The Place of the Lion (21 page)

“There's not much that's all that lovely,” Mr. Lorrigan said pessimistically.

“O I don't know,” Mrs. Portman answered. “I like a bit of colour round myself, but I'm not in it with Jack. He ought to've been a painter instead of a policeman, the things he sees in trees and sunsets. I tell him he wouldn't notice a murder right before his eyes if there was a sunset there too.”

“Sunsets have their place,” said Lorrigan. “Not that I've ever seen much in a sunset myself. My Bessie did an essay on sunsets the other day at school, and the things that child put in! I've not seen all those colours in a sunset—not for forty years. And anyhow I don't hold with teaching children to do too much sky gazing; there's other things that's more important.”

“That's so,” Mrs. Portman said, “and if I was going to buy a picture it'd be one of those that have got more to them than just a lot of different colours. I like a picture to have a story in it, something that you can enjoy. I've got one upstairs that belonged to my mother—
The Last Days of King Charles the First
, and I'm sure it used to make me cry to look at it, all so natural with the little children and everything. I tell you, Mr. Lorrigan, I like a picture that makes me feel something.”

“I don't care for pictures much, anyhow,” Lorrigan answered. “Though, of course, a good lifelike bit of work … One of the best I ever saw was the sign of an inn out the other side of the town—that was a lion too: the
Red Lion
, and anything more natural I never saw. I wonder if I got thinking of it last night.”

“I expect so,” Mrs. Portman said. “Lor', isn't it close, Mr. Lorrigan? I could do with a cup of tea after that walk. Will you have a cup too?”

“Well, I don't mind,” Mr. Lorrigan agreed. “I'll just have another look at Mr. Berringer while you get your hat off, and then take a turn in the garden till it's ready.”

“Do,” Mrs. Portman said, and went off to her room. In a few minutes she was downstairs again, and went across to light the gas and put on the kettle for her tea. It would have needed Anthony's purged eyes to see then what neither she in the kitchen not Lorrigan in the garden could see—the multiplicity of intellectual flame that was leaping and twining all over the house. Some new passion was spreading out through earthly things, another Energy pressed onwards to the moment in which, concerned upon its own business, it should yet take the opportunity of whatever opening into matter might be afforded to it. Mrs. Portman picked up a box of matches, and as the invisible fire arched itself round and over her paused in amused remembrance of her granddaughter's chatter about the lion. Then she opened it, took out a match, struck it——

In the garden Lorrigan was strolling from the gate back towards the house. A wave of heat struck him, a terrific burst of fire blinded him. He reeled back, shouting incoherently, with his hands to his eyes. When he could open them again, after that violent shock, he saw before him the whole house blazing to heaven. This was no fire spreading from room to room, though his first thought was that the curtains had caught. But from the road to which he had fled, looking dazedly back, he saw not flames breaking out from doors or windows, but now a pillar, now a nest of fire. It soared, it sank, it spread outwards and curved back inwards; the heat and light of the burning struck and hurt him, and he went stumbling farther along the road to escape it. “What's happened?” he thought stupidly. “What's she done? Christ, the whole place is alight!” The roar of the fire beat in his ears; he covered them with his hands and blinked out over the fields. And then he remembered his charge.

He faced round, feeling that he ought to do something. But it was evident, even to his ruining intelligence, that nothing could be done. No one could live in that destructive ferocity of flame; both his patient and Mrs. Portman must already have perished. He had better get hold of somebody; the fire brigade, the police—and the telephones were down. Lorrigan felt like crying, his helplessness was obvious and extreme. It wasn't more than ten minutes since he had been talking to Mrs. Portman in that kitchen about pictures and lions and zoos, and now she and her master were burnt to death, and the house was falling in.… “O God …” he exclaimed, “don't let her come out,” for he had had a moment's dreadful fear of some burning creature rushing out of that fiery splendour. “O God, kill her, kill her,” he thought unintentionally, “and then put it out.” But God went on concerning Himself with his Deity and that seemed to imply the continuation of the fire.

It was some time later that Lorrigan came racing into the town, and a shorter time later still that the fire brigade, and Dr. Rockbotham, and a number of other people were assembled round the house. So fierce was the heat that they were all kept at a good distance, and the efforts that were made to approach the house closely all failed. The hoses were turned on; streams of water were dashed against the fire. By this time it had been burning for the best part of an hour, and if anything it seemed more violent than before. “You shouldn't have left him, Lorrigan,” Dr. Rockbotham exclaimed, quite unjustly, in the excitement of the moment.

“No,” said Lorrigan, also excited. “I suppose I ought to have sat by him and been burnt up too. I suppose you pay me for that, don't you? I suppose …”

The doctor looked at him sharply. “Now steady, steady,” he said. “Of course, you couldn't tell. I didn't intend to blame you. I only meant that …” He stopped, aware that he had as a fact meant to blame the nurse, and then resumed, “There, I apologize if I hurt you.”

But Lorrigan's usual equanimity had vanished. “Coming to me and telling me I ought to have stopped there!” he said. ‘What d'you mean, hey? What d'you mean?” He caught the doctor's arm, and shook it fiercely.

“Leave go at once,” Rockbotham exclaimed, shaken out of his usual benignity. “How dare you touch me? Leave go!”

In the general surging of the crowd in the road a new little vortex formed around the two of them.

“Now then, Jack,” a voice said, “don't you be silly.”

“Ah,” said another voice, “it's all very fine, blaming a man for not letting himself be burnt! There's too many treat us that way!”

The doctor looked round. It was a mixed crowd, and part of it wasn't very nice. Loafers and bullies from Smetham had been attracted by the blaze. Lorrigan still held his arm; another man drove an elbow, as if accidentally, into his side. “Take care,” the doctor exclaimed.

Immediately a sudden fierceness awoke in them. They jolted, thrust, hit at him. His hat was knocked off, and his glasses. He called out. Others in the crowd heard him, looked round, saw what was happening, and came pushing in on one side or the other. In less than five minutes after Rockbotham's first remark nothing less than a free fight was going on. It was not, perhaps, a serious fight, but it shook the doctor very greatly. People were grunting and snarling at each other all round him; they were behaving, he thought disgustedly, like animals. A couple of constables intervened, and the row quietened down. But though the crowd turned its attention again to the fire the panting and grunting remained, as if indeed some animal rather than human nature was then dominating its members. And over everything went up the roar of the fire.

An hour, two hours, went by. Still the hoses were directed towards the blaze; still the torrents of water fell on it. But when three hours were past, and more—when the afternoon was almost done—when the crowd had changed and multiplied and lessened and multiplied again—still the house burned. At least, presumably it was the house. The Captain of the Fire Brigade talked with the Police-Inspector, who suggested that there might be a store of chemicals somewhere in the cellars. Hadn't Mr. Berringer been a scientific man?

“I suppose it must be something like that,” the Captain said. “But it seems very odd.”

“It's odd how the flames hide the house,” the Inspector answered. “Generally you can see the walls except for a minute or two here and there. But here you can't see anything but the fire. And that looks more like a great nest than anything.”

“With a bird in it, I suppose,” the Captain answered, looking irritably at the blaze, and then at his watch. “Why, it's been going on for five hours and it's as bad as ever.”

“Ah, well, I daresay you'll get it under soon,” the Inspector said encouragingly, and moved off.

But when the night fell, that violent and glorious catastrophe was still visible over the countryside. It was burning up through the earth; indeed, the Captain found himself thinking occasionally the base of that fiery pillar expanded, and by midnight the perplexed firemen found that its extreme circle had reached on one side to the middle of the garden, the flames seeming to rise from the ground as if the withered grass and the dry hard ground beneath broke into fire of their own accord. The increasing heat drove the workers back, such of them as were left. For a few had been overcome, and one had been almost blinded by an unexpected outbreak of crimson light, and the idle watchers had disappeared. Not merely night and weariness had drawn these off, but a vague rumour an echo of which reached the Captain himself from the mouth of one of his men. “Did you hear they're shutting up in the town?”

“What d'you mean—shutting up?” the Captain asked.

“All the pubs are closing, they say,” the man said. “There's animals going about the streets”—and he added another “they say.”

“It sounds as if it was time the pubs closed,” the Captain muttered. “Don't talk that blasted rubbish to me. For Christ's sake look what you're doing.”

Yet his incredulity would have ceased could he have seen the town as it lay away behind him. The doors were shut, the streets were empty, a terrified populace hid in dark houses behind such protection as they could find. For now here and now there, first one and then another wayfarer had seen forms and images, and fled in terror. Certain courageous folk had heard the rumours, and mocked at them, and gone out, but by midnight these too had come rushing home, and the streets were given up to the moonlight, while all one side of the heavens was filled with the glow of the burning. Under that distant glow, and passing from the moon to the dark and from the dark to the moon, there went all night the subdued sound of mighty creatures. Sceptical eyes looked out from occasional windows, and beheld them: the enormous bulk of the Lion, the coiling smoothness of the Serpent, even, very rarely, the careering figure of the Unicorn. And above them went the never-resting flight of the Eagle, or, if indeed it rested, then it was at some moment when, soaring into its own dominion, it found a nest exalted beyond human sight in the vast mountains of the creation natural to it, where it might repose and contemplate its æonian wisdom. There among the Andes and Himalayas of the soul, it sank to rest; thence again, so swiftly it renewed its youth, it swept out, and passing upon its holy business, cast from its wings the darkness which is both mortal night and night of the mind. It knew, since it knew all things, the faint sounds of the lesser world that was more and more passing into the place of the Angelicals, but what to it were those sounds, however full of distress they might be? For, as the quivering human creatures knew, the destruction was spreading. It was no longer only neglected sheds and empty houses, posts and palisades, that were falling. An inhabited house crashed in ruins, and screams and moans broke through the night. A little after, in another part of the town, a second fell; and then a third. In the double fear that, even through those barred and shuttered houses, began to spread, there was hinted panic. Men came out to help and caught sight of something and fled, except only those who saw the silver horn and heard the silver hooves of the Angel of their Return; they only, free from fear, toiled to rescue their fellows.

All others, crouched in darkness, waited in terror for death.

Chapter Fourteen

THE HUNTING OF QUENTIN

Damaris, on that Monday morning, was conscious as she ate her breakfast of one surprising truth. She had, as a matter of fact, almost finished before the consciousness of it came upon her, though the fact itself had been with her since she woke. She sat staring at the last bit of toast on her plate, as she realized that, very surprisingly, she wasn't worrying. Until that moment it had never seemed to her that she did worry very much; other things worried her, but that was different. It was not she who fretted; it was she who was fretted. It occurred to her suddenly that of all the follies of which she had been guilty, and they seemed to have been many and stupendous, none had ever been greater than that. She had always regarded herself as an unchangeable fact, attacked and besieged by a troublesome world. But she could as easily be, indeed at the moment she was, a changeable fact, beautifully concerned with a troubled world. She had been worrying all her life about herself, and now she wasn't worrying any more. It was not perhaps possible for her then to realize that this was because she herself didn't—for the moment—exist for herself. There being for Damaris—in that moment—no Damaris, there was no Damaris for Damaris to worry about. However soon that lucid integrity might become clouded and that renewed innocence inevitably stained, it did then exist. All this she did not perhaps realize, but she did definitely feel the marvellous release. She still wanted to get on with her work—if she could, if she could approach it with this new sense that her subjects were less important than her subjects' subject, that her arrangements were very tentative presentations of the experiences of great minds and souls. But work was less important than her immediate task. She ate the toast and stood up pensively. Here she was, abandoning Abelard—Abelard … the word had a new sound. She saw the brilliant young tonsured clerk, the crowds in the growing University, the developing intellect and culture; she felt the rush and tumult—almost physically she felt it—of the students pouring to hear him, because they were burning to listen, to learn, to … To learn. Damaris twiddled a fork on the table, and felt herself blushing. “The credulous piety …” she bit her lip. No, Abelard, St. Bernard, St. Thomas—no, they were not merely the highest form in a school of which she was the district inspector. No, intellect might make patterns, but itself it was a burning passion, a passion stronger even than that other love of Peter Abelard for Heloise, the Canon's niece, which had always seemed to her a pity—a pity not merely for Abelard himself but in general. To learn. Well, she wasn't past learning, thank God. If it had all got to be redone, it should be redone. Anything should be done that fitted in with Anthony and the sunlight and freedom from worry and that stranger thing which she dimly realized had been the central desire of centuries of labour. But to-morrow. To-day there was Quentin.