Fighting the Flames | Page 2

a shade less of grimness in his
smile as his lips touched his daughter's pale cheek.

Louisa, or, to use the name by which she was better known in the house,
Loo, had clasped her hands tightly together while she was in the act of
receiving this tribute of parental affection, as if she were struggling to
crush down some feeling, but the feeling, whatever it was, would not
be crushed down; it rose up and asserted itself by causing Loo to burst
into a passionate flood of tears, throw her arms round her father's neck,
and hold him tight there while she kissed his cheek all over.
"Tut, tut, child!" exclaimed Mr Auberly, endeavouring to re-arrange the
stiff collar and cravat, which had been sadly disordered; "you must
really try to get over these--there, don't be cast down," he added, in a
kinder tone, patting Loo's head. "Good-night, dear; run away to bed
now, and be a good girl."
Loo smiled faintly through her tears as she looked up at her father, who
had again become upright, said "Good-night," and ran from the room
with a degree of energy that might have been the result of exuberant
spirits, though possibly it was caused by some other feeling.
Mr Auberly sat for some time, dividing his attentions pretty equally
between the paper, the fire, and the coffee, until he recollected having
received a letter that day which he had forgotten to answer, whereupon
he rose and sat down before his writing-table to reply.
The letter was from a poor widow, a sister-in-law of his own, who had
disgraced herself for ever--at least in Mr Auberly's eyes--by having
married a waterman. Mr Auberly shut his eyes obstinately to the fact
that the said waterman had, by the sheer force of intelligence, good
conduct, courage, and perseverance, raised himself to the command of
an East Indiaman. It is astonishing how firmly some people can shut
their eyes--sew them up, as it were, and plaster them over--to some
things, and how easily they can open them to others! Mr Auberly's eyes
were open only to the fact that his sister-in-law had married a waterman,
and that that was an unpardonable sin, for which she was for ever
banished from the sunshine of his presence.
The widow's letter set forth that since her husband's death she had been
in somewhat poor circumstances--though not in absolute poverty--for

which she expressed herself thankful; that she did not write to ask for
money, but that she had a young son--a boy of about twelve--whom she
was very anxious to get into a mercantile house of some sort, and,
knowing his great influence, etcetera, etcetera, she hoped that,
forgetting, if not forgiving, the past, now that her husband was dead, he
would kindly do what he could, etcetera, etcetera.
To this Mr Auberly replied that it was impossible to forgive the past,
but he would do his best to forget it, and also to procure a situation for
her son (though certainly not in his own office), on one consideration,
namely, that she, the widow, should forget the past also--including his
own, Mr Auberly's, existence (as she had once before promised to do),
and that she should never inform her son, or any other member of her
family--if there happened to be any others members of it--of the
relationship existing between them, nor apply to him by visit or by
letter for any further favours. In the event of her agreeing to this
arrangement, she might send her son to his residence in Beverly Square,
on Thursday next, between eleven and twelve.
Just as he concluded this letter a footman entered softly and laid a
three-cornered note on the table.
"Stay, Hopkins, I want you," said Mr Auberly, as he opened the note
and ran his eye over it.
Hopkins, who was clad in blue velvet and white stockings, stood like a
mute beside his master's chair. He was very tall and very thin, and very
red in the nose.
"Is the young woman waiting, Hopkins?"
"Yes, sir; she's in the lobby."
"Send her up."
In a few seconds Hopkins reopened the door, and looked down with
majestic condescension on a smart young girl whom he ushered into
the room.

"That will do; you may go--stay, post this letter. Come here, young
woman."
The young woman, who was evidently a respectable servant-girl,
approached with some timidity.
"Your name is Matty Merryon, I understand (yes, sir), at least so your
late mistress, Miss Tippet, informs me. Pray, what does Matty stand
for?"
"Martha, sir."
"Well, Martha, Miss Tippet gives you a very good character--which is
well, because I intend you to be servant to my child--her maid; but
Miss Tippet qualifies her remarks by saying that you are a little careless
in