Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Fighting the Flames by R. M. Ballantyne (rooftoppers .TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Fighting the Flames by R. M. Ballantyne (rooftoppers .TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“How can you stay with him?” asked Auberly, after they had returned to the other room and seated themselves at the fire.
“He is an old schoolfellow of mine,” said Barret in a low voice. “I’m sorry you’ve seen him in this state. He was a very different fellow once, I assure you; and if it were not for that accursed drink he would be as pleasant a companion as exists. You know I have no friends in London save yourself, Fred, and this young fellow.—I came to stay with him at first, not knowing his character, and now I remain to try to—to—save him; but I fear his case is hopeless. Come, Fred, we won’t talk of it. You were saying, as we came along, that your father is sterner than ever, were you not?”
“Ay,” said Fred, with a sigh, “he won’t even let me call to see my sister too—that’s the worst of it. For the rest I care not; my brush has sustained me hitherto, and my love for my profession increases every hour. I feel towards it, John, as a man may be supposed to feel towards the sweet, young girl whom wicked guardians had for a long time refused to let him wed. Nothing but death shall separate us now!”
Barret smiled, and was about to make some rejoinder, but he checked himself and changed the subject.
“How is your sister?” said he, “I have not heard of her for a long time.”
“Not well,” answered Fred; “the doctors shake their heads and speak of the shock having been too much for her. Dear Loo, she never was strong, and I’m afraid that she has received fatal injury on the night of the fire. I’m told that my poor father is sadly cut up about her—attends on her night and day, and humours her every whim. This is so unlike him that it fills me with anxiety on account of dear Loo, whom I have not seen since I went to live at Kensington.”
“Kensington, Fred? I did not know you had gone to live there.”
“I was just going to mention that when we came in. I have got a very comfortable lodging with—who do you think? you’ll never guess—Mrs Willders, the mother of our young friend Willie who works with old Tom Tippet upstairs. You may well look surprised. I came upon the lodging quite accidentally, and, finding that it suited my inclinations and my purse, I took it at once for a few weeks. It’s in a very poor locality, no doubt, but you know a man must cut his coat according to his cloth, and my cloth is not broad at present. But then,” continued Fred, with sudden animation, “it’s a splendid place for a painter! There are such picturesque regions and bits near it. Why, Kensington Gardens are sufficient to make the fortune of a landscape-painter—at least in the way of trees; then an hour’s walk takes you to rural scenery, or canal scenery, with barges, bridges, boats, old stores, cottages, etcetera. Oh! it’s a magnificent spot, and I’m hard at work on a picturesque old pump near Shepherd’s Bush Common, with a bit of old brick wall behind it, half-covered with ivy, and a gipsy-like beggar-girl drinking at it out of her hand; that—that’ll make an impression, I think, on the Royal Academy, if—if they take it in.”
“Ah! if they take it in,” said John Barret, smiling.
“Well,” retorted Fred Auberly, “I know that is a point of uncertainty, and I’m not very sanguine, because there is great lack of room. Nevertheless, I mean to send it. And you know, John, ‘faint heart never won fair lady,’ so—”
At this point the conversation was interrupted by a shrill whistle at the top of the house, which, as it drew nearer, became identified with the air of “Rule Britannia!”
“That’s Willie Willders,” said Barret, laughing.
“I guessed as much, and with your leave I’ll call him in. He knows of my having become an inmate of his mother’s house, and as he is probably going home I would like to send a message to his mother. Hallo, Willie.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” answered the youth, in the tones of a thoroughbred seaman. Not that Willie had ever been at sea, but he was so fond of seamen, and had mingled with them so much at the docks, as well as those of them who had become firemen, that he tried to imitate their gait and tones.
“Come here, you scamp, and stop your noise.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Willie, with a grin, as he entered the room, cap in hand.
“Going home, lad?” asked Fred.
“Yes, sir—at least in a permiscuous sort of way entertainin’ myself as I goes with agreeable talk, and improvin’ obsarvation of the shop winders, etceterrer.”
“Will you take a message to your mother?”
“Sure-ly,” answered Willie.
“Well, say to her that I have several calls to make to-night and may be late in getting home, but she need not sit up for me as I have the door-key; tell her not to forget to leave the door on the latch.”
“Wery good, sir,” said Willie. “May I make so bold as to ask how Miss Loo was when you seed her last?”
“Not well, I regret to say,” replied Fred.
“Indeed! I’m surprised to hear that, for she’s agoin’ out to tea to-morrow night, sir.”
“My surprise is greater than yours, lad; how d’you know that, and where is she going to?” asked Auberly.
Here Willie explained in a very elaborate manner that a note had arrived that forenoon from Miss Tippet, inviting Mr Tippet to tea the following evening, and expressing a hope that he would bring with him his clerk, “Mister” Willders, the brother of the brave fireman who had saved Loo’s life, and that Miss Louisa Auberly was to be there, and that Mr Tippet had written a note accepting the same.
“Then you’ll have to take another message from me, Willie. Tell Miss Tippet when you go to-morrow that I will give myself the pleasure of looking in on her in the course of the evening,” said Fred. “Mr Auberly is not to be there, is he?”
“No, not as I knows of.”
“Well, good-night, Willie.”
Willie took his departure, marching to the usual national air, and soon after Fred Auberly bade his friend good-night and left him.
Miss Tippet’s tea-party began by the arrival of Willie Willders, who, being fond of society, and regardless of fashion, understood his hostess literally when she named her tea-hour! For full half an hour, therefore, he had the field to himself, and improved the occasion by entertaining Miss Tippet and Emma Ward with an account of the wonderful inventions that emanated from the fertile brain of Mr Thomas Tippet.
Strange to say, a deep and lasting friendship had sprung up between the eccentric old gentleman and his volatile assistant. Willie sympathised so fully with his master in his wild schemes, and displayed withal such an aptitude for mechanical contrivance, and such a ready appreciation of complex theories, that Mr Tippet soon came to forget his extreme youth, and to converse with him, propound schemes and new ideas to him, and even to ask his advice; with as much seriousness as though he had been a full-grown man.
This was of course very gratifying to Willie, who repaid his master’s condescension and kindness by devoting himself heart and soul to the duties of what he styled his “profession.” He was a good deal put out when his brother Frank asked him one day what his “profession” was, and resolving never again to be placed in such an awkward position of ignorance, asked his employer what was the name of his business, to which the employer replied that it had no particular name; but, on being urged by his assistant to give it a name, he suggested that he might, if so disposed, style himself a poly-artist, which, he explained, meant an artist of many occupations. Willie felt that this might be translated “jack-of-all-trades,” but on mature consideration he resolved to adopt it, in the belief that few people would understand what it meant, and that thereby he would be invested with a halo of mystery, which was, upon the whole, a gratifying reflection.
Gradually, however, Willie was led to diverge from his employer to his brother Frank, in regard to whom Miss Tippet entertained the strongest feelings of admiration, because of his courageous conduct in saving Louisa Auberly. Willie pursued this theme all the more willingly that Emma appeared to be deeply interested in it.
Emma Ward was very romantic in her nature; yet she had a keen appreciation of the ludicrous,—which caused her to appear somewhat light-headed and giddy in the eyes of superficial observers; but she possessed an underlying earnestness of soul, which displayed itself in a thousand ways to those who had much intercourse with her. She was an ardent hero-worshipper; and while Miss Tippet was her heroine, Frank Willders was, at that time, her beau idéal of a hero, although she only knew him from description.
Willie was still in the middle of a glowing account of a fire, in which Frank and his friends Dale and Baxmore were the chief actors; and Emma was listening with heightened colour, parted lips, and sparkling eyes, when Matty Merryon opened the door and announced Mr Tippet.
That gentleman was still in the act of shaking his sister’s hands with both of his, and kissing her on both cheeks heartily, when Matty announced Miss Deemas.
Matty, being Irish, allowed her soul to gush out too obviously in her tones; so that her feelings towards the Eagle, though unexpressed, were discernible.
Miss Deemas strode up to Miss Tippet, and pecked her on the right cheek, much as an eagle might peck a tender rabbit, which it could slay and devour if it chose, but which it preferred to spare for a time. She was immediately introduced to Mr Tippet, whom she favoured with a stiff bow, intended to express armed neutrality in the meantime; with a possibility, if not a probability, of war in the future. The eccentric gentleman felt chilled, but ventured to express an opinion in regard to the weather, glancing for confirmation of the same towards the window, through which he naturally enough expected to see the sky; but was baffled by only seeing the green venetian blinds, which ruled off the opposite houses in narrow stripes. Before he had recovered himself to make any further observation, Miss Deemas had attempted, in a condescending way, to peck the cheek of Emma Ward; but that young lady, feeling disinclined, so managed that she received the peck on her forehead.
On Willie, Miss Deemas bestowed a glance of utter indifference, which Willie replied to with a gaze of desperate defiance.
Then Miss Deemas seated herself on the sofa, and asked her “dear friend” how she did, and how she felt, and whether things in general were much as usual; from which elevated region of generalities she gradually descended into the more particular sphere of gossip and scandal.
It is only just to Miss Tippet to say that the Eagle did not find her a congenial bird of prey in this region. On the contrary, she had to drag her unwilling friend down into it; and as Miss Tippet was too conscientious and kind-hearted to agree with her in her sweeping censures and caustic observations and wilful misconstructions, it is difficult to conceive wherein she (the Eagle) found pleasure in her society. Probably it was because she found in her one who would submit meekly to any amount of contradiction, and listen patiently to any amount of vituperative declamation.
“So it seems Mr Auberly has disinherited and dismissed his son, my dear,” said Miss Deemas, smoothing her dress with both hands, as though she were about to lay Mr Auberly in her lap, and analyse him.
“I’m sorry to say
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