CHAPTER III

PETER SEES A LIGHT

The Bells had been at home for a fortnight in Gay Street.

The little house was in order from cellar to roof, and its occupants had settled down to the routine of their daily living, well content with the new abode. In a way they missed the larger house and freer environments of the remote suburban place they had left, but the early hour at which Mr. Bell and the boys were now able to reach home, and the later one at which they could leave in the morning, amply compensated for the more cramped quarters made necessary by the higher rates of rental in the city.

"It's not a very friendly neighborhood, though, is it, Janey?" commented Peter one evening, as he and Jane stood on the porch, enjoying the mild mid-April evening. "How many calls have you had? Two?"

"Three," corrected Jane, cheerfully. "The two old ladies on the right, the mother of six the left, and one odd person from Westlake Street. The rest are still looking us over."

"Nobody from Worthington Square?" Peter's tone was quizzical.

"Absolutely nobody," Jane laughed. "But we have one acquaintance in Worthington Square, Peter--the little Townsend girl with the sweet, pale face. She wants to know us dreadfully, and she's such a dear, democratic little person the smiles positively tremble on her mouth when I meet her--which I do almost every day. So does Nancy. It 's the oddest thing! Nan says she almost never stirs out that the Townsend child does n't appear."

"She wants to get acquainted. I don't blame her. They 're the dullest lot over there. There seems to be one stirabout--the good-looking chap who 's off on horseback every day. But the other son 's a paleface, and the daughter--hum--well----" Peter's pause was eloquent. "I think she's---- Hello! What's that?"

He had looked over at the big house as he spoke of its inmates, and his eye had been caught by an appearance which struck him as unusual. The house was dimly lighted everywhere, but in one room, the upper one with the semicircular window, there was an effect of brilliancy of a ruddier color than is ordinarily produced by electric lights. As Peter and Jane now stared at it, it seemed to grow in intensity, and there showed a wavering and flashing of this singular light which looked suspiciously like fire.

"Do you suppose there can be anything wrong?" speculated Peter, anxiously. "Of course a fire of coke or cannel in a fireplace might give that effect, through those thin curtains, but we--haven't seen--anything like it--before--and--By George!" as the light flared more ruddily than ever for an instant and then grew dull again, "I believe there _is_ trouble there! Anyhow, I 'll run over and find out! They can't blame me for that."

He was starting off at a run when Jane darted after him. "I 'm sure I saw flames jump up, Pete!" she called, excitedly. "The window's open, and the curtain blew to one side. Oh, hurry! Most of them are away; I saw them drive off an hour ago."

She was running at Peter's side, fleet of foot as he. Her mind had leaped to the youngest member of the unknown household, the one who did not drive away after nightfall to dinners and parties, like the others. Only that day she had met Shirley and exchanged with her the few bright words the little girl seemed to welcome so eagerly. They ran up the steps of the great portico, with its stately columns, and hurrying across it, came to a partly opened door. Peter rang the bell, peering impatiently through the vestibule into the large, square, half-lighted interior. "I 'll wait just one minute for an answer," he said with his foot on the threshold, "and then I 'll be up that gorgeous staircase back there."

Jane put her head in at the door. "I smell smoke!" she breathed, and Peter pushed past her. Delaying no longer, he ran across the hall and up the staircase, closely followed by Jane.

As he reached the top, a little white-clad figure ran screaming toward him. He rushed by, but Jane, at his heels, caught the little girl up in her arms.

"There, there, darling," she soothed the frightened, sobbing child, "you 're all safe! Peter will take care of the fire. Are they all away? There, don't be frightened, dear!"

Over Shirley's head Jane saw Peter vanish through a doorway--beyond which she could see a mass of smoke and flame--slam down a window, and dash out again, closing the door behind him. Then he was off down the stairs, shouting for help as he went, and getting no response from any quarter of the strangely deserted house.

"Take her away!" he called back to Jane, as he ran, and Jane attempted to obey.

"Where are your clothes, dear?" she asked the child in her arms, but could get no coherent answer.

She looked about her, and carrying Shirley, who was slender and as light of weight as a much younger child, soon discovered the little girl's room. She caught up the pile of clothes on a chair, and attempted to dress her charge. But Shirley only cried and clung. Jane pulled a silken blanket from the little brass bed, and wrapping the child in it, and rolling her clothes into a bundle, which she tucked under one arm, carried her downstairs and into a small reception-room near the front entrance.

Peter, dashing through the silent house toward the rear, hoping to come upon a man-servant somewhere, was met at last by a startled maid.

"A room upstairs is on fire," he said. "Any men here to help me put it out? If there are n't I must send in an alarm. Any fire-extinguishers about?"

The girl's wits scattered at the news, but she managed to recall the fact that the coachman must be at the stable again by this time, and flew to call him. Peter ran back to keep track of events. He saw that the walls were heavy, that the fire was thus far confined to the one room, and that if help came speedily it would not be necessary to call out the fire department, an expedient to be avoided, he felt sure, unless the danger to the house was greater than he thought.

But the frightened maid forestalled him in this plan. She ran to the telephone and sent in the alarm herself, although in the confusion of her fright she lost some minutes in getting the message properly reported. Meanwhile, the coachman having arrived to aid Peter, bringing with him the apparatus kept in the stables for the purpose of extinguishing fire, the two were soon successfully fighting the flames without further aid.

Shirley, downstairs, was still trembling in Jane's arms, and incoherently crying for her brother Murray, who, she insisted, had not gone out with the others that evening, but had been reading in the room which was now on fire. At that moment Murray himself came limping in at the open door. The maid met him at the threshold.

"O Mr. Murray," she began--and Jane, in the reception-room, heard her--"the house is on fire, and----"

"What? Where? Where's Shirley? Who's----"

Jane, with the child in her arms, appeared at the door of the reception-room. "She 's here--quite safe," she said; and with an exclamation, Murray came anxiously toward the two. Then he paused and looked up the staircase, for through the distant closed door upstairs could be heard the sounds of voices, shouting directions. The maid was beginning an excited explanation when Jane interrupted her:

"My brother is here, and he and your coachman are putting it out, I 'm sure."

"Has anybody sent in an alarm?"

"I did," said the maid. "The young man told me not to, but how did he know he could put it out? And the master 'd be blamin' me----"

"We don't want the firemen here if we don't need them," Murray was beginning, when the distant and familiar clang of a gong stopped the words upon his lips. In a moment more it became evident that a fire-engine and its train were upon them. Murray turned away, and started hurriedly up the stairs.

At the approaching noises, which to the delicate child had always been peculiarly terrifying, little Shirley began to cry afresh. Jane gathered her up with an air of determination.

"I'm going to take her to our house across the street," she said to the maid. "There's no need of her staying here to be so frightened."

The girl made no remonstrance. She was too excited to do more than bewail the absence of the other servants, and the misfortune of her having been left alone in charge. "I 'd just stepped out of the door a minute, miss," she explained, "to speak to a friend of mine that was passing. 'T was a mercy I left the door open, or the young gentleman couldn't have----. There's the gong!--There 's the fire-engine!--Oh, my--but look at the crowd comin' after 'em!"

"Show me a side door where I can slip out, please," requested Jane hurriedly, and the maid obeyed.

As the firemen ran in at the front door, Jane, with Shirley in her arms, hurried out at a low side entrance, from which a path through the shrubbery led to a gateway in the high hedge next the street.

As she reached her own porch, the rest of her family came rushing out, having heard the commotion in the street. She almost ran into Nancy who stopped abruptly to stare at Jane's burden.

"Come back into the house with me, Nan," said Jane, quickly. "Here 's our frightened little neighbour. The fire will soon be out, but I thought she'd be happier over here, for the family are all away."

In the house she put Shirley down upon the couch in the front room, and the child, staring up, her big eyes full of tears and fright, beheld the face of the girl she had so longed to know smiling down at her.

"This is splendid!" said Nancy Bell. "I've wanted to know you like everything, and now I 've got you right here in my own house. Won't you let me help you get dressed? I 'd love to."

Seeing that Nancy would be better for the shy little visitor than any number of older persons, Jane left the two together, and went out to see what was happening.

It was very little. The fire-engine was already turning to leave, the driver grumbling at a needless alarm. "All out!" a voice was shouting, and the crowd was reluctantly pausing upon the edge of the lawn, disappointed that no further excitement was to be had. Upstairs the firemen had found the fire subdued to a mere dying smother of smoke, the efficient chemical having made quick work of the blaze, which had not had time to attack the walls of the room, but had been confined to its furnishings.

Peter, his hands and clothes grimy, made light of the affair to Murray, who was looking in at the ruin of the room.

"I took a few liberties with your front door," Peter said, "finding it open and no one about. Oh, no, it hadn't much headway; I saw that when I decided not to call out the department. It was quite a blaze, but mostly the light stuff about. It must have caught from the curtains blowing into that student-lamp."

"That's my fault," Murray owned. "I hate electric lights to read by, so I lighted that lamp here. I was reading, but the room began to feel stuffy, and I opened the window. It looked so pleasant outside I thought I 'd take a turn round the square. I 'm not a fast walker"--he glanced at his lame leg--"and I was probably at the other side of the square when you came in. Look here, you must have been mighty quick to take in the situation, for I couldn't have been away over five minutes when you saw the blaze."

"My sister and I happened to be standing out on our porch--you see, we live just round the corner in Gay Street--about opposite these windows here----"

"I know," Murray nodded. "I 've seen you."

"We thought at first it was a cannel-coal fire--you know how they flash with a red light. But when we suspected, we just ran across. I hope your little sister wasn't too badly frightened?"

"Her room's next to this. Poor child, she _was_ frightened. I deserve a thrashing, you know, for my carelessness. Every one of the family is out, and all the servants except my mother's maid. It was very kind of your sister to take Shirley in charge. She's downstairs with her now."

"Will your people be getting news of the fire-alarm and be frightened?" Peter asked, putting on his coat.

"I don't think so. Father and mother are out of town at a dinner, and my sister's at a party in a country house. They won't be likely to hear. I don't know where my brother is. Don't go. Must you? I--you know I'm awfully obliged to you for this----"

"It's nothing. Glad I happened to be on hand," and Peter would have said good night and run down the stairs, but he saw that his host meant to go down with him. So he descended slowly, keeping pace with the other's halting steps, and talking with him as he went.

"Your sister was here when I came in," said Murray, glancing into the small reception-room. The maid, who had been watching the departure of the crowd from the window of this room, turned to him.

"The young lady took Miss Shirley home with her," she explained. "I was that flustered I let her go without so much as asking you, Mr. Murray, but----"

"It's all right," Murray put in, hastily. "It was just the thing to do, the child was so scared. If they 're at your house, I 'll just step over there with you, if you don't mind."

"Glad to have you," said Peter, wondering what Jane would say to this second unexpected introduction.

Murray, as he walked slowly toward the house in Gay Street, felt distinctly glad of the chance. Since his illness he had led a lonely life, and he longed for comrades near at hand. From behind the curtains he had done not a little watching of the coming and going in Gay Street, and had been strongly attracted toward each one of the household across the way. He liked the faces of those people. He had wished that he could make their acquaintance.

"Walk in!" invited Peter, throwing the door hospitably open; and Murray, his quick, curious eyes taking in everything at a glance, entered the small front room, which was just then unoccupied. He heard voices and laughter near at hand, but for the moment, while Peter went to summon his mother, he had time to look about him.

There was not very much in the room, and there was nothing of value, as that word was used in the Townsend house, yet the visitor could not help finding the place warmly attractive. There was a homelike look about it, and there was an indefinable air of refinement. The furniture was old and very nearly shabby, but it was not the cheap and tawdry furniture one might have expected to find in such a house. The pictures on the walls were all good copies of great pictures, or photographs set under glass. Piles of music lay on the old-fashioned square piano, and a few papers and magazines, all of good selection, were upon the table, in the centre of which burned a brilliant lamp. But most of all, the character of the household was shown by the books--as it inevitably is.

Of these there were a surprising number. Murray felt his respect for the Bell family rising immensely as he noted the contents of the rows of home-made book-shelves. They were in plain, worn bindings, most of them, quite unlike the stately rows in the great library at home; but they were the same old friends, in common clothes, and Murray rejoiced at the sight.

Peter was quickly back, bringing with him the lady whom Murray recognised as the mother of the family. She _was_ a lady--no doubt of that. He had been sure of it before. Now, as he listened to her voice--the test incontrovertible--he knew beyond question.

She greeted him cordially. He was charmed with her face, with her manner, with everything about her. Then Peter brought all the others in, and Murray shook hands with them all. Shirley appeared, clinging to Nancy's hands, and Shirley was so happy, and begged so hard in his ear to stay a few minutes longer, that he willingly delayed their departure.

Fine fellows, Peter and Ross and Rufus proved to be on acquaintance. Not in the least overawed by the presence of the rich man's son from Worthington Square, they talked business and football and politics and various other things in those few minutes, in a hearty, half-boyish, decidedly manly fashion that he thoroughly enjoyed.

It happened that Murray said less to Jane than to any of the others, but he noticed her not a little. He thought he had never seen a girl who looked so spirited and sweet and gay and gentle all in one. He felt that his sister Olive must learn to know her at once, that she might learn what it is to be pretty without seeming aware of the fact, and how it is possible to make a stranger feel wholly at his ease without appearing to exercise any arts.

"I suppose I ought to be taking my sister home," Murray said at last, getting to his feet. "The truth is, she has wanted to know Miss Nancy since she first saw her, and so----"

"Murray wanted to know you, too," said Shirley, in Nancy's ear; but as her brother paused, the words were audible to everybody.

"To know _me_?" queried Nancy, in surprise, and everybody smiled.

"I'm sure my mother and sister will call--soon," said Murray, trying to feel sure of that rather doubtful proposition as he made it.

The moment would have been an awkward one in some small houses, for it was impossible not to remember that the Worthington Squares do not make many calls in the Gay Streets, but young Rufus, studying Shirley with interest, broke in, without intention, upon his mother's reply. Rufus was quite untroubled by the social inequalities existing between localities divided only by a stone's throw.

"That 's a dandy tennis-court you will have there when you put it out," he remarked.

"It's pretty fair--and we shall have it in shape early this year," replied Murray, smiling. There was a beauty about Murray's rare smile which quite transformed his pale face. His eyes met Jane's as he spoke.

"It 's too bad to grow up past the point of breaking the ice so easily, is n't it?" she said, merrily, as he shook hands.

"We 'll have to follow their wise example," he replied.

"I hope that you 'll find your way over to Gay Street often in the future," declared Peter, shaking hands.

"I mean to, thank you, if you'll let me?" Murray looked into Mrs. Bell's eyes, and a shade of wistfulness crept into his own, which she saw, and recognising, was sure she understood.

"Please come, if you care to," she said, cordially, and he felt her warm, firm hand give his a friendly pressure, which quite completed the capturing of his heart.

A ringing step on the porch outside, a knock at the door--it boasted no bell--and everybody looked up surprised, for it was nearly ten o'clock. Ross opened the door.

"I beg your pardon," said a gay and careless voice outside, "but I came to look for my brother and sister. They seem to be lost, and I 'm told they 're here."

"Come in!" said Ross, and the owner of the voice appeared upon the threshold. Standing there, surveying the company with his characteristically assured expression, his handsome face taking on a saucy smile as his eyes fell on his brother, Forrest Townsend was carefully and formally presented by Murray to each one of the household in turn.

He looked a fine figure in his evening clothes, his long outer coat falling open, his hat in his hand. His audacious young eyes fell on Jane before he was presented to her, and his manner acquired a sort of laughing gallantry rather effective. "It was a very lucky fire for us," he said, gaily, as he bowed. "I only wish I had been at home."