Robert Michael Ballantyne
Fighting the Flames
Chapter Thirty
The Best-Laid Plans
There were other men besides Mr Tippet who could be true to their promises when it suited them.
D. Gorman was true to his, in so far as they concerned David Boone. He visited that unfortunate invalid so frequently, and brought him so many little “nice things” for the alleviation of his sufferings, and exhibited altogether such nervous anxiety about his recovery, that worthy Mrs Craw was quite overwhelmed, and said, in the fulness of her heart, that she never did see a kinder friend, or one who more flatly gave the lie-direct to his looks, which, she was bound to admit, were not prepossessing.
But, despite his friend’s solicitude, and his doctor’s prescriptions, and his nurse’s kindness, David Boone continued steadily to sink, until at last the doctor gave it as his opinion that he would not recover.
One afternoon, soon after the expression of this opinion, Gorman called on his friend, and was shown as usual into his chamber. It was a wet, cold, stormy afternoon, and the window rattled violently in its frame.
Boone was much better that afternoon. It seemed as if he had just waited for the doctor to pronounce his unfavourable opinion in order to have the satisfaction of contradicting it.
“He’s better to-day, sir,” said Mrs Craw, in a whisper.
“Better!” exclaimed Gorman with a look of surprise, “I’m glad to hear that—very glad.”
He looked as if he were very sorry, but then, as Mrs Craw said, his looks belied him.
“He’s asleep now, sir; the doctor said if he slept he was on no account to be waked up, so I’ll leave you to sit by him, sir, till he wakes, and, please, be as quiet as you can.”
Mrs Craw left the room on tip-toe, and Gorman went to the bedside and looked on the sick man’s wasted features with a frown.
“Ha! you’re asleep, are you, and not to be waked up—eh? Come, I’ll rouse you.”
He shook him violently by the shoulder, and Boone awoke with a start and a groan.
“Hope I didn’t disturb you, Boone,” said his friend in a quiet voice. “I came to inquire for you.”
Boone started up in his bed and stared wildly at some object which appeared to be at the foot of the bed. Gorman started too, and turned pale as his eyes followed those of the invalid.
“What is it you see, Boone?”
“There, there!” he whispered hoarsely, clutching Gorman’s arm as if for protection, “look, I heard his voice just now; oh! save me from that man; he—he—wants to kill me!”
“Come, David,” said Gorman soothingly, “it’s only a fancy—there’s nobody there—nobody in the room but me.”
“And who are you?” inquired the sick man, falling back exhausted, while he gazed vacantly at his friend.
“Don’t you know me, David?”
“Never mind, shut your eyes now and try to sleep. It’ll be time to take your physic soon.”
“Physic!” cried Boone, starting up in alarm, and again clutching Gorman’s arm. “You won’t let him give it me, will you? Oh! say you won’t—promise to give it me yourself!”
Gorman promised, and a very slight but peculiar smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he did so.
Boone again sank back on his pillow, and Gorman sat down on a chair beside him. His villainous features worked convulsively, for in his heart he was meditating a terrible deed. That morning he had been visited by Ned Hooper, who in the most drunken of voices told him, “that it wash ’mposh’ble to git a body f’r love or munny, so if ’e wanted one he’d better cut’s own throat.”
His plans having miscarried in this matter, Gorman now meditated taking another and more decided step. He looked at the sick man, and, seeing how feeble he was, his fingers twitched as if with a desire to strangle him. So strong was the feeling upon him that he passed his fingers nervously about his own throat, as if to ascertain the formation of it and the precise locality of the windpipe. Then his hand dropped to his side, and he sat still again, while Boone rolled his poor head from side to side and moaned softly.
Evening drew on apace, and the shadows in the sick-room gradually became deeper and deeper until nothing could be seen distinctly. Still Gorman sat there, with his features pale as death, and his fingers moving nervously; and still the sick man lay and rolled his head from side to side on the pillow. Once or twice Gorman rose abruptly, but he as often sat down again without doing anything.
Suddenly a ray of bright light shot through the window. Gorman started and drew back in alarm. It was only a lamp-lighter who had lighted one of the street-lamps, and the ray which he had thus sent into the sick-chamber passed over the bed. It did not disturb Boone, for the curtains were between him and it, but it disturbed Gorman, for it fell on the chimney-piece and illuminated a group of phials, one of which, half full of a black liquid, was labelled “Poison!”
Gorman started up, and this time did not sit down, but with a trembling step moved to the fireplace. He stretched out his hand to grasp the bottle, and almost overturned it, for just at the moment his own figure intercepted the ray of light, and threw the spot where it stood into deep shadow.
“What’s that?” asked Boone.
“It’s only me,” said Gorman, “getting you your physic. I almost upset it in the dark. Here now, drink it off. I can’t find the cup, but you can take it out of the bottle.”
“You won’t let him come near when you give it, will you?” asked Boone anxiously.
“No, no; come, open your mouth.”
Boone hesitated to do so, but Gorman used a little force. His hands were steady now! His heart was steeled to the deed, and the cry which Boone was about to utter was choked by the liquid flowing down his throat.
Gorman had flung him back with such violence that he lay stunned, while the murderer replaced the bottle on the chimney-piece and hurried to the door. A gentle knock at it arrested him, but his indecision was momentary. He opened the door softly, and going out, said to Mrs Craw in a whisper—
“He’s sleeping now. I found it hard to get him to give up talking, for he waked up soon after I went in; but he’s all right now. I suppose the medicine is beginning to operate; he told me he took it himself just before I came in.”
“Took it himself!” exclaimed Mrs Craw. “Impossible.”
“Well, I don’t know, but he’s better now. I would let him rest a while if I were you.”
“Stay, sir! I’ll go fetch a light,” said Mrs Craw.
“Never mind; I know the stair well,” said Gorman hurriedly; “don’t mind a light; I shan’t want it.”
He was right. If any man ever wanted darkness rather than light—thick, heavy, impenetrable darkness—it was D. Gorman at that time.
“Took it himself!” repeated Mrs Craw in unabated surprise as she closed the street door. “It’s impossible. He’s got no more strength than an unborn hinfant. I must go an’ see to this.”
Lighting a candle, she went softly into the sick chamber and looked at the invalid, who was apparently asleep, but breathing heavily. She then went to the chimney-piece and began to examine the phials there.
“My!” she exclaimed suddenly, with a look of alarm, “if he han’t bin an’ drunk up all the tinctur’ o’ rhubarb! An’ the laudanum-bottle standin’ close beside it too! What a mercy he didn’t drink that! Well, lucky for him there wasn’t much in it, for an overdose of anything in his state would be serious.”
Full of her discovery, Mrs Craw set the candle on the table, and sat down on the chair by the bedside to think about it; but the more she thought about it the more puzzled she was.
“Took it himself,” she said, reverting to Gorman’s words. “Impossible!”
She continued to shake her head and mutter “Impossible” for some time, while she stared at the candle as if she expected that it would solve the mystery. Then she got up and examined the bedclothes, and found that a good deal of the rhubarb had been spilt on the sheets, and that a good deal more of it had been spilt on Boone’s chin and chest; after which her aspect changed considerably, as, setting down the candle, she resumed her seat and said—
“Took it himself! Impossible!”
Darkness! If ever a man sought darkness in vain, and found light, bright blazing light, everywhere, it was Gorman. At first, in a burst of frenzy, he rushed away at full speed. It was well for him that the wind had increased to a hurricane and the rain was blinding, else had he been stopped on suspicion, so fierce was his mien, so haggard his look, so wild his race. Gradually his pace slackened, and gradually as well as naturally he gravitated to his old familiar haunts; but go where he would, there was light everywhere except within his own breast. It was all darkness there.
It is true the sky was dark enough, for the war of elements was so great that it seemed to have been blotted out with ink, but the shops appeared to have been lit up more brilliantly than usual. Every lamp poured a flood of light around it. The lanterns of the cabs and omnibuses sent rich beams of light through the air, and the air itself, laden as it was with moisture, absorbed a portion of light, and invested everything with a halo. Light, light! all round, and the light of conscience within rendering the darkness there visible, and shining on the letters of a word written in dark red—“Murderer!”
Gorman tried to extinguish the light, but it was a fire that would not be put out. He cursed the shop-windows and the lamps for shining so brightly on him; he cursed the few people whose curiosity induced them to pause and look back at him, and he cursed himself for being such a fool.
On reaching Cheapside he began to recover his self-possession, and to walk in the storm as other men did. But in proportion as his composure returned the enormity of his crime became more apparent to him, and the word written in red letters became so bright that he felt as if every passer-by must read it, unless he dropt his eyes to prevent their seeing through them into his soul.
At London Bridge he became nervously apprehensive. Each unusually quick footstep startled him. Every policeman was carefully avoided, and anything approaching to a shout behind caused him to start into an involuntary run. Despite his utmost efforts to control himself, the strong man was unmanned; a child could have made him fly.
He was about to cross London Bridge, when he observed a policeman taking shelter under the parapet, and apparently watching those who passed him. Gorman could not make up his mind to go on, so he turned aside and descended the nearest stairs.
The policeman had doubtless been watching for someone, or suspected Gorman because of his undecided movements, for he followed him. The latter observed this and quickened his pace. The instant he was hidden from his pursuer, he darted away at full speed, and did not halt until he stood at the foot of one of the stairs where wherries are usually to be found. The sight that met his gaze there might have overawed the most reckless of men.
A hurricane was raging such as is not often experienced in our favoured island. The wind blew, not in gusts and squalls, but in one continuous roar, lashing the Thames into crested waves, tearing ships from their moorings, and dashing them against other ships, which were likewise carried away, and swept downward with the tide. Dozens of barges were sunk, and the shrieks of their crews were heard sometimes rising above the storm.
The gale was at its height when Gorman came into full view of the Thames. A waterman, who was crouching for shelter in the angle of a warehouse, observed him, and came forward.
“An awful night, sir,” he said.
“Yes,” answered Gorman curtly. He started as he spoke, for he heard, or he fancied he heard, a shout behind him.
“Is that your boat?” said he.
“It is,” replied the waterman in surprise, “you don’t want to go on the water on such a night, do you?”
“Yes, I do,” said Gorman, trembling in every limb; “come, jump in, and shove off.”
At that moment a policeman came running down towards them.
“Are you mad?” exclaimed the man, grasping Gorman by the arm as he sprang toward the boat.
In a moment, Gorman struck him to the ground, and leaping into the boat pushed off, just as the policeman came up. He was whirled away instantly.
Grasping one of the oars, he was just in time to prevent the boat being dashed against one of the wooden piers of a wharf. He was desperate now. Shipping both oars he pulled madly out into the stream, but in a few moments he was swept against the port-bow of a large vessel, against the stem of which the water was curling as if the ship had been breasting the Atlantic waves before a stiff breeze. One effort Gorman made to avoid the collision, then he leaped up, and just as the boat struck, sprang at the fore-chains. He caught them and held on, but his hold was not firm; the next moment he was rolling along the vessel’s side, tearing it with his nails in the vain attempt to grasp the smooth hull. He struck against the bow of the vessel immediately behind and was swept under it.
Rising to the surface, he uttered a wild shriek, and attempted to stem the current. He was a powerful swimmer, and despair lent him energy to buffet the waves for a short time; but he was again swept away by the irresistible tide, and had almost given up hope of being saved, when his forehead was grazed by a rope which hung from a vessel’s side. Seizing this, he held on, and with much difficulty succeeded in gaining the vessel’s deck.
With his safety Gorman’s fear of being captured returned. He hid himself behind some lumber, and while in this position wrung some of the water out of his clothes. In a few minutes he summoned courage to look about him, and discovered that the vessel was connected with the one that lay next to it by a plank. No one appeared to be moving, and it was so dark that he could not see more than four or five yards before him. To pass from one vessel to the other was the work of a few seconds. Finding that the second vessel lay moored to the quay, he sprang from it with all his might and alighted safely on the shore. From the position of the shipping he knew that he stood on the south bank of the river, having been swept right across the Thames, so he had now no further difficulty in hiding his guilty head in his own home.
Chapter Thirty One
New Lights of Various Kinds
Time sped on apace, and in its train came many changes.
To the confusion of the doctor and despite the would-be murderer, David Boone recovered. But that brought no relief to Gorman, whose remorse increased daily, insomuch that he became, if not quite, very nearly, insane, and his fear of being caught was so great that he never ventured near the quarter of London in which Boone dwelt. He therefore remained in ignorance of the failure of his murderous attempt. What would he not have given to have known the truth! to have had the dreadful word removed from the light which shone upon it brighter and brighter every day until it was made red-hot, as it were, and became within him as a consuming fire! Preferring darkness to light more than ever, Gorman kept in secret places during the day, and only ventured out, with other human vultures, at night. The wretched man feared the darkness, too, although he sought it, and what between the darkness that he feared yet courted, and the light that he feared and fled from, and the light within that he feared but could not fly from, he became one of the most miserable of all the outcasts in London.
As for his deep-laid plans they were all scattered to the winds. In the presumption of ignorance he had fancied that he knew his own power, and so in one sense he did, but he was not aware of his own want of power. He knew, indeed, that he had the brute courage to dare and do anything desperate or dastardly, but he did not know that he lacked the moral courage to bear the consequences of his deeds. The insurance policies, therefore, lay unclaimed—even uncared for!
Another change for the worse effected by time was the death of Loo Auberly. Gradually and gently her end approached. Death was so slow in coming that it was long expected, yet it was so very slow that when it came at last it took her friends by surprise. James Auberly continued stiff and stately to the last. He refused to believe that his child was dying, and spared no expense to provide everything that money could procure to restore her health. He also refused to be reconciled to his son Fred, who had succeeded in his loved profession beyond his expectations, and who had sought, again and again, to propitiate his father. At last Fred resolved to go abroad and study the works of the ancient masters. He corresponded regularly with Loo for some time, but his letters suddenly ceased to make their appearance, and nothing was heard of him for many months.
During the long and weary illness Loo had three friends whose visits were to her soul like gleams of sunshine on a cloudy day—Miss Tippet, Emma Ward, and a poor artificial-flower maker named Ziza Cattley.
Those three, so different yet so like, were almost equally agreeable to the poor invalid. Miss Tippet was “so funny but so good,” and Emma’s sprightly nature seemed to charm away her pain for a time; while grave, gentle, earnest Ziza made her happy during her visits, and left a sensation of happiness after she went away. All three were equally untiring in talking with her about the “old, old story”—the Love of Jesus Christ.
Yes, it comes to this at last, if not at first, with all of us. Even the professed infidel, laugh as he may in the spring-tide of life, usually listens to that “old, old story” when life’s tide is very low, if not with faith at least with seriousness, and with a hope that it may be true. May be true! Why, if the infidel would only give one tithe of the time and trouble and serious inquiry to the investigation of that same old story and its credentials that he gives so freely to the study of the subtleties of his art or profession, he would find that there is no historical fact whatever within his ken which can boast of anything like the amount or strength of evidence in favour of its truth, that exists in favour of the truth of the story of the Life, Death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord.
When Loo died the stateliness and stiffness of James Auberly gave way, and the stern man, leaning his head upon the coffin, as he sat alone in the darkened room, wept as if he had been a little child.
There was yet another change brought about by that great overturner Time. But as the change to which we refer affects those who have yet to take a prominent part in our tale, we will suffer them to speak for themselves.
One afternoon, long after the occurrence of those changes to which reference has just been made, Mrs Willders, while seated quietly at her own fireside (although there was no fire there, the month being June), was interrupted in her not unusual, though innocent, occupation of darning socks by the abrupt entrance of her son Frank, who flung his cap on the table, kissed his mother on the forehead, and then flung himself on the sofa, which piece of furniture, being old and decrepit, groaned under his weight.
“Mother,” he exclaimed with animation, “I’ve got strange news to tell you. Is Willie at home?”
“No, but I expect him every minute. He promised to come home earlier to-day, and won’t be long, for he is a boy of his word.”
Mrs Willders persisted in calling her strapping sons “boys,” despite the evidence to the contrary on their cheeks and chins.
“Here he comes!” cried Frank, as a rapid step was heard.
Next moment the door burst open and Willie, performing much the same ceremony that Frank had done, and in a wonderfully similar way, said he had come home with something strange to tell, though not altogether strange either, as his mother, he said, knew something about it already.
Mrs Willders smiled and glanced at Frank.
“Which is to begin first?” she asked.
“What! do you know about it, too?” cried Willie, turning to his brother.
“Know about what?” said Frank. “You have not told me what it is; how can I answer you?”
“About Mr Auberly,” said Willie.
Frank said that he knew nothing new or peculiar about him, except that he was—no, he wouldn’t say anything bad of him, for he must be a miserable man at that time.
“But out with your news, Willie,” he added, “mine will keep; and as yours is, according to yourself, partly known already to my mother, it’s as well to finish off one subject before we begin to another.”
“Oh, then, you have news, too, have you?” said Willie.
Frank nodded.
“Strange coincidence!” exclaimed Willie.
“Did you ever hear of a coincidence that was not strange, lad? Go on with your news, else I’ll begin before you.”
Thus admonished, Willie began.
“Oh, mother, you’re a nice deceiver; you’re a sly old lady, ain’t you? and you sit there with a face as meek and sweet and smiling as if you had never deceived anybody in all your life, not to speak of your two sons. O, fy!”
As Mrs Willders still smiled and went on with her knitting serenely, without vouchsafing a reply, Willie continued with an off-hand air—“Well, then, I may as well tell you that I have just had an interview with Uncle Auberly—hallo! you seem surprised.”
Mrs Willders was indeed surprised. Her serenity of aspect fled in an instant.
“Oh, Willie, how comes it that you know? I’m sure I did not mean to tell you. I promised I never would. I must have let it out inadvertently, or when I was asleep.”
“Make yourself quite easy, mother,” said Willie; “I’ll explain it all presently. Just go on with your knitting, and don’t put yourself into a state.”
The widow, recovering herself a little, resumed her work, and Frank, who had listened with an amused smile up to this point—supposing that his brother was jesting—elongated his face and opened his eyes wider and wider as he listened.
“You must know,” resumed Willie, “that I received a note from Mr Auberly last night, asking me to call on him some time this afternoon. So I went, and found him seated in his library. Poor man, he has a different look now from what he had when I went last to see him. You know I have hardly ever seen him since that day when I bamboozled him so about ‘another boy’ that he expected to call. But his spirit is not much improved, I fear. ‘Sit down, Mr Willders,’ he said. ‘I asked you to call in reference to a matter which I think it well that the parties concerned should understand thoroughly. Your brother Frank, I am told, has had the presumption to pay his addresses to Miss Ward, the young lady who lives with my relative, Miss Tippet.’ ‘Yes, Mr Auberly,’ I replied, ‘and Miss Ward has had the presumption to accept him—’”
“It was wrong of you to answer so,” interrupted Mrs Willders, shaking her head.
“Wrong, mother! how could I help it? Was I going to sit there and hear him talk of Frank’s presumption as if he were a chimney-sweep?”
“Mr Auberly thinks Miss Ward above him in station, and so deems his aspiring to her hand presumption,” replied the widow gently. “Besides, you should have remembered the respect due to age.”
“Well, but, mother,” said Willie, defending himself, “it was very impudent of him, and I did speak very respectfully to him in tone if not in words. The fact is I felt nettled, for, after all, what is Miss Ward? The society she mingles in is Miss Tippet’s society, and that’s not much to boast of; and her father, I believe, was a confectioner—no doubt a rich one, that kept his carriage before he failed, and left his daughter almost a beggar. But riches don’t make a gentleman or a lady either, mother; I’m sure you’ve often told me that, and explained that education, and good training, and good feelings, and polite manners, and consideration for others, were the true foundations of gentility. If that be so, mother, there are many gentlemen born who are not gentlemen bred, and many lowly born who—”
“Come, lad, don’t bamboozle your mother with sophistries,” interrupted Frank, “but go on to the point, and don’t be so long about it.”
“Well, mother,” resumed Willie, “Mr Auberly gave me a harder rebuke than you have done, for he made no reply to my speech at all, but went on as quietly and coolly as if I had not opened my lips. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘I happen to have a particular regard for Miss Ward. I intend to make her my heir, and I cannot consent to her union with a man who has nothing.’ ‘Mr Auberly,’ said I (and I assure you, mother, I said this quite respectfully), ‘my brother is a man who has little money, no doubt, but he has a good heart and a good head and a strong arm; an arm, too, which has saved life before now.’ I stopped at that, for I saw it went home. ‘Quite true,’ he replied; ‘I do not forget that he saved my lost child’s life; but—but—the thing is outrageous—that a penniless man should wed the lady who is to be my heir! No, sir, I sent for you to ask you to say to your brother from me, that however much I may respect him I will not consent to this union, and if it goes on despite my wishes I shall not leave Miss Ward a shilling.’ He had worked himself up into a rage by this time, and as I felt I would only make matters worse if I spoke, I held my tongue; except that I said I would deliver his message at once, as I expected to meet my brother at home. He seemed sorry for having been so sharp, however, and when I was about to leave him he tried to smile, and said, ‘I regret to have to speak thus to you, sir, but I felt it to be my duty. You talk of meeting your brother to-night at home; do you not live together?’ ‘No, sir,’ I replied; ‘my brother lodges close to his station, and I live with my mother in Notting Hill.’
“‘Notting Hill!’ he cried, falling back in his chair as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt. ‘Your mother,’ he gasped, ‘Mrs Willders—my sister-in-law—the waterman’s widow?’ ‘A sailor’s widow, sir,’ said I, ‘who is proud of the husband, who rose to the top of his profession.’
“‘Why did you deceive me, sir?’ cried Mr Auberly, with a sudden frown. ‘I would have undeceived you,’ said I, ‘when we first met, but you dismissed me abruptly at that time, and would not hear me out. Since then, I have not thought it worth while to intrude on you in reference to so small a matter—for I did not know till this day that we are related.’ He frowned harder than ever at this, and bit his lip, and then said, ‘Well, young man, this will make no difference, I assure you. I desire you to convey my message to your brother. Leave me now.’ I was just on the point of saying ‘Good-bye, uncle,’ but he covered his face with his hands, and looked so miserable, that I went out without a word more. There, you’ve got the whole of my story. What think you of it?”
“It’s a curious one, and very unexpected, at least by me,” said Frank, “though, as you said, part of it must have been known to mother, who, no doubt, had good reasons for concealing it from us; but I rather think that my story will surprise you more, and it’s a better one than yours, Willie, in this respect, that it is shorter.”
“Come, then, out with it,” said Willie, with a laugh; “why, this is something like one of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.”
“Well, mother,” said Frank, laying his hand gently on the widow’s shoulder, “you shan’t darn any more socks if I can help it, for I’m a man of fortune now!”
“How, Frank?” said Mrs Willders, with a puzzled look.
“The fact is, mother, that Mrs Denman, the poor old lady whom I carried down the escape, I forget how many years ago, is dead, and has left me her fortune, which, I believe, amounts to something like twenty thousand pounds!”
“You don’t mean that!” cried Willie, starting up.
“Indeed, I do,” said Frank earnestly.
“Then long life to ye, my boy!” cried Willie, wringing his brother’s hand, “and success to the old—well, no, I don’t exactly mean that, but if she were alive I would say my blessing on the old lady. I wish you joy, old fellow! I say, surely the stately man won’t object to the penniless fireman now—ha! ha! Well, it’s like a dream; but tell us all about it, Frank.”
“There is very little to tell, lad. I got a very urgent message the day before yesterday to go to see an old lady who was very ill. I obtained leave for an hour, and went at once, not knowing who it was till I got there, when I found that it was Mrs Denman. She looked very ill, and I do assure you I felt quite unmanned when I looked into her little old face. ‘Young man,’ she said in a low voice, ‘you saved my life; I am dying, and have sent for you to thank you. God bless you.’ She put out her thin hand and tried to shake mine, but it was too feeble; she could only press her fingers on it. That was all that passed, and I returned to the station feeling quite in low spirits, I do assure you. Well, next day a little man in black called, and said he wished to have a few words with me. So I went out, and he introduced himself as the old lady’s lawyer, told me that she was gone, and that she had, almost with her last breath, made him promise to go, the moment she was dead, and see the fireman who had saved her life, and tell him that she had left her fortune to him. He congratulated me; said that there were no near relations to feel aggrieved or to dispute my rights, and that, as soon as the proper legal steps had been taken—the debts and legacies paid, etcetera,—he would have the pleasure of handing over the balance, which would probably amount to twenty thousand pounds.”
“It’s like a dream,” said Willie.
“So it is,” replied Frank, “but it’s well that it is not a dream, for if I had been the penniless man that Mr Auberly thinks me, I would have been obliged in honour to give up Emma Ward.”
“Give her up!” exclaimed Willie in amazement. “Why?”
“Why! because I could not think of standing in the way of her good fortune.”
“Oh, Frank! oh, Blazes,” said Willie sadly, “has money told on you so fearfully already? Do you think that she would give you up for the sake of Auberly’s dross?”
“I believe not, lad; but—but—well—never mind, we won’t be troubled with the question now. But, mother, you don’t seem to think much of my good fortune.”
