Back Aa

Fighting the Flames

Close

<h3>Chapter Thirty One.</h3> <h4>New Lights of Various Kinds.</h4> Time sped on apace, and in its train came many changes. To the confusion of the doctor and despite the would-be murderer, David Boone recovered. But that brought no relief to Gorman, whose remorse increased daily, insomuch that he became, if not quite, very nearly, insane, and his fear of being caught was so great that he never ventured near the quarter of London in which Boone dwelt. He therefore remained in ignorance of the failure of his murderous attempt. What would he not have given to have known the truth! to have had the dreadful word removed from the light which shone upon it brighter and brighter every day until it was made red-hot, as it were, and became within him as a consuming fire! Preferring darkness to light more than ever, Gorman kept in secret places during the day, and only ventured out, with other human vultures, at night. The wretched man feared the darkness, too, although he sought it, and what between the darkness that he feared yet courted, and the light that he feared and fled from, and the light within that he feared but could not fly from, he became one of the most miserable of all the outcasts in London. As for his deep-laid plans they were all scattered to the winds. In the presumption of ignorance he had fancied that he knew his own power, and so 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 anything desperate or dastardly, but he did not know that he lacked the moral courage 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 Loo Auberly. Gradually and gently her end approached. Death was so slow in coming that it was long expected, yet it was so very slow that when it came at last it took her friends by surprise. James Auberly continued stiff and stately to the last. He refused to believe that his child was dying, and spared no expense to provide everything that money could procure to restore her health. He also refused to be reconciled to his son Fred, who had succeeded in his loved profession beyond his expectations, and who had sought, again and again, to propitiate his father. At last Fred resolved to go abroad and study the works of the ancient masters. He corresponded regularly with Loo for some time, but his letters suddenly ceased to make their appearance, and nothing was heard of him for many months. During the long and weary illness Loo had three friends whose visits were 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 to the poor invalid. Miss Tippet was “so funny but so good,” and Emma’s sprightly nature seemed to charm away her pain for a time; while grave, gentle, earnest Ziza made her happy during her visits, and left a sensation of happiness after she went away. All three were equally untiring in talking with her about the “old, old story”—the Love of Jesus Christ. Yes, it comes to this at last, if not at first, with all of us. Even the 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 may be true. May be true! Why, if the infidel would only give one tithe of the time and trouble and serious inquiry to the investigation of that same old story and its credentials that he gives so freely to the study of the subtleties of his art or profession, he would find that there is no historical fact whatever within his ken which can boast of anything like the amount or strength of evidence in favour of its truth, that exists in favour of the truth of the story of the Life, Death, and Resurrection 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 in the darkened room, wept as if he had been a little child. There was yet another change brought about by that great overturner Time. But as the change to which we refer affects those who have yet to take a prominent part in our tale, we will suffer them to speak for themselves. One afternoon, long after the occurrence of those changes to which reference has just been made, Mrs Willders, while seated quietly at her own fireside (although there was no fire there, the month being June), was interrupted in her not unusual, though innocent, occupation of darning socks by the abrupt entrance of her son Frank, who flung his cap on the table, kissed his mother on the forehead, and then flung himself on the sofa, which piece of furniture, being old and decrepit, groaned under his weight. “Mother,” he exclaimed with animation, “I’ve got strange news to tell you. Is Willie at home?” “No, but I expect him every minute. He promised to come home earlier to-day, and won’t be long, for he is a boy of his word.” Mrs Willders persisted in calling her strapping sons “boys,” despite the 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 same ceremony that Frank had done, and in a wonderfully similar way, said he had come home with something strange to tell, though not altogether strange 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; how can I answer you?” “About Mr Auberly,” said Willie. Frank said that he knew nothing new or peculiar about him, except that he was—no, he wouldn’t say anything bad of him, for he must be a miserable man at that time. “But out with your news, Willie,” he added, “mine will keep; and as yours is, according to yourself, partly known already to my mother, it’s as 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 on with 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 you had never deceived anybody in all your life, not to speak of your two sons. O, fy!” As Mrs Willders still smiled and went on with her knitting serenely, without vouchsafing a reply, Willie continued with an off-hand air—“Well, then, I may as well tell you that I have just had an interview with Uncle Auberly—hallo! you seem surprised.” Mrs Willders was indeed surprised. Her serenity of aspect fled in an instant. “Oh, Willie, how comes it that you know? I’m sure I did not mean to tell you. I promised I never would. I must have let it out inadvertently, or when I was asleep.” “Make yourself quite easy, mother,” said Willie; “I’ll explain it all presently. Just go on with your knitting, and don’t put yourself into a state.” The widow, recovering herself a little, resumed her work, and Frank, who had listened with an amused smile up to this point—supposing that his brother was jesting—elongated his face and opened his eyes wider and wider as he listened. “You must know,” resumed Willie, “that I received a note from Mr Auberly 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 a different look now from what he had when I went last to see him. You know I have hardly ever seen him since that day when I bamboozled him so about ‘another boy’ that he expected to call. But his spirit is not much improved, I fear. ‘Sit down, Mr Willders,’ he said. ‘I asked you to call in reference to a matter which I think it well that the parties concerned should understand thoroughly. Your brother Frank, I am told, has had the presumption to pay his addresses to Miss Ward, the young lady 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, shaking her head. “Wrong, mother! how could I help it? Was I going to sit there and hear him talk of Frank’s presumption as if he were a chimney-sweep?” “Mr Auberly thinks Miss Ward above him in station, and so deems his aspiring 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 very impudent of him, and I did speak very respectfully to him in tone if not in words. The fact is I felt nettled, for, after all, what is Miss Ward? The society she mingles in is Miss Tippet’s society, and that’s not much to boast of; and her father, I believe, was a confectioner—no doubt a rich one, that kept his carriage before he failed, and left his daughter almost a beggar. But riches don’t make a gentleman or a lady either, mother; I’m sure you’ve often told me that, and explained that education, and good training, and good feelings, and polite manners, and consideration for others, were the true foundations of gentility. If that be so, mother, there are many gentlemen born who are not gentlemen bred, and many lowly born who—” “Come, lad, don’t bamboozle your mother with sophistries,” interrupted Frank, “but go on to the point, and don’t be so long about it.” “Well, mother,” resumed Willie, “Mr Auberly gave me a harder rebuke than you have done, for he made no reply to my speech at all, but went on as quietly and coolly as if I had not opened my lips. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘I happen to have a particular regard for Miss Ward. I intend to make 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 said this 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; an arm, too, which has saved life before now.’ I stopped at that, for I saw it went home. ‘Quite true,’ he replied; ‘I do not forget that he saved my lost child’s life; but—but—the thing is outrageous—that a penniless man should wed the lady who is to be my heir! No, sir, I sent for you to ask you to say to your brother from me, that however much I may respect him I will not consent to this union, and if it goes on despite my wishes I shall not leave Miss Ward a shilling.’ He had worked himself up into a rage by this time, and as I felt I would only make matters worse if I spoke, I held my tongue; except that I said I would deliver his message at once, as I expected to meet my brother at home. He seemed sorry for having been so sharp, however, and when I was about to leave him he tried to smile, and said, ‘I regret to have to speak thus to you, sir, but I felt it to be my duty. You talk of meeting your brother to-night at home; do you not live together?’ ‘No, sir,’ I replied; ‘my brother lodges close to his station, and I live with my mother in Notting Hill.’ “‘Notting Hill!’ he cried, falling back in his chair as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt. ‘Your mother,’ he gasped, ‘Mrs Willders—my sister-in-law—the waterman’s widow?’ ‘A sailor’s widow, sir,’ said I, ‘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 you dismissed me abruptly at that time, and would not hear me out. Since then, I have not thought it worth while to intrude on you in reference to so small a matter—for I did not know till this day that we are related.’ He frowned harder than ever at this, and bit his lip, and then said, ‘Well, young man, this will make no difference, I assure you. 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 his face with his hands, and looked so miserable, that I went out without a word more. There, you’ve got the whole of my story. What think you of 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, no doubt, had good reasons for concealing it from us; but I rather think that 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 is something like one of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.” “Well, mother,” said Frank, laying his hand gently on the widow’s shoulder, “you shan’t darn any more socks if I can help it, for I’m a man 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 carried down the escape, I forget how many years ago, is dead, and has left me her fortune, which, I believe, amounts to something like twenty thousand pounds!” “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’s hand, “and success to the old—well, no, I don’t exactly mean that, but if she were alive I would say my blessing on the old lady. I wish you joy, old fellow! I say, surely the stately man won’t object to the penniless fireman now—ha! ha! Well, it’s like a dream; but tell us all about it, Frank.” “There is very little to tell, lad. I got a very urgent message the day before yesterday to go to see an old lady who was very ill. I obtained leave for an hour, and went at once, not knowing who it was till I got there, when I found that it was Mrs Denman. She looked very ill, and I do assure you I felt quite unmanned when I looked into her little old face. ‘Young man,’ she said in a low voice, ‘you saved my life; I am dying, and have sent for you to thank you. God bless you.’ She put out her thin hand and tried to shake mine, but it was too feeble; she could only press her fingers on it. That was all that passed, and I returned to 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 few words with me. So I went out, and he introduced himself as the old lady’s lawyer, told me that she was gone, and that she had, almost with her last breath, made him promise to go, the moment she was dead, and see the fireman who had saved her life, and tell him that she had left her fortune to him. He congratulated me; said that there were no near relations to feel aggrieved or to dispute my rights, and that, as soon as the proper legal steps had been taken—the debts and legacies paid, etcetera,—he would have the pleasure of handing over the balance, which would 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 if I had been the penniless man that Mr Auberly thinks me, I would have been 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 good fortune.” “Oh, Frank! oh, Blazes,” said Willie sadly, “has money told on you so fearfully already? Do you think that she would give you up for the sake of Auberly’s dross?” “I believe not, lad; but—but—well—never mind, we won’t be troubled with the question now. But, mother, you don’t seem to think much of my good fortune.” “I do think much of it, Frank; it has been sent to you by the Lord, and therefore is to be received with thanksgiving. But sudden good fortune of 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 startled Mrs 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 man accustomed 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 a day 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 and left 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 condition showed that he had run all the way. Frank started, and looked very grave as he said hurriedly to his brother— “Good-night, lad. I won’t likely be able to get out to-morrow to talk over this matter of the fortune. Fires are usually bad in that neighbourhood. 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 fire in Tooley Street, or any part of the docks, he knows that he is about to enter into the thickest of the Great Fight. To ordinary fires he goes light-heartedly—as a bold trooper gallops to a skirmish, but to a fire in the neighbourhood of the docks he goes with something of the feeling which must fill the breast of every brave soldier on the eve of a great battle. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2