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Fighting the Flames

<h3>Chapter Twenty Five.</h3> <h4>Changes and Mysteries.</h4> Seven years passed away. During that period London revolved in its usual course, reproducing its annual number of events—its births, deaths, and marriages; its plans, plots, and pleasures; its business, bustle, and bungle; its successes, sentiments, and sensations; its facts, fancies, and failures—also its fires; which last had increased steadily, until they reached the imposing number of about twelve hundred in the year. But although that time elapsed, and many changes took place, for better or for worse, in all circles of society, there had not been much change in the relative positions of the actors in our tale; at least, not much that was apparent. Great alterations, however, had taken place in the physical condition of some of them, as the sequel will show. One bright morning in the spring-time of the year, a youth with the soft down of early manhood on his lips and cheeks, paced slowly to and fro near the margin of the pond in Kensington Gardens. Being early, the spot was as complete a solitude as the backwoods of North America, and so thick was the foliage on the noble trees, that no glimpse of the surrounding city could be obtained in any direction. Everything that greeted eye and ear was characteristic of “the woods,” even to the swans, geese, ducks, and other water-fowl which sported on the clear surface of the pond; while the noise of traffic in the mighty metropolis was so subdued by distance as to resemble the deep-toned roar of a great cataract. A stranger, rambling there for the first time would have found it difficult to believe that he was surrounded on all sides by London! It was one of those soul-stirring mornings in which Nature seems to smile. There was just enough of motion in the air to relieve the effect of what is called a dead calm. The ripple on the water caught the sun’s rays, and, breaking them up, scattered them about in a shower of fragmentary diamonds. Fleecy-white clouds floated in the blue sky, suggesting dreams of fairy-land, and scents of sprouting herbage filled the nostrils, reminding one of the fast-approaching summer. The youth who sauntered alone by the margin of the pond was broad of shoulder and stout of limb, though not unusually tall—not much above the middle height. His gait was easy, free—almost reckless—as though he cared not a fig for anybody, high or low, rich or poor; yet his eye was bright and his smile kindly, as though he cared for everybody—high, low, rich, and poor. He sauntered with his hands in the pockets of his short coat, and whistled an operatic air in a low melodious tone. He was evidently waiting for someone; and, judging from his impatient gestures, someone who was resolved to keep him waiting. Presently, a female figure appeared in the far distance, on the broad avenue that leads direct from the Serpentine. She was young and graceful in form; but she walked with a quick step, with her eyes looking down, like one who regarded neither youth nor grace. Curiously enough, this downcast look gave to her fair face a modest, captivating grace, which is never seen to sit upon the lofty brow, or to circle round the elevated nose, of conscious beauty. The youth at first paid no attention to her (she was not the “someone” for whom he waited); but as she drew near, he became suddenly interested, and threw himself in her way. Just as she was about to pass, she raised her eyes, started, blushed, and exclaimed: “Mr Willders!” “Good morning, Miss Ward!” said the youth, advancing with a smile, and holding out his hand; “this is indeed an unexpected pleasure; I did not know that you were addicted to early walking.” “I am indeed fond of early walking,” replied Emma, with a smile; “but I cannot say that it is so much pleasure as duty which brings me here. I am a day-governess, and pass this pond every morning on my way to Kensington, where the family in which I teach resides.” “Indeed,” said Willie, with that amount of emphasis which denotes moderate surprise and solicits information. He paused for a single moment; but, seeing that Emma did not intend to speak of her own affairs, he added quickly: “I am waiting for my brother Frank. We arranged to meet here this morning. I hope that Miss Tippet is well?” “Quite well,” replied Emma, with a blush, as she took a sudden interest in a large duck, which swam up to the edge of the pond at that moment, in the hope, no doubt, of obtaining food from her hand. Its hopes were disappointed, however, for Emma only called it a beautiful creature; and then, turning somewhat abruptly to Willie, said, with a slight look of embarrassment, that she feared she should be late and must bid him good-morning. Willie felt a good deal puzzled, and had he been the same Willie that we introduced at the commencement of our tale, he would have told Emma his mind candidly, and asked her what was the matter; but Willie was a man now, so he smiled, lifted his hat politely, and wished her good-morning. Five minutes later, Frank appeared in the distance and hurried forward. Seven years had added a little to the breadth of his shoulders, and the firm self-possession of his step and look; but they had made no other perceptible impression on him. There was, indeed, a deep scar on his right temple; but that was the result of accident, not of time. Many a hairbreadth escape had he made during these seven years of fighting with the flames, and often had his life been in imminent danger; but he was fortunate in having escaped, hitherto, with only a broken leg and a variety of small cuts, scalds, and bruises. The cut on his temple was the severest, and most recent of these. He had got it in a fall through a second floor, which gave way under him as he was attempting to rescue an old bedridden man, who lay in an inner chamber. Frank was carried out in a state of insensibility on the broad shoulders of his friend Baxmore, while Dale rescued the old man. “How goes it, Frank?” cried Willie, advancing and giving his brother’s hand a warm shake; “the cut head mending—eh?” “Oh, it’s all right,” replied Frank, with a smile, as they sauntered up and down by the margin of the pond; “the headaches have left me now, I’m thankful to say, and the–doctor tells me it won’t leave much of a mark.” “You don’t need to care much if it does, for it’s an honourable scar, and does not spoil your beauty, old boy.” “Well, Willie,” said Frank, “here I am at your request. What have you got to tell me; nothing serious, I hope?” The stalwart fireman looked earnestly into his brother’s face, and exhibited more anxiety than there seemed to be any occasion for. “No, nothing very serious. It may be serious enough for all I know; but as far as my knowledge goes it’s not bad enough to make you look so anxious. Why, what’s the matter with you?” “Nothing, Willie. Perhaps my late accident has shaken my nerves a bit.” Willie burst into a loud laugh, and said that it was so awfully absurd to hear a man like Frank talking of nerves at all that he could not help it. “Well, but what is the news you’ve got to tell me?” resumed Frank. “You’re not going to be married, are you?” Frank asked this with a look and expression so peculiar that Willie again laughed and said that really he could not understand him at all; for even suppose he had been going to be married, that was no reason why he should take it so much to heart, as the expression on his face implied he did. “Perhaps not, Willie,” said Frank with a quiet smile; “but that is not what you want to speak about, then?” “No, certainly not.” Frank appeared relieved, and Willie, observing the appearance, said— “Come, now, I really don’t see why you should be so very much pleased to hear that. I’m young, it is true, but I’m old enough, and I have a good business, with brilliant prospects, and there appears to me no reason on earth why I should not marry if I felt so disposed.” “None in the world, Willie,” said Frank, with some haste, “but you tell me you are not thinking of that just now; so pray let’s hear what you’ve got to say.” “Oh! it’s all very well in you, old Blazes, to change the subject in that way, but I’m nettled at your implied objection to my getting married if I choose. However, we won’t quarrel over it, so here goes for the point.” Willie’s bantering manner instantly left him. He walked in silence for a few seconds, as if he pondered what he had to say. “There are two points which trouble me just now, Frank, and I want your opinion in regard to them. The first is, Miss Tippet. She is a small point, no doubt, whether we regard her physically or mentally, but she is by no means a small point if we regard her socially, for the good that that little woman does in a quiet, unobtrusive way is almost incredible. D’ye know, Frank, I have a sort of triumphant feeling in regard to the sour, cynical folk of this world—whom it is so impossible to answer in their fallacious and sophistical arguments—when I reflect that there is a day coming when the meek and lowly and unknown workers for the sake of our Lord shall be singled out from the multitude, and their true place and position assigned them. Miss Tippet will stand higher, I believe, in the next world than she does in this. Well, Miss Tippet has been much out of sorts of late, mentally; and Mr Tippet, who is the kindest man alive, has been very anxious about her, and has begged of me to try to counsel and comfort her. Now, it is not an easy matter to comply with this request, because, in the first place, Miss Tippet does not want me to counsel or comfort her, so far as I know; and, in the second place, my motives for attempting to do so might be misunderstood.” “How so?” exclaimed Frank quickly. “Well, you know, Miss Ward lives with her,” said Willie, with a modest look. There was again something peculiar about Frank’s expression and manner, as he said, “Well, it would not signify much, I daresay, if people were to make remarks about you and Miss Ward, for you know it would not be misconstruction after all.” “What mean you?” asked Willie in surprise. “You remember what you once said to me about your bosom being on fire,” pursued Frank. “I suppose the fire has not been got under yet, has it?” Willie burst into a loud laugh. “Why, Blazes, do you not know—? But, no matter; we came here to talk of business; after that is done we can diverge to love.” Willie paused here again for a few seconds and then resumed: “You must know, Frank, that the cause of Miss Tippet’s disturbance just now is the strange conduct of her landlord, David Boone, who has been going on of late in a way that would justify his friends putting him in an asylum. His business affairs are, I fear, in a bad way, and he not only comes with excessive punctuality for Miss Tippet’s rent, but he asks her for loans of money in a wild incoherent fashion, and favours her with cautions and warnings of a kind that are utterly incomprehensible. Only the other night he came to her and asked if she did not intend soon to visit some of her friends; and on being informed that she did not, he went further and advised her to do so, saying that she was looking very ill, and he feared she would certainly get into bad health if she did not. In fact, he even said that he feared she would die if she did not go to the country for a few weeks. Now, all this would be laughable, as being the eccentricity of a half-cracked fellow, if it were not that he exhibits such a desperate anxiety that his advice should be followed, and even begged of the poor lady, with tears in his eyes, to go to visit her friends. What d’ye think of it, Frank? I confess myself utterly nonplussed.” “I don’t know what to think,” said Frank after a pause. “Either the man must be mad, or he wishes to rob Miss Tippet’s house in her absence.” Willie admitted that the first supposition might be true, but he held stoutly that the second was impossible, for Boone was too honest for that. They conversed for some time on this point, and both came ultimately to the conclusion that the thing was incomprehensible and mysterious, and that it ought to be watched and inquired into. Willie, moreover, said he would go and consult his friend Barret about it. “You know Barret, Frank?” “No; but I have heard of him.” “Ah, he’s a first-rate fellow—in one of the insurance offices—I forget which. I came to know him when I first went to Mr Tippet’s. He lived then in the floor below us with a drunken companion whom he was anxious to reclaim; but he found him so hard to manage that he at last left him, and went to live in Hampstead. He and I became great friends when he lived under our workshop. He got married two years ago, and I have not seen much of him since, but he’s a sharp fellow, and knows a good deal more of the Tippets than I was aware of. I’ll go and see if he can throw any light on this subject.” “The next point,” pursued Willie, “is Cattley the clown. Have you seen or heard of him lately?” Frank said he had not. “Well, I am greatly troubled about him. He has become a regular drunkard, and leads his poor daughter a terrible life. He is so broken down with dissipation that he can scarcely procure employment anywhere. His son is fortunately a pretty decent fellow, though somewhat wild, and helps in a small way to support his father, having obtained a situation as clown at one of the minor theatres. The daughter, Ziza, has long ago given up the profession, and has been struggling to maintain herself and her father by painting fire-screens, and making artificial flowers; but the work is severe and ill paid, and I see quite well that if the poor girl is not relieved in some way she will not be able to bear up.” “I grieve to hear this, Willie,” said Frank, “but how comes it that you take so great an interest in these people?” “Frank,” said Willie, assuming a tone of deep seriousness, while a glow suffused his cheeks, “can you keep a secret?” “I think so, lad; at least I promise to try.” “Well, then,” said Willie, “I love Ziza Cattley. I knew her first as a fairy, I know her now as a woman who is worthy of a place among the angels, for none but those who know her well and have seen her fighting the battle of life can have the least idea of the self-denial, the perseverance under difficulties, the sweetness of temper, and the deep-seated love of that devoted girl. She goes every night, after the toil of each day, to the door of the theatre, where she waits to conduct her father safely past the gin-palaces, into which, but for her, he would infallibly stray, and she spends all she has in making him comfortable, but I see well enough that this is killing her. She can’t stand it long, and I won’t stand it at all! I’ve made up my mind to that. Now, Frank, I want your advice.” To say that Frank was hearty in his assurances that he would do what he could to help his brother, would be a faint way of stating the truth. Frank shook Willie by the hand and congratulated him on having gained the affections of one whom he knew to be a good girl, and then condoled with him on that girl’s unfortunate circumstances; but Willie stopped him short at this point by asking him in a tone of surprise what could be the matter with him, for at first he had been apparently annoyed at the notion of his (Willie’s) being in love, and now he seemed quite pleased about it. In short, his conduct was unaccountable! Frank laughed, but said eagerly— “Why. Willie, did you not tell me long ago that there was a fire in your bosom, lit up by a certain young friend of Miss Tippet’s—” “Oh,” interrupted Willie, “Emma Ward; ah, yes, I confess that I did feel spooney once in that direction when I was a boy, but the fairy displaced her long ago. No, no, Frank, I’m not accountable for boyish fancies. By the way, I have just parted from the fair Emma. We had a tête-à-tête here not half an hour before you arrived.” “Here!” exclaimed Frank in surprise. “Ay, here,” repeated Willie; “she passes this pond every morning, she told me, on her way to teach a family in Kensington; by the way, I didn’t think of asking whether the father, mother, and servants were included among her pupils. Why, Frank, what an absent frame of mind you are in this morning! I declare it is not worth a man’s while consulting you about anything.” “I beg pardon,” cried Frank quickly, “your words caused my mind to wander a bit. Come, what do you think of doing?” “What do you think I should do? that is the question.” “You can offer to assist them,” suggested Frank. “I’ve done so,” said the other, “but Ziza won’t accept of assistance.” “Could we not manage to get her a situation of some sort with light work and good pay?” “Ah! a fireman’s, for instance,” cried Willie, with a sarcastic laugh; “did you ever hear of a situation with light work and good pay except under Government? I never did; but we might perhaps find steady work and good pay. It would only be required for a time, because I mean to—ah, well, no matter—but how and where is it to be got? Good Mr Tippet is of no use, because he is mad.” “Mad, Willie!” “Ay, mad as a March hare. For years back I have suspected it, but now, I am sure of it; in fact I feel that I have gradually come to be his keeper—but more of that anon. Meanwhile, what is to be done for the Cattleys?” “Could nothing be done with Mr Auberly?” Willie shook his head. “No, I fear not. He was in a soft state once—long ago—six or seven years now, I think—when the dear fairy was ill and he seemed as if he were going to become a man; but his daughter Loo had just begun to be ill at that time. She’s been so long ill now that he has got used to it, and has relapsed again into an oyster.” “He might be reached through Loo yet,” said Frank. “Perhaps,” replied Willie, “but I doubt it, for he’s a blunt old fellow in his feelings, however sharp he may be in his business; besides, Loo is so weak now that very few are allowed to see her except Ziza, and Miss Tippet, and Emma Ward.” The brothers remained silent after this for some time, for neither of them could see his way out of their difficulties; at last Frank suggested that Willie should go home and consult his mother. “She is wise, Willie, and has never given us bad advice yet.” “I know what her first advice will be,” said Willie. “What?” asked Frank. “To go and pray about it,” answered Willie. “Well, she might give worse advice than that,” said Frank, with much earnestness. “In fact, I doubt if she could give better.” “True,” assented Willie, “and now, old fellow, I’m off. Mr Tippet likes punctuality. I’ll look in at the station in passing if anything turns up to clear my mind on these matters; meanwhile good-bye.” It is a remarkable fact that Frank Willders took an early walk, as frequently as possible, in Kensington Gardens, near the pond, after this conversation with his brother, and it is a still more remarkable fact, that he always felt like a guilty man on these occasions, as if he were taking some mean advantage of some one; yet it was certain that he took advantage of no one, for nobody ever met him there by any chance whatever! A fact even more remarkable still was, that never, after that day, did Emma Ward go to her duties through Kensington Gardens, but always by the Bayswater Road, although the latter was dusty and unpicturesque compared with the former; and it is a circumstance worthy of note, as savouring a little of mystery, that Emma acted as if she too were a guilty creature during her morning walks, and glanced uneasily from side to side as she went along, expecting, apparently, that a policeman or a detective would pounce upon her suddenly and bear her off to prison. But, whether guilty or not guilty, it is plain that no policeman or detective had the heart to do it, for Miss Ward went on her mission daily without molestation. It is not easy to say what was the cause of these unaccountable proceedings. We might hazard an opinion, but we feel that our duty is accomplished when we have simply recorded them. Perhaps love had something to do with them—perhaps not—who knows? <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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