Fighting the Flames by Robert Michael Ballantyne (suggested reading TXT) 📕

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,