Fighting the Flames, R. M. Ballantyne [spiritual books to read .TXT] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Fighting the Flames, R. M. Ballantyne [spiritual books to read .TXT] 📗». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“No,” answered Ned, with a hungry glance at the table.
“Well, then, as you did not come to beg, you may draw in your chair and go to work.”
Ned at once availed himself of this permission, and his spirits revived wonderfully as he progressed with the meal, during which he stated the cause of his visit.
“The fact is,” said he, “that I want your assistance, doctor—”
“I told you already,” interrupted the other, “that I have assisted you to the utmost extent of my means.”
“My good fellow, not so sharp, pray,” said Ned, helping himself to another roll, the first having vanished like a morning cloud; “I don’t want money—ah: that is to say, I do want money, but I don’t want yours. No; I came here to ask you to help me to get a body.”
“A body. What do you mean?”
“Why, what I say; surely you’ve cut up enough of ’em to know ’em by name; a dead body, doctor,—a subject.”
The doctor smiled.
“That’s a strange request, Ned. You’re not going to turn to my profession as a last resort, I hope?”
“No, not exactly; but a friend of mine wants a body—that’s all, and offers to pay me a good round sum if I get one for him.”
“Is your friend a medical man?” asked the doctor.
“N–no, he’s not. In fact, he has more to do with spirits than bodies; but he wants one of the latter—and I said I’d try to get him one—so, if you can help me, do so, like a good fellow. My friend is particular, however; he wants a man one, above six feet, thin and sallow, and with long black hair.”
“You don’t suppose I keep a stock of assorted subjects on hand, do you?” said the doctor. “I fear it won’t be easy to get what you want. Do you know what your friend intends to do with it?”
“Not I, and I don’t care,” said Ned, pouring out another cup of coffee. “What does a body cost?”
“Between two and three pounds,” replied the doctor.
“Dear me, so cheap,” said Ned, with a look of surprise; “then that knocks on the head a little plan I had. I thought of offering myself for sale at Guy’s or one of the hospitals, and drinking myself to death with the money, leaving my address, so that they might know where to find me; but it’s not worth while to do it for so little; in fact, I don’t believe I could accomplish it on three pounds’ worth of dissipation.”
“Don’t jest about your besetting sin,” said the doctor gravely; “it’s bad enough without that.”
“Bad enough,” exclaimed Ned, with a sudden flash of ferocity; “ay, bad enough in all conscience, and the worst of it is, that it makes me ready to jest about anything—in heaven, earth, or hell. Oh, drink! accursed drink!”
He started up and clutched the hair of his head with both hands for a moment; but the feeling passed away, and he sat down again and resumed breakfast, while he said in a graver tone than he had yet used—
“Excuse me, doctor; I’m subject to these bursts now and then. Well, what say you about the body? My friend offers me twenty pounds, if I get the right kind. That would be seventeen pounds of profit on the transaction. It’s worth an effort. It might put me in the way of making one more stand.”
Ned said this sadly, for he had made so many stands in time past, and failed to retain his position, that hope was at dead low-water of a very neap-tide now.
“I don’t like the look of the thing,” said the doctor. “There’s too much secrecy about it for me. Why don’t your friend speak out like a man; state what he wants it for, and get it in the regular way?”
“It mayn’t be a secret, for all I know,” said Ned Hooper, as he concluded his repast. “I did not take the trouble to ask him; because I didn’t care. You might help me in this, doctor.”
“Well, I’ll put you in the way of getting what you want,” said the doctor, after a few moments reflection; “but you must manage it yourself. I’ll not act personally in such an affair; and let me advise you to make sure that you are not getting into a scrape before you take any steps in the matter. Meanwhile, I must wish you good-day. Call here again to-night, at six.”
The doctor rose as he spoke, and accompanied Ned to the door. He left a coin of some sort in his palm, when he shook hands.
“Thankee,” said Ned.
“If you had come to beg, you should not have got it,” said the doctor. “God help him!” he added as he shut the door; “it is an awful sight to see an old companion fall so low.”
It is evening now. The snow is still on the ground; but it looks ruddy and warm in the streets, because of the blaze of light from the shop-windows, and it looks colder than it did on the house-tops, by reason of the moon which sails in the wintry sky.
The man in the moon must have been in good spirits that night, for his residence seemed almost fuller than the usual full moon, and decidedly brighter—to many, at least, of the inhabitants of London. It looked particularly bright to Miss Tippet, as she gazed at it through the windows of her upper rooms, and awaited the arrival of “a few friends” to tea. Miss Tippet’s heart was animated with feelings of love to God and man; and she had that day, in obedience to the Divine precept, attempted and accomplished a good many little things, all of which were, either directly or indirectly, calculated to make human beings happy.
Emma Ward, too, thought the moon particularly bright that night; in fact she might almost have been regarded as a lunatic; so steadily did she gaze at the moon, and smile to herself without any apparent motive. There was reason for her joy, however, for she had come to know, in some mysterious way, that Frank Willders loved her; and she had known, for a long time past, that she loved Frank Willders.
Frank had become a foreman of the Fire Brigade, and had been removed from his former station and comrades to his new charge in the city. But Frank had not only risen in his profession; he had also risen intellectually. His mother had secured to him a pretty good education to begin with, and his own natural taste and studious habits had led him to read extensively. His business required him to sit up and watch when other men slept. He seldom went to bed before four o’clock any morning, and when he did take his rest he lay down like the soldier in an enemy’s country, ready to rush to arms at the first sound of the bugle. His bugle, by the way, was a speaking-trumpet, one end of which was close to the head of his bed, the other end being in the lobby where the men on duty for the night reposed.
During these long watches in the silent lobby, with the two men belted and booted on their tressels, the clock ticking gently by his side, like the soft quiet voice of a chatty but not tiresome friend, Frank read book after book with absorbing interest. History, poetry, travel, romance—all kinds were equally devoured. At the particular time of which we write, however, he read more of poetry than of anything else.
The consequence was that Frank, who was one of nature’s gentlemen, became a well-informed man, and might have moved in any circle of society with credit to himself, and profit as well as pleasure to others.
Frank was by nature grave, sedate, earnest, thoughtful. Emma was equally earnest—more so perhaps—but she was light-hearted (not light headed, observe) and volatile. The result was mutual attraction. Let philosophers account for the mutual attraction of these qualities as they best may, we simply record the fact. History records it; nature records it; experience—everything records it; who has the temerity, or folly, to deny it?
Emma and Frank felt it, and, in some mysterious way, Frank had come to know something or other about Emma’s feelings, which it is not our business to inquire into too particularly.
So, then, Frank also gazed—no, not at the moon; it would have required him to ascend three flights of stairs, and a ladder, besides passing through a trap to the roof of the station, to enable him to do that; but there was a lamp over the fireplace, with a tin reflector, which had quite a dazzling effect of its own—not a bad imitation of the moon in a small way—so he gazed at that, and thought it very bright indeed; brighter than usual.
We may as well put the reader out of suspense at once by saying that we do not intend to describe Miss Tippet’s evening with “a few friends.” Our own private opinion in regard to the matter is, that if they had been fewer than they were, and more worthy of the name of friends, the evening might have been worth recording, but it is sufficient to say that they all came; acted as usual, spoke as usual, felt as usual, “favoured the company” with songs, as usual, and—ah—yes—enjoyed themselves as usual till about half-past eleven o’clock, when they all took their leave, with the exception of Miss Deemas, who, in consideration of the coldness of the weather, had agreed to spend the night with her “dear friend.”
Miss Deemas was one of those unfortunates with whom it is impossible for any one to sleep. Besides being angular and hard, she had a habit of kicking in her slumbers, and, being powerful, was a dangerous bedfellow. She knew this herself, and therefore wisely preferred, when visiting her friends, to sleep alone. Hence it happened that Miss Tippet and Emma went to bed in the back room with the green hangings, while Miss Deemas retired to the front room with the blue paper.
There is a common fallacy in naval matters founded on poetical license, to the effect that the mariner is separated from death by a single plank; whereas, the unpoetical truth is, that the separation consists of many hundreds of planks, and a solid bulwark of timbers more than a foot thick, besides an inner “skin,” the whole being held together by innumerable iron and oaken bolts and trenails, and tightened with oakum and pitch. We had almost fallen into this error—or poetical laxity of expression—by saying that, on the night of which we write, little did Miss Tippet know that she was separated from, not death exactly, but from something very awful, by a single plank; at least, by the floor of her own residence, and the ceiling of the house below—as the sequel will show.
That same night, David Boone, gaunt, tall, and cadaverous as of old, sat in his back parlour, talking with his friend Gorman.
“Now, Boone,” said the latter, with an oath, “I’m not goin’ to hang off and on any longer. It’s more than seven years since we planned this business, the insurances have been effected, you’ve bin a prosperous man, yet here you are, deeper in my debt than ever.”
“Quite true,” replied Boone, whose face was so pale that he might have easily been mistaken for a ghost, “but you know I have paid up my premiums quite regular, and your interest too, besides clearin’ off some of the principal. Come, don’t be hard on me, Gorman. If it had not been that trade has got worse of late, I would have cleared off all I owe you, but indeed, indeed I have not been so successful of late, and I’m again in difficulties. If you will only
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