Rivers of Ice

There was another laugh, from crowd and firemen, at the nautical brevity and promptitude of Gillie.

At every large fire in London there may be seen a few firemen standing about in what an ignorant spectator might imagine to be easy indifference and idleness, but these men are not idlers. They are resting. The men who first arrive at a fire go into action with the utmost vigour, and toil until their powers are nearly—sometimes quite—exhausted. As time passes fresh men are continually arriving from the more distant stations. These go into action as they come up, thus relieving the others, who stand aloof for a time looking on, or doing easy work, and recruiting their energies. It was these men who watched the Captain’s proceedings with much amusement while their comrades were doing battle with the foe.

Presently the Captain reappeared at the window and lowered a huge sea-chest. A third time he appeared with the model of a full-rigged ship in his hand. This time he let the end of the rope down, and then getting over the window, slid easily to the ground.

“You’re uncommon careful o’ your property,” exclaimed one of the onlookers, with a broad grin.

“’Taint all my property, lad,” replied the Captain, with a good-humoured nod, “most of it is a poor old ’ooman’s belongings.”

So saying, he got a man to carry his sea-chest, himself shouldered the bundle, Gillie was intrusted with the full-rigged model, and thus laden they left the scene followed by another laugh and a hearty cheer.

But our bluff seaman was not content with rescuing Mrs Roby and her property. He afterwards proceeded to lend his effective aid to all who desired his assistance, and did not cease his exertions until evening, by which time the fire was happily subdued.

“She must not be moved to-night Captain,” said Dr Lawrence, for whom Gillie had been sent; “the place where she lies is doubtless far from comfortable, but I have got her to sleep, and it would be a pity to awake her. To-morrow we shall get her into more comfortable quarters.”

“Could she bear movin’ to-morrow, a mile or so?” asked the Captain.

“Certainly, but there is no occasion to go so far. Lodgings are to be had—”

“All right, Doctor; I’ve got a lodging ready for her, and will ask you to come an’ have pot-luck with us before long. Gillie, my lad, you go hail a cab, and then come back to lend a hand wi’ the cargo.”

In a few minutes the pair were whirling towards the west end of London, and were finally landed with their “cargo” on the banks of the Thames above the bridges, near the new building which Captain Wopper had named, after its prototype, “the cabin.”

To fit this up after the fashion of the old place was a comparatively short and easy work for two such handy labourers. Before they left that night it was so like its predecessor in all respects, except dirt, that both declared it to be the “identical same craft, in shape and rig, even to the little bed and curtains.” Next afternoon Mrs Roby was brought to it by Captain Wopper, in a specially easy carriage hired for the purpose.

The poor old woman had received more of a shock than she was willing to admit, and did exactly as she was bid, with many a sigh, however, at the thought of having been burnt out of the old home. She was carried up the stair in a chair by two porters, and permitted the Captain to draw a thick veil over her head to conceal, as he said, her blushes from the men. He also took particular care to draw the curtains of the bed close round her after she had been laid in it and then retired to allow her to be disrobed by Netta, who had been obtained from Mrs Stoutley on loan expressly for the occasion.

Much of this care to prevent her seeing the place that day, however, was unnecessary. The poor old creature was too much wearied by the short journey to look at anything. After partaking of a little tea and toast she fell into a quiet sleep, which was not broken till late on the following morning.

Her first thought on waking was the fire. Her second, the Captain. He was in the room, she knew, because he was whistling in his usual low tone while moving about the fireplace preparing breakfast. She glanced at the curtains; her own curtains certainly,—and the bed too! Much surprised, she quietly put out her thin hand and drew the curtain slightly aside. The Captain in his shirt sleeves, as usual, preparing buttered toast, the fireplace, the old kettle with the defiant spout singing away as defiantly as ever, the various photographs, pot-lids, and other ornaments above the fireplace, the two little windows commanding an extensive prospect of the sky from the spot where she lay, the full-rigged ship, the Chinese lantern hanging from the beam—everything just as it should be!

“Well, well,” thought Mrs Roby, with a sigh of relief; “the fire must have been a dream after all! but what a vivid one!”

She coughed. The Captain was at her side instantly.

“Slept well, old girl?”

“Very well, thank you. I’ve had such a queer dream, d’you know?”

“Have you? Take your breakfast, mother, before tellin’ it. It’s all ready—there, fire away.”

“It was such a vivid one,” she resumed, when half through her third cup, “all about a fire, and you were in it too.”

Here she proceeded to relate her dream with the most circumstantial care. The Captain listened with patient attention till she had finished, and then said—

“It was no dream, mother. It’s said that the great fire of London was a real blessin’ to the city. The last fire in London will, I hope, be a blessin’ to you an’ me. It was real enough and terrible too, but through God’s mercy you have been saved from it. I managed to save your little odds and ends too. This is the noo ‘cabin,’ mother, that you wouldn’t consent to come to. Something like the old one, ain’t it?”

Mrs Roby spoke never a word, but looked round the room in bewilderment. Taking the Captain’s hand she kissed it, and gazed at him and the room until she fell asleep. Awaking again in half an hour, she finished her breakfast, asked for the old Bible, and, declaring herself content, fell straightway into her old ways and habits.

Chapter Twenty Five.

An Unexpected Gem Found

Although Lewis Stoutley found it extremely difficult to pursue his studies with the profusely illustrated edition of medical works at his command, he nevertheless persevered with a degree of calm, steady resolution which might be almost styled heroic. To tear out the illustrations was impossible, for Nita’s portrait was stamped on every page, compelling him to read the letterpress through it. Success, however, attended his labours, for he not only carried out the regular course, but he attached himself to the poor district of the “moraine” which had been appropriated as their own by his mother and Emma, who ministered to the bodies of the sick while they sought to bring their souls to the Good Physician. This professional work he did as a sort of amateur, being only a student under the guidance of his friend Lawrence, whose extending practice included that district. It happened also to be the district in which Mrs Roby’s new “cabin” was situated.

These labourers, in what Dr Tough had styled the London gold fields, not only did good to the people, and to themselves in the prosecution of them, but resulted occasionally in their picking up a nugget, or a diamond, which was quite a prize. One such was found by Lewis about this time, which, although sadly dim and soiled when first discovered, proved to be such a precious and sparkling gem that he resolved to wear it himself. He and Emma one day paid a visit to the cabin, where they found old Mrs Roby alone, and had a long chat with her, chiefly about the peculiarities of the Captain and his boy.

“By the way,” said Mrs Roby to Lewis, when they rose to go, “a poor woman was here just before you came, askin’ if I knew where she could find a doctor, for her father, she said, was very ill. The two have come to live in a room near the foot of this stair, it seems, and they appear to be very poor. I could not give her Dr Lawrence’s new address, for I don’t know it, so I advised her to apply to the nearest chemist. Perhaps, Mr Lewis, you’ll go yourself and see the poor man?”

“Willingly, and I shall myself call for Lawrence on my way home and send him, if necessary. Come, Emma. Perhaps this may be a case for the exercise of your philanthropy.”

They soon found the place, and knocked at a low door, which was slowly opened by a middle-aged woman, meanly clad and apparently very poor.

“Ah, sir, you’re too late, he’s dead,” said the woman, in reply to Lewis’s inquiry.

“O how sad!” broke from Emma’s sympathetic spirit, “I am so sorry we are too late. Did you find a doctor?”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t, but the chemist gave me the address of one, so I ran back to tell the poor young thing that I’d go fetch one as quick as I could, and I found him just dying in her arms.”

“In whose arms? are not you the daughter—” said Emma.

“Me, miss! oh dear, no. I’m only a neighbour.”

“Has she any friends?” asked Lewis.

“None as I knows of. They are strangers here—only just came to the room. There it is,” she added, stepping back and pointing to an inner door.

Lewis advanced and knocked, but received no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He therefore ventured to lift the latch and enter.

It was a miserable, ill-lighted room, of small size and destitute of all furniture save a truckle bed, a heap of clean straw in a corner, on which lay a black shawl, a deal chair, and a small table. Abject poverty was stamped on the whole place. On the bed lay the dead man, covered with a sheet. Beside it kneeled, or rather lay, the figure of a woman. Her dress was a soiled and rusty black. Her hair, fallen from its fastenings, hung dishevelled on her shoulders. Her arms clasped the dead form.

“My poor woman,” whispered Emma, as she knelt beside her, and put a hand timidly on her shoulder.

But the woman made no answer.

“She has fainted, I think,” exclaimed Emma, rising quickly and trying to raise the woman’s head. Suddenly Lewis uttered a great cry, lifted the woman in his arms, and gazed wildly into her face.

“Nita!” he cried, passionately clasping her to his heart and covering the poor faded face with kisses; but Nita heard not. It seemed as if the silver chord had already snapped. Becoming suddenly aware of the impropriety as well as selfishness of his behaviour, Lewis hastily bore the inanimate form to the heap of straw, pillowed the small head on the old shawl, and began to chafe the hands while Emma aided him to restore consciousness. They were soon successful. Nita heaved a sigh.

“Now, Emma,” said Lewis, rising, “this is your place just now, I will go and fetch something to revive her.”

He stopped for one moment at the bed in passing, and lifted the sheet. There was no mistaking the handsome face of the Count even in death. It was terribly thin, but the lines of sorrow and anxiety were gone at last from the marble brow, and a look of rest pervaded the whole countenance.

On returning, Lewis found that Nita had thrown her arms round Emma’s neck and was sobbing violently. She looked up as he entered, and held out her hand. “God has sent you,” she said, looking at Emma, “to save my heart from breaking.”

Lewis again knelt beside her and put her hand to his lips, but he had no power to utter a word. Presently, as the poor girl’s eye fell on the bed, there was a fresh outburst of grief. “Oh, how he loved me!—and how nobly he fought!—and how gloriously he conquered!—God be praised for that!”

She spoke, or rather sobbed, in broken sentences. To distract her mind, if possible, even for a little, from her bereavement, Emma ventured to ask her how she came there, when her father became so ill, and similar questions. Little by little, in brief sentences, and with many choking words and tears, the sad story came out.

Ever since the night when her father met with Lewis at Saxon, he had firmly resisted the temptation to gamble. God had opened his ear to listen to, and his heart to receive, the Saviour. Arriving in London with the money so generously lent to them by Lewis, they took a small lodging and sought for work. God was faithful to His promises, she said; he had sent a measure of prosperity. Her father taught music, she obtained needlework. All was going well when her father became suddenly ill. Slowly but steadily he sank. The teaching had to be given up, the hours of labour with the needle increased. This, coupled with constant nursing, began to sap her own strength, but she had been enabled to hold out until her father became so ill that she dared not leave him even for a few minutes to visit the shops where she had obtained sewing-work. Then, all source of livelihood being dried up, she had been compelled to sell one by one the few articles of clothing and furniture which they had begun to accumulate about them.

“Thus,” she said, in conclusion, “we were nearly reduced to a state of destitution, but, before absolute want had been felt by us, God mercifully took my darling father home—and—and—I shall soon join him.”

“Say not so, darling,” said Emma, twining her arms round the poor stricken girl. “It may be that He has much work for you to do for Jesus here before He takes you home. Meanwhile, He has sent us to claim you as our very dear friend—as our sister. You must come and stay with mamma and me. We, too, have tasted something of that cup of adversity, which you have drained to the very dregs, my poor Nita, but we are comparatively well off now. Mamma will be so glad to have you. Say you will come. Won’t you, dearest?”

Nita replied by lifting her eyes with a bewildered look to the bed, and again burst into a passion of uncontrollable sorrow.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The Dénouement

Being naturally a straightforward man, and not gifted with much power in the way of plotting and scheming, Captain Wopper began in time to discover that he had plunged his mental faculties into a disagreeable state of confusion.

“Gillie, my lad,” he said, looking earnestly at his satellite while they walked one afternoon along the Bayswater road in the direction of Kensington, “it’s a bad business altogether.”

Gillie, not having the smallest idea what the Captain referred to, admitted that it was “wery bad indeed,” but suggested that “it might be wuss.”

“It’s such a perplexin’ state o’ things,” pursued the Captain, “to be always bouncin’ up an’ down wi’ hopes, an’ fears, an’ disappointments, like a mad barometer, not knowin’ rightly what’s what or who’s who.”

“Uncommon perplexin’,” assented Gillie. “If I was you, Cappen, I’d heave the barometer overboard along wi’ the main-deck, nail yer colours to the mast, cram the rudder into the lee-scuppers, kick up your flyin’-jib-boom into the new moon, an’ go down stern foremost like a man!”

“Ha!” said the Captain, with a twinkle in the corner of his “weather-eye,” “not a bad notion.”

“Now, my lad, I’m goin’ out to my villa at Kensington to dine. There’s to be company, too, an’ you’re to be waiter—”

“Stooard, you mean?”

“Well, yes—stooard. Now, stooard, you’ll keep a good look-out, an’ clap as tight a stopper on yer tongue as may be. I’ve got a little plot in hand, d’ee see, an’ I want you to help me with it. Keep your eye in a quiet way on Dr Lawrence and Miss Gray. I’ve taken a fancy that perhaps they may be in love with each other. You just let me have your opinion on that pint after dinner, but have a care that you don’t show what you’re up to, and, whatever you do, don’t be cheeky.”

“All right,” said the stooard, thrusting both hands into his trouser-pockets; “I’ll do my best.”

While these two were slowly wending their way through Kensington Gardens, Emma Gray arrived at the Captain’s villa—California Cottage, he called it—and rang the bell. The gate was opened by Netta White, who, although not much bigger than when first introduced to the reader, was incomparably more beautiful and smart. Mrs Stoutley had reason to be proud of her.

“I did not know that you were to be here, Netta?” said Emma, in surprise, as she entered.

“It was a very sudden call, Miss,” said Netta, with a smile. “Captain Wopper wrote a note to me, begging me to ask Mrs Stoutley to be so good as lend me to him for a day to help at his house-warming. Here is the letter, Miss.”

Emma laughed as she glanced carelessly at the epistle, but became suddenly grave, turned white, then red, and, snatching the letter from the girl’s hand, gazed at it intently.

“La! Miss, is anything wrong?”

“May I keep this?” asked Emma.

“Certainly, Miss, if you wish it.”

Before she could say anything more, they were interrupted by the entrance of Dr Lawrence. With a surprised look and smile he said—

“I have been invited to dine with our friend Captain Wopper, but did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting Miss Gray here.”

Emma explained that she also had been invited to dine with the Captain, along with her mother and brother, but had supposed that that was all the party, as he, the Captain, had mentioned no one else, and had been particular in begging her to come an hour before the time, for the purpose of going over his new villa with him, and giving him her private opinion of it.

“I am punctual,” she added, consulting her watch; “it is just four o’clock.”

“Four! Then what is the dinner hour?”

“Five,” answered Emma.

“The Captain’s wits must have been wool-gathering,” rejoined Lawrence, with a laugh. “He told me to come punctually at four. However, I rejoice in the mistake, as it gives me the great pleasure of assisting you to form an unprejudiced opinion of the merits of the new villa. Shall we begin with an exploration of the garden?”

Emma had no cause to blush at such an innocent proposal, nevertheless a richer colour than usual mantled on her modest little face as she fell in with the Doctor’s humour and stepped out into the small piece of ground behind the house.

It was of very limited extent and, although not surrounded too closely by other villas, was nevertheless thoroughly overlooked by them, so that seclusion in that garden was impossible. Recognising this fact, a former proprietor had erected at the lower end of the garden a bower so contrived that its interior was invisible from all points except one, and that was a side door to the garden which opened on a little passage by which coals, milk, meat, and similar substances were conveyed from the front to the rear of the house.

Dr Lawrence and Emma walked round and round the garden very slowly, conversing earnestly. Strange to say, they quite forgot the object which had taken them there. Their talk was solely of Switzerland. As it continued, the Doctor’s voice deepened in tones and interest, and his fair companion’s cheek deepened in colour. Suddenly they turned into the bower. As they did so, Gillie White chanced to appear at the garden door above referred to, which stood ajar. The spider’s countenance was a speaking one. During the five minutes which it appeared in the doorway, it, and the body belonging to it, became powerfully eloquent. It might have conveyed to one’s mind, as it were, a series of tableaux vivants. Gillie’s first look was as if he had been struck dumb with amazement (that was Lawrence suddenly seizing one of Emma’s hands in both of his and looking intently into her face). Then Gillie’s look of amazement gave place to one of intense, quite touching—we might almost say sympathetic—anxiety as he placed a hand on each knee and stooped (that was the Doctor’s right hand stealing round Emma’s waist, and Emma shrinking from him with averted face). The urchin’s visage suddenly lighted up with a blaze of triumph, and he seized his cap as if about to cheer (that was the Doctor’s superior strength prevailing, and Emma’s head, now turned the other way, laid on his shoulder). All at once Gillie went into quiet convulsions, grinned from ear to ear, doubled himself up, slapped his thigh inaudibly—à la Captain Wopper—and otherwise behaved like an outrageous, yet self-restrained, maniac (that was—well, we have no right to say what that was). As a faithful chronicler, however, we must report that one-half minute later the stooard found Captain Wopper in the villa drawing-room, and there stated to him that it was “hall right; that he didn’t need for to perplex hisself about Doctor Lawrence and Miss Hemma Gray, for that they was as good as spliced already, having been seen by him, Gillie, in the bower at the end of the garding a-blushin’ and a—” Here the spider stopped short and went into another fit of convulsions—this time unrestrained.

Is it necessary to say that Captain Wopper sat at the foot of his own table that day—Mrs Stoutley being at the head—with his rugged visage radiant and his powerful voice explosive; that he told innumerable sea-stories without point, and laughed at them without propriety; that, in the excess of his hilarity, he drank a mysterious toast to the success of all sorts of engagements, present and future; that he called Mrs Stoutley (in joke) sister, and Emma and Lewis (also in joke) niece and neffy; that he called Doctor Lawrence neffy, too, with a pointedness and a sense of its being the richest possible joke, that covered with confusion the affianced pair; and with surprise the rest of the company; that he kicked the stooard amicably out of the room for indulging in explosions of laughter behind his chair, and recommending him, the Captain, to go it strong, and to clap on sail till he should tear the mast out of ’er, or git blowed on his beam-ends; that the stooard returned unabashed to repeat the offence unreproved; that towards the end, the Captain began a long-winded graphic story which served to show how his good friend and chum Willum Stout in Callyforny had commissioned him to buy and furnish a villa for the purpose of presenting it to a certain young lady in token of his gratitood to her for bein’ such a good and faithful correspondent to him, Willum, while he was in furrin’ parts; also, how he was commissioned to buy and furnish another villa and present it to a certain doctor whose father had saved him from drownin’ long long ago, he would not say how long ago; and how that this villa, in which they was feedin’, was one of the said villas, and that he found it quite unnecessary to spend any more of Willum’s hard-earned gains in the purchase of the other villa, owing to circumstances which had took place in a certain bower that very day! Is it necessary, we again ask, to detail all this? We think not; therefore, we won’t.

When reference was made to the bower, Emma could stand, or sit, it no longer. She rose hastily and ran blushing into the garden. Captain Wopper uttered a thunderous laugh, rose and ran after her. He found her in the bower with her face in her hands, and sat down beside her.

“Captain Wopper,” she suddenly exclaimed, looking up and drawing a note from her pocket, “do you know this?”

“Yes, duckie,” (the Captain was quite reckless now), “it’s my last billy-doo to Netta White. I never was good at pot-hooks and hangers.”

“And do you know this letter?” said Emma, holding up to the seaman’s eyes her uncle William’s last letter to herself.

The Captain looked surprised, then became suddenly red and confused.

“W’y—ye–es, it’s Willum’s, ain’t it?”

“The same pot-hooks and hangers precisely!” said Emma, “are they not? Oh!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms round the Captain’s neck and kissing him, “uncle William, how could you deceive us so?”

The Captain, to use his own expressions, was taken aback—fairly brought up all standin’.

It had never occurred to his innocent mind that he should commit himself so simply. He felt an unconquerable objection to expressions of gratitude, and perceiving, with deep foresight that such were impending, his first impulse was to rise and fly, but Emma’s kiss made him change his mind. He returned it in kind but not in degree, for it caused the bower to resound as with a pistol shot.

“Oh! wot a cracker, ain’t it just? you’re a nice man, ain’t you, to go poachin’ on other fellers—”

The Captain seized his opportunity, he broke from Emma and dashed wildly at the spider, who incontinently fled down the conduit for coals, cheering with the fury of a victorious Ashantee chief!