Fighting the Flames

by R. M. Ballantyne

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

  NEW LIGHTS OF VARIOUS KINDS.

  Time sped on apace, and in its train came many changes.

  To the confusion of the doctor and despite the would-be murderer, DavidBoone recovered. But that brought no relief to Gorman, whose remorseincreased daily, insomuch that he became, if not quite, very nearly,insane, and his fear of being caught was so great that he never venturednear the quarter of London in which Boone dwelt. He therefore remainedin ignorance of the failure of his murderous attempt. What would he nothave given to have known the truth! to have had the dreadful _word_removed from the light which shone upon it brighter and brighter everyday until it was made red-hot, as it were, and became within him as aconsuming fire! Preferring darkness to light more than ever, Gormankept in secret places during the day, and only ventured out, with otherhuman vultures, at night. The wretched man feared the darkness, too,although he sought it, and what between the darkness that he feared yetcourted, and the light that he feared and fled from, and the lightwithin that he feared but could not fly from, he became one of the mostmiserable of all the outcasts in London.

  As for his deep-laid plans they were all scattered to the winds. In thepresumption of ignorance he had fancied that he knew his own power, andso in one sense he did, but he was not aware of his own want of power.He knew, indeed, that he had the brute courage to dare and do anythingdesperate or dastardly, but he did not know that he lacked the moralcourage to bear the consequences of his deeds. The insurance policies,therefore, lay unclaimed--even uncared for!

  Another change for the worse effected by time was the death of LooAuberly. Gradually and gently her end approached. Death was so slow incoming that it was long expected, yet it was so _very_ slow that when itcame at last it took her friends by surprise. James Auberly continuedstiff and stately to the last. He refused to believe that his child wasdying, and spared no expense to provide everything that money couldprocure to restore her health. He also refused to be reconciled to hisson Fred, who had succeeded in his loved profession beyond hisexpectations, and who had sought, again and again, to propitiate hisfather. At last Fred resolved to go abroad and study the works of theancient masters. He corresponded regularly with Loo for some time, buthis letters suddenly ceased to make their appearance, and nothing washeard of him for many months.

  During the long and weary illness Loo had three friends whose visitswere to her soul like gleams of sunshine on a cloudy day--Miss Tippet,Emma Ward, and a poor artificial-flower maker named Ziza Cattley.

  Those three, so different yet so like, were almost equally agreeable tothe poor invalid. Miss Tippet was "_so_ funny but so good," and Emma'ssprightly nature seemed to charm away her pain for a time; while grave,gentle, earnest Ziza made her happy during her visits, and left asensation of happiness after she went away. All three were equallyuntiring in talking with her about the "old, old story"--the Love ofJesus Christ.

  Yes, it comes to this at last, if not at first, with all of us. Eventhe professed infidel, laugh as he may in the spring-tide of life,usually listens to that "old, old story" when life's tide is very low,if not with faith at least with seriousness, and with a hope that it maybe true. _May_ be true! Why, if the infidel would only give one titheof the time and trouble and serious inquiry to the investigation of thatsame old story and its credentials that he gives so freely to the studyof the subtleties of his art or profession, he would find that there isno historical fact whatever within his ken which can boast of anythinglike the amount or strength of evidence in favour of its truth, thatexists in favour of the truth of the story of the Life, Death, andResurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord.

  When Loo died the stateliness and stiffness of James Auberly gave way,and the stern man, leaning his head upon the coffin, as he sat alone inthe darkened room, wept as if he had been a little child.

  There was yet another change brought about by that great overturnerTime. But as the change to which we refer affects those who have yet totake a prominent part in our tale, we will suffer them to speak forthemselves.

  One afternoon, long after the occurrence of those changes to whichreference has just been made, Mrs Willders, while seated quietly at herown fireside (although there was no fire there, the month being June),was interrupted in her not unusual, though innocent, occupation ofdarning socks by the abrupt entrance of her son Frank, who flung his capon the table, kissed his mother on the forehead, and then flung himselfon the sofa, which piece of furniture, being old and decrepit, groanedunder his weight.

  "Mother," he exclaimed with animation, "I've got strange news to tellyou. Is Willie at home?"

  "No, but I expect him every minute. He promised to come home earlierto-day, and won't be long, for he is a boy of his word."

  Mrs Willders persisted in calling her strapping sons "boys," despitethe evidence to the contrary on their cheeks and chins.

  "Here he comes!" cried Frank, as a rapid step was heard.

  Next moment the door burst open and Willie, performing much the sameceremony that Frank had done, and in a wonderfully similar way, said hehad come home with something strange to tell, though not altogetherstrange either, as his mother, he said, knew something about it already.

  Mrs Willders smiled and glanced at Frank.

  "Which is to begin first?" she asked.

  "What! do you know about it, too?" cried Willie, turning to his brother.

  "_Know_ about what?" said Frank. "You have not told me what it is; howcan I answer you?"

  "About Mr Auberly," said Willie.

  Frank said that he knew nothing new or peculiar about _him_, except thathe was--no, he wouldn't say anything bad of him, for he must be amiserable man at that time.

  "But out with your news, Willie," he added, "mine will keep; and asyours is, according to yourself, partly known already to my mother, it'sas well to finish off one subject before we begin to another."

  "Oh, then, you have news, too, have you?" said Willie.

  Frank nodded.

  "Strange coincidence!" exclaimed Willie.

  "Did you ever hear of a coincidence that was not strange, lad? Go onwith your news, else I'll begin before you."

  Thus admonished, Willie began.

  "Oh, mother, you're a nice deceiver; you're a sly old lady, ain't you?and you sit there with a face as meek and sweet and smiling as if youhad never deceived anybody in all your life, not to speak of your twosons. O, fy!"

  As Mrs Willders still smiled and went on with her knitting serenely,without vouchsafing a reply, Willie continued with an off-handair--"Well, then, I may as well tell you that I have just had aninterview with _Uncle_ Auberly--hallo! you seem surprised."

  Mrs Willders was indeed surprised. Her serenity of aspect fled in aninstant.

  "Oh, Willie, how comes it that you know? I'm sure I did not mean totell you. I promised I never would. I must have let it outinadvertently, or when I was asleep."

  "Make yourself quite easy, mother," said Willie; "I'll explain it allpresently. Just go on with your knitting, and don't put yourself into astate."

  The widow, recovering herself a little, resumed her work, and Frank, whohad listened with an amused smile up to this point--supposing that hisbrother was jesting--elongated his face and opened his eyes wider andwider as he listened.

  "You must know," resumed Willie, "that I received a note from MrAuberly last night, asking me to call on him some time this afternoon.So I went, and found him seated in his library. Poor man, he has adifferent look now from what he had when I went last to see him. Youknow I have hardly ever seen him since that day when I bamboozled him soabout `another boy' that he expected to call. But his spirit is notmuch improved, I fear. `Sit down, Mr Willders,' he said. `I asked youto call in reference to a matter which I think it well that the partiesconcerned should understand thoroughly. Your brother Frank, I am told,has had the presumption to pay his addresses to Miss Ward, the younglady who lives with my relative, Miss Tippet.' `Yes, Mr Auberly,' I
replied, `and Miss Ward has had the presumption to accept him--'"

  "It was wrong of you to answer so," interrupted Mrs Willders, shakingher head.

  "Wrong, mother! how could I help it? Was I going to sit there and hearhim talk of Frank's presumption as if he were a chimney-sweep?"

  "Mr Auberly thinks Miss Ward above him in station, and so deems hisaspiring to her hand presumption," replied the widow gently. "Besides,you should have remembered the respect due to age."

  "Well, but, mother," said Willie, defending himself, "it was veryimpudent of him, and I did speak very respectfully to him in tone if notin words. The fact is I felt nettled, for, after all, what is MissWard? The society she mingles in is Miss Tippet's society, and that'snot much to boast of; and her father, I believe, was a confectioner--nodoubt a rich one, that kept his carriage before he failed, and left hisdaughter almost a beggar. But riches don't make a gentleman or a ladyeither, mother; I'm sure you've often told me that, and explained thateducation, and good training, and good feelings, and polite manners, andconsideration for others, were the true foundations of gentility. Ifthat be so, mother, there are many gentlemen born who are not gentlemenbred, and many lowly born who--"

  "Come, lad, don't bamboozle your mother with sophistries," interruptedFrank, "but go on to the point, and don't be so long about it."

  "Well, mother," resumed Willie, "Mr Auberly gave me a harder rebukethan you have done, for he made no reply to my speech at all, but wenton as quietly and coolly as if I had not opened my lips. `Now,' saidhe, `I happen to have a particular regard for Miss Ward. I intend tomake her my heir, and I cannot consent to her union with a man who has_nothing_.' `Mr Auberly,' said I (and I assure you, mother, I saidthis quite respectfully), `my brother is a man who has little _money_,no doubt, but he has a good heart and a good head and a strong arm; anarm, too, which has saved life before now.' I stopped at that, for Isaw it went home. `Quite true,' he replied; `I do not forget that hesaved my lost child's life; but--but--the thing is outrageous--that apenniless man should wed the lady who is to be my heir! No, sir, I sentfor you to ask you to say to your brother from me, that however much Imay respect him I will not consent to this union, and if it goes ondespite my wishes I shall not leave Miss Ward a shilling.' He hadworked himself up into a rage by this time, and as I felt I would onlymake matters worse if I spoke, I held my tongue; except that I said Iwould deliver his message at once, as I expected to meet my brother athome. He seemed sorry for having been so sharp, however, and when I wasabout to leave him he tried to smile, and said, `I regret to have tospeak thus to you, sir, but I felt it to be my duty. You talk ofmeeting your brother to-night at home; do you not live together?' `No,sir,' I replied; `my brother lodges close to his station, and I livewith my mother in Notting Hill.'

  "`Notting Hill!' he cried, falling back in his chair as if he had beenstruck by a thunderbolt. `Your mother,' he gasped, `Mrs Willders--mysister-in-law--the waterman's widow?' `A _sailor's_ widow, sir,' saidI, `who is proud of the husband, who rose to the top of his profession.'

  "`Why did you deceive me, sir?' cried Mr Auberly, with a sudden frown.`I would have undeceived you,' said I, `when we first met, but youdismissed me abruptly at that time, and would not hear me out. Sincethen, I have not thought it worth while to intrude on you in referenceto so small a matter--for I did not know till this day that we arerelated.' He frowned harder than ever at this, and bit his lip, andthen said, `Well, young man, _this_ will make no difference, I assureyou. I desire you to convey my message to your brother. Leave me now.'I was just on the point of saying `Good-bye, uncle,' but he covered hisface with his hands, and looked so miserable, that I went out without aword more. There, you've got the whole of _my_ story. What think youof it?"

  "It's a curious one, and very unexpected, at least by me," said Frank,"though, as you said, part of it must have been known to mother, who, nodoubt, had good reasons for concealing it from us; but I rather thinkthat my story will surprise you more, and it's a better one than yours,Willie, in this respect, that it is shorter."

  "Come, then, out with it," said Willie, with a laugh; "why, this issomething like one of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments."

  "Well, mother," said Frank, laying his hand gently on the widow'sshoulder, "you shan't darn any more socks if I can help it, for I'm aman of fortune now!"

  "How, Frank?" said Mrs Willders, with a puzzled look.

  "The fact is, mother, that Mrs Denman, the poor old lady whom I carrieddown the escape, I forget how many years ago, is dead, and has left meher fortune, which, I believe, amounts to something like twenty thousandpounds!"

  "You _don't_ mean that!" cried Willie, starting up.

  "Indeed, I do," said Frank earnestly.

  "Then long life to ye, my boy!" cried Willie, wringing his brother'shand, "and success to the old--well, no, I don't exactly mean that, butif she were alive I would say my blessing on the old lady. I wish youjoy, old fellow! I say, surely the stately man won't object to thepenniless fireman now--ha! ha! Well, it's like a dream; but tell us allabout it, Frank."

  "There is very little to tell, lad. I got a very urgent message the daybefore yesterday to go to see an old lady who was very ill. I obtainedleave for an hour, and went at once, not knowing who it was till I gotthere, when I found that it was Mrs Denman. She looked very ill, and Ido assure you I felt quite unmanned when I looked into her little oldface. `Young man,' she said in a low voice, `you saved my life; I amdying, and have sent for you to thank you. God bless you.' She put outher thin hand and tried to shake mine, but it was too feeble; she couldonly press her fingers on it. That was all that passed, and I returnedto the station feeling quite in low spirits, I do assure you. Well,next day a little man in black called, and said he wished to have a fewwords with me. So I went out, and he introduced himself as the oldlady's lawyer, told me that she was gone, and that she had, almost withher last breath, made him promise to go, the moment she was dead, andsee the fireman who had saved her life, and tell him that she had lefther fortune to him. He congratulated me; said that there were no nearrelations to feel aggrieved or to dispute my rights, and that, as soonas the proper legal steps had been taken--the debts and legacies paid,etcetera,--he would have the pleasure of handing over the balance, whichwould probably amount to twenty thousand pounds."

  "It's like a dream," said Willie.

  "So it is," replied Frank, "but it's well that it is not a dream, for ifI had been the penniless man that Mr Auberly thinks me, I would havebeen obliged in honour to give up Emma Ward."

  "Give her up!" exclaimed Willie in amazement. "Why?"

  "Why! because I could not think of standing in the way of her goodfortune."

  "Oh, Frank! oh, Blazes," said Willie sadly, "has money told on you sofearfully already? Do you think that _she_ would give _you_ up for thesake of Auberly's dross?"

  "I believe not, lad; but--but--well--never mind, we won't be troubledwith the question now. But, mother, you don't seem to think much of mygood fortune."

  "I do think much of it, Frank; it has been sent to you by the Lord, andtherefore is to be received with thanksgiving. But sudden good fortuneof this kind is very dangerous. It makes me anxious as well as glad."

  At that moment there came a loud knocking at the door, which startledMrs Willders, and caused Willie to leap up and rush to open it.

  Frank rose and put on his cap with the quiet promptitude of a manaccustomed to alarms.

  "That's a fire, mother; the kind of knock is quite familiar to me now.Don't be alarmed; we hear that kind of thing about two or three times aday at the station; they knew I was here, and have sent a messenger."

  "A fire!" cried Willie, running into the room in great excitement.

  "Tut, lad," said Frank, with a smile, as he nodded to his mother andleft the room, "you'd never do for a fireman, you're too excitable.Where's the messenger?--ah, here you are. Well, where is it?"

  "Tooley Street," exclaimed a man, whose conditio
n showed that he had runall the way.

  Frank started, and looked very grave as he said hurriedly to hisbrother--

  "Good-night, lad. I won't likely be able to get out to-morrow to talkover this matter of the fortune. Fires are usually bad in thatneighbourhood. Look well after mother. Good-night."

  In another moment he was gone.

  And well might Frank look grave, for when a fireman is called to a firein Tooley Street, or any part of the docks, he knows that he is about toenter into the thickest of the Great Fight. To ordinary fires he goeslight-heartedly--as a bold trooper gallops to a skirmish, but to a firein the neighbourhood of the docks he goes with something of the feelingwhich must fill the breast of every brave soldier on the eve of a greatbattle.