I am past seventy-six, Edward; and you know, Edward, the Bible says that the days of man are threescore years and ten; so that I am beyond the mark. And now, Edward, I have but few words to say. Be careful—if not for your own sake, at least for your little sisters’. You are young, but you are strong and powerful above your years, and can better protect them than I could. I see darker days yet coming—but it is His will, and who shall doubt that that is right? I pray you not to make your birth and lineage known as yet—it can do no good, and it may do harm—and if you can be persuaded to live in the cottage, and to live on the farm, which will now support you all, it will be better. Do not get into trouble about the venison, which they now claim as their own. You will find some money in the bag in my chest, sufficient to buy all you want for a long while—but take care of it; for there is no saying but you may require it. And now, Edward, call your brother and sisters to me, that I may bid them farewell. I am, as we all are, sinful, but I trust in the mercy of God through Jesus Christ. Edward, I have done my duty toward you, as well as I have been able; but promise me one thing—that you will read the Bible and prayers every morning and evening, as I have always done, after I am gone; promise me that, Edward.”

“I promise you that it shall be done, Jacob,” replied Edward, “and I will not forget your other advice.”

“God bless you, Edward. Now call the children.”

Edward summoned his sisters and Humphrey.

“Humphrey, my good boy,” said Jacob, “recollect, that in the midst of life we are in death; and that there is no security for young or old. You or your brother may be cut off in your youth; one may be taken, and the other left. Recollect, your sisters depend upon you, and do not therefore be rash: I fear that you will run too much risk after the wild cattle, for you are always scheming after taking them. Be careful, Humphrey, for you can ill be spared. Hold to the farm as it now is: it will support you all. My dear Alice and Edith, I am dying; very soon I shall be laid by your brothers in my grave. Be good children, and look up to your brothers for every thing. And now kiss me, Alice; you have been a great comfort to me, for you have read the Bible to me when I could no longer read myself. May your death-bed be as well