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 wait--"
"No," cried Gorman, "I'll not wait. I have waited long enough. How
long would you have me wait--eh? Moreover, I'm not hard on you. I show
you an easy way to make a good thing of it, and you're so
chicken-hearted that you're afraid to do it."
"It's such a mean thing to do," said Boone.
"Mean! Why, what do you call the style of carrying on business that you
started with seven years ago, and have practised more or less ever
since?"
"That is mean, too," said Boone; "I'm ashamed of it; sorry for it. It
was for a time successful no doubt, and I have actually paid off all my
creditors except yourself, but I don't think it the less mean on that
account, and I'm thoroughly ashamed of it."
There was a good deal of firmness in Boone's tone as he said this, and
his companion was silent for a few minutes.
"I have arranged," he said at last, "about your making over your
policies of insurance to me as security for the debt you owe me. You
won't have to pay them next half-year, I'll do that for you _if
necessary_." He laughed as he said this. "I have now come to ask you
to set the house alight, and have the plan carried out, and the whole
affair comfortably settled."
Gorman said this in an encouraging voice, assuming that his dupe was
ready to act.
"B-but it's awful to think of," said Boone; "suppose it's found out?"
"How can it be found out?"
"Well, I don't know. It's wonderful how crime is discovered," said
Boone despondingly; "besides, think of the risk we run of burning the
people who live above, as well as my two clerks who sleep in the room
below us; that would be murder, you know. I'm sure I have tried my very
best to get Miss Tippet to go from home for a short time, I've almost
let the cat out of the bag in my anxiety, but she won't take the hint."
"Oho!" exclaimed Gorman, with a laugh.
"Well, have you made the arrangements as I directed you last night?"
"Yes, I've got a lot of tarry oakum scattered about, and there is a pile
of shavings," he added, pointing to a corner of the room; "the only
thing I'm anxious about is that my young man Robert Roddy caught me
pouring turpentine on the walls and floor of the shop. I pretended that
it was water I had in the can, and that I was sprinkling it to lay the
dust before sweeping up. Roddy is a slow, stupid youth; he always was,
and, I daresay, did not notice the smell."
Gorman was himself filled with anxiety on hearing the first part of
this, but at the conclusion he appeared relieved.
"It's lucky you turned it off so," said he, "and Roddy _is_ a stupid
fellow. I daresay he has no suspicion. In fact, I am sure of it."
"It's not of much importance _now_, however," said Boone, rising and
confronting his friend with more firmness than he had ever before
exhibited to him, "because I have resolved _not to do it_."
Gorman lit his pipe at the fire, looking at the bowl of it with a
scornful smile as he replied--
"Oh! you have made up your mind, have you?"
"Yes, decidedly. Nothing will move me. You may do your worst."
"Very good," remarked Gorman, advancing with the lighted paper towards
the heap of shavings.
Boone sprang towards him, and, seizing his arms, grasped the light and
crushed it out.
"What would you do, madman?" he cried. "You can only ruin me, but do
you not know that I will have the power to denounce you as a
fire-raiser?"
Gorman laughed, and returned to the fireplace, while Boone sat down on a
chair almost overcome with terror.
"What! you dare to defy me?" said Gorman, with an air of assumed pity.
"A pretty case you would have to make out of it. You fill your shop
with combustibles, you warn your tenant upstairs to get out of the
premises for a time in a way that must be quite unaccountable to her
(until the fire accounts for it), and your own clerk sees you spilling
turpentine about the place the day before the fire occurs, and yet you
have the stupidity to suppose that people will believe you when you
denounce _me_!"
Poor David Boone's wits seemed to be sharpened by his despair, for he
said suddenly, after a short pause--
"If the case is so bad it will tell against yourself, Gorman, for I
shall be certainly convicted, and the insurance will not be paid to
you."
"Ay, but the case is not so bad as it looks," said Gorman, "if you only
have the sense to hold your tongue and do what you are told; for nobody
knows all these things but you and me, and nobody can put them together
except ourselves--d'ye see?"
"It matters not," said Boone firmly; "I _won't_ do it--there!"
Both men leaped up. At the same moment there was a sound as of
something falling in the shop. They looked at each other.
"Go see what it is," said Gorman.
The other stepped to the door.
"It's only two of my wax-dolls tumbled off the shelf," he said on
returning.
An exclamation of horror escaped him, for he saw that the heap of
shavings had been set on fire during his momentary absence, and Gorman
stood watching them with a demoniacal grin.
Boone was struck dumb. He could not move or speak. He made a feeble
effort to stretch out his hands as if to extinguish the fire, but Gorman
seized him in his powerful grasp and held him fast. In a few seconds
the flames were leaping up the walls, and the room was so full of smoke
that they were driven into the front shop.
"Now, then," said Gorman in a fierce whisper, "your _only_ chance is to
act out your part as wisely as you can. Shout _fire_! now till you're
black in the face--fire! _Fire_!! FIRE!!!"
David Boone obeyed with all his might, and, when Gorman released him,
ran back into the parlour to try to extinguish the flames, but he was
driven back again, scorched and half-choked, while Gorman ran off at
full speed to the nearest station, gave the alarm, received the shilling
reward for being first to give the call, and then went leisurely home to
bed.