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 animated1 with feelings of love to God and man; and she had that day, in obedience2 to the Divine precept3, attempted and accomplished4 a good many little things, all of which were, either directly or indirectly5, calculated to make human beings happy.
Emma Ward6, too, thought the moon particularly bright that night; in fact she might almost have been regarded as a lunatic; so steadily7 did she gaze at the moon, and smile to herself without any apparent motive8. 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 bugle9. 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 reposed10.
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 tiresome11 friend, Frank read book after book with absorbing interest. History, poetry, travel, romance—all kinds were equally devoured13. 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, sedate14, earnest, thoughtful. Emma was equally earnest—more so perhaps—but she was light-hearted (not light headed, observe) and volatile15. The result was mutual16 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 temerity17, or folly18, 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 ascend19 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 suspense20 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 worthy21 of the name of friends, the evening might have been worth recording22, but it is sufficient to say that they all came; acted as usual, spoke23 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 slumbers24, 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 retired25 to the front room with the blue paper.
There is a common fallacy in naval26 matters founded on poetical27 license28, to the effect that the mariner29 is separated from death by a single plank30; whereas, the unpoetical truth is, that the separation consists of many hundreds of planks31, and a solid bulwark32 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 tightened33 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 bin12 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 premiums34 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 creditors35 except yourself, but I don’t think it the less mean on that account, and I’m thoroughly36 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 scattered37 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 sweeping38 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 tenant39 upstairs to get out of the premises40 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 exclamation41 of horror escaped him, for he saw that the heap of shavings had been set on fire during his momentary42 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, scorched43 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 leisurely44 home to bed.
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收听单词发音
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1
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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2
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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3
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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4
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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5
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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6
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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7
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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8
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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9
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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10
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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12
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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13
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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14
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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15
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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16
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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17
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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18
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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19
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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20
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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21
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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22
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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23
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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24
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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27
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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28
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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29
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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30
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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31
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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32
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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33
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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34
premiums
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| n.费用( premium的名词复数 )；保险费；额外费用；（商品定价、贷款利息等以外的）加价 | |
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35
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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36
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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38
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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39
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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40
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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41
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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42
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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43
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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44
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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