The Spoils of Poynton

But with the opening of the door she encountered a shock, though for an instant she couldn't have named it; the next moment she saw it was given her by the face of the man advancing to let her out, an old lame porter of the station, who had been there in Mrs. Gereth's time and who now recognized her. He looked up at her so hard that she took an alarm and before alighting broke out to him: 'They've come back?' She had a confused, absurd sense that even he would know that in this case she mustn't be there. He hesitated, and in the few seconds her alarm had completely changed its ground: it seemed to leap, with her quick jump from the carriage, to the ground that was that of his stare at her. 'Smoke?' She was on the platform with her frightened sniff: it had taken her a minute to become aware of an extraordinary smell. The air was full of it, and there were already heads at the window of the train, looking out at something she couldn't see. Some one, the only other passenger, had got out of another carriage, and the old porter hobbled off to close his door. The smoke was in her eyes, but she saw the station-master, from the end of the platform, recognize her too and come straight to her. He brought her a finer shade of surprise than the porter, and while he was coming she heard a voice at a window of the train say that something was 'a good bit off—a mile from the town.' That was just what Poynton was. Then her heart stood still at the white wonder in the station-master's face.

'You've come down to it, miss, already?'

At this she knew. 'Poynton's on fire?'

'Gone, miss—with this awful gale. You weren't wired? Look out!' he cried in the next breath, seizing her; the train was going on, and she had given a lurch that almost made it catch her as it passed. When it had drawn away she became more conscious of the pervading smoke, which the wind seemed to hurl in her face.

'Gone?' She was in the man's hands; she clung to him.

'Burning still, miss. Ain't it quite too dreadful? Took early this morning—the whole place is up there.'

In her bewildered horror she tried to think. 'Have they come back?'

'Back? They'll be there all day!'

'Not Mr. Gereth, I mean—nor his wife?'

'Nor his mother, miss—not a soul of them back. A pack o' servants in charge—not the old lady's lot, eh? A nice job for care-takers! Some rotten chimley or one of them portable lamps set down in the wrong place. What has done it is this cruel, cruel night.' Then as a great wave of smoke half choked them, he drew her with force to the little waiting room. 'Awkward for you, miss—I see!'

She felt sick; she sank upon a seat, staring up at him. 'Do you mean that great house is lost?'

'It was near it, I was told, an hour ago—the fury of the flames had got such a start. I was there myself at six, the very first I heard of it. They were fighting it then, but you couldn't quite say they had got it down.'

Fleda jerked herself up. 'Were they saving the things?'

'That's just where it was, miss—to get at the blessed things. And the want of right help—it maddened me to stand and see 'em muff it. This ain't a place, like, for anything organized. They don't come up to a reel emergency.'

She passed out of the door that opened toward the village and met a great acrid gust. She heard a far-off windy roar which, in her dismay, she took for that of flames a mile away, and which, the first instant, acted upon her as a wild solicitation. 'I must go there.' She had scarcely spoken before the same omen had changed into an appalling check.

Her vivid friend, moreover, had got before her; he clearly suffered from the nature of the control he had to exercise. 'Don't do that, miss—you won't care for it at all.' Then as she waveringly stood her ground, 'It's not a place for a young lady, nor, if you'll believe me, a sight for them as are in any way affected.'

Fleda by this time knew in what way she was affected: she became limp and weak again; she felt herself give everything up. Mixed with the horror, with the kindness of the station-master, with the smell of cinders and the riot of sound, was the raw bitterness of a hope that she might never again in life have to give up so much at such short notice. She heard herself repeat mechanically, yet as if asking it for the first time: 'Poynton's gone?'

The man hesitated. 'What can you call it, miss, if it ain't really saved?'

A minute later she had returned with him to the waiting-room, where, in the thick swim of things, she saw something like the disk of a clock. 'Is there an up-train?' she asked.

'In seven minutes.'

She came out on the platform: everywhere she met the smoke. She covered her face with her hands. 'I'll go back.'

Henry James's Books.

A PASSIONATE PILGRIM, AND OTHER TALES.

TRANSATLANTIC SKETCHES.

RODERICK HUDSON. A Novel.

THE AMERICAN. A Novel.

THE EUROPEANS. A Novel.

CONFIDENCE. A Novel.

THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

THE AUTHOR OF BELTRAFFIO. Including also Pandora; Georgina's Reasons; The Path of Duty; Four Meetings.

THE SIEGE OF LONDON. Including also The Pension Beaurepas; The Point of View.

TALES OF THREE CITIES. Including The Impressions of a Cousin; Lady Barberina; A New England Winter.

A LITTLE TOUR IN FRANCE.