Willie Willders nodded his head approvingly, and, being exasperated into a savage serio-comic condition, as well by the Eagle’s voice and aspect as by her sentiments, he said that she was quite right, and that if he were a lady like her he would hold the same opinions, because then, said he, “being stout, I could wallop my husband an’ keep him down, an’ the contrast of his ugly face with mine would not be so obvious.”
Frank’s step on the stair fortunately prevented this open and desperate attack being noticed. Next moment all turned their eyes in breathless expectation towards the door.
Being on duty, Frank appeared in fireman’s costume, with the sailor-like undress cap in his hand. He bowed to the company, and apologised to Miss Tippet for intruding, but he had wished to ask his brother Willie to call at the fire station on his way home to convey a letter to his mother, and merely meant to see him at the door.
“I’m very glad you came, Mr Willders,” said Miss Tippet, “for I assure you we all regard you as the preserver of our dear Miss Auberly’s life when you went up the—the—thing. Here she is. You must shake—that’s it—so nice!”
The last part of Miss Tippet’s remark referred to Loo stretching out her hand to Frank, who advanced promptly and shook it with great tenderness. He then shook hands with Fred, who expressed his regard for him in warm terms; also with Mr Tippet, who paid him some enthusiastic compliments, and said something to the effect that the parent stem from which two such branches as he and Willie had grown must be a prime plant.
As he turned from Mr Tippet—who, being very short, appeared to be looking up at a steeple while he delivered this opinion—Frank’s eyes encountered those of Emma Ward, who was gazing at him in such undisguised admiration, that, being a somewhat bashful man, he felt a little confused, and dropped his eyes, figuratively, on the floor. Emma blushed scarlet with shame at being caught in this way, and thereafter became rigidly grave and indifferent.
When Frank again raised his eyes—which, by the way, he did immediately—they encountered the eagle glance of Miss Deemas frowning defiance on him, as being a sort of type or pattern specimen of his highly objectionable race. Had Miss Deemas been a man (which would have gratified her more than she could have expressed) Frank could have met the frown with a smile of pity. As it was, he turned to the little eager countenance of Miss Tippet, and felt deeper respect than ever for the sex; thus showing that just as an exception proves a rule, so an unfavourable contrast strengthens a cause.
“Pray sit down, Mr Willders,” entreated Miss Tippet earnestly; “I should like so much to hear how you did it from your own lips, and how you can possibly venture up such dreadful things, just like going up the outside of the Monument. Dear Loo, and you came down it, too; but, to be sure, your eyes were shut, which was as well, for you were only in your night— Ah, well, yes, do sit down Mr Firem–Willders, I mean.”
Frank thanked her, but declined, on the ground that he was on duty, and that he feared he was doing wrong in even looking in on them for the few minutes he had stayed. “Good-night, ma’am,” he continued, “good-night. You’ll call at the station on your way home, Willie?”
Willie said he would, and then all the company, excepting the Eagle, shook hands with the stalwart fireman, looking up at him as if he were a hero just returned from the proverbial “hundred fights.” Even Emma Ward condescended to shake hands with him at parting.
“Perhaps you’ll be in the middle of a fire this very night,” cried Tom Tippet, following him to the door.
“It is quite possible,” said Frank, with a smile.
Miss Deemas was heard to snort contemptuously at this.
“Perhaps you may even save more lives!” cried Miss Tippet.
“It may be so,” answered Frank, again smiling, but evidently feeling anxious to make his escape, for he was not one of those men who like to be lionised.
“Only think!” exclaimed Miss Tippet as Frank quitted the room.
“Ha!” ejaculated the Eagle, in a tone which was meant to convey her well-known opinion that women would do such things quite as well as men if their muscles were a little stronger.
It is but justice to Miss Deemas to explain that she did not champion and exalt women out of love to her sex. Love was not one of her strong points. Rampant indignation against those whom she bitterly termed “lords of creation” was her strong tower of refuge, in which she habitually dwelt, and from the giddy summit of which she hurled would-be destruction on the doomed males below. Among her various missiles she counted the “wrongs of her sex” the most telling shaft, and was in consequence always busy sharpening and polishing and flourishing this dread weapon in the eyes of her friends as well as her enemies, although, of course, she only launched it at the latter.
Perched on her self-exalted eyrie, Miss Deemas did not know that there was a pretty large number of her own sex in the comparatively humble multitude below, who, while they clearly recognised the “wrongs of women” (and preferred to call them “misfortunes”) did not attribute them solely, or even largely, to the wickedness of men, but to the combined wickedness and folly of society in general, and who were of opinion that such matters were to be put right by patient, persevering, laborious, and persistent efforts on the part of men and women acting in concert, and not by the unwomanly acts and declamation of ladies of the Deemas stamp, whom they counted the worst enemies of the good cause—some wittingly, others unwittingly so. These people among the comparatively humble multitude below, also had the penetration to perceive that the so-called “wrongs” did not lie all on one side, but that there was a pretty large class of the so-called “lords” who went about the world habitually in a sad and disgraceful state of moral semi-nakedness, in consequence of their trousers having been appropriated and put on by their better-halves, and that therefore it was only meet that men and women should be united (as indeed they were from the first intended to be) in their efforts to put each other’s “wrongs” to “rights.”
In addition to all this, these weak-minded (shall we call them?) people, moving in the comparatively humble multitude below, entertained the belief that rising in antagonism to the male sex in this matter was not only unnecessary and unjust and impolitic, but also ungenerous, for they reflected with much calm satisfaction that the “lords” are, after all, “under woman’s control.”
But Miss Deemas and all the ladies of the Eagle stamp did not think so. They did not believe that a strong mind means a mind strong enough to exercise its own powers to the ascertainment and reception of truth and the rejection of falsehood and fallacy; strong enough, under the influence of God’s love, to perceive the paths of duty in all their ramifications, and to resolve to follow them. They did not believe that a high spirit, in the true sense of the word, meant a spirit broken down altogether and brought into subjection to its owner’s, not another’s, will. By no means. A strong mind with the Deemas-eagles meant unutterable and unalterable obstinacy, blind as a bat, with the great guns blazing all round, and the colours nailed to the mast. High spirit with them meant the inclination—ever present, always strong, and often asserted—to seize all the rest of the world, male and female, and lead it by the nose!
The Deemas-eagles as a class receive ready-made opinions, fabricated by someone else, and call them their own—receiving them originally and holding them subsequently, not because they are true, but because they are pleasant to their eyes and sweet to their taste. They hold them stoutly, too, probably because, having no foundation, they would be apt to fall and get broken if not upheld.
Having said thus much in behalf of the Deemas eagles, we now dismiss them, with an apology to the reader.
Chapter Twenty Two
A Fireman’s Life
The clocks were striking nine when Frank issued from Miss Tippet’s dwelling and walked briskly away. On turning a corner he came upon one of the numerous fire-escapes that nightly rear their tall heads against the houses all over London, in a somewhat rampant way, as though they knew of the fires that were about to take place, and, like mettlesome war-horses, were anxious to rush into action without delay.
On the pavement, close by the escape, stood a small sentry-box, and the moment Frank came in sight of it he remembered that it was the nocturnal habitation of his friend Conductor Samuel Forest. Sam himself was leaning his arms on the lower half of his divided door, and gazing contemplatively along the street.
“Well, Sam, what news?” inquired Frank as he came up.
“That you, Willders?” said Sam, a quiet smile of recognition playing on his good-humoured features. “I thought it must be the giant they’re exhibitin’ in Saint James’s Hall just now, takin’ a stroll at night to escape the boys. Why, when do you mean to stop growing?”
“I don’t mean to interfere with Nature at all,” replied Frank; “and I believe the world will be big enough to hold me, whatever size I grow to.”
“Well, what’s the news?” inquired Sam, emerging from his narrow residence, and proving in the act, that, though not quite so tall as his friend, he was one who required a pretty fair share of room in the world for himself.
“Nothing particular,” said Frank, leaning against the escape; “only a chimney and a cut-away affair last night, and a false alarm and a first-floor burnt out the day before.”
“How’s Thompson?” asked Forest.
“Poorly, I fear,” said Frank, with a shake of his head. “The sprained ankle he got when he fell off the folding-board is getting well, but the injury to his spine from the engine is more serious.”
“Ah! poor fellow!” said Forest, “he’s just a little too reckless. How came he by the sprain?”
“It was in the basement of a bookbinder’s in Littleton Street,” said Frank, lighting a cigar. “We got the call about 11 p.m., and on getting there found three engines at work. Mr Braidwood ordered our fellows to go down into the basement. It was very dark, and so thick of smoke that I couldn’t see half-an-inch before my nose. We broke through the windows, and found ourselves ankle-deep in water. The engines had been at work flooding the place for some time, and there was more water than we expected; but we had got on the folding-boards without knowing it, an’ before we knew where we were, down went Thompson into water four feet deep. I think myself some of the water-pipes had burst. He rose gasping, and I caught him by the collar and hauled him out. It was in trying to recover himself when he fell that he got the sprain. You’ve heard how he came by the other mishap?”
“Yes, it was gallopin’ down Ludgate Hill, wasn’t it?”
“Ay; the engine went over a barrow, and the jolt threw him off, and before he got up it was on him. By good fortune it did not go over him; it only bruised his back; but it’s worse than we thought it would be, I fear.”
“Ah! one never knows,” said Forest gravely. “There’s one man Jackson, now, only two weeks ago he was up in a third floor in Lambeth, and had brought down two women and a child, and was in the back-rooms groping for more, when the floor above gave way and came down on him. We all thought he was done for, but some of the beams had got jammed, and not five minutes after he steps out of a window all right—only a scratch or two, not worth mentioning; yet that same man fell down a flight of stairs at the same fire, with a boy on his shoulder, and sprained his ankle so bad that he’s bin laid up for three weeks; but he saved the boy.”
“Ah! it was worth the sprain,” said Frank.
“It was,” responded Forest.
“Well, good-night,” said Frank, resuming his walk.
Samuel Forest responded “good-night,” and then, getting into his box, sat down on its little seat, which was warranted not to hold two, trimmed the lamp that hung at his side, and, pulling out a book from a corner, began to peruse it.
Sam was of a literary turn of mind. He read a great deal during his lonely watches, and used often to say that some of his happiest hours were those spent in the dead of night in his sentry-box. His helmet hung on a peg beside him. His hatchet was in his girdle, and a small cap covered his head. Looking at him in his snug and brightly illuminated little apartment, he appeared—by contrast with the surrounding darkness—inexpressibly comfortable. Nevertheless, Sam Forest could have told you that appearances are often deceptive, and that no matter how it looked, his box was but a cold habitation on a biting December night.
While deeply immersed in his book, Sam heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and pricked up his ears. He was a good judge of such sounds. As they drew near, he quietly took off his cap, put on his helmet, and stepped from his box. The street was very silent; and, perhaps, not one of the hundreds of sleepers there thought of the solitary man who held vigil, and was so alert to do them service, if the hour of their extremity should come.
But a cry arose that startled them— “Fire! fire!!”
Another moment, and two men dashed round the corner, yelling at the top of their voices. Gasping for breath, they named the locality. Almost before they had done so, two policemen were on the spot, and in another moment the fire-escape was in motion. Instructed by the conductor, the two strangers and the policemen lent their willing aid. Before ten minutes had passed, the tall machine was run up to a burning house, the lower part of which was blazing; while, from the upper windows, frantic cries were heard for help, and sundry figures in dishabille were seen waving their arms. The escape was run up, and one after another the inmates were rescued from their perilous position.
While this scene was enacting Frank was pursuing his way to the Regent Street Fire Station; but news of the fire got there before him. He arrived just in time to don his helmet and take his place on the engine. Away they went, and in ten minutes after the arrival of the fire-escape, they dashed up, almost running into an engine which appeared from an opposite direction.
The fire was blazing brightly by this time, and the whole neighbourhood was in a state of commotion and excitement.
The two engines were got to work with as little delay as possible. A body of police kept the gathering crowd back, and soon volumes of steam began to mingle with the black smoke of the burning building. The superintendent was early on the scene, and he directed Frank and another fireman to try to persuade the people in the adjoining houses to remain quiet, and not throw their furniture over the window; but this, some of them would not consent to do. It was plain that one or two were mad with fear and excitement; and as the ruling passion is strong in death, so it would seem to be by no means weak in the midst of danger from fire; for many of them bent their whole energies to the saving of their goods and chattels—regardless of their lives.
One stout old gentleman, in particular, was seen at a third-floor window, heaving out chairs and stools and books, and small tables, and clocks, and even quantities of crockery, with desperate energy, to the great danger of the onlookers, at whose feet the various articles fell, and were dashed to atoms!
Frank darted up the stairs that led to this man’s apartments, and burst in upon him.
“Oh! come along, fireman; help me to save my things,” he exclaimed, as he struggled with superhuman efforts to thrust a table through the window, which was too small to permit its passage.
“Stop, sir, are you mad?” cried Frank sternly.
“Help me! help me! Oh! fireman, it will be all burned. Fire! fire! fire!!!”
His voice rose into a fierce yell, as he strove in vain with the table.
“You’re quite safe,” cried Frank, holding him; “your house ain’t alight, and the engines have got it almost under.”
But Frank spoke to deaf ears; so he coolly lifted the man in his arms, carried him kicking downstairs, and placed him in charge of a policeman.
Just then, a cry was raised that there were two kegs of gunpowder in one of the shops on the ground floor. The owner of the shop came up in a frantic state, and corroborated this statement.
“It’ll blow the house to bits, sir,” he said to Mr Braidwood.
“Of course it will,” remarked the latter in a quiet voice. “Come here, my man,” he added, taking the shopkeeper apart from the crowd, and questioning him closely.
Immediately after, he ordered the engines to play on a particular part of the building.
Just then, Frank came up to the superintendent.
“There’s gunpowder in the back-shop somewhere, I’m told, sir; shall I go in for it?”
“No, Willders; you couldn’t find it in the smoke. Take the branch, lad, and get up into that window above the door.”
Frank sprang to obey. At the same time, Mr Braidwood suddenly seized a horse-cloth, and dashed in through the smoke. In a few seconds, he returned with one of the kegs of powder in his arms. Giving it to one of his men, he darted in again, and speedily re-issued with the second keg of powder, amid the frantic cheering of the crowd. Having done this, he continued to superintend the men until the fire was got under, which was soon accomplished, having been attacked promptly and with great vigour soon after it broke out.
“You needn’t wait, Mr Dale,” said Braidwood, going up to his foreman. “It’s all safe now. I’ll keep one engine; but you and your lads get off to your beds as fast as ye can.”
Dale obeyed, and a few minutes after, the engine was galloping homewards.
Willie Willders was in the station when it arrived, and so was Fred Auberly, who, having accompanied Willie, had got into such an interesting talk with the sub-engineer in charge, that he forgot time, and was still in animated conversation when the wheels were heard in the distance.
The three were out at the door in an instant.
On came the engine, the horses’ feet and the wheels crashing harshly in the silent night. They came round the corner with a sharp swing. Either the driver had become careless, or he was very sleepy that night, for he dashed against an iron post that stood at the corner, and carried off two wheels. The engine went full thirty yards on the two off-wheels, before it came to the ground, which it did at last with a terrific crash, throwing the firemen violently to the ground.
The sub-engineer and Fred and Willie sprang forward in great alarm; but the most of the men leaped up at once, and one or two of them laughed, as if to show that they had got no damage. But one of them lay extended on the pavement. It needed not a second glance to tell that it was Frank Willders.
“Lift him gently, lads,” said Dale, who was himself severely bruised.
“Stop,” exclaimed Frank in a low voice; “I’ve got no harm except to my left leg. It’s broken, I think. There’s no use of lifting me till you get a cab. I’ll go straight home, if—” He fainted as he spoke.
“Run for a cab, Willie,” said Fred Auberly.
Willie was off in a moment. At the same instant, a messenger was despatched for Dr Offley, and in a short time after that, Frank Willders was lying on his mother’s sofa, with his left leg broken below the knee.
Chapter Twenty Three
Mr James Auberly
With a very stiff cravat, and a dreadfully stiff back, and a painfully stiff aspect, Mr James Auberly sat by the side of a couch and nursed his sick child.
Stiff and starched and stern though he was, Mr Auberly, had a soft point in his nature, and this point had been reached at last, for through all the stiffness and starch there shone on his countenance an expression of deep anxiety as he gazed at Loo’s emaciated form.
Mr Auberly performed the duties of a nurse awkwardly enough, not being accustomed to such work, but he did them with care and with an evident effort to please, which made a deep impression on the child’s heart.
“Dear papa,” she said, after he had given her a drink and arranged her coverings. “I want you to do me a favour.” She said this timidly, for she knew from past experience that her father was not fond of granting favours, but since her illness he had been so kind to her that she felt emboldened to make her request.
“I will do it, dear,” said the stiff man, bending, morally as well as physically, as he had never bent before—for the prospect of Loo’s death had been presented to him by the physicians. “I will do it, dear, if I can, and if the request be reasonable.”
“Oh, then, do forgive Fred, and let him be an artist!” cried Loo, eagerly stretching out one of her thin hands.
“Hush, darling,” said Mr Auberly, with a look of distress; “you must not excite yourself so. I have forgiven Fred long ago, and he has become an artist in spite of my objections.”
“Yes, but let him come home, I mean, and be happy with us again as he used to be, and go to the office with you,” said Loo.
Mr Auberly replied somewhat coldly to this that Fred was welcome to return home if he chose, but that his place in the office had been filled up. Besides, it was impossible for him to be both a painter and a man of business, he said, and added that Loo had better not talk about such things, because she did not understand them. All he could say was that he was willing to receive Fred, if Fred was willing to return. He did not say, however, that he was willing to restore Fred to his former position in regard to his fortune, and as Loo knew nothing about her brother having been disinherited, she felt that she must be satisfied with this cold concession.
“Can you not ask some other favour, such as I could grant?” said Mr Auberly, with a smile, which was not nearly so grim as it used to be before “the fire.” (The family always talked of the burning of Mr Auberly’s house as “the fire,” to the utter repudiation of all other fires—the great one of monumental fame included.)
Loo meditated some time before replying.
“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I have another favour to ask. How stupid of me to forget it. I want you very much to go and see a fairy that lives—”
“A fairy, Loo!” said Mr Auberly, while a shade of anxiety crossed his face. “You—you are rather weak just now; I must make you be quiet, and try to sleep, if you talk nonsense, dear.”
“It’s not nonsense,” said Loo, again stretching out the thin hand, which her father grasped, replaced under the coverings, and held there; “it’s quite true, papa,” she continued energetically! “it is a fairy I want you to go and see—she’s a pantomime fairy, and lives somewhere near London Bridge, and she’s been very ill, and is so poor that they say she’s dying for want of good food.”
“Who told you about her, Loo?”
“Willie Willders,” she replied, “he has been to see her and her father the clown a good many times.”
Mr Auberly, frowned, for the name of Willie Willders did not sound pleasantly in his ears.
“Do go to see her, pray, dear papa,” pleaded Loo with much earnestness, “and give her some money. You know that darling mamma said, just before she was taken away,” (the poor child persistently refused to use the expression “when she died”), “she wanted you to take me sometimes to see poor people when they were sick, and I’ve often thought of that since—especially when I have come to the verse in my Bible which tells me to ‘consider the poor,’ and I have often—oh, so very often—longed to go, but you were always so busy, dear papa, that you never had time, you know,” (the stiff man winced a little at this) “but you seem to have more time now, papa, and although I’m too weak to go with you, I thought I would ask you to go to see this poor fairy, and tell her I will go to see her some day—if—if God makes me strong again.”
The stiff man winced still more at this, but it was only a momentary wince, such as a man gives when he gets a sudden and severe twinge of toothache. It instantly passed away. Still, as in the case of toothache, it left behind an uneasy impression that there might be something very sharp and difficult to bear looming in the not distant future.
Mr Auberly had covered his face with his hand, and leant his elbow on the head of the couch. Looking up quickly with a smile—still tinged with grimness, for evil habits and their results are not to be got rid of in a day—he said:
“Well, Loo, I will go to see this fairy if it will please you; but somewhere near London Bridge is not a very definite address.”
“Oh, but Willie Willders knows it,” said Loo.
“But where is Willie Willders?” objected her father.
“Perhaps at home; perhaps at Mr Tippet’s place.”
“Well, we shall soon find out,” said Mr Auberly, rising and ringing the bell.
Hopkins answered the summons.
Stiff, thin, tall, sedate, powdered, superfine Hopkins, how different from the personage we saw but lately plunging like a maniac at the fire-bell! Could it have been thee, Hopkins? Is it possible that anything so spruce, dignified, almost stately, could have fallen so very low? We fear it is too true, for human nature not unfrequently furnishes instances of tremendous contrast, just as material nature sometimes furnishes the spectacle of the serene summer sky being engulfed in the black thunderstorm!
“Hopkins!” said Mr Auberly, handing him a slip of paper, “go to this address and ask for the boy William Willders; if he is there, bring him here immediately; if not, find out where he is, search for him, and bring him here without delay. Take a cab.”
Hopkins folded the paper delicately with both his little fingers projecting very much, as though they wished it to be distinctly understood that they had no connection whatever with the others, and would not on any account assist the low-born and hard-working forefingers and thumbs in such menial employment. Hopkins’s nose appeared to be affected with something of the same spirit. Then Hopkins bowed—that is to say, he broke across suddenly at the middle, causing his stiff upper man to form an obtuse angle with his rigid legs for one moment, recovered his perpendicular—and retired.
Oh! Hopkins, how difficult to believe that thy back was once as round as a hoop, and thy legs bent at acute angles whilst thou didst lay violent hands on—well, well; let bygones be bygones, and let us all, in kindness to thee, learn the song which says—
“Teach, O teach me to forget.”
Hailing a cab with the air of six emperors rolled into one, Hopkins drove to Mr Tippet’s residence, where he learned that Willie had gone home, so he followed him up, and soon found himself at Notting Hill before the door of Mrs Willders’ humble abode. The door was opened by Willie himself, who stared in some surprise at the stately visitor.
“Is William Willders at ’ome?” said Hopkins.
“I rather think he is,” replied Willie, with a grin; “who shall I say calls on him—eh? You’d better send up your card.”
Hopkins frowned, but, being a good-natured man, he immediately smiled, and said he would walk in.
“I think,” said Willie, interposing his small person in the way, “that you’d as well stop where you are, for there’s a invalid in the drawing-room, and all the other rooms is engaged ’cept the kitchen, which of course I could not show you into. Couldn’t you deliver your message? I could manage to carry it if it ain’t too heavy.”
In a state of uncertainty as to how far this was consistent with his dignity, Hopkins hesitated for a moment, but at length delivered his message, with which Willie returned to the parlour.
Here, on the little sofa, lay the tall form of Frank Willders, arrayed in an old dressing-gown, and with one of his legs bandaged up and motionless. His face was pale, and he was suffering great pain, but a free-and-easy smile was on his lips, for beside him sat a lady and a young girl, the latter of whom was afflicted with strong sympathy, but appeared afraid to show it. Mrs Willders, with a stocking and knitting-wires in her hands, sat on a chair at the head of the bed, looking anxious, but hopeful and mild. An open Bible which lay on a small table at her side, showed how she had been engaged before the visitors entered.
“My good sir,” said the lady, with much earnestness of voice and manner, “I assure you it grieves me to the heart to see you lying in this state, and I’m quite sure it grieves Emma too, and all your friends. When I think of the risks you run and the way you dash up these dreadful fire—fire—things—what-d’ye-call-ums. What do you call them?”
“Fire-escapes, ma’am,” answered Frank, with a smile.
“Ah, fire-escapes (how you ever come down them alive is a mystery to me, I’m sure!) But as I was saying, it makes one shudder to think of; and—and—how does your leg feel now?” said Miss Tippet, forgetting what she had intended to say.
“Pretty well,” replied Frank; “the doctor tells me it has broken without splintering, and that I’ll be all right in a few weeks, and fit for duty again.”
“Fit for duty, young man!” exclaimed Miss Tippet; “do you mean to say that you will return to your dreadful profession when you recover? Have you not received warning enough?”
“Why, madam,” said Frank, “some one must look after the fires, you know, else London would be in ashes in a few months; and I like the work.”
“Like the work!” cried Miss Tippet, in amazement; “like to be almost smoked to death, and burned alive, and tumbled off roofs, and get upset off what’s-its-names, and fall down fire—fire—things, and break all your legs and arms!”
“Well—no, I don’t like all that,” said Frank, laughing; “but I like the vigour and energy that are called forth in the work, and I like the object of the work, which is to save life and property. Why,” exclaimed Frank enthusiastically, “it has all the danger and excitement of a soldier’s life without the bloody work, and with better ends in view.”
“Nay, nay, Frank,” said the peaceful Mrs Willders, “you must not say ‘better ends,’ because it is a great and glorious thing to defend one’s native land.”