CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
AN OLD PLOT.
It is evening now. The snow is still on the ground; but it looks ruddyand warm in the streets, because of the blaze of light from theshop-windows, and it looks colder than it did on the house-tops, byreason of the moon which sails in the wintry sky.
The man in the moon must have been in good spirits that night, for hisresidence seemed almost fuller than the usual full moon, and decidedlybrighter--to many, at least, of the inhabitants of London. It lookedparticularly bright to Miss Tippet, as she gazed at it through thewindows of her upper rooms, and awaited the arrival of "a few friends"to tea. Miss Tippet's heart was animated with feelings of love to Godand man; and she had that day, in obedience to the Divine precept,attempted and accomplished a good many little things, all of which were,either directly or indirectly, calculated to make human beings happy.
Emma Ward, too, thought the moon particularly bright that night; in factshe might almost have been regarded as a lunatic; so steadily did shegaze at the moon, and smile to herself without any apparent motive.There was reason for her joy, however, for she had come to know, in somemysterious way, that Frank Willders loved her; and she had known, for along time past, that she loved Frank Willders.
Frank had become a foreman of the Fire Brigade, and had been removedfrom his former station and comrades to his new charge in the city. ButFrank had not only risen in his profession; he had also risenintellectually. His mother had secured to him a pretty good educationto begin with, and his own natural taste and studious habits had led himto read extensively. His business required him to sit up and watch whenother men slept. He seldom went to bed before four o'clock any morning,and when he did take his rest he lay down like the soldier in an enemy'scountry, ready to rush to arms at the first sound of the bugle. Hisbugle, by the way, was a speaking-trumpet, one end of which was close tothe head of his bed, the other end being in the lobby where the men onduty for the night reposed.
During these long watches in the silent lobby, with the two men beltedand booted on their tressels, the clock ticking gently by his side, likethe soft quiet voice of a chatty but not tiresome friend, Frank readbook after book with absorbing interest. History, poetry, travel,romance--all kinds were equally devoured. At the particular time ofwhich we write, however, he read more of poetry than of anything else.
The consequence was that Frank, who was one of nature's gentlemen,became a well-informed man, and might have moved in any circle ofsociety with credit to himself, and profit as well as pleasure toothers.
Frank was by nature grave, sedate, earnest, thoughtful. Emma wasequally earnest--more so perhaps--but she was light-hearted (not light_headed_, observe) and volatile. The result was mutual attraction. Letphilosophers account for the mutual attraction of these qualities asthey best may, we simply record the fact. History records it; naturerecords it; experience--everything records it; who has the temerity, orfolly, to deny it?
Emma and Frank _felt_ it, and, in some mysterious way, Frank had come toknow something or other about Emma's feelings, which it is not ourbusiness to inquire into too particularly.
So, then, Frank also gazed--no, not at the moon; it would have requiredhim to ascend three flights of stairs, and a ladder, besides passingthrough a trap to the roof of the station, to enable him to do that; butthere was a lamp over the fireplace, with a tin reflector, which hadquite a dazzling effect of its own--not a bad imitation of the moon in asmall way--so he gazed at that, and thought it very bright indeed;brighter than usual.
We may as well put the reader out of suspense at once by saying that wedo not intend to describe Miss Tippet's evening with "a few friends."Our own private opinion in regard to the matter is, that if they hadbeen fewer than they were, and more worthy of the name of friends, theevening might have been worth recording, but it is sufficient to saythat they all came; acted as usual, spoke as usual, felt as usual,"favoured the company" with songs, as usual, and--ah--yes--enjoyedthemselves as usual till about half-past eleven o'clock, when they alltook their leave, with the exception of Miss Deemas, who, inconsideration of the coldness of the weather, had agreed to spend thenight with her "dear friend."
Miss Deemas was one of those unfortunates with whom it is impossible forany one to sleep. Besides being angular and hard, she had a habit ofkicking in her slumbers, and, being powerful, was a dangerous bedfellow.She knew this herself, and therefore wisely preferred, when visitingher friends, to sleep alone. Hence it happened that Miss Tippet andEmma went to bed in the back room with the green hangings, while MissDeemas retired to the front room with the blue paper.
There is a common fallacy in naval matters founded on poetical license,to the effect that the mariner is separated from death by a singleplank; whereas, the unpoetical truth is, that the separation consists ofmany hundreds of planks, and a solid bulwark of timbers more than a footthick, besides an inner "skin," the whole being held together byinnumerable iron and oaken bolts and trenails, and tightened with oakumand pitch. We had almost fallen into this error--or poetical laxity ofexpression--by saying that, on the night of which we write, little didMiss Tippet know that she was separated from, not death exactly, butfrom something very awful, by a single plank; at least, by the floor ofher own residence, and the ceiling of the house below--as the sequelwill show.
That same night, David Boone, gaunt, tall, and cadaverous as of old, satin his back parlour, talking with his friend Gorman.
"Now, Boone," said the latter, with an oath, "I'm not goin' to hang offand on any longer. It's more than seven years since we planned thisbusiness, the insurances have been effected, you've bin a prosperousman, yet here you are, deeper in my debt than ever."
"Quite true," replied Boone, whose face was so pale that he might haveeasily been mistaken for a ghost, "but you know I have paid up mypremiums quite regular, and your interest too, besides clearin' off someof the principal. Come, don't be hard on me, Gorman. If it had notbeen that trade has got worse of late, I would have cleared off all Iowe you, but indeed, indeed I have not been so successful of late, andI'm again in difficulties. If you will only wait--"
"No," cried Gorman, "I'll not wait. I have waited long enough. Howlong would you have me wait--eh? Moreover, I'm not hard on you. I showyou an easy way to make a good thing of it, and you're sochicken-hearted that you're afraid to do it."
"It's such a mean thing to do," said Boone.
"Mean! Why, what do you call the style of carrying on business that youstarted with seven years ago, and have practised more or less eversince?"
"That is mean, too," said Boone; "I'm ashamed of it; sorry for it. Itwas for a time successful no doubt, and I have actually paid off all mycreditors except yourself, but I don't think it the less mean on thataccount, and I'm thoroughly ashamed of it."
There was a good deal of firmness in Boone's tone as he said this, andhis companion was silent for a few minutes.
"I have arranged," he said at last, "about your making over yourpolicies of insurance to me as security for the debt you owe me. Youwon't have to pay them next half-year, I'll do that for you _ifnecessary_." He laughed as he said this. "I have now come to ask youto set the house alight, and have the plan carried out, and the wholeaffair comfortably settled."
Gorman said this in an encouraging voice, assuming that his dupe wasready to act.
"B-but it's awful to think of," said Boone; "suppose it's found out?"
"How can it be found out?"
"Well, I don't know. It's wonderful how crime is discovered," saidBoone despondingly; "besides, think of the risk we run of burning thepeople who live above, as well as my two clerks who sleep in the roombelow us; that would be murder, you know. I'm sure I have tried my verybest to get Miss Tippet to go from home for a short time, I've almostlet the cat out of the bag in my anxiety, but she won't take the hint."
"Oho!" exclaimed Gorman, with a laugh.
"Well, have you made the arrangements as I directed you last nigh
t?"
"Yes, I've got a lot of tarry oakum scattered about, and there is a pileof shavings," he added, pointing to a corner of the room; "the onlything I'm anxious about is that my young man Robert Roddy caught mepouring turpentine on the walls and floor of the shop. I pretended thatit was water I had in the can, and that I was sprinkling it to lay thedust before sweeping up. Roddy is a slow, stupid youth; he always was,and, I daresay, did not notice the smell."
Gorman was himself filled with anxiety on hearing the first part ofthis, but at the conclusion he appeared relieved.
"It's lucky you turned it off so," said he, "and Roddy _is_ a stupidfellow. I daresay he has no suspicion. In fact, I am sure of it."
"It's not of much importance _now_, however," said Boone, rising andconfronting his friend with more firmness than he had ever beforeexhibited to him, "because I have resolved _not to do it_."
Gorman lit his pipe at the fire, looking at the bowl of it with ascornful smile as he replied--
"Oh! you have made up your mind, have you?"
"Yes, decidedly. Nothing will move me. You may do your worst."
"Very good," remarked Gorman, advancing with the lighted paper towardsthe heap of shavings.
Boone sprang towards him, and, seizing his arms, grasped the light andcrushed it out.
"What would you do, madman?" he cried. "You can only ruin me, but doyou not know that I will have the power to denounce you as afire-raiser?"
Gorman laughed, and returned to the fireplace, while Boone sat down on achair almost overcome with terror.
"What! you dare to defy me?" said Gorman, with an air of assumed pity."A pretty case you would have to make out of it. You fill your shopwith combustibles, you warn your tenant upstairs to get out of thepremises for a time in a way that must be quite unaccountable to her(until the fire accounts for it), and your own clerk sees you spillingturpentine about the place the day before the fire occurs, and yet youhave the stupidity to suppose that people will believe you when youdenounce _me_!"
Poor David Boone's wits seemed to be sharpened by his despair, for hesaid suddenly, after a short pause--
"If the case is so bad it will tell against yourself, Gorman, for Ishall be certainly convicted, and the insurance will not be paid toyou."
"Ay, but the case is not so bad as it looks," said Gorman, "if you onlyhave the sense to hold your tongue and do what you are told; for nobodyknows all these things but you and me, and nobody can put them togetherexcept ourselves--d'ye see?"
"It matters not," said Boone firmly; "I _won't_ do it--there!"
Both men leaped up. At the same moment there was a sound as ofsomething falling in the shop. They looked at each other.
"Go see what it is," said Gorman.
The other stepped to the door.
"It's only two of my wax-dolls tumbled off the shelf," he said onreturning.
An exclamation of horror escaped him, for he saw that the heap ofshavings had been set on fire during his momentary absence, and Gormanstood watching them with a demoniacal grin.
Boone was struck dumb. He could not move or speak. He made a feebleeffort to stretch out his hands as if to extinguish the fire, but Gormanseized him in his powerful grasp and held him fast. In a few secondsthe flames were leaping up the walls, and the room was so full of smokethat they were driven into the front shop.
"Now, then," said Gorman in a fierce whisper, "your _only_ chance is toact out your part as wisely as you can. Shout _fire_! now till you'reblack in the face--fire! _Fire_!! FIRE!!!"
David Boone obeyed with all his might, and, when Gorman released him,ran back into the parlour to try to extinguish the flames, but he wasdriven back again, scorched and half-choked, while Gorman ran off atfull speed to the nearest station, gave the alarm, received the shillingreward for being first to give the call, and then went leisurely home tobed.
Fighting the Flames Page 27
