Fighting the Flames, Robert Michael Ballantyne [ebook audio reader .txt] 📗

years ago, and I have not seen much of him since, but he's a sharp fellow, and knows a good deal more of the Tippets than I was aware of. I'll go and see if he can throw any light on this subject."

"The next point," pursued Willie, "is Cattley the clown. Have you seen or heard of him lately?"

Frank said he had not.

"Well, I am greatly troubled about him. He has become a regular drunkard, and leads his poor daughter a terrible life. He is so broken down with dissipation that he can scarcely procure employment anywhere. His son is fortunately a pretty decent fellow, though somewhat wild, and helps in a small way to support his father, having obtained a situation as clown at one of the minor theatres. The daughter, Ziza, has long ago given up the profession, and has been struggling to maintain herself and her father by painting fire-screens, and making artificial flowers; but the work is severe and ill paid, and I see quite well that if the poor girl is not relieved in some way she will not be able to bear up."

"I grieve to hear this, Willie," said Frank, "but how comes it that you take so great an interest in these people?"

"Frank," said Willie, assuming a tone of deep seriousness, while a glow suffused his cheeks, "can you keep a secret?"

"I think so, lad; at least I promise to try."

"Well, then," said Willie, "I love Ziza Cattley. I knew her first as a fairy, I know her now as a woman who is worthy of a place among the angels, for none but those who know her well and have seen her fighting the battle of life can have the least idea of the self-denial, the perseverance under difficulties, the sweetness of temper, and the deep-seated love of that devoted girl. She goes every night, after the toil of each day, to the door of the theatre, where she waits to conduct her father safely past the gin-palaces, into which, but for her, he would infallibly stray, and she spends all she has in making him comfortable, but I see well enough that this is killing her. She can't stand it long, and I won't stand it at all! I've made up my mind to that. Now, Frank, I want your advice."

To say that Frank was hearty in his assurances that he would do what he could to help his brother, would be a faint way of stating the truth. Frank shook Willie by the hand and congratulated him on having gained the affections of one whom he knew to be a good girl, and then condoled with him on that girl's unfortunate circumstances; but Willie stopped him short at this point by asking him in a tone of surprise what could be the matter with him, for at first he had been apparently annoyed at the notion of his (Willie's) being in love, and now he seemed quite pleased about it. In short, his conduct was unaccountable!

Frank laughed, but said eagerly--

"Why. Willie, did you not tell me long ago that there was a fire in your bosom, lit up by a certain young friend of Miss Tippet's--"

"Oh," interrupted Willie, "Emma Ward; ah, yes, I confess that I did feel spooney once in that direction when I was a boy, but the fairy displaced her long ago. No, no, Frank, I'm not accountable for boyish fancies. By the way, I have just parted from the fair Emma. We had a _tete-a-tete_ here not half an hour before you arrived."

"Here!" exclaimed Frank in surprise.

"Ay, here," repeated Willie; "she passes this pond every morning, she told me, on her way to teach a family in Kensington; by the way, I didn't think of asking whether the father, mother, and servants were included among her pupils. Why, Frank, what an absent frame of mind you are in this morning! I declare it is not worth a man's while consulting you about anything."

"I beg pardon," cried Frank quickly, "your words caused my mind to wander a bit. Come, what do you think of doing?"

"What do you think I should do? that is the question."

"You can offer to assist them," suggested Frank. "I've done so," said the other, "but Ziza won't accept of assistance."

"Could we not manage to get her a situation of some sort with light work and good pay?"

"Ah! a fireman's, for instance," cried Willie, with a sarcastic laugh; "did you ever hear of a situation with light work and good pay except under Government? _I_ never did; but we might perhaps find _steady_ work and good pay. It would only be required for a time, because I mean to--ah, well, no matter--but how and where is it to be got? Good Mr Tippet is of no use, because he is mad."

"Mad, Willie!"

"Ay, mad as a March hare. For years back I have suspected it, but now, I am sure of it; in fact I feel that I have gradually come to be his keeper--but more of that anon. Meanwhile, what is to be done for the Cattleys?"

"Could nothing be done with Mr Auberly?"

Willie shook his head.

"No, I fear not. He was in a soft state once--long ago--six or seven years now, I think--when the dear fairy was ill and he seemed as if he were going to become a man; but his daughter Loo had just begun to be ill at that time. She's been so long ill now that he has got used to it, and has relapsed again into an oyster."

"He might be reached through Loo yet," said Frank.

"Perhaps," replied Willie, "but I doubt it, for he's a blunt old fellow in his feelings, however sharp he may be in his business; besides, Loo is so weak now that very few are allowed to see her except Ziza, and Miss Tippet, and Emma Ward."

The brothers remained silent after this for some time, for neither of them could see his way out of their difficulties; at last Frank suggested that Willie should go home and consult his mother.

"She is wise, Willie, and has never given us bad advice yet."

"I know what her first advice will be," said Willie.

"What?" asked Frank.

"To go and pray about it," answered Willie.

"Well, she might give worse advice than that," said Frank, with much earnestness. "In fact, I doubt if she could give better."

"True," assented Willie, "and now, old fellow, I'm off. Mr Tippet likes punctuality. I'll look in at the station in passing if anything turns up to clear my mind on these matters; meanwhile good-bye."

It is a remarkable fact that Frank Willders took an early walk, as frequently as possible, in Kensington Gardens, near the pond, after this conversation with his brother, and it is a still more remarkable fact, that he always felt like a guilty man on these occasions, as if he were taking some mean advantage of some one; yet it was certain that he took advantage of no one, for nobody ever met him there by any chance whatever! A fact even more remarkable still was, that never, after that day, did Emma Ward go to her duties through Kensington Gardens, but always by the Bayswater Road, although the latter was dusty and unpicturesque compared with the former; and it is a circumstance worthy of note, as savouring a little of mystery, that Emma acted as if she too were a guilty creature during her morning walks, and glanced uneasily from side to side as she went along, expecting, apparently, that a policeman or a detective would pounce upon her suddenly and bear her off to prison. But, whether guilty or not guilty, it is plain that no policeman or detective had the heart to do it, for Miss Ward went on her mission daily without molestation.

It is not easy to say what was the cause of these unaccountable proceedings. We might hazard an opinion, but we feel that our duty is accomplished when we have simply recorded them. Perhaps love had something to do with them--perhaps not--who knows?


CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.


WHAT DRINK WILL DO.

Time passed on, as time is wont to do, and Christmas came again. The snow was deep in London streets and thick on the roofs and chimneys. It curled over the eaves of the houses in heavy white folds ready to fall and smother the unwary passengers. It capped the railings everywhere with little white knobs, and rounded off the corners of things so, that wherever the eye alighted, the same impressions were invariably conveyed to it, namely, whiteness and rotundity. Corinthian capitals were rendered, if possible, more ornate than ever by snow; equestrian statues were laden with it so heavily, that the horses appeared to stagger beneath their trappings and the riders, having white tips to their noses, white lumps on their heads and shoulders, and white patches on their cheek-bones and chins, looked ineffably ridiculous, and miserably cold. Everything, in fact, was covered and blocked up with snow, and Londoners felt as if they had muffled drums in their ears.

It was morning. The sky was clear, the air still, and the smoke of chimneys perpendicular. Poulterers' shops were in their holiday attire; toy-shops were in the ascendant, and all other shops were gayer than usual. So were the people who thronged the streets and beat their hands and stamped their feet--for it was unusually cold.

Street boys were particularly lively, and chaff was flying as thickly as snow-flakes had fallen the night before. Even the roughs--who forsook their dens, and, with shovels and brooms on their shoulders, paraded the streets, intent on clearing door-steps with or without the leave of inhabitants--seemed to be less gruff than usual, and some of them even went the length of cutting jokes with the cabmen and the boys. Perhaps their spirits were elevated by the proud consciousness of being for once in the way of earning an honest penny!

"I say, Ned," observed one of these roughs (a lively one), who was very rough indeed, to a companion, who was rougher still and gloomy, "look at that there gal cleanin' of her steps with a fire-shovel! Ain't that economy gone mad? Hallo, young 'ooman, what's the use o' trying to do it with a teaspoon, when there's Ned and me ready to do it with our shovels for next to nothin'?"

The servant-girl declined the assistance thus liberally offered, so the two men moved slowly on, looking from side to side as they went, in expectation of employment, while a small boy, in a man's hat, who walked behind them, nodded to the girl, and said she was a "sensible thrifty gal," and that she might be sure there was "some feller unknown who would bless the day he was born after he'd got her."

Fifty yards farther on, a stout, red-faced, elderly gentleman was observed to look out at the street door and frown at things in general.

"Have your door-steps cleaned, sir?" asked the lively rough, taking the shovel off his shoulder.

The elderly gentleman being angry, on private and unknown grounds (perhaps bad digestion), vouchsafed no reply, but looked up at the sky and then over the way.

"Do