Fighting the Flames

by R. M. Ballantyne

  CHAPTER TEN.

  DIFFICULTIES AND DISSIPATIONS.

  In a very small office, situate in a very large warehouse, in that greatstorehouse of the world's wealth, Tooley Street, sat a clerk namedEdward Hooper.

  Among his familiar friends Edward was better known by the name of Ned.

  He was seated on the top of a tall three-legged stool, which, to judgefrom the uneasy and restless motions of its occupant, must have been apeculiarly uncomfortable seat indeed.

  There was a clock on the wall just opposite to Ned's desk, which thatyoung gentleman was in the habit of consulting frequently--veryfrequently--and comparing with his watch, as if he doubted its veracity.This was very unreasonable, for he always found that the two timepiecestold the truth; at least, that they agreed with each other.Nevertheless, in his own private heart, Ned Hooper thought that clock--and sometimes called it--"the slowest piece of ancient furniture he hadever seen."

  During one of Ned's comparisons of the two timepieces the door opened,and Mr Auberly entered, with a dark cloud, figuratively speaking, onhis brow.

  At the same moment the door of an inner office opened, and Mr Auberly'shead clerk, who had seen his employer's approach through the dustywindow, issued forth and bowed respectfully, with a touch of condolencein his air, as he referred with much regret to the fire at BeverlySquare, and hoped that Miss Auberly was not much the worse of her latealarm.

  "Well, she is not the better for it," said Mr Auberly; "but I hope shewill be quite well soon. Indeed, the doctor assures me of this, if careis taken of her. I wish that was the only thing on my mind just now;but I am perplexed about another matter, Mr Quill. Are you alone?"

  "Quite alone, sir," said Quill, throwing open the door of the inneroffice.

  "I want to consult with you about Frederick," said Mr Auberly as heentered.

  The door shut out the remainder of the consultation at this point, soEdward Hooper consulted the clock again and sighed.

  If sighs could have delivered Hooper from his sorrows, there is no doubtthat the accumulated millions of which he was delivered in that office,during the last five years, would have filled him with a species ofsemi-celestial bliss.

  At last, the hands of the clock reached the hour, _the_ hour that waswont to evoke Ned's last sigh and set him free; but it was anaggravating clock. Nothing would persuade it to hurry. It would not,for all the untold wealth contained in the great stores of TooleyStreet, have abated the very last second of the last minute of the hour.On the contrary, it went through that second quite as slowly as all theothers. Ned fancied it went much slower at that one on purpose; andthen, with a sneaking parade of its intention to begin to strike, itgave a prolonged hiss, and did its duty, and nothing _but_ its duty; bystriking the hour at a pace so slow, that it recalled forcibly to NedHooper's imaginative mind, "the minute-gun at sea."

  There was a preliminary warning given by that clock some time before thepremonitory hiss. Between this harbinger of coming events, and thejoyful sound which was felt to be "an age," Ned was wont to wipe his penand arrange his papers. When the hiss began, he invariably closed hiswarehouse book and laid it in the desk, and had the desk locked beforethe first stroke of the hour. While the "minute-gun at sea" was goingon, he changed his office-coat for a surtout, not perfectly new, and awhite hat with a black band, the rim of which was not perfectlystraight. So exact and methodical was Ned in these operations, that hishand usually fell on the door-latch as the last gun was fired by theaggravating clock. On occasions of unusual celerity he even managed todrown the last shot in the bang of the door, and went off with asensation of triumph.

  On the present occasion, however, Ned Hooper deemed it politic to be sobusy, that he could not attend to the warnings of the timepiece. Heeven sat on his stool a full quarter of an hour beyond the time ofdeparture. At length, Mr Auberly issued forth.

  "Mr Quill," said he, "my mind is made up, so it is useless to urge suchconsiderations on me. Good-night."

  Mr Quill, whose countenance was sad, looked as though he wouldwillingly have urged the considerations referred to over again, andbacked them up with a few more; but Mr Auberly's tone was peremptory,so he only opened the door, and bowed the great man out.

  "You can go, Hooper," said Mr Quill, retiring slowly to the inneroffice, "I will lock up. Send the porter here."

  This was a quite unnecessary permission. Quill, being a good-natured,easy-going man, never found fault with Ned Hooper, and Ned being apresumptuous young fellow, though good-humoured enough, never waited forMr Quill's permission to go. He was already in the act of putting onthe white hat; and, two seconds afterwards, was in the street wendinghis way homeward.

  There was a tavern named the "Angel" at the corner of one of the streetsoff Tooley Street, which Edward Hooper had to pass every evening on hisway home. Ned, we grieve to say, was fond of his beer; he always foundit difficult to pass a tavern. Yet, curiously enough, he never foundany difficulty in passing this tavern; probably because he always wentin and slaked his thirst _before_ passing it.

  "Good evening, Mr Hooper," said the landlord, who was busy behind hiscounter serving a motley and disreputable crew.

  Hooper nodded in reply, and said good evening to Mrs Butler, whoattended to the customers at another part of the counter.

  "Good evenin', sir. W'at'll you 'ave to-night, sir?"

  "Pot o' the same, Mrs B," replied Ned.

  This was the invariable question and reply, for Ned was a man ofregularity and method in everything that affected his personal comforts.Had he brought one-tenth of this regularity and method to bear on hisbusiness conduct, he would have been a better and a happier man.

  The foaming pot was handed, and Ned conversed with Mrs Butler while heenjoyed it, and commenced his evening, which usually ended insemi-intoxication.

  Meanwhile, Edward Hooper's "chum" and fellow-lodger sat in their mutualchamber awaiting him.

  John Barret did not drink, but he smoked; and, while waiting for hiscompanion, he solaced himself with a pipe. He was a fine manly fellow,very different from Ned; who, although strong of limb and manly enough,was slovenly in gait and dress, and bore unmistakable marks ofdissipation about him.

  "Very odd; he's later than usual," muttered Barret, as he glanced out atthe window, and then at the tea-table, which, with the tea-service, and,indeed everything in the room, proved that the young men were by nomeans wealthy.

  "He'll be taking an extra pot at the `Angel,'" muttered John Barret,proceeding to re-light his pipe, while he shook his head gravely; "buthe'll be here soon."

  A foot on the stair caused Barret to believe that he was a true prophet;but the rapidity and firmness of the step quickly disabused him of thatidea.

  The door was flung open with a crash, and a hearty youth with glowingeyes strode in.

  "Fred Auberly!" exclaimed Barret in surprise.

  "Won't you welcome me?" demanded Fred.

  "Welcome you? Of course I will, most heartily, old boy!" cried Barret,seizing his friend's hand and wringing it; "but if you burst in on afellow unexpectedly in this fashion, and with such wild looks, why--"

  "Well, well, don't explain, man; I hate explanations. I have come herefor sympathy," said Fred Auberly, shutting the door and sitting down bythe fire.

  "Sympathy, Fred?"

  "Ay, sympathy. When a man is in distress he naturally craves forsympathy, and he turns, also naturally, to those who can and will giveit--not to _everybody_, John Barret--only to those who can feel _with_him as well as _for_ him. I am in distress, John, and ever since youand I fought our first and last battle at Eton, I have found you a truesympathiser. So now, is your heart ready to receive the flood of mysorrows?"

  Young Auberly said the latter part of this in a half-jesting tone, buthe was evidently in earnest, so his friend replied by squeezing his handwarmly, and saying, "Let's hear about it, Fred," while he re-lighted hispipe.

  "You have but a poor lodging here, John," said Auberly, loo
king roundthe room.

  Barret turned on his friend a quick look of surprise, and then said,with a smile:

  "Well, I admit that it is not _quite_ equal to a certain mansion inBeverly Square that I wot of, but it's good enough for a poor clerk inan insurance office."

  "You are right," continued Auberly; "it is _not_ equal to that mansion,whose upper floors are at this moment a _chevaux-de-frise_ of charcoalbeams and rafters depicted on a dark sky, and whose lower floors are afantastic compound of burned bricks and lime, broken boards, andblackened furniture."

  "You don't mean to say there's been a fire?" exclaimed Barret.

  "And _you_ don't mean to tell me, do you, that a clerk in a fireinsurance office does not know it?"

  "I have been ill for two days," returned Barret, "and have not seen thepapers; but I'm very sorry to hear of it; indeed I am. The house isinsured, of course?"

  "I believe it is," replied Fred carelessly; "but _that_ is not whattroubles me."

  "No?" exclaimed his friend.

  "No," replied the other. "If the house had not been insured my fatherhas wealth enough in those abominably unpicturesque stores in TooleyStreet to rebuild the whole of Beverly Square if it were burnt down.The fire costs me not a thought, although, by the way, it nearly cost memy life, in a vain attempt I made to rescue my poor dear sister Loo--"

  "_Vain_ attempt!" exclaimed Barret, with a look of concern.

  "Ay, vain, as far as I was concerned; but a noble fireman--a fellow thatwould make a splendid model for Hercules in the Life Academy--sprang tothe rescue after me and saved her. God bless him! Dear Loo has got asevere shake, but the doctors say that we have only to take good care ofher, and she will do well. But to return to my woes. Listen, John, andyou shall hear."

  Fred Auberly paused, as though meditating how he should commence.

  "You know," said he, "that I am my father's only son, and Loo his onlydaughter."

  "Yes."

  "Well, my father has disinherited me and left the whole of his fortuneto Loo. As far as dear Loo is concerned I am glad; for myself I am sad,for it is awkward, to say the least of it, to have been brought up withunlimited command of pocket-money, and expectations of considerablewealth, and suddenly to find myself all but penniless, without aprofession and without expectations, at the age of twenty-two."

  He paused and looked at his friend, who sat in mute amazement.

  "Failing Loo," continued Fred calmly, "my father's fortune goes to somedistant relative."

  "But why? wherefore?" exclaimed Barret.

  "You shall hear," continued Auberly. "You are aware that ever since Iwas able to burn the end of a stick and draw faces on the nursery-door,I have had a wild, insatiable passion for drawing; and ever since thememorable day on which I was whipped by my father, and kissed,tearfully, by my beloved mother, for caricaturing our cook on thedining-room window with a diamond-ring, I have had an earnest,unextinguishable desire to become a--a painter, an artist, a dauber, adirtier of canvas. D'ye understand?"

  "Perfectly," said Barret.

  "Well, my father has long been resolved, it seems, to make me a man ofbusiness, for which I have no turn whatever. You are aware that formany years I have dutifully slaved and toiled at these heavy books inour office--which have proved so heavy that they have nearly squeezedthe soul out of me--and instead of coming to like them better (as I wasled to believe I should), I have only come to hate them more. Duringall this time, too, I have been studying painting late and early, andalthough I have not gone through the regular academical course, I havestudied much in the best of all schools, that of Nature. I have urgedupon my father repeatedly and respectfully, that it is possible for meto uphold the credit of the family as a painter; that, as the businesscan be carried on by subordinates, there is no necessity for me to be atthe head of it; and that, as he has made an ample fortune already, thehalf of which he had told me was to be mine, I would be quite satisfiedwith my share, and did not want any more. But my father would neverlisten to my arguments. The last time we got on the subject he calledme a mean-spirited fellow, and said he was sorry I had ever been born;whereupon I expressed regret that he had not been blessed with a morecongenial and satisfactory son, and tried to point out that it wasimpossible to change my nature. Then I urged all the old arguments overagain, and wound up by saying that even if I were to become possessor ofthe whole of his business to-morrow, I would sell it off, take topainting as a profession, and become the patron of aspiring youngpainters from that date forward!

  "To my surprise and consternation, this last remark put him in such atowering rage, that he vowed he would disinherit me, if I did not thenand there throw my palette and brushes into the fire. Of course, Ideclined to do such an act, whereupon he dismissed me from his presencefor ever. This occurred on the morning of the day of the fire. Ithought he might perhaps relent after such an evidence of the mutabilityof human affairs. I even ventured to remind him that Tooley Street wasnot made of asbestos, and that an _occasional_ fire occurred there! Butthis made him worse than ever; so I went the length of saying that Iwould, at all events, in deference to his wishes, continue to go to theoffice at least for some time to come. But, alas! I had roused him tosuch a pitch that he refused to hear of it, unless I should `_throw mypalette and brushes into the fire_!' Flesh and blood, you know, couldnot do that, so I left him, and walked off twenty miles into the countryto relieve my feelings. There I fell in with _such_ a splendid `bit;' asluice, with a stump of a tree, and a winding bit of water withoverhanging willows, and a peep of country beyond! I sat down andsketched, and forgot my woes, and _rejoiced_ in the fresh air anddelightful sounds of birds, and cows, and sheep, and _hated_ to think ofTooley Street. Then I slept in a country inn, walked back to Londonnext day, and, _voila_! here I am!"

  "Don't you think, Fred, that time will soften your father?"

  "No, I don't think it. On the contrary, I know it won't. He is a goodman; but he has an iron will, which I never saw subdued."

  "Then, my dear Fred, I advise you to consider the propriety of throwingyour palette and brushes into--"

  "My dear John, I did not come here for your advice. I came for yoursympathy."

  "And you have it, Fred," cried Barret earnestly. "But have you reallysuch an unconquerable love for painting?"

  "Have I really!" echoed Fred. "Do you think I would have come to such apass as this for a trifle? Why, man, you have no idea how my soul longsfor the life of a painter, for the free fresh air of the country, forthe poetry of the woods, the water, and the sky, for the music of birdand beast and running brook. You know the true proverb, `Man made thetown; but God made the country!'"

  "What," asked Barret, "would become of the town, if all men thought asyou do?"

  "Oh! John Barret, has town life so marred your once fine intellect,that you put such a question in earnest? Suppose I answer it byanother: What would become of the country if all men thought and actedas you do?"

  Barret smiled and smoked.

  "And what," continued Auberly, "would become of the fine arts if all mendelighted in dirt, dust, dullness, and desks? Depend upon it, John,that our tastes and tendencies are not the result of accident; they weregiven to us for a purpose. I hold it as an axiom that when a man or aboy has a strong and decided bias or partiality for any particular workthat he knows _something_ about, he has really a certain amount ofcapacity for that work beyond the average of men, and is led thereto bya higher power than that of man. Do not misunderstand me. I do not saythat, when a boy expresses a longing desire to enter the navy or thearmy, he has necessarily an aptitude for these professions. Far fromit. He has only a romantic notion of something about which,experimentally, he knows nothing; but, when man or boy has put his handto any style of work, and _thereafter_ loves it and longs after it, Ihold that that is the work for which he was destined, and for which heis best suited."

  "Perhaps you are right," said Barret, smoking harder than ever. "At allevents, I hear
tily sympathise with you, and--"

  At this point the conversation was interrupted by a loud burst ofwhistling, as the street-door opened and the strains of "Rule Britannia"filled the entire building. The music was interrupted by the suddenopening of another door, and a rough growl from a male voice.

  "Don't get waxy, old feller," said the performer in a youthful voice, "Iain't a-goin' to charge you nothink for it. I always do my musicgratis; havin' a bee-nevolient turn o' mind."

  The door was slammed violently, and "Rule Britannia" immediately burstforth with renewed and pointed emphasis.

  Presently it ceased, and a knock came to Barret's door.

  "Well, what d'ye want, you noisy scamp?" said Barret, flinging the dooropen, and revealing the small figure of Willie Willders.

  "Please, sir," said Willie, consulting the back of a note; "are youMister T-Tom--Tupper, Esquire?"

  "No, I'm not."

  "Ain't there sitch a name in the house?"

  "No, not that I know of."

  Willie's face looked blank.

  "Well, I was told he lived here," he muttered, again consulting thenote.

  "Here, let me look," said Barret, taking the note from the boy. "Thisis Tippet, not Tupper. He lives in the top floor. By the way,Auberly," said Barret, glancing over his shoulder, "Isn't Tom Tippet asort of connection of yours?"

  "Yes; a distant one," said Fred carelessly, "too distant to make itworth while our becoming acquainted. He's rich and eccentric, I'm told.Assuredly, he must be the latter if he lives in such a hole as this.What are you staring at, boy?"

  This question was put to Willie.

  "Please, sir, are _you_ the Mr Auberly who was a'most skumfished withsmoke at the Beverly Square fire t'other day, in tryin' to git hold o'yer sister?"

  Fred could not but smile as he admitted the fact.

  "Please, sir, I hope yer sister ain't the wuss of it, sir."

  "Not much, I hope; thank you for inquiring; but how come you to knowabout the fire, and to be interested in my sister?"

  "'Cause I was there, sir; an' it was _my brother_, sir, Frank Willders,as saved your sister."

  "Was it, indeed!" exclaimed Fred, becoming suddenly interested. "Come,let me hear more about your brother."

  Willie, nothing loth, related every fact he was acquainted with inregard to Frank's career, and his own family history, in the course ofwhich he revealed the object of his visit to Mr Tippet. When he hadfinished, Frederick Auberly shook hands with him and said:

  "Now, Willie, go and deliver your note. If the application issuccessful, well; but if it fails, or you don't like your work, justcall upon me, and I'll see what can be done for you."

  "Yes, sir, and thankee," said Willie; "where did you say I was to call,sir?"

  "Call at--eh--ah--yes, my boy, call _here_, and let my friend Mr Barretknow you want to see me. He will let me know, and you shall hear fromme. Just at present--well, never mind, go and deliver your note now.Your brother is a noble fellow. Good-night. And you're a fine littlefellow yourself," he added, after Willie closed the door.

  The fine little fellow gave vent to such a gush of "Rule Britannia" atthe moment, that the two friends turned with a smile to each other.

  Just then a man's voice was heard at the foot of the stair, grumblingangrily. At the same moment young Auberly rose to leave.

  "Good-night, Barret. I'll write to you soon as to my whereabout andwhat about. Perhaps see you ere long."

  "Good-night. God prosper you, Fred. Good-night."

  As he spoke, the grumbler came stumbling along the passage.

  "Good-night again, Fred," said Barret, almost pushing his friend out."I have a particular reason for not wishing you to see the fr-, the manwho is coming in."

  "All right, old fellow," said Fred as he passed out, and drew up againstthe wall to allow a drunken man to stumble heavily into the room.

  Next moment he was in the street hastening he knew not whither; butfollowing the old and well-known route to Beverly Square.