Fighting the Flames by R. M. Ballantyne (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📕

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.