For many months Frank Willders lay upon his bed unable to move, and scarcely able to speak. His left leg and arm had been broken, his face and hands were burned and cut, and his once stalwart form was reduced to a mere1 wreck2.
During that long and weary time of suffering he had two nurses who never left him—who relieved each other day and night; smoothed his pillow and read to him words of comfort from God’s blessed book. These were, his own mother and Emma Ward3.
For many weeks his life seemed to waver in the balance, but at last he began to mend. His frame, however, had been so shattered that the doctors held out little hope of his ever being anything better than a helpless cripple, so, one day, he said to Emma:
“I have been thinking, Emma, of our engagement.” He paused and spoke4 sadly—as if with great difficulty.
“And I have made up my mind,” he continued, “to release you.”
“Frank!” exclaimed Emma.
“Yes, dear. No one can possibly understand what it costs me to say this, but it would be the worst kind of selfishness were I to ask you to marry a poor wretched cripple like me.”
“But what if I refuse to be released, Frank?” said Emma, with a smile; “you may, indeed, be a cripple, but you shall not be a wretched one if it is in my power to make you happy; and as to your being poor—what of that? I knew you were not rich when I accepted you, and you know I have a very, very small fortune of my own which will at least enable us to exist until you are able to work again.”
Frank looked at her in surprise, for he had not used the word poor with reference to money.
“Has mother, then, not told you anything about my circumstances of late?” he asked.
“No, nothing; what could she tell me that I do not already know?” said Emma.
Frank made no reply for a few moments, then he said with a sad yet gratified smile—
“So you refuse to be released?”
“Yes, Frank, unless you insist on it,” replied Emma.
Again the invalid5 relapsed into silence and shut his eyes. Gradually he fell into a quiet slumber6, from which, about two hours later, he awoke with a start under the impression that he had omitted to say something. Looking up he found that his mother had taken Emma’s place. He at once asked why she had not told Emma about the change in his fortunes.
“Because I thought it best,” said Mrs Willders, “to leave you to tell her yourself, Frank.”
“Well, mother, I depute you to tell her now, and pray do it without delay. I offered to give her up a short time ago, but she refused to listen to me.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” replied the widow with a smile. “I always thought her a good, sensible girl.”
“Hm! so did I,” said Frank, “and something more.”
Once again he became silent, and, as an inevitable7 consequence, fell fast asleep. In which satisfactory state we will leave him while we run briefly8 over the events of his subsequent history.
In direct opposition9 to the opinion of all his doctors, Frank not only recovered the use of all his limbs, but became as well and strong as ever—and the great fire in Tooley Street left no worse marks upon him than a few honourable10 scars.
His recovery, however, was tedious. The state of his health, coupled with the state of his fortune, rendered it advisable that he should seek the benefit of country air, so he resigned his situation in the London Fire Brigade—resigned it, we may add, with deep regret, for some of his happiest days had been spent in connection with that gallant11 corps12.
Rambling13 and fishing among the glorious mountains of Wales with his brother Willie, he speedily regained14 health and strength. While wandering with delight through one of the most picturesque15 scenes of that wild and beautiful region, he came suddenly one day on a large white umbrella, under which sat a romantic-looking man, something between an Italian bandit and an English sportsman, who was deeply engrossed16 with a sheet of paper on which he was depicting17 one of the grandest views in the splendid pass of Llanberis. At this man Willie rushed with a shout of surprise, and found that he answered at once to the name of Fred Auberly! Fred was thrown into such a state of delight at the sight of his old friends that he capsized the white umbrella, packed up his paints, and accompanied them to their inn. Here, on being questioned, he related how that, while in Rome he had been seized with a fever which laid him prostrate18 for many weeks; that, on his recovery, he wrote to Loo and his father, but received no reply from either of them; that he afterwards spent some months in Switzerland, making more than enough of money with his brush to “keep the pot boiling,” and that, finally, he returned home to find that dear Loo was dead, and that the great Tooley Street fire had swept away his father’s premises19 and ruined him. As this blow had, however, been the means of softening20 his father, and effecting a reconciliation21 between them, he was rather glad than otherwise, he said, that the fire had taken place. Fred did not say—although he might have said it with truth—that stiff and stately Mr Auberly had been reduced almost to beggary, and that he was now dependent for a livelihood22 on the very palette and brushes which once he had so ruthlessly condemned23 to the flames!
After this trip to Wales, Frank returned home and told his mother abruptly24 that he meant to marry Emma Ward without delay, to which Mrs Willders replied that she thought he was quite right. As Emma appeared to be of the same mind the marriage took place in due course. That is to say, Miss Tippet and Emma managed to put it off as long as possible and to create as much delay as they could. When they had not the shadow of an excuse for further delay—not so much as a forgotten band or an omitted hook of the voluminous trousseau—the great event was allowed to go on—or, “to come off.”
Many and varied25 were the faces that appeared at the church on that auspicious26 occasion. Mr Auberly was there to give away the bride, and wonderfully cheerful he looked, too, considering that he gave her to the man whom he once thought so very unworthy of her. Willie was groomsman, of course, and among the bridesmaids there was a little graceful27, dark-eyed and dark-haired creature, whom he regarded as an angel or a fairy, or something of that sort, and whom everybody else, except Frank and Mrs Willders, thought the most beautiful girl in the church. In the front gallery, just above this dark-eyed girl, sat an elderly man who gazed at her with an expression of intense affection. His countenance28 was careworn29 and, had a somewhat dissipated look upon it. Yet there was a healthy glow on it, too, as if the dissipation were a thing of the distant past. The dark-eyed girl once or twice stole a glance at the elderly man and smiled on him with a look of affection quite as fervent30 as his own. There was a rather stylish31 youth at this man’s elbow whose muscles were so highly developed that they appeared about to burst his superfine black coat. He was observed to nod familiarly to the dark-eyed girl more than once, and appeared to be in a state of considerable excitement—ready, as it were, to throw a somersault over the gallery on the slightest provocation32.
Of course, Miss Tippet was there in “such a love of a bonnet,” looking the picture of happiness. So was Mr Tippet, beaming all over with joy. So was Miss Deemas, scowling33 hatred34 and defiance35 at the men. So was David Boone, whose circumstances had evidently improved, if one might judge from the self-satisfied expression of his face and the splendour of his attire36. John Barret was also there, and, close beside him stood Ned Hooper, who appeared to shrink modestly from observation, owing, perhaps, to his coat being a little threadbare. But Ned had no occasion to be ashamed of himself, for his face and appearance showed clearly that he had indeed been enabled to resist temptation, and that he had risen to a higher position in the social scale than a vendor37 of ginger-beer.
In the background might have been seen Hopkins—tall and dignified38 as ever, with Matty Merryon at his side. It was rumoured39 “below-stairs” that these two were engaged, but as the engagement has not yet advanced to anything more satisfactory, we hold that to be a private matter with which we have no right to meddle40.
Close to these stood a group of stalwart men in blue coats and leathern belts, and with sailor-like caps in their hands. These men appeared to take a lively interest in what was going forward, and evidently found it difficult to restrain a cheer when Frank took Emma’s hand. Once or twice during the service one or two other men of similar appearance looked into the church as if in haste, nodded to their comrades, and went out again, while one of them appeared in the organ loft41 with a helmet hanging on his arm and his visage begrimed with charcoal42, as if he were returning from a recent fire. This man, feeling, no doubt, that he was not very presentable, evidently wished to see without being seen. He was very tall and stout43, and was overheard to observe, in very Irish tones, that “it was a purty sight intirely.”
When the carriage afterwards started from the door, this man—who bore a strong resemblance to Joe Corney—sprang forward and called for three cheers, which call was responded to heartily44 by all, but especially by the blue-coated and belted fellows with sailor-like caps, who cheered their old comrade and his blooming bride with those deep and thrilling tones which can be produced in perfection only by the lungs and throats of true-blue British tars45!
Now, it must not be supposed that this was the end of Frank’s career. In truth, it was only the beginning of it, for Frank Willders was one of those men who know how to make a good use of money.
His first proceeding46 after the honeymoon47 was to take a small farm in the suburbs of London. He had a tendency for farming, and he resolved at least to play at it if he could make nothing by it. There was a small cottage on the farm, not far from the dwelling-house. This was rented by Willie, and into it he afterwards introduced Ziza Cattley as Mrs William Willders. The widow inhabited another small cottage not a hundred yards distant from it, but she saw little of her own home except at night, being constrained48 to spend most of her days with one or other of her “boys.”
As the farm was near a railway station, Willie went to town every morning to business—Saturdays and Sundays excepted—and returned every evening. His business prospered49 and so did Mr Tippet’s. That eccentric old gentleman had, like Mr Auberly, been ruined by the great fire, but he did not care—so he said—because the other business kept him going! He was not aware that Willie’s engineering powers turned in all the money of that other business, and Willie took care never to enlighten him, but helped him as of old in planning, inventing, and discovering, to the end of his days.
There was one grand feature which Frank introduced into his suburban50 establishment which we must not omit to mention. This was a new patent steam fire-engine. He got it not only for the protection of his own farm, but, being a philanthropic man, for the benefit of the surrounding district, and he trained the men of his farm and made them expert firemen. Willie was placed in command of this engine, so that the great wish of his early years was realised! There was not a fire within ten miles round them at which Willie’s engine was not present; and the brothers continued for many years to fight the flames together in that neighbourhood.
As for stout George Dale, and sturdy Baxmore, and facetious51 Joe Corney, with his comrades Moxey, Williams, and Mason, and Sam Forest, those heroes continued to go on the even tenor52 of their way, fighting more battles with the flames in six months than were fought with our human enemies by all our redcoats and blue-jackets in as many years, and without making any fuss about it, too, although danger was the element in which they lived, and wounds or death might have met them any day of the year.
For all we know to the contrary, they may be carrying on the war while we pen this chronicle, and, unless more vigorous measures are adopted for preventing fire than have been taken in time past, there can be no question that these stout-hearted men will in time to come have more occasion than ever for—fighting the flames.
The End.
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1
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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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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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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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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7
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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8
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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9
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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12
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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28
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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29
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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30
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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vendor
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| n.卖主；小贩 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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40
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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41
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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42
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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44
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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45
tars
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| 焦油，沥青，柏油( tar的名词复数 ) | |
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46
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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47
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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48
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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49
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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51
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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52
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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